And so it was, on the descent into Houston Intercontinental, when I realized vividly that (a) I really, really wished there were someone to meet me at the airport, and (b) that I needed to move closer to my family. I knew precisely what actions to take, thought about details on the drive home, slept on the decision, and then emailed my son asking him to set up an appointment with a real estate person to look at houses in his small town. Three days later we were looking, and the next day I made an offer that was accepted. Philip is very glad that I will be two blocks, rather than two hours away. His dear wife Kristi is the soul of hospitality and plans to introduce me to everybody within a 20 mile radius. They even have a kitten which can join Smudge and me once we're there. We have all the usual hoops to jump through in purchasing a house, but I don't anticipate major problems. There is a huge den that will become my studio, with its own wet bar and full bathroom.
I've talked to a realtor here, planning to put this house on the market after closing on the new one. I've started packing books and giving some to the library. There are way too many books for any sane person. (I'll entertain argument about that statement from certain friends--just leave a comment. You know who you are.) I feel a real clarity about the decision--I guess the driver ahead has put on his brake lights. Really looking forward to decorating and rearranging in a new environment. Paint! floor tile! Take down the flocked wallpaper! Put in a million bookshelves! Fix the downspouts!
So I probably won't do much fiber work for a while, but that's OK. There will be pictures later when things are more settled. For now, imagine many, many boxes of books piled up in the garage. Imagine Bobbe buying a dolly to move them around. They (the Great and Terrible They) say a person shouldn't make major decisions for a year after the death of a spouse, but all my instincts tell me to "pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."