Friday Tidings

I managed to sneak in a beach walk just ahead of sunset, in between one of this week’s tremendous king tides. Massive driftwood logs were scattered across the shore as if they were nothing more than toothpicks. But now, everything was still. Not a single wave reached the shore. The final full moon of the year—the Cold Moon—brightened as the sun lowered in the sky. I knew I’d need to turn back soon, but I kept walking. I had names to speak aloud on that beach. There’s Wyatt—enduring brutal but lifesaving cancer treatment, but he should be celebrating new freedom from his recent high school graduation. And Cherie—who just lost her husband, Jim. Unexpectedly. Devastatingly. A loss that echos through her whole family. A heart torn open. There were so many other names. Every few steps, another came to mind. I prayed aloud for healing, for help, and for wholeness to return. This season brings long months of darkness, yet also twinkling lights—made all the more beautiful becaus...

When I was eleven, our school band needed new equipment—and that meant selling candy bars door-to-door. In a neighborhood like mine, I knew everyone, and everyone knew me, so it wasn’t hard. But I saved Mr. Hermes house for last.  Mr. Hermes was a neighbor several homes down from my own. He had a meticulous lawn and manicured shrubs, and he wore what seemed to be permanent scowl. I knocked. The door opened slowly. Mr. Hermes looked down at me with the same authoritarian expression he probably used at his job as the principal of the nearby penitentiary. “Yes?” he said, in a tone that suggested he didn’t have time for nonsense. With a pit in my stomach, and I managed to squeak, “I have candy bars for sale.”  “That’s not how you sell,” he replied. “And that’s not how you run a business.”  He went on to explain that if I wanted someone to spend $1.00 on an overpriced candy bar, I needed a better sales pitch. As I turned to leave, cheeks burning, he added, “And e...

Live as long as I have and you’ll gather quite a few Thanksgivings to reflect upon. This photo was taken on Thanksgiving Day, 1989—the first year we spent in what we believed would be our forever home. Tom, dressed in his wedding tuxedo of all things, is carrying in the turkey from the old outdoor oven my grandmother gave us. And yes, he’s also on the phone. That phone line was our tether to a livelihood—constant, necessary, even on Thanksgiving. Selling apples meant the holidays were hectic. Deliveries had to be perfectly timed for store sales, and that afternoon Tom was making last-minute changes for apples that had just arrived in Tennessee. But look at his smile—the ease with which he talked, balanced a turkey, and somehow kept his tuxedo spotless. That year held other gifts too. Mom came to spend Thanksgiving with us, and I was pregnant. A new home, Mom’s visit, and the quiet hope of a baby arriving in the coming year—so much to be thankful for. But there was something else ...

My granddaughter has recently started peppering me for stories from when I was a young girl. It’s been fun to look back and share some of my foibles, lessons, and laughter with her. One afternoon, we were sitting at her dining table while she munched on a few of my homemade biscuits. Watching her enjoy them reminded me of another story—a biscuit story from long ago. I was about ten, and I belonged to a 4-H club that focused on cooking and sewing. For the county fair, I decided to bake biscuits. I loved making them and carefully followed the recipe each time. When it came time for judging, I carried my three biscuits on the required white paper plate and left them for the fair officials to taste. A few days later, I returned to find a blue ribbon beside my biscuits! My 4-H leader told me I could enter my biscuits in State Fair if I wanted to—and I really did. My parents drove me to the fairgrounds, where I placed my plate among hundreds of other baking entries. When I came back to ...

Okay, I’ll begin with a quick poll. Would you prefer to enjoy your family and friend gatherings around a crowded table, or would you prefer to dine with a bit more elbow room? There’s no wrong answer—just a personal preference, and that’s absolutely fine. I grew up in a small home with a two-seat kitchen bar for breakfast, and a dining table where Mom, Dad, my sister, and I sat each evening. But when the holidays came, both sets of grandparents, and my great-grandfather would crowd around our table. Dad would add a card table at the end, and Mom covered it with a festive tablecloth. This is what the holidays meant—elbow to elbow, full plates, and dessert waiting even if I didn’t eat all my veggies. For me, the crowding is part of the joy. But, maybe I’m idealizing a childhood memory that literally doesn’t fit as well now. So, friends—what do you think? Crowded or spacious?  Whatever you choose, may you be surrounded by love. 

Homemade costumes , a friendly neighborhood to trick-or-treat, and grainy, black and white photographs —that was my Halloween childhood. I’m not pining for the “good old days.” Growing up in the 1960s had its own challenges. But I will say this: life felt simpler. Like Boomers say, we only had three television stations , and our telephones were attached to the wall.  We went to school and then home—not so many after-school activities. On Halloween night, I’d walk around the block in a costume Mom made from whatever we had at home— a pillowcase, some cardboard, and a lot of imagination. I knocked on doors of neighbors I actually knew.  Progress moves us forward, and people are more connected online than ever before. But sometimes I miss the simple life—like those old Halloweens, when joy was running door-to-door, seeing smiling neighbors, and knowing next year would be just the same. Maybe simplicity is still here. It just needs to be invited back home.