Just bitchin'

Imperiled Yogurt


Apropos of absolutely nothing to do with writing, I just have to mention what I saw today at the supermarket: a child of perhaps seven or eight…old enough to know better…using a pencil to rupture those papery lids that cover individual yogurt containers.

Trailing behind Mama, he did a rapid-fire, stabbing as he trotted along.

Behavioral issues aside, with all the attention that’s paid to safety and the prevention of product tampering, why did they abandon the plastic lids for yogurt? I may be in the minority, but I don’t always want an entire 6 or 8 ounces of the stuff. Often I use it as a garnish on top of oatmeal, or a spoonful of the plain unflavored type as a substitute for sour cream.

I liked the plastic lids. I recycled the plastic lids. I reused plastic lids under tiny, little plant starts. (Never mind what’s under my grow light…that’s not the issue here.)

At the store, I called the boy’s mother’s attention to what he’d done.

She picked him up and ran.

And I reached as far back on the shelf as I could to select my yogurt from an area well out of reach of a tiny Jack The Ripper of the dairy section.





Little Meg Fallon is a beautiful one
only when compared to none.

An airy look about her face,
a different kind of inhuman grace.

She is quiet and alone all of her days,
unable to navigate the social maze.

Instructors find her strange to teach,
a quicksilver mind they just can’t reach.

But little Meg knows deep in her heart
lessons worth learning require an art;

a stillness of soul at which she excels;
a talent for reading natural spells.

Education came in a secret way,
while in a snow-bound wood one day.

The exquisite drifting of the flakes that fell
imparted a knowledge she never will tell.

Such patterns she saw by sitting so still
will never be transferred to paper by quill.

The teachings of books and lectures dry
cannot touch what is taught by watching the sky.

An instructor as vast as the atmosphere,
open to children with the talent to hear.

So little Meg reads what nature has written
and smiles to herself like a satisfied kitten.

A mind full of magic she cannot share;
such children of mystery need special care.