Uh, what was I doing?

One of the Hero's fears is any sign he might see that he is developing pre-Alzheimer's. Though it is not a medical diagnosis as far as we know, he is certain that it exists and that someday, when he leasts expect it, he will be looking for his phone and find that he has put it in the dishwasher.

I do occasionally find empty containers in the refrigerator, but at my questioning look he insists that this is not forgetfulness on his part. It is intentional, he says, emphasizing that last word so I will not get any funny ideas about his cognitive functioning. Usually the cause of this phenomenon—he says—is a combination of laziness and sanitary concern: He does not want to take the time to rinse the container, nor does he want to leave out a container that has food remains to accumulate spots worthy of scientific experimentation.

But he continues to worry.

The other day I opened the refrigerator to find his green cup sitting on the middle shelf, empty. I know this was his green cup because he is usually the only one to drink from the green cups. Unlike the occasional empty containers, I could not see a reason for the cup, with or without contents, to be in the fridge. I hoped there was a rational explanation.

"Did you, uh, mean to put your cup in the fridge with nothing in it?" I asked tentatively. I thought it was probably best not to appear accusatory to someone whose cognitive functions might be slipping just a bit.

He blanched, asked me twice where I'd found it, asked if I was sure it had been in the fridge, had me show him exactly where I had found it, and then shook his head.

"So begins my descent," he said despondently. "It's not even a slow descent. Just—whoomp!" He plunged his hand downward. He predicted that next he would be putting the milk carton in the pantry.

I did not think it would reassure him if I mentioned that my father had done things like that. But my father had been way older. Way, way older.

The Hero threw himself into brain activity, playing chess online, doing coding on the computer, anything that might help slow this deterioration of the little gray cells, if indeed that’s what was occurring. Other people have their own methods. Friends of ours have started putting turmeric in just about everything they cook after reading that it is supposed to prevent senility. I have taken up doing crossword puzzles at work while I wait for my bread to toast. My boss shook her head when she saw that my book was a collection of "easy" puzzles. It was particularly sad, she said, for an editor. I quickly pointed out that I also do hangman puzzles, and that book is labeled "challenging." So hopefully it all evens out.

I am thinking that perhaps I could come up with some things for the Hero to do to try to ward off brain malfunction. Cleaning out closets, perhaps, or redoing a bathroom.

But first, if you'll excuse me, I need to go look for my keys. I know they're around here somewhere.

A reluctant welcome to spring

I realize that probably no other person on the planet is as woefully reluctant to welcome the coming of spring as I am. Unless it is die-hard snow skiers and other winter sports people, and most of them probably live where spring means the temperature reaches a high of 35 degrees during the day. Or they are also die-hard cyclists and love spring.

I am a recovering hibernator.

Longer days mean I cannot just flop on the couch after dinner and stay there until bedtime. Or skip the couch and go right to bed after dinner. I cannot just look at the garden, or any other part of our property, and think, That looks terrible. Someone should clean that up. Well, too bad it's too cold to do it now.

The Hero does battle an inner voice that says he should be outside when the weather is lovely.  This inner voice is his father's, who apparently admonished him for years that he was wasting time inside when it wasn't inclement weather outside. And by inclement he meant a hurricane.

The Hero asked one day if he was a loser for not wanting to embrace the great outdoors more often. Of course I assured him he was not, but I'm not really the person to be answering this question.

But last Saturday we both felt that we could make no justification for staying inside. The day was forecast to be 80 and sunny. Plus, if we didn't go out we would feel compelled to do something useful like clean the house, and we certainly did not want to do anything that would take a lot of effort. We are still getting our spring strength back after all the enforced inactivity of hibernation.

So we headed to a local frisbee golf course, where we could exercise at our leisure as we meandered up and down gentle hills and in and out of modestly blooming woods. Or so I thought. After I had stopped to smell plenty of proverbial roses, the Hero noted that perhaps I should not meander quite so much. That when playing a game, guys (he did not say himself), get somewhat annoyed when women (he did not say me) do not fully attend to the game and spend too much time in unrelated pursuits, such as chattering and smelling roses.

I thought briefly of explaining what I thought of such "guys," whoever they were, but as there were no other females on the course, and we had seen many males both in front of us and behind, I thought it prudent to take his advice and put aside my meandering for another day.

The game did go much quicker after this, and before we knew it we were back in the car and driving to our favorite little place for ice cream—a place that is only open in spring and summer. Finally, something I am happy to come out of hibernation for.

Ducks and science

I came across a question on a website that asked, "How long would it take to fall through the Earth?"

Apparently this question has been posed to students for a very long time, although I personally do not remember such a question in my classes. The questions we were asked were much more practical, like "If you borrow your grandparents' Lincoln Town Car and you are driving along Main Street at 45 miles an hour and a duck crosses the road 65 feet in front of you" (there were a lot of ducks where I grew up, though not so many Lincoln Town Cars), "do you have duck soup for dinner that night?"

Of course the answer depended not only on math and science but also on whether the driver wanted duck soup. We were used to debating such important topics in Mr. K's class. He often lamented that we, his advanced class, were incapable of properly pronouncing the color "magenta," instead saying "magneta." Of course we could say it the right way, but it was much more rewarding to watch Mr. K shake his head in sorrow when we didn't. It also postponed the actual lesson we were supposed to be working on.

But back to falling through the Earth. I confess that this is a question that does not keep me up at night. Those are more likely to be things like "Did the online sale at The Loft end yesterday, or do I still have time to buy stuff?"

But apparently the answer that was accepted for years about how long it would take one to fall from one side of the Earth to the other -- and which was taught to countless gullible students, some of whom probably cannot pronounce magenta -- was 42 minutes, 12 seconds. But this has been recently disputed, and we now know that for a variety of scientific reasons, all of which ignore the improbability of digging 7,918 miles through the center of the Earth, such a trip actually would be, according to one source, "much quicker." 38 minutes, 11 seconds, to be precise.

Now that we know the truth -- unless we find out that this number, too, is incorrect -- we can turn to the next pressing question: If a duck wanders down this shaft into the center of the Earth, will it have enough time to get out of the way of a Lincoln Town Car?

Easter Bunny etiquette

At our Easter brunch we were seated at a cozy country club setting with about 200 other people, all seemingly intent on eating as much from each food group as possible and from a few food groups not yet recognized by nutritionists ("cheesecake").

The Hero is still, several days later, talking about the Boston cream pie donut. Smothered in chocolate on the outside and dripping with cream inside, it took up almost his entire plate. The prudent thing to do would have been to share with all the other patrons, or at least those at our table. But enormous Boston cream pie donuts do not come along every day. So we did not do the prudent thing, and instead greedily consumed it together.

Of course, a donut was not the first thing we ate. Possibly if it had been, there would have been no need to eat anything else that day, or for several days afterward.

But first there were omelets to be conquered, and breakfast baked goods. One Young Person in our party came to the table with a plate laden with the latter, and hastened to assure his mother that he and his sister were sharing. He neglected to say that they were sharing not only his plate but also hers, which was just as laden.

Somewhere between the Boston creme pie donut and a second visit to the dessert bar -- where resided the glorious cheesecake -- the Easter Bunny made an appearance. The Hero, anticipating that our table would be graced by the bunny's presence, wondered aloud what constitutes proper conversation with the Easter Bunny.

We all ruminated on this question between bites, until one Relative offered, "Hoppy Easter?"

Seeing the Easter Bunny brought back fond memories of the days when my mother took me to sit on the lap of a human-sized rabbit and smile for the camera. I know this is a fond memory because in the photo that was taken, my arms are outstretched to, presumably, my mother -- the one who supposedly loved me unconditionally, with every fiber of her being -- and I am crying my eyes out and screaming. No doubt I am saying, "I'll be in therapy for this someday!"

There are no further existing photos of me and the Easter Bunny. Perhaps he entered therapy directly after my visit and was advised to go into another line of work.

It turns out that we were spared having to say anything to the present-day Easter Bunny by his abrupt disappearance from the dining room. A shame he didn't stay for the Boston cream pie donut and cheesecake. But then, we didn't leave much behind for him.

Easter service with, er, turtles

This Easter we visited two churches, one an established congregation we are familiar with and the second a small but growing church pastored each week by a Young Person in our family, age 9.

This second church, which meets every Sunday afternoon in the Young Person's room, consists mainly of parishioners who are stuffed animals and figurines, ranging from turtles to elephants to creatures of no recognizable species. There are occasionally visits by humans as well. On Easter there were three of us.

To begin the service we sang a hymn, and as I was the only one who knew the melody, I was asked to lead the others in the singing. The pastor was insistent that in this church we sing all verses to a song, and although we may have privately wished that she had chosen a song with just four verses instead of nine, I will say the singing was very heartfelt, particularly as we got to verse eight and anticipated just one more verse to go. By the time we finished, even the animals were quite familiar with the tune.

After the song the pastor settled in to give her message. Here she encountered a difficulty, admitting that she had not prepared as perhaps she could have for this part of the service. We waited for her to receive inspiration, and she finally flung her hands out to us and said in a strong, confident voice, "When you think about Easter...WHAT do you think of?"

She looked at us expectantly.

"Is this a participatory church?" I whispered to the pastor's mother, seated next to me. I didn't want to offer an answer aloud if we were intended to just answer the question in our minds. I might be escorted out by a polar bear and gently admonished about respecting the sacredness of the service. Of course, the same thing might happen in consequence of my whispering.

But the pastor encouraged us to speak up. And not just us. Each animal in turn was asked what he or she thought about Easter, and then the pastor ascertained what a duck, for example, might answer and interpreted it for the rest of us. Some animals were clearly spiritually inclined, saying they thought of such things as the resurrection, or going to church. Others appeared captivated by eggs and bunnies and chocolate ears. Each answer was diligently recorded by the pastor to be read back later.

I admit that this part of the service got a little long and my mind wandered, at least until the part about chocolate ears, at which mention my own ears perked up. I wondered if we would partake of snacks in this church, but I thought it best not to inquire in the middle of this solemn discussion.

Then came the passing of the offering plate. Some of us were not prepared for this part, as our offerings are generally made in private. The first parishioner picked up a penny from the plate and set it back inside. The pastor looked at her frankly and pointed out that she had merely used a coin already in the offering. I jumped in immediately, knowing that I had little choice but to do the same when it came my turn, and noted aloud that whenever we give to the Lord we are really just giving back what He's already given us. I regarded this as pretty sound theology, but the pastor merely gave me the same frank look. Not wanting to be further admonished, when my turn came I just pretended to pick up a coin and put it back in.

The pastor shared that the total collected for the day was 18 cents, and that the total collected in the entirety of the church's lifetime was...18 cents. Evidently the weekly attendees, turtles and so on, are rather poorly off and cannot contribute much, although they are terrifically attentive to the sermons. The pastor hastened to explain, however, that offerings had only been collected for the past two weeks, so surely things will pick up.

At the end we had a very moving prayer about the Lord's sacrifice and the hope His resurrection gives us. I noticed the pastor avoided any temptation she might have felt to ask the Lord to move the congregation to give more generously in the future than they had seemed inclined to do today. She is very wise for her age.

There was a final hymn, a solo by the pastor -- in small churches, one wears several hats -- as she ushered the animals out of the sanctuary and back to their homes on her bed, the shelf, and so on. When this was finished she went to the open window, stuck her head out, and sang a song I was not familiar with, but which was meant to encourage those "who didn't make it to church today." And then the rest of us were dismissed and encouraged to come again.

Which we hope to do sometime. This time we'll bring our own coins.

It's sooooo easy

I confided to a friend recently that I was thinking of growing some herbs indoors. That way, I figured, if they failed to grow—as they inevitably would, given my decidedly un-green thumb—no one would witness my ineptitude. Except the Hero, and he is used to there being, one day, something green and flourishing in the house, and the next day it appearing as if I'd neglected it for several months.

I admit that part of my interest in growing herbs was for the cute little pots I could pick out to grow them in. Maybe little terra-cotta pots, identical, all lined up on the windowsill. Or maybe an eclectic, colorful collection of shabby chic containers. And during the year or so that it would take me to find exactly the pots I wanted, cottage cheese containers.

But my friend was frowning. "Herbs can be tricky indoors," she said.

My courage plummeted. I had already been tasting the basil.

"Do you have a sunny window?" she asked. "They need sun."

I do have a sunny window, I told her, but it is also a cold and drafty window.

Her frown deepened, and she pursed her lips. In her mind, I could tell, the plants were already dead, and I hadn't even bought them yet. My dreams about colorful shabby chic pots slowly started to fade.

She asked about sun outdoors. I said we used to get plenty of sun in the back, until the trees around us had suddenly shot up and were now threatening to grow into the house. Except in the front, I said. Lots of sun there, and our neighbors grow things in pots.

Immediately her face cleared. "You could grow herbs in a pot. Herbs are easy."

I quaked. Herbs are easy.

Has anyone ever been comforted by someone else saying, "It's so easy"? People who say this are, of course, well-meaning. They know that you are hesitant to try whatever it is, and so they mean to prop you up by convincing you that the task is quite within your reach; after all, anyone could accomplish it.

It turns out that anyone can, except you.

Sometimes the well-meaner even attempts to explain how the task is done, or to show you, by means of expansive hand gestures or diagrams or actually doing it for you. This is supposed to give you that last little push into the Land of I Can Do It.

Scientific studies*, however, show that the more a person tries to convince you of the ease of accomplishing something—"A blowfish could do it"—the more certain you become of your inevitable ineptitude at the task. At this point your efforts are doomed, proving that you are actually less competent than a blowfish.

For all that, I might just try the herbs-in-a-pot-outside thing. Just as soon as I can find a cute container.

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*If you have been reading this blog for any length of time, you are probably familiar with the type of scientific studies** we cite here.

**Nonexistent ones.