Misinformation abounds. I haven’t actually heard “I did my research” to defend weak claims, but I’ve read rebuttals: “Searching websites isn’t research. You didn’t use a control group, or do statistical analysis, or apply the scientific method.”

Rubbish. Historical research rarely involves any of the above. Many materials once found only in libraries are available online. What is research, anyway? What do a fourth-grader’s report, a high school term paper, and a grant-funded scholarly investigation have in common?

1. Research is a proactive quest to find out. Happening onto an interesting fact isn’t enough. The researcher starts with a question, chases down relevant evidence, and follows wherever it leads.
2. Research involves systematic processing. For a research report on the dodo or Harriet Tubman, a schoolchild finds and synthesizes information from multiple sources. Market researchers don’t just interview but analyze the data they collect.
3. Research produces new knowledge. You may anticipate a particular result—that’s called a hypothesis—but you can’t know until your research confirms it. High school chemistry “experiments” to demonstrate a predictable outcome don’t count.

True research can be valid or invalid, based on sound or unreliable sources, using appropriate or faulty process. Criteria vary by level and field. Grounded in curiosity, it’s all research.

Did you play telephone as a child? The first player whispers a phrase to the next child in the circle, who whispers it to the next, and so on. By the time the phrase comes all the way around, it has mutated enough to prompt a giggle. The larger the circle, the more the message may change. This year, coronavirus has circulated long enough to mutate into a form more able to bind to cells and fend off antibodies: the Delta variant.

Everything I ever needed to know about the Delta variant I learned in grade school. Did you ever play sardines? More and more children cram into a hiding place until there are too many to hide. Similarly, the Delta variant overcrowds the respiratory tract. Compared to the coronavirus we first knew, it multiplies faster, becomes infectious sooner, and reaches a much higher viral load.

​Did you play Red Rover? At Suncrest Grade School, opposing teams faced each other in lines. Our team dared someone from the other side to try to break through our clasped hands: “Red Rover, Red Rover, we dare [name] come over!” A strong runner could break a weak link in our human chain. On today’s coronavirus playground, the Delta variant runs hard enough to cause mild breakthrough infections in some fully vaccinated people.

The Iliad and The Odyssey include tales of swineherds and swine. Among the earliest animals to be domesticated, pigs figure prominently in ancient banquet menus, rituals, and pottery. Tame sows in search of acorns must have met wild boars in the forest. The Romans called their progeny hybrida.

I love word origins. Unlike words that reverse meaning over time (awful once meant “awesome”), hybrid has kept its original sense: something of mixed origin. Its use in English increased after 1850, as scientists worked to improve food crops and animals through crossbreeding. Hybrid tea roses are favorite garden flowers.

Beyond biology, hybrid came to mean vehicles with both gasoline and electric motors. In a fresh use of the term this year, instructors, employers, and worship leaders are scrambling to design hybrid post-pandemic event formats that are both virtual and in-person.

It’s clear what hybrid cars and meetings share with the offspring of a tame sow and a wild boar. More puzzling is why we don’t call almost everything else hybrid too. Bronze Age peoples mixed tin with copper. Talking pictures combined silent movies with sound recording. Pasta with tomato sauce blends ingredients from Italy and the Americas. Cultural diffusion shapes our language, clothing, folklore, music; all their origins are mixed. We’ll figure out whatever hybrids we need. We’ve been doing it for millennia.

Pulling weeds, I ponder my options as the pandemic wanes. Resume old habits? Keep the slower pace? Try something new?

When we changed house four-and-a-half years ago, my gardening know-how extended to digging dandelions. The abundant perennials left by the previous owner have been teaching me ever since. A recent sampling:

• More isn’t always better. Short of dandelions and garlic mustard, I once treasured anything that bloomed. Lovely as daisies and violets can be, over time I’ve seen such treats detract when they interrupt a solid swath of beebalm or gooseneck loosestrife—or writing time.
• Fill the gaps selectively. A bare patch of dirt or calendar space is an opportunity to add needed color for the off-season. Don’t just plug in the first donated plant, or invitation or committee assignment, before considering how it helps balance the garden overall.
• Allow for surprise and change. Poppies, roses, and rare visits from loved ones are welcome wherever they pop up. I would never have heard of honey garlic or leadplant if I uprooted everything unplanned. On the other hand, some flowers that once thrived here are no longer any more viable than the six-mile hikes I used to enjoy. Time to let them go.

What lessons do you find among the blossoms?