Saturday, May 2, 2015

20150502.0700

Ms. 8 got her own bedroom last night. Rather, my Mrs. and I moved out of the room where we had been sleeping since settling in at Sherwood Cottage and where we had put Ms. 8's crib, switching the beds in that bedroom--"the front"--and what had been the guest bedroom. It seemed a better choice to make than swapping all of the furniture around. There is more to do in that regard, of course; there is a bookcase that needs to come out of Ms. 8's room and into that my Mrs. and I now share. But what is left to do is relatively minor, easily accomplished once we or I set out to do it--although that will likely be a while.

Work continues, of course. I have a set of assignments to grade in haste, and I am fortunate that their nature is such as admits of my doing so. I am also in the midst of a freelance piece; it is well begun, but it is not done, and it needs to be. I will likely be able to complete it over the weekend. My conference paper also needs attention. The reading I have yet to do for it will go quickly, as the texts I am poring over are short and I have read one of them before, but it still takes some time and the writing takes a bit more. It will get done, though, as will all of the other tasks I have to handle before the term ends and I gallivant up and down the middle of the country.

Weather at Sherwood Cottage continues to be good. The nights are cool, the days warm, and the rain that we enjoyed has moved on so that the ground is drying out and I will likely be able to mow the yard today. It needs it; the falling water has helped the green carpets in the front and back of Sherwood Cottage become shaggy, a seeming throwback to the worst excesses of the 1970s. The back yard also needs some picking-up, as there are branches strewn about and what I can only call the leavings of plumbing work done to be found; a hatchet-job is needed, too, as roots and such are sticking up such that they will meet the mower blade uncomfortably. I have no desire to have wood chips or slivers of PVC flung at me at speed again. The experience was unpleasant enough the first time. And the second. And the others.

It is, for the most part, a calm, placid life I lead, following a pattern that I have allowed to grow up over the short time that I have been where the wind comes sweeping down the plain. I make no complaint of it; I know that the pattern of my life could be far worse than it is. It could be better, yes, and I continue to struggle to that end, but it could be worse. I have no desire to learn how much worse...

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