Happy Birthday, Joyce and Barbara

Two talented birthday girls here. Today, Dec. 31 marks the doubleheader of birthdays in our family. My sister-in-law, Joyce from Frenchtown, Mont., has caught up with me, just like Edna did yesterday. We're mildly mature now at 58. Joyce is one talented retired teacher, mom, grandmom and beloved family member. Though her talents lie in many areas, she's facing an exciting year ahead as the "featured quilter" for the Missoula Quilt Show.

Barbara is one talented English, journalism teacher, riding instructor, photographer, equestrian and much beloved sister. She's 46 today. She is known far and wide for her work with high school students and with equestrians. Her youth horse judging team placed second nationally last October at the National Arabian Show in Albuquerque, and another of her students will be competing in oral presentations at next month's Denver Stock Show.

Happy birthday to both of you, whom we love very much. And, of course, hello to Miss Kiwi who loves them too.

A slightdetour resolution

Our grand fir Christmas tree dried out quickly this year. I think a lot of it had to do with all that bitter cold, dry weather earlier this month, which caused the forced-air heat to be running full bore for days on end. No amount of watering seemed to help the tree, so I knew it would never last until the traditional New Year's Day takedown.

Connie came yesterday morning while I was doing the marathon coffee visits and performed the ritual of removing ornaments, garland, and lights. Those materials are all back in their boxes in Willie's closet, and the tree stands to the right of the front porch as if it grew there. I have no doubt that the next strong wind from the north will leave it lying on its side. Come spring, I'll drag it out to the burn pile by the pond.

Yesterday afternoon I took down the extra wreaths, among my collection that failed to sell like hotcakes at the early December craft sale. Several were given away, while several added a woodsy, festive touch to my living room. Now, they're distributed in hanging spots outside around the back porch.

With their red-and-green show, a bit of Christmas remains, along with the picked-over cookies and candies. I actually found a plate of huckleberry bars I'd stuck in the freezer before making up the cookie plates. Forgot they were there, so have been sampling them the past couple of days. Seems like all these sweets at Christmas time make a person wonder how they'll ever get eaten, but they do. We're good for a couple of more days of nibbling at the residue.

With tomorrow's New Year's Eve, the season ends for another year. The next day brings on a host of thoughts centered around the challenge of "What am I gonna do this next year?" I looked back on this blog for Dec. 30, 2004, to see what deep thoughts were on my mind at the time. Apparently, none because the entire last week of December last year seems to be a wipe-out on our newly created blog. I think, upon beginning this daily project, I was allowing vacation time, and I know for sure that I was one sick puppy from Christmas day through New Year's.

Well, in spite of a slow start, Slightdetour turned out to be the big event of 2005 for my creative juices. This blog has evolved from a part-time lark to a full-time passion. The original intent was to provide my brother Jim a forum for showing off his cartoon talent. He's done so magnificently, clear down to today's darned ol' Sox.

Three cheers for Jim and for all the cool cartoon sideshows he's generated because of this blog, which, by the way, is named for his cartoon collection. This past year, he's enjoyed gigs with the National Hang Gliders magazine and their calendar and lots of additional notice on Mr. Huckleberry Hound's blog.

Jim's artistic exposure to a wider audience was the ultimate goal, while I figured I'd lose interest after a couple of weeks and go on with other items that curdled my interests. But no. The blog has become a part of my day. In fact, I now feel unfulfilled if I have not written something every morning before going outside to feed the horses their breakfast. When I first began, there was no black-and-white pup nudging me to hurry up and get out to those Folger's coffee cans she thinks are sheep.

In spite of Kiwi's enthusiasm to get out the door, I remain immersed in this new passion at my computer screen until it's done. And, once we go outside, my thoughts continue to unfold with better ways to say those sentences I've written and revised at least half a dozen times. So, if you read the posting once and see something a bit different the next time, that's why. It remains a work in progress until I finally let it be by mid-morning.

Blogdom will continue for Jim and me in 2006, and I hope readers will stay on board as we entertain our quirky minds with words and pictures that seem to suit the times. Thank you for your continued encouragement and comments. It's nice to know you're out there, even if you "blurk" in the shadows most of the time. We appreciate you.

Who knows what 2006 will bring when this Christmas season has all but locked itself into memory? I do know, however, that blogging is a great way to record Christmas memories, along with those associated with family, friends, unique personal moments or distant world and national events. And, though I never know what will drop into the midst of my morning spotlight here on Great Northern Road, I'm confident this medium will allow me the means to capture and perpetuate it in 2006 and beyond.

Stay tuned.

Colburn donut fest

These are the "above-the-table" donut eaters during yesterday's gathering in Colburn. For some reason, Jacob, the "under-the-table" donut snatcher (read posting below), is not to be seen. For the record, however, there's Grandma Tibbs' hand, my sister Barbara, grand-nephew Rory at the box, grand-nephew Tanner and grand-niece Justine (back of her head) niece Laura, niece Maureen and my sister Laurie. My brother Mike snapped the photo.

Friendship assembly line

I like to use the analogy of Lucy's pies on the conveyor belt (I Love Lucy) for a number of incidents that occur in the general scheme of life. This time of the year seems appropriate. Instead of pies rolling my way, it's friends (the greatest of all gifts for which I'm thankful). Just like Lucy, however, I'm not a great multi-tasker, and I have a difficult time seeing everyone I want to see in such a short time.

But I do my best at setting aside moments to squeeze in quick visits with folks I don't see often except for the holidays. This has definitely been a marathon week at reconnecting. It always feels good when the holidays come to a close to know that for one more year, some good visits have occurred. And it feels good to know that those intangibles which connect us remain intact and healthy, in spite of our rare visits.

The first friend I must think of this morning will be reading today's posting, I hope. It's Edna Iverson's birthday today; she's finally caught up with me in "maturity," and she is 58. So, happy birthday, Edna. I did reconnect with her recently when a bunch of us retired teachers got together for lunch at Slate's. Edna's enjoying her first year as a full-fledged retiree so she has the luxury of "doing lunch" with more frequency.

This morning's a double header in the visiting department: Chad Berkeley and his new girl friend at the Hoot Owl at 8:30. Chad graduated from SHS in 1995; he was my student for three years, including the year he served as Cedar Post editor. Nowadays, he works in some kind of heavy-duty computer stuff at UC Santa Barbara.

He's given presentations about his work in other countries, including Scotland a couple of times. He's looking forward, however, to a move to Southern Idaho where he'll learn how to fly helicopters and eventually get into search and rescue missions. The money's been nice but Chad says he's ready to do something more meaningful in his life.

After we've drunk far too much coffee and I've headed off to the bathroom a few times, we'll hug once more and I'll drive into town at 10 to see my longtime friend Chris Moon Hengstler at Connie's. More coffee, more potty trips and more catching up as I learn what exciting research and junkets Chris has taken this year as a Pacific Lutheran University professor who also does research through the University of Washington.

Her specialty is studying the speech patterns of newborns, and I'm thinking by now, she must be a respected expert in the field. In my book, she's a respected friend who'll remain so for good. We created some lasting memories together as summer workers for the U.S. Forest Service back in the early 1970s, and after I gave up the job to go be a journalist, Edna (today's birthday girl) worked as Chris' partner.

Tomorrow morning, Bill and I will once again go to the Hoot Owl to meet with Carson Jeffres and his girlfriend Karen. Karen has semi-adopted us after meeting us four years ago at Willie and Debbie's wedding rehearsal dinner. While Carson works in fisheries at the University of California at Davis, Karen teaches middle school in Sacramento. It will be fun to hear her experiences since this is her first year.

I might also ask Sarah Aavedal to join us so we can listen to Sarah and Carson share fish stories. She took a job last April at a Salmon hatchery on Alaska's Prince William Sound. It's a very remote setting, and her contacts with the outside world have been pretty limited for several months. She's now home until mid-January, but she tells me she loves everything about her new job in the field of aquaculture. I have a feeling Carson would love to hear her stories because he's a fish man of great magnitude.

Yesterday, after hosting my niece Maureen and her husband Sean and their two boys at this house, I joined them out at Colburn where five youngsters played in the snow while three other generations sat inside visiting around Mother's dining room table. There was a brief squirrel show out Mother's new bay window and and extended period of eating donuts, candies and cookies.

During that visit, one young man named Jacob figured out how to hide under the table and reach up (hoping he was unseen) to grab yet a third donut. The only problem he encountered was a black and white Border Collie who watched his tactics and had a few of her own----grab that donut when Jacob wasn't looking. Jacob cried while Kiwi chomped down her booty.

After saying good bye, I took some belated Christmas cookies to my friend Margarete who works as administrative assistant to the big honchos at Coldwater Creek Catalog Co. Since it was the down time after the pre-Christmas storm at the company, Margarete took me on a tour of the main office at the corporate headquarters.

It was pretty interesting to see the virtual store, which is set up and photographed as a model of uniformity for all other Coldwater Creek stores across the nation. We saw the photography department with all the cameras and props, the spa, the gym and the state-of-the-art auditorium, filled with high-tech goodies. The last time I'd been in that building, it was a warehouse where thousands of shoppers from around the region would show up on sale days.

This week is definitely a busy, challenging time to squeeze in all those visits before my friends head off the conveyor belt and get back to their usual routines, but I'm happy to make the effort, knowing they'll be back on the belt this time next year with new stories to share.

What a Guy!

He was the proudest man in Sandpoint that sunny August day. Donned in a snappy ensemble of top hat, tails and walking stick, he hung out with the groom and the ushers while photos were snapped before the wedding.

He had cried tears of joy several months before when a tall young man with big brown eyes had appeared at his house in Boise on Christmas day in 2001, gotten down on bended knee, clutching a bouquet and a diamond, and asked for the hand of his beautiful granddaughter.

Later, on that August day in Sandpoint, he beamed from ear to ear while escorting lovely young Debbie down the aisle of St. Joseph's Catholic Church in that handsome suit he'd chosen to wear on this very special day. And, as he gave away his granddaughter, who was more like his own daughter, to her adoring Willie, he cried again.

He loved to tell jokes, sometimes a bit off-color, but along with the joke came the healthy laugh. Guy loved a crowd. He was a Southerner, reared in North Carolina, who had worked hard through his career for Coca Cola. He was enjoying a quiet retirement with his own bride of more than 50 years--Louise.

This past May, his buttons popped again when the Boise City taxi delivered him and Louise to Taco Bell Arena at Boise State University where they would sit in the audience of thousands, shedding more tears of happiness while watching beautiful, sweet Debbie march up to the podium and receive her college diploma. Later, as he'd done so many times before, he would join family and friends in the city park and sit back in satisfaction over another great milestone achieved in Debbie's life.

Guy and Louise Cheek invested much of their lives and abundant love toward their granddaughter, providing her a home and support. They also received an equal amount of satisfaction for the successful young lady she had become.

Debbie loved her grandparents so much she knew it would be difficult to bid them adieu as she headed off on her own life's journey after completing her education and moving to Spokane with that tall young man who loves her so much. She vowed that every chance possible, she'd go back to Boise to visit, and she did.

Guy is gone now. He died peacefully last night with his family surrounding him. Though his life has ended, it was not without the satisfaction of knowing the lovely granddaughter he so adored had made her way into the world as an independent, well-equipped and disciplined young lady. And, she'd made it through his love and support. Debbie had succeeded, and Guy could go on his way to eternity busting those buttons for a job well done.

This morning, I tip my hat to Mr. Cheek. What a guy!

Mother Superior has moved on

Mother Superior is probably sitting there, thinking about a nastier, meaner Bonner County Rock Fight. And, she's probably met up with Imogene to lament how the local population explosion has added so many more families to genealogy roster.

She and Imogene Davis, the beloved business teacher, served as proud experts for years on local family lineage---so much so that they wished our faculty-room wall could be converted into a visual for showing just which students belonged to the Sagle Hawkins, the Dover Beckers, or the Hope Kiebert clan.

Mother Superior is free now, free from two years of debilitating misery, brought on by a series of nasty strokes. No doubt, she's found a book room to organize and a few of her old friends like Imo and her poodle Violet to carry on with the important details which occupied her so during her 76-year stay here on earth. Those details would include the ongoing quest for knowledge, whether it deals with the long line of English monarchs or who shot some bum outside a First Avenue bar back in 1905.

Speaking of bars and shootings, she did, for years, advocate an All Bonner County Rock Fight where folks could get out there on the walking bridge and just throw rocks at each other to settle all the scores that seem to permeate the fabric of this community. I remember so often listening as she used her meticulous research in old papers to point out that they were fighting over the Cedar Street Bridge clear back in 1904.

Mother Superior was a lady named Joy O'Donnell, who loved the nickname she earned as a faculty-room matriarch. She died yesterday, and she was one of my best friends for nearly 35 years. I think of her as the older, wiser sister who'd taken me under her wing when I joined the Sandpoint High School faculty in 1969. During our years as colleagues, Joy watched out for me whenever trouble was brewing. She always cared what happened to me in the best and worst of situations. Her loyalty to those she cared about was impeccable.

One of my favorite memories of Joy occurred on Baldy Mountain several years ago when our kids were little. She loved a good day of huckleberry picking and was rarin' to go any time. She accompanied Willie, Annie and me to the mountain where we found a good patch, a safe distance from Emma Lou Hook's domain. A few minutes after we all found our spots and started dumping berries into our buckets, a very young Annie broke the silence.

"O' McDonnell, where you are?" she asked.

Joy kept on picking and didn't skip a beat with her response.

"I are here, Annie," she announced. "Where you are?" The brief conversation between the two remains a classic Joy moment in my heart. She loved kids and knew how to talk their talk, in spite of the demands she placed on adults using the language.

At times, Joy scared the bejeebers out of me and a lot of others with her sharp, brutal manner, which often showed itself when her impatience toward what she deemed as stupidity took over. My friend Ann Gehring concurs on this point.

"I used to help her monitor SAT tests, "Ann told me this morning. "She scared the bejeebers out of me. I was ALWAYS afraid I/she/we would do something that would put both of us in jail for the rest of our lives!! Actually, this strong-willed soul, who could burn a hole through you with her glare, never met a person she couldn't intimidate, and she knew her powers, always using them at opportune moments.

In spite of that, Joy's friends and students also knew the blonde bespeckled lady, who smoked all those cigarettes, had one of the biggest, most generous hearts in town. She practiced her generosity quietly.

Throughout our friendship, I enjoyed comfort in her guidance, appreciation for her warm, sensitive, and caring nature and endless belly laughs from her clever humor. I probably talked to her almost daily for 30 years until 2003 when the strokes stole from her the ability to function on her own, then, ruthlessly, the ability to communicate the "right on" opinions that constantly traveled through her brilliant mind.

Joy spent much of the last two years sitting in a wheel chair or in a lying in a bed at the Life Care Center, hooked to a stomach feeding tube after a major stroke, among many, cut off her ability to swallow. I visited her often until one day when she simply stared out the window while fondling the stuffed animals next to her bed. I could not return. I made a personal decision, which I may or may not regret as selfishness on my part. I did not want to remember my longtime friend in this helpless, miserable state.

I actually found myself praying to see Joy's obituary in the Bonner County Daily Bee. It will probably appear in tomorrow's edition, and they'd better get it right for Joy's sake and their own. The Bee's the same local newspaper which she read and critiqued daily.

If they screwed up in the smallest way, Joy, the perfection-oriented, consummate English teacher, noticed and noted. During those last few years of her clarity, I could count on calls where she had assembled a list of the misspellings, gross grammar errors, the faulty sentence structure and inexcusable accuracy abominations. During the conversation, each point on Joy's list received more than adequate discussion and rebuke. We scratched our heads and grimaced often.

Joy was the local expert on the language, the guru on how to tackle research and the living example on how to diligently uncover every detail before arriving at any conclusions. That fetish for perfection made her a natural as a museum volunteer after she retired in 1992. I remember writing a story for the Spokesman-Review about how Joy had helped a man from California who was looking for family information. He was astounded at the lengths she'd gone to in his behalf, so astounded, he sent her flowers.

That same dedication to truth, accuracy and doing the job right drove her every day in her English classroom. Students respected Mrs. O'Donnell and loved Mrs. O'Donnell. She was demanding, at times difficult, but funny. Her stern manner often gave way to rollicking spontaneity with her students. I'll never forget the yearbook photo of Joy in the hip boots a student had brought to school for dress-up day.

Speaking of dressing up, there was also the day she donned a cap-and-gown and with stick in hand went about the school exorcising the spirit of an individual who'd just been deposed as our principal. Joy's ecstasy at learning his demise inspired this showing of her ever-present dramatic flair.

As of yesterday, Joy's friends are free once more, just as she is, with her passing. No longer do we lament her pathetic condition of residing in that care center in that helpless, sad state. Now, we can return to the grand memories of our friend who was so dear to us. We can remember the happy, hilarious and even the scary times we experienced with this dynamic, passion-rich lady who left such an indelible mark in our hearts.

We can rejoice that Mother Superior has now found eternal peace, and we say, "Ah, Joy."

The joy mixed with sadness

Some sit under the tree. Others have already gone into use---the new slip-on low-cut boots from LL Bean, the salami and three kinds of cheese from Litehouse, Annie's bright-red furry slippers from J.C. Penney, Bill's Down South CD's, created to benefit Katrina survivors, sent from his twin sister Margaret.

Many others wait for more attention and appreciation at appropriate times, beyond the moment of exposure from their temporary abodes within their festive boxes or bags---the books, the calendars, the garden fairy for guarding next summer's beans and carrots, the health club passes, the hammock made from parachute fabric.

Yes, the gifts were abundant this Christmas 2005, but the most precious will never occupy space beneath a tree or anywhere tangible, for that matter, except within our memory. And, oh, what a bag of memories there are. I couldn't have scripted a better list of desires to send to Santa than those which unfolded over this past couple of days. While enjoying each unique moment, however, a quiet sadness gnawed away at my heart about the events of another Christmas several hundred miles away.

In our case, the images of these festive family times could fill an album, but, as always, a few stand out.

• The usual Christmas Eve pizza party topped off with its traditional gift revelations at the Colburn house.
  
• The visit to Bill's newly renovated Presbyterian Church on Christmas morning, where the pajama-clad blended with the suit-and-tie crowd while sharing coffee, laughs, hugs and general good fellowship before breaking fresh and delicious bread during an unconventional but meaningful Christmas service.
  
• The coordination and conviviality among family members while preparing a sumptuous feast of ham, turkey and the usual trimmings followed by predictable post-dinner lethargy of over-stuffed stomachs and glazed faces. Why did we eat so much?
  
• The after-dinner bonfire---a new event (a new tradition, we hope) where tractor and 4-wheeler rides through snow-covered woods beneath jewel-filled night sky certainly etched abundant and vivid imagery to be tucked away in all our minds forever. As orange embers leaped wildly into to the sky like Fourth of July fireworks, 16 family members, ranging from 3 1/2 year-olds Jacob, Justine and Grace to 84-year-old matriarch Virginia, roasted those marshmallows, belted out those Christmas carols and engaged in strategic, sometimes brutal snowball combat. Cameras rolled with video or flashed for digital images of the revelry. As the tractor and 4-wheeler, both loaded down with bodies representing four generations and escorted by other family revelers, headed back through the pastures to the house for pumpkin, berry and pecan pie, singing continued along with the pronouncement that this must happen again. A great gift, indeed, on this long winter's night.
  

There were many happy gifts aplenty here in North Idaho during this Christmas celebration. But, there has been sadness too, as Debbie and Willie have maintained a vigil with her family in Boise where her grandfather remains gravely ill. It was not the joyous Christmas they had planned, even as recently as a couple of weeks ago. They knew they'd spend time with her family in Boise but certainly not in a St. Luke's hospital room.

I thought of them often during our lively and festive celebrations at this year's family gatherings. I wished for the power to bring some sense of comfort to these painfully sad moments in their lives which will, no doubt, remain as etched as the happy moments we were experiencing 500 miles away. I still have no antidotes to offer this morning, other than we keep them and all of Debbie's family in our hearts and prayers.

Merry Christmas

Peace

Joy

Love

to all

friends

family

and all other much-appreciated slightdetour readers

on this

Christmas 2005


Much love,

Marianne and the Love family

Good News and Bad News of Christmas

It's pretty quiet here at the Love house this morning. I can hear Bill at the kitchen counter a few feet away turning the pages of the morning papers, filled with their usual good news and bad on this Christmas Eve 2005.

One of the carpenters who worked on our house 20 years ago is pictured on the front page of the Daily Bee. He's on the job at Seasons at Sandpoint donned in a red reindeer outfit. Apparently, he likes to brighten his co-workers' day on Fridays, so he usually wears florescent colors when he comes to work on TGIF. Yesterday, though, he decided to be one of Santa's reindeer, complete with bells on his boots.

I read a disturbing story about more abuse allegations being filed against Spokane's Morning Star Boys Ranch, specifically a Catholic priest who ran the place. Apparently, this was rather late-breaking because the lengthy report appeared in our "Region" section. Looks like we'll be reading more of the ugly details as this story continues to grow.

I felt sad about the 39-year-old lady who was hit in a Post Falls parking lot and killed two nights ago. She had been honored as an educational volunteer. She has four children. And, there's the story about today's big football match-up between the Seahawks and the Indianapolis Colts---touted to be the game of the year but suddenly dampened by suicide of a head coach's son.

It seems that the Christmas season does not allow us a break in the bad news, and, sadly, that bad news only intensifies for all involved because it happens during the Christmas season when we're all supposed to be blissful with dreams of sugar plum fairies and moments of joy.

On the other hand, stories of good do abound during this season. It seems that people make the extra effort to bring some bright moments to others through giving, caring or sharing. Many of those acts receive recognition in our papers, thus offsetting the negative stories we read. In addition, we don't really need to read the papers to know that good happens in our world during this season.

This seems to be the season of reconnection---with faith, family and friends. Yeah, there are the presents. They pale, however, in comparison to the abundant happy greetings via telephone, Christmas cards and letters, emails and even actual face-to-face encounters we enjoy while hurrying through stores, standing in shopping lines, deliver those cookie plates or attend festive Christmas parties. The season, with its religious activities and long-held personal traditions, seems to remind us each year of exactly where we're grounded and what is meaningful in our lives.

When we do take a few precious quiet moments---amidst hectic, exhausting times of expectation and frustration--- listening to the beautiful music, reading the annual reports from family and friends, or beholding the visual beauty created to honor the season, we can find true joy. We know we're connected and that someone up there is responsible for all of this.

And, that's some pretty good news.

Cartoon by architect Jim Tibbs -- Grants Pass, Ore.

Christmas cookie day

At our house, we call 'em Christmas cookies. And, at your house, you can call 'em any ol' thing you like. They all taste the same. That kinda reminds me about what my friend Marilynn told me one day about religions in general. She said they're all like cars. Different brands, different models, but all have the same goal: to get down the road. Only in the religious sense, I guess it's the Highway to Heaven.

Well, I'm not quite ready to get on board for that destination just yet, but maybe my Christmas cookie tradition will help. I learned this tradition from a very giving Mother, who, at 84, remains a very giving mother. She doesn't bake quite as many cookies as she used to, but she still gives everyone her all, and that's quite an example.

Her Christmas-cookie example included plates of at least a dozen varieties of cookies and candy for the Poelstras, the Bests, the Pappy Whites, the Lee Whites, the Racicots, the Crocketts, the Hudons and Ol' Dusty, to name a few. Over the years, the lists of recipients may have changed a time or two but not the spirit of remembering your neighbors at Christmas time.

In Ol' Dusty's case (he was the hermit with the beard hanging off his adam's apple who lived down the road in the woods in an old shack with his billy goats), Mother always put together a hot plate of Christmas dinner, complete with all the extras too. She and Harold would go over there, knock on Dusty's door and present him with his holiday meal. He always appreciated the food and ate every bite.

Mother's example rubbed off, except we don't have any hermits in our neighborhood these days. So, the Feists, Bob Gooby, Thane and Connie, my friends Ray and Norma, the Raihas and the Chambers often receive cookies baked with the hands of Love. We put together a few other plates for family members and office parties.

Today is the day to start bringing in the boxes of cookies baked over the past couple of weeks and arrange them on colorful plates, along with this year's special: a jar of Love's raspberry jelly. I've gotten my jelly to taste pretty darn good, so I like to share it. Raspberry jam is nice, but when you get rid of the seeds, the jelly is heavenly.

When the plates are ready, I often send Bill or the kids to do some of the deliveries and with those visits come updates on what's happening with families or thoughts of what's happening in the neighborhood. We'll be taking a plate to the Chambers Christmas party tonight. Marilynn's been having her annual party on Dec. 23 ever since I can remember, and we've made it to most of them.

I always come in with my grocery bag, and she checks me at the door to see if there's anything other than cookies at the bottom. We have this tradition that's gone on at unannounced times for almost 30 years now. It's an ugly old candle that keeps changing forms and keeps going back and forth in its new forms to Marilyn or me. I've written the story of the "Magic Friendship Candle" in my second book.

Anyway, I've received it as a cow paddy, a lollipop and even as a box of chocolates. You'd have to ask Marilyn what her favorite creation on my end has been. I rather liked when it was the first gift opened at the Hayden Lake Country Club wedding of one of her sons. It was pretty ugly that day, too, so all the more fun. I'm a bit nervous about tonight's party cuz it's my turn to receive the candle.

Well, I could go on and on about the traditions that rise out of baking and sharing those plates of Christmas cookies, but I'd better shut up and get to the kitchen. Lots of work to do. In the meantime, I'll just wish you all a sweet and caloric day and no ugly candles.

Short night but pumpkin pie leads me on

Well, yesterday was short all right, but last night made up for it. I'm typing this on three hours of sleep. All day, I figured I'd be dozing on the couch when Annie came rolling in the driveway about midnight. Instead, I was behind the wheel when Annie came in the driveway at 1:30 this morning.

Turns out her ride home from Spokane Airport could still be sitting in San Francisco Airport this morning. Around 5:30 last night, I called Annie to make sure everything was still on schedule. She'd just learned from her friend Ann Miller about her frustrating flight problems in the City by the Bay. So, around 7 p.m., Kiwi and I took off down the road for Spokane with plans to pick up Annie at around 9:30 p.m.

A few minutes later, my cell phone rang. As usual, I fumbled in the darkness looking for it. Annie was calling to tell me that her arrival would be closer to 10:30 instead. Rather than turning around, I decided to stop at Costco in Hayden Lake and pick up a pumpkin pie for Christmas dinner. I knew I could also kill some time at Krispie Kreme. Bill always likes his Krispie Kreme donuts, so I could bring a smile to his face by picking up a box for his breakfast.

Then, Willie returned an earlier call I'd made to him. When I mentioned stopping at Costco for pumpkin pie and later told him he ought to come and stay in Sandpoint tonight, he indicated it would be worth the drive for some of that pie. So, I bought two pumpkin pies and the biggest pecan pie I've ever seen.

I knew I needed Cool Whip so decided to pick that up too. The smallest quantity they had was the 4-pack of squirt-on whipped cream. So, we're set for pudding, pies, face-decorating, you name it. That's how it is at Costco. In fact, my mother still has leftover bags of cereal to feed her birds from Kevin's last cereal run. You always get much more than you need when you shop there, but it makes you feel good to be well-stocked.

At the Krispie Kreme stop---Kiwi's first-ever---she knew fun times were ahead. Rather than her usual snoozing on the floor, she sat at full attention watching my every move as I walked in and bought a dozen donuts. She seemed quite pleased with this new addition to her diet. Not a crumb left on the seat.

Upon arriving at the airport, I knew I still had some time to kill. So, I just moseyed on in and took my time checking the monitors. That was good. The Southwest flight from Seattle would now arrive at 11 p.m. So, I walked the full stretch of the airport inside and out.

In my wanderings, I got to see some cops cuff some thugs outside the baggage area. I also ran across some former students and Sandpoint friends and enjoyed short visits with each. When it seemed like it must be time for Annie to arrive, I joined the crowd, huddled in the airport lobby, and sneaked a peek at the monitor.

This time the arrival time read 11:25. So, my friend Glory Whittaker, who figured she'd be still sitting when I was long gone, had a nice surprise. She left 20 minutes before I did and wished me well on my wait. From what I could see, all flights were late last night.

In fact, the situation was beginning to remind me of 21 years ago on Dec. 21, 1984, when my brother Jim and I drove in to Spokane on a very wintry night to pick up Bill after our house fire had summoned him home from Louisiana earlier than expected.

We waited until 12:30 a.m. that night only to learn that Bill was stuck in San Francisco until the next day. Jim and I (who had one set of clothing to my name) spent the night in the Ramada and waited until 12:30 the next day for Bill to finally arrive. We bought a black comb in the airport gift shop and shared.

Fortunately, Annie's flight did finally arrive at 11:35, just ten minutes late from being 25 minutes late from being two hours late. Not bad for holiday season at the airport.

She's sleeping soundly as I type. Kiwi's getting anxious to go out and chase her Folgers cans, and I'm thinking about how much Folgers it's gonna take to make it through the day until Willie shows up and we cut into that Costco pie.

Note: My latest "Love Notes" column and a feature story about rodeo star Rowdy Buechner can be viewed under "Love Notes" at (www.mariannelove.com).

Short day; short thoughts and dog bones

Yesterday has passed without incident, and Dec. 21 ranks up there at the top of the list for me. No longer, after today will we be losing daylight until June 21. We've made it through the dark ages and will come out into the light once more. That makes me happy.

And, on this particular Dec. 21, the first day of winter, we're also transitioning from the month-long deep freeze into balmy high 30s. Of course, here in North Idaho, we'll be challenged to stay upright when we step outside this morning. The chill before the balm yesterday meant freezing rain forming a crusty, icy layer on top of powder snow.

So now, the fields with their top layers resemble white brownies straight from the oven, while all well-trod trails, packed down to solid ice and polished off with the rain, lay in wait to send us sliding. Bill reminded me that the ice claws for my boot bottom are on the picnic table. I'll not forget.

Today, my December "Love Notes" column "Glad Tidings and Great Joy" will appear on the website by late afternoon at the same time The River Journal hits the streets in Sandpoint. For those who wonder why there's been no mention of Rowdy Buechner since my ongoing National Finals blitz, I've also written a feature about him, which will appear just below the column on the website. So check 'em out at (www.mariannelove.com) and click "Love Notes."

Annie comes in late tonight from Seattle. Her high school friend Ann Elizabeth Miller is flying in from Los Angeles and will drive our Annie home from the airport. Tomorrow, Annie will probably go to Colburn to help Grandma Tibbs finish off the tree decorating. And, tomorrow Kevin and Joyce will come from Frenchtown, while little brother Jim, the cartoonist, arrives from Grants Pass.

Big brother Mike and his wife Mary will be celebrating the Christmas holiday in Plummer with Laura, Sefo and the triplets, so we expect to see them soon. And, his other daughter Maureen, her hubby Sean and boys Tanner and Rory will arrive in Sandpoint on Dec. 26. I think that means we'll be seeing a lot of family over the next few days.

Willie and Debbie will be in Boise where Debbie's grandfather isn't doing so well. So, we're keeping them in our thoughts and hoping for the best.

I said this would be short, so I've got just one more item to share about family happenings. Kiwi heard from her real mother yesterday. "Sam" the mother of all Border Collies at the McNall residence went to her Santa's workshop and crafted Kiwi a beautiful dogbone for Christmas. It's hanging on the tree, and Kiwi was pretty thrilled.

So that's the long and the short of it on this first day of winter, 2005. Don't slip on the ice and have a good day.

Love family 9-11

For 21 years, every time this calendar date rolls around, I get nervous. I worry about catastrophes because of an event Dec. 20, 1984, and another event Dec. 20, 2003. The first devastating experience has been well-documented through my writings.

Late on a Thursday afternoon during a ruthless winter storm, our house exploded because of a problem with the wood stove, and burned to the ground. A neighbor, Karen Feist, saw the explosion as she was driving by and ran through our drifted driveway with her infant son, Chris, to see that nobody was in the house as the flames shot nearly 40 feet in the air. She then ran across a field, with snow up to her waist, to her home to summon help.

It was a horrific experience for the kids and me as we happily drove from town that afternoon and suddenly spotted the flames while still a mile away from home. Bill was in Louisiana where he had just attended his father's funeral. Ironically, he was visiting with the Oakdale, La., fire chief while both dined at a restaurant when I called him. Thanks to family and a generous, wonderful community, we were able to patch our lives together over the next few months.

Two years ago, on this day, our son Willie had just made arrangements with my mother to purchase my dad's pickup. My dad had died a month earlier on Nov. 21. Annie was coming home from New Zealand on this day, and she would be needing her car, which Willie had been using while she was gone for six months. Mother offered Willie a generous, flexible deal for the pickup, and Willie promised to honor the contract.

The first stop on his way to town from Colburn (nine miles north of Sandpoint) would be Les Schwab Tires because the pickup needed snow tires. Willie climbed in the pickup and left my mother's house. Bill followed shortly thereafter in his pickup. It was snowing. The roads were slick. By the time, Bill reached the Selle Road, just two miles south of Mother's house, he noticed something in the road ahead. It was twisted metal.

As he got closer, he could see that the twisted metal was actually a canopy for a pickup. He slowly moved on past it and out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone climbing up a bank. It was Willie. He had hit a patch of ice and rolled his grandpa's pickup. It was totaled. He was okay physically but devastated because it was "Grandpa's pickup."

The pickup sat in our driveway for several months. Bill investigated possibilities for having its body redone because the engine was fine. He'd made arrangements to take it one day to a body man. The evening before, he started it up to make sure it was still running okay. Suddenly, he saw a spark and a fire started. He ran to the house for a fire extinguisher, but by the time, he reached the truck, the vehicle was in uncontrollable flames.

As the fire department came to put out the blaze, Willie stood for a moment and then backed off to the darkness under the same willow tree where he had sat on that winter night in 1984 and watched, as a horrified 7-year-old, while our house burned down. I walked back to Willie and said, "I guess nobody was ever supposed to drive Grandpa's pickup again."

So, I pray today that when it ends, all is well.

Private Spies vs Public Spies

I'm scratching my head this morning, and it's not cuz of fleas or drandruff or anything like that. Last week, the big daily headline blitzing the nation's media concerned the discovery that the government was spying on some Americans. I think the story dealt with a list made up of Americans who made calls overseas which apparently didn't get deleted from the government's spy network.

Personally, I don't care much whether people are spying on me unless it's in the bathroom or the bedroom or when I've got my pants down in a honeybucket. The honeybucket surveillance did happen to me once at the Festival at Sandpoint, in fact, and I was pretty offended when I looked up to see two-snotty-nosed boys peering through a hole from the roof top as I was peeing through a hole at the bottom of the bucket.

By the time I jumped up, pulled up my pants and knocked open the door for a mean pursuit, they were long gone. Then, I made the mistake of reporting the invasion to my privacy to a man I had considered a trusted friend, Dr. John Snedden owner of Unicep Packaging here in Sandpoint (http://www.unicep.com). When I learned a few days later that he had, in turn, shared my honeybucket violation to the entire Sandpoint Rotary Club at their noon luncheon, I wondered what good it does to report such crimes.

Anyway, back to scratching my head. Congress is indignant about this reported spying. The main-stream news is loving it cuz they've got a new story to beat to death 25 hours a day, and I'm sure that all Al Qaeda folks, who live amongst us trying to find new ways to blow us up, are pretty peeved, to say the least. And, of course, all the do-good organizations that exist simply to feed off the folks who specialize in being offended will make hay of this revelation.

After reading this morning's Spokesman-Review, however, I think the Congressional investigations ought to take a wide sweep of ALL spying which is going on in this country. The morning paper was filled with stories of new developments designed for anyone who wants to spy on all anyone else and get away with it.

One article focused on newly-produced technology designed for the slowly but surely diminishing minds of us millions of baby boomers. For example, there's the medicine cabinet that yells at you and tells you it's time to take your diarrhetic pill and what color it is so you don't take the nitro glycerin tablets next to it. Or, how about that floor sensor which tracks your every move inside your house?

What's gonna happen, if you're a bit devilish like me and want to outwit the surveillance? So, you decide to fool the sensor by remaining immobile for hours on end while watching your TV game shows or talking on your phone with the screen which reminds you who you're talking to and when you last talked to them by flashing up a photo of them with name and date of last conversation? Will an army of uniformed EMTs suddenly come charging into your house with gurnies and foot-long needles to jab into your chest and bring you back to life? Just the thought of that foot-long needle scares me to death.

Then, there are the sneaky hi-tech game-boys for seniors, which make you think you're having fun, but they're really tracking your brain waves and nerve endings and determining, over the course of time, whether or not you're losing it. Well, I know how to combat that; I hate those games so I just won't play.

This information on all this new technology came from a White House-sponsored gathering where all this high-tech stuff is on display for potential do-gooder spies who want to save all of us baby boomers from ourselves and our dementia.

It's not just the seniors who are gonna suffer from this gross violation of personal privacy. Another article talked about GPS units. Well, my husband does use 'em extensively for geocaching, and the military has used 'em for a long time to decide just where to target bomb drops during war time. Now, however, the GPS is quickly becoming a parent's best friend and a teenager's worst enemy. Seems parents are thrilled these days cuz they can just track that sneaky kid anywhere he or she goes and at any time.

Last week I read another article about a techno-system that alerts parents constantly about Johnny and Susie and their homework or lack thereof. With this computerized spy network, parents will soon have no excuse at parent conferences to say they had no idea Johnny or Susie has been flunking P.E. since the very first day of school.

And, Johnny and Susie? Well, they're gonna have to find some new DNA if they think they're gonna get away with anything at school because "the eyes" are watching them---everywhere with closed circuit cameras and computer programs.

Yup, I think Congress has a big job ahead as it investigates internal spying in America. I hope it doesn't leave one micro chip unturned when it gets to the bottom of this situation.

It sure is cold

For years as an English teacher at Sandpoint High School, I assigned and discussed Jack London's classic short story "To Build a Fire." It's about a newcomer to Alaskan territory who sets off on his own, except for a dog, on a long trek over a little-traveled trail through the snow. He's received cautionary reminders from oldtimers but allows his youthful arrogance to shrug off the advice. As the story begins, the declining temperature is minus 40 degrees.

Long story, short. He breaks through some thin ice, gets his feet wet and tries to build a fire to keep from freezing to death. Because of his inexperience in the wilds when "it sure is cold," he fails to get the fire going and then tries to kill the dog for warmth. The dog is smarter than he is and knows to keep its distance. As the guy slowly dies, those words from the old timer at Sulphur Creek resound in his final thoughts.

I always think about that story during this time of the year, especially when I'm out walking across our fields. Normally, I don't walk in our fields too much in winter, but because we've had sub-freezing temperatures and no precipitation for more than three weeks, I've been able to tramp out some well-beaten pathways through the snow to the south and north of our house. It's taken some snow-shoeing to do this, but once the trails were packed down, I've enjoyed a nice network of walking areas.

I usually gripe, gripe, gripe about winter, but I've totally loved this season so far with its cold, crisp days where clean powdery snow has continued to be more of a pleasure than a pain. Many of these December days have been among the most beautiful I can ever remember.

In fact, I've told many of my friends lately, with no exaggeration, that at 58.5 years old and hanging out in the same area for a lifetime, I'm still acting like a giddy newcomer to Sandpoint while standing in the midst of our fields, eyeing the mountains around us, and quietly thanking God that I get to live here.

The only drawback I've seen so far has been the frozen "frost-free" hydrant at our horse trough. We're back to single digits this week, so it's been two days since I've gotten the "frost free" hydrant to allow water to flow through our short hose into the tank.

This problem has greatly disturbed Kiwi whose self-appointed morning job is to stand beside me with her front paws on the fence, studying the water action and hoping for that special moment when she can grab a mouthful of running water from the hose before I remove it from the hydrant.

This is important work for a Border Collie. For two days, she's waited patiently at that tank as I've lugged bucket after bucket of warm water to thaw out the hydrant, all in vain. We may have to stick a heat tape on it today cuz the tank is only about half full now, and Kiwi's gonna feel useless if she doesn't get to do her morning chores.

In the meantime, I intend to continue enjoying this time when "it sure is cold." Unlike the newcomer in London's story, I'll keep oldtimers' advice in mind, wear my long underwear and try to keep my feet dry while traveling the well-beaten paths with my dogs around the Love farm.

And, as long as our North Idaho winter acts like this, I won't complain.

New neighbors--old memories

One day several years ago, a grader turned into our driveway. I was puzzled as it continued coming in rather than backing out and heading the opposite direction on the road. The operator put down his blade and proceeded to to grade the driveway, which has always been notorious for its roughness due to its glut on mudholes and a short supply of rock base.

I found out later that Bill had seen Perry Palmer that day and mentioned that it was my birthday. He happened to be in the area so he decided I needed a birthday present----a free driveway manicure. I've always appreciated Perry for the gesture. That's how it is, though, with folks you've known forever, always willing to lend a hand or to give a little extra.

Perry's daughter Zale inherited her dad's generous spirit, only her gesture nearly 29 years ago went a bit sour when I didn't show up for the surprise baby shower she'd planned for me during second-period honors English. Zale was a sophomore at Sandpoint High School at the time, and she knew, like all the other kids, that I was due to pop any day.

I'd planned to make it through that week of school, but Willie decided to start arriving on the actual day he was due, March 31, 1977. It took him a while, so he did end up a lifelong April Fool, and his mom felt a bit foolish when she learned later the extent to which Zale and her classmates had gone in order to surprise me.

Cake and all did not go to waste, however, cuz the kids happily partied through their English hour in my absence. I always thought that was pretty nice of Zale, and like so many of the kind things that have happened to me over the years, I've never forgotten her thoughtfulness. Zale went on to the University of Idaho and roomed with my sister Laurie for at least a year.

She became a CPA and moved to Portland where she worked in the corporate world for Northwest power companies. I haven't seen her for years, but as of yesterday, I've learned we're neighbors. The Palmers---Perry and Zale---have purchased property in Metalbuildingville. And, while Zale remains in Portland as comptroller for her brother Wade's trucking company, Perry's been busy constructing a shop for his heavy equipment.

I learned all this while on a walk with the dogs through the fields behind our barn, across Quest's parking lot and along a pathway that connects to Larry Donnerberg's road leading to the Fishback Airpark. Larry used to own a large chunk of land bordering the airport, but he sold a major portion of it a few years ago to Jim Fishback who developed it into a private airpark.

The Palmers bought one of several lots, to the west of the airpark, still owned by Larry. I had been watching that new metal building going up over the past few weeks and had been curious to learn who owned it and what their plans were. Perry happened to be leaving in his pickup just as the dogs and I arrived at the paved road running past the new building. He told me he'd had originally run his shop over on Ontario for more than 20 years but was given a year to vacate because------you guessed it----a new subdivision was being developed at the spot.

So, Perry and Zale are now our new neighbors, and I couldn't be happier. The Palmers have lived around Sandpoint forever, and they've contributed so much to this community. Perry's brother Bud helped build the original Schweitzer Road back in 1962-63. His sister Marian Ebbett served as mayor of Sandpoint in the 1980s. His wife Charlotte faithfully worked for the school district central office for decades. Perry's happy to have his shop in this location and especially happy to own the land with his daughter.

As I continue my walks in the areas around our place and learn that the new development involves good people like the Palmers and the folks from Quest Aviation, I'm feeling much more optimistic about the future on this piece of earth. I've often heard said that people make the difference in any situation, and these folks are definitely good neighbors.

I hope that trend continues.

Cartoon by architect Jim Tibbs -- Grants Pass, Ore.

Love Boat goes blue blood

At 8 a.m. Justin Schuck's coming to the house for a Love Boat rendezvous. Bill and I will meet him in the driveway. Then we'll get in the pickup, with our boat trailing behind, as Justin escorts us to a spot less than half a mile from the house in a gated air park.

Once there, Justin will open a door to a hangar and direct us to a spot inside where we can park our 1966 Starcraft 16-foot yacht for the remainder of the winter. I've been told by my friend Kathy, who owns the hangar, that it's worth the trip over there to see what kind of company our Bonner County luxury liner will be keeping during its winter dormancy.

Some guy's storing his $200,000 Ford something-or-other in there, while another well-known local executive keep her yacht in there too. Besides these items, the place serves as a storage area for Seasons at Sandpoint items.

The Seasons, which Kathy's brother-in-law, Jae Heinberg from Tampa Bay is building, is the new ultra-luxurious condo complex currently under construction on Lake Pend Oreille's northwest shore. Kathy says the storage hangar, which she and her hubby Chris bought recently, is so clean you could eat off the floor. So, I'm excited and thrilled that our personal watercraft will be living so high off the hog this winter and keeping some pretty impressive company.

Up to this point, our well-used boat has been a real trooper, since we bought it for $1,800 from our neighbor Marlin Turinsky shortly after I retired. He and the former owners had used it for fishing on Lake Koocanusa near Libby Dam. It isn't the prettiest boat around, with its paint partially worn away and letters missing from its brand name, but it's durable and steady.

I'm hoping the poor thing doesn't come home in the spring with a self-image problem. After all, when you're a blue-collar boat belonging to some North Idaho plebians and you've gotta spend several months in the company of Sandpoint's newest recreational royalty, you could get intimidated.

I have confidence in our boat, though, and figure it's earned a chance to hibernate with the upper crust autos and vessels. After all, the poor thing didn't complain a bit when it had to spend the endless snowy winter of 2003-2004 out in the yard because the snow came and piled up during the week we spent back and forth to Spokane every day when my dad died. By the time we had time to put the boat in storage, three feet of snow (and growing) sealed its fate and location for the winter.

It stayed put, but in the spring, the worthy craft demonstrated its true-blue mettle and fired right up after its summer tune-up with Frank Delamarter and the maintenance crew at Sandpoint's Alpine Shop. During other winters, it has occupied a spot in one of June Paulet's storage sheds over on Boyer, but she's sold her place and moved to Salmon.

This year, Bill took the boat for its annual tune-up in July when Annie came home. Then, he got called away for almost a week on a fire. Annie never got a boat ride during her three-day stay. Later, one evening, we decided right after dinner to go out for an unplanned outing. We spent about an hour on the lake and watched thunderstorms build up all around us. We also speculated that those thunder storms were probably sparking fires.

Sure enough, when we arrived home, there was a call for Bill to report for duty in Craigmont. He was gone for more than a week on that fire. The busy summer moved on, and we never made it to the lake again. So, the boat sat idle in the sun, providing shade for the kitty cats. It had its summer tune-up and its fall winterizing, all for just one-hour's worth of work. Now it's gonna reside in luxurious surroundings this winter.

It's been good to us, though, and besides, it should feel right at home in a Chambers setting, despite the luxury. After all, for thirty years, our families have shared connections through dogs and horses, kids, good jokes, and a famous "magic friendship" candle. Why not add the Love boat to the ongoing story of a great and lasting friendship!

Christmas Cliche

I guess I'll join in on the debate, although I think it's rivaling the weariness that evolved when some ancient lady with a raspy voice started asking "Where's the Beef?" The first few times we heard that Wendy's commercial with that wiry ol' gal, we laughed. Then, as we heard it over and over and over and as it spread to venues other than hamburger-impaired sandwiches, we got a little tired of it and yearned for a new "talking point."

Oh yeah, that and "bottom line" fall into the same category---worn-out, overused phrases that eventually drive people up the wall. Hmm. I think that one's been used a time or two also.

During this holiest of seasons for spending billions of dollars on ipods, plasma TVs, slippers and annual supplies of cologne, I'm getting sick and tired of the Merry Christmas debate. I'm wondering who it was that suddenly decided to coerce the entire United States population into spitting out "MMMMMer---er-----HHHHHappy Hanukkah, oops HHHHappy HHHHolidays" to everyone they greet from Thanksgiving through New Year's.

This is stupid. How did we get along all these years with Merry Christmas? I've lived 58.5 years with the knowledge that when those presents started showing up under the tree, or images of Jolly Ol' St. Nicholas reminded us that we'd better be nice, or---in the childhood years--- when we'd stay up late, before opening the gifts, to attend Midnight Mass, this whole production started because of a really good guy named Jesus with a last name that happened to be Christ. Hence, ChristMASS.

I guess now, in 2005, we're once again rewriting history for the sake of someone, yet to be identified, who decided we need to retrain our tongues once again because someone else might get mad. I say to everyone out there, "Greet people with whatever you wish to say." It's just possible in professing your own personal pride that someone might learn something about why it means so much to you. Isn't this blending of cultures what's supposed to make America great? Isn't free speech one of America's greatest principles?

If you're Jewish and want people to remember the reasons for "Happy Hanukkah," say it. If you're Black and want folks to know about Joyous Kwanzaa, for Heaven's sake, yell it out. And, if you're Jose Feliciano or just plain Hispanic, I don't mind hearing "Felice Navidad." Since I'm Irish Catholic and stubborn, I'm gonna keep saying "Merry Christmas" any old time I want.

And, if I ever buy another $10 box of Leanin' Tree Christmas cards, which advertise decorated envelopes to go with the cards, only to discover the envelopes in the bottom (out of view) covered with postmarks of "Happy Holidays - Dec. 25," I'm gonna continue to write "Merry Christmas" right under all those "HH's."

I bought 'em at the Hallmark store for Christmas cards. Those animals on the cards, accompanying the "Happy Holidays" envelopes, are standing on somebody's porch with a Christmas wreath on the door, and it's snowing. They also have puzzled looks on their faces cuz some fool has probably come up to their house and said "Happy Holidays." They just don't know how to react because even the dogs, cats, rabbits, and mice have heard "Merry Christmas" for years.

I'm wondering what's gonna happen when these thought police start in on all the other special occasions which Americans have legally enacted through acts of Congress as national holidays in celebration of the accomplishments of certain individuals or events that have made a difference in and for this nation.

Think of what havoc the invisible but vocal PC'ers could wreak on Independence Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Presidents' Day, Memorial Day or even Martin Luther King Day.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good day!

Feline neck wrap

Beloveds: Deborah Love and Miss Licker Love
Debbie razzed me yesterday when I sent her and some other family members this photo and labeled only Licker as "beloved." So, I've taken care of that oversight this morning. Of course, Debbie is much-beloved to all of us too---just as much as all the cats, dogs and horses. She's my daughter-in-law who grew up in Boise and now works for Spokane's YWCA, coordinating after-school programs for homeless children.

Debbie and Licker have enjoyed a special friendship for a number of years. Sunday they went snow-shoeing together. Licker loves to ride on people's shoulders, and she has been known to serve as my neck wrap several times when I cross country ski in the fields around our house. Sometimes, after jumping from the ground, she grabs on and wraps her body so that her face can serve as an ear muff. All the while, she purrs in your ear while taking her free ride.

Many visitors have experienced this intimate connection with Licker, sometimes unexpectedly. Nothing like instant cat upon your shoulders, and this sensation is especially shocking in the summer time when there's no thick coat for her sharp claws.

Licker's name came from the fact that she's a very loving cat who shows her affection by enthusiastically licking bare human skin. She's a full sister to Fuzzy Wuzzy, who has another story to tell. Maybe some day I'll share that one too, but today is Licker's and Debbie's Day on Slightdetour.

Oh, Christmas Tree

Not a great photo but a nice tree. Note that the dog or cats have been at work on the lights. Also, read story below to appreciate this photo.

Oh, Christmas Tree, Oh *&@^%@&#

It used to be that Bill would bring home the ugliest, most pathetic Charlie Brown trees known to Mother Nature. I could never figure this out since he's a trained forester who should have an eye for a good tree. Later, I figured that maybe his motive was more "eugenics" driven--- save the good trees and bring in the culls for Marianne to decorate.

This year, however, his choice topped the charts among our 31 Love family Christmas trees since 1974. It's a grand fir (Abies grandis), more than six feet tall and thick with beautifully manicured branches. It's been leaning against the birch tree outside for the past week or so, waiting for its grand entrance into the house.

Yesterday was the big day. After morning chores, I decided it was time to take on the challenge, and I knew the neighbors over at the church to the north and Quest to the east would be hearinga good dose of Marianne's expletives before that gorgeous fir made it into the house.

Past experience with installing Christmas trees into Christmas tree stands assured me that beauty is trunk deep when it comes to this part of the decorating process. In fact, I've often thought about assembling a Letterman-type list on the "ten most likely events to cause dirty words to emit from my normally-antiseptic lips," and this annual holiday challenge has earned consideration.

A few other items sure to make the list would be horses running down the driveway with their tails and noses in the air after breaking down the fence. A couple of prime items from the technology department could just have something to do with computers---hitting the delete key before saving a blog posting, for example or a machine that just flat out won't work no matter how much trouble shooting I try to do on my own.

Then, there are the "hoses of summer." I've been known to spew a word or two while dragging half a mile of hose to a new watering spot, only to suffer severe body whiplash when the damn thing gets hung on a sneaky tree root and jerks me backward ten steps. And, when it refuses to release itself from said root, causing me to have to get up close and personal to coerce it loose, I tend to utter a few choice interjections while stomping back to the point of infraction.

Yeah, hoses do rank pretty high on Love's List of Need for Anger Management Motivations, but yesterday's events reminded me one more time that an unruly Christmas tree trunk will always put out its best effort to win the title. It took me two hours, a pair of pliers, two saws, two flat boards (for my knees) and three "time-outs" to get that tree to cooperate.

First, I've decided that Bill had more than forestry eugenics in mind when he used to bring me those trees with with five limbs two feet apart. At least, you could see what you were doing while attempting to get the scrawny thing to stand up straight while you bent over and tried to get those screws wound tight down at the base.

Our beautiful tannebaum of 2005, with its full plumage, allows no wiggle room whatsoever for anyone with a human anatomy to stand and hold it steady with one hand and bend over and screw it with the other. It's just not possible. I think you need six-foot long arms to achieve this. Since my arms aren't quite that long, I laid it on its side three different times, slammed the stand on to the trunk, wound up those screws and stood it up, only to see it tip to a 45-degree angle.

After the first viewing and unscrewing, I noticed a flaw inflicted by whoever cut the tree down in the first place. Could these people please saw trees off straight instead of at a 38-degree angles? Out came two of Bill's hand saws and a lot of elbow grease as I worked away at the frozen trunk. It's just not easy sawing ice and wood at the same time, but after a trip to the house midway through the process, I finally got the bottom level.

Next time, I screwed with it and then stood it up, the same 45-degree angle sent me into the house for a coffee break and a telephone visit with my mother. After cooling off inside, I went back outside and noticed that an unruly limb at the bottom was causing severe problems in leveling the tree. So, the saw went to work again.

There was no excuse for this tree to tip the third time, but it did. Once again, I reverted to that impossible dance with the tree and kicked it into that stand before leaning down and attempting to find a screw to tighten. Somehow, the tree got the message and stood up straight.

My next challenge was to pack it to the house, squeeze it through the front door and stand it up in the living room. Things do happen during these trips, and they did happen with the tree cuz when I got it inside, there was that same #&##$^% damn angle; it was leaning to the north. Well, yesterday I devised a new weapon in my arsenal, knowing that to go through the earlier process once again, inside the house was gonna get messy and ugly.

So, I went to the magazine box, pulled out a Sunset and a couple of Newsweeks, slipped 'em under the stand and "voila!" the tree stood straight and proud, waiting for the next fun challenge, stringing the lights. Well, the lights behaved except for those whose clamps have disappeared. Many are attached with pretty red rubber bands.

From that point on, however, as usual, the bliss and nostalgia of strategically placing each ornament collected over the years brought on the proper spirit and shut down the expletives. Bill remarked when he came home that it's the prettiest tree ever, and I agreed.

I'm also feeling much less stressed, knowing that next year I can skip the outdoor loading, cussing, reloading, cussing, etc., and just stick that bugger in the stand, bring it in the house and pull out the magazine supply.

Connie, this blog's for you

Connie and Thane are taking a slight detour in the next few weeks. They're heading to Post Falls where Thane's accepted a job with Knutson Chevrolet as their assistant body-shop manager. Their move will occur after the first of the year, and we, here at the Love house, are going to miss them.

That's an understatement.

I could write a novel about Connie Book Lloyd and what she's meant to our family. We've known her family for years because they've lived up the road from us for several decades. In fact, I did write part of a book about the Larry Book family when I featured them in a story called "To Assume It's a Wolf" in my Postcards from Potato Land (www.mariannelove.com)

The story explains why we have one of those yellow "wolf crossing" signs in our driveway. It kinda scares a few intruders off, I'm sure. Larry Book, Connie's dad, purchased the metal sign for me after one rainy day when he had used every motorized vehicle he owned to pull me out of the mud on the back road to the fairgrounds.

Seems I thought I'd seen a wolf out there in the field while driving by and pulled in for a closer look. It had been raining steadily for a couple of days, and the driveway, at the time, was merely a muddy cow path. While I was busy gawking and looking for that wolf, my Dodge Caravan was getting sucked into hip-deep mud. By the time the "wolf" was long gone, my car would not move forward or backward. The wheels simply spun deeper into the slop.

I walked to the Book house about half a mile away and summoned Larry to help. Along with him came his wife Ardella and their other daughter, Jolene, who were wearing brand, spanking clean clothes. By the time my van was back out on Woodland Drive, Ardella and Jolene stood there in the road, indistinguishable in their mud-spattered ensembles, while Larry lay in the middle of the road, holding his stomach, in a fit of maniacal laughter. I think he was doing that just to buy time to figure out how he was going to get all his vehicles home.

The yellow wolf-warning sign appeared at our house shortly thereafter when Connie came to clean one day. It's greeted visitors ever since. To say all the Books have been good neighbors is also an understatement, but knowing that we'll soon be saying good bye to Connie makes me sad. If ever there were a person we have grown to appreciate and love, it's been Connie.

For nearly 15 years, she's cleaned our house every week and even sorted our underwear. On occasions, she's gone grocery shopping for me. Most notable, though, is that she's truly loved all our our animals. Whenever an emergency comes, Connie's there. When we go out of town on trips, Connie and Thane see that every cat, dog and horse has all its needs met. And, when we return, she's always brimming with humorous anecdotes about this cat or that horse to share with us.

I remember one time when we were driving through Sun Valley after Willie's graduation from BSU, and the cell phone rang. It was Connie, and she was concerned about Casey, our Arabian gelding. She was worried about one of his eyes, which had been draining. We had noticed it but figured he had an allergy. Turned out he had cancer and had to have his third eyelid removed. Fortunately, the cancer has never returned, and it's probably because of Connie's alertness that we had it checked out in time to save the eye.

I can point to numerous other occasions where Connie's dependability and caring about every living being on this place has made us so thankful to consider her as part of our extended family. In short, she's one of those laid-back, easy-going gems whose presence, healthy laugh and stability wherever she happens to be bring support, sunshine and warmth to others. "Salt of the earth" comes to mind when I think of Connie.

We're gonna miss our dear, dear friend, but we're also wishing her and her wonderful husband Thane the very best as they embark on their new adventure and opportunity. Sandpoint's and the Love family's loss will be the Post Falls area's gain.

Much love and luck to you, Connie and Thane.

Sandpoint's Rowdy Buechner rides the bucker

Here's an Associated Press Photo of Rowdy riding Painted Smile at last night's ninth round. He scored 90 points and took first. This photo appeared in this morning's papers. See more information in posting below.

Rowdy on a roll

Today is the last day of the 2005 National Finals Rodeo. A week ago, we were excited that our Sandpoint boy made it to the Super Bowl for cowboys. Now, more than $70,000 later, Rowdy may even have a chance to win the bareback title.

He placed first last night with a score of 90 points and won more than $30,000 for his 8-second performance. For his first place, he even earned an ESPN interview after the event.

We couldn't be prouder for this young man who has worked so hard and gone without for so long in chasing his dream. Regardless of how he does today, I'm sure he'll feel the energy of hundreds of local Rowdy fans who'll be watching and keeping their fingers crossed for his grand finale in the 2005 competition.

The NFR airs today at 1:30 p.m. PST on ESPN. Bareback riding is the first event.

Ride 'em, Rowdy. We in Sandpoint couldn't be any prouder!

Makin' Moola at the Bonner Morgue

Yesterday marked the first of three days worth of craft show at the Bonner Mall. Once again, my mindset is prepared not to strike it rich. Our local mall has earned many nicknames during its lifetime, but the one which best characterizes it is "the Bonner Morgue." Nonetheless, every year, Mother signs us up for the Christmas-craft show because there's always hope.

There's been relatively unsatisfied hope for the Bonner Mall ever since it was first built in Ponderay (north of Sandpoint) in the 1980s. That hope has flickered often over its lifetime, thanks to those endless days when the place feels like the dead zone rather than a thriving center of commerce, fun eating places and frenzied shoppers. Yesterday we couldn't even buy a cup of coffee at the mall until the owner of Hot Diggity Dog, who also sells models, put out his single coffee pump well after 10 a.m.

Thank goodness, we go there more for the Christmas-time visiting than for making money. Mother sold three cards yesterday, I sold two books and Laurie, one refrigerator magnet. We have two more days to strike it rich, so we'll return this morning and tomorrow at noon, filled with anticipation that Santa Claus or local entertainers will draw a few more people to the mall's interior.

The place does attract people on a mission to shop at a specific store. The big draws seem to be J.C. Penneys, Sayers Jewelers, Sears, Meyer's Sport Tees, the Hallmark shop----and the liquor store.

Now that's an added perk to sitting at your overstocked craft table in the main aisle for hours on end. Our table is located on a straight shot to Jim Beam, so we see some interesting sights as we eye the dispensory patrons, who can usually sneak in for their bottle(s) and don't have to worry about anyone seeing them make their needed purchase cuz the mall's normally pretty dead.

But, when that main walkway suddenly fills with a bunch of idle folks sitting at tables, so bored that serious people-watching turns into an obsession, it's not too much fun for the folks who feel themselves on display while maneuvering their way to that dispensory door. All they want is to pick up their usual booze and sneak out of the mall, sight unseen, with those spirits hidden in a brown sack and snuggled up against their chests.

We saw several folks on their whiskey missions yesterday. The one I liked the best, however, was the lady who established eye contact with me for just a fragment of a second and quickly looked the opposite direction toward the Silver Lady's temporary store across the aisle from us. I knew this lady, and she knew me. She's never been the friendliest of sorts, even though I've always been nice to her and was just getting ready to flash her a smile before she so instantly rejected my glance.

That rejection signaled a desire within my curious brain to watch her strut on down the aisle way. Sure enough, she took a left turn and moved on into the the liquor store. Five minutes later, she left the store with bottle in arm. Now that's pretty mundane, but when you add a set of sunglasses to what was a bare face when she first came in, that does cause some head scratching. It's just not that bright in the mall.

As she continued toward the door, not looking to the left or the right, I kept wondering why she needed her sunglasses. Nobody really cares if she buys her liquor, and I know she's old enough. I still haven't figured it out. Maybe I can ask my friend Alice, who works at the liquor store on Saturdays. Maybe there's something in the florescent light inside the store---- or those bottles---that blinds people to reality. I just don't know.

Today, however, with the weekend ahead, there's sure to be another parade of needy souls headed that direction and wishing all of us, with our watching and wandering eyes, were somewhere else. If they'd just stop at our table and buy something, we could all leave the mall happier than when we entered it.

Love's theory of relativity

I've got this knee that's been giving me fits for the past few weeks. I think it's old, worn-out and tired of trudging up steep mountain sides or stomping on shovels in the garden. A week or so ago, Dr. Lawrence did renew my Celebrex but told me to get that knee in to his office where he could look at it. So, I'll be doing that one of these days. In the meantime, the Celebrex is dulling the aches and stiffness, and the family hasn't had to listen to me moan and groan.

I'm a pretty lucky person, healthwise. I've dealt with a rotten stomach for years, but since I retired, it's 100 times better. And, in 1981 I fractured my ankle while trying to earn a Bloomsday T-shirt. The accident happened when I fell and turned the ankle at the beginning of the race. My brother told me to stop at a medic station, but, like a fool, I told him "no" because I wanted that T-shirt. So, the poor ankle suffered and suffered for six more miles. I got my T-shirt all right, but along with it came a cast, some crutches and a doctor bill.

I've suffered a few other minor ailments over the years, but overall, I'm pretty lucky at age 58 to be complaining about an aching knee. This realization of my good fortune has hit me square in the face several times this last week while preparing my next column for The River Journal.

The process has helped me develop "Love's Theory of Relativity." Though my knee problems bug the heck out of me, they're small potatoes compared to the physical, emotional and mental challenges some of the folks I'm writing about in the next "Love Notes" have been facing----and with unbelievable courage.

