Writing

The discarded mailbox with leftover mail in my yard was a time capsule, a relic, no longer existing in its purpose but a reminder of its fun

As a child, I painted landscape scenes I had never laid eyes on . . . a world and century removed from my turn-of-the-millennium Florida cla

I told myself I wanted my yard to be recognized as a bird sanctuary for all the right reasons. But two older ladies with clipboards and natu