Almanac April 2026

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April 2026

By Ashley Walshe

April is a wild maiden, slowly waking.

Before she opens her eyes, she lets the stream of birdsong trickle through her inner landscape, lap against organ and bone, awaken her from the inside out.

Listen. Each trill and warble, an invocation. The dawn chorus, a polyphonic composition of her many dulcet names.

Awaken, Maiden! they sing. Awaken, Ostara! Awaken, Goddess of Spring!

As morning sunlight dances across her face and shoulders, she wiggles her fingers and toes, smiles at the tender kiss of sunbeam, then gently unfurls.

When at last her eyes greet the light of day, the wonder astounds her. She presses her feet into the soft earth, where constellations of glittering dewdrops adorn bluets and clover, and feels the pulse of all creation.

The rhythm moves her. As her feet caress the fertile soil, wildflowers spring forth. Dwarf crested iris. Bluebells. Yellow lady’s slipper. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

Hips swaying now, a swirl of swallowtails envelope her in a kaleidoscopic dream. Bees circle hypnotically. Nectar-drunk hummingbirds flash by like jewel-toned meteors.

As she shimmies toward the flowering dogwood, fragrance and color spilling in her wake, pink-and-white bracts appear on bare branches like a spray of immaculate vows.

In graceful flow, the maiden reaches for a dogwood sprig, tucks it into her tousled hair, and drifts along, unhurried.

Like the birds, she calls the names of all awakening. Like the maiden, all of life responds.

Puddle Party

Nothing says spring is here like the site of early swallowtail drifting among native perennials. But have you ever stumbled upon a cluster of them “puddling” together in the mud? Absolute magic.

Supping essential nutrients from the wet earth (namely, sodium and amino acids), male swallowtails absorb that which nectar alone can’t provide. Why? For the offspring, of course. But isn’t everything?

Want to attract butterflies to your own neck of the woods? First and foremost: Forgo pesticides. Consider host plants for the garden (i.e. milkweed for monarchs, violets for fritillaries, pawpaws for zebra swallowtails). According to Conserving Carolina, native trees such as oak, cherry and willow each support hundreds of species of lepidoptera (winged insects including moths and butterflies). Or, fuel their flight with nectar a la purple coneflower, goldenrod, blazing star, black-eyed Susan, ironweed and aster. Everybody wins.

I would spend a morning

With an April apple tree,

Speaking to it softly,

And laughing out in glee.

All the summer sunshine

And all the winter moon

Are shining in the blossoms

That will be gone so soon.

— George Elliston, “April Morning,” Through Many Windows, 1924

Words of Wisdom

“In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.”

— Margaret Atwood

Almanac March 2026

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Almanac

March 2026

By Ashley Walshe

March is a procession of tiny wonders.

In the wakening woods, where trout lily and spring beauty appear and disappear at the speed of life, red fox trots toward the forest’s edge, silent as a spring ephemeral.

Weaving between woods and meadow, bluebird combs the softening earth, harvesting grass and pine needles to craft its tidy, cup-shaped nest.

Behold the purple martin. A charm of hummingbirds, shimmering like flying prisms. Sprinkles of color in all directions.

Scarlet maple seeds cascade from naked branches. Fiddleheads brighten creeksides with a riot of luminous spirals. Electric redbuds dazzle.

Yellow transcends itself. Daffodils spill across rolling hills like a sun-kissed sea of trumpets. Spicebush quivers at the tender kiss of swallowtail. Dandelions present as wild, impassioned brushstrokes.

Earthworms animate the loamy soil. Black snakes dance across the warm earth like ribbons.

The humans emerge, too. Gardeners dawdle in dirt and sun. Lovers listen for warblers, sparrows, spring peepers. Children comb the earth as the bluebird does.

“Violets!” they squeal, gathering tiny purple flowers by the tiny precious palmful.

“Can we use them to make cookies?” they ask. “Pink jelly? Lemonade?”

Bare feet in feather-soft grass, they feel the wonder many have forgotten. The wonder of warm earth blossoming with new life. The taste of wild violet.

As the procession of spring continues, slip off your shoes. Let the tiny wonders revive and delight you. Awaken the purity of your own vernal spirit.

Red Clover, Red Clover

Should you happen upon a patch of tender clover, allow yourself to stay a while. Get quiet. Attune to the frequency of these sprightly, three-leaved sprigs. Some say you can hear them singing.

A symbol of the Emerald Isles, the seamróg (Gaelic for “young clover”) is a robust ground cover, building soil and, come spring, inviting a wealth of pollinators.

But did you know that their leaves and flowers are edible? If ever you’ve tried clover blossom jelly, delicate and sweet, then you know the ecstasy of butterfly and bumblebee. Nibbled a leaflet? Just a day in the life of a cottontail rabbit.

And if ever you’ve found a four-leaf clover, well, the luck of the Irish be with you. 

Sun, Moon and Stars

Behold a blood moon just before sunrise on March 3 — a total lunar eclipse that, indeed, will give the moon a rusty hue.

On Friday, March 20, the sun crosses the celestial equator at 10:46 a.m., marking the official arrival of spring (although the birds have suggested it for weeks).

As for the stars? It’s Pisces season until March 21, when fiery Aries turns up the heat. In other words: in like two fishes, out like a ram.

One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the spring.

                    — Aldo Leopold

Almanac February 2026

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February 2026

By Ashley Walshe

February leans in close, icy breath tingling the nape of your neck, and asks you to pick a door.

“A what?” you blurt, turning toward the raspy voice. No one. But that’s when you see it. A door straight out of a fantasy novel.

Approaching slowly, you take in the intricate details and lifelike carvings: apple blossoms and honeybees; pregnant doe and spring ephemerals; fiddleheads and fox kits.

Wood as frozen as the earth below, your fingers ache as they trace the grooves and ridges, then fumble across a secret panel. Beneath it? A round peep window with an unobstructed view to spring.

Bone-cold and weary, you press your face against the cold glass and glimpse a drift of wild violets, trees gleaming with sunlit leaves, a bouquet of ruby-throated hummingbirds.

“Yes, please,” you nearly sing, reaching for the frigid brass knob. Your heart sinks when you find that it’s locked.

Rapping the knocker for what feels like ages, desire becomes agony.

You wait, desperate for the door to open — desperate to bypass the bitter cold and step into the warm embrace of spring.

That’s when you remember the voice.

Pick a door.

Of course, there’s another. You spin on your heel and set out to find it.

As you walk, you notice how the frost resembles glittering stardust; the moon, a silver smile in the crystalline sky. How naked trees stand in praise and wonder of what pulses, unseen.

This is the doorway, you realize, feeling your breath deepen, your heart open, your jaw and belly soften.

There is peace here, at this threshold of endings and beginnings, where life moves slowly, where early crocuses burst through the wintry soil. Peace and wonder. But only if you choose it.

Early Signs of Spring

Love and birdsong are in the air. On mild days, mourning cloaks trail yellow-bellied sapsuckers, sipping maple, birch and apple sap from tidy rows of wells.

No vintage perfume smells as delicate and sweet as the trailing arbutus blooming in our sandy woodlands. And — oh, dear — a striped skunk rejects an unwanted suitor.

Soon, toads will begin calling. Gray squirrels will bear their spring litters. Bluebirds will craft their cup-shaped nests.

Spring makes her slow and subtle entrance, even when we can’t yet see it. 

Year of the Horse

The Year of the Fire Horse (aka, the Red Horse Year) begins on Tuesday, Feb. 17. According to the Chinese Zodiac, 2026 will be a spirited year of passion, dynamism and boundless freedom.

In other words: It won’t be a year for the sidelines.

Souls born this year are said to be bold, adventurous leaders, quick-witted and headstrong, magnetic and rebellious. Parents of Fire Horse children: Let it be known that they can’t be tamed. 

Almanac January 2026

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January

By Ashley Walshe

January is an ancient remembering; a rush of cold; the crunch, crunch, quiet of naked woods.

This new day, sunlight caressing the frigid earth, inspiration knocks with the clarity of woodpecker drumming against towering pine. Bundled in layers, you lace up your boots, leash up the dog, make for the leaf-littered trail in the open, unobtrusive forest.

Crisp air fills your lungs with a sense of wildness, each breath sharpening your instincts, expanding your horizon, deepening your kinship with the natural world. As dead leaves rustle beneath feet and paws, the wisdom of animal awakens within you. This isn’t just a walk in the wild. It’s a homecoming.

Despite the bleakness of this winter landscape, the sting of the cold, you feel a surge of bold and blissful aliveness. At once, emptiness becomes threshold of infinite possibility. At once, the unseen sings out.

Opossum tracks spell midnight wanderings. A circling hawk graces a vibrant blue sky. Dog presses warm snout to damp earth and listens.

You listen, too, noting the rhythm of your breath, the cadence of your footsteps, the distant crack of hoof upon fallen branch.

Beyond a young beech tree, its pale leaves suspended like a murmuration of ghosts, half a dozen white-tailed deer stand invisible against the sepia backdrop. But here’s the thing: A veil has been lifted; your vision, clarified. You can sense the wild stirrings of these hollow woods. Your breath in the cold is living proof.

Keeping it Real(istic)

The New Year has a way of making us believe that anything is possible — and why not? But we do love to set lofty (read delusional) goals for ourselves, don’t we?

Who thought this was a good idea?

The ancient Babylonians were perhaps the first. Some 4,000 years ago, during their 12-day Akitu festival, “promises to the gods” were made to earn their favor or repay debts. The ancient Romans adopted this ritual to honor Janus (god of beginnings, transitions and time), while early Christians reflected on past transgressions and resolved to “be better” at the start of the bright, new year.

“New Year’s resolutions” entered modern vernacular by the 19th century, becoming a largely secular practice. This year, should you make a promise to yourself, earn your own good favor by breaking large goals into smaller steps. And, whatever your commitment, do it from a place of genuine desire — not just because you think you should.

New Year, New Earth

Suppose we resolved to live in greater harmony with the Earth this new year. Small changes can make a big impact. Below are a few suggestions to deepen your relationship with the natural world and, perhaps, reduce your carbon footprint. Feel free to make your own vow, of course. This is strictly between you and Mama E.

  • Wake up to watch the sunrise
  • Support your local farmers market
  • BYO reusable shopping bags
  • Choose native plants and pollinators for the garden 
  • Ditch bottled water (and single-use plastics) 
  • Visit your local nature preserves 
  • Spend more time barefoot on the earth  
  • Pause to watch more
    sunsets 

Almanac December 2025

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Almanac December

By Ashley Walshe

December is a skein of yarn, a simmering stockpot, a cat curled by the fire. Cast on. Breathe in the warming spices. Listen to the wisdom of gently crackling oak.

Wood and wool hold memories of winters past: silver storms; frost-laced mornings graced by tender sunbeams; resplendently starry nights.

You study your hands, slightly dry, recalling all they have held this year; all they have released. They tucked seeds into dark earth, plucked wildflowers, cupped sun-ripened berries, healed wounds, watered plants, wiped tears, prepared meals, gathered kindling.

Knit one, purl one; repeat.

When the fire pops, the cat unfurls like a spring fern, stretches out its toes, then drifts again into dream world.

Knit one, purl one; repeat.

As the cat stalks summer crickets and field mice behind closed eyes, you lay down your craft, stoke the fire, head for the stovetop. Lifting the lid, you unlock memories of winters past, mashing the now-soft apples as you inhale the spicy-sweet amalgam.

Back at the fire, you cradle a mug of homemade cider, watching the steam dance as whiffs of cinnamon and allspice ignite your senses. You look at your hands again, marvel at how they’ve been shaped by nature and time; at their wisdom, softness and resilience; at what they might yet hold. 

The cat yawns. You set down the cider, pick up the yarn. Knit one, purl one; repeat.

Winter’s Deep Sleep

For the natural world, life is slowing down.

Honeybees are clustered in their hives. Box turtles are burrowed in shallow soil. And black bears — over 20,000 of them in our mountain and coastal regions — amble to their dens, where cubs will be birthed in the heart of winter, during mama’s deep, long sleep.

When life feels busy, lean into the wisdom of our animal kin. Slow down. Get cozy. Remember that rest is a gift you can give yourself.

Homemade with Love

The holidays are upon us. Flickering candles and flashing lights spell Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas and Yule. But what of the lesser-known holidays? The weird and downright wacky ones?

Take Pretend to Be a Time Traveler Day, for instance, celebrated on Dec. 8. National Cat Herders Day (Dec. 15). Or National Ugly Sweater Day (the third Friday of December).

There’s a day for roasting chestnuts (Dec. 14), regifting (Dec. 18) and swapping homemade cookies (Dec. 22). 

And here’s one that might prove fun and fruitful: Make a Gift Day, on Dec. 3. Get creative. Let go of perfectionist tendencies. Pure and simple is part of the charm.

Almanac November 2025

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Almanac

By Ashley Walshe

November is the mother of quiet wonders.

Rainbows in spider silk. Wood ducks, migrating by moonlight. The slow-beating heart of a box turtle in brumation.

She gives and gives, offering her final mild days, her cool-season greens, the last of her berries, nuts and seeds. 

“Eat up,” she says to the wild ones. “There’s plenty here to go around.”

Bird and squirrel delight in her sweet and earthy fruit. Fox and deer, too. A feathery frost gilds mottled oak leaves on the first frigid morning.

When weary spider spins her silken sac, a cradle for a thousand eggs, the mother leans in close.

“Go now,” she whispers to the weaver. “Your work is done. Your babes shall know the tender kiss of spring.”

Wren song rings through chilly air. The last colored leaves gleam like stained glass in a light-filled cathedral. The altar remains blessed with beautyberries, acorns, persimmons and rosehips.

“Nourish yourself well,” the mother commands, folding moldy fruit and spoiled nuts into her womb-dark soil, where even the dead leaves are precious.

“I can use this,” she murmurs of what’s gone to rot. “Nothing will be wasted.”

Deciduous trees drift toward dormancy. Black snakes seek out burrows. Wood frogs prepare to freeze solid.

By and by, the great mother readies herself for winter’s deep, long sleep.

Surrendering her beauty back to the hard, damp earth, she strips away all she has to give: a humble banquet for the wild ones; what precious light remains; a bouquet of blessings in the name of quiet wonder.

But there is always a November space after the leaves have fallen when she felt it was almost indecent to intrude on the woods . . .     
— L.M. Montgomery,
Anne of the Windy Poplars

Inner Peace Casserole

A no-fuss recipe you’ll return to again and again. Simple, nourishing and gentle on the system, this soothing side dish is an unexpected crowd-pleaser at the most dynamic of family gatherings — and a treat the day after, too.

Prep and cook time: n/a

Yield: immeasurable

Ingredients

6 bushels of gratitude

3 pecks of grace

1 heaping cup of humor

4 dollops of kindness

1 pinch of forgiveness

1 dash of compassion

A dusting of birdsong

A breath of fresh air

Sunshine (if available)

Directions

Combine all ingredients. Stir and breathe slowly. Break for a kitchen dance party. Repeat.

Note: Modify ingredients to your taste. Sprinkle in some new ones. Leave out what doesn’t serve you. Make this recipe your own.

Do the Mashed Potato

If one plans to mash potatoes for the Thanksgiving masses, one knows they must double the batch. But does one have a plan for that whopping load of leftovers?

Three words: mashed potato pancakes.

If you haven’t tried them (there are several recipes available online), do yourself a favor and whip out the skillet. This isn’t a maple syrup-type situation. Think sour cream and chives. Think breakfast, lunch or dinner. Think no further.

You’ll thank yourself for mashing the extra mile. Especially if the fam is still visiting.

Almanac October 2025

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Almanac October

By Ashley Walshe

October is an ancient oak, quiet and delighted.

“Come, sit with me,” he whispers gleefully. “We’re nearly to the best part.”

The air is ripe with mischief and mystery. Can you smell the soil shifting? Feel the seasons turning in your bones?

Come, now. Rest at the roots of the mighty oak. Press your back against the furrowed bark and listen.

Goldenrod glows in the distance. Blackgum and sourwood blush crimson. A roost of crows howls of imminent darkness.

“Of course,” breathes the oak, hushed and peaceful. “But the darkness only sweetens the light.”

As a swallowtail sails across the crisp blue sky, birch leaves tremble on slender limbs; a crow shrieks of wet earth and swan songs.

You close your eyes, feel the vibration of sapsucker rapping upon sturdy trunk.

“Do you feel that?” you ask the oak.

“I feel everything,” he murmurs.

When you open your eyes, the colors are different. The green has been stripped from poplar and maple, reds and yellows made luminous by the autumn sun. 

At once, the great oak shakes loose a smattering of acorns.

“Watch this,” he softly chuckles, sending the gray squirrels scurrying.

A sudden rush of wind sends a shiver down your spine. Leaves descend in all directions, wave after fluttering wave, in kaleidoscopic glory.

The goldenrod is fading. The sunlight, too. The swallowtail,
gone with the wind.

“Things are getting good now,” smiles the oak, his mottled leaves gently rustling.

