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Second Chance to Meet

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I’d seen the World War II Veteran about a year ago, sitting in Safeway’s Starbuck coffee area. I thought about stopping to greet him, but in my rush, I quickly gathered my groceries and left the store. I immediately felt that sense that I missed an opportunity. But I didn’t have time, I told myself. I never saw the old man again, until this week. He was in the same place, reading a newspaper. I smiled and slid into the chair across from him. I thanked him for his service to our nation. His cap had the insignia of the Coast Guard, and the remarkable label: World War II Veteran.  He smiled back and asked, “May I have the pleasure of your name?”  I told him and he said his name was Dale. I asked where he’d served. He reached inside his vest and pulled out a worn leather pouch.  “I have permission of the US government to carry this with me.” Dale showed me his honorable discharge documents. And because I wanted to know more, he showed me a picture of the vessel he’d been on in
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A Place of Encouragement

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Our walk to the library was filled with preschool chatter. My granddaughter was equally nervous and excited. She carefully carried her first self-authored book. It was an illustrated story she’d created about an orange ball we’d found. After she’d finished it, I’d mentioned that the librarian would probably like to see her book. Well, I hoped the librarian would be excited. I know my mom, a city librarian, would have wanted to encourage a young writer. But I may have overstated what a busy librarian had time for—I mean, this was an unpolished handmade book. But it meant everything to the little girl now holding it. We walked up to the large desk where the librarian was sitting. My granddaughter became overly shy, so I explained about her book and the librarian smiled reassuringly. “May I see your book?” The next several minutes the librarian read, smiled, asked questions, and then encouraged my granddaughter with the words, “The reason we have all these books” she said, as she w
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Foggy Future

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I was captivated by this wall photo. It’s so foggy you can’t see where the tracks lead.   Without knowing where the tracks are heading, which one should you take? I remember that unknown feeling. It seemed like getting on the wrong track was the story of my 20’s. Back then, we hopped on a farming track, while having to jump tracks to make money on the side.  We finally found the track that led to our career.  As I stared at the tracks in the photo, I thought about my travels through life. I learned the fog ahead will never fully clear.  I also learned that even if you’re on the right track, there will still be stops along the way. There is always a reason to stop—even if we don’t know it right then. Other times it may feel like everything is moving so fast you can’t get off. I learned to hang on. My advice to those far younger than I am—you’ll learn things on your track as it takes you further down the line. And even if you can’t see it from here, other tracks are ahe
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Easter Sunday

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I was about seven in this Easter Sunday photo. We always went to church, but first we enjoyed Mom’s homemade hot cross buns. I loved the soft bread and especially liked the white icing that crossed the tops of each one. Earlier that morning, we had hunted for our hard-boiled colored eggs—and then we got into our Easter outfits. Mom wore her white gloves and pinned an orchid corsage on her pastel-colored jacket. Dad wore his suit and tie, but he wasn’t in our picture because he was the cameraman. Our church was extra full on Easter. The pastor welcomed everyone at the double doors, and ushers were busy seating folks. Were times simpler then? Probably not, there were young men from our town fighting in Viet Nam. But it was different—because news didn’t travel at internet speeds. No one had phones in pockets or emails to answer. After church, we went home to the smell of ham roasting in the oven, and long distance phone calls from grandparents. Candles were lit in Mom’s floral cent
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Spring Cleaning Time

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Mom gave us fair warning—bring our work clothes. It was her annual spring cleaning—something I’d been part of since my childhood.   I put our toddler son on my back while I sorted and packed things to be given away. Mom was relentless in scrubbing her cupboards and keeping only what she needed. I held up a beautiful sweater for her decision—“Give it away.” Tom fired up the chain saw and got to work outside—trimming low hanging tree limbs, and gathering up the windfalls from a tough winter. Even our daughter was put to work—sweeping the porches and filling the bird feeders for spring’s return.  We all worked hard, stopping only to eat the meals Mom prepared. She was thinner, but mighty in spirit. Spring was coming and this was her favorite season. Mom loved renewal and that’s what spring offered. We pulled weeds in her meager flower garden—being mindful at Mom’s direction, not to dig up her beloved daffodils. Soon, bright yellow blooms would welcome warmer days. By the end of
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When I’m 94!

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Tom’s mom will have her 94th birthday next week. She’s strong, savvy, and continues to show me just what a combination of faith, love, and determination can do. As a child migrant worker she accomplished more than some who were twice her age. Even with frequent moves, she was smart, capable, and graduated right on time.  She has lived with chronic medical conditions, but hasn't lost her tenacious can-do spirit. In a word, I’d describe Bernadean as resilient.  Do you recall the Beatles’ song, “When I’m 64”?   This is my version for an amazing woman who is a spry 94.     When I’m 94   When I get older never losing my flair Many years from now Will you still be texting me reminders Daily greetings with things I require. If I do something you don’t think I can Let me show you now No need to doubt me, you won’t be without me When I’m ninety four.   I can be handy when mending a shirt I can do so much I can solve words puzzles without a guide Take my wheelchair and go for a ride Doing my
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Homeless Winslow

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A while back I found a left-behind sign at my bus stop. No doubt, it’s a “sign” of our times. Then there’s Winslow*—that’s the name I’ve given her because she’s always in downtown Winslow. As far as I know, she’s been homeless for a few years.  She has grocery carts filled with old toys, shoes, clothes, towels, games, and a wild assortment of cast-off stuff she must have collected from the town’s dumpsters. I’m not sure what she does with it all—if anything. But I’ve never seen her beg. Her nightly “home” is adjacent to the town’s post office—it’s a covered spot, so she parks her carts and pulls blankets over herself. That’s usually where I see her on cold, rainy nights. But this week, she was in the post office—the part that’s left open to the public all night. She had a toaster oven plugged in and was re-heating a foil-wrapped item that looked like something the grocery store might have given her.  I needed to mail a package, so I went to the self-serve machine and began pus
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