Outside the temperature is 34 degrees and inside the furnace is running for the first time this season. Maybe we didn't quite get a frost, but it was close.

Yesterday afternoon I picked all of the Serranos, the only one of my pepper plants that came to anything in the drought--though it was supposed to be a hot pepper and the fruits are not, so what's the explanation for that? I picked a few tiny eggplants and the last of the cherry tomatoes and a bouquet of basil. But I let the beans and cucumbers ride: they have more than done their duty for every other vegetable this summer.

The day was busy. I cleaned house, finished most of an editing chapter, and walked down the street to pick up our first CSA delivery, a beautiful bundle of carrots, potatoes, peppers, spinach, and scallions, with a fat spaghetti squash on the side. When Tom got home, we drove to Yarmouth to fetch my car from the mechanic. I made a batch of biscuits and took them with me when I went out to write.

And now it's Friday. In a few minutes I'll deal with recycling and trash and compost. I'll get sheets started in the washing machine. I'll do my exercises and answer emails and get back to my editing. I'll go to the grocery store and have a zoom meeting.

Behind all of this busyness, the memory of Baron shifts in my mind like small ripples in a cove. He was a gardener, with a special love for flowers. He cared about the work of the hands: digging soil, splitting wood. Our chores were a bond, as much as our passion for words.

I am doing my chores.