Yesterday turned out to be a classic oh-for-fuck-sake day. First, our refrigerator stopped working; the repair guys can't come out till next week; I scrambled to borrow coolers and cold packs, and T and I tried to figure things out on our own, which maybe we did or maybe we didn't. In any case, we defrosted it over night and will turn it on again this morning and find out something.

Then what I thought would be a routine get-my-car-inspected day exploded like a bomb: my car won't pass inspection because there's a problem with the rack-and-pinion steering, which is too complex a job for my regular mechanic, which will cost the earth, and which means that the car is presently unsafe to drive.

I'm supposed to be heading north to Monson on Monday and Tuesday, so I guess I'll be renting a car?

I spent all day feeling unhappy, full of dread about dropping this weight on Tom, wondering how I can be almost 61 years old and still limping through vehicles like a teenager.

But when he came home, and I told him the bad news, he was calm, he was helpful, he was soothing, he was all of the things that I love him for. And then he gave me a birthday present: a new lamp for the living room, which we've sorely needed.

The two of us have been through so many shitty household emergencies in our years together. Sometimes I think that's our closest bond. We look at each other and say, What next?

That was a fantastic Yankees-Red Sox game last night: hard won, well played, with a happy Sox ending. I've never expected this team to go far in the playoffs, but yesterday's game had old-fashioned style, and I had so much fun listening to it play out on the radio.

And then I had a long elaborate dream about a tree-lined campus, famous poets in book-filled rooms, everyone writing or engaged in eager conversation, lots of children here and there doing interesting projects, including a boy I seemed to be in charge of, and, strangely, everyone knew who I was, which made me extremely nervous through the entire dream. Was this supposed to be heaven? Or was it purgatory?

Well, whatever the case, I've returned to my everyday land. Chuck is tucked up against my leg, and the coffee is hot, and T is upstairs thunking dresser drawers and sighing. It is Wednesday, the first day of October. The air is cool and quiet in the little northern city by the sea.

This morning I need to take my car to the garage for an inspection. I'll put in some time on the essay about Baron, then turn back to editing. I'll reread my plans for the long-poem class, which are now about half done. I'll start cooking down tomato sauce for catsup.

I'd like to think I'll work on a poem draft. Or mull over my next collection. Or do something for the sake of my own thoughts. But that may be too much to hope for.

It's the end of September, and the days are a last hurrah of summer. The drought goes on and on. The trees and gardens are exhausted. But warmth lingers on my skin, when I sit out on the stoop after dark.

Now, before dawn, a freight train squeals through the crossing at the bottom of the street. The kitten rattles around in a corner with a pretend mouse. A car door thunks; a motor grinds; a clock ticks.

Yesterday, for the first time in more than week, I managed to put in a full day at my desk. I finished editing a chapter and started the next one. I started blocking out my long-poem syllabus. I began roughing out my essay about Baron. It was a relief to feel my brain at work again.

Today will be more of the same, along with exercise and grocery shopping and garden watering and sauce making. I'm tempted to let the garden dry up at this point, but I would lose any chance of late autumn greens. Tomatoes are ripening in the house, but beans and cucumbers are still producing more than we can eat, though the plants are yellowed and weary. The harvest season has been strange.

For a week I haven't thought about writing poems, but maybe that desire will come back to me too, along with my desk stamina. It's amazing how much strength is required to fight even a minor infection. I look in the mirror and see how tired I am. And yet I've accomplished so little.

But clearly I'm on the mend, if not fully healthy. My mind has returned to me, in any case. Whitman's lines murmur in my ears. Woolf's sentences unroll behind my eyes. The words are alive . . . small birds fluttering, wings beating . . . each syllable a tiny heart, pounding.

Dare I say I feel better this morning?

Yesterday I came to the conclusion that I've probably been fighting a sinus infection, not just a regular cold. If that's the case, I'm actually doing pretty well--no antibiotics, my own body managing the argument, and now this morning maybe a little less congestion and sinus pressure, at least so far. There seems to be no point in going to the doctor. If this sinusitis is viral (which, given its link to the head cold, I assume it is), the doctors aren't likely to give me antibiotics anyway. So why pay money for someone to tell me to drink a lot of fluids and get plenty of rest?

Sunday was pretty quiet. I finished reading Baron's ms, made some progress on The Waves, even did a bit of editing. I baked an apple cake and prepped various foods for our cookout. I picked beans and cucumbers. I watched the Bills game and checked in on the Sox. In the soft evening air we sat around the fire with our neighbor and ate and chatted as Little Chuck wailed in the house.

But now I have to gird myself for work. I'm behind on my editing, behind on my writing and class planning. Being sick has slowed me down a lot. Fortunately I'm not traveling this week, so maybe I can catch up.

T went out to see a show last night, while I got into bed at 7:30 and stayed there until nearly 6 a.m. Will my purposeful bedrest take a bite out of this stupid eternal head cold? We can only hope.

This morning I feel kind of better, maybe. Anyway I don't feel worse. Yesterday I simmered tomato sauce and froze green beans and prepped dried dill, mint, and Thai basil for jars. T and I went for a walk. I made good progress on The Waves, definitely a sign that my brain is resuming normal reading function. But I was still congested and slow, and so far I don't think that's changed much.

Well, I will plod forward. We've invited our neighbor over for our final cookout of the season this evening: marinated flank steak and halloumi on the wood fire, and I'll make black pepper rice, an apple cake, and some sort of vegetable side dish or salad (green beans, cucumbers, chard, lettuce, tomatoes: my choices overflow). I might watch the Bills game. I might listen to the Sox game. I hope to keep making progress on my considerable reading obligations. If I'm going to have a head cold for the rest of my life, I'd better get used to working around it.

Good morning . . . a bit late as I was wakeful in the night and then fell asleep hard at dawn. That's one of the many nice things about Saturday morning: awkward sleeping hours are just fine.

While I was in bed, the Red Sox clinched their postseason berth. They'd been losing to the Tigers when I turned off the radio, so a win was a pleasant surprise. This team gives me heartburn. They're not at all reliable, and I can't imagine they'll go far in the postseason, but every once in a while they behave like contenders. And now Chuck and I can enjoy a few more evenings of radio together.

I don't have much planned for the weekend, other than various garden-related activities. I'd been planning to freeze kale--until that damn groundhog stripped the leaves--but I still have green beans to deal with, chard to pick, bunches of dried herbs to put into jars, tomatoes to sort. I'll probably forage for mushrooms, and I've got a lot of reading to do. And Chuck is hoping for plenty of family fun. Presently he is pressed up against my leg, occasionally reaching over to pat my typing hands with his paw, not to interfere so much as to remind me how much he loves me. He is the sweetest little guy, all black velvet suit and round baby stare. How can I not forgive all of his crash-bash clattering and litterbox mistakes?

Though the head cold still lingers, my energy is finally beginning to pick up. This past week has been a challenge, stamina- and concentration-wise. I did what I needed to do, but the circumstances weren't ideal. It is good to start off the weekend with a late rise, to sit here with young Charles nestled against me, to slowly drink coffee, to do nothing other than wake up quietly with these few words.

We got more than an inch of rain yesterday, and thank goodness. I'm anxious to venture out for a walk first thing so I can see how the fall mushrooms are liking this new weather. Maybe, just maybe, I'll come home with another haul of hens.

I'd like to say I'm feeling better, but I'm still breaking into coughing fits, still snorfling and choking like a Lewis Carroll beast. Ugh, head colds. Anyway, at least I'm sleeping well, which is a giant help. And Little Chuck is an enthusiastic nurse.

Today is recycling day and sheet-washing day. I've got stacks of editing, I want to start plotting my essay on Baron's work, I need to buckle down and read The Waves, but I continue to feel semi-crappy so probably at some point the red lights will start flashing and I'll crash.

For the moment, though, I am perched cozily in my old familiar couch corner. Chuck is draped against my shoulder, stuffed with breakfast and purring sweetly into my left ear. Tom is upstairs, yawning, creaking across floorboards, opening and closing drawers. I might be a cold-ridden hag, but these guys I live with are still pretty friendly. It's nice of them.