I teach all day in Monson, and then am wending my way down through the towns and woods and fields toward the highway when I notice that my tire-pressure light is on. Ugh. But the closest gas station is . . . Harmony. So I drive a few more miles south and pull into the potholed lot and nervously walk through the door. What if they don't remember me? What if I have to remind them who I am? But Diane's face lights up when she sees me, and suddenly I feel close to tears. Her brother Tracy waves from the midst of his conversation. Leroy puts air in my tires, hums over the frost heaves and the road washouts, and sends me on my way. A tiny interaction, but it breaks the ice, my ice. I can come back to the gas station on another day. I will be okay.

* * *

Last night I fell asleep on the couch at 8, groggily dragged myself to bed by 9, and slept hard all night. I don't know why I was so pole-axed. But today will be a lovely one, and I am glad to be entering it so well rested. After yesterday's rain, there will be sun and towels on the line and crocuses in bloom. And my little dinner party. I've got a lemon shortcrust in the freezer, waiting for baking. I'll make the tart filling today (more lemon), put together some minestrone, make some garlic bread . . . nothing too complicated, with leftovers I can manage as a bachelor. I have to go grocery shopping; I want to do a bit of pre-party housework; I want to bask outside in the modest sunlight. But I have all day ahead of me; I can linger here with my coffee and books for as long as I like. I can watch the day open over the roofs and steeple. On these dark-blue mornings our little neighborhood looks like a postcard village: church and trees and sky and houses. It's hard to believe I live in such a nook. Harmony was many things, but cute it was not.