What's in a name?

I attended an historical presentation last night at the Bonner County Museum. Virginia Overland, one of the dedicated volunteers and historians, put on the slide show about the Hoodoo Valley, which is southwest of Sandpoint. Virgina spoke to a crowd that took up every chair and seeped out into the museum lobby. From what I've heard, that happens often at our local historical repository when the neighborhood histories come to town.

Since I was one who stood in the lobby, I did not stay for the entire presentation. Those old legs finally told me it was time for a break, one hour into the program. During the time, I was there, however, I picked up a lot of fascinating information.

For example, I never knew the lovely fishing stream, called Hoodoo Creek where my husband goes every opening day with his fly rod, had been formed from a 24-hour dredging process in 1916. Apparently, there was a shallow lake which flooded the valley until the stream was dredged by a strange, loud-sounding machine called "Leaping Louie." Its pounding kept the neighborhood awake at night. With that process, came 15 miles of stream bed winding through the area, which had been transformed enough for farmers to plant their crops without fear of flooding.

Communities rose up and fizzled within the valley, some from the heavy logging of huger-than-huge yellow pine, et. al. that occurred when Humbird Lumber Co. came to North Idaho in the early 1900s. There was Clagstone (named for a rich man from Spokane who homesteaded there and eventually held up to 10,000 acres of land. His beautiful mansion burned to the ground when a forest fire swept through in the '30s). Harlem, Vay, Edgemere and Sawyer were also mentioned. Virginia couldn't tell us why Harlem got its name. The Sawyer family had a store, so that made sense.

Probably the most interesting bit of trivia for me last night, however, was learning the reasoning behind the naming of Vay. I'd never questioned it in my entire life, just accepted the name. Vay, however, has roots that parallel Sagle's name. According to Virginia, when names for towns were being considered, the little community was first called Valley. There was, however, another community in Washington with the same name, so the folks in charge just took a couple of letters out of the name and settled for Vay.

Same thing happened with Sagle, a community across the river just south of Sandpoint. I learned Sagle's story a few years ago down at the museum. Again, it was another town name for which I'd never held any curiosity. I was fascinated to learn that when the bureaucratic honchos who deal with such things discovered two "Eagles" in Idaho, the south won out. The town northwest of Boise remained as such, while a letter was changed up north, resulting in "Sagle."

I'm always amazed at the great little tidbits that go along with place names. In my own neighborhood, we've live on Great Northern Road but the Burlington Northern Santa Fe now runs over the tracks. History, however, will explain the name, since the Great Northern Railroad orginally used the route, which provided a reason for folks like the Farmins (railroad agents/telegraphers) to come here from the Midwest in the first place. Mr. L.D. Farmin eventually platted Sandpoint, explaining why the Farmin name has appeared several places around the community. Most prominent is the school named for them, which once stood as a three-story brick building in the middle of downtown Sandpoint. Now it's not far from those old Great Northern tracks in northwest Sandpoint.

We've also recently seen the dedication of the newly constructed the Mickinnick Trail on Greenhorn Mountain near our home. The hiking/biking trail earned its name, thanks to the donation of 300 acres of land on the mountainside from Mick and Nick Pleass. So, with a few alterations, "Mick" and "Nick" were meshed with "kinnikinnick," a well-known plant which grows in dry areas---especially on mountainsides---to form the trail's name. And, by the way, speaking of Greenhorn Mountain, when the orginators were first considering constructing the trail, they described its location on an "unnamed mountain" near Sandpoint.

We, who've lived in this neighborhood forever, have been campaigning for the power brokers of name-calling to refer to our mountain by what we've called it our entire lives: Greenhorn. We've found, however, that it's easier said than done to get a name to stick, but since my mother calls her greeting cards Greenhorn Mountain Scenics (that's more than 30 years), and since my (in name only) publishing company is Greenhorn Mountain Press, we're hoping someone will get the hint and give the "unnamed mountain" its proper name----permanently.

Fifty-plus years of such name-calling should be adequate, shouldn't it? Greenhorn, Greenhorn, Greenhorn, Greenhorn . . . . !

Look at what Virginia Overland started!!!

Latest Column

It's hit the streets now, so I'll post my latest "Love Notes" column from The River Journal. It's about a family friend, Dr. Richard Neuder, who recently saw his last dental patients at his longtime Sandpoint practice. This and other current River Journal stories (get the pun?) can be found at (www.riverjournal.com).

Neuder’s retirement leaves a void hard to fill

by Marianne Love

for The River Journal

September, 2005

With no root canals, no fillings and no tooth extractions, Ed and Edie Holmes’ back-to-back appointments with Dr. Richard “Dick” Neuder on Sept.19, 2005, could have been pretty routine.

Not so on this day.

As Dr. Neuder’s last patients in the practice he established nearly 40 years ago, Ed and Edie each planned to give their beloved dentist a big hug before saying good-bye.

“We’re gonna miss him,” says Ed Holmes. “He’s so nice, so professional.” Ed and Edie (a dentist’s daughter) have gone to Dr. Neuder since moving to Sandpoint in the early 1980s. The Holmes, along with hundreds of other patients (in some cases three generations’ worth) will miss their longtime dentist but wish him well.

Dr. Neuder anticipated some tough “good-bye’s” with patients and staff but also viewed this final chapter of his successful practice as an opportunity to spend more time indulging in his other passions---family, dahlias, wood-working and traveling. A couple of young granddaughters named Julia Pearl and Camille Ann have added new flames to the ever-present fire in his belly. Tagged “the Energizer Bunny” by adoring dental assistant Susie Puckett, Dick Neuder hopes to launch an all-out assault on his never-ending goals.

Like so many folks in the Sandpoint community, I consider Dr. Neuder, his wife Mary and son Steve as longtime friends---ever since Steve’s high school days as one of my English students and as stage performer extraordinaire in the late 1970s, to be exact. I still marvel at the 400 photos of actress Kristy McNichol that once covered Steve’s bedroom wall. Now, he’s much more enamored with his lovely wife Elizabeth (a former Neuder dental trainee).

Over the years, I’ve seen these family members in action and appreciate them each as civic-minded, dedicated individuals. Upon hearing that “Doc” Neuder was seeing his “final-final” patients, I knew it was story time. And, so, I’ve learned a lot about this meticulous man who, for decades, has followed a strict daily regimen, including a two-mile early-morning run.

He told me recently that he keeps three lists: the “immediate” list, the “long-term” list and the “wish” list. He’s also very aware of another list.

“There’s one for Mary, but I’m not quite as efficient with hers,” he admits. “Team Neuder” started about 50 years ago in Dick’s native Detroit when he met Mary, then a Department of Justice staffer, on a blind date. After their 1956 marriage in Western Washington, the Michigan farm boy and Korean veteran, who’d also performed polio vaccine research, finished dental school at the University of Detroit and started practicing.

Cross-country trips via HWY 2 to the Seattle area, where Mary grew up, took them through North Idaho. Always an angler looking for a good trout stream, Dick succumbed to the perennial lure of Deep Creek and Sandpoint. The Neuders moved here in 1966, opening a practice on First and Superior, later moving to the colorful Bavarian-style facility on West Ontario. Mary took care of office records while Dick took care of teeth.

“The Dick-and-Mary team is amazing,” says dental hygienist Debbie Vaughan, who’s worked in the office for nearly 22 years. “They were always extremely careful, hiring personality types who worked well together, which created a ‘team-player’ atmosphere. It’s a very happy office to work in---such a rare thing this day and age.”

Dick says he feels lucky to have found Mary and considers their marriage bond “the greatest institution that’s ever been contrived.” Mary retired as office manager about ten years ago while Dick began to gradually scale down his appointment schedule about 8 years ago after selling the practice to Dr. Bruce Johnson, who didn’t mind having a sidekick taking on some of the load. Then, in 2001, along came fellow Michigander and fisherman, Rob Harrison who purchased the practice and welcomed Dr. Neuder’s continued presence as associate dentist.

“Dr. Neuder is an honorable professional,” Harrison says, “He and Mary have been a good part of the fabric of Sandpoint for many years now . . . he has contributed more than his share to this life.” In so doing, Dick Neuder has received numerous honors from his peers, including Idaho State Dental Association Man of the Year. Gov. Cecil Andrus even appointed him to the Idaho Dental Board.

Through the years, I’ve always admired the joyful camaraderie which Dr. Neuder enjoys with his patients and staff. Since the mid-‘60s, more than 40 individuals on his staff have received training, envious perks (like his personally hand-crafted wooden music boxes) and family-like status from this gracious man and his wife.

“He’s my mentor,” says Susie Puckett, who’s helping Steve Neuder plan a reception for the dad, the dentist and the friend on Sunday, Oct. 23 from 2-4 at the dental office grounds.

“I never get tired of observing Dr. Neuder interact with his patients,” Puckett adds. “He has a way with them, no matter their age from 2 to 102.”

Various sources, including Susie, have told me that he also has a way with those granddaughters. Besides taking them to the park or introducing them to the museum or teaching them gardening skills, he’s even developed special dahlias with their namesakes. While the “Julia” dahlia is still undergoing perfection, his “Camille” variety recently took first place at a Kalispell competition.

As Susie Puckett says, “this man that you want me to talk about is so much. It’s hard to describe him. He has integrity, he is kind, compassionate, generous, and has a great sense of humor.”

As a first-hand recipient of all of the above, I totally agree with Susie. I’ll never forget the night after our house burned down in December, 1984. I answered my mother’s door. There stood Dick Neuder, looking very sad, saying nothing. He handed me a check, gave me a warm hug, then turned around and walked back through the snow to his car.

Talk to just about anyone who knows this man, and they’ll happily sing his praises. I could easily write reams about the interests, accomplishments and zest for life, which so characterize him. Instead, I’ll slightly alter what Roman Senator Marc Antony said of his friend Julius Caesar to sum up our own community’s dear friend, Dick Neuder: “Here is a man; when comes such another!”

Happy retirement, Doc! Keep on going, going, and going!

This story about Dr. Neuder can also be read on line at www.mariannelove.com under “Love Notes” or at www.riverjournal.com.

Reclaiming memories

In my first book Pocket Girdles (www.mariannelove.com), I included a chapter called " Sunday Gambles." It chronicles two generations worth of Sunday excursions for our family. Most of the story emphasizes hair-raising experiences on the primitive back roads in Montana with which we got acquainted when my dad would turn off the beaten path looking for adventure.

We often found more than enough adventures, and the trip usually turned out to be a gamble because some of those cow paths he chose were so bad we didn't know if we'd make it back to civilization. My mother held her breath a lot; in one case, that was important because the day we drove down the power-line path near Trout Creek, she was nine months pregnant with Laurie.

Such memories are dear to us older family members who now have chalked up at least half a century's separation from those days of our youth. Where DOES the time go? Whenever we piled into our brown and cream-colored '58 Ford ranchwagon (I always got stuck in the middle on the hump), Mother brought along a box of bacon thins to sustain our ever-present hunger pangs. My dad, Harold, also brought his binoculars. And, to keep us kids entertained, he introduced us early on to the game called "Count the Deer."

To this day, we still count the plentiful deer alongside HWY 200 from the Montana border to Missoula. Sadly, we now seem to count more and more lifeless corpses alongside the road. Apparently, these unfortunate beasts lacked the athletic skills to bound from one side of the road to the other other quickly enough to avoid bouncing off the front of a car hood speeding down the highway.

Today, my mother, my new pup Kiwi and I will once again point our SUV toward Montana. We were planning to stop in Paradise to visit with our old family friend Ken Best, but he's recovering from the flu. So, instead, we'll go to Ravalli and then on to Frenchtown where my brother Kevin and his wife Joyce live on a small farm. Kevin just returned yesterday afternoon from a caribou/grizzly hunt in Alaska. He and his son Scott both bagged caribou, while his daughter-in-law JJ brought home a giant grizzly.

Kevin promises a big stack of phenomenal photos from their Alaskan experience. We'll visit with them for a couple of hours and then head back home via the St. Regis cutover to HWY 200 just east of Paradise.

This will be a bittersweet drive for Mother who still tears up when she crosses the Montana state line. The memories of all those hundreds of hours spent with Harold in the car are still pretty raw. In reclaiming a part of the nostalgia and the spirit of her beloved soulmate, she wants to stop in Ravalli and buy a huckleberry milkshake, like they did on one of their last day trips to Montana.

It promises to be a beautiful day for our outing, and I feel confident that the mix of nostalgia, deer counting and good visiting will surely make it another cherished memory to reclaim some day.

Post-Glitch and the "Gone Missing"

Ever have one of those days when from start to finish you seem to be going against the grain? No matter what you do to change the rhythm, you're get nowhere fast at virtually every project on your schedule. I had one of those yesterday. Should have gotten the hint early on when I spent 20 minutes writing my posting about the "Lost Art of Listening" and it "went missing." I wrote it a second time and once again, it "went missing."

I hate that term, by the way. Who invented it? I first heard it a few years ago when Ashleigh Banfield started using it ubiquitously during her ubiquitous appearances on MSNBC. She was the tall skinny, short-haired blonde with the stylish horn-rimmed glasses.

At the time, she seemed to be the latest MSNBC darling. She bounced around the country and seemed to turn up everywhere covering the news. I believe Elizabeth Smart had "gone missing" at the time. By the time she had "gone missing" for three days, I was wishing Ashleigh would "go missing" herself. Apparently, she has cuz I haven't seen her Energizer Bunny persona on the screen for some time, but I still groan whenever I learn on the news that one more person has "gone missing." Not all people GO missing. Often someone TAKES them, and then they're missing.

I'll also groan if my posting "goes missing" again today. So, I'm following a wiser course than I did yesterday morning by punching the "save as a draft" button. I don't know what was happening yesterday, but it seemed the only time the blogger god would recognize my writing was when I wrote that I couldn't post my writing. I promised to come back later, but the day's events continued to go on a downward spiral.

I did succeed at pulling off a telephone interview with a lady in British Columbia, but the letters I sent to experts on the subject of mares adopting foals all came back with messages to the effect that these people had----you guessed it---gone missing. No such names appeared in the institutions' rosters anymore. Apparently they were there once, but maybe they joined Ashleigh wherever she went.

Then, I got myself braced to talk to the lady in charge of my manuscript at the University of Nevada. Some readers may be aware I've been waiting ever so patiently since early February to learn if they're interested in publishing my third book. I was told I'd hear something in about eight weeks after the manuscript arrived. I waited 12 and asked about progress. "I detect a sense of impatience," the lady said to me. So, I promised patience and waited until September to ask again.

After I sent her three letters over a two-week period, she finally wrote back and said she'd received a reader's report. The report had recommended acceptance with some revision. I also learned that I would receive a copy of the reader's comments, which I did on Friday. As always, when I first read the feedback, my body went through a series of jolts. I always like to hide when I read criticism for the first time because I'm sure my physical reactions to each verbal jab are very apparent.

Anyway, the report balanced the bad with the good. After reading it a second time, the suggestions seemed doable and reasonable, so I sought some further advice from the editor. In our first phone conversation ever yesterday, she told me she really didn't know what to say to me. She did say she'd call me again today but promised no guidance. So, I'm currently doing a little head scratching and wondering if this is the best route for the manuscript which has been complete for nearly a year. I put all my eggs in this one basket and may regret the decision.

Anyway, the frustration level yesterday magnified as it does often with writers seeking to progress within the literary realm, or in my case, even to walk in the door. After our telephone discussion, I could not bring myself back to the blog to try yet a third time at posting my Monday topic. In fact, for the rest of the day, I descended into one of those many valleys writers often visit when things are not going so well---vowing, of course, to never write another word again.

A night's sleep usually takes care of such things. If she calls as promised, I'll visit with the editor this morning and decide whether to move forward on the slow course I've been taking for so many months with this manuscript or to veer off another direction.

So, there's the story about yesterday's lost "lost art of listening story" and my teaching story. And, if this post dares to "go missing" today, you'll never know about this chapter or the rest of the story. Cuz I'll probably just say "forget it" and go looking for Ashleigh, wherever she is!

Glitches

Apparently, the blogger system is having problems this morning. I've written my posting twice, only to have it disappear into cyberspace. Will try it again later, so check in. Very frustrating, to say the least.

Marianne

Cartoon by architect Jim Tibbs -- Grants Pass, Oregon

A lifetime of watching transport

I often wonder how wistful I might become if we ever moved from our longtime farm here on Great Northern Road to an area where we couldn't hear or see the trains or airplanes. After all, except for my college years and for a while before my marriage, no more than half a mile has separated me from the tracks and the local airstrip. I think I'd really miss the action.

I'd say the Burlington Northern-Santa Fe and Union Pacific tracks to our west might be all of 400 feet away from where I sit. To the east, it would take me no more than five minutes to walk across the field to the airport fenceline. While growing up on North Boyer, I could step into airport land by slipping through the barbwire fence that separated our hayfield from the field where a small air strip ran toward the northeast a few feet away.

More than 40 trains pass by our house every day. Sometimes they block the crossings and back up the traffic for up to half an hour as they wait for an oncoming train to move through the switch track area. Each has its unique whistle sound, squeak, roar, or rumble as it moves north or south, often causing our house to vibrate. Most are freights, but if we're suffering from insomnia during the early hours of morning, we can hear the distinctive whistle of the Amtrak passing through from the coast to Chicago and the east or vice versa.

In 1997, our proximity to trains moved a notch closer when nine freight cars, mostly filled with lumber, thank God, derailed at the Boyer Crossing across from our horse pasture. Debris from the wreck even came flying into our field, and later, a lot of the lumber which was strewn along the tracks after the accident, was dozed into a huge pile in the field. In return for the intrusion, the railroad folks gave us some of the scrub lumber and rebuilt our fence. We're still patching corrals with our stock pile from that incident.

A couple of years prior to that, I wrote an article for a local magazine about Sandpoint being considered "The Funnel" a few years ago. And since it's the weekend and a beautiful sunny day beckons me outward, I'm going to share that piece with readers this morning. It's kind of fun to think about how much the railroads have affected the history of this area. And, by the way, in the ten minutes, I've been thinking and pecking here, three trains have gone past the house.

Hope you enjoy the story and that everyone has a wonderful Sunday wherever you happen to be. Disclaimer: keep in mind that some aspects of the story have changed since its publication in 1995.

The Funnel

from Sandpoint Magazine

by Marianne Love
April, 1995

Sandpoint’s situation along the transcontinental lines inspired a logging industry throughout the early Twentieth Century that saw millions of board feet of logs and poles transported from the surrounding woods to the mills and later to all parts of the country.

Logs left by rail. People came by rail. The town grew. Though the brisk lumber industry of the early century has been replaced by an active tourist industry at end of the century, railroads have continued to remain a key to Sandpoint’s livelihood. And if several locals and a few regional entrepreneurs have their way, the rails may turn the page for a whole new chapter in the town’s history.

During his 40-year career as a railroad man, Sandpoint’s Burlington Northern depot agent Lowell Spletoser has encountered numerous people with little or no clue of how the railroad influences the local area.

“People just don’t realize what impact the trains have on their lives,” Spletoser said recently while ending his work day at the depot just east of the Cedar Street Bridge. “The average people around here don’t have any idea what’s going on around the railroad.”

Spletoser cited a case a few years ago when two women visited the depot where he worked for 18 years in Priest River. While one talked, the other walked around and looked the place over, he recalled. Then she came up and said, “I’ve lived here for 25 years, and I never realized this was even here.”

Spletoser has seen a lot of changes in railroad use and employment since he first signed on as a telegrapher between Spokane and Havre, Mont. During his career, air travel has all but stamped out the once common hustle bustle of passenger trains coming though Sandpoint to drop or pick up travelers at the Great Northern depot on Main Street or the former NP depot where he now works. In their heyday, several daily passenger trains brought most of the early residents to Sandpoint.

For years, going to the depot to watch the trains come in provided local citizenry a simple form of fascinating entertainment. Retired English teacher Joy Anna O’Donnell remembers coming into town on Sundays during the 1940s when she was a farm kid from Wrenco.

“We’d head for town right after dinner,” O’Donnell recalled. “We’d go down, park the car facing the track, and we’d see who got on and who got off.

“The conductor would be standing on the steps hanging on to the handle. He’d always hold ladies’ hands to see they didn’t trip,” she continued. “While this was going on, there’d be guys lugging baggage and freight onto great big rail carts. They’d push it through the big double doors.

“There’d also be people sitting in pullman cars. They’d be staring at us while we were staring at them,” she added. “When it was time to do chores, we’d go home.”

During both world wars, trains transported thousands of soldiers through Sandpoint. In fact, during World War I, a group of ladies formed the War Canteen, which resembled a branch of the Red Cross.

“They met every troop train that came through---and they’d meet them all hours of the day and night,” museum curator Ann Ferguson explained. “Their job was to make the troops comfortable by providing them sack lunches, gum and socks. They’d get them set up for the next leg of the trip.

Besides politicians like President Teddy Roosevelt and then Presidential candidate Harry Truman, the queen of Romania passed though Sandpoint. According to a Nov., 1926 Sandpoint High School Cedar Post article, half the high school came out to greet Queen Marie.

“The special was due at five o’clock and an immense crowd awaited its arrival with impatience. . . ,” the paper reported. “At last the huge train arrived. The crowd cheered. The train merely paused and then went on its way.

“Everybody focused their eyes on the coaches of the royal group. Glimpses of people were gotten and many exclamations of ‘There she is,’ were heard.

