A fellow I know was grousing about the past year.

His birthday was coming up and he felt, once again, that this year failed to meet his expectations. He was unhappy with the year, unhappy with himself, unhappy with the fact that he’d even allowed himself to hope that 2020, of all years, was going to be better than the previous ones.

“My caring isn’t going to make any difference in how things work out,” he told me. “When I step back to accept that reality, maybe I’ll stop thinking any of it matters.”

He was unhappy with the idea that he’d gotten his hopes up at all. He seemed to feel that expecting something better in the coming year was a sucker’s game and he was determined not to fall for it again.

I didn’t say anything to him. I didn’t make any chipper remarks because I knew he wasn’t looking for advice. He was looking for commiseration for what he saw as a lost and wasted year. But I did spend some time thinking about his complaints, and I decided that if I had offered my advice, I’d have told him to go clean out his refrigerator.

I know I’m not the only one who lets the refrigerator fill up with plans that didn’t work out, ideas I lost interest in, unfinished meals I always thought I’d get back to. The new year is an excellent time to take a peek at what’s lurking in the corners and drag it all out and look at it under a good strong light.

Throw out the sweet and sour sauce of frustrated expectations. Pitch that packet of expired yeast for the hopes that will never rise and, instead, take out the sourdough starter and get something new going, something you can pass on to your friends.

Quit saving the fancy mustard for a special occasion. Today is special. Put that mustard on a hot dog tonight and call it a party -- even if you are all by yourself.

Take out those empty containers that used to be full of the things you liked. You’re not going to enjoy those things anymore. Get rid of the reminders. Throw out the empties.

At least once a year, I have to take a good hard look at all the stuff that has accumulated on my shelves and ask myself, “Does this make me happy? Or is it just a leftover idea of a meal I am never going to eat?”

If I can still imagine the person who might eat it, then I’ll clean up the bottle, wipe down the shelf, and place it front and center where I won’t forget it. But if I can’t imagine ever wanting that bottle of whatever it is again -- I’m not thinking twice. I’m going to throw it away and get on with my cleaning.

But, most importantly, I’m leaving room in my refrigerator for new stuff.

I can’t get excited about cooking something new if my refrigerator is piled high with junk I no longer need or want or care about. The new year is a good time to be honest about this. I used to be a grape jelly kind of person. I’m not anymore -- and that’s OK. It’s no crime to admit things have changed.

I’m going to clean those shelves until they shine and leave a little room for all the meals I cannot yet imagine, for all the tasty treats I’ve been promising myself one day. The day has come. I’m going to need some shelf space.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

Whatever you think about Christmas, I think you would have to agree we need one this year.

Everyone I know seems determined to do as much Christmas as it is possible to do. My pastor announced at the beginning of Advent that we were going to have 26 consecutive Zoom Advent services.

“We’re having 15 minutes of Advent reflections EVERY night!” she announced.

“Surely she means every week,” most of the congregation thought.

“EVERY night!” she repeated for clarification.

“I am not Zooming every single night of Advent,” I thought. “That’s just excessive.”

But after the first night, I looked forward to the second night and then it became a habit and, after a few nights, I couldn’t imagine missing my little 15-minute dose of Christmas hope and positivity and fellowship. Fifteen minutes was just enough to settle my thoughts. There was music. I was asked to read a couple of times. We all waved “hello” at the beginning and, before we knew it, we were waving “goodbye.” I can’t remember ever feeling the approach of the Christmas season so intimately, so incrementally, so intensely.

I’ve heard there is a worldwide shortage of Christmas trees.

Folks who haven’t bothered to put up a tree in years decided this was the year. Usually, if I have a tree at all, I look for a skinny tree I can stash in the corner and still have room for company. Not this year.

This year, I got a big fat tree fresh off the truck. I figured no one else was using the space so, instead of tucking it in the corner, I set it smack-dab in the middle of the room. When I came down the next morning, that tree had doubled in size. My husband, Peter, was completely hidden behind it, as if he were reading the news in the forest.

I’m embracing every-night-Advent and the world’s fattest Christmas tree because there is so much else that won’t be the same and, of course, I will miss it.

There will be no crush of middle-aged cousins getting together on Christmas Day. My mom won’t host Christmas brunch and we won’t open presents together and I won’t hear my niece and nephew play piano in church. None of the things that have made Christmas seem like Christmas will happen, and yet I am looking forward to the day with a peculiar fervor.

I think about people long ago who watched as the days grew shorter and the nights got longer and the weather grew colder and their supplies dwindled. When the winter solstice arrived, they needed to assure themselves that the darkness would end. They needed to pull together whatever sort of comforts they could manage and thumb their noses at the cold and dark and growing fear that spring might never come, that the sun might simply disappear one afternoon and never return.

So they had a party.

I’m sure most of the parties were small, as Peter’s and mine will be. But they would eat something special and haul something green into the house and build a bigger fire than usual and reassure themselves that the dark and cold and loneliness would end and a better day would come.

And that’s what we’re doing this year.

We’re going to huddle around our Zoom and our oversized tree and eat a little extra peppermint ice cream and Peter’s good ginger cookies and be grateful for everything we have and more grateful yet that this time -- this dark time -- will slowly but surely be coming to an end.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

“I’ve forgotten the funny name of the tree you helped us pick out,” my mother said. “Our tree this year is named Melinda.”

The greenhouse where my parents get their Christmas tree every year has festive tags hanging from the trees with their names and prices. These are not inexpensive trees, so it’s fitting they are all individually christened. My mother likes to support this local business -- and they do have nice trees.

“Caleb. The tree I picked out with you was named Caleb.”

We both agreed Caleb was a silly name for a Christmas tree, although I wasn’t sure Melinda was a whole lot better.

Christmas trees are a matter of strict personal taste. I know people who had one-too-many years of needles in the carpeting and became artificial tree owners forever after. Then there are people who insist you need a live tree -- but it doesn’t count unless you cut it yourself.

My husband, Peter, bought the house we live in before we met. It was built in 1955 and Peter was born in the ‘50s, so when I moved in, both the house and its owner had a midcentury modern vibe, and I was fine with that. We have midcentury modern dishes and lamps and furniture. But I draw the line at a midcentury modern Christmas tree.

Peter has a Christmas tree from the ‘50s that is made entirely of aluminum. It is pokey and shiny and Peter thinks it is wonderful. “It matches the house perfectly!” Peter says.

That may be, but it doesn’t look like Christmas to me.

So, last year, I went downtown looking for a tree. There was a lot filled with perfectly coiffed trees that would have put Melinda or Caleb to shame, but they were exorbitantly priced -- and they didn’t even have names. The fellow selling them seemed to have come from a background in car sales.

“So, what kind of tree did you have in mind?” he asked me.

“One that doesn’t cost more than two weeks’ worth of groceries!” I wanted to say.

Instead, I went looking for the second, less-fancy lot in town, but it was hard to find. I got directions twice and drove around in circles until I finally saw a half-dozen straggly trees poking up over an embankment. I drove down into the deserted parking lot and there was a spindly bunch of trees, all of them over 10 feet tall. A sign was posted nearby. “Family Emergency -- Pay at Hair Salon.”

I went across the street and, sure enough, the proprietor of the tree business had been called away and the trees were all being sold for a fixed price -- any size. I gave my money to the hairstylist, picked out a gangly tree and strapped it to my car.

When I got home, I cut four feet off the bottom, put it in the tree stand and saw ... it was perfect.

This year, once again, we will be home for the holidays and, unlike last year, I don’t expect anyone will see our tree except Peter and me. And I don’t care.

I’m headed downtown today, to the lot with the disreputable-looking trees. Peter will cluck his tongue and say something about the perfectly good aluminum tree he has stashed away in a box somewhere. But he’ll be a good sport (as he always is) while I decorate my midcentury modern home for Christmas and smell the fresh spruce.

This year, I might even give my tree a name. I’m thinking of naming it Peter.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION