Friday Tidings

  We had a professional forester write a tree management plan to submit to our county. Once the plan was approved by the accessor, it would lower our property taxes. We’re still waiting for the lower taxes... But when the forester walked our property, he scowled when he saw invasive vines. I hadn’t noticed them before. Pronouncing judgement, like an Old Testament prophet, the forester said if we didn’t get rid of all those vines, they would take over the forest floor. Then he pointed to all the dead limbs. When trees had fallen, we cut up the wood, but left the debris. Wrong answer. Limbs had to go too. He said there was enough kindling to start a major forest fire. I’m a decent housekeeper, but a forest-keeper, not-so-much, obviously. While I had been taking fun beach walks and and ignoring our forest, a slow and steady invasion of vines had been taking place. Now it was time to clean up my forest act. Those pernicious, prickly, trailing vines don’t yield delicious blackberri

Children born between the years of 1928-1945 were tagged the Silent Generation—there was a strict rule they lived by—children should be seen and not heard.    “Don’t speak until spoken to”  was how it was, and these children respected their parents and elders. They came of age in a time so unlike our technologically-attached world. But they have seen more change in their lifetimes than we have. Today I’m celebrating my favorite member of the Silent Generation. It’s my mother-in-law Bernadean’s 91st birthday. Covid canceled the huge party we’d planned last year, but we have enjoyed a year’s worth of phone calls that became our story time. I’ve heard about Bernadean’s hardships and endurance, of her adventures and ordeals. The reality is that life will never be like it was back then. Yet, I marvel at her strength born from those tough times. Bernadean’s early school years were in a one-room school. One time, the teacher announced that the kids would get to perform a play. She then

The year I graduated from high school, Mom planted a dozen crocus bulbs in an old cedar log that she’d fashioned into a planter. It was next to her pathway to the cabin. Year after year they would bloom and be the first hint of spring. After her death, and a few years before we decided to move to the cabin, the crocuses bloomed without anyone’s notice. But after we moved, I looked forward to their fierce loyalty to push through winter’s last weeks. Over the decades, Mom’s cedar log planter has all but crumbled away. And one by one the crocuses have disappeared. Maybe age. Maybe a hungry mole. All but one.  And now, each March, I wait and wonder if I will see it bloom one more time.  It did.  Thank you Mom, for planting them all those years ago. It has reminded me that new seasons come filled with beautiful possibilities ahead. I think it’s time for me to plant crocus bulbs for the next generation. It’s a small thing, but I’d like to imagine someone else waiting with expect

Back before I could drive, but old enough to go out and earn money, I babysat and did yard work to support my winter skiing habit. My folks didn’t mind paying for educational endeavors, but I was on my own for purchasing my annual ski-lift ticket. I had saved up enough to not only buy my annual ski pass, but also an attractive new ski parka that would keep me warmer and hopefully cuter on the slopes. Placing my carefully saved dollars in my pocket-sized wallet, I asked to be driven to the city to make my purchases. Mom drove me, but mentioned she was going to an art show first. I followed her through the bustling event. There were lots of people milling about. I was anxious to get to the ski shop. I barely looked at the canvasses displaying various paintings.  Mom stopped at each one. Finally she was done. We returned to the car. I felt in my pocket and my wallet was gone. My heart started pounding. Mom and I retraced our steps. She asked the event director for help. I gave a de