Friday Tidings

I didn’t know much about the sport of track and field until my son started competing in high school. I quickly realized it’s a sport that blends team and individual achievement—schools earn points for each event, but athletes also strive to beat their own bests, setting new PRs (Personal Records) along the way. While winning is always exciting, improving with every race was celebrated just as much. During my son Tommy’s high school career, a runner named Jay from a neighboring school stood out. He was incredibly fast. Tommy and Jay faced off in the 200-meter dash, and photos show them sprinting side by side. In a race that short, a split second can make all the difference. All season, they met at track meets, exchanged friendly smiles, and pushed themselves to the limit when the starting pistol fired. Tommy kept setting new PR’s—and so did Jay. Their friendly rivalry drove each one to train harder and run faster. They respected one another, appreciated the competition, and tho...

This week, while I was eating my sack lunch on a bench at the University of Washington, I found myself staring at one of the classic classroom buildings. Then, in one of those Deja vu moments, I said a name I hadn't said in decades: Fendall Yerxa.   Back in 1965, when Mom was a junior at the University of  Washington, she was especially excited about her fascinating journalism professor: Fendall Yerxa. She loved telling stories from her class.   As a kid, I just enjoyed saying his name—it was so different.   Fendall Yerxa had recently left a lucrative career as a New York Times editor and nightly news anchor in New York City to teach journalism at the University of Washington.   Fendall Yerxa in the New York Tribune newsroom 1950's He didn’t like the direction news was heading—and this was back in the mid 1960’s.   So, he taught students how to write news. He didn’t want their opinions, he wanted facts.   Then one spring day, when the babysi...

I’d flown to Tucson, Arizona to be with my father. I imagined that I could just sit quietly by his hospital bed, but the nursing staff limited my visits to 15 minutes every hour. I became very familiar with the long hallway just outside the Intensive Care Unit. The walls featured beautiful paintings done by various artists. But they all had a similar feature: Each one had a home with a door that was partially opened, but not open wide enough to see what was behind it.   One portrait featured manicured lawns and a huge mansion. Its door was golden.    Another was near a small lake, a rustic cabin had a wooden door cracked open.   One highlighted gorgeous views of the water, and a nearby home with its door ajar.    But the one that captivated me the most was the door to a church.    At first glance, it seemed dark inside—just like the others. But then I saw it.   If you looked quickly you wouldn’t notice. But I had time, so I saw t...

I found this grainy photo of my mom, and on the back, in my grandmother’s cursive was written “The Hitchhiker”. It was the summer of 1974. Those old enough to know, will remember the newfound freedoms the 70’s were bringing. Mom, freshly divorced and having reached her milestone fortieth birthday, decided to celebrate in a big way. She hitchhiked from her new hometown of Port Angeles, thumbing her way 500 miles to her parent’s cabin in Northern Idaho.  Everything she needed was in her backpack. She’d already spent two nights under the stars and was about to hike deep into the forests near the Canadian border. Alone. Not many would be so brazen to venture into the wilds with only a buck knife and a few provisions.  She came back home with a vision to buy some forestland and build a cabin. It’s not surprising that she did.  It would take me many more years to understand my mother, not that I ever fully did. But as I hold a grainy photograph of her in my hand,...

Here’s a Friday flashback. Circa April 2011. My son, Tommy, was a junior at the University of Washington, using his trademark energy and studying more than he ever had before.  Demanding life. I stopped by on my way to a conference. It was a quick visit. We met in UW’s Quad—the heart of the campus and the place where the famous 90 year-old Yoshino cherry trees were in peak bloom.  We snapped some photos like hundreds of others were doing along the walkway. Then it was over—Tommy had a class, and we both had a busy schedule ahead. I looked back and watched him walk towards his future. I had turned the page to a new chapter. In a blink, many years passed. But each spring, as I see the cherry blossoms, it’s a beautiful reminder of life’s goodness, of time's passage. So, love the beauty, and love those surrounding you. In a blink, it’s changed.