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.