Today my older son, James, is 27 years old. He began life as a fractious, unconsolable screamer, grew into a superstar chatterbox, lover of backhoes, Mr Fix-It Junior with a room-filling smile, bossy big brother, tease and prankster, social smooth-talker, lover of house pets, the boy who attached a camera to a remote control truck and followed the dog around the house, indifferent to high school, a college whiz, devoted friend, moved to a new city on the strength of a six-week internship, said confidently "I'll make myself indispensable" and did, and now six years later has risen to have his name in the credits of a major TV show, loving son, supportive brother, engaged citizen, scraped-up mountain biker, at the mercy of a spoiled cat . . .

It is a privilege and a delight, to be his mother.

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Rain seems to have broken up the cloud of smoke that was hanging over the city. The air is much fresher this morning, and my throat is no longer full of scratch and cough. Not much else new to report--just another day of editorial tromping. I'm feeling a bit jaded about my work prospects. It looks like I won't be teaching in Monson this fall, given the complexities that schools are facing with masks, travel, and unvaccinated kids. Maybe the program will be able to relaunch in the winter; maybe not. So I'm entering the school year pretty much in the way I entered it last year--without a teaching job--and this doesn't make me feel great.