It’s Earth Day today and maybe you’re like me and want to do more than we’re already doing and not feel shamed/paralyzed by what ELSE we should be doing. Or maybe you’re like me and lay in bed sweating about the warming earth and the fact that our children are inheriting a giant problem we don’t seem to do much about. Or maybe you’re like me and ponder the weird reality that environmental stewardship has somehow become elitist, leftist and exclusive. Or maybe you’re like me and have moments of what the heck can I REALLY do for this planet when everything in every aisle everywhere (and at checkout) is plastic.

Hey. Let’s do things! Let’s talk about it. Let’s start in the place that feels good and doable and appreciate the heck out of the reality that our small efforts on the homefront make a difference. Let’s learn. Let’s care a lot.

Starting Monday, April 22 (today!) we’re kicking off HONOR THE MOTHER week at DIG+CO.& dig this chick.

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My dad has this exquisite way of being both measured and spontaneous. His life’s successes were built on that winning combination. “Everything in moderation.” is one of his tenets. Except what he really means is “Everything with great purpose.” So you plan like it counts, work like it counts, love like it counts, play like it counts and seize opportunity like it counts.

Margot, like many young people, has a deep affection for Hamilton. She’s spent hours studying the songs and memorizing every word. She’s looked up lyrics to see what they mean and in turn become absolutely enamored with history and a person’s potential for impact. She wrote the most heartening, gorgeous letter to Lin-Manuel Miranda last summer and collected as many fifth grade signatures as she could before she popped it in the mail.

One night last November at the dinner table she sang My Shot in a way that could make you cry because she was just so alive, eager and full of the unrestricted joy specific to childhood. My dad turned to me and whispered, “I want to take her to see Hamilton on Broadway for her birthday.” I smiled at that pipe dream and at his affection for passionate people.

But he meant it. Like he means everything he says and does. On her 11th birthday my daughter received her absolute number one impossible dream come true. And, special bonus: I got to go too.

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My mom makes the best pickles. Everyone says so. It’s one of her culinary claims to fame. The other being her famous spice blend. She learned from her dad, my grandpa Neil Bratton, and he learned from his mom, my great grandma Helen. My mom remembers being about five years old, helping scrub the cucs with her outside their Blue Mountain home with a big galvanized tub, soft brushes and the garden hose.  As she aged, she was slowly brought into the entire process and looked forward to making them every year. Her mom, my grandma Stevie, would put a big X on the calendar noting when they were ready to eat. My mom and her three siblings would watch the the days tick by like hungry hawks, waiting to pounce on pickle eating day.

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When I stand before trees weeping with a summer's fruit, I experience a primal shift in my guts. I am energized, electrified, entranced. Like, I'm 100% in. No waffling. Attentive and certain.

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School started. I turned the heat on this morning (don’t tell Andy). The beans, parsnips, carrots, beets, cabbage, kale, squash wait for my hands to find the time before the first frost which feels imminent and makes me sweaty at the thought of it but I know better. September and October always have some sneaky warm days up their sleeves.

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