Friends, My childhood corn field meanderings were inevitably followed by the dreaded process of removing small black splinters from my socks and pants. The culprit: a small weed in the undergrowth known in these parts as shirán. Its slender seeds were equipped with two sharp prongs whose diabolical design included a myriad barbs that latched onto fabric like Velcro. Minutes that felt like hours were spent tediously plucking these little devil seeds off one by one. Now shirán wasn’t all bad. The small white flowers were pretty enough, but the immature seed stalks were the best part. If you gathered them at the right development stage, they made perfect darts. Their tips stuck to clothing on contact, and unlike their older selves, held together very well, so they didn’t make a mess and you could reuse them many times. Countless unaware adults walked away with these darts clinging to their coats or sweaters, to the delight of mischievous youths. Who would have thought seeing this plant ag
Friends, There's something awkward about wakes and funerals. The strange combination of sadness and ritual, combined with the gathering of an eclectic mix of people make appropriate behavior a challenge. Family, friends and complete strangers you probably should recognize come together to pay their respects. The air is filled with a blend of silence, uncomfortable whispers and the occasional inappropriate laugh -- after all, the best gossip and jokes are overheard at the wake. While we'll all miss the deceased, it's hard to gauge the pain the closest relatives are in, so appropriateness is a moving target. Contributing to the unease is the fact none of those attending has actually ever been dead -- that would be weird. It's odd that one of the few common experiences we will all eventually share, is so inscrutable. For now the inevitable conclusion to our own lives feels like a distant shadow, something you know to be true but struggle to accept. So you make small talk a