{sure, flowering trees may look sweet and innocent}

Ah, the weekend.

Any plans?

None for me really; which means I should be diligently working in the yard, whippng it into shape, planting tomatoes and squash–you know, the usual. Alas, there’s no way of knowing if the weather will hold up. The only thing I’m taking from this is perhaps it will rain–then perhaps my allergies will simmer it down. Criminy! They’ve been wretched this year. But that’s spring for you.

Let this be a warning–be not cocky in regards to allergies. When I was young, my dad would come in from working outside, sneezing uncontrollably and dabbing his eyes as though crying. Being I experienced no allergies of my own, I thought it hilarious. Well, I’ll tell you now, there’s nothing funny about it. It’s a sad, sad state of affairs.

But I digress.

Needless to say, I wish you nothing but the good things of spring–blue skies and sunshine, flowers and friends. May there be at least one day with perfect weather and time for a lazy stroll through the beauty of it all . . . minus the beastly repercussions.

A weekend of happy endings to you!

Leave a note for someone to find.

{Curious?}

None of it actually belonged to us, mind you. My parents only rented the place–a fact I could hardly fathom. And I despised the landlord’s grandchildren. One boy and one girl, they arrived with their grandparents every now and again, suddenly and without warning. They’d tumbled out of the old Cadillac Deville and saunter out back, where they promptly took over the tree swing. I kept close watch from the dining room window. A ghastly representation of Tweedledee and Tweedledum, I thought them positively wretched–a belief only solidified when the boy jumped on the swing, broke it, then proceeded to laugh maniacally.

Apparently, my mom kept a watchful eye on me. She saw it in my eyes and made it clear: I could not, under no uncertain terms, punch the boy nor hurl insults of any kind. Highly unfair. She did promise my dad would fix the swing.

And he did.

Before long I was once again ascending to great heights, up in the air, over fields, rivaling the tops of trees.

Looking back I’m fairly certain every child–every adult, for that matter–should have a tree swing. After all, life’s somehow better when you soar . . .

{wooden rope tree swing by Sky Saddle}

Plant something.

{Curious?}

Ride your bike.

{Curious?}

Then I happened up on the flip side.

My sister-in-law’s sister, you see, works at a book shop {in Sweden}; awhile back she found a magazine printed in English and sent it my way for a few laughs. House Beautiful from August, 1975–oh,  my friends. There are no words. I’ve no recourse but to let you see for yourself . . .

*Disclaimer: the images, below, are not for the faint of heart. If you’re of the squeamish persuasion, do proceed with caution.

{egads}

{yikes!}

{yowza!}

{are you kidding me?!}

If nothing else, these pictures highlight the beauty of my own house. Sure, the mound of things that need doing around here rivals Everest, but it’s mine. Like Goldilocks, I only ask a home that’s perfectly me.

One house may be too tidy, the other, too garish–but my house? My house is just right . . . flaws and all.

Blend up a smoothie.

{Curious?}

{and just like that, Monday rises once more}

A lovely weekend here, thanks. The weather sprang up warm and beautiful–the perfect backdrop for the neighborhood ice cream man to make his debut.

Unfortunately, the man gives me the heebie-jeebies.

It’s not so much that he drives a grey van that’s losing paint at an alarming rate (it happens) or his some-r teeth (some are there, some are not); it’s not even his peculiar song selections (Pop Goes the Weasel followed by love theme from Romeo and Juliet). No, it’s more of a general uneasiness associated with the fellow, as if an aura of creepiness, precedes him. Needless to say, when I heard him come up the side street on Saturday, I panicked. Washing my car, I opted for the make-no-eye-contact ploy. I ask you: has that strategy ever worked? Because it certainly didn’t work for me. Even as I intently washed one particularly tricky bit of grime from a window, I could tell he turned down my street, and slowed behind my drive.

“My windows sure could use some help, too,” he yelled from the window.

I {courtesy} laughed in response. And that, was that.

But seriously, if I ever mysteriously disappear, you might want to check out the ice cream man. I’m just sayin’.

In other news, at lunch on Mother’s Day, I learned my great-grandfather was a Pig Latin Master. Who knew? Certainly not I. Having never met the man, all I knew of grandpa Ted was he was serious, even to the point of being a bit cantankerous. It tickled me to no end that he took great pride in his Pig Latin skills–even going so far as demanding whole conversations be spoken in such.

So it was my grandma, mom, and I sat around a candle lit table–coffee mugs in hand, Dean and Frank crooning softly in the background–and chatted in Pig Latin.

Itway isway ethay ittlelay ingsthay. Obviously.

I guess you could say, overall, it was a fabulous weekend. Especially since I got to chat with my brother and nephew. More often than not my nephew is much too busy to talk. Who could blame him, really? But yesterday, he had all sorts of things to say.

Music to our ears.

He also wanted us to watch Beeker’s rendition of Ode to Joy. My brother Skyped the link and we watched it together. Funny, yes–but also a good reminder. Joy’s a funny thing; it can grace our lives even when things are not going exactly as planned. Even Mondays, when we’re not quite prepared to face the music . . .

Jitterbug.

{Curious?}

Make your mom’s favorite meal.

{Curious?}