Since our enforced departure from Las Vegas on Monday, March 23rd, we have been in self-isolation at our house in St. Catharines, relying on the kindness of strangers and good friends alike to keep us in fodder. We have spent that last twelve days of our fourteen-day incarceration, not writing King Lear, but working on a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle that now commands our kitchen table, forcing us to eat at the counter. It’s a sentimental painting by Norman Rockwell (but then, weren’t all his paintings sentimental?). In those hours not getting backache bent over the kitchen table, I have been cataloging my wine cellar and finding all kinds of hidden treasure, some of which we have been forced to rink before they – and we – get over the hill. And the tastings of wine that still, mercifully, arrives at the door.
The puzzle
