"Do you have time for this?" my husband, Peter, asked.

Peter almost never questions what I'm doing unless I'm doing something particularly stupid. Yesterday, I had a meeting on Zoom. I figured I could finish my work, take my walk early, then run downtown and get my errands done all in time for my meeting.

"Sure!" I assured him. Peter looked skeptical. "Maybe I'll skip the stop at the hardware store," I added, to pacify him.

But the hardware store was right on the way, as I went from the library to the grocery store, so I dashed in, got my paint roller and potting soil, and dashed back out.

"Plenty of time!" I assured myself as I hit the grocery store, chose two graduation cards in record time, and grabbed wrapping paper, ribbon and a bunch of flowers.

It wasn't until then that I noticed there were people standing in the aisles.

"Why are people standing in the aisles?" I wondered. But I continued my high-speed chase and picked out two bags of grapes and six Honeycrisp apples.

Only when I had gathered everything from the four corners of the store did it dawn on me what those people were doing, standing in the aisles. They were waiting to check out.

"What?!" I said aloud, outraged.

"It's always like this at 4:30," a smiling fellow, standing in the seemingly endless line, said to me when he saw my face. "Half an hour earlier, there's no one in the store." Apparently, I had never been in the store at exactly 4:30 before.

"But ... I don't have time for this!" I said to no one who cared -- or could do anything about it.

I raced to return my items to the four corners of the store, zipped out to my car, and made it to my Zoom meeting in the nick of time. The meeting was about the benefits of meditation; the speaker started out by talking about how meditation could alleviate stress.

The irony was not wasted on me.

I used to judge how well I had spent my time by how many items I had checked off my "to-do" list. If I arrived somewhere five minutes early, I figured there was something I could have done with those five minutes and then arrived on time -- or maybe just a minute or two late, since everyone else would be late anyway. I felt gratified when I beat the clock, skidded in at the last possible moment, got more done than seemed possible. I used to think that when I was bathed in adrenaline, I was the most alive.

Now I think it's OK to have time to spare.

Because I've realized that it's only in those times when I don't need to hurry that I notice what is going on around me. Unexpected ideas occur. I see funny things. I have time to talk to people I meet. I take the time to stop and listen. I learn things. None of this happens if I am racing across the store in an effort to set the world record for the speediest purchase of a greeting card.

Manufactured emergencies are not the real thing. If the need arises to run from a predator, I'm pretty sure I'll still be able to do it. Purchasing wrapping paper should not rely on survival instincts.

"The store was crazy!" I told Peter. But really, it was me who was crazy.

Today I will go back to get my apples. I will make my selection carefully. I will have time to spare.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

A cousin of mine reportedly said, “I can’t imagine living in a house where other people have lived!”

I don’t know if she really said this, as I heard the story secondhand. But it stuck in my mind because every home I’ve owned has been lived in by other people, and a few people have died in them as well. So far, this has not bothered me in the least.

I’m used to living in the homes of dead people.

The first house I bought was owned by a woman named Ruby. She was still living there when I bought it, but she wasn’t doing very well. She had outlived two husbands in the house, so I suppose there’s a better-than-even chance at least one of them died there.

Ruby finally had to move to a nursing home after she showed up at the neighbor’s door a few times without clothes. As she had no children, the responsibility for finding her more suitable accommodations fell to her niece. I have no children, so I expect my niece, Isabelle, might be performing this duty for me sometime in the future. (She recently turned 18 and has that to look forward to.)

My only other real home is the one I’ve been living in with my husband, Peter. The neighbors say “three witches” lived in the house before the man we bought it from. I don’t know if this is true, and no one seems to know much about them.

But now we are moving into a new condo, and I know much more about it because it had only had one other resident. Her name was Elizabeth and, like Ruby, she lived there alone, although unlike Ruby, there is no record of any husbands, dead or alive.

