Judy is having a gaggle of friends over this afternoon, which means it's time for me to vacate the premises. I'll spend the rest of the day cruising some bookstores, seeing what treasures I can find. Probably not many. The pickings are slim these days. Most stores don't even bother with the kinds of books I'm interested in. If the book doesn't have a cover price of more than five dollars, they don't want it. The ones that do have a few old books always seem to stick some random price on them, hoping for a sucker to come along. That's why you can see a copy of, say, a tenth printing of a Perry Mason book with a $10 price tag.
So why do I keep going out and looking? Well, you know that old saying about hope springing eternal. But then Emily Dickinson said that hope is the thing with feathers. Whatever that means. You'd think that if it had feathers, it could stop springing around and take off in full flight.
But I digress. If I find anything worth mentioning, I'll do it here tomorrow. My inner pessimist tells me there won't be anything. But the feathery springer keeps whispering, "Just maybe . . . just maybe. . . ."
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