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I couldn’t get into spring cleaning this year. I couldn’t get into fall, winter or summer cleaning either.

My housekeeping may be slipping. There was a time when I cleaned the entire house from top to bottom every week. Now I just write “SEND HELP” in the dust on my desk.

When people come over, see that and ask if everything is all right, I hand them a dust cloth and can of Pledge.

I’m not lazy; I’m conserving energy.

There comes a time in every woman’s life when vacuum tracks on the rug cease to be a thrill. Why else would so many homes have hardwood floors these days?

I used to clean smudges on windows and doors every morning with spray cleaner and paper towels. These days I am content to pretend there’s patchy fog outside.

I still clean the bathrooms thoroughly every week. I also give them a quick clean every day or two—not because I’m a germaphobe, but because I’m still working my way through all the bleach wipes left over from COVID.

One of the best housekeeping tips I ever received came from our son-in-law who is a West Point alum. Before cadets had white glove inspection of their rooms, they sprayed furniture polish on the door frame at the same height as the inspector’s nose. Genius.

Don’t be surprised if you knock on our door and smell Lysol.

I read a sign that said a clean house is a sign of no internet connection. Our internet works great.

If you want to be philosophical, cleaning a house over and over goes against the laws of nature. Nature takes a year, 365 days, to run a full cycle.

A house can complete a full cycle in only 24 hours. A house can start the day “Martha Stewart lives here,” slide to “casual clutter” by noon, hit “there may have been a medical emergency” before dinner and reach “full-on whirlwind” by bedtime.

Our nemesis is paper. Whoever said the world has gone paperless hasn’t been to our house. We specialize in newspapers, books, journals, articles my husband clips for me to read, articles I clip for him to read, and interesting things we clip for our kids to read—things which they’ve already read online, but that doesn’t stop us.

A measure of ongoing chaos is inherent to all of life. I offer the definition of entropy as proof. Theoretically, it is a component of the second law of thermodynamics, but it’s really about keeping house. Entropy is “the randomness, disorder or uncertainty in a system.” Or in a house.

I rest my case.

And my vacuum.

So many people have food restrictions these days, that I usually go down a checklist before having someone over.

Are you gluten-free, sugar-free, meat-free? Are you dairy-free, dye-free, born-free? Sorry, word association.

In our extended family of 19, we have gluten-free, sulfa-free and one that can only eat fowl and fish. And not a single one of us looks underfed.

I came across a new one you might want to be free of: titanium dioxide.

It sounds like something Superman packed in his school lunch, but is an inorganic compound that comes from an ore and has a whitening and brightening quality. It is considered safe in some circles and an element to avoid in others. The component is used in paper, plastics, cosmetics and foods, primarily candy and baked goods. It is also frequently used in frozen pizzas. Yum.

“But wait—” as the man hawking chef’s knives on late-night television used to say “—there’s more!”

The “more” is that titanium dioxide can also protect from UV rays, which is why it is a common ingredient in sunscreen. Talk about versatile! You can eat it in your frozen pizza and slather it on your body at the pool.

Question: If you eat pizza containing titanium dioxide at the beach, does it give you sun protection from the inside out?

Alas, the ingredient finds itself in the realm of controversy. This is not the first time an ingredient considered to be the best thing since sliced bread one day (very, very white bread), is considered bad for you the next.

Recipes from my mother’s generation called for margarine. Margarine was declared revolutionary and butter melted into the past. Then, after a time, butter slid back into first place and margarine melted into the past.

I have a copy of the recipe book my grandmother received as a wedding gift. The spices women commonly used before the Depression were cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger. The book also includes recipes for raccoons. Cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger continue to be staples with most cooks, raccoons not so much. In one day; out the next.

I reminded the husband yesterday that we would be practicing the ever-popular trend of “eating clean” again. Eating clean means consuming foods as close to their natural state as possible. Fresh from the dirt is preferred.

Our take on eating clean means cleaning out the ‘fridge by eating all the leftovers. Our ‘fridge overfloweth.

Our clean dinner consisted of 6 red potatoes (circa. Easter), a large quantity of fresh green beans (the grands didn’t eat as much as I thought they would) an old yellow onion sprouting a green top, and two aging strips of bacon (part of the husband’s required nitrates).

For dessert we had apples.

We have two more shelves, a chill drawer and a fresh drawer to go before reaching our food goal—leftover-free.

I have come to the realization that I do not have the time nor patience for all the high-tech innovations designed to make my life more marvelous. I have all the marvelous I can handle right now.

This morning, I replaced a burnt-out kitchen light bulb. It was 9:16 when I started the process. Replacing the old bulb took less than a minute, using the last bulb from a three-pack we had on hand. Five other lights just like it in the ceiling glared at me in a threatening manner. Knowing light bulbs relish burning out in tandem, I went to the computer to search for more bulbs.

Of course, I was also online for cost comparison. Saving a dollar or two won’t compensate for the stock market’s dive, but it is therapeutic. I blew 30 minutes being therapeutic, searching site after site for bulbs with the same specs of the one I just changed. No success.

I went to my archived online orders, found I had last purchased these bulbs four years ago and clicked, “Buy Again.” Finally—light at the end of the tunnel.

The screen said, “currently unavailable.” The suggested alternative comes with color control adjustment, Bluetooth and Wi-Fi capabilities.

I warmed up my coffee, then visited multiple websites and watched YouTube videos on the differences between, and the benefits of, Bluetooth and Wi-Fi bulb connectivity and control.

I then took a short break to grab a Tylenol. After that, I scanned a QR code that landed me at a tutorial with instructions on how to control light bulbs containing microchips by downloading an app.

I am not completely unfamiliar with the process of remote-controlled lights. I once watched grandchildren at their home while their parents were out and was unable to turn on lights that were off, or turn off lights that were on. I was spooked and wondered if the house had wiring issues, but soon learned the lights had been set to timers on the phone of the kids’ tech-savvy daddy.

Still not finding bulbs with the specs we needed, it was now time for lunch. I opened the door to the ‘fridge and the light went on. I felt a glimmer of hope.

Still, I pondered what would happen when all the bulbs become “smart bulbs”? There we would be, two dim bulbs glued to our phones trying to figure out how to turn the lights on and off.

I checked the cabinet once more where we keep spare bulbs, hoping I had overlooked some. A reflection at the far back caught my eye. It was an old glass kerosene lamp my parents had.

If push comes to shove, it would beat sitting in the dark.

When the kids were growing up, we had a giant weeping willow tree in the backyard. It was a magnificent specimen with long, graceful branches that swayed in the breeze.

It was also a magnificent mess. Not only did it dance in the wind, it seemed the tree shed constantly—every day, every week, every month of the year.

To add insult to injury, every wispy branch that didn’t shed slapped you in the face with its serrated leaves when you passed by.

Being that the tree left a constant mess in the yard, when the kids were sassy or needed some consequences, we would send them outside to pick up willow branches. This would sometimes keep them busy for days and weeks at a time.

It was win-win, a very good system until the willow began to rot and we had the tree taken down. The trunk and branches were even bigger on the ground than they were in the sky. We rented a wood splitter and our son split the salvageable wood. This kept him busy the entire summer between his freshman and sophomore year in college.

A few years ago, we lost two maples due to age (theirs not ours). Needing more shade, we planted a Heritage River Birch. Even though a river birch can sell itself on good looks and beautiful bark alone, the tag sealed the deal: “This charming tree attracts songbirds and butterflies, while its lush canopy offers cool shade, making it an excellent choice.”

What the description neglected to say is that a river birch is merely a weeping willow in disguise.

The problem now is that all the kids are grown and gone. You don’t tell your adult children, who are married and raising children of their own, to get outside and pick up sticks.

We know because we tried.

The two of us are now the ones outside picking up twigs and sticks, bending from the waist, the knees, the left side and the right side, telling each other this qualifies as aerobics.

In a recent email exchange with a reader, she mentioned that her mother used to pay her kids a penny for every stick they picked up from her yard. She said her mother’s yard was always full of grandkids trying to “make a buck” picking up sticks.

Interesting idea. But having filled another large trash bag with fallen birch twigs in under an hour, and calculating for inflation, we’re not sure we have enough set aside for retirement to cover that amount.

Beauty comes with a price and we’re now the ones paying for it.

On a cold spring day years ago, young neighbor children found a small, dead bunny in their yard. They ran inside to tell their mother about the discovery. She went outside with the children to view the pitiful sight.

When the woman’s husband came home that evening, unbeknown to the children, he disposed of the bunny. The next day, the children went outside and discovered the dead bunny was gone. They rushed inside to ask their mother what could have happened.

She told them the bunny had been resurrected.

My friend saw the circumstances as a teachable moment for Easter.

For the record, the children all grew up to be healthy well-adjusted adults who are productive members of society.

For several hundred years following the life of Christ, the major holiday on the Christian calendar was Easter. In our times, that is flipped.

Last year, Christmas netted 972 billion in sales. Easter netted 22 billion, which is paltry in comparison but enough to generate tons of chocolate bunnies and marshmallow peeps.

Christmas is buoyed not only by commercialism, but by the tender story of a baby born in a manger to a humble peasant couple. Easter is a harder and more gruesome story to teach, let alone market.

Though intense and frightening, the lessons of Easter are relevant for all ages. Suffering and sorrow touch every one of us. Even children. Who doesn’t remember tears shed over the death of a beloved pet? Grief and sorrow over the death of a family member or friend can feel unbearable.

In the biblical account, when Jesus was crucified, dead and buried, his friends and followers were crushed to the brink of despair. When Jesus died, their hope died as well.

After they laid his body in the tomb and the stone was rolled in front of it, they all sheltered together. Together in times of sorrow helps. As hopeless as things seemed, the darkness did not swallow them whole, though they may have wished it would.

On the Sunday after Jesus died, Mary Magdalene, a friend and follower who witnessed the crucifixion, went to the tomb in the early morning. The rock had been rolled away and the tomb was empty. As she stood bewildered and sobbing, Jesus appeared to her. She ran to tell the others the good news that Christ had risen from the dead and was alive. This is the origin of “good news.”

When the ever-lengthening Christmas season is over, all the gift-giving and merry-making drawn to a close, how do people often feel? Many experience sadness and melancholy. The clinical name for that is post-Christmas blues.

When Easter is over, people most often feel refreshed and joyful, imbued with the hope of new life and rebirth. When Holy Week appears darkest, light pierces the clouds. Christmas may net the most attention and money, but Christmas and Easter are integral parts of the same narrative. Christmas sets the stage—Easter is “the rest of the story.”

There are two kinds of people in this world: Do-It-Yourself people and Hire Someone to Do-It-For-You people. Wisdom is knowing which category you fall into.We are Do-It-Yourself people. Unless it involves plumbing. Then we are Hire-Someone-to-Do-It-For-Us people.

Experience has taught us that nearly every home plumbing project can and will go wrong.

There is yet a subcategory to mention: Get-Someone-in-the-Family-to-Do-It.

You must be sensitive navigating this route, as you can wear out your welcome. We try to rotate the jobs we need done among capable family members. We wouldn’t want anyone to feel slighted.

We had a cracked bathroom sink that needed replacing recently. I mentioned the eye-popping estimates we received from two plumbing companies to our son, who built the house his family lives in.

“Don’t pay someone to do that,” he said. “I can do it for you.”

“No, no,” I said. (Yes! That’s a terrific idea!)

“When would you like me to come up?”

“Oh, you’re so busy!” (Next weekend would be good.)

“How’s Saturday?” he asks.

“I think that works.” (“He’s coming!” I mouth to the husband. We jump up and down and fist bump.)

“You’ll need to get a new sink,” he says.

“Good idea. One of the plumbers who gave an estimate told us what size to get,” I say. (On order as we speak.)

“Bring the crew,” I say. (There are lots more projects to do!)

Our son and his wife came, along with their five kids, who all went directly from potty training to power tools.

When our son removed the old sink, the metal pipe broke in his hands. This is what you expect of plumbing projects.

Our daughter-in-law made the first run to the hardware store.

An hour later, remains of the old pipe had been removed and replaced, the new faucet had been installed, the cracked sink was gone and one of the boy’s heads was popping up through the opening for the sink.

A short while later our son appeared and said, “The sink doesn’t fit. It’s too small.”

This was not a surprise. We expect things to go wrong. Plus, it could have been a whole lot worse. He could have said the water valve broke, water is flooding the upstairs bathroom and pouring through the ceiling.

We wouldn’t even have raised an eyebrow. We would have calmly said, “We expected as much. Want some coffee?”

Or, he could have said the wet drywall is caving, insulation is soaked and the water main in the front yard is spewing like Old Faithful.

This would not have been surprising either. We would have said, “Oh well, maybe we’ll just move. Here, have some banana bread.”

He wanted to come back a week later and finish the job, but we said no and backed it up. We called a professional plumber. Expensive? Yes.

But the house is still standing, and so is the family.

I was one of the first to complete the family NCAA Final Four bracket this year. There’s not a chance I’ll win and I’m good with that.

Our son-in-law started the family bracket challenge, which includes his side of the family and our side, 15 years ago.

His side of the family loves sports. His dad even refereed for years.

When you love sports, you make intelligent bracket picks. When you simply like sports, making picks is like throwing pasta against the wall to see what sticks.

I throw pasta. Spaghetti, rotini, lasagna, all of it.

Here’s the kicker—I’ve somehow won the bracket twice.

I’m not sure how I won, although my husband follows a lot of sports and maybe I unconsciously gleaned a few things from him. Sure, blame the husband.

Once again, I have been reviewing my methods for guiding picks.

The Color Method involves pulling up a bracket list of the teams and selecting winners based on school colors. I choose according to color seasons—this is a palette of colors every woman knows she wears well. Summer and spring colors contain a lot yellows. I cannot wear yellow. I am a winter: black, white, jade, ruby, sapphire—all the gemstones. Teams with yellow are out.

Another strategy is the Vacation Pick. If I’ve been to the team’s state and had an enjoyable time, the team advances. Michigan and Tennessee are frequent picks.

There’s also the Our Kids and Our Money tactic. If any of our kids attended a school in the playoffs, the school automatically advances.

The Home Sweet Home method tips the ball to a team if any member of our family has ever lived there. This puts Nebraska, Missouri, Illinois, Oregon, Ohio, Indiana, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Kansas, Texas and New Jersey in the pool.

Perhaps the most popular method is the Stuffie Pick. Teams are chosen based on whether a mascot would make a cuddly stuffie. We still have grands clinging to stuffies. The College of William and Mary’s griffin, a mythical creature with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion, is an obvious no. Nor do bird mascots with sharp beaks have a high cuddly quotient. Go ahead, call “fowl” but it’s true. On the other hand, South Dakota’s Jack the Jackrabbit with big floppy ears is a slam dunk.

This year, I picked Louisville to go all the way to the Final Four. We were there recently with my brother and his wife. We stayed at the Brown Hotel, wandered through an architectural salvage place that spanned two blocks, ate breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall diner frequented by jockeys and took an amazing distillery tour. My gut told me Louisville was a win.

Louisville was out in the first round.

Oh, the madness of it all.