Trick or Treat

I'm running late this morning, so check back later. I've got to go give my horses their morning treat, or they may want to play tricks on me and break down their fence, which would not be nice of them.

Later . . . .

Back . . . I saw snow on Greenhorn. It's ugly out there, not a great day for the Halloween crowd. And, Mother Nature fed me a trick this morning. I had my lawn looking fairly decent and leafless by the time darkness had shown up for an its first earlier-than-usual visit yesterday afternoon. As today's gloomy daylight appeared, I looked out my front windows to see that a whole new blanket of yellow uglies was covering up the green grass.

When they're hanging on the trees, they're gorgeous. But, when they're lying on the ground and it's wet and cold out there, I hate those leaves. My friend Gary told me to get a bag for the back of my riding lawnmower and mulch 'em up for the garden. That sounded like a great idea until the riding lawnmower's motor blew up and I learned from the repairman that the bag and its attachments would cost me about $350.

Another friend, Janis, told me she has this awkward contraption for sucking up leaves that she'd lend me, but I'd have to go to her garage in Palm Desert to pick it up. With gas prices these days, that doesn't sound too efficient, and I doubt I'd make it through airport security with the thing strapped over my shoulder.

So, the lawnmower sits, waiting for its new motor, and I raked this weekend until I couldn't stand it any longer. Then, I fired up the push mower and decided to massacre those damn leaves even as more kept falling on me. That ol' push mower earned a gold star for hard work yesterday as it sputterd along, gobbling and spitting out chopped up willow, aspen and locust leaves. The lawn still had remnants of its golden carpet, but they'd been chewed up enough for me to handle them with the rake.

Now, I'm gonna have to go out there and do it all over again, but I think I'll wait until the rain stops----if it does before the snow comes further down the mountain. It's all a guessing game this time of the year.

Will there be another three or four-day stretch before the snow piles up to allow me to get that yard work done the way it oughta be? Or, should I figure the odds aren't good, cut the corners and do the best I can?

Definitely a crap game as we approach winter in North Idaho. One thing's for sure, Mother Nature's got enough tricks up her sleeves to guarantee that the next few months will not be a treat.

Well, golly gee!

I just read in the Spokesman-Review that our Spokane newspaper's web site won the 2005 Online Journalism award for general excellence among medium-sized sites. One of the staff members accepted the award, which is considered "a Pulitzer of online journalism," in New York last night. Apparently, there were 600 entries worldwide in the contest as a whole.

This is pretty neat for a couple of reasons. Spokesman.com beat out PBS' "Frontline," New York's "Newsday," and Chicago's " CBS 2."

Secondly, and of particular note to me and my fellow bloggers, the online blog "News Is a Conversation," along with the "Ask the Editors" and "Daily Briefing" blogs were highlighted as the major reasons for this recognition. Each of these Spokesman features strives to bring readers into closer touch with the newspaper staff as decisions for daily coverage are analyzed.

As a participant in "News Is a Conversation" with seven other bloggers, I'm ecstatic, to say the least. This past Thursday, I had the opportunity to meet one of the online editors, Ken Paulman. He invited me to sit in on the Spokesman's afternoon editorial staff meeting. It was fun to learn how the editors lobby for and make decisions on front-page art and stories. I also enjoyed matching a few faces with the names I see in the paper.

Anyway, I've enjoyed participating in the blog for the past several months and commenting on news coverage a few times each week. To learn this morning that we've contributed to such a prestigious award-winning effort makes it all the more fun.

Plus, it gives me all the more reason to BLOG ON!

Cartoon by architect Jim Tibbs, Grants Pass, Ore.

An educational family reunion

When Laurie knew Annie was going to be around, she asked if we'd both like to come to her fifth-grade class at Farmin School and help with her Native American art projects. So, that's how we spent our rainy Friday afternoon. The teacher and older sister appeared in the teacher's classroom, along with the niece and former student to both.

How's that for confusion? I taught my sister Laurie for three years in high school. She's been teaching for 20-plus years. One of her students at Farmin School, when she taught sixth graders, was her niece, Miss Annie Love. Later, one of my students at Sandpoint High School was Miss Annie Love, my daughter. So, we enjoyed an educational family reunion of sorts and got to know Laurie's students.

The projects included beadwork, basket weaving, mask-making and coloring. Thankfully, Sharon Gunter, the art teacher, volunteered her expertise in basket-making, which is definitely the hardest of the four disciplines. About a third of the class drew the honor of the looms and started their beadwork by drawing patterns, establishing color schemes and then poking themselves or the beads with sharp needles. Laurie was pleasantly surprised to learn that the kid with the messiest desk in the room has a special knack for the beadwork.

I helped a couple of students glue their mask parts together and fooled one into thinking she had glued my finger to the mask. I always have to remember that ten-year-old's figurative thinking skills are not quite developed yet, so I kept my sense of humor and fetish for teasing under control. A couple of the shy kids smiled, though, and seemed to like the old woman's yakkity yak as we worked on color choices for the Indian symbols.

Annie supervised the beadwork patrol, while Laurie moved around the room, helping wherever needed. The two hours went by fast. Soon the kids were cleaning up their materials, loading their back packs and lining up to head out the door for the weekend. It was amazing when Laurie assembled their work on the classroom counter how much they'd accomplished as a class.

I enjoyed an added benefit when another of my former students, Lisa Thompson Green, who took up teaching later in life, came in for an after-school visit. We caught up on our kids and what they're doing. I learned that her son lives in the same part of Seattle as Annie. He's an engineer for Boeing. Lisa has always been a fun conversationalist and thinker; I can remember those yearbook deadline nights years ago in Room 4 when we'd work on page layout and gab way into the night.

It felt good to go back to a classroom. Laurie offers me those opportunities from time to time, and they somewhat satisfy the one void I feel as a retired teacher----my connection with kids. It's very sad to go to the grocery store these days and not know all the courtesy clerks by name. My association with Sandpoint's young people for the better part of my life was definitely something I took for granted until I walked away from it three years ago.

Yesterday's experience helped remind me of the spontaneity that often comes from working with kids. Fortunately, those occasional visits keep that association magical because I don't have to see them in all their moods on a day-to-day basis. Call me a school marm grandma!

Changing time; changing lives

We have to turn our clocks back an hour this weekend. That means we regain that extra hour we lost last spring. So, now that we have it back, what are we going to do with it?

Time is one of those commodities that has no accurate measurement in the grand scheme of things---unless we're baking a cake, of course. If the oven's working, we know that 45 minutes may be just right for all those soupy ingredients to meld and transform into a different texture.

When it comes to how much time to give to some of the important matters of life, however, there is no recipe book. And, how we spend the gift of an hour's time could make all the difference, or it could simply go "poof" with no clue that it ever existed.

This morning I received a foreward from one of my former students who reads this blog and who takes the time to comment occasionally. When I think of how much it means to me to hear from her, I know she has given me a few moments of her time well spent.

The foreward she sent was parable-like in that it told of a very busy man with little time for family and friends. He learned of the death of a neighbor and later received in the mail a little gold box with a gold watch and a note inside.

As a boy, he had spent hours with the older man, who shared what he thought were important things about life. In his youth, he had also often asked his older friend what was inside that box that sat on his desk, only to be told that it was what he valued most. The note inside the box read, "Thanks for your time." After reading the note, the man cut back his schedule to spend more time with his son.

As a teacher, I've been privy to similar stories that have really touched me. In one case, a student reminded me twenty years later of a time, lasting maybe five minutes, when he sat dejected and upset about a bad situation at home. I had walked up to him and spent those five minutes, trying to cheer him up and telling him that it would get better. When he told me how much it meant twenty years later, I was both touched and astounded.

So, we have that hour's gift to reclaim this weekend. How will we turn it into some of value and something that will transform---like the cake---someone or ourselves into a slightly different texture?

Brain Laps

Love Notes

by Marianne Love

for The River Journal

October, 2005

By the time I finish writing this column, if I have forgotten something, bear with me. I’m old and getting older. And, as my arthritic body continues its downward spiral, my senior-moment memory has already lapped it once and taken a runaway lead.

