Friday Tidings

I started a huge project a couple months ago—sorting through fifteen file boxes full of old personal letters dating back to the late 1970’s.   I spread the piles by years all across the floor. As I put them into binders,  I relived my past.  In Mom’s cabin loft, I found all the letters I’d written to her. I was amused by how optimistic I was even in the midst of going broke in my early twenties. As I reached 2010, one thing was glaringly obvious—letter writing had become more rare.  But if you get any personal letters—I promise, they are worth saving. They are worth writing too. As we begin a new year, may you look forward to what’s ahead, but also have time to review how far you’ve come.  We’re on a journey, and it’s one that I’m thankful to share with you.  As I close Friday Tidings for the year, I’ll leave you with a prayer I wrote on New Years Eve 1978: Dear Lord,  I sure needed your help this year. I’ll need it again next year. Than...

Mom loved clothes shopping, and she had an incredible wardrobe—sensible business suits, that she mixed and matched to make a variety of ensembles, sturdy outdoor clothes for hiking, some nice dresses, and a few cocktail dresses for fancier occasions.   Back when I was a farmer’s wife, my denim overalls were my daily outfit. I still had lots of my high school clothes, so I felt I had enough.   Then once while Mom was visiting me, she explained I needed one nice dress that would work for special occasions—and she took me to the mall to find it.   She scrutinized the racks looking for a “timeless” dress. I had the feeling we’d be shopping for a while.    But then she held up a lavender dress and gave it to me to try on.   She said that this dress would ride the fashion waves—in her words, it was timeless.   She declared, “This dress is appropriate for dinner parties, weddings, memorials, and with a jacket, would work for a business meeting.” ...

My evening walk to the bus takes me past homes and townhouses that once bore the campaign signs of autumn.  During October, I observed opposing signs placed right on the property line of two homes—almost like a signage debate. But alas, the signs are now long gone, replaced by sparkling holiday lights. Through the front windows I see decorated trees. A “Let it Snow” sign has replaced the campaign slogans. These neighbors voted differently, but now the beauty of their displays looks inviting for a season that offers peace. While I don’t know how they really feel about one another, being a neighbor still invites an opportunity to be friends. I’ll always remember the plates of decorated Christmas cookies my mom would carry to our neighbors. Maybe it was just kindness, but knowing my mom’s strong willed voting record, I think it was probably a delicious peace offering. They were always warmly received, and I was thankful to have next door neighbor friends. Perhaps the acts ...

A s a teen, I expected things to go my way. Why not? I thought if you tried hard enough everything works.   A part-time job would soon give me a new perspective. Miller’s Department Store offered a wide variety of housewares, clothing, shoes, and toys. I routinely cleaned up the changing rooms, and folded piles of pants, shirts, and sweaters.  I tidied up the racks of clothes and made sure customers didn’t wait at the cash register. Living in a small mill town brought its share of economic ups and downs—depending on the price of lumber.  For some, this was a down time. In October, an older woman brought a pile of clothes and toys to the checkout counter.  “I need to put these on layaway, please.”  She seemed weary. I looked at the pile and inwardly sighed.  My manager helped me since this was my first layaway. Every item was rung up and charged, but she only had to make her first payment.  I saw her pull out the single bill in her wallet—$5.00...

  At fifteen, many of my friends were getting part-time jobs, so I decided to look for one too. My hometown was almost entirely small businesses.  Since I loved music, I ventured into Johnny’s Music Box and filled out an application.    Johnny knew me from the time I’d been in fourth grade, when I’d shyly approached him to see what instrument I might like for band.  He’d let me try them all before settling on the clarinet. He’d then seen me month after month as my parents made payments.    Now, I was seeking a job.   I was soon behind the counter that ran almost the full length of one side of the store.    My job included dusting the instruments (carefully) and making sure the racks of albums were orderly.  Once a week, I rearranged the top twenty 45 records—finding out ahead of time what the number one song of the week was.   These were the days of vinyl, and AM/FM radio. Little did we know it wouldn’t last.  ...

In 1996, my young daughter wanted her own flower garden. She made rock-lined sawdust pathways and planted little patches of ground cover. Tulip and daffodil bulbs were the spring harbingers followed by flowering shrubs throughout the growing season. She planted an ornamental cherry tree as the centerpiece. She could see her mini-garden from her bedroom window—year after year until she graduated and moved on. Without her caretaking, the ground cover eventually blanketed the area, and the valiant cherry tree was the sole survivor. Over the years, the chipmunks created an elaborate underground tunnel system around the trunk of the cherry tree. Why it hasn’t killed the tree roots is a mystery. It’s as if the cherry tree and the chipmunks made some sort of symbiotic agreement. They share their space. Every autumn as the leaves turn colors, I wonder if this will be the tree’s final year. How long can a tree thrive with handicapped roots? One more hard winter? Then, I think of my ...