“Just who did see the queen is doubtful,” the article continued. “Some say she was sitting near a window surrounded by flowers. Others say she was reading a book. If anyone did see a royal personage, no one will take his word for it.”

One Sandpoint individual, however, did get a full view of the queen and her children Prince Nicholas and Princess Ileana. Former Sandpoint Mayor Les Brown (now deceased) was 12 years old at the time.

“While many people were content to remain back, from the rails, Lester caught the handles at one of the coach doors and climbed aboard, probably thinking the train would stop,” the Cedar Post explained. “Instead, it picked up speed and soon was traveling too rapidly to permit him to safely alight.”

Brown hung on until a crew member discovered him tearfully looking through the window and helped him aboard the train. The experience netted Brown some national publicity, a chance to play beanbag with the prince, and several autographed gifts from the royal family. Upon reaching Spokane, Brown was brought back to Sandpoint by the Northern Pacific.

Nowadays, local depots are all but abandoned. Just two Amtraks pass east and west through Sandpoint in the middle of the night four days a week. Employing several clerks, the depot once served as a ticket office, but no longer.

“We don’t sell any tickets here anymore,” Spletoser said. “They have to get them through a travel agency. One hour before the Amtrak passes through, a security person opens the depot. It’s closed after the train leaves.”

Basically what they get is a warm depot and a train that comes through,” Spletoser’s relief agent Maggie Gendel says.

During Spletoser’s 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. shift, while filling car orders for local trains, he also fields a fair share of questions about the area from a breed of depot visitors who can spout off technical details about the diesel engines and cars that make up virtually every freight passing through town. Spletoser’s inquisitors are known as rail buffs, and they’re willing to put in time, travel and money to spend hours or days watching the trains pass through an area.

“I get railroad buffs in here from all over the world,” Spletoser said. “Last year people came from Scotland, New Zealand, England and Canada to watch trains.

“Some of them even come and spend up to a week sleeping in their cars in the parking lot out here,” he added. “One guy from Australia came and took 45 rolls of film.”

The Sandpoint area is known to the railroad community as the “Funnel.” The Northern Pacific and former Great Northern mainlines, completed in 1883 and 1892, respectively, pass through the community. The two merged in 1970, and the eastern line of the NP from Sandpoint to Huntley, just east of Billings, Mont., sold to Montana Rail Link in 1988.

Burlington Northern trains travel north of Sandpoint through Bonners Ferry and then head east along the Kootenai River to Whitefish, Mont. The Montana Rail Link system follows the old Northern Pacific route east along the shores of Lake Pend Oreille and the Clark Fork River.

There’s also track belonging to the Union Pacific railroad, which before the mid-1950s was known as the Spokane International. Daniel Chase “D.C.” Corbin, builder of many railroads linking the North Idaho mines to Spokane, developed the Spokane International as his last major project. The line, connecting with a new branch built by the Canadian Pacific, opened for business in November, 1906.

Part of the Union Pacific line now bisects the Sandpoint community along 5th Avenue and HWY 2. The tracks are scheduled to be removed and rerouted later this summer. The Union Pacific’s new route will run on Burlington Northern tracks north of town through McFarland-Cascade Pole Company and then west to Dover where it eventually crosses the Pend Oreille River on its route to Spokane.

Besides the draw of the Funnel, agent Spletoser said the Burlington Northern also has three locals serving the lumber, pulp and grain industries. They run daily to Bonners Ferry, Newport and Athol.

“We’re handling 70-100 cars a day in the Sandpoint area,” he explained. All orders are fed into the computer with a mainframe originating in Overland Park, Kans. When Spletoser ends his shift at the depot, the Spokane Burlington Northern office takes over the night duties. During his day, Spletoser keeps track of the locals and mainline trains called “hotshots.”They’re designated to a certain destination like Chicago,” he explained. “Locals ding around the area.” A local picks up 5-10 cars of grain, goes to a main terminal such as Spokane and make up a destination train of nothing but grain cars.

“Hotshots only stop to change crews,” Spletoser siad. “That will be for just 10-15 minutes at the terminals, which are 300 miles apart.”

With that much current action and with its breath-taking scenery, Sandpoint is a natural draw for the typical railroad fans who show up at the depot. Nationwide, the community has become a destination spot for rail buffs around the world, thanks to an idea hatched by the Greater Sandpoint Chamber of Commerce and local train buff Dick Hutter. Hutter, a 56-year-old New York native, has been involved with trains literally since the day he was born.

“My dad was a rail buff,” the Sandpoint realtor said, “When I was born, he had assembled a wind-up train for me and built two metal buildings to go with it. I still have the buildings.”

Throughout his life, Hutter has amassed a assortment of railroad memorabilia which fills display cases, decorates walls and takes up virually every available space at the Sandpoint Realty office on HWY 95 where he works. His collection includes 200 hardbound railway books, 1,000 train magazines and several paintings of locomotives.

A glass display case behind his desk features switch locks and keys, a Portland Rose bridge score sheet, decks of railroad playing cards and a Great Northern seat reservation sign.

“Most of these are gifts,” he says. “People just keep giving me stuff.”

In 1993, Hutter convinced the Chamber to look at the rail fan promotion idea after several years of having it fall on deaf ears.

“I know it sounds like a bunch of crazies---grown men running around chasing trains,” Hutter said. “Unless you’re in it and know the demographics, it’s hard to be serious about it.”

With a nudge from Idaho Travel Council chairman Lorraine Bowman and after gathering demographic data from Trains magazine, the Chamber got serious about Hutter’s suggestion in 1993. Local tourism officials learned that typical rail buffs are in their mid-50s, they have high incomes and they’re well educated. They have families, and they like to read and travel. When they chase trains, they bring their families with them. In addition, they’re history buffs. Their ultimate goal in train watching includes lots of photography.

“They tend to be skilled professionals seeking a ‘concentration-style’ hobby that blocks out the stress of their day,” Hutter explained.

In early 1994 with the help of a $4,000 grant from the Idaho Travel Council, the Chamber printed a rail fans’ guide to Sandpoint and bought advertising in Trains magazine. The Wisconsin-based publication has more than 100,000 subscribers around the United States.

“Phenomenal” is how Chamber tourism manager Carol Novak characterizes the response the small ad elicited.

“It surprised a lot of people,” Novak said. “It’s a specialty market. You know they’re (rail fans) out there, but you don’t know if they’ll respond.”

Since the ad appeared, the Chamber has experienced a virtual field of railroad dreams. They’ve received more than 2,000 inquiries from rail fans across the nation in the past year. In 1995, they’ve expanded their advertising to “Model Trains” magazine, since most rail buffs also build models.

“We’re the only community to actually go after the rail fans,” Novak said. “After our ad appeared, we got lots of calls from other communities who wondered if they should advertise.”

Sandpoint has a unique distinction among railroad buffs because of its blend of railway history, spectacular scenery and its role as one of the busiest mainline viewpoints for freight trains in the Pacific Northwest.

“You take lemons---40 trains going through town---and turn them into lemonade,” Novak said. “Train fans had read and heard about the Funnel and didn’t equate it with Sandpoint until we rant the ad.” She said one gentleman from Northern California spotted the ad, brought his family to Sandpoint and spent three days here. After returning, he called her at the Chamber and asked for another 50 brochures.

