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Icicle of Celeste
Jan. 21st, 2026 07:10 pmI'm too tired for coherence. My particles are swirling around in a vague cloud, much like snowflakes. I didn't sleep very well, and we both got up extra early so the Sparrowhawk could go and do his money counting. It had been postponed from Monday at 9 to today at 8:30. I shoveled everything for his convenience. Then I flopped on the couch and gratefully enjoyed the hot tea he had left for me. He got home early enough that I could have taken the car and visited Madame, had I been so inclined, but it was snowing again and the streets were slippery, I gave myself a snow day, as I had warned her other friends and family that I might. During another pause in the snow, I shoveled the porch and sidewalk again, for the sake of the mailman. And then I thought "oh, what the heck, I have my boots on" and just re-shoveled the rest of it as well. I added the portion in front of the garage door, in the interests of access.
I put away some laundry. He went out to do a couple of errands. I made spaghetti with meat sauce, and then waited for him to come home, somewhat perturbed by his absence as it started snowing heavily again. It turned out that the delay was caused by difficulties in finding the flowers he wanted to bring me. He brought home a really lovely bouquet with seven red roses and five white ones, and an extra, smaller bunch of flowers because they were trying to get rid of them and had reduced the price.
Today I received a copy of the Burroughs Bibliophile fanzine in the mail, with an interview they did with me long ago when my Dejah Thoris book was first published. I thought they'd forgotten all about me! Kudos to the editor for a very nicely edited and laid out version. Now it remains for me to cringe at my own words and regret the wasted years that I did my best to elide in my commentary.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste
I seem to be on a Shakespeare jag this week. Alas.
I received notice of the obituary for the wife of my father's cousin. She died recently at the age of 87. I last saw her at my mother's funeral. She sounds like a pretty great person, though she lived out her life in the obscurity of Jersey County, Illinois. She was one of the few remaining elders on the branches of my family tree.
How about a little Thomas Gray for a change?
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
I certainly don't think anyone should mock or disdain a woman who raised eleven children and bore the proud title of Rural Mail Carrier.
I put away some laundry. He went out to do a couple of errands. I made spaghetti with meat sauce, and then waited for him to come home, somewhat perturbed by his absence as it started snowing heavily again. It turned out that the delay was caused by difficulties in finding the flowers he wanted to bring me. He brought home a really lovely bouquet with seven red roses and five white ones, and an extra, smaller bunch of flowers because they were trying to get rid of them and had reduced the price.
Today I received a copy of the Burroughs Bibliophile fanzine in the mail, with an interview they did with me long ago when my Dejah Thoris book was first published. I thought they'd forgotten all about me! Kudos to the editor for a very nicely edited and laid out version. Now it remains for me to cringe at my own words and regret the wasted years that I did my best to elide in my commentary.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste
I seem to be on a Shakespeare jag this week. Alas.
I received notice of the obituary for the wife of my father's cousin. She died recently at the age of 87. I last saw her at my mother's funeral. She sounds like a pretty great person, though she lived out her life in the obscurity of Jersey County, Illinois. She was one of the few remaining elders on the branches of my family tree.
How about a little Thomas Gray for a change?
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
I certainly don't think anyone should mock or disdain a woman who raised eleven children and bore the proud title of Rural Mail Carrier.
