Sandra Babcock

I don’t like goodbyes. The word depicts a touch of sadness, a spot of vulnerability and a whole lot of final. Yet that’s exactly what I’m saying today. Twelve years ago I answered an ad to write a commentary column for the Valley Voice section of The Spokesman-Review. This concept was experimental and then-editor Mike Schmeltzer was anxious to elicit new voices that would effectively portray Spokane Valley life. I sent my letter full of middle-age eagerness at this chance of a lifetime. Imagine my surprise when Schmeltzer called and asked me to attend a meeting.

Summer is inching toward fall. I noticed its subtle change recently during lunchtime. The day was very warm, the sun high yet the gentle haze of summer as it changes to fall was evident. Change is a constant. Something we can’t stop. A verb that makes life interesting, scary, unusual, fun, awesome, and sometimes unbelievable.

It wasn’t too long ago that TV was free entertainment. One need only put an ugly antenna on top of the roof and, voila, ABC, CBS, and NBC, the overseers of the TV waves back then, were in living rooms around America. Today, cable and its gazillion channels are the norm. For years we were tethered to cable’s umbilical cord until three months ago when we cut lose the chain that satisfies the couch potato syndrome and headed into the unknown.

In moving forward on selling our house, I never expected to work as hard or dig through as much stuff as I have. During this delving into the depths of closet despair, I recalled an article I read once about simplifying life. Stop buying and stashing, get only what you need and only when it’s needed the article implored. Made sense and I thought I was abiding by that concept quite well, thank you.

Sometimes, when you least expect it, a piece of Spokane’s history appears in, of all places, a garage. In 1987 we were newbies to Spokane and bought a home in the Kokomo subdivision in Spokane Valley. It was a different house, some would even say a tad unusual. At the time, the prior owner regaled us with a tale about the builder/architect who built several homes in the area including the home we were buying. “This is the home he built for his family,” he proudly said.

Music. It’s a soother of souls, a jiggy of jump, a feel-good moment or a timely remembrance. One song can take me back to the mop top boys from England whose music along with Elvis Presley and those who followed, heralded in a new sound. Melodies and lyrics of beloved songs have helped me maneuver through some rough bumps in life. My brother is a musician and the beat of his drums as he practiced when we were kids was, literally, music to my ears. Today, my iPod is filled with songs from yesterday and today. And, as we all know, the beat goes on.

Whether Paleolithic hieroglyphics or the twittering tweets of today, Homo sapiens are creatures of communication, leaving behind artistic imprints with tenacious insistence in hope that one day others will marvel at our etchings in the sand, writings on the wall, or rocks along the roadway. Yes, rocks along the roadway.

In November, my husband and I became foster parents. After a weekend trip to Seattle, the 11-year-old brothers came home with us. Since then, our monthly food bill has doubled, the toy basket has grown exponentially with not only stuffed animals but tiny, squeaky tennis balls, we’ve had mishaps and minor setbacks but all in all it’s been a smooth transition as the two await a forever home.

It’s field of dreams time again. This is the weekend to peruse the newest recreational vehicles be they Class A, B, C, trailers, fifth wheels, teardrops and everything in between at the annual RV Show at the fairgrounds. And although my husband and I look at all the rigs for fun, Class A is our preferred mode of travel.

Throughout November I was obsessed with word counts. Checking, typing, re-checking, tallying, then updating my count. I signed up for National Novel Writing Month – or NaNoWriMo, for short.

It was a Thanksgiving turkey that kept us connected and a phone call 27 years in the making. Jim and Tink Callahan were our best buddies in Eugene, Ore., the come-on-over-for-dinner-and-play-pinochle-until-you-drop type of buddies, but jobs whisked them to a better life in Bremerton, and two years later we arrived in Spokane for the same reason. Before they left Eugene, they put a silly turkey pin in my hand. “To stay connected,” they said. The plan was to send the turkey back and forth every Thanksgiving.

It was with some trepidation and ample curiosity that I scheduled my first Rolfing appointment. Rolfing you ask? Read on.

There’s been a lot of talk lately about the problems facing downtown Spokane. From the STA Plaza to street kids, opinions are wide and varied on how to keep downtown safe and a place for everyone to enjoy. Doug Clark wrote about his State of the Downtown Tour in a Sept. 15 column (“Downtown Spokane’s stark reality plain to see”). During this tour, he scooted past excrement and urine and talked to people from all walks of life including street kids who congregate by the Olive Garden restaurant.

Riverfront Park is an enchanting place with its mystical fountain, high tower and wooden bridges reminiscent of fairy tales, and happily ever after and, whoa! Watch out for those Canada goose droppings. Each spring I wait for clear skies and warm days to begin my lunchtime trek through this enchanted park. Every year there’s something new that captures my imagination.

The song “At Last” wove through the sweltering heat of southern Idaho. I closed my eyes, listened to the mix of music and rumble. One by one they had lined up, started their engines and began the cruise – ’55 Chevy Bel Air, GTO, ’46 Ford Business Coupe and ’37 Flatback, Chevy Chevelle, Shelby Cobra, ’60 Corvette, ’50 Merc, Ford Mustang and the trucks of the ’40s and ‘50s – all spit shined, polished, loud and muscular. Up and down the boulevard they cruised, showing off beauty and beastly engines.

I’ve got to hand it to the tech savvy generation – they have cut an enviable workplace cloth. From the generation who one-upped the work world with casual Fridays and power suits and believed we were the cutting edge rule busters and game changers, we’ve now been trumped by those of the Google realm who took our one-upness and ran with it to infinity and beyond.

They exist among us. Live and breed, squawk and scavenge. Jet black and cocky, they don’t care what we humans think, nor do they have to. Throughout the year they swoop and dive, shouting their call across the sky as they bounce from limb to limb in the tall ponderosa pine trees that surround Spokane Valley. Many residents view them as a progenitor of the popular game Angry Birds. But crows are not angry – they’re highly intelligent, curious, a tad pushy, at times belligerent marauders with fierce protective and adaptive abilities.

Someone likes the light in our driveway.  “Like” probably isn’t the right word. Someone has an insatiable desire to smack the bulb and lamp right off the metal post.

It’s not easy facing mortality. In fact, there’s nothing easy about confronting that final goodbye and for years, I’ve put it off with inventive excuses. In my 20s I was immortal, of course. In my 30s I miraculously remained immortal. Then the 40s hit and, in what seemed like a flash, my 50s. Now I was invincible. It’s the journey, I told myself, not the destination.

Winter’s frigid tundra has arrived. If I were a ski enthusiast or had a snowmobile, there would be something to do during these whiteout months. I got nothin’. Snow’s not my thing. I tried to make it my thing but skiing backward while screaming isn’t fun.

A difficult year puts a hard spin on the holidays. It’s not easy finding tidings of comfort and joy when difficulties come knockin’. Death, divorce, disease, disaster, darn the luck – the Five D’s of Dire Dismay started in January and by March, I was running for cover. “This can’t be happening,” I said to life. “Oh, but it is,” life responded.

Phew. Seems the whole country has been rocked by storms – both of the natural and political persuasion – wreaking havoc and destroying dreams with an angry mix of blustery winds. The aftermath has also been similar. Woeful faces, gnashing of teeth and tears alongside shouts of joy, thankful prayers and celebrations of endurance. Washington state is experiencing a mix of blue skies and dark clouds. Differing patterns have emerged with a close gubernatorial race and passage of the marijuana and gay marriage initiatives. I can’t help but wonder if an interesting storm will erupt in the foreseeable future.

My fashion itch is scratching. Perhaps this itch is from bygone years when the annual shopping for school clothes kicked in, or perhaps my wardrobe’s in need of a boost. Whatever it is, the autumn jaunt to the downtown Macy’s sixth floor clearance center is about to begin.