Friday Tidings

One of the Facebook groups I belong to posts pictures from my hometown’s past. This is Hamlin’s Hobby Toy Shop. This store made such an indelible mark in my childhood that I can still see the toys and games lining the shelves and the craft section that inspired me to at least try and be creative.     During the holidays, the proprietor, Mr. Hamlin would decorate the windows with colored lights, and bright red bows marked all the aisles.   My sister’s birthday was Christmas Day, so as soon as I could in December, I’d go to Hamlin’s with my saved-up allowance searching for the best gift. Before I even knew how to count money properly, I’d line it up on the counter and Mr. Hamlin, would patiently help me add it up. Then he’d walk me over to the toys I could afford.    In an adjoining room, Mr. Hamlin had a slot car track and model trains that he’d welcome children to use. Rainy Saturdays were magical for kids at Hamlin’s.   Shop local, buy local, and support local weren’t slogans o

I bundled up as I battled the cold wind blowing against me. I was behind about thirty people as we waited for the church doors to open. The radio had announced free Thanksgiving food baskets and here we were, with more people coming behind us. We all looked much the same—cold, but needy. Children huddled against mothers’ legs. As my turn finally came to walk through the “shopping” area, I was given a paper sack and volunteers placed items inside to make a Thanksgiving meal. There wasn’t much conversation, we just moved down the line towards an older woman serving as the “check out” volunteer. I smiled and thanked her as she tucked a small package of candy inside my bag. Her gray hair peeked out from a bandanna scarf.  She wore an apron like my grandma wore when she was preparing a big family dinner. Our eyes connected and, in that moment, I felt the depth of my poverty—even though we were trying so hard to make money. My resolve to be strong faltered and a few tears slid down my che

I placed my backpack on the bus seat and slid next to the window. Others were boarding and stowing their luggage up on the overhead shelf. A young man with two small plastic garbage sacks was waiting for everyone else to board—he was either being polite or embarrassed, I couldn’t tell.   Where we live, if you’re carrying your belongings in garbage sacks, it sends the message that you’ve either just gotten out of jail or a treatment center.   He politely showed the driver his ID and handed him the voucher that state agencies give in lieu of cash. He carried his two bags all the way to the back of the bus. I was a couple seats in front of him. A man behind me nodded to the young man as he placed his bags down.   “Where are you heading?” the older man asked.   “Seattle, but not for long. I hope to go somewhere else.”  The young man seemed distant, not inviting conversation.   But the older man persisted— “Do you have family there?”   “No.”   The older man asked, “Do have work

As the rain drenched the forest outside, we were warm inside, digging into some old photos from our senior year in college. Back then we were idealistic newlyweds, hardworking, but broke.   In November 1980, we voted for the first time together and we dreamed about the future we’d share.   But dreams don’t pay bills, so after graduation we got down to the business of earning a living.   I’ve written about our farm days—when we worked alongside our migrant labor, pulling weeds, and picking strawberries. We eventually failed, paid off our debts, and tried another route. America offers opportunities to try again.   While much has changed in our country since then, one thing never has:   Our freedom to vote.    We’ve never missed voting in an election. Not once. We’ve seen good and bad results. We’ve lived through policy failures and successes. We’ve sat in long gas lines, suffered high interest rates on loans, and dealt with slowdowns and recessions. We’ve witnessed stock market rises and