Rosemary for Remembrance

No, really.

We Bought a Crack House
I'll let you pick your own favorite quotes.   I'm pretty sure mine is


The kindly movingfinger  has linked me another article about the couple's hapless victimization by their habit of impulse-buying real estate, as if each successive house were an adorable kitten that had showed up on their doorstep.  And you'll be happy to know that \totally sincere\ liberals have started a gofundme to help with their cruel, cruel situation.

Charles Willson Peale referred to one of his son's allusive, cryptic letters as "hiraglefecks", which I immediately looked up.  Google suggested "hieroglyphics", which I'm sure is right.   I adore "hiraglefecks" as a standalone word; very satisfying to say and type. 

(from Demorest's Family Magazine, Volume 15, c/o Google Books)

A ROMANTIC LIFE.—The romantic vicissitudes of the early life of the Countess Solange De Kramer have once more become the talk of the Paris salons, and they are, indeed, so extraordinary that, used as materials for a novel, they would spoil the book by their lack of verisimilitude. One night in 1801, a little girl about one year old, was deposited in the drawer of the foundling hospital at Brest. She was dressed with much finery, and a note attached to her skirt told that her name was Solange, and that she would be reclaimed by her father. The claim was never made, however, and in due time the child was transferred to the orphan asylum to be educated there.

As she grew up she developed a most extraordinary beauty; but her intellect appeared to be very weak, and she suffered from frequent nervous fits. When she was twelve years old she was sent out into the streets to sell flowers, and her beauty and modesty attracted many people's good will; but she grew weaker and weaker and at last she died. According to French custom she was buried in an open casket, and, as it was Winter and the soil was frozen, she was laid into the grave, only covered with a thin layer of sand. During the night she awoke, and, pushing the sand away, she crept out from this grave. Not exactly understanding what had taken place, she was not so very much frightened; but in crossing the glens between the cemetery and the fortifications, she was suddenly stopped by the outcry “Qui vive,” and as she did not answer the sentinel fired, and she fell to the ground. Brought into the guard house her wound was found to be very slight, and she soon recovered ; but her singular history and also her great beauty had made so deep an impression on a young lieutenant of the garrison (Kramer) that he determined to be her protector, and sent her to one of the most fashionable educational establishments in Paris.

During the next ten years Kramer was much tossed about by the war; but when, in 1818, he returned to Paris, he found Solange a full-grown woman, not only beautiful, but accomplished and spirited, with no more trace of intellectual He married her, and for several years the couple lived happily in Paris. Meanwhile, investigations were made concerning the girl left in 1801 in the Foundling Hospital at Brest, and as these investigations were made by the Swedish ambassador, and in a somewhat official manner, they attracted some attention. Captain Kramer heard about the affair, wrote to the ambassador, and a month later the ambassador himself came in state to bring Mme. Kramer a formal acknowledgment from her father, the former General Bernadotte, afterwards King Charles XIV of Sweden. Captain Kramer and his wife went immediately to Stockholm, they were ennobled, etc., and their son has just now been appointed attaché to the Swedish legation in Paris.

 Any time I put on gardening gloves -- other than for rose pruning -- I discover after a few minutes that I have discarded them.  I need to feel the soil -- how wet it is, how it responds to pressure, whether a plant is securely seated.

This means that any time I'm working in the garden, my nails become lined with dirt.  Sinking my nails into a bar of Ivory before gardening helps a lot, but only if I remember to do it.  (I never remember to do it.)  I'm trying to clean my nails with an orange stick before going to an Apple Genius Bar appointment, but the results are patchy at best.   Ah, well.  If I have to choose between having my hands in the soil and having dainty ladylike hands, I pick gardening every time.

 My old gardener was extremely simpático but his workers did a terrible job (heading trees, killing flowers, and so on.)  I let him go this winter.  At the end of rainy season, I started looking to hire a new gardener, together with everybody else in Northern California.

In the last two weeks I had three gardeners ghost on me.  Came, surveyed the garden, promised to give me a quote, then were never heard from again.  I also interviewed three arborists.  One of them, a fruit-tree specialist, did the fruit trees.  The other two, thank Heavens, did show up and give binding estimates.   I'm planning on going with the second one, after double-checking scope with husband.  I may leave one inconvenient leaning oak tree until fall.  

I now have a gardener who's going to do the wildly overdue cleanup as well as monthly maintenance.  If he's a plant-killer too, I'll start all over on the monthly maintenance.

Still to do: find somebody to inspect and fix the sprinkler system.   However, today is a day of rest, dammit.   

My old gardener did all the above: spring cleanup, hedge trimming, tree pruning, and sprinkler maintenance.  I have to keep reminding myself that I wasn't happy with the way he did most of these, and that having to have multiple specialists may be more expensive, but gets the job done.  Sigh.

 I'm very excited about this pattern as a way to stretch an expensive ball of hand-dyed sock yarn into a complete shawl.   Zabbers on Tumblr points out that it's also a great way to reduce pooling and make the knitted object look more like the skein.

BART issues a helpful poster explaining to women how to conduct themselves so they won't be harassed. Apart from the ubiquitous victim-blaming, note "Don't get distracted, phones, music, and sleeping can make you a target."

Many, many women use earbuds to deter creepers. It doesn't always work, but it cuts back on people assuming you're available for conversation.

I'd love to live in the universe where BART and others put up posters telling passengers how to defend other passengers against creepers.

This is the first time in months, maybe years, that I felt good enough Sunday morning to go to the market. What a joy.

Big fat leeks, green garlic -- these two make an amazing puréed soup -- cilantro, Thai basil, Italian basil, scallions, water cress (the real one), three boxes of raspberries (!) free-range eggs including one green one, purple and crimson anemones, mixed freesias, mixed sweet peas.

It's good to be back.

Crossposting and importing are now broken unless you've signed the new LJ agreement.

(A) The author of the book was male
(B) I would not be buying it

The viewpoint character is discussing a robot she's excavating.
Seen when skimming the pages of Sleeping Giants by Sylvain Neuvel, on the recommendations shelf  of my local bookstore.