It's 47 degrees this morning--very cold for late June, even in Maine. I did end up lighting a fire in the stove last night, and we were grateful for the comfort. T and his cat spent much of the evening dozing under the couch blanket, and I stood in front of the blaze and scorched the backs of my legs, as I am fond of doing all winter long.

Now that I think of it, this is classic Frost Place conference weather: a miasma of damp chill in the barn, punctuated by screaming heat and thunderstorms over the Notch. Packing for a June week in the White Mountains is a giant challenge. All clothes are wrong.

But none of that is my problem this year, as I'll be nailed to my chair for five days in the "comfort" of my study.

Today I'll be working on conference prep, and cleaning floors, and grocery-shopping, and possibly editing, if the author returns files. I slept pretty badly last night, so probably I'll be crashing at some point. It was one of those nights when all of my dreams floated on the surface between waking and sleeping and I never sank into true rest. But on the bright side, when I called my dad for Father's Day, he sounded very chipper. He's had, among other things, terrible trouble speaking because the tube for the ventilator damaged his throat and his vocal chords. Yesterday his voice was notably stronger and more resonant, and he sounded far more energetic. I think he really is on the mend.