Friday Tidings

His parents never knew, and if they had, perhaps life would have turned out differently for my teenage boyfriend. He drove an El Camino—a semi-sporty car that had a bench seat in front and a truck bed for a backend. His folks owned property along the bay—and to beat the summer heat, we’d go there often. It was a rural, tree-lined road, winding and narrow in many places. With the windows rolled down and the radio blaring, he liked the rush of freedom while racing that rural road. We both were oblivious to the danger he was creating for us or anyone else on the road. It was like nothing could possibly go wrong. And nothing did then.  After he graduated from high school, life took us separate ways. I didn’t hear any more about him until my dad called to tell me that my old boyfriend had been killed in a single car accident, along a rural road. Speeding was determined to be the cause. I felt such sadness for his family. While speeding contributes to the cause of most accident-related

  Dear Pat,   I’ve never forgotten those special years that you babysat me and my sister. You were the teenager that lived right down the block and I was a terribly shy four-year-old. Mom had gone back to college and you stepped into our world and made my mom’s absence so much easier. You read us books, rode bikes with us, and even walked with us to the playground whenever we asked. You did this for all the years it took Mom to finish school. Summers were the best. You gave us homemade popsicles and filled our kiddy pool. You found shady spots in the backyard to play board games, and gave us more time than we deserved. I didn’t know babysitters could have simply kept an eye on us and not played with us like you did. Remember my frequent bouts of tonsillitis? You never wavered in caring for me. One time you drove me to the doctor to make sure I was not too sick. Eventually we were old enough to not need a babysitter, but you remained close enough to check in on us.  Yours was th

2006~ It’s so long ago now that I rarely think about it, but it’s not something you ever forget either. I was in Arizona, staying in a motel, with stacks of paperwork spread out over every available surface. I was trying to finalize all the legal paperwork for my father and my grandmother. They both died within two months of each other—in Arizona.   I was in a pit of grief but legal work doesn’t wait. I was alone and over a thousand miles from home, which is where I really wanted to be, but first…I had to meet with bankers and lawyers. I’d written a list of what I had to do and it was taped to the mirror. Sigh. As I tried to sleep that night, I wrapped my arms around myself in a hug. I really needed a hug. That’s when I felt the small lump. Yes, in my breast. That’s where Mom’s cancer had started— and she’d lost her battle fifteen years ago. Fear replaced my grief.  When this happens, reach out. Don’t take this journey alone. I called my husband and he prayed. But when we hung up,

We opened the door to the small restaurant and the waitress pointed to a booth next to the window. Besides a group of men laughing at a table on the other side of the room, we were the only customers. The expansive view of the Pacific Ocean at sunset was amazing. Our waitress came and explained they were out of bread, milk, and eggs because a recent storm had prevented them from getting supplies, so a few of the menu items wouldn’t be available. We smiled and said there was plenty to chose from. The small Native American reservation where we were staying reflected determination—they faced the ocean and had the rain forest in their backyard. Their homes were weather beaten, but sturdy. Staying at their small oceanside resort was a first for us.  The restaurant and motel were bringing in financial resources for the tribe. The resort captured the rustic beauty of their region using cedar from their forests. They’d built ocean-facing rooms, used their tribal artists to decorate, and furnis

Imagine a divorced dad dealing with an ex-wife who would rather not have him near his only child. My grandma was this child. There are so many details I’ll never know because no one is still alive to ask. This much I do know: my great grandfather Albert wasn’t a perfect husband, but he loved his daughter Grace. When my grandparent's old cabin was recently emptied, a box of old postcards was found. My great grandfather had written them all to his mother. He started sending the cards right after his divorce in 1910. The front of the postcard featured pictures of his delightful daughter Grace.  In neat cursive he shared with his mother how well Grace was doing—and he especially wanted her to notice Grace’s smile. On many of the cards he'd written that Grace had “The smile that won’t come off.”  He was assuring his mother that she enjoyed being with him and was happy. There were at least 50 of these postcards with those smiles that won’t come off.  During her visits, Grace must