Friday Tidings

Every spring, I drive up this gravel road—slowly, so the neighbors don’t see a dust cloud.  But there’s another reason I don’t hurry. This road carries twenty-five years of memories. Each spring it begins, and each autumn it ends, with a weekly crate of organic vegetables waiting for me. Along this gravel road, my teenage daughter once rode beside me on her way to cello lessons. I remember times when my young boy’s baseball game would be that evening. And there were other times, when I was sorting out the knots of life as I slowly drove—often whispering prayers into the solitude. The weekly trip up the road reminds me of how time moves, seasons change, and how much I’ve changed too. I should be used to change by now—even as I hesitate to let go of another season. So I hold on, grateful for just one more slow drive up the gravel road.  

Getting to this trailhead had taken us over a gravel road that my son Tommy declared was like the surface of the moon—complete with deep craters. It was too dark to see into the woods as we drove further. After reaching our destination, Tommy and his childhood friend, Josh, didn’t delay. They hefted 50-pound backpacks for a five-day adventure in the Olympic Mountains. It was just after six in the morning. My husband and I stood in the dark, watching the hiker’s headlamps disappear on a trail we could barely see. They’d have no cell service. No interruptions from an intrusive world. They would climb and then descend three mountain passes and forge through densely wooded valleys. Those were their challenges for the week. As their headlamps and voices faded into the woods, I thought about my hiking days. I’d unplug from the world, but this was long before Wi-Fi went with us everywhere. Back then, silence was a gift. Now it’s a rare treasure. I cannot begin to imagine how much more yo...

My granddaughter had packed her suitcase all by her seven-year-old self. I was impressed that she’d thought of everything she needed for Grandma Camp. Then she brought out a little purse and poured a small handful of coins into my hand. “Here, Grandma, this is for the playground.” She knew our community is raising funds to make the playground handicap accessible.  We’ve talked about it while playing at parks in her hometown, but I didn’t realize how much it meant to her. It mattered enough to give what she had: $2.40. That money now sits in a wooden bowl on my desk. Talk about motivation. Sometimes it’s easier for me to overlook the needs around me rather than step up and do what I can.  But my granddaughter’s $2.40—a small amount, yet big in heart—is a mighty reminder: generosity isn’t about what we give, it’s about how we give.

I heard a foreboding sound behind the bathroom wall—the sound of water running, which isn’t good news if you’re not using water at the time. Mom built her home in 1977, and my grandfather conveniently installed all the plumbing on one wall of the 600-square-foot cabin. So, now we only had to figure out what had broken. Tom, my husband/volunteer plumber, donned his work clothes—the fact that it was Labor Day made it extra special. Imagine paying a real plumber on a holiday! All I had to do was run for tools and toss them in his direction under the cabin. He had to slither on his back twenty feet to reach the pooled water. He discovered the source: a failed pressure relief valve. A much simpler repair than soldering leaking pipes. A replacement was in stock at our local plumbing supply—which, thankfully, was open on Labor Day. He quickly returned with the new valve. I held Grandpa’s old valve in my hand. It had faithfully done its job for decades.  Just as water lines need pre...