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Archive for the ‘e-scrapbook’ Category

Books, the bodies of reading, were fascinating for me early in life, and I’m fortunate enough to have had parents who, after I left for college, saved many that I had as a kid. The oversized Dinosaur picture book, the scholastic book service biographies I ordered in school, the heroic war stories, the Vonnegut novels. The whole collection fit neatly on shelves built in over my bed.

The book shelves of my first apartments were also easily ordered. After a decade and a half in San Francisco, I moved, following a job across the bay that kept me busy for months. But one Saturday morning I woke with the usual to-do-list, which was interrupted by the realization I’d never properly sorted my books. Many simply came out of the boxes, which I’d filled by size and shape, not subject.

It was a nice weekend—my recollection is it was blustery outside, but inside I stacked piles of books, moving between bookcases in my living room, kitchen, and bedroom. American fiction, travel guides, a stack for Anne Tyler, movie references, et cetera.

I respect the decimal system of Dewey, but my categories are more organic. A History of Eating in America next to a Chinese cookbook; the collected Grantas shared space next to Graham Greene because they fit well.

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You, small male child: build things!

I got these Tinker toys as a Christmas gift, perhaps in the hope of encouraging my engineering skills. And there I was, with my nose stuck in a book.

Looking to pare down possessions, I look at this stuff now and wonder if anyone might want it, before I toss it out.

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Good luck to … Pinky?

We had a stray dog in our house for a day. She was a sweetheart … rambunctious, but a good girl.

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I encountered an old friend recently. Our re-acquaintance came about through this blog. Ms. Maria del Mar found my post on Salinger’s  Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters (Roof Beam, to us) which I had ended with a note on the odd wedding gift at the end of the story, wondering why anyone might send cigar ash.  She commented that it is explained in the next novella of that collection, Seymour — an Introduction.

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Only one day left of this ridiculous campaign. Much as I love to have NPR on as I potter around the house, today I think I will maintain radio silence.

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In January we briefly adopted an Anatolian shepherd named Roxy from the local animal shelter, until she stalked the semi-feral cats living in our garage. Sadly, we had to return her, although she was otherwise a very sweet dog who’d had a rough life, living on the street for several months before the animal shelter was able to capture her.

Tuesday evening I was walking our two dogs around the track at the local high school, when I noticed a guy walking two dogs, a small dark Chihuahua and a large tan dog, outside the school fence, paralleling us. They were on the marina access road so I saw them in glimpses, actually on the other side of the track’s grandstand, as well as a long hedge. But the larger, tan dog looked enough like Roxy to remind me of her.

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Home for a Holiday

I went home to my parents house in Rochester, Minnesota for Thanksgiving. While waiting at baggage claim I got an email from a former coworker, who wrote:  “Pretty cold there right now, huh?”

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