Friday Tidings

  We’ve been through an election gauntlet. Words are powerful influencers. But weaponize words and causalities result. I’m reminded of a class I took a few years ago. We were learning how to share with care.  The instructor felt that sometimes the less said the better.  He was fond of telling us: “Say it in a sentence.” I’ll say it in a sentence this election week: Let’s heal, have hope, and work together for our nation.

For our college final project, my husband and I lobbied the school’s music department to work together to produce the school’s first ever record album. Because of the college’s incredible recording equipment, Evergreen had attracted amazing talent. Artists submitted demo recordings, we put together a selection committee, and because there was so much varied talent, we decided to go big—to produce a double album.  The album title: Collaborations. We strategized and marketed the album in the age before computers—this meant phone calls to radio stations and writing letters to record companies, promoters, and music reviewers. Maybe this could be the road to stardom for some of the artists on the album. Collaborations garnered the attention of Seattle AM and FM radio stations. That was big time—for all of us. Our final college months were hectic with music promotion.  The album title resonated with me—we really were collaborating. All our various talents merged and our differences

In the city where my daughter and family live there is a busy intersection under major construction. This particular roadway is at the confluence of a grocery store, the library, the high school, two elementary schools, and the city pool. It’s busy.   One morning,  the flaggers halted traffic during rush hour. Quickly, the backup extended blocks in four directions. Want to test someone’s patience? Stop traffic when school starts on time, and you’re stuck for at least 15 minutes. I listened to a chorus of honking horns. I watched kids get out of cars and walk to school rather than be stuck in traffic. And then I walked past a sign next to the torn-up intersection:      Love is a two-way street constantly under construction. Love is under constant construction—as in never fully finished? I thought about my young married days when my love was like a honking horn during traffic backups—I had no patience for love to do its work.  Then I recall trying to force my one-way soluti

Back in the early-60’s, I walked hand-in-hand with my grandmother in her rural town. We had driven the twenty miles from the ranch. Most farms were about 1000 acres and the homesteads were a mile or two apart. Oats, barley, and wheat were spread across the fertile soil. Grandma had her list, and I waited patiently as she conversed with the butcher. She then pushed a large cart up and down the aisles for her groceries.  Afterwards, we headed across the street to the drug store, and then to the tractor shop for Grandpa’s parts he needed. It was a routine that was repeated weekly—and on Sunday we went to church—seeing farmer friends, the men no longer in overalls. Ten years later, I’d do all these chores on my own—speeding into town in their Ford Ranchero.   Now this little town, well over a half century later, revealed that change sometimes takes things away. Some families passed on the farm chores to the next generation, and those are the ones still here. But others sold their la