Its friendly, the way people in San Francisco pile plants around the sidewalk outside their homes.  For one thing, it shows they trust passersby to know the difference between mine and yours.  Since weather is never an obstacle, you may as well let the plants enjoy it, too.  What can go wrong?  Absolutely nothing.

The phantasmagoric black succulent in the picture is not the most eye-popping thing I saw in San Francisco.  The Goats of Daly City, corralled near the rail yard where Bart emerges from the airport, win that award.   I literally did a double-take when livestock came into view as I watched the desolate rail yard rush past my window.  For a moment, I wondered if some homeless knitter was farming alpaca behind her trailer camp, but no…shorter necks, smoother skins, floppier ears…goats!  If you have never gotten to know a goat, I recommend them.  Curious, not needy; interested, not aloof; independent, but they have their reasons.  Exactly the characteristics you want in a loyal, psychologically well adjusted friend.  If you are into docile, forget it.

I do think sidewalk goats would be a poor choice, however.  I wouldn’t trust them beyond the first planter.

Leslie, my San Francisco Hostess, has a pretty amazing view of the Golden Gate bridge from her porch.  However, I tend to find the shiny things close by make better souvenir pictures.   It was too chilly for morning coffee outdoors, but the kitty didn’t mind at all.  Tune in tomorrow for more views of Leslie’s garden…

Cas does not like his picture to be taken, but he would not break his concentration on the task at hand.  You won’t know exactly what bones you have maniacally hacked out of the clay block from the Educational Toy Store, until you rinse off the clay residue, which task you must perform at the sink, in a sippy cup, lest you endanger The Carpet.   At last, the tiny prizes are revealed – a skull, an intact vertebrae – all about the size of a mouse.  Are they real bones, you ask?  Well, real to Whom?

No Cracker Jack prize was ever this fun to excavate.

Morning at the table begins with a silence as rare as stillness. Action figures are waiting, but alert.  A few moments of grown up conversation distills our lives into whatever random snapshots we can squeeze into this brief pause.  We speak softly, keeping our breakfast secret as long as we can.  First, there will be bacon.  After bacon, the day’s work commences.  But first, there will be bacon.

Here is the situation, Pammy’s house, bottom of the stairs, Saturday bedtime.

Obviously, no one is sleepy.