Photo replay: Can it be?

Can it really be that this year, our fifth summer in this house, our plums will finally, finally survive the heat and drought and bugs to reach their full and edible glory for the very first time since we've lived here?

Yesterday, one of our many plum trees.

I sure hope so.

(And I sure hope I didn't just jinx it.)

Today's question:

What tips do you have for preventing bugs and other critters from ruining plum—and apple and peach—trees?

Black feet, black bears, and getting back to normal

Last week was a week I will never forget. A week so surreal, a week so not my normal.

My normal is as quiet as I want it to be, with time to do what I want, what I need, with all of that time punctuated with varying degrees of missing my grandsons.

Not last week, though. Last week my grandsons were at my house, and I was their primary caretaker. The house was blissfully loud—interspersed with occasional loud moments not so blissful, too, I must admit. I had little time to do what I needed for myself, but also no time to miss my grandsons, for they were by my side while their mom and dad attended a conference nearby. Time with Bubby and Mac was the very best part of my not-normal week.

My normal is relatively mild in terms of temperatures. Not so last week. Triple-digit heat, record heat, historically high heat literally never before felt in Colorado Springs marked the temperature gauge in unprecedented fashion. Day after day after day. It’s just heat, some might say. Stay in the house and turn on the air. It's no big deal. In a house—in my house—that has no air conditioning, though, it is a big deal. It’s hot. It’s hell. A hell I didn't want to deal with myself, much less impose upon my grandsons.

And then, well, then there was the Waldo Canyon Fire. The horrific part of the week. The heartbreaking part. The surreal part.

Tuesday evening rush hour, driving with my grandsonsSurreal in that on the west side of my city, hillsides, landmarks, homes were burning. People—families—were evacuated from their homes. Smoke and ash filled the sky, reaching as far as the city’s east side, my side.

Surreal in that every local television station went to 24/7 coverage of the disaster, the devastation. While my grandsons played nearby, I tried to watch. When they slept at night, Jim and I did watch, far into the night, especially on the most horrific day, on Tuesday.

Surreal in that I continually, obsessively checked Facebook, Twitter, email for news on friends and family, their safety and their homes. That I regularly received reports and texts from Megan and Preston as they tried—yet often failed—to enjoy their mountaintop conference and festivities while homes and Megan’s hometown burned within clear and heartbreaking view.

Surreal in that our health department warned residents to stay indoors, with windows shut and air-conditioning on, so as to not breathe in the ash and the soot. Having no air conditioning, we opted for taking the boys to various indoor play areas. We did our best each day to have a good time with them while the west side of our city burned. At night we wrestled with choosing between opening windows to let in cooler air to lower the hellish temps in the boys’ upstairs rooms or keeping the windows closed to avoid the soot and ash we were warned to keep out of our homes, our respiratory systems. Especially respiratory systems with itsy bitsy lungs the likes of Baby Mac’s…or even Bubby’s.

Wednesday afternoon, heading to an indoor play placeSurreal in that access to my mom, my sister, attractions we’d planned to visit with the boys was shut down, impassable for the entire week, as fire raged and firefighters needed to protect the highway, use the highway. That shelters, like refugee camps, were set up around the city for evacuees. That the state governor, the United States president visited to view my city’s disaster and devastation firsthand, to offer support.

We watched each day and each night—as often as we could while still attending to and enjoying our grandsons—as not only local news but national broadcasts revealed burned areas that looked like war zones, yet were neighborhoods I had visited, places friends lived. We and the rest of the city anxiously watched news conferences at 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. each day for updates on the status of the fire and evacuees, the successes of the firefighters.

All this while I and every other resident not in the line of the fire worried about, prayed about, cried about those who were.

All this while my grandsons visited and the hellish hot temperatures continued.

Even after the initial shock and awe of the fire and its horrific trail and toll, strange things, things so very not normal, continued. Expected things like subconsciously searching the sky for new plumes of smoke and endlessly tossing about with others the figures related to homes burned, evacuees remaining, fire containment percentages.

Bubby's soot-covered feetUnexpected things, too. Such as realizing that going barefoot around my house—which my grandsons and I usually do—resulted in black soles thanks to the soot and the ash coating my home despite the miles between the fire and us. Black soles that required me to scrub my grandsons’ little piggies at bath time and scrub my own big piggies before bedtime to remove the grime. And the unexpected sound of packs of coyotes howling as they roamed my neighborhood, of having a black bear amble down my street. The coyotes and the bear, along with elk spotted in the center of town and countless other wild and displaced animals searched for a home that, like the 350 homes of local human residents, burned, is gone.

So strange. So sad.

This week I’m still sad about the displaced animals, the displaced people, the burned homes and trails and landmarks. Yet, this week, I feel a little closer to normal. The air and sky are clear of smoke, the ash and soot have been cleaned from my house. My grandsons have gone home, television coverage of the fires has been reduced to a crawl at the bottom of the screen. The pass to my mom has re-opened. The fire moves ever closer to containment.

I do still scan the sky for new smoke and for rain that would lower the still-hot temps and dampen the still-burning fire. And I make sure to watch the evening news and check #WaldoCanyonFire on Twitter throughout the day. I also continue to be on the lookout for lost and frightened animals in my neighborhood. Overall, though, it’s been relatively easy for me to get back to normal.

I’m fortunate, blessed, and thankful. For many others in my city, getting back to normal hasn’t been so easy. My heart, my thoughts, my prayers go out to them—to those who are still reeling, who must build new homes and new lives, who have yet to create a new normal.

Today's question:

The Waldo Canyon Fire evacuees had mere hours, sometimes less, to gather personal belongings from their homes. What would you grab first—other than people and pets—in the event of evacuation?

Rock on

Jim and I had overnight guests Wednesday night. It was a short and simple hosting stint as we were merely the midway stopping point for extended relatives going from here to there. Nothing draining, as guests—even the most beloved, most welcomed—can often be. Once our guests left and the house was empty, though, I wanted nothing more than to grab my cup of coffee and sit out on the back deck in my rocking chair.

So I did. I rocked and rocked while listening to the birds chirp and the waterfall gurgle. The dogs investigated the far reaches of the yard, and the cats sat inside at the window, wishing I'd let them out to join us. The breeze blew gently, the temperature grow warmer, my coffee grew colder. Outside, plants needed watering, flowers needed deadheading. Inside, email needed to be answered, a post needed to be written.

But all I wanted to was rock. And rock...and rock...and rock.

As I sat there rocking, I realized rocking is something I never tire of. It's one of the very few things I never tire of, may possibly be the only thing I never tire of. I love spending time with my husband, my family, my friends, and, without a doubt, my grandkids. Extended time with even those I love the very most, though, can be draining, tiring. I'm an introvert at heart, I get my energy from time alone.

Yet even those things I do alone, my solitary pastimes I enjoy pursuing solo, aren't activities I can do without end. I tire of baking, being on the computer, of reading, of writing, of listening to music, of trying to play music. I can only walk for so long, take photos for so long, sit and do nothing for so long, without tiring of whatever it is I am—or am not—doing.

Except rocking.

I have rocking chairs of various sorts inside my house, outside my house. There's a wooden rocker in the upper-level porch and one in the spare bedroom. A glider/rocker sits in the living room, another in the family room. I have a wooden rocker on the deck, a rocker-like swing in the back yard. All awaiting me, all ready to be set into motion.

The back and forth...back and forth...back and forth of those rockers fit whatever my mood, beat in time with whatever my heart rate. Rocking calms me when I'm riled, soothes me when I'm sad, helps me burn off energy when I'm tense, excited, nervous, angry, exhultant, worried.

I find peace in rocking.

I never grow tired of rocking.

I rock on.

photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What do you never tire of?

Weekend projects

When Jim and I bought our current house nearly five years ago, the oddball place boasted many, um, unique features. One was what the folks we bought it from called an "antique lemonade stand."

A couple weeks ago as I sat in the backyard, with that eyesore lemonade stand in full view, I considered how we might go about tearing it down and putting something cool in its place. Then I came up with a brilliant idea: I would turn that lemonade stand into a food stand for Bubby and Baby Mac to play with when they visit. They got a kick out of the mock restaurant and ice cream stand at the children's museum recently, so I imagined they'd be delighted with a similar plaything at Gramma's.

With that in mind, I purchased some vintage signs, bought a few gallons of paint, hosed down the antique stand, and made its transformation my project for the long Memorial Day weekend.

With help from Brianna, that old antique lemonade stand went from this:

To this:

All spiffed up and ready for me to stock with an OPEN/CLOSED sign, a bell to ding for service, and plastic delights. The food stand will be ready for business by the time Bubby and Baby Mac arrive near the end of June. Plus, I have plenty of paint left over to transform our old outdoor dining set into the perfect spot for food stand customers to enjoy their treats.

I was right in thinking Bubby will love it. When I texted photos of the stand to Megan to share with Bubby, this was her response:

"B said to me (after seeing the pictures), 'I want you to sit down at one of the chairs and after you can come up to the food stand and tell me what you want. And then you can come up to the ice cream place and pick your flavor! I think you want strawberry." :) Nice work, sounds like a busy day!"

She was right, too. It was a busy day, a busy weekend, actually. Not just because of the food stand, though, and not just for me.

Jim had a weekend project of his own—finding the leak in our backyard waterfall. The mysterious leak continually caused the water level to fall and our water bill to rise as we had to fill the feature daily to keep it functioning last summer. Jim's job was a much bigger job than mine, so Brianna and I lent a helping hand with that one, too.

Between the three of us, our backyard waterfall went from this:

To this:

No more leaks!

Two big projects knocked out in one long weekend.

Jim and I agree: We are so glad the long weekend is over so we can finally relax!

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

I'm glad the long weekend is over because ________.

Batteries included: Childproofing Grandma's house

During the days I served as sole caretaker of Bubby and Baby Mac a few weeks ago, Baby Mac's favorite thing to get into was the television cabinet. He loved nabbing the Wii remotes hidden within and walking around with one in each hand. If he didn't feel like going through the hassle of wrangling the Wii remotes out of the cabinet, he simply grabbed the universal remote for the television, which was usually nearby on the recliner or ottoman.

The kid likes remotes. No big deal.

Turns out it is a big deal, though—a big dangerous deal, thanks to the easily accessible and potentially fatal batteries inside the clickers he covets.

Because of Baby Mac's obsession with remote controls, the following news story struck quite a chord when I happened upon it Monday evening:

Scary, huh!?

Then, the very next day I received an email from the Battery Controlled campaign from Energizer and Safe Kids Worldwide. It offered stats from the American Academy of Pediatrics plus additional information on the dangers of lithium batteries, including a link to this video:

As grandparents who often have little visitors, we've childproofed our homes, just like the parents of our grandchildren have done. We've covered outlets, wrapped up window cords, secured screens on windows, bought baby gates and bathtub mats and hidden our medications and more in cabinets where little ones can't reach them. But did any of us—parents included—consider the dangers of remote controls, key fobs, hearing aids, greeting cards, bathroom scales, iPods, iPads and more?

I sure didn't.

That's no longer the case, though. Not only will I have an eye on every remote and other button battery-operated gadget next time Baby Mac and Bubby visit my house, I've shared the videos with Megan and encouraged her to do the same battery-proofing at her house.

I encourage you to do the same, too: Share the warnings with the parents of your grandchildren, and heed the warnings in your own home.

Today's question:

What's your guesstimate of how many button battery-operated gadgets you might have around your house?

This post has been linked to:

SITS Saturday Sharefest

and

Odd balls

Those of you who are friends and family in real life have likely been to my oddball house. Those of you who have become friends and like family through this blog, may have read about my oddball house, in posts such as the one about my creepy wallpaper and the one in which I beg to be HGTV'd.

For those who have done neither — and to refresh the memories of others — the condensed story of my home is that a Polish couple immigrated to Colorado in the 70s, purchased parts and pieces of 1800s homes and city landmarks that were being demolished (we're talking staircases, fireplaces, wood floors, cabinetry, and more) and used those bits and pieces to build in 1974 a unique and endlessly fascinating home.

The Polish couple eventually had to part with the home. The second couple who owned it added some artsy pieces, some functional ones (skylights!), and some pretty darn bizarre bits of their own.

Jim and I, the third owners of the home, have done our best to restore and highlight the original charm and historic significance envisioned by the first owners, while keeping a small portion of the whimsy and wackiness of the second.

Wackiness does abound here, and visitors often comment on some of the oddities inside our home (like the aforementioned wallpaper). But the home's interior is not the only place one can find the wacky. No, there's quite a bit of wacky outside, too.

One of the more peculiar things that remain in the yard, mostly just because we like the sheer "WTF?" of them, are the bowling balls. Two of them. In the backyard. Plopped amidst greenery, as if they're growing right along with the flowers, ferns, and bushes. (Well, it's supposed to be amidst greenery, but the green just ain't happening too well so far this summer, thanks to the lack of rain and abundance of heat and high winds.)

Anyway, the other day as I stood watering the wildflowers I hope will soon grow big and tall, I pondered the balls. And it came to me, for the first time in the three-and-a-half years we lived here: I think I know what the odd balls are all about.

I can't confirm this with the previous owners, of course, but I'm willing to bet that the guy who sold us the home was once told that he needs to, well, grow a few...ummm...balls. He's of the back-slapping, beer-drinking-buddy variety, and I have no doubt such a statement certainly came his way, probably more than once, probably all in jest from his similar-minded buddies. Having learned through our summer of interacting with the guy while he wooed us into homeownership that he was quite quirky, to say the least, I'm pretty darn sure he got a kick out of such a statement. And decided to do just that. By "planting" a few bowling balls and pretending to his buddies that he was working his darnedest to make them grow.

I don't know if it's true; I'm certainly not going to contact the guy and ask about his balls. But I say it's as good of an explanation as any. And it's the explanation I plan to share the next time I get the "WTF?" question from visitors regarding my bowling balls in the garden.

If you have a better explanation, if you know of some gardening trick or tradition of which I'm woefully unaware, I'm happy to consider it...later. As for right now, I've got a wee bit of ball-watering to do.

Today's question:

Fill in the blank. The most unusual thing I've ever grown is _____________.

Bugging me

Megan's scorpion, heroically nabbed by Preston.My parents transplanted our family of nine from Minnesota to Colorado nearly 40 years ago. Three talking points I recall of their spiel trying to sell my siblings and me on the move were 1) "The people are so nice, even strangers on the street say 'hello';" 2) "Out west, everyone wears blue jeans;" and 3) "There are no bugs."

Nos. 1 and 2 registered slightly above a "meh" with me. No. 3 had my attention. As a child who was traumatized by had memorable run-ins with leeches, walking sticks, and woodticks that turned white and grew to the size of marbles when not removed from dogs or the hairline of a little girl who thought she might be feeling a tumor growing on the back of her scalp and was too scared to seal her fate by telling Mom about it, the idea of no bugs sounded pretty darn good. More than just good, in fact, it sounded worth the move. I was sold.

I've lived in Colorado the biggest chunk of my life now and I'm still sold. I'm sold on Colorado for myriad reasons, but after Megan's revelations the past week about the critters in her part of the world, I admit minimal bugs are still one of the greatest appeals. I've actually said such a thing to Jim in the past week, and he agreed. Yes, we'll stay put in Colorado. Likely 'til Kingdom comes.

The revelations from Megan that heebie-jeebied me so involved scorpions. Just days after their visit to fairly bug-free Colorado was over and she headed back with Bubby to their desert home, Megan spotted a scorpion in the corner of her living room ceiling. A vaulted living room ceiling that she couldn't reach on her own, not even with the tube of the vacuum cleaner stretched to the max to suck up the critter. In her third trimester of pregnancy, climbing a ladder to reach the scorpion wasn't an option. Especially because it might skitter away causing Megan to fall from the ladder in fright, threatening the well-being of not only herself, but her unborn Birdy and the surely freaked-out Bubby below. So she and Bubby kept tabs on its location until Preston could leave work early to get home and save his loved ones from the ceiling-bound scorpion.

Disaster averted, thanks to Preston, a vacuum tube, and duct tape. Except that they spotted another scorpion in the same room upon their return from a weekend trip to Sea World. The scorpion professionals were to be scheduled to rid their home of the critters. For this month, anyway. Apparently such pest control is ongoing, a monthly service required of residents of the desert. At least those who don't want their babies stung by the little cussers.

When I shared Megan's scorpion story with one of the tutors I oversee for the literacy center, a woman who has lived in various spots around the country in the past 50 years or so, she shrugged off the tale. She'd gotten used to such things while living in desert climes, she said. You shake out your shoes before putting them on, you shake out your clothes before dressing, you shake out your bed covers before jumping under them. She'd lived with worse, she said, including rattlesnakes coiled up in bushes she'd started to trim ... then slowly had to back away from to keep from being bit. Now that was scary, she said. But the fear of the rattlesnakes was balanced out by the harmless geckos that climbed the walls, she added. The little critters that were oh-so cute ... except when you forgot to shake out the toaster before pushing down the handle on your breakfast bread. Toasting up a crumb-savoring gecko is not a good way to start your day, she stressed.

Shaking toasters, shoes, and bushes or sucking up scorpions with the vacuum don't sound like good ways to spend any portion of a day, if you ask me. I honestly don't understand how folks live in such places.

I especially don't understand why Megan hires scorpion zappers to make floors and cribs and ceilings safe for my grandbabies instead of packing up the brood and heading to the hills. Specifically, heading to the hills of Colorado ... where she was raised ... and where she knows there are no bugs to threaten the lives of her — and my — loved ones.

Disclaimer: Yes, I know there are brown recluse spiders and spotted ticks and rattlesnakes and more in Colorado. But they're up in the high country for the most part, not in residential areas where we have to fear for our lives and the lives of our babies on a daily basis.

Today's question:

What memorable run-ins have you had with creepy-crawlies of any sort?

WYSIWYG

I was not popular in high school. I didn't run with the athletes or hit the books with the academic overachievers. I wasn't firmly ensconced in the tight-knit groups of loners or stoners, and I wasn't in band, cheerleading, or glee club. I wasn't popular with any one group, had fairly superficial contact with most groups.

Nope, I wasn't popular. I wasn't well-known. So when it came time to hand out the senior superlatives at the end of our high-school years -- those labels marking what a student was or would become -- my superlative was chosen by the journalism kids from the "List of BS Superlatives For Classmates Not As Cool As Us Or That We Don't Know." While others were named "Most Likely To Succeed" or "Best Smile" or "Most Likely To Dunk It In The NBA," I was labeled as, get this, "Most Likely To Metamorphose Into A Computer." Honest to God. That is what my fellow seniors named me. In print. For all to see.

Which was weird. On so many levels. But mostly because computers weren't popular at the time. Bill Gates was likely still perfecting code, business computers were behemoths, and home computers were unheard of. So it was rather odd and unexpected for such a superlative to be chosen -- for me or for anybody. But, for whatever reason, that's the superlative with which I was saddled. Because they didn't know me.

Or did they?

Maybe even all those decades ago it was clear what a prominent place computers would eventually have in my life. Maybe back then, some forward-thinking classmates knew that one day I would see the value of actually becoming a computer.

Strangely enough, I do now see the value. Quite clearly. In fact, there are several reasons I think being a computer would be awesome. As long as I could still enjoy the physical pursuits of humans -- such as hugging those I love, laughing at Conan, and delighting in margaritas and Funyuns (not at the same time, of course) -- I'd be all over that. I'd be thrilled to metamorphose into a computer because there are oh-so many cool applications that would come in mighty handy.

First off, I'd have the ability to reset to a former time (because I'd use Windows, of course) to eliminate cussed up days bogging me down or, better yet, to turn back the effects of time on my system. I'd be fully loaded with McAfee Total Protection so I'd never be affected by viruses. Scan Disc and Defrag would be ideal for getting rid of the accumulated junk and reorganizing the misplaced folders and files of my soul and psyche.

Plus, just think of the peripherals and programs I could add to increase my speed, my power, and to make the very most of my life. I'd add more memory when my memory became full (or I lost it). I'd definitely have iTunes so I could have any song any time I pleased. And Picasa would provide me instant access to photos of friends and family; no more Grandma Brag books weighing down my purse.

It doesn't end there. As a computer, I'd have, of course, a keyboard. Which means I could hit ESC any time I needed just that -- to escape. I could DELETE things I regretted saying, hit the ALT button to do things a little different. I'd have a CTRL button for those times I felt a little out of control. The PAUSE/BREAK button would be used regularly throughout the day when I needed one or the other. And when a pause or break wasn't enough to make a difference, the SLEEP button would come to the rescue.

Most of all, though, I think I'd get the most use and enjoyment out of the one handy dandy little button situated directly between INSERT and PAGE UP. I'm talking about the HOME button.

When things got confusing or I just needed to start over -- as is the case more and more often of late -- or even when I just grew tired of traveling across the world, zooming around on the web, I could hit the HOME button. I know my loner self, my introverted-gain-my-energy-from-time-alone-self, and I know I would hit it hard and I would hit it often.

