The groundhog says there is going to be six more weeks of winter. But he’s a groundhog, what does he know? It was 62 here yesterday. I took Todd Johnson’s debut novel, In the Sweet By and By, and sat in the sun and read the afternoon away. Johnson’s novel reminds me a lot of Michael Morris’s work. In fact, it could very well have been a book that Morris wrote.
The golfers are out enmasse. The fairway is f ull. I had company on Friday and we ate breakfast at The Villager on Saturday morning. The Villager is very much like Julwyns in Fairhope. It’s the place all the regulars around town go. We got there at the same time the help arrived, and half-an-hour before the place started filling up. The coffee is good and costs a lot less than Starbucks. They also have pretty decent grits. I’m picky about my grits. With grits it’s all about texture. They should be creamy but not mushy. Gritty but not like spoonfuls of sand. Heaped with pepper not sugar.
If you put sugar on grits, you’re a Yank for sure.
I keep looking for the redbirds out the window as I type but so far all I’ve seen are robins. They like the berries on the trees and they love the birdbath, but I just am not as interested in the robins as I am the cardinals and finches and nuthatches that hang at Pam and Gordon’s place.
Pam called last night. She didn’t think Gordon would last the night but he did.
It would be just like Gordon to die on Groundhog day, I said to Pam this morning. She said she’d thought the same thing. We had a good laugh about the picture Gordon took of him in the garden holding up that groundhog. If any of you have that photo, send it to me. I want to post it.
They say it’s going to be six more weeks of winter. Must be, Pam said they woke to snow in Tennessee this morning. School was on a two-hour delay.
This weather has more ups and downs than the stock market. Maybe we ought to put Groundhog Phil in charge of that too.