You sense your own soil shifting. Feel the sweet ache of new beginnings. Let yourself drop into ever deepening stillness.

Soup’s On

It’s winter squash season. As the autumn days shift from crisp to chilling, what could be sweeter — or more savory — than roasted delicata, cinnamon-laced and fork tender? Acorn squash tart with maple, ricotta and walnuts? Cream of squash soup (butternut or kabocha) served with a crispy hunk of sourdough?

And let’s not forget pumpkin (and pumpkin spice) mania. It’s all here. Enjoy!

Center of the Cosmos

Until the first frost arrives — weeks or days or blinks from now — delicate blossoms sway on tall, slender stems, brightening the garden with color and whimsy.

Hello, cosmos.

One of October’s birth flowers (marigold, the other), cosmos are said to symbolize harmony and balance, their orderly petals having inspired their genus name. Native to Mexico, this daisy-like annual thrives in hot, dry climes. It’s the traditional flower for a second wedding anniversary gift and, according to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, was once thought to attract fairies to the garden.

Could be true. Just look how the butterflies take to them.

Almanac September 2025

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September

By Ashley Walshe

September is the letter you don’t see coming. The one you will memorize. The thorn and the balm for your aching heart.

Dear one, summer writes in florid longhand. This won’t be easy. I love you, and I must go.

Your head spins. You can smell her on the pages, in the air, on your skin — the spicy-sweet amalgam of pepperbush, honeycomb and night-blooming jasmine. You steady yourself and keep reading.

Her tone is as soft as lamb’s ear, gentle as butterfly, warm as field mouse. Still, your heart feels like an orchard floor, each word a plummeting apple. Not just the fruit wears the bruise.

You can never lose me, she writes. Close your eyes and feel me now.

Sunlight caresses your face, chest and shoulders. At once, you’re watching a movie reel of summer, recalling the riot of milkweed, the tangles of wild bramble, the deafening hum of cicadas.

Picnics and hammocks. Daydreams and dragonflies. Puffballs and palmfuls of berries. It’s all right here.

When you open your eyes, you notice a lightness in your chest — a shift.

Yes, a yellow leaf is falling. But, look. Wild muscadine climbs toward the dwindling sun, singing silent vows in golden light.

You can chase me if you wish, she writes, her script now hurried. Or, you can be as fruit on vine: purple yet unbruised, ripe with sweetness and steadfast as the seeds you hold within you.

Bird Candy

If you think our flowering dogwoods put on a show in early spring — striking white (or pink) bracts popping against the still-leafless woods — just wait until month’s end, when its ripe berries bring in waves of avian passersby.

Of course, there are the usual suspects: mockingbirds and jays; woodpeckers and warblers; cardinals, catbirds, thrashers and thrushes. But if you’re lucky, those clusters of brilliant red berries could conjure migratory wonders such as the scarlet tanager, the rose-breasted grosbeak or even a rowdy troupe of cedar waxwings to your own front yard.

According to one online database (wildfoods4wildlife.com), the flowering dogwood berry ranks No. 29 on the “Top 75” list of wildlife-preferred berries and fruits. While blackberries top the list, flowering dogwood ranks above persimmon, plum and black cherry (note: ranks were determined by the number of species that eat said fruit, not by its palatability). If curated by tastiness — or mockingbird — sun-ripened figs would have surely made the cut.

Lucky Charms

On Sept. 19, three days before the Autumnal Equinox, look to the pre-dawn sky to catch a thin crescent moon hovering ever close to brilliant Venus. Although a lunar occultation of the Morning Star will be visible from Alaska and parts of Canada (that’s when the moon passes directly in front of the planet), we’ll witness a conjunction more akin to charms dangling from an invisible chain.

Almanac August 2025

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August 2025

By Ashley Walshe

August is a dog’s wildest dream.

Beneath the swaying hammocks where the summer-weary rest, the sleeping pup paddles his oversized paws, snout and whiskers gently twitching.

Mute the color palette. Attune to ultrasonic frequencies. Press your nose to the warm earth and breathe.

Can you smell the amalgam of humus and bee balm? Honeysuckle and musk? Grass clippings and sun-dried worms?

Each inhale carries a luscious stream of scents, a delectable river of possibilities. Each inhale is ecstasy.

At once, nose and paw lift as if pulled by invisible strings. A series of quick sniffs this way. A series of quick sniffs that way. A head tilt, an ear twitch, a rabbit!

