Eye-catching

I have just finished a holiday tour of my little kingdom. And a couple others along the way.

The royal touring sedan.

There is so much to see and do in Bermtopia. I share just a few of my impressions.

This humble citizen of Bermtopia Nailed the Holidays. Almost all of them.

This is a household with issues.

MY kind of issues. 

As in -- never let a good holiday/vacation catch you on the blind slide: Santa. Claus. (Wreath check!) Summer Sea World (Flamingo check!) Mighty  Mini Sequoia Forest visit  (Lil tree. Squeak!). And the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Huzzah!

I like pre-planning.

House with the Many Holiday Shout-outs, you get a major Bermtopia High Five. And extra credit for leaving the wreath up after Feast of the Epiphany!

Then there is the Sad Little Single Black Shoe.  This has haunted me all week. One lone, recreationally-challenged shoe parked on an enclosed deck.

Does not your partner miss you, Sad Little Single Black Shoe? Or is this some tangled, twisted symbol of a good love gone wrong?

Ambrose took every thing from Tilly. 


EVERYTHING. 


Her heart, her hope, her Walmart VIP Card.


But Ambrose was not done with Tilly. He, cruelly, left ONE thing behind. 


A single black shoe.


Her daily reminder that Ambrose was, in the end, a real heel.

Sorry. I'm not sure what got into me there.

And finally. The Made-up Word Sign.

"SpoCasual"?

Really.

What's next? SpokaLicious? SpokaTastic? SpoUcking Spawesome?

Guards, remove this sign from my presence.

It disturbs me.

### 

But on the other hand, we had a little "Pippa Passes" moment Monday morning here in Bermtopia.

It was foggy when I staggered out the front door to get the morning paper. I mean F.O.G.G.Y. I think I swallowed some. I hope it contains anti-oxidants.

I walked into the kitchen and told Ben, "Looks like a neighborhood walk this morning. We'd be bouncing off pine trees up at the park."

Portrait of a Mopey Dog.

But 40 minutes, and two cups of coffee, later it was razor clear, the sky hinting at a wicked good sunrise. Ben and I were out the door, heading to the park.

With apologies to Robert Browning (oh wait. you're dead! never mind.), who's poetry I love:

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:

God's in His heaven --
All's right with world!

Of course, not ALL's right with the world. And our year in Bermtopia isn't EXACTLY at the spring (my Southern Hemisphere friends, now that's a different story).

And most snails I know are either frozen solid or drowning in butter and garlic on someone's appetizer plate.

But.

I think you get my drift.