“He wanted to give them to the members of his rail club,” she recalled. “He would like them to all (about 20 members) come to Sandpoint together. He said he’d see me this summer.”

“They’re absolutely enchanted with this are,” Bowman said. “Many of them get up in the middle of the night and go down to the depot to check the cars. Snow, sleet or hail won’t stop them.” She noted one story she’d heard about a rail buff who got a room in a local motel featuring a prime view of the water. He complained because he couldn’t watch the trains.

Besides the draw of current rail action in and around town, there’s plenty of rich history available, including the depot itself. The structure was once surrounded by manicured lawns and flowers and tended by a railroad employee. Termed “palatial” when it opened in Nov., 1916 without its “elaborate” furnishings (lost in transit), the depot was constructed with a fine grade of building brick, capped with a green tile roof---itself costing more than $5,000, according to the Pend Oreille Review. The total construction bill for E.J. Rounds Co. amounted to $22,780.08. Now on the National Historic Register and having been remodeled a time or two, the depot still lures its share of visitors.

“People come to Sandpoint, wander around and look at the depot,” agent Spletoser said. “They want to go back a few years. Railroads have a lot of history.” Much of that written local history is available at the Bonner County Historical Museum, where file drawers bulge with newspaper clippings and photographs or posters line the walls amidst local historical displays. A room has also been set aside for a model train exhibit depicting many of the historical lines and structures along Bonner County railroad routes.

Model hobbyists in the Bonner County Railroad Club are working to have the display operational by summer, according to Museum board member and train buff Vern Eskridge. Besides representations of the railway lines, structures will include the NP Depot, the GN Depot at Laclede, the grain elevator on 5th Avenue, the railroad trestle across the lake and the NP round house that once operated in Kootenai. The 33-member group, ranging in age from 13 to 80, started the display about a year ago.

“Everyone has a different interest,” Eskridge explained. “Some lay track; some like ot build scenery and others enjoy constructing cars. . . everybody’s working on it at home.

“The project never really gets done,” he added, “but the permanent display will be rigged so that somebody just needs to flip a switch and it’ll go.”

In addition to the museum exhibits about Sandpoint’s rail past, there’s plenty to be gained from local rail buffs, from currently employed railway laborers or from old timers like 95-year-old Ted Grant who turned into a railroad man in 1942 after working in the woods for more than 25 years. As a Northern Pacific gandydancer, he installed ties and changed rails on the east line to Oden and south to Cocolalla.

“The roadmaster told me I didn’t have to retire in 1965,” Grant said in a 1989 Spokesman-Review interview, “but I’d already made up my mind. I’ve got a gold-stamped certificate that says ‘Retired While Working.’”

Photographs of early steam engines joined the collection of family pictures on Grant’s wall in his home a 1111 Hickory Street. The chance to work full time on the engines eluded him, but he did some volunteer time as a firewatcher.

“I used to fire them in the early years,” he said. “Later they called me to watch them on weekends while they were parked north of town. I never passed up a chance to watch an engine.”

Aware that railroads, scenery, and history are rich commodities for rail fans who visit the Sandpoint area, Pack River Managements and Rail Views, Ltd., are banking on those givens to launch yet another rail project which could greatly affect Sandpoint’s future. With 6 two-day tours starting in late July and ending in early October, Montana Daylight Tours will run trains over the Montana Rail Link system from Sandpoint to Billings. In addition, six subsequent westbound trips from Billings to Sandpoint will be offered.

On each eastbound tour, travelers leave Sandpoint in mid-morning, follow the shores of Lake Pend Oreille along the old Northern Pacific route and end up in Missoula, where they stay at the Missoula Hotel. The next day’s tour takes them past the “Golden Spike” marker, showing the sight of the first completion of the first Northern Transcontinental Railway in 1883. After paralleling the Missouri River, the Daylight train crosses the Gallatin River Valley, proceeds to Livingston and follows the Yellowstone River to Billings,where passengers will stay at the Radison Northern Hotel.

According to Rail Views general manager David Duncan, the restored seven-car train holds 242 passengers. Three cars have restored domes, picture windows, glasstops and table seating. Fares range from $399 per person. Anyone seeking more information can call a travel agent, pick up a brochure at the Chamber of Commerce or call 1-800-519-RAIL.

Duncan views the new venture as a great boon to Sandpoint’s tourism industry.

“Sandpoint--it’s great,” he said. “It’s a natural gateway. Anyone who rides either way has to transfer to other transportation at Sandpoint. It creates an opportunity for extended stays.” Duncan said success this year could mean more frequent departures and adding capacity to the train next year. The possibilities bring smiles to the faces of Chamber officials.

“It’s going to help put Sandpoint on the map,” Carol Novak said. “It has potential; it’s easy advertising for us. It’s for people who like to travel, and we have a beautiful and safe place to look at---it’s not the train yards of Chicago.”

Kudos, kudos

I saw in the Daily Bee this morning an apology from the publisher for running a kudo in yesterday's paper. I also recall reading that very kudo out loud to Bill because of its biting tone. It concerned a very public dispute here in town regarding the firing of three hospital employees.

Over the past couple of months, we've read some pretty strongly- opinionated letters and commentaries on both sides of this issue. So, I was rather surprised to see the obvious rancor toward hospital administrators flowing into a front-page column designed to sing praises rather than spewing public bitterness. It was a good move for the paper's publisher to issue a quick apology in this case. Let them fight it out in the opinion section, and let's maintain the integrity and pure purpose of kudos.

So, today I'm going to issue a few kudos of my own with no hidden motives other than to give credit where credit's due.

All week I've been thrilled to know that my oft-mentioned rodeo man from Sandpoint has made the big time. Rowdy Buechner now ranks 10th among PRCA bareback riders. He's already earned more than $60,000 this year and recently learned that he's been chosen to compete in the Pace-Picante Rodeo Challenge.

It's a made-for-TV rodeo competition, featuring the top 12 athletes in each category, and it offers $350,000 in prize money. We may be seeing Rowdy when CBS airs a 90-minute special on the event Oct. 29. We are all very proud of Rowdy because he's attained this level through good ol' fashioned hard work and grit. Besides that, he's a very nice young man. So, kudos, Rowdy! May we also see you at the National Finals later this year!

And speaking of putting Sandpoint on the map, hats off to Donna Deshon who won ABC's Good Morning America "Desperate Fan" contest this week. Donna used her talents and her daughter's help to create a video which wowed the judges as they selected three finalists from across the country. She learned a week ago of her selection, and Thursday she took the crown and the opportunity to appear in a "Desperate Housewives" segment on live TV.

Donna won this distinction by answering more trivia questions about the popular television program than her two opponents. The show is a spoof about the Wysteria Lane housewives, and Donna's video was definitely a spoof of this well-written show, but the pride she brought to Sandpoint as we watched her triumph was very real. Kudos to Donna for winning this national distinction.

Finally, I must mention a fellow blogger and former student named Mike. I was very proud this morning to see his slice-of-life anecdote, about watching the NFL football game with his young son, appear on the front page of the In Life section of the Spokesman-Review (www.spokesmanreview.com). When his son launched one of those "kids say the darndest things," Mike took the incident and crafted it into an unforgettable story.

Mike is having fun with his witty writing, and I'm sure seeing it in print this morning has made his day. And, as his former English teacher, I'm very happy for him. Kudos to Mike and keep it up, Sir! You're on your way!

With so much of what we read and hear every day concentrating on what's wrong with our world, it feels refreshing at times to focus on and recognize the positive. That's what kudos are for. So, kudos to all who work hard every day to achieve small or even significant feats that cause smiles and pride rather than frowns and acrimony.

Gentle Giants like these are performing in Sandpoint this week; see blog posting below.  

Idaho State Draft Horse and Mule Show

Every fall, they come to Sandpoint from Canada and states throughout the West. Clydesdales, Belgians, Percherons, Shires, Suffolks and American Creams, from the draft horse breeds, and various mixes of mules take temporary homes at the Bonner County Fairgrounds for almost a week. And with them come the carts, the wagons, the shiny harness and the doting entourage of owners, helpers and fans.

The Idaho State Draft Horse and Mule Show started yesterday approximately a mile away from my home. Last year, I took in the entire show because I had a writing assignment for Sandpoint Magazine. This year I'm visiting the show with less pressure to perform and more incentive to enjoy. Today I'll take my mother, as I did last year.

Today I'm also including the results of my research and observations while completing last year's writing assignment. It turned into a wonderful memory. Hope you enjoy, and if you're in the region, go take in the show. It's well worth the time and the $8 ticket.

Idaho Draft Horse International

by Marianne Love

for Sandpoint Magazine

March, 2005

Last fall, I confessed to my editor that I’ve lived near the Bonner County Fairgrounds and had never----in 28 years----attended an Idaho Draft Horse and Mule International (IDHMI) performance.

“You’ll do so this year,” she said, “and report on it.”

I accepted my penance happily. Career commitments had never allowed me time to attend a performance, but now retired, I could embrace this assignment with gusto. The assignment culminated in an unexpected but thrilling Clydesdale experience.

I spent six days (including Monday sale) meeting longtime participants who shared memories of a mule pushing a Chevy Vega or the time Tim Cramer of Lynden, Washington’s Cramer Classics first tipped his hat to the crowd as a 4-year-old. He’s continued that gesture for 20-plus years. Tim even met his wife at the show. Dan Cramer says his sons, Tim and Andy, first came to draft horse shows in diapers. Now, they serve on the show committee.

During my visits, I surveyed tasty caloric offerings at food booths like The Klondyke (ribs), Feast in the East or a booth where GIANT letters advertise GIANT sausages, elephant ears, corndogs and chicken fajitas for GIANT horse lovers. I strolled barn aisles where sparkling-clean stalls, adorned with exhibitor colors, housed contented, impeccably-groomed gentle giants.

Outside, temporary pens featured sale horses and mules. Rows of farm equipment, buggies, or carts kept streams of potential buyers studying where they might place bids at Monday’s sale. Vendors touted Western art, custom hats, harness and multitudes of rural books.

Chills rose up my spine during each show’s opening anthems as Linda Steadman’s rich voice aroused American and Canadian patriotism from the depths of every soul. I marveled at the delectable menu, including French entrees, offered by Chef Pasco (Steve Passinetti). He cooks three squares daily for several exhibitor families at his Ate-Up Cafe.

While attending several performances, I never tired of watching mules, draft horses and drivers display their talents in carts, a variety of horse/mule hitches, barrel-racing, gambler’s choice, or pulling contests. This annual autumn event definitely turns the fairgrounds into a bustling, colorful community with a culture all its own and a multitude of reasons to hang out for the day.

Tuesday, Sept. 21: Drove to the fairgrounds looking for someone in charge. As semis with Washington, Montana and Canadian license plates pulled in, exhibitors and vendors were setting up. Maintenance supervisor Bob Snider stood in the warm-up ring, raking muck from two weeks of rain. A group catching up on a year’s worth of news said they’d just seen Sherri Remmers, show treasurer and one of the behind-the-scenes queens. She soon appeared, and with her unique brand of down-home folksiness, Sherri explained how to obtain a show pass.

Wednesday, Sept. 22: Met Lawrence McGibbon from Cranbrook, B.C., visiting with Dan Cramer. Dan sat atop his yellow hitch, holding reins to his team of Percherons. I quickly learned that Lawrence jumps at any opportunity to crack a joke.

“We’re friends today but enemies on Friday,” he announced, pointing toward Dan, “unless he’s got some good whiskey. We’ve got the best horses here---bay Clydesdales.” Lawrence attended his first IDHMI show in 1977 out of curiosity and been bringing horses ever since.

Like most other exhibitors, the McGibbon family share responsibilities. Lawrence washes horses. Wife Caroline drives in cart classes and prepares the harness. Son Doug competes with most hitches. He also drives truck and performs general maintenance. Doug’s girlfriend, Cathy, feeds, tends to health care and drives in some classes. Friend, Shannon, helps as official pooper scooper. Lawrence hinted that if I was good, I might get to join them in a performance.

During our visit, Bear drove up, pulling a horse trailer aka store front. Yup, he’s just “Bear,” styler of custom-made hats who travels the mule, draft horse and single-action shooter circuit. He’ll tell you everything you ever want to know about a hat and more. He’ll also sell your unique model for $150. Throughout the show, he held a captive audience and measured many heads.

Thursday, Sept. 23: Saw show chair Linda Stutzman. We promised to connect sometime. I learned about the role of sheriff’s emergency services at the show from volunteer, Tom Green. Met Lawrence outside the main exhibit building, chatting with mule owner, Mark Schmidt, from Whitefish, Mont.

Mark has competed here for nearly 15 years. He and wife Shirley brought eight Belgian draft mules. The Schmidts farm with their mules. Mark says they put up about 100 tons of hay with horse-drawn mowers. They also compete in 3-day eventing, which includes combined driving/dressage, marathon (cross country with hazards) and maneuvering around cones. Later, I saw the mules and one of the carriages Mark uses. He builds most himself, but this German model ($28,000 new) was crafted in oak with blue leather seats and brass accessories.

“I got it reasonable,” Mark told me. “It’ll be a good part of my estate sale. It’s like a Mazaradi.” Mark offered me my Thursday thrill after hitching up and asking me to climb aboard. We took a nostalgic spin down Woodland Drive past my childhood farm near the fairgrounds.

Friday, Sept. 24: Took my mother to the 2 for 1 (seniors) afternoon performance. The scene sent Mother down memory-lane to her childhood farm in Michigan. She reminisced about riding Queen or Bess as they plowed fields. A gold mine of nostalgic stories sat waiting to be tapped among that silver-haired audience. If only youngsters could sit by every senior’s side and listen! Karlen and Margo McBirney stopped by to tell us they loved standing near the out-gate where, as tons of horse power and hitches thunder by, “the ground literally shakes.”

Saturday, Sept. 24: The McGibbons were actually serious about including me in a Sunday afternoon performance.

“Meet us here at 12:30 in black pants, white shirt and vest,” Cathy said. “You’ll ride with Doug on the 4-horse hitch.” I then strolled around the barn and caught Debbie Porcarelli feeding her Percherons. Her driving finesse and beautifully-trained horses had taken both my eye and the judge’s the day before. First-place ribbons hanging near the sleek, black beauties told the story. This, though, would be her last show. Debbie, a former ski racer and educational consultant from Fairfield, Mont., said she’d be selling her Percherons and moving on to a light-horse discipline.

Caught Linda Stutzman taking a break. She and husband Marv enjoyed good fortune when their 2-year-old Percheron filly, High Country Trish, won the Supreme Champion halter mare. Linda saw her first draft horse show in 1985.

“It was awesome,” she told me. Since then, she’s served on the show committee and now, president. “Until you get up close and personal with these horses, you don’t realize the magnitude of what they can do, how beautiful they are and their size.” The Stutzmans raise Percherons at Kootenai where they used to bring pumpkins to the school in their horse-drawn wagon and take kids for rides.

Sunday, Sept. 25: Saw photographer Jon Shaver. He’s already taken 400 digital shots. He’ll ride with us (Doug, me and CJ, the deaf Dalmation mascot) to snap pictures before our class. Visited with Andy Cramer who explained setting up the Gambler’s Choice obstacle class.

After sampling some fresh mini-donuts, I went home and changed into jeans, shirt and turquoise vest. Excited but nervous, I hoped I wouldn’t fall off the hitch. No shock absorbers when these big horses thump the ground.

I survived. The class floated by too fast as we circled the arena both directions at different speeds. Trying to spot individuals in the crowd brought back memories of merry-go-round days when you blinked, and motionless souls would seemingly zip past. The power of those eight tons of horse flesh with their long strides made me feel like we were in a rowboat drifting around the arena. Occasionally, Doug calmly cued his horses. They listened. We won second place with Debby Porcarelli taking first.

After thanking the McGibbons, I drove home, fully satisfied that I’d served the best penance ever. With the show-ending sale the next day, I had a notebook filled with wonderful memories and a newly-purchased set of used harness waiting for a cart and horse.

Some of my tomatoes may be related to these tomatoes of Betty's, but Boise weather seems to treat 'em better than Sandpoint weather.  

Frost bites

The Spokane paper said last night would be the cold night of the week. The paper got it wrong by one day. In fact, I think it's much warmer this morning than it was yesterday. Some of that may have to do with the fact that our forced air furnace is on the blink, and I could almost see my breath in this house yesterday morning.

We've been trying to get someone to look at it for almost two weeks, but this local housing boom seems to be keeping everyone associated with any kind of construction overloaded with work. So, we'll keep bundling up until someone comes or until we feel safe lighting a fire in the wood stove for the first time.

Forced air furnaces wouldn't have done anything to help my squash, cucumbers, tomatoes and some of my flowers against Mother Nature's killer cold breath the night before last. That silver linen-like film extending across the lawn yesterday morning gave me an additional hint that the first and last frost of summer had hit over night. Today's autumn, right? So, we've yet to see the first frost of this new season.

By early afternoon, the full extent of the damage to my plants became apparent. They got zapped just like I do at the Hair Hut. In fact, in some cases, their new do even resembled the reverse frost I get every two months---in the garden, a certain but minimal amount of resilient green still revealed itself beneath the yucky, black telltale signs of Death to planthood. Fortunately, I don't wither up at the Hair Hut after a zapping quite like my squash plants did.

Knowing it was useless to retrieve those four skinny little cucumbers that finally managed to appear on the vines of my fourth attempt at planting this year, I didn't even bother to grieve over their loss. It was kinda sad, though, to think the tomatoes would have to come inside where no longer would rays from the warm sun help them turn bright red or, in one case this year, yellow.

In May, I brought home some unique brands of tomato plants up from our friend Betty Munis' house in Boise. One was a New Zealand variety--don't know which, but some are elongated rather than round. Some look like enlarged acorns, while the others are shaped like jalapeno peppers. Those are the yellow ones.

As I think of Betty (she's the head of the Idaho Forest Products Commission), I'll have to display a photo on this blog to show off the dozens of varieties she and David harvested from their supreme gardens behind their Warm Springs house in Boise. Unbelievable. They were so proud of their bounty that they even hosted a tomato tasting party.

This morning, I have a large bag of tomatoes inside my house, all of varying shades of green, yellow or red. They've been severed from their umbilical cords, thanks to Mother Nature, so I'll do my best to mother them along toward total ripeness. Yesterday, I also picked my corn and my beautiful Walla Walla Sweet onions, as well as the few tiny zucchini which were on their way to ballooning on the vine.

This was a great year for tomatoes, potatoes, corn, onions, and carrots. But forget it with those cucumbers. Last year, I couldn't charm even one tomato into coming to full maturity without some blight eating away at its green skin before I'd ever get a chance to take a bite. Last year, I also picked more than 500 cucumbers and canned dozens of jars of delicious pickles. I also froze more than 50 quarts of green beans besides the thousands I gave away. This year---maybe ten quarts on the same number of rows.

So, I guess that's how it goes from year to year with gardening in North Idaho. We can never count on Mother Nature to deal us the same hand. But whatever she lets us enjoy from our gardens, it's much appreciated.

Update: Operation Backup

For several days, I waited to hear more word from the Bonner County Sheriff's deputies who joined other Idaho law enforcement personnel on a humanitarian mission to the South where Hurricane Katrina wreaked so much misery. As promised, I intended to post their dispatches and photos of Operation-Backup. The group also hauled hundreds of items to the Gulf area donated by local individuals, civic groups and businesses.

When I didn't hear anything for a while, I figured they were either too busy attending to the back-up responsibilities they took on for weary law officers in the area. In the back of my mind, though, I also wondered if they'd encountered some obstacles on their arrival. Unfortunately, according to news reports, the latter turned out to be the case. After a variety of frustrations, the deputies returned to Idaho and their respective communities a few days ago.

According to an email I received from Capt. James Drake yesterday, their story did not turn out all sour. Here's what he wrote:

Marianne,

Well we all made it back safely from Louisiana. I have seen and heard the reports in the media that we were turned away at every turn down south. These reports were not exactly correct. We encountered a couple of bumps in the road, but there was no way we were going to be slowed down. We delivered the donated material, via the Louisiana State Police (an awesome bunch).

And we worked for two days in St. Charles Parish. The area is on the road to recovery. It was a great experience and the people down there were so appreciative that we did this, it is hard to explain. If you want [to] give me a call when you get a chance and I will give you some more details. This endeavor was well worth the effort and I would do it again, this is just my opinion. Talk to you soon.

Jim

I wrote back to Capt. Drake and encouraged him to ask his officers to recount some of the sights and experiences that impressed them during this mission. I also offered to post any photographs he sends me.

In the meantime, I've read some criticism aimed toward this project. Most comments suggest that they should have just sent money rather than taking the time, the vehicles and all the materials to the area. Maybe this could be a point well-taken, considering the bureaucratic confusion that seemed to reign through the first few days after tragedy cut such a wide path through these Southern states.

I look at it differently, however. Though their mission may not have gone exactly as expected, I think our "results-driven" society sometimes forgets an important element which leaves a stronger, more meaningful legacy. The spirit of this endeavor clearly said a lot about our sheriff's department and our community. Almost instantly, once the word was out, the community became galvanized. For three or four days, a steady stream of vehicles rolled into the sheriff's office, loaded with generous hearts and generous quantities of supplies to send to other Americans in need.

The Bonner County Sheriff's Department served as a vital instrument for hundreds of local citizens who wanted to do something tangible, something with a personal, local touch. Yes, sending a check to the Red Cross or to the many other suggested charities may have been a wiser, less complicated choice.

In my mind, however, Operation Back-up put names and faces and a North Idaho flavor to a very special grass roots mission. It reminded us about what's in our hearts, and it gave some dedicated public servants an opportunity to represent this community so far away from the tragedy as ambassadors of good will.

I am very proud to have donated to this cause. I was also proud the night I spent visiting with these folks before they climbed in their vehicles and headed down the road, filled with enthusiasm and a great desire to do their part, not only for the victims of Hurricane Katrina but also for the folks back home who so much wanted to help but could not go themselves.

Operation Back-up may have fizzled in some folks' minds, but as a first-hand recipient of the generosity of my community back in 1984 when our house burned down, I can vouch that this spirit of good will which is such a vital part of our local citizenry is never forgotten. The knowledge and vivid memories of good-hearted people wishing to help in their unique ways last a lot longer than the dollars and cents.

Hats off to our sheriff Elaine Savage and her dedicated, civic-minded deputies. And hats off to all who contributed to this cause.

Changing times for the local yocals

During the past few months, I've thought a lot about launching an important project. It would be patterned after the "Where's Elmo?" challenge; in this case, I'd call it "Where are the Locals?" I want to do this and possibly publish a guide to exclusive local hangouts because wherever locals dare to gather, I learn so much from the hot talk about some of the imported insanity that's invading our space.

I saw in today's Daily Bee letters-to-the-editor that some unnamed locals must have gotten together to have a conversation about another well-known local's ritzy development project at Dover Bay. The alleged discussion focused on why full-page Dover Bay ads keep appearing in the local paper when several locals pooling all the financial resources they could muster still couldn't even afford to make a payment on the downpayment for even the cheapest parcel within the development.

While engaging in another conversation the other day at a venue where locals gather regularly, I was amazed at the story I heard about the interview process that seems to be occurring in the "strategic-selection-of-those-who-would-be-my-neighbors" department. Seems some gal has purchased some lakeview property on the side of a mountain somewhere and she's had five fancy houses built. To ensure that she doesn't have to hobnob with any less-than-desirable rednecks, hicks or country bumpkins (there are varying degrees ya know), she's held interviews with potential buyers to see if they fit her needs as proper neighbors.

Now, I don't know if this is just a myth to go along with all that urban renewal stuff we keep reading about in the paper along with the Dover Bay ads, but if it's true, the times they are a changin' since the first few decades of the 1900s when folks from the Midwest showed up here in droves, along with their cattle, kids and dogs. I'm wondering if there was any interviewing going on then. I kinda doubt it, based on the socio-economic distribution that has, throughout my life, forced both rich and poor to coexist here and happily so.

Another topic came up in that conversation the other day. It's a question I've pondered for some time, and I still haven't found someone to properly answer it, especially as I see huge house after huge house scab away the trees and foliage from our beautiful mountains surrounding our beautiful lake. If the local yocals were so stupid all this time, how were they able to exist here for so many generations and still maintain the serenity and "pristine" ambiance that attracted this latest wave of beautiful people to our area? Just a question.

The aforementioned thoughts were not the only venom spewing from the lips of these folks who've made other observations about changing times in good ol' Sandpit, Idaho. In this conversation, I also learned about "Ughs or Uggs." Now, I've never heard the term until that conversation, but that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them. I looked 'em up and, sure enough, I've seen 'em before.

They're a pretty smart-looking boot with their sheepskin tops---great for winter-time shopping when ya want to impress folks at Coldwater Creek----but the context of this conversation did make me wonder. Seems a woman from outside our local network showed up at a summer resort's neighborhood party on a 95-degree day with big hair, big enhanced lips, big enhanced boobs and Uggs.

I think she probably had some clothes on---maybe even a thong---but those reporting on this freak of North Idaho nature apparently didn't consider the rest of her ensemble too notable in describing the picture. The admittedly-skeptical observers at the party did wonder what kind of fashion statement she hoped to make among the regular folks who were clad in shorts and t-shirts.

This tongue-wagging about the craziness that's taken over our town will go on, I'm sure, wherever locals choose to congregate. And, those places are getting harder and harder to find. I can name a few, and if any other readers out there want to help me assemble my exclusive list of venues where everybody knows your name--even your last one---and loves to hear what you're thinkin', I'll be happy to take your suggestions.

Of course, before releasing any copies of this sure-to-be-sought-after guide and to stay in harmonious concert with the changing times, I'll be conducting interviews to see if recipients fit my concept of true-blue and trustworthy local yocals.

Life without deadlines? Probably never

As a freelance journalist, I live with deadlines. Since Friday, I've had a break from that ever-gnawing reality because on that day, I finished and filed two stories. Since then, I've been pinching myself, thinking about how to spend the next few days without the ever-present threat of self-destruction if I don't get moving on that interviewing or banging out that first draft on the computer.

It's amazing what control these deadlines have over one's psyche. I always swear that when two or three of assignments get stacked upon each other, I'm going to quit this stuff and get a life. Ha! Other dimensions in the life of a writer always seem to overpower these occasional threats.

For example, the next time the phone rings or an email comes, asking if I'd be interested in pursuing this story or that, I seldom resist. After all, when you can connect with someone in British Columbia who has a 20-year-old mare which has adopted and raised four orphan foals over the past few years, how can one turn down the opportunity? Or, how about the young lady in Mississippi who lost both eyes after being kicked in the face by her horse? She eventually moved on with her life with prosthetic eyes and actually got back into barrel racing.

Topics like those above tend to be too enticing for me to resist. So, I almost always weaken with my pledge to never do this again, and simply say, "Sure, send me the basics, and I'll do it."

Another aspect of writing that keeps me going is the actual process. Many writers will agree that crafting a story is like having a baby. In the beginning, it's so labor intensive and actually painful when all you can see is too much work and too much frustration. In my case, once I conceive an angle, I'm on my way to the birthing process.

Sometimes that's easier said than done, as I go through attempt after attempt trying to arrive at that angle. At least, with computers, we can simply delete. Remember all those days when you'd get sentence half-written, hate it, get mad and wad up the paper. By the time you finally got on your way, you were surrounded by a sea of paper wads. Well, it is a lot easier these days when we can simply push a button to get rid of what we don't like.

Once the perfect angle gets me going, more hard work comes along. I always staple all my interview material into one pile and skim through it several times, making sure that I tell the complete story and balance it with several perspectives, selecting the best quotes for the best circumstances and weaving it all together with some decent transitions. This segment of the process is definitely labor intensive and time-consuming.

When I do get to that final sentence, however, I'm like the mother with the newborn. The sigh of relief is overpowering, and the pride sets in. I know I've got something good. Now, all I have to do is polish, refine, boil it down and add those little bits of frosting on the cake. A lot of the polish happens outside while I'm doing tedious work like lawn mowing or raking. My mind often works as fast as the rake, thinking about better phrases or more appropriate words. Sometimes, I get so excited with an idea that I actually run into the house to make the changes.

Seeing my stuff appear print is always invigorating and satisfying but not nearly as exciting as that long-awaited, welcome moment when I've met yet another deadline and can enjoy a brief stressless interlude before a new assignment comes along.

So, I'm planning to enjoy the next few days before start feeling to feel the pressure of meeting the next deadline, which, by the way, deals with that equine foster mother in British Columbia.