Yesterday, I bought gladiolas. They are nearly three feet tall and bright fuchsia. It is safe to say they are the most exciting thing to appear at my desk in ages.

When I walked in the front door, my husband, Peter, said, “Oh my gosh.”

Translated, that means: “You have gone overboard on the flowers.” But Peter is too nice to say that.

I always have flowers on my desk. I used to feel guilty, spending good money on flowers every week. It seemed to me it was a little frivolous, an unnecessary expense like buying a coffee I could make at home or buying a book I could get at the library. Except, I can’t make flowers or check them out from anywhere. I sit at my desk all day and, almost all day, I am looking at my flowers.

My love for flowers probably comes from my mother. My mother is good about bringing flowers into the house although, being my mother, she always goes with the minimalist approach. Her flowers are tiny, and they are in a tiny vase. The whole thing is lovely in miniature, a sort of bonsai bouquet. I admire what my mother does. But I am not like that.

When the pandemic started, it was hard to get flowers. The floral section of the grocery store was closed. But then the bushes and flowering trees started to bloom, and I poached branches from the neighbors (usually with their permission) and put those on my desk. They shed something terrible, and most of the flowers were dead the next morning. But the next day I would go foraging again.

Later, my roses started to bloom and that was nice. But now my roses have taken a sabbatical, and so yesterday I went to the grocery store to buy more flowers.

I figured I’d end up with alstroemeria. They are always cheap because, amazingly, they can be shipped flat as a pancake and they bounce back into shape. It’s miraculous. Then they last for at least two weeks -- three weeks if they are very fresh. Restaurants love them for this reason. I think they are pretty, and I can get them year-round.

But then I saw the gladiolas.

Once a year, the gladiolas come into the store. They are huge and weird-looking and absolutely splendid. I should note, I have a small desk. One bunch of gladiolas fills all the available space at my desk, towers high above it, and forms a canopy over my coffee cup. Gladiolas are not a decoration on my desk; they are the main event.

So now I am writing under the looming spikes of the gladiolas and feeling more than usually happy. The best part about gladiolas is that they are only $4 a bunch. I can assure you that gladiolas provide far more than $4 worth of happiness.

Being at home so much these days has made me realize that I own a lot of things I do not need. Like everyone I know, I’ve been cleaning out closets and cupboards and finding lots of things that have no reason to be in my house or my life.

But this time has also made me appreciate the things that make me smile every day: a good cup of coffee, clean sheets, an uncluttered desk and flowers -- always flowers. Having flowers on my desk makes me feel special, as if every day is a little celebration.

And flowers do not lie. Because the truth is, even the most ordinary day is worth celebrating.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

The two women told me about the bear when I was on my hike.

They were on trail bikes and saw the bear in the direction I was headed. “It was scary!” one of the women said.

We were all a little nervous. There had been a bear attack just a few weeks earlier up on the ski hill. A couple had gone up to see the comet. They didn’t bring food. There were no bear cubs. There was no reason to think they were in any danger. They were just sitting and watching the sky when a bear attacked, seriously injuring the woman.

Their dog ran away, and folks assumed she would not make it through the night. Miraculously, the dog was found by some hikers the next morning, still trailing her leash. The woman was still recovering, and it was expected she would be for a full year.

This was on our minds, even though we were nowhere near where it had happened. We talked about how terrible things can happen, out of the blue, when no one is at fault.

“It’s scary to know something like that could happen!” one biker said.

I agreed, but asked her, “What are the options?”

If I’m going swimming in the ocean, I will research to see if there have been any sharks in the area. But if no one has been bothered in 100 years, I figure I’m not likely to be the first.

“It’s like getting hit by lightning,” I added. “We know it can happen, but we also know it is a small chance. I can’t remove all risk. I can just be smart, research the dangers, and live my life as safely as I can.”

The two women agreed. They were going to keep riding their bikes. But they were also going to keep their eyes open. I thanked them and said I would too.

I discovered the limits to my rational approach about 30 minutes later when I came upon a surprisingly large black bear.

First, I saw a deer take off right in front of me. It was scared of something and it wasn’t me. I looked up and saw the bear sitting quite close, right on the trail. The bear looked at me.

When I’ve seen bears before, they immediately run away. It’s good to know the bear is as scared of me as I am of it. The bear directly in front of me did not move.

I looked at the bear. The bear looked back at me.

I backed up, slowly, until I was several yards away. Then I made my way up a hill, to the cemetery, so I could do a big detour around the bear. The bear did not move.

“There’s a bear on the trail!” I told a man riding a bike, once I got to the cemetery.

“Really?” he said, then fell off his bike.

“Darn these toe clips!” he laughed.

We talked about how food was scarce for bears in the forest. I felt a lot calmer, just talking to someone about the bear. The next day, I was on the trail again.

But if I am going to tell the truth (and I try to), I was a little afraid. Because I do my best to be smart and be careful, and I count on my cleverness to keep me safe. And, of course, I never really am.

It is probably a good thing to remember -- no matter how clever or careful I think I am -- the bears are always there.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I’ve been reading to Lori.

Lori is my husband, Peter’s, older sister. She has cancer and has been battling it for a while now. She uses oxygen to help out and catching this virus would be terrible for her, so Peter and I are extra careful, in large part because I’d like to keep reading to Lori.

I’ve been writing a novel. It’s the first time I’ve written fiction, so I honestly don’t have any idea what I’m doing. It’s the sort of thing a person learns how to do by doing -- and so I’ve been doing it, pretty much alone, since the end of January. Except that, sometime in there, I started reading it to Lori.

Peter has been cooking. Peter is an excellent cook. I strongly recommend, if you are a writer and it’s not too late, you marry someone who cooks because sometimes I get so wrapped up in my imaginary little world, I forget about cooking meals and, when I come downstairs, Peter always has a pot of something on the stove. He’s good about things like that and, since about the first of the year, Peter has been bringing food to Lori.

Unlike me, Lori has a good excuse not to be cooking. She’s not always hungry and her diet is restricted and sometimes, she just doesn’t have the energy to think about making food. Peter brings over food and when he does, I read.

As this virus has stretched on, these days of reading have become more important to me and, I suspect, to all of us. Sometimes I dress up a little. It feels good to put on a sundress for a change. We sit outside on opposite sides of her deck. Lori’s husband, Robert, puts Peter’s food in the fridge, and we find out how Lori’s been feeling and what treatments she’s been on most recently.

“Shelley called,” Lori will say. And she’ll tell us about phone calls she’s had from family.

Then the conversation sort of winds down because, let’s face it, none of us are doing much these days. That’s when I’ll read a chapter or two.

Sometimes the neighbor mows the lawn and I have to speak up. Sometimes we get some competition from ravens squawking in the trees. Occasionally, a little rain comes in. Lori and Robert sit under the patio umbrella and Peter and I sit under the overhang of the house. We let the rain pass and I keep reading.

Lori laughs out loud -- which makes me happy. She laughs at both the funny and the gruesome parts. When I am finished, she and Robert ask questions and Robert (who is not generally a fiction reader) asks some excellent ones.

We leave before it gets too late. I have a hike to take. Lori gets tired. Robert needs to heat up whatever Peter has brought for dinner. And when I get home, I always feel better than when I left.

I’ve come to think of the little gatherings on Lori’s deck as a sort of distillation of everything we need as humans. We need nutritious food and we need to sit together and we need to share stories. And we need to laugh. We need to laugh a lot more than we have recently.

Over the next few days, I write a little more and Peter keeps on cooking, and we keep in touch with Lori by sending a text or two.

Then Peter will ask, “When would you like to read to Lori?”

“Anytime,” I say. “Any day that works for her.”

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION