I think my next-door neighbors might be superheroes.

They both work with computers (at least that’s what they say) and then, every spare moment, they are off doing superhero-type things.

My neighbor, Jason, runs 100-mile marathons. He’s even done a few 200-plus-mile marathons. These are held in the mountains. He starts running before the sun is up, runs up a mountain all day, then runs down a mountain all night, then runs up another mountain the next day. He wears a headlamp so he can see the trail in the dark. Last weekend, Jason and a friend (who is probably also a superhero) left the house and ran 70 miles -- for fun.

“He’s crazy,” Jason’s wife, Allison, says.

I’m not sure Allison is in any position to judge.

Allison is tiny and she trains in their climbing shed. (Before I met these folks, I’d never heard of a climbing shed.) There is a window in the shed, so I am not technically spying on her when I see Allison climbing up the wall. The wall starts out vertical and then it gets steeper until Allison is hanging upside-down from her fingers like a spider. I don’t think this is something ordinary human beings are supposed to be able to do.

Our superhero neighbors never seem to get grouchy or tired. They are always cheerful and helpful. I sometimes bring them desserts because I figure superheroes are too busy saving the world to have time for baking. Unlike normal people, they never seem to worry about calories -- hanging upside-down by your fingers burns up quite a few, I imagine.

Sometimes, I think it would be fun to be a superhero. I’m a writer and I started writing late in life, so I figure I need to keep busy if I’m ever going to be any good. But the truth is, writing is easy -- not because I am super disciplined or have any super talent. It’s easy because I enjoy it.

Some days I do stare at the proverbial blank sheet of paper for a few minutes, but that’s OK. I look at the pine trees outside my window. I drink a little coffee. I remember how lucky I am to be able to spend time doing something that makes me happy. I think I’m probably as happy as Allison when she’s hanging upside-down or Jason when he’s running up a mountain in the middle of the night.

The word “should” kills a lot of joy.

I know a lot of writers who found out they could write and so they decided they “should” -- and that was the end of the writing. At that moment, writing became a chore. I know even more people who say they “should” exercise (or save the world) and they never get a moment of the joy Jason and Allison experience every day.

I admire what Jason and Allison can do, but more than that, I respect how much they enjoy it. When they said they were going to build a climbing shed, I admit I thought, “How often will you use that?” “Every day” is the answer. Allison climbs in that shed every single day. Jason doesn’t go running to win any prizes -- although I’m sure he’s happy when he does. He spends his free time running for superhuman distances because he loves it.

I’m sure, like me, they sometimes hesitate before they start. Maybe they even get discouraged. But then they do their superhero things -- not because they should, but because being a superhero makes them really happy.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I don’t think it’s my imagination that Father’s Day seems like a last-minute add-on.

“Oh! We have Mother’s Day. We probably should do something for fathers ... ”

On Mother’s Day, a bouquet of flowers or brunch seems to do nicely every year. There isn’t an equivalent gesture for Father’s Day. The gift suggestions now being advertised all seem a little desperate. A watch? A wallet? A gas grill? A “whiskey set”?

Since my dad’s watch and wallet are with him 90% of his waking life, I’m thinking he’d rather choose his own. A gas grill seems a bit much. (Mom gets eggs Benedict and dad gets a $1,200 grill?) I’m not even sure what a “whiskey set” is, but I know my dad wouldn’t drink whiskey if you paid him.

My dad has now spent more time retired than he spent working -- which is a wonderful milestone. He was hired while he was still in college to work as an engineer, and he stayed with the same company his entire career. My dad wore horn-rimmed glasses and carried a pocket protector and a slide rule in his shirt pocket. He sang bass in the church choir, which meant he was always in the back row and I could only see him when he was stretching for a high note and got up on his toes to reach it.

My dad was always ready to try something new. He raised bees in the backyard and helped us dip candles in his workshop and polish agates in a tumbler. I remember the sound of the rock tumbler, polishing away, and a perfectly smooth agate coming out.

Then, every July when the plant where my father worked was shut down, my family would pile into the car pulling a pop-up camper and head out on vacation.

The story goes that my sister and I were quarreling. We generally got along pretty well but a full day in a hot car could get on anyone’s nerves. On this particular day, we were arguing about (of all things) who was going to get in the lake first once we got to the campground.

Dad was driving. Mom was sitting in the front seat with the dog. My sister and I were busy squabbling, and no one saw my father as he quietly emptied his pockets, removed his belt, and silently unhooked his seatbelt. (This was before cars had all the buzzers and bells.) We drove into the campground and, the moment we hit the parking spot, my father threw open his door and sprinted straight to the lake and dove in. My sister and I sat there in stunned silence.

I don’t remember what happened after that. I just remember my father, flying into the lake, proving both of us wrong -- and what an amazing dad he was -- in one lightning move.

My dad doesn’t move quite as fast these days. He calls himself “an old geezer,” although I can’t imagine anyone else does. He still builds things in his woodshop and splits wood with the log splitter and rides bikes with mom. He still routinely surprises us. And he still listens to the worries and complaints of his daughters.

My sister and I hand these worries to him like rough stones and my dad handles them like the agate polisher we had as children. By the time my dad is through with them, our worries are worn smooth. Our worries are no longer sharp or dangerous. They are polished to a gentle luster by our dad’s loving concern.

Happy Father’s Day.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

It’s harder to keep in touch with people these days. Things are opening up, but it’s going to be a while before we hop in a car and visit people the way we used to.

I met the pastor of my church while walking. She told me the youth group had been meeting via Zoom, and the kids were overcome with shyness, seeing their faces on the screen. I wanted to say, “Don’t they realize they can be seen when they show up in person?” But I sympathized with the teenagers. When my husband Peter and I tried Zoom for the first time, it was a little awkward.

“Shouldn’t the camera be higher?” I asked. “You can see right up our noses!” We found a cardboard box and adjusted the laptop angle.

“Why is it so smudgy?”

“I had sticky tape over the camera,” Peter told me.

Peter cleaned the tape residue off the lens, and I realized I looked a lot better smudgy.

But we’ve been trying to make a point of calling people more often. (Peter calls it “drunk dialing,” although we’re not.) Sometimes it takes some effort. Sometimes I’ve wondered if these unexpected phone calls are more a bother than a pleasant surprise to the folks we call.

Yesterday, I got a surprise call myself from Geri.

I haven’t seen Geri since I moved 1,400 miles away years ago. She’s quite a bit older than me and not someone I knew well, so when I saw her name pop up on my phone yesterday, I was very surprised. I didn’t know I even had her phone number, to be honest.

“Geri!” I said, “this is Carrie!” There was a moment of awkward silence.

“Geri, did you butt-dial me?”

“Carrie? This is Carrie Classon?”

“Geri, you butt-dialed me, didn’t you?!”

“No! I was trying to call someone else. Someone to clean my house.”

Geri has a huge old wooden house sitting on a hill. It even has a turret on one corner. There are nooks and crannies and stairs everywhere. I would not want to clean Geri’s house.

“Geri! I am not going to clean your house!”

“Oh, no! But it’s so good to hear your voice. How are you doing?”

I knew Geri was getting up in years and her husband, Clarence, was older yet. So I asked, somewhat timidly, “How’s your family?”

“Oh, we’re fine. But we’re old! I am 88 and Clarence is 95!”

“Only 95? He’s a pup!”

“He parks in the spot reserved for WWII veterans they still have at the grocery store, and I think he’s the only one who uses it!”

Geri and I chatted for quite a while. We both had news and a lot of shared memories.

“You and Peter have to come and visit sometime!” Geri said. I promised we would next time we were anywhere near.

“Clarence is going to be mad when he finds out you called me up to clean your house and ended up inviting us over,” I told her.

“No, no, we would love to see you! It was great talking with you!”

“It was good to hear from you, Geri.”

And it was. Talking to Geri made my day. I suddenly felt less worried about those “Hi! We were just thinking about you!” calls Peter and I have been making.

Yes, it’s a little awkward making conversation with someone you haven’t talked to in a long time, but sometimes a little awkward is OK, I decided. Sometimes a little awkward is a lot of fun.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION