Rain, Books and Feathers

One shelf of six, from one of seven bookcases

The weather has been just atrocious for the past several days.  Storm after storm, howling winds, too much rain, and about 25* cooler than normal.  Frankly, for me, it's been great.  I haven't had to water the plants, weed, or do any work outside at all, and I love the sound of rain pounding on the roof while I'm all cozy inside with the boys.  It beats being too hot, or laying on the floor ready to expire from humidity overdose.

(It's too bad the storms didn't keep blustering and blowing until they reached Colorado.  Those poor folks really need help in putting out their fires.  Worryingly, it's only June, with two of the hottest, driest months yet to come.)

Since I'm more or less stuck in the house, I gather up some books, prepared to spend the weekend reading.  It's then I realize I am seriously failing my Book Challenge for 2012.  When I signed up in January, I had every confidence that not only could I reach 100, but would easily exceed it.  I read.  Voraciously.  It's what I do, and always have.  Now, however, I found myself 17 books behind where I should be by June, the halfway point.  50 books should already be done and dusted.

At first, I can't figure it out.  How could I be this far off?  Well, I guess it has to do with being the gardener, plumber, housekeeper, shopper, dog walker, mechanic, and general factotum of the Money Pit.  It takes too much of my time.  It's one thing to share the chores, quite another when everything has to be done by one person.  And, yeah, that one person would be me, unfortunately.

Rising above and beyond, ignoring the house, being the female version of Baldrick**--no doubt in more ways than one--I read three books between Saturday and yesterday, starting the fourth last night.  I'm still behind, but making some headway.  And it was really great to get away for a nice, long weekend.  I went to New York, Oxford, Edinburgh and Budapest...with no jet lag at all.

Today, though, the tide has turned.  No more lounging about on my fake holiday.  It's in the 80s, brilliant sunshine, and the rain has spurred on the weeds to epic proportions.  I was outside earlier to see what I have to do, and discovered that my most beautiful Mexican Feather Grass might really be a weed.

It's a wonderful, delicate, feathery thing.  It wafts gently in the slightest breeze or mere breath of air.  I really love this plant.

Until I discover that it has cast it's ever-so-fertile little feather self all over the damn yard.  There must be over a hundred sprouts popping up like little green Triffids everywhere in the front garden.  Strangely, between the drive and the stone wall, there is this symmetry of baby plants, perfectly spaced and growing like they were put there on purpose.  They weren't.

I'm actually going to leave them there. They'll look really cool against the stone when they get bigger, all feathery and wispy.  Though...hmmm, it does make me wonder if that wasn't their plan all along...


** Blackadder series...Baldrick always had "a cunning plan."