I have been blessed with many cousins.

My two cousins closest in age were both boys, Brian and Dane. We went camping and hiking together and stayed in the cabin up north. We all remember the day we made tea from red sumac berries, and -- after we'd drunk about a gallon each -- my Uncle Mike told us, "You know that stuff is a laxative, don't you?" (For the record, it is not.)

We are still close, although I marvel at how similar we seemed when we were young, and how serious and reliable they now seem compared to me.

My mother had 10 siblings, and she was the third from the youngest, so most of my cousins are older than me. I remember my older cousins listening to the Beatles behind closed bedroom doors. I stood in the hallway and listened to the music seeping out from under the door and knew I could never be that cool.

I remember my cousin, Jill, ironing her Gunne Sax dress on grandma's ironing board. Jill was beautiful, and she dyed her hair black. She had a marvelous loud laugh and was the only person I knew with long fingernails. I felt lucky to be around her. Then, just to make the whole thing more amazing, Jill's handsome boyfriend (who was a musician, naturally!) would drive up to the farmhouse in his VW Bug. I knew my older cousins were all smarter and funnier and much more sophisticated than I could ever be.

I still feel that way.

I just spent a long weekend up in rural Ontario with a number of my first cousins and a few of their children thrown in for good measure. It was a wonderful time, and I was reminded again of how blessed I am with cousins.

Most of the time was spent just sitting and admiring the beautiful scenery and telling stories -- lots and lots of stories. And I was amazed how few of these stories I remembered.

I didn't know what my uncles did for a living or who my aunts dated when they were young. I didn't know how late it was when everyone in my family finally got indoor plumbing or how early my aunts were in studying things in college that women at the time rarely did.

I remembered the conservative pastor's wife who changed her name from Alice to Twyla when she discovered her birth mother. But I had no idea, after she became a widow, that she took to making corn wine or that she broke her arm when she fell off a table at the VFW.

I knew about grandpa's once-a-year fishing trip with his brother, Evald, but I didn't know where they stayed or how they drove to the Mille Lacs Reservation in northern Minnesota to buy the northerns they claimed to catch. I didn't remember much about my great-aunts and great-uncles and, honestly, I still don't. But I got a glimpse because of my cousins.

One of my cousins was recently diagnosed with ALS, and died. His sisters came to this cousins' reunion. It was a long trip for all of them. But I'm sure they felt -- more acutely than I -- how short this time is that we have with family, how precious the opportunities are to remember and share.

"She fell off the table?" one of my cousins said in disbelief. "What was Twyla doing on the table at the VFW?"

Nobody knew. But we all laughed until tears ran down our faces. And I now have something new to remember.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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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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