Note

Hello, all--do read J. C.'s fantastic but horror-inspiring book review below this entry.

Tomorrow evening, if all goes well, look for Wazoo Farm's premier Art Show!

It will be grand!

Merry is Laura, I'm Ma, Daddy's Pa

And Elspeth is Carrie. Merry fussed about over Elspeth at the table, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated fashion, waggling her finger at Elspeth's button nose. "No, no, no!" Merry admonished, as Elspeth flung her mashed-potato covered spoon to the floor for the third time.

I've realized, now that we're in the thick of "The Long Winter," that calling Merry "Laura" occasionally as she requests works to my advantage. Laura immedately obeys, even when an internal battle rages; she's courageous; she lives to help. This afternoon Merry piled miscellany in the back of her tricycle and pushed herself across the grass, scouting for a good place to camp for the night. I was digging holes for the notorious Poplar trees with Elspeth--sorry, Carrie--strapped to my back. "Laura!" I'd call, and Merry would go running cheerfully upon some noble errand--fetching me the phone or carrying trees. Like a true Laura-Pioneer (as Merry calls her), Merry held the trunks for me on the steep slope while I tamped them in. Elspeth swung happily on my back, watching us.

Outdoors. Imm. . .I finished digging up the turf to make a bed for mint today (thinking Song of Solomon's "Many waters cannot quench mint. . ." stopped here and did not go on to "We have a little sister and she has no. . .") Also planted my hydrangea tree in the front of the house, a scrawny little snowman arm that contains somewhere the energy to explode into balloons of flowers. I'll believe it when I see it.

When I finally detached Elspeth from my back and we went inside, Merry was happy as a little duck and energetically washed the supper dishes with lots of soap and cold water.

Tonight we read three chapters of "The Long Winter." When we were finished, Merry sighed deeply. "I wish I could be Laura," she said. "I wish I could live back in those days."

I began to list all the things she might miss if she lived then: electricity, indoor plumbing, videos. . .Merry piped up. "Well, I wouldn't miss videos," she said, and agreed that books were much better than TV. Then she leaned over and gave me a big hug. "But you're better than a book!" she cried.

Well, that is high praise, and enough to get me through the next few days while Martin will be away in Deleware at a prof.'s conference. Poor chap--a hotel room all to himself. Two or three years ago the thought of being alone for days on end with two children would have made me blanch. But now I realize that much of life is about choice (the rest is grace=two easy children) and whether or not I will have a rollicking fine time is up to me. I have in my possession a lemon pound cake, and this I will consume tomorrow evening with friends. Also I am tossing around several options (all indoors, alas, because of spring rain): painting a wall, removing a kitchen cabinet, writing a poem series, knocking out a wall with a sledgehammer. Staying up all night watching BBC Netflix? Driving to Montana? What would Laura-Pioneer do?

CONTRIBUTOR BOOK REVIEW: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Robert Louis Stevenson
Norton 2002

Robert Louis Stevenson was a fascinating figure—a proud Scot who keenly felt the humiliation his people had suffered from the English, but who also, because of his debilitating bouts with Tuberculosis, lived much of his adult life exiled from his cold and wet homeland. He spent time in France, lived for several years in America, and ended his life on an isolated ridge in Samoa, but he never forgot Scotland, writing of the last great Scottish revolt against the English in novels such as The Master of Ballantrae even as he was oceans away.

The gothic romance Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde doesn’t at first seem to offer any insights into Stevenson’s mind, but then we realize that the cesspool of a city which allows a beast like Mr. Hyde to wander unnoticed for months is none other than London, seat of a swaggering empire that extended from Edinburgh to Sydney. And what a city it is! A sprawling, decaying one, full of alleys, shadowy back entrances to respectable homes, and endless empty streets eerily lit by gas lamps. Brutal and callous. Nightmarish and hypocritical. This is Stevenson’s portrait of the city he spent his life avoiding.

One of London’s stories is that of Dr. Jekyll’s fiendish double, Mr. Hyde. Our first glimpse of Hyde finds him coldly trampling an eight year-old girl when she stumbles into his path on a midnight street. We soon discover that he becomes stronger and more vile as time passes because the city provides ample opportunities to gratify every appetite, no matter how depraved, that he can conjure up, and before long, Dr. Jekyll, the respectable gentlemen scientist, no longer has any power over the monstrous, murderous self he allows to stalk anonymously through London’s “labyrinths of lamplighted city.”

In the end, the genteel, professional men who unravel the secret of Jekyll/Hyde regret their discoveries. One man dies of shock, while another swears never to broach the subject again, locking Jekyll’s written confession away to save the doctor’s reputation. Thus Stevenson closes his novel, and another of London’s ghastly secrets stays buried, perhaps only one of many…

Reviewed by Jeffrey Clayton
Jeffrey Clayton balances the following with felicity: completing his dissertation (PhD English Literature), substituting elementary kids, and monitoring the Astros baseball team. Clayton's fount bubbles with alacrity with subjects from Trollope to Dr. Pepper knock-offs. He currently resides in the Houston, TX area.

Homework

Always do your homework. That's what I tell myself every time I receive another shipment from the nursery; that's the advice I gave myself as I shook my head over the Canadian Hemlocks, of which I ordered and planted forty. There's a family of deer in the woods behind our house, and Canadian Hemlocks are evidently a particularly tasty treat for deer. So far the Hemlocks survive, though brown and sad-looking. I think they are too crunchy for the deer to bother, though if they do live and flourish, the deer will most likely chomp them to stubs.

Downstairs in my laundry tub, five Lombardy Poplars are soaking their roots. I even turned on the jet streams and some jazz so they could really relax before taking their place in our side yard.

In the meanwhile I dashed upstairs to check planting distances. A few seconds on Google retrieved the following information: Lombardy Poplars are a pestilence! They grow quickly to an incredible height and then die, leaving you with invasive roots and skeletons. Indeed the Lombardy poplar is one of the WORST trees a bumbling gardener can plant: "I have never recommended, at least while conscious, a poplar," Horticulturist Mike Durr commented.

I am such a bumbling gardener. I am the worst of bumbling gardeners, wooed by SpringHill Nursery's jolly promises of a quick windscreen. Why wasn't I suspicious of too much good too soon? Why?!

Hopefully I checked the "Redeeming Features" column only to read: "No redeeming features found. Many horticulturists consider the tree taboo with too many associated problems to ever consider planting." (see Steve Nix's advice before you buy five Lombardy poplars!)

Not even Chidester the Gumberry can help me now.

You think I would have learned back in third grade to do some homework. Meanwhile, what to do with the trees? Should I sneak into my neighbor's yard and plant them in the dead of night? Seems such a shame to waste them. . .A thought occurs that maybe we would have moved on by the time said poplars die. Is this like polluting the atmosphere with no thought for your children?

Anyone want five soggy Lombardy poplar trees?

Sigh.

Maybe the deer will eat them.

In other news, Merry has created a new song: "One, two, three, Freakout!" She told me Freakout was a sort of machine, and informed me she had learned that word from Daddy. Yesterday Elspeth ate more paint, this time green, and in a fit of despondancy over spring taking her time, I painted verdant leaves up my kitchen wall.

Let me add: the Art Show is looking fantastic! Look for it tomorrow or at the latest, Friday. There's still a minute for you to squeeze in an entry if you wish!