First, thanks to all who weighed in on the poncho issue. People were surprisingly passionate one way or the other. And although I�m still unlikely to wear one myself, I have been convinced they may be a viable outerwear (due to warmth and stay-put-iveness) or loungewear (due to resemblance to a cozy blanket) option for some. I also definitely see the appeal of knitting one. If my current sweater project had been a poncho, it would be done by now (as it is, I�ve been working on it for three years and hope that I�ll be able to wear it before it is no longer fashionable). But I will never, ever believe they are suitable for work, where people are apparently wearing them anyway.

Thanks, too, for everyone�s thoughts on the fear of facing one�s own mediocrity in creative pursuits. The discussion put me in mind of Tennyson�s The Lotos-Eaters. �Courage,� he said and pointed to the land�.� Although I�m not sure the message of the poem as a whole is exactly what I want to invoke here. But we need to have courage to find pleasurable pursuits (and, in the case of Ulysses and Co. in Tennyson�s poem, really good drugs and spousal abandonment. Perhaps we�ll just skip that part�).

I�ve got my full mom uniform on today, as AJ is suffering from a rather pathetic cold that has him sounding like a very small Kathleen Turner. The illness didn�t kick in until we returned from the library this morning, where I�m hoping we did not infect anyone. Sometimes I feel like I am running an experiment in epidemiology. Fortunately, however, we are now armed with huge stacks of new books, videos and puzzles, so we should be ready for a quiet afternoon.

While AJ was napping, I went for a hike in the woods � today�s an off day for running � and came back with a pile of osage apples, windfall from the tree I�d noticed the other day. They are currently in one sweet-smelling heap in a large bowl in the upstairs hall, awaiting further aesthetic arrangement. Although I cut flowers from the garden to bring into the house all summer, in the fall my desire to bring the outside in sometimes borders on the pathological. I think it�s a psychological response to the knowledge that the season of homeboundness is coming.

There are other signs that winter is on the move: the cold windy weather, the leaden grey sky, the cacophony of waterfowl heading southward. But the clearest sign of winter�s approach in our neighborhood is the annual appearance of the snow poles. For those whose environs are either too tropical or too urban, snow poles are orange and white flexible poles, about a quarter of an inch in diameter and about three feet high that sprout from the edges of curbless, residential streets each autumn to mark the edge of the road. In the event of a snowfall, the poles are suppose to guide the snowplows in the correct direction, so you don�t come home to find a highway on your front lawn. They are also excellent for impromptu dueling and make a wonderful sound, somewhere between a whoosh and a twang, when bent to the ground and released.

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