![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
While making a particularly soupy pizza yesterday—fresh mozzarella poses unique challenges, I learned—I glanced out the window to see a yard sale being set up across the street. My eagle eyes detected precious precious shelf space. "Sweetie," I called to K., "do you want to run next door and grab those bookshelves?"
They were not actually bookshelves—they were one-foot pine cubes, connected together like Tetris blocks to make three 1x2 stacks and two 1x3's. But they were $10 for the set, and K. had $10 in her pocket, so we seized the opportunity. And so the wheels of unpacking grind slowly forward. One 1x2 is now dedicated to Bloom County and Mister Boffo and Doonesbury, one 1x3 is coming up into my loft, and the remaining pieces are stacked in the hall thuswise:
The bottom four cubes are stocked with about 150 issues of SWAPA; the top three are reserved for books that have nowhere else to live, like the four Halcyons (1990, '93, '94, and '95) we mysteriously own. Unpacking naturally led to nostalgic browsing: a yearbook photo of me dancing with Holly Quinn, on whom I crushed hard while K. was in Rome; Our Friend In Hawaii's post-breakup ’zine from 1997, before I really knew her, but which melted my heart; rogues'-gallery photos of SWIL-that-was.
As I type, this year's Pterodactyl Hunt is just starting, whooping and skulking and enveloping the dark chill campus. Swarthmore seems long ago and far awa', yet so close I could touch it.
They were not actually bookshelves—they were one-foot pine cubes, connected together like Tetris blocks to make three 1x2 stacks and two 1x3's. But they were $10 for the set, and K. had $10 in her pocket, so we seized the opportunity. And so the wheels of unpacking grind slowly forward. One 1x2 is now dedicated to Bloom County and Mister Boffo and Doonesbury, one 1x3 is coming up into my loft, and the remaining pieces are stacked in the hall thuswise:
_ _ _
|_|_|_|
|_| |_|
|_| |_|
The bottom four cubes are stocked with about 150 issues of SWAPA; the top three are reserved for books that have nowhere else to live, like the four Halcyons (1990, '93, '94, and '95) we mysteriously own. Unpacking naturally led to nostalgic browsing: a yearbook photo of me dancing with Holly Quinn, on whom I crushed hard while K. was in Rome; Our Friend In Hawaii's post-breakup ’zine from 1997, before I really knew her, but which melted my heart; rogues'-gallery photos of SWIL-that-was.
As I type, this year's Pterodactyl Hunt is just starting, whooping and skulking and enveloping the dark chill campus. Swarthmore seems long ago and far awa', yet so close I could touch it.
