The reunion is all over but the shouting. I have a feeling the "shouting" part is going to go on for a long time as my classmates and I reflect on the events of this past weekend. More than 70 classmates gathered both nights to get re-acquainted and catch up with the last ten years.
Yesterday groups met for golfing and hiking. The golfers went to Hidden Lakes, while the hikers hit the trail on Greenhorn Mountain. It was a hot day for both events, but when all was said and done, the participants seemed just plain giddy about the time they had. Most were excited about the new bonds formed while spending a few hours together.
Bill and I led the eight hikers on the Mickinnick Trail. Before setting off, we took a few minutes for Bill to explain geocaching and classmate Terry Gray, who lives in Genesee, to explain the processes of birding. Hot temperatures meant few bird sightings or soundings. We learned that birders learn to identify each species' unique song. Terry told us that makes it easier to count those little critters who hide in the bushes and can't be seen.
We also learned that small birds will come to the sound of bigger predators. They figure, Terry says, that it's a better strategy to meet your opponent head-on rather than to have that potential executioner pounce on you without warning. So, Terry tried to attract some birds by sounding off like a hawk. Nobody came. Too hot.
Since the geocache is located a lot further up the trail than most folks wanted to trudge in the early afternoon heat, we abandoned plans to seek it out. In spite of the plans falling short, our hiking friends thoroughly enjoyed themselves as we stopped several times to rest, sip water, talk and snap photos of each other and the gorgeous views of Sandpoint and Lake Pend Oreille.
And, yes, there were rocks. Several of my friends---one of which I hadn't seen in 40 years---selected a special rock to carry back down the hillside. These rocks would find new homes where they'd serve as a symbol for an outdoor experience to be remembered.
The reunion is quickly becoming a memory, but this special gathering of our classmates will keep us all smiling for a long, long time---at least until 2010 when we hope all of us will be around to meet again.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Tacos, anyone?
While sending out information regarding our reunion to my 1965 classmates, I was sure to let them know what a great night spot Sandpoint is these days. No longer the one-stoplight town we all knew in the '60s which buttoned up and went to bed after 10 p.m. curfew siren sounded off, notifying all young people that they'd better be home.
No, Sandpoint has it all these days, I told my classmates, especially great restaurants. Well, about 70-plus 1965 SHS graduates and their partners descended upon one of those fine restaurants last night for hors d'oeurves and a no-host bar. We came together for the first time in 10 years at Swan's Landing just off the south end of the Long Bridge. The summer evening was magnificent; the lake, stunningly gorgeous and ready for admiration from the eyes of some folks who hadn't been here in 30 years.
Our reunion turned into a happy gabfest running well into the evening. About 10 p.m. a group of us decided to order dinner. We soon learned that the grill at Swan's Landing had closed five minutes earlier. We knew we needed to eat so we chose the next option: Connie's. Certainly this ol' stand by which used to stay open until 2 a.m. would fill our needs.
I asked my friend Karen to drive the Jimmy, while Bill drove his pickup and her hubby drove their car. Our friend Susan and another couple would be meeting us there. When we pulled into the parking lot, we spotted another classmate with his wife and his parents standing outside the door. They reported to us that Connie's had just been locked up for the night.
So, we moved on to the Fifth Avenue Restaurant, only to discover the lights out and doors locked. Some of our group decided to call it a night by grabbing a bite from Safeway and driving home. Four of us still kept up the quest by heading out HWY 95 to Taco Bell. Once there, we learned that Taco Bell serves only from the Drive Thru after 10 p.m.
So, with one driving the vehicle on the appointed route to collect the goods and three standing in the parking lot, giggling and selecting our late-night cuisine from the colorful outdoor menu, we eventually got something to eat. Our fine dining in Sandpoint (the restaurant town) took place inside our SUV. We gobbled down tacos with plenty of Cheese Whiz and drippy meat sauce---without napkins.
I guess those of us who are usually in bed sleeping by 10 p.m. every evening have learned that a night out in Sandpoint does hold on to a few remnants of the past. No curfew siren last night, but definitely a glut on buttoned-up restaurants.
We may not have enjoyed an elegant eating experience, but we won't soon forget the crazy moments of dining in the parking lot along with the local teens.
No, Sandpoint has it all these days, I told my classmates, especially great restaurants. Well, about 70-plus 1965 SHS graduates and their partners descended upon one of those fine restaurants last night for hors d'oeurves and a no-host bar. We came together for the first time in 10 years at Swan's Landing just off the south end of the Long Bridge. The summer evening was magnificent; the lake, stunningly gorgeous and ready for admiration from the eyes of some folks who hadn't been here in 30 years.
Our reunion turned into a happy gabfest running well into the evening. About 10 p.m. a group of us decided to order dinner. We soon learned that the grill at Swan's Landing had closed five minutes earlier. We knew we needed to eat so we chose the next option: Connie's. Certainly this ol' stand by which used to stay open until 2 a.m. would fill our needs.
I asked my friend Karen to drive the Jimmy, while Bill drove his pickup and her hubby drove their car. Our friend Susan and another couple would be meeting us there. When we pulled into the parking lot, we spotted another classmate with his wife and his parents standing outside the door. They reported to us that Connie's had just been locked up for the night.
So, we moved on to the Fifth Avenue Restaurant, only to discover the lights out and doors locked. Some of our group decided to call it a night by grabbing a bite from Safeway and driving home. Four of us still kept up the quest by heading out HWY 95 to Taco Bell. Once there, we learned that Taco Bell serves only from the Drive Thru after 10 p.m.
So, with one driving the vehicle on the appointed route to collect the goods and three standing in the parking lot, giggling and selecting our late-night cuisine from the colorful outdoor menu, we eventually got something to eat. Our fine dining in Sandpoint (the restaurant town) took place inside our SUV. We gobbled down tacos with plenty of Cheese Whiz and drippy meat sauce---without napkins.
I guess those of us who are usually in bed sleeping by 10 p.m. every evening have learned that a night out in Sandpoint does hold on to a few remnants of the past. No curfew siren last night, but definitely a glut on buttoned-up restaurants.
We may not have enjoyed an elegant eating experience, but we won't soon forget the crazy moments of dining in the parking lot along with the local teens.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Reunion notebook
It's Crazy Days weekend in Sandpoint, but more importantly---to a portion of the population---today marks the beginning of the Sandpoint High School Class of 1965 reunion. We'll meet officially for the first time this evening at Swan's Landing. I am aware, however, that several mini reunions have already occurred.
This morning, I'll be going to Connie's to greet Andrea Balch Boyle for the first time in 30 years. Our families were friends from the time I can remember. I do recall meeting "Andy," as we called her, long before enrolling in Lincoln Elementary School. Gene and Etta Balch owned Arabians, and they were members of the Sandpoint Saddle Club with my parents. My mother talked to Etta on the phone almost every day during our childhood.
"Andy" and I began attending school together when we both arrived at Sandpoint Junior High from our respective grade schools as seventh graders. At that time, she befriended Karen Fredstrom, another Lincoln School classmate. They were inseparable. Our class sadly dealt with its first taste of death when Karen was tragically killed in a car wreck the summer after our sophomore year. Andrea told me recently that the loss of her best friend left a permanent hole in her heart.
Andrea Balch has been one of my lifetime heroes. I doubt she knows that. Years ago I wrote a story for the Spokane Chronicle about her generous gift of a kydney to her brother Jeff. This occurred at a time when kydney transplants were so new that the surgery presented a major risk. Andrea took that risk for her younger brother who has led a full life ever since.
I always admired her for this gesture because it definitely did present a life-or-death choice, which she was willing to face for the love of her brother. It's been a long, long time since Andrea and I had a good visit, so I'm hoping to convey that message to her when we meet for coffee this morning among all the other talk of our kids, careers and adventures.
Organizing this reunion and creating our class blog have provided the core for a potpourri of fascinating sagas attached to classmates who'll be coming from as far away as China or from less than a mile down Lakeshore Drive. Everyone's story, no matter how dramatic or seemingly mundane, is important to each member of the Sandpoint High School Class of 1965.
One classmate, Dan Baugh, a Utah contractor, wrote a very poignant but simple statement to his classmates in his bio, " Thank you for helping mold who I am." That seems to say it all in support of why these events generate such strong emotions among those involved. There's a lifelong bond, and there's admiration for what we awkward kids turned out to be as seasoned adults.
We have a host of Vietnam veterans. We'll honor two who made the ultimate sacrifice in that Asian war so many years ago, and we'll rejoice that one classmate, whom we thought had died, is quite alive and well and serving the Veterans Administration in Auburn, Wash.
We have a retired military pilot in our class who went behind the Iron Curtain with his Air Force work. I'm also hoping our classmate who's worked with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and in the office of Condoleeza Rice will surprise us. We have corporate executives, teachers, laborers, lawyers, medical specialists, homemakers, ministers, recreational specialists, fire controllers, contractors, real estate specialists, engineers, photographers, writers, etc. among our graduates---all who have traveled unique paths these past four decades.
The cliques will probably still get together, but we reunion organizers are also sincerely hoping that many of those intangible boundaries that once separated potential friends are long gone by this age.
Hail to the SHS Class of 1965. Let the fun begin . . . .
This morning, I'll be going to Connie's to greet Andrea Balch Boyle for the first time in 30 years. Our families were friends from the time I can remember. I do recall meeting "Andy," as we called her, long before enrolling in Lincoln Elementary School. Gene and Etta Balch owned Arabians, and they were members of the Sandpoint Saddle Club with my parents. My mother talked to Etta on the phone almost every day during our childhood.
"Andy" and I began attending school together when we both arrived at Sandpoint Junior High from our respective grade schools as seventh graders. At that time, she befriended Karen Fredstrom, another Lincoln School classmate. They were inseparable. Our class sadly dealt with its first taste of death when Karen was tragically killed in a car wreck the summer after our sophomore year. Andrea told me recently that the loss of her best friend left a permanent hole in her heart.
Andrea Balch has been one of my lifetime heroes. I doubt she knows that. Years ago I wrote a story for the Spokane Chronicle about her generous gift of a kydney to her brother Jeff. This occurred at a time when kydney transplants were so new that the surgery presented a major risk. Andrea took that risk for her younger brother who has led a full life ever since.
I always admired her for this gesture because it definitely did present a life-or-death choice, which she was willing to face for the love of her brother. It's been a long, long time since Andrea and I had a good visit, so I'm hoping to convey that message to her when we meet for coffee this morning among all the other talk of our kids, careers and adventures.
Organizing this reunion and creating our class blog have provided the core for a potpourri of fascinating sagas attached to classmates who'll be coming from as far away as China or from less than a mile down Lakeshore Drive. Everyone's story, no matter how dramatic or seemingly mundane, is important to each member of the Sandpoint High School Class of 1965.
One classmate, Dan Baugh, a Utah contractor, wrote a very poignant but simple statement to his classmates in his bio, " Thank you for helping mold who I am." That seems to say it all in support of why these events generate such strong emotions among those involved. There's a lifelong bond, and there's admiration for what we awkward kids turned out to be as seasoned adults.
We have a host of Vietnam veterans. We'll honor two who made the ultimate sacrifice in that Asian war so many years ago, and we'll rejoice that one classmate, whom we thought had died, is quite alive and well and serving the Veterans Administration in Auburn, Wash.
We have a retired military pilot in our class who went behind the Iron Curtain with his Air Force work. I'm also hoping our classmate who's worked with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and in the office of Condoleeza Rice will surprise us. We have corporate executives, teachers, laborers, lawyers, medical specialists, homemakers, ministers, recreational specialists, fire controllers, contractors, real estate specialists, engineers, photographers, writers, etc. among our graduates---all who have traveled unique paths these past four decades.
The cliques will probably still get together, but we reunion organizers are also sincerely hoping that many of those intangible boundaries that once separated potential friends are long gone by this age.
Hail to the SHS Class of 1965. Let the fun begin . . . .
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Spic and Spam
Well, I was gonna write about something else this morning, but when I saw Jim's newest cartoon, I felt the need to defend Spam as I knew it for my first 50 years. Like the word "gay," it has taken on a new perspective in my later life. I do, however, believe it's still quite possible to be happy and gay.
On the Spam account, I don't know if everyone's so happy, but back in the good ol' days when Mother would cook up a dinner of Spam and potatoes, we did not look for any anti-spam agents to rid our lives of the stuff. We liked it and ate every bite.
In the summer of 1965, when I worked at Camp Neewahlu, a Campfire Girls facility on Lake Coeur d'Alene, as a dishwasher, one of the weekly delights whipped up in big baking pans by our cook Ginger, was Spam and raisins. I can recall always asking for second helpings. All the little campers skarfed it down and never complained.
As an adult, I've bought cans of Spam at least once a year. It's one of those age-old treats like liverwurst or tomato juice. Ya wouldn't eat the stuff on a daily basis but every once in a while, ya just have a hankering to renew a taste of old times. I love to fry up my Spam. Never do anything fancy with it except maybe throw on a coating of Maple syrup. Yum. Yum.
Now speaking of words and their differing connotations, I recall another name I thought nothing of while washing those dishes at Camp Neewahlu. We all received nicknames that fit our respective duties. Ginger was the cook, while Salt and Pepper were her assistants.
Of course, it stood to reason that the dishwashers would've been named "Spic" and "Span." Well, I was Spic and didn't mind it a bit until that fall when I was walking down the aisle at the University of Idaho's production of "Oklahoma." Out of the crowd came the young voice of a Neewahlu summer camper, "SPIC! Hey, SPIC!!!"
By that time, I was fully aware that the name had another meaning. Not looking to the left or right, I simply walked forward, found my seat and prayed that little kid would keep her mouth shut. She did. I escaped, and I think that was the last time I ever got called Spic. I'm sure the little camper has learned her political correctness lesson by now.
As for Spam, I'll always take it on my plate, but keep the damn stuff out of my computer!
On the Spam account, I don't know if everyone's so happy, but back in the good ol' days when Mother would cook up a dinner of Spam and potatoes, we did not look for any anti-spam agents to rid our lives of the stuff. We liked it and ate every bite.
In the summer of 1965, when I worked at Camp Neewahlu, a Campfire Girls facility on Lake Coeur d'Alene, as a dishwasher, one of the weekly delights whipped up in big baking pans by our cook Ginger, was Spam and raisins. I can recall always asking for second helpings. All the little campers skarfed it down and never complained.
As an adult, I've bought cans of Spam at least once a year. It's one of those age-old treats like liverwurst or tomato juice. Ya wouldn't eat the stuff on a daily basis but every once in a while, ya just have a hankering to renew a taste of old times. I love to fry up my Spam. Never do anything fancy with it except maybe throw on a coating of Maple syrup. Yum. Yum.
Now speaking of words and their differing connotations, I recall another name I thought nothing of while washing those dishes at Camp Neewahlu. We all received nicknames that fit our respective duties. Ginger was the cook, while Salt and Pepper were her assistants.
Of course, it stood to reason that the dishwashers would've been named "Spic" and "Span." Well, I was Spic and didn't mind it a bit until that fall when I was walking down the aisle at the University of Idaho's production of "Oklahoma." Out of the crowd came the young voice of a Neewahlu summer camper, "SPIC! Hey, SPIC!!!"
By that time, I was fully aware that the name had another meaning. Not looking to the left or right, I simply walked forward, found my seat and prayed that little kid would keep her mouth shut. She did. I escaped, and I think that was the last time I ever got called Spic. I'm sure the little camper has learned her political correctness lesson by now.
As for Spam, I'll always take it on my plate, but keep the damn stuff out of my computer!
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Truck driver
Within the next few minutes, I'll be heading for Colburn to help my sister out with the hay-hauling operation. She needs a driver because they use two wagons to haul hay from the field here in the Sandpoint city limits to the barn eight miles north of Sandpoint at Colburn.
Laurie's rounded up some Bouse boys and the Knaggs brothers, or so she thinks. Finding teens to work in the hay on hot summer days is easier said than done these days. In today's case, she'll work them only through noon, but as of last night, she hadn't heard from all of them, confirming whether or not they'd show up this morning.
The hay-hauling process is easier than past years because Harvey Lippert has a stream-lined operation for cutting, raking and baling. Using a specifically designed truck for scooping up the bales, he takes them to a designated place in the field and unloads them, a whole stack at a time. This makes the hay hands' work go much faster because they're not dragging them all over the field and throwing them up above their heads to a truck or wagon.
Instead, they stay in one spot, drop them down on the wagon and stack them. The only real time consumer is the trip from the field to the barn and visa versa. So, that's where I come in. I'll be driving and then doing a lot of sitting while they work. But, I'll be taking my laptop with me and working on some stuff for the class reunion.
This suits me just fine because a couple of years ago I decided I'd lugged my last hay bale. One reaches a stage in life where the gritty sweat rolling from all parts of the body along with nasty stickers poking away deep in one's bra during the process of hoisting heavy back-breaking bales is no longer fun.
These days, for my own hay needs, the most difficult work I do is open the gate for the truck and write the check. And today, I'll be perfectly happy playing my role as driver as those tough young teens do their sweating and toiling.
Laurie's rounded up some Bouse boys and the Knaggs brothers, or so she thinks. Finding teens to work in the hay on hot summer days is easier said than done these days. In today's case, she'll work them only through noon, but as of last night, she hadn't heard from all of them, confirming whether or not they'd show up this morning.
The hay-hauling process is easier than past years because Harvey Lippert has a stream-lined operation for cutting, raking and baling. Using a specifically designed truck for scooping up the bales, he takes them to a designated place in the field and unloads them, a whole stack at a time. This makes the hay hands' work go much faster because they're not dragging them all over the field and throwing them up above their heads to a truck or wagon.
Instead, they stay in one spot, drop them down on the wagon and stack them. The only real time consumer is the trip from the field to the barn and visa versa. So, that's where I come in. I'll be driving and then doing a lot of sitting while they work. But, I'll be taking my laptop with me and working on some stuff for the class reunion.
This suits me just fine because a couple of years ago I decided I'd lugged my last hay bale. One reaches a stage in life where the gritty sweat rolling from all parts of the body along with nasty stickers poking away deep in one's bra during the process of hoisting heavy back-breaking bales is no longer fun.
These days, for my own hay needs, the most difficult work I do is open the gate for the truck and write the check. And today, I'll be perfectly happy playing my role as driver as those tough young teens do their sweating and toiling.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Montana earthquakes
I did not feel last night's earthquake, but I think my cats did. For once, Festus and Lonesome Love came rushing into the house---on the first call. I was amazed, but it makes sense now that I've read my daughter-in-law Debbie's account of her sensations in her Spokane apartment during the few seconds that the earth shifted 400 miles away near Dillon, Mont.
Our family on North Boyer did feel the huge Montana earthquake of 1959. As a 12-year-old, I remember the bed seemingly moving back and forth. My parents were in their bedroom and started wondering out loud what was going on. By the time the Yellowstone Earthquake had ended---or maybe even before---my brothers had raced to the house from their tent outside---just like my cats last night.
Our sensations of that famous earthquake, which tore a mountain apart and formed a new lake, however paled compared to those of my retired teaching friend Irene Bennett Dunn.
I wrote a story for the Spokesman-Review in 1995 about Irene's emotional reflections on her return to the site where the earthquake stole most of her family. I'll share her thoughts with you this morning after last night's less tragic Montana earthquake.
Our family on North Boyer did feel the huge Montana earthquake of 1959. As a 12-year-old, I remember the bed seemingly moving back and forth. My parents were in their bedroom and started wondering out loud what was going on. By the time the Yellowstone Earthquake had ended---or maybe even before---my brothers had raced to the house from their tent outside---just like my cats last night.
Our sensations of that famous earthquake, which tore a mountain apart and formed a new lake, however paled compared to those of my retired teaching friend Irene Bennett Dunn.
I wrote a story for the Spokesman-Review in 1995 about Irene's emotional reflections on her return to the site where the earthquake stole most of her family. I'll share her thoughts with you this morning after last night's less tragic Montana earthquake.
Irene Bennett Dunn visited Montana’s Madison Valley last week to close the final chapter of the tragic story she’s been reliving daily and planning to write for 36 years.
Clutching kleenexes and seated in her house near Hope this week, the 75-year-old retired Clark Fork Elementary teacher said her first trip back to the scene where three of her four children and her first husband died went according to plan.
“I kept saying we’ll do the emotional part. Then we’ll have fun,” she said. “It helped a lot to prepare.”
Irene and husband Jack accompanied her only living son Phil and his wife to the Earthquake Area and Interpretive Center near Ennis to visit monuments to 28 people who, on Aug. 17, 1959, died in one of the most severe earthquakes (7.8 on the Richter Scale) ever recorded in North America.
The catastrophe sent giant waves rushing down the narrow Madison Canyon where Irene’s family were sleeping. It also unloaded 80 million tons of rock from a 7,600-foot mountain into the river, hurling campers against trees, cars, trailers or the canyon wall.
Purley and Irene Bennett, along with Carole (17), Philip (16), Tom (11) and Susan (6) had set off from Dalton Gardens on a camping vacation. After visiting relatives in Hope, the family headed east in their green Ford stationwagon, undecided on whether to go to Canada or Yellowstone.
“I want to see the animals,’” Irene remembers her youngest saying. “Everybody then agreed to go to Yellowstone.” The trip included a day in Virginia City.
“We did all the fun things and pulled into camp late,” she said. The whole family slept on top of a rented tent.
“At 11:37, I heard a loud bang. The earth began to shake,” Irene recalled. “My husband got up. . . I saw him grab a tree. . . that’s all I remember.”
Later, vague sensations of being under water and pinned beneath a tree on a sandy bank prompted the lifelong Protestant to pray.
“I saw the moon was out. It was a brilliant moon,” she explained. “I recited the ‘121st Psalm,’ my favorite: Lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. . . .”
The night of horror was just beginning. Calling in vain for her family, Irene dug her way free only to discover she couldn’t stand up. Her leg was broken. She crawled back and covered herself with branches.
“I just stayed there until morning; then I called and called until I heard an answer,” she explained. The welcome response came from Phil, badly hurt with head and leg injuries, but crawling toward the crumpled station wagon when he heard his mother.
The only two survivors in the area were eventually taken to Ennis Community Hospital, but not before Irene learned of her husband’s fate.
“I prayed that the children would be alive, but they would slowly find a body,” she recalled. “. . . Carole, then Tom. It was a long time before they found Susan. I prayed for her to be alive, yet I worried about her being out there by her little self.”
Relatives held a memorial service while Irene and Phil recuperated. The two eventually returned to Coeur d’Alene where Phil finished high school and Irene earned a provisional teaching certificate. In 1961, she married her high school sweetheart Jack Dunn, a dairy farmer from Hope. Phil now works for Boeing Computer Systems.
Last week’s journey back provided a bittersweet ending to the book Irene intends to write for herself and others suffering tragedy.
"We'll never forget them, but we'll go on with our lives with the family we've acquired," she said. "We ARE a family again."
Monday, July 25, 2005
Reuniting
We had a brief family reunion of sorts last night when Bill was able to sneak out a little early from his fire job in Bonners Ferry. Annie had decided to stay the day and leave early this morning, so, at least, they were able to see each other during her visit. We dined at Spuds. Now, it's just after 6 a.m. and they're both headed off on separate ways----Annie, back to Seattle and Bill, back to Bonners Ferry.
This is class reunion week for me. More than one third of our Sandpoint High School Class of 1965 will reunite this Friday night at Swan's Landing for the first time in ten years. We'll do some recreational stuff Saturday (golfing, hiking, boating, swimming) and enjoy dinner together at the Elks that evening.
Our committee has been meeting since September of last year. We don't accomplish much business at those meetings, but we do have fun thinking about who we're going to see and how much fun the gathering will be. That excitement intensifies during the week preceding the reunion cuz people show up early.
I've already heard from one classmate who was packing her clothes in Palm Springs and wondering if she should bring a sweater. Another wrote on Friday asking about the dress code. I assured her we live a casual life here in Sandpoint. She hasn't been back for a reunion in 30 years, so she's definitely going to notice some changes. We have a couple of classmates who have never attended.
One of them in Maurine Marks Wheatley who has spent the last year living in Beijing, China, teaching English. Before that, she lived on the East Coast in the Carolinas. Maurine and I had geology together during our sophomore year of high school. Our small small sixth period class of 13, was taught by Bill Straley.
I remember a lot of laughing and joke telling mixed in with the study of rocks and earth stuff. "Wild Bill," as we referred to him outside of class, left SHS for another job after our sophomore year but returned, to the delight of all of us, halfway through our senior year when the chemistry teacher resigned.
I even taught with Bill a few years later. He eventually went to work for the Forest Service as a geologist, ending up in Helena, Mont. He's now retired but planning to come with his lovely wife Ruth who served as the school secretary for a time. My fondest memory of Ruth came the day when she took her big office scissors and cut Ray Gapp's tie off. He was the deadpan typing teacher who had done something impish to deserve this good-natured attack on his clothing.
One classmate, whom I've not seen in 30 years, is now confined to a wheel chair. She seems to have a good attitude about it and apparently a very supportive husband. She received a degree in nursing from the University of Oregon, says she never used it but did work with teenagers with special needs.
To prepare for our Saturday night program, I've been assembling a list of classmates who've died. Without help from any other committee members, I've already come up with a list of 14. The reality hits pretty hard, especially considering there may be a few more I haven't thought of yet. Our class of 194 was the largest ever to graduate from SHS, and we maintained that record for a number of years.
It should be a fun week and, of course, a tiring weekend. When it's over, though, we'll have lots of good memories to store away and revive in ten years when we renew the bond again and celebrate 50 years as proud Sandpoint High School graduates.
This is class reunion week for me. More than one third of our Sandpoint High School Class of 1965 will reunite this Friday night at Swan's Landing for the first time in ten years. We'll do some recreational stuff Saturday (golfing, hiking, boating, swimming) and enjoy dinner together at the Elks that evening.
Our committee has been meeting since September of last year. We don't accomplish much business at those meetings, but we do have fun thinking about who we're going to see and how much fun the gathering will be. That excitement intensifies during the week preceding the reunion cuz people show up early.
I've already heard from one classmate who was packing her clothes in Palm Springs and wondering if she should bring a sweater. Another wrote on Friday asking about the dress code. I assured her we live a casual life here in Sandpoint. She hasn't been back for a reunion in 30 years, so she's definitely going to notice some changes. We have a couple of classmates who have never attended.
One of them in Maurine Marks Wheatley who has spent the last year living in Beijing, China, teaching English. Before that, she lived on the East Coast in the Carolinas. Maurine and I had geology together during our sophomore year of high school. Our small small sixth period class of 13, was taught by Bill Straley.
I remember a lot of laughing and joke telling mixed in with the study of rocks and earth stuff. "Wild Bill," as we referred to him outside of class, left SHS for another job after our sophomore year but returned, to the delight of all of us, halfway through our senior year when the chemistry teacher resigned.
I even taught with Bill a few years later. He eventually went to work for the Forest Service as a geologist, ending up in Helena, Mont. He's now retired but planning to come with his lovely wife Ruth who served as the school secretary for a time. My fondest memory of Ruth came the day when she took her big office scissors and cut Ray Gapp's tie off. He was the deadpan typing teacher who had done something impish to deserve this good-natured attack on his clothing.
One classmate, whom I've not seen in 30 years, is now confined to a wheel chair. She seems to have a good attitude about it and apparently a very supportive husband. She received a degree in nursing from the University of Oregon, says she never used it but did work with teenagers with special needs.
To prepare for our Saturday night program, I've been assembling a list of classmates who've died. Without help from any other committee members, I've already come up with a list of 14. The reality hits pretty hard, especially considering there may be a few more I haven't thought of yet. Our class of 194 was the largest ever to graduate from SHS, and we maintained that record for a number of years.
It should be a fun week and, of course, a tiring weekend. When it's over, though, we'll have lots of good memories to store away and revive in ten years when we renew the bond again and celebrate 50 years as proud Sandpoint High School graduates.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
At the horse show
I'll be leaving in a few minutes to go to the fairgrounds where I'll be spending another day announcing a horse show. In this case, it's the annual 4-H horse show. Today's schedule includes the equitation classes, both English and Western.
The kids are divided by age groups and judged for blue, red or white ribbons. Everyone gets a ribbon, but if you go home with a white, there's a pretty clear message that you might need to do a little extra work or that your devious horse had a pre-arranged strategic plan designed to make you look bad.
White ribbons were my standard for 4-H sewing and the required style review. Somehow, I never felt the push to get any better with a needle and thread. Whenever I think sewing, I think humiliation tempered with apathy. I was bad and unmotivated. In fact, it took every bit of patience Eleanor Delamarter had to get me to complete my project each of those three years---many hours in her house, at her sewing machine too.
When it came to 4-H horse projects, though, I had a different attitude. I truly would have been humiliated to take home a white ribbon. I loved everything to do with horses, and I had a driven mother for a leader to make sure I did well. The only time I ever won anything below a blue ribbon was my first year when there were eight showman in the entire 4-H horse project.
One named Vickie Haight was the only one who must've been listening when the experts said, "Always turn your horse away from you." She's the only one who did it, and I'm guessing she must've been up at the front of the line, or I would have copied her. Whoever the dufus was in front of me, as I walked Cricket into the arena and followed the pattern, turned left instead of right. So, as an awkward 10-year-old lacking self confidence and awareness, I just went with the flow.
Afterward, when the judge, Ed Duren, told us we were a bunch of monkies and that we'd all get red ribbons, except Vickie, I learned one of the many indelible lessons of my life, which have been gleaned from stupid mistakes. I never turned a horse in the direction that it could step on my toe and crush my toenails again.
From that point on, I earned blue ribbons in fitting and showing. And from that point on, my horse was Tiny aka Gay Warena (her proper Arabian name). Tiny and I functioned as a well-oiled team for several years afterward. I always won a blue but yearned to some day take home the championship trophy.
During my last year of 4-H horse, it became evident that my wish would NOT come to fruition, when Jeanine Pucci stood first, and I stood second among the blues in the senior division. The championship class was set for after lunch. I knew that my chances of ever beating Jeanine with her beautifully polished chestnut gelding were basically nihil.
Jeanine had style as a showman, and she practically lived with that horse. I loved Tiny, but I had to spread my passions with several other barnyard horses, so Tiny did not receive the exclusive treatment enjoyed by Jeanine's one and only equine pal. I never fed Tiny cookies either.
That was Jeanine's fatal mistake. During the lunch hour, she decided to share her lunch with her horse. Well, during one Oreo handout, the horse bit Jeanine's finger----almost completely off! She had to go to the doctor and could not return for the championship.
So, by default (as has happened to me a few other times), I took home the 4-H horse fitting and showing trophy. I amply rewarded Tiny for her cooperation in the triumph----with a coffee can of grain!
Moral of the story: If ya wanta win fitting and showing, leave the cookies home!
The kids are divided by age groups and judged for blue, red or white ribbons. Everyone gets a ribbon, but if you go home with a white, there's a pretty clear message that you might need to do a little extra work or that your devious horse had a pre-arranged strategic plan designed to make you look bad.
White ribbons were my standard for 4-H sewing and the required style review. Somehow, I never felt the push to get any better with a needle and thread. Whenever I think sewing, I think humiliation tempered with apathy. I was bad and unmotivated. In fact, it took every bit of patience Eleanor Delamarter had to get me to complete my project each of those three years---many hours in her house, at her sewing machine too.
When it came to 4-H horse projects, though, I had a different attitude. I truly would have been humiliated to take home a white ribbon. I loved everything to do with horses, and I had a driven mother for a leader to make sure I did well. The only time I ever won anything below a blue ribbon was my first year when there were eight showman in the entire 4-H horse project.
One named Vickie Haight was the only one who must've been listening when the experts said, "Always turn your horse away from you." She's the only one who did it, and I'm guessing she must've been up at the front of the line, or I would have copied her. Whoever the dufus was in front of me, as I walked Cricket into the arena and followed the pattern, turned left instead of right. So, as an awkward 10-year-old lacking self confidence and awareness, I just went with the flow.
Afterward, when the judge, Ed Duren, told us we were a bunch of monkies and that we'd all get red ribbons, except Vickie, I learned one of the many indelible lessons of my life, which have been gleaned from stupid mistakes. I never turned a horse in the direction that it could step on my toe and crush my toenails again.
From that point on, I earned blue ribbons in fitting and showing. And from that point on, my horse was Tiny aka Gay Warena (her proper Arabian name). Tiny and I functioned as a well-oiled team for several years afterward. I always won a blue but yearned to some day take home the championship trophy.
During my last year of 4-H horse, it became evident that my wish would NOT come to fruition, when Jeanine Pucci stood first, and I stood second among the blues in the senior division. The championship class was set for after lunch. I knew that my chances of ever beating Jeanine with her beautifully polished chestnut gelding were basically nihil.
Jeanine had style as a showman, and she practically lived with that horse. I loved Tiny, but I had to spread my passions with several other barnyard horses, so Tiny did not receive the exclusive treatment enjoyed by Jeanine's one and only equine pal. I never fed Tiny cookies either.
That was Jeanine's fatal mistake. During the lunch hour, she decided to share her lunch with her horse. Well, during one Oreo handout, the horse bit Jeanine's finger----almost completely off! She had to go to the doctor and could not return for the championship.
So, by default (as has happened to me a few other times), I took home the 4-H horse fitting and showing trophy. I amply rewarded Tiny for her cooperation in the triumph----with a coffee can of grain!
Moral of the story: If ya wanta win fitting and showing, leave the cookies home!
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Saturday stuff
Yesterday turned out to be a surprise for a couple of reasons. First, we figured we'd be spending the day out of the lake. Since the boat operator was still gone on a fire, that plan did not materialize. As the day wore on, we realized another factor would stand in our way---the weather.
Somehow I missed it, but I guess we were supposed to have a rainy day mixed in with all the sunny stuff. The plus side was that I didn't need to do any watering yesterday. I did manage, through the showers, to get a junky-looking area cleaned up near the porch and create a new flower bed.
Right now, it looks exactly like a new flower bed--fairly blah. Not what you'd call pretty, but as the petunias, impatiens and geraniums get accustomed to their new home, it should look a lot better than the mess that lived in that spot for a number of years.
While Willie worked, Debbie and Annie watched movies and spent several hours in town. Annie purchased the remainder of Debbie's fourth china setting at Kincaid's, which is going out of business next week and offering 50 percent off on all remaining inventory. So, it was a good opportunity to complete the set, which Mother started by purchasing a plate earlier this year.
Annie also baked her ANZAC cookies with the recipe she picked up in New Zealand two years ago. And, speaking of New Zealand, I learned last night that my penpal Robyne and her husband Steve plan to come to North Idaho next summer.
It will be fun showing them around. Robyne says she wants to pick her own huckleberries, so we'll be sure to put that on the schedule. I'm also going to ask one of my sailing friends to take Steve (Taupo's best sailor) out for a spin on Lake Pend Oreille.
Annie, Annie Dog, and I hiked the lower portion of the Mickinnick Trail last night. The darn path never gets any easier. I'm not really a fan of uphill, downhill, but I know it's good for me---I think! The phenomenal views of our farm, of Sandpoint and the north end of the lake do make up for some of the grunt work of making those legs continue up the hillside.
When we returned, Bill called to tell us he wouldn't be home until Sunday night. So, that means he's gonna miss Annie's visit completely. We're thinking of going up that way later this afternoon and visiting with him at the office where he's working. He says we just have to let us know when so he can schedule a few minutes of free time.
Another busy day ahead. It's been a blast having the kids home.
Somehow I missed it, but I guess we were supposed to have a rainy day mixed in with all the sunny stuff. The plus side was that I didn't need to do any watering yesterday. I did manage, through the showers, to get a junky-looking area cleaned up near the porch and create a new flower bed.
Right now, it looks exactly like a new flower bed--fairly blah. Not what you'd call pretty, but as the petunias, impatiens and geraniums get accustomed to their new home, it should look a lot better than the mess that lived in that spot for a number of years.
While Willie worked, Debbie and Annie watched movies and spent several hours in town. Annie purchased the remainder of Debbie's fourth china setting at Kincaid's, which is going out of business next week and offering 50 percent off on all remaining inventory. So, it was a good opportunity to complete the set, which Mother started by purchasing a plate earlier this year.
Annie also baked her ANZAC cookies with the recipe she picked up in New Zealand two years ago. And, speaking of New Zealand, I learned last night that my penpal Robyne and her husband Steve plan to come to North Idaho next summer.
It will be fun showing them around. Robyne says she wants to pick her own huckleberries, so we'll be sure to put that on the schedule. I'm also going to ask one of my sailing friends to take Steve (Taupo's best sailor) out for a spin on Lake Pend Oreille.
Annie, Annie Dog, and I hiked the lower portion of the Mickinnick Trail last night. The darn path never gets any easier. I'm not really a fan of uphill, downhill, but I know it's good for me---I think! The phenomenal views of our farm, of Sandpoint and the north end of the lake do make up for some of the grunt work of making those legs continue up the hillside.
When we returned, Bill called to tell us he wouldn't be home until Sunday night. So, that means he's gonna miss Annie's visit completely. We're thinking of going up that way later this afternoon and visiting with him at the office where he's working. He says we just have to let us know when so he can schedule a few minutes of free time.
Another busy day ahead. It's been a blast having the kids home.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Semi full nest
After two weeks of our third chapter of "Empty Nest," we were expecting a momentary lull this week when Annie's visit would prompt a visit from Willie and Debbie. We knew that a lake outing would be on the docket of events, along with plans for huckleberrying, eating and hiking.
With this in mind, Bill took the Love boat to Bob Aavedal at the Alpine Shop to get it "summerized." As an ignoramus about mechanical things, I guess that's what you'd call it, since he takes it there in the fall to get winterized. I don't know what they do, but when it comes home, I guess it's lakeworthy.
All was ready for boating, and Bill announced he'd be taking Friday off for the family fun. Wednesday afternoon, our best laid plans changed within minutes of our first hearing on the TV news that a wildfire had broken out in Bonners Ferry and was threatening homes. Five minutes later, Bill received a call from the dispatcher in Coeur d'Alene asking him to be in Bonners Ferry by 7 p.m.
He's been working there ever since. We've received one phone message from him while we were gone to town for dinner last night. He figures he may be home Saturday if all goes well. Bill serves on a fire team as logistics coordinator.
That means he doesn't have to get out and actually fight fires but has to help coordinate all the support items that go along with organizing fire crews. So, he works long hours in an office near the site and deals with lots of people and paperwork. He enjoys these experiences, which usually come up later in the summer. In fact, the Bonners Ferry fire, which was started by a train passing through the area, came as a complete surprise.
Our hopes to do something as an entire family had to be put on hold, but maybe when he returns tomorrow, we'll have some time for that boat trip. In the meantime, we'll make the most of our partially complete Love Nest.
With this in mind, Bill took the Love boat to Bob Aavedal at the Alpine Shop to get it "summerized." As an ignoramus about mechanical things, I guess that's what you'd call it, since he takes it there in the fall to get winterized. I don't know what they do, but when it comes home, I guess it's lakeworthy.
All was ready for boating, and Bill announced he'd be taking Friday off for the family fun. Wednesday afternoon, our best laid plans changed within minutes of our first hearing on the TV news that a wildfire had broken out in Bonners Ferry and was threatening homes. Five minutes later, Bill received a call from the dispatcher in Coeur d'Alene asking him to be in Bonners Ferry by 7 p.m.
He's been working there ever since. We've received one phone message from him while we were gone to town for dinner last night. He figures he may be home Saturday if all goes well. Bill serves on a fire team as logistics coordinator.
That means he doesn't have to get out and actually fight fires but has to help coordinate all the support items that go along with organizing fire crews. So, he works long hours in an office near the site and deals with lots of people and paperwork. He enjoys these experiences, which usually come up later in the summer. In fact, the Bonners Ferry fire, which was started by a train passing through the area, came as a complete surprise.
Our hopes to do something as an entire family had to be put on hold, but maybe when he returns tomorrow, we'll have some time for that boat trip. In the meantime, we'll make the most of our partially complete Love Nest.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
80 tons and a bright future
My mother's pretty proud of her hayfield. My brother Kevin is equally proud of his. Mother says, "I've got the best hayfield in Idaho, and Kevin had the best in Montana." Both are bragging these days and lending support to their boasting through photos of three-four-foot tall wind rows.
Kevin did his haying the week before last. He farmed his field and then planted it by hand. His yield with the first cutting was more than three tons per acre. And, he'll have a second cutting. That's more than enough for his two horses, so he's even sold some. "Now, I'm a full-fledged farmer cuz I've sold hay," he says.
In Mother's case, she asked Harvey Lippert to farm her field last spring after Harold died. The field was part of the old Harney dairy, which they purchased in the 1960s. They had sold a portion of the flat expanse of land east of Great Northern Road but had kept the 25 acres and hayed off from it for years. It had been a long time since the area was farmed and each of the last few years that Harold put up hay, the yield was diminishing.
So, Harvey came up with a mixture of grass and oats last spring. Last summer, the Stockdale family cut the oats and split the yield with my sisters. This spring the grass hay and rich clover began its rise, and before the field was cut a few days ago, everyone was predicting a good yield. I don' t think they expected 80 tons though; that's more than three tons per acre. Harvey's happy. Mother's thrilled. Barbara and Laurie have more than enough hay for their 13 Arabians.
Today, the huge stack of more than 2,000 bales will quickly disappear as the Bouse boys load it and haul part of it to Colburn. Eventually, Harvey will take his share, and the field will be empty.
We really don't know for how long. We also don't know if this will be the last hay crop the family takes from the field, which is being purchased by Litehouse Inc. for its new corporate headquarters. It's possible that the salad-dressing folks may not start developing the land for a while. They may even work out a deal with Mother on the hay.
For now, though, Mother is very proud of her hay crop, but she and the rest of the family are equally proud that a locally-developed business, with its fine reputation here in Sandpoint and across the United States, will eventually take her field through its next chapter.
Kevin did his haying the week before last. He farmed his field and then planted it by hand. His yield with the first cutting was more than three tons per acre. And, he'll have a second cutting. That's more than enough for his two horses, so he's even sold some. "Now, I'm a full-fledged farmer cuz I've sold hay," he says.
In Mother's case, she asked Harvey Lippert to farm her field last spring after Harold died. The field was part of the old Harney dairy, which they purchased in the 1960s. They had sold a portion of the flat expanse of land east of Great Northern Road but had kept the 25 acres and hayed off from it for years. It had been a long time since the area was farmed and each of the last few years that Harold put up hay, the yield was diminishing.
So, Harvey came up with a mixture of grass and oats last spring. Last summer, the Stockdale family cut the oats and split the yield with my sisters. This spring the grass hay and rich clover began its rise, and before the field was cut a few days ago, everyone was predicting a good yield. I don' t think they expected 80 tons though; that's more than three tons per acre. Harvey's happy. Mother's thrilled. Barbara and Laurie have more than enough hay for their 13 Arabians.
Today, the huge stack of more than 2,000 bales will quickly disappear as the Bouse boys load it and haul part of it to Colburn. Eventually, Harvey will take his share, and the field will be empty.
We really don't know for how long. We also don't know if this will be the last hay crop the family takes from the field, which is being purchased by Litehouse Inc. for its new corporate headquarters. It's possible that the salad-dressing folks may not start developing the land for a while. They may even work out a deal with Mother on the hay.
For now, though, Mother is very proud of her hay crop, but she and the rest of the family are equally proud that a locally-developed business, with its fine reputation here in Sandpoint and across the United States, will eventually take her field through its next chapter.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Reality dirt
Reality struck behind my red barn Monday morning. While typing my slightdetour post, I could hear heavy equipment groaning and beeping in the field between the barn and Quest Aviation. By the time I made it outside, a long ridge of newly-excavated dirt was growing from north to south in front of the huge metal building that will soon house Quest's manufacturing activities.
