My husband, Peter, is learning Spanish his own way.

I do Duolingo online. It is free. It is easy to do. The whole thing is designed like a game, and dancing animated creatures hop up and down and celebrate every time I get five answers in a row correct. This shouldn't matter to me -- yet I find it deeply satisfying. Peter doesn't do any of this.

Peter learns Spanish by talking with the sandwich shop staff.

Since we started staying in our little apartment in Mexico, Jorge, the resourceful owner, has converted what used to be a storage room into a sandwich shop. The sandwich shop is not large. There is a grill and a counter with a few stools, and that is it. But they make everything from scratch, and it is very good. Peter takes his long morning hike and stops by the sandwich shop, just inside the hotel, on his way back. He orders lunch.

Ten minutes later, either Eduardo or Miriam, the employees of the sandwich shop, knock on the door. Sometimes Miriam is accompanied by her small son, Santiago. Peter's lunch arrives on a plate, and he pays for it, along with a generous tip. There is usually enough for two lunches, so he puts the leftovers in the refrigerator, and he's all set for the next day.

I recently pointed out the obvious to Peter. "You are getting very spoiled."

He does not argue. But in addition to getting a delicious lunch, Peter is working to improve his Spanish, and Miriam and Eduardo are eager to assist. The problem is that Peter has decided to forgo the usual "How are you? I am fine" first steps in language acquisition and jump right into real conversations. This has not always been successful.

"They were laughing like crazy at me!" Peter announced, not for the first time.

"What did you say?" I asked, a little afraid.

"I was trying to ask if Miriam and Eduardo were siblings. I asked them if they were hermosos."

"They were laughing because you asked them if they were beautiful."

"Oh! I meant hermanos!"

"Yes, that would be different."

Miriam and Eduardo (and the rest of the staff) were still laughing about this when I left later in the day. I assured them that we thought they were all beautiful. A couple of days later, Peter came up from ordering lunch and reported that he'd done it again.

"Oh, boy! They are really laughing at me today."

"What did you say this time?" I asked.

"I tried to say 'Mr. Muscles' and they just stared at me. I said Eduardo was Mr. Muscles because he was squeezing fresh orange juice by hand. But I said it again, and they started laughing. So I wrote it out on a paper -- and they started laughing even harder!"

Peter showed me the paper as evidence.

"So, why are they laughing?" I asked.

"They said it was slang -- that I said, 'Show me your butt!'"

"Oh, dear."

"They are still laughing!"

Miriam and Eduardo are laughing almost every day at Peter, and I think Santiago, who is only four, may have joined in.

But, amazingly, while providing daily entertainment, Peter is picking up quite a lot of Spanish. The first rule in learning a second language is to let go of the fear of making mistakes. Mistakes are a necessary part of the process.

"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!"