Unpacking.

Yeah, it's true, I'm not finished unpacking yet.
Of course it's also true that I'm not over this weird flu yet either, and so it makes more sense when one realizes these facts are related. Or at least that's the story I'm sticking to.

But despite the aforementioned Robitussin induced coma, I did get a few boxes unpacked. Mostly into the new bookcase. (Which might look familiar because it's from the same set as the other bookcase.)

There is still a bunch of boxes to sort and unpack, but little spots of organization, islands in the sea of chaos are beginning to crop up.

It's slowly morphing from this (first weekend we were there)(ok, fine, the second weekend we were there) .......

to this ......

(I work hard at making sure My Nick's tastes are reflected in the decor. Hee.)

and this......

Can you believe my owl oil lamp ("Carlos") only cost a dollar? I love him almost as much as I love my old books. I pull out each book just to caress and sniff and gloat over them just as often as I do to read them. I can tell you right now off the top of my head which ones are there in that stack.
The red one on top is Silas Marner by George Eliot.
After that is a collection of Shakespeare's tragedies. (I always lay it sideways because it's leather cover is showing a lot of wear and starting to detach from the spine. Are there people who repair books? Wait, why don't I become one of those people?)
Below that is a collection of Robert Brownings' poetry, with a forward by L. Gibbs. (It has notes on every page, in a tiny but beautiful handwriting.)
After that is Wings of the Dove by Henry James, below that is one of my favorite books (and only one of the several copies of it that I have), Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, and on the bottom is Katherine, by Anya Seton.
The one behind Carlos is a Reader's Digest collection that I bought purely for it's cover, a fact I'm not in least ashamed of. Mostly because I know I'll read it anyway, and there, then I will have read something I might never have otherwise picked up. It's ok to judge books by their cover sometimes. And if I don't like it, it will make a fabulous book purse.

I won't bore you with pictures and lists of the rest of my old books. And no, none of them are worth anything much. But I love them all, madly, and I know all their faces.
Seeing them makes me feel like I really live here now.