So much laundry to wash, so many seeds to plant, so much grass to mow. But who cares? Last night we had a giant bowl of our own lettuce and a mess of fiddleheads that James and I picked by the stream. A thrush was singing, the poodle was splashing in the shallows, the blackflies were buzzing impolitely. . . yes, it truly is spring here, and my spirits are high, even as my brain reels and my shoulders ache. If only the Red Sox pitchers could learn to pitch, the season would be just like the postcards.

Do not think I have forgotten A Winter's Tale. Paul and I were practicing for our North Haven musical debut last week, plus we naturally had to spend all our free time clambering on rocks and stuffing our pockets with urchin shells. Not to mention the real source of time wasting, ESPN. At least I made Paul wait till after dark before he was allowed to turn on the TV. But now we are back to the Land of No TV Reception, and Shakespeare will resume his ascendancy.