When I left Wellington yesterday, the time was 7:30 a.m. and the temperature had plummeted to one degree above zero, with a vicious wind. Winter was the winter I remember, the real central Maine aggravation: S lugging red-hot ashes out of the stove because he can't let the fire go out, ever. The washing-machine drain frozen so the hose has to drain into the bathtub. The kitchen water running all day and all night so the pipes from the spring don't ice up. And that storm. Lord.

The roads were still bad, but passable, until I got to Skowhegan. Then they cleared out, and by the time I hit the highway I was driving at normal speed. So I made it home a little after ten, then immediately rushed out again to get my car to the shop for an oil change and gradually brought myself to the stage of being able to do a little work at my desk. But I was jangled. That trip was an ordeal.

An evening at home with T was a panacea, as was a night's sleep in my own bed, and this morning I'm prepared to be normal again. I've got to focus on prepping for an upcoming zoom class, and then fit in some editing around the edges and start reading my Lyrical Ballads homework, and then there are those damn seed orders to deal with, and it's trash day, and I should get on my mat, and I'm way behind on laundry . . .

At least it's Friday. At least I don't have to drive hundreds of miles anywhere this weekend. On Saturday I'll have a zoom confab with Teresa and Jeannie. On Sunday we've been invited out to dinner. But none of that will take me out of my own footpath. What a relief.