Adventure calls.

Plow past the towering Joe Pye, the gleaming goldenrod, the coneflower, milkweed and asters. Faster, faster! Follow the trail, follow your instincts, follow that fluffy white tail!

Lunge left! Lunge right! Dive straight into a — cool, clear creek?

No signs of rabbits in this next dream. You plop down, let your belly press into the silty streambed, take a long, rhythmic drink. The queenking of treefrogs fills the air. A dragonfly lights on your withers.

In the third dream, you’re back with your people, belly-up in the dappled shade, nose wiggling. There’s a picnic blanket, a watermelon, a platter of cucumber sandwiches. This is a dream, right? Sure feels like it. Wonder if they’ll notice if I just sneak one bite.

How to Eat Watermelon

Grill it. Drizzle with honey. Pickle the rinds. Make salsa, gazpacho or caprese.

There’s sorbet, smoothies, minty lemonade. Mocktails, mojitos and ice pops. Good old-fashioned juice.

Serve it sliced, scooped or cubed. Spice it up with lime, salt and chili. Or not. There’s no wrong way to eat or drink it.

Seed Spittin’, Etc.

Nothing says August like a bellyful of watermelon.

Believed to have originated in Africa’s Kalahari Desert as the white-pulped Kordofan melon, the modern beauty we know and love has come a long way, baby. As evidenced by its presence in tomb paintings, the striped fruit was sacred to the ancient Egyptians, cultivated as both a water and food source. Often buried alongside pharaohs, the fruit’s high water content was believed to aid souls on their arduous journey to the afterlife.

Today, popular varieties include crimson sweet, sugar baby, moon and stars, jubilee and Charleston gray.

Celebrate National Watermelon Day on Aug. 3 with a cold one.

The change always comes about mid-August, and it always catches me by surprise. I mean the day when I know that summer is fraying at the edges, that September isn’t far off and fall is just over the hill or up the valley.

— Hal Borland

Almanac July 2025

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Almanac July 2025

By Ashley Walshe

July is a backyard safari, dirt-caked knees, the heart-racing thrill of the hunt.

Bug box? Check. Dip net? Check. Stealth and determination? Check and check.

Among a riot of milkweed, blazing star and feathery thistle, the siblings are crouched in the meadow, waiting for movement.

“There,” points one of the children.

“Where?” chimes the other.

“Follow me!”

As they slink through the rustling grass, playful as lion cubs, life bursts in all directions. Monarchs and swallowtails stir from their summer reverie. Dog-day cicadas go silent. A geyser of goldfinches blast into the great blue yonder.

“He’s right there!” the child whispers once again, inching toward a swaying blade of grass.

At once, the black-winged grasshopper catapults itself across the meadow, popping and snapping in a boisterous arc of flight. The children scurry after.

On and on this goes. Hour by hour. Day by day. Grasshopper by grasshopper.

Or, on too-hot days, tadpole by tadpole. 

“Race you to the creek!” chime the siblings.

Shoes are cast off with reckless abandon. Bare feet squish into the cool, wet earth. Laughter crescendos.

The whir of tiny wings evokes an audible gasp.

“Hummingbird!” says the younger one, scanning the creekbank until a flash of emerald green catches their eye.

As hummingbird drinks from cardinal flower after vibrant red cardinal flower, the children, too, imbibe summer’s timeless magic.

Finally, awakened from their fluttering trance, the children bolt upright.

“Race you to the wild blackberries!” they dare one another.

Such is the thrill of wild, ageless summer.

Mythical Creature Alert

What in all of Gotham City was that? Eastern Hercules beetles are in flight this month. Should you spot one of these massive rhinoceros beetles — native wonders — keep in mind that their larvae grub on rotting wood, breaking down organic matter to enhance our soil and ecosystems. As their name suggests, they’re sort of like superheroes without the lion skin or triple-weave Kevlar suit.

Life's a Peach

As burlesque icon Dita Von Teese once said, “You can be a delicious, ripe peach and there will still be people in the world that hate peaches.”

Oh, really? Who?

Peach season is in full swing. Dare you to drive past a local farm stand without braking for a quarter-peck or more. Kidding, of course. One should always make the pit stop.

True homegrown peach enthusiasts know that the annual N.C. Peach Festival takes place in Candor — Peach Capital of N.C. — on the third weekend of July. Get the sweet (and savory) details at ncpeachfestival.com.=