There's a pothole in front of my house. The depression in the pavement is small now, but you know how it goes with potholes. Soon enough, an ugly blemish becomes a jarring bump, a flat tire or a busted shock.
I mention this developing calamity in my front yard by way of declaring solidarity with my country brothers and sisters, the folks lamenting the deterioration of rural roads in Sonoma County. Every time I back out of my driveway, I sense your pain.
The Great Seal of California shows Minerva (the Roman goddess of wisdom), a cluster of grapes, ships on a river, a miner and a grizzly bear.
But we may need to find a place for potholes, too. After all, the grizzly is extinct in California, but the future promises potholes here, there and everywhere.
We could even change the state song.
I love you, California, you're the greatest state of all.
I love you in the winter, summer, spring and in the fall.
I love your fertile valleys; your dear mountains I adore.
I love your grand old ocean — and your potholes more and more.