I'm feeling well rested this morning, after a quiet night. I got home after five, started the laundry, made a simple dinner--fingerlings roasted with andouille sausage, peppers, and onions; buttery spinach; a beet and lettuce salad. We played cards, listened to a bit of the baseball game, fell asleep early. It was exactly the evening I needed before today's push.

Later this morning our caravan will drive up (over? out? down? coastal directions are strange) to Blue Hill. I'm reading at Blue Hill Books at 2:30, and then we're off the clock till tomorrow's rehearsal. We'll figure out where our cabins are, figure out where to eat dinner, maybe go for a walk . . . who knows?

First, though, I need to figure out what I'll be reading, what to wear, what food to pack, what Chuckie will need while we're gone . . . Yesterday he managed to sneak into the coat closet and got himself shut in there for the entire day. Tom found him eight hours later looking sleepy but unfazed. No mess, no suffering, but still we'd rather not have that happen again. It's a problem with black cats: they're so easily invisible.