Shower talk

Yes, it's raining again here in North Idaho. I guess that's news, considering we went without water droplets from the heavens for nearly a week. April will go out today, totally worthy of its poetic name.

The April shower I'm gonna talk about, however, occurred yesterday on a sunny day at Wendy Carlson's house off Lakeshore Drive. I took the invitation with me because I'd never heard of Westview Place. Bill looked at his trusty local map book, which has to be updated every year because of all the new streets within all the new subdivisions.

We were right in assuming that it was on Lakeshore Drive, but until yesterday my only familiarity with tributaries off that road included Hawkins Road and Brisboy Road, so named for longtime families of the area. Now, I know about Westview Place and Alpenglo. Amazing how we can drive down a road for years and never notice much beyond its curves and homes along the way.

Anyway, I arrived at the shower for Krisianna (soon to be Bock) early along with my friend Jenny. Jeff Bock, Jenny and I have enjoyed a close relationship for the past few years while documenting Jenny's life with cancer. Now, in addition to his Master's thesis on river pigs, Jeff is working with Jenny's video footage at UC Irvine. Krisianna told me he's receiving some wonderful guidance from professors for putting the project together, so we're all anxious to see how it unfolds.

I found the shower talk yesterday both fascinating and uniquely different from most wedding showers I've attended. Except for Jenny, Krisianna, Jeff's grandmother Marian, his aunt, his cousin and McKenzie (Judge Heise's daughter), most of the guests were of my vintage. I've taught many of their children, some of which have grown up with my own kids.

Our formally assigned topic, for all to enjoy as a group, was to talk about what we remembered from our weddings. We were also asked to bring photos of the big day so that Kristianna could get some ideas. Since my wedding photo supply is somewhat limited and packed away in a box, I took along a black and white photo snapped by Chris Pietsch a few years after Bill and I were married in 1974.

In that photo, we represented the Love version of American Gothic---standing expressionless in front of our barn grasping a pitchfork between us. I had auburn braids. Bill had a mustache and extra hair flowing down the sides of his cheeks. I wore unflattering hip huggers and an long-sleeved shirt with an ugly pattern. Our blonde dog Sarah was sniffing the ground between us and the barn.

Though the other photos featured a variety of formality, the hair usually told the tale of the '70s in many. Young people at that time liked their hair and lots of it. Somehow, I think everyone would agree that they've aged pretty well and that their hair looks better.

The wedding discussions included stories of place---Hawaii, Edinburgh (where Vicki and her hubby-to-be convinced a Japanese couple they had no friends to stand up for them), Albuquerque, a cathedral in Utah. A few of us told of the old standards---in our church, in our hometown, with all our family present. Anecdotes ranged from wedding dress costs to illegal ceremonies where the priest incorrectly identified the groom.

Other topics, besides obvious commentary during gift opening, included kids in their careers and world travels, grandkids and retirement. It was definitely a seasoned group who've experienced the stresses of marriage, the worries associated with kids, the tragedies and proud family moments, career triumphs and finales.

Throughout the room, I could feel a sense of common respect and keen interest for each story told. After all, many of us are longtime friends who have grown into senior citizens together, so we know the characters, and we remember the times.

Customs have definitely changed in the decades since we said our "I do's." After all, when most of us there were married, we'd never heard of computers, let alone web sites where, with the click of some links, you can read about the bride and groom and order and pay for individual segments of the honeymoon cruise---meals, air tickets, etc.

I don't know what Krisianna's take on shower was, especially considering the fact she flew up from California to be the guest of honor. She seemed to genuinely enjoy each word, each gift and person there. Maybe she gained wisdom offered; maybe not. One thing's for sure, the room was united with enthusiasm, excitement and a feeling of camaraderie for another life story of two lovebirds about to unfold.

That spirit served as the true uniter of this April shower.

Saturday stuff

To heck with the single focus. I'm gonna just shoot the breeze today, and, yes, I'll throw in a few bullets.

• Ben Olson graduated from SHS in 1999. He served as ASB president that year, and that's about all I knew of him then. I've read his commentary in the Sandpoint Reader--that's the paper Zach Hagadone (another SHS grad) started a couple of years ago after graduating from Albertson College. Ben's contributions to the paper have featured reviews of writers like Hunter Thompson or journals of his own traveling adventures. I received a note from him a week or so ago, asking me to look over a publishing contract for a book about his cross country train trip which left him down and out and back in Sandpoint. We later agreed to get together and talk books, which we did yesterday at Di Luna's. Had a good time too, especially when Zach showed up and shared his Sagle flea market story about military helmets. At age 12, he had a chance join forces with a helmet entrepreneur. Zach chose to abstain. Instead, he saved his talents for the newspaper business. He's not making a lot of money (let's see, was it $500 last year), but he's made a mark on an eclectic following of local readers.
• Speaking of newspapers---I've got good sportswriter news. After one week as a temporary employee, Willie learned Wednesday that he's been signed on for full time at the Idaho Post Tribune, Nampa's daily. He says the 4-12 midnight shift kinda fouls up his sleep habits, but in the job market, he's hit a homerun. He's writing about what he loves: sports.
• Sylvia-----she's Dennis Timoskevich's older sister. I didn't know my Class of 1965 classmate from Sagle had an older sister until I met her on that wet birding tour with Earl Chapin last month. She's one of the honchos in the Native Plant Society, so I saw her again yesterday at the Arbor Day celebration. The grand finale was to plant a black cottonwood in Lakeview Park's arboretum, and Sylvia was in charge. When I heard she was the one, I yelled out, "What's Sylvia mean?" She knew----one who inhabits the forest. Very appropriate person for planting that tree, I'd say.
• Just in case ya don't know---in Idaho if your sisters, brothers or kiddies sell you a vehicle or trailer, ya don't have to pay sales tax. I never knew that and had my checkbook ready yesterday at the motor vehicle registration office. Lucky I mentioned "sister" while discussing our motorhome purchase with my classmate Sharon who owns Lake RV in Sandpoint. The clerk said, "Oh, if you bought it from your sisters, you just fill out this form, get her to sign it and no tax will be needed." Later, Bill said he wished he'd known that when he purchased Annie's car from my brother Kevin. He plunked down $150 when he registered it in Idaho.
• Speaking of motor homes, Bill has slept in the Dodge Brougham twice now. He took a nap yesterday afternoon after enjoying a solo RV lunch and reading some magazines in our new surrogate house. Then, he took his sleeping bag out there last night. Said he slept like a log after reading for a while. The gals down at the motor vehicle office--all locals--told me I've got a new means of getting him out of my hair. "Just send him to the motor home," they said.
• I'm going to a wedding shower today for Jeff Bock's fiancee, Kristianna. She's from California and she likes to vacuum. I learned that one day when Jeff brought her to the house. She didn't vacuum for me, but I think she would have been quite willing if I'd asked. There's gonna be a crowd at the shower who inspire me to enjoy my creative side---so I've got some unique gifts to present. One will be something borrowed and happily returned. If folks know Judge Heise or Jeannie Bock, they may concur that ya just don't go to something like that without something up your sleeve. I promise not to disappoint.
• After the shower, I think I'll go to the Sagle flea market and pick up some kitchen wares for the new old motorhome. I don't think we need helmets though, even if I threw out some bullets today.

Gotta shut up now and go shorten a 1,200 word birding story to 900 words. Maybe if I really cut it down and wrote: Birds fly. People watch the sky. Birds go, "Twiddle diddly dee. " People go "Well, golly gee." D'ya think that would suffice?

Happy Saturday to all. May the bird of paradise fly up your clothes and make you scream!

Go hug yer trees

Bill brought home the Arbor Day T-shirts last week. His friend Betty from the Idaho Forest Products Commission had sent him a supply for the family. I'm wearing mine today because it's Arbor Day, and we need to honor our trees.

Last year, I attended the Arbor Day activities at Lakeview Park where school children could go to various stations and learn things about trees from members of the Native Plant Society. Afterward, Mayor Miller and Bill said a few words while noting Sandpoint's status as a tree city. Bill serves on the city tree committee, and he's an active member of the regional chapter of the Society of American Foresters.

He also uses the handle LoblollyLove in his geocache activities---the loblolly pine is as common in his native Louisiana as the white pine once was here in North Idaho. Heavy logging early in the twentieth century, along with blister rust infestations, took a toll on our pinus monticolas. So, we tend to see more lodgepole and ponderosa pine around here.

With today being Arbor Day, I'm gonna encourage folks to go hug their favorite tree or trees. After all, these magnificent members of our natural world don't often get the respect they deserve for just patiently standing there all those years, looking over us, holding our birds, squirrels, cats, etc., giving us shade and in some cases giving us thrills when the wind blows them back and forth.

Granted, some of them keep us pretty busy, especially in the fall when they drop their leaves, but that always follows one of the best outdoor art shows of the year. After all, when you put on a show like our Aspens and birch do each fall, you deserve to let down your hair-er--leaves a bit.

We have a variety of tree species here at our place. When we look south toward the pond, we can admire a couple of dozen volunteer pines of varying species. Nearly thirty years ago, that area was simply an open field with not a tree to be seen. All those have sprouted up on their own and grown to a size that puts out a little shade in the summer time now.

A walk around the pond reveals an ever-growing number of cottonwood trees that attract an ever-growing number of birds every year. Occasionally, we'll look out there and see a hawk perched atop the tallest of the small grove where mice have created a network of tunnels along the pathway below. Early this spring, a lone meadowlark sat in that same tree, singing its familiar song of the open fields.

As I look out the front window from the computer, I see several aspen, including the granddaddy of them all, surrounding the front yard. Aspen grow abundantly here, and that's good because the young stock usually have a rough go of it in the summer time when Rambo and Casey are searching out scratching trees. The little trees provide such nice sensations that their tops often fall victim to those eager horse bellies bending them back and forth.

One of my favorite trees stands just ten feet from the front porch. It's a locust which always looks old and grizzled as if its died---until suddenly, its newest crop of fragrant flowers fills the air with the sweetest smell of early summer---even better than newly-mown hay.

We've also got a nut tree. It's near the bunkhouse. I didn't know it was a nut tree until one year when I found a single hazelnut on the ground below it. I could not figure out until the next year, when there were about half a dozen, where the heck that nut came from. Since then, we've been getting a pretty nice supply that drop off each fall.

Our home is surrounded by beautiful blue spruce. They're gorgeous but scary---especially when wild winds seemingly threaten to blow them right into the house. I have been known to go to opposite ends of the house, depending on which way the wind is roaring when these storms come up. So far, the trees continue to stand when they're not on those bending sprees.

Probably the most nostalgic, distinctive tree on the farm stands just outside the south corner of the barnyard. It's the huge willow. If interviewed, it would probably have the biggest supply of stories to tell---the children playing in its tree house (or apartment, as Willie and Annie used to call it), the night of the house fire when Willie sat wide-eyed, watching the flames within its protective boughs, the many years that Simon Feist's giant Belgian gelding Chief enjoyed its shade, or the Love horses always nibbling at its seemingly endless bouquet of green and yellow limbs.

That willow is a majestic tree about 3.5 feet in diameter with one low-hanging limb that extends at least twenty feet to the west. I always have to duck when I pass under it on the riding lawnmower. I love that grand old tree, but I don't love cleaning up its fall leaves, which have to number into the millions.

There are several more trees on this place to write of today, but if I spend all my time writing about them, I won't have time to hug 'em all and let 'em know how much I appreciate them for the beauty they add every day to our home and to our world.

Happy hugging on this Arbor Day, 2006.

Da Motor Home

In nearly 32 years of marriage, I've never seen my husband so crazy as he was last night. He had just returned from a trip to the gas station. Normally, a trip to the gas station---in this case Marley's Schweitzer Conoco on the corner of HWY 95 and the Schweitzer Cut-off Road--- wouldn't be a big deal.

But when you're driving your new 30-year-old motorhome, as yet unregistered in your name and coming up short on right rear-signal light action, ya gotta try to slink around and stay out of the heavy traffic. Add to that the fact that the motorhome has added all of 20 miles to its odometer in the past two years, which translates into a bit of blue smoke trailing behind you.

Well, that's pretty much how it was as Bill took off on his third nightly neighborhood tour with our recent purchase. The Dodge Brougham has belonged to my sisters for almost half its life. They've taken it to Saskatchewan to participate in a Canadian National Arabian Show. Otherwise, its jaunts have mainly been to Spokane or to Western Washington.

It's spent most of its time behaving a lot like cats---just sittin' around, taking up space. So, Barbara and Laurie decided to part with it, along with their 3-horse slant-load horse trailer. They wanted some money to buy a new, lighter, more presentable trailer, so Brother Kevin intervened and helped them strike up a package deal.

"Why not sell 'em together?" he suggested. They all knew of a closely-related willing party to this scheme, so they offered the deal, and I bit. I haven't had a horse trailer that would adequately fit my two big geldings ever since Rambo went blind. So, I sold my Lo-Boy about three years ago. There was no way I could expect Rambo to ride in it with his new handicap.

I've also wanted a motorhome and didn't care to buy a $30,000 model, so this seemed like a great deal. We came to a quick agreement. I dipped out of my savings and wrote 'em a check. They cleaned up the motorhome and trailer and delivered them Sunday. Since then, Bill, who kept razzing me about my 30-year-old motorhome, has acquired a fixation. Every single night, he's spent his after-dinner time cleaning, tinkering, opening drawers, searching out its basic gut structure . I think he still hasn't found where they hide the propane takes.

He's also taken it on a drive a night. The first evening he went to Yoke's to get some cereal. Thankfully no cops stops. The next night he drove it up Gooby Road and down Baldy, only to have a road-rage driver honk at him because he spent too much time at an intersection. Last night, he left, saying he was going to get some gas. Well, I learned, after he returned about an hour later, that he also took the RV across the highway to Wal-Mart.

Earlier this week, he suggested that we spend our first overnighter there because Wal-Mart welcomes RV camping in their parking lots across the nation. I told him that if he wanted to do that, he could go solo. Now, I'm not quite like my kids who refuse to set foot on Wal-Mart territory, but I certainly have my standards when it comes to my first RV venue. Meadow Creek Campground near Bonners Ferry or even Round Lake south of Sandpoint would be okay----but no Wal-Mart cement for me.

Turns out Wal-Mart and the purchase of some new windshield wipers wasn't the highlight of Bill's Wednesday night sojourn. Young Mr. Spade, who clerks at the Conoco Station, provided so much comic relief in assessing the motorhome's performance that it took Bill 15 minutes to stop crying before he could tell me the story.

Seems Young Mr. Spade could hear Bill and the motorhome coming up the Sand Creek hill toward the gas station. Seems the cat comparison ends when the motorhome goes into action. No purring whatsoever. Instead, a voluminous roar.

"He said"------Bill starts laughing.

"Well, tell the story," I said.

"He said"----Bill laughs some more.

I laugh but insist that he finish the story.

"He said"-----Bill starts crying.

"He said what?" I ask.

"He said"----Bill continues crying, now trying to stifle his tears and leaning up against the mantle.

"Well, what did he say?" I implore, now giggling and producing a few tears of my own.

"He said"----finally, Bill gives up and tells me he'll try to tell me the story later.

Well, it took my normally calm, stoic husband a few more tries, but finally he spit it out.

"He said, 'I heard that motorhome sputtering up the hill and said C'mon, baby, you can make it. C'mon!'" After that, Bill asked Young Mr. Spade if there were any muffler shops doing late-night business in the area.

We've had our new old motorhome for just three days. It's gone to Yoke's, around the Baldy loop, to Wal-Mart and to the Conoco station. It's already caused more laughter than any of the tennis, golf, or geocaching stories we could ever tell---and that even includes the two trips to the Emergency Room for Bill with his geocaching adventures.

Now, as I write this morning, Bill has informed me that he'll be coming home early this afternoon.

"I've got some stuff to do on the motorhome," he told me. I guessing that it may be heading to Melody Muffler today. I'm hoping he also does something about that signal light before crossing that busy Highway 95 intersection and turning into Wal-Mart for his sleep over.

