I spent yesterday packing packing packing . . . mostly books and kitchen equipment. I am finding it fairly easy to figure out which dishes, pots, and pans I won't need to use for the next two months, but books are harder. Given the way my mind works, I could require anything at a moment's notice. Also, as soon as I take a book off the shelf, I think, Oh, maybe I should read that one again. Because this reaction happens repeatedly, I have to keep overriding the urge: No, no, Dawn, put that in the box, do not open it.

Next Saturday morning I will drive down to Portland to meet Tom and look at houses. We still have no idea where we will end up, but we do seem to be drawn toward 1920s-era bungalows. They are small, usually with one bathroom, but most have three bedrooms and a dining room, and a lot of them still have original woodwork; a few even have original kitchens. This is the advantage of being married to a good carpenter. He would rather buy a house without updates so that he can be in control of the aesthetics. Likewise, I would rather buy a house with a yard that hasn't already been landscaped so that I can design the garden myself. Conveniently, a shabby old kitchen and a dull yard mean a cheaper house, so we're hopeful that something good will come our way.