Friday Tidings

Getting to this trailhead had taken us over a gravel road that my son Tommy declared was like the surface of the moon—complete with deep craters. It was too dark to see into the woods as we drove further. After reaching our destination, Tommy and his childhood friend, Josh, didn’t delay. They hefted 50-pound backpacks for a five-day adventure in the Olympic Mountains. It was just after six in the morning. My husband and I stood in the dark, watching the hiker’s headlamps disappear on a trail we could barely see. They’d have no cell service. No interruptions from an intrusive world. They would climb and then descend three mountain passes and forge through densely wooded valleys. Those were their challenges for the week. As their headlamps and voices faded into the woods, I thought about my hiking days. I’d unplug from the world, but this was long before Wi-Fi went with us everywhere. Back then, silence was a gift. Now it’s a rare treasure. I cannot begin to imagine how much more yo...

My granddaughter had packed her suitcase all by her seven-year-old self. I was impressed that she’d thought of everything she needed for Grandma Camp. Then she brought out a little purse and poured a small handful of coins into my hand. “Here, Grandma, this is for the playground.” She knew our community is raising funds to make the playground handicap accessible.  We’ve talked about it while playing at parks in her hometown, but I didn’t realize how much it meant to her. It mattered enough to give what she had: $2.40. That money now sits in a wooden bowl on my desk. Talk about motivation. Sometimes it’s easier for me to overlook the needs around me rather than step up and do what I can.  But my granddaughter’s $2.40—a small amount, yet big in heart—is a mighty reminder: generosity isn’t about what we give, it’s about how we give.

I heard a foreboding sound behind the bathroom wall—the sound of water running, which isn’t good news if you’re not using water at the time. Mom built her home in 1977, and my grandfather conveniently installed all the plumbing on one wall of the 600-square-foot cabin. So, now we only had to figure out what had broken. Tom, my husband/volunteer plumber, donned his work clothes—the fact that it was Labor Day made it extra special. Imagine paying a real plumber on a holiday! All I had to do was run for tools and toss them in his direction under the cabin. He had to slither on his back twenty feet to reach the pooled water. He discovered the source: a failed pressure relief valve. A much simpler repair than soldering leaking pipes. A replacement was in stock at our local plumbing supply—which, thankfully, was open on Labor Day. He quickly returned with the new valve. I held Grandpa’s old valve in my hand. It had faithfully done its job for decades.  Just as water lines need pre...

We had offered to run this errand since it was just a side trip on our way home. We set the GPS to find a rural farm. I’ve lived on the Olympic Peninsula for over thirty years, yet I had never seen this area before. The land was beautiful—fertile fields of grain and hay, with cows grazing in lush pastures. We turned into a dusty driveway, the mailbox number matching the directions we’d been given. A smiling young man and a lively toddler soon approached. He shook our hands warmly and introduced himself and his son—Jake and Trig. We marveled at the setting, surrounded by the evidence of hard work, investment, and production. Jake grinned. “I’m the fifth generation to live here, and this little guy is the sixth.” It was clear he didn’t mind the long hours, or even our after-dinner intrusion to pick up a quarter beef he’d raised and processed. This was his life’s calling. “I get to the end of the year and if I make zero, that’s okay,” he said, “as long as I can pay my bills and keep...

I’d seen the invasion, but decided it didn’t matter. My forest manager set me straight. If left unchecked, the invading plant would eventually cover the entire forest floor and climb every tree.  It had already killed the natural plant habitat, and as the manager said, the wildlife would soon suffer. This invasion had occurred along the border with my next-door neighbor—an older couple who’d retired to this place a couple decades ago. When they couldn’t keep their barking dachshunds on their property, Mr. K constructed a hog wire fence the full length of the property line. Then they had created a well-landscaped yard and had subsequently planted yellow archangel—the invasive beast. I never went to his fence line, not wanting to set-off the barking dogs. So, I was unaware of how much the yellow archangel had spread. It had moved comfortably through the fence onto our acreage—in a huge blanket.  I’m not the best neighbor, because I tend to keep to myself and not be very social, ...

Many know what it’s like to lose a mother.   When she’s gone, it feels as if a piece of us is missing—the piece that brought us into the world. And so, we look for ways to hold on to all that we shared with her. Mom was courageous and bold. Two things I am not. She was artistic and extroverted. Two more things I am not. But we shared one thing deeply: a love for nature, especially the forest and the beach. Maybe that’s why I came to live in the place where Mom had lived in the woods. When she passed on, her little log cabin stood empty, weathered, and decaying.  Somehow, I convinced my family to leave our beautiful, spacious home and move into that small cabin in the woods. We filled it with our love and repaired it with our own hands. But the best part will never be the cabin, but the forest around it and the beach far below. I wish Mom knew we are here, enjoying this place for her. I wish she could see her great-granddaughter running through the same fores...