Over the weekend

Visited mom, got together with friends for dinner and a play, an adaptation of Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, which even a few days later I'm still wondering about what they wanted to do with the story. Parts of it worked for me, parts did not, but as with their ninety minute version of Crime and Punishment, I liked not re-reading the book just now.
We have descended into the "dog's nose" days of November, wet and chilly; great for reading and playing holiday music with a great group. One of our bandmates, a trumpet player, loaned me an intriguing novel by a writer named John Crowley. It's titled Little, Big, and is fantasy, but a most engaging and sometimes challenging bit of it, not all battling elves riding war dragonflies. After a slow start, I became intent upon its Tale. It was a fine read on cold dark nights.