In the Pink – Or Not

My sister Madge and I were sitting at our kitchen table, stuffing information packets for a save-the-spotted-owl rally on the weekend. Jack, who's the coordinator of the student Spotted Owl Advocacy Committee, would be the main speaker.

There are just a few spotted owls left – a lot of their habitat, old-growth forests, has been chopped down. As Jack says, why can't we think before we act? All it takes is some planning between developers and environmentalists. Like, duh, JUST TALK FIRST, okay, guys? Jack, who wants to be a history teacher one day, says history is full of disasters, all because people wouldn't talk to each other.

Myself, I love yakking. As much and as loudly as possible.

Hey! You can check out how to save Spotty yourself: visit the Western Canada Wilderness Committee. Tell 'em Dinah sent you. And remember: the more we talk about Spotty, the more people have to listen.

Anyhow, as Madge and I were sitting and stuffing, Madge raised the subject of this blog. "It's pink," she said, shuddering.

Madge has this thing about pink. She hates it. Maybe you read in The Summer of the Spotted Owl how she totally dissed this one woman's wardrobe and car because they were, yes, all pink.

"Well, poor Spotty's not in the pink," I punned sadly. "Not for the time being. But as to regular pink, Madge. Some excellent things are pink. Strawberry ice cream. Candy floss. Bubblegum pie."

"Bubblegum – ?" Madge winced. "Please, Dinah. I don't want to know."

"But I do want to know." I set down the packet I was stuffing and stared out the window, over our fence. "About Mr. Dubuque. Yesterday he dug up a whole bed of azaleas. And now there's fresh earth on the flowerbed, and tiny new flowers. He either dug something up or buried something."

My eyes widened behind my as-always crooked glasses. "Or someone."