Friday, October 28, 2016

The plucky planter on the back of our bathroom commode still makes me feel appreciated. It arrived at our house one morning in early June.

In the summer's waning warmth after Labor Day, my mother would order her child army into the big garden of my youth to gather the year's final flush of vegetables.

The thunder roared in the middle of the night, and suddenly I was wide awake. It wasn't the storm that brought me up out of bed, but my son's sweet dog, Spanky.

In the down-is-up world of American biofuels, success carries enormous costs. The latest evidence of these costs is an amendment tucked into the House version of the 2007 farm bill: As Mexican granular sugar flows into the U.

I have probably bored you at length with my battles with bats, which are far more plentiful this summer than at any other time in memory.

Night sounds intensify as August draws to a close. Though a cooler night air usually means a more comfortable night's sleep, the sounds of singing crickets and katydids always wash me with a bit of melancholy since I associate them with starting back to school.

Getting ready for Canfield Fair was always a rite of passage in bygone days, and it was surely less complicated then than it is today.

Some of the sagest advice my father ever offered my brothers and me urged us not to "hit back at bullies" because, sooner or later, "They'll get theirs.

It seems to me to be patently unfair that firsts get all the fanfare - first step, first love, first kiss.

Back-to-school shopping is a piece of cake with my 16-year-old son, Jon. We don't shop. And I love it.
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