Sunset, Massachusetts Turnpike; coffee and a walk for the dog, at the edge of the Berkshires, with this James Taylor in my head, in place of the usual roadtrip soundtrack Gone to Carolina. (And there's this one, too, as long as we're on a YouTube roll).
Last week was bracketed by two twelve hour drives (thirteen and a bit if you count the stops), down to Virginia and back, made more than bearable thanks to The Amulet of Samarkand and The Children of Green Knowe on CD (thanks, Jane for the introduction to that one) and the company of Mystery Stole 3.
If you'd asked me a few weeks ago if I could knit lace in a full car with a book on tape playing, the answer would have been no - and that would have been the truth, but somehow over the last 200 rows or so I've moved on from being an "excuse me while I lock myself alone in this quiet empty room and do not bother me unless you're bleeding" lace knitter. Just as well, as there'd be no hope at all of finishing if I had to tally all my time like that.
Back in Charlottesville, I could have done with a spreadsheet to keep track of everyone's comings and goings. With a fair amount of planning and a bit of good luck, we managed to spend time with many -- but not all -- of the friends we've missed sinced December. Saturday morning I trimmed the hedge out front, and one of our old neighbors stopped to confess he'd done a double take: he'd waved, thinking "Okay, there's Kelly out in the garden ... hey wait a minute..." His son said it best, from the back of their van: "Didn't you move?"
Yeah, we did. My dad's happy in our old house, and the garden's doing fine in his care (the deer still stay outside the fence; the lillies are safe.)
PS: These are from Saturday, too; seventeen years and counting.