I met my former mother-in-law, “Mama Lou,” and my former father-in-law, “Poppo,” when I was not yet 20 years old. I hitched a ride to meet them, terrified because I’d spoken to my future mother-in-law on the phone and she sounded exactly like Lauren Bacall.

I arrived at their home in Wisconsin and my future father-in-law threw open the door and said, “You must be Carrie! Can I get you a drink?”

In the more than 20 years that followed, I never felt anything less than welcome in this family. More surprisingly, I was still welcomed after I was divorced from their son, and my three sisters-in-law announced that, since I could no longer be their sister-in-law, I’d have to be their sister. (This did not go over well with my ex-husband’s second wife, apparently, but she didn’t last long, so I guess it didn’t matter.)

When I met my husband, Peter, seven years later, I brought him to the wedding of my youngest sister (formerly sister-in-law). Mama Lou grabbed him by both shoulders. “You treat her right, you hear?” she ordered poor Peter, who has never treated me any other way. Then Mama Lou announced that, since I was her daughter, Peter must be her newest son-in-law.

I know a lot of people would think that was a bit much. But something that would be a stretch for most people was no stretch at all for Mama Lou, whose heart was big enough to accommodate all of us.

Poppo died last winter, and yesterday, Peter and I went to celebrate his life. It was a traditional Irish wake, with lots of good food and drink and stories. Peter kept asking, “I’m sorry, who are you again?” and I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was to be married to such a good sport and to be surrounded by so much love and to still be a part of this wonderful family.

Because I still am a part of the family. Some might say I am an unnecessary part -- like an appendix or a sixth finger -- but I am a part.

Mama Lou is now 93 and has not been feeling well lately. There was some doubt whether she would be able to make it to the wake. But she was there.

She told the story of how she and Poppo met and what Poppo would have thought of the evening’s gathering. He would have been a little embarrassed, of course. Mama Lou has always been more comfortable in the limelight. But he would have been very glad to see us all together having a good time.

As the evening wore on, more and more people came over to Mama Lou and hugged her. They were long hugs, the kind of hugs you give to a 93-year-old person you love very much when there is really nothing left to say, when it has all been said and a hug is the best way to make clear what you are feeling right now -- in the precious moment that is the present.

I hesitate to use the word “blessed” because it implies some inside knowledge of the divine that I will never claim to have. And yet, I know I was blessed when that door was thrown open by Poppo, more than half a lifetime ago, and I was welcomed into this family.

“You take good care of her,” Mama Lou told Peter again last night, as we prepared to leave.

“I’ll do my best,” he said. Mama Lou smiled, and I gave her a very long hug.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

My husband, Peter, and I have matching folding chairs.

Every Thursday evening this summer, we have attended the outdoor concert held in a local park. The music is usually good, but the food trucks are undeniably the center of the experience. Our favorite is the "Tot Boss" that sells tasty, hot tater tots out the window of the truck.

Peter and I bring our own chairs. We get comfortable in our folding chairs, eat our tater tots, listen to the music, and watch the people and dogs go by. It's hard to beat a night of outdoor music, tater tots, and people-watching.

The variety of folding chairs is remarkable.

There are low beach-type chairs that only lift the behind of the concertgoer a couple of inches off the ground, and there are exceptionally high chairs that look as if they are intended for use while casting a fishing line. There are the old-school webbed folding chairs, and there are tiny camping chairs, some of which snap together like umbrellas, and others that require at least an undergraduate degree in engineering to assemble. But, almost always, the chairs come in sets of two.

Each couple has somehow decided what sort of couple they are -- whether they are the "fancy floral print chairs" type, or the "20-year-old lawn chairs stashed in the garage" type. They all have somehow agreed that, yes, this is the kind of couple we are, and they show up every Thursday night, toting their matching chairs.

Of course, there are exceptions.

Couples who are not really couples yet do not have matching chairs. Even if you had two chairs on hand, it would be presumptuous to bring a matching chair on a first date. It would imply a level of commitment that might frighten off your prospective partner. This means that dating couples have to find park benches (which are not nearly as comfortable and are always in short supply) or sit on the ground, sometimes without even a blanket.

But among established couples, I occasionally see one that has not agreed upon their chair policy, and I do worry about them.

Last night there was a man who had decided on a comfortable-looking camping chair emblazoned with the logo of a popular sporting goods store. His partner had only a folding three-legged stool and, at first, she opted against even using that. She sat on the ground before reluctantly unfolding her chic little stool, looking thoroughly miserable. I felt pessimistic about their relationship. I hate to read too much into these things (but I will anyway) and say that this couple may have issues that extend beyond their ability to find matching chairs. Naturally, I hope I'm wrong.

Looking around, I wonder how all these couples found their way to their matching chairs. I'm betting there are as many stories as there are sets of chairs. I imagine most of these couples have one member with stronger opinions about folding chairs. In our marriage, Peter is that person. Peter will assure you that (unlike all the chairs of our neighboring concertgoers) our rather heavy folding chairs provide adequate back support, and Peter is all about a supported back. I'm happy with his selection. I'm just glad he didn't choose an uncomfortable little stool like that poor woman in front of me.

It delights me being surrounded by all these different sets of chairs filled with people eating tater tots. Peter suggested that, next week, we should bring matching cloth napkins. I think that might be a very nice touch.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

“I’m tired of living in exile!” my husband, Peter, exclaimed as, for the second day in a row, we packed up everything we would need to be out of our home long enough for the floor to dry.

Michael, the floor sander, is in our apartment now, buffing the penultimate coat of polyurethane while Peter is moaning about his exile status. We have evacuated to the party room in the condominium while we wait to have a floor we can walk on again. There is internet and a refrigerator in the party room, so we are rather pampered evacuees.

“The floors are almost finished,” I reassured him.

“But the remodeling isn’t!” he complained.

“The rest won’t be so disruptive.” Peter is not convinced.

The most urgent remaining issue is the bathroom, as the shower stall is warped and spills water onto the floor. Peter has fashioned a complicated solution involving a plastic shower curtain, a squeegee, and Gorilla Tape. It is not elegant.

But contractors are insanely busy these days, and no one is in more demand than plumbers. If you know a plumber, I suggest you cement your relationship with them immediately, as plumbers are the hottest new celebrities.

After a considerable hunt, we finally found a plumber named Matt. Like Cher or Adele, Matt uses only his first name, but on his business cards he adds a single initial for his last name -- like Kenny G.

When Matt arrived to survey our bathroom, he did not remind me of either Cher or Kenny G, but had a similar charisma. He was very tall and bald and fit and had the calming presence of someone who might start a New-Age movement. I think he easily could garner followers, although I suspect plumbing is more lucrative.

Matt arrived at our home and listened as we explained our mundane problem of having a 40-plus-year-old bathroom made of aging acrylic. He nodded compassionately as we told him more than he really needed to know about our hopes and dreams in the bathroom department.

“I have a philosophy,” Matt finally said, after we had told him all there was to tell. Right away, I knew we’d be paying a lot if we were getting both a plumber and a philosophy.

“I believe in keeping things simple,” Matt said, simply.

“Well, we understand you may run into problems you can’t anticipate ...” Peter began.

“No,” Matt said, holding up a hand and looking like the spiritual teacher I was beginning to suspect he was. “I will give you a price, and it will be the price. There will be no changes. There will be nothing added. I will do what needs to be done.”

If Peter had been wearing a blood pressure monitor, I know I would have seen the needle drop.

“He’s going to be expensive,” I warned Peter, after our plumbing guru left. Peter seemed unconcerned. When Matt’s bid came in, it was even higher than I had feared.

“I just don’t see that we have a choice,” Peter told me. “I believe Matt is the man for the job. We got a good price for our old house. I think it’s karma that we spend a little more with Matt now.”

My husband is not typically a person who is price insensitive, and he is certainly not someone who talks about karma, so now I don’t know what to think.

Matt will start work next week. I am expecting all sorts of changes to ensue. Some of them might even have to do with the plumbing.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS