Farewell, summer!

Yesterday I stumbled upon -- and posted -- photographic evidence of how wacky my neighbors are. I came upon that photo while searching for photos for a collage of some shots I took around the yard this summer.

Here is that collage:

As we head into fall -- my favorite season -- these are my reminders of how pleasant summer can be, too. Well, minus the 100-plus degree temps, of which I took a photo of the temperature gauge to remind us of the misery we endured due to heat when we're whining and complaining about the cold during the dead of winter.

The photo in the bottom left corner was meant to be a shot of our resident black squirrel meeting up with one of our resident albino squirrels. Unfortunately the white one ran off just as I snapped the photo. Eventually I'll have such a depiction of natural diversity and tolerance to share with you ... once the white squirrel gets a little better about the "tolerance" part of the picture.

The photo in the bottom right corner is a bit difficult to see at that size, but it's a baby robin in a nest in one of our trees on the patio. The nest was visible right from our deck.

In my area, the forecast for this coming weekend makes it ripe for one last fling with the heat -- a glorious hail and farewell to summer!

Today's question:

What will you miss most about summer?

Go ahead, call me a peeping grandma

As I was going through some of my photos to create a collage of summer shots I took over the last few months, I came across this:

It first startled me because I don't know those guys. I wondered what kind of ghostly happenings went on with my computer, leaving such a murderous image seemingly straight from a horror flick in my Picasa.

Then I truly laughed out loud as I remembered what it was.

One day in June when Jim was home for lunch, he called me into the kitchen, saying, "You gotta see this ... but don't go past the window." So as I crept into the kitchen, he directed me to look out the dining room window, where what do I behold but barber duty taking place on the deck of our always mysterious, endlessly bizarre neighbors. Hilarious!

This may be illegal ... who knows ... but I slunk way down at the dining room table and shot this with maximum zoom, right through the window. They never even noticed.

Funny thing is, neither of those guys in the photo are our neighbors and we had never seen them next door before. Even funnier: Later that evening there was a whole new set of guys out there -- including our neighbor, the father of one of the guys -- lined up for their turn while all the others gave advice and compliments.

I think somebody got a good deal on a pair of clippers at the flea market then shared his good fortune with his buddies, calling out, "Free summer cuts all around!"

Tomorrow I will post the collage I mentioned. For today, this forgotten photo was just too funny to pass up!

Today's question:

How often do you visit a hair salon and what do you usually have done? (Cut? color? highlights? lowlights?)

A dog by any other name

As part of the From Left To Write book club, I recently read Cowboy & Wills by Monica Holloway, provided for free through the book club. It's the true story of young autistic boy, Wills, and the golden retriever, Cowboy, that transformed his life. Written by Wills' mother, the book is an unflinchingly honest look at parenting an extraordinary child and the efforts taken to help him lead as ordinary a life as possible. Wills' saving grace turned out to be Cowboy.

Early in the book, Holloway writes of how Wills names his soon-to-be-adopted puppy -- a puppy that would decidedly be female -- "Cowboy" after a quick run-through of ideas with Mom. His first choice (for a female puppy, mind you) was Vincent, of which Holloway writes: "'Vincent is good,' I said, hoping we'd come up with something more upbeat and less like the conniving killer with the bone-chilling laugh in The House of Wax." So she offered up "Ringo." Wills countered with "Cowboy" (from his bedtime song of Cowboys Sing Good Night). "And it's okay that Cowboy's a girl?" Holloway asked him. "Who cares?" was his response. Simple as that, Wills' puppy became Cowboy.

ShannonIt reminded me of Andrea -- the biggest animal-lover in our family -- and her penchant for giving animals unusual names, starting with the naming of her first cat at about the same age Wills named his first puppy.

For many years, our only family animal was a beautiful blue-point Siamese I named Sadie. I can't remember why I chose that name, and I don't recall there being any huge significance to it. The name just sounded good, it fit, it stuck.

Then for animal-loving Andrea's fourth birthday, she was given the kitty she'd begged and pleaded for after seeing it during a July 4 party hosted by a friend of mine. (I'll never cop to a few drinks being the reason I gave in to her requests.)

MickeyFor Andrea, her new itsy-bitsy gray-and-white kitty's name did have huge significance. So she named it Shannon. After one of Brianna's friends. The loveliest of older girls, with long blonde hair, an infectious laugh and a perpetually sunny disposition. All the boys at school pined for her; Andrea idolized her. So she named her cat after her. Which was perfectly fine -- except that Shannon regularly got out of the house and I had to try to lure her back in. Calling out the door or roaming the block calling "Shannon ... Shannon ..." surely sounded like I was the worst of the worst mothers ever, nonchalantly searching for a lost child who'd wandered away.

Soon after, we got Moses, a black lab/collie mix and our first family dog. I gave him that name in hopes he'd live up to it and follow our commandments. Then my sweet Sadie passed away at 19 years old and was (eventually) replaced by tabby Abby. Then, soon after Andrea went off to college, her precious Shannon passed away and was replaced (for me and Abby, not Andrea) with crazy Isabel, a Halloween cat if ever there was one.

KamileahAndrea had no say-so in naming that batch of animals. But when we unexpectedly rescued a sweet 8-week-old pit/pointer mix who'd had both back legs broken by his previous owner, we offered for Andrea name him so that although she was away at college, she'd feel some ownership of the newest family pet. The puppy was white with caramel-colored spots and made Andrea think of her favorite thing in the world at that time: Caramel Macchiatos from Starbucks. She wanted to call the puppy Caramel Macchiato -- but I couldn't go that far in allowing her free reign on the naming. We settled on Mickey. Good enough, she agreed, huffing adding that she'll just name her own animal Caramel Macchiato when she gets one.

LylaAnd her first animal did, indeed, have the same coloring as our Mickey. But she chose to name the calico cat Kamileah, which means "perfection" in Egyptian, Andrea says, and was chosen after much Googling and searching for the absolute perfect name for her very own pet.

LukeHer next very own pet, a rescue dog of black lab/shepherd descent, she named Lyla. Because in Persian it means "dark as night." And Lyla she remains -- although she's been adopted by Grandma and Grandpa (meaning me and Jim) after apartment living didn't suit her style ... and her overactive bladder, constant chewing, and hyper disposition didn't suit Andrea's patience.

It was only with her most recent pet acquisition that Andrea settled on something a little more "normal." A few months ago she purchased the cutest little fluffball of a dog ever, a Zuchon, and she named him Luke. Of course, unlike her mother who names animals just whatever sounds good, she crowned the puppy Luke because he looks like an Ewok from Star Wars, but calling him Ewok would have been a little bizarre, she thought. So she named him Luke ... after Luke Skywalker.

And it was that reasoning, that relatively normal name for a pet -- coming from a young adult who not so long ago thought Caramel Macchiato was an acceptable name for a puppy -- that led me to the most bittersweet of realizations: My animal-loving little girl, the last of my three babies, had truly grown up.

Today's question:

What's the strangest name of one of your past or present pets?

Preparing for Bubby

Bubby's guest room awaitsToday I'm in the desert visiting Bubby. On Sunday, he and I will hop on a plane together and head for the mountains. It will be his first plane ride without Mom or Dad, his first visit to Grandma's without Mom or Dad. We're all pretty excited ... yet anxious to find out how our little guy will do being away from his parents for a few days.

Jim -- aka PawDad -- and I made a few adjustments and enhancements to house and home in preparation for his visit:

1. Removed the box spring from the bed in the guest room, to lower the bed to a height that's easy for Bubby to get in and out of.

2. Set up the baby monitor in the guest room so we could hear any sounds in our bedroom ... which is only two doors away but ya never know.

3. Purchased new Matchbox cars and a nifty rug printed to look like a happy little neighborhood with wending roads just the right size for Matchbox cars.

4. Scrubbed and shined -- to the degree you can shine plastic -- some of the old toys left in our shed by the previous owner. Including a fantastic Fisher Price play kitchen set (sink/stove/fridge combo!) last used 15 or so years ago, but perfect for Bubby ... who would have loved such a thing for his birthday but Dad nixed that idea and he got a cute little BBQ grill instead. Well, Dad, Bubby will be playing with a kitchen set at Grandma's because we certainly can't let a good kitchen set go to waste.

5. Stocked up on 100% fruit-juice fruit snacks, goldfish crackers and Vitamin D milk (instead of our typical 1%). Stocked up on diapers and baby wipes, too -- things I've not bought in more than 20 years.

6. Added fresh batteries to two baby glow worms and a Teletubby (a Teletubby which no one in the family knows how it came to be part of our toy stash).

7. Set the DVR to record a few episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba and Chuggington.

8. Purchased the super-size bag of popcorn kernals for popping in the popcorn machine -- a specific request from Bubby. He surprisingly remembers our popcorn machine and its movie-theater-popcorn goodness from his visit in March.

9. Cleared the calendar of anything and everything except hanging out with our favorite little dude.

Our house and hearts are ready. Wish us luck!

Today's question:

When you have guests scheduled to visit, what is the first item on your preparation to-do list?

This post was linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.

Open the door

See that door to the right? That's my front door. The front door that's been driving me buggy the past few weeks. The door is from the late 1800s and it's made of wood ... wood that swells more and more as the humidity rises.

Well, it's been humid lately and my door is swelling.

Last year that door swelled so much it was impossible to open for a few days. Impossible. Luckily there was no fire requiring us to run out the front door, as Jim and I surely would have perished. (Luckily there was no fire requiring us to run out the back door, either, but at least that would have been feasible.)

So my door is swollen, which really isn't that big of a deal. There are far worse things in the world -- even in just daily living -- to be concerned about.

But the weird thing is that this door underscores a bizarre theme I've noticed running through my life for the past month or so. A completely unintentional theme. A theme of doors.

In years past, I didn't think too much about doors. Except, of course, when the girls liked to slam doors as a show of force when they didn't get their way. Or when those slammed doors were removed from the hinges to punish the girls for slamming them -- or because they lost the privilege of having doors and the privacy they provide, privacy that made it impossible to know what questionable things the girls were doing behind those closed doors. Or when I would march into the bathroom and slam and lock the door to keep myself in and Jim out when he really cussed me off. (Boy, I really know how to show him!)

Other than those far-too-common times, though, doors weren't much of an issue. Now, for some unknown reason, they figure prominently on my to-do list, in my conversations, in various facets of my life. And I'm not talking just about the swollen door that makes it difficult for me to go out front to pick up my daily newspaper or my mail.

On my to-do list is "put door on Craigslist," for we have this wonderful glass sliding door in perfect condition that someone surely would love to install in their home. But I don't feel like dealing with the Craigslist crowd right now, so that door hangs over my head. (Figuratively, of course. It's actually leaning against a wall in the garage.)

Then there's Bubby and doors -- more specifically, his discovery of the power of a closed door. Megan called recently to say that Bubby has taken to rounding up Roxy, taking her to his room and shutting the door to play hours-long games of make-believe with his buddy. When Megan opens the door to check on him, he cries, "No, Mommy, shut door!" Which she does, for Bubby's just innocently exercising his imagination, not torturing poor Roxy behind the closed door; Megan's sure of that, as the baby monitor now comes in handy to keep tabs on his daily doings, not just those of the night.

Another odd door thing is that, with no intention whatsoever, Jim and I recently watched "When You're Strange," the 2009 rockumentary about none other than, you guessed it, The Doors. Then Jim watched "Classic Albums: The Doors." (He's more into The Doors than I am.)

Then there's the bizarre phrase Jim keeps uttering; not like a crazy person or anything, just when the time seems right ... to him. Maybe he got it from the recent documentaries; maybe he made it up. I'm not sure, but it's about doors. "The door has been provided ... all you have to do is walk through it," he keeps saying.

What the cuss is that all about? When I worry about new challenges, he says it. When the girls complain about unhappy situations, he says it. When the dogs want to come in at night, he says it. Again and again, Jim waxes philosophical about doors and walking on through them.

(Okay, so I made that up about the dogs. But he has said it -- and continues to say it -- to the rest of us, in a variety of situations.)

I don't know what it means. I don't know why doors are figuring so prominently in my life right now,  and I don't know why Jim -- after nearly 30 years together and never saying it before -- has started telling me to walk through one.

So maybe the answer, the resolution, the clarity will come once I find that door of which Jim speaks, the door that all these other doors are directing me to. Maybe good things await on the other side of that door ... if only I open it and walk on through.

My only hope? That when I find that cuss door, it's not one made of wood. Because with all the humidity we've had lately, that certainly would not bode well for my journey.

One final, minor note (hence the smaller font): All the door photos here are of doors in my house. See? My life is nothing but doors, doors, doors. Well, that and stairs, stairs, and more stairs.

Today's question:

What door have you recently walked through, a door to something exciting, challenging, foreboding or fun?