Elizabeth bought the condo when it was built, more than 40 years ago, and she died in it. I know this because I looked up her obituary, and it said she “died at home,” so I have to suppose she died in the home we now own.

Elizabeth seems like a lovely person, judging from her obituary. Of course, most people sound nice in their obituaries. I’m going to have to ask Isabelle to say something nice about me when she gets around to writing mine. (A person doesn’t turn 18 without acquiring some responsibilities.)

I’ve been thinking about Ruby and Elizabeth as Peter and I work to renovate this new condo. The walls had been painted and some new flooring put in, but pretty much everything else was as Elizabeth left it. The appliances are old. We’ve already replaced the countertop and had the cabinets repainted and put in shiny new sinks. I don’t think Elizabeth would recognize the place. But I hope she’d be pleased.

Because, unlike my cousin, I very much like the idea of Elizabeth living in my home before me. I like that she was so happy here that she never chose to leave. I’m glad she didn’t show up at the neighbor’s naked and have to find another home. (Although I don’t know this for sure. It’s possible she just didn’t have a dutiful niece like Ruby did and I do.)

And even without the yellowing 1980s bath fixtures and the chipped countertop, I would like to think there is a little of Elizabeth around. It makes me feel as if I have an invisible friend, looking at the same sun shining in the same windows, seeing the same view, living our overlapping lives without ever getting the chance to meet.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I just learned that my ex-husband has remarried. I learned this as we learn about all important life milestones these days: on Facebook.

There were photos taken in the Caribbean. My ex-husband and his new bride were walking barefoot on the beach. She was carrying her shoes and their feet were wet and probably the most surprising thing to me was how sincerely I wished them well.

It is common practice to offer our best wishes when we are actually wishing nothing of the kind.

“Well!” we might say, in an exasperated tone of voice, “I wish them well!” Or even, “I wish them well with that!” Which tips one’s hand even more and makes it clear the speaker has no realistic expectation of anything going well, or any particular wish that it should.

I’m not going to deny that I have harbored all these feelings.

But I won the second-marriage Powerball when I met my husband, Peter, a man of steadfast emotions and good habits and a brand of kindness that makes my heart hurt. I feel beyond fortunate to have found, at this relatively late stage in life, a partner who is so well-suited to me, who tolerates my quirks and shortcomings and takes such very good care of me. It is hard to wish anyone anything but the best when I have everything I could ever want.

This is my ex-husband’s third marriage, and they say the third time is the charm. I’m not sure if this applies to marriages as much as other things, but it sounds hopeful. Remarriage is also described as “the triumph of hope over experience,” which sounds a little snarky, even if it was said by Samuel Johnson in 1791. Clearly, the current century has no monopoly on the snark department.

But I am a big believer in hope, and also in change. And although I’ve not seen my ex-husband in quite some time, even looking at the photos, I can tell he has changed and I would imagine that he is hopeful. He does not look like the person I used to know, and I can’t imagine why I would wish this virtual stranger anything but the best in his marriage to the woman with sandy feet and a huge smile standing beside him.

My ex-husband’s smile is a bit more restrained. Perhaps he was thinking of Samuel Johnson at the time, or perhaps he didn’t like getting his pant cuffs wet in the surf. It is impossible for me to know. And I guess that’s the point.

None of us will ever know what goes on in the head of another person. I generally tend to believe what people tell me. Being a person who loves words, I stubbornly insist that what someone says must be the truth, actions to the contrary.

Late in life, I have come to the realization that people say all sorts of things that are not strictly true, and it doesn’t mean they are bad people or they are lying. It just means their actions don’t live up to their words, for one reason or another. Small deceptions grow larger until there is really no containing them. Unexpected developments intervene. Unruly emotions overturn the most fervent intentions. This is what happened to me, but it was a long time ago now.

It involved a virtual stranger who was recently spotted on a beach in the Caribbean with wet pant cuffs and, honestly, I wish him well.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION