I just spent a wonderful long weekend with my sister and her son, Beau, "up north" at my parents' cabin.

Stubby the red squirrel is doing well. Since the tragic loss of the end of his tail (and his subsequent unofficial adoption by my mother), he has flourished. The end of his tail, while still cut off at a sharp angle, has sprouted an impressive line of dark fur, and he looks dapper, sitting on the railing, shaking his tail and showing off his new plumage.

Mom still dutifully feeds him every day, usually bird food, although he recently had some leftover pasta shells, which he seemed to enjoy very much. Even without my mother's offerings, he is kept busy this time of year with pine cones and acorns and the many other good things there are to be found in the forest.

My mother is an intrepid gardener, braving the cold temperatures, lack of sun and marauding forest wildlife to keep the flowers in her many flowerpots growing and beautiful for much of the year. It is a neverending job, as the deer and, more recently, the wild turkeys love the tasty treats she has cultivated and placed around the house like a free salad bar. A pack of turkeys decimated her begonias earlier in the fall. She sent me a photo of her begonias, pre- and post-turkey invasion, and it was not a pretty sight.

My sister brought the family dog, Mabel, who gets along well with my parents' cat, Katie, and Mabel kept the turkeys and deer at bay. But that didn't mean we were free of animal drama.

My nephew and my dad went down to haul in the dock before the lake froze. My sister and mother and I followed them down to the water's edge, where we discovered the site of a recent raccoon feast.

"They must have been eating crayfish," my father guessed when he saw the enormous pile of fragrant poop at the end of the dock.

"Oh, no!" I yelled, because -- at that moment -- Mabel discovered the pile of poop and was eating it as quickly as she could.

Mabel was immediately banished to the house (with very stinky breath) while the dock was hauled in and, at some point, a door was left open just long enough for Katie the cat to escape, kill a songbird, and bite off its head.

"Katie!" my mother scolded. "That was very, very bad!"

Katie looked mighty pleased with herself, and Mabel looked a little relieved because -- although she hadn't gotten to eat as much raccoon poop as she thought she was entitled to -- at least she was no longer the pet in the most trouble.

That night, we went out to dinner. My sister and nephew and father all had big burgers with bacon and ham and cheese or some combination of all three. I don't eat meat, and I haven't for most of my life, but I don't care what anyone else eats.

Beau, looking at his gigantic burger, told me, "I think we killed enough animals to make up for any that you saved!"

I tried to tell him that I don't make dietary choices for anyone but myself. But then I realized this was not quite true.

Because I did not agree with the dietary choices of Katie, eating songbirds' heads, or Mabel, eating raccoon poop off the dock, or even those turkeys, eating my mother's begonias.

I make a lot of judgments, all the time. And some of them I'm sticking with.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found at CarrieClassonAuthor on Facebook.

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My Auntie Jo gave me a beautiful pair of gloves yesterday. They are elegant, with embroidery on the top, and I immediately did what I usually do -- I put them away for safekeeping.

"I'll wear these to something special!" I told myself.

I have a date to go with my niece to see "Peter Pan" in December. I decided I would wear those gloves when I go out with my beautiful 20-year-old niece before she heads out to Spain to study for a semester in Madrid. That will certainly be an occasion worthy of these gloves, I thought.

"I might need a hat to wear with these gloves," I got to thinking.

Winter hats, to be brutally honest, are usually one of two things. They are fashionable, or they are warm. I know there are a few that straddle the gap between the two, but it is rare. I went browsing online, looking for a hat that might be worthy of these gloves. I thought how nice it is to have things to look forward to.

My husband, Peter, and I will be returning to Mexico for a few weeks before Christmas, and I am looking forward to that. I look forward to seeing our friends down there and finding out what changes there have been at the hotel. Peter already has his suitcase out and is steadily popping things into it. I know he enjoys this. He enjoys the process of planning his trip, one item at a time. I usually wait until a day or two beforehand and stuff everything in at once.

But I have other things to look forward to as well.

Yesterday, I went to church with my Auntie Jo and my sister. My sister's husband is a newly ordained minister, and he just began work at his first church. It is a late-in-life new career, and he is very good at it. His congregation was warm and welcoming, and he preached a great sermon. Afterward, my sister and my aunt and I went out, had a cup of coffee and split a couple of pastries at a Mexican mercado. My sister told us about her gardening plans. I talked about our planned trip to Mexico. My aunt told us both how much she enjoyed spending time with us.

"We have to do this again!" Auntie Jo said.

"When I'm back in December, for sure!" I answered.

When they dropped me off at home, my aunt gave me the little gift bag with the gloves inside.

"What is this?" I asked.

"It's for your birthday," she told me, which was surprising, since my birthday was three months ago.

Time passes so quickly. We will be in Mexico soon and back before we know it. Another Christmas will come, and a new year will be here.

I thought of how quickly the months go by. Then I went to the coat closet, reached up on the shelf, pulled down those beautiful gloves my aunt had just given me, and I put them on.

There is no need to save these gloves for a special day.

Because this day -- this going to church together and having coffee and sharing pastries and plans day -- was as special as any day could be. I don't know how many more days I will spend with my sister and Auntie Jo. I hope there will be many. But I don't know. None of us do.

So I put on my fancy new gloves with my jacket and my walking shoes, and I headed out the door.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found at CarrieClassonAuthor on Facebook.

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I have always loved Halloween, and I love it now more than ever.

I love to get in costume and have fun with other people in costume. People seem freer when they are dressed in different clothes. They seem to have a little more fun. I like the challenge of making or putting together elaborate costumes but, as the years passed, I've done less and less of it. Costume parties seem to be less common, and I don't spend time in bars, so the opportunity to celebrate the holiday has diminished.

Then I started going to Mexico, and all that changed.

Halloween is celebrated there, but it is a more somber affair, with beautiful "ofrendas" dedicated to the dead in homes, in the parks and in the cemeteries. It is a tradition that brings the dead closer to the living through remembrances and photos and collections of the things and the people the dead loved, all gathered together in their honor.

And then there is a party.

After Halloween, the Day of the Dead is celebrated, followed by All Souls' Day, and each has its own significance, and its own traditions, which vary from one community to another. But what is, in the U.S., a short evening's activity celebrated primarily by children is a much bigger deal, a celebration that goes on for most of the week, involving people of all ages. The celebrations mix a reverence for the dead and a joy for life in a way I find breathtaking.

So my husband, Peter, and I will be celebrating Halloween this year. Peter, it should be noted, is not as big on the whole "getting into costume thing" as I am.

"What will I wear?" he asks, with obvious skepticism.

He worries he will look silly. He is sure he will be uncomfortable. But I have gotten Peter a costume (a fabulous costume, if I say so myself!), and he says he is going to wear it. He knows it is important to me and he genuinely enjoys the celebration and so, this year, he will be a part of it -- even if that might not be his first choice.

But, because we will be celebrating in Mexico, I want to observe the other part of the holiday as well.

Last week, we celebrated my mother's birthday with my parents and sister and my father's only sister, Joanne, and her husband. We got to talking about my father's mother. Joanne was telling the story we all knew about how my grandma wore elegant purple suede boots in her late 80s and thought -- because of her cataracts -- they were brown. No one thought a thing of it, because my grandma was always a stylish dresser, and we thought those purple boots were snazzy. But when my grandma found out, she took Joanne to task.

"Why didn't you tell me I was wearing purple boots?" she demanded.

My grandma wore a bright fuchsia raincoat to her husband's funeral. I honestly don't think any of us were to blame.

But it is a wonderful story, a great remembrance of my grandma, who lived to be 100 years old and gave us so many good memories. I love the idea of a day -- or the better part of a week -- set aside to tell stories like that and to keep the memory of my grandma, and so many others we have loved so much, alive.

And then we will do exactly what my grandma would have liked best. We will get all dressed up and have a big party.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found at CarrieClassonAuthor on Facebook.

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