The garden has moved into its final phase, before snow shuts it down for good. Yesterday I dug up the dahlia roots, bagged and labeled them, and stored them in the basement. I tore out the last of the annual flowers and carted them back to the compost pile. I still have some color: the lavender and salvia keep blooming; a few late coneflowers are standing tall. Mostly what's left is hardy greens: curly kale, red-stemmed chard, leathery collards, bright arugula, dark spinach. I knew I'd be glad to see them in November.

But stakes are pulled; hoses are in the shed. If it snows, I'm ready.

Tom finished the walkway yesterday, and I began raking leaves into the base layer of the fern-patch-to-be. It's a miracle to have this improvement done before winter. There was so much mud before, such a mess, and now we'll have a sturdy dry path and a water garden to manage the snowmelt. The before and after difference is exponential.

Last night my in-laws called to talk about Thanksgiving, which obviously we cannot spend with them. So they've decided that the extended family should have a Zoom meal together, and they're buying a dinner for James, alone out in Chicago, and are trying to figure out how we all can play cards together. Their optimism and good cheer felt really sweet and uplifting. I thought I might cry when they told me they were buying dinner for J: he is such a concern to me, so exposed to Covid as he is, on that huge film crew, and so far away.

That's the reason I keep writing boring stuff about my garden: because the worry spikes are unbearable.

Two more days till the election. Tom asked me: "If it comes to it, are you ready to riot on Wednesday?" I said yes.