Search History: Down the Rabbit Hole with Google

I google how to separate Iris rhizomes? Not right now, I learn. My spectacular amber-petaled bearded iris is not yet three years old.

Heliotrope care?  Pinch back the blooms.

When to deadhead peonies? Now.

What to do with puffy feet? Mine. I have already tried legs up the wall, drinking lots of water, elevating my legs. One home remedy is soaking my feet in Epsom Salts. In Eagles Mere, I know we have what looks like a milk carton full of Epsom Salts at the bottom of the back stairs—why is it there? But I am in Ohio. Apparently, we have a foot bath here, but its whereabouts is unknown, so I will eat less salt—not that I like salt, anyway—and wait. Is it the weather? Age? The end of the school year? A mystery.

Sometimes I see a recipe on Instagram, but whenever it says the recipe is in the link in the bio. I can’t find it, so I Google Chickpea Italian Stew, which looks delicious. When our girls were little, I used to make a meal called Chickpea Surprise—it was onions, garlic, chickpeas, zucchini, peppers, and anything else I thought to throw in, with leftover pasta sauce.  The fancy recipe from TikTok is not far off. I feel quiet triumph.

I google air quality—how to assess it, what it is, and how worried I, an asthmatic, ought to be in June as wildfires rage in Canada. Our daughters send photographs from NYC, with apocalyptic hues. 

I google how to return things on Amazon.  It’s easier than I thought. My son and I take the tablecloths we did not use for his graduation party back to Whole Foods, and a nice man scans a QR code on my phone and sends them away. I feel lighter, proud that I returned the unused items—candles, tablecloths, some small pails Atticus rejected to hold the rejected candles—right away.

How to watercolor.  I find countless watercolor mini-lessons, begin to follow them on Instagram, along with photographs of otters. Soon, I will search for free water color classes.

Chair yoga. At my 45th high school reunion, I confessed to my friend, Marijean, that yoga is hard. My right wrist and my right knee aren’t having it. 

“Chair yoga,” Marijean suggested quickly.

“That’s for old people,” I grumbled.

She smiled, said nothing.

I google Chair Yoga. Chair Yoga for Seniors pops up. Seniors? Really?  I persist, find a host of offerings on YouTube and discover I like Kassandra best. I take class with her several times a week.

At school, during a meeting, we discuss our evaluation system, and, quick as a wink, my Assistant Head Googled “Best Practices in Independent School Evaluations.” She says colleagues in her former school used to tease her about how fast she looked up information. “So, it’s not just me,” I think–others are tempted, too, by the possibilities, by answers a few keystrokes away. Down one rabbit hole after the next, in my chair, I gather bits and scraps–what will I do with this assemblage of information. Make a quilt, a nest, a collage? 

Google is like memory steroids. It is confident, quicker than I am as I struggle to recall Emily’s whole monologue in Act III of Our Town, “Oh, earth, you are too beautiful…” How do the lines go?  Google is a kind of magic lamp, with me as the genie, rubbling my keyboard.

I google the text to “Hickory Dickory Dock” for a script I am writing and get distracted by a host of other nursery rhymes on the same screen.  

As a Middle Schooler, I often went to Ludington Library to check out books to read for pleasure and for annual research projects. I’ve forgotten the topics, but I remember the thrill of anticipation as I stood at the pale maple card catalogue with its narrow, unwieldy drawers wondering if I would find enough sources. There was a treasure hunt feeling of seeking a title, copying the Dewey Decimal number onto an index card, and then heading to the shelves. I’d run my finger along spines, checking that the number emblazoned in white ink on the book was the right one. I’d pull the book off the shelf, turn to the index in the back and look for my topic, gleeful when I discovered multiple references: page 34, 107 and 213. I’d flip to the first mention, scanning to see if there was enough to make checking out the volume worthwhile.  Then, back to the card catalogue for the next title. I’d emerge with a stack of books in my arms, including ones that did not strictly align but seemed interesting and, maybe, relevant.  The browsing, itself, was deeply satisfying and took a long time. In college and grad school, pre-Google, I repeated that process again and again, the stacks darker and dustier, the research questions more complex. There was no instant gratification, yet knowing I could find what I wanted to learn made me feel confident and competent. I could know things. Is it possible that Google feels too easy? There’s so much less effort. I have my coffee next to me, a good light shining, my feet up on the ottoman. Sometimes, it feels as if I am cheating. Googling is faster than those trips to the library and less dusty, but also, sometimes, too fast.  Sometimes, as Rilke reminds us, we must love the questions, live with not knowing for a bit.  Sometimes, the answers arrive on the screen before I am quite ready.

As a little girl, I was convinced a phalanx of tiny men, resembling my brother’s plastic army figures, lived inside the radiators, pumping out heat, the clanking evidence of their labors. When I Google, it’s hard not to imagine hordes of librarians–rows of smart women in muted cardigans–working in miniature inside my sleek laptop, efficiently locating the citations I seek. I feel grateful for their expertise and generosity. I know information is actually produced by computer science and code I cannot begin to comprehend, but I like the idea of my own generous gaggle.  Mysteries abound.

What was it that  Justice Jackson said in this week’s Supreme Court dissent?  I query and her words appear. Her indignation and eloquence move me. Thank you, Google.  There is always more to learn.