Paul and I moved a chunk of the firewood pile after lunch, and then Tom and I stacked most of the rest of it before dark, so this morning I have only a couple of barrow loads left to haul out of the driveway before the rains move in.
Snow is forecast on Friday, and we haven't even had a frost yet. But in Maine this is always a dicey time of year. Twenty-three years ago I went into labor on the night of the first sleet storm, and at 4 a.m. on October 28, 1997, my dear second son was born. Today that infant is a bearded six-footer, an ambitious theater artist who trudges back and forth to his shitty line-cook job without much complaint; struggling every day to make the best of a bad situation; creator of comic cat songs, famous eater of mayonnaise sandwiches; a loving son, paddling his canoe along the lonely rivers.
And so today, after I stack the rest of the firewood and crank out a few more paragraphs of my essay, I'll be making a birthday cake.