A swoony happy evening with my young people--oysters out, and then tuna steaks at home, and so much chatter and ease and affection. . . how glad I am for every minute with them.

They will drive away toward their vacation in an hour or two, and my day will wander back into its usual lines, but thank goodness for even brief embraces. The young people are such treasures.

It's chilly in Portland this morning--the first time in months I've worn my fleecy bathrobe. Autumn is creeping forward, though summer still allows us to eat oysters outside in the gloaming, though the garden pours forth its glories.

I had a bizarre dream about having to copyedit Ted Nugent's memoir while he was standing next to me. I suppose the dream signifies political anxiety, but also the scenario was just plain funny, especially when I remember how mad he got when I pointed out the typo in his name on the cover: Tet Nugent. And how even madder he got when I told him I was quitting. So maybe it wasn't anxiety I was dreaming. Maybe it was my own power.