Yesterday, I had a nice long Zoom chat with an old friend.

I know this is nothing remarkable these days, but it was the first time my friend Andrew had used Zoom and I was frankly a little surprised.

Andrew isn’t on Facebook. “It’s none of anyone’s business what I’m up to!” he tells me.

I don’t think Andrew is “up to” all that much, but he takes a particularly fierce view on privacy. He won’t buy groceries with his credit card if they are going to track what he buys.

“Why would you care if someone knows how much broccoli you’re buying?” I ask. “Maybe they’ll give you a coupon.”

“It’s none of their darned business how much broccoli I’m buying!” Andrew tells me.

He still has the same email account he’s had since the ‘90s. He still has the same telephone answering machine. He recently got a cellphone, but he doesn’t text. Andrew answers emails, but they take about as long as standard first-class mail to arrive and get a response. Still, it’s all worth it because he is a good friend and he always has a lot of interesting things to say -- once I get ahold of him.

Like nearly everyone else, Andrew has been a little lonely. He lives alone and his work doesn’t involve much human interaction. I usually see Andrew a couple of times a year when we go to visit my family. But that hasn’t happened this year and it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen for a while.

I was contacted by a mutual friend of ours on Facebook about having a Zoom chat with a bunch of high school buddies. I told him that would be fun and he should invite Andrew -- by email, of course. Andrew thought that sounded great and we decided to try out this Zoom thing in advance. That turned out to be a good idea.

Andrew didn’t use his real name (of course) so, for a time, I was looking at a blank screen that said, “GREAT.” But then he got the video working and he appeared in front of his bright kitchen window.

“Unmute,” I messaged him. He did. I still heard nothing. I called him on the phone. “I can’t hear you,” I told him. Then added, “Your hair is really short.”

“I cut it myself.”

“Well, your mic isn’t working.”

“I know I’ve used this microphone before!”

“Let’s see it.” Andrew waved the headset and microphone in front of the camera.

“Andrew, that is a really old headset.”

“It is not old!”

“Yup,” I told him, “that’s a collectible. I think maybe you should call up the folks at ‘Antiques Roadshow.’ I bet they’d be interested.”

“Ha, ha!” Andrew said. After several more tries he reluctantly admitted that the ancient microphone might not connect to his current computer.

“I guess I’ll need a new microphone,” he grumbled. “But we can still talk on the phone.”

And we did. We put our phones on speaker and we looked at one another in our monitors and we talked for a long time. I realized, once again and with force, how essential this connection is. It was so good to see my old friend’s face -- even if his camera was a little fuzzy, even if the light was shining rather brightly behind his closely shorn head.

“Oh my gosh! I’ve got to go,” I said, when I realized how long we’d been talking.

“We should do this again,” Andrew said.

“Yes!” I agreed.

We definitely need to do this again.

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 is now at war with the mice.

The mice (possibly with the assistance of a rat or two) have eaten the electrical wiring in our car causing extensive damage. The coating on the wires is apparently tasty. I don’t know any automobile engineers personally but, if I did, I would suggest that constructing a car out of tasty materials is probably not a great idea because now we have a lot of small creatures trying to eat our car, one piece at a time.

We are not alone. We’ve heard the neighbors complaining about the same problem and when we brought the car in to the mechanic -- every dashboard light flashing and any number of peculiar electrical malfunctions happening at once -- the mechanic was not surprised. They had just towed in a city vehicle that was in worse shape yet. When they lifted the hood, half a dozen rodents jumped out and ran around the shop.

“Those rats are making me rich!” the mechanic said, with a little more pleasure than seemed appropriate.

Peter is determined not to singlehandedly keep the mechanic in business and so he has been trying -- with limited success -- to keep the mice out of our car.

The good news is, Peter is very resourceful. The bad news is that Peter has a soft heart and a weak stomach. He does not want to use mousetraps. He says they are gruesome and that there are too many mice nibbling on the wires to make a difference. He wants to discourage the mice with a little less blood and gore.

That’s why he went with electrocution.

The “Rat Zapper” lures a mouse in with a tasty treat and then a battery zaps it to death. It seems to work pretty well. Peter has been hauling out a lot of victims. But Peter is not crazy about execution in any form, so he’s been studying up on the alternatives. Just yesterday, he invested in the “Under Hood Animal Repeller.”

