The weather has been fab here in Scragsville. I wish I had planted tulips last fall but my husband and I were so sure we’d be in Maine by now. So I didn’t bother.

What’s the latest?

Monday George drove to Montreal to take his Deutschkenntnisse (don’t you love the way German has those long long words?) B2. He parked our seen-better-days Volvo in front of the Goethe Institut, right behind a Maserati (starting price $118,000). Then he took a few minutes sipping coffee from the thermos and listening to the inspirational tape I had made for him: “Believe in yourself. Believe in your dreams. You can ace it. Believe. Believe. Believe…”

And, what do you know? A few hours later I get a phone call. The exam went well!

Get out the party hats and put the champagne on ice!

But then…

Yes, the very next day our plans go south. The Chef Arst, Her Direktor of the hospital which George had applied to is not quite sure. Maybe he’ll be in touch.

What happened?

I know what happened and I know what it is.

It’s the thing that must not be named. I feel disloyal even thinking it. But then, it could remain our own little secret if no one tells.  OK?

So, here goes: George is OLD. Yes. Old. But still younger than I, so how am I supposed to feel?

To be truthful, at this very moment, I feel good. Not only because of the Santa Carolina red but because I still have unfinished business here in Scragsville. If I told you what business that was your teeth would fall out and your hair would turn white. And I’d have to kill you.

Stay tuned.