I spent last week trying to be useful.

I volunteered for a writers' conference in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, where my husband, Peter, and I stay. I love writers' conferences. I love that people will travel from far away just to talk about writing, to meet other writers, to learn about writing, to listen to established writers, and to eat. It was a terrific week, although it was tiring because I ended up as the designated conference sheepdog.

Every event of this kind needs at least one sheepdog, and since I had fewer administrative and computer skills than other volunteers, I was happy to do it. Being a conference sheepdog is exactly like being a real sheepdog except, instead of sheep, there are lost writers wandering around and getting separated from the herd -- and I didn't actually nip at their heels.

Instead, I did my best to help them get to their workshop or other event. I tried to keep them in a tight group, and when I found a lost writer, bleating in the lobby, I restored them to the herd.

"Are you always here?" the writers started asking me on the second or third day.

"Always," I told them.

I figured, in a strange hotel, in a strange country, trying to do things they had never done before, having one person they could count on at the entrance of the hotel every morning might make the whole thing a little less daunting.

And I had fun. I sat in on several talks and discussions with writers, and I had a lot of interesting conversations with a lot of folks. At the end of the week, I had blisters on my feet, and I was very tired, but the conference went well, and I was proud I'd had a small part in it.

It got me thinking about how important volunteers are. I have to confess, I don't volunteer a lot. My parents volunteer for all sorts of things. They help homebound seniors (who I suspect are considerably younger than they are). They help with church projects and funerals and fundraisers. My parents are an active part of their community up north, and I know they make a big difference.

I have a friend who has been busy painting a set for a theater production all week. "I was on my hands and knees all day painting!" she told me. I felt bad complaining about my blisters.

I don't do many things like that. I'm thinking I should do more.

Because volunteers of all stripes make things possible that would not otherwise happen -- and the things that happen because of volunteers are some of the nicest parts of being in a community.

Volunteers help arts organizations and libraries. They help older members of their community, people new to their community, old people within their community, and people outside their community and around the world. Volunteers put out fires, teach children to read, organize concerts and festivals and parades and potlucks. Volunteers invest more than money. They spend their time. They give their hearts. Volunteers make wherever they live a better place to be.

"Thank you for volunteering!" the writers said as they left the conference for the last time. I don't think I deserve a lot of thanks just for being a sheepdog. That's how I am, naturally.

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.