I was in Toronto last week for the International Festival of Writers. Myron did some research and met up with family while we were there, and I went on a no-holds-barred search through the city’s used bookstores for plunder during the days. Each night, I went down to the harbor to listen to people I admire. We packed an awful lot into a just a couple of days, and I’ll tell you more about it as I process the events and scan through my photos. We came back very late Friday loaded down with overstuffed baggage, tired bones, and, for me, a percolating cold that knocked me out all weekend long.
Saturday I woke up without a voice, every cough tightening the invisible vise in my head. And then snow came—not too much; it’s already mostly melted away. Here, there are usually only one or two of those snowfalls, and then when the big ones start, the earth goes away completely, smothered until the thaw. Snow is a sign that it’s time to break out the needles and start working up all that yarn, to make sure all my tea is easily accessible, to look at my parka—my huge, Sta-Puft beast of a parka—and make friends with it again. It won’t be long before I can’t go anywhere without it. The calendar still calls these days autumn, but to me, once the ground goes white, it’s winter.
Healthwise, I’m on the mend, breathing more easily and speaking in my normal voice again. I’m still not unpacked, though, and I can’t quite concentrate on anything until I clear some space around here. I’ll tell you more when I get back on Wednesday. It was a great mini-getaway, and its effects are going to last for a while.