Bob's

Little

Acre

July 22, 2019

Happy Monday. This is a vintage Bob's Little Acre, a repeat of possibly the only noir detective fiction ever published in a garden column. My detective was Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Jacks are one of my favorite wildflowers but actually they remind me more of perv flashers than of "tecs." But both of them wear trenchcoats, I guess, and I thought calling my hero "Sam Spadix" was a little obscure...

The Flowerbed was not my regular habi...

July 15, 2019

Readers, time for a repeat! The Planet was obliged to rise this morning at 4 a.m. to accompany the Art Department on a routine medical screening. This not only afforded The Planet the opportunity to observe the homocidal/suicidal driving patterns of those workers--doctors? nurses? Waffle House waitresses?--who commute at 5 a.m. but to consider age-old questions such as: Why do people work so hard to get into, and out of, medic...

May 30, 2019

Last week, I was delighted to attend the first event organized as a joint effort between the Dade County Public Library and "the Dade Treehugger," Jennifer Blair (right in photo), on the subject of composting. I am proud of Jennifer for stepping up to raise eco-consciousness in Dade and I'm proud of the Dade and Trenton gummints for taking her seriously. I am always proud of our valiant little library and the myriad feats it h...

March 17, 2019

This “tater treatise”  was the first Bob’s Little Acre that was ever published, if not the first ever written. (That was “The Great Lies of Gardening.”)  The then-editor of the Dade County Sentinel, Chris Conley, wanted a few columns in reserve before he printed any, and by the time he got around to it, it was St. Patrick’s Day and he started with this one. So it was my inaugural piece, in March 2005. I take time out from my p...

February 14, 2019

I didn't have time to write a Valentine's Day piece this year so I am rerunning this one from 2014 or '15. The idea is to remind those who are feeling sorry for themselves that this is a day EVERYBODY drowns in self-pity. Only the merchants are happy! 

I am rushing this piece out before Valentine’s Day to make sure we have time for a straight up-down vote on abolishing the whole thing. 

But don’t panic, merchants!  Wha...

One recent day the sun was shining—for once!—and I was trotting around the Four Fields track chanting under my breath:

And we run because we like it ‘neath the big blue sky!

That’s what you inherit when your old man was an English teacher, not trust funds like some of ‘em but disjointed scraps of poetry and a deplorable habit of spewing Shakespeare at inappropriate moments (such as when you are writing articles about the local g...

Let me tell you about my colonoscopy.

Ha ha. Not really. I just couldn’t resist the line. Sucks you in, doesn’t it? Like after that, what choice do you have but to go ahead and read the rest of the article?

Actually, it’s January, "the Holy Month of Robindon," when I gird my loins and charge into my annual war on fat (“fat-wah,” get it?). So what I really want to tell you about today is my diet—though I really am going to start...

December 18, 2018

There is a saying that everyone you meet has something to teach you.

I collect sayings like that, in just the same way I read self-improvement books. This is because I have spent the latter part of my life, since I turned 50, say, trying to become a good person.

But there’s another saying: You can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse. I think maybe we all just get born with a certain ratio of naughty to nice. Blame genes or blam...

September 28, 2018

I dug this vintage BLA up when I thought The Planet's garden columnist, master gardener Ann Bartlett, whom The Planet esteems and honors and doesn't deserve, hadn't sent in a column, and I needed something to fill the Saturday slot. Turned out I'd just misplaced Ann's column, and it will run tomorrow as usual. (Thanks, Ann!)

But since this has been a slow nooz week I'll go ahead and run this anyway. It was not really about...

August 31, 2018

So. I’m a year older. Again!

Don’t wish me happy birthday. It’s been several weeks ago by now—this rag keeps me busy!—and anyway I am soliciting neither well wishing nor intensified examination of my wrinkles, chin hair and back fat for evidence of, or speculation on, my burgeoning senescence. No. I simply wanted to regale you with the usual yearly truckload of timeless wisdom I’ve accumulated since the last “Birthday Bob” colu...

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