There's no way this Silmarillion will ever go out for sale.
11:53:58 AM    comment []  trackback []  

I have my first employee. Susan, who recently closed her flower shop and has a half-time partnership in the new antique emporium down the street, will come in on Sunday afternoons and several evenings, purely for book credit. From what I understand, Sundays see quite a crowd down here, but I insist on two days off, so this could work out very well.

Because Tuesday was a very bad day for me, and I went to sleep sad and discouraged, I didn't arrive here yesterday morning in the least excited. Mildly apprehensive, perhaps, but mostly just spirit-afflicted and confused. But I put a smiley face on and gradually found a thread of work to follow through the chaos. And after I'd heard a few will-be customers chortle happily, and had a conversation or two about serious book subjects, I realized I really was doing the right thing. Momentum picked up, spirit lifted a little. Susan came in full of enthusiasm and delight.

I was saved.

I wanted to tell you about how yesterday morning two phone guys showed up at the shop to install a new jack for me near the back of the room. And while I was leaning down to pull a phone cord out from behind a tall cupboard shelf, a phone guy tilted the shelf and the terra cotta pot of giant philodendron crashed down off it and onto the back of my head. There was a loud thunk. The pot bounced off my skull and onto the floor. Piles of potting soil covered the kids' book section, filtered into pages of the standing new books... I wanted to be upset about my skull fracture, but actually I didn't hurt. I couldn't figure out why I wasn't unconscious. Finally all I could be upset about was the dirt in the books, and really I wasn't upset even about that, and I spent an hour or so putting everything to rights. I did have a very slight headache last night, but that's all. Hm.

Yesterday morning was gray and rainy, in the afternoon snow fell, and on through the night. It was nearly dark and snowing lightly when we got home last night. There was no time to lose: I left the car and in my long dress and silly shoes loaded a bale of hay onto the handtruck and Brian and I lugged it out across the bridge to the pasture. I called and called and finally Lorenzo and Fernando left their cozy winter beds under the junipers and came down the hill for new hay and oats. They can self-feed off the bale for a long time now and I won't have to worry.

The house was very cold. I made a decent fire but I'm running out of cut wood. Splitting I can do; sawing not so much. And all my wood is in the form of 20+-foot juniper poles... I felt terrible about being away from the dogs for nine whole hours. (I really must find a town residence.) They are absolutely grief-stricken each morning when I leave. The field cats are almost obnoxiously affectionate; Greta is wistful and anxiously attentive. We really seem to matter to them.

Anyway, this day, although quiet and gray and cold, is a better one here at the shop. It feels as if things are coming together on their own. Perhaps it's all starting to gel.
10:50:09 AM    comment []  trackback []