Erin O'Mara

I'm stewing. But not a pot of tomatoes freshly harvested from my garden. I'm stewing in my own juices because I'm thinking about kindness.

I remember when summer started in May. The giant, sliding classroom windows were open, and even without a hint of breeze, the hallways got a fresh-mown grass smell. The sun warmed stacks of paper on metal sills, the edges of a year's worth of essays and test scores browning in the bright sun. Dust danced in the light while my teacher droned on about the history of the kings and queens of France.

This year, the Harpswell Anchor turned 5, my parents will celebrate their 62nd wedding anniversary, and our country will turn 250 years old!

Imagine you're stuck in traffic on the Mass Pike with no radio and your passenger is droning on about whether there should have been room for Jack on the floating door in "Titanic." That's how bored I want you to be.

We are the King of all we survey. We decree the King's lawn will green up immediately and without regard for the weather. The grass will be beautiful and healthy, and will slow-roll any growth. In fact, it will grow slowly all summer so the King will not have to mow more than once per week, even in July after three straight weeks of rain.

I was today years old when I discovered that a caterpillar's body liquefies inside its chrysalis. Their bodies turn to gloppy, squirty goo, and it would be reasonable and rational to think dissolving is the end of any story. But it's not.

Let's take a moment and acknowledge the greatest gift the good souls of Ireland have ever shared. Groundhog Day.

Of course I'm not going camping. Thank you for suggesting it with a straight face, as if deep in your bones you feel it's a possibility. I'm impressed by your sense of adventure when you want to trudge through a swamp, but when you ask me to go with you, I wonder, "Do you even know me?"

If you think "cereal" can be classified as soup, we can't be friends. Really. If you see me on the street, just scoot on by. Don't make eye contact that will lure me into thinking you know where cereal belongs in your kitchen and where soup fits in your life. Don't say hello.

Dear Santa, I'm feeling salty and it's not because walking through Harpswell's mineral-laden sea air is like a day at the spa.