The orchard grass is in places chest-high, with fragrant pink weigela bushes in bloom, turkey season winding down and shad running like gangbusters leading up to Memorial Day Weekend.

I just discovered that the annual Fort No. 4 reenactment in Charlestown, N.H., is next weekend. Can’t wait. I think I’ll take both grandsons this time. Young Arie, approaching 3, should be all eyes, viewing soldiers, suttlers and feather-adorned native tribesmen. But enough of that, onto this week’s task at hand, again a little of this, a little of that. Next thing you know, another column in the rearview. Then it’ll be off to yard-work, reading, writing or all of the above; life at the old tavern, no complaints.

First, a correction. The hydroseeding landscaper I mentioned last week was Steve Wiggan, not Higgins. I’m very sorry for the careless mistake.

Moving on, old pal Richie Kellogg — The Big R — called Wednesday morning from Wendell. The big man says he’s taken up reading, finds it enjoyable and thanked me for planting the seed. I warned him it could get contagious, jumping from one related topic to another. I just hope he doesn’t, along the way, bump into Capt. Martin Kellogg of old Deerfield fame. An interesting 17th and early 18th century frontiersman, Capt. Kellogg knew the northern New England woods and native inhabitants like no other. He’s fascinating, especially when his blood is traveling through your veins. Sorry, Big Guy, had to mention him, presumably a long-lost cousin at the very least, potentially a source of great personal pride.

Speaking of reading, just this past weekend, eating homemade spaghetti and meatballs by the window in our little kitchen alcove, grandson Jordi, 6, and I were talking about Indians, a subject that fascinates the boy. He was curious whether Indians were good or bad and I tried to help, telling him that reading and exploring would lead him to the answer. Had I believed all the mainstream stuff I saw about Indians as a kid, I’d believe they were bloodthirsty savages, white men good. But because I have read, I told him, I know that wasn’t the case. Often times, Indians were better human beings than the people slaughtering their women and children in nighttime raids. I then told him of the gold, silver and jewels discovered by Spaniards in the sophisticated 16th century Inca and Aztec cities, how those indigenous South and Central Americans were soon demonized and slaughtered for their riches. It’s all about greed, I told him, and things haven’t changed much in 500 years. Now it’s about oil and plutonium and uranium and other valuable natural resources, including gems and precious metals.

The fascination on that boy’s face during our brief discussion made every millisecond worthwhile. I later asked my wife if she had seen the look on his face, those pensive eyes, during our little heart-to-heart. She didn’t miss it, said you can’t overvalue such conversations with a young kid. Yeah, yeah, I know the red, white and blue sheeple waving their Memorial Day flags and Francis Parkman history books will beg to differ with my interpretation. So be it. Give me Francis Jennings or Howard Zinn any day. I believe their theses, not those of Parkman, the son of a Boston preacher man who wrote glorious, patriotic American history during the second half of the 19th century. But, anyway, back to fish and fauna. Why traipse into controversial subjects that might stir things up?

Don’t look now but the shad are running like they haven’t run in years. So get out those fishing rods, fellas, if you haven’t already done so. Now’s the time. On Tuesday, Darleen Cutting from the Connecticut River Coordinator’s office in Sunderland was gushing with enthusiasm about the shad run as the Connecticut River jumped over the 60-degree-Fahrenheit level.

“Holyoke was crazy busy (Monday),” she wrote in her daily report. “We need to lift 10,200 shad (Tuesday) to equal last year’s total.”

Well, guess what? Nearly 42,000 shad passed Holyoke Tuesday, bringing the total there to 275,000-plus. By now we’re likely way past our first run of 300,000 through that station in 10 years. The last time was in 2002, when the Barrett Fishlift handled 370,000. What gives? Well, nearly perfect river conditions, no flooding, and optimal late-season water temperatures of 61.7 Tuesday. It’ll be interesting to see what happens over the next couple of weeks. Hey, maybe we’ll even see a half-million, although I admit that’s probably wishful thinking.

Sadly, the favorable river conditions aren’t yet having similar positive effects on Atlantic-salmon migration. Through Tuesday, only 22 salmon had been counted in the river system, the lion’s share caught and captured at Holyoke (13). The rest have been captured at Connecticut’s Leesville (5) and Rainbow (3) dams. Another lonely, random salmon obviously turned up someplace else that isn’t identified. Thus far, three salmon have been released to spawn naturally in the river system above Holyoke. None have yet passed Turners Falls, where the shad traffic is, as usual, pathetic. The fish-passage issues here in our neighborhood could be addressed and soon corrected with the FERC relicensing process quickly approaching for upriver dams. But don’t hold your breath waiting for something significant to occur. It’s unlikely there will be a concerted effort aimed at forcing the power companies to improve their dams’ upper-Connecticut River fish-passage efficiency. Why, you ask? Well, for one reason, there will be no smooth “activists” who graduated from elite colleges applying constant, vociferous pressure to get what they want at public hearings. Fact is, there’s no whitewater potential on the Connecticut River, thus no economic pressure, just power companies crying poor-mouth. Oh well, what else is new? Is it a secret that money talks and ecological altruists sink to the bottom and suffocate in black, tritium-laced sediment? Not in my world.

As for the last week of trout stocking here in Franklin County, well, there’s primarily a lake-and-pond emphasis, with stocking crews ticketed for North Pond in Florida, Cranberry Pond in Sunderland, Laurel Lake in Erving, and Lake Wyola in Shutesbury. Other than that, it’s one last run to the upper Deerfield River and maybe a lesser surplus stocking here and there next week.

That’s all I’ve got this week. Off I go

A wet, sticky week. Nesting season. Signs everywhere.

Just this morning, Wednesday, on our daily romp, the dogs and I bumped into an average-sized snapping turtle of the most ornery countenance in a shallow puddle not far from a beaver pond. Chubby found it, knew better, barked and kept his distance. Lily really didn’t bother with it. What amazes me is that neither dog has earned any kind of diploma certifying their ability to process such decisions. Once I knew it was a snapper, my only words were, “Leave it!” They listened.

I had been greeted the previous morning by a pair of red-winged blackbirds performing a magical midair love dance as I drove through the hayfields on a double-rutted trail carved out by tires, greenhouses to the left, flat-picker Norman Blake singing his doleful ballad “Green Light on the Southern,” playing loud, of course, in my truck. Ah, yes, that time of year, the way it’s meant to be, the drab female feigning fear and appearing quite indignant — yeah, right! — as the colorful male rode high tide in hot pursuit, repeatedly colliding softly in erratic flight. Wouldn’t it be nice free as a bird, living by nature’s laws instead of those written and enforced by wolves in sheep’s clothing, that suckling, law-and-order flock committed to protecting your liberty and mine? Well, that is if you’re on their side. Otherwise, forget it, they’ll deny your freedom in a jiffy to the throng’s delight. Those mating, nesting birds fear no uniformed enforcers, just live by natural law, right and just, which cannot always be said of the laws enacted by courts, legislators and — horrors! — special wartime commissions. Our founding fathers knew this better than we do, at least those who called themselves old revolutionaries, later Anti-Federalists. But these patriots were defeated and so were we when the bankers and businessmen grabbed the reins, still no end in sight.

Enough of that, though, back to nesting season, glorious indeed. I suppose there are times when all of us fantasize we are wild field birds fluttering in ecstasy over rich, fertile meadows, be they high or low or somewhere in between. The other day, down on the lower piece I call Sunken Meadow, bordered by a swollen Green River flowing with robust springtime passion, virility and a certain dignity, I found a robin’s nest tucked head-high between two branches protruding from the thorny shaft of a seven-foot Christmas tree. The nesting hen must hear me approaching daily from a distance, the telltale sounds of my whistle, silly dog chatter or whatever preparing her for my impending intrusion. When I get within five feet, where I could literally spit into the nest were it not protected by dense needled branches, that angry, noisy hen bursts into flight and flitters north, hovering low and loud, scolding me and the dogs, both flush-and-retrieve Springers in hot pursuit, alert, half-docked tails wiggling, absolutely no chance of catching their fascination. The chase provides me just enough time to check the nest of four pretty, colonial-blue eggs, the color of a priceless old cobbler’s chest or Queen Anne pipe box. I intend to check that nest daily. Who knows? I may even photograph it and its inevitable hatchlings, either to illustrate this space or maybe for an email enticement to dear grandson Jordi, better than two hours north in Vermont ski country. If he visits, I’ll tell him we can’t handle the nestlings. Why stress-out the mom? He’ll understand.

Meanwhile, the folks atop the hill behind my home say they’ve already seen hen turkeys with broods, very early for such a sight. I can’t say I doubt it. It’s been an early spring, at least three weeks by my calculations. This rain and humidity popped my bridal-wreath bushes into full bloom, typically a June 10 occurrence, according to my wife. She’d know. She tracks those bushes, claims our yard is never more beautiful than when they’re in bloom. To me, those delicate white flowers indicate something else entirely: that is, strawberry season. Yes, native strawberries, always a sweet, salubrious treat with morning cereal, hot or cold. First rhubarb, which came weeks ago, again early, then strawberries, blueberry blossoms signaling another tasty treat is near, along with raspberries. Yum. I love walking out into the morning sun with a bowl of cereal and dropping fresh berries on top before returning inside for almond, oat or soy milk, a new twist for me, but delicious, especially the vanilla-sweetened variety, better than skimmed milk any day.

It seemed this soggy week that I could hear the grass growing, even when returning home from work in the dark of night. The rain did wonders for a little project out front by the flagpole, on the island of lawn surrounded by the driveway. It was getting quite ratty looking, bare spots front and center in spring before crabgrass covered them, then again in the fall, after frost killed the crabgrass. I have tried unsuccessfully to solve the problem without help but finally surrendered. They don’t give away grass seed, you know, and my attempts failed. So this year I decided to bring in Steve Higgins of “Higgins Hydroseed.” I had seen his ads in The Recorder, passed his work along the road for many years, was impressed with the quick results. I finally decided to give him a call, got an estimate and hired him for the little job. It appears to me that his visit and my own subsequent “GrubEx” application has solved the problem. Good news. One more project in the rearview, many others remaining, more than I want to think about. In fact, old pal Mike Denehy is expected today or Friday, promised he’d arrive once the weather clears to repair a woodshed roof. Ah for the joys of home ownership. But what are the alternatives? Nothing that interests me at the present time. You just gotta grin and bear it, I guess, and find the money somewhere.

Before my refreshing walk this morning, sitting on the La-Z-Boy reading a tedious novel I will not finish, I discovered that supper would be my responsibility, nothing new or annoying. I enjoy cooking. Working odd hours for most of my married life, I typically had the evening meal on the table for my 9-to-5 spouse when the kids were home. So when I asked from that La-Z-Boy if she had anything planned for supper and she just gave me that vacant look and said, “Um, how about fish?” I got the message. I’d go to Foster’s and pick something up, as well as the salad stuff she said we were “getting low on.” So  Foster’s it was. Consider it done, I promised. Foster’s has a good feel, local economy, right up my alley. Truthfully, I wish someone would firebomb those big-box stores of Ronald Reagan’s America. Talk about eliminating too-big-to-fail enterprises, nothing was big enough for old Ronnie Ray Gun, a pejorative nickname coined in the Sixties. Yup, in came the Republican saint, a B-rated Hollywood showman, and out went the local economy I grew up with — no more small pharmacies, hardware stores, restaurants, meat markets, and gun and tackle shops owned by the kid next door’s father. No sir. Now we must shop at Walmart and Walgreens, Home Depot and Dick’s, eat at the 99 or Chili’s, Ponderosa or Applebee’s, with their glossy, colorful menus filled with the best meat, fish and veggies money can buy, bagged and freeze-dried in Texas or Kansas or Missouri, where they grease the slaughterhouse inspectors’ palms for turning a blind eye to floor and butcher-block filth. Those places gag me. At Foster’s, I picked up a big swordfish steak, an equal mix of six small summer squash and zucchini, three packets of hot peppers, three types of salad greens, hothouse tomatoes on the vine, one bunch of native asparagus, and two fat-free salad dressings. Cha-ching, $50.77, expensive to eat healthy these days.

When I got home, I figured I’d prepare everything before sitting down to finish this column. That way I could just throw it in the oven around 4:30. Not surprisingly, it started bad. First of all, the sink was clogged with dirty pans, dishes and silverware, making the garbage disposal totally inaccessible and telling me the dishwasher likely needed emptying. I opened it to check and, oh yeah, full of sparkling pans, dishes, Tupperware containers, and silverware. Twenty-eight minutes later, I had everything put away, the sink emptied, the counter spic and span, the vegetables sliced and jammed over the swordfish steak in a covered Griswold chicken frier, a tiny dab of coconut oil on the skillet floor under the fish. I squished the pan onto a refrigerator shelf, ready for later transference into a preheated 425-degree oven for approximately 45 minutes. Try it sometime. It’s easy and delicious; healthy and spicy, too. If you want noodles or rice with it, that’s fine, but I’ve learned to do without. You can’t beat those old self-basting cast-iron skillet covers, literally worth their weight in gold, keeping whatever you’re cooking moist and tender, even pan-fried steaks or chops. Check the price sometime. I went looking on eBay for a cover to fit my circa-1920, No. 14 Wagner skillet and found only one available. The damage? Four hundred bucks. I was tempted but didn’t bite. I’ll find one cheaper. Trust me. Patience is a virtue.

But, getting back to turkey hunting, my buddy stopped by to chat briefly Friday on his way out. It was too late for me, a devoted crack-of-dawn man, but this guy is no clock-puncher, bless his independent soul. He knocked on my porch door at 9:30 a.m. and wanted to talk before setting up in a popular spot atop the hill that’s familiar to both of us. He’s informed me before and reiterated in an almost scolding tone that a man doesn’t have to rise early to kill a turkey. A mutual friend told him he shoots most of his turkeys after 10 o’clock. “Fine,” I thought, “you and he can have it. I love the predawn woods and streams, as close to the altar as I get.” But chew on this for a moment: A couple of hours later, the man was back in my driveway showing me his dead 16-pound jake. The bird was one of five yearling gobblers that had come in at just before the noon deadline. He “took care of business.” His words, not mine. Which reminds me: I’m getting nervous about my prediction that this will be a record season, our second spring harvest of 3,000 or more. I’ve changed my opinion. The weather hasn’t cooperated. I think it’s been too rainy to attract the necessary hunter pool for a record kill. But you never know. From my observations following our mild, snowless winter, there are more turkeys out and about than ever. Just Tuesday morning, again after 10, my buddy went to a spot that gets a lot of hunting pressure and immediately spotted a monster tom from the dirt road. He drove up a farm trail right past the long-beard, set up above it and immediately got another tom gobbling behind him. He didn’t kill that lusty tom but was able to lure him to within 75 yards before he turned stubborn and demanded the caller come to him. So, we’ll see what happens with the harvest. There’s a week left and hunters could indeed kill more than 3,000 for the second time in the modern era. I can’t say I’m still expecting it, but I won’t be surprised.

Oh yeah, before I go, a quick trout-stocking and anadromous-fish report, both annual events nearing their end. Memorial Day always signals the conclusion of spring trout-stocking season. Well, the upper and lower Deerfield River and the Millers River are due for stocking this week, along with the Green River through Leyden, Colrain and Greenfield. The Western District did Clesson Brook in Ashfield last week and expects to hit Ashfield Lake for the second straight week. Other local lakes and ponds ticketed for fish this week include Upper Highland Lake in Goshen, Lake Mattawa in Orange, Lake Wyola in Shutesbury, and Forestry Camp Pond in Warwick. As for the shad and salmon spawning runs, with Connecticut River temperatures holding at below 60 degrees Fahrenheit, 121,000 American shad and 15 Atlantic salmon have thus far been counted in the river system. The runs should pick up when the temperatures rise above 60, then slow down to a trickle at around 70. Who knows what to expect? Safe to say it won’t be anything extraordinary. Sad but true. Don’t blame global warming, though. ExxonMobile execs and Oklahoma Senator James Inhofe say there’s more research needed on that topic. Fools actually believe them.

Whew! That’s all I’ve got this week, and I didn’t even get to French pacifist Jean Giono and that novel, “The Straw Man,” I got some 300 pages into before surrendering, bored silly. The writing was good, the plot weak. Maybe I’ll touch upon that work another day. That and surveillance, which has me stirred up these days. It seems the “silent majority” thinks Smart Meters on our homes, and tiny cameras on telephone poles, traffic lights and city buildings are OK in the name of “national security.” Not me. I find it disturbing to see how many satellites are peering down at me every time I turn on my hand-held, DeLorme GPS unit. I bought the handy little gadget for hunting and discovered that I am the hunted.

Visionary Englishman George Orwell, a fascism foe, saw it coming. Now it’s here in our cradle of liberty. Yes, Big Brother is watching, and he may just find those ornithological, midair, meadow dancers to be morally unsettling.

As to how much is too much freedom, it all depends on the judge, frightening.

Steamy and sticky it was for our Wednesday-morning walk, the dogs now kenneled and my brow still perspiring from the romp around Sunken Meadow, where we caught the sights, the sounds, the scents, the sweet smell of spring overwhelming, four interesting mushrooms, large and showy, sprouted along the fallen trunk of a chestnut oak. I just know those “shrooms” are edible, even paged through my Audubon Society reference book to check before frustration set in and forced a quick retreat. I’ll figure it out another time when I have more patience, no pressing tasks at hand.

Actually, I almost sat down Tuesday to get a jump on this familiar weekly chore but decided against it. I had just completed a power-reading session — stuff like Socrates’ trial, the religious climate of our colonial Connecticut Valley, then Joan Didion and, horrors, even psychedelic guru Timothy Leary again, dangerous indeed. Yup, he’s back in my gourd. How did I ever allow that to happen? Just curious, I guess, always curious. My downfall. My salvation.

But let’s not go there. It was those Didion essays that dissuaded me from sitting down a day early. I didn’t want to get carried away and start shooting from the hip at my usual targets, having just finished the woman’s critique of NYC culture, in general, in particular, the buzz surrounding that infamous 1989 Central Park rape and mugging of a woman jogger who captured national attention. Didion hasn’t changed much since I was introduced to her by late, great UMass professor Howard Ziff, who assigned several essays from “Slouching Toward Bethlehem.” She was then confrontational in a mellow, West Coast, at times humorous way, and still is. I picked up a recycled collection of her essays, “Vintage Didion,” Saturday afternoon at the Montague Bookmill, which I do enjoy visiting from time to time, when in the mood, typically on midafternoon whims toward the end of the week. The place draws an eclectic crowd, especially on sunny weekends. I went there looking for something by David Foster Wallace, preferably a book of essays, short stuff to read at my leisure. When my search failed, I settled for Didion, not a bad thing.

I almost bought “The Last Colonial Massacre,” about a bloodbath in the not too distant Guatemalan past. What intrigued me was the book’s dense index listing for former president Jorge Ubico, the father-in-law of my sister-in-law who married her high-school sweetheart, a long, lean Georgetown basketball player, then a Guatemalan man of royal pedigree. She still runs a mountain mission for orphaned children there, in a peaceful spot overlooking primeval rain forest. Widowed years ago, her former husband and his brother were long ago murdered on separate occasions in different countries by police. Quite a place, Central America. If you don’t believe me, read Didion. She captures the terror. My sister-in-law knows it well. Likely fearing for her safety, she solved the problem by marrying the banana republic’s retired Minister of Intelligence, 20 years her junior. Hey, whatever it takes, I guess. I may still buy that book. It’ll probably be there next time I visit. I have always wanted to know more about those Ubicos — who they were and what they stood for — but have been unable to pry much useful information loose from Judy. Maybe it’s “classified,” or maybe she just doesn’t know. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Trust me.

Enough Central American intrigue, though, back to Didion and her essay, “Sentimental Journeys.” An indictment of NYC, its cops, DAs, newspapers, politicians, talk shows, you name it, Hurricane Joan demolishes them all. But that’s just one essay. There are others, including one about the shallow Reagan White House, another about misunderstood Patty Hearst, then stuff on 9/11, the Clinton Inquisition, San Salvador, Miami’s Cuban-exile community, none of it cream of wheat, believe me, entertaining. I guess some news editors think people want a nice blend of tidy little tales and cutesy crap about positive subjects and heartwarming success stories. Not me. I want insightful writing with a venomous bite like Didion, who goes straight for the jugular while giggling at the absurdity of it all, infuriating absurdities no less. Stirred up, I resisted the temptation to sit down and start writing Tuesday but must confess the air still hasn’t cleared. Let’s just say the Didion influence lingers, is just sitting here suspended in a web of stuffy gray air that has left me and my brow damp from that half-hour walk.

Not much of interest to report down in the meadow, though, other than a quick follow-up on that hen turkey Chubby flushed for my grandson; also turtles, these painted, again nesting early, I suspect. One reason I own the type of dogs I do is that on country walks they sharpen my eyes, ears and nose, big time, alerting me to the presence of many critters I would otherwise miss. Chubby has flushed that hen turkey twice more from the same location since I last wrote about it, and he likely would have repeated the maneuver many more times had I not intentionally skirted what I suspect to be a nesting site. Why disturb it? That’s my thinking. But we did bump into that hen on the upper level Monday, when Chub-Chub, fired-up, didn’t hesitate to trail and flush her across the Green River. By now it’s just a silly little game for, as they say in Hatfield, “da-bode-uv-em,” which has a familiar ring to it, sorta like my old hometown of “Sow-deer-feel.”

As for the painted turtles, well, again, I would have never noticed them had it not been for the dogs, first Lily, then Chubby-Chub, different shelled creatures, large for painted turtles, about the same size, maybe 120 yards apart, concealed amid tangles of flood-deposited brush along the Green River. Seems a little early for egg-laying, so they must now be establishing nests. Last year, two or three weeks later than this, I ran into a big snapper in the same area, far away from water, and wondered in print if it wasn’t too early for nesting. A neighboring farmer chimed in to say he was accustomed to seeing turtles in his fields in mid- June, which made sense to me. The man would know, has crops to associate the occurrence of natural phenomena with. This year, everything is running three weeks ahead of schedule, bridal wreath blossoms ready to pop any day, so why should turtles be any different? I discovered them with my own two eyes and have since found them a few more times, right in the same location, would have never seen them had the dogs not approached them cautiously, heads high, scent pulling them in slowly. Apparently, instinct tells a dog to be careful around turtles; snakes, too, which I have noticed them approach in a similar shy manner, kinda like I used to slither toward 2 a.m. frat-house ladies sitting with inviting eyes at the bar. Yeah, right! Why even go there?

Speaking of which, the wetlands bordering where I daily walk are alive with the happy sounds of springtime birds, all sorts of them singing in dynamic harmony, living out their springtime fantasies while building nests and starting families, if you know what I mean. Don’t believe for a minute that those birds are true-blue lifetime mates. That’s a silly Christian myth, one to keep the rest of us in line. Just Wednesday morning I watched an angry cuckold chasing off some sneaky little devil. The scene had infidelity written all over it. My guess is that it’s nature’s way mixing the gene pool to assure healthy, hardy species. It created quite a commotion, though, laced with vicious fury. Who says it only happens in Hollywood?

You know, I think if I really wanted to shoot myself a spring gobbler, I could do so down there near that hen’s nest I’ve located. Maybe if grandson Jordi was in town I’d take him down there, if not to kill a bird, then just to sit there at first light and listen to the gobbles, watch the spellbinding mating ritual unfold. The kid would love it, and it makes sense that, with hens in the field, there are gobblers nearby. Given what I know from experience, I can’t imagine it would be difficult to make things happen, hunting, down there. But it’s just not that important to me, unless, of course, Jordi was with me. Then I might just deprive myself of sleep. Otherwise, forget it. Been there, done that. I have nothing to prove. Hunting is relaxation to me, not competition, and I don’t need the meat.

Anadromous fish are still migrating up the valley, albeit slowly, with Connecticut River water temperatures stalled by recent rain at 50 degrees Fahrenheit. The run picks up in intensity when the temps climb into the 60s. But, still, the river system has thus far attracted 100,000 American shad and 10 Atlantic salmon, not bad for this time of year. As for trout-stocking, well, I didn’t hear from the Western District this week but did get an email from Barb Bourque at the Valley District. On her list was the lower Deerfield River, the Millers River, Colrain’s North River, Lake Mattawa and Cranberry Pond.

Oh yeah, one more unusual item before I flee: an unusual request from dear old buddy “Pres,” who’s putting together a time capsule for the 16th birthday of his business associate’s newborn son, Tiago Bohl Von Kries. In 2028, the boy will open a package containing the signed copy of Jim Bouton’s “Ball Four,” a photo of Pres and his dog, a couple of signed baseballs and a copy of  a spring 2012 “Recorder” with a personal message from me in a column. Not my idea, Mr. Pres’. So, Kid, here it is:

Happy 16th birthday, Tiago, from an old, irascible scribe and longtime pal of Mr. Pres. We’ll probably never meet, son, but hopefully, unlike my good friend, you’ll know when to hang up your bat and glove.

Sorry, Mr. Pres, but you just had to know what you were getting yourself into when asking a favor of the devil’s disciple, always capable of a little spontaneous mischief.

By the way, not that it really maters, but, is it unprofessional, inappropriate to have a little fun in print? Oh well, too late now.

Life was good, the weather fine, a cool, stiff south wind making our walk pleasant indeed as random thoughts ran through my consciousness, not unlike the dogs sliding in and out of Sunken Meadow’s dense wetland perimeter.

Driving in, the two Canada geese Chubby’s been playing with for months were for the first time in the upper hayfield, near the greenhouses. They stood tall and alert as we passed them on the farm road, and remained upright after I had parked and released the dogs for our romp. After walking just less than a mile around the southern lot, seeing a mink scamper along a beaver dam, and returning to the truck parked along a thin hardwood stand overlooking the smaller northern sunken meadow, Chubby stood there with a beggar’s countenance. He obviously wanted to continue, and so we did to the nice house at the corner, then down into our second bottomland meadow along a Green River flowing with lusty vigor after the rains that so brightened the landscape.

As we approached the path down into the meadow, I heard the geese honking their warning call upwind from me and wondered if Chubby was onto them. He wasn’t, so we took the gravel path below. After circling the lower field and finding yet another splendid fiddlehead patch for next year — distinctive, mature, light-green ostrich ferns are always easy to spot standing tall and proud following spring rain — we climbed back to the upper hayfield and Chubby immediately sprinted into the crosswind along a split-rail fence. About 100 yards later, he caught wind of the geese, probably 80 yards west, southwest of him. He came to a screeching halt, changed direction, ran diagonally into the wind and flushed the geese, which flew briefly into the wind, swung west, then north before circling over me and following the river south.

We returned to the truck, where I boxed the dogs and turned the key for the trip home. Approaching the greenhouses, Red Allen and the boys (including the late, great Jerry Garcia for a couple of tunes on the “Bluegrass Revival” CD), broke into that cautionary chorus to “She’s No Angel,” sung by many a man for more than a century. The chorus goes:

She’s no angel, no angel, her wings are not real.
She’ll ruin your life, it’s your heart she can steal.
She’ll tell you tales to bring tears to your eyes.
So don’t you believe them ’cause they’re only lies.

Tell me, fellas, what man can’t relate to that refrain? Only liars. But, hey, when you think of it, most of us have played the role of victim and perpetrator, so why dwell on mundane, trivial matters? We all get through it and have fun along the way. Those who can take it even mock it in song, fiddle sarcastically giggling, cutting right through you.

Anyway, I got home, parked, kenneled the dogs, got the mail and went inside, where I put tea water on, dug out a tea bag from a delicate little pottery bowl next to a five-pound jar of Apex Orchards honey (can’t beat it, 22 bucks, cheapest I’ve found; tasty, too) to get my Tom White mug prepared for the pouring, the golden honey beautifully illuminated by a soft ray of light entering the window. The only mail of interest was the American Political Biography catalog I look forward to each month. I figured I’d quickly peruse it my tea before heading to the study to write my column. Two straight days had brought something enticing in the mail — on Tuesday the May/June “Orion” magazine immediately captivated me long enough to read two long essays, stuff about nature/culture/place that everyone should read and, sadly, few do. Also a Wendell Berry short story to save for a rainy day.

Waiting for the water to boil, I went to the woodshed and brought in two hefty armloads of locust, among Blue Sky’s finest, more on its way, all dry, some even seasoned gray, big-time BTUs, even if  the stove’s inhaling dying breaths. When the teapot whistled, I filled my mug with steaming water, stirred in the honey with a grooved wooden dipper and temporarily retired to my aging green La-Z-Boy by the southern window. There I scanned the catalog and marked books that piqued my curiosity while the tea steeped. After circling maybe 10 titles in pencil, I thought it high time to write down all the subjects that had passed through my mind during my solitary morning walk. When complete it read like this: “honey, geese, mink, wood, lawn, trimming, American Political Biography, Orion, salmon, trout, turkeys, Debs, Randolph, Clavamox 250 mg;” all potential topics worth touching upon this week. Imagine that: six already in the rearview. Sweet.

Today, with the four-week spring turkey-hunting season set to open Monday, and given what I witnessed this past weekend (104 miles logged), why not start with wild turkeys? To begin with, I’m predicting a record harvest, maybe even our first of 3,000 or better. I saw big birds everywhere, traveling through Greenfield, Bernardston, Northfield, Leyden, Colrain, Shelburne, Conway, Ashfield, Williamsburg, Whately, and Deerfield. Yup, quite a country tour it was; productive indeed, many toms in full-strutting splendor. Boys will be boys. With little winter mortality due to favorable snowless conditions and easy access to nutritious winter mast supplies, there should be many boss toms and plump jakes for the picking, all superb table fare if prepared right, and some trophies for the den. There will be no excuses this year despite limited forest sight-lines clogged by fully foliated undergrowth, the only negative opening-day factor I can decipher. Well, of course, it could always rain, but that would be only a temporary setback during a 24-day season.

As for trout and salmon and shad, well, it’s happenin’, Dude. The stocking trucks will fatten up the Deerfield River high and low this week, and the only other local waters scheduled for trout are lakes Wyola and Laurel. Since quoting outfitter Chris Jackson’s favorable remarks about the status of Deerfield trout-fishing last week, I have bumped into others singing praise of perhaps our best trout fishery, though some prefer the Millers River Watershed. Those I have spoken to in my travels say the river bed was altered for the better in many places by Irene, with new channels, runs and pools to hold trout and lure anglers. Plus, there seems to be much mention of a fish I once worshipped — Deerfield River browns, those big, wild brown trout that are elusive indeed but well worth pursuing while most are dreaming and snoring. Supposedly, our best local flyfishers have been hooking into these fish more often than in the past, if you can believe them. I do. The fishery does exist, the boys I have spoken to are “in touch,” and I have no reason to doubt their assessment, having long ago “been there, done that” myself.

Regarding our anadromous-fish — shad and  salmon — the news seems good as well. Well, as good as it gets in these, the days of paltry returns. The Holyoke fish lift opened on April 13 and, through Tuesday, seven Atlantic salmon and more than 36,000 shad had been counted in the river system. Salmon have thus far showed up at the Rainbow Dam (1) on Connecticut’s Farmington River and the Holyoke Dam (6). With river temperatures still in the mid-50s Fahrenheit, there’s plenty of time left. The runs annually peak at between 65 and 70 degrees. Can’t say I expect as many as 200 salmon or 300,000 shad. I hope I’m wrong.

Moving to my “lawn” and “trimming” notes, they’re references to yard work, which has been under way for weeks, beginning with pruning the raspberries and blueberries, sumptuous additions to morning cereal and muffins, even midday salads. I mowed on a whim for the first time Friday, before the greening deluge, so that’s now a part of the weekly routine I never dread; and, my, how that rain doubled the rhubarb growth overnight. Amazing! I love me some rhubarb crisp. But there are still a few loose ends here and there, stuff like trimming back the flowering bushes and raking leaves out from under the large tulip magnolia, which can no longer conceal the natural fertilizer blown underneath thanks to that Oct. 31 snowstorm that snapped off its low branches. Nature has a way of thinning out tangled webs.

Regarding the “Clavamox 250 mg” on my list, that’s Lily’s antibiotic, the three-week run nearly complete. It looks like the UTI is behind her. We’ll see if it comes back. I sure hope not. I got the medicine without visiting the vet, always a money-saver; well, unless it doesn’t work. Then there’ll be a steep price to pay. But Lily isn’t peeing often or displaying any of the tell-tale signs of a UTI, so I’ll cross my fingers and hope.

Well, that’s about all I’ve got this week. Back to “Edward Randolph and the American Colonies 1676-1703,” a “tweener” on my reading list. Having finished the Eugene Debs biography I mentioned last week, I’m awaiting the arrival of “The Trial of Socrates,” by I.F. Stone of Sixties “Bi-Weekly” fame. I’ve wanted to read it before, just never followed through. Why now? Well, Debs was imprisoned for free-speech issues here in America during the reactionary World War I era. Socrates was executed for similar issues in ancient Greece, the birthplace of democratic freedom, liberty and justice, all of which can take a turn for the worse during wartime. If you don’t believe it, ask the fellas caged at Gitmo, if you can get near them.

Oooops. Better go before I myself end up in the sunny South … and, damn, I didn’t even get to that Koch Brothers documentary I was invited to preview Sunday at the Bernardston Unitarian Church. Oh well, maybe next week.

Quite an image, huh? Me in a Christian church on Sunday. I hope there are no photos. Bad for my image.

Here I sit for the second time today, just couldn’t get started on my first attempt, distracted, too many options. To remedy the little stalemate, I decided to load up the dogs and take a walk through the twin sunken meadows, which always seem to lift me to a better place.

When I returned a half-hour or so later, my inbox contained a fresh, thought-provoking letter from faraway pen pal Hannelore, the German lady with whom I enjoy communicating, have never met. She was responding to my week-old response. We are intellectually attracted to each other, far more precious than any physical temptation that will ever land on your doorstep. I’m grateful for the freedom I’m given as a married man, no petty jealousies to preclude such harmless, Platonic relationships. Life’s too short to abide by tedious, stifling routine. Why not a little excitement? But enough esotericism; better stick to benign matters even dearly departed Rick Santorum would approve of.

Considering that I teased to cougars at the end of last week’s column, I feel obligated to begin with that subject but, not the locked-in type, allow me, please, to sidestep it briefly. Let’s instead go to an interesting Monday spent with a bright young woman photographer closing in on her Hampshire College degree with a challenging thesis about, in her words, “the middle road between industrial farm-animal production and vegetarianism.” She had emailed me to say she had all the needed subjects — hunter, farmer, goat herder, slaughterhouse, traveling butcher — but had yet to find anyone who fished for sustenance. A mutual acquaintance, also a photographer, had suggested she query me, thought maybe I could come up with somebody in a pinch. Well, let’s just say that following a wetland walk, a trout and fiddlehead hunt, and a half-pint of Jack Daniels, she didn’t walk away disappointed.

It’s funny how I orchestrated the outing by Shanghaiing a hunting buddy I was sure fit her needs and would be entertaining if I could only somehow get him to cooperate. I also knew he’d be a tough sell, so I introduced the concept to him while picking fiddleheads Friday and, as anticipated, he wanted no part of it. But, as goes the old saying he’d better relate to than I, “there’s more than one way to skin a cat,” and, in backwoods vernacular, I “skun” it my way.

Because my buddy and I prefer Eastern brookies, our native trout, to the rest, I had many times told him of a secluded little beaver pond I’ve been monitoring for months. I promised that someday when I had time, preferably with my grandson in tow, I’d take him there to investigate, fishing rod and a bucket of crawlers in hand. Well, let’s just say I used that enticement to facilitate what must have seemed to the young woman like a hopeless 11th-hour assignment. With deadline looming, it all worked out like a plan from the sweet heavens.

When my buddy called Friday to say he was anxious to revisit the pond, I told him I’d rather wait till Monday when I had time and he said that sounded fine. Later, I wrote back to the woman, whom I had not met, and suggested she meet me at my home Monday morning between 8:30-9, no guarantees. She wrote back that she was willing to give it a shot and, sure enough, pulled into my driveway before 9. We took a quick walk with the dogs, returned home to kennel them, called my buddy and picked him up with a little surprise riding shotgun. I introduced them and we drove to the beaver pond, where we caught seven nice, colorful squaretails, picked three pounds of fiddleheads and returned to my kitchen table for a long, tape-recorded interview. Running late at the beaver pond, where she even pulled in her first two fish, she had called into work on her cell phone to cancel her 11 a.m. shift at the school library. She departed from my yard a little after 3 p.m. with a lively taped interview, several photos, a Ziploc bagful of trout tucked into a plastic grocery bag containing two pounds of fiddleheads, and oral instructions on how to clean and cook her savory wild fare.

When walking the dogs before the expedition began, the young lady was curious why I couldn’t be her fishing subject. I explained that I didn’t fit the mold because I haven’t fished for many years and, even if I had, I was a catch-and-release man. The fella I wanted her to interview was a meat fisherman, not to mention an authentic hunter/gatherer who raised a garden, gathered wild plant foods, hunted and fished for meat, and had even in his day run trap-lines to supplement his income, a bonus indeed. And, oh, how that half-pint of Tennessee whiskey improved the woman’s information-gathering process.

We stopped for the little bottle of truth serum at Harper’s, down the road from my place, at his request. He needed a drink the day after Easter; you know, must have been dry from eating ham. Oh, I forgot, he had leg of lamb. Anyway, when he asked if I could stop, I said, “Sure,” and our lady friend was in full agreement, hoping, “Maybe it’ll loosen your tongue a little.” A visionary she was. I think the interview went well, probably better than either of us expected. I’m glad I was able to help at the last minute. For the record (my old townie and frat buddies would get a kick out of this), she and I drank maple-syrup-sweetened Lipton tea. Getting old, I guess. Don’t bet on it.

At one point during our pre-maneuver walk, the young lady and I were addressing random subjects when I warned her that although she had likely lucked out and found the right man to complete her academic project, “I’m not sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. You may have bitten off more than you can chew with me.” She responded with a priceless, bemused little grim I will not soon forget. No, she wasn’t a bit afraid, nor did she seem too taken aback by what unfolded, Jack Black and all. But you must remember that the kid did come from Hampshire, a little different, my kinda place. Yes sir, she was a trooper. I can’t wait to read the thesis, which she expects to exceed 100 pages.

Before returning to cougars, I noticed my old UMass professor, Howard Ziff, died Tuesday morning at age 81. Friend George Miller noticed mention of Ziff in last week’s column and was waiting for me Monday evening at work to tell me my UWW sponsor was ill in hospice care. He died the next morning. What I find most interesting is that out of the clear blue sky I had mentioned the man last week in one of my rambles. Who knows why? He just came to mind and I went with it. Frankly, I don’t view it as a coincidence. No, call me crazy if you will, but I believe Ziff was creating a lot of energy as he faded in his deathbed, and somehow it found me. Often, when thinking of an old friend or lover or late family member, I find myself wondering why. Then I think I have intercepted that person’s thoughts, new or old, which I believe infinitely float through our universe, and they have pierced my consciousness. But enough of that, back to cougars, the four-legged variety, of course. Why in heaven’s name would any 58-year-old man fancy the two-legged? Way too late for that.

Anyway, where to begin? These days, cougar stuff seems to be coming at me like June “no-see-ems” on the balmy edge of a Maine cedar swamp. Just Tuesday morning on my daily rounds I stopped and talked to Ev Hatch, always pleasant, who told me he had something for me. At a roadside Brattleboro information booth, my good neighbor had picked up a magazine containing a cougar story he thought would interest me.

“I bet you mean that ‘Vermont’s Northland Journal’ with an old black & white photo of a man sitting next to a dead cougar on the cover,” I responded. “If so, someone from Heath sent it to me at work and I just read it this morning before walking the dogs.”

Yes, indeed, that was the magazine. The cover photo shows triumphant Alexander Crowell of nearby Readsboro sitting beside the hometown cougar he killed in 1881, still accepted as the last known Vermont catamount. What’s surreal is that our conversation occurred within inches of where Ed Galvin had stopped me a month or so back to hand me the winter 1994 “Vermont Life,” which featured a story about a 1993 cougar sighting in the Northeast Kingdom town of Craftsbury. The recent Journal piece evens mentions that Craftsbury sighting among others, and suggests that cougars are indeed back in the Green Mountain State.

That said, the cougar tale I teased to last week has nothing to do with either of the aforementioned magazine pieces, or with Vermont cougars. Nope. This tale emanates from the heart of Recorder country, in the happy little Millers River hamlet of Wendell. Of course, Wendell cougar-sightings are not news to me. Several reports from that vicinity have reached me over the past 10 years, including a couple from my old softball buddy, “Big Richie” Kellogg, now a proud Wendell resident.

So, when Peter Fisher sent me a string of cougar comments a few weeks ago from an online Wendell community bulletin board, it piqued my curiosity. Among the people who had seen cougars near the same location was Fisher himself, who wrote: “The responses are sent in the order received. The commonality of five different sightings is their geographic proximity to Wendell’s Bear Mountain, which rises on the south side of Route 2, across the way from the Farley ledges, a popular climbing site, above which lies the Northfield Mt. reservoir.”

Something he didn’t mention is that there are many deer in that area, an attraction for big cats, which rely on deer as their primary food source.

Broadening the scope of eastern Franklin County cougar reports over the years, I have been told of several sightings in the Quabbin region, through New Salem and into towns along the northern perimeter like Orange, Royalston, Templeton and Warwick, also a few from adjacent Northfield. Another string of sightings came from Wendell’s southern periphery, in Montague and Leverett, so how can anyone just ignore them as hallucinations or LSD flashbacks, which I would guess occur from time to time in sleepy Wendell? But that’s just wild speculation based on some of the folks I have known to live there. Again, my kinda folks, kindred spirits of Hampshire students and Timothy Leary’s old Harvard research group, if you get the gist.

Enough! A fine place to call it quits this week. No, wait! One more little tidbit before I go:

If it’s travelin’ music you’re looking for, you can’t go wrong with Blake and Rice, better still, B&R joined by Doc Watson for a couple cuts, flat-picking at its finest.

The sports desk flashed the green light Tuesday night, said Wednesday’s local schedule was thin indeed. “Oh good,” I thought. “Now I can go right to town on that column I started Monday and revisited Tuesday.” So, proceed with caution. I have been known to get carried away.

Which reminds me. I was in my own little world a week ago when Irmarie passed my desk on column night. Focused, I didn’t even know she was in the building until she addressed me.

“Hi Gary. Oh, must be working on your column.”

I looked up, didn’t want to be rude.

“Yeah, Irm, sorry. You know how it is.”

“Yes, yes, is it long?”

I nodded, sheepishly grinned and said, “Well, yes, I’m afraid so.”

She responded with a reassuring one-word answer: “Good!”

How about that! I guess some can stay with it. Then again, others surely don’t, like, for instance, the guy who told his wife he didn’t like my writing because it had a hard edge. All I can say to that is, I love compliments, but we all have a soft side, too. Truth is, I can’t write for everyone. No one can. I learned that long ago from respected mentor Howard Ziff, an old newspaperman, UMass professor and “New Journalism” visionary from my distant past. The best advice he ever imparted was that “if all you make in this business is friends, you’re not doing your job.” That and, “Write for the reader, not the subject.” Two golden rules of journalism, realities all scribes should heed. That said, I do believe my audience has changed dramatically in 33 years, especially since I allowed a gentle ray of filtered light into my soul, which some enjoy and others don’t. I can live with that, too; enjoy it, in fact. Why should I be ashamed of my bedrock philosophy? The other side isn’t.

I must say it was nice to bump into my two deer Wednesday morning, right out in the middle of the hayfield at 9 o’clock, the same doe and her yearling fawn I’ve been watching since February’s thaw. I assume they just couldn’t resist the infant clover, small, tender and of the healthiest, most exuberant green, so rich-looking that I thought about taking a nibble. As I drove toward them, they lifted their heads and froze like alert statues, ears erect, watching. When I parked, the larger one ran to the northern wetland’s lip and stopped. Then the little one fled to join her when I opened the truck door and stepped outside. By the time I had released the dogs, the deer had disappeared over the bank and we proceeded to meander through both sunken meadows, the second one leading to my sacred Indian red rock in the Green River, illuminated by the bright sun in a high sky cleared by the waxing moon. I hadn’t seen those deer for more than a week but knew from their tracks that they were near; them and a small loner buck that will be a 6- or 8-pointer this year. I know the buck’s distinctive print, the front hooves better than three inches long and split into a V. I don’t know the sex of that little skipper, but neither it nor its mother appears pregnant to me. Maybe they’re just not showing yet. It is only early April.

Moving indoors, the old-tavern mantles and tabletops are decorated for Easter, if you can imagine that in the home of a deist, pantheist or whatever the heck you’d call me; certainly no Christian. Well, actually one mantle, the one in the study, isn’t decorated, at least not for the Resurrection. The reason is that it’s full of books stacked high in four piles around a large, gilt-framed, trompe l’oeil, after-the-hunt oil painting of two wood ducks hanging upside down from a string tied to a cut nail in the wall. The books have been read since fall, with still others piled on the chest of drawers in the adjacent everyday parlor. The one I’m currently reading, a Timothy Leary biography by Robert Greenfield of Rolling Stone fame, is lying handy on a wooden TV tray alongside a green La-Z-Boy recliner decorated with tiny gold fleur de lis. It may sound fancy but, let me tell you, it’s overdue for a dump run. Midway through Leary, that most unusual Springfield rebel, all I can say is that it’s once again clear to me that the wrong side prevailed in the Sixties. Now look what we’ve gotten ourselves into: Nixon/Reagan/Bush lackeys who think cavity searches for simple misdemeanors are cool. Hey, it’s all about national security, right? Well, maybe so, but I sure do hope I never have to schedule a colonoscopy at the local State Police barracks. Sounds way too much like Hitler’s Germany, maybe Baghdad to me. You know the routine: create a terrifying bogeyman to frighten ignorant voters and they’ll permit all sorts of government invasions in the name of “protection,” probable cause or no probable cause. Maybe if I went to Huckabee or Hannity for “news,” didn’t read and wasn’t intellectually curious, then I too would go along, just another dazzled ewe following a clueless conformist flock to the slaughter or shearer. Thankfully, I saw the light young, when it was bright and idealistic, and decided to hack my own trail to autonomous wilds. Some may even call it anarchy, I suppose, a scary word indeed, but that doesn’t concern me in the least. They too have a right to their opinions, too. Just, please, don’t lay them on me. I ain’t buying it.

Ooops! There I go, distracted again. Colonoscopies in police barracks? Huh? Where’d that come from? Sorry. My mind got to wandering, I guess. That can happen to a man my age. Back to those other two downstairs mantles, the ones that are Easter decorated with collections of hand-carved wooden rabbits, eggs and chicks — all well-executed, probably bought years ago at Yankee Candle, before it went corporate — surrounded for effect by that shiny, plastic, purple grass you’d put in an Easter basket. Grandson Jordi, who lost his dad, was in town over the weekend. I picked him up Friday evening in Randolph, Vt. The decorations were for him, a way to inspire egg-coloring and whatever other Easter activities the wife had planned as I finished an interesting Ambrose Bierce biography and watched a little Final Four. Most interesting to me about Bierce was that he and I share common Mayflower ancestor William Bradford, likely other old Plymouth and Bay Colony families, dissident all. A Civil War vet and San Francisco newspaperman with an infamous bite, he wandered off as an old man to Poncho Villa’s Mexican Revolution in 1913 and never returned, the location of his bones and  cause of death an infinite mystery, right up his alley. Bierce was that kind of guy, from Indiana by way of Connecticut and Cape Cod, his grandfather a Puritan minister, his dad a deacon, his mom devout indeed. I am cut from similar cloth but, like him, have found my way through that dense, disorienting Christian fog to an oasis where reason and reality outweigh faith and fallacy.

I must admit that some of the old Easter photos scattered about at home hit a mournful string in me. They show the kids — Gary, now dead, and Rynie — on past Easters, holding rabbits, coloring eggs, hunting two-piece, hidden, coin-filled plastic eggs outside, all in gay, now grieving hues. A white-framed oval photo stands on my desk, just to the right of the monitor, right in my face, kind of haunting but happy, too, if you get the gist. The kids, wearing soft, devilish grins, are dressed in their Sunday best, gray formal slacks, pale-yellow Oxford shirts under white V-neck sweaters, limp white bunnies gripped behind the shoulders dangling from their hands. The attire reminds me of when I was a kid and my mother took us annually for those dreaded, frantic Easter shopping sprees. Remember, I was no alter boy, didn’t care much for church and chants and prayers and choral song, hated dressing up for Easter service and posing for sappy shots. But that’s just me, I guess, and I can’t say I’ve changed much. I remember the circa-1990 photo session that produced that desktop photo of the kids. We were at Rick Roy’s High Street studio, which, unless I’m mistaken, was in the same gray house once home to Dr. Low’s practice. That night, I had discretely slipped out of work and was handling his angora rabbits when, suddenly, my eyes started watering, itching and feeling like coarse sandpaper when rubbed. Having experienced it once before, I realized a dangerous allergic reaction was erupting. No time to spare, I quickly excused myself, scooted off to that nearby CVS Pharmacy in the old Grand Union building, bought some Benadryl, doubled the dose and went back to work, where the irritation soon passed. Quick thinking, no doctor; once again I had done it my way and lived to tell about it.

I mentioned something to my wife last week about putting me through the wringer with those photos of Gary everywhere. She understood but offered no apology, said all we have are memories, why deny ourselves those pleasures? She’s right. I accepted it. But they still stir sadness, probably always will. That’s life. We’re not alone. Everyone must learn to cope with loss. Bierce lost two sons in their 20s, one shot and killed in a lovers’ triangle (imagine that, from Puritan stock no less), another a pneumonia victim. My son also died from pneumonia, and other insidious hospital infections; 76 grueling days, never a chance, no matter what the upbeat surgeon insisted, always upbeat. The nurses knew better. I read their gloom. But why go there? Onto more cheerful subjects, starting with one that’s actually not so happy when you think of it. No sir, Lily is due for a trip to the vet. That liver-and-white bitch, a flushing dynamo in the field, can sure be expensive. She needed two surgeries last year — cha-ching! — first to remove a dead puppy from her womb at that collateral-demanding South Deerfield hospital, then to my regular vet to drain a ribcage abscess, the result of a pheasant-season puncture in a beaver-infected alder swamp. This recent problem appears to be a simple urinary-tract infection, which shouldn’t be too outrageous if the first antibiotic works, never a given these days. I’ll just cross my fingers and hope my layman’s diagnosis is correct. I can’t imagine it’s something more serious. Not from her demeanor. Other than frequently squatting to pee small diluted drops of blood after her bladder’s drained, she’s happy, hungry and full of vigor, tail constantly wagging a happy rhythm you just don’t see in a sick animal. I hope it’s not wishful thinking on my part. Old Lily-Butt’ll soon be 9, but she’s a rugged bird dog and should have a few good, productive years left after showing no signs of decline last season.

Back to the Green River, I know things can change fast this time of year, but it looks perfect for fishing, running strong and clear, the latter development a welcome sight. The river is due for its first stocking this week. I’ll have to watch and see how long it takes for the fish stocked at the Pumping Station and above to get down to my secluded rock. I would guess not long. Before I start thinking about fishing, though, I better get to that yard work I’ve been uncharacteristically delaying, which reminds me of a song I’ve been playing in the truck for Jordi. Titled “Arkansas Traveler,” it’s a traditional tune about to strangers that’s been around for ages. Some call it “Hello Stranger.” My version comes from Grisman & Garcia’s “Not For Kids Only,” which makes great traveling music for any alert 6-year-old. I know Jordi gets a kick out of it, especially the part of the verse where the two strangers, mandolin and guitar, address a little home-repair issue:

“Cant you see that your roof’s a leakin’? Why don’t you fix it?” asks the wanderer.
“Well, right now, it’s a rainin’ too hard,” responds the man sitting side of the road. “And when the sun’s a shinin’, why, the roof don’t leak.”

Jordi gets a kick out of that little skit, thinks it’s silly. I explained to him that the man with a leaky roof is procrastinating, which we can all be guilty of from time to time. I can’t say I was surprised the new word piqued his curiosity. Quite intentional. He looked at me with inquisitive eyes and said, “Grampy, what’s procrastinating?” No lie, pronounced it perfectly.

“Well, kid, that’s when people put things off, kinda like the woodpile under that maple tree in my front yard. I should have cleaned up that mess long ago.”

“I’ll help you pick it up, Grampy.”

“I know you would, Jord, but I have to split it before I move it and must go to Home Depot to buy a new handle for my maul.”

“Maul? What’s a maul, Grampy?”

“You’ve seen one out in the woodshed. It’s a heavy ax, not as sharp, kinda like a combination ax/sledgehammer.”

“Oh, why don’t we just get the handle?”

“Well, I guess for the same reason that stranger doesn’t patch his roof: I’m procrastinating.”

I knew before mentioning the impending chore that it would be a good one for the two of us. I could show him that the maul was too heavy, tell him I’d split and he could throw the pieces into my truck. Then we could drive around to the woodshed and throw the split wood in. It didn’t happen this weekend and likely will be done before his next visit, if I stop procrastinating. More importantly, though, I believe he’ll remember that new word, even suspect he’ll use it at some point next time. Just a little game I like to play with him, one he doesn’t even know I’m playing but has responded favorably to in the past. God, I do hope he’ll learn to enjoy language, tinker with it, bend rules. And I sure hope that some asinine teacher doesn’t discourage his future attempts to use such words by penalizing a misspelling in an otherwise creative, precocious description. I can’t say I’m confident something like that won’t happen. In fact, it’s probably inevitable.

Uh-oh! There I go again, that “hard edge” protruding like that big, red, Green River rock, initiating a reflexive cringe from “good boys” who learned young to genuflect and make the sign of the cross.

Oh well, better back to “turn-on, tune-in, drop-out” Timothy Leary. Damn, I didn’t even get to that Wendell cougar artery I intended to bleed. It can wait.