I'm lying in bed in Wellington as a mourning dove coos on the roof over my head. Sharp spring air ripples through the open window, and I am in no rush to get up, to do anything at all.

Yesterday's gallery opening was packed with parents and grandparents and siblings. So many people came out to see our young people's work. I tell you, when I watch guys in motorsports sweatshirts and "Don't Tread on Me" caps tiptoeing respectfully among poems and paintings, I know something in this world has gone right.

And then, on our way home, Angela and I saw a moose! . . . a beautiful young cow browsing on the edge on the road. She slipped into the brush as I stopped the car, but turned to watch us, and lingered there for a few moments as we cooed and admired. It had been a long time since either Ang or I had seen a moose--even in the north country they've gotten rare, thanks to tick infestations--so this was special.

Of course, because the homeland is a crazy place, even as we were swooning over our moose sighting, we were discussing whether or not we were likely to drive into a police roadblock. A carload of guys apparently held up a convenience store at gunpoint and then drove like mad up a Wellington dirt road, straight into a pond, got their SUV stuck on a beaver dam (!), and vamoosed into the woods, with K-9s in hot pursuit. Local scuttlebutt says they've since been caught, but, boy, it's a thrill a minute up here.