Three a.m. Washington time, but to heck with it, I'm in Nashville. What a long day. Up at seven, finish packing, get to the metro, get to Greenbelt, get on the shuttle to the aeropuerto. Security: I put both shoes in the chute at once, but only one came out. The other was hung up on something, I guess. Me standing there in my old socks, my toes poking right out the ends. The security woman says something about it. My good socks are packed, I say. I was a little sheepish about my socks, there at BWI with one shoe in my hand and the other translucent on the x-ray screen.

Then a very nice, very clear flight, though I hate landing.

Then hours of playing with my four-year-old nephew, Smith. Great little guy, and smart. He explains how his fort made of sofa cushions isn't stable, so I shouldn't touch it.

Then rock 'n' roll at the Mercy Lounge, which was the Cannery back in the day. Glossary opening for the Guy from Drivin n Cryin. My sister, Smith, is in Glossary, but even if she weren't, man, they rock.

Now I'm on the sobriety upswing, and dang but it's late. I'm in Music City all week. I'll try to keep you posted, Folly followers (all seven of you), but I already feel the inertia of Dixie and home settling in. Though it could be the six beers.

Ginkgoes stink like crazy as their fruit ripens, but they sure yellow up nicely come autumn. The street one block from mine, a lovely street, is lined on both sides with ginkgoes. I walk down this street on my way home. Row houses, families, and shade from the trees. Hurricane Isabel knocked all the fruit right off ‘em, so that within a couple of days the stink compelled me to take another route. Now the smell is almost gone, and this morning tiny yellow fans smothered the street, the lawns, the roofs, the cars.