By day's end, the piles had grown, and another excavator had joined in on the project. A dump truck showed up and began hauling some of the dirt to an established pile in the northeast corner of Quest's property. That evening I walked through the area to see that, with the exception of the utility boxes, all vegetation had been removed flush with our east fenceline.
I learned that this dirt work is making the way for Quest's parking lot. That came as a surprise because earlier this spring I'd been told that a road would go through that same area connecting to a planned Selkirk Airpark, which goes before Sandpoint City Council tonight for final approval. I guess we'll have to wait and see how the road and the parking lot will function in the same spot.
As a citizen who believes very strongly in the economic impact that Quest Aviation will have on this community with its planned employment numbers, I'm feeling very torn these days. In order for the airplane manufacturing company to build its cargo planes, it must have the facilities to do so. That includes huge metal buildings and parking lots.
The events of this week, however, have set in motion another chapter in my ongoing struggle to keep a positive outlook that this lovely ten acres of ours in the midst of all this construction can remain a peaceful place for us to continue to inhabit. I'm used to sounds of 40-plus trains per day passing by us on the west. I'm accustomed to the roar of leer jets several times a day. Have lived with these transportation-oriented noises virtually my entire life.
Somehow, though, the sight of excavated dirt right next to my fenceline, signaling a spot where hundreds of cars per day will eventually occupy on yet a third side of our little rural haven makes me wonder if we aren't getting a loud signal to get out. I'm having a very difficult time with this, as my husband and family members who've been on the receiving end will attest.
As the reality that it's not gonna go away continues to set in, I find this Wednesday morning to be better than Monday morning. Maybe tomorrow will bring a more positive spin in my mind, which yearns to simply be left alone in our little heavenly sanctuary here on Great Northern Road.
My brain fully understands that for people to benefit, progress must occur. My heart, however, breaks as I watch these dirt piles of our industrial future inch even closer, erasing the pastoral beauty we have enjoyed around this much-loved home of ours for 28-plus years.
By day's end, the piles had grown, and another excavator had joined in on the project. A dump truck showed up and began hauling some of the dirt to an established pile in the northeast corner of Quest's property. That evening I walked through the area to see that, with the exception of the utility boxes, all vegetation had been removed flush with our east fenceline.
I learned that this dirt work is making the way for Quest's parking lot. That came as a surprise because earlier this spring I'd been told that a road would go through that same area connecting to a planned Selkirk Airpark, which goes before Sandpoint City Council tonight for final approval. I guess we'll have to wait and see how the road and the parking lot will function in the same spot.
As a citizen who believes very strongly in the economic impact that Quest Aviation will have on this community with its planned employment numbers, I'm feeling very torn these days. In order for the airplane manufacturing company to build its cargo planes, it must have the facilities to do so. That includes huge metal buildings and parking lots.
The events of this week, however, have set in motion another chapter in my ongoing struggle to keep a positive outlook that this lovely ten acres of ours in the midst of all this construction can remain a peaceful place for us to continue to inhabit. I'm used to sounds of 40-plus trains per day passing by us on the west. I'm accustomed to the roar of leer jets several times a day. Have lived with these transportation-oriented noises virtually my entire life.
Somehow, though, the sight of excavated dirt right next to my fenceline, signaling a spot where hundreds of cars per day will eventually occupy on yet a third side of our little rural haven makes me wonder if we aren't getting a loud signal to get out. I'm having a very difficult time with this, as my husband and family members who've been on the receiving end will attest.
As the reality that it's not gonna go away continues to set in, I find this Wednesday morning to be better than Monday morning. Maybe tomorrow will bring a more positive spin in my mind, which yearns to simply be left alone in our little heavenly sanctuary here on Great Northern Road.
My brain fully understands that for people to benefit, progress must occur. My heart, however, breaks as I watch these dirt piles of our industrial future inch even closer, erasing the pastoral beauty we have enjoyed around this much-loved home of ours for 28-plus years.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
An Annie fix
Annie hasn't been home since Christmas. She's coming this week, and I'm trying to clear my slate for her visit. That's easier said than done, but I'm gonna stick to my goal as much as possible.
Whenever our 26-year-old daughter visits, we can count on several givens. She'll go to the Cedar Street Bridge deli at least once for lunch. She'll take over the TV remote and watch all her soap operas or those airhead teeny bopper shows---the ones she's already seen a dozen times. " Sabrina, the Teen-aged Witch" seems to be her favorite.
Some evenings she even rents a movie, insisting that I watch alongside her on the couch and constantly chipping away at me throughout its duration with, "Mom, are you awake? Wake up, Mom!"
Annie will want some Second Avenue Pizza. She'll take her yellow lab, Annie Dog, for a swim out at Trestle Creek, and she'll ask for some "family bonding" via a hike or boating or both. She'll spend each night after everyone goes to bed, seated at the computer with a large glass of ice water, typing away and conversing on her Internet chat rooms. I also suspect she'll expect her dad to barbecue up a steak or two.
Annie's eating habits have become notorious among all who come in contact with her. In fact, I even have a posting on my website from someone who heard about them second hand. These days, she's in to steak, Totinos Pizza and chocolate cake---every day. She'll occasionally throw in some Wood's German sausages whenever we send a package along with a Seattle-bound traveler.
She says she's obsessive-compulsive, and possibly the eating routine supports that claim. Annie selects a specific food to be eaten daily and sticks with it for years on end. Before her steak-Totinos pizza- chocolate cake phase, she ate a calzone nearly every day at the same time for a couple of years. I learned her need to stay on schedule whenever I'd call and the conversation would come to an abrupt halt, almost mid-sentence when the timer signaled the calzone was ready in the oven.
Before calzones, she fed off from daily (sometimes twice even) unbreaded chicken breasts, often from Schwan's. And speaking of Schwan's, her personal pepperoni pizza fetish probably lasted the longest segment in her life. Annie's dining on these little round delights involved a well-disciplined routine.
Before eating the pizza, she would slowly, methodically, pick each tiny chunk of pepperoni from the topping, always licking the cheesy, tomato sauce residue from her fingers in between plucks. When every last morsal of pepperoni sat in a neat pile next to its original doughy depository, she would dig into the crust, eating it first and saving her pepperoni collection for a chaser. I watched this enough times over the years to know the drill.
As a small child, like many small children, Annie survived off from hotdogs, lots of 'em.
I do know one constant which could possibly follow her through life----jerky. It's her treat of choice, and every time we're in Seattle, she points out the jerky wholesale house----several times.
It will be interesting during her upcoming visit to see if any of these unusual (some observers term them 'bizarre') eating habits have changed and if any new staple has entered her tightly-disciplined diet.
Regardless of what she chooses to eat, we're looking forward to having an "Annie fix" this week. There's no one quite like our Annie, and that's why we love her so.
Whenever our 26-year-old daughter visits, we can count on several givens. She'll go to the Cedar Street Bridge deli at least once for lunch. She'll take over the TV remote and watch all her soap operas or those airhead teeny bopper shows---the ones she's already seen a dozen times. " Sabrina, the Teen-aged Witch" seems to be her favorite.
Some evenings she even rents a movie, insisting that I watch alongside her on the couch and constantly chipping away at me throughout its duration with, "Mom, are you awake? Wake up, Mom!"
Annie will want some Second Avenue Pizza. She'll take her yellow lab, Annie Dog, for a swim out at Trestle Creek, and she'll ask for some "family bonding" via a hike or boating or both. She'll spend each night after everyone goes to bed, seated at the computer with a large glass of ice water, typing away and conversing on her Internet chat rooms. I also suspect she'll expect her dad to barbecue up a steak or two.
Annie's eating habits have become notorious among all who come in contact with her. In fact, I even have a posting on my website from someone who heard about them second hand. These days, she's in to steak, Totinos Pizza and chocolate cake---every day. She'll occasionally throw in some Wood's German sausages whenever we send a package along with a Seattle-bound traveler.
She says she's obsessive-compulsive, and possibly the eating routine supports that claim. Annie selects a specific food to be eaten daily and sticks with it for years on end. Before her steak-Totinos pizza- chocolate cake phase, she ate a calzone nearly every day at the same time for a couple of years. I learned her need to stay on schedule whenever I'd call and the conversation would come to an abrupt halt, almost mid-sentence when the timer signaled the calzone was ready in the oven.
Before calzones, she fed off from daily (sometimes twice even) unbreaded chicken breasts, often from Schwan's. And speaking of Schwan's, her personal pepperoni pizza fetish probably lasted the longest segment in her life. Annie's dining on these little round delights involved a well-disciplined routine.
Before eating the pizza, she would slowly, methodically, pick each tiny chunk of pepperoni from the topping, always licking the cheesy, tomato sauce residue from her fingers in between plucks. When every last morsal of pepperoni sat in a neat pile next to its original doughy depository, she would dig into the crust, eating it first and saving her pepperoni collection for a chaser. I watched this enough times over the years to know the drill.
As a small child, like many small children, Annie survived off from hotdogs, lots of 'em.
I do know one constant which could possibly follow her through life----jerky. It's her treat of choice, and every time we're in Seattle, she points out the jerky wholesale house----several times.
It will be interesting during her upcoming visit to see if any of these unusual (some observers term them 'bizarre') eating habits have changed and if any new staple has entered her tightly-disciplined diet.
Regardless of what she chooses to eat, we're looking forward to having an "Annie fix" this week. There's no one quite like our Annie, and that's why we love her so.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Gotta love them huckleberries
It's definitely the purple-gold season. I wasn't prepared for picking quite so soon, but when we drove up Pack River Saturday and started seeing cars (some with Washington licenses) parked alongside the road every 50 feet, I knew something was up.
"They're picking huckleberries," Bill said. "There's lots of huckleberries this year." I was immediately incensed. We hadn't brought a bucket. We'd planned to hike and geocache. Bill had also brought his new fly rod purchased Friday afternoon at the recently-opened sport shop behind Alpine Motors. So, I was figuring he'd give it a try in the river.
Of course, geocaching holds prominence over every other recreational activity these days with Bill. So, we pulled off the main Pack River Road, past the bridge onto the Pearson Creek Road. He stopped the pickup.
"Whaddya going to do?" I asked, knowing we had several choices.
"There's a geocache here," he said while reaching back to get his red pack and his GPS. Oops, no red pack. No GPS. Sad-faced husband. No geocaching.
So, on to the next option. I had a stereofoam coffee cup. He had a plastic bag for the ice he had poured in the ice chest to keep our beverages cold.
"Why don't you use this bag and pick huckleberries while I go fishing?" he suggested. He knew that his wife, the world's biggest chicken, would need the pickup keys because he knew she'd have to be within sight of the pickup, in case some furry or horned creature came tromping through the woods and scared the bejesus out of her.
So, we drove up and down the road and picked out a nice huckleberry spot with flat surface about a mile south of the bridge. Then, it was back to the bridge to drop him off. My picking spot was close enough to those Washington cars to hear impatient kids letting their huckleberry picking moms know they wanted to go home. It was far enough away, though, that I had the patch of loaded-down bushes of purple wealth all to myself.
It was great picking---especially because a torrent of rain from an earlier thunderstorm had thoroughly washed the berries, which would normally be coated with dust from roadway traffic. The fresh, moist and cool air ensured that there'd be no bugs to annoy me either. My coffee cup runneth over within minutes, sending me to the truck to unload its contents into the plastic bag on ice.
Later, another lightning show, with its booming thunder and heavy showers, interrupted my picking and Bill's fishing. By that time, I'd picked three coffee cupfuls of berries, and he'd caught five throwaways with his new ROD. We drove around for a few minutes, and when it stopped raining, we both braved the wet bushes and picked more berries. Later, as we neared the bridge, he suggested I might want to pick even some more. I knew what his generous offer meant: he wanted to fish some more.
As he headed downstream on the beautiful Pack River, I found a spot just off the road by the bridge, not more than 50 feet from the pickup and spent the next 45 minutes filling cup after cup with fat, juicy berries. I literally milked the bushes above my head.
My diet that afternoon consisted of half a box of extra-cheesy Cheez-its chomped down during the ride home and a large huckleberry sundae which confirmed a definite absolute for this year's huckleberry crop.
The berries are abundantly flavorful, and there should be plenty for everyone.
"They're picking huckleberries," Bill said. "There's lots of huckleberries this year." I was immediately incensed. We hadn't brought a bucket. We'd planned to hike and geocache. Bill had also brought his new fly rod purchased Friday afternoon at the recently-opened sport shop behind Alpine Motors. So, I was figuring he'd give it a try in the river.
Of course, geocaching holds prominence over every other recreational activity these days with Bill. So, we pulled off the main Pack River Road, past the bridge onto the Pearson Creek Road. He stopped the pickup.
"Whaddya going to do?" I asked, knowing we had several choices.
"There's a geocache here," he said while reaching back to get his red pack and his GPS. Oops, no red pack. No GPS. Sad-faced husband. No geocaching.
So, on to the next option. I had a stereofoam coffee cup. He had a plastic bag for the ice he had poured in the ice chest to keep our beverages cold.
"Why don't you use this bag and pick huckleberries while I go fishing?" he suggested. He knew that his wife, the world's biggest chicken, would need the pickup keys because he knew she'd have to be within sight of the pickup, in case some furry or horned creature came tromping through the woods and scared the bejesus out of her.
So, we drove up and down the road and picked out a nice huckleberry spot with flat surface about a mile south of the bridge. Then, it was back to the bridge to drop him off. My picking spot was close enough to those Washington cars to hear impatient kids letting their huckleberry picking moms know they wanted to go home. It was far enough away, though, that I had the patch of loaded-down bushes of purple wealth all to myself.
It was great picking---especially because a torrent of rain from an earlier thunderstorm had thoroughly washed the berries, which would normally be coated with dust from roadway traffic. The fresh, moist and cool air ensured that there'd be no bugs to annoy me either. My coffee cup runneth over within minutes, sending me to the truck to unload its contents into the plastic bag on ice.
Later, another lightning show, with its booming thunder and heavy showers, interrupted my picking and Bill's fishing. By that time, I'd picked three coffee cupfuls of berries, and he'd caught five throwaways with his new ROD. We drove around for a few minutes, and when it stopped raining, we both braved the wet bushes and picked more berries. Later, as we neared the bridge, he suggested I might want to pick even some more. I knew what his generous offer meant: he wanted to fish some more.
As he headed downstream on the beautiful Pack River, I found a spot just off the road by the bridge, not more than 50 feet from the pickup and spent the next 45 minutes filling cup after cup with fat, juicy berries. I literally milked the bushes above my head.
My diet that afternoon consisted of half a box of extra-cheesy Cheez-its chomped down during the ride home and a large huckleberry sundae which confirmed a definite absolute for this year's huckleberry crop.
