Everyone has their own area of expertise. When I was a child, I would whine about wanting the cool pairs of jeans with patch prints screened on them. I didn’t care that the ink had barely dried on the cheap sort-of denim bellbottoms. My mom, an accomplished seamstress, would sigh and tell me that they were of poor quality, steering me instead toward Levis which, at the time, were not considered hip. She eventually broke down and bought me a pair at a trendy store that smelled of formaldehyde. They shrunk to doll-size after one wash, and all embellishment washed down the drain.

My grandfather used to drive me to school on mornings when I missed the bus. His hands gripped the steering wheel at 10 and two. One eye was on the road as the other scanned the fields as we passed to see how the crops measured up to his.

“You can push on those floorboards all you want, Annie,” he said once when I was particularly anxious about missing the bell for first period. “It’s not going to make me drive any faster.”

I got a detention and caught the bus on a fairly regular basis after that.

I can’t pass a billboard or street sign without looking for typographical errors or color scheme anomalies. Several years back, the sign welcoming southbound State Route 109 traffic to this county indicated that they were entering “Putman” County. I wonder in whose rec room this sign is now displayed.

Last Friday night, Northwest Ohio artists exhibited wearable art at the Marathon Center for the Performing Arts. These wearables were all made from recycled materials. The models walked the stage in creations that transformed recyclables—broken CDs, a variety of plastics, feed bags, electrical wiring, aluminum cans, baling twine—into high fashion.

I’ll bet no one at the show will ever finish reading the back of a cereal box again without picturing the possibilities.