What's a nice comment like you doing in a place like this? Getting more recognition, of course! If you see a great comment, send it this way--topcomments at gmail (dot) com-- by 9:45 eastern. Please include the diary you saw it in, along with a few words about why you submitted it.

A few weeks ago, my husband decided to stop by the local ag supply to price a run-in shed for pigs. This shed, as I understand it, is a shelter for animals against rain and snow and wind, a place where they can feel protected from the elements. The kids were asleep in the back; listening to E.B. White read "Charlotte's Web" had knocked them right out. DH went into the store and I stayed behind, listening.

When he came out, he asked me why I was crying and I told him "Because of Charlotte."

Tonight hearts are breaking for the loss of Cpl. Adam T. McKiski, 21, of Cherry Valley, Ill. and of Cpl. Stewart S. Trejo, 25, of Whitefish, Mont., two Marines killed just days ago in a accident involving their vehicle.

Please join me in remembering their lives and offering condolences to all those who knew and loved them and who miss them so much.

Good morning, gardeners! I should be out picking because of the bumper crop from 70-odd plants but here I am, comfortably perched in front of the computer, resting from my canning labors: 56 pints of pizza sauce this week! Frankenoid has graciously ceded her regularly scheduled programming so I can bring you "Can Talk: Pizza Sauce Edition." (With apologies to Tom and Ray!)

Ed. Note: Parts of this diary are taken from its previous incarnations here and here. This year, we're talking about making your own pizza sauce and preserving it using water bath canning. Pictures can be found at the links, as I'm trying to be kind to our dial-up brethren. Savvy readers will note that pictures are from several different canning runs.

Do you remember the first time you went to a public library? Getting your first library card? The books you borrowed over and over again when you were a child? I don't, not really. Nonetheless, I owe my libraries a debt of gratitude for opening the world to me when I wasn't even tall enough to see over the circulation desk. And so this evening I bring you a short piece in praise of the public library, one of the country's greatest, most underrated resources.

When I woke this morning, the words "And yet, time wounds me" were in my head, the tail end of a dream of other days. As I've aged, I find I have less and less desire to attend various reunions and am completely without the need to do a "High Fidelity"-style check-in; in my dreams, the people I care about have all aged, hairlines have receded, bellies have expanded and laugh lines abound. I may not know what has happened to these people. (With the caveat that I know what happened to the most significant of my once-upon-a-boyfriends; he's upstairs, asleep.) But I know what's happened: marriage, parenting, divorce, office intrigue, nostalgia, betrayal by one's body, aging parents.

Sometimes I'm still curious, though. How did they get there? Because that's the question that's been on my mind lately.

I walked out to the mailbox the other day and found The Issue--you know, that city-centric magazine with the Obamas on the cover? Instead of burning it or defacing and returning the subscription cards, I sat down and read through the cartoons until I bumped into Elizabeth Kolbert's "Turf War." Though technically a book review, Kolbert's piece is really an overview of our green problem. Specifically, our American fetish: The luxuriant, well-manicured lawn that stands in for our ideas about propriety, character and achievement.

Look, I'm not the Martha Stewart of sustainability, but I do make my own small, idiosyncratic effort to be a little less wasteful, a little more energy efficient and a lot more conscious about what I eat and where it comes from. There are many more things that I could do but today I took a step toward reducing the green in my life by buying a secondhand reel mower.

Ten years ago, my now-husband and I were sitting on the front porch of our apartment building, watching the world go by and talking about Someday. You know: that mythical time when you'll travel to exotic places, build that house of your dreams, be the perfect parent, learn that esoteric hobby you once read about in a magazine and have remembered ever since. There, with the trolley car line singing overhead and the hustle and bustle of a city all around us, young and in love, we dreamed about...

Chickens.

Well, not as such. More like "Wouldn't it be fun to get out of the city and live somewhere we could have a garden and an animal or two?" Fast-forward a decade, and here we are, doing "chick check" on our first little flock. Sometimes, little dreams come true.

As you savor the first hints of summer tonight, please remember the many American families whose sons and daughters will not be sitting down at the holiday table.

These are the names of those who have died this year; you can follow the links for each day to learn more about these service members. They were all so much more than names and numbers. The diaries are part of the "I Got the News Today" (IGTNT) series, which strives to honor each American soldier, Marine, sailor and airman that falls to war in Iraq or Afghanistan.

All of them were someone's husband, wife, son, daughter, parent  -- and today, amid the bunting, there are tears being shed for each of them. If you're new to the series, please take a moment to click on a few of the links and get to know some of these men and women. If you are one of the faithful readers, you'll see names you recall... maybe even one or two that you cried over. I know I have, and more than once.

