“Once again the time of the great sex orgy is at hand.”

Unfortunately, I can’t begin my botany for kids program, which teachers request in spring, with this succinct and scientific statement. America is too puritanical a country for talk of sex, even if it’s between consenting, adult plants.

If you’ve read Barbara Kingsolver’s amazing book, Prodigal Summer, you know where I’m headed here. Spring is all about sex (say “regeneration” if that feels more comfortable), and it is everywhere we look these days.

Thanks to the fact that the Earth in its orbit is tilted 23°, we have seasons. The increasing light in Spring energizes everything, and it’s no secret what we think of when energized.

Eons ago primitive plants had dismal sex lives. That all changed with the angiosperms, the flowering plants that cover the earth now. Flowers have male parts, the stamen, and female parts, the pistil. Since the male needs a bit of help to do his thing, the flower often has bright colors and a tantalizing smell to seduce the helpers or pollinators. After getting stuck to the female pistil, the male pollen grows a tube down to the ovary. The egg is fertilized, and the ovary grows into the fruit with its precious seeds inside.

If plants stopped having sex, we would starve. All of civilization’s major food crops, wheat, oats, rice and corn, are angiosperms. Thank goodness sex (pollen) is in the air!

Too bad basic botany can’t be taught this way. After all, it really does get back to Dick and Jane. Happy Spring!

At the age of seven I got my first library card, and life turned mysterious.  I discovered mystery books in the children’s stacks at my storefront, neighborhood library. My addiction to the genre was instant.

Fast forward fifty-eight years. Finding a mystery by a favorite author on the library’s new book shelf can still make my day.

Matching wits with authors to detect the perpetrators or puzzles is not my style. I prefer to be surprised, entertained and, in many cases, amused.

If I were marooned on a desert island, I would want books by these ten authors to wash ashore.

• Robert B. Parker – Spenser is forever macho, Susan sexy and Hawk invincible.
• Laurence Shames – Key West, mayhem and a Chihuahua star.
• Alexander McCall Smith – Three cheers for Madame Ramotswe and all traditionally built women.
• Janet Evanovich – Skip the between the numbers series. Diesel pales next to Morelli and Ranger. Note to Stephanie… pick Morelli, and you’ll get Bob in the deal.
• Donna Leon – Her series is a luscious mix of Venice, civility and paradox.
• James Lee Burke – Wonderful stuff considering the number of adjectives he injects per square inch.
• Randy Wayne White – Intrigue, tropical sunsets and marine biology play out in an idyllic marina.
• Carl Hiaasen – More over the top than the real Florida – not an easy feat to pull off.
• Tim Dorsey – OK, I’ll admit it, I love that history-loving psychopath, Serge Storms. I can’t wait to get my hands on the latest book, Nuclear Jellyfish.
• Tony Hillerman – Joe Leaphorn’s creator died on October 26, 2008. The Navajo Nation, New Mexico and mystery readers everywhere are mourning.

Kindly share your favorite mysteries if you’re inclined. Happy sleuthing.

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Last weekend I developed an advanced case of cabin fever. It hit like a shock wave as my car was sliding down the driveway into a snow bank on the opposite side from the garage door.

Our driveway goes straight down from the road and currently resembles a shimmering Alaskan ice field. Even a polar bear with its five inch claws and fur covered pigeon toed feet couldn’t get traction here.

It is high time that spring put a tentative toe in the door. Walking up the driveway to the roadside mailbox or filling the bird feeders have become limb threatening activities.

And then there’s the morning issue. I find no incentive to get out of bed when my nose is as cold as a popsicle. For the last week the AM temperatures have been single digits (above and below zero) and the wind Arctic blasts. The only sensible response to this situation is pulling the quilt over the head and going back to sleep; i.e., hibernation.

The snow hasn’t been a stranger, either. I took three trips to the carwash last week in a valiant attempt to remove the patina of salt and slush that permanently envelopes my car.

Try as I might, I’ve only found one glimmer of hope. A few days ago I spotted a huge Sandhill Crane, an early returnee from its winter home in Florida. It was gliding down from the gray skies for a perfect landing in a nearby wetland.

If the thermometer ever hits fifty, expect to see us dancing naked in the melting snow banks.

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Obviously, I am having an owl year, and I’m delighted.

Scientifically, an “owl year” occurs when the huge tundra loving snowy owls are short on prey (lemmings and snowshoe hares) in their far northern habitats. These ghost-like owls come south in search of munchies, causing bird watchers in the northern tier of America much joy.

I spotted my first snowy sitting on a telephone pole a few weeks ago just as dawn was breaking. I’m always on the lookout for raptors but was shocked when this one turned out to be white with black flecks and a big facial disc.

My second owl in a month was much more minute, in fact, only three inches tall and the world’s smallest owl. The elf owl was ensconced in a natural habitat at Tucson’s remarkable Sonoran Desert Museum, which, despite its name, is one of the top zoos in America.

Elf owls hang out in holes in saguaro cactuses. The openings are made by Gila Woodpeckers who build their nests in the cavities and abandon them when their young fledge.

Elf owls dine entirely on arthropods which are captured in flight. Moths are a special treat. When water is scarce, these little owls can get needed moisture from eating juicy beetles and other buggy prey. Scorpions and centipedes are also on their menu, and they remove the stinger before feeding scorpions to their young.

I’m grateful I never had to say to my kids, “Eat up all your scorpion, dears, so you will grow up to be strong and healthy.”

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“Don’t ever send your children to a school where the kids call teachers by their first names.”

This nugget of wisdom was the chalkboard “thought for the day” at my favorite French bakery. I heartily concur. If a teacher has no more status that a playground buddy, scant education will result.

I would like to add two school selection criteria of my own.

First, never send your child to any school that has the word “academy” in its name. If you doubt me, just try the following simple test. Walk into any classroom in an “academy” school and ask the students to write one short, grammatically correct, coherent paragraph in their native language. The results may shock you.

Second, don’t send your child to any school that has more than one “crazy” day per school year. Crazy days are rampant… crazy hair day, mismatched clothes day, backwards day, crazy hat day, pajama day, stuffed animal day and on and on.

I truly believe it is harder to teach a bunch of hyper kids who have green faces, mismatched socks, flannel PJ’s, purple hair and gigantic pandas in their arms, than a normally attired class.

Conversely, I find students hindered by a teacher in her chenille robe and bunny slippers.

I’ve never been a fan of school uniforms, but I might have to change my mind. Our school administrators seem to have lost theirs.

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