In Sweden, there used to be a widespread belief that animals could talk on Christmas Eve.

My Swedish mother read me stories about this as a child, and it is true. Apparently throughout Scandinavia, folks would give their animals treats so they wouldn’t speak badly of them. This part makes me doubtful -- not that the animals got treats, but that anything I gave my cat, Felix, would prevent him from giving his opinion -- with or without the ability to speak.

Felix would tell you that he thinks he should get more treats all of the year and that he has grown tired of his current cat food and that he thinks he should get brushed at least an hour every day and that -- under no circumstances -- does he want his nails trimmed. He says this all the time. He just says it in Cat.

But I like the reminder to treat our pets especially kindly over the holidays because, whether or not they are talking about us, I’m sure the holiday season is chaotic and confusing. People are coming and going at strange times. Strangers come to the house, and the people who are supposed to be there are gone for long periods of time. Sometimes, our pets are asked to wear silly costumes and get a bath and are then taken to strange places, which I’m sure is exciting but also rather nerve-racking.

Lately, I’ve been giving out dog treats on my walks. I ask the owner if their dog would like a treat and, if it’s OK, I give the dog a little holiday snack. Some are skeptical until they taste it. Some won’t take it from my hand but will take it from their owner. But most dogs are happy to get a treat. I wish them a happy holiday and, when I see them again, they tug on their leash and, if they could talk, they’d say, “Hey! It’s the treat lady!”

There isn’t much that makes me happier than making an animal happy, and I’m guessing that is how the Swedes felt when they gave the dog a bone or brought an extra bucket of oats to the cows. It must have been a reminder, when they looked into those surprised cows’ eyes, that this day was different. Long before there was a Christmas to celebrate, there was the longest night of the year and, in Scandinavia, that would be a very long night indeed.

That night of the winter solstice, when the sun set so early and the dark lasted so long, would be a good time to remember the animals who had no way of knowing when the sun would be closer or when the days would be warmer or when the darkness would not last so long.

Those animals would see the dark and feel the cold, just as their owners did, and they would want a little reassurance. They would want a bone to chew on or a little bigger supper. They would want the backs of their ears scratched and a reminder that they were not alone and they would not go hungry.

And that is what we all need -- that is really all we need -- this time of year.

We need to be reminded that we are not alone. We have others who care about us. We will have a meal with a little something special about it, and we will remind others that they are cared for.

I will try to do that. With all the animals in my life -- and all the people, too.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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I know there are a lot of opinions about the right way to do Christmas.

My husband, Peter, feels the holidays are too commercial --too much time spent in preparation, too much added stress buying everyone presents. I know there are people who stand in long lines for sales and put debt on their credit cards, and I don’t think this is what the holidays are supposed to be about. I understand Peter’s point, and I can imagine a Christmas that was nothing more than a good meal and time with family.

But I don’t feel that way.

I like having my Christmas tree hogging up space in the living room. I like piling presents underneath it, and I love using fancy ribbon on the presents I wrap. I love the look, the night before Christmas, when everything is sparkly and stuffed full of surprises -- even if those surprises are nothing more than new hot pads and cat toys.

I’ve been fortunate that Christmas has never felt overwrought with expectations. (Unless you count getting my grandmother’s recipe for rice pudding correct on Christmas Eve. That recipe is not easy and has caused more than its share of stress.)

But when I think of presents, I don’t think of stress. I have given my young nephew inappropriately dangerous gifts (what young man does not need a pickax?) And I’ve given joke presents (my friend, Andrew, at one time had an impressive collection of shower caps). I remember the fun I’ve had giving them over the years, and the giant mess of paper and ribbons that is left after the present opening is over. I love giving presents to pets. I love hearing my mother exclaim, “What on earth? ...” as she opens a box.

And many decades later, I still remember one of the few years I spent Christmas away from my family. I was performing in a show that ran over the holidays, and coming back home wasn’t feasible. Working as an actor, I didn’t have a lot of money. But I remember I went to an art fair where there were local artists displaying their wares. Everything was decorated for the holidays and music was playing and I remember feeling very homesick.

I saw a little garnet necklace that cost more than I planned to spend, and I thought of my sister, who was still in her teens at the time. I missed her. Email didn’t exist. Phone calls were expensive. Letters took forever (although she wrote to me regularly). So I bought a little gem for my sister and mailed it to her for Christmas. I never regretted that.

But because he really does not enjoy it, Peter and I never exchange presents. “Let’s not give each other presents,” Peter said early in our relationship.

“I’m fine with that,” I told him.

And there have been years when my family has put a moratorium on Christmas gifts. “Let’s take a year off from exchanging gifts and pick a charity instead!” No one seemed to mind. Honestly, if we should decide not to give presents again some year, it would not bother me at all. (Although I do love packages under the tree, and I think I’d wrap up a bunch of boxes, just for the sake of the ribbon!)

Christmas can make do with very few things because Christmas is not about the things.

I don’t think there is a right way to do Christmas. And as long as there is enough love to go around, I don’t think there is a wrong way.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

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I hate getting sick.

Maybe being in Mexico while I’m sick is marginally better than being sick back at home in the U.S. because it is warm here and I can sit out in the sunshine like a big, grumpy gecko and soak up the sun. I can put on my dark gecko sunglasses and take my scaly old self onto the roof where there are chairs that overlook the city. I can drink fresh-squeezed orange juice and, when I finish it, some kind person will ask me if I want another one.

“Yes! I want another one!” I want to say. “I want as many of these as it takes until I don’t feel like a gecko anymore!”

I don’t say that. I usually stop at one orange juice because that’s the equivalent of about four oranges, which ought to be enough to frighten off any virus. Although with me they seem especially stubborn. And I know why.

My colds are stubborn because I get them through stubbornness.

I almost always get sick after I’m pushing, pushing, pushing myself to finish something and, as soon as it appears I have made it, my body says, “OK! I did that for you. Now it’s my turn!” And I am laid low.

I have done this all my adult life. Every major project, every sustained effort, whether it was finals in school or a season of theater or a particularly demanding presentation or, in this case, getting the first draft of a book shipped to my agent (thank you very much, body), leads me to spend a few days afterward coughing and blowing my nose with a sore throat and a geckolike attitude.

(I’m not even sure why I’m picking on geckos. For all I know, they are cheerful creatures. But they look irritated and unattractive, which is how I feel, so I’m sticking with it.)

I have never solved this conundrum. I am honestly unaware that I am pushing myself past my limits. I monitor how much sleep I get, I exercise moderately, I eat healthy things. I do nothing that should cause alarms to go off and warn me I am transforming into a gecko in mere days.

After the project is completed, I feel a rush of euphoria, and I have at least six brilliant ideas I think I should start immediately. I have this feeling, “Well, if I can do that, I can do ANYTHING!”

Cue the sore throat.

Usually within hours, my glands will swell, and I’ll have trouble swallowing. By the next day, I have to breathe through my mouth, and I’m going through boxes of tissues. You know the drill. There is nothing unique or interesting about my transformation into a gecko.

I never become severely ill. I never get anything requiring medical assistance. I just get the most boring variety of knock-me-on-my-butt illness known, and I have to deal with it for a few days -- days that last exactly as long as they are going to, no matter how much fresh-squeezed orange juice I drink.

And I don’t have a solution. I wish I could end by saying, “Then one day, I discovered what my problem was! All I needed to do was ...”

Because if I figured that out, I would share it with everyone.

Instead, my best advice to gecko self is: Find a warm spot. Sleep as much as possible. Be extra nice to people. And remember there is nothing so special about me that I don’t deserve to be a gecko from time to time.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION