Woke up to wind and cold in the morning and pieces of white paper blown around the backyard into drifts along the fence and into the flower beds. I puzzled for a moment about what it was: someone's recycling trying to escape? Then I remembered. Yesterday afternoon I took the manuscript to the patio to read (the version my grandmother read and wrote on). So Misty and I spent a small part of the morning picking up the pages. I half-expected to see that the garden gremlins had rewritten the prose or at least marked it up. No such luck. These aren't shoemaker's elves, after all. Then again, maybe throwing pages around was the favor -- it's the commentary the prose deserves.