A few weeks ago, when the sun hid behind gray clouds for days upon days, a friend said it looked like the sky’s “equivalent of a frown.”

The sun is back, but the world (and especially this country) has given us little to smile about. Maybe that’s why I’m stumbling on smiles in weird places.

For example, while walking to church, I glanced at a soccer ball left in a neighbor’s yard, and there it was: a smiley face.

 

In our front yard, I looked up at the large Christmas ball hanging from a swoop of greens. There it was again: a shiny smiley face:

(Yes, our Christmas stuff is still up, and will be until the temperature creeps above 32.)

Seeing faces in random objects — or dragons and elephants in the clouds — is a phenomenon called pareidolia. Human brains, always looking for patterns, can see a man in the moon, or a friendly face in the front end of this Austin-Healey:

Photo courtesy of grassrootsgroundswell/Wiki Commons

Maybe a designer with a sense of humor gave us that one. Thank you, whoever you are. 
Thanks, too, for countless other designers who add a touch of whimsy to ordinary objects, letting them take you by surprise on an ordinary day.

The world can be a dark place. Keep looking for the light. 

Whimsy served at Holiday Coffee in Ocean City.

Our son found these to liven up paperwork.
 

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For the science behind pareidolia (pronounced parra-DOH-lia or pear-ray-DOH-lia, depending on who you ask), go here:
https://www.ebsco.com/research-starters/health-and-medicine/pareidolia

For information about immigrant incarceration in the United States, including the for-profit prison system, go here:
https://www.detentionwatchnetwork.org/about

Whoa.

So much blue sky. So many towering clouds. 

Looking up has been glorious these past few weeks.
Here are a few reminders that it pays to look down, too. 

 

Beautyberry. So aptly named.

 

Sidewalk shadows

 

Fallen maple

Flowers of remembrance

 Family and friends shared those blooms with the woods, in memory of a dear one who brought so much beauty and love into this world. Her memory will be a blessing.

In the cool of the evening on this very first night of fall, my overgrown front garden called to me.

I’m a fifteen-minutes-spent-weeding-is-better-than-none kind of person, and I gently yanked until it got too dark to tell the keepers from the weeds.

I’m tolerant of many uninvited plant guests — I have birds to thank for some amazing purple asters blooming right now. 

There is one pesky thistle, though, that I wish would stay away. 

Tonight, I reached deep into the grasses to uproot one, and the prickles bit my fingers, even through the gloves. The motion stirred the lavender, and I breathed in the heady, heavenly scent.

Pain. Beauty. Sometimes you find them in the same place.

Sound circle

During the hottest, soupiest summers around here, one of my dear aunts used to say, “This is the worst weather for murder.”

I don’t think there’s any good weather for murder, but we knew what she meant.

On Friday, Chef Nature finally turned off the burner on the soup, and yesterday I got the chance to eat breakfast on our front porch. 

It was a simple spread: egg, bagel, milk and coffee (made every morning by my husband). I read a bit of my latest mystery.* A light breeze lifted the scent of lavender. Our wind chime chimed. Song sparrows sang.

I may become a morning person yet. 

Ask me on Monday.

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My latest mystery is "The Fellowship of Puzzlemakers" by Samuel Burr. A perfect porch read.

Time for another installment of: It Helps When You Can Make Yourself Laugh.

Here’s a (very partial) list of things my eyes and mouth have tripped over:

In the grocery store, I turned down the aisle with boxes of those small, single-serve packages of pretzels, popcorn, chips, etc. I looked up and saw the sign:
                
“Poisoned snacks” 

“That’s frightening,” I thought, before rereading: Portioned snacks. Whew.

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Glancing at a friend’s phone numbers, I noticed one that’s obsolete, and thought:
 
“I should delete it. That’s their land mine …”

Better not drop that one.

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Spotting a shot of the Seattle skyline on TV, I remarked:

“Oh, it’s the Space Noodle.”

(If it’s cooked, they’re really in trouble.)

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Finally (at least for now), while flipping channels I spotted an odd title for a reality show:

“Vatican House Rules”

I must have had popes on my mind when I read that wrong. Sorry to disappoint, but the show features a real estate expert helping homeowners “unlock their vacation property's full rental potential.”

The Vatican has not joined airbnb.

They're back!

After years of leisurely flirting with fall, or rushing ahead to hang out with spring, winter took its job seriously this time around.

I can’t remember when I saw so many lows — and sometimes highs — in the teens. And don’t get me started on those “feels like” temperatures. (Do we really want to know?)

All of which explains, a bit, why I waited until last week to take down our Christmas lights. I froze on the front porch while I worked, but it was way past time.

This Christmas past I made the switch to artificial greens. We’re storing them in the garage, and I wanted to label them somehow, so I'll know which piece to swoop where come December.

I thought about my notes for how to string the lights. “Facing the street, start at left corner near the window ...” That makes sense to me, but it seemed a bit wordy for a label on the greens.

I asked my husband if he had any ideas.
He paused and said, “I would use east and west.”
Oh, I laughed … and should have guessed.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that men tend to give directions using those compass points. Unfortunately, unless the sun is rising or setting at that moment, I don’t have much chance of knowing which way I’m supposed to go.

Throw me a landmark, please!

Turns out science has noticed it, too. A brief Google search turned up references to about a dozen studies exploring that navigational difference between the sexes.
 
I finally made those labels today: “Left: window to stair post,” etc. Commonsensical landmarks, at least for my brain.

Together, my husband and I stashed them in the garage … on the north side.

Marriage is all about compromise.

Another Christmas has been unwrapped, but before the night ends, I thought I’d share one of my favorite family stories.

I first published this in 2014, and it still makes me smile.
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Each year as I pull out the ornaments for our Christmas tree, I smile when I come upon a yellowed receipt from the old Hechinger hardware store.
 The fading numbers tell a story that has become a Kress family legend, a tale of persistence, wisdom and one amazing deal.
 It was Dec. 21, 1998, and the sun had long since set. (I know this because the receipt reads: 12/21/1998 19:35:53.)
 As happens to many parents of young children, we still weren’t quite ready for all things Christmas that year.
 So it came to pass, with just a few nights to go, we piled the kids in the car and took off in search of a Christmas tree.
 Our first stop was a traditional one: a local firehouse that sold trees as a fundraiser. Sadly, we found their doors shut; no tree to be had.
 Next we tried a local high school that had sold trees in the past. Again, no luck.
 On we drove to a nearby produce store, known for bounteous supplies of all things green. Alas, they, too, were closed.
 Feeling a bit desperate, we assured our son, 11, and daughter, 8, that indeed, a tree would be found.
 I can’t remember who thought of Hechinger’s, but that’s where we headed next. During the drive over we heard these wise words from our son in the back seat:
 “Maybe next year we shouldn’t wait so long to get the tree.”
 Ah, yes. That does sound like a plan.
 The good news was that Hechinger’s doors were open, and they did have Christmas trees for sale. We found a small pine that spoke to us (“Take me home!”), and I heaved a sigh of relief.
 While my family headed to the car with our tree, I went in to pay. The sign above the tree said $3 plus some cents. I figured it was the price per foot, and did the math: 5-foot tree, $3 plus … roughly $20. Not bad at all.
 The cashier rang up the sale and said:
 “That’ll be $2.65.”
 “What?” I said, a bit confused. “Are you sure?”
 “Yes. They’re on sale.”
 Amazing.
 That little Scotch pine (again, the receipt fills in the details) served us well, and we happily decked it together in time for Christmas.
 Days later, I noticed an odd green/blue tinge on some of the branches. On closer inspection I could see that it was paint. As in spray paint. Apparently our evergreen needed a little help to live up to its name. (And who among us doesn’t, now and then?)
 So there you have our most excellent Christmas tree adventure. Such is the stuff of family legend, a story told and retold fondly.
And worth so much more than $2.65.