Wallaby and the Ghost

Sounds like the title of a kids book, doesn't it? But, nope, this is one of those "scientist has a spiritual moment" experiences that defy experimentation and proof, and that you just gotta take on faith. And I'm okay with that.

Now, I grew up in a legit haunted house, and it wasn't a happy haunting. More like cold spots, shaking beds, and bad vibes. In the years since, I mostly avoided places that gave me vibes, whether good or bad … until I met Arizona. Somehow, having him at my back made it more manageable--we stayed the night unmolested at the haunted Hawthorne Hotel in Salem Mass, and when we traveled to visit a friend who had neglected to mention that the lake house she had rented was full-on creepy (you know who you are!), I didn't wimp out to a hotel room or a night in the car--I nutted up and picked a room. 

I didn't even freak when the lights turned themselves on and off at random, or when items disappeared from our luggage and reappeared elsewhere. Okay, so maybe I needed Arizona to walk me down the hall to the bathroom in the wee hours of the morning, and stand outside the cracked-open door to ward off whatever needed warding off while I peed. But I stuck it out, and even got some sleep. And it makes for a heck of a story!

In the years since, losing two pregnancies broke down my anti-spirit defenses even further, as I learned how to grieve for real. And the passing of Arizona's delightful grandmother last spring, while sad because we all miss her, left behind many lifetimes of good memories in their large, tightly knit family. My big regret was that she didn't get to meet her grandson. I imagined her checking in on us from time to time, though, making sure I was taking good care of Arizona, and vice versa.

Anyway, I'm less of a freak these days about things that go bump in the night. Still, though, I'm the sort of person who checks behind the door and the shower curtain before I use the john, and I can't sleep with my feet hanging off the bed. (Heck, I can't sleep without a white noise generator and several blankets piled on my head--those of you who have shared a room with me can attest!) So it probably should have freaked me out the other night when I woke up at o'dark thirty to feed Wallaby, and there was someone standing on the other side of his crib (which is right up against my side of the bed).

It didn't freak me out, though. It pleased me. 

I couldn't see the figure in the darkness, but I knew it was there. Not menacing or protecting, just visiting. I sensed pleasure and approval, and a vibe of just-passing-through. In my half-awake state, I smiled, said, "Hi there." And then I rolled over and dozed for a few more minutes, while Wallaby faced the non-shadow and made happy gabbling baby noises that were so very different from his usual "give me boob or give me death" middle-of-the-night routine. More like he was playing peek-a-boo with his new best friend.

Eventually, those baby noises started escalating to "wait … I think I'm hungry or wet or something", so I got up, walked around the crib, and scooped up Wallaby. I said, "Thank you" to whoever it was--for being there, for talking nicely to the baby, for not scaring me--and then I went into the living room for our usual fresh-diaper-and-Law-and-Order-rerun 2 a.m. feeding routine. Still not freaked out. In fact, I was extra mellow, feeling like, in the midst of all the flesh-and-blood family members visiting to meet the newest member of the clan, someone else had gotten a chance to welcome him to the world.

So who was it? Darned if I know. Arizona and I tried to figure it out the next morning. We both lost maternal grandmothers in the recent past, but the presence had definitely felt more male (or at least not girly) to me. My mother's brother? Maybe, but it didn't feel like Uncle Steve to me, or any of the other possibilities we came up with. (I'll confess that after I put the baby back to bed, I checked both our phones to make sure there weren't any emergency calls regarding our grandfathers, both of whom are in their 90s.) 

The closest I can figure, it might have been Arizona's shotgun-toting, school-teaching Granny, who passed a while back and was a tough enough bird to fit the vibe. Not to mention that just about every family member I've met has said, "It's too bad you didn't get to meet Granny. She would have loved you." (She apparently adored books and authors.) And I've talked to her once or twice out loud, asking her to look after the little ones we lost. 

So could it have been her, stopping in to meet Wallaby? Who knows. But I like to think it was. And it's nice to know he's got himself a guardian angel.

The Genetics of the French Toast Effect

Image Source

Here in the New of England, we're under some serious snow cover at the moment, with more incoming tomorrow (and if the pattern holds, even more a few days after that). Mind you, we've gotten off a whole lot easier in southern CT than our MA neighbors to the north, including my mom, who has just about lost her Subaru beneath 90 or so inches of the white stuff that's been deposited in the past few weeks. Still, Arizona, Wallaby and I have been working around some serious storms, power outages, and an honest desire to stay off the road and leave the slipping-and-sliding room for people who really need to be out there. 

All of which sums to one prime directive: go buy bread, eggs and milk (BEM). This is a universal impulse. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's a gene for it (we'll call it the BEM gene), and that there are certain alleles (versions of a genetic sequence) favoring the additional purchase of driveway salt (BEMsalt), toilet paper (BEM-TP), beer (BEMsuds), and/or chocolate (BEMcacao). The base shopping list, though, is invariant. Bread. Eggs. Milk.

Prior to this past weekend's blizzard, my maternal unit emailed to confirm that she had, in fact, purchased these key commodities, and was thus prepared to ride out the storm. She carries at least one copy of the Whole Foods allele (BEMcrunchygranola), and thus I predict that she also laid in some steel cut oatmeal and organic produce alongside the basics. Meanwhile, Arizona, who is a BEMsalt/BEMsuds heterozygote (i.e., he has one copy of each) ducked out to purchase additional driveway salt, as I (a suds/cacao het) had already purchased sufficient beer and chocolate, and my father, who had sneaked up between storms for a visit, had come planning on making French toast for us and had imported the bread, eggs and milk from his more southern climes. 

And, darn it, we had our French toast while the snow fell and the power stayed on, and we had a lovely visit, with Wallaby getting to meet Grandpa. 

Arizona's reports of near-riots at Stop and Shop and Wally-world, though, got me thinking that the local stores must be in a pickle these days, trying to keep the BEM in stock, along with the ancillary commodities, when the trucks and trains are no doubt running behind schedule. And what of the locals, who have been compelled to buy fresh BEM every three days for the past month and have their fridges stuffed full, along with stacks of rock salt, donut dozens, and cases of Corona Lite in their garages?

Okay, maybe the latter sounds like the start of a party to me. But still. 

In the interest of thoroughness, I hied myself off to the interwebz and typed into ye olde Google-Fu "what to make with bread, eggs and milk." And I got in return a veritable treasure trove of recipes. Versions of French toast! Bread pudding! Toad in the hole! Not to mention something called a Strata, which looks just as geological as it sounds, except involving food rather than rocks. And I started envisioning the Chopped blizzard basket: all three rounds must include BEM plus the four mystery ingredients. Ghost peppers, Gummi Bears, octopus and lard, perhaps, or Spaghettios, cream cheese, asparagus and day-old fried clams. 

Annnnd maybe I'm lucky that it's not snowing today, or else Arizona would be looking at something really weird come dinner time. Tomorrow, though, we've got another blast incoming. 

Excuse me while I go check the fridge!

Holy Carp!

Image source

And yes, when I say 'carp,' I mean carp. Not like that one scientific journal article I got in for editing a year or so ago, where the authors had studied the genetics of a pathogen that affects Asian carp, but had an extreme typo moment somewhere along the way. 

Now, mind you, I speak English with some flair, but I can barely scramble my way through ordering a burger, asking for the bathroom, and announcing that I can't find my Mommy in French and Spanish. So I try really hard to give credit where it's due when my international clients write a technical article in a language that isn't their native tongue. But an entire article about commercial farming of "crap" as an important food source, and how to protect it from pathogens? Yeah. I got the giggles. Sue me.

And then there was that SNL skit many years ago, making fun of douche commercials--with all the waves-crashing-on-the-beach imagery, a pretty woman in a flowing white sundress, and a ponderous voiceover asking, "You know those days when you smell like a week-dead carp that's been baking out in the sun … ?"

So, yeah, as much as I love koi ponds and good Japanese-inspired tattoos, the word "carp" invariably hits me right in the funnies ... except when it's wrapped up in Latin to form that old cliche: Carpe Diem. Which I've been thinking about recently.

You see, over the past few years I've made a conscious effort to live in the moment and enjoy each day, rather than always looking forward, making plans and setting big, sweeping goals. Not that there's anything wrong with big goals! But the way I do them tends to stress me out and leave me always feeling like I'm running to catch up with the stuffed rabbit up ahead on the racetrack, and the stupid long-eared bugger is always moving on, out of reach. So I make goals, but I try to give myself permission to miss them now and then, and I remind myself to find something to like about even the crappiest (carpiest?) of days. 

