A steady, soaking rain has fallen all night long, and now, at first light, the house still echoes with the sound of slow water, clinking and tapping at panes and shingles. Our two days of rain, after last week's onslaught of heat, is such a relief . . . though I'm not delighted to see that one of my staked tomatoes has tipped over under the water-weight. Looks like, in an hour or so, I'll be out there in the downpour wrestling with a sodden monster plant. Oh, well. Small price to pay for the end of a drought.

I was so incredibly lazy yesterday. I actually took three naps, without even being sick. I think I was simply very, very comfortable and relaxed; for whatever reason my Duty button had turned itself for the day. Today I'll probably convince myself to do some housework, but lolling certainly was pleasant, and I just might do a little more of that too.

We had the pleasure of finally receiving an actual phone call from the adventure boys, a lovely chatter-fest. They sound so delighted, full of comic stories and tales of wonder. What a magnificent road trip they're having.

And so we have arrived at the Fourth of July. The little northern city by the sea is swaddled in rain and mist. A glimpse of gray daylight. Hot French roast in a French press. Huge dark maple limbs sagging with wet. White cat hunched on a yellow chair. Bubbles of drops coursing from the roof edge. Refrigerator sighs. Clock ticks.