I know I am not the only one having travel fantasies.

My husband, Peter, and I were not planning to do a lot of traveling in the past year. That was our plan, and we certainly made good on it. We didn’t realize at the time that “not a lot of traveling” would mean a bi-weekly trip to the grocery store. Like a lot of folks, we’ve been tracking how many months we’re getting on a gallon of gas.

Now, however, traveling is sounding better all the time.

My parents are also making travel plans. Over the past year, they decided to sell the little cottage they have in Florida. Instead, they have a list of places they’d like to take their RV.

“There are too many other places we want to go!” My mother explained.

A year of sitting in their cabin has made them realize how many places there are to see and how little time there is to see them.

It’s true. A year of sitting and watching the months fly by makes a person realize how quickly the time passes. Sometimes, without the normal milestones, I completely lose track of time. I’ve caught myself glancing out the window with a feeling of panic, looking at the trees to give me a clue what season it is. (I am embarrassed to admit this -- but now I have.)

Peter’s oldest sister, Shelley, lost her husband to Alzheimer’s early in the pandemic. She’s now living with her son and daughter-in-law, waiting for a return to something like normal before finding a place of her own. She missed the trip to Norway two years ago, where Peter and a bunch of his older cousins all went to the small town his grandfather emigrated from. We met the Norwegian relatives who still live there, and they were unbelievably welcoming. It’s a sweet town, nestled in the mountains, sitting on a river, miles away from any major city.

“I think we should go back,” I told Peter. “And I think we should bring Shelley.” Peter liked the idea.

So, the next day, we called up Shelley. She had just gotten home from a dental appointment and had a sore mouth.

“Shelley! You are coming with us to Norway in September 2022!”

I held my breath, but I didn’t have to wait long.

“OK!” she said.

And, yes, it is more than a year and a half away, but it still feels wonderful to have a plan to go somewhere other than the grocery store. Just thinking about seeing a new landscape fills me with excitement.

Later in the day, I went for the hike I take every afternoon. It seems as if I’ve seen every tree along the way, noticed every rock, and as I walked, I thought how nice it would be to hike in completely unfamiliar surroundings.

But just as I was thinking this, I stopped and looked at the tree directly in front of me, caught in the afternoon light. I don’t remember ever really looking at it before. It’s a beautiful tree, in a forest of beautiful trees, and I have walked by it thousands of times without giving it a second look.

“You are a beautiful tree,” I told it (just in case it was listening).

Norway will be wonderful, I am sure. And I am sincerely looking forward to more travel in the coming year. But as I stood before that one beautiful tree, I promised myself I would try to pay more attention to the place I am visiting now -- right here, today.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I remember, a long time ago, when I used to have a social life.

My husband, Peter, and I have been visiting his sister, Lori, once a week while she battles cancer. She was in yesterday for another radiation treatment, and we are waiting to hear if she will be feeling well enough for a visit this weekend. And so we stay home, as we have since March of last year.

Lately, we have taken to picking up our groceries at the curb. I was skeptical. I’d never had another person choose my broccoli for me. They did a surprisingly good job, and it’s one more thing we can do to feel a little safer while visiting Lori. But it’s also a little sad because the grocery store is the only place I go.

Now, I go nowhere except on my long daily walk and to visit Lori. And the only person who comes to our house is our neighbor, Yvonne, and the dog, Remington.

Yvonne’s dad is 90 and frail. He hasn’t been out of his house other than for a couple of doctor appointments and the occasional drive around town. Yvonne is keeping extra safe so she can bring him meals and groceries. Yvonne just retired and thought she’d be going places and doing things she couldn’t do while she was working. Instead, she’s walking her son’s dog, Remington.

Our twice-weekly visits from Remington have become the center of our social life.

Yvonne rings the doorbell and then steps back off the stoop. But Remington strains on his leash in anticipation. Yvonne confirms these visits are the highlight of his week.

Peter makes a wonderful smoked salmon, and we save the skin for Remington. I bring it out on a plate, along with a bowl of water. Remington eats the salmon and has a drink and then waits, poised, for the entertainment.

Entertaining Remington has become an elaborate affair.

Peter brings out exactly six “pub snacks,” which are crackers he has renamed “pup snacks.” He tosses them high in the air and Remington catches them. Peter calls this Remington’s “circus trick,” and Yvonne and I cheer wildly every time Remington catches a cracker. You can see Remington’s fierce concentration as he performs for three adults, focused on his performance. It’s a lot of pressure for one young dog, becoming the center of three adults’ social calendar.

This routine has become so firmly established that, one day, I was late with the salmon and Peter tossed the crackers before its arrival. Remington was visibly confused but caught the crackers. Then, one by one, he carefully placed them on the step to eat after the salmon because he knew that was the way it was supposed to be done.

And all the while we have been entertaining Remington, we have missed important milestones, experiences we will never have, moments lost forever.

My parents are in their 80s and I missed both their birthdays. My niece turned 18, which is impossible to believe. I hardly recognize my nephew on Zoom. He seems to have grown a foot and his voice has changed. I have missed attending the theater, missed seeing the ocean, missed entertaining friends, missed going to restaurants, missed hugging my family. And those are just things I know I have missed.

Meanwhile, Remington competes twice weekly for the title of “World’s Best Circus Dog,” my only live entertainment for the past 11 months.

“See you soon!” Yvonne says when she leaves.

“Goodbye, Remington!” I say, and Remington leaves, tail wagging.

I hope he comes back soon.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I am not exactly a connoisseur of contemporary culture.

I haven’t seen the latest series on Netflix or anything else. I don’t follow Twitter or Snapchat or Instagram. But somehow, a TikTok phenomenon came to my attention that I found too delightful to ignore.

Sea shanties are all the rage among Generation Z.

“Sea shanties?” I thought. “That can’t be right.”

But I checked it out and, yes, teens and young 20-somethings are singing sea shanties on TikTok, and listeners add their own harmonies and instrumentation. The arrangements get more and more interesting and complex as they are passed around the globe.

I can’t help feeling that a lot of long-dead sailors would be very pleased.

I’ve never been a fan of whaling songs. I famously boycotted the singing of one in my elementary school music class. But these TikTok shanties don’t seem to be as bloody as the ones sung in second grade. If there is a whale mentioned at all, it frequently wins, dragging the sailors down with it into the deep sea, never to be seen again. Most of the songs are about loneliness and danger and the endless waiting for supplies to come. “Sugar and tea and rum,” it seems, are always in short supply.

The fellow who kicked the latent love of sea shanties into high gear is an unassuming young postal worker from Scotland named Nathan Evans. He and his new bride are living in a relative’s spare bedroom and, when not delivering parcels, he has been putting music videos online. He was more surprised than anyone when one of them, a song originating from New Zealand in the 1850s, went viral.

Within days, his song was heard by millions, and dozens of variations and embellishments had sprung up online, as more sea shanties were recorded every day. I love the idea that these songs, which predate recording, are making a comeback. But I have to wonder why these historic maritime songs have captured the collective imagination of young people today.

Maybe being in the midst of a pandemic that drags on, confined to close quarters, with the world seeming more than usually unknowable, these 20-somethings feel a bit like lost sailors, battling the ravages of a storm-swept sea. Maybe there is a bit of nostalgia for a time when songs served as a rare means of connection, proliferating in the 1800s as they do on TikTok today, traded in ports and spread around the world.

Whatever the reason, the result is great fun. I occasionally post a new sea shanty on Facebook, which my aging peers completely ignore. (That’s OK. I figure you have to be a little hip to enjoy 200-year-old sailing songs.)

I’m mesmerized by the earnest faces of these young singers from all over the world, most of them trapped in the bedrooms of their parents’ homes. I watch them belting out these tunes, singing about a time that predates their great-grandparents, filling these songs with a new life and meaning and making them their own.

It somehow makes me optimistic. It makes me believe that beautiful things find a way to survive, that good stories will keep being told, and that the hardships we endure are never completely forgotten as long as there are stories and music.

Mr. Evans was asked why he thought his song had struck such a chord at this particular time. “Maybe it’s giving everybody that sense of unity and friendship that we’ve all been missing for about a year now,” he said.

I think he may have nailed it.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION