My education has so many holes, it could be mistaken for a lace shawl stored with a colony of moths.
At last, I am reading Virginia Woolf.
I went to the post office yesterday with a large canvas bag. We don't get mail delivery at our property address, and I hadn't been to retrieve the mail in almost a week. I knew there would be books.
One box, small and almost square, looked like the one I had been anticipating. I barely resisted the urge to open it with my car key and, instead, waited until I returned home.
Virginia Woolf has come to the longleaf woods in the form of four paperback books: A Room of One's Own, Women and Writing, The Moment and Other Essays, and Moments of Being, a collection of Autobiographical Writing.
I started A Room of One's Own last night, propped up on pillows in the bedroom, enjoying owls hooting and other night sounds by the open screen door.
Buck came in to tell me he had been watching two big does having a late-night scuffle under the oak tree in the back yard. They were reared up on their hind legs taking pokes at one another.
Buck had put out a 50 pound bag of dry corn for the "house" deer the night before. These are mainly does that hang out near the safety of the house to raise their fawns. It was gone by morning. He put out another 50 pound bag late yesterday afternoon after we finished our walk.
On the way to my desk this morning, I notice one doe grazing near the oak tree and two fawns that are about to grow out of their spots racing around like kids playing tag. But there is no corn. Another 50 pound bag gone overnight.
Meanwhile, I celebrate the arrival of a big-brained Woolf to the woods.