Books, books, books! At the library I asked “Can I stack these on the corner of your desk for now?” after my armload left my briefcase free to slip off my shoulder too often while I browse the non-fiction section. An acquaintance -- a singing Baptist ex-landlady -- came in, saw the pile and was shocked at how many books I was taking.

“Looks impressive, doesn’t it?” I said, smiling.
“But I might not read them all. If a book doesn’t grab me by the end of the first chapter, I don’t bother finishing it. Too many books, too little time, to waste it on books that don’t excite me.”

That, and I won’t have to go in for a month or more. As I finish with them, I drop them off through the bookslot when I go to town once a week. I phone to have the librarian renew the ones I haven’t finished with.

"Women Who Love Books Too Much" is the title of a book I actually own. There are plenty of those, too, and right now I have no shelf to put them out on.

Loverboy is a builder, but one with no time to do everything asked of him. The callers who make every evening in our home an exercise in phone-answering must take a number and get in line, just like the rest of us who have been waiting for him to fix and construct things.

Here is the newly upholstered old couch. That's Beckster, Tiny Dancer, when I looked after her the other day.