I was just looking back and noticing that this blog was a good deal more interesting back in the winter. This is strange, because winter is not my season. Seasonal affective disorder has afflicted me since I was about ten years old. Around the first of March things get really grim. Ordinarily, this is when I take off in a southerly direction if I'm lucky enough to be possessed of sufficient time and fortune, because I simply cannot stand it another moment.
But this year was a little different. Mr. T had bidness in Orlando in early January, and the idea of my staying here alone with dogs and kid was untenable. So I went along and we tacked on an additional week of vacation so I could go to my favorite place in Florida -- the swamp. Beaches are fine and dandy, but the best place to be in Florida, other than the freshwater springs, is unquestionably the Everglades. Being in the swamp in January had two immediate benefits. One, this blog was more interesting, because I was able to post pictures of alligators in compromising positions and videos of anhingas eating exotic catfish. Second, I wasn't as much of a basket case for the rest of the winter, having had two weeks of sunshine in January.
June, on the other hand, has been disconcerting. I've had solid work for the last six weeks that, while it pays the bills, kills every creative impulse and keeps me indoors. Not that June is any great shakes in the Willamette Valley anyway -- I'd guess half the days have failed to crack 60 degrees -- but sickness and work have kept me indoors for the sunshine and warmth we have gotten.
Fortunately, July is nearly here, along with -- I hope -- a bit more time in my schedule to get out and enjoy the blistering heat I crave. I'm also hoping I can pry this blog out of the current ditch in which it resides, existing merely as a repository for my pissing and moaning.
In that vein, we're leaving for Montana this Friday. Good friend and occasional commenter Tony will be going this time as well, along with his three kids. I expect that his youngest son and Trailhead Kid will raise all sorts of hell together, as they tend to do when they are in each other's company for more than, say, two minutes.
Even the dog, Thomas, is restless. An hour ago, he tiptoed into my office and gently placed his squeaky hedgehog on my lap. He then cast me a plaintive look that said, "If I must be stuck in this suburban prison, would it be too much trouble for you to toss my hedgehog down the stairs so that I might run after it? It's a pale substitute for chasing deer out of the garden, but I'll take what I can get right now."
I couldn't help but sympathize, and I pitched the toy down the stairs for him until it got too slobbery and gross. He'll feel better next week.
Later on I'm hoping to get some pictures of the Montana place up. There's a screen shot of a video I want to grab, and that takes a few minutes for me to figure out every time I do it. It's difficult to do that in between reading cases on arcane corporate law issues, so I hope to grab a block of time later on.