I’m still relishing this lovely machine beneath my fingertips. She’s here! So, two gifts this month: the giant light-blocking tree vanished unexpectedly, and the backpack with my computer was returned, minus only an egg salad sandwich and three energy bars. Thank you again, universe. Grateful.

My daytimer is so jammed, I can hardly read what’s there. I leave tomorrow for the Kingston WritersFest. My tech helper Olivia will be here keeping the home fires and ridiculous cat going. I teach Friday afternoon, read Saturday afternoon, and leave Sunday midday, otherwise it’s all completely open. So we’ll see.

Monday evening, I went to the ROM for the Hilary Weston Nonfiction award event, given this year to Leslie Jamison. Thank you to Mrs. Weston for elevating nonfiction in this country! Her son Galen made a speech, however, that left me snorting in derision. He spoke about how his mother loved to read biography and history, and even, he said, “would admit to reading an occasional memoir for some salacious gossip to talk about at dinner parties.” I wanted to throttle him. He was there to celebrate a serious memoir writer!

And the next speaker, introducing Jamison, said, “She writes about topics that have no words, like motherhood, addiction, and the writing life.” Really? NO WORDS?!

However, Jamison herself was interesting, even if she was reading partly from an article published in the Globe on Saturday, and the talk with the terrific Marni Jackson was enjoyable. Hooray for nonfiction! Attending the event was a who’s who of CanLit, who gathered for a schmooz fest afterwards. I could not wait to jump on my bicycle and pedal home.

Today a beloved friend came over; his business is failing, strangled by the internet, and he’s depressed. But I think we’re all depressed, because of the world. I was too young to register the danger of the Cuban missile crisis, so I think the world situation is more dire right now than it has ever been during my lifetime. Dire. I can barely listen to or read the news. When the CBC plays Poilievre, I jump up to turn it off. Today, reports of pomp and circumstance in London as the King fawns over Trump. How abased and craven they all are. How appalling that one of the worst human beings on the face of the earth is being given everything he wants and more. Sick-making. Not to mention the rest, which I won’t even begin to list.

However. It’s been a lovely fall, and more good news: I grew my first potato. I dug it up too early and it’s extremely small; there are others still beneath the soil I hope are more substantial. But still.

Let’s celebrate what we can, my friends. We’re not in a world war yet. Let’s celebrate that.

Below: In Stratford, a lovely sign, a walk along the Avon where there’s a spectacular willow tree with a knobbly trunk, and … my first potato! Celebration.