Friday Tidings

Throughout the dark days of January, I looked for bright spots on my walks to and from the bus stop—they bring cheer this time of year. Winter sunrises can be bright spots—all those clouds reflecting such glorious colors. Here’s some other bright spots from my January walks: Someone fastened big flowers to a sign on a busy road.  Pink plastic flamingoes had a sign that said, “Move me to another place and I will put a smile on another face”. Even a mural on a school wall, looks brighter and bolder in the winter—a painted reminder that we live in a pretty amazing place. Dino is popular on High School Road. He just recently took off his shiny red nose. Soon, he will be wearing his leprechaun hat.  How about the fragrance of the flowering Star Anise? Crazy that it blooms when it’s this cold. It’s like a sweet reminder that we don’t have to wait until spring to be refreshed. Bright spots makes the colder walks a whole lot warmer.  It’s fun to keep looking for ...

Mom’s small pickup pulled over on a wide spot along the dirt road. It had been at least an hour’s drive on its washboard surface. My teenage attitude was as rough as the road we’d just traveled. Mom grabbed her backpack, and she handed me one to hold my lunch and sweatshirt. We waited for her friends to show up. This was another of Mom’s attempts to introduce me to new friends in her new hometown. We were going to hike with people I didn’t know to a place I’d never seen. I felt grumpy already. Not one, but three cars pulled in behind ours, and my instant impression of mom’s friends were that they had stepped out of the 60’s. Think flower power, flowing shirts for the women and long hair for the guys. They were all laughing and hugging. This was awkward. Mom made a dozen introductions, and the names were quickly forgotten. Our rag tag hiking group headed off into the woods. I imagined we’d be quiet along the trail. I was wrong. Songs and jokes filled the air.  Eventually, w...

In 1929 money was scarce. Jobs even more so. But a young woman was determined to become a nurse. The sick needed care, and Grace felt called to the rigors of the job.   She worked every floor of Portland’s massive Providence Hospital. Emergencies were met with Grace’s calm, skilled care. This was well before many of the medical advancements that made diagnosis and treatments easier.   This was also well before the Civil Rights Movement. But hardworking Blacks had moved to Oregon during the Great Depression, even though systemic racism, dating back to its statehood, denied Blacks good employment.   Yet, sickness and injuries were commonplace in the logging camps that encircled the great city.   Grace saw so many people—often on their worst days and cared for them—literally nursing them back to health.   Prejudice never occurred to her. She was fond of saying, “It’s just skin—what’s inside matters more.”   Grace was referring to people’s minds and how it aff...

Mr. Clinton, was the friendly, greasy hands, jack-of-all trades, bike mechanic, who ran our local sporting equipment store. My parents bought a tricycle from him for my birthday. This wasn’t just a little trike—it was a super large one. Taking it out on the street in front of our home brought hoots of laughter from the neighborhood kids—who’d never seen a trike that big. Humiliated, I quickly escaped back into the garage. I made excuses about why I didn’t want to go riding. When my father finally got the story out of me, and the intense shame I felt, the trike was loaded up in the car. He and I went to see Mr. Clinton. I stood by solemnly as Mr. Clinton helped my dad unload the trike. He wasn’t even mad like I expected. He patted my head. “Take Two,” Mr. Clinton said to my father. “Let’s try again.” He showed us a selection of smaller bicycles. I chose a blue one and Mr. Clinton attached training wheels. Then, kneeling down to my level, Mr. Clinton smiled and told me, “L...

Sometimes people are in our life just for a season, but they can leave their love with us in unforgettable ways. Three people did this for me during the month of January 1983. Snow had fallen at least a half-foot deep, and the neighborhood of beautiful older homes had narrow walkways that been shoveled up to their front doors. In the middle of the block was the home we were visiting. We’d just driven 100 miles from our farm.   My husband parked the car along the curb, grabbed our suitcase, and I let him go up the steps first—I was nervous meeting this couple for the first time—and spending the weekend.  The door opened after a single knock and a friendly woman answered and ushered us in. “Oh, Tom, it’s so good to see you after all this time! And this must be Karen.” Her smile was as authentic as her genuine welcome. Virginia, and her husband, Bill sat across from us in their living room that looked out along the tree-lined street in Spokane. The chitchat pleasan...