Friday, June 30, 2006

It's fixed,

but the books are gone. I simply don't have the patience to re-code them.

I'm off to save my template in a Word document.

In short

We read. (In the park, in the bedroom, in the backyard, at the pool . . . have you ever tried reading Antigone aloud at the Aquatic Center? It's not easy.)

We walked (with the waves of the Pacific Ocean curling around our toes, down the creek, through the middle of town).

We swam.

We drank. (Tea, that is.)

We stayed up late. And some of us woke up early.

We talked.

And talked.

And talked.

I had almost forgotten how good it feels to talk. Really talk. Every night, every day, nearly every moment. We rarely repeated ourselves, and we ranged from L'Abri to speaking in tongues to Classical art to Tolkien to manipulation (see this film) to the Care and Keeping of the Heart to the "curse of submission" (see Genesis 3:16). I had almost forgotten what the world looks like at two in the morning, or what ice cream tastes like at midnight. And now I remember.

We laughed, too. Somehow we can never quite get by without laughing.

And now we've said "Goodbye." But only for one week.

One week until we storm the theatres.

(Want a different perspective on the past seven days? Try this.)

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Blogger update

A hearty thank you to all the ladies who have emailed me with advice. Apparently I am not the only person having this problem. So far I know of at least three other bloggers who have experienced the same, or similar, malfunctions in the past few days.

I still haven't completely fixed the template (although I did manage to re-install my sitemeter), but I am working on it. Although I begin to wonder if re-entering all eighteen of those books is really worth it. Linking that many at once is a lot of work.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Has this happened to anyone else?

In the course of my morning blog and internet rounds, I checked my sitemeter, and was shocked to find the counter still at zero. Unusual to say the least, especially during a week in which I have submitted a piece to a Carnival.

Later, I happened to see MamaBlogger's sitemeter which showed that, as usual, she was getting referrals from me. *Lightbulb* Apparently my sitemeter wasn't recording visits.

Odd, very odd.

I checked The Autumn Rain. And there, at the very bottom of the page, where my footer quote, my bloglines button, my sitemeter button, and other paraphanelia are usually located, was NOTHING. Looking up, and along my sidebar, I also discovered that eighteen of my "Reading Matters" books were (and still are) gone.

EIGHTEEN?

Yes. Eighteen. Gone.

I hurriedly checked my template: sure enough, the entire lower portion of my template had been erased.

This disturbs me. I don't remember erasing that part of the template. And my sitemeter was working yesterday. The last time I changed my template was Monday, when I updated a link in my sidebar.

Had someone hacked into my blog dashboard?

I have changed my password. But the missing pieces of the template are being a little harder to remedy.

If any of my readers have had this problem, I would greatly appreciate it if you would email me here. I would like to find out if this is an isolated occurrence, my own mistake, or something bigger. . .

Monday, June 26, 2006

The definition of a "graduation"

Two days ago on a warm, gusty afternoon in the park, in front of close friends and numerous acquaintances, I stood up to present a speech that had been percolating in the back of my mind since early January. It was the consummation of twelve years of work --- hard, lovely work --- twelve years of the strong hands of able guides leading me down the road that today defines my life. It was the fitting end to a beautiful season of life, and an appropriate beginning to all that the next six years will bring. The names, of course, have been changed to The Autumn Rain's customary appellations for her siblings. MamaBlogger has also posted her note from the ceremony. You can read it here.

The definition of a “graduation,” according the Merriam-Webster Dictionary is “the award or acceptance of an academic degree or diploma.” Now, I don't want to disagree with Mr. Webster—truly I don't—but today I would like all of you to join me in re-defining my “graduation” just a little.

Most authors, when they have finished a book, write a dedication somewhere within the book's first few pages—a tribute to the individuals who have inspired their writing. Today, I would like you to regard my graduation as a kind of “dedication”: A tribute to all the lives that have imbued my own with a desire for the beautiful, and a passion for knowledge, wisdom, and truth.

Mama, thirteen years ago you made a choice. Immense as the task must have seemed at the time, you decided to teach me at home, and today, thirteen years later, we have never looked back. Thank you for investing—not just your time—but your whole life into mine. You have taught me not only to read, but to love reading. You have taught me to write and you have encouraged me to write well. You taught me my first words, and now, by example, you are teaching me to listen. As your student, I have gained not only head-knowledge, but heart-knowledge, too; the kind of wisdom that comes only when your most dedicated teacher is also your best friend. I couldn't have asked for a better childhood. Thank you for choosing home.

Daddy, thank you for your songs and laughter, and for handing a little of your sense of humor over to me. I don't know what I would do without it. More importantly, thank you for asking me questions; and for teaching me, not only how to ask questions, but how to ask the right questions. Only you know how many times I have come to you wanting you to corroborate an assumption of mine or an idea. And instead of telling me I was wrong, or simply agreeing, you asked me a question. You have made me think harder about my words, helped me shape my thoughts into coherent argument. And you have taught me to be inquisitive and thoughtful. I know that as I move on to college your questioning is going to stand me in good stead, and I trust that you will continue teaching me to teach myself.

SisterBlogger, it's a good thing I won't be leaving home for college, because we wouldn't know what do without each other. You know, about eight years ago, we both desperately wanted to quit sharing a bedroom: a space of our own, away from each other. Today, neither of us would want our own room: we'd miss out on too many great things: late night tea parties, evenings spent reading aloud, midnight confidences. Thanks for putting up with all the classical literature and poetry I've dragged you through, and for all the nights I made you turn out the light. But thank you most of all for being my “listener”. You know that when I talk, I'm not always looking for answers, I'm wanting assurance—and you have given to me more of that than I deserve.

BrotherBlogger: Here's to all the civilized, or not so civilized, arguments we've had! Thanks for being my debate pal. We don't always agree about music, theology, or what makes a great book, but we've had fun disagreeing. And I'm sure that counts for something. You are one cool dude.

Jabberwock: I don't think I have ever met anyone as generous as you are. You have taught me a lot about what it means to give until there's nothing left. Thanks for all those years of buying candy, and then sharing it with me and the rest of your family. I certainly hope you don't intend to stop now.

Ladybird and Moonchild: You are bright spots of sunshine in my day. Thank you for patiently listening to me read portions of my manuscripts out loud, and for always being so encouraging about my work. Moonchild, you have taught me to see nature in a whole new way --- and, of course, the moon. Ladybird, thank you for blessing me with your spontaneous hugs, and all the hundred-thousand ways you have of making me feel like a wonderful older sister. I love you both.

Most of you who know me well also have some idea of the impact that my extended family has had in my life. The years I have spent at my grandparents' property, playing with cousins, telling round stories beneath our Story Tree, laughing, reading books, having adventures—all of these years have stored up for me a trove of memories and experiences that I will never forget. Not all of my family is here today—but to those of you who are, thank you for being some of my dearest friends in the whole world. And Grandma and Grandpa, thank you for making these years so wonderful. Your love for each other, and for all of us, has made your home such a joyful place in which to cultivate friendships. Thank you for giving all of your grandchildren the chance to know what it's like to have a cousin for a best friend.

And to my friends: my honorary cousins and aunts and uncles, and the families who have been beside me right from the very beginning, and those of you who I am just now getting to know: you have each played a crucial part in my life. You have taught me life skills, and you have modeled the character qualities that I desire for myself. Some of you have developed my taste for the Great Books; and others have shown me the value of deep conversations. You have both encouraged and challenged me as I seek to live a Godly life, and I cannot thank you enough.

And so today we are celebrating, not only my graduation, but a dedication. Today is as much yours as it is mine. Because I could not have done it without you. It is your kind hearts and timely words that have encouraged me to continue developing my skills as a writer, to persevere in my desire to work as an editor, and to give, and give, and give to my family, to my friends, and to the people around me. You have shaped the chapters of my childhood, and now you inspire me to take up my pen and begin the second part of this Grand Adventure we call Life.

Friday, June 23, 2006

"Analyzing"

Mrs. M'mv's post on "getting to work", which I referenced yesterday, made for good discussion in the kitchen last evening.
What are the implications, personal and political, of the choice many highly educated women make to bend their (advanced) education to the primarily quotidian pursuits of child care and housekeeping?
she asked. And we tried to respond. We read a portion of what Linda Hirshman has written. We talked, we discussed, we debated. And along the way I discovered this summary of Ms. Hirshman's controversial book:
In "Get to Work: A Manifesto for Women of the World," she argues that a new revolution is needed to reform the sexual politics of family and to make women realize that full participation in the work force and the public sphere is their only path to becoming self-actualized human beings.

"Self-actualized human beings"? Is that truly all this life is about? Self-actualization?

I suppose my next thought doesn't truly answer M'mv's question about the personal implications of woman's choice to stay at home. But it does address a facet of the same issue: the children.

It is good, of course, to consider the political and personal effects of a woman's choice to work or stay home. But in the same breath, should not we also consider the effect that such a choice will have on our children? If women - and men - choose to become parents, then they can no longer base their decisions on purely personal, or political motives. As parents, they now have an added concern and responsibility: the well-being of their children.

The choice to stay at home, or go to work, then, becomes not only about self-actualization, but about what is best for the children in the home.

This is not the place to debate the merits of one way over the other: home vs. work, school vs. homeschool. My mother has chosen to stay at home, and I can never thank her enough for it. But I also know families for whom homeschooling and staying at home were either not feasible or desirable; they chose to go a different way, and that's all right. The important thing is not which way you have chosen - not which "camp" you've joined - but whether or not you have chosen the path that will most benefit your family.

(Heads up: Mrs. M'mv expands on her first post in "Get to work" redux. And the Queen of Carrots has some excellent thoughts on her choice to stay home.)

Sometimes.....

I'm glad we're not in California any more.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

On "Getting to work"

“When domesticity, for instance, is called drudgery, all the difficulty arises from a double meaning in the word. If drudgery only means dreadfully hard work, I admit the woman drudges in the home, as a man might drudge at the Cathedral of Amiens or drudge behind a gun at Trafalgar. But if it means that the hard work is more heavy because it is trifling, colorless and of small import to the soul, then as I say, I give it up; I do not know what the words mean. To be Queen Elizabeth within a definite area, deciding sales, banquets, labors and holidays; to be Whiteley within a certain area, providing toys, boots, sheets, cakes and books, to be Aristotle within a certain area, teaching morals, manners, theology, and hygiene; I can understand how this might exhaust the mind, but I cannot imagine how it could narrow it. How can it be a large career to tell other people’s children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one’s own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No; a woman’s function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness.” (G.K. Chesterton. H-T: Atlantic)

Mrs. M-mv asks us to consider a very good question.

Ann posits some thought-provoking answers.

And The Autumn Rain? Well, she's still following M-mv's most excellent prescription:

"Read. Think. Learn.

"Analyze."

Reading aloud

It was five o’clock in the afternoon. Outside my basement window, the mountains across the little valley were wrapping themselves in robes of misty blue; the valley itself was filled with the shifting shades of eventide. All was calm and indistinct. Inside, on the other side of the smudged window, a fire was crackling away in the wood stove. Its flames burned flickering shadows across our faces and sent streaks of orange and yellow to playing hide-and-seek across the cover of my book.

I was reading aloud. I lay stretched across the old brown couch. My sister sat on the floor beside me, her face silhouetted in the firelight, her hands busy with her knitting needles. “Clickety-clack,” went the pointy tips; on and on stretched the words of my yarn. Ever since I was little, I have loved books. I relish the feel of a bound cover beneath my fingertips; I enjoy nothing better than an evening spent savoring the taste of rich, full words in my mouth and on my tongue. Perhaps it is because of this that I have grown so fond of reading aloud. Words in my head are wonderful, but words spoken aloud possess a voice that is stronger and more vibrant—alive with the nuances of diction.

There was a slight noise in the room. I looked up to see a golden-haired girl enter the circle of words and firelight: my almost-youngest sister. She held a needle and thread in one hand, and a piece of counted cross-stitch in the other, and she was listening intently to the story that I read. Now there were three of us: knitting, stitching, spinning tales—the words were binding us together.

Across the room, on another couch, lay my brother. He was two years younger than me and engrossed in his own book. But with a sudden movement he threw it down and lounged over to my side. In the same moment, my youngest brother emerged from his room. He, too, had heard the call of a well-beloved tale; and now we were four.

We had reached a climax in the story. The music to which we listened spurred my voice on to master the images set before me on the page. The words slipped out, one after the other, falling into a breathless rhythm. The needles kept clicking; in my peripheral vision I could still see my younger sister’s hand maneuvering the needle; but I could feel the intense concentration of their minds.

Avidly we followed the adventures of our heroes: across a river, over plains, into the horror of battle. Our breath was stiff with anxiety. We all knew the ending—but could they do it? When I glanced up from the page, I found my youngest brother’s eyes upon me. They were wide and in their shimmering green depths I saw pools of wonder, awe, and fear.

The last shreds of light were torn from the heavens as I drew my reading to a close. The mountains were now black against a star-pricked sky. The valley was spotted with the yellow glow of street lanterns. Inside, the fire had begun to grow dim, and fierce red coals illuminated the grate where flames had once danced.

There we sat, the five of us: knitting, sewing, watching, listening, and reading. We were siblings: competitive creatures who are sometimes friends but more often enemies. We were each of us unique and separate. One of us built stories, another built computers; still another played the piano, while another preferred to play at make-believe. Yet somehow, in those dusk-filled hours, a book had managed to draw us together. The spoken words which I loved so well had captured our imaginations and made us one.

[Note] I was thinking about this short essay (or, perhaps, short story) earlier today. I wrote it about a year ago; but the event detailed actually happened about two years ago - back when ye olde kith and kin convinced me to read The Lord of the Rings - and when I fell in love the book about mid-way through the first part simply because Tolkien used the word "slope" (as opposed to "hill") so frequently (a word which, in terms of likeability, sayability, and beautability ranks right up there with "gloaming"). I thought about saving this piece as a sort of "celebrate Tolkien's birthday" post, then I realized that that was back in January. I refuse to wait for January. You will notice that I never said what book I was reading aloud. And now even I'm not sure. But it must have been either The Two Towers or The Return of the King.

Gloaming

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Sights and sounds of summer














Moonchild enjoys a sunny moment with . . . . . . Snowshoe Thompson? (Now whatever made her choose something so decidedly chilly?)















George Winston: Summer

Welcome, sunshine! We look forward to seeing what our first Oregon summer has in store for us.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Please welcome more of the family over at A Bushel and a Peck.

Monday, June 19, 2006

The Carnival of Beauty returns









It's back up! And Susanna @ A Christian Mother's Reflections is hostessing the next Carnival on the Beauty of Self-Control. See the details, including notes about the Tuesday deadline, here.

From the quote book (3)

Thumbing through my quote book this morning, I realized how little time I've been spending compiling notable phrases from my latest books. I've made all of six entries since about March. Time to fix that; and time to share a few of the latest quotes with you.

Writing a new book is like meeting a new person. (Moonchild)

[W]hatever we learn has a purpose, and whatever we do affects everything and everyone else . . . . Why, when a housefly flaps his wings, a breeze goes round the world . . . . Whenever you laugh, gladness spreads like the ripples in a pond . . . . And it's much the same thing with knowledge, for whenever you learn something new, the whole world becomes that much richer. (The Phantom Tollbooth, Norton Juster)
I mentioned in this post that I was giving The Phantom Tollbooth a second chance. And I am so, so glad that I did. I'm not sure how I managed to "miss it" the first time around, but every bit of Juster's handsome play on words hit home with this reading. It is a book to which I will likely return again and again; if not right now, then someday with my own children.

A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. (The Writing Life, Annie Dillard)
Dillard hits the nail squarely on the head with this one. Schedules are beautiful things.

Previous "From the quote book" entries can be found here and here.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Something to write for

Semicolon informs me that Loni from Joy in the Morning has announced a writing contest. Writers and wanna-be writers of the "Where I Am From" poem can find out all the rules right here. The prize? A beautiful bracelet. Loni asked that we post our poems between the 7th and 21st of June so even though I posted my "Where I Am From" just a month ago, I'm going to go ahead and paste it below.

Where I'm From

I am from books,
from They Loved To Laugh,
and Anne of the Island,
and Little Women,
and A Severe Mercy.

I am from Ganzan, and Biscay, and Sunbonnet,
from Easthaven, and Woodleigh,
from mushrooms growing in the playhouse,
from teepees in the backyard, wigwams in the South,
from fir tree cabins and rosebush castles.

I am from the manzanitas, the magnolias, the huckleberries,
from the Story Tree, and foxgloves, and bleeding hearts,
I am from old-fashioned roses clambering over the derelict barn,
from the Rose Cottage.

I am from readers and walls of books,
from Carole and Portinga,
from the Qualls' Nest,
from our own Alphabet Soup.

I am from homeschooling and big families,
from late nights laughing,
and impulsive swing dancing,
and from the time Papa Jim cried because we were all there.
All praying.

I am from forty-six cousins.

From "London fog!" and,
"Once upon a time,"
And, "I love you."

I am from Easter egg hunts by a busy road, small classrooms,
a giant nine feet high (they stuck a sticker on the wall to prove it).
I am from praise choruses and hymns,
And Mama's Bible-time voice in the morning.
I am from Question Marks,
and I am from Exclamation Points.

I am from wooden shoes and windmills,
from glass blowers and a coat of arms for bravery,
from warriors and reservations,
and from a Virginia plantation that collected its own ghost.
I am from Twelve Boy Curry and homemade, wholewheat bread.
I am from two continents, three countries, four nations.

From the afternoon walks down rusty train tracks,
from Egyptian burials and calligraphy eyebrows and the Ancients' Club.
From the afternoons beneath our Tree
(telling about Lanika and Jaques; about the red-eyed bat and the cave; about the minotaurs and the skunk soup).
From the afternoons I read Paradise Lost on my stomach in the sunshine.

I am from elaborate scrapbooks, ten journals, dusty boxes of photographs in the back cupboard.
I am from a briefcase of letters. Handwritten.
I am from an unfinished wooden box:
from dried grass bracelets, and brittle pine needles, and a bachelor's button that has lost its saffron petals.

I am from the covey of quail scuttling down the road,
always moving,
always protecting,
always together.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Heirlooms


"I have something for you," she told me. "Right there on the table."

I unwrapped the box carefully, peeling strips of tape from the bright wrappings, setting aside the purple bow, and--

"Oh! Oh, Grammy. It's beautiful. Beautiful." I knotted my fingers through the thick wool; I gathered the heavy afghan into my arms.

"Remember what I said about last winter? I started knitting again after a while. I had to, to keep my mind busy while I was sick - that there's the washing instructions - and all the while I knitted this, I thought of you."

"The pattern! - "

"Isn't it purty? Kind of old-fashioned, I thought. And I just - well, I was gonna mail it. And then you called and said you were comin' up this week-end, so I thought I'd wrap up an' give it to you now."

"Oh, Grammy, it's beautiful. Oh, thank you. Thank you."

An hour later, and we were driving home, back through the mountains to our rental home and our own familiar streets and the little neighbor boy who leaned out his bedroom window to give us "goodnight" when we pulled into the driveway.

Inside, I spread the afghan over my bed, running my fingers down the raised, pearled chevrons, toying with the eyelet arches that lace through the fabric.

"Oh, Grammy."

("Isn't it purty?")

"Thank you."

("I was gonna mail it. And then you called.")

"I shall keep it . . . for always."

("And all the while I knitted it, I thought of you.")

Life lessons from the tea house

My last job was stress-free. And, no, I'm not joking. What could be less stressful than stacking books on a cart and filing them neatly away in their shelves? Processing magazines, sorting hold items, collecting the book drop: Working at the library gave me long hours in which to think, and the occasional adrenaline rush, like the three or four times someone stole a book and left the dust jacket and barcode stashed in the twilight of the biography aisle.

Life at the tea house, on the other hand, is much, much different. The tiny shop downtown is family-owned and operated, except for SisterBlogger and myself, who have been hired on to create sandwiches and wash dishes. And for our employers, the business is not just a unique service to the citizens of –, it's a livelihood. On many days there is no time for rumination; no time to pause over a tempting title or a disheveled shelf; no time to think. Ten high teas in two hours? Well, we can only try.

Step lively.

I don't work well under this kind of pressure. While SisterBlogger stands calmly at the sideboard slicing quiche and strawberries, I start running in circles like, well, I'll spare you the metaphor. I am learning, however, to seize moments of reflection that are so intrinsic to my day. Hand washing dishes at the sink, I sniff the scent of the fresh breeze and honeysuckle that wafts through the kitchen window. Sweeping the wooden floors after a busy day, I hum along with our music. Minding the tea counter, brewing tea, wrapping tea cozies snugly around porcelain pots, I perform these little duties as rituals; and upstairs, as I press linens for the tables in the sunroom and the gallery, I ponder the photos on the walls, the cars on the street below.

I don't have to be away from people to find peace. I can find it right here, at the sink, in the busiest moments of the day. In the tea house.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Summertime geography

Summer is hovering very closely on the horizon of our days and with it comes a change of pace. To keep us moving along in our Learning Life this summer, my younger children and I will be journeying through Ann Voskamp's A Child's Geography.
Read the whole post and see all the pictures here.

"anyone lived in a pretty how town"

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

(e.e. cummings)


A few months ago I read some Cummings on a whim. And I didn't like his poetry. Not.at.all. What's the point in reading if one can't understand it?

I said as much yesterday as I skimmed over "anyone lived in a pretty how town", and to prove my point I decided to read the poem aloud.

"Don't you see, Mama? Don't you see that it makes no sense? This is not me at all."

But when I read it aloud, something happened. I didn't exactly understand. I didn't quite sympathize. But there was something - something - different. And I read it again. And again. And again.

It still makes little sense. Poetry analysts go wild with the verses of this complex little poem: "E.E. Cummings cumulates different kinds and levels of rhythm in order to suggest the complexity of superimposed sensuous and mental impressions," "it may be viewed rhetorically as philosophical commentary on the antagonism between knowledge and understanding." But I prefer to enjoy it. Oh, yes, poetry is structured, carefully constructed, beautifully rigorous. But just once, just once, I prefer the experience to the analysis.

Read it. Read it again. Read it out loud. Enjoy.

(More on poetry? Memorizing, parts 1 and 2. Celebrating. Reading out loud.)

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

End of year antsipation

Antsipation [ants i pa' tion] a feeling of intense nervous excitement, generally stimulated by the commencement of the end of the school year, and the approach of summertime.

"Are you taking notes?"

"Notes? Naw. Not any more. We've only a week and a half left, remember?"

Sigh. "Shouldn't you be taking notes? - (Looking at the fifteen pages left in my spiral-bound, and at the pencil poised above the paper) - Shouldn't I be taking notes?"

"Well, you can if you want."

"I won't."

I close the notebook. I count the number of pages left in my government text. I wonder idly if that last paper on The Chosen is really necessary. It isn't.

It will be the only one I've skipped this year. But we're almost done.

Almost.

"Read anything interesting today?"

"No. Well, actually, yes! . . . . [Later] Don't you just love that part in The Outsiders? An awfully clever way to get a ride, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask. But I still think it was a good way to get a ride."

"Hey! Our hours at work will overlap tomorrow. Do you want to bring our book and read on break?"

Bring your own book. Nice phrase. I can just see it on an invitation to some sort of literary gala: BYOB. Bring your own book. Hmm. Then again, maybe I won't try it. "I could. I could do that."

"Perfect."

A pause.

"You're done with science."

"So am I."

"And I'm done with math."

"Well, I'm not quite there yet."

"And that major paper? It's done."

"We're ahead on a lot of books."

"Oh, yes. And I've ordered my cook books for the summer challenge."

"And I ordered my summer reading yesterday."

"How long is it till the end of school again?"

"Next week. Friday."

Next week. Friday.

Next week.

Friday.

Next.

Week.

(Friday.)

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Sunday afternoon

Hither, thither, and yon

It's been a long week, and a busy week-end. Posting, as my dear readers have likely noticed, has been slim. And tonight, instead of writing something intellectually stimulating, telling you how much I enjoyed Northanger Abbey, or commenting on the goings-on in the little rental house downtown, I'm going to leave you with a few links, and then take myself off to my bedroom (where I intend to declutter my bed just enough so that I can fold back the covers and go to sleep).

Link #1: Intellectuelle. "This blog is a forum for women who take matters of thought seriously. We seek to honor God with our hearts, souls, and minds as we pursue right thinking both individually and together. As iron sharpens iron, so dialogue aids us in our quest for wisdom and understanding." I haven't been reading long, but I like it. See here for one of my favourite (albeit satirical) posts.

Link #2: SisterBlogger has re-done her site. And it looks beautiful!

Link #3: Up-date your sidebars! Sallie at Two Talent Living has changed her blog's name and address. A hearty welcome to a most Gracious Home.