Earth Day isn't good for my health. I've got to stop observing it. Actually, I don't. Normally. Observe it. Or rather I prefer to think of every day as Earth Day. It probably has something to do with when I came of age—the late '60s, early '70s. It hit me over the head (my recollection is that the moment it did I was in a Vermont field surrounded by friends telling me everything was going to be OK) that we live on a lovely, fragile, in certain ways unimprovable planet, edging up on a miracle. More to the point, it's the only one we have.
So when I see people despoiling it I'm filled with righteous indignation. This indignation bubbles over into something resembling rage when the garbage happens to be deposited on my own property and I have to pick it up. Which I do once a year. This year the occasion, mostly coincidentally, occurred Friday afternoon, Earth Day.