This morning it's eleven below at the Alcott House, and we have a new sink (without water) and a new range hood (without a stove), which means that yesterday Tom had to torture himself by going outside into the cold and cutting a hole in the kitchen wall while I was torturing myself among the sale-starved crowds at L. L. Bean. But we both survived, and now the range hood is in, and now the boy has a warm coat and warm boots.

Today, we'll get a stove and a washing machine, maybe even cupboard shelves. For the moment, however, the cat and I are sitting quietly in the living room watching the wood fire leap. I am going to copy out a couple of Levine poems this morning and do some housework and take a trip to the bank. I need to practice a few songs for my show tomorrow because, yes, I will be playing a New Year's Eve gig in frigid Dover-Foxcroft, where it will get down to twenty below or so. Wish me luck and thawed fingers.