Early February. Pam Spaulding photo.

I squeaked by in high school chemistry doing little more than fiddling around with the Bunsen burner so it would throw flames like a tiny oil refinery. I was easily distracted in class, but I never saw any reason to dispute the science behind the periodic table.

What little do I know now?

Chemistry was hard to grasp.

Addressing the alarming consequences of climate change is harder.

Too hard for the President.

Numbing out is easier.

Late May

Bless a few of my Trump-loving friends who have turned a corner and, now, at least, acknowledge that POTUS is crazy, but insist: “If your plumber can fix a leak, who cares if he’s crazy?”

I care.

Also he’s not fixing the leak.

Our crazy President gaslights science as counterfeit and remains unbudgeable on climate change.

This is scary.


Our two-acre melting pot of native pollinators is inconsequential in any larger environmental sense, but I feel healthier and happier walking through a diverse meadow of colors, scents and hummingbirds.

Is this an illusion—the doping effect of a do-gooder?

Late August

Goldenrod, ironweed, green milkweed and frostweed have crossed into our meadow. That’s OK. They join big bluestem, greasy grass, prairie coneflower, New England Aster and other native species that were originally sown late in 2011.

Wind has blown in box elder seeds, and squirrels have buried walnuts. The meadow seems stubbornly determined to return to the central Kentucky forest it once was.


Our meadow won’t save the earth.

The planet can only be preserved with personal, and powerful, worldwide leadership.