Baby Steps.

Sweet baby Jesus in a tinfoil knapsack it's pretty out there. It's in the upper sixties and the carpenter bees are back and the forsythia is in full and utter bloom and the Bradfords are stinking up the place and the cherries are damn near ready to go and out the side windows here in front of the basketball tournament we are for the moment anyway cloudless—and the dude called, and he liked the thing, and he had some suggestions, and now I know what the next few weeks might look like, and if they look at all like this, we're gonna be fine. Hell—we might even get some sleep.

Tomorrow's supposed to be almost eighty. Lemon-buying weather. Can't be eighty degrees and not have lemons in the house.