Their lives mattered. Remember them.

A chaplain. A sailor, engineer and problem-solver. A soldier home on leave from Iraq. The losses of Lt. Col. Joseph A. Moore, 54, of Boise, Idaho, Lt. Jeffrey A. Ammon, 37, of Orem, Utah and Pfc. Howard A. Jones, Jr., 35, of Chicago weigh heavily on me tonight.

Please, if you have a moment, come and remember them with me.

He was a soldier, a son, a Pennsylvania native who died far from home. He was 1st Lt. Jeffrey F. DePrimo, 35, of Pittston, Pa. and on this Memorial Day weekend, we mourn his loss.

Please join me in remembering Jeff DePrimo's life and service and in offering condolences to all those who knew and loved him.

This Mother's Day, I offer these lines from "The Mother," by May Herschel-Clarke:

...She lives as though for ever in your sight,
Loving the things you loved, with heart aglow
For country, honour, truth, traditions high,
--Proud that you paid their price. (And if some night
Her heart should break--well, lad, you will not know.)

Tonight two more broken-hearted mothers mourn their sons -- Pfc. Aaron J. Ward, 19, of San Jacinto, Calif. and Spc. Alex D. Gonzalez, 21, of Mission, Texas. Please join me in remembering their lives and service.

I have nothing but tears tonight. Three more service members -- Sgt. Merlin German, 22 of Manhattan, N.Y.; Staff Sgt. Clay A. Craig, 22, of Mesquite, Texas; and Staff Sgt. Bryan E. Bolander, 26, of Bakersfield, Calif. -- are lost to us and to all who knew and loved them.

Merlin German suffered burns over 97 percent of his body and was not expected to live. He underwent well over 100 operations, and healed enough not only to re-learn how to walk but also to dance with his mother.

Clay Craig would have been home in a few months.

Bryan Bolander would have been married on June 6 and his would-be best man will now be his pallbearer instead.

Please take a few minutes to get to know these men and to help us mourn their loss.

With sadness, I bring you the news that we have lost another soldier, 26-year-old U.S. Army Spc. David P. McCormick, who died in Baghdad of wounds he received when his forward operating base was hit by a rocket attack.

I wish I could tell you about his bravery, kindness and hopes. But there is so little out there written about him; it seems unfair that a life given in service should go nearly unremarked. Please join me tonight in recognizing the loss sustained by his family, friends and colleagues and in honoring the memory Spc. McCormick.

In the late 1980s, GM launched the "Not Your Father's Oldmobile" campaign in an effort to revive interest in the brand. The Olds is now defunct, but the tagline lives on in various forms, pushing the idea that old is bad, new is better and that the previous generations are hopelessly square.

At the same time, though, PBS launched a series of reality programs that documented modern families' attempts to live as their forbears might have -- in a frontier house, or in the 1900 house.And you know what? It's hard! Those old folks lived differently than we do and had to invent their own solutions to their particular problems. Perhaps there's a lesson here about learning from the old ways.

So I was looking through the library stacks the other day when a man walked around the corner, took one look at my partially bared breast and ran the other way, much as I imagine John Ashcroft did the first time he spotted the Spirit of Justice sporting high beams. And why, you ask, was I showing so much skin?

I wasn't. I was nursing my baby in her sling and trying to get something done at the same time, just as I am right now. Baby Monkeybiz is a grazer, nursing a little here and a little there and not always when it's convenient for me. (I am told that efficiency is the enemy of children and I sometimes wonder if it isn't the other way around.) Her chubby cheeks are a testament to her eating habits and, reluctantly, I've just started her on solid food with a few spoonfuls of homemade applesauce.

But I digress.

According to the New York Times, the face of survivalism is "that of a shaggy loner in camouflage, holed up in a cabin in the wilderness and surrounded by cases of canned goods and ammunition."

Thank goodness, then, that Alex Williams, writing for the newspaper's Fashion & Style section, has found that doomsday is for well-groomed middle-class folk too! Out with Mountain House dried food and in with seed, fertilizer and wine. Survivalism isn't just for apocalyptic paranoids anymore. It's gone middle-class.

That's a relief, because I look like hell in camo.

I’m writing this as a break from cleaning out my attic. I don’t mean tidying. I mean full-on pull everything out, open boxes, make decisions about what to keep and what to discard, much like what’s happening in voting booths across the nation. (No, this is not a candidate diary, I'm preparing for a move!)

As I’ve aged, I’ve become much more ruthless about what I carry with me. My criteria: an object must be useful, beautiful or have sentimental value in order for it to justify the space it takes up. Most days that’s a workable system and I’m good about throwing things into boxes for the local thrift shop.

And yet...