By Bob Johnson
It had been a glorious late morning and early afternoon, even if the summer heat was beginning to take its toll. But we were prepared, having slathered every inch of exposed skin with SPF100 sunscreen before we got there.
We were heading back to our car with fresh memories of the Evening Light Lavender Festival bringing smiles to our faces. The event was held July 12-13 at the Evening Light Lavender Farm in Deer Park, said to be the largest certified-organic lavender farm in the United States with more than 24,000 plants.
Our daughter and a friend from her work had each picked bouquets of lavender, and my wife and I had grabbed a table in the shade and listened to singer-songwriter Daniel Hall as he performed both original and cover songs. While soaking in the sounds, we slurped down runny, but still yummy, lavender ice cream. Lavender lemonade and lavender iced tea also were being poured. Nearby, children were ascending and descending side-by-side inflated slides, giggling with glee.
Later, the four of us strolled the vendor booths, one of which offered every lavender product one could imagine, from lotion to body wash and from bar soap to neck wraps. Other vendors sold homemade crafts. I even found a custom cribbage board made from walnut – nice and big for the convenience of old eyes.
It had been a wonderful family outing.
But as we approached the gate (actually a simple table where festival-goers picked up their lavender-colored wrist bands), we encountered a middle-aged woman and a teenage girl – we presumed mother and daughter – who had just entered the grounds. Neither was smiling. Just as they passed, we heard the mother say in a disdainful tone, “Well, this certainly isn’t worth $13.”
We walked a little farther, out of their earshot, and then my wife spoke up: “How would she know if this was worth $13? They just got here.”
I had another issue with what we’d just heard beyond the mother’s attitude. What kind of example was she setting for her daughter? By her words and actions, she was teaching her daughter how to be a pessimist. She was teaching her how to be unhappy about something even before experiencing that something.
Honestly, that’s no way to go through life, in my opinion. The greatest lesson I ever learned came from a talk-radio host during perhaps the darkest period of my life – when I was going through a divorce with my first wife. That was nearly 40 years ago, but the lesson has never left me: be grateful for what you have – even when you don’t have much.
Gratitude can overcome a whole lot of negativity, help us get through tough times and generally make us happier people.
Instead of being thankful for a gorgeous summer day, breathtakingly beautiful fields of lavender, and whatever adventures may await, that mother looked at the handful of craft booths and made a snap judgment that those booths represented the sum of the festival’s experience.
She was determined to have a bad time.
As we drove back home, she was the primary topic of conversation. Why was she that way? Had someone else in her life passed it along? Was she even aware of what a bad influence she was being on her daughter? Certain aspects of life may be influenced by our genes, but that need not apply to our attitude.
One of the things that made the festival special was its smallness. We do not live in New York City, Los Angeles, or even Seattle. Many small towns of the Inland Northwest stage annual festivals that, when you think about it, are celebrations of smallness.
As the discussion continued, we started thinking about the things this woman wouldn’t like about some of the remaining festivals of the summer. We agreed unanimously that she would have felt the same way about last month’s Davenport Pioneer Days, even though it was free to attend. She would have found no “value” in the chalk art contest nor the downtown parade with nary a Disney character in sight.
And even though the upcoming Valley Community Fair (Aug. 8-9) features both a cake walk and a pie contest, not to mention a horse show, she’d probably be disappointed that the cakes weren’t decorated by Buddy Valastro, the pies weren’t baked by Marie Callender, and there were no Clydesdales or Lipizzaner stallions among the horses.
We also agreed that the Blue Waters Bluegrass Festival, scheduled Aug. 8-10 in Medical Lake, would be a big target of this mother’s wrath, especially given the range of its ticket prices ($38-$84). Even though the legendary Laurie Lewis is on the bill, Bitter Mom (or B.M. for short, as we began to call her) would be upset because the creator of the bluegrass genre, Bill Monroe, wasn’t there. Of course, Monroe died in 1996, but facts rarely trump bitterness when one is determined to be unhappy or ungrateful.
The Huckleberry Festival at 49° North Mountain Resort in Chewelah, set for Aug. 9-10, doesn’t cost quite as much as the bluegrass festival ($30 online or $35 on site), but that doesn’t mean B.M. would be happy. Even though it has been made clear that the huckleberry ice cream, huckleberry lemonade, and huckleberry desserts at the Saturday barbecue lunch will be available only until they sell out, B.M. would purposely arrive fashionably late so she’d be able to complain about what she didn’t get.
Then there’s the National Lentil Festival, taking place on Aug. 16, at historic Reaney Park in Pullman. It is absolutely brimming with activities guaranteed to distress B.M. For her, there wouldn’t be enough garlic in the lentil soup, or a sufficient number of twists and ties in the balloon animals, and the crowning of the 2025 “Lil’ Lentil” wouldn’t be nearly regal enough.
Millwood, the first town incorporated in the Spokane Valley, will host its annual Millwood Daze on Aug. 23, in its historic district. Millwood Daze provides an opportunity for B.M. to complain about how the pancakes were unevenly flipped at the pancake breakfast and how the cars were parked at irregular angles at the car show, not to mention how many old buildings there are in the neighborhood.
We had just about finished bashing this unhappy, poor example of a mother when it dawned on me that I had seen her somewhere before. It took a few minutes, but then the memory came into clear view.
Several months earlier, I had been standing in line at Spokane International Airport, waiting to check in a bag for a flight back east. This woman – traveling without her daughter – seemed to be very upset with the gentleman behind the counter, so I did what any professional journalist would do: I began eavesdropping. It was not difficult because she was gradually becoming louder and louder.
The airline employee was trying to explain to her that her flight had been cancelled due to severe weather. She pointed outside and said, “It looks pretty nice to me.” He replied that the severe weather was occurring in Dallas, which was the airport of origin for her incoming flight. DFW had been shut down for at least four hours because of lightning storms, and once the delays reach a certain point, the airlines have no choice but to begin cancelling flights so as not to disrupt the following day’s schedule.
B.M. (as I did not know her then) was having none of it and insisted on being placed on the next available flight.
“It’s your job to get people on airplanes,” she told the gentleman, who no doubt appreciated the reminder of what his job was. Through it all, he remained amazingly calm.
There was a line forming behind me, so the gentleman finally relented.
“So, you want me to get you out of here in the next hour,” he said. “Is that right, ma’am?”
“That’s right,” B.M. replied.
“Okay, ma’am. One moment.”
After he punched a few keys, a boarding pass appeared behind the counter.
“Checking just the one bag?” he asked.
“Yes,” B.M. replied, curtly.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Because of all you’ve been through today, I’m going to waive the $40 bag fee.”
B.M. did not thank him. She just nodded.
“Here’s your boarding pass, ma’am,” he said. “You board in 20 minutes.”
Again, there were no words of thanks. The woman grabbed the boarding pass and walked away in a huff. Yes, that definitely was B.M.
I then stepped up to the counter and the gentleman asked, “How are you today, sir?”
“I’m doing great,” I replied. “I’m not going to ask you how you’re doing.”
“Oh, we get one or two of those every day,” he said. “You learn not to take it personally.”
“Where was she trying to get to?” I asked.
“Cleveland.”
“Where did you end up sending her?”
“Fargo.”
“So, there’s a flight from Fargo to Cleveland?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Bob Johnson is the recipient of 99 national writing awards and has long known about the folly of treating airline ticket agents poorly. Now a resident of North Idaho, he and his family enjoy exploring the Inland Northwest, and Johnson is sharing his observations with Huckleberry Press readers.
