Ah, Monday, here you are again to rise me from my sleep in your defeated look, shrugging your shoulders from my bedside as if to say, “don’t shoot the
I was standing in the midst of a dying garden of hydrangeas and bittersweet when my mother-in-law emerged from the 19th-century Czech farmhouse carrying a crate of apples she received from a neighbor’s orchard. . .
In the unforgettable words of Mr. Beauregarde from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”, “Violet, you’re turning violet, Violet!” has begged me lately, have I been that grating, consuming purple little