Friday Tidings

Olympic Hiking Company Small Business Saturday gives me a sweet reason to highlight my son Tommy's local tour business, Olympic Hiking Co. He began with an idea that combined the beauty of the Olympic National Park and the miles of trails he could help tourists find. He has shuttle drivers taking backpackers along the Pacific Coast, and hiking guides leading tours throughout the park’s interior. Thousands of tourists and hikers have taken home lifetime memories. Some businesses are about the experience and Olympic Hiking Co. is one of them.  Tommy understands what a small business requires: hard work, tenacity, and the financial prowess to weather the storms--the expected and the unexpected. He's part of the 30 million independent businesses across America. Indeed, small businesses are the backbone of our nation, employing almost 60 million people. T hat’s a huge accomplishment for these dynamic people who choose to follow their passions, open a store, sell their crafts, offer

  I could see the dust plume from the Avon lady’s car as she made her way up our washboard gravel road. I was the first stop on her route of hopeful cosmetic sales. I watched as she wheeled her big midnight blue Cadillac into our driveway. She always stopped even though she knew I had no money to spend.    She was a tall woman, but her bleached blond beehive hairdo made her even more imposing. I opened our trailer door, “Hi Sweetie”, she whispered—she didn’t want to wake the baby. She bustled in with a large make-up case and wore Avon’s reddest lipstick with the most encouraging smile. I smiled back, but I was living through one of the hardest times in my young life.   Of course, the Avon lady knew this. She knew everyone’s business along these country roads. Opening her case on my kitchen table, she pulled out the latest catalog filled with trinkets I couldn’t afford and special gifts I’d never purchase for me or anyone else. “Here, take these little samples—you’ll love that crea

My sweet granddaughter, I treasure your tiny fingers that wanted to touch the ivory keys of our old piano. You seemed to love the sounds that came from your gentle touch. As I watched your little hands, I thought of the other hands that played these same keys… Sweet girl, did you know your mother learned to play this piano—and her fingers graced these keys too? Your uncle played for years as well. Before that, I had my turn at lessons, as did your great aunt.  But this piano is more than a keyboard, it is part of who we all are. This piano is our history. Let me tell you about your Great-great-great Grandmother Alice.  Alice at sixteen As a young girl in Devonshire, England, she learned to play the piano. She came to America as a teen. After her marriage, she taught her two young daughters to play piano. But when she was 29, her husband left her, with five young children. She sold many of her home furnishings, including her piano—and bought single beds. To keep her family fed and pa

It’s not until next week, but whenever the calendar turns to November, it brings back the memories of my dad and other local Veterans preparing for our community event on Veterans Day. As a young child, I remember looking at all the shiny buttons on the dress uniforms. I recall how white gloved hands folded the flag so precisely, hearing the sharp bugle blasts, and many voices repeating the flag salute that I was just beginning to learn. Dad took me to the Veterans Day event year after year. What I sensed as I got older was how much Veterans Day mattered to former soldiers. They cared about their country and serving the nation meant something far beyond what I could understand back then.  At that time, my dad was working as an Air Force recruiter—even though he worked full-time elsewhere. He would drive hours to go visit young men interested in service. He liked to say, “The Air Force helped me get my start in life. If I can help someone get started, I feel every mile is worth it.”