We moved to Grants Pass, Oregon, eight weeks ago.
 
First and without question, leaving California was The Right Thing To Do.  
 
Our house is on a street only one block long, which means it’s pretty quiet most of the time. There’s a tall blackberry bush in the backyard, as well as a creek three houses away, with the same kind of hedges bordering its banks. I’ve already baked a cobbler and muffins using these luscious berries, and more treats are coming.
 
Other discoveries are the community convenience store with killer grinders; a historic neighborhood of restored turn-of-the-century houses adjacent to mine, and easy freeway access.  I’ve also discovered a yoga studio I love, as well as a hairdresser and massage therapist. 
 
Finding a great supermarket has been trouble free, too. (The Walmart is okay but the Win Co across the street is way better.)  In fact, the 10-minute drive there is one I look forward to, taking me down a winding road with sloping meadows, grazing horses and an old-timey octagonal house, painted forest green and three stories high.     
 
Surprisingly, this small town—a tad under 40,000 folks—is also a foodie’s paradise.
 
The weekly Growers’ Market (called a farmers’ market in California) has more than 80 booths, and Thai, Lebanese and Japanese restaurants are nearby.  Tucked in a strip mall one town over is an itty-bitty Italian kitchen so good that folks have been known to come from San Francisco, a six-hour drive, to check it out. There’s also a terrific diner downtown, where the Hubster and I have had breakfast a few times.  (The tab for our first visit stunned us in the best of ways: the grand total was $12.90.) 
 
The dogs are content as well.     
 
At our old house, Hank ran laps all day in the yard, and barked incessantly at every noise he heard just outside the fence.  Here, he curls up on the cedar deck, taking in the sun and cocking his head at the wind.  Sadie does the same, her brow relaxed, and front paws crossed.   
 
And yet. 
 
I now know that only those who are fiercely determined to move should do so. 
 
In fact, the process was so brutal that it has made my Top 10 List of Most Challenging Life Adventures.
 
Unlike the skedaddling I did in my 20s, which involved a few suitcases and cardboard boxes from a local grocery
store, this required a professional moving company.  Three men and one large van transported furniture for a dining
and living room, master bedroom and two good-sized offices, as well as all the accoutrements. (A tiny sampling:
the almost as-tall-as-me bulletin board, Christmas decorations, vintage floor lamps, Pyrex collection and at
​least two dozen boxes of books).
 
There were other big issues prior to leaving.
 
Mainly, because we needed a large down payment on an Oregon home to get a low mortgage, we had to first sell our California place at the best possible price.
 
To do that, we embarked on a remodel that took close to three years.  (Another tiny sampling: upgrades to the bathrooms and kitchen; new flooring in nearly every room, and having both inside and outside of the house painted.)  Also, because of the terms of our buyer’s lender, the house had to be tented for termites before closing. This meant packing and sealing our food and medicine in two dozen special bags, and then finding another place to live (the dogs, too)
for three anxious days.
  
During this renovation period, we also drove to Oregon to look at houses—four times, 600 miles each way.  Sometimes, we did it in one day. 
 
Except for the final visit, when we found our house, these trips always ended in crushing disappointment; places
that looked great online were very different in person.  We called these “run for the car” houses, and we looked at
more than a dozen.
 
I don’t know how I managed, except that early on, I decided there wasn’t going to be any turning back.  I also learned to take one bite of the elephant at a time. 
 
Now that we’re here, we’re doing a lot to make our house our home.
 
I adore my teal blue kitchen—the 1960s gas stove with Bakelite knobs sold me right away—and with more wall space than before, our many framed pictures are now hung precisely how I’ve always wanted.  My Pyrex collection is on full display in the largest dining area I’ve ever had, and our entertainment cabinet and the Hubster’s rocking chair fit perfectly in the living room.
 
There’s still plenty of work to be done, because there always is when settling into a new place. 

We’re getting there.  Most of all, we’re happy to be doing it right here.  

I might end up being The Last Person Alive who writes checks.
 
This is because I use my checkbook more than anyone I know. 
 
Like a lot of folks, I pay our mortgage with a check.  But I take care of utility bills this way, too, and my hairdresser gets a check for the awesome cobalt and maroon colors she puts on my bangs.  Twice weekly yoga classes and monthly massages are handled with a check, and you’ll also see me pulling out my brown leather checkbook at the grocery store.  It’s also here that I pretend to ignore the eye rolls and withering glances of those behind me in line.    
 
I don’t care.
 
However, I’d like to tell them that I know debit and credit cards are a faster way to pay, and more convenient and efficient, than my old-timey writing ways.
 
Also, I’m uber aware that millennials like my 21-year-old daughter use even speedier methods such as Apple Pay and Android Pay.  There’s also PayPal and Zelle, online technologies which allow someone to send and receive money directly to and from the bank of his choice, sometimes for a small fee but sometimes not. 
 
In fact, my kid insists that she never needs to learn how to write a check—and she’s right.  An increasing number of companies, Urban Outfitter and Jockey and IKEA among them, are in the same circus tent as my girl.  They don’t accept checks, and frankly, their reasoning makes sense.  
 
After all, cashiers can’t determine if a customer’s account contains enough money.  (Adding insult to injury, banks
will slap fines on businesses that deposit checks from customers with insufficient funds.)  It also takes longer
to prepare and deposit personal checks for a business owner, who has to sign them, fill out deposit slips and then
send them to the bank. 
 
It’s also worth noting that for those of us holding the checkbook, it’s easy to make mistakes, with common errors including writing in the wrong company, or entering mismatched amounts of money. 
 
Still.
 
A 2016 Washington Post article reported that over 40 percent of the small businesses it surveyed didn’t accept electronic payments of any kind.  And, even in this new world of online banking, a whopping 97 percent of those companies said they still cut paper checks to vendors, and received checks from customers. Reasons given for taking checks included no hidden fees and familiarity, as well as having a paper trail. 
 
I like all of these justifications. 
 
But my main reason for writing checks is this:  doing so helps me stick to my budget.
 
With that leather book always in my purse, I can know, in an instant, how much money I have in the bank, as well as what I’ve spent and where I’ve spent it, in the last week or even the last six months.  Check writing is also a terrific system for brains that are wired like mine—those who learn best when life is handled visually and kinesthetically.  By looking at a blank check, then writing an amount in, and finally recording the company and amount in the register, the information sticks in my noggin.  
 
And really, I’m not that much of a fuddy-duddy.  I keep an online account with my bank, which lets me track deposits, credits and other transactions.
 
It works for me.
 
All of this means is that I won’t stop writing checks unless it’s forced on me.  Hopefully, that won’t happen
​anytime soon.   
 
How about you?  Do you write checks? 

I love Quora. 
 
For those who don’t know what I mean, Quora is a question and answer website that covers an astonishingly huge range of topics.  
 
If you’re curious about anything, you’ll probably find it here—recipes for the best casserole someone’s mother ever made; the top 10 Bollywood films of all time, and the funniest game show bloopers in television history.  Politics are also covered, although the company’s official POV is to not take sides. 
 
I’ve been familiar with Quora for a couple of years (the company started in 2009) because I’ve replied to a handful of questions about movies, clowning and circuses.  So at some point, I must have created an account.  But I didn’t know that 200 million people around the world clicked on the site every month.
 
Then, at the end of last year, I received an email from Quora’s corporate office.
 
The message was an invitation to join the Quora Partners Program (QPP), which meant that if I signed up, I could now make money for asking and answering questions.  The amount varies for each question, since each query is dependent on how many people view and respond to the question; the number of internal and external traffic a specific question generates, and other mysterious revenue parameters way above the pay grade for this Girl Clown. 
 
There’s also the secret of how one gets invited to be in the QPP. 
 
The answer is that no one is sure, since Quora won’t give out that information.  Still, some speculate that candidates are selected because past responses they’ve submitted are well written, accurate and complete. 
 
It’s also a mystery as to how many Partners there are, maybe because the number is constantly changing.  My guess is more than several hundred, but less than 10,000.   (As it turns out, I’m acquainted with two Partners.  I once worked with one on a TV series pitch.)
 
In any case, I needed to know the bottom line, which is this: how much money could I make?  
 
The short reply is not very much.  
 
While a teeny tiny group of Partners do rake in beaucoup bucks—half a dozen participants consistently see a few thousand dollars every month—these members must be at their computers nearly 24 hours a day.  That’s because in order to reach that tier, a Quora Partner needs to post at least 100 questions, daily.  Also, they have to be questions which aren’t already on the site, and which are also going to engage thousands of viewers.  
 
So, most Quora Partners see pennies a day.
 
I decided to give it a whirl anyway. 
 
When I started, I focused on questions about my favorite movies, as well as life as a journalist and clown.
 
