No sleep-in this morning. For some reason I've been awake since 4, up since 5. A shame to waste an early Sunday morning being conscious, but oh well. There are nice things about being up too. I am presently sitting comfortably in my mopped and tidied living room, admiring the dustless seashells on the mantle, the shelved books, the spiderweb-free ceiling corners, the neat stack of games, the boxes of firewood, the basket of kindling, hearth swept, stove blacked . . . And nearby, the kitchen, still smelling of soap; the dining room, with its polished table; the back room, prepped for its future as a guest room--clean towels on the door hooks, sheets and pillows at the ready.

That's what I spent all day doing yesterday, with a few breaks for bread baking, errand running, and a walk with my neighbor. Today I'll work on the upstairs rooms, transforming my study into a second guest room, setting up a pied-a-terre desk for myself in our bedroom: mopping and dusting, tucking away books and paperwork, making up the portable bed. . . . The Alcott House will be bursting at the seams, but everyone will have a room with a door.

In case you can't tell, I am thoroughly enjoying myself. There's no better reason to houseclean. The house is what it is: small, shabby, unfinished; now also scrubbed, cozy, and smiling.

Tomorrow morning I'll do the big grocery shopping, and then I'll concentrate on prepping the kitchen as the week's center of operations: I'll lay out bowls of staples--onions, tomatoes, potatoes; refill flour and sugar canisters; wash rarely used serving dishes. I do love our kitchen. Tom designed it beautifully as a work station--modest but efficient--and it's exciting to be able to put it to hard use. The last Thanksgiving dinner I made was during the pandemic, when he, Paul, and I were hunkered down pretending to have a party. This will be the real thing.

Throughout my married life, I have rarely been in charge of a holiday meal. Mostly we've alternated going to our parents' houses or, these days, to my sister's house since my mother no longer cooks much. I guess that's why I get so giddy about running the show myself. I love to cook, and I love my boys, and I love to be at home, and it is so sweet to wallow in all of that this year.

So pardon the tediousness of this letter. Chalk it up to domestic distraction and high spirits.