The column will touch on the lives of three young women in this community who've been rebounding from severe brain injuries. In one case, Stephanie Martin's, it's been six years since she was injured in a horse accident not long after she had graduated from Sandpoint High School with honors. In the beginning, many doctors offered her no hope. Her parents, grandparents, family and friends were much more generous and determined.

I saw Stephanie last week at the fairgrounds craft sale where her mother Lori was selling gorgeous wreaths and Christmas yule logs. Stephanie came by for a visit, and she stopped at our booth to purchase a card from my mother. She is amazing. A sense of optimistic, loving peace radiates from her as she shares her gentle smile.

Her mother told me they're saving up for additional treatments to entice her neurons into performing at a higher level. In the meantime, they work with her every day, teaching her how to read and master the skills needed for independence. Their work has obviously paid off, I'd say, after seeing the remarkable progress this young woman, who was not supposed to live, has made.

Two years ago, Kate Fournier, a pint-sized dynamo who sat in my English class during my last year of teaching, suffered a brain injury after being hit by a car in Seattle. She now writes me emails. She uses a walker and is bound and determined to get rid of it. She attends classes at South Seattle Community College. Her mom, Lorraine, cringes when telling that Kate is determined to drive again, but her mom is also Kate's best cheerleader.

In August, my longtime teaching friend Karen Remmetter said good bye to her daughter Corie in Phoenix where Corie was going to start classes at the University of Arizona. The next day Karen received a call that Corie had been in a car accident. At the time, she didn't know if Corie would still be alive by the time she flew back to Phoenix. Corie has lived and has thrived, in spite of weeks in a coma and days where donation of body organs dominated family discussions.

Yesterday, I talked to Karen and Corie via telephone for my column. Karen was enjoying some rare quiet time while her "guardian angel" friend in Phoenix had taken Corie to visit the mall. I shall never forget our conversation. It dealt with the long road ahead. It dealt with love and faith in God and answered prayers of hundreds of family and friends. It dealt with daily miracles and how Corie is Karen's hero.

Then as we visited, Corie arrived home to their apartment, supplied by the Ronald McDonald House. Karen flipped on the speaker phone. There in the background was Corie---bubbly, vibrant, excited to say hello to me, even though she can't remember me.

Each day, she starts from scratch re-igniting her memory. She knows the five basics needed for showering but can't remember what they're called. She has double diagonal vision. Both eyes suffered neurological damage in the accident which causes her to see things double at a right angle.

To say I've been moved this week while dealing with these stories is a gross understatement. I promised Karen and Corie that I'd share with them a story written for the Appaloosa Journal six years ago.

And in the spirit of Love's theory of relativity, I'm sharing it with you today also. If I could muster up just one percent of the courage and optimism demonstrated by these people as they face each new day's challenges, I could deal with an achy knee any ol' day. Enjoy.

Youth Spotlight: Barrel Racer Brooke Riley
By Marianne Love
for the Appaloosa Journal

Twice, Brooke Riley dreamt she was sitting Indian-style in the kitchen of their house-turned-barn near Nettleton, Miss. Dressed in blue athletic shorts and pink tank top, the 16-year-old horse lover was clutching her puffy, bloody face and asking her father, Mem Riley, “Daddy, why can’t I see?”
The dreams occurred a week apart during the early summer in 1998. A week after the second dream while standing in a barn doorway, Brooke was kicked in the face by a frolicking 2-year-old Quarter Horse gelding. The blow knocked her unconscious.
When she awoke a few minutes later, she was sitting Indian-style in blue athletic shorts and tank top, clutching her puffy, bloody face and asking, “Daddy, why can’t I see?” Her dad was dialing the phone for help after the colt--oblivious that its playful nature had permanently blinded Brooke--ran off into the field.
The last sight Brooke Riley ever saw before being kicked was bright blue sky on that July day in 1998. A devout Baptist, she believes the vivid image signifies the next time she will see again---when she encounters a Heavenly sky.
Now, 18, and a freshman education major at Blue Mountain College, Brooke continues to amaze family, friends and strangers with her independent spirit and willingness to accept the accident as part of God’s plan for her.
“I want to teach the multi-handicapped,” she says. “This past year I got to work with them, and it made me realize how fortunate I was to have the abilities I have.
“I was always pretty independent, but since my accident, I’ve realized I can do anything with God’s help,” she adds.
And that she has. Two weeks after her accident, she was back on her Appaloosa gelding, Top’s Roman Only (grandson of Roman Only). She’s continued to ride nearly every week since. A year after the accident, Brooke and Roman completed a barrel-racing pattern in 16 seconds at a local rodeo. Brooke shoots baskets at her college gym by listening to the sound of the ball hitting its target. When she sings the national anthem at local rodeos, most folks in the audience are amazed to learn she’s blind. Some day, she wants to sing at the openings of rodeos and compete in barrel racing during the main shows.
Brooke grew up loving horses on the farm near Tupelo where her folks have raised Appaloosas since the early 1970s. After several years of trail riding with mom Melinda, dad Mem and older brother Blaine, Brooke decided she wanted to learn barrel racing. She was 15 and she had watched the sport at a rodeo.
“I liked it because it was fast,” she recalls. “I chose Roman because he was the fastest horse we had.” With guidance from barrel competitor Michelle Porch, she trained the bay, blanketed gelding in a pasture on the Riley farm. The next year she participated in a local rodeo on July 4 as an exhibition rider where Roman made a 17-second run. Two days later, she was helping her dad in the barn.
“At the time, we had two horses and a colt,” she explained. “I went to run one of them out of the barn and he kicked up his heels. I never saw his hooves---just the clear blue sky.”
Although close by, Mem Riley did not see the incident. Seconds later, he was carrying his unconscious daughter to the barn kitchen and calling for an ambulance.
“I’ll always remember how calm and self-controlled she was,” Brooke’s father said. “When I told her that the horse had kicked her, she didn’t panic or anything. I guess it helped me to remain calm because she was calm.” Rather than horror, Brooke remembers a calm peacefulness as she and her dad waited for the ambulance.
“I could definitely feel God’s presence with me,” she said. “My physical father and my Heavenly father told me everything was going to be fine, both now and in the future.”
Meanwhile, Melinda Riley, a nurse, couldn’t be reached immediately because she was having her tires rotated and repaired.
“God knew I was going to need good tires as we made numerous trips to Memphis over the next week,” she said. When Melinda arrived at the hospital, Brooke told her she was okay but didn’t feel like talking a lot.
“Blood was oozing from her eyes, and there was only blood where her nose should have been,” Melinda recalled. After a CAT scan ruled out any cranial bleeding, Brooke went immediately to Memphis where specialists from the Vitro-Retinal foundation evaluated her eye damage and performed emergency surgery to stop the bleeding.
The six-hour operation was the first of seven to rebuild her nose from skull bone, titanium and rib cartilege and to enable her to wear acrylic shells with blue eyes painted on them.
“They look so real,” Melinda says. “We take them out and wash them when necessary but mostly she has them in. One highlight of the last two years has been taking senior pictures. The outside pictures were so much fun because the sun doesn’t make her squint.”
Brooke’s sense of humor shined in her classes during her final two years of high school.
“Her Algebra 2 teacher asked the class if the overhead was focused and Brooke said ‘It looks kinda fuzzy to me.’” Melinda explained. “Without thinking, the teacher began adjusting it until one of the other students told her that Brooke had said it.”
Early on, having shed a few tears upon learning she’d never see again, Brooke chose to accept her situation and make the most of it.
“She told me she intended to use this as a stepping stone,” her mother recalled. “ We haven’t been able to slow her down since.” With continued support from friends, family and community, she has stretched herself academically, religiously and emotionally. Starting school that fall just a week late, she improved her usual grades of B-C’s to straight A’s. Since discovering a new talent for public speaking, she has inspired hundreds of listeners through her story and her singing at churches and youth gatherings by telling how God had a plan for her.
“The hardest thing I’ve had to do is accept the fact that I couldn’t saddle up my horse on my own,” Brooke said. “That bugged me more than being blind.” Since the accident, Brooke and Mem have established a routine.
“My dad will catch and cross-tie him. I saddle and brush him,” she explained. “We’ll do a short trail ride first and then barrel race or vice versa. He’s gotten used to the pattern, and we’ve gotten used to each other.
“My dad stands with us at the starting gate. He starts counting, and if I veer off, he’ll tell me ‘left’ or ‘right,’” she continued. When I get to the barrel, he’ll tell me ‘ready’ so I can begin to set off. Then he’ll tell me ‘turn’ so I can turn him.” Father, daughter and Roman continue to practice the same routine at a walk, trot and lope through the patterns.
At first, Mem Riley was reluctant to have Brooke ride Roman, but she refused to use any other horse.
“He’s got plenty of spunk,” he says. “We spent several months leading him so she could get her balance and know how to ride without her sight. It was like he knew it was time to act different. He just calmed down.”
Besides her first instructor, barrel racers Mary Ford and Kathy Eades have worked with Brooke.
“I’ve gotten to know her well since the accident and we’ve become close,” Eades explains. “I felt like my role was to encourage her. It’s definitely two-sided; she’s encouraged me far more than I have her.” Eades has listened to Brooke give testimony about her belief in God and has observed her demonstrate that belief while riding her horse.
“When you see her get on a spirited horse, totally blind, and actually go out there and make a barrel pattern, she has to have faith and trust,” she adds. “She’s not just waving this big flag of God around. You see she’s really living what she’s saying. She believes.”