By Robert Louis Stevenson
My house, I say. But hark to the sunny doves
That make my roof the arena of their loves,
That gyre about the gable all day long
And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song:
Our house, they say; and mine, the cat declares
And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;
And mine the dog, and rises stiff with wrath
If any alien foot profane the path.
So, too, the buck that trimmed my terraces,
Our whilom gardener, called the garden his;
Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode
And his late kingdom, only from the road.
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Thursday started with one inch of snow and two hours of school delay, plus a quick drive in the cold to give Adam the lunch he forgot, but it otherwise held nothing but work and chores. Paul worked from home except for a farewell lunch out with a long-time colleague who was let go earlier this year by their company; on the way home he rented a rug cleaner so I could attack the post-sick cat carpet even more aggressively. The highlight was an hour on my knees under the dining room table vacuuming with a hose because the vacuum itself wouldn't fit and the table's too big and heavy to move.
News involved being pissed at Virginia and New Mexico over the racism of redistricting and misogyny of trying to force rape victims to carry fetuses to term, plus laughing out loud at the news that J.J. Abrams will be giving Star Wars the reboot treatment -- with Disney producing, can it possibly be worse than what Lucas himself did in Attack of the Clones? Evening TV was this week's DS9 episode, then the still-extremely-enjoyable Beauty and the Beast on which I like pretty much every character. Here are some photos from the gardens at Maymont in Richmond, which we visited with Delta in December:
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