My grandmother turns 99 and Earth Day turns 35.
I snapped these daffodils (or “jonquils” as my mother calls them) growing in our garden to honor them both.
The secret email arrived late at night with the Porky Pig insignia.
SUBJECT LINE: “What can one person do to make a difference?”
Like those old-school raves of the 1990s, we were informed where to go, but the note ended. “Psssst … now you know the location, so guard the secret.”
Anyone have a good line on a yard pump? I’m looking for something that surely doesn’t exist, sort of like a reverse sprinkler. I want a device that sucks the water back off my lawn, into some pipes, then sends it along its merry way wherever water goes when it’s not welcome — the Southwest maybe.
I know it’s sacrilegious to moan about excess water during these days of extreme global climate change. But that’s sort of my point; any excess of any kind points to what scientists have proven long ago, we’re screwing around too much with Mother Earth.
January is the wicked step-mother of months. Contradictory and contemptuous, January is sun, rain and snow, all in a half-hour’s time. It’s slushy toboggan runs and black ice on I-75. January is your passive aggressive co-worker who smiles in your face then shoves daggers of ice in your back. It’s not surprising, since the month is named after a two-faced Roman god.