Could be the Ponderay cops'll spot him and then I'll more stories to tell about my husband and his latest addiction---or would it be conviction?

In, out, gone

My Outlook mail has been doing strange things for the past month. Lately, any time I close my in-folder, I cannot reopen it without rebooting my computer. This has been frustrating at times, especially when I'm in the middle of something and need to refer to a recent piece of mail or if I'm anxiously awaiting an answer from someone.

I've figured the problem was occurring because the in-box was so loaded with messages. So, for the past couple of weeks, I've been archiving a few months' worth at a time. I'd gotten most messages from 2001 to 2003. After this morning, I guess I won't have to archive any more for a while.

When I went on line for my first view of overnight messages, it was obvious from the sound much like my virus scan, that the computer was working hard at some project. Four messages had downloaded and a fifth was taking its sweet time. I thought this was rather strange but just skimmed the open messages while waiting. Then, the "ILLEGAL OPERATION" sign flashed on and the computer wouldn't let me go further.

So, I shut her down as I've done so many times lately. When she rebooted, my entire inbox, including this morning's messages had disappeared. They're still gone. Nearly three years of mail from family, friends and business associates vanished---just like that.

I guess it's therapy to write about it. I haven't even said the "S" word this morning. I'd like to, but I've dealt with computer anomalies enough in the past to know that even going out to the bunkhouse and bringing in one of Bill's hammers has not made my computer cooperate. Yes, I've actually done that but have set the hammer down before inflicting a blow.

I guess age has calmed me down about these matters, but I'm still frustrated and curious as to where those 9,000-plus messages have gone. I hope the computer didn't mail them to someone. If so, I may have more problems because I'm not ALWAYS nice with my email notes---most of the time but not always.

To all email correspondents, if you've sent me the best forward ever, it's gone. If you've sent me pertinent information about some upcoming event, it's gone. If you wrote me a nice note that made me tear up, it's gone. If you've written me a not-so nice note, I won't have to reread it. If you've told me your life story, I've lost it. And, if you've tried to coerce me to send you my bank account number because you have millions stored away in some Zimbabwe bank awaiting transfer, I guess I'll have to pass up the opportunity.

This automatic cleansing is probably good. I do delete most forwards and most bank account appeal letters, but I kinda like to keep meaningful historical notes and photos sent to me by family and friends. Admittedly, my inbox was overflowing with this kind of stuff, and my good intentions were to get them archived when time allowed.

But now, that's one more project on the "to do" list that I don't have to do. If any computer whiz is out there who knows how to track down errant inbox mail, I'd welcome all suggestions. In the meantime, I'm staying away from hammers and biting my tongue whenever the "S" word wants to get some much needed exposure.

Friends, Romans, countrymen . . . .

Shakespeare's birthday and death day just passed, and I failed to note it. On Sunday---if he'd taken more Vitamin C and E---he might have been 442 years old. According to biographers who've nailed these facts down as closely as possible, he was born April 23, 1564 and died April 23, 1616 in England.

Our American Shakespeare, Mark Twain, has a similar distinction, though slightly different. Halleys Comet appeared both the year he was born (1835) and the year he died (1910). Maybe the stars lining up just right caused both of these men to be the most quotable of their respective nations and well-known throughout the world.

I should have noted Shakespeare's special day on Sunday cuz he's responsible for me being an accessory to murder of the assassination variety more than 100 times. Yup, my English students must've done Julius Caesar in at least 116 times cuz that's how many times I taught the bard's play, chronicling the events leading up to and following Caesar's assassination back in 44B.C. (even before I was born).

It wasn't a pretty sight either cuz the Roman Senators reportedly inflicted 33 stab wounds on their dictator. That translates into a lot of blood and gore in Mrs. Love's English class. Well, it really never got that messy, but the funeral feast afterward was always fun for the kids. They knew good times were ahead once they bumped Julius off cuz then his buddy Marc Antony would be giving his famous speech:

Friends, Romans and countrymen,
Lend me your ears.
I come to bury Caesar,
Not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them
The good is oft interred within their graves.
So, let it be with Caesar

There's really a lot more, and my kids were always asked to memorize the speech down to the part where Antony's heart popped out and landed there in the coffin with Caesar and he (Antony) had to pause into his heart came back.

Thanks to Shakespeare's literary talents and Caesar's alleged ambitious yearnings, that funeral oration served as the most memorable time of spring in most of my English classes. Now, mind you, not all kids remembered what they were supposed to say, but they remembered all the fun that went into getting ready for saying it. In many classes, speech day was toga and feast day. That meant lots of food and varying degrees of toga turnouts. Jeralyn Lewis Mire's royal purple toga stands out most in my mind.

It also meant some of the more creative approaches to parodying Marc Antony I've ever seen. The students had the option of memorizing the speech and reciting it to perfection either by a no-nonsense approach or by modifying their style of presentation. Group efforts were welcome as long as it was clear all members of the group knew the entire speech. Of course, I encountered several situations where they figured I was too dumb to notice if they divided up the speech and learned only seven or eight lines apiece.

Some of the more memorable presentations came in the form of dancing to the beat of the speech, rock band performances, and even take-offs on the "Hee Haw" and "Gilligans Island" themes. Ali Leedy, who teaches high school science near Boise, gave her speech while standing on her head. Cori Flowers, who works with troubled teens here locally, brought in a helium tank and sucked up helium while reciting her speech. One group put on a puppet show. A few others did it in pig latin (appropriate for a Roman feast, I'd say). Two boys feigned an echo.

