We had a four-hour band rehearsal yesterday, which meant I didn't get home till nearly seven, much later than expected. But fortunately Tom stepped into the breach, whipping up something delicious with shrimp and whatever vegetables he could find in the bin. It was very pleasant to walk through the door and discover that I had no responsibilities.

This morning I'll need to spend some time with Hopkins's sonnets, and then edit, of course, and undergo my exercise regimen, and deal with laundry, and so on and so forth--all the usual weekday obligations. But it's Valentine's Day, which is always a cheerful holiday in Portland. For years an anonymous Valentine bandit has hung heart banners all over the city the night before, even out on the harbor forts, so that on Valentine's morning the whole city wakes up to fluttering red and white. And though the bandit died last year (his identity was finally revealed in his obituary), his family plans to continue his silly but oddly comforting tradition.

These small crazy obsessions . . . I mean, what kind of person dedicates his life to being an anonymous Valentine's Day bandit? And yet the rest of us gain so much from the gift of plain good will, from an exuberant burst of affection, without expectations or proselytizing. We wake in the morning and the banners are snapping in the sea wind. Happy being-alive day to us all.