Tom and I and Bruce Pingree sat around talking about Howling Wolf. Bruce had on the most amazing pictorial shirt of palm trees and surfers and multiple incarnations of woodies (cars, doncha know). I told him he'd better catalogue his shirts so the collection would be ready when it ends up in the folk archive at the Library of Congress.

At least one person who came to listen (the Press Room was pretty empty, though not surprising with all the pelting rain, crashing thunder and bright bursts of lightning outside) and I tried to suggest to Tom that we at least sing a couple (especialy since I've missed the past three Friday night sessions), but conversation won out. (I did HUM "Race of Long Ago" and "Seven Wonders" but I'm not sure anyone heard me.

The water level at home as we tried to leave for Portsmouth was interesting. I immediately sank into Lake Perdurabo as I stepped off the back stairs and splashed mud on my pants. I forded the Mekong Delta towards Tom's car, when I realized I'd have to stand in the middle of Lake Hall in order to board it on the passenger's side. So I told Tom I'd make my way up the driveway and meet him near the road, promising to keep to the high ridges as the water coursed downhill in two raging streams next to me. Had my gear neatly stowed in a plastic bag and a sou'wester hat on my head, so we successfully rendezvoued and plowed the unbriny torrent towards The Press Room.

Linn