Havre Daily News - News you can use

Articles written by Carrie Classon

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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...

 

The Postscript - Blooming late

I realized that I might be a late bloomer — a little late, naturally. I love hearing about proteges: the 5-year-old drummer or the 16-year-old activist. I love hearing the 9-year-old who sings like...

 

The Postscript: No coffee

Peter was up before anyone else - as he often is. My husband, Peter, gets up early in order to have enough time to brood before busybodies like me expect him to engage in cheerful conversation. But...

 

The Postscript: Marriage stew

I told my husband, Peter, that our marriage was like stew — and that’s a good thing. This is a second marriage for both Peter and me. We were both married for a long time and then divorced for...

 

The Postscript: Blessings in disguise

They say that blessings come in disguise. If so, my blessings are poorly disguised. They show up wearing false noses and funny eyeglasses and are instantly recognizable unless I am being completely th...

 

The PostScript: Not popular

I was not popular in high school. Everyone says this. I now realize that no one — not even the most popular person in high school — self-identifies as popular. Lately I’ve been getting a lot of...

 

The Postscript: Second sunset

I spent the last couple weeks visiting my parents. I’ve been lucky in the parent department. It’s fashionable to recall some pivotal incident that occurred when we were eight and extrapolate how...

 

The Postscript: Made to last

She wore it for one day in 1919 and it looked as if it was sewn with this in mind. My grandma’s wedding dress was more than a little worse for wear. It had been folded up in a small box and kept saf...

 

The Postscript: Dusty surprises

The surprises just kept coming. When I moved in with Peter a few years back, I brought my clothes, a few books, and some artwork. I rented out my house, gave away my furniture, and everything else...

 

The Postscript: The Wren House

Nobody was using the old wren house. My grandfather built it. Grandpa started building birdhouses when he retired from milking cows and his second oldest son took over. That son, my mother’s...

 

The Postscript: Marital privilege

I’ve been having my husband, Peter, cut my hair. I’m not sure I would recommend this to everyone, but I have almost no hair. Actually, I have the usual number of hairs, but they are so fine that...

 

The Postscript: Summer birthdays

It was my birthday this week. Those of you with summer birthdays know it’s a little different. In the middle of March, everyone says, “Wow! A birthday party!” You bring treats to school and...

 

"Singing Lessons"

I’m having fun singing. I started singing lessons a few weeks ago. My teacher lives out of town, but every other week she teaches in her parents’ house — the house she grew up in — just a few...

 

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