Monday, March 30, 2015


Well, partly it is my fault. I sold the concept of a new building as a rescue point for the books we love. We have, after all, an old, bear battered, rainsoaked cabin on the land already. My sweetie built it with his own hands and hand tools, and the help of random shaggy anarchists invited to come camp out and pound nails and talk about the way the world should be.
I still recall Molly and her baby, who was the age of my baby, my middle kid, my daughter. How we bonded over nursing and sawing. And how I never heard from her again, once she was back to real life.

So, anyway, there are memories in every inch of the old cabin.

And my dear says 'but you said library" and I say, yes, of course, and we figure out how many books will fit in my plan without even bookshelves in the middle of the room (around 6000 books) and he is somewhat mollified. We talk bed nooks, bed placement. Where the doors should be. A courtyard between the buildings, perhaps.

He is talking of a high room where I might write and I think...well, I could have a loft in the plan, maybe, but then I realize he thinks I will be in the upper room of the original cabin. Which is a pretty room, plastic windows and dry rot and leaking roof and all. One year I glued mirror pieces around the window frames, and tarot cards on the door to nowhere.

Yeah, there's a door to nowhere from the second story. We kind of meant to have a porch, but...well, the decades went on.

It is going to be a long conversation.

Meanwhile there's a dead tree to be felled, and a store customer, Dave, who understands trees. Talking with him I am finally talking with someone who understands how grave it is to cut an old tree, who understands that I want to tred lightly. We have a worker willing to walk gently through the next steps. That's good.

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