My friends Mike and Debbie were kind enough to offer me a ride home from Shasta Lake today, and I accepted because they were leaving early enough in the day that I'd have time to decompress for a few hours. I was up before seven (believe it or not), and we were on the road by eight.

I got home at 12:30 this afternoon and the first thing I did (after giving Mom a call, of course) was put my refrigerator back together. I'd taken it apart two weeks ago and left it off and open and in pieces since then, hoping that it would run when I got back. Actually, the biggest, most desperate hope was that I'd be able to put all the pieces back together, but that went surprisingly smoothly.

It took most of the rest of the day to see if it would get cold inside, and I kept checking, in between unpacking and watching the ballgame. The bad news: the Giants lost. The good news: I seem to have a working refrigerator again. I'm grateful for all the advice I got, and I'm also pretty pleased with myself. I'm as mechanically inept as they come, and I don't consider this a breakthrough, mostly because I'll never do it again. Next time I'll just get a new fridge.

The first few days on the lake, I didn't feel quite well, and I'm still not sure what was wrong. But I've felt great for almost a week now. Still, it's hard coming back to the daily details the keep life moving forward. You can only stop and smell the roses for so long. Every so often you have to water them or they'll die.

I'm tired, and I'm still rocking with the motion of the boat. I can feel it more this time than after any other houseboat vacation I can remember, but I was there longer this time than I ever have been. I'm happy to have had this vacation, but I'll also be happy to sleep in my own bed tonight.

It's kind of lonely around here, you know? I miss the lake, but I miss the people even more. I sit here looking out at a vast expanse of dry grass, and feeling not too motivated to get myself anything to eat after ten days of fabulous communal dining, and I don't hear the lapping of water or the chatter of voices (or, for that matter, the cheerfully horrible singing of some of the younger folk).

Tomorrow I'll wake up to nothing but my own clock radio, or the clanging of the phone, sounds I haven't missed at all since I left. Instead of sleeping under the stars tonight and waking when the sun hits my face in the morning, I'll probably be up late seeing what TiVo recorded for me, and I'll be dragging myself out of bed tomorrow, trying to get back into routine and trying to remember what to do and in what order.

I miss the lake, I miss the people, and I miss the distance I put between my duties and my desires. I wish— well, you know.

It's hard to get back into the routine of doing this again, too. I haven't even seen a computer since July 4. I wrote every day while I was away, of course, but in a steno notebook with a ball point pen while sitting on the deck of a houseboat. I haven't forgotten how to answer email, though, so send me some.