so I sometimes, you understand, envy my city friends who have Twyla Tharp, ''Long Day's Journey Into Night,'' and Wynton Marsalis at their fingertips. Oh, I know, we went for a jeep ride up the Ramsey Road stopping at the beaver pond just in time to see a flock of mergansers settle in. And we walked the length of Indian Island last July, picking Indian paintbrush and wading in the back cove. And just this spring we rode our bikes to Willow Creek where the fish were running. So many you could catch them with your hands. Another season goes by. I guess Grant Wood, ''Moon for the Misbegotten,'' and Baryshnikov will have to wait again. You see, it isn't easy having a husband who never takes you anywhere. I have to settle for bald eagles circling the white pines across the ''second bay,'' bumblebees buzzing the lilacs on the bank, and riding with George as he steers our canoe through a slice of silver moon on Whitefish Lake.