Plants from the Virginia garden -- dug, boxed up and taken for a long drive north -- settling into their new home.
We've been in New Hampshire a year and a half now; time to put down some more roots. Today's the first day of a two-month sabbatical from my writing job - which ought to make room for a bit more writing here.
Looking forward to a summer's worth of domestic life ... drop by anytime.
(There are pictures, just not here. Typepad's new Compose screen was waiting for me when I sat down to post. It is not interested, apparently, in uploading any images.)
Suddenly it's summer: nearly 90 the last few days, and a thunderstorm and downpour yesterday evening that got the streams running again in the woods for a while.
If you hear a story about a conversation that began with a comment about a front lawn with an unusually large crop of dandelions and segued neatly into the observation that immigration has been a terrible, terrible thing for Britain -- well, I heard it first. (My lawn. My dandelions, thank you very much.) It's one of the many things that have left me speechless over the last few weeks.
Most of them, thankfully, have brought on the good sort of speechlessness instead, the focussed, quiet "I really need to think about this for a while" kind. Like a month-long read of everything I can get my hands on by Caryl Phillips, who's coming to Dartmouth to teach and read this summer. And seeing productions of two plays written by a student I profiled a few months ago.
Plenty of ordinary busy-ness, too. Evidence of actual gardening:
And with two weeks until school's out for summer, it's high season for conferences, tournaments, open houses, performances: two a week on average for the last few weeks, and they keep coming (bonus: minimalist cardigan is growing).
Thursday, a rock musical of Homer's Odyssey. Eleven is singing Penelope. Have promised I won't knit while she weaves.