I don't have to go far for significant action. One minute, this morning, I was standing at my kitchen counter writing a check to PAY OFF THE MORTGAGE. The next, I looked out the front windows and there trotted a young moose just across the driveway. These two events will definitely help me remember June 30, 2005 (also Judy Thompson's 57th birthday).
On Dec. 31, 1976, we signed the papers to purchase 8-plus acres here on Great Northern Road. That was three months before our first child Willie was born. We had no downpayment----just $2,000 in the bank to purchase a portion of the larger farm first established by Ed Senft in the 1940s. Over the years, the original acreage was whittled down, and several owners had resided here since Ed built the original house, machine shed and magnificent red barn.
He never lived on the place because his wife was afraid to be out here where hobos set up their paper shacks on railroad property across the road. So, they resided on South Second Avenue, and this property basically functioned as Ed's hobby farm. Ed's fenceline originally divided his place from my mother's farm on North Boyer.
Over the years, the Walt Heath family, the Bidwells, the Altons and the Crapes inhabited the place. Calvin Crape raised his Belgian draft horses here and even built a sturdy stud stall for one of his stallions in the barn. Crape ran into financial difficulties, however, and the Bank of Idaho was happy to see us coming because payments hadn't been made on the place for six months.
Though we had very little money, our stability within the community must've looked good to the banker at the time. So, he worked out a deal, and we moved into the place that January. I couldn't imagine ever reaching the day so far in the future when we'd pay it off.
Well, that day has come----a bit earlier than scheduled, but I've written the check, sealed the envelope and will drop it in the mail slot later this morning. During our 28 years on this wonderful little farm, which has grown by a couple of acres thanks to land trades, we have enjoyed the best of both worlds----a hop, skip and jump to town while still basking in the rural life thanks to the surrounding fields and bountiful nature.
Many a moose has crossed through here over the years as have more deer, one bear and a coyote or two. Every year we enjoy several months of ducks and geese who hang out on the pond and surrounding wetlands. Never, until this morning, though, have I seen a moose so close and personal. On my first sighting, the large visitor was running across the lawn south of the driveway.
I ran outside to tell Bill who was in his pheasant roost feeding this year's crop of 15 their breakfast. I told him where to look, but no moose. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, there it stood, ever so briefly, at the opposite corner of the house in our front yard. It didn't stay long, though. We watched as it trotted across the driveway and headed southeast through the field. Bill felt pretty secure in the safety of his pheasant roost.
On this June 30th day of the vanishing moose and mortgage, we feel very blessed to call this place we so love----ours.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Ode to June
We're just about to say good bye to June. To do so, Mother and I have teamed up on a project which involves one of her Western paintings: the two riders on Appaloosa horses headed north on Boyer during the winter of 1968. Mother also threw in a painted notecard depicting Sand Creek in the fall.
"What do painted scenes around the neighborhood have to do with saying good bye to June?" you may wonder. Well, this June ain't the month; it's the lady who lived down the road from us all the time I was growing up.
In fact, June Paulet has lived in Sandpoint for all her 78 years. On July 1, however, when her namesake month ends, she'll be starting a new life in Salmon, Idaho, where her daughter and son-in-law own and run McPherson's Clothing Store. June has purchased a triplex in Salmon. Two units are already rented, and she'll be living in the third.
"I looked for a duplex in Sandpoint, " she told me last week. "They want too darn much for them. I found one near the tracks in the Farmin School area for $295,000. So, I bought a triplex in Salmon for $245,000, and it overlooks a horse pasture."
After selling her Sand Creek Angus Ranch to developer Ralph Sletager earlier this year for enough to satisfy her late husband Werner's wishes to "make both of this daughters millionaires," June could've easily purchased that Sandpoint duplex.
But she's a product of the Depression, and she remembers times when much less money was much harder to come by. She, her husband, and their daughters Francie and Ginny, worked and polished their 160-acre farm, raising fine Angus cattle all the time I was growing up---even until about five years ago when a mad mother cow squeezed Werner up against a chute and cut off his breathing for too long. I sat with her in the local hospital emergency room after the accident. Werner died the next morning after being air-lifted to a Spokane hospital.
June has had a tough time dealing with his loss, but she's been a trooper. She's had help from her kids and grandchildren. And, she's been a regular at the local health club where she and Werner used to go just about every day before his death. With tears streaming down her face, she told me last week that it's been hard to sit on that farm and watch it fall apart.
"When a post went bad in the fence, Werner would be right out there to fix it," she recalled. "I just can't do that. And the grandkids---they can't come up here and make it on the farm. So, it was best to sell it."
I have many memories of times spent with the Paulets during my childhood. Some were good; some may have been along the impish lines. And speaking of lines, I had to remind June last week of the party line shared by several North Boyer residents, like the Robersons, the Bests, the Paulets, the Delamarters, the Carters and the Tibbs.
That meant some good listening for idle teenagers looking for some innocent? trouble. One day I picked up the phone when June was trying to talk to a friend. The imp of the perverse set in immediately. I began to blow fake but somewhat muffled farts into the telephone mouthpiece.
"Marianne Brown, you get off this line!" June barked after the second or third intrusion. Knowing that if I hung up immediately, she would know for sure that I was the guilty party. So, I just quit blowing the farts and kept on listening. I still, to this day, don't know how she recognized my attempt at anal intonations.
We did laugh about the incident among several mutual friends at last week's going-away luncheon for June at Slate's Restaurant. The Cow Belles (or Cattle Women as they're now called) made her their guest of honor and gave her a full-color photo of the lake.
If we can catch her home before she pulls out for Salmon later this week, Mother and I will go say good bye and give her our gift. We hope it will always remind her of the good life she spent as one of the illustrious North Boyer farm clan.
With her move, only the Robersons remain on that road which provided us all with such a golden past.
"What do painted scenes around the neighborhood have to do with saying good bye to June?" you may wonder. Well, this June ain't the month; it's the lady who lived down the road from us all the time I was growing up.
In fact, June Paulet has lived in Sandpoint for all her 78 years. On July 1, however, when her namesake month ends, she'll be starting a new life in Salmon, Idaho, where her daughter and son-in-law own and run McPherson's Clothing Store. June has purchased a triplex in Salmon. Two units are already rented, and she'll be living in the third.
"I looked for a duplex in Sandpoint, " she told me last week. "They want too darn much for them. I found one near the tracks in the Farmin School area for $295,000. So, I bought a triplex in Salmon for $245,000, and it overlooks a horse pasture."
After selling her Sand Creek Angus Ranch to developer Ralph Sletager earlier this year for enough to satisfy her late husband Werner's wishes to "make both of this daughters millionaires," June could've easily purchased that Sandpoint duplex.
But she's a product of the Depression, and she remembers times when much less money was much harder to come by. She, her husband, and their daughters Francie and Ginny, worked and polished their 160-acre farm, raising fine Angus cattle all the time I was growing up---even until about five years ago when a mad mother cow squeezed Werner up against a chute and cut off his breathing for too long. I sat with her in the local hospital emergency room after the accident. Werner died the next morning after being air-lifted to a Spokane hospital.
June has had a tough time dealing with his loss, but she's been a trooper. She's had help from her kids and grandchildren. And, she's been a regular at the local health club where she and Werner used to go just about every day before his death. With tears streaming down her face, she told me last week that it's been hard to sit on that farm and watch it fall apart.
"When a post went bad in the fence, Werner would be right out there to fix it," she recalled. "I just can't do that. And the grandkids---they can't come up here and make it on the farm. So, it was best to sell it."
I have many memories of times spent with the Paulets during my childhood. Some were good; some may have been along the impish lines. And speaking of lines, I had to remind June last week of the party line shared by several North Boyer residents, like the Robersons, the Bests, the Paulets, the Delamarters, the Carters and the Tibbs.
That meant some good listening for idle teenagers looking for some innocent? trouble. One day I picked up the phone when June was trying to talk to a friend. The imp of the perverse set in immediately. I began to blow fake but somewhat muffled farts into the telephone mouthpiece.
"Marianne Brown, you get off this line!" June barked after the second or third intrusion. Knowing that if I hung up immediately, she would know for sure that I was the guilty party. So, I just quit blowing the farts and kept on listening. I still, to this day, don't know how she recognized my attempt at anal intonations.
We did laugh about the incident among several mutual friends at last week's going-away luncheon for June at Slate's Restaurant. The Cow Belles (or Cattle Women as they're now called) made her their guest of honor and gave her a full-color photo of the lake.
If we can catch her home before she pulls out for Salmon later this week, Mother and I will go say good bye and give her our gift. We hope it will always remind her of the good life she spent as one of the illustrious North Boyer farm clan.
With her move, only the Robersons remain on that road which provided us all with such a golden past.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Your ticking heart
It's been pretty interesting serving on the class reunion committee. This year we celebrate our 40th-year reunion as members of Sandpoint High's Class of 1965. We're getting together during the last weekend in July, and since our 30th, the Internet and technology have provided a grand new dimension for our lead-up to the big event.
Now, we can correspond with most classmates via email. We've been able to launch people searches on the World Wide Web and find addresses for many with whom the locals have lost contact. Cell phone long-distance plans make it very easy to simply call those folks, chat a while and pass along some information about the event.
And, the blog craze has provided a great way to learn a little about our fellow classmates before walking up to them cold at the reunion. With advanced tidbits gleaned from our SHS1965 blog, we may be able to initiate some great conversations.
I've enjoyed most aspects of creating our blog except for the anonymous jerk who decided to post some rather cryptic, perverse messages. I guess, like most areas where the public has its chance to throw potshots without taking responsibility, there's always gonna be someone who adds some discomfort to the process.
Unfortunately, we had to take some measures to maintain the blog's integrity. So, we're moving on with posting information for classmates who've submitted bios along with their registration. As the person who types the information, I've already read some fascinating details about my fellow classmates (some--and you know who you are---haven't sent any information--thirty lashes!!! :)).
Anyway, it's hard to believe that people my age are already great-grandparents, when I haven't even reached grandparently status yet. Some spend most of their time watching the grandkids at the soccer, baseball and volleyball games. Some play a lot of golf, while others live in some great playgrounds like Palm Desert.
And then, there's the ticking heart that can be heard if we sit too close to one of our classmates. That knowledge tells me we've definitely reached that age where the body begins to function better with mechanical devices than with its original parts. I do remember the shock of seeing few hearing aids at the 30th reunion and a cane or two. So, the class-reunion blog is helping prepare me early so my mouth doesn't fall open with amazement at how old we're all getting.
There is ample evidence of the opposite, however. Some of our classmates are defying the odds or at least finding ways to make it look that way. At least two have told me they took up scuba diving in their 40s. One won't even be at the reunion because of a previous diving engagement off the coast of Venezuela, while another has taken her gear to Australia's Great Barrier Reef.
And then, there's the Harley crowd. At least two of my classmates own their own Harleys and have criscrossed the country with them. Another 1965 graduate spent a career flying for the United States Air Force; now he teaches our up-and-coming military pilots in San Antonio.
And so, the beat goes on, whether it's loud mechanical hearts or folks just pursuing every opportunity left in life, I have a feeling we'll have a lot to talk about when we get together next month.
Now, we can correspond with most classmates via email. We've been able to launch people searches on the World Wide Web and find addresses for many with whom the locals have lost contact. Cell phone long-distance plans make it very easy to simply call those folks, chat a while and pass along some information about the event.
And, the blog craze has provided a great way to learn a little about our fellow classmates before walking up to them cold at the reunion. With advanced tidbits gleaned from our SHS1965 blog, we may be able to initiate some great conversations.
I've enjoyed most aspects of creating our blog except for the anonymous jerk who decided to post some rather cryptic, perverse messages. I guess, like most areas where the public has its chance to throw potshots without taking responsibility, there's always gonna be someone who adds some discomfort to the process.
Unfortunately, we had to take some measures to maintain the blog's integrity. So, we're moving on with posting information for classmates who've submitted bios along with their registration. As the person who types the information, I've already read some fascinating details about my fellow classmates (some--and you know who you are---haven't sent any information--thirty lashes!!! :)).
Anyway, it's hard to believe that people my age are already great-grandparents, when I haven't even reached grandparently status yet. Some spend most of their time watching the grandkids at the soccer, baseball and volleyball games. Some play a lot of golf, while others live in some great playgrounds like Palm Desert.
And then, there's the ticking heart that can be heard if we sit too close to one of our classmates. That knowledge tells me we've definitely reached that age where the body begins to function better with mechanical devices than with its original parts. I do remember the shock of seeing few hearing aids at the 30th reunion and a cane or two. So, the class-reunion blog is helping prepare me early so my mouth doesn't fall open with amazement at how old we're all getting.
There is ample evidence of the opposite, however. Some of our classmates are defying the odds or at least finding ways to make it look that way. At least two have told me they took up scuba diving in their 40s. One won't even be at the reunion because of a previous diving engagement off the coast of Venezuela, while another has taken her gear to Australia's Great Barrier Reef.
And then, there's the Harley crowd. At least two of my classmates own their own Harleys and have criscrossed the country with them. Another 1965 graduate spent a career flying for the United States Air Force; now he teaches our up-and-coming military pilots in San Antonio.
And so, the beat goes on, whether it's loud mechanical hearts or folks just pursuing every opportunity left in life, I have a feeling we'll have a lot to talk about when we get together next month.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Of commencement luncheons and hiking poles
We received the invitation several weeks ago with the announcement that Charliann Becker had graduated from the University of Idaho in May. Her aunt and uncle, Bob and Maryetta Williams, wanted all who had played an important role in her life to celebrate with this young lady on her most recent success.
Upon graduation, Charliann had earned the distinction of Phi Beta Kappa and had selected the University of Kentucky to move on with her Master's Degree in library science. She and Maryetta had also gone on a three-week tour of England, Scotland and Wales right after graduation. So, the luncheon was set for yesterday afternoon at the Williams' Sandpoint house on South Ella.
As a teenager and young adult, I used to ride horses with Charliann's mother, Winnie McDonald Becker. Sadly, Winnie died from cancer when Charliann was a high school sophomore. As a friend of Winnie's, I felt a responsibility to lend a helping hand however I could for Charliann when she enrolled in my junior English class.
Oh, I helped her a bit, but she ended up turning the tables her senior year as my English aide. To say she took good care of me by grading papers, recording grades, and completing general errands was an understatement.
Later, we kept one of Charliann's horses, Bunny, here at the place for a year. That's how we got to know Bob and Maryetta, both educators, who have lived in Utah for a number of years. They've been Charliann's guardians since her mother died and have done an impeccable job watching after her needs. Yesterday's festive luncheon with its balloons and good eats was no exception.
And the guests, as they showed up, reflected a much welcome flavor of old-time Bonner County. Lots of longtime Wrencoe folks, from where Winnie and Maryetta grew up, along with the horse crowd and Ella Street neighbors attended--- giving the gathering a sense of comfort and hometown stability. Bill and I enjoyed seeing and visiting with other guests who, like us, were happy to celebrate this significant milestone in Charliann's life.
We excused ourselves about 2:30 to meet another commitment for the afternoon. Bill had given me a pair of hiking poles for my birthday, and I had promised that I'd try them out as we hiked the Mickinnick Trail clear to the top, this time. Willie, Bill and I had gone up there Thursday night and had surpassed our previous efforts earlier this spring. But this past week, the Forest Service had completed its work on the trail and announced it was ready for hikers.
The hikers came yesterday, and once again, our threesome ran into some familiar faces: Kim and Julie Keaton, Tim Cochran, Vicki Lee and Jane Stoll. We met two or three other groups and a couple of dogs as we pushed our way upward. Yes, pushed. Using those hiking poles is much like cross country skiing. One can push the poles into the ground and gain support while going upward.
