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I Wonder Why?

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In all the time I’ve known her, sixty-three years and counting, the woman who has been my companion and wife for most of that period has uttered this phrase more frequently than any other: “I love you!”

She has said it to me, of course, to our daughters and their husbands, to our grandchildren, to other family members, and to friends (of whom she has many). And we all appreciate it greatly.

Her next most-frequently uttered phrase is a question: “I wonder why?” I assure you, however, she is not wondering why she loves us. The two phrases are completely separate.

My wife is an accomplished woman of insatiable curiosity, a bona fide lifelong learner. There is very little that happens around her that does not provoke that critical question.

“I wonder why the fruit store is sold out of bananas today?”

“The forecast said it would rain today. I wonder why it didn’t?”

“I wonder why the mail carrier is late?”

“I wonder why more people don’t follow the science?”

“I wonder why…?”

Once upon a time, I didn’t realize that more than just a few of these utterances were rhetorical. I mistakenly assumed she wanted me to essay an answer to all her questions, but I’ve been disabused of that notion. And that’s just as well, because for many of them, I had no idea of the answer, anyway. In those cases, in order to appear attentive, responsive, and a willing participant in the conversation, I would simply make something up.

“Ah…I think the banana-pickers are on strike.”

“Um…atmospheric conditions shifted when the sub-arctic air flow was diverted by wind-shear.”

“Hmm…the mail truck probably broke down.”

“Well…a lot of folks don’t understand science. Or don’t care to.”

Being an intelligent woman, my wife saw through these lame attempts to satisfy her curiosity, and scoffed at or ignored my answers. That, naturally, put me in a position of having to champion them—to defend the indefensible, as it were. As a reasonably intelligent person myself, I soon decided not to bother. Nonsense is nonsense, whether defended or not.

Mind you, asking questions, seeking answers, are innately human things to do. We are naturally a pattern-seeking species. We seek to know who we are, why we are here, what happens after we die, and so much more about the world around us.

My wife is a sterling example of that trait—always probing, questing, examining, interrogating, quizzing, grilling—ever in search of an answer to satisfy her curiosity.

I, on the other hand, although not a completely incurious clod, am much more willing to accept things at face value. In most cases, when presented with a situation, I am less likely to ask why something happened, more likely to get on with accommodating it.

“Who cares why?” I tend to ask. “It happened, so let’s just deal with it.”

Consequently, my fallback position when faced with my wife’s questions has morphed into a sort of fatalism, stoicism, ‘take-it-as-it-comes-ism’. Over time, I developed variations on a standard answer that, I hoped, would satisfy any question my wife might ask.

For instance, if she were to ask, “I wonder why the grass on our lawn is dying?”, I might reply, “Who knows? It could just as easily die next door. It’s random.”

Watching birds flit about on a walk, she might ask, “I wonder why some birds can fly, while others can’t?”, I might say, “Random selection. Nothing more.”

If she were to ask, “I wonder why Tom got sick after the party, when no one else did?”, I’m likely to answer, “No reason. Illness strikes randomly.”

A wise person once wrote that asking pointed questions is the gateway to knowledge. I certainly can’t dispute that, and have in fact done that very thing all my life in areas of study that interest me. But I confess I do not have the unquenchable thirst to know the reason for everything, for I fear my poor brain could not accommodate it.

In truth, I do not believe there even has to be a reason for everything. I tend to think some things truly are random happenstances. I know a tree will fall when it rots from within, for example, but I don’t trouble myself to question why this tree and not that one.

Of course, if I happened to be napping under one of those trees, I might care to know…but never mind.

On occasion now, familiar with this idiosyncrasy of mine, my wife will ask, “I wonder why you’re like that?”

At my age, I’ve ceased to worry about it. “Who knows?” I’ll reply. “Just the way I am, I guess. Random.”

Thank goodness, despite everything, she still utters that other phrase—“I love you.”

And sometimes, I do have to admit, I wonder why.

Is It Still?

Even at this late stage in my life, there are still so many questions and so few answers.

For example, is golf still golf if one doesn’t walk the course?  Since retiring, I have devoted countless hours to flailing away at a little white ball, following it down fairways that are too narrow, poking and prodding it close enough to the hole that I can pick it up—a gimme in golf parlance.

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But I almost never walk the course.  Instead, I ride a golf cart along paved pathways, across swaths of mowed grass, stopping too often by bunkers full of granulated sand.  The only exception is when I fail to hit a rider—more golf parlance for a shot that doesn’t travel far enough to warrant climbing back aboard the cart to ride to the next shot.

Golf is a game invented to test one’s physical, mental, and psycho-emotional endurance, and it has forever involved walking.  If one drives the course, is it still golf?

Another question concerns an issue that plagues me in moments of idleness, of which there are many.  Is it still okay for a gentleman to hold a door open for a lady?  And if one does, should one expect a ‘thank-you’ as the lady sweeps through?

More often than not, I rush ahead when in the company of ladies to man the door.  Being not the most graceful of people at my advancing age, I frequently bang into someone in my haste.  Or regrettably, I approach the door from the wrong side, making it necessary to push in front of my companions to open it.  Once in a while, I’ve even been known to let go of the door too soon (usually because the strength in my arm gives out), which provides a none-too-gentle bump on the derriere of the unfortunate lady caught on the threshold.  I rarely hear a smiling Thank you!

A third example has recently become a concern.  Is it still acceptable for one such as I to look at pretty young women?  During a lifetime of doing so, I’ve gone from being considered precocious in my pre-teens, to flirtatious in high school; from admiring in my early working years, to bold in middle-age; from cute in my early senior years, to…what?  Lecherous?

Now, when so many pretty girls are the age of my granddaughters, is it still okay to appreciate their youth and beauty?

Despite the fact I’m a grandfather, I continue to be plagued by these questions.  For instance, there’s the matter of leaving one’s bed unmade after getting up in the morning.  You know, as long as no one is expected to drop by.  Or is one supposed to honour the teachings of one’s mother even now, so many years later?

Though she’s been gone many a year, I still imagine her tread on the stairs, coming to inspect my bedroom before breakfast.  The stripes on the bedspread had to be straight, from the pillow to the footboard; the hem had to be off the floor, and uniformly so, along the length of the bed; and, although I never had to bounce a dime off it in military fashion, the top had better be smooth, with no wrinkles showing through.

Is it still necessary to make one’s bed every morning?

There are so many questions!  If it doesn’t have a hole in the middle, is it still a doughnut?  Is it still correct to say one dials a number, now that there’s no longer a dial on the phone?  Is it still de rigueur to doff one’s hat in an elevator, when so many around us eat in restaurants with their hats on?  Is it still the Olympics with no truly amateur athletes extant?

I know there are folks who could not care less about such questions.  Political correctness has mandated the answers in many cases, anyway, and general indifference often covers the rest.  But how else might I occupy my time, except by considering such weighty matters?

Is it still Sunday if not everyone goes to church?  Is it still winter if there’s no snow?  Is it still cream if it’s made from petroleum products?  Is it still my car if I’m only leasing it?  Is it still democracy if hardly anybody votes?

I don’t remember having the inclination in years gone by to ponder these questions.  Or perhaps I thought I had all the answers back then.  Regardless, I now regale friends—those who hang around long enough—with rhetorical queries and enquiries, in hopes they’ll engage with me in the pursuit of answers.  I’ve chosen to interpret their glazed eyes and pained expressions as a devoted effort to help.

The greatest barrier to learning, I read a long time ago, is the failure to ask.  And so I do.  Endlessly. Repetitively.  Annoyingly, even.

Is it still okay?