We met for coffee and then she came home for an impromptu dinner, followed by an outing to Trader Joe’s. Our girl at Harvard, as the regulars at the Gainsboro library like to call her, is doing quite well, thank you. She’s gotten used to earning the occasional B, but overall, I’d say she owns the place.

She gave me course advice, told me where to get the free shuttle from the Radcliffe quad to the yard and advised me to “get a grip” on the number of courses I’m planning to shop. “That many? Really?”

Salena will be reshelving books, etc., for her work-study job at Widener, the main library on campus, where I’ve reserved a carrel on the sixth floor, thinking the top floor would be warmer in the colder months. “Yeah, right,” she said.

It’s great to have a young mentor like Salena here. She’s even offered to house- and Lucky-sit for us!

Photo by Kyle Green/The Roanoke Times

When Salena told the people at the library she got into Harvard, old men set down the newspapers they were reading and wept. Librarian Carla Lewis, her mentor, screamed.

Worry about big things, he told us, like what you’re going to do with your life. Don’t worry about whether the person sitting next to you is smarter, or better published, or if they have the world’s most fabulous hair.

Anyone who knows me can see why I was compelled to attend church for the first time in many months. Worry is my middle name. Also, my first and last. I come from a long line of worriers, with one form of anxiety disorder or another being passed down through the generations, not unlike the premature gray hair, hyper-ticklish feet and a propensity for beer. Judging from my incredibly astute fellow fellows — who asked so many questions at orientation, I could’ve sworn we were at  a press conference — I’m definitely not alone.

The all-you-can-eat buffet that is the Nieman Fellowship presents a whole new boatload of worries, the main one being: I want to squeeze the most of out these 10 months, but I also want to relax, make new friends and have a really good time. Also, lose 15 pounds. . . though, given the state of the buffet (Nieman motto: A Dessert must follow every meal), there’s a fat, fat chance of that.

So do I sign up for Michael Sandel’s ethic class, which I know I should, or do I take the New Yorker writer James Wood’s class on post-war fiction, which sounds infinitely more fun? (They’re both offered at the same time.)

Sociology of the black community or women and religion? Narrative writing or introduction to health-care policy?

Drawing or science of the brain?

This weekend, our surrogate daughter/little-sister/former babysitter/best pal Rose is visiting, and we’re going to see “The Donkey Show,” a rendering of “Midsummer Night’s Dream” set to disco music where the audience must dance as part of the show. (Cringe, Connie, cringe.)

Next week, the boys start school — and not a second too soon! They are very bored and need to make some friends; otherwise, we may have to sew the cell phone onto lonely Max’s ear. Will’s best friend in Cambridge so far is his new yo-yo. (He’s now on his third.)

The yo-yo master at work in front of our house.

We’re having a great time, but it seems that life in Roanoke is carrying on without us: How is it that the newspaper is still publishing every day? How is it that we missed Chris’ goofy-song concert, Ed’s birthday party and the soiree for Dan’s retirement?

We miss our sweet, dumb dog Lucky, who heard Will’s voice on a video online yesterday and, according to the inlaws who are watching him for us till October, he came running and wagged his tail. (Maybe he’s smarter than we give him credit for.)

I haven’t figured out exactly what courses I’m taking yet; they give you a week to “shop” them, so I’ve still got time to decide.

Till then, I’ll quell my worries with some writing — and living — advice by E.L. Doctorow via Anne Lamott:

“Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

One class, one question, one yo-yo at a time.

Walden Pond at dusk

The fam at Walden Pond, escaping the 93-degree Cambridge heat.

Will and his cousin Chloe (our first visitor!) at one of the Harvard Yard gates

Bike riding along the Charles. . . .

Oh, googlemaps, how we adore ye — even when you fail us.

We’ve meandered our way across the Somerville line with the help of not one but two police escorts. (Don’t tell Skip Gates I said this, but they’re nicer than you’d think.)

We’ve been to every Target store within a 10-mile radius.

Last night — in the most oppressive heat to hit Massachusetts yet this year (boy, we miss the ubiquitous Southern air conditioning) — we drove to nearby Concord to wet our stinkin’ bodies in Walden Pond, eat homemade chicken salad and imagine Thoreau, who most certainly did not have to tango with the Cambridge parking sticker authorities.

Speaking of our favorite Kafka-esque bureaucrats: They speak so softly through the plexiglass you can barely hear them, but they carry a giant, we’ll-tow-your-ass shtick. After spending more than $1,000 on Massachusetts insurance, registration and tags, we were turned away because we neglected to bring two pieces of mail to the office as proof of address — it didn’t matter that we hadn’t yet received any mail because we’d just arrived!

“How many Nieman fellows does it take to change a lightbulb?” my newspaper pal Matt Chittum wanted to know.

“Four. One to call Tom and three to audit a course about it.”

The part about calling Tom is dead-on. He’s already proved himself indispensable, installing closet lights, setting up e-mail so I can still use my same address, and helping me figure out how to manage my new Kryptonite bike lock.

He helped a stranded friend of a neighbor jump-start her car, and backed the lady’s husband’s car out of the drive because in all her Brooklyn-born years, she’d never learned to drive.

Not driving here is pretty smart, actually, which is why we’ve walked the 25-minute walk to Harvard campus twice already and taken the bike trail along the Charles to get our Trader Joe’s fix. Thanks to Sara and Chris and Connie for the awesome gift-card going-away gifts! (And to Ian, for the super-thoughtful subway pass!)

I’m writing from my desk, which is wedged between a bedroom wall, a dresser and our bed. Will’s bed is set up in the former dining room, which is also pinch-hitting as a home office for Tom. The eat-in kitchen, while suffering from a smell that no manner of mopping seems to get rid of — alas, it ain’t garlic — also holds the washer and dryer. Of course the princely teenager gets his own unadulterated space, something I think we can all agree is a very good thing, especially since we caved and got him a moving-guilt Xbox.

But overall, we are loving the smaller digs, less than half the size of our hulking Roanoke Ugly. There’s less space to clean, less stuff to manage, and it has a lovely 1880’s-era feel, complete with a great front porch to read the Boston Globe on and beautiful window lighting. It also happens to be downstairs from the wonderful Peter and Roz, who brought us Sam Adams beers the night we moved in and a thermos full of coffee the next day.

Orientation begins next week. We’re thinking of a weekend beach outing, maybe even a trip to see the Maine relatives and celebrate Tom’s birthday on Sunday.

Thanks to all of our great Roanoke pals and relatives for the fantastic send-off. We miss you already. And come visit, seriously. I’m sure the mystery kitchen odor will be gone before too long.

Tom’s on the case, after all.

I hope to blog about our experiences with the move — the culture change from South to North, my kids (the 15-year-old is a little less than thrilled by the move), my patient husband who’s ready and willing to move his online teaching job to Boston and maybe — if he’s very Lucky, which he is (cause that’s his name) — the dog.

Goober and Gomer are going to Harvard, is another way of looking at this journey: a couple of Midwesterners who still think Skyline Chili and a cold beer are two of the greatest indulgences in the world.

“So you think I’m smart enough to go to Harvard?” I asked the teenager last night.
“Well. . . . . ” he said.

We shall see.