Sherry Chandler

Yesterday was a beautiful day to fly, though it didn’t seem so when hubby and I set out from Paris in the dark and the fog. The little Conair shuttle that was to take me to Cincinnati was dripping with condensation and my window seat was fogged useless.

But when the plane began to accelerate for take-off, the fog rolled away in streams of water and I had a beautiful clear view of the Bluegrass draped in mist. A little mountain range of fog followed the Licking River into the Ohio, and even that broad stream had its share of rising vapor. Later, crossing what was probably West Virginia, the hollers and valleys, the whole catchment structure, were outlined in mist while the tree-covered mountains stood out green.

I caught the ten o’clock shuttle to West Chester from the Philadelphia airport at ten and was in my dorm room by eleven.

Last night I was fed on filet mignon and asparagus with a Chilean red wine. I ate at the same table as Robert Shaw, who is here with his wife and brother. But since it was a table for eight and I was four people away, I didn’t get to talk to him or even hear anything he said.

Kay Ryan was the keynote speaker. She read what she called her “increasingly dessicated” work in a lovely new music building on campus. Ryan was a fine reader, relaxed, witty, unpretentious, unself-conscious. She had her audience in the palm of her hand.

Have my conference with Molly Peacock at ten.

Addendum: Have just been correcting typos and misspellings in the posts of the last few days. I am appalled at myself. Put it down, please, to exhaustion and a laptop screen that displayed text in about six point type.