However, I've recently discovered that this, too, has its pitfalls, because I've been so good about appreciating each day of the past few years, that I find myself comparing the now to the then, and getting stressed about how different our new reality suddenly looks. Lazy morning cuddles didn't used to involve a small person wanting to latch onto a boob with the gusto of a piranha; fooling around didn't used to require NATO-level strategic planning; and sleeping in used to be an actual option. And while these are all small things in the grand scheme, especially when compared to the awesomeness of having Wallaby in our lives, when you combine those small things with hormone poisoning and lack of sleep … well, let's just say that as much as I know that whining is neither attractive nor productive, the other night it seemed like the only way to go.

For a while, anyway. 

A very short while. 

Because even stressed and hormonal, I know darn well that I wouldn't change a thing about where I've been, where I am, or where I'm going. I love my big man (working downstairs now in his warm little cave), my little man (who just spit up on me, missing three burp cloths to nail my shirt with unerring accuracy, because he rocks), and the world I've built for myself. Maybe today doesn't look like this same date a year ago, but this time next year won't look the same, either. And that's a Very Good Thing.

So carpe the diem, ReaderFriends, even if it's Monday, the weather sucks (at least here in New England), and the cat barfed in your shoe and you didn't notice until you were halfway out the door. Today is a good day. And come nap time, there's a new book to write, a little at a time--ten minutes here, a hundred words there, until they all add up into the next story I want to tell!

Love, 

Jesse

Pleeeeease release me …!

Have you ever heard the Def Leppard version of that song? It was done as a joke, released as the B side of a cassette single (and yes, I just totes dated myself), and sung in a nasal whine reminiscent of the result should a giant mosquito have mated with that woman from the Nanny. You haven't heard it? Well, you're not missing much. However, you WILL be missing out if you don't grab a copy of my latest release, FIRELIGHT AT MUSTANG RIDGE, which is hitting the stores/kindles/other devices tomorrow, Feb 3!

Amazon link

Excerpt (If this link isn't live yet, check back in an hour, I'm working on it! And no, Autocorrect, I didn't mean 'I'm whoring on it.' Sigh.)

Here's the blurb:

In the latest Mustang Ridge novel, sometimes a little change is exactly what a person needs....

Ever since striking it big on a gemstone claim in the Wyoming mountains, Sam Babcock has known luck is on his side—except when it comes to the people he loves. When he forms a surprising connection with an alluring newcomer staying at his friend Wyatt’s ranch, Sam starts to question everything he thought he knew....

Needing time and space to heal, former daredevil Danny Traveler is camping out in a valley beyond Mustang Ridge Dude Ranch. She wants to take care of herself for once—and a sexy cowboy might be just the distraction she needs. But when Danny discovers there’s much more to Sam than meets the eye, she begins to long for more than a casual fling. Can she convince the confirmed bachelor that it’s worth changing his ways for a chance at long-term happiness?

And the author's note in the front of the book, which I wanted to share with you all:

Dear ReaderFriend,

We all know what they say—things change, people change, live in the moment because you never know what tomorrow might bring. But even if we keep up with our fortune-cookie fortunes and do our best with our deep breathing, we’re never quite ready for that moment where life goes BOOM and everything takes a left-hand turn, are we? I sure wasn’t, five or so years ago when I woke up one morning (or so it seemed at the time) to find myself with no partner, a house I couldn’t afford, and no idea what came next.

Well, what came next was more life—those cookies tell us that life is what happens while we’re making plans, right? Tomorrow comes whether we’re ready for it or not. For me, a bunch of doors closed but a whole lot of windows opened, and suddenly that too-big house was humming with activity as my mom (who rocks) and a dear friend (shout out, Liana!) helped me paint and pack and get the heck out of Dodge.

Maybe I didn’t go as far as Danny Traveler does—all the way to Mustang Ridge, Wyoming—and maybe the healing I needed to do was very different from hers. But like her, I made a new home someplace I never expected to be. And, like her, one day I met a big, broad-shouldered man from out West—one who knows how to ride and shoot and fend for himself, and who I absolutely wouldn’t have been ready for, had I met him any sooner in my journey.

So welcome back to Mustang Ridge, dear ReaderFriend. Please join me in a story that is near and dear to my heart, about left-hand turns, moments that go BOOM, and how a former adrenaline junkie-turned-nervous Nellie puts the pieces back together with the help of a slow-talking cowboy who is far more than he seems. And if you’re in the process of putting a few pieces back together yourself, please know that you’re not alone.

