Meaningful greenery

If you've ever been to our current house, then you likely know that we have one real tree.

We had trees at our last two houses, and they were all right... Some pines at the end of the yard of one, a raggedy old nondescript tree at the other (which happily attracted the sweetest little owls). They served the purpose; a tree is a tree. Right?

Wrong. There are certain trees that simply represent treedom with more class, more presence. Like people. They're all unique, they all legally fit the bill by definition, yet that is where the similarity ends.

This tree in my yard now? It is an ambassador of trees. A Kentucky Coffee Tree, the only one around us that I'm aware of. It's a behemoth. Our first summer here, we were moved to pay far too many hundreds to have it pruned out of fear it would blow onto our roof. But the tree man did his job well, and our beautiful giant flourishes. All the years that our diminutive house sat empty, waiting for grandma to get better and come back, or later for a grandchild to decide to live here (neither of which happened), our tree grew tall and proud, dwarfing the house below it.

If you look into images of the tree type, you'll see that the branches grow downward; when it's leafless, it could even be described as creepy (as deemed by a neighbor, viewing it in its naked state). But I love it. I love it best on days such as this, when I've worked hard, pulling and hauling spent garden plants, and have earned the gorgeous shady canopy of my tree's low-hanging front limbs. On this particular day, I hide beneath its shadows, camouflaged from curious neighbors by its green arms, able to observe the street's goings on without being observed in turn.

I love the tree on warm nights, when I sneak out in the dark to swing on a wonderful rope swing my husband had the genius to install shortly after our arrival. To ride loftily into those branches at night, to feel weightless, communing with the leaves and sky, is a heady, inimitable sensation.

Mostly, I love the tree because it reminds me that I am small. That my roots will never be as expansive as this verdant structure's, that a tree such as this can subtly and unobtrusively become the focal point of a yard without even trying just because it is a wonderfully made, living thing.

I want to weep when I remember that in two short months, it will shed its green/gold-turned-red mantel and stand unadorned once more. But then I fast-forward more months, to next spring, when it will once again grow its lovely, rich raiment. As it did for all those years when no one lived here. And I am happy again, knowing the tree is at least properly appreciated these days. As is my Creator, each time I behold the tree's beauty and majesty.

Joyce Kilmer knew of what he wrote.

Signs of spring

Here's the latest painting: a hoppity little fellow. Easter's approach always connotes the images of bunnies for me, probably for most of us. After wondering about the origins of the tradition, I read somewhere that Easter's pagan beginnings had a sharp focus on fertility. Heck, what's a better example of that than rabbits? Hence the "Easter Bunny." Weird. The savior of the world was raised from the dead, and we hide eggs (more fertility symbols) and give credit to a long-eared, madly breeding furball.

I have seen a few bunnies scrambling frantically in my evening headlights of late. Guess they're starting to get bored in those burrows, too.

Anyway. The painting is for sale in my Etsy shop.

I'll resume muttering at the stubborn snow now.

Unwelcome insight

So we have this neighbor. I'll call her Edwina (not her real name.) From day one at this house, Edwina has inserted herself firmly into every single moment possible. She has come traipsing over to our driveway and door through every single home project, especially those within clear view, to offer advice and general observations. She has accosted each of us in our own ways, not just my own family but the other neighbors as well, to question us about intricacy upon intricacy. She seems to have no verbal filter whatsoever, and although her intentions appear to be merely friendliness borne of boredom, her curiosity can range from slightly annoying to downright rude and intrusive. She tells us what to do, tries to tell our child what to do, points out unfinished house business, and pries at us until we snap a bit. Even my unbelievably patient husband has grown weary of it.

When I'm in the wrong mood, I covertly check through shaded blinds to see if she's outside before I hurry into the yard for any reason. When I'm in the right frame of mind, I try to placate her endless queries with generalized but good-natured answers. I wish I could say I am in the right frame of mind most of the time, but remember? I'm a self-admitted loner and a privacy freak... so I often don't appreciate her nosey questions.

While I've been repeatedly dealing with Edwina's boundless curiosity, I've been simultaneously participating in a Bible study at a nearby church. We began by tackling the ancient book of Job. Wow. Short name, long suffering. Much wisdom about the character of God can be gleaned from that book. Each week, we've worked our way through more chapters, and the other women in my group and I have all discussed the depths and nuances of Job's ordeal.

The biggest lesson I've taken from it has been my need to question God less and accept and praise more. Even though Job is a righteous man to begin with, the humility that he learns by the end of his book is astounding. Who are we to question God, His ways, His means? Where were we when the world was formed? Do we know what all the animals are up to? Did we arrange the cycles of life, the rotations of the planet? Did we create any single living thing around us, including ourselves? And Job sits with his hand over his mouth, frankly embarrassed by his own impudence, listening to God and feeling small.

We were discussing the way that Job had initially questioned God's purpose, how he had wanted to know why things were happening the way they did. That led to some talk about our own questioning nature as humans. A few of the ladies in my group went on to say that often, we mere people want to win God over to our own plan, to "help Him" get things done in a way that pleases us. Sometimes we ask God too many questions, or try to insert ourselves and our desires into His plan. And God doesn't appreciate that; God works independently on a need-to-know basis, and honestly, most of the time we don't need to know. We probably wouldn't understand anyway—our perspective is pretty selfish and skewed.

And then, in the midst of this discussion, God poked me in the side and reminded me of Edwina. Her nosey ways. Her constant questions. Her advice. All unsolicited, unwelcome, and—here's the kicker—totally uninformed.

Just like my ways. I have been known to play Edwina to God.

Yikes, that was a disturbing thought. I remembered all the times I had bitten my tongue with frustration when Edwina asked yet more pointed questions about things that did not concern her, that she had no need and no right to know.

Just as I have done with my very own Maker.

So. There it is. I need to trust God more. When I do that, then I can stop asking God all those unnecessary questions. I'll bet He would really appreciate that.

Autumn—the big flirt

Yet another finished painting! I feel so prolific. (It's available in my Etsy shop.)

I've been painting more than usual lately, probably because I'm trying to pull myself out of the doldrums. Why doldrums, you ask? Because it's fall.

I find autumn to be depressing. I know some people love this time of year, but I think I hate it a little bit more than I love it. The incredible skies, the crispy leaves, the aromas of earth and dried green things and occasional wood smoke, the promise of—

Winter.

That's the only thing that's promised to me in all this last-gasping beauty: Cold, dead winter.

See? I told you it was depressing. It's like that handsome, older boy I once knew; he'd smile at me and the sun would shine brighter on my day, and then I'd see him later with his date and he'd pretend not to know me. All stunning, dazzling bluster, with a chilly finish. That is autumn to me.

Still... It's here. I'll keep painting outside for as long as I can, and will breathe in all that fabulousness for as long as it's available. After all, I'm only down in the dumps—I'm not foolish.

How now...

Here's my latest painting. I hurried so I could finish working on it in the back yard, which is very pleasant when 1) rain isn't falling, and 2) the wind isn't trying to blow the canvas off of my easel.

("How Now" is for sale in my Etsy shop.)

If you live around here, then you already know it's likely I won't be painting outside today.

The only thing I've missed from our old house is the covered patio. I hope there is one in the near future for this dwelling.

Stay dry!

Feel-good stuff

We've been doing plenty of reading here at our home. Summer is great for that, you know. Not to mention, since a lengthy to-do list for our newly purchased house cannot peaceably coexist with a cushy vacation budget, reading allows us little escapes via the back yard and our imagination...

So my son and I were reading together (taking turns, but mostly me) and one of the mystery stories we read featured a slightly silly story about a scientist mom and her inquisitive daughter, studying penguins during an oil spill. In the story, the daughter explained to a friend that the oil-soaked penguins try to preen their feathers, and even if they've been bathed, they still find and ingest enough oil to sicken and often kill them. In addition, the spilled oil, the baths and the extra preening strip away the necessary, binding oils on their skin and feathers—the very stuff that seals their coats and keeps the penguins warm in freezing water.

Oil-soaked, oil-poisoned, too-cold penguins. That's bad. And the solution? The scientist mom designed a pattern for penguin sweaters. The kids publicized the situation and the pattern. Knitters all over the world responded, and sent the tiny sweaters... and it worked! Penguins were saved!

Nice story, I thought. Whatever. Couldn't happen.

But it could! It did. My son kept reading and found sections in the back detailing true stories that inspired the fictionalized ones we'd read. You can see for yourself! penguins

And then, our searching on YouTube (which was carefully filtered by me, of course) brought forth another gem: swimming

You have to watch almost all the way through, to see the little creature be lifted out. Make certain you have your sound turned up, because its utterance is the best part.

Watch them both, and I dare you to not say "Awwwwwww" at least once while viewing.

The bold and the hideous

Ah, the sights and sounds and smells of summer. Sunshine warming your shoulders, bright blooms in every direction, colors that only God could dream of... that is July here in lovely western Pennsylvania. Except you might get a few very unwelcome visitors in your happy little utopia...

See the pretty flowers? (Note the great color combination of the first; remember my favorite shades of dandelion yellow and wine red? These beauties are perfection, no?)

See the last picture? That sneaky, pink-nosed beast stealing the birds' discarded sunflower seeds? I got a good look—the brown/gray fur, the long skinny tail...

Definitely not a chippy.

Last night, the hus and I worked on a shared mission. He took his trusty machete and obliterated the full, lush hostas (a.k.a. rodent hideout), while I drove with purpose
to the nearest Home Depot. Guess what I purchased?

I hope I don't poison the wrong critter by accident, but I simply cannot and will not tolerate dirty rats. Yeeeech.

Crusade against the cowbird

There seem to be limitless examples of how nature takes advantage of changing environments in order to exploit smaller, weaker, more easy-going members of its society. I'm sad to tell you that it also happens in the bird world.

Meet the cowbird—a species I was happily unaware of until a few years ago, when we set up the feeders here in our yard and began to enjoy the beauties of our winged neighbors. This plain, sour-looking fellow showed up, and my son and I were curious enough to find his picture and read about him. We did not like what we read: this bird is a parasite.

Used to be, cowbirds hung out with the buffalo and followed them around, taking advantage of the insect explosion stirred up by the wandering herd. Since the big beasts moved around a lot, so did the cowbirds; in fact, they never stayed in one place long enough to build nests. So what did they do? Why, they used other birds' nests as their own little incubation system. And they still do it.

(If you don't believe me, you can read about it here or here. Appalling, isn't it?)

You can see why we aren't big cowbird fans; we know what they're up to, laying their big, nasty eggs in the nests of smaller, unsuspecting birds, to the detriment and even death of the host birds' own young. And when those cowbirds show up at our bird feeder, we scare them away. We clap at them, shout at them, even open the door and run at them until they flee in fear, their annoyingly high-pitched call echoing behind them as they vacate the premises.

But honestly, how much good does it do? They keep showing up. They've found a way to use and abuse the good, upstanding members of Birdville, and they're going to keep at it until somebody is defeated or disappears. Worst of all, the cowbirds aren't going anywhere because the constant destruction of forest and opening up of more woodland edges actually exacerbate the problem; that's just the sort of surroundings to which they flock.

We'll keep on fighting the good fight. And yet... it's feeling like a lost cause, because even as I type, Mama Cowbird is out there laying roughly an egg a day, invading as many happy homes as possible, dooming the rightful members of the family.

The worst part is that our own society is looking a lot like nature these days. Sigh.

Pressing on, seeking joy

Even in face of bad news, there are things to celebrate.

Like amazing, almost alien-esque garden spoils (these are far more pretty than they are tasty, I think--but Todd likes 'em).



Or backyard visitors of the slightly wobbly, spotted kind.



The fun to be had with a small swimming hole and a garden hose.



The ability to paint a pink flower for a friend.




Turns out that, even in the face of uncertainty, there are still some certainties—and life is still pretty sweet.

Carpe diem, flawed though it may be!

Weird, wild suburban visitor

It was late morning, and the boy and I were out front. I was pulling weeds (my least favorite yet most common outdoor activity), and the kiddo was drawing race tracks and driveways on the sidewalk with his chunky chalk. It was quiet, which is rather unusual since my son is a bit of a chatty guy, and we were both focused on our work in the chilly sunshine.

I saw something from the corner of my eye, and glanced up at Marcus—only to catch my breath. Directly behind my little boy, not more than four feet away, a behemoth wild tom turkey was strolling along. Marcus, who was completely oblivious, looked up and saw me staring with intent interest at him; before he could ask me why, I instructed him quietly, “Turn around and look behind you, slowly.” He did as he was told, without a word, and the giant bird was so close to him that a single step forward would have allowed him to reach out and touch its shimmery-dull brown feathers.

His head swiveled back around, still slowly (good listening!), and the expression on his sweet face was absolutely priceless. He didn’t burst into tears, or holler, or say a word, but his eyes were huge and I could tell he was pretty uncomfortable with the proximity of that ridiculous creature as it strutted past, waddle bobbing with each step. “It’s a wild turkey, honey—isn’t it big?” I said softly. He nodded, and turned to look at it once again.

The tom had continued on his way, and was stepping out onto the road to cross it. He never looked at us, never wavered from his path in any way, simply trod across the street and up into the neighbor’s back yard, out of sight. It was rather surreal. I thought about creeping over to the neighbor’s to try taking a photograph, but even if I were successful (highly unlikely, considering my history), it seemed anticlimactic somehow; I’d missed capturing the best picture of all, that being the enormous creature right behind—and standing nearly as tall as—my astonished son.

And just a few hours later that same day? Our first hummingbird of the year showed up at the feeder. I pointed him out to Marcus, and we watched the tiny miracle zipping away toward the tallest tree. I said to him, “Can you believe that little hummer and that huge turkey are both birds? How can that be?”

His answer was simple, yet profound in its honesty: “I do not know.”

Neither do I, my boy. Neither do I. But I do know that the more I see, the more certain I am that none of it is accidental. What an amazing Creator is obvious in everything around us.

Go out and be awed today. (You can be odd, too, if you’d like. I highly recommend both.)

Chippy’s triumphant return

I was really starting to worry; on all those warm, luscious mornings this region enjoyed recently, the kid and I would feed the birds, pull some weeds, draw with chalk on the patio…and the entire time, I found myself scanning our “rock garden” (I use this term quite loosely) for the diminutive chipmunk that had charmed us almost daily last year.

I looked in vain; Chippy was nowhere. Birds came and went, all his fat dove friends perusing the dropped birdseed under the feeders, the sun shone brightly, the first butterflies of the season flapped about with abandon… but no Chippy. Where could he be? Had he found another yard in which to dwell? Had he become the unfortunate landing place for a car tire? Had a hungry hawk and his ravenous pals relished my sweet little striped-back critter? I couldn’t bear the thought.

I tried to put it out of my head. I gave up, at least on the surface. Chipmunks come and go. They have no loyalty. They’re wild, shy, covert. Of course our little guy had found a quieter place to forage. There we were, riding Big Wheels and talking loudly and moving things constantly and tramping through the rocks around the feeders. It was only natural that such a timid creature would come to his senses and begin a new season in a new locale. I tried to be content with a new finch, a great number of buds on the peonies, amazing growth from the clematis. I tried. But inside, I never stopped hungering for a glimpse of that little brown streak of fur.

And then, he was there. Yesterday morning, after a spring shower. Rummaging among the birds for dropped niger seed. He moved just as quickly as I remembered, stuffed his little chippy cheeks to near-bursting, sat as still as a stone with his mouth full when he detected my motion from the doorway. I called for my son, who hurried into the kitchen to see if I were teasing him. We watched with delight, then Marcus said, “Mommy, take his picture.” I snagged the camera from the dining room and we tiptoed at a crawl out the door and down the four steps—and Chippy saw us advancing and ran for his life.

But he stopped just inside the neighbor’s yard, allowed me to snap a photo, then scrambled out of sight. I saw him later that day, as well. He’ll be a regular again, if we’re lucky.

It made my day.

Wild kingdom

We live only 10 minutes from downtown Pittsburgh. But you’d never know it from the varieties and numbers of fauna that co-exist with us.

It’s increasingly obvious this year—perhaps I’ve been outside more than last?—but I noticed a few weeks ago that in addition to the adorable chipmunks and pesky squirrels that frequent our yard, there was also an unbelievably cute young rabbit frolicking around the back and side yard. I lucked into the pic you see here, along with many others that were taken while the bunny decided in which moment to scamper away. We still see him almost daily, and it’s always a treat. Until he begins to eat the lettuces.

Now, soft bunnies are one thing. The deer are quite another; they stopped being sweet-faced and picturesque some time ago, when we began to refer to them as our pet deer. I opened the door after dark one recent evening, distinctly heard the sound of chewing, and turned on the light to catch one of the big does munching down every available leaf on our hosta plants, the poor marred things. All that grass, and what does she eat? Our plants. She stood her ground, too, staring dumbly at me in mid-chomp even when I challenged her, the incriminating evidence hanging from her half-closed jaw. I had to descend the steps before she scampered away, and even then she didn’t leave the area, just stayed out of the light’s reach and continued chewing boldly. The scamp.

Then we took it up a notch. The kid was helping me scout the bunny on our hill of river rock out back, and suddenly he was pointing and hollering, “Snake! Snake! Mama, snake there!” I doubted him, scoffed at his claim, and then—lo and behold—I saw the slinky creature. A smallish black snake, no more than a foot long, creeping across the rocks to hide in some undergrowth. We took a timid step closer, peering into the plant where he’d hidden, and the nervy little reptile stuck his head out to peer right back at us. He was completely unfazed, stared us down, and then sneaked back into the bush without another glance. I keep looking for him a bit nervously, but he has yet to reappear; he’s waiting for me to go traipsing down that hill shoeless, no doubt, so as to maneuver his way under my foot and frighten me into breaking bones on those rocks.

The crowning glory of my animal events came the other night, as I sat on the patio, talking to my father via telephone. We were chatting, and I had no lights on, just a candle lit, and I was telling him something that I can’t recall now when I heard a dog a few doors away barking madly. Not a big deal, that—I hear it often. But within just a few seconds, I heard another sound: the skittering of clawed feet on concrete. And then, a dark form scurried right in front of the glider on which I relaxed, vulnerable to attack. A dark form that hurried low to the ground, head bent, masked eyes darting ahead to quickly map the rest of his retreat. His ringed tail followed him, barely dragging the pavement. In a flash he was gone, the big thief, probably startled away from someone’s garbage where he’d been trying to filch a late-night snack.

That one threw me for a loop. I’ve never been so close to a raccoon before, and this one was a biggie. I don’t think he ever knew I was there.

They're encroaching, the critters. Better keep the screens in tiptop shape. Cute as they can be, I don’t think I want these wild beasts any closer than they already are.

Croatians and guns

Every neighborhood, every home, has its sounds. Take our last neighborhood, for example: the summer sounds from that house's porch and yard were little owls hoo-ing in the evenings, peepers peeping on occasion, the crack of the bat from a nearby baseball field, and multi-ton dump trucks lumbering by in the pre-dawn… Well, that’s a story for another post. Actually, for a novel, if I can ever be sufficiently distanced to write it without reliving it psychologically.

But the house we’re in now has its own orchestra, especially when the months turn warm. And on weekends, you’re almost guaranteed to hear gunshots intermingled with Croatians shouting and singing.

The first time I detected the gunfire, I was concerned. Guns? Why so close? And not just any guns—these shots sounded like they’d come from cannons. We found out from a next-door neighbor that there’s a sportsman’s club on the opposing hill, pretty much right across from our own hill—as the crow flies, probably about a half mile away. And apparently, it’s quite a popular place. The weeks leading up to deer season were so peppered with not-so-distant shots that I felt like Scarlett O’Hara in Atlanta, awaiting the Yanks.

But ah, in summer, the whole soundscape gains a new layer of madness. Shortly after we’d noticed all the shooting, we spent an entire Sunday afternoon listening to a mysterious and invisible band play an odd, faraway assortment of 80s pop and strange ethnic music, mixed with what sounded like the background of the pig roast in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” I could almost detect foreign instruments and words in the lyrics, and we were positively flummoxed.

Thank goodness for neighbors with a clue; the young man down the street was kind enough, as we strolled by one evening, to inform us that in addition to the sportsman's club with firing range, there is also a Croatian club on the hill opposite us. Apparently, the two organizations are not related, simply juxtaposed to each other and to our little neighborhood across the way… but you wouldn’t know they are separate entities merely from listening, especially on a warm, sunny weekend when the Croatians are living it up and the sportsmen are shooting every spare round they can load. The shots, the unfamiliar whining music and loud voices, each floats across the low road, joins together, and drifts up through the trees as one weird soundtrack.

And that is the auditory essence of a summer weekend here on my back patio. Croatians, with guns, belting out lusty tunes as they take potshots at each other like a bunch of Slavs from feuding families. Or at least that’s what I picture when I hear the disturbing yet amusing melody.

