The corn was planted late. We knew that at the time.

Because their house is located so deep in the woods, my mother has had no luck getting vegetables to grow. When my parents heard there were garden plots available in town, they signed up for one, and have had a garden in town for several years.

The rhubarb was already up when they were told there was a garden plot next to theirs that was not being used.

"Use it!" the manager of the community garden told them. I'm not sure where the idea came from, but my dad decided to plant corn.

It was late for corn, that far north. But my dad got three different kinds of seeds, and he soaked them overnight to give them a head start, and when I was visiting last spring, we stuck them in the ground and hoped for the best.

My mom sent a photo midsummer. "The corn is up!" she wrote, with a photo of the little green stalks in three neat rows.

"How's the corn?" I'd ask when I called.

"It's coming, but we still don't have any cobs ready."

The stalks grew tall, and they tasseled out, and there were ears clinging to the stalks. A raccoon or similar invader knocked a cob off the stalk and my dad peeled it open. "Still not ready to eat," he reported.

I visited this past weekend and, late in September, the weather was still warm, although the days were shorter, that far north. I took the garden hose at the community garden and gave the corn a good watering, and I wondered if my parents would get any corn to eat.

While I had the hose out, I also watered the rhubarb. My mother told me that folks said harvesting rhubarb late in the season prevented a good crop from being produced in the spring. But I could tell my mother was skeptical. She has been growing rhubarb almost all her life and knows a thing or two about rhubarb by now. She had given the last of her rhubarb to a friend and wanted to make one last batch of sauce, so we pulled out a pile of big, healthy stems, late in September, and brought them home.

"I don't think it hurts them a bit!" my mother said.

But the corn was not yet ready.

There was still corn at the corn stand. The farmers know what they're doing, planting the corn very early and very late and keeping the sweet corn season going as long as possible. It made me hopeful that those cobs, even if they were a little small, might turn into something edible before the first frost.

On this last visit to the garden, I saw that most of the gardeners have packed up for the summer. They had pulled out the last of the beans and tomatoes and raked out their beds. They had piled cow manure on the top of their beds and taken off for Florida or Arizona. One of them was there while I was watering the corn.

"See you next year!" he told my parents.

My parents are still watering the corn. And I'm glad we planted it, no matter what happens.

Maybe nothing will come of it. Probably nothing will. But planting late corn has given us something to hope for. It's like rooting for a losing team. It's like starting a new dream late in life. I admire my parents for planting corn after the rhubarb was up and hoping for the best.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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I'm usually pretty good about doing things I don't want to do. I've been alive long enough to know that getting started is always the hardest part. But nothing is harder for me to start than doing weights.

I say "doing" weights because I don't actually lift anything other than myself. I started out with push-ups because a friend suggested a "100-push-up challenge." I had never done any upper-body exercise of any kind. I couldn't imagine I could do 100 push-ups -- and it turns out I was right. I couldn't for almost two years.

But I did them almost every day, and I went from 30 to 50 (where I stayed for a full year) to 75, and, finally, to 100. Then I discovered I could do 110 and, by the end, I was able to do 200 push-ups at a time.

Was my form perfect? It was not. I couldn't care less. I did them fast and sloppy and got them over with. But my arms got a lot stronger, and I hoped my genetic inclination toward osteoporosis might be helped. I did them because I thought a me in the future would appreciate my efforts.

But I finally got to a point where I absolutely dreaded push-ups. I stopped doing them for days at a time. It takes a while to do 200 push-ups, and I hated every moment of it.

So, I decided to do something different. There is a small gym in the building where I live, and it has machines in it. I'd never used any of these machines. They terrified me. But my 16-year-old nephew, Beau, started lifting weights two years ago. He is very muscular now and goes to the gym several times a week. Beau came to my gym with me, and we looked at the terrifying machines.

"What do I do, Beau?"

"All you need is this machine," he said, pointing to the scariest one. He sounded sure of himself, and Beau is a fellow who does a lot of research before he comes out with pronouncements.

"Just this machine?"

"Yup. If you want to work upper body, this will do it."

Beau showed me three exercises I could do on the one machine, and I became determined to use this machine every day. And I did. For a while. Then I began to hate it almost as much as push-ups.

I had to get dressed to go to the gym (even if it was just downstairs). I had to put on my shoes (and we all know how hard that can be). Sometimes I had to do my exercises in front of other people. (They were not the least bit interested, but still.)

And I started avoiding it, just as I had the push-ups.

"Maybe I don't have to do weights at all," I told myself. "Maybe I've done enough!" But I didn't feel good. And I knew Future Me would be disappointed in Past Me.

So, I've started up again.

I'm not pretending I love doing weights, but I'm not complaining as much, either. Because even if I only do one short set, I feel better afterward. I feel stronger and more confident -- but not really because my arms are stronger. I feel stronger when I do something I truly detest, even for a short time, because I decided to do it and did it. I did something just because it was the right thing to do.

I remind myself that I'm doing a favor for Future Me. I sure hope she appreciates it.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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My husband, Peter, had never had a cat before we adopted Felix, and Felix is taking full advantage of this.

Peter didn't know, for instance, that cats require tuna, right out of the can, every night at precisely 8:30 p.m. -- until Felix informed him. Peter did not know that he was not permitted to be late, nor was he allowed to run out of tuna. Felix has a firm no-substitutions policy. Peter now understands this.

Peter didn't know the kinds of games that cats like to play, so Felix had to train him from scratch. This has been a lot of work for Felix, but he is patient, and Peter is a remarkably good student -- for starting his training at such an advanced age.

Felix started Peter out with relatively easy games at first. There was the Towel Over the Head game, which is quite simple once you get the hang of it. All Peter had to do was throw a towel over Felix's head and stomp around the floor in front of him so Felix could chase Peter by sound from underneath the towel. The towel serves as a handicap for Felix because, obviously, catching Peter without a towel over his head would be far too easy and not much of a game.

After Towel Over the Head was mastered, Peter moved on to more challenging games. He played Around the House With a Mouse, where Felix has Peter run around with a mouse on a string. But that grew old quickly because Peter is far too slow. They tried Hide and Seek, but that also became tedious because Peter was loud as well as slow, and it was not reasonable to think he could ever outsmart Felix.

Then Peter graduated to Cat in a Box and a Stick, and I have to say, this is where Peter really began to excel as a student. Felix got inside a box and Peter poked the rubber end of a hiking pole into the open top while Felix grabbed onto the end of the stick. This game sounds deceptively simple, but you must have a light touch with the stick and not punch Felix in the stomach too hard while still moving the stick quickly and coming up with unexpected moves. I tried to play this game once, and Felix jumped out of the box and looked at me with disappointment. I clearly did not understand the rudiments of the game. Felix waited for Peter to play again.

Then we had a larger-than-usual Amazon delivery, and Felix got a bigger box. That's when things got more interesting because Peter had the brilliant idea of cutting a small window in the box and revising the game to Cat in a Box With a Hole and a Stick, and this proved to be even better. Peter laughed himself silly, and Felix played to exhaustion. Peter then cut several more holes in the box, so it became Cat in a Box With Several Holes and a Stick. Felix's paws were poking out of several windows at once, and Peter left for his bike ride later and later because of the extended rounds required to play this game properly.

"You never had a cat before?" I asked Peter.

"Never! I knew nothing about cats," he insisted.

"Well, you are an expert now."

It's surprising, really. Peter is a natural with cats. But they say when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. Peter was ready, and Felix appeared, ready to mentor Peter in the way of cats.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION