There was an outdoor show this weekend, and when Clyde left yesterday morning, you could plainly see a thought balloon suspended above the cab of his truck. Clyde, like many undereducated people, think largely in images. The one within the thought balloon was somewhat fuzzy and indistinct, its colors shifting through the great American spectrum of red, white and blue, sparkling here and there with bits of brilliant chrome.

Or was it? For a moment, I seemed to see a piece of paper, and a hand grasping a pen. Briefly, this was occluded by a flash of dull green, but only briefly, and then the original image was restored with greater clarity. It had a motor on the back! Up a wide river it sped, then halted and turned with the current to drift idly. Clyde himself was in the animation now, rod bent and a huge steelhead leaping in the eddies.

I do not see the physical manifestation of this image when I look out the window today. I see only Clyde, the Man with a Purpose, and he is laboring to remove all sorts of detritus from his immense garage. Thus I conclude that if the deed is not entirely done, the gears and cogs of its machinery are at least grinding, and in the near future, our neighbourhood will harbour a boat far too elegant for its moorings or even, perhaps, for Clyde’s pocketbook.

“Man, have you thought about how much that’s gonna cost per fish?” I replied when he first put the idea forth. Until this point, we’d been content to row a 16-foot drift boat across the lake, but I’m not Clyde’s only fishing partner.

“Yeah, but we can get them sturgeon in the Columbia,” he said, hitting me on my most vulnerable spot. Good point, that, and well played. It didn’t lessen my concern for his financial well-being, although it did relegate it to a somewhat lower shelf.

Another thought crossed my mind, and I voiced it next. “We gotta put Sande onto a steelhead, okay?” Sande and I don’t even have a rowboat, and we’ve never asked to borrow Clyde’s. Sande dreams steelhead like I dream sturgeon, and bank fishermen don’t stand a snowball’s chance.

Clyde was amenable to the suggestion, enthusiastic, and…well, who am I to mind his business? He’s a big boy. I cut the motor of feeble protest and let the conversational current take us into horsepower, draft, accessories and other flotsam. Clyde could land his own monster, and I’d just sit back and enjoy the ride.

Well, curiosity has got its hook in me, so I’d better go find out the details. I need to draw something underneath that image you see above my head, something that will hold several Very Large Fish of various species, and at least three contented fishermen.

My mood is sour. I’ve managed to bugger up the computer somehow, and now it won’t acknowledge a disk in the CD/ROM drive. That may sound like I know what I’m talking about, but I don’t. Not a bit of it.

I was multi-tasking between Spanish lessons and laundry, and had my quizzes up and running when the drier stopped. I stepped away to fold clothes and, in the interim, the screen saver came on. Nothing special, you understand…it was the standard Windows screen saver called “scrolling marquee.” When I got back to the computer and moved the mouse, the program screen resumed display predictably. I tried to click on one of the games. An hourglass icon appeared, and after a few minutes of finger-tapping, I decided it had taken up residence. I clicked the exit button, and to my dismay, was not permitted to leave.

Now we have reached the point where I panic when faced with a computer dilemma. Not knowing what else to do, I shut the machine down cold without trying to remove the disk from the drive. It was very obliging. The screen blanked and the power went off. I waited the requisite 30 seconds and turned it back on. Up comes the “scan disk” box, and I know from experience that it is not fully functional, and so I clicked “Cancel” to sidestep it. Windows loaded normally. “Aha!” I thought. “I’m back in business.” I put the Spanish disk back in the drive.

The little green light came on, but there weren’t any noises indicating that the drive was functioning. The little green light went out, and was replaced by an amber one, flashing intermittently. I grabbed my Windows manual, a tome filled with many visuals and mostly accurate information, but it gave me no clue as to how to solve the problem.

One always hopes that such situations will remedy themselves, given patience. I tried shutting down and rebooting a couple more times. Nada…and that may be the last of Spanish, right there in that one simple word.

I never thought I’d see the day when I could seriously ask myself this question for this reason: Now what do I do? I’ve gone and busted the computer. Times change. Indeed they do.

“Don’t say it’s spring until you can put your foot on nine daisies,” advises the Old Farmer’s Almanac.

Now there’s a good read! For thirty years or more, the current issue of that esteemed periodical has hung in the traditional facility to impart its wit and wisdom to anyone bent on concentrating, or as some say, “paying a visit to Mrs. Jones.” I personally prefer to reserve the monthly essays according to the calendar, and so, like unto the season of Christmas, there is some delightful treat to anticipate, a literary bon-bon delivered on or about the month’s inception.

I was fond of the OFA long before they published my article and paid me cash money, and vow that I am innocent of any mercenary bias, as you will see. One year, I accidentally purchased a knock-off which bore an almost identical cover but drastically divergent contents, and had the same reaction that a woman might exhibit on finding a “Hecho en Mexico” tag in the bottom of her purported Gucci handbag. I’d been suckered. I’d been careless. Loyal and indignant, I returned the counterfeit to the store and left with the genuine article, albeit looking doubtful that there was anything else in the world in which I could fully trust. I now subscribe.

There are few institutions capable of withstanding the test of time as strongly as the Almanac has done. It holds the distinction of being the oldest continually published magazine in America, its first edition being issued in 1792. Without consulting an encyclopedia, I can’t tell you who was President that year, but he wasn’t too far removed from ol’ George. Why, folks wore powdered wigs in those days, and wars were waged with muskets! The farmer worked his fields with a horse-drawn plow and, if he were literate, read by candlelight. When he retired to the one-holer for a settin’ spell and took the Almanac in hand, he might have found the same words I read today regarding spring and daisies: aphorism of the land and people, timeless in its scholarship.

Though you may not need planting tables or gardening advice, or have reason to discern the Moon’s age and place, you can find a feast of knowledge in its pages, with an ample helping of humour for dessert. There are puzzles for the nimble-minded, articles both fascinating and peculiar, pertinent demographica and modest, interesting advertising. Recipes, contests, weather forecasts are abundant beneath its yellow jacket, and sometimes even a novice writer’s essay can find a niche within.

Yep, whether you sit on a marble throne in a high-rise office building or a splintered wooden board over a pit behind the shed, you should give this little book a nearby place to hang.

Our robins have returned. A number of years ago, I discovered that although we have robins year ‘round, we don’t necessarily have the same robins in December that we do in March. Robins have a time-share on the territory, apparently, and now the ones who’d journeyed south from the Arctic have headed home, replaced by their slightly smaller cousins who have in turn been basking in the sun somewhere closer to the equator.

Winter’s larger brood are more solitary in their habits, seldom flocking even to feed. They never mob the molehills after a light rain brings worms and bugs to the surface, and wouldn’t consider standing shoulder to shoulder in the feeders. Like those old men of the Yukon, these fellers stake out their claims and expect the rest to respect the boundaries: “I’m digging here. You go find your own lode.”

At one point yesterday, there must have been fifty cheechakos on Clyde’s grass, each mining furiously at a spot for a moment, then darting into new territory to scrape and sift again. You’d have thought it was California out there, the rush of robin prospectors delving tailings for something another might have left, each looking for its fortune; and some were lucky enough to score.

Settlers are what these spring birds become, tempted into residency with the promise of a subsistence wage. Generation after generation of this more lithe species will build their bungalows and cottages, raise their young and, like so many other folk, make an annual break from humdrum and go on winter holiday.

Unlike the fog, March does not approach on little cat feet to this furthest shore of February; witness now as the feline beast rampages, roaring gustily to 69 MPH by the anemometer above the corner of the kitchen. The winds are twisting Clyde’s chimney smoke like a corkscrew, and the juncoes are blowing backward down his driveway. The creature had the rain on its tail, and that too has arrived in slanted force to beat at the windows.

The bold surmise that Man has tamed the weather shows its faulty premise on days like these. Hiding behind closed doors, we presume a haven has been secured. Man, after all, is the superior being. Yet our arrogance meets its lie when some gale-force zephyr drives across the sill plate and dodges around the ankles like a tabby waiting dinner.

This storm is a lackey to the throne, a petty duke or count of Weather’s court. It makes no laws regarding travel, passes no codes for construction stipulating durability of materials. It levies certain taxes (most are reasonable) and is tolerant of those who dare its authority and venture out of their allotted fief. However, should this minor despot come to power, it leaves no doubt of its potential for tyrannical rule.

This is no lion of March, but not a house cat; no leonine King of Beasts, nor even tiger, leopard, cougar. This is a jaguar of a storm, and as such, we would be well advised to stay out of its path and at a safe remove where we may still appreciate its majesty. The lion’s dominion is that of Hurricane, the tiger lord of Cyclone. They will come in when March arrives, but exit through its back door tame as Burmese kittens.

Me bum wing has been diagnosed as "impingement syndrome due to inflammation of the bursa," or in layman's terms, a pinched nerve resulting from bursitis. I've been appropriately injected with cortisone, and although it feels a little better at the moment, I know what's coming day after tomorrow. Cortisone and I don't like each other.

Doc thinks it's not because I've spent too many hours at this keyboard, but I'm inclined to disagree. The weather doesn't permit me to test application of a 35# pack, although that's the remedy I'd prescribe. I'm a firm believer in using joints to keep them from rusting solid. "What you don't use, you lose," as the saying goes. Yair, me bum wing just isn't getting the kind of activity it's used to. If the cortisone will just carry me for a couple of months, there might be something I can do about that, and then I'll go back and tell the doc, "I told you so." It won't be the first time for those words!

A hearty column of smoke is coming from Clyde’s chimney, and I wish he wouldn’t do that. He headed out an hour ago, boat on the trailer, pursuing some fishy rumour that apparently came to his ears. I don’t approve of leaving the woodstove unattended, despite his knowledge of how to bank a safe fire and the fact that the stove is new and modern. His house is old and dry, and before I could dial the last digit of 911, it would be “fully involved,” as they say, if he should happen to get a stack fire. I don’t think he’d be very happy if he had to roast his trout over the coals of his living room.

I’ve heated with wood. I had a stack fire once, and it put the fear of God in me. Sounded like a freight train driving behind the wall. I damped it down, and by the time the truck had arrived, the blaze was out. The firemen checked the building thoroughly, but even after they left, I was edgy.

Given my choice, I’d take radiant heat as opposed to forced air any day. This place has a furnace, the first I’ve ever had the displeasure of owning, and there is no place, no spot to stand where you can take off a momentary chill. Contractors being what they are (second cousins to engineers), the cold air returns are in the floor and the heat vents are up at ceiling level. Somebody must have missed the day in junior high science class when teacher announced, “Hot air rises.”

The thermometer says it’s 74. I’m in a wool shirt and my legs feel like ice. I’d like to go lean up against an oil stove or back up to a radiator, or even hunker down in front of an electric space heater until I start to feel the sweat bead up. Then I’d be ready for another stint at the desk which backs the north wall and has a knee-hole penguins might covet for a nest.

Fireplaces are notoriously inefficient. Sure, you get a roaring blaze going and it’ll heat the house up ‘til it’s unlivable, but once the fire is out, all the heat wafts right back up the chimney before you dare shut the flue. I’ve got a fireplace, don’t use it. It isn’t ecologically or fiscally sound. I might light it up for holidays, toast a marshmallow or two, but as a heat source, it’s not an option unless the power goes out.

Aye, and there’s the infamous rub! There aren’t too many ways of heating that aren’t electrical-dependent. The good old oil stove is one, woodstoves are another, but best of all is the heater (insert or free-standing) which burns propane and ignites by means of a thermocouple. I priced them, and…well, maybe one of these days. After all, we’re only talking about backup heating, here.

But…and let me say this clearly…I’d rather be too cold than too warm. I can go put on another pair of socks or maybe the wooly long johns if the need arises. In the heat of summer when even the well water is tepid, naked is the best you can do. Perhaps the smoke rising from Clyde’s unattended chimney causes me emotional distress, but I doubt it can compare to a reversal, were I to open my curtains when summer’s acting lusty!

Daylight Saving Time, aside from being a dreadful nuisance to cows, is one of the more profoundly misconceived establishments of Man. Think about it. It’s backwards. We spring merrily ahead in April, deceive ourselves throughout the months of summer, then sink into the morass of Seasonal Affective Disorder under the early dark of winter’s evenings with a return to “standard” time.

The cows have got it right. You’ve probably heard one of the politically incorrect phrases, “Indian time” or “Abo time,” implying great latitude in interpretation of clock and schedule, yet no credit is given to either of these Native peoples for their remarkable resistance to regimentation. It is not that they have a wanton disregard for the clock. These two peoples (and there may be others) may be broadly characterized as being less artificial than we other folk, and that is an admirable trait. Time is a construct, and Daylight Time one very shaky wing of its edifice.

Some years ago, during the Energy Crisis, some wit thought to extend Daylight Time another hour. I hated those nights when it was light ‘til 10, an hour at which I am normally nodding off to sleep. “Y’know, they ought to do this in the wintertime,” I’d remark aloud to no one. “That’s when we need daylight!” But no one overheard my complaint, and come winter, we were doubly damned when Standard Time returned full-force.

Like the Aborigines and the Native Americans, I am a creature of the natural world. I rise with the sun and go down with it in the honoured cycle. Only when I am in the backcountry am I fully at liberty to enjoy my days as Gaia gives them. Yet I find myself tantalized by the days soon to come when the clocks will tell a lie and I can pretend to believe them.

Skunk is a mer-cat, a water feline, moggy of the aqueous persuasion. As a kitten, her natural curiosity took her into the shower as soon as she could leap the side of the tub. The predicted yowl did not occur, nor did she scramble, madly seeking escape from misadventure, nor claw her way up the naked human leg as justifiably any normal cat might have done. Skunk dabbed her toes in the puddle, walked sedately beneath the rain and sat herself firmly on the drain. The waters rose. She investigated the drip coming from the faucet. It made her sneeze. Her tail lay in the growing pool, limp and sodden, as if unaware of what had befallen it. The theory goes that the tail is an independent intellect, much like stegosaurus and its nether member, and so one would suppose that one end or the other might have noticed a dampish sort of feeling. Neither cat nor tail was the least perturbed.

For a full month, I shared my daily bath water with a friend, and during this time, another water game surfaced. A dish of cool, fresh drinking water was her invitation to go wading. Both front paws would go in, submerged to the wrists, and then digging would commence. Backhoeing like a badger, she could nearly empty a bowl in minutes and then, bored, walk away leaving spoor of wet cat footprints as her signature.

It is no non-sequitur to advise you to visit “Why Cats Paint” (link on the right). Or better yet, buy the book by the same name. Gouache? Tempera? Skunk’s chosen medium was water: transient, performance art.

Although she seldom frequents the shower now, she does still enjoy a monthly bath. Her “tub” is drawn in the double kitchen sink, outfitted with soap and towels and the requisite maidservant. She indulges in the sprayer’s douche until her fur is thoroughly soaked, standing stiff-armed with paws on the separator between the sinks as she’s lathered, rinsed and dried as best a thick-furred animal can be. We forgo the hair drier; she dislikes it. Does she struggle? Does she fuss? Not a bit of it! This strange little cat delights in bathing. Not so the mother, but that’s a subject best left unessayed. At least she, to the best of my knowledge, doesn’t get those aggravating hairballs.

The year's second planting of little green onions went in the ground today, 17 days after the first. Although each row is a mere 18" long, two rows per planting, this should ensure enough scallions to garnish wonton soup throughout the summer. A few inches to the south, the chives are making a shy appearance.

I was fairly sure I could get away with the chives under the description of "herb." Herbs I can grow. Horehound, lavender, oregano, lemon balm, salad burnet and a precious, increasing number of goldenseal plants are all more readily defined and flourish beautifully. Those onions seemed a little too close to "vegetable" to be expected to prosper, but they are doing so, and nicely. Last year's sowing is presently pickable, though not abundant. I treat them as I do the chives, and harvest only the tops. I'm not sure that's according to Hoyle, but it's working.

How does horseradish classify? For many years, I tried to mow into oblivion the weedy plant suspected of being some type of extra-durable dock that grew up against the back of the house. It wouldn't succumb, deprived of its ability to photosynthesize, so I determined to dig it out. Dig I did at roots the size of my wrist, and tugged and pulled and pried them out from beneath the foundation. Snap! Arse over teakettle I went with a foot long chunk in my hands, and then I got the smell.

Laugh if you will, I did not make the obvious assumption. No. Instead, I continued for several more years trying to root out that pesky "dock" that reeked so strongly of horseradish, which I love. It wasn't until one brisk fall day when Clyde mentioned he was going to dig horseradish that the truth came to light. "Bring me a root," I demanded. "I want to get some started over here." The piece he delivered still bore one oddly dock-like leaf. I had ignored Occam's Razor, "The simplest solution is most often correct."

Perhaps the unquenchable spirit of Horseradish was instructing me that I could indeed grow foodstuffs, although the tamer sorts have not shown the slightest will to live; not until the Onion Caper did a "vegetable" prosper. There beside delphiniums and daffodils, the little greens put forth their best. In them, too, we find a recondite inner strength.

Sure as death and taxes, Sande was bound to catch a whopper today when I begged off and stayed home to nurse a troublesome shoulder injury. I cancelled at the last minute, and it wouldn't have been reasonable to expect him not to go. His sandwich was made, his gear was stowed in the new truck, and it wasn't raining at his house as it was at mine (a factor which played a rather sizeable role in my decision). He didn't tell me he was going regardless, although I assumed it. The first admission of guilt to come to my ears was when the phone rang in late afternoon and his greeting was, "Can I come by and show you a fish?" (The dull, reverberating sound you hear is the author's head, banging repeatedly against the wall of regret.)

It always happens that way. Last fall, he was laid up in hospital when I fought a forty-inch salmon out of swift water. In the forty-five minutes I battled the monster, I must have said, "Damn, I wish Sande was here!" a dozen times.

I never had a fishin' buddy prior to this man 25 years my senior, not in the truest sense of the word. I've fished with neighbor Clyde on a fairly regular basis for a number of consecutive years, but our agendas separate at the end of the spring cutthroat run. I've dangled a line with two ex-husbands or with assorted friends, none of whom found a passion for the sport and lost interest after a few outings despite their successes. Nor did I go seeking a partner in my hobby, having been for years a solitary sort. It just kinda happened, if you know what I mean.

Sande is a charmer. He has a wit that sneaks up from behind and bites you in the arse with the spunk of a fox terrier. He stands up well to ribbing, and deals it out without mercy. He doesn't gripe (well, not too badly) when wet, cold, tired or fishless, and it's hard to be in bad spirits around him even when you find yourself poised on the oppressive event horizon generated by all four conditions. Also, he takes instruction well from his junior female companion, and admits publicly that I've put him onto a lot of fish with my expertise. Now that is saying a lot of the man!

I am good friends with his wife and daughters, and manage to chat intelligently about gardening and crafts when my buddy's not around. Put the two of us in proximity, and the compass of conversation reliably points to piscatorial north, be it fish or bait, rods or reels on the horizon. We're fishin' buddies, point of fact, and nothing gets in the way.

And so today I said, "Yeah, bring it by." He knew I cared. Sixteen inches, it was.

A friend gave me the nicest compliment today. "She knows words," he said. ¡Muchas gracías, señor Pablo! That's even a finer epitaph than, "She was a fisherman." Trademarked or not, I'll toast you with a teasan. ¡Salud!

Blame my grandmother. She was an English teacher, and employed an arsenal of word games to keep me occupied as a child. She and I shared a bed in my family's small home, and many nights, I'd lie wide awake beside her as she attempted to bore me to sleep with "My Grandmother's Trunk." To her dismay, I was quite good at that particular game because my natural competitive spirit peaked when playing on the field of language. I remember one notable occasion when "My Grandmother's Trunk" contained the entire alphabet twice from 'a' to 'zed,' and I've never been fully convinced that she actually fell asleep as she seemed to do when she realized she'd lost the war.

I read a dictionary when I was eleven, scientifically appointing myself a certain number of pages per night and making special note of peculiar words I'd try out on my junior high school peers. It probably goes without saying that I only had one friend. Nor was I particularly dear to teachers after successfully and vehemently proving a point of parsing to one who disagreed.

I learned to read upside-down. My uncle (son of Grandma) often baby-sat when I was still in my crib, and read aloud to me from "Astounding Science Fiction." I followed along, peering over the rail at those little black marks and delighting in the discovery that each provoked a certain sound or series of sounds when he encountered them. Oddly, I had no difficulty reorienting when the time came to turn them rightside-up.

In later years, during a bank of psychological tests upon my intellect, I came up against one word I did not know: synecdoche. I went promptly to the dictionary when I arrived home. A delightful word! It is not one you can insert very readily into a sentence unless you are speaking to a group of grammarians, nor is Webster's definition easy to apprehend. I seized it like a gold nugget, and when after a serious surgery, I mumbled up from anaesthesia I had felt sure was going to damage my brain, it was to announce, "I still know what 'synecdoche' means," to the friend at my bedside.

Señor Pablo, you made my day with your compliment. Mark my words!

Had to make a trip into town today (a minimum of 45 minutes to full-fledged "shopping"), and it's never easy, seldom fun, even when questing for some new toy. I don't do stoplights, you see. Four-way stops or simple stop signs are another matter. You simply throw in the clutch, put on the brake, give a nod to the guy who's just pulling up, then go on blithely through. That's the country way.

You know you've hit civilization when the procedure changes. You pull to a stop in second gear, shift into neutral, take a quick assessment of the odd sorts in the vehicles next to you, and give a passing thought to the Richter-scale bass beats coming from that butt-ugly truck three cars back. You're going to spend a minute here, maybe a bit more, depending on what the city engineer had in mind when he wrote the light's work schedule, and you're becoming very aware that time is a precious commodity. To add insult to injury, you're going to repeat the procedure at the end of the next block. And at the next and the next. It's no wonder city folk have ulcers and GERD and...well, some of the other things you get from enforced patience.

I've mapped some rather innovative routes specifically designed to avoid stoplights. Of course, it helps that my shopping requirements don't take me into clothing stores, bed-and-bath shoppes, boutiques or electronics outlets, and fishing gear cubbies and hardware suppliers generally lie at the fringes. You won't find buzz-bombs on your local mall, and you'd be hard put to buy plaster lath at Mervyn's. I'm not claiming to avoid stoplights entirely as I pursue a 3/4 inch hole saw, but I can come close enough to avoid all but a few frayed nerves.

Still, going in town takes its toll of me, and I feel genuine relief when I know I've passed the last stoplight. The next leg of my journey home covers ten miles before arriving at a T. I never run the sign. I stop, look both ways for log trucks, make a left and drive another seven miles touching neither pedal nor knob. There is no stop sign at our road's corner. Someone...not me...spirited it away under cover of darkness many years ago. We live on the wild side here.

Windy this morning. I had to go chasing over to the Dennis fence to retrieve the lid to the outdoor recycle bin. I don’t know why the engineers didn’t think that one through, but I’ve now solved the problem with a hefty rock.

Easterly, downslope winds cause the greatest damage around here, peeling shingles off roofs like I’d scrape scales off shad. They also bend the huskiest trees and, as any logger will tell you, it’s not the force of wind that causes a branch or trunk to snap. It’s the absence of force when the wind dies and the tree snaps back into the void. Clyde’s trees are on the east side of his house, and he seldom even has to clean up a fall of debris. My trees are on the west.

One old fir stands somewhat apart from its younger and slenderer kinfolk. Originally, it was bifurcated about twenty feet from the base in what is termed a “schoolmarm” (let’s ignore the etymology of that charming word, shall we?), each fork being as thick as an average man’s hip girth, and bearing branches the diameter of a slender thigh, fully twenty feet long or longer. Given a few gusts in the 30 MPH range, much of the yard would often become blanketed in twigs and boughs, or sometimes even a major limb. Oblivious, I didn’t give the tree a thought until Clyde (a woodsman of the first order) called it to my attention.

I cannot bear to kill a tree; neither am I willing to stand idly by beneath one deemed a hazard. Reluctantly, I called a tree service. They laid the schoolmarm to rest neatly between the house and fence without so much as a scrape, and thoughtfully sectioned both trunks into firewood. I should have had the poor thing removed entirely, but its spread affords a small bit of insulation against summer’s momentary fits of overzealousness, and so, topped and truncated, it still stands to shed in any significant wind. It does so regularly, and likewise provides me with a thick fall of fir cones or allergy-producing pollen, each in its season. Its power is diminished to a nominal aggravation.

The youngsters have grown a tad older now, and since most of the tallest stand on the opposite side of the ratty barbed wire, there’s not much I can do. That piece of land is rumoured to have an owner, a faceless man known only to the neighbors by his given name, not one I would care to meet and greet with a demand to sever his trees. No, the east wind will just have to blow with might and main as it did today, and hopefully effect nothing more serious than sending me in pursuit of the recyc lid.

The weather has changed, cooler and more seasonal now. Fresh snow smudges the horizon’s firs against the masked sky as if the landscape were illustrated in pastels or woven from mohair threads. The clearcut slopes are displayed in plaid and buffalo check, freckled white and deepest hunter, crossed occasionally by an errant line of rosy-tan road. Alders and cottonwoods are misted at their tips with new growth, not quite red, not quite green, and moody with the ambient light. One can see that the world is still in winter’s clutches, but it is equally apparent that the Old Man is losing his hold.

Across the silent pavement, the fallow pasture is rendered in yellow and grey; brittle thistles or dry grass the medium applied to its canvas. The blatant statement of that garish orange survey stake could be considered art, were it not so sinister, although contrasted against the outright humour of the dotted molehills, it loses some of its impact. As accent, a few white snowberries are spattered along the margin where the wire fence once stood.

At times, the tapestry is animated by elk or coyotes, or great black ravens searching for buried treasure in its folds. A Steller’s jay flashes bright blue and whisks itself away like lint in a breeze.

There is an abundance of bird gossip: juncoes holding debate with sparrows, crows conversing in their secret language, winter wren singing arias. The jays, of course, delight in mimicking the hawk’s “kee-eeer,” and sometimes the listener cannot be precisely sure who has spoken. Thus far, however, the frogs have remained silent. No spring peepers have given voice to their opinions of the changing season. Their time on the podium is yet to come.

Even the weather is restless and anticipatory.

Let me dedicate this moment to...coffee!

I have a reputation for drinking -and enjoying!- the stuff in any condition except sweetened, a description which extends to tepid, over-boiled, week-old and rank, among others. I prefer it decaffeinated, strong and black, and triple straight shots of unleaded espresso suit me just fine.

When I was growing up, my mother often stated that food of any sort tastes better outdoors (always appending "especially soda crackers" to the proposal), and I believe that to be correct regardless of whether you've just hiked twenty miles to camp or merely stepped out on the back porch for a breath of fresh air. There is no doubt a simple explanation involving taste bud acuity being heightened by temperature or humidity or some such blather, but let's lay that aside. The simple fact is that empirically, it has been demonstrated to be so, at least 99.44% of the time. The one notable exception involved coffee.

The vilest cup of brew I ever made, I made whilst camped in Earth's most beautiful corner. Those of you who know me will know it by name, and those who do not can whistle Dixie. I had carried with me a lightweight aluminum single-dose espresso pot (one I had used successfully in the lowlands) and the requisite amount of coffee, freshly ground from some high-grade beans. The water flowing through this alpine valley is pure and clear and utterly delicious served straight up, so all things considered, I should have been brewing the finest cup of java in the world. Indeed, as the thick, rich effluent began to dribble from the nozzle, the aroma was enough to drive a coffee addict mad. I could hardly wait for the first sip. As my lips touched the rim of the tiny granite cup, I expected to savor the mellow richness of the brew...

What went wrong? It was horrid! I can't describe the taste without using allusions to battery acid which, of course, are hackneyed and trite. It lingered on the tongue for hours, and even after a night's sleep, my breath stank in my nose like burned shoe soles.

For the remainder of my stay, I drank instant. This spot is too remote to lug a full-sized perc pot into, and in any event, my usual brand dissolves as easily in cold water as in hot, permitting me to have "iced" coffee if the weather's warm.

Since that fateful day, I've used the mini espresso maker at home on several occasions when the power was out. The coffee has been decent, if not superlative, and never again has it been so foul as it was when I was expecting it to be its best. Perhaps the spring water carried a chemical which activated some constituent of the coffee? I can't say, nor am I anxious to repeat the experience.

On that note, I think I'll go make a mocha. A bit of chocolate now and then isn't too great a departure from ritual. Or maybe I'll make a latte. Cappuccino? Maybe I'll just take it straight.

I like my coffee, yes, I do, and you're thinking that one lone cup of bad coffee in a lifetime can't account for that percentage I gave at the top of the page. Well, there's been one other time I gagged on java. I'd been fishing and was half-frozen and desperate. Innocent of what was going to occur, I helped myself to Sande's thermos. The Pharisee uses sugar!

I've been doing some computer housekeeping today, copying image files to disk and wiping them off the hard drive to free up space, not that it's particularly necessary. It's just one of those spring cleaning things, like putting a good coat of wax on the kitchen floor or going through the closet for things to take to the thrift shop. A friend attributes this to the nesting urge. Ha! She's known me long enough to realize what a supremely ridiculous accusation that is, and I'm sure she made the suggestion half in jest. So why am I tidying compulsively?

There is a freshness in the air that cannot be denied, and I am restless with pent-up energy, although that can't be the whole of it. A desire to change the world around me no doubt plays a part, the same frustration that compels me to an occasional fit of furniture rearranging. If you can't change the big things, change the small ones. At least you'll feel you have some control over the situation. Admittedly, deleting files isn't as rewarding as moving a piano, but the piano is a goodly bit heavier and relocating it is not so simple a task, since it only has three of the recommended four wheels.

I could probably do with a cup of spring tonic, nettle tea being the beverage of choice. For this, you take young nettles and pack them into a saucepan (wear rubber gloves!), add several large cloves of garlic and a tablespoon or so of black pepper. Add water and bring to a boil. Steep until it's good and dark, and then strain it through a sieve. Alas! The nettles haven't sprouted yet, but believe me, this concoction is guaranteed to dust you off and spruce you up in its season. Spring's not quite here, not yet, so stick to gentler chores for the moment, and save the piano-moving until you have your full strength.

I should have gone out on the bicycle today. My conscience is biting me because I've spent the whole bloody day playing with virtual varmints. It was a holiday of sorts in Neopia, and higher education came free to the honoured, of which there are eight in the extended family. I couldn't very well deny them, could I?

"You do what you most want to do," my mother says. Even given the choice between hanging or the needle, I suppose that's true. We do complain when we choose a course of action with unpleasant consequences, but nonetheless, we do choose, and we instinctively choose that which we believe will bring the greater good.

Nevertheless, age is catching up to me and I really should have taken this day to exercise more of the body than the fingers. I kept in pretty good trim before this Infernal Machine moved into the house. It wasn't long before the insidious thing had sucked me into its lair and began leaching out my essence. Small wonder they named it the "web." What foresight went into the nomenclature!

I've only recently started bicycling seriously again, and I'm certainly not up to the standard I once held. Last summer, I peaked out with a ride of just over 22 miles and suffered no particular pains. Not shabby for somebody who's closer to 60 than 50, although I feel greatly diminished from my former self. For some odd reason, I have the idea I can regain my previous status if I dedicate to the task, and bicycling presently appeals more than hiking (a fact that will no doubt surprise the readers who know me).

For one thing, a bicycle is faster than your average mosquito, and I think that fact alone is the one that's been edging me out of the backcountry more and more in recent years. It's not that I fear West Nile, no. I just figure I've given enough blood for one lifetime, thank you, and I do react rather more than most people to the stings. I'm tired of coming home stinking of insect repellent, only to be scratching days later at all the points missed by the spray. Believe me, those little suckers will find the tiniest chink in your chemical armor!

Well, we're headed into another rainy spell, so it'll probably be a while before I have a chance to get the wheels under me again. It'll happen. I'm getting far too chair-shaped on the bottomside to let this go on for long.

We have a new Fish Wagon. It's a lovely new Fish Wagon, it really is, except for being very, very bright red.

I'm sure it was no coincidence that the most hazardous traffic situation I found myself in during my travels in town today involved a red vehicle. Insurance companies know that drivers of such tend to be aggressive, and this chap was a case in point.

We were on a four-lane street which split into five lines of traffic, the centermost being for people who wanted to make a left at the light. There were a number of cars in the left turn lane, and I was second back from the light in the middle. The red truck was at the fore of the far right lane, and when the light changed to green, he gunned it and dashed across both my lane and the left turn lane, and into the inside lane of the cross street. The fellow in the truck in front of me slammed on his brakes before broadsiding the idiot, and the person who was trying to make the legal left swerved as they were crowded out. There was no collision, although I think several peoples' nerves were severely damaged.

So why did conservative Sande buy a red truck? For one thing, it's immaculate. Owned previously by a sweet young thing, it only has 40,000 miles on it. The price was right. We really needed a new Fish Wagon because the transmission was giving out on the old one, and we'd rather not be halfway to the Back of Beyond and have to limp home. Been down that road...a long, potholed gravel one, I might add, and nobody around for miles except the guy tending what we suspected of being a drug lab a few miles back. Yes, replacement of the Fish Wagon was due, and unfortunately, the best applicant for the position was red as Burpee's Big Boy.

It might be better if he'd leave a little grit on it for camouflage, but he's one of those folks who wash and wax regularly. Always used to give me a bad time about my green Tojo. "Are you going to wash your car?" he'd ask me. I'd think hard for a minute. When was the last time I'd had it washed? Toyota used to wash it when I'd take it in for an oil change, a task I performed religiously every 3000 miles. Then they'd started using the excuse that it was winter and their wash bay was down, so I'd decided to wait 'til spring. When the date arrived, the wash bay was still down or the wash crew was out to lunch, so I'd put it off again, and then at some later point, I'd had a falling-out with Toyota and the car still hadn't been washed.

"Why?" I replied. "It's gone three years, surely it can go another one." Sande's a lot of fun to nettle, but in this case, I spoke the plain truth. He shook his head and leaned up against his spanking-shiny silver Chrysler, the one with the heated seats which I really think would make a better fishing car, considering.

Eventually, I washed the Tojo with my very own hands, and then promptly turned around and traded it in. I didn't plan it that way, either.

In any event, the new Fish Wagon is here to stay, and Sande won't consider having it repainted. We'll just have to be careful to park farther away from the water's edge so the flamin' thing doesn't put down every fish in the river.

The recycling crew came and took away all the smelt bits this morning before the frost was even off the grass. As I was eating breakfast, I was reading something in National Wildlife about how great grey owls will stash dead mice or other prey during the frigid winters in Canada's boreal forests, and then when they want a meal, they'll retrieve their snack and sit on it to thaw it out. I had to wonder if my corvid collection was all off sitting on frozen fish because I dumped those heads on the board last night before I went to bed. Little fish popsicles, they were, but it was preferable to stowing a quart cottage cheese tub full of fish guts in the fridge.

The crows clean up 95% of my foodstuff trash, notable exceptions being coffee grounds, tea bags and fruit peels. There's very little actual garbage generated in this house. Paper is stowed in one bin, steel cans in another, aluminum in another. Plastics 1-7 all go to one convenient, nearby location, and it's here that I'm glad I live in the country. City folks can readily dispose of 1's and 2's, but not the remainder. As a matter of fact, I have to drive farther to drop off the steel and paper, and the rather large facility which takes them refuses the 3-7 classes of plastic. Now that's a bit incongruous.

Styrofoam winds up in the can, no hope there, but it's seldom more than a quarter full of genuine discardables when the automated garbage truck makes its once-a-month run. Once, I was faced with a dead TV set. "Put it in the can," they told me, "if it'll fit." Fit? It slipped neatly down to the bottom and I was afraid it was going to be stuck there when they hoisted the bin up to empty.

Used kitty litter is something for which there seems to be no secondary purpose. That, too, goes in the tip. Nor have I found a use for fragments of chipboard or drywall, although even the smallest piece of treated lumber manages to find a home somewhere, if only to elevate a flower pot for drainage. I suppose I could compost the coffee grounds and tea leaves, except for the small disagreement I have with Gaia about the cultivation of vegetables.

Recycling may well be fruitless, given the path humanity is following, but nonetheless, I do it willingly. Too much has been taken from the Earth, wantonly and without attempt at repayment for her largesse. It is the least we can do to use again that which we have not used up.

Smelt. Oi. I am totally worn out from a hard day's smelting with very low yield. Local theory maintains that this was the pilot run.

"Didja ever work so hard for a meal in your life?" I asked the gentlemen next to me. They laughed, and went back to make five more dry dips before coming up with two smelt in the net. I pulled in a one-pound rock and swivelled around so Sande, ten feet away, could shake it out of the fine mesh. A couple more passes and I was ready for a break. We traded positions. He made a few dips and added four smelt to the bucket on the last one. The guy in waders who was out dangerously close to the collapsing ledge of sand hauled up a writhing ball of six or seven fish. Sande worked his patch like a trooper, but only added one more smelt to the pot before relinquishing the net to me. I moved over a few feet, stretched out as far as I could, took a swipe that bounced over rocks I couldn't see through the cloudy water, and came up with my best score of the day: about a dozen. And so it went, empty dip after empty dip, salted with the occasional reward of a fish or two or maybe five. Folks, you don't get a twenty-pound limit very quickly that way, nor without some toll being demanded of your shoulders and back.

Okay, the little buggers ought to be seriously in within the next two weeks, and like Schwarzenegger, "I'll be back." Right now, it's me for the electric blanket and a cloth sack of microwaved rice wrapped around my aching shoulders. And yes, for your information, they are all cleaned and ready to be processed in some fashion or other. 'Bout a hundred of them, there were, and although that's a pittance when you were hoping for a limit, it sure made for a quicker cleaning job.

Now there's significant seismicity in Irian Jaya. Geologically, that's closely related to the Loyalty Islands, being directly along the line of junction between the Pacific Plate and the Australian Plate. Something's slipping down there, and it's making me very nervous. Here's a very basic map from USGS, and of course, if you want to keep a really close eye on things, you can click the "Seismic Events" link over on the right.

I haven't got my "earthquake hair" on yet, but we're coming into that season and I expect to get up any morning feeling like all my follicle nits are hatching out at once. They seem to come between two birthdays in this area, a window of two weeks that's not too far off. I suppose there has to be some latitude granted to that forecast since the moon's pull needs to be factored in, so I'm not going out on any limbs to give exact date and time. Just suffice to say that the end of February and early March will find me flinching at the bump caused by that lardy little cat jumping off the bed.

The Irian Jayans are no doubt tired of all this, and they're not getting much press. Everybody's all in a lather with politics, and can't be bothered with a bunch of natives off down in the South Seas someplace. Beside the sidelined human aspect of the story, we've got something geologically major going on, something which could literally affect the globe. Sure, there ain't much we could do about it, but if a new Krakatoa is going to pop up and spew enough volcanic ash into the air to create another "Year Without A Summer," you might think we could express a bit of concern.

Reading National Wildlife's bimonthly magazine, I hit on a rather incongruous bit of journalese: "If all the ice goes in Hudson Bay, as the forecasts predict, then there won't be any polar bears there. And there's no place they can go. People often ask, 'Can't they just go farther north?' But the answer is no." Hey, guys! Get a wake-up! If all the ice goes in Hudson Bay, human beings are going to be looking for polar bears to eat. Somewhere, we've mislaid our perspective.

Well, the Pulitzer isn't going to be awarded for a weblog, but if you want world news (the operative word being "world"), stay tuned to this channel. I can almost guarantee it'll be earth-shaking.

Anagram: eleven plus two = twelve plus one. That's gotta be the best one of all time.

No particular reason for mentioning that, other than the fact that words fascinate me like no other subject. As far as I know, that's the only mathematically accurate anagram in the English language, and I have no intention of lying awake nights, trying to find another.

When I was a youngster, I had a sliding puzzle composed of letters in a four by seven grid, the last row containing only three for the sake of manipulation. The idea was simply to make four-letter words, nothing else. No one ever said the puzzle could be solved in a fashion that gave four-letter words horizontally and seven-letter ones on the vertical, but I was convinced it could be done. I never proved my hypothesis, although I came very, very close.

Whatever became of the puzzle, I cannot say. I still have some of the "15" puzzles of that era, but the lettered one has gone forever missing. In recent years, I found one which was similar, although it bore a preponderance of m's that I know were not part of the original design. You can tell at a glance that a 4 x 7 solution is incredibly unlikely, so the puzzle has ben relegated to the puzzle drawer indefinitely. I'd give my metaphorical eye teeth for one like the old one, but eBay is not forthcoming.

The house is scented with the aroma of fresh-baked raisin bread, and I'll admit it: I cheat. I use a bread machine. After twenty-five or so years of enthusiastic kneading to the rhythm of "Molly Malone," I decided to hang up my apron and let technology do the job.

Bread-making was done every two weeks, and I had three favourites. The old stand-by in those days was oatmeal bread, sweetened with honey or molasses either separately or in various ratios. Second was raisin bread, essentially the same recipe that now takes a whole four minutes to throw together. Third on the list was a frequent treat. Made with millet flour, it was dubbed "birdseed bread," and was best served with unsalted butter lavishly applied. I also made sourdough, but not often enough to keep the starter replenished, and gradually, it slipped into the class of specialty breads made only for holidays or company.

The oatmeal loaf was soft and tender with a rather large crumb. It made delicious toast (again an excuse to eat butter), especially spread with strawberry preserves or cranberry-orange marmalade. The raisin bread, however, needed no dressing-up. A slab of it stuck in a pack was good fodder on a day-hike when you wanted something to stick to your ribs, and it was sturdy enough to withstand the abuse of having a camera jammed in on top of it or of being bent around a water bottle.

White bread? I seldom made it, except to give as gifts to those unaccustomed to, yea, perhaps even put off by wholesome goodness, people whose taste in bread might speak volumes about their personalities. I believe that bread, like individuals, should have substance and structure, character, class.

Maybe that was why I stopped making oatmeal bread. It wants for something else to be complete.

Yes, I'll take my raisin bread. It's dependable and unpretentious, a bit rugged, and although it can derive occasional benefit from putting on some dressier attire, it's certainly capable of standing alone. As for the birdseed bread, my other favorite...well, let's just say it's a little odd.

Best we just don't mention fish. The mighty have fallen, and the reputation is a bit bruised. I shall have my revenge, verily and forsooth, but Sande is ahead so far this year by 1) catching the first fish, 2) catching the largest fish, and 3) having one more fish to his credit than do I, by dint of having caught two today. That's all right. He deserves his day in the sun, a commodity which we sorely lacked in our chilly adventure.

Despite the nip in the air and a stout breeze to keep us confined in the cab of the truck with the heater running, and a shortage of fish to peck at our various baits, this particular water strikes me as a spot as close to perfect as encroaching civilization may permit. The lake is fairly small, and there is no building within stone's throw of its shore. A few farms lie on the hills above it, their pastures running down to marsh inhabited by wild fowl. No road goes along the back side, and a two-lane, largely untravelled pavement skirts the front with widely spaced pull-outs just large enough for a fisherman or two. Combustion engines are not permitted on the lake, so although occasionally, you'll see somebody putt-putting by with an electric motor, float tubes are equally as common. There is little brush on which to snag a line, and you practically have to aim to stick a hook in the branches of a tree.

It is here that you can experience the Zen of fishing, once you've made your cast and retired to your chair, although I'd suggest trying it on a warmer day with a zephyr's sweet breath upon your face. Today was more like suffering for the sake of Art.

I've had several cups of coffee, piping hot chicken soup and a mug of chocolate, complete with marshmallows. The electric blanket is pre-heating on its highest setting, and the cat is already snoozing on the foot of the bed, preparatory to being utilized as a foot-warmer. Cold is a momentary inconvenience in the grander scheme, and now passes into memory. I am richer for this day.

The Weather Boys have missed their mark again, and this time, it worked out to our favor. Here it is, sprinkling and chilly instead of partly sunny and a tad cool, and Sande and I are not freezing our respective wazoos beside the water whilst waiting for a fish. Today was supposed to be nice, according to those infamous Weather Boys, but tomorrow is supposed to be better. Well, I do most certainly hope so!

I'm no stranger to being cold, wet and miserable for the sake of a measly trout or two. Given my choice, of course, I'd opt for sunny skies like a sane person, and a temperature fairly close to 60, but madness overtakes me at the mention of the word "fish," and I will have my gear together in a heartbeat and be out the door in moments, willing to stand in snow or hail for hours, fishless hours.

I met Sande on such a chilly day when the fish weren't biting. I rather suspect he learned all he needed to know about his shoreside companion when I finally did bring a 16-inch native cutthroat to the bank, only to lose it when the line became embedded between two rocks and snapped. I dove for the half-beached fish...quite literally, it turned out...and went face-first into icy water. Soaked through to the hide, I started to head home for a change of clothes, but Sande hooked a fish and I knew the bite was on. I finished the day out wrapped in his jacket and a limit in my creel. Verily, my epitaph shall read, "She was a fisherman," and nothing else needs to be said.

Thus, rain or shine, we two fools essay the water tomorrow. If the Weather Boys are wrong again, so be it. We are proof against the whims of Nature...except, of course, when She denies us fish.

Constant exposure to Neopets is inclining me to an appreciation of those extraneous u's prevalent in British spellings, "colour," "honour," "behaviour." I have always favoured lengthier versions of such words as "catalogue," and suspect this is but an outgrowth of the same rationale, or perhaps even a protest against the other thing I see so much of in the Neopets chat room, namely, verbal "shorthand" taken to the extreme of being unintelligible. If there is nuance in the insertion of a u, certainly the use of "4" for "for" leaves a lot to be desired. ("Y not 4 4 4?" you ask, unwisely.)

Of the business letters I've received in recent years, I'd say probably 95% contained at least one error. (For those who are curious, I do not use a spell-checker. I keep a hefty dictionary on my desk. Its three volumes are very rarely opened, and then only to confirm that Alzheimer's has not blunted my wits. If you can't quite pull that off, by all means, use a spell-checker.) Poor spelling damages credibility in my book. It is less than professional, and if I am doing business, I want to do it with intelligent, professional people. In my present state of mind, a few spare but permissible u's might tip the scales between Bob's or Crescent Moon the next time I need my septic tank pumped.

The grapevine wants some renovation.

It was ancient when it moved here, transported in the back of an ex-neighbor's truck, although for some unfathomable reason, he hadn't pruned it and it had a wingspan to match that of a pterodactyl. When laid out beside the ten-dollar hole we'd dug for it midway along the south wall of the garage, it extended fully to either end of the building.

Principally, Alex grew wine grapes, although he had a few table grapes around to keep them company. This soon-to-be-planted grandfather of all grapevines was an Interlaken, delivering the taste of a Concord in small, round, green fruit without the bother of seeds. Since my father had once raised Concords in country much more grapevine-friendly, this to me was the perfect grape. There was, of course, one small proviso: would it flourish under my tutelage? If you've been following my blog, you know how successful I am with Things Edible.

My father never schooled me in the art of grape cultivation, and the several books I perused all recommended different procedures to ensure a healthy crop. Perhaps the old fellow took a while to realize I was at a disadvantage, because although the first year the vine provided lavishly despite my haphazard pruning methods, the following year it produced three clusters of no more than ten grapes apiece. Subsequent years saw me making lots of dolmas to justify the water I was pumping from the well.

Then I met Sande, my fishin' buddy extraordinaire. I suddenly found myself adopted, waif that I was, into a family so extended and so welcoming as to be anachronistic to the 21st century. Among these relatives, kin, kith and cousins we find Uncle Eddie, and Uncle Eddie knows his grapes.

My schooling in grape science has been somewhat hampered by the fact that Eddie is thoroughly Italian and speaks volumes with his hands, all the while his mouth is astonishingly profane. I suppose if I could effectively emulate "take the *&$%#%" -gesture- "and" -gesture- "you see? So that next year, this will" -gesture- "and you'll get more *$&#^% grapes," I might actually see a higher yield, but somehow I've lost the sense of the lesson during translation.

Eddie has thoughtfully pruned the vine for me twice now, and it has borne a respectable crop of succulent fruit accordingly. However, in the meantime, I've read enough to be dangerous, and after his labors one cold January day, I went out on the proverbial limb to make improvements to the system. You see, I want to have a rotating crop, which is to say that the vine bears fruit on upper and lower tiers of wood on alternate years. Thus I did snip, and we shall see what transpires.

As for Eddie's suggestion that I move the support posts away from the garage wall a bit more, that will be done as soon as the ground is frost-free. I need to install longer posts (possibly cedar, if Clyde will permit me to thieve two more from his stash) and put up sturdier wires. I am thinking in terms of Grapes Galore, and preferably without having to go up on the garage roof to pick them. Ambitious, eh?

In English, a double negative contradicts itself and they assure us that its opposite, a double positive, cannot. To that I say, "Yeah, right."

Grapes Galore? Yeah, right.

The Great Neopian Marble Hunt is over. I have accomplished what I set out to do, although only a few (200) of them are on public display as a single image.

As a Neopets veteran (which is to say I've been there almost three years), I've experienced a few burnouts. The games get old, the humor turns stale, and a person becomes aware that they're wasting hours of each and every day doing something that is a total waste of time. I think a lot of people quit playing at that point.

Not me. I take a day or two off, go do something productive and beneficial, like shop or pull weeds. The urge is strong to go sit down at the computer to accrue another round of Neopoints, but I resist it purposefully. The idea here is to 1) give myself a serious case of withdrawal symptoms and 2) awaken the thought that after all, most everything we do in life is impermanent and therefore relatively pointless anyway.

Lest you call the little men in the short white coats to come haul me away and medicate me for depression, let me say in defence that I mean this in a nihilistic sense. After all, how long is that DVD player you just bought going to last, and how soon is the garden going to be thick with chickweed again?

Time, money, politics...they're all constructs. The more intelligent animals on this Earth don't recognize any of the three. Those three things, cousin, are greater wastes of time and effort than any computer game, weeding session or movie watching you'll ever, ever do.

'Scuse me, I gotta go play Neopets. There's a rumor that Dr. Sloth is up to his old tricks again and I want to be sure that my marbles are tucked safely away.