As I walked to the coffee shop early in the day, I watched the leaves floating on an air current just out of reach, ornaments hanging on invisible threads from the bright blue autumn sky.

The phone rings a little before 7AM. I’m already awake…sort of. “Hello?” I croak. “Good morning, ma’am,” returns a familiar voice. “Eric?” I ask. “Yes, ma’am. You’re about to get a knock on your door.” On cue, a very official pounding echoes through the house, which has a very loud door knocker that no one ever uses, oddly enough. “It’s the police. You need to move your car.”

I run downstairs with the keys and greet the police officer with what I hope is a charming smile. “Am I in trouble?” I ask, joking. He smiles at me and shakes his head. “I knew I’d parked too close to the cones last night,” I say.

“Not this car,” he says, pointing to my orange Subaru. Huh? Oh. OHHHHH. A couple days ago, my daughter parked the other Subaru up the street because the water company was working near our house. Now, the water company is working up the street, right where she parked. I get the other car keys and hike up the hill (in my pajamas, bra-less, which always makes me a little uncomfortable). All of the contractors are sitting, waiting for me. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” I gasp out, as I hurry to the car. Most of the men smile; but as soon as I start the car, the backhoe driver begins moving the bucket directly that is next to my bumper.

“I’m not waiting any longer,” he mutters, clearly not caring that I’ve opened the car window.

“I’m sorry!” I call out, as I try the maybe-charming smile on him. It doesn’t work.

He grumbles to me, “It’s okay.” I don’t think he thinks it’s okay.

Eric, the project lead, stops me before I can drive away. “Jake’s always grumpy in the morning,” he says. Yeah, well, I hope Jake is okay with being written into my next manuscript as a villian.

Barbara Kingsolver was in Pittsburgh recently for a sold-out book promotion for Partita. I acted quickly when the announcement came out, got a particularly good seat. Two CMU music students performed as part of the event, one of them playing two of my favorite Chopin pieces. Chopin was, in my humble opinion, the Erwin Steinberg (in case you aren’t familiar with my all-time favorite professor) of music, tight melodies, minimal notes to create masterworks. The performances were as wonderful as you’d expect from the CMU music school. Kingsolver–and many others–consider Bloomington one of the best music schools in the world. I don’t know enough to judge but as an alum, I have to be loyal to my Tartans.

Kingsolver was charming, funny, verbose, and fascinating. Surprisingly, for me at least, there seemed to be almost no chemistry between her and the moderator. As a casual observer, I got the impression that the moderator was trying to out-music Kingsolver. I know it can’t be true…and yet, it felt that way to me. Also, the moderator gave away a plot point, which understandably upset Kingsolver.

There’s a child, a boy, sitting outside at the coffee shop. He has a notebook and a pile of crayons. He is drawing intently, his chin resting on the table. Occasionally, he pauses to sit back and study his art. Then, he leans forward and continues, one leg swinging. This inherent love of making and perceiving art is why we need more art in schools.

My eldest’s birthday was at the end of October. Seven of us went out to dinner at a local Mexican restaurant that spoiled the heck out of us. It was lovely. Over the weekend, I had a long-ish drive during which to think and I realized that I have lovely memories of my eldest that no one else has: laughing as I tickled his baby tummy, walking with him (age 18 months) to the playground in Toronto, sitting on Mom’s hospital bed while she played with him. (She died when he was 14 months old.)

This morning, I sang a modified Happy Birthday to one of the baristas (Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. You didn’t invite me to your party so…boooo). It’s probably the best off-the-cuff song I’ve written today. Also, it made him laugh, which is the most important gift we can give anyone.

Vote as if you know someone currently in a concentration camp in the US.

Much love.