I can’t believe I once lived in this arid desert for years and didn’t shrivel up into an aged crone.  After only a few days, by hands are like sandpaper, by legs area as scaly as two giant redfish and my nasal passages are actully bleeding!  

I have to go back home tomorrow.  Some nonsense about earning a living.  It will be hard to leave.  It always is.  But the one thing I can look forward to is stepping off the plane and onto the jetway.  Vistors from elsewhere always comment at that moment, “Oh, the humidity!  How can they stand it here?”

I always spread my arms and breathe in the moisture.  Let the re-hydration begin!

I doubt that the Postmaster General approved all the boxes Allie and I have seen in the neighborhood, but the mail-people don’t seem to be fazed. Neither rain, nor tide, nor concrete, shell, or wooden monstrosities stay these couriers from their appointed rounds.

So far, I’ve found three basic types of “non-standard” mail boxes:

Those being held up by some large sea creature –

Seahorse Mailbox

A box disguised to look like something other than a place for mail –

Manatee Mailbox

Fishing Lure Mailbox

Hand painted or decorated boxes.

Palm Tree Mailbox

Seashell mailbox

Some box owners have a lot of talent.

Painted Pelican Mailbox

Others not so much

Mermaid Mailbox

Shark Mailbox

If you are still curious about beach mailboxes, there are plenty more here.

As much as I love sunsets, especially the over-the-water-kind with the green-flash bonus, sunrises are just the best.

I’ll never forget the one morning when I was eight, my dad woke me up at 4:00 am. It was cold, Iowa winter below-zero cold, and pitch black outside. . He bundled me up and loaded me in his truck. We drove around aimlessly, just so he could show me the city asleep. My Dad was cool like that. The streets were eerily quiet and empty, covered in frost that sparkled in the street lights’ glow. The only place in town with any activity was the newspaper plant where workers were loading papers onto trucks for distribution. We drove into the park where he showed me how hunters “spot light” rabbits. We saw a deer, too. Then he took me to the highest point in the city and we watched the sunrise. I’ll never forget it.

Afterwards, we went to a local diner where he had a “big stack” and I had a “little stack” and although I burned my mouth on my hot chocolate, the whole experience was magical to me. I’m sure that’s where my love of sunrises began.

Some sunrises are like mangoes and peaches in a big blue bowl.

Some are military – brass buttons and gold braid on a blue uniform. Some are pastel Monet water lily canvases. Some Degas ballerinas, all pink and gold. Some are high school marching band orange and purple. Some are firey as the gates of hell, and some pearly as the gates of heaven.

If you haven’t seen a sunrise lately, make it a point to catch one soon.

This place doesn’t need any balloons tied to the mailbox to announce ‘the party’s here.”

Then there’s this one. Why stop at painting the house when you can paint the accessories too?

Purple and green? It just doesn’t get any beachier.

All these places remind me of when I was a kid in Iowa, and my dad took me to see the “crazy houses.” They were right in the middle of one of those 1950’s communities full of pastel three-bedroom ranches that all looked alike.

Apparently a guy decided to paint his house school bus yellow. His next-door-neighbor, after asking him to tone it down and being flatly rebuffed, chose to fight fire with fushia, and painted his house bright purple.

With the gauntlet thrown, so to speak, the owner of the yellow house lost no time adding huge bubble-gum pink polka dots on his sunny domicile. Not to be outdone, his neighbor painted giant cartoon characters (Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Popeye, and others) on top on the purple background.

Of course word got out, and soon there were lines of cars on the quite street filled with gawkers eager for a glimpse of the “two crazy guys’” houses. Eventually the guys came to their senses and repainted their houses in boring pastel colors. But it sure was fun while it lasted.

plus it’s just been too doggone cold< to do anything!

I keep seeing “jogging guy” – the one who wears only candy-striped Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and a large straw hat no matter how cold it is – but haven’t approached him, because
a) he carries a big (about 6’long) stick
b) we haven’t been going the same direction, were too far apart, or he was talking with someone else.

I think he lives in the bright pink house with the even brighter pink trim down the street, because I saw him exiting that yard early one morning. But, that remains to be confirmed. Must screw up my courage and talk to him one of these days, as I’m sure there is a story there.

Meanwhile, Allie and I were on our usual morning patrol a week ago when I spotted a man’s white athletic sock in the middle of the road. About 10 yards farther down, there was its mate. And about 10 yards from that point – a pair of men’s white Jockey shorts. The next day they were still there, but moved to the sidewalk.

Obviously there’s a story behind that, but I really don’t want to know what it is.

No such rules exist near the beach. Here, one man’s yard art is definitely another man’s eyesore – or at least eye-irritation. Almost daily, Allie and I walk by this bear. He stands at least 15 feet tall, apparently carved from some ancient tree.

I can’t even imagine the story behind this big guy. But every time I pass it, I want to yell at the house, “What were you thinking?”.

Then there’s this:

There are no words. Seriously. People who think a statue of a chimpanzee belongs in the garden are obviously disturbed. Note the giant snail next to the chimp. We walk as fast as we can past this house.

But then there’s this pirate. I can’t figure out why he is leaning up against a garage door and not displayed prominently mid-yard. He’s so… what’s the word?.. piratey!

I just love his face.

If he was in my yard, I’d dare the Covenants Committee to make me take him down.

In my neighborhood, lots of folks have fences in their front yards. In most cases, they are meant to be decorative, hey are meant to keep people out or pets in. Since there are no deed restrictions here, people are free to put up whatever kind of fence they want. Some efforts are successful.

Some are not

Now the owner of this fence obviously doesn’t care about the impression he is creating – that of “lazy slob.”

This homeowner actually has a pretty cool fence. It has little metal lions on top of the gate. Too bad he’s let it get into such bad condition.

This person tried to make the fence look good, but failed. Note to artist: paint dark to light, not light to dark. And take some art lessons.

I’m not quite sure what this person was thinking, but the rope is totally black with mildew and dirt, and is certainly not adding any appeal to his yard.

This guy wanted to mark his territory, pathetic as that territory is. How this patch of weeds and dirt rates a fence is beyond me.

Personally I love this fence. From the street it looks fairly ordinary.

But up close, you can see that someone really cares about creating a pleasing and welcoming environment around their house. The

pineapple has been a symbol of hospitality for more than 500 years.

Likewise, this fence is one I enjoy walking by.

See what a little imagination and effort can do?

To get to the point of this post: fence putter-uppers, think before you enclose! Are you creating an eyesore or an esthetically pleasing addition to the neighborhood? (Not to mention my daily walk) There is enough ugly in the world already. If you’re going to add something, at least make it easy to look at.

Drawing courtesy sketchpot.blogspot.com

The months of build up, the frenzied decorating, shopping, gift-wrapping, eating, and drinking have all come to a screeching halt. You contemplate the sea of torn paper, the ravaged carcass of the roast beast, and in the profound stillness that has replaced incessant caroling and cries of Happy Holidays!” you can actually hear the sound of pine needles hitting the floor. The tree itself, once a thing of wonder, is now just another leftover. At 12:01 this morning, it ceased to be a symbol of all things bright and beautiful, and became just another thing be gotten rid of.

Woefully, you pat your midsection and begin to truly regret those last three pieces of pie and those last dozen rum balls. Rum-shmum. They didn’t even give you a buzz. But they seem to have taken up permanent residence on your hips, looking like patches of cellulite, only dimplier.

The younger kids have added new levels of crazy to your personal experience with those battery-operated weapons of mass dementia cleverly marketed as toys. The older ones have already advanced to level 15 after pulling an all-nighter playing that hideously expensive new video game system they got, and are now moping around the house complaining about being bored. The cat just barfed up a bow-bedecked hairball, and the single bright spot is that the dog has finally torn the squeaker out of the last of his new toys.

Some folks like to spend the day after Christmas in the throes of retail ecstasy – exchanging, spending, and bargain hunting their little hearts out. This is just a delaying tactic to postpone the inevitable. The holiday is over. Buying a new gadget from Brookstone or returning that God-awful sweater won’t make it last any longer. Denial is not just a river near the Brandon Town Center.

But cheer up, there’s a new holiday just around the corner. It’s no coincidence that New Years Eve comes just one week after Christmas. What better way to lift us out of the post-party depression of Christmas just past than an alcohol-soaked evening of dining, dancing, kissing (if we’re lucky), and making promises we have no intention of keeping?

Yippee, it's a tree!

The tree is up! I dread that chore more each year, it seems, but once done, I am exceedingly glad I put forth the effort. I sit back and just gaze upon the wonder of it.

Every household it seems, has their own version of the Christmas tree. Some opt for aluminum, some like plastic, while others won’t have anything but real. Some like long needles, others like short. There are the flocked aficionados, and the purists, the garland lovers, and the ribbon people. Some like a “themed” tree or a monochromatic scheme. Some families think white lights are the only way to go. Some like multicolored, some prefer the blinking kind; others get fancy with “bubble lights” or exotic lighting solutions.

Christmas trees are very personal things, and mine is no exception. It’s evolved over the years from a time when there was no money for ornaments and I had to hand-craft them, to now, when I desperately search for just one more empty branch hang yet another bauble from a huge box overflowing with Christmas treasures. Here are a few of the cherished novelties that bedeck the tree in our home.

Egg Carton Bell circa 1979

You all have one of these, right, or some version of it. There must be a rule that the first ornament crafted by each kindergarten child is a bell. All you need is one section form an egg carton, some paint, and a pipe cleaner. A tiny jingle bell hangs inside and glitter adorns the exterior. Perfection achieved.

Kid-made ornaments are so precious. This ceramic angel was made by an angel who used to live at my house.

Kerry''s Angel

Homemade Santa

This crocheted Santa is evidence that once upon a time I had extra time to make things.

A simple hand-blown glass ball. There were six originally, but only three remain. I bought them in Germany more than 40 years ago. They were too beautiful to resist, but the only purchased ornaments we could afford for our poor little first tree. I made snowflakes from fringe dipped in starch and dried, and cut paper angels to keep them company.

Hand blown glass ornament form Germany

In 1985, our younger daughters’ elementary school was selling these ornaments for $5.00.  Today, there’s not enough money in the world to buy this one.

Two elementary school flakes

From Naples With Love

My Girl Scout troop was always looking to raise money to finance camping trips. One year we made a variety of Christmas ornaments to sell, like this beaded candy cane. I bought one of each kind, and still have them all.

Girl Scout Candy Cane

Made in Amana, IA

I bought this little clothespin doll in Amana, Iowa, during a visit to my mother. The following Christmas, she was in the hospital, dying.

You can’t go to one of the Disney parks without bringing home a souvenir. This is ours.

Greetings from Disney World

Last year, Tom, our Sonic-obsessed grandson decided we needed some original artwork for the tree.

Tom's Cartoons

Traditional Christmas Banana

When he was a baby, I bought this banana, plus five other pieces of fruit. I would hold him up and ask traditional holiday questions like, “Where’s the watermelon?” and he would gleefully point and answer, “Wa-mel-mo!”

Sadly, there are ornaments that aren’t on the tree anymore – the round plastic unbreakable ones we bought when the kids were toddlers, a few mass-produced plain glass balls we purchased to fill up the empty spaces in the early years before children, friends, and adventures had bestowed the wealth of ornamentation we have now. And, as the children have left the nest, I’ve tenderly packed and delivered “their” special ornaments – handmade or received as gifts, to serve as the base upon which to build their own Christmas traditions.

Come New Years Day, I’ll watch football and the Rose Parade, while I gently wrap each ornament in a piece of tissue or paper towel, and store it in my large compartmented box. Each year, I shed a tear or two as I lay each little trinket away. I wonder, will I be here to unpack them again, and what will things be like a year from now? This year’s a bit odd, what with the Mr. and I both jobless and all. I can’t help but hope that after a long and well-deserved rest, my little treasures will re-emerge to grace a tree that stands in a more solvent household. But whatever the future brings, the memories they hold will still be there – as bright and shiny as the day each was first hung on a piney branch.

Here’s wishing you and yours all the joys of the season. I’ll see you on Friday

Peetsa keeping out window drafts

This phone better not ring and wake me up

Puff being a puff

I give them hairball-revention food, brush them, and still they throw up – everywhere. I think they do it just to spite me.