Larri Ann Smith, who's now a doctor in Western Washington, pretended she was an old victrola that skipped and changed speeds from 33 rpm to 78 rpm. In one class, nary a kid memorized the speech past the first four lines. The hour-long lesson plan fell a bit short so they spent the rest of the hour eating donuts.

I don't know what this world or I would have done without Shakespeare's help, Caesar's death and Antony's speech. It's a terrible thing when someone has to get murdered to entertain thousands of young people for centuries to come. But if someone had to do it, the Shakespeare, Caesar and Antony triumvirate pulled off the scene well.

I'm betting that 90 percent of my students, no matter how old they're getting, could recite at least the first few lines of that funeral oration on command. If it were so, it were a grievous fault and somewhat grievously have I reported it this morning.

kiwi memories

Blogger.com Glitch today--thus, posting appears later than usual.

Don't let the title fool you; my pup's doing just fine. She's out there with those coffee cans---waiting. Before I go outside for another day of kicking the can, though, I must write about New Zealand. It's been on my mind these past few mornings. Whenever I head out the door to observe the cool, steady breeze causing the willow and aspen limbs to sway and forcing the quickly growing lush green grass to bend at nearly 90-degree angles, I can't help but think of spring days spent in Kiwi land three years ago.

It was early November which translates to early May here. I don't know if it's because of the great amounts of rain we've had through early spring or if it's just a yearning to go back. Whatever it is, the long-awaited awakening of spring here in North Idaho has thrust me into dreaming of New Zealand where abundant greenery rules the views.

We stayed at an Appaloosa Ranch for three nights after I first met Annie in Auckland. She was attending Waikato University in Hamilton. Ironically, I had written an Appaloosa Journal story about Peter and Rae Mutch who lived just outside of Hamilton. They offered farmstays, so I took them up on one. Farmstays and bed and breakfasts are very common in New Zealand because they serve up what New Zealand is all about---farming and traveling.

We encountered a bit of rain nearly every day we were there. Maybe that's what contributes to the greenery. It's beyond belief, almost magical. One can look for miles and see nothing but gentle rolling hills with hedges. One would be hard-pressed to find weeds interfering with the beauty of the farm fields which are dotted with thousands of sheep or huge herds of Ayrshires, Jerseys, Holsteins or varying breeds of beef cattle. Neat and tidy would be a good characterization for most Kiwi farms.

I experienced a Kodak moment one day as Annie and I were climbing a steep hillside overlooking the Tasmanian Sea. The grass was knee deep. The wind was blowing. As I looked upward, I got tired, thinking of the steep climb ahead. I also saw a couple of sheep looking down at me. Annie coaxed me onward. While stopping to take a breath, I looked down at the shimmering sea below and said, "If I never take another step again, this will be enough." I felt like I'd entered Heaven at that moment.

We made it quite a ways up that hill as we did nearly every day on different hills, including the Tongariro Crossing, which is known as one of New Zealand's most beautiful day hikes. Well, that day wasn't beautiful, but knowing that I'd hiked 12 miles through Lord of the Rings territory and had overcome snow, sleet, sand and a desire to just lie down and never move another inch gave me great pride. Again, without Annie coaxing me, I doubt I'd have made it to the end of the trail.

As we visited as much of the North Island as possible in nine days, I could see that the Kiwis truly love their fine horses, especially the ones that can run. Nearly every town the size of Sandpoint has a beautiful race track facility. While we were there, the entire nation was transfixed on Australia's Melbourne Cup. The Melbourne Cup is to the folks from Down Under what the upcoming Kentucky Derby is to America.

As stated in an article at (www.cultureandrecreation.gov.au/articles/melbournecup/) Melbourne Cup Day is Australia's most famous Tuesday. It's a day when Australia and New Zealand stop whatever they're doing to listen to the race call, or watch the race on TV, and even those who don't bet, try their luck. This all occurs at 3 p.m. AEST, on the first Tuesday in November.

On that Tuesday afternoon, Annie and I were driving along a lakeshore with crashing waves on one side and a hillside covered with the most extensive network of blooming nasturtiums I've ever seen. Amidst the magnificent scenery, we listened on the car radio, just like loyal Kiwis, to the spell-binding call of the race. I believe that year, New Zealand had a favorite in the race, but if I recall correctly, their horse did not win.

Australians and New Zealanders have always had a bit of a rivalry, and on this year the All Blacks rugby team overpowered the Aussies in the World Cup competition, which occurs every four years. I would venture to say that the Kiwi nation is probably more loyal to its rugby team than Americans are to baseball. Virtually all New Zealand stores carry merchandize and huge posters touting their All Blacks. It's like us Northwest folks and our Zags.

One Saturday night, when we stayed at a motel outside of Wellington, the All Blacks were playing in a World Cup game. We made the mistake of standing between the restaurant and the big screen TV. We knew to move out of their way because everyone there loved their All Blacks and they didn't want to miss one second of the game.

I could write all day about New Zealand, but I must get outside and enjoy my surroundings where green grass is growing and blowing and the bright yellow daffodils doing their best to stand at attention in the North Idaho morning breeze. If I can't go back to Kiwi land, at least the sights of this gorgeous April day will allow me to dream of one of the more magnificent experiences of my life.

Politically Wrong

For about the past 15 years, we've been getting used to conducting our public and sometimes private affairs in "politically correct" ways. I remember first reading the term in a cover story for Newsweek Magazine several years ago. It warned of a time when virtually anything coming out of one's mouth could be fodder for the thought police to pounce upon and make you pay for what you said.

Well, we've all watched the myriad of public examples over the years where public figures erred and paid dearly for not having an inner editor on 24-hour duty to catch that inappropriate comment before it escaped their lips.

I think, to a certain extent, political correctness is wise. For generations, people have gotten away with thoughtless verbal abuse of others. It was past time to start reining in the hurtful comments and to work for an environment where anyone of any persuasion could start feeling a bit more secure, knowing that a verbal ambush did not await them at every turn.

Political correctness has grown so much in stature these days that we often feel stifled to say what's really on our mind for fear of reprisal or public shame. The irony that I see, however, is that "Political Wrongfulness" seems to enjoy equal power in our present political environment. To me, it's politically wrong to judge everything and everybody with strict black-and-white/blue or red/Republican or Democratic standards.

It seems to me that politicians, especially, have lost the sense of "gray" in the way we and they react to issues. That trend has divided us as a nation, causing us to react strongly in one of two ways, with no consideration for anything in between. This is another sickening election year, and we, the voters, will endure many months of acrimonious, dumb accusations launched by one candidate opposing another.

Whatever happened to the old tendency to vote for a person because of their qualifications, rather than their party? Whatever happened to respecting a person because of their qualifications and because of what they were able to achieve rather than the label they represent? Are all of our politicians so stifled by party bosses that they're not allowed to think one thought for themselves?

I've somewhat accepted this at a national level because there's not a whole lot little pipsqueaks like me can do to change it, but I have a very difficult time watching it seep into our local politically-elected offices. I know of good people who represent both major political parties, and I vote accordingly.

These individuals directly affect the everyday lives of the people they see on the street within their communities. It seems to me that---even in a political year---they should abandon the public in-fighting and demonstrate a spirit of working together to do their jobs of representing the people of their community rather than succumbing to party tenets, unity and strategy that might help get them elected or re-elected. If they do, I believe all of them, regardless of party, will command much more respect.

At a local level, in spite of what we read in the paper, most folks know whether or not our elected officials are doing their job for the good of the residents they represent. Most voters see through the little political spears being launched because the timing is good. And, most voters don't like being the victims down the road after a well-orchestrated program of "political wrongs" has done its damage on a well-qualified individual.

If candidates are strong enough to speak and follow through on their convictions, I vote for them. If I think they're doing their best to represent what's best for the community---in spite of occasional oppositions---I'll vote for them. If they're showing me tangible examples of what they've done to successfully carry out their elected duties, I'll vote for them. On the contrary, if their campaign is geared solely to dragging down their opponent, I'm probably going to have some skepticism, as I wait to see what they've done or will do to make the situation better.

I view politics as a game, much like boxing or football. The contenders can belittle their opponents all they want and trump up their own talents, but performance determines the final winner in any sport. Talent, teamwork and consistency contribute to victory and to credibility.

The same should be true in politics. The best sporting games I've ever watched were those where two incredibly outstanding, highly talented teams have utilized their skills from beginning to end. The outcome, though disappointing to one opponent, is usually very satisfying for all concerned, with opponents hugging and shaking hands in the end and fans voicing enthusiasm for a game well-played. I wish we could see more of that in politics.

Voters, like me are tired of negative politics. It's politically wrong. It's time to start accentuating the positive and restore some dignity, respect and grace back into the political arena, especially in our local elections. Possibly that spirit might start working upward, and some day we wouldn't hate election years so much.

Now, I hope the thought police don't get mad at me for saying something wrong.

Thank you, Dave,

It was so good to hear from Dave Ebbett yesterday. He commented on the posting "His Story or Mine" from Thursday. His dad and uncle played major roles in building the Schweitzer Road, and he participated in the process back in 1963.

Dave and I go back to first grade at Lincoln School, along with Lesle Oliver, Kathleen Brackney, Laura Delamarter, Smokey Chubb, Vance Ekwortzell, Larry Copley, Harmon Cantrell, Regina Hansen and several others. We received our first six years of education in that classic red brick school house across from the mill, which was Balch Lumber Co. at the time. We've all done okay for ourselves.

Dave's mother Marian, and my mother took turns with a few other parents running the school PTA with cooperation from the principal Marvel Ekholm and her teaching staff. Let's see: first grade Mabel Kinney. In the introduction to my upcoming book about teaching, I've written about her and her razor-sharp red fingernails which had a way, with their well-honed pinching ability, of making us behave.

In second grade, Mrs. Betty Lunn, who must have been 110, kept us in line. She also enhanced my desire to have better penmanship by giving me U's for not curving my S's enough. I learned after that first set of U's on my report card to give every S a better tail.

And speaking of S's, that's all Miss Altha Young ever gave anyone, no matter how hard or how little you worked in her class. As I recall, that average grade for everything kinda fit her average unchanging expression. I can't really remember any good stories on Miss Young because everything ran along a straight line, never wavering any direction.

By fourth grade, we were thrilled to have Mrs. Sutliff who actually smiled and talked to us like we were human beings. I don't know if it was the teacher training or if we just drew the wrong lots for our first three teachers, but Mrs. Sutliff seemed to me like a breath of fresh air. Except for the day she caught me just after lunch on my hands and knees at the front of my row instead of at the back of my row in my seat where I belonged.

