Several years ago, I planted a skinny river birch near the south side of the house. It was an inspired decision. The little birch liked its new spot: the warmest exposure, and some shelter from the wind. It grew rapidly, rising past the eaves and spreading past the windows. Now, it is a moving art work: a green canopy in
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Bella is rarely still. Most pictures of her look like this. We coaxed her to pose on Boxing Day with her favorite plaything: crumpled tissue paper tied with discarded bits of ribbon, which she chased and chewed and tossed. She liked it better than any of the manufactured toys we’d bought for the dogs for Christmas. After several rounds
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Sandy Denny’s song Who Knows Where the Time Goes has been much in mind lately, as I’ve listened while commuting to Judy Collins narrating her recent autobiography, Sweet Judy Blue Eyes. Denny, who died in 1978 at age 31, has now been gone longer than she was here. Collins, who I think was the first American artist to cover Denny’s signature tune,
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