It’s our anniversary, and Peter and I will be celebrating, like everyone has this past year, the best we are able.

We have not yet won the vaccine lottery. I recently received a note from the health department that basically said, “Don’t get your hopes up.” Newspaper columnists are not, apparently, considered essential workers and, of course, I am not. Meanwhile, we continue to visit my sister-in-law, Lori, whose health remains precarious.

So our anniversary celebration this year will not be spent going to a restaurant or a hot spring or a hotel in town. Instead, we are having cheese fondue on the patio.

Facebook (which knows everything) knew it was our anniversary and made a video of Peter and me. Since we rarely take pictures at home, all the pictures were taken somewhere far away. It was surprising, being reminded of all the places we have been, all the occasions we have celebrated in the last six years.

My closet is filled with dresses and skirts that have not seen the light of day for a year. They look like artifacts from another era. I won’t be wearing a dress today either. But we are having cheese fondue.

The sun is out, but it is still March, so we’ll dress warm. Peter will heat up the cheese in a little electric pot. And for dessert, we’ll have pumpkin cake with his mother’s burnt butter frosting. I think it will be a memorable anniversary -- and memories are tricky things, in my experience.

Sometimes I feel as if I’ve forgotten nearly everything I’ve ever done. I am so caught up in the present moment and the present day. Even 10 years ago seems like another lifetime. In many ways, it is.

I realize I am becoming more and more like my grandmother.

One evening, toward the end of her life, I watched her listen to a long-winded story her brother told about the perfect baked potato. My Great-Uncle John was looking at the potato he had just been served and reminiscing about what a good potato should look like, how they used to make them in a Chicago restaurant, decades ago.

I could see my grandmother’s growing impatience with this story about long-ago potatoes, and finally she burst out, “John! That potato is 50 years old!”

My grandmother lived a long time, and I believe she enjoyed most of it, in large part because she didn’t spend much time on old potatoes.

Life changes and people move on, and that’s not a bad thing. Living in the past doesn’t make the best use of my brain or my limited time on earth. In general, I’m satisfied with the few scattered and fragmented memories I’ve hung onto.

But this past year will be one I will remember.

There will be all the years that happened before, and there will be this year. We will remember this anniversary for being the one we didn’t go out (at least, not farther than the patio). It’s been the year of small celebrations. It’s been the year of cheese fondue.

Sometime later this year, I will wear a fancy dress somewhere. I will put on shoes with heels, and I’m sure it will feel odd, having lived in the equivalent of pajamas all year. We’ll go out, and we’ll see people and eat in a restaurant. We have all that to look forward to.

But today we are having cheese fondue.

And I’ll remember this anniversary better than most because it was different. And because we celebrated the best we were able.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I’ve never been a fan of March.

March is supposedly spring, but we all know it’s not. In much of the country, more snow falls in March than any other month. But it doesn’t have the courtesy to stay. March snow falls, makes us shovel it, then turns into a sloppy mess in three days. It becomes slush, mixed with mud. The sky stays gray. And all the ... things (you know what I mean), things that were buried in previous snowfalls ... all those things come to light. Whatever they were, they are never better for having spent a few months under the snow. I don’t need to describe them. You know what I’m talking about.

March is filled with disappointment. Too early for things to bloom, too late for a frosty day, March is a party that is never going to happen, an event canceled in advance. I am an optimistic person by nature, but March always gets me down.

It seems nonsensical, but autumn is a more cheerful season. Things are dying, but they do it so colorfully! The air is crisp, and there will be celebrations and bonfires and new sweaters to wear.

What do you wear in March? Something you don’t mind getting muddy, that is my advice. You might as well wear those pants you plan on tossing out as soon as it is warm enough. Wear them with the boots that already have a hole in the toe. Your feet will get wet anyway. There is nothing you can do. It’s March.

I realize this is not turning into an uplifting column. I do not feel inspired by March; it is true.

But maybe that is because March is when big changes start to happen, and big changes are often not pretty.

Starting a new habit, ending a bad one, getting rid of something that is not working and replacing it with something that works better -- none of these things are pretty. Change is messy and fraught with mistakes, and it doesn’t look or feel easy or glamorous. June is easy and glamorous. March is clumsy and embarrassing and lonely and dull.

Maybe that’s why we need it.

Because change is necessary. The trees need it, and insects need it, and people need it most of all. We need to slough off the old stuff that isn’t doing us any good anymore, and we need to awkwardly embrace the new stuff we want to become a part of our life. And we can’t do that without some mud and some melting and some unpleasant discoveries under the snow.

I was thinking about butterflies recently, how they start out as caterpillars and emerge with brand-new, beautiful wet wings. Then they take off and fly to another continent like they know exactly what they are doing -- because they do. I admire everything about that. I admire their beauty, and assurance, and their ability to transform themselves.

But my sister-in-law, Lori, recently reminded me of something that I either didn’t know or had forgotten.

“When they are in the chrysalis, they dissolve,” she told me. “Their entire body turns to mush! If you open the chrysalis too soon, they never get wings.”

I realized I’ve been admiring butterflies for all the wrong reasons.

I’ve been admiring those beautiful wings after all the work is finished. I never stopped to think how it would feel to be mush inside a dark cocoon, making a change that will transform a worm into a magical creature.

Now I’m thinking, maybe that is what March is for.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

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