In the wake of the closure of so many beloved book stores I’ve been casting around lost and lonely in search of a source for books. In the midst of this, I’ve discovered a strange and wondrous place. It’s called a library, it’s full of books, and they let you read them for free. What a brave new world. And check this out, there are two whole shelves in this magical building full of knitting patterns. And it’s full of people who help you find books, and audio books, and movies.
I’m not much of an audiobook person, myself. I like the weight of a paperback in my hands or the sound and companionship of a voice I already know and love. However, I know a lot of folks that do their “reading” on the go, on the bus, in traffic, etc. If this is you, check out this book.
This past weekend, Shawn and I built a picket fence in the backyard. Our driveway runs alongside the house, connecting the street to a recessed garage and opening out to our little backyard. We’ve planned to put a little white picket fence here since before we put an offer in on the house. Every summer we’ve said, “This year, let’s build that fence,” and still no fence had appeared.
I just finished a stack of paperbacks and they’re looking for a good home. Anyone want them? If you know me in the physical world and you’re interested, send me an email. If you don’t know me, you can just read my witty remarks and then take your butt down to your local independent bookstore. Sunlight on your road.
On Sunday it hit 106º. Four days later, I’m pulling on a sweater and shutting the windows because it’s too bloody cold out. (To be fair, sweater weather is 65º in Shannon-Land – it’s not like there are icicles forming on the lawn or anything.) Last night while Shawn and I stayed up reading Harry Potter and making pumpkin ice cream it was probably in the 50s outside. A 50º temperature range over the course of a week seems like a lot to me.
This is a public service announcement. I am shutting myself up in a hole until Shawn and I have finished what my mother-in-law jestingly refers to as “The Book That Must Not Be Mentioned.” Do not call me and ask me what page I’m on or in what chapter I must be prepared with kleenex. I’m screening my calls. I have filters running on incoming emails that search for magical keywords and then places them into a junk mail folder. I’m avoiding TV, radio, specific internet locations, and all feathered members of the order Strigiformes. Stay away until I’ve finished the book.
A few days ago, an old friend from a book popped into my head and started kicking up dust. I found myself in front of my bookshelves soon after, thumbing through the fantasy and science fiction section (an admittedly large portion of the books in our household fall into this category) until I found the proper volume, cracked it open, and found my friend there waiting for me. “I’ll just read a few pages,” I told myself. “Just a short visit.”