SEEING THE ELEPHANT

When nineteenth-century prospectors and travelers came to California, they wrote home about “seeing the elephant.” They were referring to seeing for themselves the wonders that had been described to them, and that were often disappointing. We recently did our version of seeing the elephant, at the end of a hike in Anza-Borrego State Park, which is the largest in the California state park system. Brochures at the visitor’s center referred to elephant trees, which sounded intriguing enough to justify a hike in the desert.

The hiking trail itself was only about a mile long, and not difficult. However, we first had to park about a mile from the trailhead, so we walked about three miles altogether. Though this was in winter, the sun was bright, and there was a strong wind. Trudging through the sand, I thought, these elephant trees had better be good. My companion was happier, commenting blithely on the blue sky and puffy white clouds.

There was only one surviving tree of the original “herd” of trees. On the path toward it, we had seen the usual desert cacti, ocotillos, and other plants, with information about adaptations to the desert climate. The tree itself was more interesting; unlike most desert plants, it had bright green leaves and a thick gray bark. The reason for its name is unclear; perhaps the branches look a bit like elephant trunks, or the bark resembles elephant skin. The Native Americans who once lived here revered the elephant tree, using the red sap as a medicine. 

The walk was good exercise, and the tree at its end was appealing. We had seen the elephant, and it was good. Sometimes we are not so lucky; some trails are too steep or treacherous for me. Often, though, we do reach our goal for the day, and we will continue to do so as long as we are able. This is a wonderful life!

MISJUDGING THE FORTIES

The 1940s seem like ancient history now to much of the population. To me, they seem like yesterday. I was born in 1937, near the end of the Depression, and the long-ago attack on Pearl Harbor that propelled the United States into World War II is one of my early memories. The war years, and the country’s gradual financial recovery from the Depression, shaped my childhood.

About ten years ago I decided to write my memoirs, thinking in my self-centered way that I had something to contribute to history. They were self-published as Recollecting the Forties. Writing the book turned out to be a painful, cathartic experience for me. Under the guise of being honest or humorous, I criticized even people I cared about—my mother, teachers, and various people in the small town where we lived.

Perhaps we grow more tolerant as we age, or maybe my memory is failing. Whatever the reason, I feel much less judgmental now. So what if some people behaved neurotically because they were over-religious? Most of us are neurotic in one way or another. Was I really damaged by the teacher who taught by her nineteenth-century standards? Why did I disparage my mother’s housekeeping skills? She was a wonderful mother, and housework is rather low on my own priority list.

Though I regret much of what I wrote, my general conclusion is unchanged: The forties were a time of much inhibition, poverty, and ignorance, and I am happy to be living in a more enlightened era. However, there is much to be said for the frugality (albeit necessary) and other positive aspects of that decade. We need to “recollect” much from the forties, while staying free of its destructive qualities.

BEING A CAREGIVER

How did this happen to me? I never planned to take care of anyone else. After years of working in editorial offices, I earned a PhD from Stanford and set up my own business. The Stone Cottage was a writing and editing service for educational publishers; I specialized in biology, but worked on nearly any program for science education. My chemical engineer husband was self-sufficient, and we had no children. We seemed to be doing everything right.

In the mid-eighties my husband, who already had type 2 diabetes, had a heart attack. I stopped working for a few weeks to help him recover. Around the same time, my widowed mother decided to move from Florida to California to be near us. Again, I stopped working for a while to drive her and some of her belongings across the country and get her settled in a house she bought. Eventually, our lives settled down and I returned to my writing and editing.

As it turned out, my husband’s health worsened greatly over the years. Though he was well for long periods, every year or so he would have a medical crisis and enter the hospital for a while. By the time he died in 2003, he had had a sextuple bypass and several other cardiac surgeries, a cervical laminectomy, and amputations of a leg and some toes; and was on dialysis. His medical bills came to more than a million dollars, so even though he was well insured, we had to use our retirement savings to pay our portion. I cut down greatly on working to care for him, adding to our financial difficulties.

During the same period, my mother became unable to live alone, so we bought a larger home with an in-law apartment where she could live. I was the only caregiver for both her and my husband, doing the cooking, laundry, and other household chores.

