Friday, 5:30 P.M.
Getting ready to leave the office and head up to Grand Central. Have to catch the 6:32 to Pleasantville-It's work weekend time. Again. Once a month. Every month. No exceptions. Ever.

Friday, 6:15 P.M.
Donald and I see Rob at the end of the platform. Can't miss him with the huge black MacPlus carrying case slung over his shoulder, coffee in hand, ready to face the music. Gordon and Shira have already commandeered a couple of seat banks for all of us. I settle in and wonder where Ken is.

Friday, 6:34 P.M.
Ken has missed the train.

Friday, 7:30 P.M.
Pleasantville, here we are. There's snow on the ground, and I'm cold. There's no red van waiting to pick us up. I wonder what's for dinner?

Friday, 7:55 P.M.
Dinner is, of course, pasta and tomato sauce. There's something funny in There--a mushroom? I hate mushrooms. Who puts mushrooms in tomato sauce? I decide I'm not hungry after all. Ken has missed dinner.

Friday, 8:40 P.M.
David and I are making the supermarket run. Rob and I put up extra money for good beer--otherwise, it's MeisterBrau or Piels. We slog through the slush on the roads to the Grand Union. They're having a special on deli turkey--buy one pound, get one pound free. "It looks kind of old," I think, "no wonder it's on sale." David buys two pounds. I pick up some good beer and, of course, Pop-Tarts. Lots of Pop-Tarts.

Friday, 9:30 P.M.
Everyone sits at a Mac, keying in articles. Gordon's in the back taking care of the finances and subscriptions. David lights a pipe. Belinda's skin is oozing onto the carpet. Ken (who has arrived by car) puts in a "Have a Nice Day" CD. Rob and I break out the Pop-Tarts and grab the last of the good beer. I'm still cold.

Saturday, 1:30 A.M.
We're still keying in. I dig out the Earl Grey I brought with my luggage. My nose begins to run. I begin to cough. Still cold.

Saturday, 2:45 A.M.
Rob and I go downstairs to open up the sleeper couch. A mushroom cloud of dust billows upwards. What is it about mushrooms around here?

Saturday, 9:00 A.M.
It snowed heavily overnight. We need to shovel the driveway. I've never shoveled snow before; I become wet then soaked then wheezy. Cold.

Saturday, 10:30 A.M.
Breakfast time. David makes coffee, but it's gone before the pot gets to me, and there's not enough half and half to go around. Boxes of cold cereal sit unopened on the table amid piles of printouts ready for proofing. We all eat more Pop-Tarts.

Saturday, 12:10 P.M.
It's finally my turn for the shower. No hot water and no clean towels. I decide to remain dirty. When I finish using the toilet I have to manipulate the lever inside the tank for it to flush properly, so at least my left forearm undergoes minor ablutions. My fingers are blue.

Saturday, 1:45 P.M.
My stomach is demanding lunch. The turkey is practically colorless; I don't think that's what "white meat" means. Geoff breaks out the marshmallow fluff, and we huddle together on the couch eating Fluffernutters. I have the heating pad on my back and a hundred-degree fever in my body. I'm still cold.

Saturday, 3:00 P.M.
Between fever, sugar high, and draft, I'm a shivering wreck. Rob takes me downstairs to put me to bed. As we descend the stairs, a layer of spider webs dislodges from a pile of dusty books and settles on Rob's shoulder. I decide not to tell him. Ten minutes later, I hear a shout from above. He's found it.

Saturday, 5:00 P.M.
David calls the general meeting to order. A pipe smolders in an ashtray at his elbow. We decide what goes into the current issue. Shira and I argue. Ken and Donald crack jokes and make bad puns. Gordon and Rob dig through the piles of books on the staircase.

Saturday, 7:00 P.M.
Kathryn calls us to dinner. She's made turkey soup. What are those things floating in it--mushrooms? We're getting low on Pop-Tarts.

Saturday, 8:30 P.M.
Rob convinces David to let us get some pizza. He adamantly ignores any requests for mushrooms. Ken drives us to the pizza place, and for a few brief, blissful minutes, I'm warm again.

Saturday, 11:30 P.M.
David and Kathryn go to bed. Rob and Donald fight over control of Playmaker Football. I am lolling in the comfy chair, heating pad reclaimed, Earl Grey in hand. I try to proofread the printout in front of me, but my eyes are refusing to focus. A house spider begins to spin a web from my ponytail to the back of the chair. I no longer feel the toes on my right foot; I also no longer care.

Sunday, 4:15 A.M.
Rob shakes me awake. I've been talking in my sleep, babbling nonsense, thrashing beneath the covers. I am drenched in sweat, but I am still cold.

Sunday, 11:00 A.M.
Geoff's band has arrived for their practice, chasing me out of bed. I manage to grab the last dregs of coffee before Donald fills his third cup. There are no more Pop-Tarts; I hope Donald finishes the layout soon.

Sunday, 2:30 P.M.
David has finally finished proofing the printouts, and has changed the contents of the issue. Donald throws up his hands in disgust and goes to play with Geoff's guitars. Geoff quickly moves to prevent him. Rob starts the layout over from scratch.

Sunday, 5:25 P.M.
If we don't leave soon, we'll have to stay for dinner. Rob says he will finish the layout himself at home, and shoulders sag in relief all around him. But the van is slow to start, and David is slow to drive. The train is at 5:44. It will be a close call.

Sunday, 5:45 P.M.
We have missed the train. There won't be another one for an hour. We cross the street to the diner. I am no longer hungry, but I am still cold.

Epilogue
It's been years since I last went to a work weekend at the stately Hartwell residence. Physically challenging and gastronomically lacking though they were, I remember them fondly--in fact, I rather miss them. It's difficult to find a group of people who are willing to sit around for days and discuss literature (especially genre literature) with such knowledgable and sincere interest. I actually felt that we accomplished something at those work weekends, and I think the fact that this tenth anniversary issue exists proves that my feeling was correct. In many ways, I'm sad to have left that behind. But NYRSF can never be truly put behind you-to this day, no matter what I do, I'm still cold.