That feeling of confidence is not the case with the chemistry class I’ve been working on. I’ve mentioned here that I’m pursuing a midlife interest in science, and in this second semester of chemistry, I experience the exact opposite of the confidence I feel when I’m editing. I have absolutely NO sense of how I’m doing. I chug away at a problem until I can’t think of any more to do, then call it done — ” I’m going with “3.204 x 10^-6 grams, and that’s that!” I check the answer, clueless as to whether my answer will be confirmed or if I’ll see something totally unrelated, like “One dozen eggs,” or maybe just “No.”

Thus it happened that, after working through a multi-step problem on a take-home test, I looked at my two pages of calculations, turned to Mark, and said, ” I think it looks good, but I’m afraid it might be a Dick Whittington and His Cat thing.” This is family code for a particular type of unpleasant experience, when you complete what seems like an accomplishment only to find out that your work is way off target.

Our code name for this stems from an incident when I was a little girl, maybe four or five. My mother had read to us from an book of traditional British tales, and I decided to draw Dick Whittington and, of course, his cat. Picture me, then, clutching a crayon, working hard, probably with mouth open and tongue stuck out to one side, and then, Ta-Dah! It was finished. I showed it to my older brother, who laughed (though he denies this) and asked me which was Dick and which was the cat. I looked and I saw, with great dismay, that he was right. It didn’t look anything at all like Dick Whittington and his cat!

Back to the chem test: when I got it back, it turned out to be only half a Whittington. Though my answer was correct, I had revealed my uncertainty by wandering for two pages when only two lines of work had been necessary. But it doesn’t really matter, because this is the Summer of Essays, not the Summer Mom Becomes a Scientist! My role in Sam’s path to M.D. is a minor one, but I know I’ve done it well. I can take comfort in that success as I stumble through my new adventures. And next summer, who knows? I may become a scientist yet.

Hope you’re enjoying your Summer of Whatever — even if it’s just a Summer of Laziness! And as always, thanks for reading Our Town.

I was born impulsive, at least according to my family and long-time friends. I don’t have to look far for an example of this, just over toward Rosie the Mutt, who is snoozing nearby as I write. Rosie’s eyes met mine when I casually surfed the County Animal Control website last fall, wondering if we were ready to start looking for a new dog after the painful loss of our greyhound. On an impulse, I grabbed my car keys.

“I’m going out to visit a dog,” I told my son. He was shocked to have me return an hour later with said dog, a lumpy, 7-year-old of unknown lineage. “We’ll call her Rosie,” I said, though she looked like a Bowser or a Ruff. We all love Rosie, and boy, does she love us back, adding big joy to our days with her slurpy, wiggly affection.

I admit that this easily could have turned out badly. But it didn’t. And neither did most of the other impulsive things I’ve done in my life. In fact, when I compare my impulse moves with my more deliberate decisions, I see that the success rate of the flying leaps approach is pretty darned good!

My best example of this is something I’ve mentioned here before—our marriage. In an uncharacteristic (for him) impulsive move, Mark proposed to me just 20 days after our first date. Looking back, we’re both shocked that he moved so quickly! But my quick acceptance was totally in character. Three months later, we wed, and have been happily married nearly 22 years. So, a big win for impulse! And there are plenty more examples. Really, it’s been kind of my trademark for much of my life.

Now, here’s why this is on my mind. Whenever it’s time to write one of these columns, I ask myself, “So, what’s new?” More and more often, I don’t get an answer. The status around here has been quo, quo, and more quo. Okay, I got Rosie. But that’s about all. Why? I think it’s because I have grown much less impulsive as I get older. This may sound like a good thing, but for me, it’s not. Because if I don’t act on impulse, I don’t do anything new at all! Really. Nothing.

Well, my friends, this cannot stand. Jolted by fear that I’m sinking into a permanent rut, I’m hereby rousing my dormant Inner Imp of Impulsivity. I can’t tell you what I’m going to do, because a new impulse hasn’t hit me yet. But by gosh, when it does hit, I’m not taking time to aim. I’m going to fire first, ask questions later. Come on, Imp, wake up! I’m ready.

Have an impulse story? As always, I’d love to hear from you. And thanks for reading Our Town!

It’s been especially hot and humid recently in western Michigan, but that hasn’t stopped my Aunt Letha from canning this year’s peaches, out on the old stove in what they call the pole building. Now that she’s in her 80’s (hope she doesn’t mind me revealing that!), Letha recruits my Uncle Al for the project. “Can hardly believe I used to do all the canning alone,” she wrote in the letter that came last week, the latest in her notes that have arrived in my parents’ mailbox every few weeks for as long as I can recall.

Exhausting as the canning was for Letha (“I feel like I’ve been run over by an 18 wheeler, fully loaded…with chains!”), it didn’t stop her from writing a couple pages of her special kind of gentle news that makes you feel like you’ve just had a good chat over the back fence. Last week, oh, dear, she and Al were alarmed to find their house unlocked when they returned from a short vacation. Her nervous checking for missing items and hidden burglars was cut short when she realized that a last-minute refill of the hummingbird feeder had caused each to think that the other had locked up. Oh, well, no harm. Now, Uncle Al is buying cabbage for making sauerkraut with a buddy. And he’s been informally brokering car deals—he keeps meeting buyers and sellers, because he talks to everyone, everywhere. Letha is staying out of both the sauerkraut and the schmoozing. “I myself keep a low profile,” she wrote.

Blessed are those who keep a low profile but who write letters like Letha’s! It has become such a luxury to receive a real, paper letter that causes you to slow down, to settle someplace comfy (not at the danged computer!), to read of simple pleasures and minor tribulations, to take a breather from your own to-do list. So, in the spirit of my Aunt Letha, I’ve decided to continue writing this slice-of-our-life column. (If you’ve just joined us, I’ve been talking about writing feature articles instead.) Input from many nice people has convinced me to ignore a reader who recently disparaged my less-than-newsworthy essays. We’ll publish nonprofit news in our “Community Notes.” But in this space, expect the same old chat-over-the-back-fence, aimed at the people (like me) who like this sort of thing!

So, the news from our own Lake Wobegon? Well, we Liptens are doing okay, though it’s a struggle some days, with the loss of Mark’s mom still so fresh, and the business environment still so uncertain. I have a frozen shoulder, an ailment I’d barely thought was real. Wow, ouch, it’s real! Our youngest will turn 21 soon, and we feel so lucky to have him living at home while he attends UCF, though he’s such a dedicated student that we don’t see him much. Our daughter just started law school at Barry, here in town—not the Ivy League setting she once imagined, but plans change when a gal finds true love in Orlando. That happened to me, too, when I met and married Mark, 22 years ago, in a downtown church that we’ve recently started attending again. It’s fun to see people who remember us wrinkle-free!

And that’s the news from our side of the fence. Thanks, Letha, my dear aunt, for the inspiration. And thanks to YOU, my dear Our Town readers, especially those who got in touch to encourage me to continue writing. I’d love to hear some news from your side of the fence!