Love,

Jesse

And, finally, a picture of Arizona and Wallaby comparing tootsies, just because :)

Battening down the hatches as a new family of three

Sorry for the absence last Monday, ReaderFriends … If you didn't catch the news on Facebook or the Jaunty Quills blog, Arizona and I were in the process of welcoming Baby H into the world (I'm still working on an online pseudonym, bear with me … What do we think of Wallaby?). And as he turned out to be a big baby, it was a bit of a process. But I've got good drugs, Arizona is doing lots of 'let me get that for you', and over the course of the week, we've gone from happy but shellshocked:

To glimmers of a new normal:

So far, I'm grateful for a whole lot of things--my wonderful hubby; our strapping son who's already sleeping three or four hours at a time (bless him); the happy accident that we're not living in, say, the 1700s, when things probably would've had a very different outcome last Monday … and the fact that Baby H came a little early, which means that a) he didn't get any bigger before attempting to exit stage I-don't-think-you-fit-through-there; and b) we're not staring down the barrel of doing a mad dash to the hospital into the teeth of Winter Storm Juno. 

Yeppers, here on the east coast of the US of A, we're looking at our first big snow event (snowpocalypse?) of the winter. The weather hens are flapping around on the telly, telling us the sky is falling, and those of us who know the routine are doing the usual prepping. Gas for the generator, check. Full charges on all phones and computers, check. Lots of candles and lighters, check. Plenty of food, including canned stuff that will heat easily on the Coleman stove or George Foreman, check. But we've also got the added challenge of a New Baby, and not really being sure what he needs on a day to day basis yet. 

Yesterday, the three of us ventured out to do errands. I managed to pack and forget the awesome tri-fold changing-pad-slash-carry-purse that a dear friend made for me (shout out, Donna!), but we at least remembered the baby and managed to time his feedings so he was a happy, sleepy thing for the duration. (This as opposed to a couple of days earlier when I whipped out an emergency boob in the pediatrician's parking lot, thereby quelling an impending riot.) We got gas, hit the bank, and then pulled into the grocery store, where the parking lot was already packed by midmorning two days before the crap weather was scheduled to hit. Arizona visibly girded his loins and said, 'Do you want to stay in the car with Baby while I do the shopping?'

At least I think that was what he said. I was already out the door and halfway across the parking lot. 

See, he would cheerfully live on a mountaintop and venture into the nearest town only when our supplies ran low. Me? I occasionally need me some noise, lights, rude people, nice people, chai latte and two-for-one sales on English Muffins. So in I plunged to Stop and Shop, which has all of the above, and I started working my way down the daunting list that Arizona and I had put together that morning. In doing so, I completely skipped the baby aisle, not realizing it until I was well past the frozen pizza. 

When you're doing the infertility dance with a side of I-waited-too-long-and-now-am-too-damn-old, you come up with some pretty whacky coping strategies (or was that just me?). I didn't obsess about seeing babies out and about with their moms (too much) or put on my judgy pants when I saw parents doing things different from how I thought I would (mostly). I did, however, avoid going through the baby aisle of whatever store we might be in. I just didn't need to see all the mysterious stuff I might never use, like snot suckers, tiny nail clippers, and fourteen different kinds of wet wipes, each designated for a different body part. Never mind the things that parents speak of with such reverence, like the Diaper Genie and the Boppy.

I still stayed out of those areas once the doctors started saying things like 'you've got a happy baby in there' and 'we'll see you in a week', not wanting to jinx it. So you'd think that my first official venture into Aisle 4 would be a momentous occasion, right? Angels would sing, some appropriately kicky theme song would pour from the overhead speakers, and my fellow shoppers (even the rude ones) would spontaneously burst into applause because Arizona and I had Gotten It Done, Dammit.

In reality, I abandoned my cart next to the beer and waddle-bolted back to the aisle in question, dodging other bodies and carts, and doing a lot of the 'ooh, ouch, eek, ack' that currently accompanies my attempts at perambulation with a whole lot of stitches in tender places. Down Aisle 4 I went, past the wipey things, washy things, sucky things, and liquid food things that I haven't yet felt myself lacking, down to the diapers. 

Where I froze, confronted by entirely Too Many Choices. 

And then I, who routinely ignores the suggestions from Amazon and Netflix as to what I might like based on my past purchases, preferring instead to do my own research and form my own opinions, grabbed a familiar bag like it was a lifeline in the midst of Winter Storm Juno, going with the same brand and size (not newborn, see above re: big baby) that the hospital had provided. And, sweating like I had thrown on a heavy parka and twenty extra pounds and gone for an awkward jog (because, well, that's pretty accurate), I returned to my cart, panicked briefly when I didn't see it next to the pizza, located it next to the beer, and continued onward, triumphantly in possession of a storm's worth of Pampers. 

I hope.

First Love and Happy Almost Birthday to Me!

Click for art link

Yep, Capricorn here, with all the contradictions that come from the goat personality (driven, ambitious, unsentimental, focused on common sense, tends to gravitate towards material reasons/rewards) trying to coexist in some sort of harmony with the fish personality (focused on the arts and spirituality, prefers spiritual or emotional rewards, idealistic). I'd say that these days I'm more fish than goat, but I've definitely had my goatish decades! 

I'll be celebrating my forty-mrmph b'day this week, presumably either by taking the day off to hang with a couple of friends, one of whom is a talented photographer and wants to do a Giant Baby Bump photoshoot for her portfolio … or by waddling off to the hospital to relocate the Giant Bump's primary resident to the great outdoors (sorry about the January in New England thing, kid, and welcome to the wonderful world of layers). 

Ever since finding out that my due date falls a little more than a week after my birthday, I've been hoping that kiddo will pick a different day and gets a birthday of his own--though I'm told he'll get priority one way or another: The sonographer at the high-risk clinic laughed at me and said, "Mom's birthday stops mattering once baby is here." 

For a while, I was all like "Is that true?" and "Yikes!" Not because birthdays are all that big a deal around here, but because one of my recurring fears about this whole process (along with the doozies my sleeping brain has cooked up involving sharks, Nazis and pick-a-plague-scenario) is whether I'll be able to do Mom well and still be Doc Jess. Now that the day is nearly upon us, though, I'm more like, "Bring it on, baby!" Not because I'm dying to be done with the waddling thing, though there's some of that … but because my inner fish is ready to share. 

Back in the day, I was a late bloomer and didn't start dating until my senior year of high school. He was (gasp!) a sophomore, though at a different high school. We'll call him TN, because those were (and hopefully still are) his initials--we met at the barn where I boarded my horse and hooked up after a friend did the wing-woman thing, whispering "TN likes-likes you" and "Would you go out with him if he asked?"

It was a surprise, as TN was cute, funny, and a bit of a bad boy, and I had long been typecast as the awkward, four-eyed geek who rarely dressed or acted quite right. So I hadn't been asked out in, well, ever. The age gap was less than you'd think, too, seeing how I had skipped a grade, putting us only a year apart in age. As in, exactly a year. Because we had the same birthday.

It was a sign! (More so than our first date, which involved Howard the Duck. 'Nuff said.)

We celebrated two birthdays together. That first was spent in the heady adrenaline rush of new love. And not just love, but "LURRRRVE", in all caps, shouted to the sky. Because it turned out that we worked. We meshed. Days were brighter, colors sharper, jokes funnier … And I not only got what all those romance novels had been trying to tell me, I felt smug as hell, because I had found my happily-ever-after already, without all the hand-wringing and drama that the characters in those books always seemed to go through. 

Or so I thought for the entirety of one long, glorious summer.

Unfortunately, by the time TN and I got to our second shared birthday, we were trying to pretend everything was okay despite my having started college and him having started cooking at a family member's restaurant, and wanting to be there every spare minute he had away from school … when not that long ago, he had wanted to spend every spare minute with me. Neither of us did anything wrong--that would've made it easier, I think. No, he found a new direction, I chased and clung, and the magic just … disappeared.

When the end came I was devastated. Gone were my best friend, the boy who had given me my first kiss (among other things), and all the wild, improbable plans we had made for our shared future. It hurt all the more because we broke up within a week or so of my parents announcing their divorce--they did their best to keep the world solid beneath my feet, but still. 

It would be three years before I dated again--almost my entire college career--and nearly two decades before I stopped trying to make it work with guys who didn't threaten my equilibrium nearly enough, and let myself fall fully, stupidly and head-over-heels in love again. 

I get it now--the kind of love that I've been writing about for so long, and the struggles it can take to get there. The lessons you learn along the way. How it's important to be your best self with your partner rather than expecting him to fix you, and vice versa. I also know (even if I still want to struggle against it sometimes) that the things I can't control far outnumber those I can. I can't predict where we'll all be a week from now, a month, a year … but my fishy self is okay with that. Worrying about it isn't going to change the outcome, so why not find something to love about each and every day? Especially when we live in such exciting times.

So bring it on, baby! Take my birthday if you like--I'll share. Heck, you can have it. Just come out safe and sound, because your father and I are ready to meet you, love you, and start this new--and wholly unpredictable--adventure.

Blessed be.

Do you have THAT neighbor … ?

The other night, it went like this:

Arizona (peering out a front window through a decent snowfall): Is the German Shepherds' house is on fire?

Me: Now *that's* something you don't hear every day. (Comes in from the kitchen to hunker at the window beside him. Sees flames licking up alongside the brightly lit house, which is a river and a street away, but clearly visible through the winter-bare trees.) Wow! Maybe? Or could it be on their TV? In a fireplace?

Arizona (grabs binoculars--which are never far away, and make Darwin smile at his preparedness--and stuffs his feet into a pair of flip-flops--cause, yanno, Arizona--and heads out onto the front porch for a better look)

Me (starts pulling on a parka, hat, gloves and snow boots--cause, yanno, New Englander--makes sure I have my cell phone and realizes I don't know their street number, then sticks my head out front): What's the verdict?

Arizona: Well, *something's* burning, for sure.

Me: Let's go take a look. Dinner'll keep. (Heads back inside to put our dished-out turkey and rice in the microwave--cause, yanno, cats.)

(A minute later, with him having exchanged his flip-flops for boots and thrown on a parka, we stand out in our driveway. Which, for the record, could double as a ski-jump and is wearing a layer of fresh, slippery snow, leading down to unplowed roads.)

Me: What do you think?

Arizona: We'd probably get the car down okay. Not sure about back up. 

Me: Let's hoof it.

Arizona (eyes his could-deliver-baby-any-day-now wife): Um. 

Me: I'll be careful. Promise. And if I fall, I swear I'll aim to land on my ass.

(A minute later, safely down our driveway and trudging through the snow up our street.)

Arizona: Did you bring a flashlight?

Me: No. I can see fine. 

Arizona (Shoots me a 'but the cars can't see *you*' look and produces the flashlight he almost always has on him, along with a pocket knife and cordage.)

Me (defensive): I've got my cell phone. And my keys.

(Somewhere, Darwin shakes his head and wonders if I was the best choice for procreation.) 

(A couple of minutes later, having dodged two plow trucks and one SUV going WAY too f-ing fast on the snowy back roads, we get in range of the house in question. The lights are all on, but we don't see anybody inside, and certainly no sign of an 'eeeee, fire!' response happening.)

Arizona: Smell that?

Me (wrinkles nose): Wiring. Or at least burning plastic. Maybe vinyl siding? Think their electrical box committed suicide?

Arizona (comes around to far side of house and peers down driveway): Nope. Barbecue.

Me: Whaaaa?

(Sure enough, there's a BBQ on the porch, smoking away. The flames have burned down, but it's clearly the culprit. And it smells awful.)

Me: What were they doing, the ceremonial New Year's burning of the ex-husband's things? 

Arizona: Sure doesn't smell like hot dogs. Come on, let's head home. (As we turn onto our road, he glances back.) Glad everything was okay. Also glad we didn't just call the fire department without checking. You never know with those guys.

Because, you see, the house in question is rented by THOSE neighbors--the ones with a bunch of big, ill-trained dogs that, up until a recent Facebook spat with a couple of other neighbors and input from Animal Control, would bark 24/7 in their yard and routinely roam free, chasing cats (see above for picture of Lucy stuck fifty feet up after they had come and gone), jumping fences and muddying up pools. 

In fairness, things have been soooo much better since said FB altercation, but the dialog got pretty heated, and it wasn't like Arizona or I felt like we could call over and say, 'Hey, everything okay?'

So we hiked over in the snow to see for ourselves. Because that's what neighbors do, regardless, and we hope that if the situation was reversed, they (or someone) would do the same for us!

What about you? Do you have one of THOSE neighbors? Do tell!