Four and Twenty.

This one gets unlimited do-overs.

All in a row.

Anyone know how to transplant a tomato?

That doesn't require answering.

Dug a few shallow holes in our barrels, plunged the weedy things in, arranged them into arthritic positions, watered them for the first--and what I assumed to be the last--time, and decided that fortyfive minutes at the garden was more than deserving of a nap on a huge pile of clean laundry.

Went back out to check them and they've crisped up nice, with beautiful golden brown edges like a pretty pie. Which I assume means they're done and ready for serving.

Welcome.

Six months and three days in the new place and I received our first official introduction. No brownies, but an honest offering of secondhand sunflowers and cherry tomato plants from the guy across the street. He's a former Westsider, works T.A.T.S., dropped one "goddammit" and a few "fucks", and smelled like a four o'clock buzz. I decided we could parley.

Outland.

Once through the garden you will be in the

wood.

The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-

growth.

Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She

may ask for something;

give it to her.

From "Instructions" by Neil Gaiman

That something may or may not have to do with the Vlasic Stork. (See bottom right.)

Wall of Fame.

Grab your most distinctive hats, most silhou-worthy collars, your boathouse coats, your pipes and pens, your 19th century glowers.

It's sittin' time.

Experiencing Nim-pah.

Had a mighty bout of deja vu while sketching this. Turns out I was tracing, from memory, every line of a favorite comic character of mine. He'd appeared in one panel. Of a Tom and Jerry insert. In 1983. He was the most minor of throwaways. A tough bird in a straw hat. But the lines were so graceful that he stuck--and it now occurs to me that he's become the template for every goose-necked, hawk-billed figure I attempt.

Look, Lizzie, look.

Down the glen tramp little men.

...cont.

Two more. A little more Branwen than Ballerina. I prefer the one on the left. Eyes to the distance, shoelaces trailing.

Lassie.

I call this one "Bridget". For she who commissioned, for she who will receive, and in memory of a well-timed bottle of Sour Apple Pucker.