Friday Tidings

  I sat in the gymnasium with a couple hundred other community members as we surrounded the family of Bill Richardson. Most likely you wouldn’t know Bill outside of our area— but in his 92 years, his life intersected with thousands of others. We listened to stories about Bill, the dedicated teacher who would give all the time it took for students to grasp new lessons. He routinely took his classes outside to teach survival skills— finding food and shelter—long before outdoor education courses were common.  He coached every sport and taught young students how to drive. He went on church mission trips to build homes in poverty-stricken countries, but always had time to help a neighbor rebuild a roof or fix broken pipes. But his true gift was teaching through story telling. I heard one of those stories on a cold winter Sunday in 2006. I had just returning from Arizona after my father died. I went to Sunday school, but a light had gone out in my life. I probably shouldn’t have com...

This week I caught the bus with a young woman who was making an unscheduled trip to a business meeting in Portland —via Seattle . She and her boyfriend had taken a day trip to Port Angeles to visit the Olympic National Park , specifically Hurricane Ridge —the majestic 5,200-foot mountain you can drive all the way to the top.  Scott, who had walked her to the bus stop, introduced himself and explained his truck’s brakes failed on the way down the mountain. Brake failure has happened to others before—not always with a good ending. But they made it safely to bottom, got to a hotel, and now his girlfriend, Toonah (like the fish, she said) had to catch this bus to get to Seattle, to make a flight to Portland for an important work event. Scott wanted to take the bus with her and get her to Seattle safely, but I offered to help her figure out the ferry instead. Toonah  sat across from me, and spent much of the ride making phone calls in her native language —it sounded eloquent ...

  I was a rambunctious, mischievous young child—especially when left alone in the garage. That’s where I found the can of black paint.  I had watched my dad open it with a screwdriver. So I did the same, all by myself.  With brush in hand, I painted the porch posts as high as my five-year-old arm could reach. Then I painted the garage door. I was just heading towards the fireplace bricks when I got caught. Most of my mischief was high energy. I ran through the house, knocked things over, spilled my milk across the dinner table, and sent houseplants tumbling as I threw balls inside. Everywhere I went, I left a trail of messes for someone to clean up. Getting in trouble was routine. I was scolded, and yes, spanked—and sent to my room to sort out my little life. I had lots of time alone in my room. But when my punishment was over, I had to do three things: apologize, say thank you to Mom or Dad for cleaning up my mess, and then put on a nice smile. Those early years were tou...