Temperatures have dropped into the mid-20s this morning--our coldest day of the season, so far--but a fire crackles in the stove, and the house is snug.

Today is our younger son Paul's 29th birthday . . . so hard to believe we've known and loved him for almost three decades, so hard to imagine our world without him. I went into labor with Paul during an ice storm, and his birthday always seems to mark a turn in the weather. "Deer season starts this weekend," my friends up north remind me. Time to dig out the orange hats. Time to change the clocks. Time to watch the snow fly.

Yesterday I baked a couple of loaves of rye bread and a pumpkin-buttermilk pudding. I cleaned bathrooms and caught up with grocery shopping. I went to the Y, and went for a walk, and talked with my performer friends, but mostly I spent the day alone, which was good. This evening the flurry starts up again--tech rehearsal until 10 p.m., then run-throughs tomorrow afternoon and our performance tomorrow night. So I'll spend the day finishing up the weekly housework, prepping for next week's Monson class, walking, maybe raking leaves, trying to snag a bit of rest before the attack of tech.