Mother and Minnie are coming wherever I go, along with the dogs. I might even end up on a smaller farm. Somebody is worried that they will miss my landscapes. But there will be plenty of landscapes.  I’m not rushing either. I have no idea whether the farm will sell in a week or a year.
  I told Rose she is a special dog to have so many people worrying about her, and she wore herself out chasing a slingshot ball. Frieda had to go to the vet for a tick-borne illness. She was in a lot of pain this morning, better now. Lenore’s mud puddle was low today, so I turned the hose on her, which she enjoys equally.
  I am putting all this moving stuff behind me for now, and bearing down on the novel, which needs a lot of work, and my editor at Holt tells me that my children’s books need work too.
  I don’t suppose anything worth doing is simple.