At last the time to move was upon us. We sold our old house, although not to a buyer represented by an airhead. (As it turns out, Ms. Realtor didn't seem quite to understand that she doesn't get paid if she doesn't manage to make a sale, which involves working something out that's convenient for the seller as well as the buyer.)

One of my favorite features of the new house is its study, with two bookshelves built into the wall and room for two of our large bookcases. Even with the wallspace reserved for books, and room for a small fireplace, there are plenty of windows. Views toward the west, south, and east—visible in the nearby picture from March of this year—are quite nice. We're by no means lacking in trees.

As might be guessed from my interest in the study, we have more than a few books to put into the place. Wisely, we hired professional movers to handle all of the heavy furniture and anything else that could be packed into boxes. Moving day was Friday, and all Friday afternoon, I unpacked boxes of books. I did more of the same on Saturday. Still more on Sunday. And we're still not finished, although the majority of our books are at least now on shelves, even if they're not in only temporary locations. The case of fiction is easy enough, but arranging the rest of the material by subject matter, also taking size into account, is trickier.

We'll have time to settle that soon enough. Right now, I just want to sleep. And I'm glad not to be interrupted by the sound of fireworks.