Blank Cards, Hidden Meanings; Imaginary Friend to Rescue his Person?

Baby turned two months this week and I feel like this new life is taking shape a bit. As everyone tells me, each time I get used to what seem to be daily patterns, they will morph into something else, so we have the grand exercise of learning to let go with ease. I can't say it doesn't make me cranky*. I have lived too long with free time to surrender it easily, or consistently, now. But I will learn, kicking and screaming, most likely.

A couple items from the present week:

1.) Dropped off a new batch of woodblock cards at favorite local bookstore Literati:

The houses are borrowed from the design page in Cakeasaurus project wherein we learn "Cakeasaurus could smell cake batter in the air like sharks scent blood in the water". The birds are pulled from the "Birds Don't Like You," one of my favorite prints overall, but which proved divisive -- people either liked the menacing quality or were discomfitted by it (design and process shots here). It lead one older man to say to me at a show, "You have a weird little mind, don't you~~," which managed to be insulting and pleasing simultaneously. Robbed of context in wee cards, the birds don't strike people as hostile or judgy, and  so they sell nicely.

Cake is excerpted from "No Cake is Safe"; again no whiff of danger, without context

I always enjoy gathering decorative papers to complement the woodblock designs; it's a great way of seeing your own work from a new angle. I have really been grooving on the colorful flower paper (above, on left two cards) -- so happy, so jaunty!

And the happy is exactly why I bought a few sheets within a selection for nursery buntings (Hollander's, natch). The triangular banners were about the only thing I felt compelled to do to make baby-to-be's space cozy and welcoming. What with her early arrival, I didn't get them assembled and hung until she was a few weeks old, but heyyyyy, her field of vision fell way short of the ceiling at that point. How conveeeeeeeeeenient. I think she actually started noticing them this week! They can't hold a candle to the mobile, but still a festive touch:

delightful felt mobile made by Dundry Hill

I ventured into JoAnn Fabrics, first time in a decade, to scare up some curtains

 
*Disclaimer: outside of being smitten by baby and wanting to watch her breathing, kiss her baby skin, yadda yadda yadda etc.

great image gallery here

2.) Finished The Imaginary by A.F. Hoffman, illustrated by Emily Gravett. If you're into off-kilter intermediate books (think Matilda, subtract a bit of the nastiness, add fantasy-based menace) and are fan of illustration and design, it's a fine book to check out.

As I often do (even with adult reads, sad to say), I got sucked in by the cover art and packaging. Illustration facing the Introduction is a black and white drawing in the shape of a young, outstretched hand, giving us glimpses of a park, a clocktower, dark tree limbs. I tend to love this treatment anyway (Chris Keegan springs to mind as a favorite, in a much more layered, slick photoshoppy way).

Successfully intriguing here, and the opening text is equally promising: by the end of the second page, we learn that Rudger, an imaginary friend is afraid his human friend is dead -- and what then, will become of him? He fears the fading away which would result from being forgotten...Great conceit, right? And how many children's books begin with death? Perhaps way more than when I was growing up, for it seems overall, fiction for youth is permitted to be edgier/grittier. In any case, a good almost-ending to hook the young reader: a mournful and contemplative couple of pages, before an unexpected voice cuts in...and we are brought back to the proper start, with adventurous Amanda Shuffleup meeting her soon-to-be partner in crime standing inside her wardrobe. Naturally there's a nefarious character plotting evil deeds involving imaginaries, and he, too, has a similarly evil imaginary himself. And that's all I'll say about it.

At heart, the book is a celebration of creative power and imaginative play. Fittingly, The Imaginary is filled with great design elements: a bird flies from abstracted flower to butterfly among the page numbers, tiny feline silhouettes separate paragraph sections, and running characters are stamped into the black hardcover surface beneath the dust jacket. It's the kind of book I'd want to create, with so many wonderful details that it takes subsequent pass throughs to appreciate all the cleverness. A thorny garden branch snakes from a house drawing on its left-facing page to become a floating astronaut's lifeline on the right; an imperiled imaginary is seen multiplied-but-faded beneath the story text, as the evildoer's silhouette is shown, darker and towering above him. Suspenseful and satisfying!

You can see brief videos of the processes of both author and illustrator midway down this page; Harrold's video doesn't shed much light on his process, though I get that it's difficult to depict the largely internal act of writing in a compelling way. Based on the video, he simply writes something in pencil and then writes over it in pen, thus making it publisher-ready -- and then he walks to the mail box to send it off. Watching Emily Gravett's creepy imaginary girl emerge is much more fun (though also un-narrated); another publisher page also feature her discussing her approach to creating images for the Rabbit Problem (great title! look forward to seeing that; she also did the spare, pleasing Orange, Pear, Apple, Bear). One last link, if you're still with us -- a longer interview with Gravett here.


Hope all is well this Friday in May. A beautiful day and quiet night to close out a full, eventful week. Numerous adventures await us!

On the Occasion of my First Mother's Day: Amnesia and Art Appreciation

Based on a one-house study, seven weeks of parenting marks brief periods of amnesia for both parenting partners:

• Early evening: I am sitting on the leather sofa (the material for which we have repeatedly congratulated each other on choosing, after bouts of milk spit up, less fortunate fluids, coffee spills), musing how nice it will be when Javier comes home in the evening. Possibly we will go to bed early! But whatever hour, it will be so nice to sleep the night next to him. Nice, indeed! Except that this picture currently defies reality with a newborn. I am holding a baby at the time these thoughts occur.
• Night: Javier comes into the bedroom where I am nursing. "Soooo, I was just deciding, 'I think I'll go to bed early,' but I had this strange feeling I was forgetting something. What, what, what could it be?" Javier has baby night shift.
• Afternoon: My esteemed sister has been here for a visit, developing strong Auntie muscles, and adding some flexibility and sanity to our lives by holding the baby for hour stretches. She exclaims, "She's SO sweet! SO. SWEET!" more frequently than we are capable of doing, since she lives far away and we live here. She IS so sweet, but we must alternate our bouts of enthusiasm with other reactions. In any case, due to Aunt presence, I am able to take a multiple hour nap. I think I will maybe jot a few notes down, or read a few more pages of The Winter People* ; my body vetoes that. "Falling asleep" is much closer to "passing out" than it used to be. I had very active, forgettable dreams, into which an aggressive sound eventually intruded. My brain muttered, "That's a baby~" as in: how *odd*. I had climbed pretty close to consciousness by the time I was able to make sense of this.    

*which is creeping me the hell out, btw. Also, I got it from Bookbound!... Finally checked them out, it's a lovely book store, when you're on the Plymouth Drive side of AA.

So, I expect we are typical new parents. Exhaustion battles with wonderment and frustration. We are learning the baby, who we of course think is potentially showing us how exceptional she is at any given moment. The baby's best friend is a mobile, silverware clinking against china should be banned, and all lights hold mesmerizing keys to the universe.

Baby in Communication with Favorite Painting 

(or super-strong, shiny magnets holding it up)

There's so much to tell you since yesterday!

The lights didn't know, so I've got a question for you.

Do you really think so? That's exactly the way I feel!

...Okay, so the post title was kind of a fake out. No real art talk. I'll try to be better about that -- to help the non-kid oriented avoid baby posts, and keep posts on creativity easy to find...

Gorgeous Weather + Sleeping Babies = Fine Weekend

A perfect Spring day in Michigan: warm enough to hint at the (inevitably short) Summer to come; perfect for those attending the U(niversity) of M(ichigan)'s commencement ceremony; perfect to avoid the snarled U of M traffic for the rest of us residents; perfect for driving down country roads in search of art open houses and friends who invite you to sit down to iced tea, while a cat slinks around the side wall and flops onto the heated asphalt of the driveway. The baby is off being doted on by her Dad, sister and grandparents; I am tempted to start an online series "Baby Asleep on People." I am also tempted to flop myself onto the grass in the backyard and not do a damn thing, but I will only be grumpy later if I do so, and really, the yard is probably closer to swamp than firm ground, with only a deceptive grass/weed covering.

So. I listed a few new Cakeasaurus prints in my Etsy shop and figured I'd re-share the introductory signs, since a long time has passed:

This is an inked woodblock from early in the tale, depicting how he stays below the radar:

How does Cakeasaurus best serve his dessert-thieving needs? By skirting around the edges…hiding in plain sight. This print is as close to “Where’s Waldo?” as a monstery story gets. Where, indeed! The bird is the holder of knowledge, as they often are. But who would he tell with his birdsong? And who would believe him? The townspeople, keen to apprehend the cake thief in their midst, rarely look to avian solutions. The same old conundrum: the one with key information has a credibility problem… Ahhh well, such is life.

"Crept quietly, quietly..." (for sale here) is a companion piece to “Cakeasaurus Roamed Under Cover of Night,” also found in the Cakeasaurus Lurking section of my Etsy shop.

   **********

Hopping forward slightly, this jaunty woodblock print follows on the heels of the chaos of “Cake Maelstrom” and the wreckage of “Nothing Was Left”. Here we have Cakeasaurus at his most buoyant: filled with his treat of choice, and triumphant in his thievery. Some even say he has jazz hands…

******

And Sunday even beats Saturday for the weather! Baby is fitfully snoozing in her swing in the living room, while residents throng the northwest corner of Ann Arbor for the annual Water Hill Music Fest -- anything from 10 y.o. violin players, ukelele bands, to jazz musicians who have played with the likes of Sarah Vaughn. Friends, tell me about it when we next meet! I aim to make it next year, along with many cool annual events that have occurred either during late pregnancy or early parenthood. 

Baby, the sights you will see! She did quite well at her first art opening on Friday evening (=slept, peppered with occasional mutterings, while people cooed over her); and the Yourist Gallery Drink (c)Up exhibit is small but well worth checking out. Today's mutterings are getting louder, so that spells the end of this post.

Till next time, a block I just transferred for carving -- nearing a pivotal confrontation between boy and monster:

Happy Sunday and have a great week, Everyone!

This Place Needs a Dusting

I left my blog's lights on the last time I was here, and forgot to disconnect the water, so I really wasn't sure what to expect upon re-entry. The darkness wasn't shocking, but I lucked out with no leaks or burst pipes. Some cretin lifted the copper elements, spiders took up residence in the corners, and rodent leavings were paired with sporadic gnaw marks throughout. It could have been worse. I accept it as the dues of neglect. I'm not about to go planting a garden out back as a show of premature optimism for future habits, but perhaps this time I'll take measures to curb utter abandonment ... Other than that, I'll due a quick sweep through, hop over the spiders, replace the bulbs, and get back to it.

As with most guilty abandonments, justifications are on the tip of my tongue; they bear more specificity than the all-purpose life-has-a-way-of-taking-over + generalized laziness... But ultimately they fail to serve as anything which *prevented* me from writing, but rather point to a more full, distracting existence. In any case, a handy CluffsNotes* briefing follows to bring the idly curious up to speed:

2014 was a sparkly, shiny year, involving three key game changers:

• Shacking up with Javier, after living by myself for almost a decade. There is no better way to highlight how crotchety you have become than to combine households. He has the audacity to want to change things! In my our house! It was shocking.
• Discovering I'm pretty fertile at this stage of the game, despite A.) societal messages to the contrary and B.) the words of one dramatic doctor (starting a decade ago), which warned my ability to have children veered closer to winning the lottery than to having a car crash. OK, those weren't her words, but trust me, she put the ALARM in alarmist. Actual quote at tail end of her rant last year: "...And don't get me started on the incidence of malformed eggs of women in the 40s, you would not BELIEVE what happens, it's simply the body beginning to shut down ~~." From the moment I suspected I was pregnant, babies were EVERYWHERE; as was food I wasn't supposed to eat. And pregnancy warning labels, good lord. The only thing shamefully lacking a label? F*cking Grey's Anatomy: that damn, silly show featured imperiled pregnancies/tragic deliveries/preemies hanging on for dear life almost weekly. After awhile I cursed the lot of us.
• A fairy tale proposal, to the sound of waves crashing in the dark, sparkly lights in either direction down the shoreline, after many lovely days in the weird and fantastic Floridaland (mishmash of strip malls, ominous Panther crossing signs, and lucky us, warm family and the beach, the beach, the beach).

*A shoddy off-brand CliffsNotes -- less current than SparkNotes, and may not get you an A, but something beats nothing, right? And real teachers can tell when you didn't bother with the original text, anyway.

The pregnancy was rife with blog post fodder; but the need to write hit hardest in the first trimester, an unwise time to publicly share. Too, in many instances, it would have devolved into *literal* navel gazing. I'd say it's next to impossible to do otherwise, when almost every aspect of your body is changing, in ways that are either disconcerting, highly irritating, abruptly weepy/enraging/euphoric, and/or sporadically impressive. Aaaaah, to be experiencing hormone washes more tidal than a teenager's, as a 40-something! 

Could go either way: sleep or meltdown?

