In any other trailer park, I would've been surprised to find lettuce spontaneously growing in the yard. But in my backyard, otherwise strange things are the norm. (For example, no one else in my neighborhood [or probably the world] has a sentient compost pile.) Lopstick is ground zero of a former Superfund site, and only the strongest flora and fauna survive in this hamlet's unique æther. The lettuce I planted in my lined bed garden last year bolted, and the seeds scattered.
From childhood, I've been drawn to the iconic lighthouse. A steadfast beacon of security and safety on the rocky shore of a dark and tumultuous sea. A warning beacon for the storm-weary and waterlogged: If you think you're troubles are over, think again, limeys! There be jagged boulders on this shore! Years ago, I thought an ideal career (for me) would be lighthouse keeping. The romance of solitude and the sea... Yes, please! But when I researched the actual duties, I realize
A kindly neighbor with a chainsaw made a racket piecing my pergola. To thank him for the processing, I gave him the iron sections to sell as scrap metal. He'll be returning to collect the scrap. In the meantime, I'm sure the pile is making a nice second home for some woodland creatures. And as Chuck is just a few steps away, and recently brimming with mushy onions, they will be multiplying, onion breath notwithstanding. When the makeshift home is dismantled, they will scatter
Last Saturday, the pollen invaded, landing on everything in Lopstick. I stepped outside to water my weed patch, and found this spider's web on the back deck. The spider was plucking the yellow-tinged strands with its front legs, and bouncing on the web in an attempt to shake the pollen off. And when I looked up, I saw yellow clouds billowing in the treetops. As a highly allergic person, I retreated back inside my trailer and showered... Lucky for me, the symptoms from my nast