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.