Maybe the yardeners were right

Last summer, in a period of self-righteous neglect, I coined the phrase “yardener” to describe the countless folks around us who constantly comb and feed and seed their yards as if Home and Garden were scheduled for a photo shoot. I shared my new word with Todd, and we chuckled as we grilled many dinners, watched some pretty sunsets, and noticed—with some disdain—a few harmless weeds poking their ugly heads up. We smiled slyly as various lawn care companies pulled up in various small trucks and hosed our neighbors' grasses, thus eliminating any budding evil growth from the golf-green-worthy lawns (funny how those lawn care fellas always made certain to steer a wide berth around our weed-riddled field). We pulled the weeds by hand when they got too awful, and we ignored a lot of them. Our neighbors had lovely, manicured yards with carefully shorn bushes—and those yards sat, empty, because the inhabitants were so exhausted from perfecting them that they wanted nothing more than to go sit in the air conditioning and rest. Or so we smugly assumed.

This spring arrived in similar fashion. Once again, we shook our heads with know-it-all grins when the work began, watched the chemical sprays in action, observed the weeding and feeding as the "toilin' o'er the green" hit full swing. Ah, a pity that they’re so obsessed with poor little weeds. Such a shame that they can’t just roll with the punches like us. They’re slaving so hard, and for what? A beautiful spread of green that they’re too tired to enjoy. Tsk, tsk.

And then, the dandelions hit us.

Now, I never minded dandelions, not really. As a kid, I wondered why they were such a big deal. They’re pretty, right? They’re flowers too, just like any other flower. And the crayon called dandelion is actually my very favorite color. Why do people hate them so? Yeah, they get a bit ugly and leggy and they spread like crazy. But they’re not that bad, really.

YES, THEY ARE.

They are detestable and vile. They are a plague akin to those of ancient Egypt. The locusts themselves could not have revolted me any more than the sprawling, white-rooted aberrations that fill our yard. Their disgusting, octopus-like stems reach far beyond any normal plant growth range; the sight of their wormy arms groping hungrily for yet more grass-space in our nice, sunny yard (a.k.a. dandelion farm) is enough to drive me to my weed-pulling tool time after time. I crab around on the ground, trying to pry them out to the core; often I fail, but I persist. Many minutes later, with sore back and permanently clawed hand, I am surrounded by pale, dead piles of the abominations. And yet, it makes no difference. They've managed to spread even whilst I wrested them from the earth.

I haven’t made a wisecrack about the yardeners for a couple of weeks now. I think I’ll keep my mouth shut. Perhaps, just perhaps, I’ve brought this hideousness upon myself.

And more Christmas thoughts…

In every culture, there are certain questions that, while sometimes petty, are effective in grouping people according to type. For example, Elvis Presley or Elvis Costello? Dogs or cats? Coffee or tea?

And, then there’s this defining query: giant blow-up themed figures on your property, or none?

We opt for none. We are slowly, it seems, becoming the minority. I’m surprised daily by the proliferation of these monstrosities in and around our neighborhood. And the subjects depicted are becoming more odd every year. First it was simply the occasional snowman, and then the phenomenon began creeping into other seasons; I saw colossal football players glaring out of air-filled faces, behemoth jack-o-lanterns, the occasional puffy witch’s backside emerging from trees or such, even Winnie the Pooh and Piglet riding in a sleigh pulled by hapless Eeyore…

Christmas remains the most decorated season, though, when it comes to big blow-ups that you can’t miss. The Santas are beginning to look a bit less scary as the designs are refined, and more friendly facial features are added. And yet, you can’t escape the obvious: these are enormous, silly creatures that eat up yard space, glow eerily, and are buffeted by every breeze that passes.

Perhaps the old city neighborhoods are the worst for carrying these displays overboard. There was one home in Bellevue that elicited chuckles and head-shaking from Todd and me each time we passed—the entire roof was covered with several blow-ups. A stupendous Hines Ward crouched atop the brick 3-story, and he was positioned next to some reindeer, which were standing by a huge turkey. And one home in Avalon, a place with a tiny front yard, chose to fill their entire 10 x 12 grassy area with these wintry eyesores; I dreamed many times of sneaking there at night, surreptitiously turning each character so that it was peering creepily into the first-floor windows of the home, and then staking out a spot next door in hopes of spotting the frightened dweller the next morning as he looked out and realized he was under surveillance by the giants. (No, I never actually did it.)

So, which are you? Is your yard sporting some of these guys, or not? Are you thinking about it? Eyeing them up and waiting until after-season clearance so you can join the ranks of folks who embrace the blow-up nation? Or have you already planted them in front of your home?