Rocky Raccoon came into the room. . .

Martin said that Beatrix fell asleep as he was reading the second chapter of a new book tonight. What better way to drift off, he said, and I agreed with him. I was off in the evening to my friend Sal's house, who turned another year older today, and am I ever grateful she was born and is tucked up in the same corner of the earth as I. I see her almost every day; she provides sanity and joy to our family and is truly a generous auntie to my kids and godmother to Beatrix.

Rocky Raccoon is busy in the trashcans outside so Martin is rapping on the window and yelling in a fake, gruff voice. Rocky knows Martin doesn't really mean it. He's tenacious, that animal--he found a tiny hole in the top of our can and persevered until he had pulled a plastic sack through it. Our neighbors have a live trap ("We heard you have a problem with coons, too," they said, and reserved our pick up truck to drive into the country in case they catch one). A man who lives by the creek not far from here and has been gardening for forty years or so told me this story in an interview. It was "off the record" (of course--the best ones always are).

"The coons kept eating my garden," he recalled with a twinkle in his eye, "So I caught them all and took them up the hill to my friend's property and let them go. Well, my friend comes down and he's all surprised and says, 'Harry (not his real name), I opened the door to my pick up this morning and guess what was sitting there staring at me? A coon! Now, how did he get there?' I just shook my head and shrugged. 'I have no idea,' I said."

This cloak-and-dagger operation has got to be better than another of our neighbor's solutions--that was, shoot the coon and drop him into the trashcan (which they kept four feet from the side of our house). In 85 plus degree weather, you can imagine the wretchedness--it smelled like a morgue until the sanitation crew came for regular pick-up, and. . .no, I'll stop there. It's too awful.

Martin said Rocky's tail flashed as he ran off just now--but he'll be back, poking his black-gloved fingers in the hole in the top of the can. And if that's the way he wants to pass his evening. . .well, so be it. I'm just grateful not to be nocturnal, especially as tomorrow holds an interview with about two hundred elementary school kids. And an hour of photos and flats of plants. Should be fun.

For the first time, my articles appear in three places on the Observer-Reporter page. I disclosing this information mainly for my family, who will read anything I write. See if you can find my articles, Mom and Dad (both sets of you)--three places (click on any of them for the main page): Pinewood Derby, "Nourishment and Hope," and "Love at First Sight."

The rest of you, read if you'd like; and remember your days of glory in the Pinewood Derby (if you raced); or if you're like me, recall your brother's first, and last Pinewood Derby car.

A postscript to my mother: Remind me to clip and send the article to you of the toothless bankrobber. I didn't cover that story but I enjoyed it.