A few weeks before Halloween and many years ago, when I was still married to my former husband, he and I and a couple we knew all decided we would celebrate Halloween dressed as the Midwest.

At the time, it seemed like a clever idea. I was from Minnesota, my former husband was from Wisconsin, our friend, Becky, was from Iowa, and her husband, John, was from Illinois. We were all in our early twenties, all living in Oregon, and, as we imagined ourselves dressed as our home states, it seemed like the best idea ever.

We were no longer all living in the same city. And we didn't see Becky and John again until Halloween. Honestly, I forgot all about the idea. I had time on my hands and so I designed and sewed elaborate costumes. I went as Medusa, with posable snakes bobbing up and down on my head. My former husband was Poseidon; he had a staff wrapped in fishing net and filled with seashells, and a crown on his head that lit up in the dark. Before LEDs, this was an accomplishment.

I was rather proud of our costumes, and we went to meet John and Becky. Becky was costumed as a striking geisha, and John arrived ... dressed as the State of Illinois.

"I thought we were going as the Midwest!" John complained.

I had so completely forgotten about the idea that I was startled to see John outfitted in an enormous sheet of bright yellow corrugated cardboard shaped like the Land of Lincoln, his face popping out somewhere near Peoria.

I couldn't feel too guilty if his own wife had not alerted him to a change in plans. It struck me that this did not bode well for the marriage (and, in fact, they were divorced a short while later). But John was stuck as the sole representative of the Midwest, and he was mightily embarrassed as we headed out to enjoy Halloween.

You can probably guess what happened next.

John was the hit of the evening. There were an astounding number of Illinois transplants in this small Oregon town, and every single one felt a special bond with John, who was, by nature, a shy and bookish guy. Slightly inebriated women came flying at him from across the street.

"Illinois! It's Illinois!" they screamed, as if he was a visiting rock star.

They scrutinized the carefully detailed Illinois road system searching for their hometowns. I felt as if I was witnessing the reunion of long-lost siblings.

"Quincy! I found Quincy!" a woman shrieked. It looked as if she might cry. I was not sure she was going to let John go.

The snakes bouncing on my head and my former husband's illuminated crown could not hold a candle to Quincy, Illinois.

This all happened many years ago, and yet I remember John, and I feel like him on many occasions. I tend to stick to the plan. I keep working away on my little projects, and I feel foolish when I realize that, not only has everyone I know moved on to something new, they probably think I'm a little daft not to have done the same. I frequently feel a little naive, a little embarrassed, still puttering away.

But I've learned that staying the course has benefits, even if they are not the ones I imagined.

After whatever group I was a part of has evaporated, interest disappeared, momentum vanished, I think of John, proudly representing the State of Illinois -- for no obvious reason and all on his own.

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

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