June just might be the first month of summer … to most of us. But for some of this planet’s people, it’s the dead of winter. That would be those wonderful folks who live south of the equator, of course. While we are busy cremating some cow or pig on the backyard barbecue, they are still holed up and wondering if they can make it to penguin season without starving.

And I’m just kidding of course because 1. I’m fairly certain no nation has a penguin season, and 2. penguins don’t need any 

more problems. Hey, they already live where it’s too cold and they walk funny.

   I thought I knew all kinds of things about sleds and dogs. Hadn’t I already won a 100-mile race? Hadn’t I darn near won a 300-mile race? Didn’t I live 12 miles from my car and have to use the team to get to town and to file my columns. Heck yes! Well, in those days I was married to Pam, who ran race headquarters for the Iditarod Race. That was a long, cold 1100-mile camping trip from Anchorage to Nome.

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    Ran into Doc down at The Mule Barn the other day, so naturally we had to rid the world of about a gallon of coffee and solve the world’s problems for an hour. It is the duty of all true Americans of our age, you know.

  Doc said he’d been aching a little bit lately. Joints or something. He’d been out fixing the pasture fence where the mare had been pushing on it. The next morning it made him walk funny.

  “I remember when my dad was my age,” he said. “I asked him how it felt to be this old. Well, he looked at me as though I were committing a crime by having brown hair, you know? And then he said, “To be this old? Well, I guess it beats the alternative.”

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  “Well,” said Steve, the tall cowboy, “at least it’s Friday and we all have the weekend to look forward to.”

  Doc glanced up from his paper at the philosophy counter of the Mule Barn truck stop and world dilemma think tank.

  “Fastest Friday you’ll ever experience, Steve,” said Doc.

  “That’s about right,” said Dud.

  Steve got that confounded look on his face. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Today is Saturday.”

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When we first noticed the baby sparrow, here at the house, it saddened us all. He had fallen from his nest and was slowly walking around the front yard under the tree while his mother and father had an absolute fit. 

   We knew we were looking at a dead baby bird, as it was only a question of who does it, where it is done, and how long before it happens. Years of experience in these kinds of things have taught us the finality of a baby bird falling out of a tree. Would the end come from a cat, or from a raccoon wandering up from Lewis Creek, or a snake? One of the problems with being a baby bird is that almost everything with teeth wants to eat you, and if you can’t fly, there’s not much you can do about it. We learned that picking the baby up and putting him back in the nest wouldn’t work, so we were forced to just watch his timid movements around the yard and whisper to him, “I’m sorry, pal.”

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 Doc hadn’t even finished loading his coffee with fake sugar before Steve piped up.

  “I think it’s disgusting and weird and unnatural and it should be outlawed!” the tall cowboy said, coming to rest at the philosophy counter of the Mule Barn truck stop.

  “Aw Steve,” said Doc, “the coffee isn’t that bad.”

  “Coffee? Nay, I say unto you, Doc. It ain’t the coffee … it’s them Academy Awards on the television. You see them? All them good-looking women Scotch-taping themselves into those dresses so they almost stay on? Those weird guys they’re with who only shave on Tuesdays?”

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Dud was especially quiet this morning, sitting in his usual seat at the philosophy counter of the Mule Barn truck stop. He was doodling with his napkin and a feed store ball-point pen.

  Doc looked over to see if he could make it out. He couldn’t. Bert adjusted his glasses and looked over.

  “Murder?” said Bert.

  “What?”

  “You wrote murder on the napkin,” Bert said. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Naw,” Dud said, blushing a bit. “It’s my book, that’s all.”

  “Still having trouble trying to figure it out?” Doc said, kindly.

  “The publishing company suggests I outline it first to kinda get to know where everything goes before rewriting it this time. And you know what they said about the murders…”

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  We wondered about the origin of the new sign down at the Read Me Now bookstore. Sarah McKinley has had the place for about five years now and has become a real asset to our valley. If you’re looking for a book, she either has it or you don’t need to read it.

  She is picky, of course, and tends to buy the kind of books she thinks we should read and not always the ones we’d like to read. Fortunately for her, enough of us agree with her choices that we have kept her in business.

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We have a master gardener in our family. Two, actually. My wife, Catherine, and her identical twin, Eleanor. These women spent a whole year studying stuff like how to grow things that you’d like to have and how to avoid growing things that turn your stomach.

   Catherine is really active in the group and volunteers to find volunteers. Hey, you can ask. She loves doing it, and I’m kinda an occasional tag-a-long.

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Spring mornings are a lot like Christmas. Each day we get up and go out into the yard or walk along the creek or visit the horses in the pasture. And each day, each morning, we find something new the sun has brought us.

  Pinfeather leaves of an unbelievable green now start showing on cottonwoods that have stood like stark ghostly frames all through the cold winter. Hopeful blades of grass peek through clumps of brown left over from last summer’s verdant pasture. Everywhere we look there is something new and different.

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