Mrs. Conger's life is full of many things: a husband with a beard; six children- and an almost full-grown foster child, an Indian girl; a rundown house which could use a lot of attention; the ""incredible sloppiness"" of the housekeeping she should be doing; teaching- part time; and--- ""The Book I Am Supposed To Be Writing"" which- happily- got written. In this calendar year which begins with the same New Year's resolutions (lose 10 pounds; learn Russian; etc., etc.) and ends with some of the same ""deferred aspirations"", there are familiar motifs: February- colds and contagious diseases; June- report cards and outgrown swim suits. In between, there are scattered annotations on this crowded household where not togetherness- but a little apartness- is the desideratum; on gardening and birdwatching and painting- portraits and walls; on the books she reads- the movies she likes- the music they listen to; on clothes- she doesn't buy, and the dieting she doesn't get around to, and on- and on- in a domestic vista of a life which may not be gracious living but is happy and certainly busy. A market should not be hard to find: while not quite as outlandish as Shirley Jackson's Life Among the Savages it has much of the same disorganized, casual charm and humor.