Friday Tidings

I placed our letters in the mailbox, clearly marked Grad-O-Grams. My daughter had asked if we wanted to write our soon-to-graduate grandson, a short letter.   The template she provided gave us an idea of what it was all about—maybe a memory we enjoyed together, or words of encouragement, and a hearty congratulations. Then graduation came in a big rush of activities, and it was a week or so afterwards that I saw a large envelope with my grandson’s name on it—containing all his Grad-O-Grams. He’d been reading some of the letters—and I was surprised with the amount that were inside. A middle school teacher wrote him about their time in class—and a private joke they shared. It would remain private. His elementary math teacher expressed his congratulations and recalled how he was amazed that he would rather use his mental math skills than a calculator. Friends wrote too. I only read the ones he showed me. But I did save the large envelope and put it with his keepsakes. One day

Long ago, we enjoyed celebrating my grandson’s birthday at the beach. As he waited for friends and family to arrive, he gripped a huge balloon that looked like the world.  More on that in a moment. As Memorial Day approaches, it is our first welcome to the coming summer vacations, longer evenings, beach days, and dazzling sunsets. But as I think about Memorial Day, two pictures come to my mind. Back when I was eleven, visiting my girlfriend in her small home, I saw a photo of her older brother— a handsome young man, proudly wearing his military uniform. Sadly, he’d been killed in Vietnam. I was too young to fully consider what that profound loss meant. My friend had already lost her father in an accident, now she’d lost her brother. Seeing the photo and the sadness in her mother’s eyes was unforgettable. The other picture that pierced my heart was in adulthood. A mother lost her son in Afghanistan when a roadside bomb detonated. During a Memorial service I watched her recei

We said goodbye to our faithful truck this week. While I knew this day would eventually come, I didn’t think I would be the one behind the wheel driving the final Farris miles. But it gave me time to recall some of its good deeds. Within the first month of ownership, we loaned it to our youth pastor, and he hauled a truck full of teens to a big event in Portland. Soon after, the pastor took the truck, boat, and youth group to the lake for tubing.  Truck and trailer took father and son fishing. Thousands of miles were driven for baseball practices, games, and tournaments. The truck was even used to haul the youth football team in our local parade. It became my husband’s camper/business office during his brief stint as a Major League Baseball scout. It was part of our jet skiing years. The truck faithfully hauled our daughter’s family belongings for several career moves. The truck moved our son to and from college.  It never complained about bearing the trailer weight

Recently my son pulled out an old newspaper article that had been written about my mom. A whole section was devoted to her little log cabin she’d built. I hadn’t read it since it had been written—and the words suddenly took on a depth I had never grasped before. Back in 1974, Mom embarked on a journey—a career promotion, and moving to a new city. Back then, women were just becoming eligible to get credit cards in their own name. Starting over must have been hard. But when she decided to build her own home, no bank would loan her money to begin. So, she made a drawing of a rectangular 600 square foot log cabin for county approval. She saved some of her salary, cashed in vacation time, and tapped into the needed labor through family and friends. She couldn’t afford much, but in the end, it was all she ever needed. I wish I would have told her how much I respected her efforts. But back then, my grumpy teenage self, somewhat resented being part of the free labor force. How short-s

Dear Ms. Thorstrom, I should have written this letter after I’d finished high school— to thank you for helping me through my junior year. I remember your high expectations for our English assignments. As you pointed out, we were there to learn. You assigned reading every day and our writing would reveal if we’d really read the book. Within the first month I realized that you were giving us interesting books to read, and that if we gave it a chance, we’d have plenty to write about in response. It worked.  But it was you that noticed the change in me. I was still faithfully turning in my assignments and checking off my daily reading. Yet you sensed I’d lost my interest, or worse, was losing my way. You asked me to come in after school. You didn’t ask me what was wrong. Rather, you asked me to do an additional assignment. You wanted me to write about my past—a diary from my childhood onward. It was harder than I imagined.  But like the reading books that became interesting, s