I never learned my multiplication tables. Not really.

To this day, if you ask me, "What is six times nine?" out of the blue, with some urgency, I will panic. (Please don't do this.)

The troubles started when I was transferred from one math class to another in the third grade. I now understand that this was some sort of promotion from lower math to higher math, but it did not feel like that at the time.

Almost immediately, I realized everyone around me was privy to some secret code I didn't know. It was called the multiplication tables, and I couldn't imagine how they all knew it, but I clearly didn't, and this was a source of enormous shame.

Only many years after the fact, I figured out that I had been transferred right after everyone had been drilled on the multiplication tables. The lower math class had not gotten to it yet. The higher class was finished with it. I was terrified.

I had no idea what was going on and, instead of actually learning the multiplication tables, I spent the next three years trying to hide my ignorance. In fact, as time passed, I became increasingly convinced this was knowledge I would never acquire and the best I could hope for was to escape detection.

I once talked to my mother about this. "I tried to help you with your multiplication tables," she said. "Don't you remember?"

Perhaps I do -- vaguely. But I remained convinced that what I might be able to do at the kitchen table could never be replicated in real life -- especially if someone shouted, "What is six times nine?" -- which is exactly what my fourth-grade teacher did, in front of the class.

I had gone up to her to ask a question. Instead of answering it, she replied with this very loud non sequitur. Predictably, I had no answer.

"Don't come up here asking me questions until you've learned your multiplication tables!"

You can rest assured I never asked another question in the fourth grade.

Today, I can still remember that awful fear. "How can everyone in the room know something that makes no sense to me?"

In retrospect, it seems so unnecessary. Shouldn't someone have known that I hadn't been taught this? I moved from the class next door, not from Finland. I'm guessing no one ever thought learning multiplication tables could be so daunting and intimidating. Although I've gone on to do reasonably well in math, I still would not like a pop quiz.

This memory bubbled up to me the other day as I made preparations to do some performances of my writing after a long time away from performing. There is a lot I don't know. Some things have changed. Many things I never knew. There are acronyms I do not know and a lot of people talking and writing about stuff I've never heard of. I feel a familiar urge to hide under my desk.

I remember that feeling of being convinced there was this world of secrets I did not know, and I've been reminding myself there is a very good chance that there is no secret. And then reminding myself, if I don't know something, I can always just ask.

I'm trying to do what I should have done in third grade. I'm walking right up to people and saying, "I have no idea what you are talking about. Will you please explain this to me?"

And, so far, no one has looked at me and said, "What is six times nine?"

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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My Aunt Ruthie used to make the best pickles ever.

Ruthie was my mom's sister, and she died a few years back in a car accident that left us all sad and shaken and filled with memories. I remember her dry humor and her sharp intellect and her voracious reading habits. I remember her never-ending kindness and resilience. And I remember her pickles.

Ruthie always gave me a jar of pickles whenever she made them. They were a treasure. One year, the glass Mason jar filled with pickles broke in my purse, and having a vinegar-soaked purse was inconsequential compared to the fear I might waste Aunt Ruthie's pickles. (I did not.)

I remember when I was young, my cousin was reading something I thought was stupid. (I had a lot of opinions back then about what was stupid.) I remember what Ruthie said to me.

"It doesn't matter what she's reading," Ruthie said. "What's important is that she's reading something." I felt a little ashamed, I remember, and I knew Ruthie was right.

And this was rare, a reprimand coming from Ruthie, which is why I remember the next one she gave me 30 years later.

I saw her, and she had not made pickles. Maybe the cucumbers had not cooperated. Maybe Ruthie was working on other things. Maybe she just lost interest in supplying every relative in her large family with pickles. A person does not need a reason not to make pickles, and yet I felt Aunt Ruthie owed me an explanation.

"Someone as good at making pickles as you should make pickles!" I told her.

"Someone as good at performing as you should perform," she answered, without missing a beat.

This took me aback for a few reasons. The first, as I mentioned, was that Ruthie was always generous with her praise and sparing with her criticism. The second was that I had been a performer for years and was now working in business, which everyone seemed to think was a lot more practical.

And the last reason was that I honestly never thought I had a gift for performing. I enjoyed it. I became comfortable doing it. I worked hard at it so I could keep up with those better than me. But I never thought I was anything special.

This was a long time ago. I eventually left business and started writing. Writing gives me an enormous amount of joy. Like the performing I did earlier, it's a way to connect with other people and, also like performing, I know I am not nearly as good as so many other writers.

But recently I got to thinking about performing again.

At first, I dismissed the idea. I was too busy writing. I had tried once before, right before the pandemic, and nobody got to see anyone perform for a long time. And finally, who wants to see a 60-something-year-old woman on stage? Performing is work best left to the young, I told myself.

But the idea grew as I waited for weeks that turned into months for a book to be sold. I thought what a wonderful feeling it would be to perform again, to do something I had some control over, to do something fun.

My performances will never rival Ruthie's pickles. She really had a gift. But I have an opportunity to do a show this fall, and I am going to take it. I am always telling people to do what they love, after all. I figure if you get a chance to make pickles, you should.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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It may be that Stubby is gone for good.

In the summer of 2022, I started writing about my mother's new pet, a red squirrel who she reluctantly began to care for.

My parents live on 20 acres in the woods up north in a house my father designed when he retired 35 years ago. The house looks over the lake and, for most of the winter, my parents have few neighbors, except for the birds at their feeder and the deer making their way through the deep snow and, of course, red squirrels.

Red squirrels are not friendly, like chipmunks. They are more rascally than gray squirrels. They are timid around people and aggressive around other squirrels and they will eat all the bird food they can get their paws on. My mother was not a fan of red squirrels.

But when one particular red squirrel began hanging around my parents' house, my mother began to reconsider. Their relationship got off to a rocky start when the red squirrel tossed pine-cone seeds on my father's head and dug up my mother's flowerpots and made a terrible mess of the deck.

But, after the mysterious loss of his tail, my mother began to feel sorry for this little scoundrel. She began to leave him a few seeds on the railing. Eventually, the red squirrel, who we decided to call "Stubby," became quite attached to my mother, and would stand with its little paws knit together, looking into the window after my mother left seeds out for him on the railing.

Stubby now appears to be missing.

There is another red squirrel and, as hard as my mother would like to believe otherwise, it is not Stubby.

"Could it be that his tail has grown back?" my mother asked.

I'd heard of salamanders growing new tails, but this seemed unlikely in a red squirrel. We both stood silently at the window for a long time, trying to convince ourselves that this was Stubby -- thinner after the long winter, with a new scar on his side and a much longer tail. But we knew it was not Stubby.

"I saw two squirrels chasing each other around," my mother said. "I thought one of them was Stubby. Do you think this squirrel chased him away?"

Of course, I didn't know. I didn't even know how long red squirrels lived. Three years, I later learned, is average, although some have lived up to 10 years in captivity. But even with a steady supply of seeds, I don't think Stubby was living under optimum conditions. Somebody had already gotten the end of his tail, after all. And we have no idea how old he was when that happened.

"Where could he have gone?" my mother wondered aloud.

We do not know, and I don't suppose we ever will. I had hoped Stubby would be around this summer, tossing more pine-cone seeds onto our heads and peering earnestly at my mother through the window. I would like to believe that, after an extended convalescence, Stubby was well enough to seek out new territory, perhaps find a mate, start a new life with his refashioned tail.

But I know that none of this is likely. And it makes me sad.

Stubby was a good friend to my mother. He made a big impression with his short life and his short tail and his surprisingly courteous manners. He was a fine example of how we can rebound from tragedy, make new and unexpected friends and behave better than people expect.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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