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Articles written by Carrie Classon

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 By Carrie Classon    Opinion    April 8, 2020 

The Postscript: Daisy crosses the street

My desk faces the window and that is where I spend most of my time. I spend about as much time at my desk as I do in my bed which is, conveniently located about 30 feet away. It’s a pretty short...

 

The Postscript: Parked out back

Joe’s red truck is parked behind his house. It hasn’t moved in days. Joe gets in his red truck every morning and drives around. He’s a member of every fraternal organization, a regular at the br...

 

The Postscript: Waiting for the sun

An enormous box arrives at our house. It is filled with food and cleaning supplies and, yes, toilet paper. I feel guilty. But the truth is, these supplies were ordered months ago. My husband, Peter,...

 

The Postscript: Smelling like dog

It’s a very gray day. Today is exactly the sort of day I am most grateful for dogs. Walking in my neighborhood, everyone feels the need to share the latest dire news. Meeting in the street, we...

 

The Postscript: In defense of Pollyanna

I think Pollyanna might have gotten a bum rap. More than once in my life I’ve been accused of having a “Pollyanna attitude.” I didn’t actually know what this meant, except that it was not a...

 

The Postscript: Push-ups with Bob

Bob suggested we all do push-ups. I guess I should mention that I don’t know Bob. Peter, my husband, knew Bob in high school. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure Peter and Bob were even close...

 

The Postscript: An awful lot of cheese

My husband, Peter, likes buying in bulk. Peter hates paying shipping fees. He never wants to run out of anything and he loves a bargain. This is why we buy coffee in enormous bags, crackers by the...

 

The Postscript: Raising the roof

The roof fell in on the church I started attending The collapse occurred after I’d been coming only a couple of weeks. While I have not always been a regular churchgoer, I thought this was kind of...

 

The Postscript: Romantic impulses

I was looking at my hair in the mirror. “I think I might need a touch-up,” I noted to my husband, Peter. “Hmmm,” Peter replied, without looking up. (Which means, “If you think so honey. I...

 

The Postscript: Mouse vomit

Last week, I started doing something I’ve never done before. I started writing fiction. I realize this does not sound shocking since I’m writing every week. My husband, Peter, says I write...

 

The Postscript: Learning to whistle

My sister learned to whistle at age 2. She was precocious in other ways as well. She knew how to read by the time she started kindergarten. She demonstrated a physical dexterity I never did. She was m...

 

The Postscript: The Cigar Box

I spent the weekend in New York City. I hadn’t been to New York in quite a while. I was performing at a theater conference and so was traveling alone, without my husband, Peter. New York...

 

The Postscript: Unexpected cowboy

I want to start out by making it clear that I have nothing against cowboys. One of the new developments in my life is that I recently got a manager, Bob, to book performances of my writing. I’ve...

 

The Postscript: A night at the funeral home

“What do you think?” my husband, Peter, asked about the link he’d sent me as we prepared to head home from the holidays. “The funeral home?” I asked. “Yeah, that one.” “I thought it wa...

 

The Postscript: Sparkles

I glanced up as the bells rang to herald new customers walking into the used clothing store. I was looking for a pair of warm dress pants. Visiting my parents in Minnesota, I had forgotten entirely...

 

The Postscript: Caleb the Christmas tree

I went with my parents to get a Christmas tree. All the trees were wearing hangtags shaped like bells and all the bells had hand-lettered names on them. At first, I assumed these trees were spoken...

 

The Postscript: Christmas at the greenhouse

It is the tender cusp of Christmas. It is that time when emotions run close to the overfill point, when sentimentality and anger and depression and euphoria mix freely together, with not enough space...

 

The Postscript: The cookie situation

“People have been asking about the squeaking of the ship,” our captain reported, somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, “but I must tell you, this is nothing to worry about.” He then...

 

The Postscript: Transatlantic turnaround

My husband, Peter, and I are returning from Spain by boat. The whole idea started when Peter read a book about the sinking of the Lusitania. “That sounds like fun!” Peter told me, as he read....

 

The Postscript: The lost feather

I lost a feather the other day and I understand this does not qualify as news. But I want to say — for the record — that this was a really nice feather. I paid good money for it and pinned it to...

 

The Postscript: Season's edge

“I like the edge season!” my husband, Peter, said, as we watched the moon rise over the mountains and felt a chill breeze rise with it. As far as I know, Peter invented this expression. He might...

 

The Postscript: Good pear

My husband, Peter, and I have settled into the little house we are calling home for a month in southern Spain. The house is old and quirky — but I’ve come to believe that all homes are quirky in...

 

The Post Script: More owls

First, I noticed the owl. “Peter! Did you see the owl?!” Our last Airbnb in Spain had a ceramic owl. So, when I found a similar owl—in a similarly inconvenient location—I took it as a good...

 

The Postscript: The kind of dog I am

When my husband, Peter, and I met, we each had a dog. Peter had a collie named “The Pretty Boy,” (Yes, “The” was part of his name) and I had a pound puppy, part golden retriever, part border c...

 

The Postscript: Slow travelers

Peter and I are packing for our annual trip again. My husband, Peter, is retired and I write, so we are able to travel now. Getting married late in life, this might have posed some problems because...

 

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