The sky has that expectant pink hue to it. We are also expectant, having risen early from our little camping trailer to greet the sunrise. This was a planned thing, involving Google searches of when the sun would rise, earlier bedtime the night before, and several alarms set.

That’s because the long-awaited 17-year cicadas are clearing their throats underground just beneath the trees right now, and soon the branches above will ring with their robust songs. And every other time in my life that they’ve come to visit—four times in total before this time — they somehow found a way into my mouth.

My first encounter with the gigantic periodic bugs was in 1956, when I was eight years old.

I am accustomed to a house filled with voices and noise: laughter, instruments being practiced, “What’s for dinner?” being shouted, or the shower running for far too long. I’m used to hearing footsteps overhead, before they recede across the ceiling the way a shooting star appears in the corner of our eye, then disappear just as suddenly, leaving us to wonder if we only imagined it.

Mom earned a high school diploma from Leyden High School, but Dad left school at 14 to get a job to help support his family during the Great Depression. Had it not been for such hard economic times, he would have earned his high school diploma, too.

That’s because our government a century ago felt that education was important enough to guarantee that young people have the right to be educated through high school, funded by taxpayers.

The AP Stylebook is a substantial volume for journalists, students, and writers that, to me at least, deserves its own podium, open to the page about nonessential clauses, marked with a rich leather bookmark, a single light trained on its text.

And I thought, “Acme Barricades? Wile E. Coyote must be building this house.” Because if you’re a kid like me who grew up in the 1950s and 60s, Acme could mean only one thing: the Acme Catalog from which Coyote ordered every gadget imaginable to outwit Roadrunner — gadgets that failed spectacularly every time.

As soon as Elon Musk walked into Twitter’s headquarters carrying a sink (the caption to the video read, “Walking into Twitter HQ. Let that sink in,”) it was clear that Musk was more concerned with crafting Dad-jokey quips than he was about making the platform better, or at the very least keeping it clear from hate speech and disinformation.

Since Musk’s takeover of Twitter X, it’s been steadily losing users, who are tired of the arbitrary changes and lack of content moderation.

I know that’s not the kind of confession you expect to hear every day, but there it is:

Today, I lost a ham.

“How does someone lose a ham?” my friend Anne asked when I told her.

“Well, if I knew the answer to that, I’d be able to un-lose it,” I said, so I tried to recreate the day’s stunning mystery as well as I could.

I went to the grocery store to pick up a few staples I was running low on — bananas, sour cream, grapes, juice, chips — and when I passed through the meat section a nice ham caught my eye.

The new year is a time for planning ahead as well as reminiscing about the “good ol’ days.” Our thoughts wandered to our youth when there were drive-in restaurants and hot cars. Nancy grew up in Franklin Park and was the proud owner of a Ford XL with a 429 cu.

Cats are so much easier than dogs, and Chicken and Waffles were no exception. They would meet me each day at the door by meowing and walking purposefully toward their food bowls, where they would sit and stare meaningfully from the bowl, to me, then back to the bowl again.

“What was the cause of the Civil War?” she was asked.

And rather than giving the answer that any ten-year-old American could give, she opted instead for nuance.

The Civil War was fought over “the freedoms of what people could and couldn’t do,” she said.

Of course, Haley was right in a technical sense, because embracing or abolishing slavery was all about “the freedoms of what people could and couldn’t do.”

“Probably four or five years,” I said. “I refill it in case I get thirsty through the night.”

She was horrified and started talking about microplastics, forever chemicals and any number of other unpleasant thoughts.

“Then I probably shouldn’t tell you about the plastic water bottle in my car that’s been there for the last five or six hot summers,” I said.

In my estimation, it’s no exaggeration to say that Mr. Band Director’s job has two primary components: 1) leading and educating his students in pursuit of excellent musicianship; and 2) moving equipment. He wraps extension cords as expertly as a cowboy throwing a lasso.

But for me, it’s cookies.

To be specific, it’s the scent of baking cookies, and the clatter of baking pans from the next room.

Long after the other plants in our garden faded and settled in for a winter nap, the rosebush on the southeast side of our house continued to grow and stretch toward our bedroom window so that when we awoke and pulled up the shades, the palest pink, delicate petals rested serenely with faces open wide, patiently waiting for us to begin our morning.

The first was the memory of a powerful passage from a novel by Elie Wiesel, in which a man is waiting to execute a political prisoner who has been sentenced to die at sunset. He says you know night has arrived when you’re gazing out a window in the evening and you suddenly realize that you’re looking at your reflection in the darkening glass instead of the landscape outside.

It would be a stretch to call me a luddite, but it’s fair to say I’m luddite-adjacent.

Yes, I carry my cell phone wherever I go, but I tell myself it’s purely for safety reasons.

Besides the spectacle of war, natural disaster, and crime broadcasted on our screens, tragedy has touched my own community, too.

And when a boy named Jim said his hero was Jean-Claude Van Damme, I asked him why.

He talked about all the characters the actor played, and how much he liked those characters.

The “vegan” part of the recipe went straight out the window the moment I decided a trip to the grocery store for vegetable stock was out of the question: the beef stock in my cabinet would have to do.

This is precisely why I’ll never embrace veganism. I’m simply too lazy and don’t have the discipline required.

But vegetarianism? My fickle stomach might have the discipline to pull that off, at least for a while.