On Sunday Tom will head to Vermont to fetch the boy home. Today I'm moving out of my study and creating a small work station for myself in our bedroom. That way P can have a pleasant room with a mattress, desk, and chair--a facsimile of a dorm room for continuing his education online: a space to call his own. Now that we're all going to be living together indefinitely, we've got to find a way to reconfigure this tiny house-for-two into a rational balance of social and private space for three adults.

This week I lost close to $1,000 in gig money, thanks to cancelations. And last night the director at Monson Arts called to tell me that my beloved high school writing class is also on the ropes. We're starting to brainstorm ideas for distance learning. But I think that will work only if the kids are still in school. If [when] they get sent home, the vagaries of rural Internet connection will be a big problem, and so will rounding them up into any kind of virtual gathering.

Here in Portland, the first cases of COVID are starting to emerge. City hall has closed; the art museum has closed; the library system is about to close. But let me share some happiness.

A long spring rain, followed by sun.

Plenty of garden seeds.

On a local sports talk radio station: no sports to talk about, so callers are asking for book recommendations.

Ruckus and his best friend Jack are not practicing social distance. Instead, they are rolling around in a ball on the driveway and chasing each other up trees.

We're planning a camping trip.

We have running water, heat, electricity, a sewer system, internet connection, firewood, and trash service. This is the cushiest emergency I've ever experienced. And if the toilet paper runs out, well, I know a thing or two about rags and buckets.

A full at-home library of fascinating and challenging books.

Living with two of my very favorite people in the world.