If middle-aged women went on strike, the world would stop moving, the sun would fall from the sky and Satan would be practicing triple axels in hell. Am I right? We are the last line of defense against complete and utter chaos, and nobody knows it (except, of course, other middle-aged women).

I’ve recently returned from a fact-finding mission to Louisiana (my accountant informs me the Internal Revenue Service is more inclined to accept deductions for a trip described as a “fact-finding mission” than the somewhat more accurate depiction as an “alcohol-fueled rampage into wretched excess”).

Mahoosuc Mills is one hot bed of activity, and last week was no exception. At the monthly meeting of the Mahoosuc Mills Historical Society, we had a special guest speaker: the president of the New England Moxie Congress, Merrill Lewis! This caused quite a stir, as you can imagine. After all, Moxie is Maine’s official soft drink. No kidding! Governor Baldacci signed a bill proclaiming it so back in 2005. Course, if you grew up in Maine, you’ve known that all along.

Spring has finally sprung here in Mahoosuc Mills. You know what that means, don’t you? Yard sale season is upon us. Hallelujah! I can’t wait to get out there and see what everyone’s getting rid of! And how organized they are.

I know there are some among you loyal Down East readers who believe this feature goes out of its way to not only find, but to revel in salacious material. I have heard from you in the form of angry e-mails and crude graffiti spray-painted on my file folder labeled “Salacious Material.”

“Why can’t you find something else to write about besides juvenile attempts at the sort of potty-mouthed humor that was outdated when I was in high school?” wrote one astute fan. “Grow up.”

Which took a lot of spray paint.

It’s been a week, and I’m still thinking about Easter. It was such a beautiful day here in Mahoosuc Mills: the kind of Spring day I just prayed for as a kid. Not so the Easter Bunny wouldn’t have to hop, hop, hop through the snow. No, I prayed for good weather so I could wear my new Easter dress with white ankle socks, white patent leather shoes, my pink Easter coat (my sister Irene’s was identical, but blue), white straw hat with fake flowers, and white gloves. All brand, spanking new, toute le kit! Oh, and new underwear, too. Almost forgot about that.

Like most journalists, I have this unfulfilled dream. For more than thirty years, I’ve wanted to do a feature story on a subject worthy of my skills, my talent, my initiative. But at every turn, I’ve been frustrated, blocked, and defeated.

As I write this, Charlie is in the den, lying on the couch, with his knee propped up, remote in hand, moaning. He’s in pain, but keeps “forgetting” to take his ibuprofen, so I have to remind him every four hours. I’m trying to muster up a little sympathy, but it’s hard, considering the circumstances.

Just about every city or town worth a mention has some sort of food closely associated with it. Philadelphia has the cheese steak.

New Orleans has the po’ boy.

Boston has the baked bean.

And Washington, D.C. has the earmark.

It was a “Timmy’s fallen down the well” sort of weekend here at the LeClair household. What, may you ask, is that? Well, I’ll tell you.