Around mid day yesterday I was hustling out of the grocery store with a bag of hamburger, cauliflower, cheese, and a can of beans. I was hoping to slip quietly away to camp on a Thursday afternoon with nobody noticing.

"Hi, Dick, " said my buddy Bill. "Looks like you're trying to sneak out of town."

I hadn't even gotten to the parking lot yet.

Bill is 90-years-old, a life-long hard worker, now retired. His big broad syrupy grin told me he knew a thing or two about an occasional round of hookey.

It was a dreamy afternoon. I devised a little irrigation system to drain our outdoor hot tub water into the garden, where the summer's first zucchini lay sunbathing in the shade of a huge leaf. The tomatoes are creeping along, too, but slowly. It hasn't been a good garden summer so far.

My afternoon swam in the lazy pleasantness.of daydreams washed down with the bottle of red wine I had opened far too early. From the shade of a sun umbrella I sat and sipped, shirtless, admiring the white pine trees I have planted during the past few summers. They are still small, some not yet as tall as the weeds around them, but they are growing and I'm supposing in another 20 summers I'll be sitting among them, in the shade, biting, sucking, and tasting tiny petals of clover.

The clover is spreading magnificently all over the property between our cabin and the lake. I don't know how clover got here. It just showed up and started making itself at home.

Clover is among my favorite flowers. It is prominent on cans of Bag Balm, a cow udder ointment made in Lyndonville, Vermont, only a few miles from my cherished boyhood home. Farmer Dole had cans of it sitting on every windowsill in his barn. That's where we got our milk in those days.

Fields of clover were widespread in our part of Vermont. I remember my mother showing me how to pull each little clover petal from the flowerhead, bite it, and taste the sweetness. With some imagination I could sometimes taste the sweetness, but it didn't really explode the taste buds like a cold popsicle.

I found myself yesterday, among the laze of my dreams and the haze of the wine, chewing those little clover petals, and smiling across the lake.

Afternoon gave way to evening and I decided to stay overnight. It made me happy, and it made Rosie and Boomer happy, so I turned off my phone, just in case it didn't make everybody happy.

I got up for awhile in the night. An owl was hu-huing close by and I was counting the hu hus in hopes of identifying it. I believe it was either a Great Horned Owl or a Barred Owl. We hear these frequently, so I feel sure there will be plenty more chances.

My intention today was to boat home early and go to the office for a few hours. At 5:30 the day started out calm and quiet - perfect for just sitting and watching the sun come up. I never drink tea in the morning, so I made some tea - several cups to welcome the dawn. It was so absolutely pleasant that I was still drinking tea and looking at the lake when I should have been at work.

An hour after that I called the office to say I'd be a little late, then promptly dozed off in my chair beside the lake and awoke just in time for a small lunch snack.

So, here I sit after 24 hours at camp, having done nearly nothing, and it's almost time to go pick up Mary. It's the weekend! Woo hoo... time to go to camp. I see wine and clover scheduled...

Today I had a letdown, a moment of disappointment.

I was so excited earlier this week when I felt a little lump on my chin! "Woohoo," I shouted to myself as I felt the tiny pimple. "Holy smackers, is that ever cool!"

As a teenager I was no stranger to pimples, but I never sprouted crops of them like some friends who could grow pimples like zucchinis in a Doukhobor farmer's garden.

Now, I'm 70 years old, and it seems like growing a pimple ought to be an accomplishment worth celebrating. Don't ask why. It's hard to explain.

Recently I decided to grow a ponytail. I've never had one. Never wanted one. But last spring I visited a long-time friend who is a couple years older than I am and who I hadn't seen for more than a decade. During that time his hair turned pure white and he wore it in a pony tail. People, friends of his, we met in a cafe called him "The Silver Wolf."

This morning I called my mother. I thought she'd be interested to hear about my pimple.

First, though, after exchanging our usual greetings and pleasantries I decided to mention my ponytail. It's not really a ponytail, yet, because it isn't long enough and I haven't tied or rubber banded it back. But it's an idea and it's getting close, so I mentioned it, casually...

My mother is not the silent type, so the dead air in the phone seemed pretty loud as i awaited her charmed delight. I could hardly sit still, anticipating her glee.

Eventually, it came... a long, drawn out, gruff, "Why?"

"Well, I've never had one..."

Ma's clever enough to know when I've got her beat, so she changed the subject.

"Do you ever watch golf on television?" she asked.

"No."

"There's a guy on there, " Ma continued, "who wears a ponytail. And he smokes cigars (another of my little pleasures that she thoroughly disapproves). I can't bear to watch him. I think he's disgusting."

At that moment I was pretty tickled that we had changed the subject away from me and my ponytail. And just to be sure we didn't regress I decided to hold my pimple news until the next time we talk. I didn't really feel like discussing Tiger Woods and his chin eruptions.

It was only after we had hung up after a nice, long mom and son discussion that my disappointment set in. I got to musing and rubbing my tiny chin bump, which seemed to feel sore and irritated, so I checked it out in the bathroom mirror.

It wasn't a pimple after all. It was a damn mosquito bite.

Great idea

Pull the boat up to shore and tie it to the trailer hooked to my ATV. What could possibly go wrong? I told myself to remember to untie the rope before driving away on the ATV.

Not much of a story, really. I had sand and rocks in the trailer - a heavy load - and at start up I felt like I was spinning in mud. Gave the throttle just that little extra goose, fishtailed slightly, then zoomed up the hill, pleased with the performance of my little ATV. When I looked back I wondered briefly why I was trailing a length of rope, then did the palm slap to the forehead in recognition of my duncery, and immediately started singing the Creeque Alley verse "Rope busted, disgusted, age just can't be trusted..."

Later I checked the lyrics and learned that I've been singing it wrong all these years. The real words are "Broke, busted, disgusted, agents can't be trusted..."

But, la, la-ing to one of my favorite '60s songs by the Mamas and The Papas lightened my burden of senility.

The rope broke. No damage to the boat or the trailer. The sand and rocks are at the top of the hill.

Ta Dah!!!