Because whether I morph into a MAC or a PC, an iPad or a computer not yet even invented, I'd still be me. I'd still maintain that one file, that one belief that no programmer, no person, no experience, no application will ever be able to delete from my system: the from-the-bottom-of-my-processor belief that, for me, there truly and absolutely is no place like home.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What computer application or ability would you most want to implement in your life?

Battling my personal lemons

I keep seeing featured in the JCPenney ad the red loveseat Jim and I bought just after moving into our house. Because we have so many stairs, we needed a spot for his mom to sleep on the main level when she visited, and the loveseat was the perfect solution because it pulled out to a single bed but would look fine the rest of the time as a loveseat in the study.

Well, each time I see it in the ad I cringe because that loveseat is The. Most. Uncomfortable. Piece. Of. Furniture. Ever. At least in the "loveseat" configuration. (I've never slept on it as a bed; the few who have haven't complained).

Unfortunately that little loveseat expenditure is not the only unwise purchase we've ever made. Here are a few others:

Boxed gnocchi. One of my goals this year is to try out more recipes instead of relying on old standbys. What I've learned so far: boxed gnocchi = yucky. Jim agrees.

Our hot tub. We bought a hot tub at our old house and the girls used it more than we did. We left it when we sold our house because our new house has one. Jim's never been in it; I've only been in it once ... when I fell in it by accident. We clean it, fill it, keep it chemical-ed up -- we just never use it.

Cheri, starring Michelle Pfeiffer. This one's not technically a purchase as it was a Netflix movie rental, so it didn't really cost us any money. But it did cost us time -- and it was the biggest waste of our time ever.

My Reebok EasyTone walking shoes. Both my doctor and physical therapist call them a "gimmick" -- and attribute a portion of my current disc trouble to them.

Black & Decker appliances. Toasters, food processors, mixers, coffee pots. Many throughout the years. None worked correctly or for very long. Why did it take me years -- and lots of money -- to realize B&D may be good at making tools but they stink at small appliances?

Smooth-Away. Yeah, an infomercial sucked me in. I bought FOUR -- one for each of the girls and myself. (Well ... they were BOGO, for heaven's sake!). Never again.

Squiggles. I thought I'd amaze Bubby with the magical squirmy thing. I couldn't get it to squirm or squiggle ... but Bubby did enjoy dragging it around on its string as if it were a trained caterpillar.

Keurig 'My K-Cup' insert. Megan and Preston kindly bought us a Keurig for Christmas. We drink a lot of coffee and thought the insert would be nice for using our own coffee instead of the K-Cups. Um, no. We'll stick with the K-cups. (It does work well, though, for using a tea bag to brew a single cup of tea.)

Photo: flickr

Today's question:

What is on your list of unwise purchases?

Does a collection a collector make?

I don't fancy myself a collector. I used to collect bells, but haven't gotten a new one in years and consider that collection closed. And I sort of collect books. Well, not so much collect as accumulate. I'd never consider myself a true book collector, by any means.

Despite not seeing myself as a collector, those who view my holiday decor may very well think otherwise, may possibly consider me a collector. Of Santas.

Somehow I've ended up with quite a few Santas. A collection of Santas. Something I never intended to happen. After recently watching a news story of one grandma -- an old grandma, as in 97 years old -- and her collection of hundreds of Santas, my collection has me worried I've entered territory typically reserved for collectors of Avon fragrance bottles and salt-and-pepper shakers.* And that makes me feel old.

I must admit though that, age be cussed, I do enjoy putting out for the holiday season all the festive fellas I've collected accumulated.

There's these ...

And these ...

And these ...

Plus these merry men on the tree ...

(Okay, I admit those tree guys don't look so merry.)

I even have a Santa cutting board ...

I bought a few of the Santas above myself ... I'd say three, maybe. The rest have been given to me -- by friends, family, former employers. As you can see, their gifts have created quite a display, quite a collection.

So does my collection of Santas make me a Santa collector? You be the judge. But in your assessment of me and my Santas, you better be nice ... because Santa's watching!

*Nothing against collecting such things, they're just not for me. At all.

Holiday question of the day:

What theme figures most prominently in your holiday decor collection? Angels? Snowmen? Santas? Something unique and unexpected?