Well, we’re still on lamb watch—ED noticed today that Callie didn’t look nearly as wide as she has been, and she had a discharge all afternoon, so she’s surely getting closer; but then we knew that, didn’t we? I’ll go check her sometime tonight, when I wake up and can’t go back to sleep; the barometric pressure and the temperature are both dropping—it feels like a baby-having night.

Planted strawberries today, at long last. We probably won’t get much of an early crop, but a late crop sounds fine, too.

The girls have both been sick; Bernard got walloped by a ferocious cold, which even turned into a touch of pneumonia; ED got it to a much lesser degree. They’re both fine now; do you ever wish you could just close the doors and not be around anybody from November until May? Sort of a self-quarantine, I guess. I think about that when any of us get sick, but then I get over it and wish for parties.

I can’t think of anything at all worth writing about; how can I stay so blasted busy, and be so bone-tired at the end of the day, but not be able to think of one thing interesting to say?

Forget it—I’m going to bed!