There isn’t yet Internet out at the Old House, but I endured this lack of connectedness and survived. It is actually quite nice not to have this distraction; I read Dracula by Bram Stoker. It was a good few days in the country, hearing the coyotes howl and being woken by cockcrow (and going back to sleep again); it rained, and our car got stuck in the mud while surveying our property; while trying to find brush and whatnot to make the mud have more traction I inadvertently stuck my hand in a fire ant nest. With a startled shout to see my hand covered with ants, I ran to the shore and, plunging my hands into that cold water, was reminded of Pilate, doomed to wash his hands in the waters of Lake Lucerne for eternity. Fear not gentle readers, I only was only bitten a few times.
Then we left the Carolinas yesterday morning, driving across six states to return to the Promised Land, where at long last, I am reunited with my co-conspirator, my partner-in-crime, my comrade-at-arms, in others words, my best friend, Kelly, the Literary Cat herself. It is New Year’s Eve, and so I have persuaded her to stay up by watching a movie. Thus now we go to watch Lawrence of Arabia, about whom all I know is that only his friends call him by name, that he goes native, that his memoirs were stolen in manuscript form — and so it is probably about time that I begun my education about this intriguing and admirable personage.