Was built in 1896. At least the first part of it was. Over the years the owners added rooms, changed room functions, changed doors, etc. Frank Lloyd Write would have shot himself. And when we got there three weeks ago, it smelled like an old house. You know that smell? It had been closed up for six months or so. It’s ok now. We scrubbed everything from top to bottom and I washed and waxed all the floors. But I figured out what the main source of the odor was. My old books. I mean ancient books. They stunk like Dracula’s sarcophagus. (See below)
Somebody liked poetry. And look at this:
George Gordon Lord Byron. Two copies no less, falling apart. Actually, when I was a teenager I read another book of Byron. It was much bigger than those two. I read Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. I read it over the summer months. I was probably 14. When I was 15 I read the Bible, and when I was 16 I read The Canterbury Tales. I was quite literate way back when. But look at the inside of the one Byron here:
You’d need the Palomar Telescope to read that sucker.
More about The Science of a New Life by John Cowan MD tomorrow.
Ever wonder why I got thrown out of newspapers?