Memorial Day is my least favorite day of the year even though it often coincides with my birthday. There’s nothing grimmer than a day set aside to honor the dead, primarily those who died in battle, that’s been co-opted by cook-outs and door buster sales. And so I’m feeling crabby. And cranky. And battling the urge to eat junk food. Tons of junk food. Fried, salty, spicy and terribly, terribly fattening!

It’s also the official start to my least favorite season: summer. When I was a kid, summers meant endless hours of swim team practice, ear infections, blurry vision, and slimy, yellow-green hair. And that was during the week. Then… yippee! Weekend backpacking trips into the High Sierra. Nothing could be more fun for a teenage girl than trudging uphill, carrying a thirty-pound backpack, and breathing in the dust from the mule train ahead of her. I never did get the “glories of nature” bit my father promised from those “vacations.”

Now if I could have ridden this beast up the mountain, I might have enjoyed backpacking!

I was in a hurry but the next time I’m over at the park, I’ll make sure of jot down the name of the artist. What a masterpiece of imagination!