Friday Tidings

Something big is missing in this photo. Let me explain. Here in my hometown, the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe prepared a parcel of land for a new hotel. Plenty of planning and architectural designs were evaluated. A gemstone of a hotel would be built across from the waterfront—a beautiful, restful place welcoming travelers. A true four-star facility.   They cleared the aging brick structures that had been fading away between Front Street and Railroad Avenue. Then the pandemic hit, shortages of labor and supplies, add in the costly inflation that followed. Everything stopped.   But this is what I admire about the Elwha Tribe: they have counted the cost. They didn’t want to move forward and take on tremendous debt. They would rather move slowly and be financially ready, rather than begin building and then letting it sit unfinished.   Counting the cost is something I should have done earlier in life when I didn’t know what high interest rates would do to our farming cost...

Fifty years ago, I attended a high school leadership camp. It was designed to be a mixture of fun and instructive activities that would help us be school leaders. Staff planned things for us to do from sunrise to the late evening campfires. I’m not the best leadership material, although a teacher at my school thought I might be and nominated me for this week of non-stop activity. The first day was filled with get-to-know-each other “ice-breakers” that gave me anxiety. To this day, I have a hard time with ice-breakers. But I digress. By mid-week, I knew the names of those in my group—where they came from—and what they hoped to do once they returned home. And I could tell they were leaders. But could I really return to my school and unite the cliques? Could I really be the one to lead others? I knew I wasn’t. As we were walking back to our cabins after our final meeting, my group leader asked me how I was going to make a difference in my school. I shook my head in doubt. “H...

I was just a few minutes later than usual getting to my bus, and by the time I boarded a young woman had taken my favorite seat. So much for my routine. I smiled and told her I liked her Olympic National Park sweatshirt. Then I slid into the seat across the aisle from her. We chatted a few minutes about her reason for visiting Port Angeles—she’d helped her mom with her large yard. Now she was returning to work in Seattle. So, I asked about her job. She works at a nonprofit that provides the homeless a place to shower. I said that it must be hard. But she smiled and said it was a great place to be, because the people who came each day were incredibly thankful. As the bus rumbled along, I noticed things I hadn’t seen from my favorite seat on the right side. Sliding across to the left gave me another perspective. Same bus. Same destination. Different view.  I hope I can be willing to slide across more aisles in life. Listen to others and get their perspective. They have seen th...

We were hacking our way through the thick underbrush. The land had been logged some years prior, and now hearty undergrowth was competing for the available sunshine.  Mom led the way with her small chainsaw, followed by Grandpa with his machete. At a safe distance behind him was Grandma with her handsaw, followed by me, wielding a non-threatening pair of nippers.  We rediscovered a crude road that had been created when the downed timber had been hauled out. But rainy seasons followed by growing seasons had allowed incredibly dense foliage to flourish. Mom did a wide perimeter with her saw, and we all worked to gather up the downed limbs and brush. She’d exposed the view of Freshwater Bay. We stood and admired the light blues of the sky meeting the dark vibrant blue of the water. Behind us we could see some of the Olympic Mountain range. I looked back at the swath of underbrush we’d cleared to get here. It was August, and even in the woods,  the afternoon sun was h...

I watched the bicyclist   approach the bus driver to ask how much the fare to Seattle was. He had a French accent. The driver told him, and then the man went back to his bike that was loaded down with strapped-on bags. My husband, who’d taken me to the bus stop, immediately went over to the bike rider and inquired about his travel plans. I saw the man open his wallet and my husband exchanged his American money for the man’s Canadian bills.  The brief conversation enabled him to learn about a book the man had written, and his plans to ride his bike from Seattle to San Diego—he’d come from Montreal, Canada. This interesting opportunity to connect with another person was lost to me, because I had preferred to keep to myself and grab my favorite seat on the bus. So, I watched through the bus window as they shared what most likely would be the only conversation they’d ever have. It was one chance for two lives to intersect.  How many of those one chance meetings have I mi...