Friday Tidings

The boy who owned the old metal lunchbox had scratched his name into the green paint. I imagined little Robert Warwick carrying his lunchbox to school. I wondered what it was like for him. Was he a bit frightened about what the kids would say? Was he thinking about the money problems at home? How did he feel when he scratched out his last name on his lunchbox? Did he miss his father?   These are questions I wish I could have asked my dad, Robert Warwick. While going through paperwork in his desk, I found his old lunchbox. Why had he saved something that was probably a painful reminder from childhood? Another question without an answer. Nowadays, we’d explain that my dad suffered childhood trauma. But he was just like many of the children of divorce—they can’t help but bring their wounds to school. But sometimes school is the place where children find a bit of security, they find a place to rebuild their own life. Several teachers helped Robert develop his love of science—and it

  This is a picture of me doing jail time. Yes, it was a playground jail. Anyone who has played with preschoolers knows that the rules are fluid, and it's easy to error on the wrong side. As for me, I was sent to jail.   Here’s my side of the story. My granddaughter and I had the playground to ourselves and after a rousing game of tag, we were playing follow the leader.   That is when things went awry. Watch out when following pint-sized leaders. I diligently went up the ladder to a platform with three different sized slides. She chose the little one—and as follow the leader directs, I had to go down the little slide. Unfortunately, I didn’t duck my head low enough to miss the metal bar at the top.   “Ouch!” I muttered as I slid down to the bottom. My granddaughter was sensitive to my pain but insisted we do it again.    This is when I got in trouble. Once we were back in place to slide down—I didn’t follow the leader. Instead, I chose the bigger slide. Arriving at the bottom, havi

  I sat on the shore and watched as my two adult kids played together in the water once again.    My thoughts took me back a couple decades when they’d first played together here. Summers were always the best, but always the fastest seasons too. This was the place where we all grew up—even as a mom, I still had a lot of growing up to do.  Now, I’m on the shore, watching. It’s a good feeling. I was happy for my two adults, capable and caring as they are. I took a snapshot of them in my mind—so I can store it in my heart.   Then I snapped a photo, because we’re still growing, and someday we can look back and remember the way we were in the summer of ‘22. 

On the way to a memorial service in my old hometown, we drove past a place I once affectionately called my Hoodsport Home. It sits right on the water's edge along Hood Canal. It has been vacant for a couple decades, and gradually has been getting more decrepit.  Warning signs on the building clearly state: Stay Out.   But on the way back home, I asked my husband to stop. Even though I was in high heels and a dress, I got out and peeked in the windows and looked over the property where I once spent some delightful summertime days in my childhood. The Hoodsport Home was the combination home and research lab of our church friends.   My young girlfriend lived upstairs with her family. Her dad, a marine scientist, worked in the lab downstairs. His company was analyzing the marine life along Hood Canal and the negative impact of the chemicals his company was funneling into the waters. This was the early days of ecological science.   But in my child’s eyes, the lab was filled with i