Yard of The Month.

That was the caption underneath a photograph in yesterday's Chronicle, picturing a home in the Sea Isle subdivision in Galveston. The house itself had been boarded up in preparation for the onslaught of Hurricane Ike. The yard was thigh-deep in debris-- boards, baskets, lawn furniture, palm tree branches, and tons of indefinable items either washed ashore or swirled around on shore by the relentless waves of the storm. In front of this house, in the midst of all the debris, the home owner used a large piece of wall-board and a can of black spray paint to make his sign: "Yard of The Month."

I cut that picture out of the newspaper and put it on my fridge. It makes me smile at the blessed resilience of people, and it reminds me that everything that we went through because of Ike was microscopically minuscule compared to what other residents of the waterfront communities had to endure.

You just had to laugh out loud at the irony of that sign, and commend the home owner's sense of humor and perseverance. All of the subdivisions down here have elaborate "Yard of The Month" signs that are displayed on the best lawns each month. Supposedly, master gardeners from the individual community associations drive around the neighborhoods and decide who gets the much-coveted sign that proclaims to one and all that that particular home has the greenest and lushest lawn, the tallest and prettiest flowers, the most pleasing arrangement of landscaping. The master gardeners/judges seem to prefer traditional English garden designs. I have yet to see a "Yard of The Month" sign in front of any house which features a painted one-dimensional wooden woman bending over the flower beds and exposing her lace bloomers.

I doubt very much that any subdivision around here will be displaying a "Yard of The Month" sign anytime soon. The mountains of tree branches are still outside each and every house. Everything has been moved from the front lawns to the curb-side part of the lawn, and we're all waiting for the huge trucks promised by the city. According to the mayor, all of the tree debris will find its way to landfills. The city of Houston said the entire procedure could take as long as six months. Does that mean that we will have to decorate the branch-mountains with holiday lights?

Our neighbor at the corner of our street has been trying to reach The Powers That Be in our own community association. She swears that they have taken the phone off the hook. "Honestly, how can their line be busy for six consecutive days?" She has vowed to drive to the office of the president of the community association and tell him that with all the subdivision maintenance fees that we pay every year, we shouldn't have to wait six months for the city of Houston to come by with their dump-bound trucks. This neighbor is worried that the six-foot piles of branches will soon become mouse condos and snake nests. Snake nests. Well, that's all she had to tell me. Now when I walk Gracie, I'm walking on everyone's front lawn instead of the sidewalks, which are way too close to the bottom of those fallen-branch mountains.

These mountains, which were once green with just-fallen branches, have now become brown and brittle. When the branch-mountains were first assembled near the curbs, you could actually smell the inside of the broken branches, sort of sappy-sweet and bitter green. Now the piles of debris just smell like old trees, like charcoal that has turned to ash and then been rained on.

I started walking along the Greenbelt again this week, after having nearly a two-week walking break because of the storm. Nearly all of the pines on both sides of the bayou were damaged. Most dropped their branches right close to the walking trail, other pines have broken branches still hanging by a thin strip of bark, ready to fall down as soon as we get some good winds from the Gulf. Neighbors are riding their bicycles, skating along with roller-blades, kids are on skate-boards, walkers and joggers are all out there again--- and we're all looking up at the dangling branches. Can I make it past that tree without that branch falling down on my head?

Now that would be the greatest irony--- walking or jogging around the Greenbelt to keep fit and healthy, and ending up in the hospital because a massive pine branch fell on top of you. Not a good thought.