When I walked out the door to drive to a local farm to pick up our poor deceased turkey for Thanksgiving, it was just starting to snow, with a bit of a punch. It continued snowing all the way to the farm but stopped when I traveled farther south to buy the rest of our Thanksgiving dinner. Then, on the drive home, a few flakes started falling as I passed our post office, and the snow increased in intensity all the way westward to home. This happens so often and delights me. I drive west for five miles from the post office, and as I go, the snow becomes steadier, and by the time the car is climbing up our mountain road, it's really snowing and accumulating. It's a reliable weather phenomenon, and one I love. Driving into winter, I call it.
Several late afternoons ago, I started reading Ken Follett's Fall of Giants, the first in the 20th-century trilogy. I'm wrapped up in it, though I have plenty of other books on my plate. And it's 1,000 pages. It's been a very, very long time since I've tackled a book of this length. I'm also finishing The Emigrants by W.G. Sebald, delving into Beowulf a bit at a time, and reading The Mistletoe Inn by Nicholas Paul Evans for the half-hour before I fall asleep. I can't read anything with any complexity before bed because I usually forget the details by the next morning, except for the fluffier kinds of books. Actually, this one is quite captivating, if you're into a sentimental, romantic Christmas tale, which I always am this time of year.
Margaret Millar’s The Listening Walls (1959; 2016)
11 hours ago