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she has more power in the club because of it.”
    “Does she?”
    “Of course not. Whoever controls the information and the purse strings runs the show in any organization. You know that.”
    In fact, I did. “Ursie’s not dumb. She wants something.”
    “She wants to run for County Board of Supervisors and she figures if she entertains people handsomely for a year she’ll be a shoo-in.”
    My mouth was on my chest. “You lie.”
    “Have I ever lied to you?”
    “Give me time. I’ll think of something.”
    “Or you’ll make it up and then accuse me of a faulty memory if I don’t recall the incident.”
    We headed toward the barn jabbering excitedly about Ursie’s hidden agenda. Ursula Yost, well-heeled and well-educated, would make a good public servant in many respects. She was conscientious, hardworking, committed to no-growth, which meant she was a deadly foe to any real estate developer or chain store—a mixed blessing, but I was more with her than against her on that one. Her girls would soon be at college and she was looking for a new career, I guess. I’d vote for her, of course, when the time came. Just because I couldn’t stand the ground the woman walked on didn’t mean I was blind to her virtues. Politics makes strange bedfellows. The word
bedfellow
in this context gave me a shudder.

5
BUMBLEBEE HILL

SUNDAY … 29 MARCH
    S unday was blissfully quiet, in part because I refused to answer the telephone. If I did I would be the victim of either Mother or Aunt Louise recounting her sister’s sins back to Year One. I loved my weekends because they were usually quiet. People focused on their families, which left me to focus on my little farm or my next deadline.
    Today I surrendered myself to serious literature, writing checks. Why was there always so much month at the end of the money?
    Money began to occupy my thoughts almost exclusively. I’d spoken to Charles about wanting to buy the
Clarion
and he didn’t laugh, which was a beginning. He said he couldn’t stop negotiating with the Thurston Group and Mid-Atlantic Holding Shares but that he’d help me any way he could. I suggested we have a meeting with Foster Adams at the Runnymede Bank and Trust the next week and he agreed. He also told me that John Hoffman was shocked at the news but took it with good grace. So far we were all behaving like reasonable adults. I wondered how long it would last.
    Outside, a silver net enveloped us. It was as though the earth exhaled its atmosphere, like a huge beast breathing in its sleep. The earth showed no signs of waking up; there wasn’t even one crocus above the ground. We’d already run three stories with meteorologists since December and I didn’t want to run another one. Our staff was small and the next weather article would land in my lap.Fair was fair, and that attitude kept the two young reporters who worked for the
Clarion
happy.
    When I was a kid and the weather turned peculiar, Louise would say it was the result of atom bomb tests. Lately she’d revived this opinion because of the nuclear accident at Chernobyl. My own explanation was that winter lingered out of pure D ugliness. If people could personalize God, I saw no reason why I couldn’t personalize winter.
    I personalized my farm, but then, it was personal. Cora, my grandmother, was born and raised here, as were Mother and Louise. I inherited the farm through Mom. I had to pay off Louise. Her share’s value increased dangerously until Mother put her in her place. Still, I paid the going price in 1977. Louise shopped for bargains but never gave any.
    Bumblebee Hill was the name of the farm and the hill on which it was built. The elevation, seven hundred feet, afforded me views of the land, and if I walked out on my front porch I could see Runnymede twinkling below me due east.
    The house, built in 1834, although simple, was a good example of Federal architecture: four rooms off a center hall, upstairs and downstairs, each room with a