According to the literature, the “Under Hood Animal Repeller” emits very loud noises that mice supposedly do not like and people cannot hear. I used to have something like this in my attic years ago, but they have obviously improved. This one hooks up to the car battery and automatically turns off if the battery gets low or the car is started. In addition to the loud “variable ultrasonic pulses” this device emits, it also has flashing LED strobe lights, “to create a hostile environment for rodents to live and nest, forcing them to flee from the protected area,” according to the pamphlet.

I’m going to tell you honestly, I have my doubts.

To me, it sounds as if this device is going to just frighten off all the middle-aged mice, looking for a quiet retirement community. “Too loud! Too bright! Let’s get out of here, Mother!”

But it sounds like it is designed to appeal to young, hungry mice, looking for a fun night out. “Loud music! Flashing lights! Party!” Peter says he’s going to install at least two, and I can easily imagine the mice club-hopping from one device to the other under the hood of our car.

We shall see. Peter and I do our best to peacefully co-exist, but these rodents are posing a challenge. Meanwhile, Peter keeps a watchful eye and the electrocution device keeps zapping away.

“I got another customer!” Peter announces cheerfully, at least once a day. I want to be supportive, but I’m not quite sure how to respond.

So, I just say, “Congratulations, Honey!”

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

Blue had been through a rough patch.

He was adopted from the shelter and then returned for unspecified reasons. That’s when Bill met him.

Blue is an Italian mastiff -- which means he is massive, just not quite as massive as an ordinary mastiff. I don’t know exactly what attracted Bill to Blue, but it’s not hard to understand. Blue is a very sweet boy. But he’d been through a lot.

Bill is still working from home most days, but he’s been going in on Wednesdays and that’s what Bill did the Wednesday before last, the first Wednesday after he adopted Blue.

That’s when Blue ate the door frame.

“Well, it stands to reason,” I told my husband, Peter. “A small dog chews up your socks when he’s anxious. A big dog eats the door frame.”

Bill asked if we could babysit Blue the next Wednesday and I was delighted. He brought Blue over and Blue watched Bill’s car drive off. That’s when Blue got a little anxious.

“It’s OK, Blue,” I said. “Bill is coming back.”

Peter distracted Blue by tossing goldfish crackers to him. Blue was a terrible catch. Every goldfish hit the ground, but Blue was happy to eat them once they did. He kept looking for Bill’s car.

“Let’s go inside, Blue!” I said, and Blue came upstairs to my writing room while Peter got ready for his hike. Blue nervously watched me and then Peter and then me again.

When Peter went on his walk, Blue began to cry. Peter was back a few minutes later because he forgot his phone. Blue greeted him like he’d been gone a month. After Peter left the second time, Blue relaxed a little. It appeared that people left this place and then they came back. It was worrisome, but maybe it would be OK.

Blue lay down on his bed, and he spent most of the morning watching me, making sure I didn’t go anywhere.

Every so often, I’d reach down and pet his worried forehead. “It’s OK, Blue,” I said. “Peter is coming back and then Bill is coming back and everything is going to be OK.”

But I wasn’t sure if I was the best person to be reassuring him -- because I’ve been Blue.

I’ve been anxious and worried and told myself that everything is going to be OK. Then I’ve replied, “That’s what you say. But how do I know for sure?”

When I think back on times I’ve been anxious, it’s hard to remember exactly what I was worried about because that is never the point. I’m just worried. Things don’t seem right. Things might not work out. I might have done something wrong. Maybe people will be unhappy with me. I know exactly what it feels like to be Blue.

But the next time I feel anxious, I have a new trick I’m going to try. I’m going to picture that big worried dog -- who has reason to worry, who has been through some worrisome things -- and say, “It’s OK this time. This time you are going to be fine.”

When Bill returned, Blue ran over to him and leaned his big head against him and wagged his tail.

“You see, Blue?” I said, “I told you everything was going to be fine.”

Then Blue did something I didn’t expect. He came over to me and leaned his head against me for a long moment. He wagged his tail. Then he returned to Bill.

You can think whatever you like. I’m going to believe that’s how Blue says, “Thank you.”

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION