I know that’s not the kind of confession you expect to hear every day, but there it is:

Today, I lost a ham.

“How does someone lose a ham?” my friend Anne asked when I told her.

“Well, if I knew the answer to that, I’d be able to un-lose it,” I said, so I tried to recreate the day’s stunning mystery as well as I could.

I went to the grocery store to pick up a few staples I was running low on — bananas, sour cream, grapes, juice, chips — and when I passed through the meat section a nice ham caught my eye.

“What was the cause of the Civil War?” she was asked.

And rather than giving the answer that any ten-year-old American could give, she opted instead for nuance.

The Civil War was fought over “the freedoms of what people could and couldn’t do,” she said.

Of course, Haley was right in a technical sense, because embracing or abolishing slavery was all about “the freedoms of what people could and couldn’t do.”

“Probably four or five years,” I said. “I refill it in case I get thirsty through the night.”

She was horrified and started talking about microplastics, forever chemicals and any number of other unpleasant thoughts.

“Then I probably shouldn’t tell you about the plastic water bottle in my car that’s been there for the last five or six hot summers,” I said.

But for me, it’s cookies.

To be specific, it’s the scent of baking cookies, and the clatter of baking pans from the next room.

The first was the memory of a powerful passage from a novel by Elie Wiesel, in which a man is waiting to execute a political prisoner who has been sentenced to die at sunset. He says you know night has arrived when you’re gazing out a window in the evening and you suddenly realize that you’re looking at your reflection in the darkening glass instead of the landscape outside.

It would be a stretch to call me a luddite, but it’s fair to say I’m luddite-adjacent.

Yes, I carry my cell phone wherever I go, but I tell myself it’s purely for safety reasons.

And when a boy named Jim said his hero was Jean-Claude Van Damme, I asked him why.

He talked about all the characters the actor played, and how much he liked those characters.

It’s like that with me whenever I hear the name of Chicago Bears middle linebacker Dick Butkus — “the most feared tackler of all time” according to the NFL Network — who passed away two weeks ago on October 5.

Oh, sometimes we choose our demographics willingly, if unconsciously. If you watch a lot of Duck Dynasty, you’re probably glad to see ads for camouflage outdoor wear. Watch a lot of Golden Girls reruns, and you’ll find the best prices for hearing aids and hemorrhoid cream.

But what if you watch a show that might be of interest to pretty much any American?

Early every morning, weather permitting, I ride out of Sun City southward along Sandwald Road all the way to Timber Creek and back, a roundtrip of a bit more than seven miles that lasts me the better part of an hour. I wish it were longer, but that’s as far as I can go in the countryside without too great a risk of being squashed like a bug by a truck or car.

When I learned the news, I did the same thing I did when my musical hero John Prine died of covid three years ago: I pulled out my guitar and started playing as many of his songs as I knew, fighting back the tears before my throat choked each song to a premature end.

Both Jimmy and John were only about a year older than me—and I have a personal connection to each of them.

After WWII ended in 1945, it took 20 years before “Hogan’s Heroes” could crack jokes about life in a German prisoner of war camp. It took a similar number of decades before “Mash” could get us laughing about a Korean War triage medical hospital.

And although I have no jokes to share about Covid 19, I can’t help but feel that in some ways the “pandemic years” were among the best years of my life — because a world-wide disaster like a pandemic can bring sighs of fond nostalgia if you tuck it in between the two most personally disastrous periods of your life.

Rule 1: Do nothing.

Rule 2: See Rule 1.

So lately I’ve been leaving my garden alone as much as I can. You might say I’m idling my fingers to the metaphorical bone, all in the name of saving the world.

You’re welcome.

So how am I saving the world with my garden?

Well, I guess you might say that Gary is not my neighbor, but my tenant, because Gary is a garter snake living in my garden. I call him Gary because… well, he looks like a Gary to me.

I first met him in early June when I skirted the edge of the lawn, yanking weeds, and I almost stepped on him.

She was an avid gardener, so most of her flags were inspired by the season. Goldfinches and lilacs in April and May. Red cardinals and orange leaves in October. Turkeys and pumpkins in November.

Of course, sometimes she honored other things with her flags. Sundays during football season she flew a Bears flag. During July every other year she flew a soccer flag to honor the World Cups, both men’s and women’s.

The old microwave had served me for nineteen years, a long enough career I suppose for kitchen appliances and quarterbacks not named Brady. It still worked well enough, except that the handle had cracked and was held together by packing tape, and when turned on it whirred and sputtered like an asthmatic chipmunk riding a bike with a baseball card clothes-pinned to fan the spokes.

Oh, it’s not something I’m proud of. It’s just that over the years, roadkill and I have often crossed paths, and I guess you could say that I took the path less traveled by most people.

Take, for example, that freshly killed mink I found on Springinsguth Road in Schaumburg 35 years ago. It lay at the edge of the street next to the bridge over the creek, and I could see that it had been a beautiful, healthy animal before it crossed paths with a vehicle just the night before.

But sometimes you know exactly to the moment when it happens.

The house where our kids grew up was in Schaumburg. It was ten years old when we bought it, so it had already been somebody else’s home, and as my wife and I toured it during their open house, we wanted to see what would make us feel that this house could be home to us.

For me, that happened when the owners took us into the attached garage.

The word was “sonder.”

She did not include the definition — which was either a passive-aggressive prod to get me to join the rest of the Facebook folk, or a generous compliment implying that I must surely already know this word.

It was 1970, and I was just finishing up my Bachelor of Arts degree at Western Illinois University, about to start a career as a high school teacher. I was married with a very pregnant wife, and Barrington High School, where I had completed my student-teaching, had offered me a teaching job once my degree was complete.

Well, I can’t tell you why she was ordered to change seats, because as I write this, I am in the Free State of Florida, as the governor calls it without a hint of irony.