The berries are abundantly flavorful, and there should be plenty for everyone.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Requiem for a grain elevator . . . or maybe not!
NOTE: After writing this post, I received a call from Bill who had just driven to church. He says the grain elevator is still standing this morning. Must be a story behind that. If anyone knows, I'd love to hear the details. So, I'll let ya read my requiem and will keep it on hold.
Update: According to a well-placed source, the guy who was gonna demolish the elevator didn't have his act together among the utility companies, the neighbors and the city. There had to be guarantees from the power company that when he pulled the elevator down, the event would not disturb power.
Also, there was an issue with the street lights just below the tower along the bike path.
So, apparently, when the owner gets his act together and fulfills all requirements, the building will go down. For now, it's earned a stay of execution, albeit short. Snap your pictures before another piece of history crumbles!
If all went according to plan, the tallest and one of the most distinctive landmarks in Sandpoint is now rubble. Built in 1911, the Panhandle Milling Co. grain elevator, once known as Lasswell's, was set to be destroyed at 6:30 this morning. I haven't heard an explosion, but Bill did ask if the fog which suddenly appeared outside, blocking the sun and cooling this mid-July summer air, might be residue from the demolition of the elevator. Who knows, maybe he's right.
I can remember parking my pickup next to the big loading ramp in the alley, walking up the dusty wooden steps, and buying sacks of grain in that building years ago. Often, a well-muscled young man covered with a film of grain dust from working in the elevator would heave the sacks into my pickup bed. I also remember when my dad would come home from time spent there talking to Mr. Lasswell who owned the place and his own herd of race horses. And, of course, Jack Hansen spent a year or two managing the grain store.
As I write, another chunk of Sandpoint, as we locals have known it, has probably gone to a different kind of kind of dust. The lot will be cleaned up, and a new building (probably not nearly so tall as the imposing black tower alongside Fifth Avenue) will soon appear in the elevator's place.
To all who haven't lived here long, that's no big deal. To those of us who've invested a lifetime here in our hometown, it's one more reminder that what we've grown to cherish as part of our past really has little value where the future's concerned. The methodical erasure of all signs of our peaceful, rural history seems to be on the fast track through this old railroad town. Many of us ache with each stroke.
And speaking of railroad towns, Bill was reading in this morning's Daily Bee history note from 1955 that the Great Northern Railroad had sold its depot off Baldy Road to Gay Johnson who moved it to his acreage less than a mile north on the GN Road. In 1955, the 30-year-old building was considered a city landmark. After all, the Great Northern Railroad greatly influenced the birth of Sandpoint, especially when railroad agents L.D. and Ellamae Farmin moved here and established a townsite.
That depot remained on Gay Johnson's piece of property just south of our home. I believe the property was then purchased by the railroad for the fast track cutting off to the southeast. Later, the Cox family acquired the land through a trade. I'm guessing the depot house stood in its new home for another 40 years or so before the local fire department came out and burned it down as part of their training exercises. So, there went a piece of history into the ashes, just as was set to happen with this morning's elevator demolition.
I also read in the paper this morning about the anguish in Marguerite Fallat's heart as she watched her beloved Chalet Motel slowly disappear to the ball and wrecker, making way for Highway 95 expansion. The Fallats put so much love into that motel that customers would continue to return year after year to enjoy its peaceful serenity which has become but a memory.
I've talked to many people this past week who have returned to their hometown for a visit. In some cases, they almost tear up while lamenting the dramatic changes they see every time they arrive in town. One even told me she sees very few signs left of the wonderful place where she grew up, finding it harder and harder each time to seek out vestiges of the welcoming old reliables "where everybody knows your name" that have always lured her home.
Those of us who live here all the time don't see it so dramatically as the visitors do, but we still wonder if we'll wake up some morning and feel like aliens in a strange country. Yes, there will always be the lake, and, of course, the mountains, many of which are carved out to make way for the multitude of high-end homes owned by a lot of people who occupy them for maybe a week each year.
I do wonder, however, if what almost appears to be " The Plan," aimed at sanitizing our community of all rough but wholesome edges, includes finding a way to get rid of the Tam-o-Shanter Bar or the Hoot Owl Cafe. If that happens, then we'll know for sure that all quirky remnants our colorful historical heritage are completely doomed to make way for a word I'm beginning to loathe: AMBIANCE.
Update: According to a well-placed source, the guy who was gonna demolish the elevator didn't have his act together among the utility companies, the neighbors and the city. There had to be guarantees from the power company that when he pulled the elevator down, the event would not disturb power.
Also, there was an issue with the street lights just below the tower along the bike path.
So, apparently, when the owner gets his act together and fulfills all requirements, the building will go down. For now, it's earned a stay of execution, albeit short. Snap your pictures before another piece of history crumbles!
If all went according to plan, the tallest and one of the most distinctive landmarks in Sandpoint is now rubble. Built in 1911, the Panhandle Milling Co. grain elevator, once known as Lasswell's, was set to be destroyed at 6:30 this morning. I haven't heard an explosion, but Bill did ask if the fog which suddenly appeared outside, blocking the sun and cooling this mid-July summer air, might be residue from the demolition of the elevator. Who knows, maybe he's right.
I can remember parking my pickup next to the big loading ramp in the alley, walking up the dusty wooden steps, and buying sacks of grain in that building years ago. Often, a well-muscled young man covered with a film of grain dust from working in the elevator would heave the sacks into my pickup bed. I also remember when my dad would come home from time spent there talking to Mr. Lasswell who owned the place and his own herd of race horses. And, of course, Jack Hansen spent a year or two managing the grain store.
As I write, another chunk of Sandpoint, as we locals have known it, has probably gone to a different kind of kind of dust. The lot will be cleaned up, and a new building (probably not nearly so tall as the imposing black tower alongside Fifth Avenue) will soon appear in the elevator's place.
To all who haven't lived here long, that's no big deal. To those of us who've invested a lifetime here in our hometown, it's one more reminder that what we've grown to cherish as part of our past really has little value where the future's concerned. The methodical erasure of all signs of our peaceful, rural history seems to be on the fast track through this old railroad town. Many of us ache with each stroke.
And speaking of railroad towns, Bill was reading in this morning's Daily Bee history note from 1955 that the Great Northern Railroad had sold its depot off Baldy Road to Gay Johnson who moved it to his acreage less than a mile north on the GN Road. In 1955, the 30-year-old building was considered a city landmark. After all, the Great Northern Railroad greatly influenced the birth of Sandpoint, especially when railroad agents L.D. and Ellamae Farmin moved here and established a townsite.
That depot remained on Gay Johnson's piece of property just south of our home. I believe the property was then purchased by the railroad for the fast track cutting off to the southeast. Later, the Cox family acquired the land through a trade. I'm guessing the depot house stood in its new home for another 40 years or so before the local fire department came out and burned it down as part of their training exercises. So, there went a piece of history into the ashes, just as was set to happen with this morning's elevator demolition.
I also read in the paper this morning about the anguish in Marguerite Fallat's heart as she watched her beloved Chalet Motel slowly disappear to the ball and wrecker, making way for Highway 95 expansion. The Fallats put so much love into that motel that customers would continue to return year after year to enjoy its peaceful serenity which has become but a memory.
I've talked to many people this past week who have returned to their hometown for a visit. In some cases, they almost tear up while lamenting the dramatic changes they see every time they arrive in town. One even told me she sees very few signs left of the wonderful place where she grew up, finding it harder and harder each time to seek out vestiges of the welcoming old reliables "where everybody knows your name" that have always lured her home.
Those of us who live here all the time don't see it so dramatically as the visitors do, but we still wonder if we'll wake up some morning and feel like aliens in a strange country. Yes, there will always be the lake, and, of course, the mountains, many of which are carved out to make way for the multitude of high-end homes owned by a lot of people who occupy them for maybe a week each year.
I do wonder, however, if what almost appears to be " The Plan," aimed at sanitizing our community of all rough but wholesome edges, includes finding a way to get rid of the Tam-o-Shanter Bar or the Hoot Owl Cafe. If that happens, then we'll know for sure that all quirky remnants our colorful historical heritage are completely doomed to make way for a word I'm beginning to loathe: AMBIANCE.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Weekend potpourri
Glad to see the end of another busy week. This one involved completing two stories for a Friday deadline. One about our retiring city clerk Helen Newton appeared in this morning's Spokesman-Review. For those who can't go get a paper, it's at (http://www.spokesmanreview.com/idaho/story.asp?ID=80429)
The other was a Q and A for the Appaloosa Journal with the association's national president. Without going into detail, I must say it was a challenge. But, we made it through that challenge, so the story is safely in the hands of my editor in Moscow.
I still have a column to write. Normally, it would be due today, but I, just this moment, received email reassurance from the River Journal editor Trish that I could submit it in a few days. Now, I'm scratching my head wondering what I'm gonna write about. There are a few ideas perking, though.
Amidst all the writing assignments have been numerous 40th-year class-reunion details. This weekend, I'll be preparing several dozen letters and envelopes for mailing to those who have signed up for the reunion July 29-30. We need to provide participants last-minute information about our planned recreational activities.
Seems the "things to do" never stop. Nor, do the visitors.
We were pleasantly surprised yesterday afternoon when Cherry Urch, a former student who graduated in 1981, drove into the driveway. She's lived in Plano, Tex., for several years, and she was home for her father's funeral. For the locals, her dad was Helen Haugse's brother (of the old Pastime Cafe and Tam o' Shanter fame).
Cherry has always remained loyal to her old friends and teachers. I've enjoyed staying in touch with her over the years, and we really had a nice, relaxing visit in the yard yesterday. Before it ended, Bill had indoctrinated her on the joys of geocaching, so I'm betting there's another convert in the making.
Today I'll probably see Karen Hayden and her daughter. Karen's dad, Dr. Wilbur Hayden, delivered me in 1947. Anyone who's related to someone who did such a favor deserves a friendly hello, right? Since he delivered hundreds of people in this community, I'm sure his daughter receives nice treatment every time she comes for a visit.
By the way, my brother Kevin was Dr. Hayden's first patient when he came to Sandpoint in the mid-1940s. He used to hunt with my dad, and, his first wife Marg was one of my mother's best friends.
Karen is here in Sandpoint attending the '50s decade high school reunion at the fairgrounds. She brought her daughter with her; my mother, who saw her briefly yesterday, says the daughter is beautiful. They live in the Chicago area these days.
Other than that, things are pretty quiet. And, I like that!
The other was a Q and A for the Appaloosa Journal with the association's national president. Without going into detail, I must say it was a challenge. But, we made it through that challenge, so the story is safely in the hands of my editor in Moscow.
I still have a column to write. Normally, it would be due today, but I, just this moment, received email reassurance from the River Journal editor Trish that I could submit it in a few days. Now, I'm scratching my head wondering what I'm gonna write about. There are a few ideas perking, though.
Amidst all the writing assignments have been numerous 40th-year class-reunion details. This weekend, I'll be preparing several dozen letters and envelopes for mailing to those who have signed up for the reunion July 29-30. We need to provide participants last-minute information about our planned recreational activities.
Seems the "things to do" never stop. Nor, do the visitors.
We were pleasantly surprised yesterday afternoon when Cherry Urch, a former student who graduated in 1981, drove into the driveway. She's lived in Plano, Tex., for several years, and she was home for her father's funeral. For the locals, her dad was Helen Haugse's brother (of the old Pastime Cafe and Tam o' Shanter fame).
Cherry has always remained loyal to her old friends and teachers. I've enjoyed staying in touch with her over the years, and we really had a nice, relaxing visit in the yard yesterday. Before it ended, Bill had indoctrinated her on the joys of geocaching, so I'm betting there's another convert in the making.
Today I'll probably see Karen Hayden and her daughter. Karen's dad, Dr. Wilbur Hayden, delivered me in 1947. Anyone who's related to someone who did such a favor deserves a friendly hello, right? Since he delivered hundreds of people in this community, I'm sure his daughter receives nice treatment every time she comes for a visit.
By the way, my brother Kevin was Dr. Hayden's first patient when he came to Sandpoint in the mid-1940s. He used to hunt with my dad, and, his first wife Marg was one of my mother's best friends.
Karen is here in Sandpoint attending the '50s decade high school reunion at the fairgrounds. She brought her daughter with her; my mother, who saw her briefly yesterday, says the daughter is beautiful. They live in the Chicago area these days.
Other than that, things are pretty quiet. And, I like that!
Friday, July 15, 2005
On the Lamb with the WOOLseys
I hadn't seen Bill and Barbara Woolsey for at least ten years, so when we met yesterday at the fairgrounds, we exchanged some big hugs. Bill (and his sister Alice of coffee cult fame) grew up just down the road from us on Sand Creek.
Before it was Ralph Sletager's place, it was the Delamarter house. Before the Delamarter house, some folks called it the Pennington place, but even before that, the Woolsey family enjoyed living on that beautiful place where Sand Creek flows down from Schweitzer.
Bill's wife Barbara grew up far, far away on Hwy 95 just north of the Wal Mart stoplight. She was a Shoemaker. I met her sister yesterday and learned they have a brother who lives in Fairbanks.
Barbara Woolsey was always one of those women to admire. I knew her through the Cow Belles. At first, I didn't exactly appreciate her because, she like her fiendish group of friends, enjoyed great delight every year while I tried to show my Hereford cow Millie in fitting and showing at the fair.
Somehow, they always knew precisely when the Marianne and Millie show would begin, so they'd all gather on a bleacher and wait for Millie to go into action, bellering for her baby and dragging me around the arena overlooking Lake Pend Oreille. Barbara and the other Cow Belles would giggle and snicker throughout this humiliating time as I tried to control my normally well-trained 1,500-pound cow who couldn't stand to be away from her calf.
Fortunately, unlike a McNall shorthorn steer chose to do one August at the countywide 4-H picnic, Millie never did take me for a swim in the lake. Before that could happen, the judge would politely and empathetically ask me to please tie my cow to the railing. Once more, I'd earn the bottom white ribbon for fitting and showing.
I did forgive Barbara and her friends, and I actually started liking these women. So, much so that one day when Barbara called me and asked if I'd consider working as president of the Cow Belles, I did not think before speaking and said, "Yes." That was a mistake, but while wading through the responsibilities associated with the job, I marveled at the dedication these women put forth to promote the beef industry. They're amazing, creative and talented.
Years have passed since those days, and the Woolseys have lived in Billings, Mont., for a long time. Bill drives livestock across the nation while Barbara spends her time promoting-----sheep. She raises them and later, has some butchered and processed. So, yesterday, during our meeting, she walked to her mobile home freezer and pulled out several packages of lamb chops and even some "lamburger" for us to sample.
Quite a departure from the old days of the Cow Belles and the beef industry. The Cow Belles now go by the name of Cattle Women, so I guess I can't refer to Barbara as a Lamb Belle.
When you've got a name like WOOL sey, though, I guess Sheep Lady do. It's good to see these wonderful old friends yesterday, and I'm now looking forward to sampling our homegrown Montana lamb chops.
Before it was Ralph Sletager's place, it was the Delamarter house. Before the Delamarter house, some folks called it the Pennington place, but even before that, the Woolsey family enjoyed living on that beautiful place where Sand Creek flows down from Schweitzer.
Bill's wife Barbara grew up far, far away on Hwy 95 just north of the Wal Mart stoplight. She was a Shoemaker. I met her sister yesterday and learned they have a brother who lives in Fairbanks.
Barbara Woolsey was always one of those women to admire. I knew her through the Cow Belles. At first, I didn't exactly appreciate her because, she like her fiendish group of friends, enjoyed great delight every year while I tried to show my Hereford cow Millie in fitting and showing at the fair.
Somehow, they always knew precisely when the Marianne and Millie show would begin, so they'd all gather on a bleacher and wait for Millie to go into action, bellering for her baby and dragging me around the arena overlooking Lake Pend Oreille. Barbara and the other Cow Belles would giggle and snicker throughout this humiliating time as I tried to control my normally well-trained 1,500-pound cow who couldn't stand to be away from her calf.
Fortunately, unlike a McNall shorthorn steer chose to do one August at the countywide 4-H picnic, Millie never did take me for a swim in the lake. Before that could happen, the judge would politely and empathetically ask me to please tie my cow to the railing. Once more, I'd earn the bottom white ribbon for fitting and showing.
I did forgive Barbara and her friends, and I actually started liking these women. So, much so that one day when Barbara called me and asked if I'd consider working as president of the Cow Belles, I did not think before speaking and said, "Yes." That was a mistake, but while wading through the responsibilities associated with the job, I marveled at the dedication these women put forth to promote the beef industry. They're amazing, creative and talented.
Years have passed since those days, and the Woolseys have lived in Billings, Mont., for a long time. Bill drives livestock across the nation while Barbara spends her time promoting-----sheep. She raises them and later, has some butchered and processed. So, yesterday, during our meeting, she walked to her mobile home freezer and pulled out several packages of lamb chops and even some "lamburger" for us to sample.
Quite a departure from the old days of the Cow Belles and the beef industry. The Cow Belles now go by the name of Cattle Women, so I guess I can't refer to Barbara as a Lamb Belle.
When you've got a name like WOOL sey, though, I guess Sheep Lady do. It's good to see these wonderful old friends yesterday, and I'm now looking forward to sampling our homegrown Montana lamb chops.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Zap, zap . . .that gray away
I have an appointment with beauty, so I must wait until later to post today's thoughts. Check back.
I'm off to the Hair Hut for the bi-monthly workover.
Several hours later, here I am having had that cosmetic glob of youth erase the gray right out of my hair. Thanks once again to Joyce for shielding me and others from chronological reality. I even noticed a new bounce to my pedaling each time I took my bike for a spin this afternoon.
Speaking of youth, there's one aspect of my 60s---besides Medicare---that has me yearning to get there. This weekend the great "gray wave" will hit the Bonner County Fairgrounds for the Sandpoint High '50s decade reunion. My coffee cult friends, Alice and Penny, are among the organizers, and they expect nearly 600 people to show up from all over the nation and swap stories of life in their teens and the many decades since their teens.
This is the second time, they've held this gathering; the first occurred in 2000. So, I'm guessing that by 2010, our crowd can start having a similar event. I've been to the fairgrounds several times this week, and each time, the RV brigade continues to grow. Folks are sitting in camp chairs outside their trailers or motorhomes talking up a storm----and the reunion doesn't even start until tomorrow. They're having TOO much fun!
There's not much about age that I welcome, but I think this decade-long reunion will be a special feature. Of course, when our '60s crew starts participating in such events, they can't call us the "gray wave" cuz we all cheat at places like the Hair Hut.
I'm betting, though, that our rock-era folks may be adorned with a lot more hearing aids.
I'm off to the Hair Hut for the bi-monthly workover.
Several hours later, here I am having had that cosmetic glob of youth erase the gray right out of my hair. Thanks once again to Joyce for shielding me and others from chronological reality. I even noticed a new bounce to my pedaling each time I took my bike for a spin this afternoon.
Speaking of youth, there's one aspect of my 60s---besides Medicare---that has me yearning to get there. This weekend the great "gray wave" will hit the Bonner County Fairgrounds for the Sandpoint High '50s decade reunion. My coffee cult friends, Alice and Penny, are among the organizers, and they expect nearly 600 people to show up from all over the nation and swap stories of life in their teens and the many decades since their teens.
This is the second time, they've held this gathering; the first occurred in 2000. So, I'm guessing that by 2010, our crowd can start having a similar event. I've been to the fairgrounds several times this week, and each time, the RV brigade continues to grow. Folks are sitting in camp chairs outside their trailers or motorhomes talking up a storm----and the reunion doesn't even start until tomorrow. They're having TOO much fun!
There's not much about age that I welcome, but I think this decade-long reunion will be a special feature. Of course, when our '60s crew starts participating in such events, they can't call us the "gray wave" cuz we all cheat at places like the Hair Hut.
I'm betting, though, that our rock-era folks may be adorned with a lot more hearing aids.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Crow drama
The minute I open the door, they start in. They refuse to shut up. And, they're damn loud. We have a pair of crows who have taken up residence here. Besides stealing the squirrels' peanuts, this pair decided to start a family here in our yard. The birthing place, I've recently discovered, is in our willow tree near the barnyard.
I didn't know about their family situation until the other day when I heard them yakking up a storm right after hearing something of substance obviously drop to the ground. Their squawking intensified. Finally, I walked over to the area near the hazelnut tree to see what was the matter. After passing the big bush near the bunkhouse, I spotted a black bird, bigger than any of our robins or obnoxious starlings but smaller than the crows. It was hobbling across the lawn.
The visitor had a long beak and big green eyes. At first, I figured I'd never seen such a bird before, surmising that it must be some strange species that flew in for a brief stop-over, just like the cattle egret which stayed for one day earlier this spring. But, the crow couple just above my head, got louder and louder, as I approached the odd little cripple slowly making its way across the lawn.
I did not want a cat or dog to get the bird, so I picked it up. It protested loudly with a sound much like I was hearing from just above. It turned its head and tried to peck me, but I held it in such a way that the attack was not possible. After a moment, the awkward-looking youngster submitted and agreed to go along for the ride as I carried it to the fenced-in garden spot where dogs or cats couldn't pounce. All the while, the by-now obvious parents, swooped and cawed overhead.
I became a marked person in their book. They now watch me with the vigilance of a peeping Tom. I'm wondering if they keep track of my movements within the house so that the instant I open the door, they're ready to complain. And, complain they do while flying from treetop to treetop as I walk out the driveway for the mail or the paper. I'm guessing their child survived its injury and somehow found its way back to the nesting area. Yesterday, once more, I spotted it standing on the ground beneath the willow tree. This time, the youngster took a walk out the driveway with Mom and Dad keeping track of every move.
I've found crows to be most fascinating birds this year, especially while watching our husband-wife pair team up to chase off a hawk which dared to cross their flight pattern. As one spouse circled in the air above me and kept watch on my every move, the other (more than likely the hubby) chased the hawk through the sky, making every effort to inflict punishment through at least a dozen dive bombs. Finally, the hawk wisely reached the edge of crow territory and flew off to safety as Hubby Crow returned to his lover.
The other day, while sitting in the peaceful bliss of my window-lined living room, I watched as one of our cats left a worn-out mouse in the front yard. Within seconds of Festus' departure, one of our crow unit swooped in, grabbed the mouse and flew off---no doubt to give Junior Crow a treat.
I hope this married couple gets over their disdain for me soon because I'd love to walk outside and enjoy a quiet moment. As long as Junior keeps leaving his nest, though, I think I'm doomed to a summer of crow cacophony.
Where are chickadees when you need them?
I didn't know about their family situation until the other day when I heard them yakking up a storm right after hearing something of substance obviously drop to the ground. Their squawking intensified. Finally, I walked over to the area near the hazelnut tree to see what was the matter. After passing the big bush near the bunkhouse, I spotted a black bird, bigger than any of our robins or obnoxious starlings but smaller than the crows. It was hobbling across the lawn.
The visitor had a long beak and big green eyes. At first, I figured I'd never seen such a bird before, surmising that it must be some strange species that flew in for a brief stop-over, just like the cattle egret which stayed for one day earlier this spring. But, the crow couple just above my head, got louder and louder, as I approached the odd little cripple slowly making its way across the lawn.
I did not want a cat or dog to get the bird, so I picked it up. It protested loudly with a sound much like I was hearing from just above. It turned its head and tried to peck me, but I held it in such a way that the attack was not possible. After a moment, the awkward-looking youngster submitted and agreed to go along for the ride as I carried it to the fenced-in garden spot where dogs or cats couldn't pounce. All the while, the by-now obvious parents, swooped and cawed overhead.
I became a marked person in their book. They now watch me with the vigilance of a peeping Tom. I'm wondering if they keep track of my movements within the house so that the instant I open the door, they're ready to complain. And, complain they do while flying from treetop to treetop as I walk out the driveway for the mail or the paper. I'm guessing their child survived its injury and somehow found its way back to the nesting area. Yesterday, once more, I spotted it standing on the ground beneath the willow tree. This time, the youngster took a walk out the driveway with Mom and Dad keeping track of every move.
I've found crows to be most fascinating birds this year, especially while watching our husband-wife pair team up to chase off a hawk which dared to cross their flight pattern. As one spouse circled in the air above me and kept watch on my every move, the other (more than likely the hubby) chased the hawk through the sky, making every effort to inflict punishment through at least a dozen dive bombs. Finally, the hawk wisely reached the edge of crow territory and flew off to safety as Hubby Crow returned to his lover.
The other day, while sitting in the peaceful bliss of my window-lined living room, I watched as one of our cats left a worn-out mouse in the front yard. Within seconds of Festus' departure, one of our crow unit swooped in, grabbed the mouse and flew off---no doubt to give Junior Crow a treat.
I hope this married couple gets over their disdain for me soon because I'd love to walk outside and enjoy a quiet moment. As long as Junior keeps leaving his nest, though, I think I'm doomed to a summer of crow cacophony.
Where are chickadees when you need them?
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
God bless Jamie Packer
A couple of years ago, Sandpoint Magazine gave me an assignment to profile and photograph the area golf pros. The piece was to appear in the publication's summer edition. I recall having a difficult time chasing them all down, since the story was due in late March. Not too many golf pros are hanging out at the local courses at that time of the year. Maybe it's the weather.
Eventually, I chased 'em all down---the Priest Lake pro, the Stoneridge pro, Tom Tharp at the Elks Course and the three Hidden Lakes pros, Ken Parker, Mike DePrez and Jamie Packer. In each case, I gleaned information about their golf backgrounds, their professional status and a special tip for playing their respective courses.
The challenge of doing this story because of its geographical and timing difficulty was far exceeded by the good feeling I had after meeting with each of these individuals. Their outgoing, fun personalities, diverse backgrounds and willingness to give plenty of their time to a golfing dummie made each interview a pure joy. I can understand why they're good at their craft.
Of all the pros, however, Jamie Packer left the strongest impression on me. I don't know if it was because he was a leftie like me or if it was his down-to-earth, easy-going nature and obvious love for his wife and family. He told me how much he enjoyed time spent with his two small children, Mackenzie and Sydney, during the off-season. "I'm Mr. Mom," he told me. "I take them out of pre-school and we spend a lot of time at the swimming club. They're both going to get into golf."
Jamie also devoted a lot of our interview time to bragging about his wife Sheila, an occupational therapist who was working at Bonner General Hospital's rehab facility and doing home health in the Priest River area. "She has forged many a good relationship with her patients," he said. "She will assess the home situation for equipment needs, works off a holistic model and brings in various professionals. She works with kids, retirees and even infants . . . and finds it extremely rewarding. She has purpose to her day."
I came away from that one meeting with this devoted father and likeable golf pro, feeling like I'd made a new friend. I saw him only one more time----on a rainy early April day when I went out to Hidden Lakes to take his picture for the story.
This morning, the local paper reported to the community that 34-year-old Jamie Packer has died tragically in a car accident near Kalispell, Montana. My first thoughts when I heard about Jamie's death on Sunday were, "What a nice young man and what a loss." I've interviewed hundreds of interesting individuals over my journalistic career and must say that Jamie left a unique impression among all those people. When you meet someone once and can remember virtually everything discussed during the meeting, that person has powerful impact.
As I read in this morning's paper, Jamie left that special feeling with everyone he met. It did not surprise me to learn that he also had a deep spiritual commitment. He never shared that with me, but his demeanor reflected a young man who viewed his own purpose on this earth far beyond that of teaching someone how to play a good round of golf. He had many dimensions to his life, and his dedication to each of them surely positively impacted a wide array of people during his young lifetime.
My heart goes out to Jamie's family, his friends and the Hidden Lakes Golf staff who have lost a good husband, father, friend and phenomenal senior pro.
Jamie's advice for lefties at Hidden Lakes: Hidden Lakes is does not set up well for a left hander. Most golfers tend to fade the ball---from right to left. The course is set up better for those going left to right. Off the tee, have a definite idea of distance to the landing area. This allows for more conservative play. Use irons to keep the ball in play.
Eventually, I chased 'em all down---the Priest Lake pro, the Stoneridge pro, Tom Tharp at the Elks Course and the three Hidden Lakes pros, Ken Parker, Mike DePrez and Jamie Packer. In each case, I gleaned information about their golf backgrounds, their professional status and a special tip for playing their respective courses.
The challenge of doing this story because of its geographical and timing difficulty was far exceeded by the good feeling I had after meeting with each of these individuals. Their outgoing, fun personalities, diverse backgrounds and willingness to give plenty of their time to a golfing dummie made each interview a pure joy. I can understand why they're good at their craft.
Of all the pros, however, Jamie Packer left the strongest impression on me. I don't know if it was because he was a leftie like me or if it was his down-to-earth, easy-going nature and obvious love for his wife and family. He told me how much he enjoyed time spent with his two small children, Mackenzie and Sydney, during the off-season. "I'm Mr. Mom," he told me. "I take them out of pre-school and we spend a lot of time at the swimming club. They're both going to get into golf."
Jamie also devoted a lot of our interview time to bragging about his wife Sheila, an occupational therapist who was working at Bonner General Hospital's rehab facility and doing home health in the Priest River area. "She has forged many a good relationship with her patients," he said. "She will assess the home situation for equipment needs, works off a holistic model and brings in various professionals. She works with kids, retirees and even infants . . . and finds it extremely rewarding. She has purpose to her day."
I came away from that one meeting with this devoted father and likeable golf pro, feeling like I'd made a new friend. I saw him only one more time----on a rainy early April day when I went out to Hidden Lakes to take his picture for the story.
This morning, the local paper reported to the community that 34-year-old Jamie Packer has died tragically in a car accident near Kalispell, Montana. My first thoughts when I heard about Jamie's death on Sunday were, "What a nice young man and what a loss." I've interviewed hundreds of interesting individuals over my journalistic career and must say that Jamie left a unique impression among all those people. When you meet someone once and can remember virtually everything discussed during the meeting, that person has powerful impact.
As I read in this morning's paper, Jamie left that special feeling with everyone he met. It did not surprise me to learn that he also had a deep spiritual commitment. He never shared that with me, but his demeanor reflected a young man who viewed his own purpose on this earth far beyond that of teaching someone how to play a good round of golf. He had many dimensions to his life, and his dedication to each of them surely positively impacted a wide array of people during his young lifetime.
My heart goes out to Jamie's family, his friends and the Hidden Lakes Golf staff who have lost a good husband, father, friend and phenomenal senior pro.
Jamie's advice for lefties at Hidden Lakes: Hidden Lakes is does not set up well for a left hander. Most golfers tend to fade the ball---from right to left. The course is set up better for those going left to right. Off the tee, have a definite idea of distance to the landing area. This allows for more conservative play. Use irons to keep the ball in play.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Better late than never
Robert Reise said he was too cheap to pay the extra dollar to get his name engraved on his 1975 senior yearbook. As yearbook adviser way back then, I was mildly astounded at Saturday night's 30th-year reunion to hear his public confession in front of at least 100 classmates. After all, a yearbook (and one with one's name engraved in gold) is a precious item, or, at least, that's the way we on the annual staff viewed our product in May, 1975.
I was more astounded, however, to learn that Robert didn't even purchase a yearbook when he was a senior. That's why a 1975 Monticola (pinus monticolas is a brand of tree that once grew profusely in North Idaho) was circulating among the revelers who had returned to Sandpoint from all corners of the country to play together and reminisce for a weekend. Someone had found a yearbook at a yard sale, purchased it and had given it to Robert as a birthday present.
So, 30 years late, Robert was asking his classmates to sign his annual (nonengraved, of course).
I experienced great joy at seeing Robert who once sat in my second period English class---front seat, middle row---and showed me a touch of adult wisdom by professing at age 15 that there's a big difference between a house and a home; the latter, he told me, holds much more value). Robert has returned to his hometown of Sandpoint, and he looks a lot different from that long-haired, blond, bespeckled young man who showed me a bit of the rebel but a lot of intelligence during nine months I taught him.
Joy, ecstasy, delight, euphoria----any term could fit for the three hours spent with the Class of 1975 this past weekend. I can hardly detail all the great moments as this class of kids who delighted me so many ways 30 years ago provided an extra dose of evidence for my ongoing claim that the greatest reward in teaching comes with the reunions.
The hugs, the anecdotal reflections of good times in high school, the quick updates on locations, marital statuses, and careers provided me with a mental scrapbook to savor for a long, long time. Learning that Jane and Ron May had moved from their longtime North Idaho home to the mountains of Northeast Georgia two years ago made me realize I just haven't been keeping up with the locals as well as I should.
I realized when I spotted them Saturday night that I hadn't seen them for a while. Jane's explanation that they were working with a new school for troubled rich kids made sense, since she'd spent several years at the now defunct Rocky Mountain Academy near Bonners Ferry.
Seeing the two Mike Millers in the class and hearing Mike Miller of SHS band fame introduce himself after Mike Miller of Bulldog football fame brought a chuckle when the former referred to himself as "the other white meat." Julie McCormick Knox, Sue Cove Borden and I enjoyed a group hug; I noted they'd been my two student leaders as yearbook editor and drill team captain, respectively. Both look fantastic, and both are justifiably proud of their professional lives.
I was especially pleased to hear from Sue that Jim Borden now works at managing editor of the Kalamazoo Gazette--not only for the journalistic aspect but also cuz that's where my mother went to college and lived as a young woman. Jim was not at the reunion but because of the reunion, I've already sent him a note of congratulations.
There were so many other wonderful stories associated with the crowd---Ed Brown's birthday cake and song and Ed Brown and Tim Pedler's mullets. Both are proud of their ample topmops. Ken Ewing noted his missing hair in reference to government teacher Terry Iverson who didn't show up to help me as guest speaker.
So, I had to go it alone at the microphone, but I've never had so much fun standing in front of a group. After quizzing the class on some notable facts, I gave away some books, a Sandpoint Magazine, a couple of alumni Cedar Posts and------a panty girdle. The class had presented me the girdle ten years ago at their Schweitzer 20th-year reunion, just after my first book Pocket Girdles was published and when Terry Iverson did actually show up to share the speaking honors.
Jil Johnson Smith answered correctly that Marian Ruyle had devoted approximately 50 years of service as a staff member at Sandpoint High School. That meant she won the girdle. Since she wasn't truly a classmate, she deferred the prize to her husband Kevin Smith who's always been built perfectly for the great football player he was in high school. He's a little bigger but still looks pretty intimidating. Somehow, though, when he donned the girdle for the adoring audience, his image softened just a bit.
Kevin will bring the girdle to the Class of 1975's fortieth reunion in ten years. I'm hoping that by then, I'll still be functioning and rarin' to see these kids again. They put on a wonderful party, and I enjoyed one of the great honors of my life as their guest.
The best part is that Robert Reise has a yearbook full of thoughts from classmates---30 years late but all the sweeter.
I was more astounded, however, to learn that Robert didn't even purchase a yearbook when he was a senior. That's why a 1975 Monticola (pinus monticolas is a brand of tree that once grew profusely in North Idaho) was circulating among the revelers who had returned to Sandpoint from all corners of the country to play together and reminisce for a weekend. Someone had found a yearbook at a yard sale, purchased it and had given it to Robert as a birthday present.
So, 30 years late, Robert was asking his classmates to sign his annual (nonengraved, of course).
I experienced great joy at seeing Robert who once sat in my second period English class---front seat, middle row---and showed me a touch of adult wisdom by professing at age 15 that there's a big difference between a house and a home; the latter, he told me, holds much more value). Robert has returned to his hometown of Sandpoint, and he looks a lot different from that long-haired, blond, bespeckled young man who showed me a bit of the rebel but a lot of intelligence during nine months I taught him.
Joy, ecstasy, delight, euphoria----any term could fit for the three hours spent with the Class of 1975 this past weekend. I can hardly detail all the great moments as this class of kids who delighted me so many ways 30 years ago provided an extra dose of evidence for my ongoing claim that the greatest reward in teaching comes with the reunions.
The hugs, the anecdotal reflections of good times in high school, the quick updates on locations, marital statuses, and careers provided me with a mental scrapbook to savor for a long, long time. Learning that Jane and Ron May had moved from their longtime North Idaho home to the mountains of Northeast Georgia two years ago made me realize I just haven't been keeping up with the locals as well as I should.
I realized when I spotted them Saturday night that I hadn't seen them for a while. Jane's explanation that they were working with a new school for troubled rich kids made sense, since she'd spent several years at the now defunct Rocky Mountain Academy near Bonners Ferry.
Seeing the two Mike Millers in the class and hearing Mike Miller of SHS band fame introduce himself after Mike Miller of Bulldog football fame brought a chuckle when the former referred to himself as "the other white meat." Julie McCormick Knox, Sue Cove Borden and I enjoyed a group hug; I noted they'd been my two student leaders as yearbook editor and drill team captain, respectively. Both look fantastic, and both are justifiably proud of their professional lives.
I was especially pleased to hear from Sue that Jim Borden now works at managing editor of the Kalamazoo Gazette--not only for the journalistic aspect but also cuz that's where my mother went to college and lived as a young woman. Jim was not at the reunion but because of the reunion, I've already sent him a note of congratulations.
There were so many other wonderful stories associated with the crowd---Ed Brown's birthday cake and song and Ed Brown and Tim Pedler's mullets. Both are proud of their ample topmops. Ken Ewing noted his missing hair in reference to government teacher Terry Iverson who didn't show up to help me as guest speaker.
So, I had to go it alone at the microphone, but I've never had so much fun standing in front of a group. After quizzing the class on some notable facts, I gave away some books, a Sandpoint Magazine, a couple of alumni Cedar Posts and------a panty girdle. The class had presented me the girdle ten years ago at their Schweitzer 20th-year reunion, just after my first book Pocket Girdles was published and when Terry Iverson did actually show up to share the speaking honors.
Jil Johnson Smith answered correctly that Marian Ruyle had devoted approximately 50 years of service as a staff member at Sandpoint High School. That meant she won the girdle. Since she wasn't truly a classmate, she deferred the prize to her husband Kevin Smith who's always been built perfectly for the great football player he was in high school. He's a little bigger but still looks pretty intimidating. Somehow, though, when he donned the girdle for the adoring audience, his image softened just a bit.
Kevin will bring the girdle to the Class of 1975's fortieth reunion in ten years. I'm hoping that by then, I'll still be functioning and rarin' to see these kids again. They put on a wonderful party, and I enjoyed one of the great honors of my life as their guest.
The best part is that Robert Reise has a yearbook full of thoughts from classmates---30 years late but all the sweeter.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Soggy bottom show and Harold
Yesterday went pretty much as planned in the utterance department. I must've repeated those infamous horse show commands 500 times during the day. We did have to move the show inside, however, when the skies kept emptying all over horses and participants. When the results, penned by the judge with her Bic had washed away from the card by the time they reached the announcer's stand, someone said we'd better move to the indoor arena.
So, we did. On that July Saturday, I could not wait for lunch break to take a mad dash home, jump in a tub of hot water to thaw out and grab the electric heater to keep my feet thawed for the rest of the afternoon. It finally warmed up enough about 3 p.m. to unplug the heater. Today looks like a repeat performance. In fact, it will be except the riders will wear Western gear rather than English.
This afternoon will be special, however. We're presenting the first two "Harold Tibbs -- Toby I" memorial belt buckles. Sarah Snedden, a college student, won last year's first-ever, but we didn't have the buckle at the time, and she spent most of her school year in Spain. So, the Snedden family will come today to watch her accept the award, which goes to the rider and horse who display the most versatility throughout the show. A 2005 winner will be determined also.
So, Harold, you're gonna get some special recognition for your contribution to Appaloosas and for your example as a horseman in general. We family members are going to be very proud to pass out those special awards, which include a nice notebook with your picture and that story I wrote about you in the Appaloosa Journal back in 1997.
And for blog readers, who never knew our dad, Harold, I'll include another story about him and his beloved Appaloosa stallion Toby I to complete today's entry.
Additional Note: Harold died November 21, 2003. We all miss him and his wonderful stories very much.
So, we did. On that July Saturday, I could not wait for lunch break to take a mad dash home, jump in a tub of hot water to thaw out and grab the electric heater to keep my feet thawed for the rest of the afternoon. It finally warmed up enough about 3 p.m. to unplug the heater. Today looks like a repeat performance. In fact, it will be except the riders will wear Western gear rather than English.
This afternoon will be special, however. We're presenting the first two "Harold Tibbs -- Toby I" memorial belt buckles. Sarah Snedden, a college student, won last year's first-ever, but we didn't have the buckle at the time, and she spent most of her school year in Spain. So, the Snedden family will come today to watch her accept the award, which goes to the rider and horse who display the most versatility throughout the show. A 2005 winner will be determined also.
So, Harold, you're gonna get some special recognition for your contribution to Appaloosas and for your example as a horseman in general. We family members are going to be very proud to pass out those special awards, which include a nice notebook with your picture and that story I wrote about you in the Appaloosa Journal back in 1997.
And for blog readers, who never knew our dad, Harold, I'll include another story about him and his beloved Appaloosa stallion Toby I to complete today's entry.
Harold Tibbs/Toby I by Marianne Love Reprinted from the 1998 International Colored Appaloosa Assoc. Newsletter Old-time Appaloosa owner Harold Tibbs has never strayed too far from home. He once resided in California while working for a logging company, and he spent a few months in a Chicago hospital being treated for complications from a broken leg. During the late 1930s, he lived in Montana’s Madison Valley riding 40,000 acres of range as a ranch hand. Most of his 82 years, however, have been spent in North Idaho. He grew up in Bonners Ferry (about 30 miles south of the Canadian border) where his parents were school teachers. Most of his adult life he’s lived in Sandpoint, a resort town 30 miles south of Bonners Ferry. As a retired water filter operator for the City of Sandpoint, Tibbs enjoys puttering with machinery or attending to various maintenance needs on his 30-acre Tibbs Arabian farm north of Sandpoint where he lives with his wife Virginia, a Western artist. Of their six kids, two daughters, Barbara and Laurie—both school teachers—also live on the farm where they train Arabians and teach general horsemanship in the indoor arena. Tibbs may not have strayed too far from rural North Idaho, but his influence with old-time Appaloosas spans the world. In fact, last fall he received a sample registration form from the Appaloosa Horse Club of South Africa. Smack dab in the middle of the document was a cut-out of Harold riding his beloved Toby 1 in the first-ever National Appaloosa Show at Lewiston, Idaho in 1948. Tibbs and Toby cleaned up at the show, winning three national classes and taking second in another. Ardis Racicot, a friend (who later owned the stallion after Tibbs gave him to her), rode Toby in Women’s Pleasure. When the day had ended, Toby (F-203) had won the performance championship. Prizes included a silver belt buckle, which went to Racicot, a Navajo blanket and a bridle. Tibbs thinks that Toby’s “star” qualities gave him an edge. “I felt like I had the best horse there,” he recalled. “Toby was a horse of good saddle and stock type. He would weigh around 1,100 pounds and stood about 15.1 hands. His head wasn't too refined, but it was still a smart head,” he added. “He was a horse that would and could do anything you wanted him to do.” Tibbs had purchased Toby from Floyd Hickman of Palouse, Washington, for $350. Former Appaloosa Horse Club Executive Secretary George Hatley was thrilled to see Toby at that first show. “He had heard of him but had never seen him, “Tibbs recalled. “He had Toby II, so we rode matched pairs and showed together several times afterward.” A photo of the two appeared in the July, 1997, Appaloosa Journal. Hatley liked the looks of the sire of his horse. “He looked real good to me,” Hatley recalled. “The breeder Floyd Hickman had always spoken very highly of the horse. I was happy to see him. He was a very well-reined horse and he made a favorable impression on the people.” An estimated 700-800 spectators watched the show, which was coordinated by the Lewiston Kiwanis Club. The event included entries from all over the West, Southern Canada and the Midwest. Sixty-five horses competed. “Anybody who could get there competed,” Tibbs recalled. “Everyone was friendly and trying to learn from the other guy…comparing notes with what they were doing. “At that time there were no questions that they were Appaloosas…they had to be colored to be registered,” he added. “Some were the leopard type. A lot of them came from back in the Dakotas. Some came from down in Colorado—they called them ‘rangers’—they were a white spotted leopard.” Tibbs said historian Dr. Francis Haines had traced the breed back to Asia. “We also knew they were predominantly horses that the Nez Perce Indians had bred,” he added. “It was questionable where they came from to get into the United States, but the Nez Perce seemed to have a corner on the breeding—as verified in the journals of Lewis and Clark.” Tibbs also owned Toby's half brother for three years. He purchased the younger stallion named “Mickey” for $175. The horse was black in front with a white spotted blanket over most of his body. “I renamed him before I registered him,” Tibbs explained. “I thought Chief Joseph was a more fitting name.” The horse is listed in the ApHC registry as ‘Chief Joseph, ApHC 92.’ He was as smart a horse as you'd ever want to find. You could teach him anything. He was a little bit of a handful, but not bad.” Tibbs sold the horse because, “I got offered more than I thought he was worth, so I took it: $350.” At the time that Tibbs owned Toby I, he knew of four studs in the region which were outstanding horses—all half-brothers. Besides Toby and Chief Joseph, he recalled a sorrel-and-white stud named Johnny, which was used as a pony horse at a Spokane, Washington, training stable. The fourth stallion came from Cusick, Washington. “He was chocolate with a white blanket and spots,” Tibbs said. “He traveled the rodeo circuit, and he was a wonderul trick horse.” Neither of these horses were registered. “The fellows weren’t interested in registering,” he said. “They were saddle horses, and these horses were all alive during the era where the value of the horse was what he could do—they were good ones.” Appaloosas back in those days had emerged from three influences, Tibbs said. “We saw the influence of the Appaloosa as the Nez Perce had him,” he explained. “Then afterward, the white man tried to make draft horses, which made them coarse.” Oregonian Claude Thompson, who started the Appaloosa (Club) registry and owner of foundation sire Red Eagle's Peacock, crossed them with Arabians to get them back to a normal size,”Tibbs said. Tibbs also served on the Appaloosa Horse Club’s first Board of Directors. The Board included Hatley, Haines, Thompson, Mrs. Fred Huseman, Ben Johnson and Ed McCrea. He continued his involvement with the breed off and on for the next 45 years. When he married Virginia in 1954, she owned a half-Saddlebred mare named Adare’s Countess Largo. A Few years later, a Largo/Toby match produced a handsome black-and-white blanketed stud colt named Pend Oreille’s Fancy Pants. The big stallion competed in Appaloosa shows throughout the Inland Northwest and took some reserve championships under Simcoe’s Sarcee, a leopard stallion. Eventually, the Tibbs family acquired some Quarter Horses and Arabians, but they continued to admire Appaloosas for their common sense. When Tibbs’ youngest daughter, Laurie, turned 10, a Toby granddaughter named Sassy became her first horse. The Tibbs also bought Pend Oreille’s Tonkawa, a Toby granddaughter who had walked the mountain trails for more than 50 days in 1967, packing supplies to fire camps on the huge Sundance Burn in the Selkirk Mountains northwest of Sandpoint. Horses remain synonymous with the Tibbs’ name. Daughters Barbara and Laurie have successfully shown the Arabians to Canadian and U.S. Top Ten placings. An admirer of a good-looking, intelligent horse in any breed, Harold Tibbs still holds a soft spot for Appaloosas. He also has definite ideas about what has happened to the breed since those days in 1948 when he hauled his stallion to the first ApHC National Show in a homemade horse trailer. “Go back to breeding Appaloosas,” he said. “The Appaloosa breeder should get back to the basics of colored horses and put as much premium as possible on the old-line Appaloosas. “They're trying to make these peanut roller Quarter Horses with their heads dragging down on the ground instead of having their head alert and looking like they know what they're doing,” he added. “No horse can travel with his head down between his legs.” He granted that going back to the old-lines might yield an occasional disappointment with a solid-colored horse or two. “But that has to be expected until the breed is back to where it once was,” he added. Author’s Note: At 87, Harold Tibbs still putters around the Tibbs Arabian farm north of Sandpoint, where he still admires a quality horse of any breed. |
Additional Note: Harold died November 21, 2003. We all miss him and his wonderful stories very much.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Spots of Fun
Since in less than two hours, I'll begin a long day behind a microphone repeating "Walk, Trot, Canter, Reverse, Walk, Trot, Canter," this is gonna be short. I'm announcing a two-day horse show called the Spots of Fun Show at the fairgrounds.
After the repetitive nature of the day, I'll try not to address the members of Sandpoint High School's Class of 1975 with "Walk, Trot, Canter, Reverse, Walk, Trot, Canter" at their 30th reunion tonight. Terry "Turkey" Iverson and I have once again been asked to speak to the group. At their 20th, they gave me a girdle (in honor of Pocket Girdles---not because of my robust figure, for sure!).
Who knows what they'll hand over to me tonight? I do know, however, that they'll expect me to utter at least one "Sit down and Shut Up." Not that I ever used those terms to quiet them down when they were students in my classes, but somehow someone along the way attached it to me and I've never been able to shed it.
Of course, considering it's a festive class reunion where a few spirits may just reach their lips, it might be a good idea to throw in a few "walk, trots, canters and reverses" and then require them practice before getting into their cars to drive home.
Happy weekend all . . . off to the Spots of Fun. It's put on by an Appaloosa Horse club, so that's why it's so named.
After the repetitive nature of the day, I'll try not to address the members of Sandpoint High School's Class of 1975 with "Walk, Trot, Canter, Reverse, Walk, Trot, Canter" at their 30th reunion tonight. Terry "Turkey" Iverson and I have once again been asked to speak to the group. At their 20th, they gave me a girdle (in honor of Pocket Girdles---not because of my robust figure, for sure!).
Who knows what they'll hand over to me tonight? I do know, however, that they'll expect me to utter at least one "Sit down and Shut Up." Not that I ever used those terms to quiet them down when they were students in my classes, but somehow someone along the way attached it to me and I've never been able to shed it.
Of course, considering it's a festive class reunion where a few spirits may just reach their lips, it might be a good idea to throw in a few "walk, trots, canters and reverses" and then require them practice before getting into their cars to drive home.
Happy weekend all . . . off to the Spots of Fun. It's put on by an Appaloosa Horse club, so that's why it's so named.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Black Rock
I stood on Black Rock for the first time last night with my bike. It's been there on the northwest shore of Lake Pend Oreille my entire lifetime. Had heard of it but never even knew where it was until a couple of years ago.
While doing some research about the white settlement around Lake Pend Oreille, I ran across a little explanation for the site in a book about Bonner County place names, compiled by James Dahl, who was working on his Master's Degree back in the early 1970s.
I had also heard Vern Eskridge (0ne of our retired Forest Service engineers and museum volunteers) talk about Black Rock. He may have even been the one who told me the Army Corps of Engineers had improved the pathway along the lakeshore leading to the site.
This place sits on the edge of what was for a very short time, Panhandle, Idaho. That was back in 1903 when it was the town site for the Panhandle Smelting and Refining Co. The town included a hotel, office buildings and employee residences.
Lake Pend Oreille steamboats would transport ore from mines at Lakeview, Blacktail, Granite Creek and Trestle Creek to the 10-acre site where the ore was refined. Facilities included a furnace building, sampler building, engine and boiler houses, ore bins, bedding yards and the machinery to smelt coper, silver, lead and gold. The company's slag (scum from metal) pile on the lakeshore was known as Black Rock.
The Panhandle township lasted for less than a year. After filing a lien on a two-story frame building owned by the company for a debt of $537.30 in August, 1903, David E. Bigelow and the plat designer, I.H.M. Williams, declared the townsite vacated in February, 1904.
Just weeks later, according to a compilation by Bob Gunter, on March 1, 1904, the Panhandle Development Co. dedicated the townsite of Ponderay on the same site. So, the "Little City with the Big Future" was born, later becoming an official Idaho city in 1968.
For more than a century now, Black Rock has stood as a monument to the mining around Lake Pend Oreille. It can be spotted easily from the lake, and I had seen it before while cruising by on our boat. I heard only recently from a local doctor about the great biking trip to the site where there's a dock and well-worn trails leading up the hillside to the train tracks in Ponderay.
So, last night, Bill and I rode from home into town, walked our bikes across the Cedar Street Bridge to the beach and began the bike tour along the lakeshore bound for Black Rock. We arrived at the spot where a couple of teenagers were swimming off the dock.
I do think there's private property along the way, but those folks must turn a blind eye toward the many bikers, walkers and joggers who enjoy the spectacular lake beauty along with the peaceful trail through a wooded area, much of which has been known for years as Bum Jungle.
There's talk of developing that trail as a permanent bike path. I hope it happens, because in addition to beauty, the trail and remnants of the old Panhandle Smelter complex offer a glimpse of local history.
While doing some research about the white settlement around Lake Pend Oreille, I ran across a little explanation for the site in a book about Bonner County place names, compiled by James Dahl, who was working on his Master's Degree back in the early 1970s.
I had also heard Vern Eskridge (0ne of our retired Forest Service engineers and museum volunteers) talk about Black Rock. He may have even been the one who told me the Army Corps of Engineers had improved the pathway along the lakeshore leading to the site.
This place sits on the edge of what was for a very short time, Panhandle, Idaho. That was back in 1903 when it was the town site for the Panhandle Smelting and Refining Co. The town included a hotel, office buildings and employee residences.
Lake Pend Oreille steamboats would transport ore from mines at Lakeview, Blacktail, Granite Creek and Trestle Creek to the 10-acre site where the ore was refined. Facilities included a furnace building, sampler building, engine and boiler houses, ore bins, bedding yards and the machinery to smelt coper, silver, lead and gold. The company's slag (scum from metal) pile on the lakeshore was known as Black Rock.
The Panhandle township lasted for less than a year. After filing a lien on a two-story frame building owned by the company for a debt of $537.30 in August, 1903, David E. Bigelow and the plat designer, I.H.M. Williams, declared the townsite vacated in February, 1904.
Just weeks later, according to a compilation by Bob Gunter, on March 1, 1904, the Panhandle Development Co. dedicated the townsite of Ponderay on the same site. So, the "Little City with the Big Future" was born, later becoming an official Idaho city in 1968.
For more than a century now, Black Rock has stood as a monument to the mining around Lake Pend Oreille. It can be spotted easily from the lake, and I had seen it before while cruising by on our boat. I heard only recently from a local doctor about the great biking trip to the site where there's a dock and well-worn trails leading up the hillside to the train tracks in Ponderay.
So, last night, Bill and I rode from home into town, walked our bikes across the Cedar Street Bridge to the beach and began the bike tour along the lakeshore bound for Black Rock. We arrived at the spot where a couple of teenagers were swimming off the dock.
I do think there's private property along the way, but those folks must turn a blind eye toward the many bikers, walkers and joggers who enjoy the spectacular lake beauty along with the peaceful trail through a wooded area, much of which has been known for years as Bum Jungle.
There's talk of developing that trail as a permanent bike path. I hope it happens, because in addition to beauty, the trail and remnants of the old Panhandle Smelter complex offer a glimpse of local history.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Morning bombshells
I belong to a worldwide equine journalists' newsgroup. This morning, when several emails from members entitled "London Explosions" appeared in my inbox, I came alive. Upon opening the first note sent out by English writer Sharon Biggs, I read the following:
You've probably heard by now that there have been a series of explosions here in London. My husband Mark was on duty during the explosions but he was in the stables at the time. He's now busy doing crowd control with the other mounted police. Apparently, this was a terrorist attack but they don't know much at the minute. I'm home working, but it seems so crazy to be here working in peace and quiet while all of this chaos is going on 45 minutes away.
Will keep you updated."
Once again, the terrorists have reared their ugly heads, doing their best to disrupt order and thrust fear into the civilized world. Once again, their gruesome attacks have been met with a resolve by world leaders to stand strong against such cowardly acts toward innocent people.
It's sad that we're getting used to this cycle, and what's really sad is that we are virtually helpless to do much about it rather than to continue living our lives as best we can. From the childhood fear that a nuclear bomb could destroy the world, we have moved on to a new kind of ubiquitous threat that permeates our world, teaching us a different kind of vigilance from that of the '50s when we were taught to hide under desks or retreat to bomb shelters.
We now know that at any given place, at any given moment, these insidious beasts, who use violent means against unsuspecting souls, can strike. Whether it's at an airport, on a plane, at a dam, in the midst of city traffic, their attacks can happen anywhere in our world.
Who knows how long we shall live with this new brand of terrorism? We are and will continue to adapt to the threat they present to our everyday security, but I doubt their efforts will ever completely scare us into submitting to whatever message they seem to be sending to the world.
One of their messages, however, comes crystal clear: they're cowardly scumbags.
My heart goes out to their unfortunate victims and to the people of London who will surely rise up from today's ashes and thumb them in the nose.
You've probably heard by now that there have been a series of explosions here in London. My husband Mark was on duty during the explosions but he was in the stables at the time. He's now busy doing crowd control with the other mounted police. Apparently, this was a terrorist attack but they don't know much at the minute. I'm home working, but it seems so crazy to be here working in peace and quiet while all of this chaos is going on 45 minutes away.
Will keep you updated."
Once again, the terrorists have reared their ugly heads, doing their best to disrupt order and thrust fear into the civilized world. Once again, their gruesome attacks have been met with a resolve by world leaders to stand strong against such cowardly acts toward innocent people.
It's sad that we're getting used to this cycle, and what's really sad is that we are virtually helpless to do much about it rather than to continue living our lives as best we can. From the childhood fear that a nuclear bomb could destroy the world, we have moved on to a new kind of ubiquitous threat that permeates our world, teaching us a different kind of vigilance from that of the '50s when we were taught to hide under desks or retreat to bomb shelters.
We now know that at any given place, at any given moment, these insidious beasts, who use violent means against unsuspecting souls, can strike. Whether it's at an airport, on a plane, at a dam, in the midst of city traffic, their attacks can happen anywhere in our world.
Who knows how long we shall live with this new brand of terrorism? We are and will continue to adapt to the threat they present to our everyday security, but I doubt their efforts will ever completely scare us into submitting to whatever message they seem to be sending to the world.
One of their messages, however, comes crystal clear: they're cowardly scumbags.
My heart goes out to their unfortunate victims and to the people of London who will surely rise up from today's ashes and thumb them in the nose.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)