Overnight rain had a remarkable effect on my yard Wednesday, lifting my spirits on a gray, dreary April morning. Spring can do that to a man, even one t’other side of his peak.

What immediately drew my attention on the way out to the kennel was a lilac bush along the western perimeter of my property. Barren with no hint of green Tuesday — bingo! — it was sporting vivacious, quarter-inch, green buds Wednesday. No exaggeration! Overnight. No sun. Chalk it up to the power of spring rain: lawn greening as though a watercolorist perched on a maple bough mischievously splashed blotches here and there with a flick of his saturated brush; bright yellow daffodils against the house drooping, fists clenched, a day after standing straight as a preacher in bright sun. I can only hope their lethargy had nothing to do with poison Fukushima rain. What a dreadful disaster, one we’re hearing not nearly enough about. Loony Charlie Sheen and Sarah Palin are much more important, right? So are tightwads John Boehner and Eric Cantor, gleaming their pompous air of self-importance and deceit. Then, even when the news does bemoan those haywire Japanese reactors, it’s played up as nothing to worry about. They’d have you believe last week’s three-million-gallon Pacific dump was no worse than a drunken hiker emptying his bladder into a Quabbin feeder stream. Don’t buy it. It’s misinformation aimed at the ignorant. Cheap “news.”

But let us not digress … as my flowers bloom and bushes bud, backyard Hinsdale Brook is roaring with youthful enthusiasm, and so is the swollen Green River it feeds a short bit downstream. Speaking of which, you should have heard the peepers in riverside Sunken Meadow Monday afternoon. The sound was new, overwhelming and encompassing, like you were trapped in a small, breathless chamber with billions of the chirpy little buggers belching. I took a quick ramble down there with the dogs Wednesday morning and not a peep. What a difference a day or two makes. It was still warm but soggy, a steady rain falling. I stayed just long enough to stretch my legs, wet my shoulders and observe the surging river — Tiger Lily plump with pups, due anytime, waddling along; Buddy sprinting, leaping, hopelessly infected with joie de vivre. I think Lily will have a big litter. Fun. Perfect time of year for puppies.

Honestly, I didn’t know young Buddy had it in him, the rascal. Hey, sometimes a young lad can surprise you. Well, I guess those ladies I hear pitching their cougarlife.com website late nights between sports talk on WFAN-New York wouldn’t be surprised. They have faith in young pups. We’re not talking here about those extinct Eastern cougars. No sir. These radio cougars appear to be thriving in Eastern metropolitan areas; same ferocious growl, gentler bite.

Ooops! That email I’ve been awaiting finally arrived. I just heard the beep. Back to the task at hand, that of trout stocking and tidbits. Then back to the parlor La-Z-Boy, where I’ll raise the footrest high, flip off my Birkenstocks and resume a captivating study of American novelist Henry Miller; he and Anais Nin, their twisted, tangled labyrinth of lies and secrets. Or was it a nest? Doesn’t matter. Fact is they were fascinating artists — blasphemous, erotic sinners whose books were for many years banned in this country and England. Imagine that! George Orwell called Miller the only living writer of the English language worth reading, and his books were banned where English is spoken. What makes Miller and Nin even more interesting from my perspective is their connection to a Whately man I once knew from afar. Question is, why did it take me so long to discover these literary icons?

Well, I guess if you’re inquisitive and open-minded, you’ll find important stuff sooner or later, even if you were a rebel who dismissed school as a waste of time when you could have been spoon-fed by some droning, upright pedant, just another 200-pound sleeping pill so common in education.

I guess I didn’t miss much. I have always found it more meaningful to solve my own mysteries.

Enough!