And now for something completely different: Ruth’s cottage. We arrived early afternoon. It’s chilly now and supposed to rain; there’ll be no swimming for this coward until it heats up. But heaven — only the noise of motorboats and birds and squirrels, and the tapping of my fingers. I’m Ruth’s sherpa — she’s moving here for the summer, more or less, so brought enough food to feed a battalion. We shall dine well.

Grateful to be here, as teaching ended Tuesday at U of T and my home class last night. I’ll have some editing work and my garden workshop on July, but otherwise, am done until mid-September. I love teaching but am glad to stop doing it for a while.

Dinner at Ruth’s in the city on Wednesday with her friends June and husband Kalman, who’s the younger brother of my friend from high school, Henry. Many memories, many laughs, with 3 people who are on the same page about almost everything. And of course, I was happy to hear Kalman is writing a memoir and might need some help. Memoirs r us!

I have brought with me today’s Toronto Star, 2 or 3 New Yorkers, the novel Yellowface, and Lapham’s Quarterly. Will that be enough for almost 4 days? Although there are, naturally, piles of books here. Ruth and I, on the way up, discussed our despair for humanity in this dark time on our planet. We were emailing each other during the debate last night, although I only lasted ten minutes before I couldn’t bear it. It was desperately sad to see a good man, first, having to deal with the absurdities and lies spewing from a mendacious psychopath. But to see Biden so diminished, so incapable of response and so unfit for the daunting task ahead — terrifying. Thomas Friedman said it all today in a moving and powerful NYT editorial: “Joe Biden is a good man and a good president. He must bow out of the race.”

No kidding. Please God. Save the planet!

Spent the last few days getting the rental spaces in shape, so today the new kid moved in upstairs for 2 weeks, and Alanna comes to house and cat-sit. She calls her stays chez moi her “artist residencies.” I told them both the good news: though the roses are on the way out, the raspberries are coming in. It looks like finally, after decades of trying, we will have a good crop.

Okay, my hostess and I have had apéritif, rosé with potato chips, now it’s time to cook the asparagus, cut up the chicken, and make a salad. That’s what matters right now. Let’s leave the horrors of the world behind, for a day or two, and breathe in the beautiful air.