Imagine my dismay to go to my library, here in Michigan, today and discover that we have all of three Ernest Hemingway books on the shelves, none of which are the Nick Adams stories.
I came home with two books by Jim Harrison, Hemingway's regional heir apparent.
And my copy of Sleeping With Bread, a book that's been recommended to me by three different people in different life contexts, arrived from Amazon.
And -- there's Amish rhubarb pie in the fridge. As Garrison Keillor sings, "Mama's little baby got rhubarb, rhubarb..."
Things could be worse.