This season of gratitude, I am thankful for beepers. Where would we be without them? The alarm beeps to get us out of bed. Otherwise, we might sleep all day. The washer beeps to remind us to put the clothes in the dryer. The dryer beeps to remind us to fold.
After a three-year absence from Tucson, I have been struck by the level of development, not on the city’s outer fringes, which stopped expanding with the recession of 2008, but in the downtown. The streets of downtown Tucson were moribund the last time I visited.
Twenty-four years ago, Tucson artist Susan Kay Johnson decided to honor her recently-deceased father by organizing a small procession of her friends down 4th Avenue on Dia de los Muertos, otherwise known as the Day of the Dead.
Last week, I passed the final test for adulthood. The exam? Not only did I make an appointment for my first colonoscopy, which we're supposed to do at about age 50, but I showed up for it and sailed through without making a single juvenile, smart-aleck remark.
Last week, I reported my thoughts as I looked out the window at bustling city scenes from a skyscraper in the middle of the night. Back home this week, I stepped onto the porch and into crisp night air back in northern Minnesota and experienced the exact opposite: absolute, complete silence.
The city fathers of Vancouver, British Columbia, where I visited last week, made a fateful decision in the 1950s. They decided to build up, not out. Not only Vancouver's office space, but also its residential areas would consist of high-rises, not sprawling suburbs.
The bane of gardeners, purslane is the most common and persistent weed afloat. The flat little succulent turns over easily with a hoe. Once uprooted, purslane lies there as helpless as an overturned turtle.
You know how when you bake a pizza and some of the cheese falls off and gets burnt to the tray and how if you scrape the burnt cheese off it is the best part? Well, French chefs create that burnt cheese deliberately. The result is "tuile," (pronounced "tweel") which is a French word for "shingle."
There used to be a lot more rock shops forty years ago than there are today.
We had a rock shop here locally, and I remember begging Mom and Dad to stop the station wagon on summer vacations at the many rock shops between here and the West Coast.
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