Tom and his parents spent yesterday at Winslow Homer's studio. The boys and a childhood friend climbed a mountain in western Maine. I walked and ate barbecue with old friends who were passing through town. Then we all reconvened for tapas and chatter on Munjoy Hill. The day was easygoing and sociable, the sort of summer day I used to read about in books.

Today will be brunch around the corner and a minor league baseball game in the sunshine, and then something or other for dinner . . . maybe a big pot of macaroni, maybe take-out pizza; who knows? In the meantime, here I sit on the couch, listening to the toilet leak, because nothing's perfect.