Franzen, based in Hanover Park, prides himself on being a versatile artist — he is an illustrator who also paints and works in metal, wood, and glass.

Three years ago, he discovered another medium for his art: pumpkins.

That’s when I saw him: a grey-and-rust colored coyote, walking slowly through my backyard! He stopped for long pauses to sniff the air and look around. He didn't seem to notice me. He was in no hurry. He looked to be out on a Lazy Sunday stroll.

Chipkin, a Huntley resident, had just learned about gestation crates: small, confined spaces where pigs being raised for pork are kept during their four-month pregnancies.

“These crates are so small that [the sow] can’t even stretch her limbs, let alone turn around or walk. If we did that to dogs, it would be animal cruelty and someone would be going to prison for it.”

Not the old school supplies I find at the bottom of my kids’ backpacks in June. Those are just sad-looking pencils with their eraser heads worn down to gummy shadows of their former selves, old dried-up glue sticks, and crayons that are pitifully short and stubby.

August school supplies are the ones I like. Fresh notebooks, folders with all four corners intact. Glue sticks banded together in shrink wrap, ready for sticky battle.

This year, school supply shopping for my two high school-age teenagers was pretty low-key.

The police report from that night states, “Mrs.

Now would I say something that wasn’t true?

I’m asking you sugar

Would I lie to you?

— Would I Lie to You, Eurythmics

The world lies to us. 

We accept these lies as truth, even when evidence points to the contrary.

This point was driven home over and over when our family moved into our little house.

-You don't need "as large of a house as you can afford." 

But no—she wanted a sleepover. A run of the mill stay-up-late-giggling-and-gossiping overnight with a handful of her besties. 

It reminded me of sleeping over at friends’ houses when I was growing up in the 80s: greasy pizza, hours of watching MTV or playing Pac Man.

—Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea

My husband is out of town with our two youngest children, which means I’m alone for a few days.

The house is eerily quiet. It took me a little while to adjust to the idea that I was the only person in the house. I walked through all the rooms, seeing the wreckage of two teens who quickly packed their duffel bags a few minutes before leaving; I crossed my fingers that they at least grabbed their toothbrush and clean socks before they went out the door.

Kurt “Scoop” Begalka is the administrator of the McHenry County Historical Society, but when summer comes, he becomes manager of the McHenry County Independants, a vintage baseball team that is cheekily named after what appears to be a misspelled team team name from a newspaper article from more than 150 years ago.

My husband grills old-school. He swears by his little Smokey Joe and refuses to upgrade to anything larger, and especially wouldn’t entertain the idea of a gas grill. When he grills, it’s an event; that grill is filled up with meat, and the smell is sublime. He’ll walk back and forth between the kitchen and the backyard, grabbing tongs and hot pads and platters with a sly grin on his face; I watch him, trying to gauge whether the side dishes I’m preparing will be ready at the same time the smoky meat is deemed edible by the grill-master.

You’ve got to believe me.

You’ve maybe noticed how I trip over my words. Or I say things that seem to meander on a disjointed path, bereft of any point or story.

When we were told not to leave our house in order to stop the coronavirus from spreading, I wanted to leave my house in the worst possible way.

Now that restrictions are easing up and we’re slowly leaving our house again, going back to work, standing a little closer to others—close enough to have an actual conversation—well, I’m not sure I’m ready.

When we bought this house a few years ago, we knew it would be a tight fit.

I get a text like this most days from my son. Reese is 16, and he was right in the middle of taking his drivers ed course when school closed because of the pandemic. Now, in what is turning out to be the slowest year of our lives, he has ample time to practice his driving. 

The funny thing is, Reese likes to text me, even if he’s just sitting across the room: “Wanna go driving?” This has become our secret signal, the unspoken get-out-of-jail-free card we have during these lazy days when COVID-19 makes it difficult to go anywhere.

Without warning, the reviewer compared the new novel to a previous work by the same author—the very book that I had on my nightstand!

But I’m raring to go. It’s officially spring. We have a vaccine. (Several vaccines, which is nothing short of miraculous.) Stores and restaurants are opening up, loosening restrictions. The latest question folks ask each other is, “Did you get the vaccine yet?”

This week, my kids headed back to in-person school. It felt like a momentous occasion, a celebrated return to normalcy from the “before times.” Even though I’ve loved having the kids home during remote learning, it’s been an entire year of barely going anywhere.

—Barbra Streisand

I knew this day was coming for a while. Yesterday, I had to say goodbye to my favorite comfy pants.

The day I met my Jammie Pants was back in my old life, before we downsized to our Cozy Cottage. We were living in the Big House, strapped with a crushing mortgage payment, limited by one income, and managing a gaggle of adorable children at home who had wants and needs that eclipsed my own.

Nearly every weekend my husband and I go camping, sometimes bringing along our children, sometimes not. In summer, we had to make reservations to be sure we got a spot. When we’d arrive on a Friday night, we’d often pull into one of the last campsites.