I don’t think it’s my imagination that Father’s Day seems like a last-minute add-on.

“Oh! We have Mother’s Day. We probably should do something for fathers ... ”

On Mother’s Day, a bouquet of flowers or brunch seems to do nicely every year. There isn’t an equivalent gesture for Father’s Day. The gift suggestions now being advertised all seem a little desperate. A watch? A wallet? A gas grill? A “whiskey set”?

Since my dad’s watch and wallet are with him 90% of his waking life, I’m thinking he’d rather choose his own. A gas grill seems a bit much. (Mom gets eggs Benedict and dad gets a $1,200 grill?) I’m not even sure what a “whiskey set” is, but I know my dad wouldn’t drink whiskey if you paid him.

My dad has now spent more time retired than he spent working -- which is a wonderful milestone. He was hired while he was still in college to work as an engineer, and he stayed with the same company his entire career. My dad wore horn-rimmed glasses and carried a pocket protector and a slide rule in his shirt pocket. He sang bass in the church choir, which meant he was always in the back row and I could only see him when he was stretching for a high note and got up on his toes to reach it.

My dad was always ready to try something new. He raised bees in the backyard and helped us dip candles in his workshop and polish agates in a tumbler. I remember the sound of the rock tumbler, polishing away, and a perfectly smooth agate coming out.

Then, every July when the plant where my father worked was shut down, my family would pile into the car pulling a pop-up camper and head out on vacation.

The story goes that my sister and I were quarreling. We generally got along pretty well but a full day in a hot car could get on anyone’s nerves. On this particular day, we were arguing about (of all things) who was going to get in the lake first once we got to the campground.

Dad was driving. Mom was sitting in the front seat with the dog. My sister and I were busy squabbling, and no one saw my father as he quietly emptied his pockets, removed his belt, and silently unhooked his seatbelt. (This was before cars had all the buzzers and bells.) We drove into the campground and, the moment we hit the parking spot, my father threw open his door and sprinted straight to the lake and dove in. My sister and I sat there in stunned silence.

I don’t remember what happened after that. I just remember my father, flying into the lake, proving both of us wrong -- and what an amazing dad he was -- in one lightning move.

My dad doesn’t move quite as fast these days. He calls himself “an old geezer,” although I can’t imagine anyone else does. He still builds things in his woodshop and splits wood with the log splitter and rides bikes with mom. He still routinely surprises us. And he still listens to the worries and complaints of his daughters.

My sister and I hand these worries to him like rough stones and my dad handles them like the agate polisher we had as children. By the time my dad is through with them, our worries are worn smooth. Our worries are no longer sharp or dangerous. They are polished to a gentle luster by our dad’s loving concern.

Happy Father’s Day.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

It’s harder to keep in touch with people these days. Things are opening up, but it’s going to be a while before we hop in a car and visit people the way we used to.

I met the pastor of my church while walking. She told me the youth group had been meeting via Zoom, and the kids were overcome with shyness, seeing their faces on the screen. I wanted to say, “Don’t they realize they can be seen when they show up in person?” But I sympathized with the teenagers. When my husband Peter and I tried Zoom for the first time, it was a little awkward.

“Shouldn’t the camera be higher?” I asked. “You can see right up our noses!” We found a cardboard box and adjusted the laptop angle.

“Why is it so smudgy?”

“I had sticky tape over the camera,” Peter told me.

Peter cleaned the tape residue off the lens, and I realized I looked a lot better smudgy.

But we’ve been trying to make a point of calling people more often. (Peter calls it “drunk dialing,” although we’re not.) Sometimes it takes some effort. Sometimes I’ve wondered if these unexpected phone calls are more a bother than a pleasant surprise to the folks we call.

Yesterday, I got a surprise call myself from Geri.

I haven’t seen Geri since I moved 1,400 miles away years ago. She’s quite a bit older than me and not someone I knew well, so when I saw her name pop up on my phone yesterday, I was very surprised. I didn’t know I even had her phone number, to be honest.

“Geri!” I said, “this is Carrie!” There was a moment of awkward silence.

“Geri, did you butt-dial me?”

“Carrie? This is Carrie Classon?”

“Geri, you butt-dialed me, didn’t you?!”

“No! I was trying to call someone else. Someone to clean my house.”

Geri has a huge old wooden house sitting on a hill. It even has a turret on one corner. There are nooks and crannies and stairs everywhere. I would not want to clean Geri’s house.

“Geri! I am not going to clean your house!”

“Oh, no! But it’s so good to hear your voice. How are you doing?”

I knew Geri was getting up in years and her husband, Clarence, was older yet. So I asked, somewhat timidly, “How’s your family?”

“Oh, we’re fine. But we’re old! I am 88 and Clarence is 95!”

“Only 95? He’s a pup!”

“He parks in the spot reserved for WWII veterans they still have at the grocery store, and I think he’s the only one who uses it!”

Geri and I chatted for quite a while. We both had news and a lot of shared memories.

“You and Peter have to come and visit sometime!” Geri said. I promised we would next time we were anywhere near.

“Clarence is going to be mad when he finds out you called me up to clean your house and ended up inviting us over,” I told her.

“No, no, we would love to see you! It was great talking with you!”

“It was good to hear from you, Geri.”

And it was. Talking to Geri made my day. I suddenly felt less worried about those “Hi! We were just thinking about you!” calls Peter and I have been making.

Yes, it’s a little awkward making conversation with someone you haven’t talked to in a long time, but sometimes a little awkward is OK, I decided. Sometimes a little awkward is a lot of fun.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I want to make it clear that we are not adopting a dog.

I won’t deny it is tempting. We decided not to get another dog because we travel. Dogs and airplane travel do not go well together. Now, however, with no travel in sight, I admit I am consumed with envy when I see happy dog owners on the trail. I have started carrying dog treats just so I can talk to the dogs of complete strangers. The owners are tolerant. The dogs love it.

My brother-in-law had our entire extended family in a lather for a full 48-hour news cycle when he circulated photos of puppies on Facebook. Everyone was convinced he was going to adopt a puppy. He didn’t, as it turned out.

“He should never have put those photos on the internet!” my sister said. “Everyone thought we were getting another dog!”

This is the same brother-in-law who, at age 60, enrolled in the seminary. Everyone was wondering how he was going to preach sermons, write two papers every week, and study Hebrew and Greek while paper-training a puppy.

But now, it seems everyone has more time, and puppies (I have been told) are in short supply. Yes, along with toilet paper, yeast, flour, hand sanitizer and vegetable seeds, there is a national puppy shortage.

I couldn’t believe there was actually a dog shortage, so I checked the website of our local shelter. They had no dogs -- but this didn’t prove a thing. We have a well-funded shelter, and I’ve heard rumors that dogs from places with less well-financed animal shelters are smuggled into town. (OK, I’ve heard more than rumors, but I am not squealing on anyone.) A dog shortage here is not news.

So, I checked with the animal shelter in Minneapolis, where my sister and brother-in-law live. Sure enough, there was only one puppy. It was a black and tan shepherd mix. She was holding her head at an adorable angle.

“Hi, my name is Bella!” the story beside the photo read. “I came to Animal Humane Society because I need help with my behavior.” Uh oh. I saw that Bella had been surrendered at the end of March.

“That was right at the start of the pandemic!” I thought. “Who surrenders a dog when they are stuck at home?”

“I’m ready to find a new home where I can continue to work on learning good manners,” the story continued. I wondered exactly how bad Bella’s bad manners were. I wondered if “learning good manners” was another way of saying, “not chewing up the furniture.” I went to the Humane Society for St. Paul. I clicked, “Adoptable dogs.”

To my astonishment, there was only one -- it was Bella.

“I like playing with toys and enjoy other busy interactions.” Busy interactions! This was obviously another euphemism for something -- like, “Little Johnny is being sent to juvenile detention for his busy interactions.”

I went further afield, to suburbs on the north and south sides of the Twin Cities. Bella again! The Twin Cities has a population of 3.4 million people and it appeared that Bella was -- at the moment -- the only dog in Minnesota available for adoption.

So, I thought I should just get the word out for anyone near or traveling to Minnesota that, in spite of the nationwide puppy shortage, there is one dog available. Her name is Bella. She’s famous for her busy interactions and needs a little work on her manners.

Frankly, I’m thinking Bella couldn’t have picked a better time to try to find a home.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION