Hardly a day passes that I'm NOT reminded of the everlasting bounties of a teaching career. So, from time to time, I'll use my blog to share some of the pleasant after-effects of my 33 years as a high school English/journalism instructor at Sandpoint High School.
On this day, since birthdays have dominated the week, I must start with Chad Berkley who turned 28 today. I first knew of Chad when he played rec league basketball with my son Willie. They were sixth graders then. Chad, Willie and Brian Smith towered above their classmates and definitely stood out in a crowd.
Later, Chad showed up in my English class. That led to journalism and his eventual reign as Cedar Post editor in 1995. By that time, Chad also played a mean game of varsity soccer (a daunting goalie) and immersed himself into the computer world and the Internet. His computer skills helped us produce an award-winning high school newspaper and kept the counseling department happy when he spearheaded and produced their registration booklet.
His computer prowess also got him into a bit of trouble one day in the school library. He accepted responsibility for his actions but got dealt a draconian punishment for his oversight. Believing he was being made an unfair example, I went to bat for him. The shouting match between me and the principal at the time remains legendary among the office staff who had no trouble hearing heated comments through the closed doors. Everyone eventually moved past the dispute.
Chad attended and graduated from the University of Montana, winning a couple of Presidential awards. He now works in some high-tech mode at the University of California Santa Barbara. And, still, ten years later, I'd go to bat for him any day because of his loyalty and his willingness to help me out at any moment with my computer woes. I call on him frequently and he usually walks me through the problem. So, Chad, Happy Birthday, and thanks for your continued friendship and help.
Yesterday, while going to Vanderford's to purchase three copies of another former student's new book (Sandy Compton's Archer MacCLehan and The Hungry Now), I saw former teaching colleague Rik Mikkelsen walk in the door. He'd seen me head to the store, so he tracked me down to tell me his son Chase was around the block picking up items for his trip to Norway.
Chase is half Gros Ventre Indian and half Norwegian. Like Chad, he's an outstanding soccer player---in fact, Idaho's best his senior year. He was my English student for two years and honored me and three other of his teacher/coaches at the end of his senior year with a "Giveaway Party." We were all told that day by Chase how much we'd meant to him on his road to maturity. Then, we were each given an Indian star quilt, a braid of sweet grass and some handmade jewelry.
So, of course, Chase occupies a special place in my heart, and, of course, I was thrilled to "chase" him down and give him a big hug before his upcoming adventure. Chase plans to stay with relatives in Norway and maybe play semi pro soccer this summer. I'm wondering if he'll introduce fry bread to the Norwegians.
Speaking of Norwegians, Sarah Aavedal has a Norwegian name, but she's a full-blooded Nez Perce who was adopted at two months by Bob and Linda Aavedal. Had lunch with Linda and Sarah last Friday. On Easter Sunday, she began a new adventure in her fish-oriented career. She accepted a job at Prince William Sound in Alaska where she'll be raising sockeye Salmon.
For the past several years, she's worked for the Nez Perce tribe at its Yellow Pine hatchery and has enjoyed the thrill of seeing baby Salmon head off to the ocean and return all the way to Yellow Pine (east of McCall). Now, she'll experience a whole new dimension of salmon production.
Keeping in touch with former students, such as these individuals, provides me a pretty nice view of the world outside Sandpoint, Idaho. And their adventures ensure that this ol' teacher will never stop learning.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
To Jim Halter on his 67th.
Jim is my cousin. Today, he turned 67. He lives in Northern California. I would have posted his name on yesterday's family birthday list, but I wasn't sure of the exact date. Now, I know. So, one more happy birthday is extended to Jim.
Last spring my three brothers and I accompanied our mother on a very special, nostalgic trip to the Trinity River Valley in Northern California where she attended first grade briefly. As mentioned in an earlier blog, her Aunt Anna Douglas from Michigan thought that wilderness was no place for a couple of little girls to grow up with their widower father.
So, she had her chauffeur drive her to California, pick up Mother and her sister June, and head on to San Antonio where Mother would begin the rest of her educational career attending Catholic boarding schools. Mother's dad, Frank Halter, was an artist and a gold prospector. He died of a massive heart attack when Mother was 15 and was buried in Oroville, California.
After we visited the area where Mother attended school in Burnt Ranch, we moved on to Oroville where we met Jim Halter and his wife Tommi. Frank Halter was Jim's grandfather. That means Jim is Mother's nephew and our first cousin.
Our initial duty after connecting with each other on that sunny, breezy May day near a Catholic school in Oroville was to find the cemetery and locate Frank Halter's grave. Since he was buried there in the mid-1930s, our search proved challenging. Grass had covered the gravestone, and only after contacting the cemetery groundskeeper did we finally uncover the simple small stone where our grandfather's initials provided the only clue to who was buried beneath.
That was enough, however. Since childhood, our 83-year-old Mother had long yearned to see her father and mother's graves. Unfortunately, her mother's grave from 1924 in the Hunt Cemetery off I-90 near Wallace is not to be found. We've been told it probably had a wooden marker, which has long since disappeared. She did, however, place flowers on her dad's resting place.
We also visited another cemetery in Oroville, where ironically, my dad's father is buried. Funny how two very different men from the Midwest (one a school teacher, the other an artist/prospector), having no reason ever to know each other and never knowing that their respective son and daughter would marry, ended up in the same town at the time of their deaths.
The visit to such tangible reminders of the past and to our common ancestry provided a great backdrop for getting to know our cousin Jim, whom most of us had met briefly a couple of times before. We spent the next three days just enjoying being family.
Tommi and Jim honored my mother for Mother's Day with an beautiful orchid and happily deemed her the "Queen Mum." We ate good food, shared family photos and exchanged a lot of good-natured banter during our visit.
The experience united two segments of the family who had not seen much each other. It also inspired us to make up for many lost decades of enjoying our common family bond.
And so today, Cousin Jim, you're added to the birthday string, and I send you my best wishes for a wonderful birthday.
Last spring my three brothers and I accompanied our mother on a very special, nostalgic trip to the Trinity River Valley in Northern California where she attended first grade briefly. As mentioned in an earlier blog, her Aunt Anna Douglas from Michigan thought that wilderness was no place for a couple of little girls to grow up with their widower father.
So, she had her chauffeur drive her to California, pick up Mother and her sister June, and head on to San Antonio where Mother would begin the rest of her educational career attending Catholic boarding schools. Mother's dad, Frank Halter, was an artist and a gold prospector. He died of a massive heart attack when Mother was 15 and was buried in Oroville, California.
After we visited the area where Mother attended school in Burnt Ranch, we moved on to Oroville where we met Jim Halter and his wife Tommi. Frank Halter was Jim's grandfather. That means Jim is Mother's nephew and our first cousin.
Our initial duty after connecting with each other on that sunny, breezy May day near a Catholic school in Oroville was to find the cemetery and locate Frank Halter's grave. Since he was buried there in the mid-1930s, our search proved challenging. Grass had covered the gravestone, and only after contacting the cemetery groundskeeper did we finally uncover the simple small stone where our grandfather's initials provided the only clue to who was buried beneath.
That was enough, however. Since childhood, our 83-year-old Mother had long yearned to see her father and mother's graves. Unfortunately, her mother's grave from 1924 in the Hunt Cemetery off I-90 near Wallace is not to be found. We've been told it probably had a wooden marker, which has long since disappeared. She did, however, place flowers on her dad's resting place.
We also visited another cemetery in Oroville, where ironically, my dad's father is buried. Funny how two very different men from the Midwest (one a school teacher, the other an artist/prospector), having no reason ever to know each other and never knowing that their respective son and daughter would marry, ended up in the same town at the time of their deaths.
The visit to such tangible reminders of the past and to our common ancestry provided a great backdrop for getting to know our cousin Jim, whom most of us had met briefly a couple of times before. We spent the next three days just enjoying being family.
Tommi and Jim honored my mother for Mother's Day with an beautiful orchid and happily deemed her the "Queen Mum." We ate good food, shared family photos and exchanged a lot of good-natured banter during our visit.
The experience united two segments of the family who had not seen much each other. It also inspired us to make up for many lost decades of enjoying our common family bond.
And so today, Cousin Jim, you're added to the birthday string, and I send you my best wishes for a wonderful birthday.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Birthday String
I'm sure many families deal with this phenomenon. With 365 days possible, family birth days seem to enjoy companionship. In our large family, one of the three major celebratory stretches (also June and December) begins today with my brother Kevin's 59th birthday. His arrival occurred at Sacred Heart Hospital in Spokane back in 1946.
This Friday's April Fools' day is also my son Willie's 28th birthday. He was due on March 31, but he fooled around too much in the labor process and arrived on the scene about 4:30 a.m. April 1, 1977. Of course, I'm sure Bill wouldn't have minded an extended labor for his firstborn so they could celebrate their birthdays on the same day.
Bill and his sister Margaret were born April 2, 1950, in Alexandria, Louisiana. That makes them twins, just in case readers didn't notice. Margaret was born first, and, according to Bill, took her leadership role seriously. As twins, they've been known to think alike, even with gifts. One year, for Christmas, they sent each other the same chamois shirts---same color even.
When my sister Laurie was born on April 7, 1961, I was supposed to go to one of Joanne Buhr's slumber parties. Had to tell her I couldn't cuz my mother had a baby. A couple of years later (not in April), Joanne scheduled another slumber party, and my mother had another baby, my brother Jim, the cartoonist. Once again, I had to decline the "slumbering" opportunity.
On April 9, 2002, in Pago Pago, Samoa, the triplets were born. I'm their great-aunt, I believe. I don't know if they consider me great, but family lineage designates it that way. Jacob, Justine, and Grace will turn three. Their birthday will be celebrated at Plummer's Community Hall where many members their plentiful extended families will appear, even nearly a half dozen Samoans.
We do not forget my dad's birthday on April 12. He was born in 1916 in Sheridan, Montana, and he lived a long, good life until November, 2003.
So, the birthday string begins, and we shall celebrate each of these people on their special day and reflect on their unique contributions to our lives and to the lives of others.
Happy birthday, Kevin, Willie, Bill, Margaret, Laurie, Jacob, Justine, Grace, and Harold. And, anyone else I may have forgotten.
This Friday's April Fools' day is also my son Willie's 28th birthday. He was due on March 31, but he fooled around too much in the labor process and arrived on the scene about 4:30 a.m. April 1, 1977. Of course, I'm sure Bill wouldn't have minded an extended labor for his firstborn so they could celebrate their birthdays on the same day.
Bill and his sister Margaret were born April 2, 1950, in Alexandria, Louisiana. That makes them twins, just in case readers didn't notice. Margaret was born first, and, according to Bill, took her leadership role seriously. As twins, they've been known to think alike, even with gifts. One year, for Christmas, they sent each other the same chamois shirts---same color even.
When my sister Laurie was born on April 7, 1961, I was supposed to go to one of Joanne Buhr's slumber parties. Had to tell her I couldn't cuz my mother had a baby. A couple of years later (not in April), Joanne scheduled another slumber party, and my mother had another baby, my brother Jim, the cartoonist. Once again, I had to decline the "slumbering" opportunity.
On April 9, 2002, in Pago Pago, Samoa, the triplets were born. I'm their great-aunt, I believe. I don't know if they consider me great, but family lineage designates it that way. Jacob, Justine, and Grace will turn three. Their birthday will be celebrated at Plummer's Community Hall where many members their plentiful extended families will appear, even nearly a half dozen Samoans.
We do not forget my dad's birthday on April 12. He was born in 1916 in Sheridan, Montana, and he lived a long, good life until November, 2003.
So, the birthday string begins, and we shall celebrate each of these people on their special day and reflect on their unique contributions to our lives and to the lives of others.
Happy birthday, Kevin, Willie, Bill, Margaret, Laurie, Jacob, Justine, Grace, and Harold. And, anyone else I may have forgotten.
Monday, March 28, 2005
New "Little House"
Call me corny, but I'm ecstatic that ABC and Disney have chosen to revive and refresh the Little House on the Prairie series. After watching the movie premiere Saturday night, I'll give it an 8.
That rating will, no doubt, improve as I get used to the new actors portraying characters firmly fixed in my mind through decades of watching the originals and the reruns. Overall, I think the new take on this much-loved collection of classic stories by Laura Ingalls Wilder did a masterful job of hooking me into wanting more.
I have to admit that I approached the movie with a bit of skepticism because of how much I had loved the earlier series. Nothing could match what these great actors had accomplished, I thought.
I was wrong. Phenomenal photography, well-cast actors, and and highly-crafted attempts toward portraying as much authenticity as possible gave the new series its own special touch. The two hours moved by quickly, and the premiere's dramatic ending with "TO BE CONTINUED" in the midst of high drama will have me perched in front of my TV next Saturday evening.
With this series, families can once again sit down together and enjoy some refreshing, wholesome entertainment with a few positive messages packaged within. There must have been something very redeeming in the old series for it to have been kept alive and loved by so many viewers for so long.
If I could talk to television honchos, I'd let 'em know this new "Little House" reflects a step in the right direction. That is, as long as we don't see a bunch of copycat series trailing after it, diluting the effect, like the dozens of ridiculous reality shows all following the same predictable formula. Cop and lawyer shows are great, but a few go a long way in that realm too.
Besides the "Little House" stories, we have so many rich aspects of history in this country from which to tap for dramatic entertainment. If producers would only seek out more ideas from this endless wealth for future programming, we could be entertained and educated at the same time.
In the meantime, I'm looking forward to Saturday nights on ABC. I'm especially anxious to see how they replace Nellie Olson and her mother. Now that will be a formidable challenge!
Welcome back "Little House."
That rating will, no doubt, improve as I get used to the new actors portraying characters firmly fixed in my mind through decades of watching the originals and the reruns. Overall, I think the new take on this much-loved collection of classic stories by Laura Ingalls Wilder did a masterful job of hooking me into wanting more.
I have to admit that I approached the movie with a bit of skepticism because of how much I had loved the earlier series. Nothing could match what these great actors had accomplished, I thought.
I was wrong. Phenomenal photography, well-cast actors, and and highly-crafted attempts toward portraying as much authenticity as possible gave the new series its own special touch. The two hours moved by quickly, and the premiere's dramatic ending with "TO BE CONTINUED" in the midst of high drama will have me perched in front of my TV next Saturday evening.
With this series, families can once again sit down together and enjoy some refreshing, wholesome entertainment with a few positive messages packaged within. There must have been something very redeeming in the old series for it to have been kept alive and loved by so many viewers for so long.
If I could talk to television honchos, I'd let 'em know this new "Little House" reflects a step in the right direction. That is, as long as we don't see a bunch of copycat series trailing after it, diluting the effect, like the dozens of ridiculous reality shows all following the same predictable formula. Cop and lawyer shows are great, but a few go a long way in that realm too.
Besides the "Little House" stories, we have so many rich aspects of history in this country from which to tap for dramatic entertainment. If producers would only seek out more ideas from this endless wealth for future programming, we could be entertained and educated at the same time.
In the meantime, I'm looking forward to Saturday nights on ABC. I'm especially anxious to see how they replace Nellie Olson and her mother. Now that will be a formidable challenge!
Welcome back "Little House."
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Promoting Pedal Pushing for Panty Waists
I'm gonna be lazy today and just direct readers to my website (www.mariannelove.com) where my most recent River Journal column appears.
Thanks to a wonderful job by Toby Feuling and his gang of bike builders, I've been enjoying my rebuilt Schwinn mountain bike more than ever expected this winter. They even repainted it to its original soft pink color along with new tires, new chain and the works.
Anyway, I'm a panty waist, and I push pedals every chance I get. So, go read all about it.
Happy Easter!
Thanks to a wonderful job by Toby Feuling and his gang of bike builders, I've been enjoying my rebuilt Schwinn mountain bike more than ever expected this winter. They even repainted it to its original soft pink color along with new tires, new chain and the works.
Anyway, I'm a panty waist, and I push pedals every chance I get. So, go read all about it.
Happy Easter!
Friday, March 25, 2005
Near Miss
I had to hold a piece in my hands. Yesterday's opportunity to touch the twisted metal added a vital, tangible link to a 52-year-old memory which left a lasting impression in my mind and a deep hole in the poleyard just two blocks from our school.
It was a December day in 1953. I was a first grader at Lincoln Elementary School in Sandpoint. When you're a first grader, getting to help out the teacher ranks right up there with being chosen as an American Idol. We had to take turns in Mrs. Kinney's class. On this day, it was my turn to act as row monitor, collecting the books and returning them to the bookcase.
The pride of standing before the row and waiting as each of my classmates passed their books forward was incomparable. I then headed toward the bookcase and waited in line for my turn to place my half dozen texts on the bottom shelf.
Just as I bent over, intending to make sure they were stacked neatly in their resting place, the loudest boom I'd ever heard shattered my concentration. The building shook. Windows cracked. We were whisked to our seats. The next few moments have evaporated from my memory bank. I don't know how we were organized, but I do know we were soon sitting on school buses headed home.
As our buses left Lincoln School, they rolled slowly through a network of cars filling the streets in all directions. Others had heard the boom. Soon, most of the town knew that a plane had crashed near Lincoln School. Nervous parents and curious townspeople had jumped in their cars and had driven to see what they could see.
We eventually reached home, which was just over a mile from the school. My mother was there to meet us. That's when we learned it was a jet. The pilot had tried to go as far from town as possible but went down in the poleyard. I heard gruesome stories about the scene for years, how deep the hole was when his plane hit so hard, body parts found, etc.
So, yesterday when I actually held pieces of metal, retrieved from the crash and recently brought to the museum in a cardboard box, I thought once more about how close this tragedy had come and its potential for being far more deadly if the pilot had crashed on our school.
Miraculously, he was the only one who died that day. Fortunately, for us Lincoln Elementary alums, we are here to tell about it more than 50 years later.
Definitely one of those events that unites those who were there and reminds us to appreciate life.
It was a December day in 1953. I was a first grader at Lincoln Elementary School in Sandpoint. When you're a first grader, getting to help out the teacher ranks right up there with being chosen as an American Idol. We had to take turns in Mrs. Kinney's class. On this day, it was my turn to act as row monitor, collecting the books and returning them to the bookcase.
The pride of standing before the row and waiting as each of my classmates passed their books forward was incomparable. I then headed toward the bookcase and waited in line for my turn to place my half dozen texts on the bottom shelf.
Just as I bent over, intending to make sure they were stacked neatly in their resting place, the loudest boom I'd ever heard shattered my concentration. The building shook. Windows cracked. We were whisked to our seats. The next few moments have evaporated from my memory bank. I don't know how we were organized, but I do know we were soon sitting on school buses headed home.
As our buses left Lincoln School, they rolled slowly through a network of cars filling the streets in all directions. Others had heard the boom. Soon, most of the town knew that a plane had crashed near Lincoln School. Nervous parents and curious townspeople had jumped in their cars and had driven to see what they could see.
We eventually reached home, which was just over a mile from the school. My mother was there to meet us. That's when we learned it was a jet. The pilot had tried to go as far from town as possible but went down in the poleyard. I heard gruesome stories about the scene for years, how deep the hole was when his plane hit so hard, body parts found, etc.
So, yesterday when I actually held pieces of metal, retrieved from the crash and recently brought to the museum in a cardboard box, I thought once more about how close this tragedy had come and its potential for being far more deadly if the pilot had crashed on our school.
Miraculously, he was the only one who died that day. Fortunately, for us Lincoln Elementary alums, we are here to tell about it more than 50 years later.
Definitely one of those events that unites those who were there and reminds us to appreciate life.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Coot Appeal
I'm on a mission. I must learn all there is to know about coots. I'm doing this for my friend, Jack Parker, who set out on the assignment several years ago for his friend Jim Fenton. Jim wanted to know from whence the coots migrated before arriving in droves and dotting the waters of Lake Pend Oreille.
Since Jim wanted to know, Jack suggested that the local daily blat do a feature on coots. Jack told me in a recent conversation that he put in his request five years ago. The story never appeared, and, sadly, his friend Jim died a few months ago, not knowing about the coots.
I promised Jack I'd do what I could to find coot data. Shortly after our visit, I had a brilliant idea. J.J. Scott writes for The River Journal. J.J. is a local game warden. He oughta know about coots. So, I wrote him an email and suggested he do a coot column.
Well, J.J. never wrote back. I've seen two River Journals since and no coots. But they're still out there on the lake, and people like Jack and me are still wondering about their migratory habits.
Yesterday, while at the museum, I brought up the subject to some learned historians and archeologists. One, whose name I shall not divulge, told me that the coots hibernate deep in the sands around the shoreline. Suddenly, one day they just pop up and appear all over the lake waters doing dumb things so that people will ask about them.
I don't know if this theory is true. Being a journalist, my skeptical side has me still in doubt. So, I appeal today to all readers of Slightdetour.Blogspot to please enlighten me on coots and all their clandestine habits.
Either send me an email at malove@imbris.net or record your data on the comments section of this blog. I'll publish all theories and scoop the Daily Bee------and J.J.
Then, I'll go tell Jack.
Since Jim wanted to know, Jack suggested that the local daily blat do a feature on coots. Jack told me in a recent conversation that he put in his request five years ago. The story never appeared, and, sadly, his friend Jim died a few months ago, not knowing about the coots.
I promised Jack I'd do what I could to find coot data. Shortly after our visit, I had a brilliant idea. J.J. Scott writes for The River Journal. J.J. is a local game warden. He oughta know about coots. So, I wrote him an email and suggested he do a coot column.
Well, J.J. never wrote back. I've seen two River Journals since and no coots. But they're still out there on the lake, and people like Jack and me are still wondering about their migratory habits.
Yesterday, while at the museum, I brought up the subject to some learned historians and archeologists. One, whose name I shall not divulge, told me that the coots hibernate deep in the sands around the shoreline. Suddenly, one day they just pop up and appear all over the lake waters doing dumb things so that people will ask about them.
I don't know if this theory is true. Being a journalist, my skeptical side has me still in doubt. So, I appeal today to all readers of Slightdetour.Blogspot to please enlighten me on coots and all their clandestine habits.
Either send me an email at malove@imbris.net or record your data on the comments section of this blog. I'll publish all theories and scoop the Daily Bee------and J.J.
Then, I'll go tell Jack.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Old Home Day
I enjoyed a fix of familiarity yesterday----something that's becoming an irregularity in Sandpoint these days. Had two things to do in town---vote on the school levy and join my mother and sister-in-law for lunch at Di Luna's.
Voting took me to my former place of work for the first time this school year. As I walked through the doors of Sandpoint High School and focused on the four election clerks, I was ecstatic. Knew 'em all. Mary Neuder, Della Kenworthy, Laura Holbert and Mrs. Reynolds.
This recognition brought on that wonderful warm feeling inside of being among friends. Gave Della a hard time as she looked up my name and address. Della's one of those Sandpoint fixtures whose generous heart has affected endless community projects, mostly behind the scenes. As one who's been on the receiving end of her efforts when our house burned down, I love her dearly.
After voting, I walked into the office where I could turn 360 degrees and spot well-known folks at every desk---two former students, one mother-and-daughter pair. All greeted me with smiles and hello's.
Also saw a few teachers I'd worked with for years and a few young ones I thought should still be students. Even had the opportunity to hear "Hello, Love" as I was reciprocating with "Hello, Darling."
Dave Darling and I have delighted each other with our romantic hallway greetings for years. It had been a while. Of course, the kids who didn't know me from a hole in the ground may have wondered about our behavior, but what the heck!
Speaking of romantic greetings, once seated at Di Luna's, I looked up as three gentlemen walked to a table near us. One kept smiling at me and finally said, "Hi, Marianne." Took me a second but once I zeroed in on a Greg McFarland 45 years older than when I fed him Good and Plenty's in hopes of a seventh-grade romance, I couldn't help but share the crazy story with his two business associates.
When we were 12, Greg took the Good and Plenty's (purchased from the Whatnot Shop on Pine Street) every day but broke my heart when he tapped the girl next to me at one of our junior high dances. He still chuckles about it, and I've promised him a good supply of Good and Plenty's if he comes to the reunion. I assured him he wouldn't need to ask me to dance.
During lunch, several longtime locals came in. My sister-in-law, Mary, had Bill Brown wondering for a moment about that blonde woman greeting him from across the restaurant. Once he recognized her as an SHS Class of 1962 classmate, they had a good time reminiscing their high school days.
Used to be when you walked down the streets of Sandpoint, you knew everyone. These days that's a rarity.
So, March 22, 2005, for this old local, was definitely a "good and plenty day"
Voting took me to my former place of work for the first time this school year. As I walked through the doors of Sandpoint High School and focused on the four election clerks, I was ecstatic. Knew 'em all. Mary Neuder, Della Kenworthy, Laura Holbert and Mrs. Reynolds.
This recognition brought on that wonderful warm feeling inside of being among friends. Gave Della a hard time as she looked up my name and address. Della's one of those Sandpoint fixtures whose generous heart has affected endless community projects, mostly behind the scenes. As one who's been on the receiving end of her efforts when our house burned down, I love her dearly.
After voting, I walked into the office where I could turn 360 degrees and spot well-known folks at every desk---two former students, one mother-and-daughter pair. All greeted me with smiles and hello's.
Also saw a few teachers I'd worked with for years and a few young ones I thought should still be students. Even had the opportunity to hear "Hello, Love" as I was reciprocating with "Hello, Darling."
Dave Darling and I have delighted each other with our romantic hallway greetings for years. It had been a while. Of course, the kids who didn't know me from a hole in the ground may have wondered about our behavior, but what the heck!
Speaking of romantic greetings, once seated at Di Luna's, I looked up as three gentlemen walked to a table near us. One kept smiling at me and finally said, "Hi, Marianne." Took me a second but once I zeroed in on a Greg McFarland 45 years older than when I fed him Good and Plenty's in hopes of a seventh-grade romance, I couldn't help but share the crazy story with his two business associates.
When we were 12, Greg took the Good and Plenty's (purchased from the Whatnot Shop on Pine Street) every day but broke my heart when he tapped the girl next to me at one of our junior high dances. He still chuckles about it, and I've promised him a good supply of Good and Plenty's if he comes to the reunion. I assured him he wouldn't need to ask me to dance.
During lunch, several longtime locals came in. My sister-in-law, Mary, had Bill Brown wondering for a moment about that blonde woman greeting him from across the restaurant. Once he recognized her as an SHS Class of 1962 classmate, they had a good time reminiscing their high school days.
Used to be when you walked down the streets of Sandpoint, you knew everyone. These days that's a rarity.
So, March 22, 2005, for this old local, was definitely a "good and plenty day"
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Feeding tube or feeding frenzy
All I've read is that the judge won't order the feeding tube to be reinserted into Terri Shiavo's stomach. I don't know any more than that this morning because I haven't turned on CNN or MSNBC for the details. My guess, however, is that his decision may affect the feeding frenzy of this story.
We'll either get to see more endless hours of repetitive video clips showing Terri Shiavo's unfortunate state, recorded nearly five years ago. Or, maybe the media will rush to a new, more compelling story like the school shootout in Minnesota and let this poor lady die in peace. It would be nice to not have to see another invasive clip of that feeding tube plugged into her stomach.
I have a friend who has lived on a feeding tube because of strokes which totally devastated her once witty, brilliant brain. She cannot swallow. She's been EXISTING because of this tube for more than a year.
I have to admit that I cannot go visit her anymore. I feel guilt because of this, but I also remember her pride and sensitivity. I wonder how she'd feel, knowing that her closest friends come and view her in such a pitiful state. Having known her well for more than 30 years, I'd say she'd be horrified.
I miss my friend. I miss our daily phone conversations and her usual humorous take on the crazy local happenings. The person I knew is gone. She sits or lies in that care center with a sad, blank expression, fondling her stuffed animals, passing the minutes, hours, days, months and now years in a completely different world.
Her estate, which will run out in a couple of years, pays for her care. I don't know if she had a living will. She had no close relatives, so it's possible the feeding tube was inserted without consultation from anyone. The feeding tube will remain for who knows how long.
I can't help but think that she would have preferred a peaceful, quiet death long ago to the empty world she wakes up and faces each day. Fortunate for her, however, the media hasn't zeroed in on her plight like they've done so disgustingly in Florida.
What ever happened to respect for one's dignity? Dying, I'm sure, is hard enough without having the entire outside world getting a free pass via the boob tube to watch a person suffer.
We'll either get to see more endless hours of repetitive video clips showing Terri Shiavo's unfortunate state, recorded nearly five years ago. Or, maybe the media will rush to a new, more compelling story like the school shootout in Minnesota and let this poor lady die in peace. It would be nice to not have to see another invasive clip of that feeding tube plugged into her stomach.
I have a friend who has lived on a feeding tube because of strokes which totally devastated her once witty, brilliant brain. She cannot swallow. She's been EXISTING because of this tube for more than a year.
I have to admit that I cannot go visit her anymore. I feel guilt because of this, but I also remember her pride and sensitivity. I wonder how she'd feel, knowing that her closest friends come and view her in such a pitiful state. Having known her well for more than 30 years, I'd say she'd be horrified.
I miss my friend. I miss our daily phone conversations and her usual humorous take on the crazy local happenings. The person I knew is gone. She sits or lies in that care center with a sad, blank expression, fondling her stuffed animals, passing the minutes, hours, days, months and now years in a completely different world.
Her estate, which will run out in a couple of years, pays for her care. I don't know if she had a living will. She had no close relatives, so it's possible the feeding tube was inserted without consultation from anyone. The feeding tube will remain for who knows how long.
I can't help but think that she would have preferred a peaceful, quiet death long ago to the empty world she wakes up and faces each day. Fortunate for her, however, the media hasn't zeroed in on her plight like they've done so disgustingly in Florida.
What ever happened to respect for one's dignity? Dying, I'm sure, is hard enough without having the entire outside world getting a free pass via the boob tube to watch a person suffer.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Monday Mush
Well, nothing really profound is consuming my mind this morning---as if anything I write about is profound. It seems to be to me at the moment, so I guess temporarily profound will do.
The most profound event over the weekend was Mother Nature's reminder that man-made declarations of spring mean nothing if she's got a different agenda. Apparently she did, so we endured the blast of frigid air and accompanying 3-4 inches of snow.
The ground outside is "pinto" this morning with swatches of resilient white stuff mixing in with the dull early-spring green grass. I suspect by noon most of the snow will be gone.
The weather change from yesterday morning through afternoon was profound. My layers of clothes proved too cumbersome by the time we reached Coeur d'Alene's Costco. Intense sunshine and 55 degrees was most welcome after the two days of yuck.
Our Costco adventure netted a good visit with Frank and Pauline Delamarter and Dick and Betsy Ross. Both Dick and Pauline (teachers) had been to a computer conference in Seattle. We also have enough Zip Lock bags for a year's worth of lunches and for storing lots of frozen veggies from the garden.
The other profound event this morning seems to be the feeding-tube controversy in Florida. Definitely a sticky issue, but the one sure item that surfaces is the need for a "living will" if a person feels strongly about controlling destiny when no longer in control.
Bet the lawyers are loving this story and counting the potential dollars.
The most profound event over the weekend was Mother Nature's reminder that man-made declarations of spring mean nothing if she's got a different agenda. Apparently she did, so we endured the blast of frigid air and accompanying 3-4 inches of snow.
The ground outside is "pinto" this morning with swatches of resilient white stuff mixing in with the dull early-spring green grass. I suspect by noon most of the snow will be gone.
The weather change from yesterday morning through afternoon was profound. My layers of clothes proved too cumbersome by the time we reached Coeur d'Alene's Costco. Intense sunshine and 55 degrees was most welcome after the two days of yuck.
Our Costco adventure netted a good visit with Frank and Pauline Delamarter and Dick and Betsy Ross. Both Dick and Pauline (teachers) had been to a computer conference in Seattle. We also have enough Zip Lock bags for a year's worth of lunches and for storing lots of frozen veggies from the garden.
The other profound event this morning seems to be the feeding-tube controversy in Florida. Definitely a sticky issue, but the one sure item that surfaces is the need for a "living will" if a person feels strongly about controlling destiny when no longer in control.
Bet the lawyers are loving this story and counting the potential dollars.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Add to your recipe box
Winter Recipe
Resort to this recipe only after whining for weeks about February and March sunshine in North Idaho.
No particular order is necessary for the above. Guaranteed to drive off that spring weather and bring back gray skies, snow, rain and wind.
If sunshine returns, repeat the process.
Resort to this recipe only after whining for weeks about February and March sunshine in North Idaho.
- Remove rototiller from winter shelter and work up the garden.
- Thoroughly sweep entire lawn for blown-down branches and tree combs. Haul off to the burn pile.
- Buy three kinds of lettuce seeds and plant half a sack each on edge of strawberry patch.
- Admire those daffodils about to bloom and think how nice it will be, for once in your life, to have daffodils for Easter.
- Remove push-lawnmower from winter shelter. Mulch left-over twigs and dog doodoo piles.
- Prune all fruit trees.
- Plant yellow clover and alfalfa seed along pond and roadway.
- Put away snow shoes, cross country skis, and snow shovels.
No particular order is necessary for the above. Guaranteed to drive off that spring weather and bring back gray skies, snow, rain and wind.
If sunshine returns, repeat the process.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Army Corps of Engineers: Angels over the farm
My faith has been reinstored this morning. Terry, the developer with two last names, and his partners will have to wait to dig up more dirt piles on the folks' old farm.
A few weeks ago, they started digging holes and ditches in the south wetlands of the place, and the Army Corps of Engineers didn't like it. Apparently, he was rerouting the sediment into Chuck Slough, and that's a no-no.
From the article I read in this morning's paper, it sounds like he may be fighting an uphill battle. The City Council put his plans on hold Wednesday night. Thank you to the City Council. Thank you, Army Corps of Engineers. Thank you to the neighborhood who persistently opposed the development.
I'm wondering this morning if he and his partners might wanta sell a piece of land as a farm. I'd be the first in line to make a deal. As my mother says, that place isn't desirable for anything other than a farm. That's the way it ought to stay.
I have a feeling Mother's gonna be happy this morning. I know I am.
A few weeks ago, they started digging holes and ditches in the south wetlands of the place, and the Army Corps of Engineers didn't like it. Apparently, he was rerouting the sediment into Chuck Slough, and that's a no-no.
From the article I read in this morning's paper, it sounds like he may be fighting an uphill battle. The City Council put his plans on hold Wednesday night. Thank you to the City Council. Thank you, Army Corps of Engineers. Thank you to the neighborhood who persistently opposed the development.
I'm wondering this morning if he and his partners might wanta sell a piece of land as a farm. I'd be the first in line to make a deal. As my mother says, that place isn't desirable for anything other than a farm. That's the way it ought to stay.
I have a feeling Mother's gonna be happy this morning. I know I am.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Deerhead Dog; Great Vet Catch
Yesterday, I spoke of her in reference to fermented deerheads and reverence to chewed-up Bible verses. Today, I speak of her as the 79-pound lunker who got away-----from the fish pole but not the vets. Today, our Black Lab Ebbie is $184 more valuable.
I was fixing the screaming smoke alarm. Hitting it with the broom the night before had not discouraged its vocal cords one bit, so we had to turn off the breaker switch serving the alarm and the bathroom. Willie and I don't like taking baths or brushing our teeth in the dark, so I decided to approach the smoke alarm repair calmly yesterday morning.
Assembling a ladder, some screw drivers and the vacuum cleaner, I began the project. After learning I couldn't take the thing apart, I revved up the vacuum cleaner and used the hose to suck out whatever gremlins might be causing the stupid alarm to go into perpetual scream. Surprisingly, it worked. I flipped on the breaker and---silence!
Feeling triumphant, I headed out the door with the ladder and screw drivers. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something gold on Ebbie's back. I set the ladder down and a subsequent closer inspection revealed a Mepps spinner firmly attached to her hide with about two feet of fish line streaming behind.
Hoping it was just stuck to her hair, I went into the house and got my glasses. My Wal Mart specials told me this wasn't gonna be easy. One barb was firmly entrenched beneath her skin. There was no way I was gonna get the pliers and pull it out. Besides, I'd seen her scooting across the lawn the previous day and knew "anal gland pinching time" was just around the corner.
I dialed the vets.
"Yes, bring her over," the receptionist told me.
"I'd might as well have her anal glands pinched while she's there," I added.
By the time, Ebbie and I walked out of the hospitial, she'd been yanked, pinched and poked nearly half a dozen different ways. Of course, they had to get the folder out and announce that all those vaccinations were overdue. Kachink! Kachink!
"And ya'd better treat for heartworms, " I was advised.
Kachink.
"I'm throwing in some antibiotic because I don't want that hook hole to get infected," he announced.
Kachink.
As I stood at the counter, with tapeworm medicine, heartworm medicine, antibiotic and checkbook ready and waiting, the receptionist announced it would be $183.58 today.
I paid in full. Ebbie and I headed home. She seemed appreciative.
I guess the bottom line is that I should be thrilled that she rolled over on that fish pole in the bunkhouse. And because of that incident, her anal glands are clean for another year and the worms will avoid her at all costs.
Speaking of costs, I'll just stop there.
I was fixing the screaming smoke alarm. Hitting it with the broom the night before had not discouraged its vocal cords one bit, so we had to turn off the breaker switch serving the alarm and the bathroom. Willie and I don't like taking baths or brushing our teeth in the dark, so I decided to approach the smoke alarm repair calmly yesterday morning.
Assembling a ladder, some screw drivers and the vacuum cleaner, I began the project. After learning I couldn't take the thing apart, I revved up the vacuum cleaner and used the hose to suck out whatever gremlins might be causing the stupid alarm to go into perpetual scream. Surprisingly, it worked. I flipped on the breaker and---silence!
Feeling triumphant, I headed out the door with the ladder and screw drivers. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something gold on Ebbie's back. I set the ladder down and a subsequent closer inspection revealed a Mepps spinner firmly attached to her hide with about two feet of fish line streaming behind.
Hoping it was just stuck to her hair, I went into the house and got my glasses. My Wal Mart specials told me this wasn't gonna be easy. One barb was firmly entrenched beneath her skin. There was no way I was gonna get the pliers and pull it out. Besides, I'd seen her scooting across the lawn the previous day and knew "anal gland pinching time" was just around the corner.
I dialed the vets.
"Yes, bring her over," the receptionist told me.
"I'd might as well have her anal glands pinched while she's there," I added.
By the time, Ebbie and I walked out of the hospitial, she'd been yanked, pinched and poked nearly half a dozen different ways. Of course, they had to get the folder out and announce that all those vaccinations were overdue. Kachink! Kachink!
"And ya'd better treat for heartworms, " I was advised.
Kachink.
"I'm throwing in some antibiotic because I don't want that hook hole to get infected," he announced.
Kachink.
As I stood at the counter, with tapeworm medicine, heartworm medicine, antibiotic and checkbook ready and waiting, the receptionist announced it would be $183.58 today.
I paid in full. Ebbie and I headed home. She seemed appreciative.
I guess the bottom line is that I should be thrilled that she rolled over on that fish pole in the bunkhouse. And because of that incident, her anal glands are clean for another year and the worms will avoid her at all costs.
Speaking of costs, I'll just stop there.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Schwan's Choice
The guys got the word this morning: it's Schwan's choice for dinner tonight. I'm going to a class reunion meeting at 5:30. So, when they get home, they can go to the freezer and pick out a pizza or some taquitos and throw 'em in the oven.
I don't know what we'd have done over the years if that first Schwan's truck hadn't rolled in the driveway. That must've been about 20 years ago; Schwan's has been doing well by the Love family ever since. And, our dogs have benefitted from the twice-monthly visits when the big yellow truck pulls in, Tom, the driver jumps out and throws them each a doggie biscuit.
When Bill was driving to Coeur d'Alene to work every day for 13 years, the kids were on their individual school schedules, and I was always overwhelmed with school work, Schwan's products were saviors for us.
Probably the most prominent of their offerings were the personal pizzas---pepperoni style. I don't know how many years I watched Annie zap her pizza, plop down at the counter and meticulously pick off each tiny piece of pepperoni, stacking it in a neat pile next to the pizza. Then, she'd eat the pizza and use the pepperoni for a chaser . . . sorta like our old days of eating toward the frosting on chocolate cakes.
Besides keeping us stocked with convenient microwave goods, Schwan's drivers have also taken a personal interest in our lives over the years. One, in particular, was Mike Bowman whose folks owned Sandpoint's Connie's Restaurant. Mike worked for his parents for quite a while, but finally decided to go the Schwan's route, which included the Love house.
One time our black lab, Ebbie, was still going through doggie adolescence, bringing home whatever she could sniff out during her romps through the surrounding fields. The fermented deer head that kept coming back was particularly irritating and STINKY. We tried burying it, but she'd still dig it up and proudly return it to the porch. We finally hauled it off to the dump.
Once she wandered over to the America's Promise Church next door and fetched a bag containing the minister's son's Sunday school manual and his Bible. We didn't know she'd brought it home until I went around the back of the house and found the bag ripped open and several Bible verses chewed up into tiny pieces. She did choose Easter Sunday for this retrieval, so we thought was rather reverent of her.
Well, we were embarrassed to take it back, so it sat on the kitchen counter until the next day when Mike came by to deliver his product. After telling him of our plight, he offered to drop it into their mailbox, which he did. We remained forever grateful to Mike, just as we were the time actress/model Margeaux Hemingway came to town.
She visited Sandpoint as grand marshal of the Winter Carnival. About an hour before the parade, Mike rumbled down the driveway with his truck. Just as he entered the door, the phone rang. It was one of my students whose mother was coordinating the parade. He wondered if I'd like to take his place on the float where Margeaux would be riding.
"I'd love to," I told him, "but can my kids come along with me? My husband hasn't come home yet, so I'll have to bring them with me." The student told me that only I could ride on the float. Disappointed, I told him I'd better stay home and watch my kids, who were fairly young at the time.
Upon hearing this, Mike turned into a true Schwan's trooper.
"I'll watch 'em," he said. "You go on. I'll wait until Bill comes." It was an offer this starstruck mother couldn't refuse. So, I left Mike with the kids. He fed 'em some ice cream and stayed until Bill's arrival. I got to stand right next Margeaux on a parade float, and Mike endeared himself to the Love family forever.
So, the next time you see one of those Schwan's trucks in the neighborhood, keep in mind there's a lot more to the company than ice cream and personal pepperoni pizzas.
I don't know what we'd have done over the years if that first Schwan's truck hadn't rolled in the driveway. That must've been about 20 years ago; Schwan's has been doing well by the Love family ever since. And, our dogs have benefitted from the twice-monthly visits when the big yellow truck pulls in, Tom, the driver jumps out and throws them each a doggie biscuit.
When Bill was driving to Coeur d'Alene to work every day for 13 years, the kids were on their individual school schedules, and I was always overwhelmed with school work, Schwan's products were saviors for us.
Probably the most prominent of their offerings were the personal pizzas---pepperoni style. I don't know how many years I watched Annie zap her pizza, plop down at the counter and meticulously pick off each tiny piece of pepperoni, stacking it in a neat pile next to the pizza. Then, she'd eat the pizza and use the pepperoni for a chaser . . . sorta like our old days of eating toward the frosting on chocolate cakes.
Besides keeping us stocked with convenient microwave goods, Schwan's drivers have also taken a personal interest in our lives over the years. One, in particular, was Mike Bowman whose folks owned Sandpoint's Connie's Restaurant. Mike worked for his parents for quite a while, but finally decided to go the Schwan's route, which included the Love house.
One time our black lab, Ebbie, was still going through doggie adolescence, bringing home whatever she could sniff out during her romps through the surrounding fields. The fermented deer head that kept coming back was particularly irritating and STINKY. We tried burying it, but she'd still dig it up and proudly return it to the porch. We finally hauled it off to the dump.
Once she wandered over to the America's Promise Church next door and fetched a bag containing the minister's son's Sunday school manual and his Bible. We didn't know she'd brought it home until I went around the back of the house and found the bag ripped open and several Bible verses chewed up into tiny pieces. She did choose Easter Sunday for this retrieval, so we thought was rather reverent of her.
Well, we were embarrassed to take it back, so it sat on the kitchen counter until the next day when Mike came by to deliver his product. After telling him of our plight, he offered to drop it into their mailbox, which he did. We remained forever grateful to Mike, just as we were the time actress/model Margeaux Hemingway came to town.
She visited Sandpoint as grand marshal of the Winter Carnival. About an hour before the parade, Mike rumbled down the driveway with his truck. Just as he entered the door, the phone rang. It was one of my students whose mother was coordinating the parade. He wondered if I'd like to take his place on the float where Margeaux would be riding.
"I'd love to," I told him, "but can my kids come along with me? My husband hasn't come home yet, so I'll have to bring them with me." The student told me that only I could ride on the float. Disappointed, I told him I'd better stay home and watch my kids, who were fairly young at the time.
Upon hearing this, Mike turned into a true Schwan's trooper.
"I'll watch 'em," he said. "You go on. I'll wait until Bill comes." It was an offer this starstruck mother couldn't refuse. So, I left Mike with the kids. He fed 'em some ice cream and stayed until Bill's arrival. I got to stand right next Margeaux on a parade float, and Mike endeared himself to the Love family forever.
So, the next time you see one of those Schwan's trucks in the neighborhood, keep in mind there's a lot more to the company than ice cream and personal pepperoni pizzas.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Developer Dirt
I mentioned Dusty in yesterday's posting. Well, just south of his old place, smack-dab next to the Sandpoint Airport Runway, the dirt piles are growing in what's been a hayfield for my 57 years.
A temporary metal fence enclosure went up a few days ago to protect some heavy equipment. Boyer Road's been torn up off and on for at least two weeks. Development dirt has moved north. From what I was told by the previous owner, George Roberson, who's building a fence to block out his view of the mess across the road, 15 houses will go in on what has to be no more than 5 acres of land.
I've also learned that home buyers will be asked to sign off that they, indeed, know they're moving right next to the airport runway. It would be interesting to know what kind of material they're going to put in those homes to muffle out the sound of lear jets taking off or landing just over the fenceline.
At the north end of the runway, another developer has received permission to dig up dirt and put in 30-plus houses on ten acres of what used to be the Hudon's place. That's where I went to 4-H meetings as a kid.
The old Best place that I mentioned yesterday started turning into a housing development last year. I've never seen such use of every square inch of available soil. Would hate to live in one of those houses and have to yell at Bill cuz their proximity to one another is mighty cozy. It's feasible another "Bill" three houses down may think HE's the one in trouble.
I learned at lunch yesterday that the Sand Creek Angus Farm just up the road from my childhood home sold for millions and will turn into an 18-hole golf course at the base of Schweitzer. During my formative years, I attended 4-H livestock meetings at the Paulets, who owned this property.
I knew about the millions paid for the 160 acres and knew about the golf course, but I didn't know until yesterday that Coldwater Creek founder Dennis Pence, who built his estate on the old Beauchene place (bordering Sand Creek Angus Farm), financed developer Ralph Sletager in the deal.
The golf course, reportedly, will encompass both the Paulet place and Ralph Sletager's property (the same place where I spent hours in Eleanor Delamarter's bedroom trying to learn how to sew).
Tomorrow night, the Sandpoint City Council will extend its final blessing to a Spokane developer, who calls himself Terry Lee but reportedly has another last name, to go ahead and start digging up piles of dirt for 29 homes on my folks' old farm just up the road from where we live. Bill and I lived on and loved that farm for our first three years of marriage.
Yesterday, while my mother and sister were here, a neighbor to the north called and said someone was driving their pickup around my mother's newly-planted field. My sister went off to check it out and the neighbor said he'd "kick ass" if I'd give him the go-ahead. I told him to approach the situation calmly and see who it was first, thinking maybe it was the guy who farmed it.
Turned out it was actually in the field adjoining Mother's. The guy had driven off the road and across the ditch to get into the field and was teaching his kid how to drive a stick shift. The neighbor (not knowing it really wasn't Mother's spread) said, "That lady paid $30,000 to get this place farmed. Get your ass out of here."
Even though it wasn't our field, this brazen behavior does make a person wonder what kinds of attitudes are hitting town when they'll drive on to someone's farm field, without permission---to teach driver's training.
Within the next month, a 56,000 square foot metal building for Quest Aircraft's manufacturing facility will rise up and block our kitchen view of the Cabinet Mountains and dwarf our charming old red barn.
I'm wondering if it's time to leave the old neighborhood and look for greener pastures where there are no piles of developer dirt.
A temporary metal fence enclosure went up a few days ago to protect some heavy equipment. Boyer Road's been torn up off and on for at least two weeks. Development dirt has moved north. From what I was told by the previous owner, George Roberson, who's building a fence to block out his view of the mess across the road, 15 houses will go in on what has to be no more than 5 acres of land.
I've also learned that home buyers will be asked to sign off that they, indeed, know they're moving right next to the airport runway. It would be interesting to know what kind of material they're going to put in those homes to muffle out the sound of lear jets taking off or landing just over the fenceline.
At the north end of the runway, another developer has received permission to dig up dirt and put in 30-plus houses on ten acres of what used to be the Hudon's place. That's where I went to 4-H meetings as a kid.
The old Best place that I mentioned yesterday started turning into a housing development last year. I've never seen such use of every square inch of available soil. Would hate to live in one of those houses and have to yell at Bill cuz their proximity to one another is mighty cozy. It's feasible another "Bill" three houses down may think HE's the one in trouble.
I learned at lunch yesterday that the Sand Creek Angus Farm just up the road from my childhood home sold for millions and will turn into an 18-hole golf course at the base of Schweitzer. During my formative years, I attended 4-H livestock meetings at the Paulets, who owned this property.
I knew about the millions paid for the 160 acres and knew about the golf course, but I didn't know until yesterday that Coldwater Creek founder Dennis Pence, who built his estate on the old Beauchene place (bordering Sand Creek Angus Farm), financed developer Ralph Sletager in the deal.
The golf course, reportedly, will encompass both the Paulet place and Ralph Sletager's property (the same place where I spent hours in Eleanor Delamarter's bedroom trying to learn how to sew).
Tomorrow night, the Sandpoint City Council will extend its final blessing to a Spokane developer, who calls himself Terry Lee but reportedly has another last name, to go ahead and start digging up piles of dirt for 29 homes on my folks' old farm just up the road from where we live. Bill and I lived on and loved that farm for our first three years of marriage.
Yesterday, while my mother and sister were here, a neighbor to the north called and said someone was driving their pickup around my mother's newly-planted field. My sister went off to check it out and the neighbor said he'd "kick ass" if I'd give him the go-ahead. I told him to approach the situation calmly and see who it was first, thinking maybe it was the guy who farmed it.
Turned out it was actually in the field adjoining Mother's. The guy had driven off the road and across the ditch to get into the field and was teaching his kid how to drive a stick shift. The neighbor (not knowing it really wasn't Mother's spread) said, "That lady paid $30,000 to get this place farmed. Get your ass out of here."
Even though it wasn't our field, this brazen behavior does make a person wonder what kinds of attitudes are hitting town when they'll drive on to someone's farm field, without permission---to teach driver's training.
Within the next month, a 56,000 square foot metal building for Quest Aircraft's manufacturing facility will rise up and block our kitchen view of the Cabinet Mountains and dwarf our charming old red barn.
I'm wondering if it's time to leave the old neighborhood and look for greener pastures where there are no piles of developer dirt.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Our Boo Radley
Yesterday while reading Kenney Leen's Sunday email thoughts to his family and friends, I couldn't help but think of our neighbor, Dusty. Kenney works in construction. Most recently, he moved from Connecticut to Seattle where he's working on a project downtown. His family lives in Sandpoint, and he grew up in the same neighborhood where we spent our early childhood.
Kenney's weekly stream of consciousness accounts of childhood/adolescent adventures with his brothers are rich in visual imagery. He tells of times before television sets entertained all the kids, times when kids created their own entertainment. In yesterday's missive, he mentions one of the "spooks" in a back alley where he spent his childhood.
That's what got me thinking about Dusty, who lived in a tiny shack on 40 acres just down the road from us. . He had goats and even kinda looked like his goats----skinny frame, a white beard extending down his front from his Adams Apple. He kept to himself, but whenever he did venture out, it was always on his bike. I can still remember moments when we'd be playing in the front yard and suddenly see that solitary, almost haunting figure quietly pedaling down the road after dusk.
Dusty worked for the neighbors, including my dad. He picked up sticks in one of our newly-plowed fields. He'd show up before the sun, and after it set, my dad would have to go down and tell him to go home. Otherwise, he probably would have kept working the night through. In those times, the wages were a dollar a day. He made do on that and money from pop and beer bottles collected along the roadsides.
When the Best's, who owned a dairy down the road, got a television set, Dusty loved sitting in their living room watching. The Bests loved their TV wrestling matches, and it must have been a bit scary for old Dusty because Clarence and his wife would get into some brawls of their own while fake wrestlers were throwing each other around on the television mat. It was not uncommon for shoes to fly around the Best house, whether there was company or not.
Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, Mother would fix up a plate of turkey and the trimmings along with a big supply of cookies or pie for Dusty. Harold would always accompany her on the delivery. I remember every time they'd come back, they'd try to describe the progress of the squalor within that tiny cabin where the little ol' man lived. Harold kept track of him, and one time took him to the doctor because he was complaining that his toes hurt. Turns out they were frostbitten and had to be amputated.
One day, two ladies came to our house. They had driven to Sandpoint from Tacoma; both were nurses. They wondered if I knew where an Earl Duston lived. So, I told 'em. Then, came the most incredible story. One of them was Dusty's daughter. She told me he also had a son who was a Tacoma building contractor and a graduate of the University of Chicago.
Dusty had always been a little off mentally, at least during the time we knew him. Before he came to Sandpoint, however, he'd been an educated mining engineer. Apparently, he'd suffered head injury in a car accident where his wife had died. The injury led to his being locked up in a Montana mental institution, from which he escaped, found his way to North Idaho, changed his name from Durston to Duston and lived the life of a hermit from that day forth.
Well, Dusty's life began to change the day his daughter arrived. She'd learned about him from her grandmother who'd kept his existence a secret until just before she died. After the daughter tracked him down, Dusty slowly re-entered society, even though he preferred to remain in his cabin for some time after his daughter's appearance. He even flew on a jet and got to know both his son and daughter. Eventually, he moved in with another local family and continued to hear from his own family on a regular basis.
He died several years ago, but memories of his hermetic existence left an everlasting impression in my mind. With Dusty, we definitely experienced our own North Boyer Boo Radley.
Kenney's weekly stream of consciousness accounts of childhood/adolescent adventures with his brothers are rich in visual imagery. He tells of times before television sets entertained all the kids, times when kids created their own entertainment. In yesterday's missive, he mentions one of the "spooks" in a back alley where he spent his childhood.
That's what got me thinking about Dusty, who lived in a tiny shack on 40 acres just down the road from us. . He had goats and even kinda looked like his goats----skinny frame, a white beard extending down his front from his Adams Apple. He kept to himself, but whenever he did venture out, it was always on his bike. I can still remember moments when we'd be playing in the front yard and suddenly see that solitary, almost haunting figure quietly pedaling down the road after dusk.
Dusty worked for the neighbors, including my dad. He picked up sticks in one of our newly-plowed fields. He'd show up before the sun, and after it set, my dad would have to go down and tell him to go home. Otherwise, he probably would have kept working the night through. In those times, the wages were a dollar a day. He made do on that and money from pop and beer bottles collected along the roadsides.
When the Best's, who owned a dairy down the road, got a television set, Dusty loved sitting in their living room watching. The Bests loved their TV wrestling matches, and it must have been a bit scary for old Dusty because Clarence and his wife would get into some brawls of their own while fake wrestlers were throwing each other around on the television mat. It was not uncommon for shoes to fly around the Best house, whether there was company or not.
Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, Mother would fix up a plate of turkey and the trimmings along with a big supply of cookies or pie for Dusty. Harold would always accompany her on the delivery. I remember every time they'd come back, they'd try to describe the progress of the squalor within that tiny cabin where the little ol' man lived. Harold kept track of him, and one time took him to the doctor because he was complaining that his toes hurt. Turns out they were frostbitten and had to be amputated.
One day, two ladies came to our house. They had driven to Sandpoint from Tacoma; both were nurses. They wondered if I knew where an Earl Duston lived. So, I told 'em. Then, came the most incredible story. One of them was Dusty's daughter. She told me he also had a son who was a Tacoma building contractor and a graduate of the University of Chicago.
Dusty had always been a little off mentally, at least during the time we knew him. Before he came to Sandpoint, however, he'd been an educated mining engineer. Apparently, he'd suffered head injury in a car accident where his wife had died. The injury led to his being locked up in a Montana mental institution, from which he escaped, found his way to North Idaho, changed his name from Durston to Duston and lived the life of a hermit from that day forth.
Well, Dusty's life began to change the day his daughter arrived. She'd learned about him from her grandmother who'd kept his existence a secret until just before she died. After the daughter tracked him down, Dusty slowly re-entered society, even though he preferred to remain in his cabin for some time after his daughter's appearance. He even flew on a jet and got to know both his son and daughter. Eventually, he moved in with another local family and continued to hear from his own family on a regular basis.
He died several years ago, but memories of his hermetic existence left an everlasting impression in my mind. With Dusty, we definitely experienced our own North Boyer Boo Radley.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Blog Day Afternoon
I guess I'd better issue a disclaimer. Nice weather may spell no blog. Yesterday, I believe, was my first blogskip day. Once I get started with the spring yard work, life changes around these diggin's. Actually, I'm out there diggin', rakin' and burnin'.
In fact, this morning, I'm gonna be taking my second bath because I stink! Have been trying to clean the dead grass from along the driveway without burning up North Idaho for the past couple of weeks. This morning's smoke was especially unruly or maybe I was more beautiful than usual cuz it just kept following me.
Willie's home this weekend. Inside the house, it's "mad," March Madness, that is. Right now, Duke is beating Georgia Tech. I'm sure Willie won't be leaving the house this afternoon as he'll never want to miss the NCAA bracketing. I'm guessing his weekly column for the Newport Miner might have something to do with the hot tournament ahead.
Willie used to help me fill out my winners for every year's faculty NCAA pool. When the good teams didn't fold in the tournament, we usually finished first or second. When they did, somebody's wife, who probably never attended a basketball game, would take the money home. Regardless of betting, we all pull for Gonzaga.
I'm wishing I had a pool to play in this year. Maybe Oliveria will get something started on "Huckleberries Online." How 'bout it, Dave????
Have a great Sunday.
In fact, this morning, I'm gonna be taking my second bath because I stink! Have been trying to clean the dead grass from along the driveway without burning up North Idaho for the past couple of weeks. This morning's smoke was especially unruly or maybe I was more beautiful than usual cuz it just kept following me.
Willie's home this weekend. Inside the house, it's "mad," March Madness, that is. Right now, Duke is beating Georgia Tech. I'm sure Willie won't be leaving the house this afternoon as he'll never want to miss the NCAA bracketing. I'm guessing his weekly column for the Newport Miner might have something to do with the hot tournament ahead.
Willie used to help me fill out my winners for every year's faculty NCAA pool. When the good teams didn't fold in the tournament, we usually finished first or second. When they did, somebody's wife, who probably never attended a basketball game, would take the money home. Regardless of betting, we all pull for Gonzaga.
I'm wishing I had a pool to play in this year. Maybe Oliveria will get something started on "Huckleberries Online." How 'bout it, Dave????
Have a great Sunday.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Friday, March 11, 2005
Miss Aggie Sue, we love you!
Meet Miss Aggie Sue Brown. She's my grand niece, born Sept. 9, 2004. She's traveled from her home in Anchorage, Alaska, twice in her young life. Her dad, Scott, is my brother Kevin and his wife Joyce's son, and her mom J.J. grew up in Rathdrum. I'd put her maiden name, but I'm afraid I'll spell it wrong, so we'll just hold off on that for a while.
I guess when the family's newest generation is this cute, folks need to see them. There are other cuties in this family generation, but I'm just figuring out how to use the picture program on the blogs, so Aggie Sue will take the lead. The others will come later.
She does have an interesting reason for her name. Before she was born, her folks didn't know if she would be a boy or girl. All they had decided was that whatever sex, the baby would be named for a town in Montana, where Scott grew up and where they plan to return once their Alaskan experience ends. So, little Miss Aggie is named for the cool little cowboy town of Augusta, not far from Great Falls.
I guess when the family's newest generation is this cute, folks need to see them. There are other cuties in this family generation, but I'm just figuring out how to use the picture program on the blogs, so Aggie Sue will take the lead. The others will come later.
She does have an interesting reason for her name. Before she was born, her folks didn't know if she would be a boy or girl. All they had decided was that whatever sex, the baby would be named for a town in Montana, where Scott grew up and where they plan to return once their Alaskan experience ends. So, little Miss Aggie is named for the cool little cowboy town of Augusta, not far from Great Falls.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Generational impact
It makes me feel old, but I'm liking what I see. There's a new generation of young folks---many of whom I've taught and most who are deeply rooted here----making their mark in this area. I think it's fun and inspiring to watch.
This morning I read that local car salesman, Jon Shaver, who golfed for Sandpoint High School with my daughter in the late ‘90s, will have an exhibition of his photography at Ponderay’s Bonner Mall this Saturday. Jon is shooting pictures for Sandpoint Magazine these days, and it was fun to partner up with him during last fall's Draft Horse Show. His photos will accent my writing in the spring edition.
Three weeks ago my son, Willie, wrote his first column "Sports Notebook" for the Newport Miner (www.pendoreillerivervalley.com). After reading three samples, I'd say he's found his niche. He seems totally comfortable with the discipline, and, as he continues to gain experience, I think he's gonna be a pretty fair sports writer.
A set of notes for a profile about Grant Merwin sits here on my desk. Grant and his wife Jennifer put a lot of positive energy into the community. Jennifer just finished coordinating a huge annual fundraiser for the local Community Cancer Services. Last I heard, totals were approaching $50,000.
Grant is the third-generation Merwin to run the family hardware store. He and Jennifer have launched an impressive, ongoing campaign to prove that the mom and pops can survive against the Goliath chain box stores. He realizes that the key to success is simple and as old as the 60-year-old Merwin's Hardware Store. Take care of your customers' needs and treat 'em right.
Recent Albertson College graduate Zach Hagadone (whose grandfather owned Sandpoint Furniture) and his college buddy, Chris DeCleur, have launched an artsy weekly paper here in Sandpoint. It's called the Sandpoint Reader. I've seen several editions, and I think it's a class act which will only get stronger as the paper catches on in the community.
The other day I saw Greg Vanderford, smartly dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, waving back at me from inside his folks' books and office products store. His grandparents were longtime Sandpoint educators. Greg recently graduated from the University of Idaho and plans to spend some time helping out at Vanderford's. I have a feeling I’ll see him there for a while.
The Shook twins, Katie and Laurie, (their grandpa was Sandpoint’s first lifeguard) sat in fifth-period honors English during one of my last years of teaching. They’re entertaining audiences with their original songs every Friday night at the award-winning Pend Oreille Winery, which is owned by another former student and her husband, Julie and Steve Meyer.
This generation of 20-30-maybe even 40-somethings is beginning to make its mark, and they're doing it with positive flair. Their conduit with their hometown’s past makes me feel secure that some of our community’s long-held values will live on through their energy and good works.
Yup, seeing them in action makes me feel pretty old but mighty proud.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
eBAY WATCH
Well, this morning, it's up to $330. Got word two days ago that the Panida Theater launched a fundraiser on eBay with my Viggo interview. The auction ends Friday afternoon, and so far, 16 bidders have pushed the price to its present level.
They're after their own copy of the winter edition of Sandpoint Magazine (www.sandpointonline.com) It features a telephone interview I conducted with Viggo Mortensen last summer. For those who don't know, Viggo played the king in Lord of the Rings and the lead in Hidalgo.
He owns property near Sandpoint and has been hanging out here since the 1980s. He also successfully auditioned for a part in Death of a Salesman at the Panida, but had to turn it down when Sean Penn cast him in a movie.
Viggo autographed and wrote a short note on one page of the article for this auction. All necessary information can be found at http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&category=59&item=3878683144&rd
We've heard of several other instances where people have offered a copy of the magazine with the article and no Viggo autograph on eBay. In one case, it sold for $202.50. In another, $60.
So, with THE MAN's real DNA on this one, it oughta be interesting. And, the best part is the Panida may fatten its coffers a bit. Tell your friends. Tell them to pass the word.
If ya want to see the unedited, uncut version of this story, which seems to be getting some extra mileage, go to www.mariannelove.com. It's there.
They're after their own copy of the winter edition of Sandpoint Magazine (www.sandpointonline.com) It features a telephone interview I conducted with Viggo Mortensen last summer. For those who don't know, Viggo played the king in Lord of the Rings and the lead in Hidalgo.
He owns property near Sandpoint and has been hanging out here since the 1980s. He also successfully auditioned for a part in Death of a Salesman at the Panida, but had to turn it down when Sean Penn cast him in a movie.
Viggo autographed and wrote a short note on one page of the article for this auction. All necessary information can be found at http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&category=59&item=3878683144&rd
We've heard of several other instances where people have offered a copy of the magazine with the article and no Viggo autograph on eBay. In one case, it sold for $202.50. In another, $60.
So, with THE MAN's real DNA on this one, it oughta be interesting. And, the best part is the Panida may fatten its coffers a bit. Tell your friends. Tell them to pass the word.
If ya want to see the unedited, uncut version of this story, which seems to be getting some extra mileage, go to www.mariannelove.com. It's there.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Rather be fishing?
I don't know what Dan Rather's gonna do after his last broadcast tomorrow night, but I'll wish him well. I'll also watch. A look into Dan's "Reporter's Notebook" has reflected the adult lives of us babyboomers. I'm sure we all feel like it was just yesterday when Dan reached journalistic stardom while reporting the assassination of President Kennedy.
I remember as a junior in high school prior to that awful day when another of my budding journalist friends and I debated over whether Nelson Benton or Dan Rather was the better reporter. It was obvious my appreciation of a nice-looking guy with a Southern accent and big brown eyes kept me in Dan's corner. So, when he took over for Walter Cronkite, I wasn't disappointed.
At the time, I would have given anything to meet Walter Cronkite. He had been a fixture in our house for years. His steadiness and his seemingly ever-curious mind instilled in me a sense of trust. I hoped to see the same with Dan Rather, but I also liked the spark of his "go-get 'em" style.
Either I've changed or Dan Rather's changed, maybe both. I know my old moderate liberalism has waned toward a moderate conservatism, but it seems like Dan has been way out there the past few years and obviously so. I could never really tell with Walter Cronkite. He seemed to exemplify the epitome of fairness in reporting, at least until he retired. Again, maybe my awareness for the subtleties has become more adept.
Dan has disappointed me of late, even in the way he conducts an interview. He has actually looked ridiculous in some of his "60 Minutes" segments when the camera focuses on his odd facial expressions. It's almost as if he's forcing himself to stylize his listening face by tipping his head certain ways or pasting a strange smile on his face.
I always watch CBS News because provides me a devil's advocate view of the way I see things. I do NOT watch Fox News because its reporting seems much too extreme the other way. I think it's important that we form our opinions by exposing ourselves to that which we don't want to hear.
This morning I read that Walter Cronkite says Dan Rather should have hung up the shingle a long time ago. I tend to agree. Had he done so, he may have been remembered as one of the greats of our time. Instead, only history will tell how the events of the past couple of years will affect his legacy as a reporter.
I also agree with Walter Cronkite that the move to put Bob Schieffer in Dan's place is very wise. At this time in my life and as a journalist, I believe Bob Schieffer reigns as one of the great examples of broadcast journalism. I hope CBS erases the word "interim" and makes him a permanent anchor.
Enough babble. And THAT's the way it is--------in my brain anyway.
I remember as a junior in high school prior to that awful day when another of my budding journalist friends and I debated over whether Nelson Benton or Dan Rather was the better reporter. It was obvious my appreciation of a nice-looking guy with a Southern accent and big brown eyes kept me in Dan's corner. So, when he took over for Walter Cronkite, I wasn't disappointed.
At the time, I would have given anything to meet Walter Cronkite. He had been a fixture in our house for years. His steadiness and his seemingly ever-curious mind instilled in me a sense of trust. I hoped to see the same with Dan Rather, but I also liked the spark of his "go-get 'em" style.
Either I've changed or Dan Rather's changed, maybe both. I know my old moderate liberalism has waned toward a moderate conservatism, but it seems like Dan has been way out there the past few years and obviously so. I could never really tell with Walter Cronkite. He seemed to exemplify the epitome of fairness in reporting, at least until he retired. Again, maybe my awareness for the subtleties has become more adept.
Dan has disappointed me of late, even in the way he conducts an interview. He has actually looked ridiculous in some of his "60 Minutes" segments when the camera focuses on his odd facial expressions. It's almost as if he's forcing himself to stylize his listening face by tipping his head certain ways or pasting a strange smile on his face.
I always watch CBS News because provides me a devil's advocate view of the way I see things. I do NOT watch Fox News because its reporting seems much too extreme the other way. I think it's important that we form our opinions by exposing ourselves to that which we don't want to hear.
This morning I read that Walter Cronkite says Dan Rather should have hung up the shingle a long time ago. I tend to agree. Had he done so, he may have been remembered as one of the greats of our time. Instead, only history will tell how the events of the past couple of years will affect his legacy as a reporter.
I also agree with Walter Cronkite that the move to put Bob Schieffer in Dan's place is very wise. At this time in my life and as a journalist, I believe Bob Schieffer reigns as one of the great examples of broadcast journalism. I hope CBS erases the word "interim" and makes him a permanent anchor.
Enough babble. And THAT's the way it is--------in my brain anyway.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Outdoor getaways
In spite of the influx of newcomers, I'm still amazed at the accessibility to incomparable solitude around this area. Yesterday, Bill and I drove to Clark Fork where he planted a new geocache.
He placed it on a 300-acre piece of property on the south side of the Clark Fork River purchased by the Idaho Fish and Game. It sits at the base of the mountains, and its huge pond surrounded by tall grass serves as home to hundreds of honkers, hawks, and herons.
His cache is located where you look one way and see the runs on Schweitzer; turn the other way, and there's Scotsman, still snow-covered and rising from a row of spectacular Cabinets. We had the place to ourselves for the entire hour spent there.
Saturday, I introduced my sisters to the National Bird Refuge at Bonners Ferry. It's not far from where our dad spent much of his adolescence riding horses belonging to the Kootenai Indians. We took our bikes and rode approximately six miles on a road where motorized traffic can go.
Yes, we met a few cars, cuz we started at the wrong end and were riding against the traffic. But meeting half a dozen on a gorgeous weekend afternoon, crusing along at 20 mph so they could enjoy the hundreds of geese, ducks and beautiful white swans ain't bad.
The bird refuge has oodles of hiking/biking trails on old dikes constructed across the Kootenai valley when it used to flood every year before construction of Libby Dam. When you set off on one of these trails, which can span anywhere from a mile to several miles, you'll seldom see another human being.
And, right smack dab in the population center of our area, there's the pedestrian bridge across Lake Pend Oreille in Sandpoint. I've biked or hiked the bridge about half a dozen times this winter and "half a dozen" would be accurate for the people I've met in all those experiences.
Obviously, the summer brings 'em on, but most of the year, we locals still have some nice escapes.
He placed it on a 300-acre piece of property on the south side of the Clark Fork River purchased by the Idaho Fish and Game. It sits at the base of the mountains, and its huge pond surrounded by tall grass serves as home to hundreds of honkers, hawks, and herons.
His cache is located where you look one way and see the runs on Schweitzer; turn the other way, and there's Scotsman, still snow-covered and rising from a row of spectacular Cabinets. We had the place to ourselves for the entire hour spent there.
Saturday, I introduced my sisters to the National Bird Refuge at Bonners Ferry. It's not far from where our dad spent much of his adolescence riding horses belonging to the Kootenai Indians. We took our bikes and rode approximately six miles on a road where motorized traffic can go.
Yes, we met a few cars, cuz we started at the wrong end and were riding against the traffic. But meeting half a dozen on a gorgeous weekend afternoon, crusing along at 20 mph so they could enjoy the hundreds of geese, ducks and beautiful white swans ain't bad.
The bird refuge has oodles of hiking/biking trails on old dikes constructed across the Kootenai valley when it used to flood every year before construction of Libby Dam. When you set off on one of these trails, which can span anywhere from a mile to several miles, you'll seldom see another human being.
And, right smack dab in the population center of our area, there's the pedestrian bridge across Lake Pend Oreille in Sandpoint. I've biked or hiked the bridge about half a dozen times this winter and "half a dozen" would be accurate for the people I've met in all those experiences.
Obviously, the summer brings 'em on, but most of the year, we locals still have some nice escapes.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Free Agent
I decided this morning to take a step closer to "free agency" by writing my own letter of resignation from an area board of directors. After what I've witnessed, read and heard over the past week, I think it's the desirable path for me. It's a lot easier for me to operate individually and support my passions through quiet, behind-the-scenes gestures.
I don't know what to make of the ugliness that evolves out of these boards. Maybe it's just a microcosm of what we're seeing in the world----more "us" vs. "them" rather than a spirit of casting aside some of our common differences and compromising occasionally for the greater good.
One thing's obvious: as long as this mentality persists, we're going to always wonder "what coulda been" if folks had just agreed to get along and put their energy toward some common ground.
For now, I choose to operate as a freelance writer and a free agent in my community. It may be much more pleasant.
I don't know what to make of the ugliness that evolves out of these boards. Maybe it's just a microcosm of what we're seeing in the world----more "us" vs. "them" rather than a spirit of casting aside some of our common differences and compromising occasionally for the greater good.
One thing's obvious: as long as this mentality persists, we're going to always wonder "what coulda been" if folks had just agreed to get along and put their energy toward some common ground.
For now, I choose to operate as a freelance writer and a free agent in my community. It may be much more pleasant.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Cracked Corn Season
This will be a Saturday add-on blog cuz I'm running late for Coffee Cult.
The ducks and geese are back at the pond. Monday morning I spotted two honkers sitting out on one of the mounds. So, later I took what little cracked corn we had left and scattered it along the pathway to the pond.
Tuesday morning, we watched an assortment of at least a dozen ducks and geese come over the top of the mound down the pathway, much like the lemmings. Cracked corn season had officially begun.
I don't mind this additional chore each morning, and the dogs are nice enough to leave the birds alone as they waddle along devouring their daily treats. I'm figuring that by the time cracked-corn season hits its peak, we'll have about three dozen regulars out there.
More later....
It's later. Since this morning, I've gone to coffee cult, talked to the head golf pro at Hidden Lakes and learned about the "world class golf course" renovation set to happen out there. Apparently, Clint Eastwood, Peter Uberoff and Jack Nicklaus are supporting the effort. The pro told me to talk to Dick Vilelli for details. So, I might.
My sisters and I took our bikes and rode around the bird refuge at Bonners Ferry. Seeing them enjoy themselves so much was very gratifying. I think they may be heading up that way more often.
Busy, fun day...
The ducks and geese are back at the pond. Monday morning I spotted two honkers sitting out on one of the mounds. So, later I took what little cracked corn we had left and scattered it along the pathway to the pond.
Tuesday morning, we watched an assortment of at least a dozen ducks and geese come over the top of the mound down the pathway, much like the lemmings. Cracked corn season had officially begun.
I don't mind this additional chore each morning, and the dogs are nice enough to leave the birds alone as they waddle along devouring their daily treats. I'm figuring that by the time cracked-corn season hits its peak, we'll have about three dozen regulars out there.
More later....
It's later. Since this morning, I've gone to coffee cult, talked to the head golf pro at Hidden Lakes and learned about the "world class golf course" renovation set to happen out there. Apparently, Clint Eastwood, Peter Uberoff and Jack Nicklaus are supporting the effort. The pro told me to talk to Dick Vilelli for details. So, I might.
My sisters and I took our bikes and rode around the bird refuge at Bonners Ferry. Seeing them enjoy themselves so much was very gratifying. I think they may be heading up that way more often.
Busy, fun day...
Friday, March 04, 2005
A tribute to Chris
Fifth period junior English during the 2001-2002 school year was the BEST way to end the day. I cannot remember a time when we didn't laugh for most of the hour. Twenty boys and three or four girls greeted me right after lunch with smiles and relentless banter every day. I loved that class and every student in it.
There were the wrestlers and the basketball players. The wrestlers, who were on top of the state that year, loved to heckle the basketball players who marked the calendar when they won a game. Occasionally, I'd have to ask the wrestlers to just lay off because the basketball players felt bad enough about their dismal record.
Magdalena, the grammar queen from Romania, sat smack dab in the middle of the room and wowed everyone else with her superior knowledge of the English language. There were also a few quiet students----very few---who simply sat and took it all in as we marched through American literature, grammar and prepared for the Idaho Writing Proficiency test.
Every single day we learned vocabulary, and they all LOVED the word of the day. Anyone who could answer key questions, such as naming all the parts of speech in the vocabulary sentence, was rewarded with a Nestle's chocolate treasure.
That was when I learned that Chris Reynolds was allergic to peanuts. One day, he refused his piece of candy, offering it to someone else. I don't know if that's why Chris died, but his shocking obituary in this morning's paper said "natural causes." So, I'll just have to guess.
Chris, a nice-looking young man with curly black hair, rarely stopped fidgeting. I'm guessing that had a lot to do with the fact that he was a musician. Music was his life. He played in the jazz band. He wrote music, and he reportedly played a wild guitar. He told me once about his band that had traveled around the country the summer before. They were looking forward to some big gigs the next summer.
There were moments in class when I'd look back there at Chris. He'd be staring toward the floor with arms and legs bouncing quietly in rhythm. It was clear that his mind was deep in song. And that was okay! Nobody ever heckled him about his musical success.
The last time I saw Chris was about a year ago when he drove past my house and threw me a big wave and a smile. Good looking. Fun. Impish. Talented. A nice young man with a great future in music.
I'm sure all my students in our wacky and warm fifth-period community will be stunned to learn of his passing. What a sad loss!
I have no doubts, however, that Chris is up there strumming in Heaven.
There were the wrestlers and the basketball players. The wrestlers, who were on top of the state that year, loved to heckle the basketball players who marked the calendar when they won a game. Occasionally, I'd have to ask the wrestlers to just lay off because the basketball players felt bad enough about their dismal record.
Magdalena, the grammar queen from Romania, sat smack dab in the middle of the room and wowed everyone else with her superior knowledge of the English language. There were also a few quiet students----very few---who simply sat and took it all in as we marched through American literature, grammar and prepared for the Idaho Writing Proficiency test.
Every single day we learned vocabulary, and they all LOVED the word of the day. Anyone who could answer key questions, such as naming all the parts of speech in the vocabulary sentence, was rewarded with a Nestle's chocolate treasure.
That was when I learned that Chris Reynolds was allergic to peanuts. One day, he refused his piece of candy, offering it to someone else. I don't know if that's why Chris died, but his shocking obituary in this morning's paper said "natural causes." So, I'll just have to guess.
Chris, a nice-looking young man with curly black hair, rarely stopped fidgeting. I'm guessing that had a lot to do with the fact that he was a musician. Music was his life. He played in the jazz band. He wrote music, and he reportedly played a wild guitar. He told me once about his band that had traveled around the country the summer before. They were looking forward to some big gigs the next summer.
There were moments in class when I'd look back there at Chris. He'd be staring toward the floor with arms and legs bouncing quietly in rhythm. It was clear that his mind was deep in song. And that was okay! Nobody ever heckled him about his musical success.
The last time I saw Chris was about a year ago when he drove past my house and threw me a big wave and a smile. Good looking. Fun. Impish. Talented. A nice young man with a great future in music.
I'm sure all my students in our wacky and warm fifth-period community will be stunned to learn of his passing. What a sad loss!
I have no doubts, however, that Chris is up there strumming in Heaven.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Resignation
This morning I read about eight people who resigned from a local board. Yesterday I read a resignation letter. The day before I read another. What's going on?
My friend, Joy O'Donnell, was famous for her suggestion that every February we have the "All Bonner County Rock Fight" out there on the pedestrian bridge. That way everyone who hates everyone else could have a heydey flinging their vengeance and maybe even hitting the mark a time or two.
Sadly, Joy has suffered some debilitating strokes and probably doesn't read the paper anymore. If she did, she'd be calling for a MONSTER ROCK FIGHT this year-----and this has been the most beautiful winter on record. Joy's theory was that the North Idaho winters-----so long, so gray-----just plain did that to people. They were cooped up too long and just got ugly.
I don't know what has caused such acrimony in this area this year, but it's getting disgusting. Makes me want to go up there to that Clark Fork quarry, load up the pickup and disperse boulders in some key places. Most of these unhappy people who trigger this behavior are old enough to know better, and they can't blame the weather.
It's time for the mean season to stop, or nothing's ever gonna get done in this town where we all love to talk about beautiful scenery and beautiful souls. I can say from personal experience that if this kind of ongoing conflict has become a part of the air we breathe in Sandpoint, nobody's ever gonna want to join a board.
Off to the Hair Hut where everybody knows your name and treats you like you're something special.
My friend, Joy O'Donnell, was famous for her suggestion that every February we have the "All Bonner County Rock Fight" out there on the pedestrian bridge. That way everyone who hates everyone else could have a heydey flinging their vengeance and maybe even hitting the mark a time or two.
Sadly, Joy has suffered some debilitating strokes and probably doesn't read the paper anymore. If she did, she'd be calling for a MONSTER ROCK FIGHT this year-----and this has been the most beautiful winter on record. Joy's theory was that the North Idaho winters-----so long, so gray-----just plain did that to people. They were cooped up too long and just got ugly.
I don't know what has caused such acrimony in this area this year, but it's getting disgusting. Makes me want to go up there to that Clark Fork quarry, load up the pickup and disperse boulders in some key places. Most of these unhappy people who trigger this behavior are old enough to know better, and they can't blame the weather.
It's time for the mean season to stop, or nothing's ever gonna get done in this town where we all love to talk about beautiful scenery and beautiful souls. I can say from personal experience that if this kind of ongoing conflict has become a part of the air we breathe in Sandpoint, nobody's ever gonna want to join a board.
Off to the Hair Hut where everybody knows your name and treats you like you're something special.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Memories of a friend
I saw in the paper this morning that Dick Whittaker had passed away in Portland with his three daughters at his side. The Whittaker family played a special role in my life.
My association with the them began during my first year of teaching back in 1969-70 when Christy sat in the front row near the door of fifth period English. Sometime during that year, I received an invitation to dinner at the Whittaker house, which, at the time was known to all Sandpoint locals as "the mansion" down in the Moran addition. And, the Moran addition near the old fairgrounds was where anyone who was someone in Sandpoint lived-----except for "Mortgage Hill," that is, aka Syringa Heights.
So, to be invited to "the mansion" was special, indeed. I worried about whether or not my lifelong dinner-table instruction in manners would be sufficient. The scene was elegant, but the instant camaraderie and laughter settled my nerves almost instantly.
They even invited me back time and again for parties and friendly visits. Helen and Dick became good friends. I would eventually teach and coach all three daughters....Christy, Holly and Glory. The latter two participated in drill team. All were talented, smart, and fun.
I also remember a trip to Pocatello with Christy and Sue Hanson (Haynes) for a journalism convention. There's much to tell about the return trip because of no room at any inns all the way back , which, in turn, meant an all-night drive to Sandpoint.
In 1973, I met Bill Love and his crew of college-age Boy Scouts who ran the trading post warehouse at the National Scout Jamboree. Before leaving the scene, I'd promised to get the guys dates, and they held me to the promise. Helen and Dick did their part to see that all went well by opening "the mansion" to Bill and his crew, my drill team girls and me. They even prepared a stack of wood for a beach bonfire, where Bill would pull out his harmonica and charm us all.
The next spring when Bill gave me an engagement ring, we first dined in downtown Sandpoint with Dick and Helen and later went to "the mansion" where a host of Senior Prom goers were enjoying their pre-prom get together. Later at the dance, the Bill Love--Marianne Brown engagement was announced.
Eventually, Dick and Helen separated. I hadn't seen him for years, so this morning's short obituary hit a sad note but also aroused some wonderful memories of a man and his family who played such a meaningful role in my life.
Good bye, Dick, and many condolences to Helen, Christy, Holly, and Glory.
My association with the them began during my first year of teaching back in 1969-70 when Christy sat in the front row near the door of fifth period English. Sometime during that year, I received an invitation to dinner at the Whittaker house, which, at the time was known to all Sandpoint locals as "the mansion" down in the Moran addition. And, the Moran addition near the old fairgrounds was where anyone who was someone in Sandpoint lived-----except for "Mortgage Hill," that is, aka Syringa Heights.
So, to be invited to "the mansion" was special, indeed. I worried about whether or not my lifelong dinner-table instruction in manners would be sufficient. The scene was elegant, but the instant camaraderie and laughter settled my nerves almost instantly.
They even invited me back time and again for parties and friendly visits. Helen and Dick became good friends. I would eventually teach and coach all three daughters....Christy, Holly and Glory. The latter two participated in drill team. All were talented, smart, and fun.
I also remember a trip to Pocatello with Christy and Sue Hanson (Haynes) for a journalism convention. There's much to tell about the return trip because of no room at any inns all the way back , which, in turn, meant an all-night drive to Sandpoint.
In 1973, I met Bill Love and his crew of college-age Boy Scouts who ran the trading post warehouse at the National Scout Jamboree. Before leaving the scene, I'd promised to get the guys dates, and they held me to the promise. Helen and Dick did their part to see that all went well by opening "the mansion" to Bill and his crew, my drill team girls and me. They even prepared a stack of wood for a beach bonfire, where Bill would pull out his harmonica and charm us all.
The next spring when Bill gave me an engagement ring, we first dined in downtown Sandpoint with Dick and Helen and later went to "the mansion" where a host of Senior Prom goers were enjoying their pre-prom get together. Later at the dance, the Bill Love--Marianne Brown engagement was announced.
Eventually, Dick and Helen separated. I hadn't seen him for years, so this morning's short obituary hit a sad note but also aroused some wonderful memories of a man and his family who played such a meaningful role in my life.
Good bye, Dick, and many condolences to Helen, Christy, Holly, and Glory.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Micro Wave's Bye
I can remember years ago when Ron Hunt stood in the Sandpoint High School faculty room touting the virtues of the microwave. Seems the Hunts had just bought their first model. "You won't believe how good the bacon is," he told me.
I can also vividly remember my skepticism that this was just another of those new-fangled fads that would come and go with the wind. With my "yeah sure" attitude, I listened politely to Ron just like I did for years to the small assortment of school computer geeks.
Somehow these self-appointed cyber pipers would make it on to the curriculum-day schedule. Some of us would have to take their class. As we dummies sat hating every minute of looking at those blank screens, they'd tell us just how easy and wonderful the computer was. "You just have to give it a try," they'd say.
I also remember about seven or eight years ago how disgusted my mother always seemed to be when she'd try to call me several times, and my line was busy. Once she'd finally made it through, she'd say, "Were you on that stupid computer again?"
Well, it's funny how times change. I spend countless hours a day on my computer, thinking how easy and wonderful it is to have this access to the world. Ninety percent of my freelance writing is done on and with my computer. I go into a rage if it doesn't work.
My mother's line is often busy in the mornings when I try to call her. And, once I get through to her, I can't resist asking, "Were you on that stupid computer (actually web TV) again? " She chuckles and knows the errors of her earlier disdain and skepticism for why anyone in their right mind would spend that much time with their computer.
And this morning------while working on my computer----when I took my cup of coffee to the microwave for a heat-up, I heard a sputter and then nothing. The microwave has gone bye bye, and the Love house is gonna be desperate 'til it gets fixed.
Yes, Ron, the bacon is good, and so is hot coffee.
I can also vividly remember my skepticism that this was just another of those new-fangled fads that would come and go with the wind. With my "yeah sure" attitude, I listened politely to Ron just like I did for years to the small assortment of school computer geeks.
Somehow these self-appointed cyber pipers would make it on to the curriculum-day schedule. Some of us would have to take their class. As we dummies sat hating every minute of looking at those blank screens, they'd tell us just how easy and wonderful the computer was. "You just have to give it a try," they'd say.
I also remember about seven or eight years ago how disgusted my mother always seemed to be when she'd try to call me several times, and my line was busy. Once she'd finally made it through, she'd say, "Were you on that stupid computer again?"
Well, it's funny how times change. I spend countless hours a day on my computer, thinking how easy and wonderful it is to have this access to the world. Ninety percent of my freelance writing is done on and with my computer. I go into a rage if it doesn't work.
My mother's line is often busy in the mornings when I try to call her. And, once I get through to her, I can't resist asking, "Were you on that stupid computer (actually web TV) again? " She chuckles and knows the errors of her earlier disdain and skepticism for why anyone in their right mind would spend that much time with their computer.
And this morning------while working on my computer----when I took my cup of coffee to the microwave for a heat-up, I heard a sputter and then nothing. The microwave has gone bye bye, and the Love house is gonna be desperate 'til it gets fixed.
Yes, Ron, the bacon is good, and so is hot coffee.
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