There can be no finer gift, in a time of economic distress, political rancor and an ongoing foreign conflict, than a day or two away &mdash; country days, beyond the reach of public discord and senseless urban griefs.</p><p> A friend and I had just such a respite not long ago. By luck, it was perhaps the weekend of sweetest weather in the whole of this unpredictable summer.</p><p> Too many weeks had slipped by since the last visit to the cabin at the edge of the Ozark woods. The early July wild blackberry harvest had been missed altogether.</p><p> There&rsquo;d been storms. Several large trees were felled by wind &mdash; one of them across the dam of the cabin pond, though it missed the dock and small aluminum boat.</p><p> An electric fuse had blown, and without power the ultrasonic varmint repeller had been silenced. Alert to any opportunity, the field mice had noticed that and found their way in &mdash; their first summer incursion in several years.</p><p> By what means I can&rsquo;t say, they&rsquo;d managed to get to an upper shelf, chewed through the wrapper of a bundle of paper towels and made confetti of three of the six rolls. I suppose I&rsquo;ll have to resort to traps again, though I&rsquo;d much prefer repulsing them to killing.</p><p> At least they hadn&rsquo;t discovered the package of spaghetti. One April, when I went to open the cabin for the year, I found their stashes of dry pasta in every shirt pocket and shoe in the closet.</p><p> This season&rsquo;s haying is nearly finished. In the front two fields, the large, round bales made a pleasing geometry. And from the smaller back field could be heard the distant hum of the tractor mowing down the last few acres in readiness for the rake.</p><p> My friend and I loaded and launched the boat, and were on the lake in good time for the evening rise.</p><p> The sky was deep blue, clear except for a few feathery wisps of cloud. The trees on the forested hillsides were reflected on a surface still as glass.</p><p> Only rarely does one get such a perfectly windless late afternoon, ideal for fishing. And the bass were willing.</p><p><em>Fish!</em> my friend sang out. And just moments after that, another. Then another &mdash; three on his first four casts.</p><p> That&rsquo;s how our evening went. We stayed until nearly dark, then made a hasty supper, turned in at a reasonable hour, woke just at first light to a day as idyllic as the one before.</p><p> Topping off the weekend, we had Sunday lunch at an establishment I&rsquo;ve mentioned before. Situated in a little hamlet called Collins, 30 miles or so down the highway from the cabin, it serves up the best country fare between Canada and the Gulf of Mexico.</p><p> Filled up then, not just with fried chicken but also with transcendent peace, we drove the two hours home.</p><p> Back to the news of a disheartening war still grinding on. More random, mindless shootings on the streets of our town. Political infighting as usual. Unemployment still a scandal. Too many families in distress.</p><p> Back, in short, to a world much like the one we&rsquo;d left &mdash; but equipped, somehow, with more resources for the necessity to carry on.</p><p> That is the strength one gets from the luck of a little time apart.