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Having no editing class this morning, I got an additional hour of sleep.

Then I drove to Memorial Episcopal in the sunlight, welcome after yesterday's filthy and depressing weather. A leaky pipe on the organ is whistling, so I played the piano* for the twenty people at our quiet, reflective Eucharist.

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Then home for an interval of ease, reading deeper into Nigel Hamilton's The Mantle of Command: FDR at War, 1941-1942, with Mr. Saunders, the cat who recently acquired us, dozing nearby.

Before leaving for her parents' house in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Kathleen put aside the makings of my dinner, so I will be able to tuck in to a hearty turkey sandwich, cranberry relish (my mother's recipe), celery and olives, and a substantial wedge of an exceedingly gooey chocolate pecan pie. Regrettably, there will be no cocktail beforehand, wine with, or liqueur afterward; Sun texts demand the cold eye of sobriety.

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On my way out, I left Saunders a generous pinch of catnip for his holiday celebration.

So now I am at my post, prepared to marshal the copy for tomorrow's editions. The dilettanti being absent, we should be able to make short work of it.

Afterward, Kathleen will be back from Lancaster, and she and I, enjoying the benison of bourbon, will murmur over the events of the day as Mr. Saunders decides which lap looks most hospitable.

I have been seeing expressions of concern for people required to work on Thanksgiving. But, as you see, I have not had to venture onto the highways or endure the scrum of bargain-maddened shoppers.

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There's no call for you to lavish any sympathy on me. Life is good.

*We are about to hear all those minatory Advent texts, which remind me to expect, on the Last Day when I am called before the bill, to be confronted with a scroll enumerating all my wrong notes.

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