Willow, the Love Ghost. That’s what Woody calls our rescue superkitten. Willow has the habit of insinuating herself into Woody’s or my lap while we’re reading, using the computer or cell, drinking coffee, watching TV. She is so light and careful that suddenly you hear a loud purr, look down and she is there pressed against you. We almost never see or feel her coming, but there she is. She’s an extremely affectionate and happy cat. She also never seems bored. She can always find something to play with. I had a small box of fake fur mice. Somehow she found it, got it open and now they are all over the house in the most unexpected places. She loves to play with Xena and Mingus, but she is fully capable of finding her own toys. She also creeps up on our elderly cat, Sugar Ray, to get on my lap with him or just cuddle up to him in bed. He accepts her and has even given her a lick or do to indicate their bond. She must have angora rabbit or goat somewhere in her ancestry because I have never touched a cat with fur so incredibly soft. Even the vet and her assistant were impressed with Willow and fussed over her. Woody was chatting this week when something he said as a joke lit a match in my imagination. I said nothing, but the next day I intended to jot down the idea I’d had. Instead I suddenly started writing a new short story and over two days I wrote a draft. When I get back from Maine, I’m going to revise it, then see if my agent wants to try to sell it. It’s called The Service. I really like short stories these days. Since my first and only collection came out last year, I’ve written three new ones, two of which are in the paperback that is just out with an introduction I wrote. The third is in an anthology of Jewish Noir, edited by Kenneth Wishnia – also just out. So also is my book of essays, a long interview and a few poems, MY LIFE, MY BODY. All these come from PM Press. We are finally eating quasi-normally again. I missed vegetables – and we grow so many of them it’s really a pity when we can’t have them.I’m made up for lost time last night, serving the last of our yellow squash and putting in a couple of leeks. Woody was hilling them up again. I picked if not a peck of peppers then at least a small basket full and prepared most of them for freezing. We're out to dinner tonight with friends. Woody is working on the main garden, pulling weeds he was too sick to pull all of August and taking out elderly or dead tomato plants and packing away the cages.  He’ll probably continue that tomorrow. I’ll start potting herbs and some ornamentals to get used to their pots on the porch. Then they’ll come inside for the winter, when about half of them usually die fairly quickly, but some survive year to year to year. I want to bring in rosemarys, particularly, as I cook with them a lot and I find dried rosemary more like dead pine needles than an herb. I’ll bring in my begonias and scented geraniums. I’ll try to bring in other herbs, sometimes successfully but often with no luck.  It felt good to write a new short story. I’ve been writing lots of poems, but I longed to write a new story. I like this one and will get back to it soon to revise and tighten. It was fun to write. I’m one of those writers who actually enjoys writing --at least when I’m writing poetry or fiction. Writing essays sometimes feels like schoolwork. Writing speeches is hard work. But no mater how much effort goes into writing poetry particularly, no matter how I sweat over a poem or how long it take me to write it, it’s always a pleasure. I can’t imagine not being able to make poems.