My husband, Peter, is looking around our empty living room.

“I’ll always have good memories of this place.”

“I will too,” I assure him.

We are packing up the last of our possessions and heading across the country in a few days. We won’t be coming back.

This is the home Peter bought as a single person, when he retired a bit early. He wasn’t sure how much he could afford, but he bought this condo in the town where his sister, Lori, lived, sight unseen.

Lori drove by the house and sent him a text. “Buy it!” she told him. Lori was his bossy older sister, and so he did. He never regretted it.

But now Lori is gone, and we have decided to move closer to my parents and Peter’s family. All our furniture has been sent ahead of us and we have been more or less camping in our home. It has not been as hard as I feared, sleeping on a futon and eating off a few leftover plates, as Peter painstakingly prepares the house for sale. Peter ran a summer camp as a young man and this home is like his campsite; he wants to leave it better than he found it.

And Peter is sad. He has not even seen our new place yet, so he is moving into a foggy, unknown future, and I know that is hard for him. I took some pictures when I was there, with our furniture in place. I told him how quiet it was, how there were church bells ringing in every direction, how friendly everyone was, and how nice the grocery store was. Peter believes me, but it’s not quite real. This place is real, and so is his sadness in leaving.

Change brings a combination of sadness and excitement. Peter and I are both a little sad but both -- in our way -- looking forward to the move.

“I will enjoy it, once I get there,” Peter assures me. He knows himself and he knows what he likes. Most of all, he knows we enjoy our life together and we will be together.

And, while I am excited, I wonder how many new homes, if any, I will have in my life.

I was there when my grandmother moved into her final home. She was 99 and her health had finally begun to slip. She moved into a place that, while it was not called a nursing home, certainly was. There was a bed and a dresser, a handful of personal items, a couple of chairs for visitors, and little else in her room. She had to know (as we all did) that this was the last place she would live.

I felt the sadness and the finality of it, but that feeling did not have long to settle because, as my grandmother was wheeled into the room, she looked out the window at a brilliant red maple tree.

“Oh!” my grandmother said, “Would you look at that tree!”

Our eyes left the drab little room, and we looked out at the tree, caught in the afternoon light, a brilliant blaze of red outside her window.

I think that is how she got to be 100 years old.

My grandma always looked for the good in change, even at the end, even when the change could not be a harbinger of anything but the end. Because even at the end, there was a brilliant red maple tree to look forward to. There was something beautiful. There were still good memories to be made.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

Tanner wasn’t waiting for me at the fence yesterday.

Dakota and Tanner, my two oldest dogs, are always waiting for me at the chain-link fence. Dakota can’t hear and doesn’t see well, so she stays close to the fence in the afternoon when I walk by in order to collect her treat. Tanner really can’t see or hear at all, so he keeps close to Dakota. Yesterday he wasn’t there.

The thing about giving out dog treats is that, even though I have a relationship with all these dogs, I don’t know much about them.

“Where is your brother?” I once asked a long-legged hound that I always met with her sibling.

“We had to put him down yesterday,” the hound dog’s owner said, as his eyes filled with tears.

“Oh! I’m sorry. That was sudden,” I said.

He nodded and wiped his eyes. The now-single hound looked up at me with big sad eyes, as if she knew what we were talking about. It was sudden for everyone.

Today I am worried about Tanner. He’s 14, and it pulls at my heart the way he takes his treat so gently. He cannot see my hand. His teeth are old and worn. His muzzle is gray. He is so old and kind and careful. And yesterday, he was missing.

My heart was already tender.

My husband Peter’s oldest sister, Shelley, has been in and out of the hospital for more than two months. She has made it out as far as rehab, and then had to go back to the hospital for more surgeries, more infections, more trouble.

Peter is still grieving the loss of his other sister, Lori, who died of cancer just this spring. He is worried -- we are both so worried -- about Shelley.

I try not to ask Peter, “Any news on Shelley?” because he would tell me if there was. And so I go for my walk and always in the back of my mind I’m wondering about Shelley. And then, yesterday, Tanner was missing.

“Where is Tanner?” I asked Dakota, as she ate her treat. She did not answer. I could tell she thought she should get a second treat, since I had another one in my hand, ready.

“This treat is for Tanner!” I told her. But she kept staring at me, giving me no clue where he might be.

I used to think bad news was the hardest thing to bear. Now I’m not sure if no news isn’t a little worse. No news is a constant buzzing. It is hopeful one moment and doom-filled the next. It is pain and fear mixed together. It is the anticipation of loss, and it causes me to see ill omens and sadness everywhere.

There is still no news on Shelley. Her son and daughter-in-law can’t know any more than the doctors, and the doctors don’t know what is happening. She is tired. She is sad. I imagine she must be lonely. All we know is that she does not call and her voicemail is full and that is not like Shelley.

I brought a couple of extra-large treats with me on my walk today. When I got to Tanner’s house, there was only one dog waiting outside. It was Tanner.

I hollered at him to no avail. I jumped up and down and waved my arms and finally caught his eye. He tottered over.

“Oh, Tanner. It’s so good to see you,” I told him.

“What’s the big deal?” he seemed to say.

Sometimes no news is the best news of all.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

"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