I finally finished it. Getting back to still life with as little as I’ve shot since last summer (and such a small percentage of that planned table top) means I’m rusty right now. I have to make myself do this. The joy and fluency will return as I keep at it. But enough of my inner frustrated artist.
When I hear or read the word dictionary, this is what comes to mind:
The big, red dictionary was once my Uncle’s. I don’t know how it got to us, but whenever my Mom told me to look something up in the dictionary, this was the book I picked up. We had other dictionaries, but this was The Dictionary. Mom let me take it with me when I moved out.
I’m not language crazy by any stretch of the imagination, but an old dictionary just has some kind of venerable aura about it. When I find one, I want it. This one from the 1950s was thrift-store find last fall. With its pinkish cover, letter tabs, and gold-edged pages, it almost looks like a Bible.
Not all dictionaries are venerable tomes though. I found this pocket dictionary at a library book sale a few years back. The writing in the front cover tells me a teen girl owned it back in the 1940s.
Next Time: Observatory
Speaking of old and venerable, I spent yesterday at an observatory constructed in 1895. In the early 1920s, it was such a big deal in astronomy and astrophysics that Albert Einstein himself visited it.