One of my favorite stories as a child was "Stone Soup."

I don't know if you know it or not. It's an old European folktale, and there are a lot of variations, but in most of them two soldiers come into a town during a war. They ask for food, and everyone tells them they have nothing to eat. So the soldiers build a fire, and they ask an old woman if they can borrow a pot because they are going to make stone soup.

"Soup from a stone?" the old woman asks.

"Yes," they say. "We are going to make stone soup!"

So the old woman loans them a pot, and they fill it with water, and they start cooking a stone. "Soup from a stone!" the old woman exclaims. "Imagine that!"

Pretty soon, a small crowd gathers. No one had ever heard of making soup from a stone.

"Stone soup is wonderful," one soldier casually mentions. "But it's even better with a little onion."

"Oh! I have an onion," someone offers, and throws it in the pot.

"Carrots are also nice," the soldier adds. And, a few minutes later, someone throws some carrots in the pot.

Soon, a little beef is put in, and a few other ingredients are added as the crowd grows. Before long, there is a large pot of soup, and everyone in the village is fed, including the two soldiers. A village where everyone said they had no food eats a meal together -- a meal that would not have existed if it were not for a stone.

I told my friend, Wally, this was a favorite story of mine.

"I see men coercing others to get what they couldn't get themselves!" Wally said. This astonished me.

"But everyone ate!" I told him. "No one even knew they had soup -- and they didn't -- without first believing it was possible."

Wally is not convinced that any good comes from telling a lie. But I never saw it as a lie. Because I believe in stone soup.

A couple of months ago, I went to a beautiful little theater in Mexico, in the town where I spend the winter, and I met with a producer there. Suddenly, I saw the possibility of doing a show in this space. The whole thing was completely real in my imagination before I'd written a word. So I worked on the script and I planned all the costumes and the music and everything needed for the show. The show became as real on the page as it was in my mind.

Yesterday, I learned it wouldn't be possible to do my show in the theater as planned. I was very disappointed -- for about 12 hours. And then I realized I had a pot of stone soup.

The theater and the producer had never made it a show. The show was made of all the things I'd put into that simmering pot. It was the belief that I could make a show -- if I just added enough ideas, if I stirred those ideas long enough, if I kept the fire going.

The soup was never about the stone. The stone was the excuse to make the soup.

I have no idea where this show will be performed, but I am absolutely certain it will be, because this soup is filled with good things, put together in a way I believe people will enjoy.

In the story, after everyone has eaten, the old woman shakes her head. "Soup from a stone," she says. "Imagine that!"

Imagine that.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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I told my husband, Peter, when he first announced the idea, that I thought it was dumb.

I probably didn't say "dumb," because I try to be nicer than that. But I let him know that I thought his idea of getting exercise by climbing stairs in the stairwell was, well, kind of dumb.

"Find out if I can access the stairs in the stairwell!" he told me, after we had purchased this condo, sight unseen, during the pandemic. We didn't see it for almost two years. When we were finally ready to move, the movers were late, and we had to change our airplane tickets. So I flew out to see our condo for the first time without Peter.

I'm going to tell you honestly, it was not impressive.

The condo had been occupied by the woman who bought it when the building was built in the 1980s. She died right there at home, and things had gone downhill toward the end. Other than a fresh coat of paint on the walls and ceiling, very little updating had been done. So I was seeing all this for the first time, and Peter's big concern was whether the stairwell was accessible so he could climb the stairs.

It was, I reported. But I couldn't imagine how that would be any fun at all.

When Peter finally moved in to the condo, he started climbing the steps in the stairwell -- 12 rounds a day. The building is 20 stories high, and the top 17 are accessible, which means he climbs 238 stories every day.

That works out to 2,856 stairs, if you are interested in doing the math.

While I walked the neighborhood and admired the old mansions and the manicured gardens and the friendly dogs, Peter climbed the stairs every day, seven days a week.

If this wasn't dumb, it certainly seemed a little crazy to me.

But the thing I didn't count on is that Peter didn't go down the stairs. That would be hard on his knees, he explained. He took the elevator down to the third floor and then climbed up those 17 stories. Then he did it again. And every time he took the elevator down, he had a conversation with a different person in our building.

He got to know the young working professionals and the retired folks. He got to know the housekeeper who cleans up the public areas and the maintenance man. He got to know all the dogs who were going out for a walk and all the people who owned them.

And Peter became kind of famous.

He started carrying business cards with our name and picture on them and handed them out when he met new people. "You're the wife of the guy who does the stairs!" strangers said to me.

So when there was a vacancy on the condo board, it should have come as no surprise that Peter was asked to fill it. Campaigning for a seat on the board was about the last thing Peter would ever do, but everyone on the board knew him by now, and he seemed like a smart choice.

Of course he was.

Now Peter spends a lot of time reading documents and attending meetings for his new duties as board member.

Eventually, after the weather warmed, he bought a bike, and he started riding around town. I have to believe this is more enjoyable. But if there is rain in the forecast, Peter doesn't hesitate. He climbs the stairs.

And when the weather is fine, I'm sure everyone in the elevator misses him.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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It is construction season.

The building we live in is 40 years old, and it was recently discovered that water was finding its way behind the brick. This requires some very loud repairs that are not expected to be finished until fall.

Usually, I am just finding my way to the coffeepot around 8:30. But now there are men standing on scaffolds, jackhammering bricks at 8 a.m., right outside my window. If I open the drapes, I can see their boots.

There is no one to blame. The men doing the work (and they all seem to be men) are very considerate. They are just loud -- very loud -- and they work from Monday through Friday.

Probably because of this construction, I'm noticing it more in my neighborhood. There is a house nearby whose steps have looked terrible for a long time. The residents were using a side door to get in. But an energetic man with a cigarette permanently positioned on his lower lip is now fixing those steps in record time. Under the crumbling concrete, he told me, were bricks much older than the house itself.

"How old?" I asked.

He had no idea. But they had been scavenged from a building long gone before the house was built in 1850. I thought that was remarkable.

"I hope you find some gold coins buried in there!" I told him. He did not seem hopeful.

Another set of stairs was being fixed by the city crew and, while they were not working as quickly as the gentleman with the cigarette, they were doing a fine job.

"We're keeping all the original stone," a fellow, who was acting like the foreman, said. "So we have to replace the whole foundation beneath it."

These steps were also well over 100 years old, and the original stone consisted of very large blocks of sandstone, which took at least two men to lift.

"That's a complicated job!" I told them.

"It is. That's why they don't let Brad come out here and do it himself!" the foreman said. Brad (I have to assume it was Brad) ducked his head.

"Do you deserve this, Brad?" I asked.

"Oh, he does!" the foreman answered before Brad had a chance to. Brad looked as if he was used to this.

I walked down the same street yesterday. The steps in front of the 1850s house were almost finished. It was threatening rain, and the man with the cigarette was working to get the last of the cement work done.

"Great job!" I hollered.

He looked at the sky. "Gotta get it done quick!"

The city guys had also almost finished. "It looks terrific!" I said.

The foreman was nowhere to be seen. There was just Brad (I assume it was Brad), looking rather pleased to be getting the credit.

"You used all the old stone?" I asked Brad.

"Yes. It will make it more ... " Brad searched for the word, "historical!"

"Can I take your picture?" Brad looked embarrassed and asked another man holding a shovel (who was also not the foreman) if this was OK.

"Sure!" said the man with the shovel.

So I took Brad's picture with the nearly finished stairs.

"Thank you!"

It's construction season. And, while it's easy to get annoyed by the noise and the detours and the mess, it's good for me to remember that all this work is being done by people who have jobs to do. And, by and large, I think they do a heck of a fine job. Especially Brad.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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