I’ve always loved librarians.

I remember my first school librarian. Her name was Mrs. Scheau, and she rode a bicycle to school, back when this was still a novelty. She wore a plaid skirt every day, and she was enormously kind.

I had no idea how to find a book I would like to read (and isn’t this still a challenge?), but Mrs. Scheau would always have a suggestion when I walked in.

“What should I read next, Mrs. Scheau?” And she would hand me the next book.

I remember the feeling of getting those books from the library and putting them in my book bag (school backpacks were not yet in vogue). We were not allowed to read in class, and we were not allowed to read at recess, so I had to wait until I got home to open the book. I remember that anticipation, the feeling that there was a treasure waiting for me under the protective plastic cover.

Recently, I noticed I was not reading at all. I don’t know how this happened, but my attention span shortened to the point where I couldn’t seem to read more than a few hundred words at a time. When I was tired, it was so much easier to watch a late-night comedian or a short documentary or browse Facebook. Before I knew it, it was time to go to bed, and I hadn’t watched or read anything I cared about or would remember.

“Does anyone know of a book club I could join?” I wrote on a community Facebook page.

It should not have surprised me that the person who wrote back (within minutes!) was a retired librarian, Katy.

“We have one you can join. I’ll send you the info!”

Just like that, I was the member of a book club. What I did not realize until the first meeting was that this book club was comprised almost entirely of retired librarians.

It’s called the “Any Book Book Club” because there is no assigned reading. Everyone just shows up and reviews whatever book they read that week. Because they are librarians, the books they read are interesting and diverse. An added bonus is that, on Zoom, I get a peek into the librarians’ houses, filled with books. And they are almost always enthusiastic.

“It’s such a good book!” Bernadette, one of the most enthusiastic of the librarians will say every week -- sometimes more than once. “And the library has it!”

Katy, the leader of the group, says, “It doesn’t matter what you read, but you have to read something!”

I’m still finding it hard to read. I’ve had to miss a couple meetings because I got no reading done that week. But most of the time now -- when I am tempted to watch late-night television or catch up on cat videos -- I think of my panel of librarians, earnestly talking about the books they love, and I go to my chair and make it past the first few hundred words until I am happily lost again in a good book.

This week, I am reading a sad book. It is beautifully written and brings me into a world I would never have seen if the book had not taken me. I know I will cry before the book is finished.

I am already looking forward to holding the book in front of the camera on my computer, showing my little panel of librarians the cover, and telling them enthusiastically, “It’s such a good book!”

And then I’ll ask them, “What should I read next?”

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 taking no chances.

I knew this about him before I married him. Peter has a plan for everything and a plan in case the first plan doesn’t pan out. My father would call this “belt and suspenders” planning. Peter’s been walking around in a belt and suspenders ever since I’ve known him.

Peter’s planning has made surviving the pandemic a lot easier than it would have been otherwise. We never run out of anything. That might sound impossible, but it’s almost true. Peter buys everything in quantity and notices when supplies start to run low. This allowed us to adopt the “Every Other Week Grocery Buying Plan.”

Occasionally, I would consume more milk than Peter had estimated, and we had to dash out to the local convenience store. This prompted Peter to create the “Powdered Milk Back-Up Plan.”

“Powdered milk is great!” Peter said.

I don’t know if powdered milk is great, but it’s better than no milk at all.

Peter is also the one who tried to enlist me in the “Hiking Pole Plan.” I resisted mightily. I first saw hiking poles about a decade ago, used almost exclusively by people walking on dry sidewalks where they seemed entirely unnecessary.

“That’s the dumbest thing ever,” I declared. Then I met Peter. Peter was enthusiastic about hiking poles.

“They’ll catch you if you slip!” Peter said. “You could fight off a dog -- or even a bear -- if you were attacked!” Peter had lots of good reasons I should adopt the “Hiking Pole Plan” and I wasn’t buying any of them.

“How would I talk?” I asked him. “I need my hands to talk and, if I had hiking poles, I wouldn’t be able to say a word!”