After my husband died, my attention focused on my mother, who was in her nineties. More and more, she needed my help with bathing and other routine daily activities. In 2005 she entered an assisted living facility, and though I visited her almost daily, my life became much easier. When she died at the age of 101, my role as a caregiver ended.

My slide into caregiving was gradual, as it is for many caregivers. At first it was a matter of taking my mother shopping, occasionally rushing my husband to the hospital, and generally being available when they needed my help. Over the years, though, caregiving took over my life. I had little time for building a network of women friends or pursuing my individual interests.

Of course, in a sense I was lucky. Having a home office, I could combine working and caregiving when the projects were small enough and the deadlines were reasonable. (Any freelance editor will find that amusing.) If I could do it again, perhaps I would hire more help, so I could stay active professionally. As it was, I lost touch with what was happening both in science and in publishing, and failed to learn the new techniques that are needed for editors today. Though I have continued to write, I have done so only sporadically. Geriatrics  will probably be my last full-length book.

Would I do it again, given the cost to my own life? Yes! Though professional caregivers can be excellent, only a family member can provide the ill or aging with all the loving help and shared memories they need. Caring for my husband and mother gave me a sense of fulfillment I have never felt otherwise; during those years I became much closer to them, and found myself becoming less self-centered. We all benefited from our situation.

However, I would reach out more for help. Like many caregivers, I was naïve about the financial aid that is available. I might have been paid at least a small amount for my time, as my staying home made it possible for my husband to remain out of a nursing home. We probably could have received Medi-Cal benefits, but assumed that because we had a nice home and car, we would be turned down. Instead, we struggled to stay afloat. A social worker asked me once whether we needed financial help; why was I too proud to say yes? Caregivers’ support groups were available, and I should have made time to join one. The Unitarian women’s circle I found after my husband’s death was a wonderful source of friendship and support, but I could have found it years earlier. If it takes a village to raise a child, it also takes one to care for those near the end of life and for their caregivers.

WALKING—FROM THE SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK TO THE FORESTS OF CALIFORNIA

The El Dorado National Forest stretches across thousands of acres, where varied rocks and water supplies support all manner of conifers—pines, cedars, redwoods, firs—as well as oaks, maples. and madrones. I could roam happily anywhere along its trails in northern California and Nevada, but most often I take the easy, paved Cedar Park trail. That park is in the portion of the forest that borders my companion’s land, and I can reach it by climbing up the hill just behind the house. Here at home I can see black-tailed deer, jackrabbits, and even coyotes. Sometimes we hear the scream of a cougar from across the valley, but have never seen one. Bears, too, are fortunately rare here, though one wanders in from the hills once in a while.

Today I climbed the hill through a shower of golden oak leaves. This is the loveliest of seasons in California; autumn is giving way to winter, and we have already had one brief snowstorm. The hill itself is the only difficult part of the walk; the grade is steep, obstructed by rocks and manzanita, and rattlesnakes occasionally sunbathe there. Once safely at the top of the hill, though, I can easily follow the mile-long circular path around to the overlook. From there I can look many miles to the east and see the snow-covered peaks of the Sierra.

The first time I walked the Cedar Park trail, I was highly amused—it’s wide and paved, with benches at intervals where walkers can rest. Hiking in New York’s Central Park, or San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, is much more strenuous! However, if you want a difficult hike, there are always places to find it. Having this trail near at foot is a pleasure.

The spot where I enter the trail is near one bench, so I may stop to check my bootlaces, drink a little water, and listen to the sounds of the forest. Sometimes I hear only jays, crows, and yellowthroat warblers; at other times, there may be distant traffic noise from Sly Park Road. Walking down a hill, I may meet another walker or two, but the trail is never crowded.

Trails around lakes and through forests have always appealed to me, but I didn’t have easy access to them until moving away from Alameda. Here my companion and I can roam in our own forest at will, or drive for a couple of hours farther up into the mountains. In hot weather, particularly, we may drive up a few thousand feet to Silver Lake, where there are pleasant campgrounds with trees and water. Our favorite trail here follows a creek where large boulders create cascades.

Many people pitch tents at the Silver Lake campground, and before getting the RV, so did we. But one night a bear wandered through our campsite, too close to the tent for comfort, and we decided it was time for something more substantial than a tent. The rig we chose is a Winnebago View, a “just right” vehicle that is small enough to drive nearly anywhere, but large enough for everything we need. Only the hardiest tent campers can stay on the road more than a week or so, but in the View we can travel for months at a time. Suddenly a new collection of state and national parks, Forest Service campgrounds, and other delights were available.

The best parts of the national parks are the hiking trails, where usually only a short walk makes it possible to leave the pack and find communion only with the natural world. When we spent a few days in Yosemite one January, snow and ice kept most visitors off the trails, but we drove the View to the base of Yosemite Falls at dawn one day, and had that popular trail almost to ourselves. The air was cold and still, except for the cracking of ice at the peak of the falls, and no animal tracks dotted the snow. We  walked in silence between snow-covered rocks and across a small stone bridge over the Merced River.

Appealing as the national parks are, I like less-known places even better. We often stay in Forest Service campgrounds, where we may have a source of water, but no electricity or other conveniences. Most campers in these primitive campgrounds want to get away from it all as much as we do, so we seldom have to contend with the sound of generators or noisy parties. Occasionally we may have an entire campground to ourselves, which is pure bliss.

Walking on the Forest Service trails is usually an adventure, and not always a pleasant one. We have coped with mosquitoes, mud, and other hazards. The hiker feels very alone there, with no friendly park ranger coming along to give a feeling of security, and I suppose the trails could be dangerous. They seem safer than many city streets, though, and offer a glimpse of the wild beauty explorers found in the West centuries ago.

The most dangerous walks I’ve taken were not in forests, but in large cities. Only a foolhardy woman would stride along a street in Chicago or New York with a purse swinging at her side, or while wearing conspicuous, expensive jewelry. City walking has its own appeal, though. When I moved to New York in 1970, when it was still possible for a young editor to afford a decent apartment, I lived on East 88^th St., not far from Gracie Mansion. Being unable to see more than a patch of sky gave me a claustrophobic feeling, and so I often walked along the East River to gaze out over the water. When I discovered that taking the subway or bus to my job at Random House in the rush hours was simply horrendous, I began walking to work. It took about 40 minutes each way, and was very enjoyable. Starting in my neighborhood, I could look in the windows of German and Hungarian restaurants and bakeries. As I continued through the eighties and seventies, tall apartment buildings gave way to more and more shops; in the sixties and fifties, to even taller office buildings.

At 50^th St. and Third Avenue, I reached Random House. All along the way I had seen fascinating people, art galleries, shops filled with crafts, florists, and books galore. For a young woman from the Middle West it was an overwhelming experience.

The daily long walk kept me healthy and slim, and taught me the value of daily walking in whatever environment I find myself. I am in my seventies now, yet go for long walks whenever possible. The idea of joining a gym for exercise seems laughable. (I do have a stationary bike for use in snowy or rainy weather.) If everyone walked to work or school, or even to a bus stop or train station, it might be a major step in fighting the obesity epidemic.

PARADISE ON EARTH

Regrettably, we were able to spend only a couple of days at Arches National Park on our return from New Mexico in 2010. Driving into the park at sunset, we gazed at balanced rocks, towering hoodoos, and natural arches glowing in the russet and orange light.

The next morning we took the wrong hiking trail by a lucky mistake, so we avoided the hordes of tourists near Landscape Arch and Delicate Arch, and walked to Broken Arch  by ourselves. Being alone in windswept canyon country is important for fully appreciating its stark beauty. Edward Abbey was happy when he spent two seasons here by himself as a park ranger, but dreaded the inevitable time when broad, paved roads would be constructed, allowing many tourists—like us—to invade the park in their RVs and SUVs. In fact, he felt no new roads should be built in the national parks, and visitors should walk most of the time.

Though Arches and other national parks in the Southwest are spectacularly beautiful, they strike me too much as being Earth’s skeleton, providing structure without nourishment. The parks I love most are rich in water, the blood of Gaia. Yosemite, Crater Lake, and Yellowstone glisten with waterfalls, cataracts, and lakes or rivers that bring water and nutrients to surrounding plants and animals.

Even Abbey needed to leave the desert at times and spend time in forests and near water. Before Glen Canyon was dammed to create Lake Powell, he and a friend rafted down the Colorado River, exploring it as few since John Wesley Powell had done. Abbey’s elegiac description of now-gone Glen Canyon makes it sound like paradise—in fact, he said in Desert Solitaire that wilderness is “all the paradise we need.”

We still have that earthly paradise, in spite of the crowded campgrounds and gift shops that spoil parts of the national parks. It is still possible to pull on a pair of hiking boots, walk for half an hour or so, and find ourselves in wilderness. As Jefferson and others said in another context, though, eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. We need not only to support the national parks, but also to defend their wildness.

WE DON'T GET NO RESPECT!

As the late Rodney Dangerfield used to lament, we “don’t get no respect!” Waiting in a doctor’s office one day, I heard him say to a patient in the next room, “Doctor wants to know you had a good poop!” He wasn’t speaking to a three-year-old, but to a dignified old woman. Why aren’t doctors—and others—taught to treat the elderly as adults? The New York Times columnist Jane Brody refers to the problem as “elderspeak”—speaking to old people as if they were senile, stone deaf, or otherwise unable to comprehend normal speech.

For many years I was my mother’s caregiver, taking her to various appointments. Too often, a doctor or nurse would ask me questions about her, as if she were not even in the room. She was rightfully very resentful. Eventually my help became necessary, when she became obviously deaf and demented, but until that time she deserved more respect.

Physicians are some of the worst offenders; they seem to feel entitled to address patients of all ages by their first names, but expect to be addressed as “Doctor.” I have a hard-earned PhD, but am always called “Carol.” (One wonderful doctor, the late Jay Gershow, stood up when I first entered his office, and said, “I’m Jay.” I stayed with him for more than 30 years.) Not only the doctors themselves, but also their assistants and receptionists, use patients’ first names. Nursing homes today seem to do a better job of training their staffs in this respect—many of the nurses where my mother lived actually addressed her as Mrs. Beall, rather than Isabelle.  It was a refreshing change.

In stores, I’m sometimes called “Dear,” “Young lady,” or “Sweetheart,” even by much younger clerks. How can I respond without seeming like an old grouch? It is much like the quandary faced by women who object to sexist comments—they are ridiculed as being humorless or overly thin-skinned. Once a woman customer insisted on taking the items out of my grocery cart and putting them on the counter for me, ignoring my protestations that I didn’t need help. If I appeared frail, there might have been a reason for her doing so, but I look reasonably healthy and strong.

A related problem in stores is the lack of privacy. When I bought incontinence supplies for my mother, why weren’t they in plain wrappers? Why did I have to bear pitying glances from other customers in line who obviously thought the diapers were for myself?

I’m not getting any younger, of course. At the age of 75, I am beginning to feel, um, well ripened. Occasionally I am grateful when a strong young man lifts something heavy for me, or gives me a seat on a wobbling bus. I’m in no hurry to become decrepit, though. Please treat me with kindness but respect.

THE DEMONS OF OUR NATURE

Steven Pinker’s new 800-page book, The Better Angels of our Nature, is a real shocker. Pinker’s main point is that, evil as the present may appear, things in the past were much worse. In gruesome detail, he describes the horrible things humans have done to each other throughout history. After the first 100 pages, I stopped reading and looking at the illustrations of tortures, and skimmed the remainder of the book.

Pinker ends the book with some cautious optimism about the future. Perhaps we will continue on a path toward more humane and rational treatment of each other, guided by rationality and the need to survive.

I am skeptical. When we can push a button to destroy a city without seeing the carnage that results, are we any better than medieval executioners who watched their victims slowly dying on the rack? Are we not simply objectifying those we kill, treating them like avatars in a video game? Are we not still murderers?

We are slowly ruining our planet, also. Population biologists like Paul Ehrlich have warned since the sixties that for survival the world population must be controlled, but for some reason I can’t fathom, it has become politically incorrect to urge women to use birth control. At the same time, “pro-life” groups have fought against Planned Parenthood because their clinics offer abortion in addition to contraception. Apparently these groups are willing to allow unwanted children to be born to parents who cannot afford them, and some women forced to bear children resulting from  rape or incest. To me, that attitude is truly evil.

Sometimes we seem to be lurching back into the Dark Ages. As recently as the 1950s, when I was in high school in a conservative area of rural Michigan, the theory of evolution through natural selection was widely accepted in most of the country. No one was forced to believe the theory, but we were expected to know the scientific evidence that supported it. The Scopes “monkey trial” was just an amusing bit of history. Today creationists all over the country make it difficult for biology teachers to present the theory that unifies their field and that has been accepted by the scientific community since the late nineteenth century.

Voltaire,  that brilliant philosopher of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment, spoke through his Candide that this is not at all the “best of all possible worlds.” After traveling the world and experiencing much of the depravity Pinker describes, Candide went home to “make his garden grow.” He recognized how much irreparable evil and ignorance surrounds us, and contented himself with trying to live his own life with honor and decency. Voltaire himself fought against religious intolerance and injustice throughout his life, at times being banished from France or imprisoned.

I am as saddened by the stupidity and evil of modern life as I am horrified by the wickedness of the past as described by Pinker. As we sang in the sixties, “When will we ever learn?” Voltaire had it right, though. We may not be able to change quickly or on a large scale, but as individuals we can work for social justice and for rational approaches to life; and perhaps if our species survives for a few more centuries we can change into the beings we are capable of becoming.

RV ENVIRONMENTALISTS

 

Knowing we are environmentalists, friends sometimes look amused when we announce we are planning another trip in the RV. How, they wonder, can we justify using all those fossil fuels and polluting the air with carbon compounds?

They have a point. We try to minimize the environmental damage as much as possible. Our 24’ Sprinter-based motorhome (which uses gasoline rather than diesel) gets about 13 mpg, very low compared with most autos, but high in comparison with larger rigs. When we can, we take the shortest route to destinations (though often we choose scenic routes). If a campground close to home is as appealing as one farther away, we choose the nearer one. We seldom tow anything—our inflatable kayak was carried on the Suzuki just once, but usually travels under the dinette table—to keep the RV as light as we can. As it is only 24’ long, we can drive into rather small parking spaces, and we don’t usually need to have a dinghy. Yosemite, Glacier, and some other national parks provide buses for visitors; our rig can stay in the campground. By having our own “apartment” with us, we can stay out of elaborate resorts and campgrounds that are like small towns, and stay in Forest Service campgrounds, where there has been little despoiling of the natural environment.

The propane used for heating and refrigeration goes surprisingly far, probably because the rig’s interior is small. We avoid using the microwave oven, doing most cooking in a Dutch oven on the stovetop, which also heats the interior somewhat. If we happen to have electrical hookups, a tiny ceramic heater keeps us warm without using propane. Of course, then we are using electricity; we balance that use with reading rather than watching TV. Occasionally we take wood from our home in the forest to make a campfire, if we are not going far. (Wood can harbor insects that might be invasive in other areas.) We keep the refrigerator and freezer very full, minimizing the number of shopping trips and making refrigeration as efficient as possible. When stopping for the night, we always use simple leveling blocks, which also maximizes the refrigerator’s efficiency. (This can be annoying, but is important.)

Being a coffee addict, I have to make a special effort to conserve electricity. Water is heated in a camper’s teakettle, then poured through coffee in a Melitta filter cone. If I don’t drink the coffee immediately, I save it in a thermos to avoid having to reheat it. Yet, some campers say they _must_ use their microwaves for reheating coffee!

Knowing that the fresh water tank holds only 35 gallons, which must do for showers, toilet-flushing, cooking, and cleanup, we are extremely frugal with water. Our showers are the Navy type—rinse off quickly, turn off the water, soap up, rinse again quickly, turn off the water! Or, we may take sponge baths. Yogurt containers in the shower and on the counters hold warmup water for later uses. We try to dry-camp most of the time, and use the vault toilets rather than our water-consuming toilet. Cooking and dishwashing are done with the smallest amounts of water possible, but we do use our lightweight Corelle dishes rather than disposable plastics. We wash and re-use aluminum foil, cover dishes with saucers instead of plastic wrap, and save glass and aluminum for later recycling. I always feel smug when dropping a tiny litter bag (if anything) into a campground’s Dumpster, seeing the gigantic bags inside.

My companion is an enthusiastic user of solar energy, both at home and while traveling. This means hauling a solar panel with us and hooking it up to the batteries; in sunny weather it provides enough electricity for us. In fact, we only use the generator during extreme heat waves, when air conditioning is a necessity. Only one light is on at a time, and the TV is usually off. We do use the radio, which uses a very small amount of electricity.

Though we prefer dry-camping, our small tanks limit us to doing so for about three days at a time. After that, we must look for a campground with hookups. Even there, we avoid wasting electricity and water. The sustainable habits imposed during dry-camping serve us well when resources seem more plentiful, as well as when we go home again.

THE BROKEN MAGIC WAND

I have been a widow for nearly ten years now. Like most widows, I felt too grief-stricken to go on alone for a while, but gradually accepted my loss and have made a new and very different life for myself. Many memories, though, are permanent.

My late husband, Harold, was a talented amateur magician. Several times during our marriage he mentioned that when he died, he wanted me to arrange a magician’s broken wand ceremony. It sounded a little bizarre to me, but after his death I wanted to honor his wish, though wondering nervously how the rabbi would react. The president of the local International Brotherhood of Magicians ring promised to perform the ceremony and asked me to provide one of Harold’s magic wands for it. Would this be an embarrassing parody of a normal service? The neighborhood florist also wanted to provide flowers in a top hat with a rabbit; I drew the line there.

The memorial service began traditionally, with the rabbi’s reading some prayers in Hebrew and speaking about Harold. Then it was the magician's turn. He read some lines that I found surprisingly moving, so I relaxed and concentrated on listening. Finally, he held up the wand and read, “The magic of earth is over. The magic and mystery of another realm awaits Harold and will be revealed,” as he broke the wand in half. I heard some gasps from behind me and wondered what caused them. Later, someone told me that just as the wand was broken, a door at the side of the chapel opened silently, but no one was there. Then it slowly closed again. It was as if Harold were saying goodbye.

I am a rational person, trained in biology—I am not at all superstitious! In the weeks that followed, however, there were other strange happenings. Harold’s best magic trick had been what magicians call the cups and balls, an elaborate version of a shell game. He would quickly move the cups around, then lift them to reveal balls and other objects that no one expected. One evening when I was playing with our dog Mac (a Scotty who had been Harold’s devoted companion), the dog was listlessly batting around some rubber balls. And then, suddenly, he was pushing a bright red ball toward me, a ball I had never seen before. I swear he was grinning at me.

Another night, I was lying in bed unable to sleep. Then I smelled a unique, foul smell that could have come only from the cigars Harold had smoked. (But I had gleefully destroyed those cigars!) The odor became very strong, as if someone was walking past the house, then gradually faded away. I looked out the window but saw no one.

Harold’s old Mercedes stopped running the day he died, so the next week I went to see Dave the Mechanic. When I drove in, Dave turned white as a sheet and said, “Harold is dead, isn’t he?” It turned out that at the moment Harold was dying, Dave suddenly knew it, but had told himself he was imagining things until he saw me.

For the next few months, I heard—or imagined—Harold speaking to me several times. Then I regained my equilibrium, and there were no more “supernatural” events. I have always laughed at stories like this, but now I am not so sure!

I LOVE A MYSTERY

For about fifty years, I have been a mystery addict. It began with spending long evenings in the public library in Evanston, Illinois, which had a vast collection of Agatha Christies and John Dickson Carrs. I read through them in short order. Though a few mystery writers are more than lightweight—Dorothy Sayers especially comes to mind—in most cases I read the books more as puzzles than as literature. I relish watching for important clues, making hypotheses about whodunit, and piecing together the answer before Ellery Queen or Lord Peter Wimsey announces it.

As many scientists have pointed out, their work is often detective-like. They make many observations, watch for facts that don’t fit expected patterns, make and test hypotheses. Over time and many experiments, a broad theory may emerge. Much of my own science writing (mainly for middle- and high school students) emphasizes the mystery-solving aspects of science. One of my favorite—and unfortunately unpublished—books was called Who Killed the Neanderthals?

There is an important difference between detective fiction and science, though: In a well-written whodunit, all the clues are wrapped up neatly by the last page. There is no mystery left to solve. In science, the “detectives” can reach a tentative conclusion as the result of experimentation, but their conclusion is subject to further testing by other scientists, and it may be disproved. In fact, that is the exciting thing about science. New observations and experimental results can lead to new hypotheses. The Neanderthals are a good example: Seen at one time as brutish creatures having no relation to modern humans, they have gone through several reassessments as new fossil evidence and DNA studies have emerged. They may still not be completely understood. And so, I will go on reading about the Neanderthals—sharing the excitement about new clues, wondering whether that particular mystery has finally been solved.