Speaking of lap, I must tell you about my new dog. That topic came up in my aging mind because I remember distinctly that during my childhood on North Boyer, we had an English Setter, nicknamed “Licker Lap.” Her real name was Peggy, but she earned her nickname by waiting patiently at the table for little kids like me to “schlump” our food midway between the plate and our mouths.

FYI: “Schlump” is a family term, coined several years ago, commonly used at those moments when that chunk of sauce-smothered steak you just stabbed from your plate falls off the fork and dribbles down your front, coming to rest right at boob level on your sparkling white blouse or pink cashmere sweater. This messy incident becomes an official “schlump” when another family member spots it and proudly announces to all that you have just schlumped your steak.

Schlump vigilance has actually become a family game, with great honors bestowed on the champion spotter (not to be confused with the piece of steak that’s already done its number on your shirt). This game is especially fun when we engage in fine dining at places like the Coeur d’Alene Resort. In fact, one famous family schlumping episode occurred there, but I also have enough decency (or fear) to shield the names of the schlumper or the schlump spotter. I will, however, add that this team works well together and can document some of the more vivid episodes.

Our family schlumping era came well after Licker Lap had gone to her grave. In most cases, especially because of our youthful anatomies, errant food usually came to rest in our laps so that our vigilant dog could quickly go into action. Though not a trained retriever, she did bag her share of under-the-table goodies.

Now, where was I?

Oh yeah, I was talking about dogs and memory loss. If you haven’t read my slightdetour blog (www.slightdetour.blogspot.com) or seen me being led around the sidewalks by a wiggly black-and-white bundle of canine joy, I must announce that I have a new pup. She’s a Border Collie. Her name is Kiwi.

I purchased her at the fair several weeks after one of the saddest days of my life when I inadvertently backed over my black lab, Ebbie, who’d been my pal for more than ten years. I still shudder to think of that awful morning when she died fifteen minutes later. Ebbie is buried in a beautiful flower bed across the driveway. Not a morning goes by that I don’t walk by her grave and tell her what a lovely dog she is, just as I did every morning when she greeted me, in life, with her big smile at the bunkhouse door.

It took a while, but when I watched the sheepdog trials at the fair and heard some registered puppies were for sale, I was ready. Upon first inspection, Kiwi stood out among the trio. I handed over my check, wrapped my arms around her and took her home. Never has a little dog ever melted my heart or the hearts of my family members quite like Kiwi has. Besides being cute, she’s warm, loving, funny, active, and smart.

So, when Kiwi was diagnosed with the dreaded parvo virus fewer than ten days later, I was horrified and once again devastated with the potential loss of a canine pal. With that in mind, I won’t forget to tell new pup owners to take great care, including a vaccination program with a veterinarian. Avoid areas where parvo carriers could be or have been. The disease is highly contagious. When parvo strikes, puppies have 50-50 survival odds. Fortunately, after two days of wonderful care at Pend Oreille Veterinary hospital, Kiwi beat the odds and came home.

Now, Kiwi goes with me, her protective human mom, just about every time I get in the car. She curls up next to me and sleeps, usually moving to the back seat while I’m shopping. One day, however, when I went to Wal-Mart to pick up some photos, I dropped her off at home because we’d already done several around-town errands, and I knew I’d be back shortly.

Once at Wal-Mart, I left my car near the cart-return area, walked in, purchased the photos and headed back, suddenly remembering that I’d forgotten to lock the car. Short-term memory loss kicked into high gear.

“Kiwi will be okay,” I rationalized. When I arrived at the car, she was not in the front seat, not in the back, not in the far back, not underneath the multitude of coats strewn around the car. Nowhere! I went nuts, running to a man sitting in a car next to me, summoning him to roll down his window.

“Did you see anyone take a dog from my car?” I screamed.

“No,” he said, rather befuddled with the crazy lady accosting him.

“Someone’s stolen my dog!” I shouted.

“There’s a dog barking over in that camper,” he offered.

I rushed to the camper, pounded on the window, only to have a ferocious set of teeth, belonging to a growling dog, safely on the other side of the glass. I ran to another car, frantically screaming the same question.

“Did you see anyone take my dog from this car?” I yelled. The occupant said “no” and handed me his cell phone to call 911. When I couldn’t even manage to tap out the three numbers, he grabbed it back and said he’d call.

Suddenly, fortunately, a gong went off in my aging mind.

“You didn’t bring Kiwi with you!” the gong announced.

“Ah, never mind,” I said to the nice man. “My dog’s at home.” I left the parking lot, thankful. Thankful that neither of these men had ever laid eyes on me before and thankful that my Kiwi was safe at home.

Now, have I forgotten anything?

My wild Irish friend

The big green logging truck had a sign across its front letting everyone know along the North Idaho back roads and the highways that the Wild Irishman was coming. I always waved wildly with my hand. No dinky little truck driver wave with index finger extended above the steering wheel was adequate when Cliff Irish was barreling down the road.

Rough talking, funnier than all get out, boisterous but good-hearted as they come, Cliff has always been bigger than life to his hometown fans like me. I still haven't climbed into his truck for that long-promised run to go pick up a load of logs and drop them off at the mill. If I don't hurry, the mills will be all gone and Cliff and I may be too old.

Folks around here know and love Cliff so much that when he used to park his truck in the middle of the Fourth of July Parade on Cedar Street, jump out, head into the Tervan, buy himself a beer and climb back in, the crowd roared with delight. He could always generate more applause than any of the local elected officials waving from convertibles.

Cliff and I go back to high school days and the old-time Bonner County fairs when they were held down on the north shore of the Pend Oreille River where the museum now sits. I also remember a time just a few years into my career when I was young and silly. Another beginning teacher and I went to the Middle Earth tavern to discuss whatever problems were affecting us at the time. Within minutes, Cliff and Jim Jasman walked in right as John Denver was singing "Rocky Mountain High" on the jukebox.

Our working woes dissipated as Cliff's classic one liners and crazy stories kept Jim, Teri and I giggling for the next couple of hours. If I recall right, he may have even invited us to accompany him and Jim across the street that night to the 219, but we were good girls who taught school so we declined the invitation.

I'll never forget another time when we sat together at our sons' baseball game. Another rough, tough hombre, noted for his problem with rear-end coverups (aka plumber's butt), came driving up to the baseball field in his big truck, got out and headed toward the stands. Keeping his eyes focused on the guy, Cliff announced, "Well, here comes the Bonner County Crack."

One of the best things about Cliff is his wonderful family. When he married Patti, he turned into an instant father to three fine boys. Then, came Rusty and his daughter Rebecca. Our close association continued over the years thanks to the added friendship of my son Willie and Rusty who met at day care as toddlers.

I write about Cliff this morning because I'm thinking about him and his family as they grieve this week for Cliff's father, Floyd, who died a few days ago at his home. Bill told me Floyd, who was a lot more soft-spoken than his son, had suffered from Parkinson's.

Floyd and his wife Leona have lived on their Dufort area farm and contributed much of their time to the agricultural concerns in this community for years. Bill says the neighborhood has benefitted for decades from Floyd's generosity as a good and caring neighbor. Floyd and Leona raised a family of hard workers and good people like Cliff. I have a feeling the funeral will attract a huge crowd from around the county.

Cliff is my Wild Irish friend and a friend to many in this community. So, I take this time to wish him well and extend our condolences to him and his family.

Humble pie

I listened to an entire hour of Joan Didion last night on Charlie Rose. She wrote a book about the first year of life without her writer husband, John Gregory Dunne. He suddenly collapsed and died in 2003 while she was fixing salad at their apartment. They had just returned home from visiting their daughter who was at a hospital in a coma from pneumonia and septic shock. She died several months after Didion's husband.

The resulting book The Year of Magical Thinking has been nominated for the National Book Award. During last night's hour-long interview, Didion explained her process in writing. She realized early on that her thoughts during this first year would turn into a book.

She purposely kept them raw, fully illuminating truly crazy moments that she experienced while dealing with her grief. Even later, when copy editors tried to "fix" her style of punctuation, she insisted that her original style not be compromised because she wanted to portray her personal emotions in a very natural state.

I was especially interested in Didion's interview last night because of my interest in the book, which I'd read about in a newspaper feature last week, and because I love to listen to authors talk about their writing process. As in the famous vice presidential debate of the '80s when Sen. Lloyd Bentson told Dan Quayle, "You're no Jack Kennedy," I'll quickly report that I'm no Joan Didion.

I am an author of my own kind, though, currently going through the writing process. At this point, the process involves revision of a manuscript I sent away ten months ago. I'm struck, after reviewing one chapter of my first draft, how raw it actually is. It reflects strong, opinionated thoughts, written at a time when I had not yet shed the heavy, somewhat judgmental emotions that classroom teachers encounter on a typical day with kids.

I was early into my retirement from teaching when most chapters were written, still remembering so vividly and so harshly day-to-day frustrations. I told it like it was. Three years away from the classroom, after reviewing what I've written, some of the personal thoughts I revealed seem a bit much.

A few weeks ago, I was cursing the fact that it had taken so long for the publisher to send me feedback. After looking over this first chapter, I think she did me a huge favor by giving me time to develop a calmer perspective which will, no doubt, offer a more palatable view of my years as a teacher.

Unlike Didion who wanted so much to express the raw emotion of losing her life partner of 40 years, I now believe that the tone in some of my stories needs to be softened. In some cases, I just plain don't like what I had to say, even though it may have been painfully true at the time. In other anecdotes, written nearly two years ago, I anticipated humorous reactions at the time. Now, I fear that many readers may just find some of these personal observations downright annoying.

It's definitely a humbling experience, especially for an impatient journalist who wants feedback right now, to view one's writing after such a long period has passed. This situation presents a great opportunity, though. Having several nights to sleep on it has provided me the distance to have more of a reader's perspective as I revise.

Time has become my mirror and friend. The reviewer's comments provide my guide. My Lessons with Love continue. The manuscript is now undergoing a much-needed makeover.

Busy times

If I can keep track of what I've done and what I'm supposed to do this week, it will be impressive. With each new day offering another gift pak of glorious autumn sunshine, along with striking fall scenes accented by brilliant reds and golds, one doesn't want to waste a minute. The "to-do" list this week doesn't allow for wasted time. If all goes as well as yesterday, however, I'll be satisfied.

My check list of "things to do before the snow flies" is diminishing. New Irises, purchased from Gary and Carol Pietsch's Goose Crossing Iris, are in the ground and surrounded by mulch. I noticed one variety called Argus Pheasant, so, of course, it's planted just a few feet away from Bill's pheasant roost. I asked Gary to surprise me with his selection of bulbs, and, though the invoice gives me a pretty good clue to the colors, I know it will be exhilarating to see these bulbs pop open for the first time in my yard next year.

During my morning and evening walks with Kiwi and Annie Dog, I've been studying all angles of our barn, thinking of ways to make it look even better. There are still a few broken windows along both sides, which have been in that state since we first moved here almost 29 years ago. Bill has repaired a few of them, but with every one of the originals destroyed by rock-throwing contests among the little boys who inhabited the place before we did, a lot of fixing was needed--and with that, time and money.

This summer my brother Kevin constructed two new window frames for the barn. Then, I went to Aspen Windows and Doors and had them attach a plexiglass sheet for each frame. They were finally installed in their respective slots on the east side of the barn a few days ago. We have just three windows needing to be replaced now.

The barn had also lost some of its white trim along the corners over the years, so that's been this last week's project. One by one, I've found the right-sized boards, painted them, and nailed them to those open spots. Just one remains on the northeast corner. Next year, I'm hoping to have the dollars to get the south double doors repaired since our two "starving" horses like to eat the boards off from them. If that repair happens, it will occur during the barn's 60th birthday year, so I'm hoping we can celebrate the fact that it looks almost as good as new.

Yesterday, I also rototilled my big garden for the last time this fall. It's ready for spring---almost. With any available time before the snow flies, I'll be putzing around with the wheel barrow scooping up horse apples from the pastures and dumping them in the garden. I've even been known to do that with a sled in the winter time. When the snow melts the apples sink into the dirt, so it's a good stroke for fertility any time of the year.

Can ya tell I love living on a farm? Well, I'll get plenty more farm stuff this week because my sister Barbara is heading off with her youth judges to compete in Albuquerque at the National Arabian Show. That means Laurie would be left with 13 stalls to clean before heading off to school each morning. So, I'm taking Barbara's share and will be out in Colburn every morning scoopin' the poop.

I think I'm also going to be accompanying Mother to some of the business appointments she has this week. I function as her "ears" when she has these meetings. Along with the two of us will go pad and pen, so that she has all the information written down.

In the midst of all that, Miss Annie Love is coming home for two days. Her birthday present was an airline ticket from Seattle to Spokane. So, when I pick her up Wednesday, we'll meet Willie and Debbie at the family's favorite restaurant/watering hole, O'Doherty's. I haven't seen Willie and Debbie for two months, so it will be fun to catch up with them.

On Thursday evening, we'll dine at Ivanos with the Sandpoint contingent--Mother, Laurie, Bill, Annie and me. I promised Annie the flight home and steak, so we're hoping Ivanos provide a nice dinner setting for her to dig in to a good piece of meat, smothered with A1 Sauce. Chocolate cake comes afterward.

On Friday morning, Laura, Sefo and the triplets will be up from Plummer for their first visit in several weeks. The plan includes an outing at Round Lake with Annie before she heads back for Seattle that afternoon.

With any time in between, I'm working on a story assignment and the endless revision process with my manuscript. And, just as I punched the period for the last sentence, I glanced out the front windows at that yard full of leaves, waiting to be raked, scooped up and hauled off.

I'm tired.

Birds of a feather

Dr. Pamela Riddle Bird pointed to a couple of gadgets in a glass case and said, "This will probably end up in the Smithsonian." The items happened to be the first respirators invented by her husband Dr. Forrest Bird several decades ago. Pam wanted me to see them because I'd been a teacher.

The display sat among a myriad of gauges, old film reels, research materials and seemingly endless counter space which wrapped it way around the northeast side of a large museum-like facility. We had just enjoyed a sumptuous noontime feast and some rich visiting yesterday afternoon in Glengary along Lake Pend Oreille's east side across the waters from Hope.

We were visiting the Bird Airlodge, which I'm sure was established out there at least 40 years ago. There was no doubt for its name as Mother and I walked, arm-in-arm to the facility over a spit-shined garage floor past three helicopters and a small plane. As we walked up the stairs, it was evident someone at the facility likes Halloween. A grizzled old codger in a black suit stood motionless at the top of the stairs, offering a plate candies to all who walked by. Who knows if the statue was alive; he looked real enough!

A pair of giant candy corns on a table in the huge room surrounded by walls decorated with trophy hides of virtually every species of Northwest wildlife available, tempted Kathy Chambers and me to feign taking a bite. A giant charcoal-grey rat, with its long, snake-like tail sat looking very real in its captive mousetrap on a bench near a door leading to the scientific display area.

We had come to this fascinating place, where a series of more modern respirators along one side of the room put out a continuous whir, because of the Women of Wisdom. Since my mother is one of the group of phenomenal older women in Sandpoint who've been selected for this honor, we were accompanying her to the group's fall luncheon. The purpose was to sip beverages, sample hors d'oeurves and dine on a smorgasboard of tasty meats, salads and desserts. After eating, we digested a large helping of wisdom tidbits.

Hazel Hall, who like my mother, couldn't hear much of what was said, partially because of the respirators, repeated her oft-quoted gem of wisdom. "It's attitude and gratitude," she said. In her brief speech, this 92-year0ld amazing lady, also took us back to a time when earlier women arrived in Sandpoint and courageously planted the early seeds for the special cultural mix we enjoy in our community today.

Those women, like Dr. Forrest Bird, were pioneers in their field. And fortunately for both Dr. Bird and the early Sandpoint fems, their raw essentials have reaped invaluable benefits for countless generations. In Dr. Bird's case, his respirators are known and used the world around. In the case of our early pioneer women, their modern-day counterparts cling to vestiges of those initial efforts that molded this community into its own uniqueness.

After the bits of wisdom, Pamela, whose own company, Innovative Product Technologies, Inc., connects famous inventors with potential clients, told us about what goes on out there at that huge facility located at the end of a confusing network for roads. We learned that it's common for influential people from around the world to visit Bird Airlodge. Research happens. Inventing continues. People come to observe and learn of possibilities for the work that goes on there.

Pamela met Forrest Bird at Disneyworld, while she was coordinating a convention. It's obvious from listening to her that their marriage is based on teamwork and common respect for each other's much-sought-after talents. They're high-powered people, but through a quick observation of yesterday's setting, it's also obvious that some healthy humor plays a major role in their success. They also emanate a sense of sincere bliss because they can continue the majority of their great works in such a quiet setting far away from the craziness.

I thoroughly enjoyed my first visit to the Bird Airlodge yesterday, and once again, will echo what's said so often: to believe all this greatness and wisdom happens here in little ol' Sandpoint.

Schweitzer autumn splendor; soon, winter white

Golden carpet

The mountains to the west are socked in with low-hanging fog. The sun has yet to rise. At least half the aspen leaves have not fallen. Nonetheless, today promises to be an autumn delight---65 degrees and sunny. In the past couple of days, my front lawn has turned into a growing carpet of green and gold as the trees give in to cold nights and slowly but steadily let go of their annual adornment.

That means work this next week. The rake will come out. My shoulders will get tired and my hands calloused from thousands of repetitive motions to remove that temporary carpet before heavy rains glue it to the ground and wash away the color. It's times like this that I wish for a huge central lawn suction machine that could be plugged in and set into action. Instead of days spent raking, this machine would suck up that leafy carpet within minutes.

Since I haven't heard of one of those on any of the infomercials, I'll have to settle for one more year's worth of raking. But since only half the leaves have fallen, I've got some time to think about my upcoming achy arms and leafy toil. I'm just going to enjoy today. We don't have many of these left for 2005 before the dark ages take over. Such glorious days must not be wasted.

So, I'm just gonna shut up, get this body moving, and wish everyone a wonderful Saturday wherever you are.

Forest Service Friday

I've been writing a few news releases about the Forest Service doubleheader today here in Sandpoint. The articles tell about a reception at the local museum for present and past Forest Service employees who can swap stories, sample refreshments and view Idaho's only showing of the K.D. Swan photographic exhibit Splendid Was the Trail. After that gathering, they can move on down to the Panida Theater at 7 p.m. and watch the two-hour movie The Greatest Good: A Forest Service Centennial Documentary.

These two events represent Sandpoint's way of celebrating the 100th birthday of the U.S. Forest Service. I'm planning to take in at least the first part of the offerings. Having seen the movie here at home, I don't know if I'd want to sit through it again. The reception, however, could be well worth attending, especially to see the faces out of the past and reconnect.

I'm one of many former Forest Service employees in this area, and I relish that experience during my early 20s when I worked summers for the U.S. Forest Service engineers. The first year, my partner Sis Ballenger and I were notable novelties within the ranks. In fact, we were the first young women to work in the field (besides lookouts) for the Kaniksu National Forest. We were such a new breed that the local paper featured an article about us called "Hard Hats and Curls."

My "in" with the Forest Service came through Esther Lines, a family shirt-tail relative who worked as secretary for the Kaniksu engineers. Esther heard that the honchos were going to hire some girls to run their traffic surveys, so she let my mother know. I signed up and had me a summer job. Before reporting to work, I had to purchase some sturdy boots because the Forest Service had standards for safety.

After meeting Sis and the staff, including Vern Eskridge, Dave Lee, George Agar, Dick Creed, Howard McKay, Jim Stark, Rudy Reuterdahl, Grant Vest, and "Clearwater Norm" Allison, among others, we started our field work surveying nine miles of the Grouse Creek Road. During lunchtime, Dick Creed was always searching for huckleberries, so we just dubbed him "Huckleberry," which he's remained in my mind ever since.

The greatest good I derived from working for the Forest Service was getting to know some lifelong friends and getting to know the vast domains within the mountains around Sandpoint, Bonners Ferry, Trout Creek, Montana, and Usk, Washington. We learned the truck driver wave (one finger above the steering wheel) as we drove our various "rigs" up narrow, sometimes washed-out mountain roads. We also talked to hundreds of recreationalists during two-day traffic surveys at forest entrances near Priest Lake, Usk, Farragut, Clark Fork and Trout Creek.

During the second summer, my partner changed. Sis opted to do something else, and Chris Moon came aboard. That partnership spawned a warm friendship that I'm sure will live with each of us to the grave. I'm also sure that Chris will agree that our adventures and "misadventures" in our Job Corps Dodge Power Wagon will always rank among the most powerful memories of our lives.

We did our office and field jobs and then some. I don't know whether I should mention all the "then some's," but some of those antics involved battery acid burns that sent Chris home to get some new jeans, and unauthorized trips to Chewelah, Washington, and Canada. Don't ask me what business a couple of Forest Service maidens had at the Canadian border, but I'm sure our "lie" was plausible at the time. We did have a story cooked up for every time we took a slight detour from our assigned mission, just in case we got caught.

On our twice weekly round-the-lake missions to set up and read half a dozen traffic counters in the Coeur d'Alene and Johnson Creek drainages, we carefully timed our work load (all of about 15 minutes a day) to coincide with lunch at John and Carol Bertoni's establishment in beautiful, serene Lakeview which is situated in the midst of some of Lake Pend Oreille's most active gold and silver mining. We loved that little village along the lakeshore and looked forward to our hamburgers and visits with John and Carol.

We also got to know Ada and Devere Hannah at Usk and Flo at the Eat-a-Bite Cafe in Trout Creek. For our 12-hour long traffic surveys, we brought along ice chests filled with way more food than either of us ever needed to eat, but when you're sitting for 12 hours in a spot where maybe five cars go by all day long, ya gotta entertain yourself somehow. We were definitely no Jenny Craig's during those summers.

I won't forget the cherry seed-spitting contests on the Bunco Road, and I can never forget that same setting where several bees got down my pants and stung me right as a car was rolling into our traffic stop. At that frantic, piercingly painful moment, I was not the least bit modest about pulling down my jeans to ward off the fiendish critters. Chris and the visitors enjoyed the show.

My memories over four summers with the Forest Service could fill another book. And, I'm sure I'll be spouting out a few at the reception this afternoon. It promises to be a great journey back to a splendid time in my life. I'm looking forward to it.

Cartoon by architect Jim Tibbs, Grants Pass, Ore.

Astros Joy, White Sox Joy; no Series losers

Hoorah for the Astros! After luring all their fans out of their seats in their Houston stadium or to the edge of their couches at home on Monday night, the team's apparent victory just went "Poof!" Just like that, after one pitch and one three-run homer by a big, strapping St. Louis hitter, all went silent. Fans sat down in the stadium while those on the couch rolled over and quietly groaned. They were that close to making it to the World Series for the first time ever in their 45-year history.

With that stunning last-minute defeat, many thoughts turned toward the Cubs in their big game two years ago when they were finally on their roll toward baseball immortality. Then, suddenly came the controversial hit where the fan touched the ball and "Poof," the momentum fizzled. The Cubs lost. The supposed jinx continued. This will probably happen again, we thought. Houston will self-destruct and lose in St. Louis. Bill will have to wait one more time for his Astros to go to the Series. Nonetheless, we watched last night's game.

Somehow, from the beginning when Houston's pitcher stepped onto the mound, all thoughts of the Astros' bubble being completely burst, quickly dissipated. This young, determined pitcher had come to St. Louis to win a game. Houston hitters came to win a game. They did so, methodically, without fanfare, with disciplined, hard work and highly controlled offensive and defensive baseball. The Houston Astros ARE going to the World Series, and my hubby is pretty happy.

He's followed the Astros since they were the Colt 45's. He attended games in the Astrodome during the mid-'60s when the team became known as the Astros because of Houston's space program. He remembers the glass opening in the roof of the Eighth Wonder of the World which caused problems when the sun came through, often blocking the players' view of action on the field. They painted over the roof. The grass died. Astro turf was born. Bill was a teenager when all that happened.

When Bill was married and the father of two little kiddies, he returned to the Astrodome on a June day in 1980. That was my introduction to Major League baseball in person. This morning, we were trying to remember who the Astros played that day and finally agreed it was the Cardinals. I don't remember too much about the game because the only tickets available were in the "nosebleed" section.

My true fear of high places became quickly apparent that Saturday as we sat almost near the ceiling and struggled to identify those tiny little players running around on that field seemingly miles away. I spent most of the game walking around outside the seating area, watching people and trying to find some souvenirs I could afford.

Several years later, when the kids had grown and Pittsburgh's "We are FAMILEE" World Series winners came to town to play the Astros, we were once again in Houston and had ground-level seats just a few rows from the field. I have pictures of the great Willie Stargill as he spent part of his pre-game visiting with fans just in front of us. Thanks to our prime location, this time I spent more time watching baseball rather than people that day.

Because of our Houston Astros experiences, we're all thrilled to see them in the Series. I'm just as ecstatic about the White Sox. When one has the Irish Chicago genes like mine, with both parents born in the Windy City, it's totally natural to pull for the White Sox or the Cubs.

I can't even begin to imagine the elation my two classmates Gil Bohan and Mike Parkins must be feeling as the days wind down toward this year's Series. In June, we spotted Mike in Sea-Tac on his way to Chicago for a Father's Day White Sox game, and Gil's main claim to fame among us 1965 classmates was his undying devotion to his Sox.

There'll be no losers for us in this World Series. We'll simply sit back and enjoy the games. I'm sure Bill will be happy if his Astros win, but I think we both agree that this match-up and the legendary lore that goes along with it exemplifies all that's good about the sport of baseball.

Move over bypass, bring on urban renewal

It seems that Sandpoint always needs something to fight about. Its newest conflict is just heating up, but it promises to be a barnburner. That's just what I'm worried about. I watched the remnants of the barn and its leaning wooden silo at the old Harney dairy, which my folks once owned, go up in smoke this past week. Work has already begun for a new housing development on that farm.

Having watched this transformation just up the road, I worry about what will happen to my stately red barn once Urban Renewal goes into action. Will our place be considered a "blight" out here in Northwest Sandpoint? Will someone come and tell us to clean up or get out because our little farm with its two horses, two dogs, half dozen cats and assorted barn-roosting pigeons is an eyesore in the midst of industrial land?

How much of our front field will get chopped off when the $4 million worth of improvements turn Great Northern Road into a boulevard? These are all questions going through my mind, along with the number one concern of how high or how low our tax bill is gonna be once we step into the Urban Renewal era. At this point, I don't know whether to be glad or mad.

Right now, all I know is what I read in the papers. Rather than the occasional report on what's happens when the urban renewal planners have their meetings and the daggar-filled flames I'm seeing launched back and forth between proponents and opponents, I'd like to read more hard facts. I'd like to see clear explanations of urban renewal and how it will affect the every-day ordinary citizen who's possibly scared to death of upcoming tax bills or fearful of who's gonna come knocking on their door to tell them their residence doesn't quite match up to Sandpoint's new community standards.

I can see urban renewal benefits because our infrastructure here in Sandpoint could use some improvements to support all those people we've invited into our town. Having driven Great Northern Road for 31 years, I'll be first in line support its reconstruction. I've often suggested that it's the worst road in the county. There's room for discussion on that, but I know it's the worst road in the city. So, it definitely needs a fix, especially considering that within the next few years, several hundred employees of various companies out here will be traveling the road twice daily.

I do wonder, however, with the estimated $4 million extreme makeover if any thought has gone into what happens when the trains continue to block the road for several minutes at key times when people are headed to and from work. Maybe that's been considered, but I haven't seen anything.

The urban renewal discussion has already turned into hot debate. And, from what I've seen so far, it promises to evolve into another of Sandpoint's bitterly divisive issues. As always, I believe that demonstrating respect through a little better communication and some open forums with reader-friendly fact sheets, explaining to the public just what it does entail, may soothe some of anxiety that this somewhat foreign concept seems to be thrusting upon the citizenry of Sandpoint.

Of course, we ARE heading toward winter, and we do need some hot stuff to help us endure those long, gray, cold days ahead. So, maybe in its own way, just like the 55-year-old byway issue, the urban renewal fight could keep the letter writers happy, sell more papers for the Daily Bee and help natives like me ward off winter doldrums by keeping us in a permanent state of unrest.

Bring it on!

Happy Birthday, Jim, our Slightdetour cartoonist.

Jim, the birthday boy, created this logo. It wasn't originally intended for a blog, but its worked out nicely for us and our postings over the past 11 months. See explanation for its appearance in today's posting below.

A Beta Sig appearance

Let me think out loud this morning. At 1:30 this afternoon, I'll be speaking to one of the Beta Sigma Phi groups here in town. The meeting will be at the local library, and the ladies will be coming back from lunch. My first invitation to address this group came late last year for a January meeting. The wind blew and the snow flew on the appointed day, so they postponed until a later date.

That day has come. So, I'll talk about my writing activities in general. Will lead off with a sneak preview of my next River Journal column, which involves dogs and memory---short term, that is. Basically, I thought my newest dog was short term or should I say "gone missing" one day when my short-term memory played games with me.

It almost won, but like that USC-Notre Dame game the other day, I regained my senses at the last second and managed to ward off defeat of my crazy mind. My dog, thankfully, is not short-term and had not "gone missing." So now, you're wondering what the heck I'm talking about---read The River Journal next week.

After the sneak preview, I'll discuss the progress of my current manuscript about my teaching career, called Lessons with Love. I doubt that many of the ladies know I've written a third book, so that'll involve plenty of interesting information to share. It may be fun to read off some of the chapter titles like "Emmel's May Day Memories," "Ponderettes and Pie, Not a Good Mix," or "Stay Outa My House" and give them a few hints of what's to come.

Then, I'll talk about blogs. I've copied off Jim's "Slight Detour" logo (EVERYBODY BE SURE TO SEND JIM A HAPPY BIRTHDAY GREETING TODAY. HE'S ON THE OREGON COAST BUT WILL BE BACK AT HIS COMPUTER TOMORROW. jwtibbsarch@hotmail.com Tell him his sister told you to do it).

Anyway, I'll show the ladies his cool logo and talk about the great opportunities of blogging. I'll also show them a copy of the blog bio booklet we gave all of our classmates during the 40th reunion this past summer. Finally, I'll read a few of my choice postings for the past year. If all goes well, maybe a few of these ladies will give blogging a try. By that time, Mary Verdal, who's conducting the meeting, will raise her hand, cueing me to shut up.

Today's talk is about the 75th I've done since first writing my book Pocket Girdles in 1994. The anticipation of such events never gets any easier. I always tell whoever introduces me that if I'm not in the room at speech time, to talk a little longer and I'll appear because I'll be coming from the bathroom. One would think that all the practice and all the years of teaching would make these appearances easier, but it doesn't.

So, I've already taken care of that part of the planning. Mary knows to play it cool today and keep on talking until she sees me at the door, ready to roll. Once the talk begins, the nerves subside and the rest usually turns out to be a lot of fun.

Monday Recap on fat and sport

I saw an article about fat in today's paper. It said if you weigh often, you more likely to keep your pounds off. I've been doing that for the last three years and have managed to avoid gaining those 40-something pounds I lost after retiring. This past week, however, I haven't been on the scales, so the article served as a good reminder to get back on board and monitor those pounds every day.

With that in mind, I was going to talk about fat today, but it's pretty hard to stay on the subject when there's so much to discuss from the sports world, especially after the past few days. How can I talk about fat when I keep remembering that Annie called us last night from Seahawks stadium just before halftime at the Seattle-Texans match-up? The Seahawks ran over the visitors by several touchdowns.

And, Annie was there to watch, compliments of Marriott Corporation. Apparently, they supply Seahawks tickets in nice seats once each year for their managers and supervisors. So, our daughter joined her colleagues and took it all in, including the tailgate parties before the game. It was kinda neat to hear her call us from the stadium with all the noise in the background. She sounded genuinely excited to be there too.

I'm sure Willie was also watching the game on TV, as was Bill, in hopes of spotting Annie. Willie's a multi-tasker when it comes to sports. I think he gets that from his father. It was a tough night for them last night cuz while the Seahawks were playing for our Annie and several thousand other fans, Bill and Willie had to keep track of the Chicago White Sox, who were doing their best to make it into the World Series for the first time since I was in the seventh grade in 1959.

They made it by beating the Angels 6-3. Though my mother has been a Cubs fan forever, she's also a Chicago native, so I'm sure she's happy this morning. But the person who has to be the happiest of anyone I know is a guy named Gil Bohan. Gil aka Dana Fahrenwald, sat in the same row as Lorraine Davis, Carley Pfeiffer and me in Mrs. Parker's senior English class. And Gil loved his White Sox. We'd hear about them most every day.

Last I heard, Gil lived in Tacoma. He's kind of an off-the-wall character, but I'm guessing this morning that he could be considered more "out of the park" in his sheer ecstasy toward last night's game which gave the White Sox their ticket to the Series. My husband Bill will be equally excited if his Houston Astros make it to the Series. Actually, we all will since we've attended a couple of Astros games over the years as a family.

It was definitely a big sports weekend all around. I know that from reading the paper and from listening to my family members. When I talked with Willie Saturday night, he had just finished watching the Notre Dame-USC game, which is now being referred to in "epic" proportions because of the last-minute drama when Notre Dame fans ran on to the field, thinking the Irish luck had won another for the Gipper and everyone else who's ever loved that football team.

As fate would have it, though, the replay showed that the USC player had been knocked out of bounds on the 2, thus adding 7 seconds to the clock which had run out. Then, USC's Heisman-winning quarterback pretended he was going to down the ball but ran it in for the winning score. At least, that's pretty much how it was reported to me by my sports reporter son.

And, speaking of his reporting skills, I've got one more reason not to talk about fat this morning. He also reported to me Thursday afternoon that he'd won a third-place award among Washington weeklies for his sports column in the Newport/Gem State Miner newspaper.

When I talked to him later, he told me that recognition came from his early columns when he was just getting started. He's been working hard in the past few months to hone his writing and develop his voice, so who knows what may happen next year.

Yup, in this morning's post, I've definitely skipped the fat and have weighed in on an exciting sports world, which should remain fairly intense for the next week or so. In fact, it looks like I'll be joining Bill, Willie and Gil and watch more ESPN than usual as the Series heats up. Which means that even I could easily turn into a part-time sports couch potato, so those bathroom scales had better go back into action.

4 in 1 birthday week

Yup, this week we get four for the price of one---birthdays, that is. Well, at least I do. Maybe there are more out there for the rest of you, or maybe you're off the hook at remembering special people in your lives and their special day. Anyway, I'm thinking about these folks, so I'll tell you about them. Their names are Sefo, Jim, Annie, and Diane.

Sefo's birthday is tomorrow. I think he's going to be 34. I'm sure his wife, who's my niece Laura, will correct me if I'm wrong. Sefo is a father extraordinaire. He moved here with Laura and his three children from Samoa just over a year ago. Now, Sefo's not just any father; his children are all the same age---3 1/2. Readers have, no doubt, read a time or two about the triplets: Jacob, Justine and Grace.

While Mom works for the Coeur d'Alene Tribe and the University of Idaho, Sefo stays home in Plummer and takes wonderful care of these adorable children. His patience is laudable. We have all enjoyed getting to know him and have marveled at what a hard worker he is. From what I've heard, he's gone through the bureaucratic tangle to obtain a green card and will be employed outside the home as the children grow older. Happy birthday, to you Sefo. May you have a wonderful day tomorrow.

Birthday Boy Number 2 will be 42 on Tuesday. He's the youngest of my siblings and the artist behind the cartoons you see on Slightdetour. In fact, he came up with the name for this blog. He's been here in Sandpoint for the past few days. He's an avid hang glider, a devoted astronomer and a talented architect. His original birth day came in the midst of an event that has not repeated itself in 42 years.

Jim was born at Bonner General Hospital as Dr. Hayden and my mother were listening to the Sandpoint-Lewiston football game. My brother Kevin was playing for the Bulldogs that year. Jim arrived at half time. The close contest ended with a 9-7 Sandpoint victory, sealing an undefeated season for the Bulldogs----the last one for a Sandpoint football team. That span will go at least another year since this year's team has tasted defeat.

On Wednesday, I'll be sending flowers (don't tell her) to my daughter Annie as she turns a year older. I vividly remember her birth day in that I was so calm about my second trip to the hospital maternity ward. I told Bill that morning that we'd better take Willie (then 19 months old) out to our friend Marilyn Chambers because I was pretty sure I'd be having a baby that day. We did so and then drove back to town.

I walked into the hospital and told them I needed to check in to OB. They asked me to wait while someone came to usher me in. That someone came, looked at me, looked all around the lobby and finally asked, "Are YOU the one?" She could not believe I was about to give birth, just as my students the day before when they asked me why I was going to take some time off. I may have looked six months pregnant but not nine. Well, Annie validated my appearance at the hospital by appearing herself about four hours later.

I'll never forget the day we took her home. It was the height of fall. The sky was deep blue without a cloud, and John Denver was singing "Sunshine" on KSPT Radio 1400. So, that was dubbed as Annie's song in the Love family. Bill also dubbed her "Precious," and we still think of her as such. Annie, I wish for you a day of sunshine as you celebrate your 27th year. Later, this week or next, when you can come home, we'll celebrate together.

This Saturday, my dear friend Diane turns ?? Well, she's not THAT old cuz she's younger than I by a couple of years. Diane has become a good friend through our relationship with the Appaloosa Journal. She's the editor. She assumed her role late last year after the former editor Robin gave birth and decided to stay home to be a mom.

Ever since my first encounter with Diane, I have felt nothing but respect and admiration for her, not only as a meticulous, encouraging editor but also as a warm, caring human being. Diane thinks of others and acts. Her professionalism is impeccable. I value her friendship and wish her a happy day as she moves on to another year of life and serving as a shining example of how to live it.

So, happy October birthdays to all. You know I'll be thinking of you on your special days and what a positive difference you make in my life.

A Friday mourning tapestry

Doug would have liked the day when people said good bye. The October sun slowly broke from behind the clouds accenting the brilliant red, yellow and golden hues of the annual autumn leaf color show. I arrived at the funeral home early, as I often do for events in town. One never knows when the train will be blocking the tracks, so I choose to be early as opposed to late.

As I pulled into the parking lot, several clumps of people stood around half a dozen cars. I noticed they were mostly family so I sat just thinking about saying good bye to a classmate and what it means to all of us who live on. We have a list of about 20 from our Sandpoint High School Class of 1965 who have passed on. In most cases, we've simply heard later through word of mouth that they're no longer with us.

In Doug's case, his death came just a few months after a happy time in late July when so many of us got together and enjoyed a weekend reunion like no other. Doug was not there. People missed him. We did, however, remember those who have died at our Saturday night social, and we stood loudly cheering for our many Vietnam vets.

Doug served in Vietnam. His family said he was never the same after returning. As our reunion drew to a close, one of my classmates pulled me aside and said, "Marianne, are we going to have another reunion in five years? People will be dying, you know." I agreed. It would be important to schedule our gatherings more frequently from now on.

I knew that some classmates would be gathering for yesterday's memorial in Doug's honor. About half a dozen showed up on this busy Friday, including Robin Melior, Judy Hagadone, Vance Ekwortzell, Chris Thompson, Mike Parkins, Phil Turner, and Marianne Brown. I saw several SHS grads from classes that came before and after us. Doug's service brought out a tapestry of old Sandpoint; it also revived several memories long forgotten.

The Farmins, the Parkers, the Merwins---many of the downtown crowd were there. Bobbie Brown Huguenin and Patti Howell came as did Bill Currie and Bill Jacobson. Doug's neighbors, including Laurel Pratt Wagers and Jan Russell bid farewell. Of course, the family was well represented, including his three sisters, his lovely daughter Holly, her family and many nieces, nephews and cousins.

One family member, Joanne's daughter-in-law, with her lovely, soothing, unique voice, sang a couple of appropriate songs, including "From a Distance." One cute little guy among the family group decided he wasn't in to funerals so he and mom spent the duration at the rear of the chapel.

Nancy, the wonderful Presbyterian minister, comforted and lifted all spirits with her beautiful homily about Doug returning to a pleasant home, just like the loving one he had entered when he was born to Charley and Dora, the last of four kids and the only boy. We heard about his phenomenal sweet peas, his dog, his campfire stories, his vegetables and his joy of cooking.

I doubt there was a dry eye at the end when "Taps" was played and the funeral director presented Holly with a flag from the President honoring Doug's service to his country. The funeral ended, and everyone gathered in the noonday sun outside the chapel. That's when I spotted more faces from the past, many with grayer hair than I'd last remembered, including our eighth grade social studies teacher, Jack Bloxom.

Jack had come to us fresh out of college for his first year of teaching. With his no-nonsense, strict approach on that first day, he left an impression with all of us back in 1960-61 that we'd better tow the mark and pay attention. We learned yesterday, through an anecdote, that he was probably just as nervous and unsure of himself as we were.

As other classmates gathered to reconnect with him, he told of a day when our principal Charlie Stidwell was visiting his classroom and Steve Strecker asked a question. Jack did not know the answer, but good kharma saved him at that moment, allowing him to quickly respond, "Steve, why don't you research that and bring back the information tomorrow." Jack went on to become a legendary baseball coach at North Idaho College where he stayed for decades. He hadn't forgotten Doug, and he was there to honor him.

After the funeral and luncheon at the VFW Hall, Bill and I headed to the back country north of Bonners Ferry. As we walked around the American Girl mine site where he stashed a cache and later up the trail leading to Spruce Lake, my mind kept returning to that setting at the funeral home and the VFW hall on Division Street. I could not stop thinking about all those familiar faces, who came to honor the passing of one life and, in so doing, reminded us all of some forgotten pockets of our own lives.

Funny canine beer

I'd stopped one other time, but Fred Colby wasn't at his recently-opened establishment in Ponderay. His nice wife told me Fred had gone to the Tri Cities that day to pick up something for the business. Yesterday, however, while heading to All Seasons Nursery, I remembered I'd be passing Fred's place on the way. So, I pulled in, walked inside, and there stood Fred with a big smile, greeting me from behind the bar. Next to him stood Jerry Tifft, one of his assistants.

Fred and his wife recently opened the Laughing Dog Brewery, and they're thrilled with the response. On my first Fredless visit to the brewery, I learned that the name came from their young yellow lab which apparently has one of those big smiles for which Labs are known. I also learned that Fred had endured enough stress as a systems administrator for Coldwater Creek, during which he'd also brewed up a lot of beer.

"It was sitting all over the house, so I told him he ought to start selling it," his wife explained. The couple made their decision a little over a year ago. Now, just a few months after opening, Fred can count on one hand the establishments in the Sandpoint area that DON'T carry his brews. In most of those cases, that's soon to change because some would prefer bottled beer rather than on tap.

I'm writing about Fred this morning because I've not only sampled his beer, but he's one of my many former students. He graduated in 1982 with my brother Jim, the "Slightdetour" cartoonist and a microbrew lover himself. I'm pretty sure Fred and Jim were friends in high school.

Fred told me yesterday that he remembers most from my English class the times I'd read Patrick F. McManus stories---most specifically snippets from his book Kid Camping from A to Z. So, in additon to giving Fred some free advertising, I'll always promote anything Pat McManus writes. It's all family-friendly and funny, and it's mostly set in the Sandpoint area. There are about a dozen McManus books out there, so if you haven't read him, give one a try.

Now, back to beer. I was a bit surprised to learn that Jerry Tifft is a serious brewer. Have always just known him as Rhonda's (Sandpoint's premier flautist) devoted hubby. He's usually pretty quiet and just smiles whenever I greet Rhonda, whenever we meet at the Yoke's Pac n' Save parking lot. She's also a former student.

Anyway, I actually talked to Jerry yesterday and learned that he has just completed a microbrew program at the University of California at Davis. He's been in to beer brewing for quite some time. I also learned he's the systems administrator at Encoder Products. Fred said when he and Jerry realized they had similar backgrounds with computers and brewing, it seemed like a good business match. So, Jerry works one day a week with Fred at Laughing Dog.

When I was there yesterday, they were having a gravity problem with a batch. Jerry had a sample in a beaker and checked out something on his laptop to determine that the gravity was amiss. They tried to explain it to me, but my unscientific mind didn't absorb everything, except that it has something to do with all the ingredients--yeast and sugar agreeing to marry each other more willingly if the gravity's right.

In the meantime, I told Fred to fill up a bottle of his Amber Ale. The cool-looking bottle with the Laughing Dog logo was $8, and the beer, the same. I can take it back any time for a refill. He's also got some really neat imported decanters from Germany, which sell for $49. Very ornate, and definitely a gift idea.

Our visit got cut short when something happened in one of the 30-keg fermenters in the back room. All I know is that Fred and Jerry ran really fast through the door and that I could see brown liquid forming a lake across the floor. So, I took my beer home, chilled some glasses, made some pasta, warmed up a loaf of French bread and waited for Bill to come home for dinner. He must have liked the ale and the pasta cuz he asked for seconds.

Good luck to Fred and his Laughing Dog enterprise.

Winged Kodiak

My brother told me yesterday that his son Scott and some friends will soon be dropped off via airplane into an area on Alaska's Kodiak Island to go find a bear. I'm assuming that the critter Scott and his buddies are seeking may be a Kodiak, which is the world's largest bear and largest meat-eating land mammal.

Well, today I don't need a plane or anything other than my two legs to go find a Kodiak. I don't need to go to Alaska either. Instead, I can head out my back door, slip through a couple of fences while crossing my barnyard and one of the pastures, walk a few more feet and there will be the Kodiak with its fixed, faired leg and no pants.

This Kodiak can max out at nearly 7,000 pounds. It also puts out half whiney, half dull roar whenever it takes off toward the sky. The Kodiak I'll see today is has a white belly and a black-and-yellow backline. In short, it's a 10-place single-engine turboprop utility airplane, designed to be float capable.

Today is open house at Quest Aviation, and their young Kodiak cargo plane will be on display, probably within their new 56,000 square foot manufacturing building. The open house signals another milestone for Quest since the aircraft company first established its presence behind our home in 2001. It was then known as Packer Air, and it had moved to Sandpoint from Priest River where the idea for the Kodiak was hatched at a pontoon manufacturing plant.

Now, more than 50 engineers and other design folks along with support staff work at Quest Aviation. The company expects to increase its staff significantly once the Kodiak prototype receives its final FAA approval in 2006. At that time, the company will begin filling orders it has received since introducing the new plane at Alaskan and Wisconsin air shows. According to Quest Aviation's website (http://www.questaircraft.com/usp4.htm), by July, 12 clients---ranging from recreationalists to religious group, had placed orders for the $1 million-plus plane.

The company is targeting governmental agencies, back-country recreationalists and missionary organizations in its marketing efforts, with the first two providing the profit aspect and the latter, nonprofit. The plane is designed take off and land in restricted spaces, much like a helicopter. I've watched it do so numerous times during its testing phase over the last year.

Bill and I were also on hand with the staff during Thanksgiving week 2004 when the plane went into the air and successfully landed for the first time. We've also participated in two land trades with Quest, which have allowed them road access and convenient dimensions for their overall plant expansion. That has included the parking lot which borders our east fence.

We'll, no doubt, attend the open house, which will allow donors from all over the country to view the company's most recent progress. And, in the next few months, we expect to see lots more Kodiaks taking off and landing across the field.

Could be if my nephew decides to go hunting again for one of those huge Alaskan brown bear, a Kodiak from next door might even deposit him on the island.

Cartoon by architect Jim Tibbs, Grants Pass, Ore.

How that might change the neighborhood

This morning I'm the only member of my original family with property inside the City of Sandpoint. Until yesterday afternoon, our family owned 35 acres of this city. That all changed at a title company in downtown Sandpoint when the deal between Mother and Litehouse Dressing Inc. closed.

With this sale, it's pretty well-assumed and, no doubt, soon to become public knowledge that the 25-acre hay field pictured in last week's Slightdetour posting will eventually serve as corporate headquarters for our nation's largest refrigerated salad dressing company, which began as a small mom-and-pop business for the Hawkins family not that long ago.

I stood in that beautiful field yesterday, just minutes before the closing and quietly said good bye to an era for our family that has lasted for 55 years. It all began when Mother purchased 40 acres from Howard Balch in 1950. I was 3 when we moved to North Boyer from our little white house on Euclid Avenue, less than a block from the big brick high school.

As we began our lives on a farm, Mother began to fully realize her earlier dream of leaving Michigan and moving to North Idaho to start a horse ranch. When we moved from town, she brought a yearling Saddlebred mare named Largo with her to the farm. This made the folks in our city neighborhood happy. After all, they had told her there was plenty of land outside of town to raise horses.

When I was six, my mother remarried. Her new husband and our new dad was a cowboy named Harold who had lived down Boyer with the Racicots. Together, we became a hard-working family, following five-year goals. All members had their chores, and our farm served as home to numerous horses and lots of registered Hereford cattle. Eventually, the kid population grew from the three originals, Mike, Kevin and Marianne to half a dozen, including Barbara, Laurie and Jim.

In 1966, a neighbor named Basil Gooby suggested to my folks that they consider buying the Harney dairy, a 55-acre farm which was behind our place. It extended across Great Northern Road to a hillside and ran nearly to the base of Greenhorn Mountain. We always called it "the other place." My dad kept his cows up on that beautiful farm with its rustic barn and slightly leaning wooden silo. The lower flat acreage served as the hayfield.

About 20 years ago, Mother and Harold sold a portion of that field to the Nordeen family---the southwest quarter, to be exact. The remaining field continued to produce more than enough hay to help meet the needs of cattle and horses. During this period, airport expansion continually loomed in my folks' faces as the county eventually took a portion of the lower hayfield in front of the North Boyer home. When the airstrip, now serving lear jets along with the local small craft, ran just a few hundred feet from the house, my folks started looking for more peaceful pastures.

They sold the remainder of the original 40 and moved to the old Tucker dairy at Colburn in 1994. A few years later, they sold the farm at "the other place," leaving the 25-acre field along Great Northern Road and Woodland Drive. When my dad died in late 2003, Mother decided the field needed to be farmed. So, she contacted Harvey Lippert who plowed it up and replanted it last year. This year's first hay crop from the field yielded nearly 100 tons in two cuttings.

In spite of the wonderful hay crop, Mother is very proud to have sold the property to Litehouse because of the owners who are longtime, good friends and because the company, which employs hundreds, can remain within the City of Sandpoint.

This sale has also created a lasting legacy for her and another link to the Michigan connection for both Mother and the Litehouse folks. Their other operation is located in Lowell, Michigan, just outside of Grand Rapids where my mother attended Marywood Academy during her junior high and high school years.

Her best friend, Mary Ann Collins since high school (for whom I'm named) lives in Lowell, where Litehouse has its beautifully-landscaped grounds. When Mother saw her friend for the first time in 63 years this past spring, we walked into her retirement apartment, sat down, and five minutes later, watched a red, white and blue Litehouse truck drive by. It was a good feeling, to say the least.

And so, another era for our family has ended. A new one is about to begin in this neighborhood and for Litehouse. I have also learned that a house and five acres owned by the Thorpe family just north of us on Great Northern Road has recently sold to the Union Gospel Mission. It will serve as a mission home for women and children. Tomorrow, Quest Aviation, directly behind us, holds another open house to celebrate its Kodiak plane and the newly completed 56,000 square foot manufacturing building. By next year, their work force will grow considerably.

The neighborhood is changing. I've watched these happenings for more than half a century. It will be interesting to see how long my unique perspective from our little farm within Northwest Sandpoint continues---especially since there's been more news of change in the last five days than during the previous 55 years.

A return to Mexico City

My brother Mike and his wife Mary are on vacation in Mexico this week. They lived in Mexico City for several years while he was working for Scott Paper Co. Within days of when Mike moved there to take his new job, the Mexico Earthquake of 1985 devastated the city.

At the time, Mike told us that the experience and its aftermath (he was driving to work when it hit) was scarier than anything he encountered during two tours in the Vietnam War, and that included having his helicopter shot down by a SAM. He said that fear came from the unpredictability and the fact that no amount of training could ever prepare anyone for such a catastrophic event.

He sent us family members several photos of his trip this morning. With thoughts of one more act of nature wreaking havoc in Pakistan in the past few days, I chose this photo from the collection to feature on today's posting. Mike explains the photo in his caption below. His wife Mary stands in the picture.


Probably the most moving thing we've seen. Near "Solidarity Park," the site
of the Regis Hotel and the Alameda Park, is a new display of hundreds of
photos of the 1985 earthquake.

The display is incredibly well attended. Many of those attending are too young to remember.

Those who are older have expressions of shock that followed the quake for months. I have to admit a moment of uncontrolled emotion as I had to pull out my handkerchief to dry my own eyes...a very moving display...and those attending only add to the emotion...

Columbus Day memory

I remember this holiday weekend in 1982 when I walked the streets of New York City. It was a day much like today, blue skies, autumn leaves, a great time to be outside. I had flown into LaGuardia the Saturday night before---all by myself. This trip was a big adventure for me, and my New York side trip accompanied a week's stay in Washington, D.C. for the National 4-H photography forum.

Since the forum didn't start until Monday afternoon, I'd made arrangements with my friend Chris Moon to meet me at the airport in New York. I would stay with her for two nights in her apartment near Central Park. Chris is one of my longtime friends who seems more like family than friend.

We'd worked for the Forest Service together for three summers. She had since married, moved to New York and was pursuing her doctorate at Barnard College. I can't remember if she'd earned it by then, but she eventually worked with the speech patterns of newborns at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. These days, she's a wife and mother who teaches psychology at Pacific Lutheran University and does research through the University of Washington.

At the time of my visit, Chris had lived in New York long enough to give me the grand tour. That was our plan for Sunday. Saturday night we dined at a Cuban restaurant in her neighborhood. When I awakened Sunday morning, I leaped out of bed, anxious to see the city. Chris slept in a bit and was happy to have me take her standard poodle for a walk in the park. Before leaving, I, the country hick, learned a lesson about the city---take the plastic baggies to scoop the poop.

With dog in hand, I set out across the park. Within minutes a cop walked up to me and said, "Lady, put that camera where someone can't steal it." He then showed me the correct method to keep it safe from muggers. Must be I was pretty transparent as a hick. The dog eventually did her duty as I gawked at the sights in this place I had so longed to see. I returned to the apartment building and a lady said, "Are you the one who's lost?"

"I don't think so," I said.

"Are you from Idaho?" she asked.

"Yes," I responded.

"Well, then you're lost," she announced. I remained in disbelief because surely this was the place I'd left a few minutes before and I had seemed to find my way back. Within a few minutes, I'd learned that someone had inadvertently buzzed Chris' room and when there was no one at the other end, she assumed I was lost.

Later that morning, we set out, via bus and foot, to see the city. Of course, we visited the sights that most folks who go to New York must see---Fifth Avenue, Tiffany's, St. Patrick's Cathedral, Rockefeller Center, and a potty break at the Waldorf Astoria, doing our duty inside the individual baby pink stalls with full length mirrors.

While we were strolling through this area of town, the Columbus Day parade brought the huge crowds to the sidewalks---8, 9, 10 deep on either side of the street. For the first time in my life, other than because of what I'd learned in the history books, I could see that Columbus Day was really important to a lot of folks. We're a bit removed from that out West, I thought.

After the parade ended, Chris and I wasted no time on our tour, which also included lunch at the Stage Deli and a ride on the Staten Island Ferry and a close-up view of the Statue of Liberty. The tour moderator was the most nauseating human I'd ever encountered, and it was good that Chris had some aspirin as his stupid, unfunny comments intensified an already pounding headache.

Always this time of the year, and on this weekend, I think of that quick visit to the Big Apple. I've been back one other time, but that was a quick motor tour of the city. Some one of these Octobers, I'm going to go again because I liked every moment of my visit, except for that obnoxious ferry man and his nonstop mouth.

I'm willing to bet he would have never made it to America on one of Columbus' ships. A couple of hours of listening to him and suddenly there'd be a joyous "Man overboard."