A gig on Thursday, rushing back to Portland on Friday, then coffee with a friend, and then a night out watching music with my boys: Tom bought us tickets to see the Brazilian samba singer Seu Jorge, who was completely wonderful. And afterward I came home and fell asleep like I was pole-axed.

Thus, this morning I am bleary and slow, barely able to prevent the cat from bringing a mostly dead bird into the house, though I did manage to slam the door in time. I've got all kinds of housework to do today. The air is heavy with wet, and torrential downpours are imminent. I need to write, but I'm not likely to find space to myself today. Oh, well. Other good things will happen.

Today is the first anniversary of Alcott House: last year, on this date, we closed on the house, drove straight to our new property, unlocked the door, stood around for a few moments staring at the magnitude of our undertaking, and then Tom demolished the kitchen and I demolished the front weed bed.

And now here we are, living comfortably in this mostly habitable place, harvesting from our front yard farm, cooking in our sweet unfinished kitchen. Considering what we had to work with--broken sewer pipe, collapsing walls and ceilings, and no usable kitchen--I can hardly believe we pulled it off.

Today is also my parents' 56th wedding anniversary. Needless to say, this is a sweet one for all of us.