two Jesse Campbells are better than one!

everyone knows Halloween is my favorite holiday.  but it ended with a rainy cold day and I was over the grey and ready for the multi-coloured light strings of Christmas.  In honor of the feeling, Sion and I have been reading Christmas stories all week.  How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Twas the Night Before Christmas, The Latke who Couldn’t Stop Screaming, and The Lump of Coal.  The last two are written by Lemony Snicket and full of his usual hilarious sarcastic genius.  and some o’ that mush I love:

“It is a miracle if you can find true friends, and it is a miracle if you have enough food to eat, and it is a miracle if you get to spend your days and evenings doing whatever it is you like to do, and the holiday season- like all other seasons- is a good time not only to tell the stories of miracles, but to think about the miracles in your own life, and to be grateful for them, and that’s the end of this particular story.”

Today is the birthday of both Sylvia Plath and Dylan Thomas.  What is it with writers and dying young?  At least they left us these:

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”
-Sylvia Plath

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
-Dylan Thomas

Normally my plant and seed purchases are of the veg and herb variety.  A friend gave me a Burpee gift certificate for my birthday, so I got to order plants!  totally selfish, all for me, just pretty to look at plants.  white lavender, hellebore (which blooms before snow crocuses do, so I had to have it), and solidago.  They arrived today and my palms itch while I wait to dig them in…

ah, the fall harvest.  rip out the teeny baseball sized watermelons that have split from the dry weather, dump the squash plants that no longer have enough sun to thrive, and destroy 90% of the cabbages.  Drew desperately clung to the idea of eating *some* caggabe from the garden so he ripped off almost all of the outer bug-ridden leaves and now has some brussel sprout sized cabbages in the fridge.  the potato harvest had to be the tops…I gently brushed aside the topmost layer of compost to reveal- a fingerling sized potato!  so I kept digging and called Drew over to help.  after a ridiculous scene (which by all means should have been captured on film for years of enjoyment) of me digging through the compost on my hands and knees and Drew using the “lady gardener” mini shovelso as not to disturb the “harvest” (ha!), we ended up with about 15 pea-sized potatoes, 4 marble-sized potatoes, and maybe 5 standard size potatoes.  saddo.  though my foray through the compost with my mits revealed a elaborate neural network of potato vines.  I suspect if there’d been more sun on that box, we actually would have had an astounding harvest.  next year, we’re gonna try the ‘mulch in a barrel” method of potato planting.  fingers crossed. 

I sent this AWESOME web site article to my niece and a week later I was so freakin’ excited to get this in the mail:

he he.  we know each other well…she knew I’d love it.

nothing says inviting like a creepy Victorian lady trying to escape from inside your walls

  

I can’t remember if it was ‘92 or ‘93…thereabouts-ish…my roomie and I went to pick up a kitten from my co-worker.  We ended up with two.  The brother had fallen off the balcony and the sister looked feisty, so we had to have them both.  On the way home, they fell asleep in Gayle’s lap and she said “hey, they look like that thing you’ve been studying” and Yin and Yang were named.  and now they’re both gone; Yin hanging in there a good few years after her brother and feisty to the end.  17 years old and the last 8 of those after a prognosis of having only 6 months to live.  Even though it isn’t true, I like to think she hissed at Bud (the grey cat) one last time before she left.  and I’m still not convinced she won’t find a way to come back and dance on all of our graves.

A poem by Jenna:

Jenna
Spunky, bright, super, hyper,
Sister of Jesse,
Who cares deeply about parents,
Who needs new flip flops,
Who fears elevators,
Who would like to see Busch Gardens,
Resident of the U.S.A.

Ever since our lovely friends lined up from the front lawn, up the porch steps, into the house, and up the stairs to the 2nd floor to unload our stuff from the U-Haul, this house has been FULL.  I haven’t done much more than the odd yard sale or Sally Army trip til now but this year I’m bulk trashing, freecycling, recycling, craigslisting, and e-baying my way to freedom.  I feel suffocated by “stuff.”  Today I was clearing out an ammunition box of old letters.  It’s always surreal to me to read these things because my memory is so bad.  I feel as if I’ve been dreaming.  Today’s high school letters were so hilariously quintessential that I just had to share one (apparently I’m ”Giselle” and Lara is “Aura”). 

“Giselle, my rug with footprints: wa’s up girl?  I’m bored, no tired- maybe exhausted.  Zeus, what a name.  I’m in World Lit.  Gian is being his typical assanine self.  More vulgar than usual today.  I’m about to shove this pen and paper up his nose.  Godzilla and King-Kong- who would win?  Sunday we will go to Kemp Mill Records- the manager is HOT!  We could take him home.  Algebra is so boring and Brother kept calling on me today but in a way I’m glad because I stayed awake and ended up- oops, end with a prep- oooh.  gotta go- Aura.”