Perhaps women are forever frozen in the fashions that reigned in their childhoods. I know that I certainly am. You can bet your net worth that I will never show up in a classroom in a pair of pants.

I vividly remember sobbing my heart out and wailing at my mother,”I’m a girl, and you can’t make me wear pants!” My poor mother was only trying to get me to wear woolly slacks to kindergarten on a subzero, Wisconsin day.

I, however, saw The Loretta Young Show on TV at my grandma’s house every week. That glamorous actress made her grand entrance through the door swirling yards and yards of skirt around her. I was hooked.

By the age of seven I knew I wanted to be an artist and was aware of the styles in the 1950’s world around me. And what grand styles they were! Coco Chanel, Christian Dior and Jacques Fath were at their peaks. I sat at my little drawing table designing dresses. They were all variations of strapless ballgowns with tight fitting tops, tiny waists and huge, diaphanous  skirts.

To this day, I regard any outfit worn by Audrey Hepburn as perfection. And  the ultimate wardrobe in the entire world (this is not hyperbole) can be seen on Kim Novak’s body in the 1958 movie, Bell, Book and Candle.

So I’ve been spoiled for life. Casual or downright grungy clothes don’t do it for me. The sloppiest I get is a scoop neck, fitted  tee, khakis and a tooled western belt. That’s my floor scrubbing outfit.

Click here for links to Loretta Young and the Bell, Book and Candle trailer.

Years ago we were strolling in San Antonio on an extremely warm, spring day. Sidewalk vendors with carts were hawking their wares. One cart caught my eye: it had towering stacks of vividly colored Easter eggs. How could these eggs survive, I thought, in the blazing Texas sun?

My curiosity overcame my manners. “Won’t these eggs spoil?” I asked. “Of course not,” came the instant reply. “They’re cascarones. They are filled with confetti.” That was my introduction to this delightful and mischievous Mexican custom.

The origins of cascarones are foggy, but Marco Polo is frequently credited with introducing the eggs to Italy. A more solid historical fact is that cascarones were a part of Italian courtship rituals of the 18th and 19th centuries. Young men would toss a perfume-filled egg at women they liked. The custom traveled from Italy to Austria, France, Spain and the New World where the eggs became a Mardi Gras tradition. The current epicenter of cascarone activity is Texas. Selling ready-to-go cascarones has become a cottage industry there.

If you want to create your own, make a penny size opening on the top of a raw egg. Pour out the yoke and white to use for cooking. Wash out the shells, let them air dry and decorate. The eggs in San Antonio were left white and decorated with fine pointed markers. Confetti is then poured into the eggs (it should shake like a maraca) and the top is sealed with a small piece of tissue paper and glue. Now for the best part. On Easter morning children and teenagers alike run around trying to smash the eggs on each other’s heads. The fun is best had outdoors.  Ask any group of children, regardless of their cultural backgrounds, if they would like to make cascarones. The answer is obvious.

Here we are hard at work creating cascarones. Only one egg shattered in the making process. So far, the intact eggs are waiting for the big Easter morning bash. If you hurry, you’ll still have time to concoct a basketful. And you won’t even have to eat egg salad sandwiches for a week after.

The coyotes were yipping up a storm when I was in Albuquerque recently. All day long as I went about my day’s tasks in that big, busy city, I was serenaded by exuberant coyote choruses.

We’ve got coyotes living near us, too, but they are much quieter. The eastern coyote has learned it is best not to call attention to itself.

Coyotes, North American natives, are among my favorite creatures, and I know why. They’re survivors… scrappy, scruffy, smart and funny. One delightful memory I retain from years ago is watching two little coyote pups wrestling, rolling and chasing each other out in the New Mexico desert.

Coyotes’ survival is enhanced by their eclectic food tastes. They often travel 50 miles a night to get dinner. Everything from bugs to watermelons to garbage is imbibed. Their rule appears to be, “If you’re hungry, eat it!”

Not wanting to supply snacks to our local coyotes, we do not let our herd of cats roam outdoors. However, the Tooley felines do have access to their huge, totally enclosed, outdoor play area.

While lacking the charisma of wolves, coyotes still have a huge hold on our human imaginations. Coyote is the wonder worker, transformer or trickster in the mythologies of almost every Native American tribe west of the Mississippi as well as of the Aztec and Maya. Coyote has been credited with placing the stars in the sky, dividing day and night, giving fire to people, teaching people to hunt, controlling the weather, putting salmon in the rivers and many other feats.

Naming children with “nature” names continues to be a trend in America, perhaps an unintended homage to the Native American practice. I meet Ravens, Forests, Rivers and Trees in the classrooms I visit. But I’ve never taught a Coyote. Pity.

I am old enough to remember the time in America B.P. ……Before  Pizza. I recall walking home from grade school and spotting a sign on a corner storefront. “Filippo’s Pizza” it read. The minute I got home, I asked my mother, “What’s pizza?”

“That is something foreigners eat,” she said. “We don’t eat pizza.” And she didn’t for all her 89 years.

I, however, went off to high school and was invited to go out for that foreign food. Naturally, I loved it at first bite.

I recently heard a restaurant critic review the best pizzas in Milwaukee.  She was right on the mark. Our house was situated dead center between two of her top four picks.

Maria’s defies description. The walls are entirely covered with paint by number pictures, many with religious themes. All empty spaces in the room are ablaze with Christmas lights and decorations, regardless of season. The place is such an art happening that the pizza, albeit delicious, seems secondary.

We discovered Ann’s Italian Restaurant in Hales Corners because my husband bought a Chevrolet that was a total lemon. That car  went back to the huge Chevy dealership every other week for repairs, and we noticed a small, lone bungalow house on the periphery of the vast car lot. The house was converted into a pizza restaurant, and its parking lot was always jammed. Something good was going on there.

Ann’s quickly became our favorite place to eat out. Not only is the pizza crisp and cheese laden, the decor is ambient. The various rooms are best described as rococo redux.  And, for some delightful reason, wine at Anne’s is served in large stemmed water glasses. One glass will cause anyone to forget a bad day, week or month.

The restaurant critic also mentioned the newest craze in pizza… pizza by the slice. Bear in mind that the slice covers a large dinner plate and is almost too heavy to lift. The slices come with such nontraditional toppings as macaroni and cheese and steak and fries. This fad just reinforces my belief that pizza should never be thought of as lunch or dinner. It should be thought of as decadence.

I invite you to weigh in, literally, on your favorite pizza hangouts.

The big day is almost here, and an investigative report is in order. Spring in Wisconsin is not easy to find. So with notebook and digicam in hand, I am off to detect signs of this elusive season.

The first stop is the end of my front yard. Looking down on the beach, I’m staring at snow ending with mountains of ice at the shore. Loud cracking and popping noises are coming from the ice piles. The 70 feet of stairs to the beach are navigable, and I head down. Caution is the watchword when venturing on ice shelves, but I manage to  see the icicles at the edge dripping their way to oblivion.

Returning back up to the driveway, I find the situation more grim. The snowbank measures 31 inches. Last year’s plowed up snow did not melt until the final week of April; I’m guessing we will tie that record this year. A walk down the road helps to revive optimism. Our neighbor’s woods is sprouting buckets on all the sugar maples. If the trees are rousing themselves from their winter dormancy, perhaps we can, too.

Across the road in the forest are more encouraging signs. Tiny green leaves are springing up between dollops of snow. The crows are talking up a storm. Patches of open water are appearing in the river.  And there is mud, lots of mud.

Last week I was working in a kindergarten class, and the teacher referred to March as “muddy March.” How lovely! When there is mud, can the robins be far behind?