Yesterday's book launch was packed! I was so happy for the young writers, and glad I went, too, as I think it meant a lot to the poet I mentored. Then I bustled home through the construction-filled streets, said a quick hello to Tom and Ruckus (working on the shed trim and not working on the shed trim, respectively), and in a few minutes Betsy and Marita picked me up and we went back into town for our writing salon. It was a good evening, sociable and busy, and other people's drafts were really, really strong, though mine devolved into doggerel. Ah, well; that happens. It was good enough to be writing and listening.

Today, desk work of course, though I am finally able to glimpse an end to this siege. I've got Frost Place stuff to do, and I'm hoping to mow grass in the afternoon, and the beans and the tomatoes are growing crazily. On Saturday I'll be zooming, but on Sunday I might can dilly beans, something I haven't done since I left Harmony. After so many years of service, my poor canning jars sit dusty and empty. It will be fun to start filling them up again.

Really, it's amazing, in this drought summer, how much production I've gotten from the garden. The plants are smaller and frailer than usual, but the fruits are heavy. Probably I'll make tomato sauce this afternoon, and maybe a batch of fresh cucumber pickles. I might work on a poem; I need to spend time with the Four Quartets; I want to ride my bike to the library and fetch the Penelope Fitzgerald novel I ordered.

Apparently, all I do is garden and and cook and toss words into the air. Who knew that could be a life?