"You know, since I've been eating these chia seeds, I've noticed my beard has gotten heavier."

My husband, Peter, was talking to my father downstairs. I sat up at attention.

This comment about the chia seeds was news to me. I knew Peter was eating chia seeds because he thought it might lower his cholesterol. Peter is always reading articles about health, and I don't usually pay a lot of attention. He reads scientific studies about a variety of things. The studies are rarely conclusive, but if they indicate that eating chia seeds might be a good thing, Peter starts eating them every morning.

My cholesterol is low, and I've never eaten a chia seed in my life. But this information about his beard caught my attention. For one full moment.

Then I realized this was Peter's way of making a joke.

"You mean like a Chia Pet?" I hollered downstairs.

Peter started laughing and my dad groaned, and I was deeply disappointed. Because I was actually hoping it was true.

I had been hoping -- for one long and optimistic moment -- that chia seeds might help my hair. My hair is so wispy at this point that saying I look like a dandelion gone to seed is doing dandelions a disservice. I look at photos of myself taken a couple of years ago and can see I used to have a lot more hair. I can see a trajectory, and it's not going in the right direction. I wouldn't mind one bit if I started to resemble a Chia Pet. It would be a big step up, as I see it.

"Yes!" Peter laughed. "I've started to look like a Chia Pet!"

Now, this is almost true. Peter has a lot of hair. His whole family has a talent for growing hair. But the idea of a real-life, Chia Pet-type cure stayed with me. That's the trouble with getting your hopes up. When I was reconciled to being bald as a cue ball by 70, everything was fine. Get me hoping I might grow more hair -- even for a moment -- and I suddenly see this future filled with hair. I see luxuriant long tresses cascading down my back. OK, not really. But I imagine having enough hair where it would make a noticeable difference if I ran a comb over my head or not.

I discovered, unsurprisingly, that there were a lot of folks happy to sell products to grow more hair. There were legions of photos of impossibly long, thick hair and products associated with these photos, claiming to take credit. It was a swamp of dubious information and misplaced hopes and snake oil. It was irresistible. I ordered some supplements.

"I'm just gonna give this a try!" I told myself late at night as I imprudently ordered enough product to get me through the next three months.

The product is "guaranteed or your money back," but I know how that goes. Nobody wants to say they were suckered. Nobody wants to admit they got their hopes up. Nobody wants to come back and report that they now have almost no hair at all and would feel a lot better if they at least had the 30 bucks back that they spent, so they could buy a hat to keep their head warm, since their hair was no longer doing the job.

My mother has a pet squirrel named Stubby.

He is not, technically, her pet, as he lives outdoors as a wild squirrel. But he spends much of his time sitting on the railing, watching my mother, and my mother spends much of her time sprinkling seeds outside for Stubby, so you cannot deny they have a relationship.

While my husband, Peter, and I were up north visiting, however, Stubby had a visitor.

"That's not Stubby!" my mother said, looking out the window at the red squirrel who appeared remarkably at home.

It's easy to identify Stubby since he lost half his tail in some unknown but unquestionably tragic accident. It was shortly after the loss of his tail that my mother took Stubby on as her dependent. The other squirrels disappeared in the winter, but Stubby remained. He dug himself an elaborate network of tunnels through the snow that went under the deck and came out on every which side, keeping him close to his supply of food, but safe from anything that might want to get what was left of his tail.

"Stubby has a great life!" I noted when I came up to visit my parents.

It had been cold, but Stubby looked healthy and well-fed. His tail had not grown back, naturally, but where it had been bitten off, new long, black fur had grown. It was a stylish and distinctive addition to his look. His tail now looked a bit like something you would see on the back end of a pheasant, and he had no trouble racing up and down the trees or balancing on the tiniest branch. Stubby was thriving with half a tail, especially now that he had my mother as his benefactor.

But then, another squirrel showed up.

"That's not Stubby!" my mother repeated, looking at the squirrel who was sitting where Stubby always sat, eating the seeds put out for Stubby.

"Maybe Stubby has a girlfriend," I suggested.

"Maybe this squirrel chased Stubby off!" my mother said, apparently far less optimistic about Stubby's chances for romance.

But Stubby was missing. I just was beginning to believe my mother's theory when we spotted Stubby a short distance off. He was eating pine-cone seeds, giving the visitor a little space, but apparently going about his business as usual.

"It's very odd," my mother concluded, wondering if she now had two red squirrels to support.

But the red squirrel only stayed two days, and then disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.

We watched intently out the window, looking for any sign of Stubby's visitor (and perhaps spending more time engaged in the activity than four grown adults should), but no visitor returned. Stubby was back on his own, contentedly eating his seeds.

"Who was that, Stubby?" I wondered.

My mother had an aunt who said she liked to visit folks to "see how they have it," and I can't imagine why squirrels might not do the same. We had just been talking about my mother's uncle, Evald, and I decided perhaps this might be some relation of Stubby's, let's call him Evald, someone who had known him before the sad loss of his tail.

"I wonder what old Stubby is up to?" Evald wondered and made the trip to visit. Evald would have found that Stubby had quite a nice setup.

"Oh, he's got it good, that old Stubby!" Evald would report back to the extended squirrel family. "Old Stubby had that terrible accident, but he really landed on his feet!"

My husband, Peter, does not believe in Valentine's Day. I mean, he knows it is a thing. It's just a thing he prefers to ignore.

"Stupid!" That is Peter's verdict.

Peter takes offense whenever there is a big marketing effort aimed at getting him to buy things in order to show affection. He feels this way about Christmas, believing it has become too commercialized. He feels this way about birthdays, insisting that the day of his birth is nothing to celebrate. Buying gifts for Peter is pretty easy because he doesn't want any.

But Peter is one of the most generous people I have ever known. He never hesitates to pick up the bill. He is always a generous tipper. He contributes to organizations he believes in all the time. It just bothers him when he is expected to come up with a gift. He finds it stressful and annoying, and so I learned, long ago, that he would not give me gifts on so-called special occasions, and I wouldn't try to figure out what he wanted.

I am very glad I don't have to guess what Peter wants.

Peter has very particular tastes, and he enjoys further refining those tastes. If Peter buys a new shirt, he can tell me more about that shirt than I have ever known about any piece of clothing I own. It will almost certainly be sun-resistant and probably bug-resistant and possibly provide protection against a thermonuclear attack. I don't even ask. This is equally true of every gadget he uses and every pot and pan in our house. Not having to figure out what Peter wants (or do that kind of research!) is a great relief.

Instead, I try to be nice to him.

I try to remember when I am stressed or bothered that none of these feelings ever have anything to do with him. If my mind is filled with things already, I try to make room and listen closely to whatever he is telling me. I try to stay out of his way when he needs his space. I try to keep him company when he needs it.

And Peter is always giving me gifts. They are just not the kind that seem like presents.

I hate the light in the kitchen of the little place we rent in Mexico. It is bright blue-white.

"I feel like we could be doing elective surgery in here!" I tell Peter.

But the ceilings are high, I don't have a ladder and we really do need light in the kitchen. The light does not bother Peter. He does not seem to notice the difference in light color the way I do. This is just one of the many ways (I am sure) I seem unreasonably fussy to him.

"Turn the light off as soon as you are through!" I always tell Peter, in an unnecessarily crabby voice.

But then, one day, I walked into the kitchen, and Peter was cooking in a bright, amber-colored light.

"You changed the bulb!" I said in delight.

"I did," he said. "It wasn't as high up as I thought."

I don't know how Peter got up to the ceiling to change the bulb. But everything else, I know.

He changed the bulb because he understands me. He changed it because he wanted me to be happy. He changed it because he loves me, and this was his Valentine gift to me.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome!" he answered.