If we pay attention, life teaches us useful lessons: Refuse to cross a raging mountain stream on a fallen log when your hiking companions who claim it’s safe are standing beside you. Never befriend a barking dog or a growling librarian; and boycott turtlenecks so tight that pulling them off hurls your earrings, hearing aids and equanimity into space.
Last summer, during one of my Sunday morning walks, a power outage undid my husband, Joel. When I arrived home, I found him in the alley, looking beleaguered and whacking a hedge. With waving shears, he beckoned me near and then began a tale of woe: “You won’t believe what happened. When I started to fix my breakfast, the power went out, so no bacon and eggs. Then my coffee was cold, so I thought I’d reheat it. Nope. No microwave. I couldn’t even defrost blueberries to eat with cereal.”
Problems persist in Craig. On every block, small black-and-white signs, “Coal: It Keeps Our Lights On,” reflect our threatened economy. Too many houses stand empty, too many small businesses struggle, and too many families worry about making ends meet. But Craig is where I choose to live. After Joel and I retired, we frequently heard, “When will you be leaving?” We won’t. Here are some of the reasons why.
I’m happy in Craig. I enjoy its scenic surroundings, distinctive seasons and slow pace. This summer, a thickheaded relative reminded me of additional attractions our town possesses.
When I hear about the latest, greatest, sure-fire innovation to increase student learning, I feel weary.
I still remember the day I studied older children diving into a swimming pool, then perched on the pool’s edge, propelled my body out and down — and gave up belly flopping forever. Maybe you remember teaching the family dog to roll over, learning to roller skate on your own, or making your friends laugh with your first successful joke.
Like most newly hatched garage-sale addicts, after a summer spent buying second-hand goods on Saturday and questioning my sanity on Sunday, I decided to have a garage sale of my own. I convinced a group of friends to co-host a sale in my back yard; the ladies who nurtured my garage-sale mania, Shirley and Eileen, agreed to lend their wisdom to our cause.
In my early 20s, with a job and readily available spending money for the first time since starting college, I succumbed to my mom’s genes, and became a collector, buying inexpensive items that appealed to me.
Cousins there were, too numerous to count. They arrived in bulging sedans for family reunions in the hot heart of summer and turned wild, as though they had no manners. They splashed in the off-limits creek, ran with sharp sticks meant for hot dogs, threw rocks willy-nilly and burned their marshmallows black. They shoved, taunted, threatened to tell and berated one another with scandalous words heard at school.
When I look in the mirror, I see Dad’s eyes looking back at me. I also have his height, frame, ears and hand gestures. I like the physical features I share with my dad, but I’m surprised when I display his behaviors — especially those I vowed to avoid when I was young, smug and critical.