IN 1 DAY, the Pink Moon rises — and it will determine the date of Easter for 2.4 billion Christians, exactly as it has every single year since 325 AD.
In 325 AD, the Council of Nicaea established a rule that has never been changed: Easter falls on the first Sunday after the first full Moon after the spring equinox. That full Moon is the Pink Moon. Not a Pope. Not a government. Not a committee. The Moon’s orbital position determines the most important date in the Christian calendar — and has done so for 1,701 years without exception.
This year, the Pink Moon reaches peak illumination on April 1, 2026 at 10:11 PM EDT. The spring equinox occurred on March 20. The first Sunday after April 1 is April 5. Easter 2026 falls on April 5 — determined entirely by the Moon’s position in its orbit around Earth.
The Gregorian calendar, the Julian calendar, the Hebrew calendar, and the Islamic calendar all use lunar cycles as their foundation. Every civilization in recorded history has organized time around the Moon. The Pink Moon does not just rise above your house tomorrow night. It runs the calendar of 2.4 billion people.
Does it change how you see the Moon to know it still governs civilization’s most important dates?
You don’t drive in Minnesota… you endure politely.
One minute it’s dry pavement, next minute your lane is a frozen lake and everyone’s still going 40 like that’s reasonable. It’s 31° and there’s always that one guy in shorts proving a point nobody asked for.
Blinkers? Optional. Traction? Also optional. And somehow construction season and winter are the same season.
You’ll slide, you’ll wait, you’ll say “ope” at least twice—and still apologize when someone cuts you off.
And when you finally get there?
“Wasn’t too bad.”
We warned you. This is Minnesota
Minnesota has its own version of a second language—and it might be even more polite, indirect, and quietly final than Michigan’s. Around here, “no” doesn’t exist. It just gets translated into something softer… friendlier… and somehow way more permanent.
“Yeah, maybe” in Minnesota doesn’t mean maybe. It means the idea has already been gently set aside, like leftovers nobody plans to eat but also doesn’t want to throw away yet. It sounds hopeful… but it’s already over.
“I’ll see what’s going on” is classic Minnesota code for staying home, putting on something comfortable, and watching the plan unfold from a safe distance. You’ll still react to messages though—just enough to stay polite.
“Not sure yet” means the decision has been made. Quietly. Internally. And that decision is no. You just haven’t been officially let down yet.
“I might swing by” is where things get really optimistic. That phrase carries the energy of showing up… but in reality, the only thing swinging is the fridge door as you grab another snack and settle in for the night.
“I’ll try to make it” is probably the nicest way Minnesota says “I am absolutely not making it.” There’s effort in the sentence… just not in real life.
And then there’s the ultimate: “Let me think about it.”
That doesn’t mean thinking is happening. Thinking has already happened. The answer is no. But it’s being delivered with warmth, respect, and just enough softness that nobody feels bad.
That’s the Minnesota way.
It’s not flaking. It’s not avoiding. It’s just a quiet agreement that everyone values comfort, peace, and not leaving the house once the plan hits the group chat.
Plans here are like winter forecasts—everyone prepares, nobody fully commits, and somehow it all gets canceled anyway.
And honestly?
It’s kind of perfect.
Modern cars have lost their soul. Most drivers today just point and shoot, letting a computer handle the timing while they lose that visceral connection to the road. The art of the perfect heel-toe downshift is becoming a forgotten language. If you feel like a passenger in your own vehicle, you aren’t alone in wanting more control.
Our Classically Trained collection is built for those who still believe in the three-pedal lifestyle. It is a tribute to the skill, timing, and mechanical sympathy required to truly drive.
You don’t drive in Arizona, you endure it. One minute you’re cruising past endless desert, the next your tires hit a pothole that could swallow a cactus. You paid $12 in tolls for the privilege, too. There’s a truck glued to your bumper like you personally invented traffic, a roadrunner darting across the shoulder, and construction signs standing proudly with no workers in sight. It’s 85° on Tuesday, 110° by Thursday, and your AC sounds like it’s begging for mercy. And somehow, you still catch yourself saying, “Eh, it’s a dry heat.”
Welcome to Arizona.
Welcome to Arizona. Please lower expectations.
Everything starts out normal… then the road stretches forever, your GPS says “no signal,” and that “quick shortcut” turns into 40 extra miles through the desert.
You’ve got a dust storm behind you, a semi flying past you, and absolutely no idea how it’s 75° in the morning and 105° by afternoon.
Traffic appears out of nowhere. Distances look close but take hours. Someone’s wearing a hoodie while someone else is melting in flip-flops.
Gas stations feel like rare landmarks. Everything has spikes, stings, or bites. And somehow… your car is hotter inside than outside.
And no matter which way you’re driving… the sun is always in your face.
Makes no sense. Still home.
Back in the late 1860s, the heart of what we now call Phoenix wasn’t a grid of pavement and skyscrapers; it was a sprawling landscape of abandoned ancient canals and, believe it or not, massive fields of wild pumpkins. When Jack Swilling and the first group of modern pioneers settled near the Salt River, the most striking feature of the land was the abundance of these oversized gourds growing along the ditch banks. Naturally, the settlement started being called Pumpkinville. It wasn’t exactly the most “majestic” name for a future metropolis, but it was practical.
The amazing part of the history comes down to a man named Darrell Duppa. He was an eccentric, highly educated Englishman who saw something the others didn’t. He looked at the ruins of the Hohokam civilization—the people who had built those incredible irrigation canals centuries prior—and realized that a new civilization was literally rising from the ashes of the old one. During a meeting to officially name the town, he shot down “Pumpkinville” and proposed Phoenix. He argued that like the mythical bird, this new city would spring forth from the ruins of the past and soar. If it weren’t for Duppa’s flair for the dramatic, we might be telling people we live in the “Pumpkin Patch” today instead of the Valley of the Sun!
If you love uncovering the hidden secrets of the Southwest, make sure to share this post and follow the page for more deep dives into our wild history!
Interstate 35 (I-35) is a major Interstate Highway in the central United States. As with most primary Interstates that end in a five, it is a major cross-country, north–south route. It stretches from Laredo, Texas, near the Mexican border to Duluth, Minnesota, at Minnesota State Highway 61 (MN 61, London Road) and 26th Avenue East.[4] The highway splits into I-35E and I-35W in two separate places, the Dallas–Fort Worth metroplex in Texas and at the Minnesota twin cities of Minneapolis–Saint Paul.
The afternoon heat pressed down on Tombstone, Arizona, as a strange tension settled over the dusty streets. Shop doors stayed half-closed, curtains twitched, and quiet conversations stopped whenever boots echoed along the boardwalk. Virgil Earp walked steadily toward a vacant lot near the O.K. Corral, his brothers Wyatt and Morgan beside him, along with the sharp-eyed Doc Holliday. People watched from windows, sensing that something important was about to unfold. Virgil kept his expression calm, though Wyatt could tell his older brother carried the weight of the moment deep behind his eyes. Hidden beneath Virgil’s coat was a shotgun, unseen by the nervous crowd gathering in silence.
At the edge of the lot stood a group of armed Cowboys, tense and watchful beneath the blazing Arizona sun. Hands hovered close to holsters while horses shifted uneasily nearby. For a brief second, the entire street seemed frozen in place. Then Virgil stepped forward and demanded the men surrender their weapons. In one smooth motion, he revealed the shotgun from under his coat and passed it to Doc Holliday, whose faint grin only added to the uneasy stillness. Wyatt would later remember the smallest details from that moment — sunlight flashing against glass, dust drifting through the air, and the nervous movement of a horse’s hoof against the ground.
What happened next became one of the most talked-about moments in Old West history. A sudden gunshot shattered the silence, though no one could ever fully agree on who fired first. Smoke filled the narrow space as gunfire erupted from every direction, echoing through Tombstone in a storm of noise and confusion. The entire clash lasted less than a minute, yet when the smoke finally cleared, several men lay wounded and three Cowboys were dead. Virgil and Morgan had been hit, while Doc Holliday still gripped the shotgun tightly. Wyatt Earp stood untouched, staring across the dusty lot as if trying to understand how so much could change in only a few seconds. From that day forward, Tombstone would never quite feel the same again.
Loren Berg's Blog 