Peter did not seem to think this was such a terrible idea.

But then one day we got a lot of snow and I decided to hike with ski poles. They were super helpful. By the time the snow melted, I had gotten used to them. I tried hiking poles. I liked them. I still haven’t had to fight off a bear, but I’ve been using them ever since.

“You see?” Peter said, “Aren’t they great?” The wonderful thing about Peter is that he never gloats when I come around to adopting his plan. He is just delighted.

Most of the time, however, Peter just pays close attention and plans accordingly. He notices what I am consuming, even if I don’t. If I suddenly start eating oatmeal and raisins, Peter takes note.

“You’re eating a lot of oatmeal and raisins!” Peter says, and starts ordering massive quantities of both.

If I stop eating something, Peter also notices. “You’re not eating peanut butter anymore!” he observes.

“Um, I guess not.”

“I better cancel our order. I had a case coming!”

I find this amazing. I also find it a great comfort. I honestly have no idea how much coffee or oatmeal or raisins or peanut butter I consume, but Peter does. (He told me I ate more than 40 pounds of raisins last year, which sounds preposterous!) All I know is that we never run out of anything -- not even milk.

“You take very good care of me,” I tell Peter.

“You take good care of me!” he always replies.

I don’t know if that’s true. But I know I appreciate him, and I’m much more willing to listen to his plans than I used to be.

I call this the “Letting Peter Take Care of Me Plan.”

And he’s right. Powdered milk isn’t that bad.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

A friend of mine told me something so amazing, I had to look it up to see if it was true.

In 1960, a series of experiments were done with flatworms in which a bunch of flatworms were taught where to find food. This was news all on its own, as the flatworm is not a species known for its scholastic aptitude. But that wasn’t the interesting part.

It got interesting when the educated flatworms were ground up and fed to flatworms who had no idea where the food was and, miraculously, the newly fed flatworms found food, guided by some internal knowledge given to them by their cannibalized brethren.

These studies were done before I was born, so I am probably the last person to learn that you can get smarter by eating someone who knows more than you.

I’m not sure what practical application this has for my life, but it leads me to believe that we really have no clue where our good ideas come from.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot as I am writing a book and I have no idea where the book came from. Traditional wisdom says we’re supposed to have an outline and develop characters and preferably do this all in advance so we know exactly where we’re headed before we begin writing.

My experience has been nothing like that.

I woke up with the trace of a story in my head -- an idea would be overstating it. I’m guessing I felt a little like that flatworm, with just a vague idea of where I ought to be going.

I’m not smart enough to be a researcher, and I suspect people will know a lot more about these things after I’m dead, but I sincerely believe in the flatworm principle.

For the record, I am not recommending cannibalism. But I am 100% convinced that our best ideas are probably not entirely our own -- at least not in the way we’re used to thinking about getting good ideas.

We like to dismiss intuition or a “sixth sense.” It’s not provable. No one has reliably located the nearest Waffle House using intuition in a double-blind study, so we don’t put much stock in it. But we also have no real understanding of where our good ideas do come from, which, considering how much we’ve studied the brain, is kind of amazing.

We study butterflies and we know they come out of the cocoon ready to fly thousands of miles without a map or instructions. No one teaches them. They have no GPS. They take no classes. But we find it unremarkable when they navigate their way to sunny southern California using a great deal of specific and detailed knowledge they never learned.

“Well, that’s butterflies!” people say.

And I have to answer, “So, why can’t I do anything half as impressive with a brain roughly 2000 times the size?”

I am not optimistic that I will ever do anything as remarkable as a butterfly.

And yet, over the course of the past year, I’ve been writing stories that seem as if they’ve already happened -- all I have to do is type them up -- and they show no sign of stopping. I am delighted, but I can’t help but wonder where these stories come from. That’s why I found this information about the flatworm so fascinating.

All I know is, in the past year, I started eating oatmeal every morning. I now think it is entirely possible that my oatmeal is smarter than I am.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION