Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Toe cleavage
Cosmetic surgery for better toe cleavage involves shortening the toe next to the big toe. Prom goers, generally of the female gender, are striving for total body perfection for the big night. So, they are now adding toe makeovers to the lengthy prom-preparation inventory, which had already included the elegant dress, the $250 hairdo, the salon-skin bake, the professionally installed fake nails, etc.
I'm always looking for something new and exciting to ponder. Today marked my introduction to the concept of "toe cleavage, " and I'm wondering if this new dimension of self improvement makes a real difference on the big rite of passage from adolescence to mature adulthood.
I learned about this phenomenon of "body beautiful" while reading a feature in today's Spokesman about people who insist on wearing "cruel shoes" er high heels. One woman, whose feet hurt because of her high heels, says she'll keep on wearing them because her podiatrist has never told her not to. DAH!!!
The story also discussed the pros and cons of cosmetic surgery on the feet. Apparently bones can suffer, so some doctors refuse to do such surgery, which is good, I guess.
This subject, of course, interests me because of a life spent covering up my ugly feet. They're really not THAT ugly, but my mother told me so one day, and I believed her. She also told me at age 5 I'd never get a job because I had a prison record (for stealing the neighbors' mail). I believed that, too, until I was 18 and realized a few people HAD hired me as a teen.
Now, back to the feet and toe cleavage. I'm trying to figure out if I've ever looked at anybody's feet and admired the cleavage. My daughter-in-law has very nicely manicured toes, but I've never noticed their cleavage. Maybe Willie has.
Back in 1965, I remember sitting on a dock at Camp Neewahlu on Lake Coeur d'Alene and listening to one of my camp colleagues, Pam Fawcett from Kellogg, discussing how she thought the feet were the ugliest part of the body. She happened to be beautiful.
As Pam spoke, I studied her tanned, chiseled feet with nice arches and refined toes with polished nails----and immediately changed position so my big flat floppers with ugly toenails wouldn't show up for immediate study. I figured she wasn't talking about HER feet; I figured she must have surmised this from observing other feet upon that dock on that very day.
As I think back on the scene, however, I do not recall any observation on her part or mine that included cleavage of the toes. And, as I fast forward through the years, searching out my memory for any other foot discussions other than "Hey, why doncha get some oars for those shoes?" or "Somebody's feet sure do stink bad!" I've never heard the term "toe cleavage" until this morning's Spokesman story.
So, now I have something new to think about. A great summer of barefoot observation lies ahead. I think I'll launch my own personal study of who has good toe cleavage and who needs to go see a willing foot cosmetologist.
Maybe the rage of this new foot phenom will convince Madison Avenue folks to replace that stupid dinner hour TV ad, talking about those pesky "dermadiphytes" lurking beneath the toenails, with something more sensually appealing.
After all, sexy toe cleavage does fit right in there with Cialis, doesn't it?
Monday, May 30, 2005
Taco Salad of Troy
We had completed our assignment. We had the afternoon to play. Some good ribs awaited us at the Clark Fork Bistro, or so we thought. The plan was that when Debbie and I had dumped the last wheelbarrow load of horse apples into the Tibbs Arabian poop pile, we'd clean up and head toward Montana for an afternoon of geocaching.
Every morning and night for four days, we'd seen that the needs of 11 horses were met while Barbara and Laurie competed with their remaining two at the annual Spokane show. During this time, Willie and Debbie had also slept at Colburn so that Mother would not be alone at night.
With our job done, the thought of an open-ended afternoon sounded pretty appealing, and Bill had mentioned the good ribs at the Bistro. The plan changed slightly, though, as we rolled through Clark Fork and noticed the Bistro wasn't open on this day.
So, we moved on to the scenic Bull River Highway, which connects HWY 200 with HWY 2 while offering travelers breath-taking views of the beautiful and rugged Cabinet Mountains and crystal clear streams meandering through lush, green farm fields.
Our first destination was the Ross Creek Cedars where a cache lay hidden in the trunk of an ancient tree. Our shock, upon arriving, was that this place has experienced "discovery" like so much of our area. We felt lucky to find a parking space and remembered our last trip here ten years ago on a Fourth of July afternoon when we'd seen maybe half a dozen cars during our entire two-hour stay.
Crowds of recreationalists were gathered in small clumps throughout the parking lot, chatting or setting off into different directions. As we headed down the trail, I was struck with the lack of solitude. In fact, I recall very few moments when we couldn't spot another group of visitors gazing upward toward the tops of the giant trees.
We ran into a few familiar faces and enjoyed short visits with them. We also found the geocache hidden in an opening at the bottom of dead tree which must have been at least six feet in diameter. Willie recorded the find in the logbook. I took a package of band aides and Bill replaced it with a plastic match container while Debbie read through the logbook with a tiny flashlight.
While heading back to the car, another phenomenon of the population boom to the quiet, off-the-road areas, which we've enjoyed virtually to ourselves for entire lifetimes, hit hard. More than half the people we encountered along the trail refused to say hello or even make eye contact. That hurts.
Another two geocaches awaited us near HWY 2. The first one took us up a steep trail where we ran into another geocacher from Bonners Ferry. Two Bugs is a Church of Christ minister and school bus driver.
His wife was in Virginia so he'd spent this whole day searching for a long list of caches along the Kootenai River and old HWY 2. He had not found this one and seemed disappointed when he heard that I'd discovered it in the stump without even using a GPS.
We enjoyed visiting, then left him to return the container of goodies to its stump and headed for the final cache at the HWY 2 rest stop east of Troy. This one was located on the right side of a fallen log. Well, when we got into the mosquito-rich woods, a myriad of fallen logs awaited us.
After a few minutes, though, Willie hollered, "Got a find!" Just as he announced his discovery, Two Bugs suddenly appeared in our mosquito zone, once again disappointed he hadn't found it himself. He seemed happy, however, to enjoy a bit more geocaching chat with Bill. It appeared mutual.
By then, it was 6:15 and time to eat. We chose the Silver Spur Restaurant in Troy. Our timing was good cuz graduation had drawn most of the population to the school, and the restaurant was relatively empty. I asked the waitress to appraise the restaurant's taco salad offering. She said she'd worked there only a month, but assured me there'd be salsa and sour cream along with other goodies.
Sure enough, it beat the one at the Fireside Inn on Mother's Day, hands down. In fact, I couldn't eat it all. Granted, Bill had to settle for fish and chips rather than ribs, and we had no entertainment other than scaring ourselves by looking into the fancy mirror next to our table. But, we did enjoy a sumptuous meal at the Silver Spur.
Our afternoon in the Big Sky country turned out well, but now, all good things must end. In a few minutes, Willie will take Debbie to the airport for her flight back to Boise. In a month, though, it's likely she'll be up this way permanently, so we can enjoy many more memorable Sunday outings.
And, I can continue my quest of critiquing the region's taco salads.
Every morning and night for four days, we'd seen that the needs of 11 horses were met while Barbara and Laurie competed with their remaining two at the annual Spokane show. During this time, Willie and Debbie had also slept at Colburn so that Mother would not be alone at night.
With our job done, the thought of an open-ended afternoon sounded pretty appealing, and Bill had mentioned the good ribs at the Bistro. The plan changed slightly, though, as we rolled through Clark Fork and noticed the Bistro wasn't open on this day.
So, we moved on to the scenic Bull River Highway, which connects HWY 200 with HWY 2 while offering travelers breath-taking views of the beautiful and rugged Cabinet Mountains and crystal clear streams meandering through lush, green farm fields.
Our first destination was the Ross Creek Cedars where a cache lay hidden in the trunk of an ancient tree. Our shock, upon arriving, was that this place has experienced "discovery" like so much of our area. We felt lucky to find a parking space and remembered our last trip here ten years ago on a Fourth of July afternoon when we'd seen maybe half a dozen cars during our entire two-hour stay.
Crowds of recreationalists were gathered in small clumps throughout the parking lot, chatting or setting off into different directions. As we headed down the trail, I was struck with the lack of solitude. In fact, I recall very few moments when we couldn't spot another group of visitors gazing upward toward the tops of the giant trees.
We ran into a few familiar faces and enjoyed short visits with them. We also found the geocache hidden in an opening at the bottom of dead tree which must have been at least six feet in diameter. Willie recorded the find in the logbook. I took a package of band aides and Bill replaced it with a plastic match container while Debbie read through the logbook with a tiny flashlight.
While heading back to the car, another phenomenon of the population boom to the quiet, off-the-road areas, which we've enjoyed virtually to ourselves for entire lifetimes, hit hard. More than half the people we encountered along the trail refused to say hello or even make eye contact. That hurts.
Another two geocaches awaited us near HWY 2. The first one took us up a steep trail where we ran into another geocacher from Bonners Ferry. Two Bugs is a Church of Christ minister and school bus driver.
His wife was in Virginia so he'd spent this whole day searching for a long list of caches along the Kootenai River and old HWY 2. He had not found this one and seemed disappointed when he heard that I'd discovered it in the stump without even using a GPS.
We enjoyed visiting, then left him to return the container of goodies to its stump and headed for the final cache at the HWY 2 rest stop east of Troy. This one was located on the right side of a fallen log. Well, when we got into the mosquito-rich woods, a myriad of fallen logs awaited us.
After a few minutes, though, Willie hollered, "Got a find!" Just as he announced his discovery, Two Bugs suddenly appeared in our mosquito zone, once again disappointed he hadn't found it himself. He seemed happy, however, to enjoy a bit more geocaching chat with Bill. It appeared mutual.
By then, it was 6:15 and time to eat. We chose the Silver Spur Restaurant in Troy. Our timing was good cuz graduation had drawn most of the population to the school, and the restaurant was relatively empty. I asked the waitress to appraise the restaurant's taco salad offering. She said she'd worked there only a month, but assured me there'd be salsa and sour cream along with other goodies.
Sure enough, it beat the one at the Fireside Inn on Mother's Day, hands down. In fact, I couldn't eat it all. Granted, Bill had to settle for fish and chips rather than ribs, and we had no entertainment other than scaring ourselves by looking into the fancy mirror next to our table. But, we did enjoy a sumptuous meal at the Silver Spur.
Our afternoon in the Big Sky country turned out well, but now, all good things must end. In a few minutes, Willie will take Debbie to the airport for her flight back to Boise. In a month, though, it's likely she'll be up this way permanently, so we can enjoy many more memorable Sunday outings.
And, I can continue my quest of critiquing the region's taco salads.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Jeanne Marie
The bouquet included lilacs from Colburn, three different colors of Iris from my garden and two deep purple lupine from my pond. For once, I actually did a decent job putting it together. The fragrance from a sweet-smelling blue Iris began to overpower the house as everyone agreed that the arrangement was beautiful.
Debbie volunteered to hold the bouquet in the car while she, Mother and I drove to Pinecrest Cemetery. Mother brought along some grass shears in case we couldn't find the grave. It's located right across from the Ed Hawkins family home, so we always know where to park.
"We look for Baby Bergstrom and Baby Best," Mother announced as we got out of the car. I figured it would be easy to find, since grass around all the baby grave markers had been trimmed last year. Well, they didn't get around to that manicuring job this year. So, as we walked among the graves, I noticed a marker for a Baby Nordgaarden. Had never seen that one in past years.
Mother found Baby Best and instructed us to start pressing the grass to its left because Jean Marie's grave must be close by. Sure enough, on my first connection with the ground, I could feel something solid. Debbie and I started ripping up the grass around it. As the tiny metal-framed window began to appear, I remembered it hadn't been all that readable last year, and regretted that I hadn't brought my glasses.
"Who is this person?" Debbie finally asked, while pulling up grass.
"She was our sister," I quickly responded, feeling a bit embarrassed that we had assumed Debbie knew all about Jean Marie. Mother went on to explain that she was born in 1950 and had lived for only a few weeks. She died from what was called "crib death" at the time. Mrs. Best, down the road, had had a baby at the same time. It was a boy, Mother told us. The Best baby lived for two months.
After clearing the grass completely away from the grave, Debbie's sharp eyes confirmed that this was, indeed, the marker for Jeanne Marie Brown, my sister. We placed the beautiful flowers on the grave, and Mother made a quick comment aimed at her fourth daughter. "There you are, Jeanne Marie, " she said, uttering her name with a French flavor.
I stood for a moment, as I have so many times before, wondering what might have been if I'd had this sister, just three years younger than I, to play with during my childhood. Life surely would have been different for all of us, had she lived. One never knows how the story would have played out. She would have been 55 this year.
For 55 years, she's lain there in death's slumber on that hillside west of Sandpoint, and for 55 years Mother has faithfully returned to her grave with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. Last night, Debbie learned of her for the first time. Last year, Mother told me it some day be my responsibility to see that her grave is decorated every year.
I shall fulfill that responsibility. It's the least I can do for a sister who missed out on the great gift of a life well-lived.
Debbie volunteered to hold the bouquet in the car while she, Mother and I drove to Pinecrest Cemetery. Mother brought along some grass shears in case we couldn't find the grave. It's located right across from the Ed Hawkins family home, so we always know where to park.
"We look for Baby Bergstrom and Baby Best," Mother announced as we got out of the car. I figured it would be easy to find, since grass around all the baby grave markers had been trimmed last year. Well, they didn't get around to that manicuring job this year. So, as we walked among the graves, I noticed a marker for a Baby Nordgaarden. Had never seen that one in past years.
Mother found Baby Best and instructed us to start pressing the grass to its left because Jean Marie's grave must be close by. Sure enough, on my first connection with the ground, I could feel something solid. Debbie and I started ripping up the grass around it. As the tiny metal-framed window began to appear, I remembered it hadn't been all that readable last year, and regretted that I hadn't brought my glasses.
"Who is this person?" Debbie finally asked, while pulling up grass.
"She was our sister," I quickly responded, feeling a bit embarrassed that we had assumed Debbie knew all about Jean Marie. Mother went on to explain that she was born in 1950 and had lived for only a few weeks. She died from what was called "crib death" at the time. Mrs. Best, down the road, had had a baby at the same time. It was a boy, Mother told us. The Best baby lived for two months.
After clearing the grass completely away from the grave, Debbie's sharp eyes confirmed that this was, indeed, the marker for Jeanne Marie Brown, my sister. We placed the beautiful flowers on the grave, and Mother made a quick comment aimed at her fourth daughter. "There you are, Jeanne Marie, " she said, uttering her name with a French flavor.
I stood for a moment, as I have so many times before, wondering what might have been if I'd had this sister, just three years younger than I, to play with during my childhood. Life surely would have been different for all of us, had she lived. One never knows how the story would have played out. She would have been 55 this year.
For 55 years, she's lain there in death's slumber on that hillside west of Sandpoint, and for 55 years Mother has faithfully returned to her grave with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. Last night, Debbie learned of her for the first time. Last year, Mother told me it some day be my responsibility to see that her grave is decorated every year.
I shall fulfill that responsibility. It's the least I can do for a sister who missed out on the great gift of a life well-lived.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Ambiance and fishing
So far, this Memorial Day weekend has gone perfectly. Bill, Willie, Debbie, and I got off to a good start last night by dining on the deck at the Blue Moon Cafe in the newly named "Lantern District" of Sandpoint. We'd eaten there before and really hadn't missed knowing that we were sipping wine and enjoying wonderful salads in the midst of such historic "ambiance."
The Lantern District includes several Sandpoint restaurants in the south part of town who've apparently spent some time, thought and money in marketing this new approach to drawing their dining clientele. I don't think it made our salad taste any better, but I'm sure it helped our self esteem. I found it especially amusing when I asked the waitress how she liked working in the Lantern District.
"I don't know," she said. "I haven't been reading the paper. What's that?" So, we explained.
We enjoyed our dinner and then headed on to what's considered much more historic in Sandpoint-----Dubs. With ice cream cones in hand, we jumped back into the Jimmy and drove down Boyer past the Babe Ruth game. Willie was happy to see that Riley Creek, his old team, was playing.
While listening to the Big Band Show on KPBX, we then drove to the Mickinnick Trail head so Bill could see if it was really closed for construction until further notice. The trail to the top of Greenhorn Mountain is supposed to be complete by early July. Mickinnick, with its phenomenal views of Sandpoint and the lake, is definitely turning into a popular place for hikers and bikers.
Now, it's Saturday morning and Bill has already left the house. Armed with his fly pole and fishing vest, he's probably standing somewhere along Cocolalla Creek south of Sandpoint, enjoying one of his most blissful days of the year. Stream fishing opened this morning, so he was there bright and early on this gorgeous Saturday.
I'm headed to Colburn to take care of the ponies. Happy Saturday to all. May your day and weekend be filled with proper "ambiance," whatever that is!
The Lantern District includes several Sandpoint restaurants in the south part of town who've apparently spent some time, thought and money in marketing this new approach to drawing their dining clientele. I don't think it made our salad taste any better, but I'm sure it helped our self esteem. I found it especially amusing when I asked the waitress how she liked working in the Lantern District.
"I don't know," she said. "I haven't been reading the paper. What's that?" So, we explained.
We enjoyed our dinner and then headed on to what's considered much more historic in Sandpoint-----Dubs. With ice cream cones in hand, we jumped back into the Jimmy and drove down Boyer past the Babe Ruth game. Willie was happy to see that Riley Creek, his old team, was playing.
While listening to the Big Band Show on KPBX, we then drove to the Mickinnick Trail head so Bill could see if it was really closed for construction until further notice. The trail to the top of Greenhorn Mountain is supposed to be complete by early July. Mickinnick, with its phenomenal views of Sandpoint and the lake, is definitely turning into a popular place for hikers and bikers.
Now, it's Saturday morning and Bill has already left the house. Armed with his fly pole and fishing vest, he's probably standing somewhere along Cocolalla Creek south of Sandpoint, enjoying one of his most blissful days of the year. Stream fishing opened this morning, so he was there bright and early on this gorgeous Saturday.
I'm headed to Colburn to take care of the ponies. Happy Saturday to all. May your day and weekend be filled with proper "ambiance," whatever that is!
Friday, May 27, 2005
Retirement Roast
Today I begin with a commercial announcement. My latest column "Retirement Roast" appears at my website: www.mariannelove.com under "Love Notes."
This column focuses on eight of my longtime friends and teaching colleagues who are retiring from Sandpoint High School this spring. This morning, I received a brief note from Ann Gehring. We share a lot of similarities---mainly age and Catholicism. She also has a husband named Rick who passed on to the "R" life the same year I did. We've each become seasoned retirees and willing experts for the new kids on our liberated teachers' block.
"Only 11 days left," Ann's note read this morning. She also has a note from me tacked to her refrigerator encouraging her to bite the bullet and join our ranks. That was written a couple of months ago. It's been read for reassurance several times, and she still seems glad that she took my advice. I'm glad too.
It will be fun to once again share good times with my friends after three years of basically leaving them alone to do their important work. Teachers don't have much time for visiting, relaxing or joining coffee klatches so I knew not to bother them. Now, come June 14, however, they can let down their hair (the ones who have it, that is) and look forward to the rest of their lives.
In the meantime, they've got 11 more days to finish out their distinguished careers, and you readers have a reading assignment. Flip over to "Retirement Roast" and learn the facts about these eight colleagues.
Multiple choice test to follow. TGIF, and a good Friday to you!
This column focuses on eight of my longtime friends and teaching colleagues who are retiring from Sandpoint High School this spring. This morning, I received a brief note from Ann Gehring. We share a lot of similarities---mainly age and Catholicism. She also has a husband named Rick who passed on to the "R" life the same year I did. We've each become seasoned retirees and willing experts for the new kids on our liberated teachers' block.
"Only 11 days left," Ann's note read this morning. She also has a note from me tacked to her refrigerator encouraging her to bite the bullet and join our ranks. That was written a couple of months ago. It's been read for reassurance several times, and she still seems glad that she took my advice. I'm glad too.
It will be fun to once again share good times with my friends after three years of basically leaving them alone to do their important work. Teachers don't have much time for visiting, relaxing or joining coffee klatches so I knew not to bother them. Now, come June 14, however, they can let down their hair (the ones who have it, that is) and look forward to the rest of their lives.
In the meantime, they've got 11 more days to finish out their distinguished careers, and you readers have a reading assignment. Flip over to "Retirement Roast" and learn the facts about these eight colleagues.
Multiple choice test to follow. TGIF, and a good Friday to you!
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Poop Scoopin' Boogie
I welcome any songwriter to come up with some lyrics for my morning activities over the next few days. My sisters, Barbara and Laurie, have taken two of their horses (Rusty and April) to the Eastern Washington Arabian Shows in Spokane. Each year, at the Interstate Fairgrounds, the club sponsors two shows in one. The classes are the same; just different judges for each two-day run.
With Rusty and April in Spokane, that leaves 11 horses at the Colburn Tibbs Arabian farm. Most observers will tell you that my sisters take better care of their horses than most people do their kids. I concur. Each horse has its own stall. Many wear blankets to enhance their beauty. All Tibbs horses enjoy the confidence and security of knowing they'll never live anywhere else.
To make sure this fastidious tender loving care continues in their absence, Barbara and Laurie always contract out among family members for the much-coveted job of providing nourishment and mucking out stalls. That's where I often get the nod. I do this two or three times a year, and through my experiences of scooping up all that poop, I've gotten some definite impressions about the personal habits of each of those lovely horses.
Since Rusty and April are in Spokane, I don't get any easy deals on stalls. I really like April because she always limits her deposits to two small areas. Most April apples fall in the southwest corner, while she breaks the monotony by leaving a couple of piles right near the door. Rusty keeps his produce pretty well-confined to the western wall area of his stall. Fairly easy, no nonsense job with these two.
I swear that April's mother, Fancy has rotator blades just inside her anal opening cuz her apples are always pureed and sprayed throughout the stall. In fact, I often have a hard time distinguishing Fancy apples from the shavings.
Then, there are the geldings: Beau, Chris and Telly. Their deposits are usually a lot heavier than their female counterparts because they seem to have a special knack for distributing blasts of urine in all the right places, thus adding more weight to the apple load.
Of the stalls left in the big barn, Minisha's deserves the most appreciation. She's dainty and refined. That sophisticated personality seems to transfer clear through to the neatly-placed droppings. Coquette and Kelly show no favoritism for where they like to go number two. In each case, virtually, the entire stall in needs a once-over with the poop pick.
When all those stalls are clean, which is several wheelbarrow loads later, I head out to the indoor arena to scoop up the nocturnal work of four more Arabian ladies: Molly, Raven, Jamboree and Rosie. I'd classify Molly, Raven and Jamboree (except for Jamboree's artistic bas relief caked along her north wall) as fairly nondescript and equally messy in their bathroom habits, but I'd say Rosie definitely doesn't live up to what her name suggests.
She's a total slob. Sometimes I wonder if she isn't trying create a new style of horsebarn art because she certainly doesn't limit her juicy apples to the floor. Rosie's stall walls are often smeared with a blend of abstract green images.
Today marks the start of another four-day run for my poop scoopin' duties. That means in 44 stalls, I'll be done. But, I'm rejoicing this morning because of the overnight discovery that I'll have an assistant, thus cutting that number in half. Debbie decided to stay through the Memorial Day weekend so she's gonna help me out.
She'll get her indoctrination this morning into the best methods for most efficiently picking those apples from the shavings and dumping them into the wheelbarrow. Then, our aromatic twosome will head home and fight over who gets to jump into the bathtub first.
After today, Debbie may have a whole new perspective on those elegant equine pets with their soft noses and distinctive personalities---right down to their individual poop styles.
With Rusty and April in Spokane, that leaves 11 horses at the Colburn Tibbs Arabian farm. Most observers will tell you that my sisters take better care of their horses than most people do their kids. I concur. Each horse has its own stall. Many wear blankets to enhance their beauty. All Tibbs horses enjoy the confidence and security of knowing they'll never live anywhere else.
To make sure this fastidious tender loving care continues in their absence, Barbara and Laurie always contract out among family members for the much-coveted job of providing nourishment and mucking out stalls. That's where I often get the nod. I do this two or three times a year, and through my experiences of scooping up all that poop, I've gotten some definite impressions about the personal habits of each of those lovely horses.
Since Rusty and April are in Spokane, I don't get any easy deals on stalls. I really like April because she always limits her deposits to two small areas. Most April apples fall in the southwest corner, while she breaks the monotony by leaving a couple of piles right near the door. Rusty keeps his produce pretty well-confined to the western wall area of his stall. Fairly easy, no nonsense job with these two.
I swear that April's mother, Fancy has rotator blades just inside her anal opening cuz her apples are always pureed and sprayed throughout the stall. In fact, I often have a hard time distinguishing Fancy apples from the shavings.
Then, there are the geldings: Beau, Chris and Telly. Their deposits are usually a lot heavier than their female counterparts because they seem to have a special knack for distributing blasts of urine in all the right places, thus adding more weight to the apple load.
Of the stalls left in the big barn, Minisha's deserves the most appreciation. She's dainty and refined. That sophisticated personality seems to transfer clear through to the neatly-placed droppings. Coquette and Kelly show no favoritism for where they like to go number two. In each case, virtually, the entire stall in needs a once-over with the poop pick.
When all those stalls are clean, which is several wheelbarrow loads later, I head out to the indoor arena to scoop up the nocturnal work of four more Arabian ladies: Molly, Raven, Jamboree and Rosie. I'd classify Molly, Raven and Jamboree (except for Jamboree's artistic bas relief caked along her north wall) as fairly nondescript and equally messy in their bathroom habits, but I'd say Rosie definitely doesn't live up to what her name suggests.
She's a total slob. Sometimes I wonder if she isn't trying create a new style of horsebarn art because she certainly doesn't limit her juicy apples to the floor. Rosie's stall walls are often smeared with a blend of abstract green images.
Today marks the start of another four-day run for my poop scoopin' duties. That means in 44 stalls, I'll be done. But, I'm rejoicing this morning because of the overnight discovery that I'll have an assistant, thus cutting that number in half. Debbie decided to stay through the Memorial Day weekend so she's gonna help me out.
She'll get her indoctrination this morning into the best methods for most efficiently picking those apples from the shavings and dumping them into the wheelbarrow. Then, our aromatic twosome will head home and fight over who gets to jump into the bathtub first.
After today, Debbie may have a whole new perspective on those elegant equine pets with their soft noses and distinctive personalities---right down to their individual poop styles.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
The Final Quarter
One month from today, I'll be 58. That's just two years away from 60. Ouch! When I was a little kid, I thought of 60 as pretty darned old. Well, I guess we do gain more respect for anything as we step up and view it from a closer proximity. These days, I don't think 60's so bad after all.
With my mounting years, I've gained an uncanny talent for rationalizing. It's just a chronological number. We're as old as we think, and we can even rationalize all the more if we don't look in the mirror too often.
But, I do take time to reflect about how I'm using what quality time I have left in this life. My horse shoer, John Fuller, who's one of the great philosophers I've known over the years, spelled out the proper attitude for folks my age shortly after I retired three years ago. While trimming Casey and Rambo's hooves and tacking on new shoes one day, he told me that he lives by a story a friend had shared with him.
"We're in the final quarter," the friend told him. "We don't have time to waste on Bull Shit." That simple, blunt but startlingly-wise comment related to me by my friend John has stuck with me and guided me since that day. Yes, I'll admit to getting emotionally bogged down from time to time, but when I do, the words of John's friend sound off like a gong in my head. I pick myself up, refocus and move on, trying not to waste a minute.
The other day a Spokeman columnist named Jim Kershner wrote a piece on "Life's Lists." He talked about items accomplished and items yet to do on his life list. One goal he and his wife had completed included viewing America's Grand Canyon.
His piece got me to thinking about my own life list and whether or not I'd clearly defined for myself what needs to happen before the brain and body start disintegrating (which may or may not have already started).
My long-held dream of visiting New Zealand occurred nearly two years ago. Now, that's been replaced with a fervant desire to return to that beautiful country with Bill, Annie, Willie and Debbie. Actually, I'd love to accompany any and all family members to enjoy their reactions as they experience the magic of Kiwi Land.
I've harbored some crazy goals. Once, I used to think it would be fun to figure out a way to remove the power boat that anyone entering Sandpoint could see sitting atop the old marina. Somehow, Ralph Sletager and his crew managed that task when they converted the marina into the Old Powerhouse complex.
I've also dreamed of jumping a freight and riding it at least as far as the next town. As I've grown older and the world around us has gotten a little scarier, however, I'm figuring that's not a good idea unless I have a big strong, trusted man accompanying me on my journey.
The "to-do" list also includes accompanying my husband to New York City. He's never been there. I have, and I think it would be fun to spend a few days wandering the Big Apple sidewalks and taking in all the tourist essentials. There's also Ireland. Any self-respecting Irish person who doesn't have that desire is probably an anomaly. There's the Kentucky Derby, and, speaking of horses, some day, I'd also like to ride horseback for several hundred miles through the back country.
The list goes on. I want to enjoy grandchildren and spend lots of time with my kids as they move on through the adventures of their lives. I've also thought it would be neat to earn my Master's, just for the sense of pride.
Some day, I'd like to have my yard and garden develop into a place of total beauty. I always think of the Butchart Gardens and how a woman with vision turned a blight into one of the most adored and most visited floral shows in the Northwest. That would be a nice accomplishment, on a smaller scale, of course.
During my life, I'd like to meet a real, live President of the United States. In November, 1992, Bill and I stood around the corner inside the White House the day Bill Clinton signed the North American Free Trade Agreement and then flew off in the helicopter to the Southeast Asian Summit. We never actually saw the real man. So, any time President Bush and Laura think they need to join the hordes of folks who've discovered and visited Sandpoint, I'd love to shake their hands.
I'd also like to master patience. Not an easy task for me. My ultimate goal, however, would be to enjoy the total bliss I see in my mother as she appreciates every new day, each member of her family, her precious cats, squirrels and birds and the simple beauty surrounding her peaceful rural home.
If I can develop the positive attitude she has acquired in her final quarter, I shall have done well.
With my mounting years, I've gained an uncanny talent for rationalizing. It's just a chronological number. We're as old as we think, and we can even rationalize all the more if we don't look in the mirror too often.
But, I do take time to reflect about how I'm using what quality time I have left in this life. My horse shoer, John Fuller, who's one of the great philosophers I've known over the years, spelled out the proper attitude for folks my age shortly after I retired three years ago. While trimming Casey and Rambo's hooves and tacking on new shoes one day, he told me that he lives by a story a friend had shared with him.
"We're in the final quarter," the friend told him. "We don't have time to waste on Bull Shit." That simple, blunt but startlingly-wise comment related to me by my friend John has stuck with me and guided me since that day. Yes, I'll admit to getting emotionally bogged down from time to time, but when I do, the words of John's friend sound off like a gong in my head. I pick myself up, refocus and move on, trying not to waste a minute.
The other day a Spokeman columnist named Jim Kershner wrote a piece on "Life's Lists." He talked about items accomplished and items yet to do on his life list. One goal he and his wife had completed included viewing America's Grand Canyon.
His piece got me to thinking about my own life list and whether or not I'd clearly defined for myself what needs to happen before the brain and body start disintegrating (which may or may not have already started).
My long-held dream of visiting New Zealand occurred nearly two years ago. Now, that's been replaced with a fervant desire to return to that beautiful country with Bill, Annie, Willie and Debbie. Actually, I'd love to accompany any and all family members to enjoy their reactions as they experience the magic of Kiwi Land.
I've harbored some crazy goals. Once, I used to think it would be fun to figure out a way to remove the power boat that anyone entering Sandpoint could see sitting atop the old marina. Somehow, Ralph Sletager and his crew managed that task when they converted the marina into the Old Powerhouse complex.
I've also dreamed of jumping a freight and riding it at least as far as the next town. As I've grown older and the world around us has gotten a little scarier, however, I'm figuring that's not a good idea unless I have a big strong, trusted man accompanying me on my journey.
The "to-do" list also includes accompanying my husband to New York City. He's never been there. I have, and I think it would be fun to spend a few days wandering the Big Apple sidewalks and taking in all the tourist essentials. There's also Ireland. Any self-respecting Irish person who doesn't have that desire is probably an anomaly. There's the Kentucky Derby, and, speaking of horses, some day, I'd also like to ride horseback for several hundred miles through the back country.
The list goes on. I want to enjoy grandchildren and spend lots of time with my kids as they move on through the adventures of their lives. I've also thought it would be neat to earn my Master's, just for the sense of pride.
Some day, I'd like to have my yard and garden develop into a place of total beauty. I always think of the Butchart Gardens and how a woman with vision turned a blight into one of the most adored and most visited floral shows in the Northwest. That would be a nice accomplishment, on a smaller scale, of course.
During my life, I'd like to meet a real, live President of the United States. In November, 1992, Bill and I stood around the corner inside the White House the day Bill Clinton signed the North American Free Trade Agreement and then flew off in the helicopter to the Southeast Asian Summit. We never actually saw the real man. So, any time President Bush and Laura think they need to join the hordes of folks who've discovered and visited Sandpoint, I'd love to shake their hands.
I'd also like to master patience. Not an easy task for me. My ultimate goal, however, would be to enjoy the total bliss I see in my mother as she appreciates every new day, each member of her family, her precious cats, squirrels and birds and the simple beauty surrounding her peaceful rural home.
If I can develop the positive attitude she has acquired in her final quarter, I shall have done well.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Farmin at the Farm
Betty Robinson inspired the tradition. For years, while teaching at Lincoln Elementary School, Betty always reserved a day when her students would visit her farm. One of those students was my sister, Laurie Tibbs.
The visit left a memorable impression on Laurie and the hundreds of other kids who enjoyed that spring day at Betty's farm near the base of Greenhorn Mountain. Betty was a Colorado farm girl who always embraced adventure of any kind. She wanted the same for her students. So, after arriving at the farm for the day, they romped around her fields, saw her garden, and enjoyed associating with her husband Lloyd's horses.
Lloyd was a snoose-chewing farrier and Sandpoint fireman who at one time worked at a stable where the original Panhandle State Bank now stands. He was also a horseman who, every year, went on a week-long Gentlemen on Horseback ride with his cowboy friends from around the Inland Northwest.
Lloyd and Betty are gone now, but Betty's teaching tradition lives on. Every year in May, students in Laurie's Farmin fifth grade class, armed with sack lunches, board a bus and head toward Colburn and the Tibbs Arabian Ranch where they spend the school day.
Their schedule differs a bit from that of Betty's. Laurie uses every minute available to teach them a series of mini lessons about horse conformation, safety, grooming and even a little showing at halter.
Today is the Farmin farm day for Miss Tibbs' sixth graders. Debbie, Jenny Meyer and I will be there to help as gofers while Laurie provides an unforgettable equine experience for her 20-plus 10-year-olds.
The kids will spend most of the morning watching and listening to Laurie as she shares her lifelong knowledge of horsemanship. At lunch time, they'll sit in their groups on the grassy hillsides, visit and look over the farm, which was once a thriving dairy.
In the afternoon, they'll separate into groups. Each group of four or five gets a gentle Arabian horse to groom with brushes, combs and rags. Then, moving on to the indoor arena, one by one, each takes a turn leading a horse at the walk, the trot and the showing position.
By 2 p.m. they'll board the bus and head back to school, no doubt, gabbing incessantly about their special horses and the fun they had. More than likely, their stories of this day will continue through a lifetime, and, who knows, maybe some day one of these youngsters will become a teacher and continue such field trips to the farm through another generation.
The visit left a memorable impression on Laurie and the hundreds of other kids who enjoyed that spring day at Betty's farm near the base of Greenhorn Mountain. Betty was a Colorado farm girl who always embraced adventure of any kind. She wanted the same for her students. So, after arriving at the farm for the day, they romped around her fields, saw her garden, and enjoyed associating with her husband Lloyd's horses.
Lloyd was a snoose-chewing farrier and Sandpoint fireman who at one time worked at a stable where the original Panhandle State Bank now stands. He was also a horseman who, every year, went on a week-long Gentlemen on Horseback ride with his cowboy friends from around the Inland Northwest.
Lloyd and Betty are gone now, but Betty's teaching tradition lives on. Every year in May, students in Laurie's Farmin fifth grade class, armed with sack lunches, board a bus and head toward Colburn and the Tibbs Arabian Ranch where they spend the school day.
Their schedule differs a bit from that of Betty's. Laurie uses every minute available to teach them a series of mini lessons about horse conformation, safety, grooming and even a little showing at halter.
Today is the Farmin farm day for Miss Tibbs' sixth graders. Debbie, Jenny Meyer and I will be there to help as gofers while Laurie provides an unforgettable equine experience for her 20-plus 10-year-olds.
The kids will spend most of the morning watching and listening to Laurie as she shares her lifelong knowledge of horsemanship. At lunch time, they'll sit in their groups on the grassy hillsides, visit and look over the farm, which was once a thriving dairy.
In the afternoon, they'll separate into groups. Each group of four or five gets a gentle Arabian horse to groom with brushes, combs and rags. Then, moving on to the indoor arena, one by one, each takes a turn leading a horse at the walk, the trot and the showing position.
By 2 p.m. they'll board the bus and head back to school, no doubt, gabbing incessantly about their special horses and the fun they had. More than likely, their stories of this day will continue through a lifetime, and, who knows, maybe some day one of these youngsters will become a teacher and continue such field trips to the farm through another generation.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Sunshine on my shoulder makes for a happy Monday
It was an October day nearly 27 years ago. As we left Bonner General Hospital with a tiny blanketed bundle of joy, whom Bill liked to call "Precious," Sandpoint's KSPT Radio was featuring John Denver's "Sunshine." Immediately, while gazing into her very young eyes, I dubbed that lovely piece as Annie's song.
I'm fully aware that Denver produced another song about his wife by the same name, but this one happened to be the first music our precious little girl would ever hear. So, it seemed fitting. Besides, it was a gorgeous, sunny day, and what a day for a young lady to begin her life outside the nursery. Since that day in 1978, every time I hear the song, I think of Annie and of welcome sunshine.
So, on this magnificent Monday morning of sunshine and a cloudless blue sky, I rejoice. Let's say it's definitely an improvement over yesterday. And, of course, after all that rain, I'm happy to embrace sunshine on my shoulder and thoughts of that little girl who is now working as the front-desk supervisor at Seattle's Courtyard Marriott in the Queen Anne District.
Yesterday, Annie called us after attending a Seattle Mariners' game. She does that a lot these days--- attend Mariners' games that is. One time she thought it would be fun to coordinate her call with the very moment that Ichiro stepped up to home plate. Of course, we were impressed.
For our birthdays, Mother's Day, Father's Day, anniversary and any other special occasion this year, Annie has promised Bill and me airline tickets to Seattle and along with another inexpensive stay at the Marriott. So, we'll probably go in June when the Mariners are in town and watch Ichiro step up to the plate ourselves.
And, on the other front this morning---sunshine on the shoulder, that is----I'm anxious to get outside and finish mowing my lawn. Yesterday afternoon, the Craftsman could have used some pontoons while fording through some of the lower lying areas of our lowlands. To say I created a few waves while mowing would be an understatement.
I've also got young maple trees and lilac bushes to plant. Mother has zillions of small starts at her home in Colburn, so I took the shovel and pickup out her way and dug some up. Can't wait to put 'em in the ground.
And, the day is going to be complete late this afternoon when we see Debbie and Willie appear in the driveway, unscathed from their trip. His car is being towed from Cascade to Boise this morning. Apparently, its top and a fender may need replacing, and the car may have water damage inside. If all goes well, he should be able to drive it again by next week.
Lots of reasons for counting our blessings on this sunny Monday.
I'm fully aware that Denver produced another song about his wife by the same name, but this one happened to be the first music our precious little girl would ever hear. So, it seemed fitting. Besides, it was a gorgeous, sunny day, and what a day for a young lady to begin her life outside the nursery. Since that day in 1978, every time I hear the song, I think of Annie and of welcome sunshine.
So, on this magnificent Monday morning of sunshine and a cloudless blue sky, I rejoice. Let's say it's definitely an improvement over yesterday. And, of course, after all that rain, I'm happy to embrace sunshine on my shoulder and thoughts of that little girl who is now working as the front-desk supervisor at Seattle's Courtyard Marriott in the Queen Anne District.
Yesterday, Annie called us after attending a Seattle Mariners' game. She does that a lot these days--- attend Mariners' games that is. One time she thought it would be fun to coordinate her call with the very moment that Ichiro stepped up to home plate. Of course, we were impressed.
For our birthdays, Mother's Day, Father's Day, anniversary and any other special occasion this year, Annie has promised Bill and me airline tickets to Seattle and along with another inexpensive stay at the Marriott. So, we'll probably go in June when the Mariners are in town and watch Ichiro step up to the plate ourselves.
And, on the other front this morning---sunshine on the shoulder, that is----I'm anxious to get outside and finish mowing my lawn. Yesterday afternoon, the Craftsman could have used some pontoons while fording through some of the lower lying areas of our lowlands. To say I created a few waves while mowing would be an understatement.
I've also got young maple trees and lilac bushes to plant. Mother has zillions of small starts at her home in Colburn, so I took the shovel and pickup out her way and dug some up. Can't wait to put 'em in the ground.
And, the day is going to be complete late this afternoon when we see Debbie and Willie appear in the driveway, unscathed from their trip. His car is being towed from Cascade to Boise this morning. Apparently, its top and a fender may need replacing, and the car may have water damage inside. If all goes well, he should be able to drive it again by next week.
Lots of reasons for counting our blessings on this sunny Monday.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Sunday morning and it's still coming down
I hate to sound like a broken record, but it's still raining in this drought-stricken area. Just went out to scatter cracked corn for the geese and ducks and noticed the garden's turning into a lake. Fortunately, most seeds have germinated and their little plants are most likely developing waders as they defy the water surrounding their appointed growing spots.
With all the stuff going on yesterday---coffee cult, root beer floats and car gazing at "Lost in the '50s," the Preakness and an evening retirement party at the Gehring house, I didn't get too much lawn mowed. So, it's looking like the patch where I mowed yesterday will be where I mow again today, if'n the sun shows up and decides to stay a while, that is.
I was griping to my Spokesman bloggers the other day about our TV weather folks who put up their graphics one day with a bunch of smiling suns on upcoming dates, always at least four days away. Then, the next day, they try to fool us by subtlely changing one of sun graphics with a cloud mass. The next day, the cloud mass has a water droplet perched on top of it and the day next to it, which yesterday was predicted to be sunny, has changed to the cloud mass.
By the time those days do actually arrive, they're all clouds and droplets and the suns appear four days up the calendar. Those weather guys and gals don't fool me one bit. Instead, they make me mad. In fact, in the credibility department, I think they're getting as bad as the rest of the news media.
I made those blogger comments after reading a Spokesman column about global warming where the writer suggested that maybe the weather folks could WILL the atmosphere to quit thawing the Arctic ice by smiling every time the forecast called for rain and cold temperatures, while making sad faces when the sun was gonna shine.
I informed the Spokesman in-house blogging crew that the writer's idea probably wouldn't sit too well with t mad people like me who don't give two hoots if the sun shines two minutes too long, causing one molecule of that ice to melt. I felt validated when the next day's paper featured an article claiming that the ice is actually GROWING in Antarctica. So much for smiles attached to ugly weather forecasts!
They've promised that the rain will quit this week------sometime. I'm not holding out hope, and I may be out there looking like a fool mowing that lawn in pouring rain cuz I'm not gonna let it get away from me like my sisters did theirs. My brother came over and they had a lawnmower/weed-eating brigade going yesterday at Colburn. In fact, I heard their foot-tall grass got mowed twice yesterday.
And, so, the rain continues to fall, and the grass keeps rising. Some drought!
With all the stuff going on yesterday---coffee cult, root beer floats and car gazing at "Lost in the '50s," the Preakness and an evening retirement party at the Gehring house, I didn't get too much lawn mowed. So, it's looking like the patch where I mowed yesterday will be where I mow again today, if'n the sun shows up and decides to stay a while, that is.
I was griping to my Spokesman bloggers the other day about our TV weather folks who put up their graphics one day with a bunch of smiling suns on upcoming dates, always at least four days away. Then, the next day, they try to fool us by subtlely changing one of sun graphics with a cloud mass. The next day, the cloud mass has a water droplet perched on top of it and the day next to it, which yesterday was predicted to be sunny, has changed to the cloud mass.
By the time those days do actually arrive, they're all clouds and droplets and the suns appear four days up the calendar. Those weather guys and gals don't fool me one bit. Instead, they make me mad. In fact, in the credibility department, I think they're getting as bad as the rest of the news media.
I made those blogger comments after reading a Spokesman column about global warming where the writer suggested that maybe the weather folks could WILL the atmosphere to quit thawing the Arctic ice by smiling every time the forecast called for rain and cold temperatures, while making sad faces when the sun was gonna shine.
I informed the Spokesman in-house blogging crew that the writer's idea probably wouldn't sit too well with t mad people like me who don't give two hoots if the sun shines two minutes too long, causing one molecule of that ice to melt. I felt validated when the next day's paper featured an article claiming that the ice is actually GROWING in Antarctica. So much for smiles attached to ugly weather forecasts!
They've promised that the rain will quit this week------sometime. I'm not holding out hope, and I may be out there looking like a fool mowing that lawn in pouring rain cuz I'm not gonna let it get away from me like my sisters did theirs. My brother came over and they had a lawnmower/weed-eating brigade going yesterday at Colburn. In fact, I heard their foot-tall grass got mowed twice yesterday.
And, so, the rain continues to fall, and the grass keeps rising. Some drought!
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Thankful
I was just completing a letter to a former student, Barry Stoddard, last night when the call came. Having gone to the "Lost in the '50s" parade and seeing another former student who had worked this past summer in the Stoddard Lab at Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center in Seattle, I felt compelled to write to Barry. The last time I'd seen him was back in the '80s when he headed off to Whitman College.
My other student, Jillian who'd met him through her summer internship, informed me that Barry was the head honcho in his own research lab at the Center. She had gotten to know him and had even given him a copy of my book. So, of course, I was enjoying a burst of pride while sending that email.
Suddenly, Call Wave popped up, and I could hear Debbie's voice telling me to call her right away. It was an emergency. Pride instantly changed to apprehension.
I called her immediately and learned Willie had been in an accident near Cascade. He'd slid off the road in a bad hail storm and ended upside down in a ditch. She told me that he was okay and had refused an ambulance. We both fought back tears while discussing the details.
She had just received this news from some good samaritans who'd happened onto the accident right after it happened. They stayed with Willie, later took him to their cabin ten miles down the road in Cascade and went to very caring efforts to help him out anyway they could.
Later, I talked to Courtney Priest, one of the good samaritans. She told me the car, though banged up a bit, was not damaged as badly as it first appeared. Her dad had just taken Willie to the Cascade airport where the car had been towed so he could retrieve his suitcase and satchel. In the meantime, he had called Debbie to let her know he was okay.
Through our phone conversations last night, Willie, Debbie and I learned that we had all experienced weird feelings about this trip. I hadn't made a big enough deal about saying good bye to him yesterday morning, and as soon as he rolled out the driveway, I sensed something that didn't feel right. He told me he had worried about making the drive, and Debbie said when he called her from Coeur d'Alene, she felt uncomfortable.
Last I heard last night after we'd all calmed down, Debbie and her mom were headed from Boise to Cascade to pick him up at the Priest's cabin. Debbie told me she would probably drive back to Sandpoint with Willie tomorrow and they'll decide what needs to be done with the car. Thankfully, it is well-insured. She'll fly back to Boise Monday or Tuesday.
Debbie, Bill, Annie and I, along with other family members who know about the accident, are very thankful that this special person whom we all love so much is all right. We're also very thankful for the Priests who went the extra mile for a perfect stranger.
This morning, we're all counting our blessings.
My other student, Jillian who'd met him through her summer internship, informed me that Barry was the head honcho in his own research lab at the Center. She had gotten to know him and had even given him a copy of my book. So, of course, I was enjoying a burst of pride while sending that email.
Suddenly, Call Wave popped up, and I could hear Debbie's voice telling me to call her right away. It was an emergency. Pride instantly changed to apprehension.
I called her immediately and learned Willie had been in an accident near Cascade. He'd slid off the road in a bad hail storm and ended upside down in a ditch. She told me that he was okay and had refused an ambulance. We both fought back tears while discussing the details.
She had just received this news from some good samaritans who'd happened onto the accident right after it happened. They stayed with Willie, later took him to their cabin ten miles down the road in Cascade and went to very caring efforts to help him out anyway they could.
Later, I talked to Courtney Priest, one of the good samaritans. She told me the car, though banged up a bit, was not damaged as badly as it first appeared. Her dad had just taken Willie to the Cascade airport where the car had been towed so he could retrieve his suitcase and satchel. In the meantime, he had called Debbie to let her know he was okay.
Through our phone conversations last night, Willie, Debbie and I learned that we had all experienced weird feelings about this trip. I hadn't made a big enough deal about saying good bye to him yesterday morning, and as soon as he rolled out the driveway, I sensed something that didn't feel right. He told me he had worried about making the drive, and Debbie said when he called her from Coeur d'Alene, she felt uncomfortable.
Last I heard last night after we'd all calmed down, Debbie and her mom were headed from Boise to Cascade to pick him up at the Priest's cabin. Debbie told me she would probably drive back to Sandpoint with Willie tomorrow and they'll decide what needs to be done with the car. Thankfully, it is well-insured. She'll fly back to Boise Monday or Tuesday.
Debbie, Bill, Annie and I, along with other family members who know about the accident, are very thankful that this special person whom we all love so much is all right. We're also very thankful for the Priests who went the extra mile for a perfect stranger.
This morning, we're all counting our blessings.
Friday, May 20, 2005
A soggy drip into the '50s
Every time I check into this blog, I see my brother's latest cartoon. This morning I'm thinking he must've been pretty prophetic when he chose to post it a week or so ago. It's been raining off and on ever since-----and he stuck the date of May 21 on it. Could that mean . . . ?
I hope not because we have a celebration going on in Sandpoint this weekend. For the past few years, we Loves have missed the "Lost in the '50s" weekend here because of trips to Boise. This year they changed the date by a week so we'll get to take in whatever we want.
I hope it doesn't rain too much on the parade of vintage cars tonight. By the hundreds, they cruise in from all around the region to appear in all their spit-shined splendor as drivers crank up the tunes and crowds line the downtown streets waving and marveling while the meticulously reconditioned wonders roll past.
Seeing these classic Chevys, Fords, Studebakers, etc. takes us all back to memories of cars parked at our own houses during the seemingly blissful, idyllic bee-bop era. Let's see. We had a war hero for a President during a time of relative peace. He played golf a lot and seemed to have more than his share of heart attacks.
Most of us helped christen in the era of the television set. I think my family had our first TV by 1955, and at our North Boyer house, the "Friday Night Fights" were a staple as were "Gunsmoke" and "Lawrence Welk" on Saturday nights. I can still do a pretty fair job of mimicking Lawrence when he'd feign popping that champagne cork with a thumb in his mouth.
Okay, so you can do it too! I saw you just give it a try as you read the line above. How about that other bodily exercise of holding onto your wrist until the your hand turned purple----or even the longtime favorite of cupping one hand over your armpit and pumping your arm against the hand to create a rather disgusting sound. Hard to make much noise, though, with a sweatshirt on! Ya gotta dress down for that exercise.
At our house, another favorite was sitting around during our moments of boredom touching our noses with our tongues. We were pretty good at all that stuff cuz we had to entertain ourselves most of the time, since we weren't allowed to watch television non-stop. That's how it was in the '50s. There was a clearcut family pecking order, and we followed the rules.
After dinner each day, we sat around the kitchen table while Mother and Harold discussed farm happenings or horses and puffed on their cigarettes. To make the time go faster while they talked, we'd try to catch that smoke overhead and blow smoke rings. I never did master that one.
The '50s to me included Lincoln School, 4-H meetings at Lucille Hudon's, visits to the Delamarter house, summer mornings spent fishing with a homemade pole off the Sand Creek bridge, hours sitting on our barnyard granary step with a herd of horses nuzzling at my hair or daily, carefree romps through the pastures to visit the Hereford cows and their calves.
Our family car for most of the '50s decade was a purple '49 Ford with a stubborn stick shift that caused trouble for this precocious soul when she started it up, put it in reverse and backed it into the fence-----all while my mother was gone to town. Went and got Mr. Best to put it back for me before her return. She found out anyway, and it wasn't a peaceful day when that revelation occurred.
In the late '50s, we thought we were pretty hot stuff when Mother and Harold purchased a 1958 brown-and-cream-colored Ford ranchwagon. Mother took the three of us older kids on our first three-week road trip that summer---to her native Michigan. The four of us still look back on that "worldly" experience as a defining time in our lives.
Yup, on this soggy day in North Idaho, it's easy to get lost in what most folks often view as a better time in our lives. Now, I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom and stare into the mirror while touching my nose with my tongue!
I hope not because we have a celebration going on in Sandpoint this weekend. For the past few years, we Loves have missed the "Lost in the '50s" weekend here because of trips to Boise. This year they changed the date by a week so we'll get to take in whatever we want.
I hope it doesn't rain too much on the parade of vintage cars tonight. By the hundreds, they cruise in from all around the region to appear in all their spit-shined splendor as drivers crank up the tunes and crowds line the downtown streets waving and marveling while the meticulously reconditioned wonders roll past.
Seeing these classic Chevys, Fords, Studebakers, etc. takes us all back to memories of cars parked at our own houses during the seemingly blissful, idyllic bee-bop era. Let's see. We had a war hero for a President during a time of relative peace. He played golf a lot and seemed to have more than his share of heart attacks.
Most of us helped christen in the era of the television set. I think my family had our first TV by 1955, and at our North Boyer house, the "Friday Night Fights" were a staple as were "Gunsmoke" and "Lawrence Welk" on Saturday nights. I can still do a pretty fair job of mimicking Lawrence when he'd feign popping that champagne cork with a thumb in his mouth.
Okay, so you can do it too! I saw you just give it a try as you read the line above. How about that other bodily exercise of holding onto your wrist until the your hand turned purple----or even the longtime favorite of cupping one hand over your armpit and pumping your arm against the hand to create a rather disgusting sound. Hard to make much noise, though, with a sweatshirt on! Ya gotta dress down for that exercise.
At our house, another favorite was sitting around during our moments of boredom touching our noses with our tongues. We were pretty good at all that stuff cuz we had to entertain ourselves most of the time, since we weren't allowed to watch television non-stop. That's how it was in the '50s. There was a clearcut family pecking order, and we followed the rules.
After dinner each day, we sat around the kitchen table while Mother and Harold discussed farm happenings or horses and puffed on their cigarettes. To make the time go faster while they talked, we'd try to catch that smoke overhead and blow smoke rings. I never did master that one.
The '50s to me included Lincoln School, 4-H meetings at Lucille Hudon's, visits to the Delamarter house, summer mornings spent fishing with a homemade pole off the Sand Creek bridge, hours sitting on our barnyard granary step with a herd of horses nuzzling at my hair or daily, carefree romps through the pastures to visit the Hereford cows and their calves.
Our family car for most of the '50s decade was a purple '49 Ford with a stubborn stick shift that caused trouble for this precocious soul when she started it up, put it in reverse and backed it into the fence-----all while my mother was gone to town. Went and got Mr. Best to put it back for me before her return. She found out anyway, and it wasn't a peaceful day when that revelation occurred.
In the late '50s, we thought we were pretty hot stuff when Mother and Harold purchased a 1958 brown-and-cream-colored Ford ranchwagon. Mother took the three of us older kids on our first three-week road trip that summer---to her native Michigan. The four of us still look back on that "worldly" experience as a defining time in our lives.
Yup, on this soggy day in North Idaho, it's easy to get lost in what most folks often view as a better time in our lives. Now, I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom and stare into the mirror while touching my nose with my tongue!
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Coming soon to a blog near you, a museum commercial
Have a meeting this morning; will post later. Have a happy Thursday and come back.
Okay, I'm back from my meeting, and I'll discuss a topic hot on my brain from the meeting: museum membership. Bottom line: it needs to increase. So, this will be my first forum for inducing prospective new members to the Bonner County Historical Society roster.
Our Bonner County Heritage Museum runs on a limited budget but does so fairly well, for that matter. Every minute of every day our lifestyle here in Sandpoint becomes history. Imagine the effort needed to preserve it all. Monumental, at the very least, and I can't even think of a word that could describe the ultimate effort.
Preserving history takes writing, photographing, filming, collecting, organizing information, creating displays, planning programs, passing stories to younger generations, preserving documents, constant public relations, inspiring new historians, etc. The list goes on. It takes time, people and money.
Not everyone has the time; not everyone has the money. Therefore, museum memberships, through dues and museum volunteer efforts, can lighten the load and open the doors for folks to do their part in preserving our local heritage.
A single membership in the Bonner County Historical Society costs $10 for seniors and students, $15 for individuals ; and $25 for families.
There are other categories, also. For $30, you can be a "Supporting" member, for $50, a "Contributing" member; for $100, an "Associate" member; for $250, a "Sponsor"; and for $500, a "Patron."
Simply joining and paying the dues will not only help the coffers, but it will also, at the very least, net you an occasional newsletter, informing you of the many wonderful community programs and displays created through the museum. Once you've joined the Historical Society and spent a little time down at that fascinating house of Bonner County's past, you may be surprised with the limitless numbers of fascinating ways you can help as a volunteer.
So, do consider today's blog a commercial. I'm passionate about history. I spend as much time as possible at the museum and find it to be most enriching as I file through old photos and search out tantalizing tales for some of my story assignments. Besides that, the people who hang out there are very nice.
If you're looking for a good cause to support, where every little drop in the bucket (either money or donated artifacts) makes a difference, the museum's it. You can join by contacting the museum at 263-2344, sending an email to bchsmuseum@imbris.net or dropping by at 611 Ella Street. It's in Lakeview Park near Memorial Field. Encourage your friends and any area newcomers to join too.
They'll love to welcome you to this never-ending, positive community cause. Tell 'em Marianne sent you.
Okay, I'm back from my meeting, and I'll discuss a topic hot on my brain from the meeting: museum membership. Bottom line: it needs to increase. So, this will be my first forum for inducing prospective new members to the Bonner County Historical Society roster.
Our Bonner County Heritage Museum runs on a limited budget but does so fairly well, for that matter. Every minute of every day our lifestyle here in Sandpoint becomes history. Imagine the effort needed to preserve it all. Monumental, at the very least, and I can't even think of a word that could describe the ultimate effort.
Preserving history takes writing, photographing, filming, collecting, organizing information, creating displays, planning programs, passing stories to younger generations, preserving documents, constant public relations, inspiring new historians, etc. The list goes on. It takes time, people and money.
Not everyone has the time; not everyone has the money. Therefore, museum memberships, through dues and museum volunteer efforts, can lighten the load and open the doors for folks to do their part in preserving our local heritage.
A single membership in the Bonner County Historical Society costs $10 for seniors and students, $15 for individuals ; and $25 for families.
There are other categories, also. For $30, you can be a "Supporting" member, for $50, a "Contributing" member; for $100, an "Associate" member; for $250, a "Sponsor"; and for $500, a "Patron."
Simply joining and paying the dues will not only help the coffers, but it will also, at the very least, net you an occasional newsletter, informing you of the many wonderful community programs and displays created through the museum. Once you've joined the Historical Society and spent a little time down at that fascinating house of Bonner County's past, you may be surprised with the limitless numbers of fascinating ways you can help as a volunteer.
So, do consider today's blog a commercial. I'm passionate about history. I spend as much time as possible at the museum and find it to be most enriching as I file through old photos and search out tantalizing tales for some of my story assignments. Besides that, the people who hang out there are very nice.
If you're looking for a good cause to support, where every little drop in the bucket (either money or donated artifacts) makes a difference, the museum's it. You can join by contacting the museum at 263-2344, sending an email to bchsmuseum@imbris.net or dropping by at 611 Ella Street. It's in Lakeview Park near Memorial Field. Encourage your friends and any area newcomers to join too.
They'll love to welcome you to this never-ending, positive community cause. Tell 'em Marianne sent you.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
It was a blast
Living next to the local airport does has its advantages. We especially appreciated our close proximity back in the late '70s whenever the big air show came to town. While most spectators had to pay a hefty price to watch the vintage planes and aerobatic pilots swoop through the skies overhead, we just set up our lawnchairs in the barnyard.
We made a lot of new acquaintances this way, and they weren't the four-legged kind. Each year about an hour or so before the show was to begin, cars and, even in one case, a huge motorhome from British Columbia, would pull into the driveway.
"Do ya mind if we park here to watch the show?" they'd ask.
"Not at all; the more the merrier," we'd say, inviting them to our barnyard reviewing stand.
This was so much fun, I even planned my annual Monticola yearbook picnic one year for Air Show day. Our crowd numbered nearly 30 on that May 18 in 1980. As students and strangers began to arrive, I started noticing that deep purple cloud slowly moving in over the mountains to the southwest.
"I wonder if that could be that volcano," I said. My husband Bill, who wore contacts at the time, pooh-poohed my speculation, suggesting we were probably in for a big thunder storm. So, we continued on greeting guests and inviting the the newly met freeloaders to take part in our picnic.
As the air show began, the cloud got closer. We'd just about consumed our fill of hamburgers and hotdogs when Bill started rubbing his eyes. For some odd reason, his contacts were irritating him. Moments later, we knew it wasn't a thunderstorm as bits of ash became clearly visible.
Within minutes, the air show had shut down, the kids and strangers were hurrying out the driveway, hoping to get home before the quickly forming eery, dark grey cloud of approaching dust completely obstructed their vision.
All left but my friend Pam. She lived just a mile or so away, but she was afraid to go home to an empty house on this strangest of all days any of us had ever encountered. The unknown effects of that volcanic eruption more than 300 miles away had suddenly changed us all, making us fearful and apprehensive.
During this time, scenes from that movie On the Beach began to play back in my mind---the part where the characters knew an atom bomb had exploded thousands of miles away, killing most of the world's population. Its cloud was slowly headed their way, allowing them time to ponder what it would be like when their lives would end.
Well, we weren't so afraid of impending death that day in 1980, but we were definitely wondering how this geologic event would affect our future. Eventually, Pam called and learned her boyfriend had come home. She left, a bit apprehensive about embarking through the gloomy, ominous atmosphere toward home. Within a few minutes, though, she called, letting us know she'd made it home okay.
Hard to believe that was 25 years ago today. Everybody's got their story. Anyone who was alive, aware and living in the Northwest can spout out immediately the specific details of the day, whom they were with, where the rest of their family was, and how they spent the next few days.
In our case, we did a lot of talking on the phone, not much housework, a lot of TV watching and frequent checking on the animals to see that they were okay.
I'll still never forget about four or five days into the aftermath, hearing for the first time the sound of a small plane flying overhead. All had been still and silent for so long. To hear this dull roar breaking the silence sent my eyes toward the sky. The ash cloud was gradually dissipating, and I even caught a glimpse of blue sky as the plane flew over where I stood.
Maybe this is finally going to end, I thought. Sure enough, the ash eventually disappeared, and life returned to a somewhat normal state. Nonetheless, we lived in nervous expectation of the unknown effects and subsequent eruptions for several weeks afterward.
We survived it all with few problems and even a very welcome early-summer closure of schools that year. My photographer cousin Doug shot a series of pictures as the cloud came over his back yard in Ephrata. One photo ended up on the cover of the 1981 National Geographic. Mt. St. Helens definitely provided an indelible lifetime experience for all involved.
Unfortunately, the damage costs incurred by air show planes meant no more barnyard freebies at the Love house. There's never been another local air show since that day.
We made a lot of new acquaintances this way, and they weren't the four-legged kind. Each year about an hour or so before the show was to begin, cars and, even in one case, a huge motorhome from British Columbia, would pull into the driveway.
"Do ya mind if we park here to watch the show?" they'd ask.
"Not at all; the more the merrier," we'd say, inviting them to our barnyard reviewing stand.
This was so much fun, I even planned my annual Monticola yearbook picnic one year for Air Show day. Our crowd numbered nearly 30 on that May 18 in 1980. As students and strangers began to arrive, I started noticing that deep purple cloud slowly moving in over the mountains to the southwest.
"I wonder if that could be that volcano," I said. My husband Bill, who wore contacts at the time, pooh-poohed my speculation, suggesting we were probably in for a big thunder storm. So, we continued on greeting guests and inviting the the newly met freeloaders to take part in our picnic.
As the air show began, the cloud got closer. We'd just about consumed our fill of hamburgers and hotdogs when Bill started rubbing his eyes. For some odd reason, his contacts were irritating him. Moments later, we knew it wasn't a thunderstorm as bits of ash became clearly visible.
Within minutes, the air show had shut down, the kids and strangers were hurrying out the driveway, hoping to get home before the quickly forming eery, dark grey cloud of approaching dust completely obstructed their vision.
All left but my friend Pam. She lived just a mile or so away, but she was afraid to go home to an empty house on this strangest of all days any of us had ever encountered. The unknown effects of that volcanic eruption more than 300 miles away had suddenly changed us all, making us fearful and apprehensive.
During this time, scenes from that movie On the Beach began to play back in my mind---the part where the characters knew an atom bomb had exploded thousands of miles away, killing most of the world's population. Its cloud was slowly headed their way, allowing them time to ponder what it would be like when their lives would end.
Well, we weren't so afraid of impending death that day in 1980, but we were definitely wondering how this geologic event would affect our future. Eventually, Pam called and learned her boyfriend had come home. She left, a bit apprehensive about embarking through the gloomy, ominous atmosphere toward home. Within a few minutes, though, she called, letting us know she'd made it home okay.
Hard to believe that was 25 years ago today. Everybody's got their story. Anyone who was alive, aware and living in the Northwest can spout out immediately the specific details of the day, whom they were with, where the rest of their family was, and how they spent the next few days.
In our case, we did a lot of talking on the phone, not much housework, a lot of TV watching and frequent checking on the animals to see that they were okay.
I'll still never forget about four or five days into the aftermath, hearing for the first time the sound of a small plane flying overhead. All had been still and silent for so long. To hear this dull roar breaking the silence sent my eyes toward the sky. The ash cloud was gradually dissipating, and I even caught a glimpse of blue sky as the plane flew over where I stood.
Maybe this is finally going to end, I thought. Sure enough, the ash eventually disappeared, and life returned to a somewhat normal state. Nonetheless, we lived in nervous expectation of the unknown effects and subsequent eruptions for several weeks afterward.
We survived it all with few problems and even a very welcome early-summer closure of schools that year. My photographer cousin Doug shot a series of pictures as the cloud came over his back yard in Ephrata. One photo ended up on the cover of the 1981 National Geographic. Mt. St. Helens definitely provided an indelible lifetime experience for all involved.
Unfortunately, the damage costs incurred by air show planes meant no more barnyard freebies at the Love house. There's never been another local air show since that day.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Roads taken
Every first period during Mary Parker's senior English class, Carley Pfeiffer sat next to me in the back row of Room 5. Gil Bohan also occupied our row and probably focused on his beloved Chicago White Sox, while I found numerous ways to write about my cow Millie in our 300-word essays. I can't remember what Carley liked to write about, but I always appreciated her as a country girl like me.
That was 40 years ago when 300-word essays were standard and high school seniors were looking ahead to the American dream. At that time, it was pretty well-defined for us, especially for women. We could go to college and become a teacher, go to nursing school or maybe enroll in Kinman Business University to learn secretarial skills. We could also join the military, or maybe even snatch a husband, get married and have a batch of kids.
Young people at that time still envisioned success as the house, the two-car garage and the kids. There was a war going on, but we weren't too tuned in about it until some of our classmates eventually went off to fight it. One, Glen Shropshire, a strikingly handsome, talented creative writer and good friend of mine, never came home after going to Vietnam as a Marine.
He left behind his wife Cheryl, another 1965 classmate and their two kids. Cheryl married again and had two daughters, one of which is a fine elementary teacher here in Sandpoint. Over the years, I taught all four of Cheryl's children, and during my teaching career, had an opportunity to touch Glen's name on the Vietnam Wall in Washington, D.C. The pencil engraving remains in my dresser drawer.
Carley joined the Navy and met her husband of 38 years at age 19. I just learned that information a few days ago after hearing from her for the first time in nearly 40 years. Her email message, which showed up one evening last week, indicated that she would not be able to attend the reunion because she'd be scuba diving at Bonaire, NE Antilles off the coast of Venezuela. She added she'd be thinking about us.
These days, Carley lives in Colorado as a retired AT & T communications technician. She gained her technical knowledge during her three-year stint in the Navy, and she worked on the ground floor of the computer era. Carley's delight in life, besides scuba diving, is her growing number of grandchildren. Since her first letter, we've exchanged a additional email notes and have shared a few highlights of our respective lives.
Ironically, we've talked about kids and husbands, but nothing's come up about the two cars or the garage. I think that priority kinda disappeared in the maze of life-altering events we've all faced since Mrs. Parker, our nationally award-winning English teacher, pumped us full of grammar, literature and excitement about the bright future beckoning us on our separate journeys.
Many of us classmates will get together in Sandpoint this summer for a 40th-year reunion weekend. We'll spend time trying to identify each other, we'll reminisce a lot, play a little golf or go hiking, and we'll, no doubt, talk about the aches and pains that come with facing 60.
Some will talk about kids; others, grandkids, and even others great-grandchildren. We'll remember those among us who have passed away. And, who knows, maybe Gil Bohan will be there, taking a little heat about his Sox.
There is nothing quite like a class reunion to revive our sense of from whence we've come and where we're headed as we continue our separate routes through life. It will be a fun party, and we'll miss seeing folks like Carley.
But, we'll also envy her good excuse for not showing up. Since walking out of Sandpoint High School's gym after our 1965 graduation, she's definitely pursued her own pathways and her passions. And, I'll bet she could write a pretty decent 300-word theme about any of them for Mrs. Parker.
That was 40 years ago when 300-word essays were standard and high school seniors were looking ahead to the American dream. At that time, it was pretty well-defined for us, especially for women. We could go to college and become a teacher, go to nursing school or maybe enroll in Kinman Business University to learn secretarial skills. We could also join the military, or maybe even snatch a husband, get married and have a batch of kids.
Young people at that time still envisioned success as the house, the two-car garage and the kids. There was a war going on, but we weren't too tuned in about it until some of our classmates eventually went off to fight it. One, Glen Shropshire, a strikingly handsome, talented creative writer and good friend of mine, never came home after going to Vietnam as a Marine.
He left behind his wife Cheryl, another 1965 classmate and their two kids. Cheryl married again and had two daughters, one of which is a fine elementary teacher here in Sandpoint. Over the years, I taught all four of Cheryl's children, and during my teaching career, had an opportunity to touch Glen's name on the Vietnam Wall in Washington, D.C. The pencil engraving remains in my dresser drawer.
Carley joined the Navy and met her husband of 38 years at age 19. I just learned that information a few days ago after hearing from her for the first time in nearly 40 years. Her email message, which showed up one evening last week, indicated that she would not be able to attend the reunion because she'd be scuba diving at Bonaire, NE Antilles off the coast of Venezuela. She added she'd be thinking about us.
These days, Carley lives in Colorado as a retired AT & T communications technician. She gained her technical knowledge during her three-year stint in the Navy, and she worked on the ground floor of the computer era. Carley's delight in life, besides scuba diving, is her growing number of grandchildren. Since her first letter, we've exchanged a additional email notes and have shared a few highlights of our respective lives.
Ironically, we've talked about kids and husbands, but nothing's come up about the two cars or the garage. I think that priority kinda disappeared in the maze of life-altering events we've all faced since Mrs. Parker, our nationally award-winning English teacher, pumped us full of grammar, literature and excitement about the bright future beckoning us on our separate journeys.
Many of us classmates will get together in Sandpoint this summer for a 40th-year reunion weekend. We'll spend time trying to identify each other, we'll reminisce a lot, play a little golf or go hiking, and we'll, no doubt, talk about the aches and pains that come with facing 60.
Some will talk about kids; others, grandkids, and even others great-grandchildren. We'll remember those among us who have passed away. And, who knows, maybe Gil Bohan will be there, taking a little heat about his Sox.
There is nothing quite like a class reunion to revive our sense of from whence we've come and where we're headed as we continue our separate routes through life. It will be a fun party, and we'll miss seeing folks like Carley.
But, we'll also envy her good excuse for not showing up. Since walking out of Sandpoint High School's gym after our 1965 graduation, she's definitely pursued her own pathways and her passions. And, I'll bet she could write a pretty decent 300-word theme about any of them for Mrs. Parker.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Soggy Monday
I don't think we'll have to worry about a drought this week. The ducks are in heaven, and the grass is aiming that way. I'm sure that as soon as the rain ceases, my lawnmower's gonna have a good workout.
We're back from Boise, each of us depending heavily on our coffee this morning. Bill and I arrived home about 9 last night, unpacked the suitcases, read the papers, and watched the season finale of "Survivor" before heading to slumberland. Willie drove in from his flight to Spokane about 11:30. So, we're feeling the Monday morning effects of re-entering the routine.
Bill's decided to take the day off. He got skunked several times with his geocache searches this weekend. He introduced Annie's friend Jennessa to the sport. They searched for two caches at the Morrison-Knudson Nature Center and at another location on the greenbelt. Unfortunately, Jennessa missed out on the excitement of locating her first caches because both were not there to be found. She's planning to purchase a GPS, though, and give it a try on her own.
Later, Bill and Annie did locate two caches----one in the Boise foothills, the other at the mall. On our way back, while he searched for yet another cache at Packer John's cabin near New Meadows, I headed up the road on the bike. Though, the shoulder was pretty narrow or nonexistent along the way and passing cars sprayed me while they splashed through the puddles, I enjoyed the ride.
Bill was planning to stop at the 45th parallel north of New Meadows for his final search of the day, so I pedaled 5.5 miles to that stop. Again, he got skunked. Disappointment does not deter a geocacher, though. I'm sure he'll be out looking for some others on this wet day off.
We stopped in Riggins at the Snake River Inn where Bill enjoyed a "Seven Devil" sandwich, and I ate half an "Ogre." It's an enlarged English muffin bun, loaded with pastrami, cheese, sauerkraut, and mayonnaise. Much better than last Sunday's taco salad, but too much for my shrunken stomach to accept. Bill also had to a chocolate milkshake from Donald's on down the road in Lapwai.
Today, once the rain stops, the usual work begins anew. I brought back tomato plants, parsley, fennel and some spider wart from Betty Munis' unbelievable huge garden, which covers three lots in Boise. These plants are all in for a shock as they hit the ground here where it's not so warm and our not-so-fertile clay soil will give their roots a tough job of reconnecting with the earth.
Even though we enjoyed all the activities associated with this weekend, it's always good to get home, especially this time of year, to see how much everything has grown and to know that our animals have done just fine, thanks to Melissa who watched the place.
Also, after returning from these occasional trips, I find there's also plenty of "catch-up" on my plate, so I'd better get a move on. Happy Monday, to all.
We're back from Boise, each of us depending heavily on our coffee this morning. Bill and I arrived home about 9 last night, unpacked the suitcases, read the papers, and watched the season finale of "Survivor" before heading to slumberland. Willie drove in from his flight to Spokane about 11:30. So, we're feeling the Monday morning effects of re-entering the routine.
Bill's decided to take the day off. He got skunked several times with his geocache searches this weekend. He introduced Annie's friend Jennessa to the sport. They searched for two caches at the Morrison-Knudson Nature Center and at another location on the greenbelt. Unfortunately, Jennessa missed out on the excitement of locating her first caches because both were not there to be found. She's planning to purchase a GPS, though, and give it a try on her own.
Later, Bill and Annie did locate two caches----one in the Boise foothills, the other at the mall. On our way back, while he searched for yet another cache at Packer John's cabin near New Meadows, I headed up the road on the bike. Though, the shoulder was pretty narrow or nonexistent along the way and passing cars sprayed me while they splashed through the puddles, I enjoyed the ride.
Bill was planning to stop at the 45th parallel north of New Meadows for his final search of the day, so I pedaled 5.5 miles to that stop. Again, he got skunked. Disappointment does not deter a geocacher, though. I'm sure he'll be out looking for some others on this wet day off.
We stopped in Riggins at the Snake River Inn where Bill enjoyed a "Seven Devil" sandwich, and I ate half an "Ogre." It's an enlarged English muffin bun, loaded with pastrami, cheese, sauerkraut, and mayonnaise. Much better than last Sunday's taco salad, but too much for my shrunken stomach to accept. Bill also had to a chocolate milkshake from Donald's on down the road in Lapwai.
Today, once the rain stops, the usual work begins anew. I brought back tomato plants, parsley, fennel and some spider wart from Betty Munis' unbelievable huge garden, which covers three lots in Boise. These plants are all in for a shock as they hit the ground here where it's not so warm and our not-so-fertile clay soil will give their roots a tough job of reconnecting with the earth.
Even though we enjoyed all the activities associated with this weekend, it's always good to get home, especially this time of year, to see how much everything has grown and to know that our animals have done just fine, thanks to Melissa who watched the place.
Also, after returning from these occasional trips, I find there's also plenty of "catch-up" on my plate, so I'd better get a move on. Happy Monday, to all.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Journeys
Annie's taking her rental car back to the airport and checking in. Bill will bring her back for some breakfast and an anticipated morning visit with Willie and Debbie. We'll drop her off for her flight back to Seattle about 10:30.
Then, we'll go visit some friends here before heading home. David is an executive with Boise Co., while his wife Betty heads the Idaho Forest Products Commission. Betty has some good-looking tomato plants (including one from New Zealand), which we'll take home to put in the ground. We're also delivering some to a mutual friend, Mike Boeck.
It's been a good weekend. Three BSU graduates in the family now will, no doubt, have some fun bantering with all the U of I grads. Word around the picnic yesterday was that Debbie will be moving to Spokane in June, so we're anticipating that Willie will be moving there with her. Life will change for all major family entities---the Mom and Dad Loves, Mom Williams and Grandma and Grandpa in Boise.
But life moves on, and who knows where the next adventures will take all of us as we follow the paths of these wonderful kids. So far, it's been a fun and pride-filled journey.
While staying here at the Residence Inn, I've enjoyed getting to know a young woman from Sudan who works downstairs in the continental breakfast kitchen. Talk about a life's journey. She moved here five months ago to join her brother who came in 2000.
Her name's Kalina; she has a baby and plans to work enough to earn money to attend college here. She says there are no plans to go back to her home country with its war, so she's moving forward and enjoying her new life in the United States.
Actually through an internship, Debbie has worked with a family here in Boise who came here because of another war; this one, in Bosnia. She's hoping to do the same type of work when she moves to Spokane with her multi-ethnics studies major.
Only three students among the thousands that graduated during BSU's 75th commencement yesterday chose this major; Debbie's best friend Alicia is one of the three. She'll take her training on to Seattle where her fiancee, Andrew, works for Boeing.
And, so, the journeys continue for our little circle of friends, family and new acquaintances. We've got a long one ahead as we point the Jimmy northward up that infamous goat trail. I don't know how much bike riding I'm going to do today because it's pretty soggy looking outside.
All in all, this weekend has taken us on some fascinating side trips filled with great memories.
Then, we'll go visit some friends here before heading home. David is an executive with Boise Co., while his wife Betty heads the Idaho Forest Products Commission. Betty has some good-looking tomato plants (including one from New Zealand), which we'll take home to put in the ground. We're also delivering some to a mutual friend, Mike Boeck.
It's been a good weekend. Three BSU graduates in the family now will, no doubt, have some fun bantering with all the U of I grads. Word around the picnic yesterday was that Debbie will be moving to Spokane in June, so we're anticipating that Willie will be moving there with her. Life will change for all major family entities---the Mom and Dad Loves, Mom Williams and Grandma and Grandpa in Boise.
But life moves on, and who knows where the next adventures will take all of us as we follow the paths of these wonderful kids. So far, it's been a fun and pride-filled journey.
While staying here at the Residence Inn, I've enjoyed getting to know a young woman from Sudan who works downstairs in the continental breakfast kitchen. Talk about a life's journey. She moved here five months ago to join her brother who came in 2000.
Her name's Kalina; she has a baby and plans to work enough to earn money to attend college here. She says there are no plans to go back to her home country with its war, so she's moving forward and enjoying her new life in the United States.
Actually through an internship, Debbie has worked with a family here in Boise who came here because of another war; this one, in Bosnia. She's hoping to do the same type of work when she moves to Spokane with her multi-ethnics studies major.
Only three students among the thousands that graduated during BSU's 75th commencement yesterday chose this major; Debbie's best friend Alicia is one of the three. She'll take her training on to Seattle where her fiancee, Andrew, works for Boeing.
And, so, the journeys continue for our little circle of friends, family and new acquaintances. We've got a long one ahead as we point the Jimmy northward up that infamous goat trail. I don't know how much bike riding I'm going to do today because it's pretty soggy looking outside.
All in all, this weekend has taken us on some fascinating side trips filled with great memories.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Marvelous Marriott
This Marriott connection is pretty nice. Because of Annie's employment with the corporation, her family can take advantage of a substantial discount for any Marriott facility.
Last fall, we stayed in the Seattle Waterfront Marriott for a fraction of the regular cost. A month ago, Mother and I enjoyed an economical three-day stay at Kalamazoo's Fairfield Inn. And, now we're enjoying the brand-feel of a Boise Residence Inn. It's a gorgeous facility, which feels like home.
Thank you to Annie, who, according to her fascinating stories of working the front desk, earns this perk. She kept us in stitches last night while recounting details of some of the more memorable customers and their peculiar needs/demands. I made sure this morning to tell our front-desk lady how much we appreciated her efforts after hearing Annie's inside view of meeting the hotel crowd.
Bill has gone searching out a geocache at the mall. Annie's in the shower, and soon we'll get dressed to attend the graduation. After the ceremony ends, we'll go to the park for a giant picnic. Willie's in charge of the beans, and from what I've seen of past picnics coordinated by Debbie's family, we won't starve.
Happy Saturday all.
Last fall, we stayed in the Seattle Waterfront Marriott for a fraction of the regular cost. A month ago, Mother and I enjoyed an economical three-day stay at Kalamazoo's Fairfield Inn. And, now we're enjoying the brand-feel of a Boise Residence Inn. It's a gorgeous facility, which feels like home.
Thank you to Annie, who, according to her fascinating stories of working the front desk, earns this perk. She kept us in stitches last night while recounting details of some of the more memorable customers and their peculiar needs/demands. I made sure this morning to tell our front-desk lady how much we appreciated her efforts after hearing Annie's inside view of meeting the hotel crowd.
Bill has gone searching out a geocache at the mall. Annie's in the shower, and soon we'll get dressed to attend the graduation. After the ceremony ends, we'll go to the park for a giant picnic. Willie's in charge of the beans, and from what I've seen of past picnics coordinated by Debbie's family, we won't starve.
Happy Saturday all.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Tardy Blog from the Goat Trail
I've heard HWY 95 called the Goat Trail, so I guess Bill and I have spent plenty of time on it today and yesterday. We left Sandpoint last evening and stayed in Moscow. Bill asked me if I had a preference of motels. I said all I cared was that we had Internet access.
The Mark IV advertised free wireless, so we checked in. I asked for the cable doohicky, and she said there was none. In Kalamazoo, a few weeks ago, they gave me a little suitcase with the wireless stuff in it. Not in Moscow. The clerk said maybe it was built in to my laptop. No dice.
A night without Internet these days ranks right up there with those times we were forbidden to watch TV whenever we'd done something wrong as youngsters. What's a computer addict to do when faced with having to settle for watching TV? Tough, but I survived.
First thing this morning, I asked a convenience store man if Moscow had a Kinkos. I wanted to do my blog and figured that while Bill enjoyed a big plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast at the Main Street Breakfast Club, I could go to Kinkos and write my blog.
I left him at the restaurant and went to the place where the clerk told me I'd find the store. He said to ask at the Stinker Station if I didn't find it. The lady at the Stinker Station told me Kinkos had moved clear across town but to go up to the nearby Super 8 and drop her name.
"They'll let you use theirs," she said. "Tell 'em I sent you."
I parked at the Super 8, thinking I'd better hurry just in case Bill came walking from the restaurant looking for me at the Kinkos that didn't exist. The lady inside the Super 8 asked how she could help me. She stared at me strangely as I went through my spiel.
"The lady at the Stinker Store told me I could come and use your Internet to check my email," I said. "I'll pay you five dollars."
"Well, if you want to wait about half an hour," she said, "some people will check out of their rooms and you can use one of the computers."
"Thanks anyway," I said and quickly drove to the Breakfast Club and told Bill about my frustrating saga.
So, we left Moscow with no blog completed. I got over my disappointment as the most glorious time of the year from Idaho's top to its bottom near Boise kept me entranced with lush, green, rolling hills of grass, lentils and grains, baby calves frolicking with their mama cows, locust trees swaying with their heavy, white blossoms and lilac bushes alive with purple and white flowers.
The highlight for my day on HWY 95 came near Lucille. Lucille is near Riggins along the Salmon River. Bill had a geocache to scope out at milepost 203, so he stopped the car at milepost 207 while I unhitched my mountain bike and took off down the shoulder just above the river. He figured out his GPS ordinates for the cache and then passed me a couple of miles down the road.
By the time I reached the car, he had found his cache. I said I'd keep on going, even though there was a slight head wind making me work a little harder at pedaling. That little obstacle was incidental, though, compared to the joy I experienced watching blue jays perched in trees below me and catching an occasional fragrance of lilac.
At one point, I came upon a scene where an older woman sat alone in her neatly manicured yard below totally unaware of my presence on the road above. I wanted to holler hello but chose leave her in her solitude and reserve my greetings to the grass-contented cows lounging in roadside pastures. They seemed to appreciate hearing from me.
I pedaled past a fruit market advertising fresh asparagus shortly after passing a sign that said "Pray Jesus" on the top line and "Asparagus" on the line below. I wondered if next week the sign would read "Pray Jesus-Strawberries."
Bill stopped at three roadside turn-offs waiting for me. Each time, I wanted to keep on going. I completed ten miles, which took me over the new Salmon River bridge just north of Riggins. It was a good ride on this scenic Idaho Goat Trail, and it will definitely be a highlight among my "Pedal Pushing for Panty Waists" adventures.
We finally made it to Boise about 4 p.m., where we met Annie at the beautiful new Residence Inn near the Mall. We've joined Willie and Debbie's family and friends at Flying Pies Pizzeria and eaten our fill of the restaurant's wonderful offerings.
Since dinner, Annie and I have gone for a swim and have relaxed in the hotel hot tub. Bill's gone to bed and hasn't started snoring yet. Before I hit the hay, I must finish this tardy blog, which has been a long time coming in spite of my efforts.
Tomorrow, we attend a graduation for Debbie, a very special lady whom we've all grown to love and admire!
Night Night!!!
The Mark IV advertised free wireless, so we checked in. I asked for the cable doohicky, and she said there was none. In Kalamazoo, a few weeks ago, they gave me a little suitcase with the wireless stuff in it. Not in Moscow. The clerk said maybe it was built in to my laptop. No dice.
A night without Internet these days ranks right up there with those times we were forbidden to watch TV whenever we'd done something wrong as youngsters. What's a computer addict to do when faced with having to settle for watching TV? Tough, but I survived.
First thing this morning, I asked a convenience store man if Moscow had a Kinkos. I wanted to do my blog and figured that while Bill enjoyed a big plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast at the Main Street Breakfast Club, I could go to Kinkos and write my blog.
I left him at the restaurant and went to the place where the clerk told me I'd find the store. He said to ask at the Stinker Station if I didn't find it. The lady at the Stinker Station told me Kinkos had moved clear across town but to go up to the nearby Super 8 and drop her name.
"They'll let you use theirs," she said. "Tell 'em I sent you."
I parked at the Super 8, thinking I'd better hurry just in case Bill came walking from the restaurant looking for me at the Kinkos that didn't exist. The lady inside the Super 8 asked how she could help me. She stared at me strangely as I went through my spiel.
"The lady at the Stinker Store told me I could come and use your Internet to check my email," I said. "I'll pay you five dollars."
"Well, if you want to wait about half an hour," she said, "some people will check out of their rooms and you can use one of the computers."
"Thanks anyway," I said and quickly drove to the Breakfast Club and told Bill about my frustrating saga.
So, we left Moscow with no blog completed. I got over my disappointment as the most glorious time of the year from Idaho's top to its bottom near Boise kept me entranced with lush, green, rolling hills of grass, lentils and grains, baby calves frolicking with their mama cows, locust trees swaying with their heavy, white blossoms and lilac bushes alive with purple and white flowers.
The highlight for my day on HWY 95 came near Lucille. Lucille is near Riggins along the Salmon River. Bill had a geocache to scope out at milepost 203, so he stopped the car at milepost 207 while I unhitched my mountain bike and took off down the shoulder just above the river. He figured out his GPS ordinates for the cache and then passed me a couple of miles down the road.
By the time I reached the car, he had found his cache. I said I'd keep on going, even though there was a slight head wind making me work a little harder at pedaling. That little obstacle was incidental, though, compared to the joy I experienced watching blue jays perched in trees below me and catching an occasional fragrance of lilac.
At one point, I came upon a scene where an older woman sat alone in her neatly manicured yard below totally unaware of my presence on the road above. I wanted to holler hello but chose leave her in her solitude and reserve my greetings to the grass-contented cows lounging in roadside pastures. They seemed to appreciate hearing from me.
I pedaled past a fruit market advertising fresh asparagus shortly after passing a sign that said "Pray Jesus" on the top line and "Asparagus" on the line below. I wondered if next week the sign would read "Pray Jesus-Strawberries."
Bill stopped at three roadside turn-offs waiting for me. Each time, I wanted to keep on going. I completed ten miles, which took me over the new Salmon River bridge just north of Riggins. It was a good ride on this scenic Idaho Goat Trail, and it will definitely be a highlight among my "Pedal Pushing for Panty Waists" adventures.
We finally made it to Boise about 4 p.m., where we met Annie at the beautiful new Residence Inn near the Mall. We've joined Willie and Debbie's family and friends at Flying Pies Pizzeria and eaten our fill of the restaurant's wonderful offerings.
Since dinner, Annie and I have gone for a swim and have relaxed in the hotel hot tub. Bill's gone to bed and hasn't started snoring yet. Before I hit the hay, I must finish this tardy blog, which has been a long time coming in spite of my efforts.
Tomorrow, we attend a graduation for Debbie, a very special lady whom we've all grown to love and admire!
Night Night!!!
Thursday, May 12, 2005
I Was Sandpoint When Sandpoint Wasn’t Cool
With all the hoopla in this morning's paper about greed coming to Sandpoint, I'm taking a lazy approach and pulling out an essay I wrote for the Cedar Post high school newspaper a few years ago.
From this piece, I expect readers to come away with two thoughts---one possible explanation for why my little brother Jim might just draw from his past childhood experiences to come up with those quirky cartoons. The other conclusion: that the tone around Sandpoint continues to change before our very eyes.
I wonder if my "folksyisms" will be appreciated when the town gains its proper "ambience."
Enjoy:
I remember the scene as if it were yesterday. Nearly three decades ago while standing outside my classroom door at Sandpoint High School (now the middle school), a teacher (now a local realtor) yelled down the dark hallway to me, “Marianne, you’re nothing but Bonner County!”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I’m proud of it too.”
Don’t know if I’ve risen from the ashes yet and become a decent citizen in my former colleague’s eyes, but I’ve continued to have fun while this individual has sold plot after plot of “Bonner County” to more and more unsuspecting souls who come here thinking they’ve found Heaven. Except for January through April, I’d say they have. I’ll grant also that if they’re skiers, this place is even better than Heaven.
I’ve always considered my hometown “God’s Country” even when classmates moved from here in droves to get as far away from this podunk hole as possible. Now, many of my high school friends explore any means possible to return to what has become a somewhat secluded Eden for the cultured, the wealthy and virtually any adventurous individual escaping the evils of a society left behind. As a local who has stuck it out through good times and bad, I have to say that Sandpoint has been good to me, even when it wasn’t “cool.”
There’s a lot to be said for staying in your hometown, especially when you’re a teacher with longevity like mine. I don’t make a lot of money, but my riches come every day while grocery shopping or popping into places around town to see friendly faces of former students going about their lives in satisfying ways.
We, who grew up here, have a wealth of memories to share with newcomers who like to consider themselves natives after five years. I don’t consider these people natives, even though they might have wasted no time adopting our folksy, laid-back, leave-us-alone ways. I believe it takes a certain amount of knowledge to be a Sandpoint native, and for this Cedar Post feature, I’m willing to divulge few distinguishing tidbits.
It takes a native to remember when a jet almost wiped out Lincoln Elementary School (now the alternative high school) and all its youthful contents in 1953. Fortunately, for me, the ill-fated plane crashed to the ground in the pole yard just a block or two away.
It takes a native and an old friend to remember that Democratic leaders Carol and Gary Pietsch were once considered the Republican establishment here in Bonner County.
It takes a native to remember all the teenage romances that bloomed every September when the Bonner County Fair attracted youth from all ends of the county to the old fairgrounds where the museum now stands near Memorial Field.
Speaking of Memorial Field, it takes a true native to remember the summer evening back in the ‘70s when a huge hot air balloon descended in the skies over Sandpoint.
My younger sisters and brother were small at the time. My folks were out of town. Besides babysitting, one of my assigned duties involved picking up an easy chair which had been re-upholstered by Mrs. Rojan, a former SHS cook known to natives for her mouth-watering cinnamon rolls.
Once the chair was loaded into my Ford pick-up bed, someone looked up, spotted the hot air balloon overhead, and the chase was on. With one of my younger siblings involuntarily rocking back and forth in the newly-adorned chair, I directed my red truck toward City Beach.
No balloon.
Somebody said they’d seen it heading toward Dover.
Wasting no time and with frenzied kid still intact in easy chair, I sped through the south residential section of town. As I turned off Euclid to Lakeview Boulevard, a traffic jam slowed me down. People were jumping from their cars and racing toward Memorial Field.
Finally making it through the confusion, I realized I had not been alone in pursuing this aerial invader to our quiet little town. More than 200 other curious souls had converged from throughout the area to see the balloon land near the Pend Oreille River shoreline.
That brand of curiosity is inherent among Sandpoint natives who will tell you about the night the Hi-Dee-Ho burned down at Kootenai. Natives also have their own tales to tell about the 1967 Sundance Fire, the Winter of ‘68-’69 or the floods of 1974 which washed out many rural bridges and closed schools for three weeks.
There's much much more. So, if you want the real scoop about Sandpoint yesteryears, go as a "Bonner County" native. That is if you can catch 'em. They might just be in hot pursuit.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Zen Mowing
I try to mow along the roadside when nobody's looking. On this Sunday afternoon, however, while maneuvering our self-propelled push mower around the mail and paper boxes across from our driveway, I just refused to look up if cars had the nerve to pass by. Also, wore my sunglasses in hopes of disguising my identity as the mad lawn-mowing woman on Great Northern Road.
Sand and rocks flew every which way as the mower reluctantly obliged my efforts to push it over boulders and ugly weeded areas where no mower had gone before. Suddenly, I sensed the presence of two helmeted invaders, pedaling their way north around the S-curve where our driveway meets the road. At that very moment, the lawnmower croaked while encountering a stubborn dirt clod.
I was caught, with hands clutching the mower and nowhere to run. I feigned courtesy.
"Didn't want to have any of these rocks hit you," I announced as the bikers came closer. Then, I realized I'd really been caught. I KNEW these people, and THEY knew me. In fact, Ed and Jeannie Bock knew me well enough that they wasted no time reporting to their son Jeff in California that they'd seen Marianne out doing her Zen mowing.
What else could it be? Who would get into the ritual of mowing so much that they'd risk loss of life from roadside mower explosions or even face the public embarrassment of having friends and strangers wonder if that lady with the lawnmower has lost her mind?
I admit to being a crazed lawnmoweress. Keeping grass neatly trimmed has been an addiction of mine for years. I've got the dead mowers to prove it.
"I like a nice lawn," I announced to Ed and Jeannie that day, as they continued to stare skeptically at the sandy area where I was mowing.
"If you look closely, you'll see clover growing," I added.
They inched their bikes toward where I stood.
"Oh yeah, I can see it," Ed finally agreed. He's a trained psychologist who quickly recognizes insanity when he sees it.
The one-quarter-inch-high seeding wasn't quite ready for its first trim, but isolated, tall spears of nondescript grass and occasional clumps of budding tansey sprigs in the midst of the planting project had disordered my critical eye for neatness every time I'd grabbed the paper or mail the past few days.
These blights on my new lawnscape had to be dealt with that Sunday, so that's why they had caught me at that very spot with my tired mower. And that's why Ed and Jeannie simply humored me as I assured them the new yellow clover planting would be beautiful soon. I even suggested they come back in a few weeks to check it out.
I really don't know if I should enter a 12-step program for lawn-mowing addiction, but I do know I spend an inordinate amount of time each spring, summer and fall, manicuring a vast terrain of growing grass. My three-times-weekly mowing intinerary extends from our house to the south across the driveway, even into the Coxes' field to the west, to the Quest property on the north, and, most recently, onto the railroad property across the road.
Everybody's got a fixation, I guess. In my case, my "zen" mowing results in well-kept rural beauty. Furthermore, my addiction doesn't hurt anyone unless they happen to get hit by a stray boulder if they're at the wrong place during my mowing time.
Sand and rocks flew every which way as the mower reluctantly obliged my efforts to push it over boulders and ugly weeded areas where no mower had gone before. Suddenly, I sensed the presence of two helmeted invaders, pedaling their way north around the S-curve where our driveway meets the road. At that very moment, the lawnmower croaked while encountering a stubborn dirt clod.
I was caught, with hands clutching the mower and nowhere to run. I feigned courtesy.
"Didn't want to have any of these rocks hit you," I announced as the bikers came closer. Then, I realized I'd really been caught. I KNEW these people, and THEY knew me. In fact, Ed and Jeannie Bock knew me well enough that they wasted no time reporting to their son Jeff in California that they'd seen Marianne out doing her Zen mowing.
What else could it be? Who would get into the ritual of mowing so much that they'd risk loss of life from roadside mower explosions or even face the public embarrassment of having friends and strangers wonder if that lady with the lawnmower has lost her mind?
I admit to being a crazed lawnmoweress. Keeping grass neatly trimmed has been an addiction of mine for years. I've got the dead mowers to prove it.
"I like a nice lawn," I announced to Ed and Jeannie that day, as they continued to stare skeptically at the sandy area where I was mowing.
"If you look closely, you'll see clover growing," I added.
They inched their bikes toward where I stood.
"Oh yeah, I can see it," Ed finally agreed. He's a trained psychologist who quickly recognizes insanity when he sees it.
The one-quarter-inch-high seeding wasn't quite ready for its first trim, but isolated, tall spears of nondescript grass and occasional clumps of budding tansey sprigs in the midst of the planting project had disordered my critical eye for neatness every time I'd grabbed the paper or mail the past few days.
These blights on my new lawnscape had to be dealt with that Sunday, so that's why they had caught me at that very spot with my tired mower. And that's why Ed and Jeannie simply humored me as I assured them the new yellow clover planting would be beautiful soon. I even suggested they come back in a few weeks to check it out.
I really don't know if I should enter a 12-step program for lawn-mowing addiction, but I do know I spend an inordinate amount of time each spring, summer and fall, manicuring a vast terrain of growing grass. My three-times-weekly mowing intinerary extends from our house to the south across the driveway, even into the Coxes' field to the west, to the Quest property on the north, and, most recently, onto the railroad property across the road.
Everybody's got a fixation, I guess. In my case, my "zen" mowing results in well-kept rural beauty. Furthermore, my addiction doesn't hurt anyone unless they happen to get hit by a stray boulder if they're at the wrong place during my mowing time.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Trust?
Well, it's been overkill this week. Our area newspapers have provided us with much disturbing food for thought.
After reading the ongoing series of Spokesman stories exposing the Spokane mayor for abusing his power to gain sexual favors and seeing a story this morning about the sentencing of another individual, whom I know personally, for downloading thousands of pornographic images, I'm struck with one discomforting question:
Whom can we trust these days?
An ironic example of how much these continuing revelations have begun to skew our thinking occurred yesterday while I was watching the latest TV reports on the mayoral scandal. When a Catholic priest representing Morning Star Boys Ranch stepped to the microphone to dispel an earlier Spokesman story that the mayor had been scoping out boys for sex at the facility years ago, a bizarre notion hit me square in the face.
"And why should we believe what a Catholic priest says about an alleged pedophile?" I said out loud to my husband. I'm a lifelong Catholic! Then, I caught myself, shocked that I'd ever think, let alone say such a thing. My, how our world has changed during my lifetime!
My main concern with these revelations lies with the majority of teachers, coaches, politicians, priests, ministers, Boy Scout leaders, policemen, et. al.. who go to work every day with no hidden motives other than to do their job and to serve humanity.
As more and more of these instances of deviant behavior become public, how will people in these positions, who do not harbor hidden sexual motives, become shackled in carrying out their daily work in an atmosphere of understandable public skepticism toward them?
Will their chosen careers become more difficult as they're burdened with adapting to a more restricted environment with every moment they spend on the job scrutinized to the finest detail? Will good people leave these professions because it's just not worth it anymore? That's a sad thought.
When these individuals who are exposed for preying on others (be they gay, straight, Republican, or Democrat), claim they're being persecuted, I wonder if they ever think of how their actions indirectly and adversely affect innocent people far beyond themselves and their victims.
Probably not.
After reading the ongoing series of Spokesman stories exposing the Spokane mayor for abusing his power to gain sexual favors and seeing a story this morning about the sentencing of another individual, whom I know personally, for downloading thousands of pornographic images, I'm struck with one discomforting question:
Whom can we trust these days?
An ironic example of how much these continuing revelations have begun to skew our thinking occurred yesterday while I was watching the latest TV reports on the mayoral scandal. When a Catholic priest representing Morning Star Boys Ranch stepped to the microphone to dispel an earlier Spokesman story that the mayor had been scoping out boys for sex at the facility years ago, a bizarre notion hit me square in the face.
"And why should we believe what a Catholic priest says about an alleged pedophile?" I said out loud to my husband. I'm a lifelong Catholic! Then, I caught myself, shocked that I'd ever think, let alone say such a thing. My, how our world has changed during my lifetime!
My main concern with these revelations lies with the majority of teachers, coaches, politicians, priests, ministers, Boy Scout leaders, policemen, et. al.. who go to work every day with no hidden motives other than to do their job and to serve humanity.
As more and more of these instances of deviant behavior become public, how will people in these positions, who do not harbor hidden sexual motives, become shackled in carrying out their daily work in an atmosphere of understandable public skepticism toward them?
Will their chosen careers become more difficult as they're burdened with adapting to a more restricted environment with every moment they spend on the job scrutinized to the finest detail? Will good people leave these professions because it's just not worth it anymore? That's a sad thought.
When these individuals who are exposed for preying on others (be they gay, straight, Republican, or Democrat), claim they're being persecuted, I wonder if they ever think of how their actions indirectly and adversely affect innocent people far beyond themselves and their victims.
Probably not.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Fireside yodelfest
Don't go to Spirit Lake for taco salad---at least, not at the Fireside Inn. My Mother's Day dining out failed to yield a meal to die for, but the phenomenal yodeling kept the experience pretty lively.
Take a head of lettuce, chop off a couple of big chunks. Throw 'em on a pile of dried-up chips, and mix in a small glob of refried beans. Sprinkle some minute pieces of cheese on top and serve. No salsa. No sour cream. No olives. No guacamole. You can get this concoction for $5.95 at the restaurant located on the shores of beautiful Spirit Lake about 35 miles southwest of Sandpoint.
But, ya don't mind because there's live music and lots of masterful yodeling to satisfy your hunger for a memorable Mother's Day. Rod Erickson and his gang put on quite a show while mingling with the crowd and serving those taco salads. Don't get me wrong. I've heard people rave about the ribs at the Fireside. My delicious homemade lemon meringue pie yesterday more than made up for the disappointing salad.
Rod, a Canadian transplant and gold record owner (yodeling, of course), has been performing at his Fireside Inn for several years during the spring, summer and fall months. Ya have to know the schedule, though. I think this year's includes Easter, Mother's Day, Memorial Day, Fourth of July and Labor Day. Used to be every weekend, but that's changed.
With his peroxided mop of blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, Rod performs as the main man on stage, but this year he's got a sidekick Fred who accompanies with guitar and plays a few piano solos. Fred says he's gotta wear his cowboy hat, or he can't sing. Yesterday, upon request, he sang "My Pend Oreille," along with a ballad about his daughter.
One of the waitresses stopped taking orders, stood on stage with her black apron, cranked up the boogie box for some accompaniment and belted out some Country Western, Christian songs. The 70-something crowd to our right encouraged her to sing more. She obliged her adoring audience, and then went back to taking orders.
Later, Rod put on a grand yodeling seminar along with some cowboy poetry for a group of young kids who'd come with their family for Mother's Day dinner. I don't know if any of 'em ordered that salad.
The highlight, though, for me came during dessert when Rod invited a couple to the stage and asked them to join him with some Christian songs. The group's rendition of "In the Garden" brought tears to my eyes, since the last time I heard that was at my dad's funeral in November, 2003.
I won't forget Mother's Day, 2005. And, I'll more than likely try to lure friends and family to the Fireside Inn for one of the upcoming entertainment days. Rod and his crew offer a sumptuous feast of family-style, old-time entertainment, even if the taco salad ain't the best.
Take a head of lettuce, chop off a couple of big chunks. Throw 'em on a pile of dried-up chips, and mix in a small glob of refried beans. Sprinkle some minute pieces of cheese on top and serve. No salsa. No sour cream. No olives. No guacamole. You can get this concoction for $5.95 at the restaurant located on the shores of beautiful Spirit Lake about 35 miles southwest of Sandpoint.
But, ya don't mind because there's live music and lots of masterful yodeling to satisfy your hunger for a memorable Mother's Day. Rod Erickson and his gang put on quite a show while mingling with the crowd and serving those taco salads. Don't get me wrong. I've heard people rave about the ribs at the Fireside. My delicious homemade lemon meringue pie yesterday more than made up for the disappointing salad.
Rod, a Canadian transplant and gold record owner (yodeling, of course), has been performing at his Fireside Inn for several years during the spring, summer and fall months. Ya have to know the schedule, though. I think this year's includes Easter, Mother's Day, Memorial Day, Fourth of July and Labor Day. Used to be every weekend, but that's changed.
With his peroxided mop of blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, Rod performs as the main man on stage, but this year he's got a sidekick Fred who accompanies with guitar and plays a few piano solos. Fred says he's gotta wear his cowboy hat, or he can't sing. Yesterday, upon request, he sang "My Pend Oreille," along with a ballad about his daughter.
One of the waitresses stopped taking orders, stood on stage with her black apron, cranked up the boogie box for some accompaniment and belted out some Country Western, Christian songs. The 70-something crowd to our right encouraged her to sing more. She obliged her adoring audience, and then went back to taking orders.
Later, Rod put on a grand yodeling seminar along with some cowboy poetry for a group of young kids who'd come with their family for Mother's Day dinner. I don't know if any of 'em ordered that salad.
The highlight, though, for me came during dessert when Rod invited a couple to the stage and asked them to join him with some Christian songs. The group's rendition of "In the Garden" brought tears to my eyes, since the last time I heard that was at my dad's funeral in November, 2003.
I won't forget Mother's Day, 2005. And, I'll more than likely try to lure friends and family to the Fireside Inn for one of the upcoming entertainment days. Rod and his crew offer a sumptuous feast of family-style, old-time entertainment, even if the taco salad ain't the best.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Pheasantville
Happy Mother's Day to all mothers on my blogroll today.
On this day after the Kentucky Derby, I must say that the media experts put their bets in the wrong departments yesterday when they devoted nearly two thirds of their pre-Derby coverage to the trainer with five horses. My, we even had to watch him "saddle up" most of his mounts.
Not that he had an assistant doing most of the work, but that was a key part of the media story, so we watched the trainer (who had a surely cinch on a win), tighten up at least three of the five saddle cinches. One of those horses belonged to George, and George's people had been instructed not to talk to the media for fear of bad luck.
So, when the interviewer asked the Irish guy about George's horse and got just a few words of drivel followed by "I can't talk to you," I worried about that man's job if George's horse lost. Well, the horse lost pretty badly and someone's gonna get blamed. Could be curtains for that Irish guy who cursed the win by uttering those few words to a reporter.
George's horse did finish seventh, though, which was the best of the trainer's five horses, all owned by big bucks folks. And good ol' "what's its name" shocked them all by winning at 50-1 odds. The only information the media experts had fed us about that horse was that his name was the same as musician Sting's son's.
They were speechless when the win came because they hadn't done their homework about this long shot. So, they called it wrong, and George is probably mad today, while those who placed bets on Giacomo have been laughing all the way to the bank. Good for them! And, good for Giacomo! Good luck to him in the Preakness.
I mentioned yesterday that the Kentucky Derby is a rite of spring at the Love house. On that very day, another May ritual occurred. Bill brought home his baby pheasants. This will be the third year he's gone to Carter Country, talked to the "bird man" and picked out an batch of babies to bring home.
We have a pheasant roost out in the lawn south of the driveway, but these little ones are starting out in the fish tank. We have an unusually large number this year----19. In the past, we've had 10 or 11. Bill said he had a choice of purchasing half a dozen ten-day-olds or this batch of 3-day olds. He chose the larger number.
Before the week's out, the pheasants will move to a bigger cage, and in a few weeks an even bigger one until they're mature enough to go to the roost. Within three months, they'll grow into beautifully speckled females or colorful roosters. In October, we'll release them and hope some make it through the winter. Bill's overall aim is to have enough survive that the whole area around where we live becomes Pheasantville.
That will be a nice contrast to my name for the quickly developing Metalbuildingville. Let's see if the two entities can complement each other.
Have a great Sunday.
On this day after the Kentucky Derby, I must say that the media experts put their bets in the wrong departments yesterday when they devoted nearly two thirds of their pre-Derby coverage to the trainer with five horses. My, we even had to watch him "saddle up" most of his mounts.
Not that he had an assistant doing most of the work, but that was a key part of the media story, so we watched the trainer (who had a surely cinch on a win), tighten up at least three of the five saddle cinches. One of those horses belonged to George, and George's people had been instructed not to talk to the media for fear of bad luck.
So, when the interviewer asked the Irish guy about George's horse and got just a few words of drivel followed by "I can't talk to you," I worried about that man's job if George's horse lost. Well, the horse lost pretty badly and someone's gonna get blamed. Could be curtains for that Irish guy who cursed the win by uttering those few words to a reporter.
George's horse did finish seventh, though, which was the best of the trainer's five horses, all owned by big bucks folks. And good ol' "what's its name" shocked them all by winning at 50-1 odds. The only information the media experts had fed us about that horse was that his name was the same as musician Sting's son's.
They were speechless when the win came because they hadn't done their homework about this long shot. So, they called it wrong, and George is probably mad today, while those who placed bets on Giacomo have been laughing all the way to the bank. Good for them! And, good for Giacomo! Good luck to him in the Preakness.
I mentioned yesterday that the Kentucky Derby is a rite of spring at the Love house. On that very day, another May ritual occurred. Bill brought home his baby pheasants. This will be the third year he's gone to Carter Country, talked to the "bird man" and picked out an batch of babies to bring home.
We have a pheasant roost out in the lawn south of the driveway, but these little ones are starting out in the fish tank. We have an unusually large number this year----19. In the past, we've had 10 or 11. Bill said he had a choice of purchasing half a dozen ten-day-olds or this batch of 3-day olds. He chose the larger number.
Before the week's out, the pheasants will move to a bigger cage, and in a few weeks an even bigger one until they're mature enough to go to the roost. Within three months, they'll grow into beautifully speckled females or colorful roosters. In October, we'll release them and hope some make it through the winter. Bill's overall aim is to have enough survive that the whole area around where we live becomes Pheasantville.
That will be a nice contrast to my name for the quickly developing Metalbuildingville. Let's see if the two entities can complement each other.
Have a great Sunday.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Oh, the sun shines bright . . . .
Well, it ain't shining here this morning, but I'm not complaining. It's warm, and all aspiring plants and grasses received a much needed drink overnight.
Though we've not seen a lot of sunshine this week, it's been a pleasant one weatherwise, and the relatively cool temperatures have guaranteed all those gorgeous tulips a longer performance this year.
This is the time of year when I'd wish the environment would snap into a "freeze frame." With deep greens accented by bright reds, yellows, pinks and whites, and the fragrance of budding cottonwoods permeating the air around our home, I feel like I'm strolling around in heaven.
Speaking of heavenly happenings, today marks another time I'll be plopped on the couch in front of the television, taking in the great stories and color of the Kentucky Derby. One of my lifelong wishes has been to some day be there in person to take in the sights, sounds, gorgeous horses, fashion, mint juleps and tradition.
For now, though, as I've done each year, I'll listen to the individual anecdotes about the horses and their personnel this afternoon and eventually decide who my favorite's gonna be. Then, I'll hope---as always---that nobody's looking while tears stream down my face during the playing of "My Old Kentucky Home." It gets to me every time as I watch those magnificent animals and their colorfully-attired jockeys parade around to that wonderful piece of music.
Actually, I never really care which horse wins the Derby because the real fun comes with the anticipation associated with the Preakness and then, maybe, the Belmont. Will we have a Triple Crown winner this year after so long without one?
I can't think of any event so glorious, so steeped in American tradition and touching nostalgia than the Kentucky Derby. It's probably my lifelong love of horses that gives the nod over baseball, car racing, or even the Master's.
So, I'm looking forward to my afternoon of turning into a total sap and dreaming of the possibility of some day being there in Louisville to experience the Derby up close and personal.
Though we've not seen a lot of sunshine this week, it's been a pleasant one weatherwise, and the relatively cool temperatures have guaranteed all those gorgeous tulips a longer performance this year.
This is the time of year when I'd wish the environment would snap into a "freeze frame." With deep greens accented by bright reds, yellows, pinks and whites, and the fragrance of budding cottonwoods permeating the air around our home, I feel like I'm strolling around in heaven.
Speaking of heavenly happenings, today marks another time I'll be plopped on the couch in front of the television, taking in the great stories and color of the Kentucky Derby. One of my lifelong wishes has been to some day be there in person to take in the sights, sounds, gorgeous horses, fashion, mint juleps and tradition.
For now, though, as I've done each year, I'll listen to the individual anecdotes about the horses and their personnel this afternoon and eventually decide who my favorite's gonna be. Then, I'll hope---as always---that nobody's looking while tears stream down my face during the playing of "My Old Kentucky Home." It gets to me every time as I watch those magnificent animals and their colorfully-attired jockeys parade around to that wonderful piece of music.
Actually, I never really care which horse wins the Derby because the real fun comes with the anticipation associated with the Preakness and then, maybe, the Belmont. Will we have a Triple Crown winner this year after so long without one?
I can't think of any event so glorious, so steeped in American tradition and touching nostalgia than the Kentucky Derby. It's probably my lifelong love of horses that gives the nod over baseball, car racing, or even the Master's.
So, I'm looking forward to my afternoon of turning into a total sap and dreaming of the possibility of some day being there in Louisville to experience the Derby up close and personal.
Friday, May 06, 2005
A very special graduation
One week from today, we'll arrive in Boise to attend a special family event. Our daughter-in-law and Willie's wife, Debbie will receive her degree from Boise State University. This will be a wonderful accomplishment for a young lady who has shown both grit and determination while working toward her degree.
It has not been an easy road for Debbie, but she has never let any obstacle obscure her vision of earning a Bachelor's degree, the first in her immediate family. For the past seven years, she has devoted long hours at different jobs to pay for her education. She's worked for the Boise City Recreation Department for several years, and for three years, she ran a pre-school program for employees' children at St. Alphonsus Hospital in Boise.
Last year, she changed her major from elementary education to multi-ethnic studies. That meant an additional year tacked on to what had already been a long run. Adding to the burden was the fact that for 18 months, Willie and Debbie have led separate lives five days each week. Willie has worked in Newport as a reporter, lived with us, and has either flown or driven to Boise nearly every weekend since October, 2003. Not an easy situation for any marriage, but these two seem to have risen to the challenge.
I remember when Annie first told me that Willie had met a new girlfriend not long after he moved to Boise.
"She's really sweet," Annie said. "I think you'll like her, Mom." Annie nailed that one. Since the first time we met her, we have both loved and admired Debbie for her warmth, her generous, caring heart and her tenacity to achieve long-sought-after goals.
Plus, she's fun and properly impish for our family needs. I remember one time in Boise when we went to a second-hand store, bought some really ugly wigs, put them on and drove around town, giggling so hard we were crying.
When she comes up this way, we usually take time to go for a scenic drive and lunch. Last year on a fine spring day while she was visiting during her break (I finally admit this publicly), we drove to the end of a really rough road somewhere around Sandpoint on a Viggo search. No luck, but we now know why he drives a 4-wheel drive pickup when he comes home.
Debbie's graduation announcement from Boise State arrived in the mail a couple of days ago. After leaving it on the counter for Bill to see, I put it away in my Bible where I store really important historical and family items. This event next Saturday will mark the third time we've attended a Boise State graduation, including Annie's last year and Willie's three years ago.
And, as usual, when the name "Deborah Williams Love" is read during the commencement ceremonies, I'll be making a fool out of myself, yelling and cheering at the top of my lungs.
It goes like this: WE LOVE YOU, DEBBIE.
It has not been an easy road for Debbie, but she has never let any obstacle obscure her vision of earning a Bachelor's degree, the first in her immediate family. For the past seven years, she has devoted long hours at different jobs to pay for her education. She's worked for the Boise City Recreation Department for several years, and for three years, she ran a pre-school program for employees' children at St. Alphonsus Hospital in Boise.
Last year, she changed her major from elementary education to multi-ethnic studies. That meant an additional year tacked on to what had already been a long run. Adding to the burden was the fact that for 18 months, Willie and Debbie have led separate lives five days each week. Willie has worked in Newport as a reporter, lived with us, and has either flown or driven to Boise nearly every weekend since October, 2003. Not an easy situation for any marriage, but these two seem to have risen to the challenge.
I remember when Annie first told me that Willie had met a new girlfriend not long after he moved to Boise.
"She's really sweet," Annie said. "I think you'll like her, Mom." Annie nailed that one. Since the first time we met her, we have both loved and admired Debbie for her warmth, her generous, caring heart and her tenacity to achieve long-sought-after goals.
Plus, she's fun and properly impish for our family needs. I remember one time in Boise when we went to a second-hand store, bought some really ugly wigs, put them on and drove around town, giggling so hard we were crying.
When she comes up this way, we usually take time to go for a scenic drive and lunch. Last year on a fine spring day while she was visiting during her break (I finally admit this publicly), we drove to the end of a really rough road somewhere around Sandpoint on a Viggo search. No luck, but we now know why he drives a 4-wheel drive pickup when he comes home.
Debbie's graduation announcement from Boise State arrived in the mail a couple of days ago. After leaving it on the counter for Bill to see, I put it away in my Bible where I store really important historical and family items. This event next Saturday will mark the third time we've attended a Boise State graduation, including Annie's last year and Willie's three years ago.
And, as usual, when the name "Deborah Williams Love" is read during the commencement ceremonies, I'll be making a fool out of myself, yelling and cheering at the top of my lungs.
It goes like this: WE LOVE YOU, DEBBIE.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Zap day, in more ways than one
Off to the Hair Hut on what's NOT a slow-news day. We thought we had a big one, worth lots of mileage in that Wal-Mart pepper spray incident. Pepper spray has long dissipated in comparison to this morning's expose about the mayor of Spokane and his sexual exploits with younger men.
By the time my hairdresser and Pend Oreille Lake's pike minnow queen Joyce Campbell has time to get me looking like a scary woman with her plastic bag and crochet needle, this story about Mayor West will streak around the nation. As already indicated by my new Spokesman-Review blogging team, Matt Drudge will be featuring it with a siren symbol before the morning's out.
And by the time, Joyce blow dries my newly zapped mop top, the story will be the topic of discussion in every coffee klatch in the Inland Northwest. Spokane seems to have a glut on pedophiles in trusted places. I'm guessing the city may have a new mayor sooner rather than later after this thorough investigative report makes the rounds. Zap, they got him!
Once back home, zapped with hair highlights for another two months, looking ten years younger, I'll be looking for the route this story takes as the day unfolds. Nothing gets a journalist's juices going with more intensity than a big story. This one's definitely big time for the Spokesman-Review.
By the time my hairdresser and Pend Oreille Lake's pike minnow queen Joyce Campbell has time to get me looking like a scary woman with her plastic bag and crochet needle, this story about Mayor West will streak around the nation. As already indicated by my new Spokesman-Review blogging team, Matt Drudge will be featuring it with a siren symbol before the morning's out.
And by the time, Joyce blow dries my newly zapped mop top, the story will be the topic of discussion in every coffee klatch in the Inland Northwest. Spokane seems to have a glut on pedophiles in trusted places. I'm guessing the city may have a new mayor sooner rather than later after this thorough investigative report makes the rounds. Zap, they got him!
Once back home, zapped with hair highlights for another two months, looking ten years younger, I'll be looking for the route this story takes as the day unfolds. Nothing gets a journalist's juices going with more intensity than a big story. This one's definitely big time for the Spokesman-Review.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Wal-Mart pepper spray
Shortly after dinner the night before last, Bill went to Wal-Mart to get his pictures. He came home much more quickly than he usually does when he goes off to the store. Bill likes to take his time shopping. I think he might spend a lot of time at the magazine racks.
So, it was a surprise to see the pickup come rolling in the driveway within 15 minutes of its departure.
"There's pepper spray at Wal-Mart," he announced as he walked in the door. "There was even a line-up of Wal Mart employees blocking the doors so that nobody could go in." Needless to say, Bill couldn't get his pictures. As curious folks, we were anxious to read all about it yesterday's Bee. Not one word.
We had to wait the entire day for the scoop until last night when Willie came shouting from his bedroom, "Dad, turn it to 4! There was a love triangle at Wal-Mart!" The TV report was coming right up. Within minutes we learned about the pepper spray and the alleged love triangle and how Ponderay's Wal-Mart, later described in this morning's Daily Bee as "the cavernous discount store" was closed down for two hours.
Seems one jealous lady had been stalking another around town. Since the incident, we've learned via various "informed" sources that the discord among young women may have started at a Sagle convenience store. Last night, after finally getting his pictures, Bill went on to Yoke's and listened to a conversation suggesting that the quarreling females had shown up at the boxboy's house a few nights before. The Bee stated in this morning's report that one confrontation occurred at Paul's Chevron station, shortly before the Wal Mart incident.
What we do know for sure is that quarreling females allegedly got into it with pepper spray. A two-month-old baby being held by one of the females endured the worst of the assault, which occurred in the shoe department.
There's great concern about the baby. On the TV, the mother said her baby quit breathing nine times before emergency vehicles arrived. She also said they're worried about permanent damage to the baby's sight and its lethargy. The Ponderay police chief, according to this morning's Daily Bee, says the baby is recovering.
Though the "cavernous discount" store eventually received $6.86 from Bill for his pictures, last night's TV report suggested that Wal-Mart has the right to sue the suspect for lost revenue during the pepper spray shutdown.
Let's sort this out. Who IS the real victim in this sordid affair?
Note: Check out Marianne's humorous books at www.mariannelove.com or order at www.amazon.com.
So, it was a surprise to see the pickup come rolling in the driveway within 15 minutes of its departure.
"There's pepper spray at Wal-Mart," he announced as he walked in the door. "There was even a line-up of Wal Mart employees blocking the doors so that nobody could go in." Needless to say, Bill couldn't get his pictures. As curious folks, we were anxious to read all about it yesterday's Bee. Not one word.
We had to wait the entire day for the scoop until last night when Willie came shouting from his bedroom, "Dad, turn it to 4! There was a love triangle at Wal-Mart!" The TV report was coming right up. Within minutes we learned about the pepper spray and the alleged love triangle and how Ponderay's Wal-Mart, later described in this morning's Daily Bee as "the cavernous discount store" was closed down for two hours.
Seems one jealous lady had been stalking another around town. Since the incident, we've learned via various "informed" sources that the discord among young women may have started at a Sagle convenience store. Last night, after finally getting his pictures, Bill went on to Yoke's and listened to a conversation suggesting that the quarreling females had shown up at the boxboy's house a few nights before. The Bee stated in this morning's report that one confrontation occurred at Paul's Chevron station, shortly before the Wal Mart incident.
What we do know for sure is that quarreling females allegedly got into it with pepper spray. A two-month-old baby being held by one of the females endured the worst of the assault, which occurred in the shoe department.
There's great concern about the baby. On the TV, the mother said her baby quit breathing nine times before emergency vehicles arrived. She also said they're worried about permanent damage to the baby's sight and its lethargy. The Ponderay police chief, according to this morning's Daily Bee, says the baby is recovering.
Though the "cavernous discount" store eventually received $6.86 from Bill for his pictures, last night's TV report suggested that Wal-Mart has the right to sue the suspect for lost revenue during the pepper spray shutdown.
Let's sort this out. Who IS the real victim in this sordid affair?
Note: Check out Marianne's humorous books at www.mariannelove.com or order at www.amazon.com.
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