I don’t like driving after dark. So the amount of time that I have to get the project work done in town is limited, both early and later in the day. Add to this, right now, there is more to be done. Used to be that I could sort and categorize all the books that came in, in a day. Not now. There is an overabundance of books and an underabundance of light.

Last night’s rather large haul took me by surprise. I thought that there would be, at most, a few dozen bags and boxes of books. It turned out to be a whole roomful. The woman just took a photo of what was in the corner.

Books from Eagle River woman

I’m sure this wasn’t intentional. What she was doing was simply saying, “I have books that need to go elsewhere.”

It would have been an ideas day, but I didn’t have the time to bring any ideas into fruition. I had every intention of getting up early and getting some writing done, but I didn’t because I knew the floor would be cold and that I’d have to get a fire going. Some people lead lives in which it is easier to make the transition from going horizontal to vertical. Some have radiant heat under their tiled floors. Their coffee pots are on timers and go off at a certain time. If, say, they wake up cold, they can simply turn up the thermostat. Life is good, eh?

I remember once reading a story by Ray Bradbury, I don’t know why I think it was called, “There will come soft rains.” I read this 1976 – it was a futuristic piece of fiction, one in which the owners were no longer present, but the house kept running.

So, it was not an ideas day. Ahh, but I did glom onto one idea. I decided that I’m not a passuer, nor am I a sherpa. Rather, I’m a pit pony. Like the ponies of way back then, I am doing as I’m supposed to be doing. The pit ponies went to work every day, and the carts they were pulling were filled with coal. I go to work every day, and the car I’m driving is filled with books.

For both me and the pit ponies, there is a lot of heavy lifting/pulling involved in what we do.

Someday, I’d like to write a book about the pit ponies. I think that they were mainly worked to death in the mines in not so Great Britain. I wonder if there are any memorials anywhere, in which individuals are paying homage to these stalwart creatures.

Lately, I’ve been thinking that I’m really a pony person. And I never thought I’d say this. They are small, so they have to make their needs known. I respect this.

Tomorrow, more of the same; another full day of work. I know how those ponies felt . . .

Next: 328. 11/29/22: Cold