We’re experiencing a warm and rainy interval here right now, which is a blessed change.
Not changed is the climate in the library, where everybody wears a sweater or a jacket all the time (myself included, though my office is generally a little better than the circulation room).
So I called the maintenance guy and told him, “The thermostat says 70°, but no way this is 70°.”
He comes in with a fancy electronic thermometer, and gets 70° for a read-out. Everywhere he checked.
I don’t comprehend this. I keep my house at 68° when I’m in residence, and my house is far, far more comfortable than the library.
I blame trolls.
I’ve never been a big reader of western novels. I went through a very pleasant Louis L’Amour stage, in which I read pretty much his entire canon (and learned a lot of geography), but no other western writer ever earned my amour.
One kind of western that does tend to raise my interest, though, is the well-researched novel based on actual historical events. Loren Estleman’s Bloody Season is a good example, but I believe that Johnny D. Boggs’ Northfield is even better. Continue reading Northfield, by Johnny D. Boggs