Every day I look down the trail in either direction, checking to see if anyone is coming. I’d just as soon no one knew I was talking to a tree.

I take the same hike every day. There are a lot of trails and most folks try different trails on different days. I don’t. I do my best thinking on my daily walk. I am not seeking variety. Some days I am seeking inspiration. Some days I’m looking for answers. Some days I just want a little escape. More and more lately, I’ve been looking for comfort.

I visit a particular tree. I walk by a lot of trees, but this pine is special. It may not be the oldest, but it’s awfully old. It has survived at least a couple of major fires and still wears the blackened scars around its base. It has obviously had some close calls, but it is doing well now, and it is not an exaggeration to say that this tree cheers me every single day I see it.

Every day, I risk a little embarrassment and have a word with my favorite tree.

I lean in close. “How’re you doing?” I ask.

A few weeks ago, the potential embarrassment of being caught chatting with a tree carried a lot more weight. Right now, I’m happy to get some comfort -- and perspective -- wherever I can.

I don’t really expect to hear anything back. (I tilt toward the edge at times, but I haven’t quite toppled over.) Still, I figure this tree has seen it all: fires and droughts, woodpeckers and chainsaws, lightning and windstorms. All around my tree are the remains of dead trees -- some that died within my lifetime, some that died long before I was born. This tree has beaten the odds and is standing here today, letting me know it can be done.

Every morning I read the news, and every day I realize with greater certainty that nothing is certain. I have friends and family who rely on theaters and churches and concert halls and ballrooms to make a living, and right now, the only thing they know for sure is that they will not know for a very long time when or if they will get their livelihoods back.

My cousin who tours with an a cappella singing group and my brother-in-law who stage-manages corporate events and my other cousin who is a minister -- they are all wondering what their lives will look like in a month or a year’s time. They are depressed and angry and confused and anxious in turn, but mostly they are uncertain because the times are uncertain.

In these times, my tree has become a lot more important to me. This tree has seen it all.

And, although the tree doesn’t actually speak to me, it has a story to tell. Because somehow, this old tree managed to make it. It had some luck. It sits in a low spot, where there has been more water over the eons and where fires have been more likely to hop over. Misfortune is never equally shared, and this tree has survived, not simply because it is strong, but because it is lucky.

I feel very lucky these days. I feel lucky that I can get out of my house and take these walks in nature, but luckier yet to be like this tree -- in a place where there is enough water and the worst of the fire has passed over.

And no, I’m not embarrassed anymore to be chatting with a tree.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

We’re at the stage where everyone is complaining about their hair.

I am not complaining. As I have frequently bragged, my husband, Peter, cuts my hair, and this has continued while the beauty parlors are closed and everyone is growing increasingly cranky.

We were talking to our friends, Mary and Wolfgang, about this, and Mary was expressing a bit of envy that I had gotten a haircut the previous day. I let her think that getting a haircut from Peter was like getting a haircut in a salon, although, other than the use of scissors, there is very little similarity.

Professional stylists will ask you, “What do you have in mind?” and stand there and pretend to listen before they start cutting hair off. Peter dispenses with this formality. “Snip! Snip! Snip!” Peter is done in no time flat, and my hair looks as good as it’s going to get.

I also used to go to a hair salon to get my hair “highlighted.” This was code for “bleached blond,” but I always said “highlighted” because that’s what the stylist would say. Eventually, I realized I was spending a lot of money on a pitiful crop of hair. So, I took a deep breath and tried lightening it myself. The results were exactly the same, so I kept doing it. Then, one day about a year ago, the package design changed and I bought the wrong color.

I realized immediately that I had made a dreadful error and had bleached my hair an alarming platinum blond.

“OH NO! What have I done?!”

I went to bed wondering if I would try to cover up this disaster or just hide in my house long enough for it to grow out.

But a funny thing happened the next morning. I got out of bed, forgetting my fiasco of the previous evening, and saw myself in the morning sunshine. My hair was, as always, standing straight on end. But now it was wackadoodle platinum blond. I liked it.

“Wow. Your hair is very blond,” my mother said when she saw it.

“I know,” I told her. “It was a mistake.”

“I like it,” she told me.

That settled it. Wackadoodle blond was my new signature look.

So now my hair is newly cut and blond, and I am feeling better than Mary and Wolfgang.

“I used to cut Wolfgang’s hair,” Mary confessed, “but it’s too hard now that he’s going bald!”

“He just needs to pay you more,” I told Mary.

“Why is that?” Wolfgang demanded. “Why do I have to pay more for less hair?”

“It’s just like camping gear and lingerie,” I told Wolfgang. “The less there is, the more you pay.”

Wolfgang and Mary thought that was funny and probably also thought I knew something about lingerie -- I didn’t set them straight.

But the truth is, my underwear are an embarrassment and my nightgown has holes in it. My mother gave the nightgown to me years ago for Christmas, and it is my favorite. It has reindeer on it, and it is quite literally falling to pieces.

I decided, with my fancy new haircut, I should bite the bullet and get a new nightgown and went looking online. The only one I found that was anything like it was exactly like it -- it had reindeer prancing across the front. I bought it.

So, this summer, I’ll be the wackadoodle blonde wearing a festive reindeer nightie.

One of the many nice things about getting older is that I’ve had time to learn what really suits me.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

Every Mother’s Day, I have a terrible time finding a card that remotely reflects the relationship I have with my mother.

My mom is in her 80s now, and we have always had a good relationship, free of drama and never short of love. My mother has always been a wonderful role model. But the cards available all have paragraphs of gooey prose that in no way communicate what I want to say to my mother.

I want a card that says my mother has good habits.

This sounds a little dull -- and my mother is not at all dull. She is a woman with many and varied interests. She is an enthusiastic biker, quilter, camper and reader. She is a wonderful baker, a great entertainer, a funny and interesting conversationalist and a spiritual woman. To say that her good habits are the thing I admire most sounds like damning with faint praise. But more and more, I realize how important good habits are and how much I have benefitted from her example.

My mother puts things in small containers.

Whether it is a box of precisely the right size to store leftovers for a future meal, a small satchel for a weekend's worth of clothes, a tiny vase for a single flower or a little tin for a few small homemade cookies -- everything is contained in a small, practical container. From this habit, I learned not to waste. I learned that quality was much more important than quantity. I learned that just the right amount is usually as good as a large amount -- and often better.

I don’t have a single recollection of my mother saying any of these things, but I have more memories than I can count of instances where she stored what was needed, made use of what was available and made something beautiful on a small scale.

My mother does things immediately.

She does not talk about walks she is going to take later -- she puts on her shoes. She doesn’t complain how the house needs cleaning. She cleans. She does not delay or procrastinate. She starts to do whatever she thinks should be done and (usually before I am aware of it) she is doing the thing I would still be contemplating.

I don't remember any lectures about the evils of procrastination, but I remember her looking at the clock and saying, “I have 30 minutes before I start dinner, I'm going out for a walk!”

My mother has nice rituals.

Every day she reads a devotional in the morning, she writes in her diary, she exercises. Every evening she has one glass of wine with cheese and crackers and keeps current on the news. She sets a table, even if there are only two people eating. She sends cards, even though she is on Facebook. She volunteers, keeps up with friends, calls her daughters (at least one of whom has been known to go off for long periods of time without much communication) just to say “hello.”

My mother never said anything to me about creating rituals in life, but I learned from her how comforting it is to have things done repeatedly and with care. I learned how valued people feel when an effort is made to treat every meal, every gathering, as if it is worthy of fresh flowers.

I never found the card I wanted. I never found a card that said, “Thanks for good habits and fresh flowers and keeping things in small containers.”

Maybe that's OK. I'll tell her next time I see her.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION