THE HUNDRED-AND-TENTH PAGE

As a recovering postal addict, I weaned myself away from the addiction in the great outdoors as I celebrated the new season. Spring had never seemed so glorious; I had never felt so daffodilly. Had I not got rid of my CD player, I would have played every spring song from Glazunov to Vivaldi. Ice melted, and so did my heart as I put in the annual inedibles.

Rhubarb was a great favorite as it was not favored by the marauding deer. My young feller had helped me identify and plant the gifts of nature abhorred by the deer. They hated the rhubarb as much as I, but it made a lovely leaf for the spring show. The aforementioned daffodils began to shoot up sprouts as intensely green as the ensanguined red of the rhubarb knobs. A nagging winter memory tugged at me, asking that I send the poisonous leaves to someone, but my new charity kicked it aside. Old habits die hard, but can be revived if necessary.

My Editor had not been heard from for a long time. He was not employable. Any company who hired him would look foolish, especially in view of the fact that it was beginning to appear that those who had bought his artificially rejected novel were beginning to see a return on every penny spent. To every generation, its own “Titanic” property.