Friday Tidings

Long ago, Mom was our small town’s librarian, and I remember her telling me about an older man coming to the library almost every day just to sit and draw. He was an exceptionably gifted artist. Mom thought of herself as an amateur artist, so she would often ask the man questions about his art and some of his techniques. She always enjoyed seeing his sketches.  He also made intricately decorated cards for the holidays. Mom especially admired those. Then one Valentine’s Day, a few random people in town received beautifully handcrafted cards—sent anonymously. The next year it happened again, and each Valentine’s Day thereafter. It was kind of a sweet secret in our little town—and no one seemed to know who it was. I think the local paper even wrote about the mysterious Valentine. But the recipients were those who needed a bit of encouragement. Whoever it was seemed to know who could use some joy. I don’t think anyone ever found out who the Secret Valentine was. Years late...

I’ve heard that mothers of sons sometimes have a harder time letting them go. Perhaps, but if letting go means gaining a bonus daughter like I have, then I have had it easy. Sara became my son’s fiancée a year ago. Today I celebrate her first birthday as his wife.   Tommy and Sara met as Covid was wreaking havoc on the economy. Like many in business, they lost money and job security.    But they did find one another.    They continued on despite the setbacks. Entrepreneurship takes a special kind of courage. And they help each other on those days when courage runs out the back door.    In a world that can sometimes be unfair and mean-spirited, they are committed to rising above the fray and just being the best, they can—for one another, and for all those they enjoy serving.   As for Sara, her business takes ordinary events and makes them spectacular. From the food to the decorations, music, and ambiance, it’s incredibly welcoming. ...

Throughout the dark days of January, I looked for bright spots on my walks to and from the bus stop—they bring cheer this time of year. Winter sunrises can be bright spots—all those clouds reflecting such glorious colors. Here’s some other bright spots from my January walks: Someone fastened big flowers to a sign on a busy road.  Pink plastic flamingoes had a sign that said, “Move me to another place and I will put a smile on another face”. Even a mural on a school wall, looks brighter and bolder in the winter—a painted reminder that we live in a pretty amazing place. Dino is popular on High School Road. He just recently took off his shiny red nose. Soon, he will be wearing his leprechaun hat.  How about the fragrance of the flowering Star Anise? Crazy that it blooms when it’s this cold. It’s like a sweet reminder that we don’t have to wait until spring to be refreshed. Bright spots makes the colder walks a whole lot warmer.  It’s fun to keep looking for ...

Mom’s small pickup pulled over on a wide spot along the dirt road. It had been at least an hour’s drive on its washboard surface. My teenage attitude was as rough as the road we’d just traveled. Mom grabbed her backpack, and she handed me one to hold my lunch and sweatshirt. We waited for her friends to show up. This was another of Mom’s attempts to introduce me to new friends in her new hometown. We were going to hike with people I didn’t know to a place I’d never seen. I felt grumpy already. Not one, but three cars pulled in behind ours, and my instant impression of mom’s friends were that they had stepped out of the 60’s. Think flower power, flowing shirts for the women and long hair for the guys. They were all laughing and hugging. This was awkward. Mom made a dozen introductions, and the names were quickly forgotten. Our rag tag hiking group headed off into the woods. I imagined we’d be quiet along the trail. I was wrong. Songs and jokes filled the air.  Eventually, w...

In 1929 money was scarce. Jobs even more so. But a young woman was determined to become a nurse. The sick needed care, and Grace felt called to the rigors of the job.   She worked every floor of Portland’s massive Providence Hospital. Emergencies were met with Grace’s calm, skilled care. This was well before many of the medical advancements that made diagnosis and treatments easier.   This was also well before the Civil Rights Movement. But hardworking Blacks had moved to Oregon during the Great Depression, even though systemic racism, dating back to its statehood, denied Blacks good employment.   Yet, sickness and injuries were commonplace in the logging camps that encircled the great city.   Grace saw so many people—often on their worst days and cared for them—literally nursing them back to health.   Prejudice never occurred to her. She was fond of saying, “It’s just skin—what’s inside matters more.”   Grace was referring to people’s minds and how it aff...

Mr. Clinton, was the friendly, greasy hands, jack-of-all trades, bike mechanic, who ran our local sporting equipment store. My parents bought a tricycle from him for my birthday. This wasn’t just a little trike—it was a super large one. Taking it out on the street in front of our home brought hoots of laughter from the neighborhood kids—who’d never seen a trike that big. Humiliated, I quickly escaped back into the garage. I made excuses about why I didn’t want to go riding. When my father finally got the story out of me, and the intense shame I felt, the trike was loaded up in the car. He and I went to see Mr. Clinton. I stood by solemnly as Mr. Clinton helped my dad unload the trike. He wasn’t even mad like I expected. He patted my head. “Take Two,” Mr. Clinton said to my father. “Let’s try again.” He showed us a selection of smaller bicycles. I chose a blue one and Mr. Clinton attached training wheels. Then, kneeling down to my level, Mr. Clinton smiled and told me, “L...