While descending the 3-mile, somewhat grueling pathway, which offers some spectacular views of Sandpoint, the lake, the Cabinet Mountains, and even a distant glimpse of Cocolalla Lake to the south, the poles saved my old knees some pain. I still ached amply, though, when I reached the water fountain and tidy Forest Service restroom at the end of the trail, but I'm confident, the poles spared me even more suffering.
It was a great day for reflecting two accomplishments: a former student's academic success and her promising future along with our goal to reach the top of our Greenhorn Mountain.
In both cases, a little help along the way made all the difference.
Upon graduation, Charliann had earned the distinction of Phi Beta Kappa and had selected the University of Kentucky to move on with her Master's Degree in library science. She and Maryetta had also gone on a three-week tour of England, Scotland and Wales right after graduation. So, the luncheon was set for yesterday afternoon at the Williams' Sandpoint house on South Ella.
As a teenager and young adult, I used to ride horses with Charliann's mother, Winnie McDonald Becker. Sadly, Winnie died from cancer when Charliann was a high school sophomore. As a friend of Winnie's, I felt a responsibility to lend a helping hand however I could for Charliann when she enrolled in my junior English class.
Oh, I helped her a bit, but she ended up turning the tables her senior year as my English aide. To say she took good care of me by grading papers, recording grades, and completing general errands was an understatement.
Later, we kept one of Charliann's horses, Bunny, here at the place for a year. That's how we got to know Bob and Maryetta, both educators, who have lived in Utah for a number of years. They've been Charliann's guardians since her mother died and have done an impeccable job watching after her needs. Yesterday's festive luncheon with its balloons and good eats was no exception.
And the guests, as they showed up, reflected a much welcome flavor of old-time Bonner County. Lots of longtime Wrencoe folks, from where Winnie and Maryetta grew up, along with the horse crowd and Ella Street neighbors attended--- giving the gathering a sense of comfort and hometown stability. Bill and I enjoyed seeing and visiting with other guests who, like us, were happy to celebrate this significant milestone in Charliann's life.
We excused ourselves about 2:30 to meet another commitment for the afternoon. Bill had given me a pair of hiking poles for my birthday, and I had promised that I'd try them out as we hiked the Mickinnick Trail clear to the top, this time. Willie, Bill and I had gone up there Thursday night and had surpassed our previous efforts earlier this spring. But this past week, the Forest Service had completed its work on the trail and announced it was ready for hikers.
The hikers came yesterday, and once again, our threesome ran into some familiar faces: Kim and Julie Keaton, Tim Cochran, Vicki Lee and Jane Stoll. We met two or three other groups and a couple of dogs as we pushed our way upward. Yes, pushed. Using those hiking poles is much like cross country skiing. One can push the poles into the ground and gain support while going upward.
While descending the 3-mile, somewhat grueling pathway, which offers some spectacular views of Sandpoint, the lake, the Cabinet Mountains, and even a distant glimpse of Cocolalla Lake to the south, the poles saved my old knees some pain. I still ached amply, though, when I reached the water fountain and tidy Forest Service restroom at the end of the trail, but I'm confident, the poles spared me even more suffering.
It was a great day for reflecting two accomplishments: a former student's academic success and her promising future along with our goal to reach the top of our Greenhorn Mountain.
In both cases, a little help along the way made all the difference.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
A very Mary day
Some readers may have noticed that I have a great time playing with words. Maybe I don't play fair all the time, but I still have fun. And so, when I think of a very Mary day, a variety of messages are whirling about my brain.
First and foremost, today is my sister-in-law's birthday. So, happy birthday, Mary. It was great to share a lovely dinner with you last night at Di Luna's. I hope you have a safe drive back to Tacoma and that you enjoy a festive party upon your return. I also hope your day is as nice as mine was yesterday.
It was a very merry day for numerous reasons. Visiting with my coffee cult buddies proved to be its usual talkative experience. We now have a round table where equal-opportunity hearing is supposed to be the norm, but I still miss a few of the morsals when side conversations take off.
Judging the pet show at Carter Country Feed Store came next on the agenda. One contestant brought her blind cat Stevie Wonder and another brought her Shitzo. They both competed in the pet tricks category. Neither animal chose to perform, however. Their efforts were trounced by the border collie who refused to roll over but happily shook hands, lay down, played dead, etc.
The most difficult category came with the "cutest." How can one distinguish between a long-eared bassett hound, a four-month old Yorkshire or a nicely attired rider who had spruced up her 19-year-old pony? We finally gave the nod to the pony cuz we figured she'd done more work to be cute.
With few entries, the pet show sped by ever so quickly. I was home within half an hour of its start. Next came some lawn mowing and a day's worth of listening to a beautiful CD sent to me by my penpal Robyne from New Zealand.
It featured a three selections where her daughter Giselle, an accomplished operatic singer, displayed her flexibility with her voice and flute while performing some hauntingly beautiful Celtic selections. The CD is called "Wild Mountain Thyme." Giselle performs with a group from Taupo called the Kilkenny Kats.
Listening to the selections over and over while thumbing through pages of New Zealand photo books brought out the goosebumps and good memories of my time spent there with Annie nearly two years ago.
My friend Jeanelle came by and surprised me as I was planting some more flowers in my garden. We had a nice visit, and then she was off with many projects to complete on her busy schedule.
We went to dinner at Di Lunas----Bill, Mary, Mother, Barbara, Laurie and me. Word had gotten out that it was a birthday celebration, so we enjoyed very special treatment from the kitchen and waiting staff, including a delicious huge piece of chocolate cake which made the rounds on that same round table where our coffee cult had sipped and chatted earlier in the day.
Home by 7:30, I wasted no time jumping back in the car to attend the 1985 Sandpoint High 20th-year reunion at the Elks Club. As always, a teacher's greatest reward comes at these events. The satisfaction of seeing so many former students happily settled into their lives is hard to describe.
I had a great time moving from table to table, gleaning little bits of information from dozens of students who had sat in my English class 20 years ago. And, I really knew that time had passed as some told me their kids had already graduated from high school.
I thoroughly enjoyed myself yesterday on what was definitely a very MERRY day. Thanks to all family and friends who made it that way.
First and foremost, today is my sister-in-law's birthday. So, happy birthday, Mary. It was great to share a lovely dinner with you last night at Di Luna's. I hope you have a safe drive back to Tacoma and that you enjoy a festive party upon your return. I also hope your day is as nice as mine was yesterday.
It was a very merry day for numerous reasons. Visiting with my coffee cult buddies proved to be its usual talkative experience. We now have a round table where equal-opportunity hearing is supposed to be the norm, but I still miss a few of the morsals when side conversations take off.
Judging the pet show at Carter Country Feed Store came next on the agenda. One contestant brought her blind cat Stevie Wonder and another brought her Shitzo. They both competed in the pet tricks category. Neither animal chose to perform, however. Their efforts were trounced by the border collie who refused to roll over but happily shook hands, lay down, played dead, etc.
The most difficult category came with the "cutest." How can one distinguish between a long-eared bassett hound, a four-month old Yorkshire or a nicely attired rider who had spruced up her 19-year-old pony? We finally gave the nod to the pony cuz we figured she'd done more work to be cute.
With few entries, the pet show sped by ever so quickly. I was home within half an hour of its start. Next came some lawn mowing and a day's worth of listening to a beautiful CD sent to me by my penpal Robyne from New Zealand.
It featured a three selections where her daughter Giselle, an accomplished operatic singer, displayed her flexibility with her voice and flute while performing some hauntingly beautiful Celtic selections. The CD is called "Wild Mountain Thyme." Giselle performs with a group from Taupo called the Kilkenny Kats.
Listening to the selections over and over while thumbing through pages of New Zealand photo books brought out the goosebumps and good memories of my time spent there with Annie nearly two years ago.
My friend Jeanelle came by and surprised me as I was planting some more flowers in my garden. We had a nice visit, and then she was off with many projects to complete on her busy schedule.
We went to dinner at Di Lunas----Bill, Mary, Mother, Barbara, Laurie and me. Word had gotten out that it was a birthday celebration, so we enjoyed very special treatment from the kitchen and waiting staff, including a delicious huge piece of chocolate cake which made the rounds on that same round table where our coffee cult had sipped and chatted earlier in the day.
Home by 7:30, I wasted no time jumping back in the car to attend the 1985 Sandpoint High 20th-year reunion at the Elks Club. As always, a teacher's greatest reward comes at these events. The satisfaction of seeing so many former students happily settled into their lives is hard to describe.
I had a great time moving from table to table, gleaning little bits of information from dozens of students who had sat in my English class 20 years ago. And, I really knew that time had passed as some told me their kids had already graduated from high school.
I thoroughly enjoyed myself yesterday on what was definitely a very MERRY day. Thanks to all family and friends who made it that way.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Lazy Birthday Blog
In the interest of turning into a total lazy slob on this 58th birthday, I'm going to insert my most recent column "Love Notes," which appeared in this week's River Journal newspaper. Enjoy, and have a great Saturday.
Hiawatha Biking Experience
for The River Journal
by Marianne Love
June, 2005
Hiawatha Biking Experience
for The River Journal
by Marianne Love
June, 2005
My brother Kevin and other rodent aficionados call them Golden Mantel ground squirrels. I’d always called ‘em chipmunks. Whatever they are, I can vouch that they’re plump, cute little buggers, and it’s easy to see why.
After all, each season when several thousand two-legged creatures donned in helmets, carrying well-stocked backpacks, and pedaling two-wheeled non-motorized vehicles, decide to stop alongside the trail to read the informative signs, there are treats aplenty in “them thar hills.”
The hills are part of the Bitteroot Mountains of Western Montana and Northeastern Idaho. The trail, where these squirrels nab such good eats, was once known as the Old Milwaukee Road, which was the route traveled by the railway with its fleet, steam-powered Hiawatha engine. I’m amazed at how many squirrels have discovered these rich zones for human hand-outs since my last Hiawatha bike trip.
Two years ago, while chaperoning a group of Farmin fifth graders who were cruising the Hiawatha Rail Trail, I don’t remember seeing too many squirrels. Instead, I recall getting acquainted with a lot of tunnels, trestles and magnificent views of the rugged Bitteroots where the Hiawatha once roared through on its route from St. Regis, Mont., to Avery, Idaho. A month or so later in 2003, our family members gathered at Lookout Pass to take the trip again. Still, no glut on the squirrel supply.
But, earlier this month, while again accompanying my sister Laurie Tibbs’ and her colleague Colleen Filipowski’s fifth graders on the 17-mile route, we soon discovered word must’ve gotten out to all Golden Mantels that rich wealth existed at those attractive U.S. Forest Service interpretive displays. The tiny, hungry mouths met with a sumptuous bonanza when several small groups of ten-year-olds with their adult chaperones happened by and stopped at the series of signs on June 10.
The kids’ assignment, while biking the old rail bed’s gradual downward grade, was to read all information at each stop. That time frame gives a hungry squirrel and all his buddies a great opportunity for begging. Admittedly, squirrel begging does distract a kid or two who’s supposed to be listening while a fellow classmate reads about gandy dancers, railroad ghost towns like Roland and Grand Forks, the meaning of train whistles, or about raging forest fires which burned off the area forests in 1910. While expected to digest these nuggets of fascinating historical information, some chose to share their trail mix with the adorable little critters who suddenly appeared from behind rocks and out of the bushes at most stops.
The squirrels, however, had manners enough to show respectful, polite appreciation for the kids’ education. Once they grabbed ahold of a fat cashew with their dexterous little fingers, most ate quietly as the reading continued. I’m betting that there must’ve been a mole among the ranks who passed along word to the nut-loving squirrels that even though this was meant to be a fun outing, it did fulfill an enriching educational purpose.
After all, Miss Tibbs and Mrs. Filipowski had been aiming toward this day in their respective classrooms for months. Their goal throughout the year had been to introduce their students to national and regional history. More specifically, the fifth graders were learning about mountain ranges, lakes and drainage systems, natural resources, native cultures, exploration and settlement along established trails. They also learned how transportation systems such as the railroad helped develop the region.
What better way to bring all this alive than to board a bus and head for Cataldo and Idaho’s oldest missionary church where “Black Robes” introduced Catholicism to the local Native American tribes! Add to that a trip to Wallace, along the Mullan Road (first Transcontinental military route) and through the Silver Valley. At Wallace, they would visit the mining museum and learn how the discovery of rich minerals played a role in the region’s settlement and its economy.
After a good swim in the Mullen Community Center’s pool and a night of sleeping in their bed rolls on a school-house floor, the kids, armed with lunches prepared by parent volunteers, were eager to head on to the Hiawatha Trail where they’d meet with the immediate challenge of biking 1.8 miles through the dark, drippy, and dank Taft Tunnel. Except for a few mud spatters and some occasional wandering mule deer, most riders made it through the Taft and several other Old Milwaukee tunnels without incident.
The squirrels added a nice touch to this culminating segment of their two-day field trip. As chaperones, my husband Bill and I also came away with very positive impressions about our assigned group of students. They enjoyed reading. They also cooperated with us and with each other, and they obviously had fun. Our group included Hannah Moseley, Travis Tolin, Katie Brent, Mike Morton, Joey Yanik, and Dillon Fitzpatrick. From what I’ve heard and observed, they appreciated the unique educational experience.
Hannah liked the breath-taking view while looking down several hundred feet to the artistic treetop patterns from the trestles, while Katie enjoyed riding through the tunnels. Travis told me he thinks he’ll persuade his family to go. Joey obviously liked riding shotgun next to me. Mike truly amazed Bill and me with his fine reading ability, and Dillon seemed to enjoy everything, especially sharing his cashews.
I’m confident that if that same messenger mole reads this column and passes along the word about Travis’ desire to return to the trail with his family, there’s gonna be some happy Golden Mantels welcoming their arrival.
I also have one educational suggestion after this year’s trip. Maybe the kids can learn how those little critters survive during the off-season?
For more information about the Hiawatha Rail Trail experience, visit (www.skilookout.com/bike_home_page.html).Friday, June 24, 2005
Will miss you, Karen of Kincaid's
We learned some sad news yesterday. After 50 years on First Avenue, Kincaid Jewelers (formerly Art Ruyle Jewelers) is closing its doors. Yet another Sandpoint institution will become a memory by the end of July, and with its passing, one of my favorite people will move on to a new phase of her life.
The closing of Kincaid's marks a significant historical event for the Love family. Its founder Art Ruyle took Bill under his wing back in 1974 shortly after Bill moved here from Louisiana and the two met at Sandpoint's Presbyterian Church. In fact, Art Ruyle and Eddie Nordgaarden (who ran the Shell Service Station on First Avenue at the time) were Bill's first friends in Sandpoint.
That spring, when Bill decided to go purchase a wedding-ring set, we both went to Art's jewelry store to make the selection. Art proudly displayed his wares, and I settled on an antiqued engagement ring with 1/2 carat diamond which fit inside a gold wedding ring.
A week after our June wedding, while drinking my Sunday morning coffee, I suddenly noticed that something was amiss. The diamond had disappeared from the ring! Trying to disguise the powerful jolt that took over my body, I kept my hand hidden from view until Bill left for church.
As soon as the car headed down the road, I raced around our little rented trailer on Lakeshore Drive, frantically searching for the diamond. Fortunate for me, it didn't take too long. As I picked up a towel from the bathroom floor, there it was in all its lonely splendor and still encased in its prongs. The setting had simply fallen out during the night when I had gotten up to use the bathroom.
Totally relieved, I showed Bill when he returned home. When Art saw what had happened the next morning, he said, "I'll set that diamond down a lot deeper into the ring; after all, you're a farm girl and I'm sure you may bump it again." Well, the diamond has stayed put for 31 years. Its prongs have been replaced a few times and the ring has been re-antiqued a time or two.
Art Ruyle eventually died from cancer. At that time, Ray Kincaid bought the business and operated it for a number of years with help from Karen Applegate. Eventually, she purchased the store. I knew Karen as a high school student and came to appreciate her even more as a store owner and respected town leader.
Karen has been so good to us, and like so many things in our family, she has helped us maintain a tradition of loyalty. Almost five years ago, Willie was ready to purchase a wedding set. He went to Karen, and she helped him narrow down the choices.
Then, he asked Annie and me to come in and help him make the final selection. That Christmas he made a special one-day surprise trip to Boise and knelt down before Debbie to ask for her hand and to place the engagement ring on her left finger. I distinctly remember Karen telling Willie, "We'll set up a payment contract. I don't care if you pay me $5 a month; as long as you pay me something, that will be fine."
Over the past several years, Karen has served as my good friend and personal shopper. Any time there's a wedding coming up or a special gift needed for someone, I just call Karen and say, "Okay, this is a wedding; find me something in the ???? range. She picks out what seems appropriate, wraps it and will even deliver it if I wish.
I've greatly admired Karen for her intelligence, professionalism, leadership, community spirit, her warm smile, and her grit at hanging in there over a few tough personal obstacles. We in the Love family will miss seeing her behind the watch counter at Kincaid's. I know she's come across some new, more secure career opportunities, and I wish her well.
Good bye to Kincaid's. Good bye to Karen. You've both been precious gems who've provided that personal hometown touch and another reason why Sandpoint has been such a special place to live.
We're gonna miss that.
The closing of Kincaid's marks a significant historical event for the Love family. Its founder Art Ruyle took Bill under his wing back in 1974 shortly after Bill moved here from Louisiana and the two met at Sandpoint's Presbyterian Church. In fact, Art Ruyle and Eddie Nordgaarden (who ran the Shell Service Station on First Avenue at the time) were Bill's first friends in Sandpoint.
That spring, when Bill decided to go purchase a wedding-ring set, we both went to Art's jewelry store to make the selection. Art proudly displayed his wares, and I settled on an antiqued engagement ring with 1/2 carat diamond which fit inside a gold wedding ring.
A week after our June wedding, while drinking my Sunday morning coffee, I suddenly noticed that something was amiss. The diamond had disappeared from the ring! Trying to disguise the powerful jolt that took over my body, I kept my hand hidden from view until Bill left for church.
As soon as the car headed down the road, I raced around our little rented trailer on Lakeshore Drive, frantically searching for the diamond. Fortunate for me, it didn't take too long. As I picked up a towel from the bathroom floor, there it was in all its lonely splendor and still encased in its prongs. The setting had simply fallen out during the night when I had gotten up to use the bathroom.
Totally relieved, I showed Bill when he returned home. When Art saw what had happened the next morning, he said, "I'll set that diamond down a lot deeper into the ring; after all, you're a farm girl and I'm sure you may bump it again." Well, the diamond has stayed put for 31 years. Its prongs have been replaced a few times and the ring has been re-antiqued a time or two.
Art Ruyle eventually died from cancer. At that time, Ray Kincaid bought the business and operated it for a number of years with help from Karen Applegate. Eventually, she purchased the store. I knew Karen as a high school student and came to appreciate her even more as a store owner and respected town leader.
Karen has been so good to us, and like so many things in our family, she has helped us maintain a tradition of loyalty. Almost five years ago, Willie was ready to purchase a wedding set. He went to Karen, and she helped him narrow down the choices.
Then, he asked Annie and me to come in and help him make the final selection. That Christmas he made a special one-day surprise trip to Boise and knelt down before Debbie to ask for her hand and to place the engagement ring on her left finger. I distinctly remember Karen telling Willie, "We'll set up a payment contract. I don't care if you pay me $5 a month; as long as you pay me something, that will be fine."
Over the past several years, Karen has served as my good friend and personal shopper. Any time there's a wedding coming up or a special gift needed for someone, I just call Karen and say, "Okay, this is a wedding; find me something in the ???? range. She picks out what seems appropriate, wraps it and will even deliver it if I wish.
I've greatly admired Karen for her intelligence, professionalism, leadership, community spirit, her warm smile, and her grit at hanging in there over a few tough personal obstacles. We in the Love family will miss seeing her behind the watch counter at Kincaid's. I know she's come across some new, more secure career opportunities, and I wish her well.
Good bye to Kincaid's. Good bye to Karen. You've both been precious gems who've provided that personal hometown touch and another reason why Sandpoint has been such a special place to live.
We're gonna miss that.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Sweet dreams?
Occasionally, as mentioned before, I come to my blog with a vacuum mind. I think today is one of those days. It may have to do with the fact that I did not get to sleep until after midnight, and only with help from an Advil. Yes, I admit to taking an over-the-counter drug when tossing and turning turns from a few minutes into a few hours.
Sleeping has been challenging for me during the past 26-plus years. I always blame it on Annie, who did not sleep a complete night for the first two years of her life. Getting up at all hours of the night to tend to her needs eventually set me off on an erratic pattern of slumber. Throughout my daughter's life, sleep or lack thereof has caused her a problem or two also.
I believe that, for me, the stress of having two small children, advising a yearbook staff, and teaching an adult night class along with my four daytime English classes may have had something to do with it. Back in the late '70s and early '80s, the need for a decent night's sleep eventually turned into an obsession. And, as I became obsessed with that need, I slept less and less and less.
Insomnia eventually controlled most of my thoughts outside of school, especially the minute I hit the bed. The crowning blow came one spring week when, for two complete school nights, I did not sleep one drop. Not one.
Desperate, after the second sleepless night, I walked into the principal's office, sat down and cried. Tom Keough was so kind and understanding to me as I faced the thought of something having to go in my all-too-busy schedule. It was a tough decision, because I loved it so, but the yearbook assignment got the nod. At that time, we were producing such a quality book that it had turned into a full-time job in itself, squeezing out time slots for all the other items in my life, especially my family.
Reducing my stress load did some good, but the sleep habits never did return to normal, especially through the rest of my teaching career. I've lived the life of an insomniac where stress or even concerns about plans for the next day take hold of the brain and refuse to let it rest. The brain keeps moving at a rapid pace, clicking past images of virtually anything that could have caused the least little concern during the day.
Problems magnify at night. No amount of rationalization makes them go away. They continue to play out like a broken record in your brain as your body becomes more and more rigid, your teeth, more clenched. It's not a fun scenario to live out nights like this, but like other insomniacs, I've learned to manage and have surprisingly always been functional.
My sleep habits has improved since retirement, but still, whenever I have something scheduled for early in the morning, as I do today with an 8 a.m. meeting, adrenalin flows through my brain, refusing to go away. Today, however, the gorgeous blue sky and the anticipation of possibly seeing our daughter-in-law, along with a good strong cup of coffee, are helping me forget my busy, sleepless night.
That's how it is with insomniacs. Thankful for what sleep we do get, we simply trudge forward, make the best of each day, and eventually collapse into a welcome restful night's slumber----only to have the weird sleep cycle start all over again.
Sleeping has been challenging for me during the past 26-plus years. I always blame it on Annie, who did not sleep a complete night for the first two years of her life. Getting up at all hours of the night to tend to her needs eventually set me off on an erratic pattern of slumber. Throughout my daughter's life, sleep or lack thereof has caused her a problem or two also.
I believe that, for me, the stress of having two small children, advising a yearbook staff, and teaching an adult night class along with my four daytime English classes may have had something to do with it. Back in the late '70s and early '80s, the need for a decent night's sleep eventually turned into an obsession. And, as I became obsessed with that need, I slept less and less and less.
Insomnia eventually controlled most of my thoughts outside of school, especially the minute I hit the bed. The crowning blow came one spring week when, for two complete school nights, I did not sleep one drop. Not one.
Desperate, after the second sleepless night, I walked into the principal's office, sat down and cried. Tom Keough was so kind and understanding to me as I faced the thought of something having to go in my all-too-busy schedule. It was a tough decision, because I loved it so, but the yearbook assignment got the nod. At that time, we were producing such a quality book that it had turned into a full-time job in itself, squeezing out time slots for all the other items in my life, especially my family.
Reducing my stress load did some good, but the sleep habits never did return to normal, especially through the rest of my teaching career. I've lived the life of an insomniac where stress or even concerns about plans for the next day take hold of the brain and refuse to let it rest. The brain keeps moving at a rapid pace, clicking past images of virtually anything that could have caused the least little concern during the day.
Problems magnify at night. No amount of rationalization makes them go away. They continue to play out like a broken record in your brain as your body becomes more and more rigid, your teeth, more clenched. It's not a fun scenario to live out nights like this, but like other insomniacs, I've learned to manage and have surprisingly always been functional.
My sleep habits has improved since retirement, but still, whenever I have something scheduled for early in the morning, as I do today with an 8 a.m. meeting, adrenalin flows through my brain, refusing to go away. Today, however, the gorgeous blue sky and the anticipation of possibly seeing our daughter-in-law, along with a good strong cup of coffee, are helping me forget my busy, sleepless night.
That's how it is with insomniacs. Thankful for what sleep we do get, we simply trudge forward, make the best of each day, and eventually collapse into a welcome restful night's slumber----only to have the weird sleep cycle start all over again.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Lawn Branch Blow-out
Kitty Russell ran a tight ship in Dodge City's Long Branch Saloon. Together with her bartender Sam and thanks to occasional help from Marshall Matt Dillon, Kitty kept things in pretty good order. Occasionally, there'd be a shoot-out over a card game or a beef someone had with Matt. Chairs would fly, folks would scatter. Shots were fired. Within seconds, the place would be a mess.
Well, as I look over my lawn this morning, I can't help but think of Miss Kitty. I do my best to keep things under control and lookin' nice here at my rural domain. But, occasionally, trouble shows up, and when it does, I've got a damn mess.
Last night, no more than 30 minutes after I had completed several hours worth of mowing the tall grass brought on by steaming hot temperatures, a fightin' mad wind storm blew into town with vengeance on its mind.
During three violent offensives lasting no more than 45 seconds total, my beautifully manicured lawn transformed into a leafy war zone. Two aspen trees broke off and fell to their deaths in the driveway and at least 2,000 limbs separated from their mother trees. They now lie in death's slumber, covering virtually every square inch of the once tidy green blanket surrounding the house and barn.
This morning, just like Kitty, I'm sportin' a stern look on my face, thinking about how long it's gonna take to remove the evidence of this unprovoked and unwelcome assault on my territory. Not even Matt Dillon's lightning fast six-gun could've provided a match for this wind blow-out.
I guess I have no choice but to do like they must've done in Dodge City back in the 1800s. That's to get out there, pick up the carnage of lawn branches and move on with life.
Damn! I could use a shot of Sam's whiskey this morning.
Well, as I look over my lawn this morning, I can't help but think of Miss Kitty. I do my best to keep things under control and lookin' nice here at my rural domain. But, occasionally, trouble shows up, and when it does, I've got a damn mess.
Last night, no more than 30 minutes after I had completed several hours worth of mowing the tall grass brought on by steaming hot temperatures, a fightin' mad wind storm blew into town with vengeance on its mind.
During three violent offensives lasting no more than 45 seconds total, my beautifully manicured lawn transformed into a leafy war zone. Two aspen trees broke off and fell to their deaths in the driveway and at least 2,000 limbs separated from their mother trees. They now lie in death's slumber, covering virtually every square inch of the once tidy green blanket surrounding the house and barn.
This morning, just like Kitty, I'm sportin' a stern look on my face, thinking about how long it's gonna take to remove the evidence of this unprovoked and unwelcome assault on my territory. Not even Matt Dillon's lightning fast six-gun could've provided a match for this wind blow-out.
I guess I have no choice but to do like they must've done in Dodge City back in the 1800s. That's to get out there, pick up the carnage of lawn branches and move on with life.
Damn! I could use a shot of Sam's whiskey this morning.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Parental Reward
It was to be our birthday, anniversary, Mother's Day, and Father's Day present: airline tickets to Seattle and a weekend of getting to know the town, the "Annie way." The "Annie way" did include a fair amount of geocaching, which took us to West Seattle and a good bakery, to the upscale Magnolia district, and yesterday to scenic Discovery Park where we got great views on the Olympic Mountains.
Bill enjoyed his Ivar's fish and chips two or three times. I did NOT eat garlic fries which overpowered the air at Safeco Field; instead chicken strips and a Bud Lite satisfied my pre-game palate. We did Mt. Rainier. We ate bad food, including another sub-par taco salad at a Mexican Restaurant in Enumclaw.
What I'll remember most, however, from our weekend trip---even more than the painted flesh aboard bicycles in Fremont---was the enthusiastic greeting we received from virtually every person who works with Annie at the Marriott where we stayed. All we had to do was mention her name, and colleagues, ranging from the manager to the cleaning crew, immediately beamed while telling us how much they enjoyed and appreciated our daughter.
I saw this same behavior a few weeks ago when Debbie and I stopped by the Newport Miner to visit Willie. The employees generously shared with us their love and admiration for "Will," as he's often known outside the family. Again, the enthusiastic praise for our son seemed universal among his colleagues.
A few weeks ago, while sharing with us about her on-the-job experiences, Annie included a comment made by one of her colleagues in a staff meeting. "It doesn't matter who it is, Annie treats everyone with the same respect," the fellow worker had announced. When she shared that with me, tears began to flow down my face, and I told her how proud I was to hear that.
While our kids were growing up, my most important goal in parenting was to impress upon them the importance of treating people well, no matter who they were. I can also remember telling them often that even though good grades were important, people treatment ranked much higher on the list of our expectations for them.
It takes trips like this past weekend with Annie and visits like the one we made to Willie's office in Newport a few weeks ago to learn firsthand that a very important lesson about living has been accepted and well-oiled by both our kids. For that, we are very thankful as parents to know that we've completed a vital part of our mission.
So, thanks, Willie and Annie. You've each shown us some wonderful Mother's Day and Father's Day rewards that outdo any card or gift.
Bill enjoyed his Ivar's fish and chips two or three times. I did NOT eat garlic fries which overpowered the air at Safeco Field; instead chicken strips and a Bud Lite satisfied my pre-game palate. We did Mt. Rainier. We ate bad food, including another sub-par taco salad at a Mexican Restaurant in Enumclaw.
What I'll remember most, however, from our weekend trip---even more than the painted flesh aboard bicycles in Fremont---was the enthusiastic greeting we received from virtually every person who works with Annie at the Marriott where we stayed. All we had to do was mention her name, and colleagues, ranging from the manager to the cleaning crew, immediately beamed while telling us how much they enjoyed and appreciated our daughter.
I saw this same behavior a few weeks ago when Debbie and I stopped by the Newport Miner to visit Willie. The employees generously shared with us their love and admiration for "Will," as he's often known outside the family. Again, the enthusiastic praise for our son seemed universal among his colleagues.
A few weeks ago, while sharing with us about her on-the-job experiences, Annie included a comment made by one of her colleagues in a staff meeting. "It doesn't matter who it is, Annie treats everyone with the same respect," the fellow worker had announced. When she shared that with me, tears began to flow down my face, and I told her how proud I was to hear that.
While our kids were growing up, my most important goal in parenting was to impress upon them the importance of treating people well, no matter who they were. I can also remember telling them often that even though good grades were important, people treatment ranked much higher on the list of our expectations for them.
It takes trips like this past weekend with Annie and visits like the one we made to Willie's office in Newport a few weeks ago to learn firsthand that a very important lesson about living has been accepted and well-oiled by both our kids. For that, we are very thankful as parents to know that we've completed a vital part of our mission.
So, thanks, Willie and Annie. You've each shown us some wonderful Mother's Day and Father's Day rewards that outdo any card or gift.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Rainier special
I've got the sore muscles to prove it. Last night, I had the leg cramps. Our Father's Day outing yesterday took us to the Comet Falls trail on the south side of Mount Rainier. Mileage-wise, the upward trek was 5.8. Pain-wise, I'd call it 10.
Though a few clouds hung around the mountain, we enjoyed gorgeous views aplenty throughout the afternoon and early evening. After leaving the car, we started up the trail, which paralleled the highway for about half a mile before we came to a nicely crafted log bridge. While standing along the structure, we could look over the rushing water which, over the ages, had carved out smooth, polished bowls in the solid rock below.
We followed the creek up the mountain and watched our every step as a network of nasty witches' knots or tripping rocks lurked all along the trail, waiting for any of us to take a wrong step. Now that the hike is completed, I can gladly report that nobody fell on their face going up or down.
As usual, the downward trek required ultimate vigilance. In fact, I once remarked to Bill that after all that careful step by step maneuvering, the trail could be really deceiving because the seemingly smooth stretches held the little surprises. A couple of sneaky rocks in those spots almost got me.
We did have time to gawk at some incredible views though: a one-lane log footbridge with a single strand of cable for balance took us over the lower Comet Falls. Annie had learned on her earlier trip up this trail that the lower falls might tempt hikers to think they'd seen it all, but just a few feet up the trail and around the bend flowed the truly breath-taking water show. From hundreds of feet up, the magical streams bounced into the pool below, creating a refreshing mist for any sweaty hiker who cared to stand in its presence.
There was much more with each switchback as we trudged upward. Annie kept promising that the true rewards would be worth the suffering. She was right. We soon reached a point where we could see Mt. St. Helens to the south. A few switchbacks higher, and snow-white Mt. Adams came into view. It was about that point that I realized the body must agonize if the eyes are to rejoice.
That thought kept me going. And when we broke into the flower-laden meadows of deep green where Mt. Rainier's huge snow-capped dominance greeted us, we knew our pain was not in vain. We walked up to a point on a trail to the northeast where Annie had hiked on a late afternoon last October, only to hear the sound of a loud THUMP, THUMP, causing her instantly to recoil and run all the way down the mountain.
"I wasn't going to wait around and see what it was," she told us as we moved past the spot. She was alone. It was getting dark. She lived to tell us about it, and now we were moving beyond her highest point of accomplishment. Along that stretch, we met a well-equipped, obviously seasoned hiker named Tony who informed us he was Polish but had grown up in Australia. He's a Boeing engineer who had planned to hike to the top of Rainier but decided the weather wouldn't allow it yesterday and turned around.
After saying good bye to him, we continued up around the bend to a natural resting place. While enjoying the variety of views, we spotted two skiers traversing down Rainier. They passed us later on our descent and told us they'd hiked up with their skis and boots earlier in the day. Tough cookies, I'll say.
As always, with a grueling hike, the end seemed to stretch along much too far, but we eventually reached the car where I collapsed into the back seat. Later, while Annie drove back to Seattle, I tried, in vain for much too long, to fend off two major cramps piercing my left thigh. Eventually, they gave in, but the over-used leg muscles are still screaming this morning. Thank God for Celebrex.
I'll always remember our Father's Day Mt. Rainier hike of 2005, and even though my body hurts, I'll resort to a comment I've made a time or two over life: nothing good ever comes easily. The images gleaned from yesterday's tough hike matched my estimation of miles: definitely a 10.
Though a few clouds hung around the mountain, we enjoyed gorgeous views aplenty throughout the afternoon and early evening. After leaving the car, we started up the trail, which paralleled the highway for about half a mile before we came to a nicely crafted log bridge. While standing along the structure, we could look over the rushing water which, over the ages, had carved out smooth, polished bowls in the solid rock below.
We followed the creek up the mountain and watched our every step as a network of nasty witches' knots or tripping rocks lurked all along the trail, waiting for any of us to take a wrong step. Now that the hike is completed, I can gladly report that nobody fell on their face going up or down.
As usual, the downward trek required ultimate vigilance. In fact, I once remarked to Bill that after all that careful step by step maneuvering, the trail could be really deceiving because the seemingly smooth stretches held the little surprises. A couple of sneaky rocks in those spots almost got me.
We did have time to gawk at some incredible views though: a one-lane log footbridge with a single strand of cable for balance took us over the lower Comet Falls. Annie had learned on her earlier trip up this trail that the lower falls might tempt hikers to think they'd seen it all, but just a few feet up the trail and around the bend flowed the truly breath-taking water show. From hundreds of feet up, the magical streams bounced into the pool below, creating a refreshing mist for any sweaty hiker who cared to stand in its presence.
There was much more with each switchback as we trudged upward. Annie kept promising that the true rewards would be worth the suffering. She was right. We soon reached a point where we could see Mt. St. Helens to the south. A few switchbacks higher, and snow-white Mt. Adams came into view. It was about that point that I realized the body must agonize if the eyes are to rejoice.
That thought kept me going. And when we broke into the flower-laden meadows of deep green where Mt. Rainier's huge snow-capped dominance greeted us, we knew our pain was not in vain. We walked up to a point on a trail to the northeast where Annie had hiked on a late afternoon last October, only to hear the sound of a loud THUMP, THUMP, causing her instantly to recoil and run all the way down the mountain.
"I wasn't going to wait around and see what it was," she told us as we moved past the spot. She was alone. It was getting dark. She lived to tell us about it, and now we were moving beyond her highest point of accomplishment. Along that stretch, we met a well-equipped, obviously seasoned hiker named Tony who informed us he was Polish but had grown up in Australia. He's a Boeing engineer who had planned to hike to the top of Rainier but decided the weather wouldn't allow it yesterday and turned around.
After saying good bye to him, we continued up around the bend to a natural resting place. While enjoying the variety of views, we spotted two skiers traversing down Rainier. They passed us later on our descent and told us they'd hiked up with their skis and boots earlier in the day. Tough cookies, I'll say.
As always, with a grueling hike, the end seemed to stretch along much too far, but we eventually reached the car where I collapsed into the back seat. Later, while Annie drove back to Seattle, I tried, in vain for much too long, to fend off two major cramps piercing my left thigh. Eventually, they gave in, but the over-used leg muscles are still screaming this morning. Thank God for Celebrex.
I'll always remember our Father's Day Mt. Rainier hike of 2005, and even though my body hurts, I'll resort to a comment I've made a time or two over life: nothing good ever comes easily. The images gleaned from yesterday's tough hike matched my estimation of miles: definitely a 10.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
The Naked Truth
How could I highlight a day which began with a flight to Seattle and ended with a glass of white wine at the Marriott while meeting Annie's colleagues? In between, the hours were filled with planned geocaching trips around Seattle, a visit with some old friends and my first trip to Safeco Field to see the Mariners win over the New York Mets.
Well, there was one other event inserted into the busy day: the Fremont Fair Parade and several dozen naked bodies. I've coined the phrase "Pedal Pushing for Panty Waists" to fit my style of bike riding on back roads during road trips.
This morning I'm searching my brain for a way to describe what I saw yesterday as I stretched my neck to see the action in front of crowds six deep along Fremont's streets. Some were painted red, white and blue. Some were sparkled with gold or silver body paint. One looked like a bumble bee.
They included adults of all ages and genders. The gender of each participant was more than obvious in this crowd of merrymakers as they pedaled up and down the cement to seductive music and cheering onlookers. This country bumpkin from the farm saw more raw life of the human form in 30 minutes yesterday than I've ever seen on TV or in Playboy magazine. It certainly surpassed anything I'd ever witnessed in the barnyard.
Annie saw it, and so did Bill. We joined thousands of parade goers who stood in amazement as the proud, painted naked bodies on bikes zipped up and down the street and darted in and out of other parade participants, including the 60-plus belly dancers, dressed in red.
Of course, strange thoughts went through my head while witnessing such an event---what must it feel like on a hot afternoon sitting on that bicycle seat with no protection between your underside and that sweaty leather or vinyl. I don't really want to think that thought, but it's possible some of the participants could have some gory details to share after yesterday's performance.
It was also strange later when Annie and I both remarked at the same time, upon seeing a biker wearing shorts and T-shirt that he seemed over-dressed. I do know after that experience that I'll never think of biking in quite the same way, and I also know that yesterday's experience did not tempt me in the least to ever consider taking up "Pedal Pushing in the Raw."
Our Saturday was a great day, filled with many other memorable moments. It was great to see my old friend Merriam Merriman, her hubby, Larry, their daughter Megan and hubby Rob and the delight of all their lives, Tyler, a son and grandson who's obviously loved and adored.
We had a great time at the game where everyone was wearing clothes---lots of Mariner garb but plenty of Mets hats and jackets. When it was over, World Series phenom Pedro Martinez had lost his second game for the year, and the Mariners crowd was ecstatic with the 4-1 win.
We watched a Mariners star, Sexson thrown out of the game and marveled at a Met who dived into the crowd and suffered an injury while catching a foul ball for a third out. We also agree now that Safeco Field is a fun place to spend a few hours, eating, watching people and enjoying baseball.
Today, it's on to Rainier. The Seattle skies are cloudless and blue this morning, so we're planning to see some wonderful sights of the naked outdoors. I'm hoping all the bikers are wearing more clothes than I saw yesterday.
Well, there was one other event inserted into the busy day: the Fremont Fair Parade and several dozen naked bodies. I've coined the phrase "Pedal Pushing for Panty Waists" to fit my style of bike riding on back roads during road trips.
This morning I'm searching my brain for a way to describe what I saw yesterday as I stretched my neck to see the action in front of crowds six deep along Fremont's streets. Some were painted red, white and blue. Some were sparkled with gold or silver body paint. One looked like a bumble bee.
They included adults of all ages and genders. The gender of each participant was more than obvious in this crowd of merrymakers as they pedaled up and down the cement to seductive music and cheering onlookers. This country bumpkin from the farm saw more raw life of the human form in 30 minutes yesterday than I've ever seen on TV or in Playboy magazine. It certainly surpassed anything I'd ever witnessed in the barnyard.
Annie saw it, and so did Bill. We joined thousands of parade goers who stood in amazement as the proud, painted naked bodies on bikes zipped up and down the street and darted in and out of other parade participants, including the 60-plus belly dancers, dressed in red.
Of course, strange thoughts went through my head while witnessing such an event---what must it feel like on a hot afternoon sitting on that bicycle seat with no protection between your underside and that sweaty leather or vinyl. I don't really want to think that thought, but it's possible some of the participants could have some gory details to share after yesterday's performance.
It was also strange later when Annie and I both remarked at the same time, upon seeing a biker wearing shorts and T-shirt that he seemed over-dressed. I do know after that experience that I'll never think of biking in quite the same way, and I also know that yesterday's experience did not tempt me in the least to ever consider taking up "Pedal Pushing in the Raw."
Our Saturday was a great day, filled with many other memorable moments. It was great to see my old friend Merriam Merriman, her hubby, Larry, their daughter Megan and hubby Rob and the delight of all their lives, Tyler, a son and grandson who's obviously loved and adored.
We had a great time at the game where everyone was wearing clothes---lots of Mariner garb but plenty of Mets hats and jackets. When it was over, World Series phenom Pedro Martinez had lost his second game for the year, and the Mariners crowd was ecstatic with the 4-1 win.
We watched a Mariners star, Sexson thrown out of the game and marveled at a Met who dived into the crowd and suffered an injury while catching a foul ball for a third out. We also agree now that Safeco Field is a fun place to spend a few hours, eating, watching people and enjoying baseball.
Today, it's on to Rainier. The Seattle skies are cloudless and blue this morning, so we're planning to see some wonderful sights of the naked outdoors. I'm hoping all the bikers are wearing more clothes than I saw yesterday.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Annie and the Mariners
Look for us tonight at the Mariners vs Mets game cuz we'll be there. I'll wave if I see you looking. Bill's taking his shower so I have time to tap out a few lines before we go to the airport. Fortunately, we're at the Ramada Inn just five minutes away. Our flight goes out at 7 on Alaska, and we'll be seeing Annie at Sea-Tac at 8.
Then, it's a day of geocaching (hmmmmmm) and sight seeing. Annie's got us on a strict schedule so we have to be on our toes. She says once we get to Safeco Field, Bill can go to Ivar's, she'll go to the ribs place and I can buy garlic fries. She says Ichiro's fans have Sushi too. I wonder if there's any other food.
It should be a fun experience. I hear there's not a bad seat in the stadium. I know I'll be looking for some Mariners memorabilia for Willie cuz he's home alone taking care of all the critters, and we appreciate that. Unfortunately, Debbie couldn't make it up this weekend, but she will soon, and they can begin a somewhat normal married life when they move to Spokane.
Speaking of Spokane, I saw the Spokane Polo Club for the first time last night. It's out here by the airport. The fields are beautiful. We watched a few brief minutes of polo and found one of my former students, John Babin, who has taken up the sport. He was keeping time and squeezing that squawky horn to let players know the game was finished.
Apparently, there's a big regional tournament there this weekend. So, if anyone wants to see some fun action with beautiful, athletic horses, check it out. It's directly north of the Longhorn Barbecue where we ate last night.
Gotta go. Happy Saturday everyone. I'm lookin' forward to the blue? skies of Seattle.
Then, it's a day of geocaching (hmmmmmm) and sight seeing. Annie's got us on a strict schedule so we have to be on our toes. She says once we get to Safeco Field, Bill can go to Ivar's, she'll go to the ribs place and I can buy garlic fries. She says Ichiro's fans have Sushi too. I wonder if there's any other food.
It should be a fun experience. I hear there's not a bad seat in the stadium. I know I'll be looking for some Mariners memorabilia for Willie cuz he's home alone taking care of all the critters, and we appreciate that. Unfortunately, Debbie couldn't make it up this weekend, but she will soon, and they can begin a somewhat normal married life when they move to Spokane.
Speaking of Spokane, I saw the Spokane Polo Club for the first time last night. It's out here by the airport. The fields are beautiful. We watched a few brief minutes of polo and found one of my former students, John Babin, who has taken up the sport. He was keeping time and squeezing that squawky horn to let players know the game was finished.
Apparently, there's a big regional tournament there this weekend. So, if anyone wants to see some fun action with beautiful, athletic horses, check it out. It's directly north of the Longhorn Barbecue where we ate last night.
Gotta go. Happy Saturday everyone. I'm lookin' forward to the blue? skies of Seattle.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Zits can save a life?
I need something warped and wacky this morning to humor me while watching yet another series of rain rivers cascade off the eaves. The driveway is nearly submerged. And, a while ago, the ducks were feeding in the lawn across the driveway en masse.
Inside, this house as been emphatically quiet. The only sounds I've heard have been quick, unenthusiastic "good morning's," the turning of newspaper pages and the dryer rattling with its most recent load of clothes.
We're all subdued by this ongoing wet weather, to say the least. So, I sent my brain on a mission to find a diversion, something that would make me forget the moisture outside and cause me to chuckle within. I didn't have to look far.
The headline read: Teen acne tied to better health in men.
Immediately, even before perusing the details, I thought of all the zit-faced boys I'd ever known and wondered if they had finally gained redemption from an adolescence of either avoiding mirrors altogether or embracing them as visual aids for popping those oozing cream-colored face craters.
