Sunshine on snow this morning. For the moment, the world is stiff and bright and heavy, but already chunks are sliding off branches and roofs, and soon everything will be dripping and sodden. Yesterday's snow was a classic spring storm, fat-flaked and wet, and shoveling it was like shoveling bricks. But underneath that weight, my tulips and daffodils and grape hyacinths and garlic shoots are blithely growing. By Sunday afternoon, I could be back to digging up the front yard.

First, however, I have to play at that Saturday apres-ski party in Greenville. There's no relief from winter yet.

For the past few days I've been reading a stack of books, switching back and forth among them, carrying them around the house and setting them down in mysterious places such as on top of the flour bin (why?), losing track of my bookmarks and accidentally skipping ahead or rereading what I've already read. I'm still browsing through the collection of clothing photographs and the history of housework. I'm also reading Baron Wormser's Tom o'Vietnam and Mary Norton's The Borrowers, which make a very strange pairing. I'm having a hard time figuring out what all these books are saying to each other, but I suppose it will come clear in time.