But within a few weeks, I realized I’d have better luck (in other words, more money) with queries about everyday topics, such as recipes and fashion and work.  For instance, I’m a very good home cook, so I wondered what surprising ingredients folks added to their beans, potato salad and scrambled eggs. (This was done by asking three separate questions.  Thanks to many replies, I now have a favorite new way to make green beans, and directions for a spinach cheese pie with matzo.) 
 
It’s not much work.
 
I write between five and 10 questions every day, asking about topics that just pop into my head.  I also answer
twice that many.  My current financial stats are this: since February, I’ve made enough every month for a coffee
​date with the Hubster.  And this last month, I earned $35—sufficient to cover a dinner for two at our neighborhood
Mexican restaurant. 
 
I realize that my Quora Partner earnings aren’t making my piggy bank jingle much at all.   
 
But that’s not important.   
 
What’s more essential is this. 
 
I’m getting the chance to polish my writing, where my words are read by millions. There’s also the opportunity to interface with folks who I’d never otherwise know.  And of course, I’m learning a lot about a lot of things.  As a naturally inquisitive person, that fact alone is intoxicating.   
 
One more thing:  I’m having a lot of fun.
 
p.s.  My Quora profile is here, at  https://www.quora.com/profile/Hilary-Roberts-Grant.
  

​We’re leaving California, and heading to Oregon.

This Very Big Thing has been made neither lightly nor in haste.  

In fact, the Hubster and I started talking about it right after our daughter graduated from high school, nearly three years ago. 

Relocating is also the reason we’ve completed many home improvements, most of them sizable, in the last couple of years.  These include exterior and interior paint jobs; sprucing up old flooring and where needed, installing new, and updating both bathrooms.  Just prior to officially going on the market, less than a week ago, I also had 200 feet of backyard fence painted; watched a trio of workers do a top-to-bottom deep cleaning that took five hours, and hired a college senior to spread angel hair mulch around the rose bushes by the front door. 

Some friends thought we’d change our minds after our light and bright home makeover. 

They’re wrong.

But I get why they might think so. 

We’re lucky to live in one of the most beautiful communities in this country, a laid-back beach town on the coast between Los Angeles and San Francisco.  Second, it’s an easy commute to San Luis Obispo, the town where the Hubster works, and according to National Geographic, comes in at fifth place as the happiest city in all of the 50 states.
 
Our corner also reflects the pride of home ownership, with pebble driveways, tidy flowerbeds and decorative flagstones placed just so.   It’s a plus, too, that everyone around here loves their pets as much as we love Sadie and Hank, our two rescue dogs.  Did I mention that the ocean is just 12 blocks away?

However, other considerations far overshadow all of the above.

Happiest region aside, San Luis Obispo County is currently the sixth most unaffordable place to live in the United States.  This is why the Hubster—a music educator with a master's degree who has worked in his profession for nearly 50 years—still needs a second income to ensure that our bills are paid on time.  (In fact, with a median home price of $730,000, a young family can no longer afford to buy in SLO unless there’s bigly help from rich relatives.) 

When it comes to retiring here, the stats are even worse:  if you’re a senior, SLO County is the most expensive area in the entire country to live. 

The cost of living is much more favorable in Oregon, where after making a hefty down payment on a new house, we’ll have a we-can-breathe-now mortgage of about $600 per month.  Add on the fact that annual house taxes are half of what we pay here, and with no state sales tax, the reasons to skedaddle start looking pretty good, pretty quickly.   
 
Still, there are other details that have nothing to do with money.  

Next year is fast shaping up to be a contentious time politically.  The 2020 Presidential election is promising to be especially nasty, and key Senate seats are also up for grabs.  As my realtor says, buying a house is a huge commitment—and when people are feeling shaky about the future, they’re less likely to take this sort of plunge.

Finally, I’m ready for a shift.

I’ve lived here for 17 years, and now that our daughter has grown and flown, it’s time to change the channel. 
​
I already know that the library system where we’re moving to is great, and there’s an art house theatre a 30-minute drive away.  The weekly farmers’ market also boasts an astounding 70 booths, which is most appealing to the home cook and foodie that I am.  Of course, I’ll still need to find a new hairdresser, yoga studio and dentist.

But I also know this.
​
It will all fall into place, because it all feels right. 

I took a fall.    
 
As the photo above shows, it was a gnarly plunge. 
 
Covered by the impressive bandage on my forehead are six stitches, sewn with thread that’s royal blue. The black eyes match nicely, and are hematomas, a collection of blood that pools outside broken blood vessels, and which often appear after this kind of injury.  
 
I’d like to say the accident happened while diving off the spectacular cliffs of Acapulco.  Or, I’d like to say it
took place while perfecting my curtsy for an upcoming visit with Queen Elizabeth II.  I’d be happy to recite either
of these scenarios.
 
But the fact is, where and how the fall happened was ho-hum.
 
I was walking on an uneven, black gravel road near the house where my daughter lives.  Then I lost my balance. 
That’s all. 
 
But like every accident I’ve had, time slowed down during the descent. 
 
My right foot caught first.  Unable to catch myself, the other foot followed.  Next my knees buckled, and finally, my forehead hit the ground with a loud thwack, taking the brunt of the fall.  Thanks to that impact, I started to bleed, a lot.  (Since there are a number of superficial blood vessels on our heads, even a minor cut can bleed profusely here.)  
 
The wind was knocked out of me.  But after a few minutes, or maybe more, I stood up and ever so slowly, returned to the house where I’d started the walk.  
 
Then I looked into a mirror, which was a mistake.  
 
This is because I saw that a chunk of my forehead had literally detached from my face.  Thankfully, a washcloth placed over the mess calmed me down a bit because then I didn’t have to look at it.
 
Luckily, my daughter was less than five minutes away, and talking incessantly, she drove over and rushed me to the nearest urgent care clinic.  On the way there, I called the Hubster and told him where to meet us.
 
As soon as the front office receptionist saw me, she immediately ushered us into an examination room. 
 
Here, I was told I was going to need stitches.  This did not sit well, because all I could picture was what I had seen in old movies: screaming children being held down by their parents while scowling doctors sewed them up.  But I didn’t tell anyone because I was trying to hold it together for my child’s sake (and my own).  
 
Forty-five minutes later, the physician came in. The Hubster had arrived by then, too, and held my hand while the doctor did what needed to be done.
 
This man was funny and kind, a retired surgical oncologist who was 73 years old and had spent most of his career putting soldiers back together at VA hospitals around the country.  But, he said, he liked to stay in practice, so he drove about five hours a couple of times a week from his home in Northern California to work at this clinic. 
 
What I appreciated most of all from him is that after I asked, he told me exactly what he was doing, step by step, no matter how mundane.   
 
So, I remained quiet while he explained how he was cleaning the wound, and what was in the cluster of numbing shots he was administering below my scalp line.  When the time came, the act of stitching me up felt only like prongs from a tiny fork, barely touching my head.  
 
After a tetanus shot and some basic instructions—change the band aid at least once a day; use Neosporin, and keep the wound clean—I got home.  I was also more than a little shook up when I realized how an ordinary walk could instantly become something way scarier.   
 
And yet, I’m blessed.
 
I didn’t black out.  I didn’t have a concussion.  I didn’t break any bones.  (After the accident, a friend told me about a friend of hers, who broke an arm and hand in 43 places after he fell.) 
 
Also, we knew that we’d need to pay whatever the cost was. 
 
But when the doctor saw I had no health insurance, he charged me the lowest tier the clinic offered—an
astounding $149. 
 
Then, upon hearing that the Hubster had once had to give his oldest daughter emergency stitches, this man gifted my spouse with a little kit—complete with metal clamp and scissors—to remove the stitches.  (“If you put them in, you can take them out,” he said cheerily.  Eight days later, while I sat perfectly still on a tall stool in our green and white kitchen, my husband did so.) 
 
I also decided that I wasn’t going to let a jumbo bandage and black eyes stop me from going on a vacation that had been in the works for months. 
​
So three days later, I hoped two planes to Chicago to meet a colleague.  We had a great time—even though I got more than a few stares.    
 
Since then, I’ve been applying Emu oil on my forehead to lessen the scarring.  It looks pretty good.  Arnica took care of the black eyes; those bruises are now nearly gone.   
 
As John Lennon once said, “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.”  
 
In this case, I accidentally took a small detour.   

The secret to living longer is something I’ve done my whole life.

Friends already know that it can’t be a regular exercise routine.  The key also has little to do with refraining from smoking or drinking (although I’ve never done the former and rarely do the latter). It’s also not about eating more vegetables; staying out of debt, or finding a dream job.
 
It’s much simpler.
 
The answer is having a social life. 
 
This road to super longevity was summarized last year in a TED talk by Canadian psychologist Susan Pinker, a lecture that currently boasts more than two million hits. 
 
In her speech, Pinker describes the tiny Italian island of Sardinia.  Here, in a mountainous region that researchers have dubbed “the blue zone,” Pinker learned there are 10 times as many centenarians as those in North America.  It’s also the only place scientists know about where men live as long as women.
 
Why is this? 
 
Her curiosity piqued, Pinker and her daughter traveled to Sardinia for answers. 
 
They spent a lot of time interviewing families in cozy kitchens in Villagrande, a city in the middle of the zone. Dotted with multi-storied apartments built nearly on top of one another, the town’s hilly living quarters are also interconnected by narrow roads and alleyways.  It’s definitely a crowded layout, but because of that blueprint, everyone here knows everyone else.  
 
Pinker also observed that none of elderly residents followed a low fat diet (one centenarian prepared dozens of pasta packets, plump with rich cheese and mint, every weekend).  She also found that a happy-go-lucky personality wasn’t necessary for an extended life either (the grumpiest man in Villagrande was 101 years old). 
 
But what Pinker came away with was this: no one in Villagrande was left to lead a solitary life.
 
That lone fact, she concluded, was the strongest indicator for super longevity.    
 
Pinker goes on to say that one doesn’t have to relocate to Sardinia to get the same result.  Other studies, she adds, show that humans need only two close relationships to thrive.  These are the folks who will loan you money in a pinch; sit with you when you’re in the middle of a crisis, and bring you food when you’re sick. 
 
But there’s another predicator—more significant and perhaps more surprising—than having a few close chums.
 
And that’s daily, face-to-face contact with people who aren’t friends. 
 
This might mean handing letters to your mailman; thanking the teenager who’s bagging groceries, or waving to the woman with the beautiful garden down the street.  Talking is great, but eye contact is good, too. 
 
The reason these casual interactions is so important is this: they release all kinds of terrific brain chemicals which encourage longevity. On this list is oxytocin, the naturally produced morphine known to decrease stress levels, and dopamine, which gives off a buzz of happiness.  (Also, this can only happen when contact is in person, and never online.)     
Since I’m an inquisitive extrovert, connecting on this level is easy.   
 
But I also know that this way of navigating the world can be extraordinarily difficult for those who suffer from paralyzing shyness, or others burned one too many times by folks they thought were friends.  Being female is also a plus, since women tend to communicate with each other more, and also reach out for emotional support more than men do.  (Pinker thinks this is also the primary reason females live six to eight years longer than males.)
 
As for me, I’m happy to learn that just being who I am may help me live longer. 
 
It’s also gratifying to know this: every connection, no matter how small, counts. 

I’m living in a state of organized chaos.
 
The disarray is due to the home improvement projects that have been going on around here for a while.  Still, after looking at a timeline of the upgrades, I was stunned to see that we’ve been living this way for more than year. 
 
I’d be happier with the mess if that’s all there was to it.  
 
But every cause has an effect, and when it comes to remodeling our house, I’ve noticed that The Hubster and I are grouchier, and more annoyed with each other, than we were before this odyssey started.
 
This makes sense: who doesn’t get crabby when one’s stuff has to be packed away in boxes for an indeterminate amount of time?  Who isn’t annoyed when strangers stride into one’s home with rolls of masking tape, loud drills and stained
drop cloths?      
 
As it turns out, we’re like a lot of couples whose living quarters are in transition.
 
According to Iowa marriage counselor Don Gilbert, remodeling a home can be “the most stressful activity a married couple can engage in.”  Gilbert added that the undertaking brings out “all of the components that couples stress over—money, multiple decisions, and different preferences.”   Indeed, a survey by the home improvement website Houzz noted that more than half of the respondents reported that renovating was one of the most frustrating and taxing periods in their marriages.  
 
Needless to say, I didn’t read this before all of the work began.
 
Instead, I made the first project a big one.
 
I’d decided that my vintage linoleum and yellow cement floors needed to go. The cement was the most troublesome: it
​had been painted by someone who promised that she knew how to apply the right polish to give the gray surface an iridescent shine.  The work was done while I was away; when I returned home, the floor was flat yellow and the paint already peeling. 
 
This meant I was ready for a big change—even though furniture was shoved into the kitchen and yard; there was loud pounding for hours, and big trucks in our driveway.  But the end result was worth it: chocolate colored acrylic planks that I don’t have to clean on my hands and knees.

​Next was the outside of the house.  The once bright blue coat of paint had faded to half the original color (brushes hadn’t touched this exterior in more than 15 years), and the garage door wasn’t looking so hot either.  The latter was egged months ago, and no matter how often The Hubster cleaned it, the stains never completely came off.  Now there’s another door, and my house is a cheery yellow and white.   
 
There’s also a new driveway of snow white pebbles; screens on previously naked windows, and a stove that doesn’t need a match to light it.  The tilted wood fence is upright now, with a matching gate next to it. Faucets and a shower door
have been replaced, and new lighting, vents and grout are in the bathrooms.  At the moment, the entire interior is
​being painted.   
 
Life will be better by spring, when the last major upgrades should be done. The grimy kitchen cupboards will be sanded and repainted, and the wood floors in the office, hallway and living room will be polished back to their original shine.  
 
I’m finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel.
 
Meanwhile, The Hubster and I hope that we’ll make it out alive.
   

I’ve been transplanting succulents. 
 
To be more precise, cuttings of ice plant—a ground cover so resilient that it’s used to landscape nearly every freeway in Southern California. 
 
And, thanks to all of this digging and watering and messing around in the dirt, I now understand why millions of people are hooked on gardening.    
 
First, though, it’s important to note that working the land, no matter how minor, isn’t my thing.  I’d rather binge watch an HBO series; bake a carrot cake, or check out a thrift store. 
 
I’m doing this project because it’s necessary.
 
It began with a wild rose bush that had grown so bushy and unwieldy that it had to be extricated from the long fence which separates my back yard from the street.  Some wood in the fence also needed replacing, so a few new boards and a few coats of stain were also part of the sprucing up.  The folks I hired got rid of the thorny tangle of shrubbery, and fixed the fence, too.  They did a great job.  But to do so, they took out several feet of ice plant.  
 
What was left behind was a large expanse of barren, mostly sandy soil.  And, thanks to the wonderful rains we’ve been having, the latter needed to be filled in to prevent mini-mudslides cascading into the street. 
 
Given that there’s already a blanket of ice plant in the area a few feet below the fence, sticking in new cuttings from this existing field was the best way to keep this from happening.   
 
I figured that I’d need a few dozen of these nearly-impossible-to-kill plants to complete the task. 
 
But as my work progressed, I saw that at least 100 of these babies were going to be needed to completely fill in the area.  Because I also know that this can’t be done in a day, or let’s face it, even in a month, I’m taking it 15 or so cuttings at a time.
 
The job begins with snipping the tops off of established ice plants, then putting those fat and strong stems in a couple of vases. After I’ve looked at them for a few days, I decide that it’s time to give them the dirt they deserve. 
 
So I fill our big plastic watering can; grab a rusty spade, and head to the sand. I dig one hole for each stem, and pour water into the empty space.  Next I place the cutting in the opening, making sure to gently cover and pat the area around it with the dirt I’ve just dug up.  Finally, I water again—in theory, this ensures that every baby ice plant is off to a great start.
 
I’ve transplanted about 50 cuttings so far, and since all are doing well, I guess I’m doing something right.  And, it makes me smile to see these positive results immediately. That’s something that never happens after turning in an article to a picky editor, or researching a true crime story for a TV show that won’t air until months later. 
 
Besides getting extra exercise and sunlight, there are other unexpected advantages to digging in the dirt—and they’re significant ones.     
 
A 2010 Dutch study found that those who spent a half hour gardening were happier than the control group that read books inside for the same amount of time.  More important, these gardening folks had measurably lower cortisol levels: the hormone that, when elevated, has been linked to learning disabilities, heart disease and obesity. 
 
Other studies have concluded that regular gardening cuts the risk of heart attack and stroke; strengthens dexterity, and might improve our immune system.   
 
For me, the most important surprise is the research associated with the prevention of Alzheimer’s disease.  (My father died from this literally mind numbing illness, meaning I could be susceptible to it as well.  So, anything that can hasten or even halt this horrible affliction holds my interest.) 
 
A particular study that caught my eye was a long term one that tracked the lifestyles of about 3,000 seniors over the course of 16 years.  After analyzing the data, scientists concluded that daily gardening was the single largest risk reduction for dementia. More precisely, research here indicated that gardening every day cut the incidence of Alzheimer’s by 36 percent.  Another study found the number to be an astounding 47 percent. 
 
Thinking about it, this makes a lot of sense since gardening involves so many brain functions, including problem solving, learning and dexterity.
 
Baking a cake can wait.  I’m going outside, into the dirt.      

​The New Year has finally arrived, and with it, a promise of new beginnings. 

Still, I’m thinking back to a recent conversation.

But first, a little background.

For the last few months, I’ve been working part-time as a substitute teacher’s aide at a nearby middle school.
It’s a way to stay actively engaged with the world—something that solitary writing on a laptop in a home office
doesn’t much do—and, too, it’s an opportunity to support kids who need a little extra attention. 

Anyway, part of my schedule includes yard duty, where I often chat with the head custodian. 

He has been at this school for more than a decade, and in all honesty, probably knows more of what really goes on around campus than anyone else. In any case, I asked him if he thought the school had flown the American flag out front at half-mast (sometimes called half-staff) this past year more frequently than other years. (Since he’s in charge of raising the Stars and Stripes every school day morning, he knows.) 

He paused a moment before answering, and then said he was pretty sure the number was higher than he had ever seen.  In fact, he went on, it seemed that the flag had flown at this mourning position nearly as frequently as full mast.

Of course, flying our flag at his particular resting point has been around nearly as long as the United States has been
in existence. 

One of the earliest instances was in 1799, when the U.S. Navy ordered all of its vessels to “wear their colours half mast high” to recognize the death of George Washington.  Some scholars say that lowering the United Sates flag makes room for the invisible “flag of death”—flying the flag exactly one width lower than its normal position to emphasize that “death’s flag” is flapping right above it.

Half-mast days in 2018 will include May 15, which is Peace Officers Memorial Day; two weeks later, there’s the more well-known Memorial Day that honors our fallen soldiers.  Then there’s September 11, when we remember 9/11.  And of course, December 7 is Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day.  State governors can also proclaim half-mast days, such as the time when then New Jersey governor Chris Christie ordered flags to fly at half-mast to honor Whitney Houston, one of that state’s famous natives.   

Yet many half-mast days in 2017 had nothing at all to do with patriots and holidays and celebrities.
 
But they had everything to do with the epidemic of mass shootings in America. 

In fact, the web site Mass Shooting Tracker—that such a site even exists gives me pause—lists an astounding 427 mass shooting incidents in the United States last year, with four alone occurring on December 31. (To clarify, this site defines mass shooting as a violent incident in which four or more persons are shot, although not necessarily killed.  This is not the same as mass murder, a term the FBI uses, which is three or more persons killed.) 

And while a good many of these fatalities made nary a blip on our national radar, I can say with confidence that I bet every victim had at least one friend, one family member, or one colleague whose grief was fierce and horrible and inconsolable.    

There were also those mass killings that—at least I hope—continue to numb us to the bone.

Perhaps the most senseless (although really, aren’t they all?) was the Las Vegas  shooting, where a successful-on-paper, professional gambler (no need to mention a name) watched an outdoor country music festival from a high-up-in-the-sky, high end hotel room.  He then indiscriminately opened fire, killing 58 people and injuring 546 more. 
​
This one especially hit home because my husband’s youngest adult daughter and her spouse had been planning to attend the event. 

They ended up staying home at the last minute, but many of their friends went to the show.  For those witnesses, the sheer terror of that night hasn’t gone away, and on some level, will probably never end.  

After that nightmare night, the flag at the middle school seemed to be at half-mast for days.

The second most awful multiple shooting of the year was in the tiny Bible belt town of Sutherland Springs, Texas.  There, on the first Sunday in November, a gunman armed with a military-style rifle and clad in all black (again, no name needed) opened fire on a church congregation.  Twenty-six people lost their lives that morning; most of the victims were small children. 

Once again, the flag at the middle school was at half-mast for a while.

There were also eight ambush style police officer assassinations (including that of New York City cop Miosotis Familia, a 12-year veteran of the force, shot in the head in her patrol vehicle while on duty), as well as the usual domestic violence killings (including four dead on August 24, in Bloomington, California).  And always, there were those disgruntled employees and former employees, opening fire at their workplaces (one, on October 18, resulted in three fatalities in Edgewood, Maryland). 
 
Of course, the middle school flag wasn’t in a half-mast position every single day last year.   

But if every mass shooting in 2017 had been remembered with a lowered flag, it would have been.
​
Will this year bring less shooting deaths?  Feel free to comment on the flag, gun control, mass shootings, patriotism and what half-mast means to you.  All thoughts are welcomed and appreciated. 

​For a whole lot of reasons, I was fully expecting to be thrilled right about now—solidly into the next-to-the-last month of the year.
 
Not only is it finally time for flannel sheets and breaking in my new Lanz of Salzburg nightgown, it means wearing an array of soft hoodies, leggings and boots.  November is when my birthday happens, too, and then there’s Thanksgiving.  Of course, that Thursday is the ultimate foodie delight, which is one of the many reasons it’s my favorite holiday.   
 
But most especially, there’s another thing I’m supposed to really happy about while looking at today’s date.
 
The weather should be cooler.
 
Except for this: it hasn’t been, and in the near future, looks like it isn’t going to be. 
 
Specifically, a lot of crazy, super-hot days assaulted our sweet beach town in October. I’d counted on this 100-degrees-multiple-times pattern ending by now, but… no.  Yes, we’ve had a few pleasant days, but nothing close to wintery cold, which for us is somewhere in the high 50s during the day, and mid-30s at night.  
 
Thinking about it, I’ve worn neither my heavy duty parka nor lighter weight jacket for a while now.  Another fact: during the last week of last month, the city 10 minutes away from us hit the national record as the hottest place in the entire country, at a staggering 108 degrees.  (We clocked in at three degrees below that.)
 
Of course, heat waves are yawningly ho-hum for those who live in the desert and other areas where three-digit summertime temperatures have long been a given. 
 
But this is a region of California where these kinds of numbers are pretty much unheard of—illustrated by a friend who attended college here in the 1980s.
 
In 1987, during the first week of October, the neighboring city mentioned above was the warmest location in the nation, with 111 degree temperatures recorded at the airport two days in a row. This occurrence was thought to be so bizarre and so extraordinary that it made the front page in our daily newspaper.  Indeed, most of us who’ve lived here for a while remember what used to be the norm: a place where a blanket of coastal fog rolled in every morning from our bay, and air conditioners, not to mention swamp coolers, simply weren’t seen.  This is further demonstrated when visitors find out that most houses, mine included, don’t boast a single ceiling fan.
 
Does this steady heat have anything to do with global warming? 
 
If I had to guess, I’d say—uh, yeah, absolutely.
 
Since knowledge is power, that’s good to know.  Still, it doesn’t solve the day-to-day dilemma of how to best cope with weeks that not very long ago, used to be 40 degrees cooler. 
 
As it turns out, lots and lots of people don’t do well when they’re hot and bothered.
 
One consequence of triple digit temperatures is heat exhaustion, which can, literally, overpower our bodies.  This condition brings dizziness, headaches and fainting; thank goodness, it can usually be treated with rest, a cool environment and drinking hydrating liquids. But heat stroke—symptoms here include high body temperature, confusion and even unconsciousness—is more serious and requires medical intervention. To illustrate the significance of prolonged heat, the 1995 heat wave in Chicago sent close to 3,500 people to hospital emergency rooms, and nearly 700 died.
 
Thankfully, days and days of unrelenting sunshine don’t usually mean a visit to the doctor.
 
But high temperatures can make us crabby—really, really crabby.
 
According to a 2012 CBS News story, a 2001 paper by University of Iowa professor Craig Anderson concluded that there are 2.6 percent more murders and assaults in the United States in the summer than in winter.  Anderson also wrote that “hot summers produce a bigger increase in violence than cooler summers.” 
 
Another study, this one from 2010 that focuses on violence in Cleveland, states that higher temperatures correlate to higher amounts of “aggressive crime”—including domestic violence and assaults that involve no weapons or serious injury.  The CBS story goes on to quote former New York City cop Eugene O’Donnell, who says that when he was on the beat, a favorite saying was, “Jack Frost is the best policeman.”
 
For me, the answer to feeling better is simply this: be a cockeyed optimist.
 
I know that sooner or later, I’ll be wearing my favorite heavy hoodies again. So with this determined mindset, I plan to hang in the coolest places I can find; look for new dinner salad recipes, and search for images of vintage winter wonderlands on my home computer. 
 
As a friend says, “I just want November weather in November!”
 
I couldn’t agree more.
 
What about you: how do you cope with heat?  I look forward to your stories and comments! 
 
P.S. Watch the effects of unrelenting heat in a riveting episode from the television classic The Twilight Zone.
In 1961’sThe Midnight Sun, the Earth has fallen out of orbit and is spinning increasingly closer to the sun.
As temperatures soar, reaching beyond 120 degrees, two women try to cope in a nearly abandoned New York City. 
​The entire show is here, at www.dailymotion.com/video/x2ee3q9.