I love Little Free Libraries.

If you don't have these in your neighborhood, they are little boxes that look like tiny houses -- not much larger than a big birdhouse -- with a glass door on the front and books inside. People leave books they have read and pick up books they want to read and, somehow, the whole thing seems to work out pretty well most of the time.

During the pandemic, I noticed that some little libraries went empty. The regular libraries were closed, and people ran out of things to read. Then everyone started ordering books, and the little libraries had more than they could hold. I saw some stacked three books deep.

I walk by a free library every day, and I always check the inventory. Most of the time, my little library is modestly full, and the inventory seems to be constantly changing. I find a book I've never heard of before and read the first few pages, standing on the sidewalk, in front of someone's house.

"Well, this looks like a lot of fun!" I'll think. I stick it in my bag and take it home, knowing I could always return it if I don't enjoy it -- or even if I do.

But I usually do enjoy it. I discover a lot of books I would never have heard of otherwise. As I'm reading, I wonder who left the book there. I wonder if they enjoyed it as much as I am. I wonder how many people have read it. The free library doesn't tell me. The free library keeps its secrets.

But cooler weather is coming, and people must be reading a little more, because it seems to be kind of slim pickings at my free library.

"Classroom Discipline: Guiding Adolescents to Responsible Independence" was one new offering the other day. Who is going to want to read that? I wondered.

The only person who would be interested would be a teacher, and do they really want to curl up after a hard day's work and get more information on the topic? Unsurprisingly, when I checked several days later, the book was still there.

Next to it was an enormous tome entitled "The Reformation: A History." The Reformation is certainly interesting, but this book had more than 700 pages. I'm thinking there's a pretty small audience for half a million words on the Reformation.

"Frommer's New England 1991" also seemed unlikely to go anywhere. I think if you're planning a visit to New England, you might want to read something about either 1791 or the present day. It's hard to believe many of the restaurants listed would still be around, and a hotel can change a lot in 31 years.

I started to feel bad for my Little Free Library. So I sorted through my bookshelf. I looked for books I had already read and enjoyed, and I made a small pile. The next day, I brought them to the free library and nestled them next to "New England 1991" and closed the little glass door behind me.

"There!"

It felt good to leave some nice surprises for the next person who came to the library. I know there are people who keep every book they've ever read, and even more who keep every book they've especially enjoyed, but I am not one of them.

I like to set my books free after I've read them. I like sharing books with a stranger -- and possibly preventing someone from having to learn more than they ever wanted to know about the Reformation.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos from the column and a link to YouTube videos can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

This past week we attended the memorial for my husband Peter's oldest sister, Shelley.

Shelley went through a long battle with cancer, and Peter lost his second sister in two years. The pandemic had just started, her husband had just died, and Shelley moved 900 miles across the country to live near her kids. Then, almost immediately, she discovered she was gravely ill. She moved in with her son, Joel, and daughter-in-law, Dani, and never left.

Shelley had several operations that did not go well, then chemo, which did not make her feel better, and finally she died peacefully, surrounded by the family who loved her so much. Meanwhile, all the things she packed up in the moving van remained in a storage unit.

Shelley was a woman of style. She was a striking beauty all her life. She dressed in bright colors and coordinated every outfit with care and, whenever the occasion called for it, she wore a hat. So I thought I'd wear a hat to Shelley's memorial.

I am not generally a hat-wearing person. But I like to dress up, and a day dedicated to remembering Shelley seemed like an occasion that called for it. So I ordered a fancy black hat.

Peter liked the idea, and emailed Dani.

"Did Shelley have some other hats you could bring to the service that people could wear if they wanted?" he wrote.

He got no response.

This was unlike Dani. Dani has the biggest heart of anyone I know. When Shelley was in the nursing home for several months, Dani organized it so that Shelley had a visitor every single day she was there. Dani planned parties for Shelley's birthday, took her to all of her doctor appointments and cooked for her every day.

"I screwed up," Peter said. "I didn't mean to make more work for Dani!"

I decided to wear my hat, regardless. I knew Peter's ex-wife planned to attend, which caused me a twinge of concern. She is a reserved and sensible person, two adjectives rarely applied to me, and was unlikely to show up in headgear the size of a hula hoop. No matter, I thought. Shelley would have liked it.

On the day of the memorial, we walked into the funeral home and saw Dani, wearing a hat. Next to her was her daughter, also in a hat. As I entered the lobby, I saw hats on the back of the chairs, over the lamps, sitting on the tables. They were everywhere, and they were all Shelley's hats.

"I wasn't sure I was going to do it," Dani confessed. "That's why I didn't answer you. They were all in storage. But one day, I had a couple of hours and I said, 'what the heck!' I had to empty about a third of the storage unit until I got to this huge washing-machine box. It was filled with hats and hatboxes. I started to empty it, but I couldn't reach the bottom. So I climbed in and kept emptying it. Then I couldn't get out!"

Dani didn't tell us how she eventually got out of the washer box. It was apparently not dignified.

But the result was magnificent. Every woman wore a hat. Everyone took their hat home as a memory of Shelley, and I can only imagine how delighted she would have been.

Funerals tend to end up looking alike, and we all go to too many of them. But no one will ever forget the sea of colorful hats, a little bit of Shelley in every one.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos from the column and a link to YouTube videos can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

My husband, Peter,� and I are spending time “up north” with my parents at their cabin by the lake. Fall is late this year. I mentioned this to Peter on the drive north.

“Aren’t the leaves supposed to change color at the same time every year?” I asked. “I thought they changed when the days were shorter.”

Peter didn’t know. We have a lot of conversations involving idle speculation. When we got to my parents’ house, my mother confirmed it was a late fall this year. A meteorologist had announced this on public radio�, so it must be true.

We took the pontoon boat out for the last time this season. The lake was still. The sky and the trees were mirrored on the lakesurface. It was disorienting and beautiful.

“It’s a perfect day!” I announced.

The next day was much colder. Everyone got up a little later than usual because the sun didn’t break through our windows and� remind us we were overdue for coffee.

“It’s hard to get going on a day like this,” my father commented �over coffee.

I had a big conversation scheduled with someone who was interested in my book. The talk went better than I expected,� and I was filled with crazy hope. I decided to burn off my nervousness by walking to the boat landing. But, when I got there, I saw I had company.

“Hello!” said one of the three men about my age, piling out of the truck they parked feet from the boat landing.

“It’s your lucky day!” he announced. “We need someone to video us. Do you mind?”

This was such an odd request, I could hardly refuse.

“This is my brother,” he continued, and one of the men nodded. “And this guy’s family used to own a resort that was right here.” He gestured to either side of us.

“We spent every summer here when we were kids. And this was our swimming hole,” he pointed to the boat landing. “�So every year we come back at least once to go swimming!”

“It’s not real warm,” I warned.

“I know! But it’s the only day we could all make it here. We just got back from fishing in Canada!”

The other two men looked considerably less excited than their leader, and it was easy to imagine these three little boys,� grown old, still following their high-spirited leader.

The man’s brother was down on the dock, nervously looking over the edge.

“I’m not sure we can dive off this,” he said. “It used to be deeper.”

“You used to be shorter,” I told him.

“That’s true,” he agreed.

“OK! Let’s do this!” the leader said.

He handed me his camera, and the men took off their shoes and shirts. The water was in the low 60s and the air was ten 10 degrees cooler. The other two men looked as if this was a tradition they were willing to let go of. But there was no chance of that.

Moments later, all three were in the lake, hooting and hollering and very proud of themselves. I caught it all on video.

“You guys enjoy the rest of your autumn,” I told them. They told me to do the same.

Fall is coming, but it’s late.

I watched those slightly over �middle-aged men -- who were just about my age -- and I understood their need to do everything they could in the autumn -- even if the water was cold, even if the whole idea was a little crazy. We all understood the need to do it while there was time.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos from the column and a link to YouTube videos can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION