This is entirely off-topic, but I didn’t see an “e-mail me” kind of link, so I’m using a comment.

I have a link to Fanatical Apathy on my site as well as an incorporated RSS feed, and all links result in a php/MySql errors. Just thought you’d like to know, you’re missing out on the meager few readers that might land here via my humble site and possibly others that have the same problem…

1. The war sucks, and always has sucked; it has
A. Bankrupted our country
B. Been completely divisive
C. Been based on horrible, if not right down deceitful intel
2. Economy is going to hell in a handbasket
A. See #1
B. Allowed big business a carte blanche
C. Told the people that the “American Dream” is within their reach, without mentioning that they may want to check out their loan status
3. On Occasion, misrepresented the Truth:
A. See #1
B. See #2
C. Katrina

I’m probably missing stuff here. Feel free to add on.

Meanwhile, the sandhills are as noisy as ever, and I am unable to mow because the butterflies are everywhere among the wildflowers that sprout up randomly around the yard.

When I was a kid, we never mowed until after the flocks had flowered and seeded. We didn’t, and I don’t, do sod lawns. It’s cracker yard all the way - you mow what grows, but not until after the wildflowers have had their time in the sun. As you can see, I am unfit for subdivision life. It’s either a native yard or an apartment in an interesting city.

Today is Dyngus Day. In the old country the young girls and boys would chase each other with buckets of water and much hilarity ensued when they would manage to soak each other and themselves. Six weeks of Lent can be very difficult in the village. In this country, we would try to be the first one up because then you would wake everybody else in the household by sprinkling them with water and shouting “Dyngus!” (deengoos) The wet t-shirts don’t figure in any of the traditions I’m familiar with, nor do the dirty dishes, but who knows what was really going on in the village?

The pussy willows were for Palm Sunday. My mother would wake us up on Palm Sunday morning by pulling the covers off our legs and hitting them (gently!) with pussy willows while reciting “Palma bije nie ja bije,za tydzień Wielki Dzień za sześć noc Wielkanoc” which roughly translates as “It’s Palm Sunday. In one week it will be a holy day and in six nights it will be a holy night.”

I hope this clears up any confusion.