Number 2 Son will be coming home today, after an overnight bus odyssey from Buffalo--no doubt smelling of campfires and with leaves in his hair. I'll be so glad to see him. I'd best make up bed his first thing this morning, as I expect he'll be collapsing directly into it, leaves and all.

Outside the air is very still, and cooler than it has been. At the end of the street an Amtrak train is chunking by. Along the sidewalk the sunflowers smile. They are seven feet tall and covered with bright faces--a hedge that laughs.

Tom says my entire garden is comic, though he assures me this is a compliment.

Last night we ate pork chops marinated in lemon and garlic; Yorkshire pudding; corn salad with cucumbers and cherry tomatoes and poblanos and cilantro. On top of the salad I sprinkled a handful of crisp-fried okra. We meant to watch The Bride of Frankenstein afterwards, but I got too sleepy.

For the past couple of days I've been reading Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, which turns out to be have been set in southern Maine. It was published in 1903 and I have a 1904 edition in pristine condition, though I can't remember where I acquired it. I read a library copy as a kid. It's sappy and sentimental and not nearly as good as The Secret Garden or Anne of Green Gables, but I'm still enjoying it. I have great fortitude when it comes to sappy and sentimental.