Do you ever leave your house unlocked, even for only a few minutes? How about your car?
I never do. In fact — and you can call me obsessive-compulsive if you want — I make sure I always lock our house with the deadbolt and not just the automatic lock, and I try the door handle after I’m done to be certain. I also hit the locking button on our car key and hear the little chirp twice and then pull on the door handle to make absolutely sure the lock is engaged. I have keys in hand before I do either of these things to make sure that I’m not locking myself out, too. These are habits I’ve had for as long as I can remember.
I mention this because of this article I ran across about crime statistics in one upper middle class midwestern suburb in a recent month. All of the 25 cases of automobile theft in that month involved unlocked cars, and half of the house thefts involved unlocked homes. That’s mind-boggling to me. And the house break-in data is skewed, because of some unique circumstances — typically, according to the article, an astonishing 80 percent of such thefts involve unlocked cars and houses. Why would so many people leave their cars and houses unlocked? Are they worried about locking themselves out? Do they think they would be inconvenienced by the few seconds it takes to fish a key out of pants pockets or purses and unlocking their car or house? Do they think they’re going to be gone for only a few minutes and there’s no risk? Or are they just trusting souls who are convinced their neighborhoods are totally safe at all times?
According to the article, too, the identity of the criminals has shifted. Before, teenagers looking for a little pocket money were often the perpetrators of such petty theft; now it’s inevitably adult opiate addicts who are looking for money that will allow them to get a quick fix. Check out the chilling video surveillance footage accompanying the article, of the guy quickly checking the doors on cars. According to the article, the thieves try to minimize their risk — in cars, they’ll look for an unlocked car and when they find one they’ll steal loose change and whatever appears to be valuable and be out in a few seconds, and in houses they’ll head directly to the bedroom, steal any visible small electronics they see, take any jewelry and money from the bedroom, and get out of the house in a few minutes — so being away from your unlocked house or car for only a few minutes isn’t going to provide any protection. And the article notes that having a dog isn’t a sure-fire thief deterrent, either.
Why take a needless risk? As the title of the article states: Lock your damn doors! (And make sure your kids do, too!)
Green has never been one of my favorite colors, but after a long, gray, bleak winter I’m relishing the explosion of springtime color — all green, of course — in our backyard. The trees, grass, shrubs, and plants seem to have covered virtually every shade in the green rainbow.
Time to get out the green color chart. Chartreuse? Check. Lime? Check. Olive? Check. Emerald? Check . . . .
Dogs have many good qualities, but they aren’t easy on yards. Especially in a tiny backyard like ours, the combination of accumulated canine answers to the call of nature, unfettered grass nibbling, and gleeful dog romping will leave the lawn looking barren and diseased.
Now that we’re dogless for the first time in years, it’s time to get out the latest scientically developed patch mix and tackle those bare spots.
I admit that when spring-time comes — if it ever comes, that is — I’m a sucker for flowering trees. In this part of the country, that most likely means pear trees, bursting with delicate white flowers. In many suburban neighborhoods, landscapers have long been planting Bradford pear trees as ornamental touches, almost as a matter of course.
But is planting so many pear trees a good idea?
This guy is one of an increasing number of people who argue that it isn’t a good idea, and we’ve got to stop. He notes that while pear trees are very tempting when you’re trying to turn what used to be a farm field into something that looks more like an attractive neighborhood — because they grow incredibly quickly, and flower besides — they aren’t a viable long-term solutions for any yard. Bradford pears have one of the weakest branch structures of any tree, with a trunk that splits into a V, besides. The trees grow like Topsy, to be sure, but ultimately a strong storm will come along and the trees will break apart. That’s exactly what happened to the pear trees in our old house in New Albany. We were just lucky that the limbs crashed into the yard, rather than knocking down part of the house.
But apparently there’s more to it than just having to cut down a split tree and figure out what to do with the stump. Bradford pears were supposed to be sterile, but they actually aren’t. They’ve cross-pollinated with other varieties of pear trees, apparently causing a proliferation of pears in some neighborhoods — and, in so doing, they are crowding out other, native trees that might not have those fine blossoms, but are sturdier are more suited to the environment. Even worse, some of the pears being produced as a result of the cross-pollination are thorny monstrosities that are almost impossible to get rid of. That’s why Ohio has put Bradford pears on the list of invasive species that can’t be sold in the Buckeye State.
So if you’re going to do some landscaping, consider whether you really want to plant that Bradford pear, or for that matter any ornamental pear tree. It turns out that those white flowers come at too high a price.
We’re doing some reconfiguring at our house and purchased some new bar stools on-line that were delivered in boxed-up, do-it-yourself form. Today’s project is to assemble the bar stools by following instructions that appear to have been written in Vietnamese and then loosely translated into English. The assembly process involves, among other things, determining whether the “flat washer” mentioned in the instructions is the same as the “plat washer” that is labeled in the parts bag (that seems like a safe assumption, doesn’t it?) and using the dreaded “Allen wrench” that was not a known tool back when I took wood shop in high school.
Who was this “Allen” guy, anyway, and why couldn’t he figure out a way to use a crescent wrench, instead?
When I first sit on one of these I’m going to do it gingerly.
I’ve let some household chores accumulate for a while, and this weekend seems like a good time to tackle some of them. One of the jobs was washing down and cleaning off our lawn chairs, and I decided to do that first, before the predicted rains come. A little deft hose work, using the thumb-blocking-the-water-flow-power-wash method, a few well-calculated swipes with a rag from the rag bin, and the chairs look sparkling and bright.
It’s only 8 a.m., and already I’ve put my first check mark on the to-do list! Why, the sense of deep personal accomplishment is almost overwhelming.
When we moved in to our house we had our back yard landscaped. Kish hates direct sunlight, so a key element of the design was a new tree planted at one corner of the patio. It was supposed to grow tall, leaf out, and provide lots of the glorious shade that Kish likes so well.
For the first year and a half, things went according to plan. The tree grew like crazy and looked to be doing fine. Then late last summer, the tree started to visibly struggle. Beginning at the top of the tree, the leaves wilted and died. We hoped that the tree would recover this spring, but the top half remained dead and the only new leaves appeared at the base of the tree trunk. As a last-ditch salvage effort, the landscapers cut off the dead top part of the tree — leaving us with the pathetic looking elongated stump shown above — in hopes it would spur new growth at the bottom of the tree. Unfortunately, that effort also failed. Our little tree has given up the ghost.
I like trees. I hate to see them struggle and I hate to see them die. This tree death is particularly weird because there’s no apparent cause. It wasn’t struck by lightning, and every other plant and shrub in our back yard is thriving. I guess sometimes death just happens.
I’ll miss our little tree.