I got anxious again today.

I think I am getting better at leaving anxiety behind, and then anxiety says, "Not so fast! We have more work to do."

Usually, this has to do with my writing: "Is it good enough? Does she hate it?" But not always. Sometimes I will post something on Facebook, and someone will take offense. Since I make an effort to never post anything controversial or unkind, this always shocks me and makes me wonder if I have any idea how I sound when I write. Since writing is pretty much all I do, this concern starts to bang around in my brain like a kitten knocking things off the shelf.

"What was I thinking?" I wonder. But I don't actually remember thinking anything at all. I will make comments I imagine are helpful or clarifying, and end up offending someone and wondering why I did not just remain silent.

The best thing to do at this point is to take a walk.

On my walk, I usually encounter a few homeless people. The Catholic Church nearby feeds them and provides other services, so there are usually a handful of folks, who have some kind of problem that I have never had to deal with, waiting in the summer heat or the winter cold for the doors to open so they can get the help they need. I talk to these folks as I walk by. Some of them ignore me. Most of them smile and return the greeting.

But occasionally, I meet someone who just stares at me, like, "What is her story?"

And the funny thing about this is that they assume I have one.

"It's going to be cooler tomorrow!" I announced yesterday to a gentleman sitting on the steps. Only as I got closer did I notice he had his head under his T-shirt. He pulled it out when he heard me.

"It's going to be really cool," I repeated to the confused-looking fellow. "Much cooler than normal!"

He stared at me as if I was speaking in code. I could tell that -- whatever he thought of me -- he assumed I knew what I was talking about. He thought I had it together. He had no way of knowing how many days I wondered if hiding under my own T-shirt might not be the best strategy.

I realized by then that he had some cognitive problem, but I felt I needed to wrap up the conversation anyway -- just for the sake of politeness.

"So, you take care, OK?"

I waved and headed off, realizing I had just embarrassed myself in front of a man who was hiding under his own T-shirt.

We are all making up stories for one another without knowing what the real story is.

The story I make up for myself when I am anxious is that I am failing -- somehow, somewhere -- and no one has told me how or why. But I have no idea why that man was hiding under his T-shirt, and I'm betting his reasons were a lot better than mine.

By now I know that my anxiety is a mood, that it will pass. As uncomfortable and demanding as it is in the moment, it is almost impossible to remember after the fact. Walking helps. And talking to people -- even folks who seem a little confused -- helps as well.

It is cooler today -- just as I promised the fellow on the steps it would be. I am going to put on my shoes right now and talk to some strangers.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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I'm staying "up north" with Mom and Dad, and that is always good.

My mom and dad have built a life that is pretty much exactly the way they like it. They have rituals and habits they do almost without thinking. But the amazing thing -- to me -- is that just about every one of these daily routines ends up giving them a healthier and much happier life.

At this point, my dad would snort, and my mom would say I was making them sound like saints, and they'd both shake their heads in unison and say that I like to exaggerate, and so I guess you'll have to take my word for it.

My dad turns 90 at the top of next year, and my mom isn't far behind. They still live in the beautiful home they designed and built together more than 30 years ago in the Northwoods. The house is not large, but it is perfectly suited to them. It sits high above the lake in the woods, so their nearest neighbors are squirrels and deer and raccoons, a variety of birds and the occasional bear. Loons fly over their home and land in the lake. My mother keeps dozens of pots of flowers blooming outside the house. My dad keeps enough wood chopped and split to keep them in firewood all winter, and they are out biking or walking or snowshoeing every single day.

"We don't eat as much as we used to," my mother notes.

But what they eat is healthy. They've got a vegetable garden in town, as it is too shady in the woods for vegetables. Yesterday, they picked up fresh sweet corn and a cantaloupe from the farmers market.

And I feel as if this is the part of the story where I should tell you the really amazing thing about my parents. But, as I write this, I realize the really amazing thing is not any one thing. It is all of it. As their needs and desires have changed, their habits have remained positive and healthy and filled with joy.

I think I've known for most of my life I would never be as consistent or disciplined or sensible as my parents. They were this way when I grew up, and they remain every bit as remarkable now that I am getting old. I've even thought, from time to time, that it was a lot to live up to. Their marriage, lasting many decades, was not one I could emulate in my first marriage. My moods fluctuate far more wildly. I require regular "reboots" to stay on track.

But I am no longer envious. I am now simply admiring. And I am grateful. I am so grateful they have taken such good care of themselves and so grateful that they are still here with me, active and happy and as practical as ever.

My dad says he's slowed down a lot, and turning 90 certainly gives a person plenty to think about. But just as I learned how to paddle a canoe and ride a bike by watching him, I now watch him managing the perils of aging with grace and elegance. And I am, once again, learning.

What I've just written, my father will dismiss. He'll say he wasn't so elegant the other day when he tripped over the doorsill and cut his hand open while bringing the laundry in from the line. He'll say he's doing nothing out of the ordinary, nothing worth writing about.

And that's why you'll have to take my word for it.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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It was time to come back from Mexico.

It wasn't because of the weather. The weather was wonderful. The nights up in the mountains were cool, and the days were warm, and sometimes, in the afternoons, a thunderstorm would roll in, and a refreshing rain would fall, leaving the air clean and sweet. No. It wasn't the weather.

And it wasn't really my family -- although, I do miss them. My parents have been in the thick of summer activities at their cabin by the lake. They had lots to do and lots of visitors, and I knew they were doing well. No. It wasn't my family.

The truth is, I heard some concerning news about Stubby, my mother's pet red squirrel, and I thought it was time I went to visit him to make sure everything was OK.

My mother reluctantly adopted Stubby after the tragic loss of half his tail last year. He went from her archenemy to her best friend, and now my mother feeds him every day. He spent the winter under their deck, digging tunnels through the snow to get to the treats my mother left under the bird feeder. He has become quite tame and is clearly devoted to my mother and so, naturally, every time I chat with my mom, I ask how Stubby is doing.

Apparently, Stubby got into some trouble.

According to my mother, their neighbor, Rod, painted his deck recently. I can picture Rod's deck. It is a cheerful blue and has bright yellow flowerpots and patio furniture on it. It's a beautiful deck, but keeping it that color requires a bit of upkeep. So I'm assuming that when there was no rain in the forecast, Rod got out there to paint the deck.

At this point, I would like to emphasize that there is no proof whatsoever of Stubby's guilt.

According to Rod, whose house is next door, his work was spoiled with little squirrel tracks all over his newly painted deck. Rod was not happy. He told his wife that he was going to get some squirrel traps and catch whoever ruined his paint job and deposit them far away.

Rod would never kill a red squirrel, but I can imagine he was pretty angry about the deck and would be willing to drive quite a long way to relocate whoever had left paw prints all over it.

Char, Rod's wife, was chatting with my mother last week, and she told Mom about Rod's plan.

"Oh, no!" my mother said. She told Char she wished Rod wouldn't do that, but she never heard back, and she hadn't seen Rod or Char since.

"I haven't seen Stubby all day," my mother wrote me. "Should I be worried?" And she signed her note, "Stubby's friend and protector."

And that was how the story was left.

There is a lot I don't know. First -- and most importantly -- there is no evidence that it was Stubby who ruined Rod's deck. Stubby is missing his tail, not a paw, and his tracks would look like any other red squirrel's -- including the very wicked squirrel who ran across that fresh blue paint.

And I never heard back from my mother. Surely, she would have called me in Mexico if Stubby had gone missing for more than 24 hours. So now I am planning a visit to check up on my mom and my dad -- and Stubby.

But I will tell you right now, if I happen to notice a slightly blueish tint on Stubby's feet, I do not plan to say a word.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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