Friday Tidings

Sweat rolled down my back as I walked behind the tractor while shaking dirt from the large garlic bulbs. It was a hot, dusty road to financial freedom. We’d switched from growing ultra perishable strawberries to growing sturdy, dependable garlic. In theory we’d make a decent living. As I pulled the garlic, I noticed small holes in the white outer skins. Uh oh. Some pesky bugs got to our garlic before we did. The crop was rejected by the grocery chain that we’d hoped to sell to. We were left with a large crop of unsold garlic. The life of a farmer. Rather than give up, my husband re-packaged the garlic by peeling off the slightly marred outer skins. He then put the bulbs in individual mesh bags with an eye-catching marketing label. More costs, but our whole crop sold. The grocery stores clamored for more, leading us to sell garlic for others. An entrepreneur was born. America needs entrepreneurs. And thanks to the new “gig economy” nearly 4 in eve

We’re ten long months from the election, yet soundbite smears and presidential putdowns abound. Thanks to Trump, the decency filters have been removed too. The candidates seem content to take the low road to the White House. And with 24/7 news, we’re traveling the low road with them. Social media features political memes and far too many sensationalized slogans designed to get inside our heads. Discerning truth from fiction isn’t easy. Look at the sources and sniff out the propaganda. Candidates have researched our propensities, know what promises sound good, and the likelihood of our votes while we travel together on the low road. Hey America, what would happen if we took the high road instead? What would happen if we used social media to point out what has made our nation great and how generous we truly are? On the high road we can agree to listen to one another and make reasonable suggestions about solutions. What woul

Excuse me while I put away all of the promotional materials and meeting notes from our local school district’s recent levy campaign—asking voters to raise their taxes just so we could fill-in-the-gaps of the “basic” K-12 education in our small rural school.  This is a process that will be repeated in another four years. Here in America we offer every child a “free” education. Visit an affluent school district (say, Mercer Island near Seattle), and then visit our classrooms out here in the country and you’ll note some disparaging differences in what can be offered. Obviously where money congregates, students get more goodies, but I digress.  Here’s the point: until we can truly offer every American student what we promised, let’s not get hyped up about offering free college. Most school districts cobble together a budget with a combination of state and federal money—and if the words “strings attached” could ever be more appropriately used,

Grandma was a warm, loving blend of worldly wisdom and superstitious folklore. She had an antidote for everything, including matters of the heart. So when I came to her with a broken dream, she told me about finding the Dream Box. It was darker than she’d expected. Why had she decided to step out into such darkness? She couldn’t quite remember. This whole scene didn’t make sense. But she knew she had to walk towards something. When she turned around she couldn’t see the path behind her. A one-way path? She didn’t fear wild animals; this place was as empty as it was dark. The path ended at a small building. The broad door was fashioned with ornate hinges. As she neared, it swung open. Looking behind her, the path was already gone, so she walked through the threshold. It was just as dark inside, but as she walked further into the room she saw a chair. When she sat down, a curtain suddenly pulled apart and from behind her a small beam of light began pr