Hah! Even after all these years, Millbank continues to entertain me.

Yesterday I said to my fifteen-year-old son, "Want to hear some bad writing?"

He said, "Sure!"

I read him the following sentence:

With a low, suppressed scream, Roger bounded to Hester's side.

Immediately he undertook a dramatic reenactment. First, he worked on the "low, suppressed scream," which, as it turns out, is practically impossible to implement. Screams apparently need to be high. Otherwise, they sound like growls. The "bounded to Hester's side" can be replicated, but instead of looking anxious and excited, the bounder merely looks clompy, rather like a sloshed kangaroo. Moreover, bounding wakes up the dog, who also starts bounding.

In short, thanks to Millbank, for a few minutes yesterday evening, my kitchen in the woods was an exciting place to be, what with all the bounding and low, suppressed screams and ironic teenage-boy commentary. If you had been there, you would have enjoyed it, except when the dog happened to bound into your wine-holding arm.

Tomorrow we are headed to Southwest Harbor for a quick overnight visit with our friend, photographer Curtis Wells, who has a show opening at the Southwest Harbor Library. Curtis amuses my children because he wears a pin that says, "Old Fart." He amuses me (and makes me proud, of course) because he refers to my children as "righteous young men." He owns a windup James Brown doll that sings "I Feel Good," and he takes lovely black-and-white photos with an ancient Leica. And his wife is one of my dearest writing friends, and they live in a permanently half-finished house by the sea, and spending time with them is always an unqualified pleasure. Maybe you should come to this opening too.