I'm home. It's hot.

When my niece and I left Portland this morning at 7 a.m., it was clear and nice but it was cool, because hey, it was 7 a.m. We drove all day along I-84, which meant the Dalles and the forested corridor along the river, and then through the fruited plains and hills of eastern Oregon. Farm, farm, farm. Farming community. Farm, farm, farm. Tree farm! Farming community. Etc. until Tremonton, and then it's the I-15 corridor. I was home by 8 p.m. or so, at which point the historian and I inspected the front and back yards (verdict: so gorgeous, you guys, you'll freak). And then I laid down in front of the television, because that was the exact medicine I needed. The Magnificent Seven was on, and the most important thing I can tell you about that movie is that the young Steve McQueen, the young Charles Bronson, the young James Coburn and the young Yul Brynner were all adorable.

My hell: the last few weeks have been ultra-drive-y. Not that I didn't sign up for it, and not that I didn't have a blast everywhere I/we went. But I'm very glad to be home and to contemplate doing homely things, like making breakfast and doing laundry and reading whilst lounging and perhaps organizing my vast new library of new books. Also, contemplating how soon we can turn on the swamp cooler because it's time. It wasn't summer yet when I left Thursday morning, but it's summer now on Saturday night and summer equals swamp cooler. Categorically.

The pleasures of a long day driving: listening to music galore. Regina Spektor's Begin to Hope is, I can say, and my niece agrees, also categorically, after today's listen, a brilliant and gorgeous recording. I know I have listened to it before and liked it, but I don't think I really heard the whole thing until today.

And now, I am again going to watch television for awhile, because that's the exact medicine I need.



Hot Air Balloon Festival (this morning, as we were leaving).


















Another great thing about Portland.