Both Woody and I took this week off from work.
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We had a snow storm that left us about five inches.
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I try to wrap three presents every day.
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This is the last Super Moon of 2025 but we will not be able to see it.
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We had a lovely Thanksgiving with friends.
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I had finished writing the blog yesterday when I got a message that my old friend Charles Coe had died.
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Both Woody and I but especially me are engaged in ongoing de-cluttering.
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High winds have whipped the leaves from all the trees, except the oaks and weeping beech.
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Decades ago, my second husband, who fancied himself a race car driver, was going fast in the rain on a windy road.
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I had an hour and 45 minutes appointment with my dentist that left me shaking.
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Every year on the third weekend of October, our village of about 2000-plus year-rounders is host to 20,000 revelers.
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The copy-edited manuscript of THE HOUR OF MY DEATH arrived Saturday and I’ve been working on it full time all week.
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It has been the most wonderful, plentiful year of tomato growing ever for us.
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On Wednesday, we drove five hours to the Noon Family Farm outside of Springvale, Maine.
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I finally got into my garden to weed and pick.
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A couple of people wondered if something was wrong with me, since I didn’t write a bog last week.
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Shaman went to the vet Thursday for his annual checkup.
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Processing the harvest is consuming much of our time.
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We are being happily inundated by tomatoes and beans.
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I have noticed lately in ads trying to sell body deodorants that corporations are trying to convince women our vaginas stink…
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