I stared at the pin on the map. This was the location of my son —hiking solo in the mountains of Chile. Thanks to technology, we’d been able to FaceTime twice during this odyssey. This was a journey to a place he’d never been, but had always wanted to see. With mountaineering training, and his high school-level Spanish, he met locals and explored thoroughly. He traversed miles by bus, ferry, and catamaran, through regions of Argentina and Chile. Hiking nearly eighty-five mile

There’s something showing up in Seattle right now. It’s happening around our beloved Seahawks. I may not be the most devoted football fan, but I married into a football-loving family.  My husband was once the captain of his high school team, then he went on to play college ball. I fell in love with that young man—with his keen sense of strategy and determination to win—traits that were most likely shaped during his football years. What I observe now, decades later, is how the

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 ed

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 happene

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 thin

I watched as Francis Chan held up two candles—one tall and new, the other one nearly spent, what I’d call a stub. He said as an older person, he’s like the candle stub. It still gives light, but it doesn’t have nearly as much time left as the tall candle. Then he spoke about the choice before us. As our candles grow shorter, we can try and place ourselves higher and higher so our light can be seen. Or, we can take what remains of our flame and use it to light more young candl

My husband, Tom, always walks me to my bus stop. That morning, a homeless man was sitting on the covered bench. A couple of bags held his personal belongings, and a thick blanket shielded him from the cold. The three of us were the only ones waiting in the darkness. Across the street, Christmas lights twinkled in the store windows —bright reminders of comfort and celebration. Tom wandered over and gently asked the man how he was doing. “I’m homeless,” he replied,—as if statin

Uncle Art, our family historian, always had stories to tell—and the blizzard before Christmas and the Davis Road Church was one he especially loved. When Art was a young boy, horses and wagons took parishioners to church. It was nearly an all-day affair, with the women bringing a hearty meal to share at noon-time. Mid-December brought frigid temperatures, and extra wool blankets in the wagon did little to ward off the cold. Then a blizzard came. Snowdrifts higher than wagon w

I managed to sneak in a beach walk just ahead of sunset, in between one of this week’s tremendous king tides. Massive driftwood logs were scattered across the shore as if they were nothing more than toothpicks. But now, everything was still. Not a single wave reached the shore. The final full moon of the year—the Cold Moon—brightened as the sun lowered in the sky. I knew I’d need to turn back soon, but I kept walking. I had names to speak aloud on that beach. There’s Wyatt—en

When I was eleven, our school band needed new equipment—and that meant selling candy bars door-to-door. In a neighborhood like mine, I knew everyone, and everyone knew me, so it wasn’t hard. But I saved Mr. Hermes house for last. Mr. Hermes was a neighbor several homes down from my own. He had a meticulous lawn and manicured shrubs, and he wore what seemed to be permanent scowl. I knocked. The door opened slowly. Mr. Hermes looked down at me with the same authoritarian expres

Live as long as I have and you’ll gather quite a few Thanksgivings to reflect upon. This photo was taken on Thanksgiving Day, 1989—the first year we spent in what we believed would be our forever home. Tom, dressed in his wedding tuxedo of all things, is carrying in the turkey from the old outdoor oven my grandmother gave us. And yes, he’s also on the phone. That phone line was our tether to a livelihood—constant, necessary, even on Thanksgiving. Selling apples meant the holi

My granddaughter has recently started peppering me for stories from when I was a young girl. It’s been fun to look back and share some of my foibles, lessons, and laughter with her. One afternoon, we were sitting at her dining table while she munched on a few of my homemade biscuits. Watching her enjoy them reminded me of another story—a biscuit story from long ago. I was about ten, and I belonged to a 4-H club that focused on cooking and sewing. For the county fair, I decide

Okay, I’ll begin with a quick poll. Would you prefer to enjoy your family and friend gatherings around a crowded table, or would you prefer to dine with a bit more elbow room? There’s no wrong answer—just a personal preference, and that’s absolutely fine. I grew up in a small home with a two-seat kitchen bar for breakfast, and a dining table where Mom, Dad, my sister, and I sat each evening. But when the holidays came, both sets of grandparents, and my great-grandfather would

Homemade costumes, a friendly neighborhood to trick-or-treat, and grainy, black and white photographs—that was my Halloween childhood. I’m not pining for the “good old days.” Growing up in the 1960s had its own challenges. But I will say this: life felt simpler. Like Boomers say, we only had three television stations, and our telephones were attached to the wall. We went to school and then home—not so many after-school activities. On Halloween night, I’d walk around the block

I found myself sitting in a waiting room while my young granddaughter worked with a reading tutor. Through the wall, I could hear her carefully practicing vowel sounds. In the next room, a high school student wrestled with trigonometry. I sat in one of the old wooden chairs, next to a bookshelf full of classical literature. Looking around, I noticed an antique typewriter and 1900s telephone. It struck me that anyone waiting in this room was surrounded by the past, while liste

While exploring our woodland acreage, our granddaughter staked out a trail that led to a place where she could be by herself in nature. She turned to Papa and said, “Can you make me a little bench?” Together they chose some beautiful pieces of maple wood. But she had one very specific request about where it should go — “I want to sit where I can’t see any buildings.” She had to return home before the bench was finished, but Papa brought it to her house so she could try it out

Wednesday evening, we were FaceTiming our son when he surprised his father with a gift. That’s getting ahead of my story—but it’s a gift...

Sometimes when the world’s noise gets too loud,  I grow quiet, and play my piano more. I just feel more reflective this week, so I’ll...

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...

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...