Today: more editing and editing and editing, plus some Frost Place business, and maybe a car-to-the-car-shop if the weird noise comes back. This is the last week before our holiday storm begins, and Tom is fixing so many things. The upstairs bathroom now has a door, a doorknob, a working sink, a piece of plywood over the hole in its floor, and painted trim around the doorway. Soon my study will also have a door and window blinds so that it can morph into an overflow guest bedroom (though only for sturdy young people who like to sleep on the floor). We now have an outside light so that guests and homeowners won't fall off the steps into the dark. Likewise, we have a banister, so no one will tumble down the stairs and have to go to the emergency room on Christmas Day. Tom has repaired the kitchen faucet surround so that the faucet is no longer sinking into the plywood "countertop" like a listing Titanic. [Aren't you glad the previous sentence doesn't include "so that"? You must have been getting tired of that phrase.] He has dug out items belonging to the boys at younger stages of their life and is plotting where to display them to best comic effect. Compared to him, I have done nothing (unless you count shopping for eleven people, baking black cake and assorted batches of cookies, and hand-sewing half a dozen teeny-tiny pillows while watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show).

I wish I had a poem to sum all this up. But alas, I was too busy unpicking a seam to write one.