By David Curtis

As a schoolteacher you always wonder how your students will remember you.

“She was a good teacher, but she smelled like garlic,” was my daughter’s comment when the name of a former teacher came up in conversation.

What’s in a name? What about Scat?

Would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? Maybe. Shakespeare seemed to think so at least. But what about, um, fecal matter? Would it too retain its aromatic qualities under other names?

My dad hated the beach. At least, that is how I remember it.

We only went a couple of times during my childhood, and I cannot recall a single instance of my father actually ever being in the ocean playfully batting at the waves, sitting on the beach under a big, colorful umbrella reading a trashy novel, or gathering shells in a plastic bucket early in the morning amid the joggers and older couples walking their dogs. He was much happier staying in the hotel near the air conditioner, watching the race on television or playing a game of gin with anybody he could coax away from beach frolicking for a stolen moment or two.

I really don’t think we are as stupid as they think we are. Developers of commercial retail shopping centers have an unfounded hang up about planting trees in front of, or in the parking lot of, shopping centers being developed. Or in the case of the Ingles on Russ Avenue in Waynesville, incorporating the use of trees into the plans for a 16,000-square-foot proposed expansion.

By David Curtis

The cows ate my corn. My corn is Silver Queen sweet corn. It’s an 80-day corn, which means that in approximately 80 days from the date you plant it your corn should be ready to pick and eat. That’s of course if the cows don’t beat you to it.

As the war in Iraq drags on with no end in sight amid reports that al-Qaeda has regrouped and is stronger than ever, you would think that the presidential race for 2008 would be picking up momentum as Americans, finally haven given up completely on the incompetent incumbent if his recent approval ratings are to be believed, begin looking to the future for relief.

The Great Smoky Mountains National Park has known it needed a new visitors center on the North Carolina side of the park since the early 1980s. Finally, it appears the nation’s most-visited national park is going to get one, and the communities surrounding the park should be glad the time has finally come.

By Linda Watson • Guest Columnist

Recently, a member of my family was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease at Duke University. This diagnosis came after a nightmarish struggle to obtain proper diagnosis from local and regional physicians, all of whom (without exception) diagnosed her as having an anxiety disorder, prescribing anti-depressants. These medications only made matters worse and did nothing to advance a careful and thoughtful diagnosis.

I am a firm believer that the world would be a much better place if everyone just grew tomatoes.

This thought came to me the other night; I was making pizza for the family and wished I had some fresh tomatoes to slice for the topping. Earlier that day I was working in the garden admiring my tomato plants, the small green fruits were no larger than golf balls, and I was already anticipating the harvest of my first juicy, red ripe tomato.

You need some space. Believe me, I understand. The closets are so full, it takes two of you to press the doors closed — turn the knob to open one, and you risk a broken nose from the sheer force of stuff pushing out, like a dam bursting, unleashing a torrent of stuff. I know it’s dangerous. The shelves, all of them, every one in the entire house, are covered over with stuff. It is like kudzu, threatening to swallow the entire house by the end of the summer. Something has got to be done about it, all of this clutter. There is no room left for anything, not in this house, no space for a hairpin, no place to put a pocketful of change.