Friday Tidings

A few weeks ago, I was driving along Liberty Bay Road (near the town of Poulsbo) when I had a Deja vu moment. I slowed down as I approached a familiar road on the right. I recalled my husband and I turning up this gravel road over forty years ago as we approached the driveway of one of First American Records music executives.  He lived in a beautiful home near the top of a hill featuring a sweeping view of Liberty Bay.  In our newlywed eyes, it represented having “made it” in the music business.     We’d met him once before in his Seattle office—with music group photos lining dark paneled walls. He had a huge desk with stacks of record albums of aspiring musicians. He was friendly as we pulled out our 45 record, along with some newspaper articles written about our efforts. He listened politely as we explained our hopes for our music career.   He was a savvy businessman and definitely knew the mountains we faced between us and our goal.    We were young and our tenacity made up for

It was a blistering hot Spokane day when Roy and his girlfriend Linda hopped on his motorcycle and left the city behind heading towards nearby Northern Idaho—with its tall shady trees and perfect swimming lakes. Linda’s hair blew free as the motorcycle cruised at speeds faster than were posted.  They stopped at Nordman, Idaho’s lone attraction—a combination post office, bar, and store featuring a few shelves of items you might need for a camping trip. Roy saw that his friend Howie had his motorcycle “chopper” out front. But Howie was sleeping in the grass nearby. Roy and Linda walked over because Roy wanted Linda to meet his friend. Howie recalls waking up a bit bleary eyed to see a girl in a bikini standing over him. Roy suggested that Howie take Linda on a quick chopper ride. Howie eagerly agreed. Linda and the long-haired young man roared out of Nordman heading towards the lake. They didn’t return for three hours. Roy was totally miffed, but it was the beginning of a summer l

After my granddaughter’s gymnastics, she’d always ask to go to the park next door—even in the winter. When you’re a high energy child, cold is relative. Our routine seemed to overlap with a dad and his son. I’d watch them as I watched my granddaughter go through her favorite activities—crossbar, swings, spinner, and the curly slide.  But the dad was not doing the same. He’d go hand-in-hand with his boy—pointing to trees, clouds, and the texture of the grass. I could see they were in a different place—one of sights, smells, and feels.   His son didn’t speak, so the father spoke into the silence around them. Since it was winter, the park was quiet—just the four of us—an energetic girl, and a boy who experienced the park in a way I never had.   We were at the same place, but in different worlds.    I saw a father’s love for his son expressed in quiet words of exploration. Never once did his son use the swing or try the crossbars. His world was spent touching tree bark and looking a

Hi Orion, You were just starting middle school when I began taking weekly bus trips to see you. I loved being there when you got out of school and making dinner for your family. Doing this has given me the gift of seeing you grow up—one week at a time. When your little sister arrived, you accepted less of me, but at the same time the demands on you were increasing. I watched you balance school sports and a heavy class load.  The hardest was watching you recover from the loss of your best friend in that horrible accident caused by a drunk driver. The best part was seeing your smile—even when you smiled only because I needed it. You were just beginning to enjoy high school when Covid restrictions had students staying home for the rest of the school year.  You’ve navigated horrific loss, cancelled sports seasons, and online schooling.  Week by week you got taller, stronger, and dealt with all the changes in you and around you. Now you’re graduating. There will be plenty of

Back when I was in my early thirties, we moved into a home, nestled in a group of well-established neighbors. It was one of those—“everyone knows everyone”—neighborhoods.    I’d just begun to unpack our belongings when there was a knock on the front door. It was Charlane—the unofficial neighborhood hostess.   She seemed to be about my mother’s age, with short, curly gray hair and a winning smile. Holding a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies, she only stayed a few minutes—but not before offering any help we might need.    Later in the afternoon, she brought a casserole, in case we were too tired to cook. She’d just won me over.   Within a few weeks, Charlane hosted a neighborhood gathering—just coffee, conversation, and my first bite of her legendary Texas sheet cake—rich, chocolate frosted brownies. I’m sure many of the neighbors came not to just meet us, but they knew this treat awaited.    Charlane swept up our daughter into all the plans she had for her same-aged granddau