I’m not sure when a house becomes a home, but I don’t think we’re quite there yet.

My husband, Peter, and I have moved into the new place. All our stuff is here, but that doesn’t mean we know where anything is.

“Have you seen the strainer?”

“Which strainer?”

“You know, the fine one.”

“No.”

We have about two dozen conversations like this every day. We got rid of a lot of stuff and now it’s hard to remember what we kept. Then I unpacked by myself, so Peter had to go on a scavenger hunt when he got here. Finally, we had the “last-minute essentials” we brought with us, and we’re still unpacking those. It’s a jumble. Peter was convinced (unreasonably, I assured him) that every T-shirt he owned had mysteriously been lost in the move.

“I found them!” I heard him yell from the bedroom. “Mystery solved!”

I am realizing how much I do on autopilot. I reach for a soap dispenser that isn’t there. “Do I even have a soap dispenser?” I wonder.

I look in a likely box and notice something I’d forgotten about and I put that away and, when I do, I notice something else in a drawer where it shouldn’t be and I move it. Suddenly, I find I am standing in the middle of the kitchen with no idea what I’m doing there.

“The soap dispenser!” I remind myself. I end up using the bar of soap in the bathtub.

Then there are all the things we need contractors to do. Nobody is excited about renovating an old condominium when there is so much new construction going on, so my day is spent wheedling contractors to come over. We need electrical fixtures installed, we need the flooring repaired where a bump has developed, and we’d like to replace the old yellow bathtub. Since I am better at wheedling than Peter, I make these calls. I have particular success if the contractor is married and I can wheedle his wife. I did that this morning and got the electrician, George, to come out in less than an hour.

It was a busy morning. In addition to George, a self-described “handyman” named Steve visited. Steve the handyman turned out to be quite handy and will be helping us out. George the electrician, however, turned out not to be an actual electrician, which was disappointing -- especially after I had had such a friendly chat with his wife. Not to mention, his card said “electrical contractor” across the top.

“Nope,” George said. “I can’t do that.” Oh well.

Meanwhile our little balcony (which is the best part of the whole place) is closed off for painting and maintenance.

“How much maintenance can a balcony take?” I asked Peter. Apparently quite a lot, as they have scaffolding running up the building and yellow ribbon running across the balcony like the scene of a crime.

“Don’t worry,” Peter says. “It will all get done.”

And, of course, he is right. We will get rid of the bump in the floor (which seems to be growing) and we will get to enjoy our balcony and we will have our electrical fixtures installed by someone who is actually an electrician. But for now, I am looking forlornly out at the forbidden balcony and wondering when this will feel like home.

We showed George the bathtub, and he said he could replace it. I think my next call will be to a plumber to see if he’d like to install some lighting fixtures.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

It was a good party.

Of course you would expect me to say that, since it was our going-away party and I am bound to be biased. But there were six dogs and plenty of food and lots of laughter and some tears and even a little barking and if that doesn’t qualify as a good party, I don’t know what does.

Jake, the mixed-breed pup who showed up first, was pretty chill when the entire family of border collies showed up -- all on leashes and looking like they owned the place. The border collies were delighted to see me because they had previously only seen me in their yard, handing out treats. It was like a colossal dog joke, seeing the Treat Lady in a totally different place. They were grinning from ear to ear and Jake decided they were OK.

But when the two wheaten terriers showed up, that was two dogs too many. Jake went crazy barking and his owner had to leave, which was sad. But the wheatens stayed, and they even performed “Who Let the Dogs Out” which their owner played on his phone while they barked along in time.

I was worried about the food because our kitchen is empty so this was a “Bring Your Own Everything” affair. I called my neighbor in a panic the morning of the party.

“Nancee! Should I buy potato salad? Should I make some garlic bread?”

“Why?” Nancee asked.

“I’m afraid there won’t be enough food! I have no idea what anyone is bringing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nancee said.

This was not Nancee’s first rodeo, so I trusted her. That evening, the table was completely covered with food. There wasn’t room for dessert until people ate up some of the salads and breads and chips and dips.

Charles, who is 85 and whose wife just died, came from across the street.

“How are you, Charles?” I asked.

“I’m sad!” he announced. “I’ve lost 15 pounds!”

“I’m so sorry, Charles,” I told him. “You better have more pasta salad.” And he did.

There were stories told and lots of laughs and I realized I knew more people than I thought I did, in this town where I spent most of my time alone. There were women from writers’ groups and people with dogs (of course) and neighbors of all ages, some of whom had never met each other. Everyone stayed much longer than I expected and it was fun to see these people together who seemed to have very little in common other than knowing my husband, Peter, and me.

It finally got dark, and that takes a while these days. The last people folded up their camp chairs and said their goodbyes. I made sure Charles had a lot of pasta salad to take home -- and five pieces of cheesecake.

“You do like cheesecake, don’t you, Charles?”

“Oh, sure,” he said.

“You have been a wonderful neighbor,” Peter told Charles, as I dished up pasta salad. “We will miss you.”

Charles’ eyes filled with tears as he took his boxes of food and headed back to his empty house.

“It was a good party,” I informed Peter, after everyone left, as I ate my traditional second dessert, the one a hostess is supposed to have after all the guests have left.

“It was,” Peter agreed.

“I think it was the best party ever,” I added.

“Why do you say it was the best party?” Peter wanted to know.

“There were dogs. The best parties have dogs.”

Peter couldn’t argue with that.

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 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