"The worst thing," I told my mother, "was when you made us eat venison sausage for lunch. That sausage lasted forever!"

I am visiting my parents, and we somehow got to discussing our less-than-favorite foods. My mother always made wonderful school lunches with fresh fruit and a homemade cookie. But memory is fickle. What I remember most clearly was when my father brought home from work what seemed to me, as an elementary-school-age kid, a venison sausage the size of a baseball bat, and I had to eat sandwiches made from it -- forever, as I recall.

"That was not the worst thing," my father said.

"No, you're right," I agreed. "The worst thing was when you made tongue sandwiches. I didn't eat those."

"When did I make you a tongue sandwich?" my mother asked.

"You made it for my lunch!"

"How did you know it was tongue?" she asked.

"It had bumps!" I told her, suddenly reliving the experience.

"It couldn't have had many bumps," my mother said.

"How many bumps do you think it needs for an 8-year-old to refuse to eat it?" I asked.

My mother laughed. She's not a fan of tongue, either.

We were talking after dinner. My husband, Peter, and I were visiting my parents in their home "up north." We were having my mother's pumpkin bars for dessert and talking about old times and relatives I barely remembered -- if at all.

I knew my mother's father had a brother named Evald, and I knew they used to go fishing. I remember my grandmother saying that grandpa was not going up north to fish but to drink beer with Evald. I figured with 11 kids to raise and 50 cows to milk, drinking a little beer with Evald once a year wasn't the worst thing a guy could do.

"I've never seen the house you lived in when you were little!" I told my mom.

"It's in kind of sad shape, last I saw," she told me. "But it's still there. You need a tour!"

"I do," I agreed.

Memory is a funny thing. It seems to disappear completely, then slaps us with a vivid clarity -- like an image of the bumps on a tongue sandwich eaten (or not eaten) 50 years ago.

I'm going to take a tour of the house my mother and her siblings grew up in the next chance I get. Even if the old farmhouse isn't looking as fine as it used to, even if it's been empty for a long time. I'd like to hear what memories my mom has when she sees it again and try to imagine some of the things that are now barely remembered.

"That was not the worst thing," my father said again. "We didn't make you eat the worst thing."

"What was the worst thing?" I asked him, trying to think what could be worse than a tongue sandwich in elementary school.

"You remember what your Uncle Evald gave us?" my dad asked my mom.

"No!" my mother said.

Uncle Evald lived off the land, up in the north woods, occasionally driving a school bus, from what my mother said.

"It was canned bear meat. In a jar. The fat had separated from the rest of it."

"I don't think I ever saw that," my mother said.

"That wasn't the worst of it," my dad continued. "There was hair in the jar!"

"No!" my mother said.

"There was," my dad said. "So, it could have been worse than venison sausage for lunch."

I had to admit, my dad was right.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

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It was snowing hard, the way it almost never does anymore, and I decided I needed to go for my walk, heedless of the weather.

"I probably won't be gone long!" I texted a friend in California as I headed out the door looking like an Arctic explorer. The snow was coming down fast and sideways. Many businesses were closed, and the streetlights had eerily popped on at midday.

Once outside, I wondered if this was such a good idea.

It was impossible to keep the snow out of my eyes. I pulled my fur-trimmed cap down so it nearly hid my eyes. I pulled my face mask up over my nose and navigated through a narrow strip of vision with a fringe of fur on top.

It was a lot of work. Between 4 to 5 inches of snow had already fallen and only a few people had traversed the sidewalk ahead of me. I found myself tripping and slipping in their tracks.

"I'm going to walk to the next cross street and turn around," I promised myself. "A short walk is better than no walk at all!

I kept trudging.

But a funny thing happened on the next block. The last of the footprints disappeared, and I was walking through untouched, fresh snow. Once I was no longer stumbling in the footsteps of previous pedestrians, the walk became easier. The snow had a bounce to it. My steps, though slow, were even and smooth. I started to have fun.

"I'll go one more block before turning around."

The block came and went. Every so often, I'd hit a patch of sidewalk where someone had shoveled, and walking became amazingly easy. Then I'd go back to what I was now used to.

And, eventually, walking through the snow became normal. I settled into a slow but steady pace and observed the closed businesses and the unshoveled sidewalks and the snowplows trying to clear the street beside me. At one point, I saw two young people trying to pry a car out of a parking spot, and I helped push it free.

"Thank you!" they called as they headed down the street, wheels spinning in the deep snow.

"They're going to get stuck again," I thought. And they probably did.

I heard sirens in the distance and watched great whirls of snow gust off the rooftops and fill the air with dancing snow phantoms. I ended up walking my whole route.

I remember hearing the neural pathways of our brain described as paths through the snow. I can think in new ways, but it is much easier to follow an existing path, one that has already been cleared, and so I'll do that whenever possible.

But I wonder if there isn't more to it.

I think of all the times that I've heard there was a "right way" to do things, and remember all the times the right way hasn't been all it's cracked up to be. Of course, it's always easy to walk on a clear path. But sometimes I have to break a new trail and, when the path is new, it's often a good idea to find my own way.

"I did the whole loop!" I told my friend in California once I was back. "It wasn't too hard to walk because I was the first one to make tracks!"

"It's harder to follow in someone else's footsteps?" she asked. She hasn't seen a lot of snow.

"It is!"

And it was. And there's a lesson for me in that, I am sure.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

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"I have to say, that is a very nice hat!" I told the man as he passed me on the sidewalk.

The man in the snazzy blue fedora had a serious look on his face, as if he was thinking deeply about something far more important than the indigo-blue hat with the red feather sitting on his head.

But whatever less-than-cheerful thought had been preoccupying him (the gathering clouds? The declining stock market? His expanding waistline?), it was whisked away when I complimented his dapper blue hat, and his face broke into a genuine smile.

I know people who say you shouldn't compliment strangers.

"It is intrusive," they say. "It's fake." "Nobody wants a stranger commenting on their appearance!"

I think this is a load of nonsense.

Everyone likes a compliment. I think it means even more coming from a stranger. I don't interrupt conversations to compliment someone. I don't make things up or compliment something I don't genuinely admire. I don't think anyone has ever looked offended when I told them they looked good or something they were wearing was attractive.

I find myself complimenting strangers several times every day. I try to pay attention when I'm on my walks. I try to savor whatever is interesting or beautiful and, much of the time, this is either dogs (because dogs are always interesting and beautiful), or people. I have also complimented gardens, but the people responsible are rarely around to get these compliments. The nice thing about complimenting clothing is that the person associated with it is right there, ready to receive the positive feedback.

"Thank you!" the man in the blue hat said.

I'm sure he knew it was a good-looking hat. It was probably an expensive hat; I haven't bought enough hats to know. But it doesn't really matter. Even if someone has paid a lot for something -- or perhaps especially if they have -- they like to know that it was money well spent, that they look good and that someone has noticed. So, I try to notice.

I've complimented older women on their coats and scarves, young women on the color of their hair (especially if it is blue or green), and tough-looking men on their clever T-shirts. It is always surprising how the people who look the most withdrawn are usually the ones who seem the most pleased. The young man may have forgotten what T-shirt he put on that day, but he's pleased to know it met with an appreciative audience -- even if that audience was the slightly odd, cheerful older woman.

"Thanks!" he'll say, looking both a little embarrassed and absurdly pleased.

It doesn't matter if it's odd, I've learned. It doesn't matter where the comment comes from. It really does not matter at all.

We all want to be seen. We want to know that we do not walk invisible in this world. No one wants to feel alone in a crowd. Compliments may seem trivial or superficial, but sometimes they are the easiest way to throw a line to someone and say, "I see you! Seeing you makes me happy." It takes nothing. And I think it can be more important than we will ever know.

The man in the blue hat had a little more bounce in his step as he walked past me. I have no illusions that I changed his day significantly. But that's not my job. My job is to be more like that little bird who sings the same song, day after day, and makes the world just the smallest bit sweeter.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION