It was a balmy seven below at 3:45 a.m. when I got up to take my son to the airport this morning. Today is going to be a tough one stamina-wise. This afternoon I'll be traveling two hours north for a New Year's Eve band gig, playing from 9 till midnight, and then driving 40 minutes to Wellington in the exhausted dark. I'm just hoping I can hold myself together, and find a way to take a nap somewhere in the interstices.

For now, though, I am awake and slowly working through stacks of laundry. Yes, that's the sound of a functioning washing machine and dryer you hear. And maybe you also hear the refrigerator humming and the kitchen range clicking on. If only we had running water in the kitchen, this place would be a palace.

I guarantee that tomorrow morning I will not have the wherewithal to write to you, so I'm wishing you Happy New Year now. May your evenings at home be sweet and joyous, may you read many books and listen to many songs, may you linger outside in the crisp air, may the Red Sox avoid trading Jackie Bradley, Jr., and may Trump and his posse get dragged off in paddywagons.