I guess I just hadn't said it all during noonhour and some important factoid needed sharing. I think I was in mid-sentence when I felt a swat on my rump, turned around and spotted Mrs. Sutliff, who with a stern glare, directed me back to my seat. Otherwise, she was a pretty nice lady.

In fifth grade, we had Mrs. Mabel Beck. I thought she was firm but sweet. She had kind brown eyes that watched over us through spectacles, just like all the other teachers. In fact, I don't think I ever saw a teacher without glasses until Mrs. Dona Meehan, the district choir teacher who'd just moved to Sandpoint from Minnesota, came and stood in the doorway between fifth and sixth grade classrooms to sing "Bless This House."

It was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard coming out of another human's mouth at the time. I later had Mrs. Meehan for choir, and try as she might, she could never get much more than a monotonous squawk out of my voicebox.

Besides Mrs. Meehan's lovely melody, my other stand-out fifth-grade memory came when Mrs. Beck lured each of us to the front of the room and made us stand on the scales. I was the first kid in our class to break 100 pounds. Quite a distinction! I don't know when Dave ever caught up with me, and more than likely, he may never have kept up with me in the weight department, even though he passed me by in height.

Sixth grade, things changed. We had three teachers that year and a MAN. Mrs. Ekholm, the principal, spent a lot of time with us. Later, we doubled between Mr. Scheibe and Mrs. Fredstrom, whose daughter Karen had started out with us. Sadly, later in high school, she was killed in a car wreck. But during the sixth grade, we all enjoyed the fact that we were the big shots and that we'd soon be moving on to a different world, downtown at the junior high.

Our Lincoln School gang was closeknit, so any time one of my classmates pops up out of the blue, it's pretty special to me. Thanks, Dave, for the memories of Schweitzer and for turning on my Lincoln School nostalgia switch. We were a good lot, even if we were from Stinkin' Lincoln.

Historically speaking

As mentioned yesterday, next year is Bonner County's 100th birthday. In 2009, the Northwest region will be recognizing the Bicentennial of British mapmaker and explorer David Thompson's arrival in North Idaho. In 1809, Thompson, along with his clerk Finan McDonald, came south from Canada to the shores of Lake Pend Oreille and set up a fur trading post for the Northwest Company near Hope. They called their structure the Kullyspell House.

The mere mention of either event often inspires lively discussion and a yearning for better awareness of our past history, which is exactly the intent of the two celebrations. Obviously, we all know that we didn't just accidentally show up here in North Idaho, and Bonner County didn't just happen. There are fascinating stories to go along with each of these significant events, and it takes dedicated people to record, preserve and share those stories.

That's where the works of the Bonner County Historical Society and its museum come in to the picture. Both entities will be playing a major role in carrying off each of these events, which will last over extended periods of time, focusing on several dimensions of the respective stories and occurring in a variety of venues. When they're over, the hope is that our residents and visitors will have a greater understanding and appreciation of who we are, why we're here and who impacted the events leading to our present-day community.

With that in mind, I'd like to use my blog today to launch an appeal. I'm passionately appealing to readers to join the Bonner County Historical Society. It's relatively inexpensive. In most cases, it involves no more than supporting the museum and its activities through your annual dues. In many cases, this move leads to an increased interest and desire to participate as a volunteer or simply to take part in the many museum offerings or programs that occur each year.

As a member of the museum's Board of Directors, I can tell you that I'm truly amazed at how well the museum does on its limited operating budget. Incoming funds for keeping the museum afloat vary from year to year and often depend on individual fundraisers or donations.

For the services and knowledge it offers the residents of Bonner County, the museum basically operates on a shoestring. I can also tell you that the curator works long, long hours for low pay and no fringe benefits. Ann Ferguson is a talented, knowledgeable and dedicated treasure. I call her a treasure because of what she gives to Bonner County's history in comparison to what is given to her to do her job. She's never complaining, always accommodating, always professional.

It seems to me that if we want our history to be preserved, we need to invest in that preservation. I also believe that if more people were aware of what goes on at the museum rather than passively accepting that it's simply there, they would be just as amazed as I am with the abundance of fascinating knowledge its programs and its collections provide. Much of this continues to happen because of volunteer efforts. And, those efforts will continue because of the folks who love to devote their time to the myriad of museum needs.

Nonetheless, if we could entice many more people to join or support the Historical Society----whether they live in Bonner County or if they reside anywhere else but still have ties to Bonner County---the museum and its staff could stay afloat financially and possibly even begin to thrive.

At times like this, I think of the old hymn, "If Everyone Lit Just One Little Candle, What a Bright World This Would Be." A grass roots effort to financially support the museum could certainly brighten the museum's future and provide a little more job security for the lady who so marvelously represents and drives the activities of our history center.

Here are the facts if you want to join or even donate: Membership dues and contributions are nice tax deductions. The annual dues include the following: Senior/student--$10; Individual--$15; Family---$25; Supporting---$30---Contributing---$50; Associate---$100; Sponsor---$250; Patron--$500.

Other possibilities include memorials sent to the museum in the name of a loved one or friend who has passed away. Or, just an out-and-out donation would be appreciated at any time. Checks should be made out to: Bonner County Historical Society. The address is 611 South Ella Avenue, Sandpoint, Idaho 83864.

If you wish to ask questions about membership or anything dealing with the museum, you can send email to bchsmuseum@imbris.net. You can learn more about the place by visiting the website at (www.bonnercountyhistory.org).