If they're still alive, because they haven't died from a heart attack, these individuals can thank their pimples. Their androgens (male hormones) were doing their job of preventing coronary heart disease, according to a UK study referenced in (http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20050617/hl_nm/acne_heart_dc) .
Time for for former teen-acne sufferers to rejoice---or IS it?
If they're dead or dying cuz the prostate gland decided to act up, they may have their pimples to thank for that too. Seems those same androgens associated with acne can cause prostate cancer.
So, I guess this was definitely a good news-bad news story, depending on if you're male, a former acne sufferer and alive or if you're male, a former acne sufferer and dead. I don't know what to tell you if you're a male who escaped the pimple stage. The article doesn't include that information.
And, now I'm especially curious to learn what happens to women who suffered from too many teen zits. Maybe that revelation will come on another day when it's too damn wet.
Inside, this house as been emphatically quiet. The only sounds I've heard have been quick, unenthusiastic "good morning's," the turning of newspaper pages and the dryer rattling with its most recent load of clothes.
We're all subdued by this ongoing wet weather, to say the least. So, I sent my brain on a mission to find a diversion, something that would make me forget the moisture outside and cause me to chuckle within. I didn't have to look far.
The headline read: Teen acne tied to better health in men.
Immediately, even before perusing the details, I thought of all the zit-faced boys I'd ever known and wondered if they had finally gained redemption from an adolescence of either avoiding mirrors altogether or embracing them as visual aids for popping those oozing cream-colored face craters.
If they're still alive, because they haven't died from a heart attack, these individuals can thank their pimples. Their androgens (male hormones) were doing their job of preventing coronary heart disease, according to a UK study referenced in (http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20050617/hl_nm/acne_heart_dc) .
Time for for former teen-acne sufferers to rejoice---or IS it?
If they're dead or dying cuz the prostate gland decided to act up, they may have their pimples to thank for that too. Seems those same androgens associated with acne can cause prostate cancer.
So, I guess this was definitely a good news-bad news story, depending on if you're male, a former acne sufferer and alive or if you're male, a former acne sufferer and dead. I don't know what to tell you if you're a male who escaped the pimple stage. The article doesn't include that information.
And, now I'm especially curious to learn what happens to women who suffered from too many teen zits. Maybe that revelation will come on another day when it's too damn wet.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Grousin' and moanin'
Not a lot of excitement to report this morning about yesterday's introduction into hang gliding. The plan was for Jim to run off the side of Hall Mountain (north of Bonners Ferry) with his glider and land in a field owned by the Botkin family. Before leaving, he made arrangements with the Botkins and promised to bring them a release form.
We invited Mother to come along. So, she packed up a sack of goodies and bottled water and eagerly awaited the big moment of watching the youngest of her flock run off the side of the mountain and fly. We drove to the Botkin house on the Porthill side of Hall Mountain.
Dr. Botkin had just finished his day's rounds at the hospital and was munching on a homemade bread-and-cheese sandwich when we met him. His wife and three handsome sons came out to greet us. It was fun to learn their background and interests. Diana Moses Botkin is an artist.
The family had recently traveled to France to see their oldest daughter who's a U of I journalism/French grad. One son plays quarterback for the Bonners Ferry Badgers, while the other is an intimidating defensive player. They're all home-schooled and very nice young men. While backing out the driveway, we witnessed why there's a star quarterback in the family as he drilled a pass directly to his sprinting brother's waiting hands.
After Jim planted his wind flag in the landing field, we backtracked down the highway and headed up the Eastport side of Hall Mountain. It took 11 miles of bumpy road to get us to the launch site. Unfortunately, the wind was blowing the wrong way in the most desirable spot, and two trees provided enough of an obstruction to nix the other possible site.
We drove around looking for other possibilities and then returned to the mountaintop expanse of moss and wildflowers where a lookout once stood. The Camelot-like scene looking southward along the expansive Kootenai Valley was magical with the glasslike river silently winding its way through an endless blanket of green. Definitely a view to behold.
While hoping and waiting for a change in wind patterns, Jim and I walked down the colorful hillside of red succulents and deep blue lupine only to be abruptly chastised by a frightened mother grouse. Don't ever disturb a mother grouse and her babies! Never in 33 years of teaching did I ever get in a student's face quite like Mother Grouse bombarded mine yesterday. I knew instantly not to fool with her or her nine tiny babies.
By 5:15 p.m., Mother Tibbs had sat in the back seat of Jim's Green Dodge 4 by 4 truck long enough. She took a much more diplomatic approach than that startled grouse, simply saying she was ready to go home. So, a somewhat disappointed Jim cranked up his pickup and headed back down the mountain, figuring on a better wind on a different hillside on another day.
We may not have gotten to watch him fly off the mountain, but we learned enough about another winged creature to stay the heck out of her way.
We invited Mother to come along. So, she packed up a sack of goodies and bottled water and eagerly awaited the big moment of watching the youngest of her flock run off the side of the mountain and fly. We drove to the Botkin house on the Porthill side of Hall Mountain.
Dr. Botkin had just finished his day's rounds at the hospital and was munching on a homemade bread-and-cheese sandwich when we met him. His wife and three handsome sons came out to greet us. It was fun to learn their background and interests. Diana Moses Botkin is an artist.
The family had recently traveled to France to see their oldest daughter who's a U of I journalism/French grad. One son plays quarterback for the Bonners Ferry Badgers, while the other is an intimidating defensive player. They're all home-schooled and very nice young men. While backing out the driveway, we witnessed why there's a star quarterback in the family as he drilled a pass directly to his sprinting brother's waiting hands.
After Jim planted his wind flag in the landing field, we backtracked down the highway and headed up the Eastport side of Hall Mountain. It took 11 miles of bumpy road to get us to the launch site. Unfortunately, the wind was blowing the wrong way in the most desirable spot, and two trees provided enough of an obstruction to nix the other possible site.
We drove around looking for other possibilities and then returned to the mountaintop expanse of moss and wildflowers where a lookout once stood. The Camelot-like scene looking southward along the expansive Kootenai Valley was magical with the glasslike river silently winding its way through an endless blanket of green. Definitely a view to behold.
While hoping and waiting for a change in wind patterns, Jim and I walked down the colorful hillside of red succulents and deep blue lupine only to be abruptly chastised by a frightened mother grouse. Don't ever disturb a mother grouse and her babies! Never in 33 years of teaching did I ever get in a student's face quite like Mother Grouse bombarded mine yesterday. I knew instantly not to fool with her or her nine tiny babies.
By 5:15 p.m., Mother Tibbs had sat in the back seat of Jim's Green Dodge 4 by 4 truck long enough. She took a much more diplomatic approach than that startled grouse, simply saying she was ready to go home. So, a somewhat disappointed Jim cranked up his pickup and headed back down the mountain, figuring on a better wind on a different hillside on another day.
We may not have gotten to watch him fly off the mountain, but we learned enough about another winged creature to stay the heck out of her way.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
68 years of wedded bliss
On June 15, 1968, we gathered at Whitworth Presbyterian Church in Spokane to welcome a new member to our family. Her name was Joyce Dahm, and she was marrying my brother Kevin. They had met at Schweitzer Basin where Joyce came to ski and Kevin worked on the ski patrol. The groom and his ushers, including a perennial at the craft of standing up for grooms ( John Pucci) wore the standard black pants, white dinner jackets and bow ties.
At the time, our little brother Jim was five years old. He looked pretty smart in his tux too, but at the last minute he chose not to fulfill his duties as ringbearer. Instead, he began the wedding sitting in the back pew. Slowly, throughout the ceremony, he quietly moved forward toward his mommy and daddy, one pew at a time.
After a honeymoon to Glacier Park, Kevin and Joyce moved to Missoula, Montana, where he worked for the Forest Service in fire control. Joyce resumed her college education and graduated from the University of Montana. She worked as an elementary teacher at Bonner and Clinton, taking time off when their son Scott was born. Kevin continued his career with the Forest Service.
Since the day I first met Joyce, I've considered her a wonderful friend. We're the same age, and from the start, we enjoyed many good laughs and engaged in lots of talk about the teaching profession. As Kevin's little sister, I was very happy with his choice for a bride. I remain so today.
Six years after their marriage, on June 15, 1974, the family welcomed another new member, Louisiana transplant, Bill Love. I stood on the altar of St. Joseph's Catholic Church, among my five siblings (Mike, Kevin as Best Man, Barbara, Laurie and Jim, along with Joyce as Matron of Honor), all serving as the wedding party.
This time Jim, now 13 and again wearing another tuxedo of "tight" black pants, white dinner jacket and black bow tie, happily cooperated and spent the ceremony on the altar as Fr. John (at the time) O'Donovan declared us husband and wife.
The Wooden family played guitars and sang during the folk wedding while church music director June Hofmeister played the organ on this hot June day where temperatures soared to 95-plus degrees. During the ceremony, my brother Mike's pants split in the crotch when he knelt. We tried to stifle our laughter. I don't think the wedding guests caught on.
My parents were proud to have the wedding party consist completely of family members. It was a great day which had capped off a fun week of visiting with relatives and friends. After a reception in the church hall where the punch ran short and folks ran to the store for more Hi-C fruit juice, Bill and I set off toward Lewiston for our honeymoon which would take us to Yellowstone Park and the Grand Tetons.
Thirty-one years later, this morning we've exchanged anniversary cards and promised to celebrate this weekend in Seattle with our favorite daughter Annie who has sent us airline tickets that cover our birthdays, Mother's Day, Father's Day and our anniversary. We'll geocache, dine out, enjoy a Mariners game and visit Mt. Rainier while our favorite son Willie and his bride Debbie watch the farm.
Today, however, while Bill attends a meeting, I'll be joining that little brother Jim, now 41. He won't be wearing one of those outdated tuxedos. Instead, he'll be dressed up in a flight uniform with goggles and helmet. He'll be hooked up to a glider. Then, he tells me, he'll RUN off a cliff on Hall Mountain north of Bonners Ferry.
If all goes right on this June 15, 2005, he'll float through the air with the greatest of ease and will land in a farm field without crushing his knees.
Yeah, corny, I know, but the words came out that way. I'll celebrate when I meet him after his landing in the farm field. And, all day today, I'll celebrate the 68 years of marriage my brother and I have enjoyed with our wonderful spouses.
At the time, our little brother Jim was five years old. He looked pretty smart in his tux too, but at the last minute he chose not to fulfill his duties as ringbearer. Instead, he began the wedding sitting in the back pew. Slowly, throughout the ceremony, he quietly moved forward toward his mommy and daddy, one pew at a time.
After a honeymoon to Glacier Park, Kevin and Joyce moved to Missoula, Montana, where he worked for the Forest Service in fire control. Joyce resumed her college education and graduated from the University of Montana. She worked as an elementary teacher at Bonner and Clinton, taking time off when their son Scott was born. Kevin continued his career with the Forest Service.
Since the day I first met Joyce, I've considered her a wonderful friend. We're the same age, and from the start, we enjoyed many good laughs and engaged in lots of talk about the teaching profession. As Kevin's little sister, I was very happy with his choice for a bride. I remain so today.
Six years after their marriage, on June 15, 1974, the family welcomed another new member, Louisiana transplant, Bill Love. I stood on the altar of St. Joseph's Catholic Church, among my five siblings (Mike, Kevin as Best Man, Barbara, Laurie and Jim, along with Joyce as Matron of Honor), all serving as the wedding party.
This time Jim, now 13 and again wearing another tuxedo of "tight" black pants, white dinner jacket and black bow tie, happily cooperated and spent the ceremony on the altar as Fr. John (at the time) O'Donovan declared us husband and wife.
The Wooden family played guitars and sang during the folk wedding while church music director June Hofmeister played the organ on this hot June day where temperatures soared to 95-plus degrees. During the ceremony, my brother Mike's pants split in the crotch when he knelt. We tried to stifle our laughter. I don't think the wedding guests caught on.
My parents were proud to have the wedding party consist completely of family members. It was a great day which had capped off a fun week of visiting with relatives and friends. After a reception in the church hall where the punch ran short and folks ran to the store for more Hi-C fruit juice, Bill and I set off toward Lewiston for our honeymoon which would take us to Yellowstone Park and the Grand Tetons.
Thirty-one years later, this morning we've exchanged anniversary cards and promised to celebrate this weekend in Seattle with our favorite daughter Annie who has sent us airline tickets that cover our birthdays, Mother's Day, Father's Day and our anniversary. We'll geocache, dine out, enjoy a Mariners game and visit Mt. Rainier while our favorite son Willie and his bride Debbie watch the farm.
Today, however, while Bill attends a meeting, I'll be joining that little brother Jim, now 41. He won't be wearing one of those outdated tuxedos. Instead, he'll be dressed up in a flight uniform with goggles and helmet. He'll be hooked up to a glider. Then, he tells me, he'll RUN off a cliff on Hall Mountain north of Bonners Ferry.
If all goes right on this June 15, 2005, he'll float through the air with the greatest of ease and will land in a farm field without crushing his knees.
Yeah, corny, I know, but the words came out that way. I'll celebrate when I meet him after his landing in the farm field. And, all day today, I'll celebrate the 68 years of marriage my brother and I have enjoyed with our wonderful spouses.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
The Legend of Carhart . . . .
The comments section for yesterday's posting featured a question from Dot.
"What's a carhart jacket?" she asked. Before all locals laugh her off the blog, it's important to know that Dot resides in the South. I doubt she sees many Carhart jackets, bib overalls, vests, shirts, caps, or pants. Carharts are definitely a Northern staple. As are Sorel boots.
To answer Dot's question, I found myself doing a bit of research, and I actually learned something in the process. Often, we take for granted what we see every day, but do we really know the whole story? Of course, from off the top of my head, I could tell Dot that the Carhart and Sorel brands of apparel signify durability.
I could also tell her that Carharts are recognizable by their tan color and bulky appearance. When donned in Carhart clothing, a person can appear at least 40 pounds heavier than normal. And if you slip on some Sorel boots with your Carhart clothing, you can cut quite a figure trudging through the snow, somewhat reminiscent of the astronauts' gait on the moon.
Both Carharts and Sorels provide warmth and protection from the elements of our Northern climate. They're especially designed for folks who do a lot of work outside in wet, cold conditions. They ain't purty, but they sure get the job done. Our local Co Op sells Carharts, while Larson's Clothing Store in Sandpoint features Sorel boots.
By the way, Sorels are distinguished by their rubber bottoms, leather tops and warm, felt liners. Most folks who move to Sandpoint feel like they can claim to be residents once they own a pair of Sorels. This brand has been on the market for about 40 years, originally owned by Willam H Kaufman, Inc. but recently purchased by Columbia Sportswear Co.
When I first looked up "Carhart" to find out where that brand originated, I ran across a bio of Arthur Carhart who's given credit for pioneering the American wilderness concepts, i.e., setting aside lands to remain roadless and undeveloped. Maybe Arthur was related to the Carhart family of Michigan who started the clothing line in 1889. Carharts now come from the Dearborn, Mich., plant as well as from Illinois, Tennessee and Kentucky.
According to the historical account, most Carhart clothing is made of "duck, a rugged, canvas-like material made from 100 percent cotton." The Carhart Mission statement reads: Carhart exists to provide best-in-class material for the active worker.
So, there you have it, Dot. It's rugged outdoor apparel, and Carharts, along with Sorels, function as common uniforms for Northern folks who work or play in the outdoors.
And, now, that I've done my assignment for Dot, I'm going to slip in to my low-cut Sorels and scatter the morning's supply of cracked corn across the wet lawn.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO BIG BROTHER MIKE: 61 TODAY.
