To me, “the farm” has always meant the farm where my mother grew up, one of 11 children. Every book I ever read that was set on a farm, and many other books as well, all took place in my imagination at my mother’s family farm and the surrounding woods.

The farm seemed enormous when I was young. There was a barn full of cows and a coop full of chickens and a granary full of all sorts of things we weren’t supposed to climb into but did anyway. There were lots of feral cats and usually one dog, who was always named Rex until my Uncle Andy inherited the farm and took the unprecedented step of giving the new dog a new name. The dog was named Thor.

The farm housed hundreds of stories in my mind that had nothing to do with the actual farm, but were situated there because the place was so embedded in my heart as a child.

This week I visited the farm for the first time in more than two years.

The first thing I noticed was that the farm had shrunk. In some ways, it actually is smaller. The barn is gone, as is the chicken coop. The granary is empty, there is no more vegetable garden, fewer trees, and a number of outbuildings gradually yielded to gravity and were burned.

My Uncle Andy is still there, however. And so is his wife, Bea. They will both turn 90 soon. Andy broke his leg since I last saw him and is now relying on a walker, but if his movements were slowed, his wit was not.

“Did you hear about the bald guy who always had a comb in his pocket?” he asked me.

“No.”

“He said he couldn’t part with it.”

“Oh, Andy!”

The jokes were the same and so was the food. There were desserts disguised as salads and desserts that were supposed to be desserts. My Aunt Carol, who is 92, baked a key lime pie. It was her second pie of the day; the first was the coconut cream she’d brought to church.

“They ate it all up!” she reported with satisfaction.

But while the people seemed very much the same, the farm seemed much smaller, less mysterious, no longer filled with stories from all the books I read when I was young.

Sitting with my aunts and uncles and cousins on the front lawn, I realized how little I actually knew about the farm and how almost all the associations I had with it came from my imagination. The farm was a pleasant place, but it no longer seemed filled with stories.

The next day, my cousin Jill posted a photo she’d taken at the farm.

It was a photo of tattered white curtains hanging in the attic window of the farmhouse. They had been there as long as I had been alive, growing more frayed with every passing year. By now they are a bit spooky, hanging in shreds, only visible in a certain light.

“Aunt Ruthie hung them there in 1944,” Jill wrote. She keeps track of family lore.

“I never knew that!” I said.

“She told me herself.”

Now I want to ask Ruthie what had inspired her to climb up a ladder and hang curtains in this nearly inaccessible place. Ruthie died several years ago, so I will never know. All I know is that, like me, Ruthie loved to read. I think she’d be pleased that, more than 75 years later, she’d given us all a good story.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

We are reaching that point in remodeling where we seriously question whether we will ever be done.

After we finally found a plumber, we thought our worries were over and progress began briskly. Our plumber had a delightful and exceptionally competent young fellow from Kenya, named Meshach, doing the tiling. We were all set for him to begin on Thursday morning, but he did not arrive.

This seemed rather out of character, but we weren’t too concerned. Then he failed to show on Friday. We figured he likely had some job he had to finish before beginning work with us on Monday, so we didn’t worry too much. Late on Friday afternoon, Meshach called.

“I am so sorry I have not been there the last two days,” Meshach began. Before I had a chance to speak, he continued. “But I will tell you the truth: I have had a nervous breakdown.”

“I’m so sorry!” I said.

“I will tell the cause of my nervous breakdown if you like.”

“You don’t have to!” I said quickly, not sure how deeply into this I wanted to go.

“No, I will tell you. You should know. I have a girlfriend in Kenya. I knew there were problems ... ” (This does not sound good, I thought.)

“I have not seen her in more than a year and I have just learned she is pregnant.”

I didn’t know quite how to respond to this, but he continued. “I bought her a refrigerator. I bought her a microwave. I even bought her an air conditioner!”

At the mention of the air conditioner, his voice broke. (You don’t give a woman an air conditioner if you’re not serious.) I had to sympathize with Meshach, imagining this pregnant woman sitting in the cool air -- even if it meant my bathroom remodeling was delayed.

It’s easy to forget that remodeling isn’t just about the parts and pieces and appliances; it involves people as well. We have invited all of these people into our home and our life, if just for a short while.

I know exactly how much our electrician makes in a year and how much he hates doing paperwork. I know the fellow who installed the flooring in my office is only 25 and not sure he ever wants to get married. I know the floor sander lives in the woods where the phone reception is spotty -- and he likes it that way. I’ve learned a lot about these people who have come into my home and my life in the last few weeks. I’m sure they know lots of things about me that I don’t even suspect. And that’s OK.

When my husband, Peter, and I sold our old house, we got a better price than we expected and decided we’d do all the remodeling at once. We knew we’d be spending more money than we might have to. But we also knew that most of it would be going into the pockets of hardworking people, and that didn’t seem like the worst thing to do with a bit of a windfall.

Meshach came on Monday, right on time, and no mention was made of his nervous breakdown. He seems like his old self, but I am not fooled. I know his heart is hurting.

Maybe I will say something later on, when he isn’t right in the middle of sawing a tile. I’ll tell him that I might seem too old to understand, but that I really do care. Sure, I care about my bathroom. But I care about him as well.

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 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