Opinions

I approached the back door, and there they were: beautiful works of art, basking in the sun.

They were porcelain white and flawless.

I was in awe.

“How do you do it?” I asked my friend.

Is she a painter? You might ask.

A sculptor? You might wonder.

No, she owns the prettiest ice chests I’ve ever seen, outside of a retail establishment.

“Ours are only this white the day they’re purchased,” I admitted, and she was almost embarrassed for me.

EDITORIAL

This Thursday, millions upon millions of Americans will gather at a relative’s home and gorge themselves on turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce or salad, and pumpkin pies. Afterwards, many a belt will be loosened, and family members will gather around the TV, fighting the effects of tryptophan, as they watch football. It is tradition, after all. It is as it should be.

When we moved to our small corner of the country, for which I am grateful, we were greeted by the aboriginals: creatures great and small who lived in the dense woods and had never been disturbed by man.