I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of crashing rain. Now, at first light, the neighborhood is shrouded in fog as thick as the spider webs in a barn. It's beautiful and ghostly and very, very wet.

Last night's downpour was the most rain we've had since June. My garden looks kind of slapped around, but I'm sure its roots are pleased. And I managed to go back to sleep, even after slogging up and down stairs closing windows at whatever a.m. the torrents began, and I woke up again at a reasonable Sunday-morning hour without a headache, so my roots are pleased also.

I don't know what we'll be doing today. I ought to wash some floors. I want to keep reading this Gothic Iris Murdoch novel I've acquired. I should probably try to figure out a couple of things about my new MSWord update before I try to use it for work tomorrow. I'm semi-immersed in sorting out various rising-college-senior family-event scheduling-hoohah this-n-thats, though I've passed along the "pick the Air B&B" project to Tom, who likes to look at pictures of other people's houses.

Today is my parents' 57th wedding anniversary. It's also the third anniversary of our purchase of the Alcott House. Three years ago today, Tom started ripping out a kitchen, and I started ripping out a weed garden. Things are much quieter around here today.