"What's a carhart jacket?" she asked. Before all locals laugh her off the blog, it's important to know that Dot resides in the South. I doubt she sees many Carhart jackets, bib overalls, vests, shirts, caps, or pants. Carharts are definitely a Northern staple. As are Sorel boots.
To answer Dot's question, I found myself doing a bit of research, and I actually learned something in the process. Often, we take for granted what we see every day, but do we really know the whole story? Of course, from off the top of my head, I could tell Dot that the Carhart and Sorel brands of apparel signify durability.
I could also tell her that Carharts are recognizable by their tan color and bulky appearance. When donned in Carhart clothing, a person can appear at least 40 pounds heavier than normal. And if you slip on some Sorel boots with your Carhart clothing, you can cut quite a figure trudging through the snow, somewhat reminiscent of the astronauts' gait on the moon.
Both Carharts and Sorels provide warmth and protection from the elements of our Northern climate. They're especially designed for folks who do a lot of work outside in wet, cold conditions. They ain't purty, but they sure get the job done. Our local Co Op sells Carharts, while Larson's Clothing Store in Sandpoint features Sorel boots.
By the way, Sorels are distinguished by their rubber bottoms, leather tops and warm, felt liners. Most folks who move to Sandpoint feel like they can claim to be residents once they own a pair of Sorels. This brand has been on the market for about 40 years, originally owned by Willam H Kaufman, Inc. but recently purchased by Columbia Sportswear Co.
When I first looked up "Carhart" to find out where that brand originated, I ran across a bio of Arthur Carhart who's given credit for pioneering the American wilderness concepts, i.e., setting aside lands to remain roadless and undeveloped. Maybe Arthur was related to the Carhart family of Michigan who started the clothing line in 1889. Carharts now come from the Dearborn, Mich., plant as well as from Illinois, Tennessee and Kentucky.
According to the historical account, most Carhart clothing is made of "duck, a rugged, canvas-like material made from 100 percent cotton." The Carhart Mission statement reads: Carhart exists to provide best-in-class material for the active worker.
So, there you have it, Dot. It's rugged outdoor apparel, and Carharts, along with Sorels, function as common uniforms for Northern folks who work or play in the outdoors.
And, now, that I've done my assignment for Dot, I'm going to slip in to my low-cut Sorels and scatter the morning's supply of cracked corn across the wet lawn.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO BIG BROTHER MIKE: 61 TODAY.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Grouse Creek reunion
These days, we locals can walk around downtown Sandpoint and never see a familiar face. Go to the woods, though, and we often hit paydirt. I remember driving to the top of Lunch Peak in the Cabinets a few years ago and running into some members of the Gooby family who've lived in this neighborhood longer than I have. And that's nearly 60 years.
A couple of years ago, one Sunday afternoon, we had driven the Trestle Creek Road east of Sandpoint and were heading down into the Lightning Creek drainage north of Clark Fork when we ran across Terry Burnham and his grandson 4-wheeling. Terry has lived on a farm about half a mile north of us for more than 40 years.
Yesterday, I suggested to Bill that we go up to Grouse Creek. It's northeast of Sandpoint, and it's the area where I first worked for the Forest Service engineers back in the late 1960s. Along with my partner, Sis Ballenger from Heron, we ushered in the era of girls working on F.S. crews. In fact, we were such a novelty that we rated a feature in the Sandpoint News Bulletin called "Hard Hats and Curls."
While taking abne-level readings for nine miles up Grouse Creek, we got to know the engineers Dick "Huckleberry" Creed, Dave Lee, and Vern Eskridge along with other summer crew members. Dick earned his name because he was always on the lookout for the Idaho State Fruit.
My memories of those good days on Grouse Creek always draw me back from year to year. As we drive along the road, I can remember spots where we ate sack lunches next to the creek or steep hillsides which made our work of going either straight up or straight down so many feet off the roadway to get our engineering data. The brush didn't always cooperate as we took readings every 50 feet.
During yesterday's drive, we kept a steady focus on roadsides and meadows, hoping to see a moose. Bill says there are a lot of them up in that area, but they must have all gone to a weekend gathering somewhere far, far away. We neared the turnaround spot at the end of the road and had nothing to show for our drive until I spotted a pickup and horse trailer parked in the open lot.
A man wearing a beat-up Western hat and a Carhart jacket walked behind the trailer as we drove in to turn around. He had his eye on us and decided to come around in full view. As we got closer, his face became very familiar. Gary Beauchene grew up with his two brothers, Al and Roger, and sister Elsie about a mile down the road from our house on North Boyer. We rode the school bus together for nearly a dozen years.
He had just returned from an overnight trip to Boulder Meadows with his Tennessee Walker riding horse and his pack string of one horse and one mule. Our familiarity sprouted an instant conversation about horses, mules, and the neighborhood. Gary just shook his head and grimaced when I asked what he thought about his family farm, transforming into a gated estate for Coldwater Creek founder Dennis Pence.
"The neighborhood's gone," he said. And, that appeared to be all he wanted to say about the wonderful area on North Boyer where we all romped as carefree, adventuresome kids along Sand Creek and the in nearby mountains while growing up. Now, Sand Creek is fenced off and the nearby mountains are covered with houses and "No Trespassing" signs.
These days, Gary prefers to take his horses and mules to remote areas like Boulder Meadows or the St. Joe. The fewer people the better, he says. He's really looking forward to retirement when he can escape the year around.
And, I guess yesterday's sighting of yet another longtime acquaintance in a faraway setting proved something to us. The locals may have discovered the same idea as those moose we were hoping to see on our Grouse Creek outing. They escape the craziness of where they once called home.
A couple of years ago, one Sunday afternoon, we had driven the Trestle Creek Road east of Sandpoint and were heading down into the Lightning Creek drainage north of Clark Fork when we ran across Terry Burnham and his grandson 4-wheeling. Terry has lived on a farm about half a mile north of us for more than 40 years.
Yesterday, I suggested to Bill that we go up to Grouse Creek. It's northeast of Sandpoint, and it's the area where I first worked for the Forest Service engineers back in the late 1960s. Along with my partner, Sis Ballenger from Heron, we ushered in the era of girls working on F.S. crews. In fact, we were such a novelty that we rated a feature in the Sandpoint News Bulletin called "Hard Hats and Curls."
While taking abne-level readings for nine miles up Grouse Creek, we got to know the engineers Dick "Huckleberry" Creed, Dave Lee, and Vern Eskridge along with other summer crew members. Dick earned his name because he was always on the lookout for the Idaho State Fruit.
My memories of those good days on Grouse Creek always draw me back from year to year. As we drive along the road, I can remember spots where we ate sack lunches next to the creek or steep hillsides which made our work of going either straight up or straight down so many feet off the roadway to get our engineering data. The brush didn't always cooperate as we took readings every 50 feet.
During yesterday's drive, we kept a steady focus on roadsides and meadows, hoping to see a moose. Bill says there are a lot of them up in that area, but they must have all gone to a weekend gathering somewhere far, far away. We neared the turnaround spot at the end of the road and had nothing to show for our drive until I spotted a pickup and horse trailer parked in the open lot.
A man wearing a beat-up Western hat and a Carhart jacket walked behind the trailer as we drove in to turn around. He had his eye on us and decided to come around in full view. As we got closer, his face became very familiar. Gary Beauchene grew up with his two brothers, Al and Roger, and sister Elsie about a mile down the road from our house on North Boyer. We rode the school bus together for nearly a dozen years.
He had just returned from an overnight trip to Boulder Meadows with his Tennessee Walker riding horse and his pack string of one horse and one mule. Our familiarity sprouted an instant conversation about horses, mules, and the neighborhood. Gary just shook his head and grimaced when I asked what he thought about his family farm, transforming into a gated estate for Coldwater Creek founder Dennis Pence.
"The neighborhood's gone," he said. And, that appeared to be all he wanted to say about the wonderful area on North Boyer where we all romped as carefree, adventuresome kids along Sand Creek and the in nearby mountains while growing up. Now, Sand Creek is fenced off and the nearby mountains are covered with houses and "No Trespassing" signs.
These days, Gary prefers to take his horses and mules to remote areas like Boulder Meadows or the St. Joe. The fewer people the better, he says. He's really looking forward to retirement when he can escape the year around.
And, I guess yesterday's sighting of yet another longtime acquaintance in a faraway setting proved something to us. The locals may have discovered the same idea as those moose we were hoping to see on our Grouse Creek outing. They escape the craziness of where they once called home.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Brrrrrrrrr
The electric heater is turned on to "high" and sitting next to my legs. I've added a third layer of over my sweatshirt and polo shirt. Had to go wrap up in a blanket to read the newspaper this morning.
Earlier, I wondered aloud to Bill if my garden's ever gonna have a chance to grow this year. It's been on freeze frame for the past two weeks. I've planted cucumber seeds three times now. So far, two iddy biddy plants have appeared in two rows of planting.
It's cold. It's grey, and a breeze from the north is sending my fragrant, white locust blossoms around the front yard. The other night I remarked to Bill that something must be wrong with the willow trees because several times during the past few weeks any hint of wind has sent thousands of discolored leaves to the ground, messing up my newest mowing job.
Bill says it's a fungal disease that hits the willow trees when there's cold, wet weather. Well, the conditions have been ideal for that fungus this spring. To all those worried souls who thought we were in for a drought, I'll repeat my famous weather words: whatever we have, we have a lot of. We've now surpassed the average rainfall for the year.
With that in mind, it's time to warm up and play summer.
Earlier, I wondered aloud to Bill if my garden's ever gonna have a chance to grow this year. It's been on freeze frame for the past two weeks. I've planted cucumber seeds three times now. So far, two iddy biddy plants have appeared in two rows of planting.
It's cold. It's grey, and a breeze from the north is sending my fragrant, white locust blossoms around the front yard. The other night I remarked to Bill that something must be wrong with the willow trees because several times during the past few weeks any hint of wind has sent thousands of discolored leaves to the ground, messing up my newest mowing job.
Bill says it's a fungal disease that hits the willow trees when there's cold, wet weather. Well, the conditions have been ideal for that fungus this spring. To all those worried souls who thought we were in for a drought, I'll repeat my famous weather words: whatever we have, we have a lot of. We've now surpassed the average rainfall for the year.
With that in mind, it's time to warm up and play summer.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Lazy brain
There's not much activity upstairs this morning. I guess all that mountain air and that 17 miles worth of bike riding yesterday drained too much energy from my brain. The reserves remain in slumber mode, stubbornly refusing to come alive.
We had a great day on the Hiawatha bike ride. Our group of six kids---Katie, Hannah, Mike, Travis, Joey, and Dillon---made our jobs as chaperones easy. Cooperative, enthusiastic, polite, energetic, these ten-year-olds thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Whether we were rolling through the dark tunnels or standing high above the treetops on Old Milwaukee trestles, the kids made the most of every minute.
Everyone took turns reading the trailside stories about the 1910 forest fires which wiped out old-growth timber, the wild and woolly towns once located along the passageway or explanations of how the Milwaukee route was constructed by laborers representing nearly 20 nationalities in the early 1900s.
The kids particularly enjoyed the occasional mule deer walking through tunnels and a healthy population of fat chipmonks who've strangely discovered that educational panels where those two-legged humans stop to read also translate into sumptuous supplies of donated edibles. In our kids' case, the trail mix served as a great enticer to as many as half a dozen chipmonks at a time.
Bill and I had a great day. Now, we're getting ready for a busy Saturday, and I've gotta get off this blog to call Laura who's heading up from Plummer this morning. Happy Saturday to all.
We had a great day on the Hiawatha bike ride. Our group of six kids---Katie, Hannah, Mike, Travis, Joey, and Dillon---made our jobs as chaperones easy. Cooperative, enthusiastic, polite, energetic, these ten-year-olds thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Whether we were rolling through the dark tunnels or standing high above the treetops on Old Milwaukee trestles, the kids made the most of every minute.
Everyone took turns reading the trailside stories about the 1910 forest fires which wiped out old-growth timber, the wild and woolly towns once located along the passageway or explanations of how the Milwaukee route was constructed by laborers representing nearly 20 nationalities in the early 1900s.
The kids particularly enjoyed the occasional mule deer walking through tunnels and a healthy population of fat chipmonks who've strangely discovered that educational panels where those two-legged humans stop to read also translate into sumptuous supplies of donated edibles. In our kids' case, the trail mix served as a great enticer to as many as half a dozen chipmonks at a time.
Bill and I had a great day. Now, we're getting ready for a busy Saturday, and I've gotta get off this blog to call Laura who's heading up from Plummer this morning. Happy Saturday to all.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Will be gone bikin'
No post tomorrow morning. Bill and I will be on our way to the Hiawatha Trail east of Wallace near the Idaho-Montana border. My brother Kevin from Frenchtown, Mont., will join us as we help chaperone two classes of Farmin School fifth graders taught by my sister Laurie and her colleague, Colleen Filipowski.
The biking adventure not only serves as the culmination of a two-day field trip featuring several key features of North Idaho history, but it's also designed to help the students "gain an appreciation for the nation and region where they live" after a year of related classroom study.
Today, the fifth graders will see the Mullan Road, which served as the first Transcontinental military route in the United States. At Cataldo Mission (Idaho's oldest church), they'll view some displays showing the influence of missionaries or Black Robes on the native cultures in the region. They'll also visit a museum at Wallace in the Silver Valley where they'll learn about the mining culture which began during the 1880s.
Tonight they'll stay at the Mullan Community Center where, thanks to the efforts of a well-organized army of parents, they'll dine, gab a lot, and later enjoy some swimming.
Tomorrow morning we'll meet up with them there and move on to the Hiawatha Bike Trail (http://www.skilookout.com/bike_home_page.html) , which opened to the public just a few years ago. This 13-mile scenic ride with lots of tunnels and plenty of beautifully-planned interpretive panels follows a route of the Old Milwaukee Railway.
Bill and I will accompany six students through the route, which begins with a trip through the dark, dank and drippy 1.8 mile Taft Tunnel. Kevin and I chaperoned two years ago and had a great time with our group as we stopped a lot and snapped dozens of photos.
Besides its gradual downhill grade with the promise of an ample sack lunch and a bus at the bottom for transporting kids and bikes back uphill, the route offers some spectacular views of a pristine area once devastated by the 1910 forest fires, which burned off much of North Idaho's forests.
We're looking forward to the experience, especially sharing it with family members. I also know that Laurie's students will never forget this hands-on approach to history.
The biking adventure not only serves as the culmination of a two-day field trip featuring several key features of North Idaho history, but it's also designed to help the students "gain an appreciation for the nation and region where they live" after a year of related classroom study.
Today, the fifth graders will see the Mullan Road, which served as the first Transcontinental military route in the United States. At Cataldo Mission (Idaho's oldest church), they'll view some displays showing the influence of missionaries or Black Robes on the native cultures in the region. They'll also visit a museum at Wallace in the Silver Valley where they'll learn about the mining culture which began during the 1880s.
Tonight they'll stay at the Mullan Community Center where, thanks to the efforts of a well-organized army of parents, they'll dine, gab a lot, and later enjoy some swimming.
Tomorrow morning we'll meet up with them there and move on to the Hiawatha Bike Trail (http://www.skilookout.com/bike_home_page.html) , which opened to the public just a few years ago. This 13-mile scenic ride with lots of tunnels and plenty of beautifully-planned interpretive panels follows a route of the Old Milwaukee Railway.
Bill and I will accompany six students through the route, which begins with a trip through the dark, dank and drippy 1.8 mile Taft Tunnel. Kevin and I chaperoned two years ago and had a great time with our group as we stopped a lot and snapped dozens of photos.
Besides its gradual downhill grade with the promise of an ample sack lunch and a bus at the bottom for transporting kids and bikes back uphill, the route offers some spectacular views of a pristine area once devastated by the 1910 forest fires, which burned off much of North Idaho's forests.
We're looking forward to the experience, especially sharing it with family members. I also know that Laurie's students will never forget this hands-on approach to history.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Our French connection
I heard from our close almost-family connections at opposite ends of the world this morning. The Jollys in New Zealand are getting that home computer figured out, so I'm receiving almost daily notes from Robyne, Sarah, or Steve. It's winter there, so I'm sure they'll have the Internet stuff mastered fairly soon.
It's been about three years since we've received much news from the Ollivier family of Caen, France. This morning, however, my mail included a short, newsy note from Jean-Michel, the father of Romain. He tells us that Romain is living in a beautiful community on the sea called Vannes. He is completing his second year of residency to become a cardiologist. He's also sailing a lot.
We first met Romain back in the early '90s when my colleague Judy Hunt (the French teacher) asked if we'd like to host a young man for a month during the summer. Judy knew the Ollivier family through her past trips to France. Jean-Michel is a surgeon; his wife, Catherine, is a pharmacist. They have three boys Thibault, Romain and Timothy.
During that particular summer, all three boys were coming to Sandpoint. The other two would be staying with the Coburns and the Deanes. I was happy to accommodate Judy's request but admittedly a little nervous about the potential consequences of this month-long commitment. What if he didn't get along with my kids? What if the language barrier was too much? What if he didn't think living on a farm was too cool?
Well, my concerns were quickly alleviated as we met Romain for the first time late one night at Spokane Airport. After grabbing his bags and saying good bye to the rest of his group, he came with Willie, Annie and me to our car. There were lots of "yes" and "no" responses on that drive home, but by the next morning when it was obvious Romain intended to be a part of the family, the communications barriers quickly dissipated. We took him to town and later on a hike at Schweitzer. The bond was sealed.
In fact, I could not believe how fast he immersed into our family unit. He wanted chores to do. So, we told him he could feed the pigs. He loved it. He got to know all the animals and visited with them each day. It was obvious he felt at home. He especially enjoyed the freedom of going to the refrigerator any time he wished and watching television into the wee hours of the morning.
Romain connected with each of our family members in a unique way. He and Annie loved the food routines, especially the Schwan's individual pizzas. He and Willie headed off to the beach together and hung out. Bill and Romain had some fun playing tennis and golf together. Romain was a natural athlete and very good at any sport. In my case, I felt I'd acquired a third child and treated him as such. He was respectful, impish, and funny. He occasionally received a gentle reprimand or two. His quick wit fit right in with our family.
When that month ended, I cried when Romain left. I would do so two more times over two more years as he came to Idaho each summer and spent up to five weeks with us. It's been nearly ten years since we've seen Romain. He almost made it to Willie's wedding nearly four years ago, but the flight arrangements didn't work out.
"When the first grandchild comes, I'll be there," he told me. I'm going to hold him to that promise because this young man left a very special place in all our hearts.
It's been about three years since we've received much news from the Ollivier family of Caen, France. This morning, however, my mail included a short, newsy note from Jean-Michel, the father of Romain. He tells us that Romain is living in a beautiful community on the sea called Vannes. He is completing his second year of residency to become a cardiologist. He's also sailing a lot.
We first met Romain back in the early '90s when my colleague Judy Hunt (the French teacher) asked if we'd like to host a young man for a month during the summer. Judy knew the Ollivier family through her past trips to France. Jean-Michel is a surgeon; his wife, Catherine, is a pharmacist. They have three boys Thibault, Romain and Timothy.
During that particular summer, all three boys were coming to Sandpoint. The other two would be staying with the Coburns and the Deanes. I was happy to accommodate Judy's request but admittedly a little nervous about the potential consequences of this month-long commitment. What if he didn't get along with my kids? What if the language barrier was too much? What if he didn't think living on a farm was too cool?
Well, my concerns were quickly alleviated as we met Romain for the first time late one night at Spokane Airport. After grabbing his bags and saying good bye to the rest of his group, he came with Willie, Annie and me to our car. There were lots of "yes" and "no" responses on that drive home, but by the next morning when it was obvious Romain intended to be a part of the family, the communications barriers quickly dissipated. We took him to town and later on a hike at Schweitzer. The bond was sealed.
In fact, I could not believe how fast he immersed into our family unit. He wanted chores to do. So, we told him he could feed the pigs. He loved it. He got to know all the animals and visited with them each day. It was obvious he felt at home. He especially enjoyed the freedom of going to the refrigerator any time he wished and watching television into the wee hours of the morning.
Romain connected with each of our family members in a unique way. He and Annie loved the food routines, especially the Schwan's individual pizzas. He and Willie headed off to the beach together and hung out. Bill and Romain had some fun playing tennis and golf together. Romain was a natural athlete and very good at any sport. In my case, I felt I'd acquired a third child and treated him as such. He was respectful, impish, and funny. He occasionally received a gentle reprimand or two. His quick wit fit right in with our family.
When that month ended, I cried when Romain left. I would do so two more times over two more years as he came to Idaho each summer and spent up to five weeks with us. It's been nearly ten years since we've seen Romain. He almost made it to Willie's wedding nearly four years ago, but the flight arrangements didn't work out.
"When the first grandchild comes, I'll be there," he told me. I'm going to hold him to that promise because this young man left a very special place in all our hearts.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Pickin' my brain
Pardon me while I do some brainstorming. Am getting together with a professional writer today to discuss the changing face of Sandpoint. This writer is hoping to do an in-depth study of what's happening to our community and how folks are reacting to the change.
This evening I may attend the City Planning and Zoning meeting about the proposed Selkirk Air Park directly south and east of us. So, close, in fact, its north border will be just south of our pond.
If approved, it will include 26 various-sized lots to support hangar development on the airport's west side. It will be a high-end air park with nice landscaping, etc. The developers are the same folks who got Quest Aviation (to our east) off the ground. By the way, when they took their Kodiak prototype to its coming-out party in Anchorage last month, seven customers placed orders.
I've also heard from two sources that Franklin Graham, son of Billy Graham, visited Quest recently. Nothing like having a credible name associated with your newly-designed missionary cargo plane. This time next year, they're hoping to be up and going with more than 100 manufacturing employees added to their engineering/design staff. The giant manufacturing building behind our barn is putzing along with its exterior nearly complete.
Looking north on Great Northern Road, we can see new series of parallel stakes with orange ribbon along the road's east side. So far, they've been planted just north of our border and extend to Woodland Drive. I also spotted a surveyor's orange paint circle at the end of our driveway yesterday.
Could be when I mow the lawn from now on along the front of the place, I'll have a few wooden obstacles to contend with. Of course, we own that portion of the road, so I hope they ask us first. This survey stuff, I'm guessing, has to do with plans to improve Great Northern Road.
The folks' former Upper Place got the go-ahead for initial stages of its planned 29-unit townhouse subdivision. Apparently, the contractor satisfied the Army Corps of Engineers after they slapped him with a violation earlier this spring. So, this summer, he's gonna start constructing his road through the middle of the place.
Over on Boyer, the first of 12 houses in "Grand View Estates" across from Robersons and right next to the airport runway is going up. The street through Roberson's former hayfield is paved, and it appears all the utilities have been planted. Haven't seen any action yet on the 30-house subdivision slated to go in east of the Mormon Church on Schweitzer Cut-off Road.
I do have a architect's vision of Ralph's 18-hole golf course with its southeast boundary just north of the Bonner County Fairgrounds. If approved, it will include 200 townhouses and will extend to the railroad tracks to the west, beyond the Schweitzer Road to the north and to HWY 95 to the east.
Dover will grow by 500 houses when Ralph's Dover Bay is complete. Two subdivisions on either side of HWY 2 near the Idaho Department of Lands will support nearly 60 new homes. John Gillham's Forest Knoll subdivison off Pine Street on Baldy Mountain has all the roads paved and the bike paths laid out. Hard to tell how many lots will sell in that sprawling wooded layout.
Nick, who developed a nice subdivision below and later carved out the lower part of Greenhorn Mountain above for a few choice view lots, has reportedly started the process on another development just off Pine Street near the steep road that goes to the top.
Seasons at Sandpoint, the luxury condo complex along Lake Pend Oreille's north shore, has upped its planned units to 162. That change was approved at last week's special City Council meeting. Speaking of downtown, I haven't heard how many living units will be designated for the top level of the new Panhandle Bank complex.
Those are subdivisions/developments in the immediate area and to the west that I know about personally. I'll be passing along those examples along with some related ideas. If anyone knows about other developments and the numbers involved, I'll welcome the information.
I'll suggest topics such as how our local governmental, educational entities are moving forward to meet the infrastructure needs of the population influx these and other local developments will support.
I'm also planning to suggest a dimension I hear over and over----our younger population and how they can ever afford to live in or near Sandpoint. And, then, there are the low-to-moderate-income land owners of all ages who must wonder how these rising real estate prices will affect them tax-wise.
There's also the rural element. I know of a few stories where our long-established agricultural families are going to some creative ends to maintain their lifestyles and their farmland. For example, conservancies offer a variety of ways to preserve the land from development. Many locals are researching these opportunities in hopes of finding the right fit for their individual situations.
Another phenomenon, I believe, is happening right at this time. People, like the Loves, who thought they might sell in order to escape the encroaching development, have decided to stay put. In our case, the decision was easy once we saw how much it would cost us to relocate, what few comparable set-ups were available within our price range, and how far away we'd have to move to replace we have now.
So, we'll sit tight and deal with what's happening all around us. I'm wondering how decisions similar to ours are affecting the realtors' supply and demand challenges. Is the supply drying up?
Lots to think, examine and discuss about with this rapidly changing face of our community. It will be fun to read the outcome of what this writer learns from this in-depth study.
This evening I may attend the City Planning and Zoning meeting about the proposed Selkirk Air Park directly south and east of us. So, close, in fact, its north border will be just south of our pond.
If approved, it will include 26 various-sized lots to support hangar development on the airport's west side. It will be a high-end air park with nice landscaping, etc. The developers are the same folks who got Quest Aviation (to our east) off the ground. By the way, when they took their Kodiak prototype to its coming-out party in Anchorage last month, seven customers placed orders.
I've also heard from two sources that Franklin Graham, son of Billy Graham, visited Quest recently. Nothing like having a credible name associated with your newly-designed missionary cargo plane. This time next year, they're hoping to be up and going with more than 100 manufacturing employees added to their engineering/design staff. The giant manufacturing building behind our barn is putzing along with its exterior nearly complete.
Looking north on Great Northern Road, we can see new series of parallel stakes with orange ribbon along the road's east side. So far, they've been planted just north of our border and extend to Woodland Drive. I also spotted a surveyor's orange paint circle at the end of our driveway yesterday.
Could be when I mow the lawn from now on along the front of the place, I'll have a few wooden obstacles to contend with. Of course, we own that portion of the road, so I hope they ask us first. This survey stuff, I'm guessing, has to do with plans to improve Great Northern Road.
The folks' former Upper Place got the go-ahead for initial stages of its planned 29-unit townhouse subdivision. Apparently, the contractor satisfied the Army Corps of Engineers after they slapped him with a violation earlier this spring. So, this summer, he's gonna start constructing his road through the middle of the place.
Over on Boyer, the first of 12 houses in "Grand View Estates" across from Robersons and right next to the airport runway is going up. The street through Roberson's former hayfield is paved, and it appears all the utilities have been planted. Haven't seen any action yet on the 30-house subdivision slated to go in east of the Mormon Church on Schweitzer Cut-off Road.
I do have a architect's vision of Ralph's 18-hole golf course with its southeast boundary just north of the Bonner County Fairgrounds. If approved, it will include 200 townhouses and will extend to the railroad tracks to the west, beyond the Schweitzer Road to the north and to HWY 95 to the east.
Dover will grow by 500 houses when Ralph's Dover Bay is complete. Two subdivisions on either side of HWY 2 near the Idaho Department of Lands will support nearly 60 new homes. John Gillham's Forest Knoll subdivison off Pine Street on Baldy Mountain has all the roads paved and the bike paths laid out. Hard to tell how many lots will sell in that sprawling wooded layout.
Nick, who developed a nice subdivision below and later carved out the lower part of Greenhorn Mountain above for a few choice view lots, has reportedly started the process on another development just off Pine Street near the steep road that goes to the top.
Seasons at Sandpoint, the luxury condo complex along Lake Pend Oreille's north shore, has upped its planned units to 162. That change was approved at last week's special City Council meeting. Speaking of downtown, I haven't heard how many living units will be designated for the top level of the new Panhandle Bank complex.
Those are subdivisions/developments in the immediate area and to the west that I know about personally. I'll be passing along those examples along with some related ideas. If anyone knows about other developments and the numbers involved, I'll welcome the information.
I'll suggest topics such as how our local governmental, educational entities are moving forward to meet the infrastructure needs of the population influx these and other local developments will support.
I'm also planning to suggest a dimension I hear over and over----our younger population and how they can ever afford to live in or near Sandpoint. And, then, there are the low-to-moderate-income land owners of all ages who must wonder how these rising real estate prices will affect them tax-wise.
There's also the rural element. I know of a few stories where our long-established agricultural families are going to some creative ends to maintain their lifestyles and their farmland. For example, conservancies offer a variety of ways to preserve the land from development. Many locals are researching these opportunities in hopes of finding the right fit for their individual situations.
Another phenomenon, I believe, is happening right at this time. People, like the Loves, who thought they might sell in order to escape the encroaching development, have decided to stay put. In our case, the decision was easy once we saw how much it would cost us to relocate, what few comparable set-ups were available within our price range, and how far away we'd have to move to replace we have now.
So, we'll sit tight and deal with what's happening all around us. I'm wondering how decisions similar to ours are affecting the realtors' supply and demand challenges. Is the supply drying up?
Lots to think, examine and discuss about with this rapidly changing face of our community. It will be fun to read the outcome of what this writer learns from this in-depth study.
Monday, June 06, 2005
A tribute to Ebony
Admittedly, my first book Pocket Girdles, took the cover off the family fish bowl. The second one Postcards from Potato Land continued the process of inviting readers into the day-to-day, slice of life happenings affecting our lives here at the Love house on Great Northern Road.
In that second book, I penned a particularly funny but poignant story called "Black Lab Tests." It told of the difficulties associated with taking our English setter Bogey to the veterinary hospital when it had become obvious that his life was consumed with physical misery. I took on that responsibility, and it was, indeed, a tough day to say good bye to our family friend.
Adding an upbeat note to the story, however, were a series of anecdotes regarding our young Black Lab named Ebbie. For example, she had insisted on returning a rotted deer head to the back porch for our inspection numerous times after I'd tried to hide it in numerous places. I think we finally hauled it away.
She had also stolen a Bible from the strange church next door, brought it to our house and chewed several of its verses into hundreds of tiny little pieces. We were too embarrassed to return it, so we asked the Schwan's man to stick it in their mailbox under cover of darkness.
Eight years have passed since that story was published, and now I'm still offering those slice-of-life visits into our lives through this daily blog. It is, therefore, with a very heavy heart that I write today's entry, but as a writer who deals in truth and all aspects of life as we know it, I cannot bypass this topic.
Yesterday's slice of life, here at our little farm, does not make me smile. I backed the car over our much-loved Ebony. Although simple words cannot describe the horror of the moment, I can express, however, the agony of knowing immediately what I'd done as I heard her shriek and felt the car roll over her. I jumped out. My wailing screams joined her desperate yiping. She bit me a couple of times as she reeled in pain.
I was alone. Bill had gone to church. I could do nothing more than to call the vet hospital's answering machine, only to wait and run back and forth to make her comfortable, to pet her and to tell her I was so sorry. Finally, the vet called back. By the time I stepped back outside, she had died.
Thank you to Chris and Jeremy, who came by during this horrible time, for your caring and understanding. And, many thanks to my sisters and mother who did what family members do for each other. My sisters buried Ebbie right next to a newly developed flower bed. My mother offered comfort.
Our immediate family has lost a good friend. She gave us many wonderful years of canine impishness, occasional irritation and, more than anything, unconditional love, which only a pet can do.
I'll miss that moment each morning when she greeted me and expected my daily acknowledgement of stroking her ears, giving her a big hug, telling her "You're such a lovely dog." She'd return that acknowledgement and go on about her way wiggling that rear, wagging that tail, and offering her big Lab smile.
Today, I'll go find a beautiful shrub and plant it above her grave out there across the driveway. And I'll probably shed many more tears in her memory.
In that second book, I penned a particularly funny but poignant story called "Black Lab Tests." It told of the difficulties associated with taking our English setter Bogey to the veterinary hospital when it had become obvious that his life was consumed with physical misery. I took on that responsibility, and it was, indeed, a tough day to say good bye to our family friend.
Adding an upbeat note to the story, however, were a series of anecdotes regarding our young Black Lab named Ebbie. For example, she had insisted on returning a rotted deer head to the back porch for our inspection numerous times after I'd tried to hide it in numerous places. I think we finally hauled it away.
She had also stolen a Bible from the strange church next door, brought it to our house and chewed several of its verses into hundreds of tiny little pieces. We were too embarrassed to return it, so we asked the Schwan's man to stick it in their mailbox under cover of darkness.
Eight years have passed since that story was published, and now I'm still offering those slice-of-life visits into our lives through this daily blog. It is, therefore, with a very heavy heart that I write today's entry, but as a writer who deals in truth and all aspects of life as we know it, I cannot bypass this topic.
Yesterday's slice of life, here at our little farm, does not make me smile. I backed the car over our much-loved Ebony. Although simple words cannot describe the horror of the moment, I can express, however, the agony of knowing immediately what I'd done as I heard her shriek and felt the car roll over her. I jumped out. My wailing screams joined her desperate yiping. She bit me a couple of times as she reeled in pain.
I was alone. Bill had gone to church. I could do nothing more than to call the vet hospital's answering machine, only to wait and run back and forth to make her comfortable, to pet her and to tell her I was so sorry. Finally, the vet called back. By the time I stepped back outside, she had died.
Thank you to Chris and Jeremy, who came by during this horrible time, for your caring and understanding. And, many thanks to my sisters and mother who did what family members do for each other. My sisters buried Ebbie right next to a newly developed flower bed. My mother offered comfort.
Our immediate family has lost a good friend. She gave us many wonderful years of canine impishness, occasional irritation and, more than anything, unconditional love, which only a pet can do.
I'll miss that moment each morning when she greeted me and expected my daily acknowledgement of stroking her ears, giving her a big hug, telling her "You're such a lovely dog." She'd return that acknowledgement and go on about her way wiggling that rear, wagging that tail, and offering her big Lab smile.
Today, I'll go find a beautiful shrub and plant it above her grave out there across the driveway. And I'll probably shed many more tears in her memory.
Ebony Love
Circa 1995 -- June 5, 2005
We love you
We miss you
Bill, Marianne, Willie, Annie and Deborah Love
and
your very special friends: Annie Dog, Licker, Fuzzy Wuzzy, Lonesome Love, Festus, Charlie, Barney, Rambo, and Casey
Circa 1995 -- June 5, 2005
We love you
We miss you
Bill, Marianne, Willie, Annie and Deborah Love
and
your very special friends: Annie Dog, Licker, Fuzzy Wuzzy, Lonesome Love, Festus, Charlie, Barney, Rambo, and Casey
Sunday, June 05, 2005
That special touch
I didn't want to arrive too early, so I drove around a neighboring subdivision at Lake Pend Oreille's south shore just east of the Long Bridge. As I turned on to a short road headed west, a helmeted biker pulled on to the road at the same time and came my way. His expression of looking straight at me hinted that he wanted to ask me something, so I stopped and rolled down the window.
"Do you know if there's a wedding around here somewhere?" he asked.
"Ya know, I was thinking of riding my bike too," I said. "It should be just up around this corner. Follow me."
Sure enough, as I turned the corner, I could see that I was not at all too early. The lawn parking lot was already nearly full. Apparently, a lot of guests had decided to arrive early for Toby and Jyl's outdoor wedding yesterday at Birch Banks. As the handsome young parking attendant directed me where to go, I saw half a dozen other bikes parked near the honeybuckets and wished I'd ridden my own. But it would have been difficult carrying that gift for six miles, I reasoned.
Toby and Jyl's ceremony and reception were beautiful, especially with the hail of ticklish cotton puffs seemingly floating down from the heavens. And, yes, appropriately in honor of Toby's business interests, one ceremony participant even rolled down the aisle on a custom-mountain bike to do his reading. David Crockett, the very man who'd rebuilt my Schwinn, read after Pierre (Toby's stepfather) and Mimi (Toby's sister).
And, in keeping with Jyl's Kootenai heritage, she wore tribal moccasins, and her father, using a feather, spread a special blessing of incense throughout the bridal party and guests. Fr. Connolly of DeSmet announced he'd baptized Jyl when she was two at a powwow in Spokane. So, yesterday he stood before God, many adoring family and guests, and, with his very warm, personal touch, blessed her marriage to Toby.
As the groomsmen walked in and lined up, I told Connie Scherr I'd taught four of them. Found out later I was wrong on that count. Later, when one of the groomsmen stood up for the toast/roast, I observed some familiar facial expressions. He'd lost a little hair and put on some pounds since high school, and I hadn't recognized him earlier. So, five of the seven young men had been my students.
Besides the fine outdoor cuisine, with chicken and sausages expertly prepared by Chef Jeremy, the event offered me a delightful smorgasboard of enjoyable visits with former students. In fact, I'd estimate that I taught between half to two thirds of the guests.
I learned about adventures in Russia from Debbie Fields who had graduated in 1984 with an education degree and is now a massage therapist. Former students, Cassie Tauber and her husband Tim Romas (holding their two-month-old son), told me of their efforts to preserve and continue working her parents' Angus farm on Gold Creek Road.
Mike Kirkpatrick, an outdoors freak and one of Willie's 1995 classmates who's come back from a few years of wind surfing the Columbia at Hood River, told me where the cheap land might be for young people who still want to live in this area. He's rebuilding old houses with Andy Feuling, Toby's younger brother and selling green tea to stores around the area. Ian Bordenave is home from Hawaii for a while but doesn't quite know what he's going to do next with his environmental research degree.
Darcy Leake has been on all sorts of adventures, including some years of building trails for the Forest Service since graduating in 1993. She's planning to finish her degree at the U of Oregon. I saw most of the six Huguenin children, who all seem very happy. Also, saw Holly Walker's (Class of 1991) darling little girl for the first time. In fact, I visited with so many former students yesterday that I came home with a hoarse voice.
Yes, it was a great wedding for many reasons. And, I wish Toby and his lovely bride much happiness as they begin this new segment of their lives.
I think I may even go for a bike ride in their honor today.
"Do you know if there's a wedding around here somewhere?" he asked.
"Ya know, I was thinking of riding my bike too," I said. "It should be just up around this corner. Follow me."
Sure enough, as I turned the corner, I could see that I was not at all too early. The lawn parking lot was already nearly full. Apparently, a lot of guests had decided to arrive early for Toby and Jyl's outdoor wedding yesterday at Birch Banks. As the handsome young parking attendant directed me where to go, I saw half a dozen other bikes parked near the honeybuckets and wished I'd ridden my own. But it would have been difficult carrying that gift for six miles, I reasoned.
Toby and Jyl's ceremony and reception were beautiful, especially with the hail of ticklish cotton puffs seemingly floating down from the heavens. And, yes, appropriately in honor of Toby's business interests, one ceremony participant even rolled down the aisle on a custom-mountain bike to do his reading. David Crockett, the very man who'd rebuilt my Schwinn, read after Pierre (Toby's stepfather) and Mimi (Toby's sister).
And, in keeping with Jyl's Kootenai heritage, she wore tribal moccasins, and her father, using a feather, spread a special blessing of incense throughout the bridal party and guests. Fr. Connolly of DeSmet announced he'd baptized Jyl when she was two at a powwow in Spokane. So, yesterday he stood before God, many adoring family and guests, and, with his very warm, personal touch, blessed her marriage to Toby.
As the groomsmen walked in and lined up, I told Connie Scherr I'd taught four of them. Found out later I was wrong on that count. Later, when one of the groomsmen stood up for the toast/roast, I observed some familiar facial expressions. He'd lost a little hair and put on some pounds since high school, and I hadn't recognized him earlier. So, five of the seven young men had been my students.
Besides the fine outdoor cuisine, with chicken and sausages expertly prepared by Chef Jeremy, the event offered me a delightful smorgasboard of enjoyable visits with former students. In fact, I'd estimate that I taught between half to two thirds of the guests.
I learned about adventures in Russia from Debbie Fields who had graduated in 1984 with an education degree and is now a massage therapist. Former students, Cassie Tauber and her husband Tim Romas (holding their two-month-old son), told me of their efforts to preserve and continue working her parents' Angus farm on Gold Creek Road.
Mike Kirkpatrick, an outdoors freak and one of Willie's 1995 classmates who's come back from a few years of wind surfing the Columbia at Hood River, told me where the cheap land might be for young people who still want to live in this area. He's rebuilding old houses with Andy Feuling, Toby's younger brother and selling green tea to stores around the area. Ian Bordenave is home from Hawaii for a while but doesn't quite know what he's going to do next with his environmental research degree.
Darcy Leake has been on all sorts of adventures, including some years of building trails for the Forest Service since graduating in 1993. She's planning to finish her degree at the U of Oregon. I saw most of the six Huguenin children, who all seem very happy. Also, saw Holly Walker's (Class of 1991) darling little girl for the first time. In fact, I visited with so many former students yesterday that I came home with a hoarse voice.
Yes, it was a great wedding for many reasons. And, I wish Toby and his lovely bride much happiness as they begin this new segment of their lives.
I think I may even go for a bike ride in their honor today.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
What's in a name?
Well, I've learned this week that I need to be much more careful with name ASS-U-MPTIONS. Have been caught twice in embarrassing situations.
The first incident occurred when I received an email from Myra telling me she had a new granddaughter. She even supplied the name. So, I wrote back with congratulations to her, Byron and all the family.
The next day I received a note which said: It's Brett. I'm sure you misthought.
I immediately wrote back and said, "I meant good wishes to the grandparents, Myra and Byron. I certainly knew who I was talking about, Dear."
The next day I received another note, which said, "Oh, now I know who you were thinking about: Myra and Byron Lewis." The note went on with more details about the baby. When I reached its ending and saw the clearly complete signature: "Myra Converse," I felt pretty stupid.
So, I sent her back one more note and told her not to worry too much about my sanity. After all, Myra is not that common a name and Myra Converse does not write to me emails quite as often as Myra Lewis does.
I'll admit to wondering, though, throughout the email interchange which of Myra Lewis's daughters had had a new baby, especially cuz one of them is old enough to be a grandmother.
So, I got past that faux pas. Then, came another----bigger one. Several weeks ago, I wrote a blog entitled "Citizen Tim." It was about a guy who passionately opposes the relaxation of building heights in Sandpoint. He has found creative ways to get his point across, and he's relentless in his quest to prevent tall buildings in Sandpoint.
In fact, I saw him last night at Dub's and he whispered to me that the state Attorney General was getting a letter about the conflict of interest involving two City Council members who voted to allow relaxation of the city height restriction policy, making way for a new bank office complex. Seems both council members have an association with the bank in question and they did not recuse themselves from the voting process.
As we walked out of Dub's, I told Bill that individual who had whispered to me was Tim Elsa, and that he was the man who had put so much effort into opposing the controversial move by the council.
"Is that Tim Elsa?" Bill asked. "Doesn't look like the Tim Elsa I know. "
"Well, it is," I assured him.
"Was he once the county road guy?" Bill then asked.
"Yup, I'm sure he was," I replied.
"Well, he doesn't look like the county road guy named Tim Elsa that I knew," Bill continued.
I decided to prove my case as I saw my friend "Tim" walk out of Dubs with his bag of fried chicken.
"Didn't you used to be the county roads guy?" I shouted across the parking lot.
"No, I'm JOHN Elsa, " he said, "but that's okay. I've been called a lot worse."
So, today after extreme embarrassment and gracious forgiveness from John Elsa, as a good journalist, I retract my earlier "Citizen Tim" essay title and change it to "Citizen John."
Now, if the Myra's in my life will clearly identify themselves, and the John's whom I call Tim to their face will nudge me when I make such a gross error with their names, I can go on with life.
Such problems on this Saturday. Have a good one, all you whatchernames?
The first incident occurred when I received an email from Myra telling me she had a new granddaughter. She even supplied the name. So, I wrote back with congratulations to her, Byron and all the family.
The next day I received a note which said: It's Brett. I'm sure you misthought.
I immediately wrote back and said, "I meant good wishes to the grandparents, Myra and Byron. I certainly knew who I was talking about, Dear."
The next day I received another note, which said, "Oh, now I know who you were thinking about: Myra and Byron Lewis." The note went on with more details about the baby. When I reached its ending and saw the clearly complete signature: "Myra Converse," I felt pretty stupid.
So, I sent her back one more note and told her not to worry too much about my sanity. After all, Myra is not that common a name and Myra Converse does not write to me emails quite as often as Myra Lewis does.
I'll admit to wondering, though, throughout the email interchange which of Myra Lewis's daughters had had a new baby, especially cuz one of them is old enough to be a grandmother.
So, I got past that faux pas. Then, came another----bigger one. Several weeks ago, I wrote a blog entitled "Citizen Tim." It was about a guy who passionately opposes the relaxation of building heights in Sandpoint. He has found creative ways to get his point across, and he's relentless in his quest to prevent tall buildings in Sandpoint.
In fact, I saw him last night at Dub's and he whispered to me that the state Attorney General was getting a letter about the conflict of interest involving two City Council members who voted to allow relaxation of the city height restriction policy, making way for a new bank office complex. Seems both council members have an association with the bank in question and they did not recuse themselves from the voting process.
As we walked out of Dub's, I told Bill that individual who had whispered to me was Tim Elsa, and that he was the man who had put so much effort into opposing the controversial move by the council.
"Is that Tim Elsa?" Bill asked. "Doesn't look like the Tim Elsa I know. "
"Well, it is," I assured him.
"Was he once the county road guy?" Bill then asked.
"Yup, I'm sure he was," I replied.
"Well, he doesn't look like the county road guy named Tim Elsa that I knew," Bill continued.
I decided to prove my case as I saw my friend "Tim" walk out of Dubs with his bag of fried chicken.
"Didn't you used to be the county roads guy?" I shouted across the parking lot.
"No, I'm JOHN Elsa, " he said, "but that's okay. I've been called a lot worse."
So, today after extreme embarrassment and gracious forgiveness from John Elsa, as a good journalist, I retract my earlier "Citizen Tim" essay title and change it to "Citizen John."
Now, if the Myra's in my life will clearly identify themselves, and the John's whom I call Tim to their face will nudge me when I make such a gross error with their names, I can go on with life.
Such problems on this Saturday. Have a good one, all you whatchernames?
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