My books are too heavy

Except for the fact that they are not round, my books are beginning to make me feel like Sisyphus.

When we moved back to Chicago two years ago, I insisted on the purchase of a top of the line wall full of easy to install and take down and reinstall book shelves. I also insisted on the third bedroom being painted a lovely, dark, dusky purple (which was actually called “Lincoln Cottage Brown”: Erik claims that this is further evidence that our 16th president may not have been entirely straight, that his cottage was not brown, but actually purple). I had 11 feet of floor to ceiling book heaven in my room for my collection of minister-books.

You should have seen the look on the poor moving guy’s face when we walked in there and saw what he was going to have to pack. But he did it. And now I’ve got all those books in a house in California with absolutely no wall on which I can install those bookshelves (believe me, I’ve tried to figure this out). There is also no basement. But that’s OK because people in California don’t actually park in their garages: they use them for storage.

I have a sunny little room here to use as a study. Yesterday I did the best I could to unpack the books. And get the sunny little room whipped into shape.

A hour and a half into this project, though, I realized that I had quite literally boxed myself into the room, by piling the books that wouldn’t fit in the doorway. I had to dig myself out before the baby woke up from his nap.

My living room is now full of book boxes.

So today, we roll again. Up the hill. Maybe I will have the book situation in this house sorted in time for our next move.

Or maybe I will never move again (if the landlord lets me stay forever).

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