Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Spouse, as is his habit, calculated the matter without need of pen or paper: he estimated that all the walking I did in the last four months, back and forth to the local library, was the equivalent of hiking from one end of Ireland to the other.
"Keep that up," he said, "and you can do the return trip as well."
In truth, the route to the library offered a consistently more hospitable environment: I stumbled through no bog lands on my path, nor was I obliged to scale shapeless mossy hills, or pick my way through fields of staring sheep, or take shelter from blinding sheets of ice cold rain.
But now that I think of it, certain books I hauled seemed indeed as though they must have been torn from the side of a cliff on the Atlantic Ocean, so weighty were they; and there was the faintest, stinging hint of salt water in my eyes as I struggled home with arms numb, fingers aching, hoping that the enormous volumes of paper were worth the trek.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 3:11 PM