Warmth. Signs of spring. I love that my birthday falls during this time, that every year the Earth comes alive again just at the moment I am turning a year older. This is like New Year’s for me, screw that January 1st business. And you know, if you were running low on useless trivia for the day, March was originally celebrated by the Romans as the New Year, when lots of grand festivals were held and troops marched off to war (March is named for the Roman god of war, Mars). September was originally the seventh month, hence “Sept”, “Oct”, “Nov”, Dec”, etc. Julius Caesar moved it back, later on. Something about the innacuracies of the lunar calendar. Whatever. I’m sticking with March.
In any case, the weather made it possible to head down to the farm again on Sunday. Inside the house I painted one of the bedroom ceilings while my sister sorted and boxed years of keepsakes, clothes, and junk. Outside I was able to clean up a few flower beds and plant somewhere around 15 or so azaleas, butterfly bushes, shade perennials, and an herb or two. The LOML continued with the old fence removal, a herculaean task that hopefully will be finished up this summer. As usual, there were beautiful flowers in bloom everywhere. The camellia japonicas are at their peak, joined by early season snowdrops, forsythia, daffodils, and narcissus (yes I know they’re taxonomically the same thing). Pictures after the cut.
In other news, the novel is treking along. 1000 more words yesterday, hopefully a pace I can keep up all week. Right now our heroine is deep in the bowels of Hell, having a little fireside chat with the big man himself. Trouble is brewing. “No fear,” Satan whispers. No fear.
And speaking of Satan, yesterday my shiny, new, signed copy of Joe Hill’s latest, Horns, arrived in the mail. I’d ordered it from The Signed Page, so it came inscribed with a cool little drawing. Happy, happy, squee! For those of you who don’t know, Joe Hill is Stephen King’s son, author of a couple of books now along with an outstanding short story collection. A fine, fine spec fiction writer in his own right. In some ways, I actually prefer his work to his dad’s, as he explores a wider range of themes than his father does. Very cool. I’ll probably devour it over the weekend.
And now, as promised, some photography. All cultivar names, incidentally, are just guesses. My mom bought and planted what she loved, but she wasn’t a big record keeper:
This work by Lynette Mejia is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.