Friday, March 26


I collect rocks. Rocks from all over. Nova Scotia, Ontario, Manitoba, Florida, California, Colorado, Belgium, Scotland, England, Switzerland, Italy, the Netherlands, Germany, the Czech Republic. They've come from rivers, hiking paths, piazzas, woods, beaches, lakes, and campsites. I like to tossle them all together, pick through and remember. My rocks make me happy. I like how one from Central America will nestle next to a Swiss one. How that stone from Colorado complements the pebble from the Lost Coast of California. How one from Miami Beach balances just perfectly atop a backcountry Italian one.

I like how they are what they are, and how they all get along.

I also collect Agatha Christie paperbacks. I am usually reading one of them or another and they are always good to read while eating (scones and honey, tea ~ and that's in the book, not only on my plate.) My collection numbers presently at 54 and counting. (She wrote over 80.)

Yesterday, I went into a thrift store I usually don't stop by very often. They have an enormous paperback section that can be daunting, and, at times, exhausting to look through. I have to be in the right mood. You know.

So yesterday I went in there and I found 25 Agatha Christie's that I don't own. I almost had a heart attack. Then I was worried someone might (gasp) grab some so I got down to it and pulled out my little list (yes) and checked which ones I didn't have.

I struck gold.

I almost don't know what do to with myself. Because, except for one book (The Harlequin Tea Set and other stories) my collection of Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple and Tommy & Tuppence is complete. Complete. I've been building this collection up, book by book, for years. Finding one at a thrift shop here, one at a garage sale there. One at an airport. A used bookstore in Boulder. I don't buy them online: I've waited for them to find me, one title or two at a time. And they have.