Some days are good for rambling . . .

Tuesdays, especially. When you have exerted yourself in a work out the day before and see absolutely no reason whatsoever to do it again today! When the first whiff of spring is floating in on gusty winds and dusty cream clouds and all you want to do is stand outside and take pictures of it, wherever it is. When you've read completely one page in your work and decide that it is enough and simply must save it for when you're house cleaning, and baking for company, and doing laundry, and dishes, and won't have a spare second to work it in anywhere!

 That's when you throw open all the windows in the house to let in the sun and cuddle yourself into a chair and do exactly whatever you want. Ramble. Read. Sing. Snuggle with a kitty. Dream. Write. Love. Spring loves to pop out at you unexpected and go away again without leaving a sign. But her pretty little brown cocoons were scattered all over the trees today, hiding a green fire within.

There's sounds of melting and puddles and warm, warm, warm sunshine!
Sherlock Holmes in the afternoons, since Dawna has been sick, and we all just gather around, unbidden. I love it when we spontaneously collect in the living room for one reason or another. We enjoy ourselves too much then and life is muchly worth the living.

Our first Young Chautauqua day in March is on Thursday and I have to babysit tomorrow morning. Princess Victoria Kaiulani of Hawaii sprang upon me from the shadows of history and Jane, dear friend Jane, disappeared into Book Lover's Lane for the time being. Kaiulani has won my admiration and love, and I tear every time I wonder how we could have let it happen to her. This taking her country because men were greedy. It's a pride-war with me, and I raise my hackles because America is the best country in the world, isn't she? She couldn't have made such a horrible mistake! Could she? And I struggle every time, but Kaiulani's story must be told. I want to tell it. To make myself understand. To make everyone understand---all is not perfect.

I went upstairs to supper and Ethan was talking about spicing up the milk! Not with sugar and spice, or cinnamon, or nutmeg. The hot red pepper spice! Oh, my family! Their voices filter down the stairs to me. Pots and pans clanging against pots and pans. Cupboards falling closed with a couple of bumps. And the evening stars are "pocket holes in the floor of heaven" as the sunlight vanishes. Then I'm called to clear the table. It's on my job list this week.

Afterwards, there's that hour between six o'clock and seven, when the dishes are washed, and it feels like a Sarah, Plain and Tall: Winter's End evening, with the wind like Kansas howling past the corners of the house, and we laze about wherever we want! Kitty whiskers twitch, and you lay down on the rug to hear them purr. Daddy sits in his recliner, spectacles perching on the end of his nose. My sister sings from the kitchen sink, and a fan blows in a room. Then seven, when we, all of us, read together. Kitties included. We knit, my sister and I. We all listen. Someday there will be a day when we're not all there to enjoy one another. When there will be a spare seat on the couch for once, and someone will be living in another house, reading with another part of family at night. Those days come, surely.

But for tonight, we all listen together. Just being.