Sandra Babcock

Working in downtown Spokane has its perks and Riverfront Park is one of them. Every spring I resume my lunch hour walks through the park relishing the exercise while experiencing some interesting moments. For the most part, my walks are the average run-of-the-mill type; sun on skin, the trickle of sweat, watching the ever-changing Spokane River.

The dog days of summer have arrived … finally. After a particularly cool, wet and windy June, summer has blasted in like a blow dryer on high. Right along with the dreaded summer cold.

Stars mystify me. Oh, not the wondrous bright bling twinkling in the night sky but the ones of entertainment variety. The stars that cause us to laugh at their comedy routines, marvel at their moves, get lost in their music, and connect with the characters they’ve created.

BYOB. In this neck of the woods, “Bring Your Own Bottle” is synonymous with backyard barbecues and parties where family and friends gather at private homes. In the East, BYOB also can mean restaurants and bistros. An evening out, it seems, can entail bringing along a bottle if you’re so inclined.

The words, “It doesn’t take much,” slip through my mind as a glimpse of style passes by reminiscent of a time when a sense of fashion and pride in how one looked was protocol. Sometimes it appears in the dim of evening or in the bright sunlight of an early morning when polished shoes, strands of hair tamed with a slick of gel and fine-toothed comb, a tailored suit, pressed shirt, bold tie, perhaps a pair of cuff links and freshly washed face crosses my path and I’m hooked like fish on an irresistible shiny lure.

Three words can pull screen doors off hinges, scratch leather furniture and cause unimaginable mayhem. Three words. Where’s. The. Squirrel.

I’m an imperfect MOB. At least that’s the verdict of bridal magazines. MsOB (aka, mothers of the bride) never ever sweat when under pressure. I’m not fairing well. But then most MsOB have more than seven weeks to transform from a wilted flower into a long stemmed rose.

Am I right? My husband thinks I’m kind of a pain. I’m not sure why, but he mumbles these exacting words, and a few expletives, under his breath when things like, “Hey, there’s a ton of moss on the roof,” spill from my mouth. He claims I say things like this a billion times a day. He exaggerates.

‘Blimey! Thar she be!” I shouted after spotting an exact replica of ye old pirate ship, complete with skulls and lanterns and masts and sails, off Oahu’s North Shore last August. ’Tis true, I’d been shiverin’ in me timbers ever since Cap’n Jack Sparrow wobbled across the screen in the blockbuster “Pirates of the Caribbean” movies, keepin’ me eyes peeled for anythin’ pirate ’n pickin’ up a bit o’ pirate lingo, legend ’n lore. Me ’usband, Blackheart Bill, hasn’t a clue what ta do with his wicked wench, Salacious Sal, ’cept, o’course, ta put up with ’er skullduggery ’n rapscallion ways.

Will summer ever make its way to the Inland Northwest? There are days I wonder if we’ve made such a mess of things that Mother Nature is through with being fooled with. Not that I would blame her. But when the die-hard winter buffs start looking forlorn and singing “Here Comes the Sun,” I seriously get worried.

So, I have a Kindle. Amazon.com’s bestselling compact reading device arrived over the holidays. My fingers were itching to locate the on button and enter the digital reading realm.

Words. There’s been talk lately that words are inconsequential forms of communication. That, in reality, they hold no water, carry no weight, sway no decision and warp no mind, but those who live and work in this intricate and influential craft know this isn’t the case. If the above were true and words did nothing to prompt, promote, persuade and promulgate then most, if not all forms of speech from movies to books, advertisements, music, pulpit and political pundits, would be silenced for their words would cause no change, unite or divide no nation, soothe or irritate no soul, spread or reject no good news.

Dreams are intangible hopes, but that doesn’t keep them from solidifying in my mind and weaving through my heart with promises that, if chased, they will come true. All of us have dreams – things we want to do, places we want to see, accomplishments we want to fulfill. Making them come true, however, is hard work and that’s because dreams refuse to follow protocol.

Most of us know a Renee. Yours might be named Joe or Jane or Paulo, but mine was Renee. Renee was a long ago acquaintance who made Job’s wretched life look like a walk in the park. Her invisible Velcro strip latched on to every bad vibe cast into the wind with tenacity. From broken bones to family upheaval to illnesses and beyond, Renee had more problems than Pfizer has pills.

They’re baaaack. No, not poltergeists. I’m talking about a binding tighter than a boa constrictor’s squeeze.

A recent visit by a Kansas-based hate group once again pitted the Inland Northwest’s intolerance of hatred against an insidious outsider. Thankfully, we rose to the challenge and rallied against their inane message in a non-confrontational, dare I say, joyous way. Before the Westboro Baptist Church arrived, however, a debate was circulating on how best to combat hate groups. Two trains of thought emerged: Ignore them so they’ll leave or meet them head-on with a differing message of equal intensity.

Along with the hot dogs and hoopla, the hoagies and hooch that accompany the Fourth of July, perhaps, and this is just a suggestion, but perhaps this would be a perfect time to discover America’s story. I make this suggestion, not as one who is a historical whiz, but one who fought to stay awake during high school American history class while a dry and mundane textbook was propped upright on my desk.