JACK, FRESH FROM HIS BATH

After tangling with the resident groundhog, Jack needed professional care. Tim, the Pet Groomer gave him three baths, removed six ticks, and cleaned out his ears. When I brought him home, he smelled good and looked nifty, so I took his picture. It is a good thing that I did.Thirty minutes later, he was in the garden wallowing in red dirt and giving little yips of pleasure.

LAST SUMMER

I found this photo last night when I was looking for a picture of Walter, the lost basset hound that lived with me for a month several years ago. Eventually, I will find Walter, but for the present, this photo fills me with yearnings for spring. It was made last year on my deck where I spend the majority of my time. Those are tomatoes in the background and one of those wooden "flying" redbirds that you can find at roadside stands in the summer. There is my coffee cup, too. All that is missing is a good book. (I'm getting ready to take on Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. I still have fond memories of Robinson's Housekeeping.)

It is cold today, and the guy that picked up my rider-mower yesterday (tune-up and replace the broken blade) told me that it was going to snow. Again. Surely not! Damn. I've got out the seed catalogues (although I probably won't have a garden this year) and I was looking forward to spending the weekend on the deck staring at the Balsams and watching the new buds appear on the maple in my yard while I studied the subtle difference between Mammoth Red tomatoes and Big Girl. This picture makes me want to dig out the pots and potting soil. Maybe start looking for "patio tomatoes." Instead, I guess I'll fire up my little soapstone stove and make a pot of coffee. I'll have to read Robinson in the house wearing a sweater.

(Changed my mind about Robinson. I have decided to take on a book that his been making me feel guilty for two years - the biography of Mother Jones. I've read a good bit about "The most dangerous woman in America," and I am a fan. In fact, I have a yen to do a play about her, or at least, a dramatic monologue. This biography promises to reveal "the real truth" about this little, angelic white-haired lady,who liked "to have a drink with the boys" and loved a bawdy story, so I guess I will finally read the "definitive" biography.)

It is Monday, April 6, and I am half-way through the Mother Jones biography. The weather has turned bad again and it is blowing snow outside. The local prophets are predicting a bad night and a worse tomorrow. That alarms me since I'm supposed to go to Cashiers to teach tomorrow night. It also bothers me that the woods are full of spring flowers, all doomed to a withering wind tonight. I'm certainly glad i didn't plant anything over the balmy weekend.