Elsie's Notes from New England - THEMission edition

I stole a post yesterday.  My friend won’t mind.  He is a most genial and generous writing friend, and the post was not one that he had written, but rather one he was sharing because it moved him.  My little virtual circle of writing friends (note I’m not calling them a circle of virtual writing friends . . . big difference) is good like that.  We share our stuff, and other stuff, and the stuff that moves us or scares us or makes us crazy mad.  The post began, “Date a girl who reads” and went on to extol the virtues of women who love books, and what it means to be in a relationship with them.  It was beautifully written and touched and moved me.  So I stole it and reposted it and dedicated it to my girls and the men who love them.  Then I thought about who my girls are.  There are a ton of them out there – my friends and neighbors who love the magic of books, and their daughters who I love like daughters.  Then there are my own daughters.  I only have two of them, genetically,

It’s the first of March, when a woman’s fancy turns toward thoughts of spring.  You remember what that is, right?  For those of you south of the Mason/Dixon line or west of the Mississippi, you might want to go file your nails or take out the trash or walk the dog or something for a bit.  Those of us who live in areas that actually have all four seasons are going to get a little misty-eyed and sentimental for just a moment here. Spring – when stepping out the front door doesn’t automatically elicit mild profanity and/or The Dance of the Idiot because of A) falling ice or dripping ice down the back of one’s neck, B) sheets of ice or melting ice under now airborne feet, C) proof that the plow guy really does have it in for you, or D) just plain more of the darn white stuff. Remember?  Spring – when the trash can lid isn’t permanently frozen to the top of the can. Spring – when salt and sand aren’t on the bottom of every shoe and boot in the county, all of which are colle