Friday Tidings

For our college final project, my husband and I lobbied the school’s music department to work together to produce the school’s first ever record album. Because of the college’s incredible recording equipment, Evergreen had attracted amazing talent. Artists submitted demo recordings, we put together a selection committee, and because there was so much varied talent, we decided to go big—to produce a double album.  The album title: Collaborations. We strategized and marketed the album in the age before computers—this meant phone calls to radio stations and writing letters to record companies, promoters, and music reviewers. Maybe this could be the road to stardom for some of the artists on the album. Collaborations garnered the attention of Seattle AM and FM radio stations. That was big time—for all of us. Our final college months were hectic with music promotion.  The album title resonated with me—we really were collaborating. All our various talents merged and our differences

In the city where my daughter and family live there is a busy intersection under major construction. This particular roadway is at the confluence of a grocery store, the library, the high school, two elementary schools, and the city pool. It’s busy.   One morning,  the flaggers halted traffic during rush hour. Quickly, the backup extended blocks in four directions. Want to test someone’s patience? Stop traffic when school starts on time, and you’re stuck for at least 15 minutes. I listened to a chorus of honking horns. I watched kids get out of cars and walk to school rather than be stuck in traffic. And then I walked past a sign next to the torn-up intersection:      Love is a two-way street constantly under construction. Love is under constant construction—as in never fully finished? I thought about my young married days when my love was like a honking horn during traffic backups—I had no patience for love to do its work.  Then I recall trying to force my one-way soluti

Back in the early-60’s, I walked hand-in-hand with my grandmother in her rural town. We had driven the twenty miles from the ranch. Most farms were about 1000 acres and the homesteads were a mile or two apart. Oats, barley, and wheat were spread across the fertile soil. Grandma had her list, and I waited patiently as she conversed with the butcher. She then pushed a large cart up and down the aisles for her groceries.  Afterwards, we headed across the street to the drug store, and then to the tractor shop for Grandpa’s parts he needed. It was a routine that was repeated weekly—and on Sunday we went to church—seeing farmer friends, the men no longer in overalls. Ten years later, I’d do all these chores on my own—speeding into town in their Ford Ranchero.   Now this little town, well over a half century later, revealed that change sometimes takes things away. Some families passed on the farm chores to the next generation, and those are the ones still here. But others sold their la

As a child, I loved purple. My bedroom walls were all purple, which perfectly matched my purple curtains and bedspread.     I wore as much purple as I could. Even Grandma helped me by knitting purple sweaters, gloves, hats, and mittens.   And then, while finger painting in Kindergarten, I mistakenly discovered that when I spread blue over my red, it became purple.   My world changed that day.   Suddenly every finger painting featured my unique scribbly blend of purple.   Okay, I’ll get to the point.   This election features bold Red and Blue choices.   But to get anything done, it will take purple—a willingness to mix together and see what we can paint on the canvas of our nation—and in our communities.    The solutions to our problems are far more complex than mixing colors, and I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t always put my Kindergarten lessons to work—listening, sharing, and being kind, but I’ll do better. It is a sad reality that our media is more attracted to our

I had the best week. I didn’t read the news, nor did I accomplish much work. I spent my time playing. It  was easy to do with my granddaughter. She’s hardwired for play. We had days of togetherness, while her parents celebrated their wedding anniversary in Aruba.  It was a win-win for us all. She’s full of energy from the moment she awakens. She jumps out of bed and slides down the banister to get downstairs.  Besides school, she’s playing soccer, taking Ninja classes, and piano lessons.  She’s always full-steam ahead. Her world is still a simple place, but it was simple for me too when I was young. So, it’s easy for us to pretend and have it be quite real for now. She’s old enough to remember this special week, and yet young enough to still want to share all the time she has with her old grandma.  Her world will keep getting more complicated, but my prayer is that even with less playtime in the years to come, she’ll remember that love can keep growing—no matter how old we get.  And th

I didn’t realize that there was an actual International Eat An Apple Day. It’s the third Saturday of September. The timing fits nicely with apple harvest. So, pick your favorite variety and enjoy. Apples are kind of a big deal for my family. Long ago, after our failed farming venture, Tom was searching for work. His father’s friend was a potato and onion salesman and he suggested Tom could sell apples. He had a small office with several desks, telephones, a secretary to manage the paperwork, and perpetual cigarette smoke from the other salesmen. They sold to grocery stores across the country, and having an apple man would be be a good fit for their company. Tom was a rookie, but he mastered the art of cold calls—dialing up potential customers. Rejection didn’t deter Tom. Within a few months he had several buyers in the Southeast.  As soon as he could, he moved out of the smoke-filled office, installed extra phone lines in our basement, and became a home-based business pioneer in