My day in Bangor went well: a full class, very engaged; and then an evening with a dear Harmony friend. But this head cold has been less charming. I thought I was getting better, and now this morning I feel as if I spent last night under a street sweeper. It's amazing how bad a cold can make a person feel, and yet it's such a minor illness.

Ah well. I'm glad to be home moping on my own couch.

Tom spent yesterday building garden boxes for me, which of course are far more beautiful than most garden boxes because that's the kind of person he is. Now we can't decide where to put them. Originally we'd planned on the front yard, but then we accidentally discovered that they improve one of the cesspit areas of the property considerably. There's a strip of ex-driveway--broken asphalt, lingering gravel--that we haven't known how to handle. But if you cover it up with garden boxes. . . .

Today I'd hoped to hang laundry on the new lines, and to rake out the rest of the gardens, and to take a trip to the store for soil. But my head is going to have to be a new head if I'm going to accomplish such things. Perhaps, with another cup of coffee, it will be.