Misadventures of the Monster Librarian

Living in corn country has its advantages, namely...corn. This fall has made me homesick for beautiful New England at this time of year, and the part of Michigan where I grew up--both areas rife with beautiful foliage: fierce oranges and reds, sharp yellows; colors as crisp as the fall smell in the air. I went for a walk this past week and though these are not the most beautiful fall leaves I've ever seen, I was just glad to find some colors! I took solace in the cool evening, in the rain, and in the running into a friend and being invited in for conversation. I went home decidely less homesick. As you read this, I will still probably be in South Carolina on the ocean with my dear friends; sleeping near the ocean in a tent, enjoying weather so unlike what's happening in the Midwest...it will be hard to leave later today.  I'll bring some sand back for you...

I have so much to say about work these days. I swear I will post about Library stuff soon, it's just that I've been working  a lot-it's quarter to 10p.m. and I am just now finishing the work day that began at 9a.m.--and sleeping a lot, like a damn bear hibernating!; and just feel like I can't keep up with LIFE! In the midst of all the good stuff I go and stumble upon a lovely poem like this and fall into feeling homesick for New England, my life there a million years ago, my friends tied to that place, my lovely Farm...*sigh.* "New England" Here where the wind is always north-north-east And children learn to walk on frozen toes, Wonder begets an envy of all those Who boil elsewhere with such a lyric yeast Of love that you will hear them at a feast ...

Yesterday I lay in the grassy courtyard of my apartment building, sweating under a sweltering summer sun. I'd risen and done my chores and then wanted nothing more than to lay in the sun like a cat, stretching and sunning myself, napping too perhaps. I read. Then I closed my eyes and missed the Farm. I pretended that the sound of honking horns and cars speeding by were lowing cows and rumbling tractors; the dry grass underneath me became a soft Farm field; the squirrels' chatter and birds' whistles made it more plausible. And yet I wasn't very far from the Farm, in the knowing that we were both under that same hot sun..and somehow that made it all right. " The Sun" Have you ever seen anything in your life more wonderful than the way the sun, every evening, relaxed and easy, floats toward the horizon and into the clouds or the hills, or the rumpled sea, and is gone-- and how it slides again out...

<p><br><br><br><br><br><br><br>DComfor</p> Comfort, Deb Talan I am going to tell you one of the secrets of life that you won't understand for yourself until it happens to you. When someone you love dies it sticks in you forever, it is the emotional equivalent to oatmeal sticking to your ribs and your stomach and filling you up all day. I once heard of grief as something like a wave which washes over you, but they always leave out the part about how even though you kick and fight back to the shore you still find remnants of that battle: sand in your belly button and ears and the sore eyes of too much salt water. Grief fills you with this longing that doesn't easily go away, like when y...

A picture I snapped of the Farm on a hazy day. I miss it so... Every year I sit in awe of two personal anniversaries: May 31 and March 6--the days I moved to and then moved back to the Farm . It was 3 years ago yesterday that I made the move back to New England (from Michigan) and in some ways picked up where I'd left off 3 years earlier, and in other ways began/continued? another chapter in my life. Last year I probably reflected on March 6 by going for a walk around the Farm, taking in the late winter, perhaps examining the sap buckets, wondering where I'd be a year from now (and who would have ever thought Ohio!?); maybe I mulled over another year past as I baked bread. This year found me wishing I was at the Farm for another anniversary, instead I spent the evening trying to stifle strong feelings of homesickness and a longing to get in the car and drive far from the library in Ohio, not stopping until I hit the Massachusetts line. I am sitting in my apartment, wond...

Back in the Mitten for the weekend, I am thinking a lot about the Farm and how I still think of it as home; going back through my old pictures reminded me of what I was doing at the Farm this time last year.  Today marks one year since a tree fell on my little cabin in the woods. A year ago I came home to utter chaos, and yet, I had many reminders that day of the many forms friendship can come in. Thinking of and missing my Farm and my Farmers today, this little slice of Uncle Walt felt appropriate: "To a Stranger" P assing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you, You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,) I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you, All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured, You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me, I ate...

This winter in Cleveland the weather has been strange. After all the melted snow then rain, then rain, then rain, I am wishing for things to dry up. I am wishing I were back at the Farm on one particular hot summer night, when a coolness surged in and surprised the fields into a mist that slid across the road and crept around the plants in my garden. I am wishing I was taking one of my "no talk walks" with my friend Sierra and admiring the beauty that is the Farm in any season. I am wishing that this hollow lonliness, which I've felt these past couple of days would stop lingering--like fog. "Fog" The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbour and city on silent haunches and then moves on. --Carl Sandburg

There is something particularly exciting about traveling somewhere for the holidays, no? Maybe it's just the excitement of getting away from this still strange-to-me-city. I can't wait to leave work at 5pm, get in my car, head north to Michigan; I am thankful for the 3 day weekend and seeing friends. Will be staying with brother A3 and preggo sis-in-law Dayna tonight and tomorrow, then moving on to best friend L and K's for the annual Christmas night gathering of our circle of friends. Don't really have any plans this year other than Christmas Eve brunch at my favorite Auntie's house tomorrow morning and Christmas Eve Mass with College Kim. Dayna and A3 asked if I wanted to head to Canada with them to celebrate with Dayna's family and friends, but I passed. I am just not in the holiday spirit this year. I think I am just homesick for the Farm. I liked spending quiet Christmases there. Never fear, I have prepared--I am taking 5 library books with me and hope to...

Have moved out of my obsession with Mumford & Sons and fallen back in with Ray Lamontagne. Every thing that Ray sings sounds really good these days...or maybe it's just because he is playing at my alma mater tomorrow and I should be there. Maybe it's because I am homesick and Ray's music is definitely something I associate back home with...hmm..

Feeling nostalgic...or something today. Heard this song and it made me think of a different time in my life. The first time I heard this it was playing on TSOldtimers "Sad Songs," CD, in my car, and we were on the way to pick up my brother from the airport. He was coming for a short weekend in Massachusetts to visit the farm, and then we were going to embark on a road trip back to our parents house in Michigan (through MA., New York state, and Canada). I remember feeling sligtly homesick for Michigan when I heard this song, and even glad at the prospect of going home for a spell. Though hearing it again today I realized that I was homesick for Massachusetts. Thinking of the idea of home, I managed to find this quote. Too true. "The country I come from Is called the Midwest" ~Bob Dylan Here is a link for the video of Half Acre , sung by Hem.