Crazy Stable

Every year they do this, but it never fails to touch me.  My little attempt at a "yellow garden" on the south side of the house never got its fall leaves raked off, but the crocus don't care; they just go for the light.

This little shrub, which I stuck in frantically before frost last fall, likes to leaf out very early, it seems. I forget its name; I usually do, which is why I will never make a good Plant Snob. I can't even remember common names, much less the Latin cultivar names that garden-club ladies toss around with abandon. This time of year, I just call most of my plants "Sweetie," as in, "Oh, sweetie, you're back!"

Crooning to my plants is much more enjoyable than thinking about the asbestos and the scary electrical service on life support in the accursed and demon-filled basement. So far, I've gotten two quotes from abatement guys, both of whom were highly recommended but seemed a little--odd. One recommended a halfway solution that I could afford; another insisted we had to scrape off every flake for twice the price. Needed this week: a tie-breaker vote and more research. Aren't I supposed to be sitting around sipping tea and pondering paint swatches at this point in our This Old House story?