...These days, the kind of day one has seems to hinge on whether the baby is pleased (and likely sleeping) or displeased (prolonged,elevated screaming-crying; our go-to descriptors: "pterodactyl," "demonic blender"). It is amazing and astounding and fantastic and trying and exhausting and everything else of which you parents (or friends of parents) are already fully aware. Javier and I are zombie-ish, but less brain-craving undead than a month ago (she's a month and a half old!); she gives us (cruel?) hope by often sleeping 5 hour stretches at night.

Not screaming, good; accusatory, bad.

I am taking tentative steps back toward the Cakeasaurus picture book project -- finally listed some woodblock print pages I completed last year -- and hung up finished sketches behind the dining room table to refocus myself. I am determined to still be creative, but we shall see to what degree and what forms it will take in the coming months (/years).

Obviously much depends on baby girl. Outside of that, I have been thinking that my key will be to approach life with more intentionality. I can no longer drift into sketching, or writing, or those past luxurious mornings of slooooowly rising, daydreaming in a chair for awhile until moved to action; No. Thing A needs to happen. When? 15 minutes of it, Tuesday morning? Go. That is my current thinking. Make it so. Such a huge shift, such an education in living...

A Spot of Bother, followed by "River Journal" wonderfulness (a little Art Fair)

Word problem: An unnerving gnawing sound (scratching? no, gnawing) seems to be emanating from the front of your living room. You peek through the front door in the hopes that maybe the next door cat, who often guards your front step from harm, has adopted a new habit of scratching the door. The step is unguarded. You cross to the bay window, and in doing so, discover that the sound is coming through the electrical socket. Double take: the electrical socket.  A.) After a shining a flashlight into it (fruitless), what's the best course of action?
 
Bonus Question B) How long until the raccoon-of-diminutive-size/mouse/rat/wood-loving/electrical loving insects assume possession of the house? Please calculate in hours.

Check your accuracy! Solution (B) to be found at end of post. Upside down text used to prevent cheating. We advise against inverting your monitor.

Answer A.) Retiring to the study,* which feels especially nice, what with my sudden compulsion to move heavy furniture this weekend. I am now typing at the (too shallow, but quaint) antique vanity table, with my computer table behind me, holding a slew of sketches I did not wish to subject to basement dampness. And it's true, in this room, I no longer hear any gnawing.

*which also has electrical sockets, to be fair.

But before I continue to the intended topic at hand (yay! 55th annual Ann Arbor Art Fair started today, yay!!!) I can't help but wonder whether ditching the parrot a couple months ago was a mistake.

He was a last minute purchase on the way back from the Dominican Republic. Tourist trap gift? Yes, and I could see that. But STILL. He had wonderful tail feathers, just enough detail. He sat happily on a little perch in his own little hoop! Self-contained, but swingy! But more than that, you know what he had?

Character. Chutzpah. *I* am the parrot of the living room!

AND then one day, I noticed some mail underneath the parrot had little granular bits spread across the surface. A dusting, almost a film, of very, very fine white dust. The first day, I didn't make the connection. But after I had cleared it away not once, but twice, I looked up. And then I got on a stool and looked closer. And this is what I saw:

Lots and lots of little holes, pocking the surface of the parrot's perch. 

It was at that point, the parrot was sacrificed to trash collection and the (airport of) Dominican Republic was casually blamed. But what if that's not where it came from? What if it came from INSIDE THE HOUSE? Well. And no use, losing one's head, nothing useful to be done just now. Perhaps I could kneel by the socket and ask. But I fear a gnawing response: We are LEGION.

To wit: my study sure is nice!

And really, aside from the gnawing, quite a nice day! A visiting coworker treated my office to delectables from the Pastry Peddler -- I had no idea they were so good! aside from the expected flakiness, the chocolate croissant has a wonderful almond flavor to it. The chocolate itself is velvety smooth. Local folk, get thee to the Peddler!

Main attraction, however was Art Fair wandering during lunch. Last year I came close to burning out, but I have been wandering for 20 years or so, so it seemed strange not to nose around for new artists/vendors. Within the first part of lunch, I was shocked to find a new favorite!

Right over in the original section, by Rackham, Booth #A110

is Katie Musolff, from Stoddard, WI:

Her watercolors have a wonderful delicacy to them, without being precious. Her ongoing series is called River Journal (*I think), reflecting the natural world just beyond the windows of her and her partner's home. My favorites focus in on the painted object or series of similar objects (a beetle, a fiddlehead fern, a baby turtle, dead sparrow), with the rest of the paper left blank (but for maybe a penciled-in explanation).

I like so many of them individually, but their proximity to neighboring paintings only adds to their appeal. Would love many of them! The jonquils remind me of home, my parents always had a nice patch of them, and I looked forward to them every Spring. But then, the pleasing balance of the two stalks of purple flowers (called "Twins"), also so lovely. And the baby turtles! found in the garden when they dug up their new potatoes! There's a lot to love, here, of the quiet, true kind of art your eyes would be pleased by for years.

Musolff said she has supported herself as a full time painter for roughly a decade. She paints every day. Her father, a middle school teacher, showed her how to use pastels and watercolor when she was little -- and her father's father was also a self-taught artist. As a 6 year old, her parents set up a little space for her to work in and brought home "how to draw a cat! How to draw horses!" books...a nice beginning, no? See more work here.

Andy Fletcher, Musolff's husband and fellow painter, has fine landscapes in the booth right next to hers. When I asked him for a business card, he handed me one of the Original Art Fair postcards (Nick Wroblewski designed the poster this year!) with a handwritten note scrawled on the back:

Soooo, true, all his info, conveniently on the back, but no accompanying image to treasure in the coming year. The first one he removed from his pocket he hesitated over, glancing at me -- and then handed me this one. When I asked about this, he said, "more snarky, less snarky." I present as: less snarky.

"Oh," said Stephen*,"He did that last year, too." Which lessened the funny, certainly.

*If you know some aspect of the Ann Arbor artist community, you'll also probably know Stephen. Retired high school art teacher, multi-faceted artist, grand connector of people, art lover of Chris Roberts-Antieau. It is only fitting that I overhear his distinctive voice within 20 minutes of being at the huge fair.

I am enthusing about Musolff's work, and he will go look definitely, but first he wants to know,"Have you seen Ed Brownley? (sp?) He has cereal bowls with serial killers on them. Go see Ed Brownley. Everyone's at the Ignatius booth.* Go see Jenny Pope."

I have yet to see Brownley, but am a little wary of the incorporation of serial killers for a humorous purpose. Appearances aside, I do like snarky, I do like dark, but that just possibly goes beyond. And would that really make raisin bran happier in the groggy morning? Hmmm.

*This goes without saying. Everyone's ALWAYS at the Ignatius booth, their hats are frickin' awesome, ranging from silly to elegant. 

Jenny Pope (booth A260), however, is -- and has been -- right up my alley: her reduction prints are boldly colored, many layered, cartoony and strong. Have liked her work for years. The Allover woodcut that I especially lust after almost feels like photoshop in its rich layering (which may come off as a slight, but is not not not) -- it is repurposed elements from another larger print around the partition corner; this fact I also love. I love doing the woodblock mashups! Pope is somewhat serious to talk to (maybe just wary, it is possible I can sometime come off as overly fanboy), with energetically curly red hair, wearing a sleeping baby in a sling.** She frames her most favorite monoprints and work, as many artists do. Pop psych question: another reason her prices are hard to find? Subconscious reluctance to part with them? Anyway, I second Stephen: go see Pope's booth. Check out "Pinetree Invasion," with its aggressive looking kiwi birds.

**On the outsider happy-making scale, practicing artist with young baby is up there with partner artists who either create their work together*** OR exhibit their work in neighboring booths. Happiness points for both.

*** see also: Butterfield Pottery's booth: Davin does the pottery and creates the glazes, Susan does the painting. The photos don't quite convey the rich, rich almost purpley blue.

That's about it, as I had brief time yesterday.

Also also:  If you have kids, you should check out the activity tent near the Belltower. It was rousing! Kids using rolling pins with 3d designs affixed to them to roll out patterned slabs of clay, beaming boys marching away with mysterious painted gold objects, industrious kids hunched over the Museum of Natural History table, creating their own little sculpy long-extinct whatzit skeletons. Seriously: there's a lot going on under that tent. 

Yay, requisite chalk art.

Lion emerging, artist on break.

Recycled glass art sculpture of Ruben Fasani booth A243, all the way from Buenos Aires

Arrrrrrggh! Arrgh!! I have as much gumption as the parrot! No bugs.

Surprise delight, on Liberty, almost to Main! Pleasing tiles from Lisa Muller. It's her first time at the fair, though she has been doing this for "oh, sooooo long, can you believe you can go to school for this? People let you go to school, so you can study this." I was in a rush on my way home -- but stopped. And bought. Pick up a wee sumpin sumpin.

All for now, time to shower and start the day beyond the house~~

You Are Cordially Invited

Good morning, Dear Reader, and Happy Wednesday!

I feel remiss. You have me over for dinner all the time, have no problem dropping me off at the mechanic's and lend me your ear/shoulder to cry on. What have I done for you lately? My boorish behavior is obvious. Therefore, on the occasion of this almost mid-Summer, please allow me to extend you the following:

I confess, I have been receiving this invitation for some time now, and have grown rather blase about it. The key thing to remember is this: while all offers are extended in their potential, only ONE can be the most likely at any give time. 

And while there may not be oversized glittery snowflakes wafting about, the over-functioning central air will force you to don cardigans and scarves in Summertime. Bring your reading glasses.

Have a blast! And You're welcome! Any stories/juicy gossip from your travels are welcome.

Summer Tales: IT CAME FROM THE BACKYARD SWAMP

When the landscaper repeatedly throws in phrases like, "It's only money," during the initial estimate, it is worrisome. Upon your meeting, he tells you that you have *such a cute* phone voice. Luckily this doesn't cost anything, because otherwise, it's rather down hill from there.

It's a small yard. A wee yard. A barely need a mower! yard. It's an originally deceptive yard*, conjuring visions of a small but verdant vegetable patch, with neither so much space as to overwhelm, nor so little as to rob one of self-satisfied deck dining or coffee sipping. But gradually, while the ferns never take, the first optimistic Fall's plantings of tulip and daffodil bulbs are savaged by squirrels and gnawing scrabblers, and the ventured vegetable garden stays a wan, homely plot**, your initial yardwork go-getem slumps off somewhere and the much more dominant inside crafty kitchen person is astoundingly good at pretending the yard does not actually exist.

{*to the unobservant, or easily fooled}
** baffled visitor: "You seem to have a ... fork patch. What's with all the plastic utensils?" Thank you, person. It was one of a million good online ideas. Easily mark your rows of beans and lettuce!...Unless things grow sparingly at best, and then it just looks silly.
With respect to larger yard projects or routine care, you are apparently immune to periodic self-shaming (your yard vs. other yards), motivation helpfully illustrated by Hyperbole and a Half. To wit: the grass has mange, nothing you would like to grow does so; though trash trees skyrocket, ivy slithers up walls, a vine pursues its master plan of toppling the birch tree; and moles and wombats inhabit the undergrowth. What can you do? Short of doing it?

"toll service" bill from Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone Company

Call someone, naturally. Plus, you can then also feel pleased for having called someone, as if it were the task itself. Ahem: I have almost made it so!


And that would be that, if your wallet was robust and also begging to be weeded. Perhaps pruned for its own good -- it may look sparse initially, but the money it will grow back, and much, much better than before. Now this, he does not promise. The landscaper pushes for what I'd "like to spend," which I try to push back on, but then opt for the lowest rung in his tiered budget ladder. He energetically gestures to what will be done in the front yard, and the story sounds great but already seems like a lot; I urge him to check out the back yard. And ohhhh, there's so much he'd like to do! And it would be cool, definitely. But the de-jungling: it's a lot of work. Which I get, and do not do, and have not done.

I shut down the initial estimate, which is three times higher than my rung. who said I would climb up there?  At this point, he observes, "You know, the home equity loans, those are really good, and you can just fold it into your mortgage payments." He nods to himself, "Yeah, I think that's a good way to go." He continues that the woman down the street was quite good at getting a fine rate, I could consult with her about it...I reiterate money, he returns to the prospect of a loan;  the manner with which he broaches it, returns to it, it's as if indebtedness is a soothing and welcome prospect for his clients. It's kind of fascinating, this estimate, because I actually think it's equal parts landscaper wanting to get past the initial grunt-work in order to create a harmonious space/reflect a vision AND concerted up-selling, at the most cynical end, merely herding me as sheeple to a nicely tunneled path to a much larger chunk of change. Hmmm. In any case, not spending that much money, no sirree.

And so, there was a second more palatable estimate from another source. And it is true that less was promised and the end result will be less dreamy, but hopefully the pruning will be liveable on all levels... Yard rescuers scheduled for tomorrow, barring a repeat of the afternoon monsoon today. Possible yard recovery, possible backyard swamp.