On the next two Saturdays I've got band gigs up north, so this is my last free weekend for a while. Today is forecast to be mild and beautiful, and Tom and I are considering the possibility of driving down to Old Orchard Beach and looking at big waves, if time and chores so allow. Tomorrow we're supposed to get more snow, of course. Winter has no intention of letting us off the hook, though these constant thaws are disorienting and seductive.

I've been reading Strasser's history of housework, prepping for my essay class, and yesterday I spent a couple of hours volunteering as a writing mentor in a community project for people who are or have experienced homelessness. Given the vicissitudes of this particular population, no one can be sure who will show up every week, but this time two young men came to tell their stories and talk about what they'd read, their hopes for the future, the chaos of their past and present, their comic anecdotes about being in bands and listening to their moms. My thoughts, which, in light of my sons, are naturally tender to young men, flickered back and forth among distress, anger, laughter, shock, curiosity, impatience--all the feelings one might have around kids who have so much to give themselves and the world but who also have so much of a propensity to shoot themselves in the head.

I have no idea if these young men will show up again next week, but I will. I need to learn how to be a better teacher.