The stack of pocket-sized Moleskine Le Petit Prince-themed hardback daily calendars that sits on a bottom book shelf in my study has grown again. There is room for several more before a cover bumps against the bottom of the upper shelf, but who knows where Buck and I will be by then? Our beloved Longleaf is for sale and while the idiosyncratic nature of the home and property makes for a short list of possible purchasers, it will only take one, and then we will be moving . . . somewhere.
The cover of this year’s small calendar has a drawing of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s baobob trees, about which he warns children to watch out.
Enfants! Faites attention aux baobabs!”
I’ll do my best to pay attention to seemingly innocuous tiny weeds in the garden of my life this year and yank them out before they grow roots and turn into huge, unstoppable baobab trees.
At 65, the years ahead of me are fewer than the ones behind me, even if I live to be a hundred. I have been thinking more than writing lately, not necessarily a bad thing. I’m past the arbitrary resolution rituals of earlier years, but I still appreciate a pause at year’s end to turn each page of my 2016 calendar and read my notes — some stolid lists of things to do — others quirky marginal scribblings that usually make me laugh at myself.
For The Daily Post: Year