Yesterday was a beautiful day here in Kansas City. The temperature hovered around 65 degrees, the sun was shining in a blue sky streaked with white clouds and it’s February. Last year at this time we were in the midst of a blizzard. This year my hyacinths have already bloomed.

I met my friend, Alma Allen, for lunch at a little neighborhood restaurant. We have both been working like crazy on books. We both have deadlines looming and are getting stressed out. So like any other people with common sense, we walked away from our computers and took a break.

After lunch Alma asked me if I’d like to take a quick walk around the block. It was a great idea and one I couldn’t pass up on such a lovely day. Off we went, me a few steps behind as usual. (I have really short legs, but we can go into that another time.) (Or not.)

We got down to the corner and across the street was a house that had a porch on the bottom level and on the second. Lengths of different colored fabric had been hung on half of the top porch above the railing.  Lime green, pink, blue and red swayed when a breeze happened by. I’ve never thought of using fabric to decorate like that. But I do have a porch and man, do I ever have fabric!

The house across the street was a beautiful home that had a quilt pattern painted on the shingles above a window. At least it looks like a quilt pattern to me. The same design was painted on the side of the house. (Sorry, my photo of that didn’t turn out.) And while this house was breathtaking, it didn’t hold a candle to the one next door.

Surely a quilter had to live here! Look at all those Grandmother’s Flower Garden patches painted on the house. The painters were there and had scaffolding set up and were in the process of repainting the motifs. I know, they were probably repainting the whole house but the point is, the patches were looking so pretty and fresh.

The owner was outside talking to the painters as I was snapping pictures with my iPad. I asked him if a quilter lived there. He got the most puzzled look on his face and replied, “A quilter?”

“Yes, those patterns that are painted on your house look like a quilt pattern,” I said.

“Oh no, those are Native American symbols. I don’t remember what they mean but we had them painted on there about 15 years ago and it’s time to get them redone.”

Alma had gone down the street a bit and had crossed to the other side. She was standing by a sculpture of a woman’s head. It had been placed on a piece of concrete and stared at the people driving by.  As I got close to it, I saw that it had pins stuck all over it – in the woman’s face, her hair, neck and eyelashes.

One can only speculate about the sculpture and its meaning. I never quite figured out if she looks scared or angry or if she just represented an enormous pincushion. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

We finally ambled back to our cars. We both had work to do and it was time to be responsible adults and get back to it. But to borrow a quote from Mr. Rogers, it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.