I’ve worn out a pair of slippers.

To be fair, I wear slippers quite a bit under normal circumstances, but over the past four months my slipper use has exceeded previous records. I was reading the news one morning (I imagine you know what that’s like). The takeaway for me was that I was going to be wearing slippers for a while. I looked down at my slippers and gave in to the inevitable. I ordered new slippers.

I’ve actually forgotten what shoes I own. I looked in my closet and it seemed kind of quaint. I had different shoes for different outfits! I had shoes with heels! I had boots of several varieties -- even a pair of red boots! They are now stacked up neatly in my closet. I haven’t worn anything on my feet but hiking boots and slippers in months.

My husband, Peter, and I have Alexa, the Amazon device that amuses us and annoys us in equal measure. I like her because I can ask questions when I’m baking. “Alexa! How many tablespoons in one-third cup?” “Alexa! When does the sun set tonight?” I can ask questions and play music with sticky hands and this seems to me one of the great advances in civilization made in the last century.

Peter is less sure. He quarrels with Alexa. He asks things in a way she cannot answer and when she says, “I’m not sure I understand your question,” Peter takes it personally.

“She’s a machine,” I remind Peter.

“She’s not an intelligent machine!” Peter replies.

Yesterday, Alexa was flashing away like crazy. This, I have learned, means she has something to say.

“Alexa! Do you have a notification?”

“I have one notification.” I waited with bated breath. (There really isn’t a lot going on at our house right now.)

“The notification is for Carrie: Your slipper has been delivered.”

“Oh my gosh! My slipper has been delivered!” I felt like Cinderella. I immediately went out and fetched the box from the stoop. I discovered that Alexa spoke the truth. In fact, it was even better than she said. Two slippers had been delivered -- one for each foot!

Since March, the only clothing I have purchased is two pairs of stretchy pants and a nightgown. I’ve been living in stretchy pants. New slippers were a very big deal.

I am amazed by how little I have thought about clothes over the past one-third of a year. I miss wearing shoes but now, glancing into my closet, I wonder how many of them I’ll want to wear again once the opportunity presents itself. It seems to me a lot has changed in four months, and a lot of these changes have happened inside of me.

I have a much greater appreciation for all the things I miss. I miss sharing experiences and having people I can laugh with. I miss chatting with my 90-year-old gal pal in church. I miss sitting with a group of strangers in a theater when the lights dim. I’d be happy to wear my stretchy pants and new slippers everywhere if I could get together with friends for an evening of fun.

I modeled my new slippers for Peter. He pretended to be impressed. (A marriage relies on a little good-natured acting from time to time.) I’m going to keep all my shoes, although I think I might have to dust them pretty soon. I’m holding out hope that, someday, I might have the occasion to wear a pair of red boots -- probably with a pair of stretchy pants.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

My husband, Peter, and I miss having a dog. I see a lot of dogs on the trail during my daily hike, and so Peter (who is always full of good ideas -- usually about things I should do) suggested I carry dog treats.

Dog treats have changed my life.

When I see a dog approaching me on the trail, I say, “Can I give your dog a treat?” Now and then someone will say, “No, she doesn’t need one.” These dogs look to me like they might have a different opinion.

But most dog owners are delighted to let their dog have a treat. “Are you supposed to do something?” I ask the dog, and the owner will say, “Sit!” or “Shake!” and the dog will do a trick. Sometimes the dog offers a paw or sits before she is asked to. “Yeah, I’m supposed to do a trick. I know the drill.”

There are two border collies who barked at me every day as I walked by. I asked if I could give them a treat. No more barking. Now I could go rob their house if I wanted to -- as long as I brought treats.

Occasionally, an owner will tell me their dog is fussy and might not like the treat. This is usually not the case. (Peter ordered top-notch treats, and dogs love them.) But there is always an exception.

“Can I give your dog a treat?” I asked a family.

“He doesn’t like dog food,” the father answered.

“This is a special dog treat,” I assured him.

“He doesn’t like dog treats, but you can give it a try!”

The dog ran over, put the treat in his mouth, spat it out, and walked away.

“He’s very particular,” his owner said. “He likes chicken livers. But they are so smelly!”

“Chicken livers!” I thought. “I’m not carrying chicken livers!”

Another man with two dogs told me that the larger one wouldn’t want a treat but the small one, Taco, would. I offered Taco a treat. Taco sniffed it for several moments and declined. The big dog came over and ate it in one gulp.

“I believe your dogs are trying to make a liar out of you,” I told the man. He agreed.

Then I met Wallace. Wallace is a sweet old dog who has to take thyroid medication every day. He was going to be euthanized until his owner, Mike, adopted him. “His medicine costs more than mine!” Mike told me. “But Wallace makes sure I get a walk every day.” I gave Wallace a treat. He let it drop to the ground and looked at me, expectantly.

“Oh. He always gets two treats -- of different kinds -- then he chooses between the two,” Mike explained.

“I’m sorry, Wallace, I only have one kind of treat!”

Wallace looked at me like he didn’t think I was doing a very good job of this treat distribution business, but he ate it anyway.

I have met rescue dogs who are so shy I have to give the treat to their owner before they will eat it. I have met dogs who refuse to do tricks and say, “Just give me the darned treat and cut out the nonsense, would you?” I love them all.

Now dogs recognize me and tug on their leashes when they see me. I still miss having a dog but now, by the time I get home, my little treat bag is empty and I am filled with dog stories.

“Dog treats!” Peter says. “Wasn’t that the best idea ever?”

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

The raven nest was the big news this spring.

Our neighbor, Joe, who belongs to every social organization in town, found himself with very little to do. So, every afternoon, Joe parked himself in his Adirondack chair and watched the ravens -- frequently with a cocktail.

This pair of ravens got a late start, I thought. There was another pair I passed on my walk every day. They did some quick renovations on an existing nest and got right down to business. But this pair in our backyard seemed (like so many young couples) to realize a little late that they were going to need a home for their babies.

“Oh my gosh! We better get building a nest!” They frantically began collecting sticks to build the giant structure about 60 feet in the air, in the crown of the neighboring pine tree. Then, one day not too long later, we could hear the unmistakable sound of baby ravens demanding food.

From then on, it was a nonstop show, with parents madly flying back and forth trying to keep their demanding brood fed. That is when Joe began his permanent residency in the blue Adirondack chair. Both my husband, Peter, and Joe are retired, and the raven nest is between our houses. Comparing raven notes became the new thing that replaced all the other things Joe and Peter used to do.

It was last Saturday night that everything went wrong.

Peter woke up around midnight to the sound of ravens screaming.

“What’s going on out there?” Peter asked. After a terrific lot of noise, the commotion died down. But then, just before sunrise, it started up again and this time, it even woke me. It sounded like there was a war happening in the backyard.

The next morning, the nest was vacant.

“What happened?” Peter wondered. Nothing good for the ravens, that was for sure.

There were no more baby ravens screaming for food, no more parents flying back and forth, no more pairs of ravens flying at sunset. The sky was empty -- except for hummingbirds, but they don’t really count.

Peter wrote to a friend who used to be an animal control officer in town. He said it could have been a hawk or an eagle or an owl. He said ravens were ferocious fighters, and they might have moved the chicks to another location.

But I talked to our neighbor down the street who knows all about the world of birds. “Great horned owl,” he said, and he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

“There are two pair in the neighborhood. Ravens are very vulnerable in the nest. A great horned owl can kill a skunk with no problem. The middle of the night is when they do their work.” He did not think the little ravens had survived the night.

“There’s a whole world of things going on with birds that I never guessed,” I told him. “And it’s violent!” My neighbor agreed.

I brought the news home to Peter. He nodded. He didn’t really think the raven chicks made it either. Peter calls it the “Saturday night massacre” and he still watches the nest in the evenings. No one is there.

I lay in bed last night with the window open. The wind was strong and I could hear it blowing through the pine trees. I thought about all the things happening right in my backyard that I would never know about. I thought about all the dangers I never considered -- just because they were not a danger to me.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION