That’s what the Colonel had to say about my blog.

“Your blog’s gotten LAME lately”, he remarked matter-of-factly.

And he’s not wrong.

I’m having trouble blogging lately. Or writing in anything other than under-140 character spurts. I never tended toward gratuitous verbosity, as a rule. But since Twitter, I’ve become even more laconic.

I’ve become the epitome of the reserved Yankee.

To foreigners, a Yankee is an American.
To Americans, a Yankee is a Northerner.
To Northerners, a Yankee is an Easterner.
To Easterners, a Yankee is a New Englander.
To New Englanders, a Yankee is a Vermonter.
And in Vermont, a Yankee is somebody who eats pie for breakfast.
– E.B. White

I eat pie for breakfast.

spring fever

Finally, FINALLY, it’s starting to feel like spring. Not in temperature, though. Folks at the Red Sox opener at Fenway are huddled in coats, scarves and mittens. No, it’s still cold, with hard frosts overnight. We’re still wearing coats outside, and still sleeping under several quilts and a down comforter at night. The radiators are still humming.

But it’s not snowing anymore, it’s raining.

My solitary crocus has bloomed, and the daffs are getting ready to.

The grass is greening up, and the nightly spring peeper chorus has begun.

I do so love the sound of spring peepers. Go to that wikipedia link and listen to them. My backyard sounds like that at the height of spring peeper season. It’s not THAT wild and crazy here yet, but give it time.

Spring fever.

So I’m rearranging the entire house. Moving furniture into different rooms. Repurposing rooms. It’s an iterative, agile process that can and probably will go on for months.

I’m even thinking it might be time to remove the C3PO Pez dispenser from the dining room table, where it has reigned supreme over the rest of our crap since Christmas. We probably won’t make a final decision til the end of the week, though.

One shouldn’t rush these things.