The scout leader dropped off Mark on Sunday from his camping trip. Turns out Mark had almost none of the appropriate gear--his sleeping back wasn't warm enough so the scout leader had to give Mark his own (poor guy; I don't think he got any sleep that night), Mark's backpack was too small; his hiking shoes (which were actually mine) should have been boots; his mittens too thin; his pants should have been waterproof. Mark came back wet, cold, smokey, but happy. One of the campers decided to roast a Pokemon figure in the evening's bonfire, and Mark found this hilarious.
On Sunday a colleague and I went to Grim church where we heard a wonderful choral concert featuring Grieg's four psalms, Rachmaninov's Vespers, and Benjamin Britten's "Sick Rose," which I especially enjoyed. Met an American au pair there whom I invited to Thanksgiving dinner along with my students. One of my colleagues is going to sing "Simple Gifts."
Walter continues to plunk away at Grieg, but his real love is Arsenal; don't even bring up Manchester United.
I would like to read Jay-Z's autobiography.
I miss friends and family. During these seemingly endless succession of grey days I wonder why there isn't a mass migration southward, but Bill urges me to get out and soak up the muted grey light we call sunshine regardless of weather.
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