We have some major events of historical significance to celebrate in this area over the next three years. But, it's an understatement to say history is unfolding day by day and probably even more of an understatement to say that it takes time and effort to record those happenings. Let's help our local folks who dedicate so much of their time to preserving the history of our families, schools, businesses and organizations.

Join the Bonner County Historical Society, and tell 'em Marianne sent you. Every time I hear that a new member joined the Society because of this blog posting, I promise to contact you personally and extend my sincere thanks. I believe in the cause that much.

Thanks for your consideration of this appeal.

His story or mine?

I've got to write quickly this morning because the Bonner County Historical Society Board of Directors is meeting at 8 a.m. Bill told me about some of the topics we're going to discuss this morning because he's serving on the Bonner County Centennial Committee, which met yesterday. Our county will be celebrating its first century of existence in 2007, so a committee has been formed to plan the celebration.

Yesterday's discussion involved setting up a website and possibly organizing a blog to open up avenues of information flow from throughout the county. There is some concern, however, that maybe not all the information shared will be accurate, which is a problem any time you're dealing with history. As a person who writes a lot of stories based on historical events, I can relate to these concerns.

For example, Sam Wormington, our friend and the first manager of Schweitzer Mountain Resort, came to our house recently to show us an article written in a new regional magazine. The slick-looking, full-color periodical included several features about North Idaho culture---from Coeur d'Alene to Bonners Ferry. One article focused on Schweitzer. In a segment detailing the resort's early history, several major mistakes appeared within just a few paragraphs.

One included a misspelling of Sam's name. These days he's known as "Worthington." Until the magazine was published, he's been known by himself and everyone else as Sam Wormington. Another sentence told of how preliminary construction began in 1961, two years before Schweitzer opened. Sam disputes that and says 1963 was the correct year.

It further states that Spokane's Dr. Jack Fowler and architect Grant Grosbeck (incorrectly named "Jerry") stopped on their way home from a skiing vacation to stretch their legs and "while staring up at the snow-covered peaks, as ski buffs are wont to do, their eyes fell upon a large natural bowl nestled high in the mountains above. It struck them like a bolt of lightning . . . ."

When I wrote my history of Schweitzer in an article for Sandpoint Magazine, I found a different perspective offered by Jack Fowler. My notes taken from an interview with Dr. Fowler and Spokane radio personality Ross Woodward tell of the same situation indicated above. The realization occurred in April, 1960, without Mr. Grosbeck. In Fowler's words: I made a stop just beyond Hope. While the family stretched, I took in the scene. By then, the weather was clear. There it was, in all its shimmering white splendor. It was cradled in a protective bowl, which had preserved it into the change of season, while the pack on the adjoining ridges had melted away.

In reality, Jack Fowler later discussed his ideas about this potential ski area to his friend Grant Grosbeck over dinner. They visited the mountain a few weeks later over Memorial Day weekend in 1960. Fowler's detailing of that event appear in these notes from my museum research: We drove to the base of the mountain, took backpacks and sleeping bags and headed out for the eight-mile hike following a logging road for six hours. Wore our ski boots.

"When we finally reached the basin, the blisters on our feet were the size of silver dollars! We made camp below the Basin on a ridge we named Pea Soup Ridge. The name referred to the dried material we reconstituted and heated over a charcoal fire that night. The label called it pea soup. The taste bore no resemblance. It was terrible!"

The next morning we explored the basin. Hiked to the top of the South Ridge. Elevation at the highest part is 6,389 feet. Fowler and Grosbeck reached about 6,000 feet and then descended. Strapped on their skis and for the first time actually skied Schweitzer Basin. It was mushy snow, but it was the end of May. "That was important to our dream of establishing a ski area."

Disputing the mistaken items appearing in the recently published magazine may appear trivial or much ado about nothing, but when we're trying to chronicle "accurate" history for generations to come, each succeeding dilution or slight distortion of facts is critical. The original event gradually modifies to the point that the real story is barely recognizable. It works much like the old kid game of "gossip."

Therefore, it is essential that anyone recording or sharing history take time to check and double check every fact and especially ensure that their information is not taken out of context. That involves a lot of reading and careful research. The blog has great potential, but, as indicated in yesterday's meeting, let's hope information shared comes from credible sources, that names are spelled correctly and that dates, place names, perspectives etc. are accurate.

We owe this meticulous approach to the people who make the history and to those of future generations who will read the history. If everyone participating on the blog adheres to those basics, we've can have a lot of fun with the blog and dramatically expand on our county's history bank.

Family Foto Fun . . . .

The Kootenai National Wildlife Refuge is a mighty pretty place for bird watching, biking and escaping. It' five miles northwest of Bonners Ferry. Brother Jim, sisters Laurie and Barbara biking along the auto-tour on Laurie's birthday, April 7.

Jim and Laurie capturing some beauty of the bird refuge near Bonners Ferry.

Barbara on one of her many photographic stops at the National Wildlife Refuge. It's hard to find a bad photographic setting there.

The camera-bike crew arrives at the National Wildlife Refuge at Bonners Ferry: Jim, Barbara and Laurie Tibbs.

Jim, the cartoonist, shows off his new video strategy of panoramic photography---with bike tripod attached.

That's the way the ball bounces

Willie was driving from Nampa to Boise yesterday afternoon when he called with some big news. Even though the cell phone connection weakened at times, I think I got the main message which began with:

"Adam Morrison is going pro."

"Yeah, I just heard that on the KREM news," I told him.

Of course, Gonzaga's Adam Morrison going pro would be important to Willie who follows virtually all things sports, especially basketball and baseball. This year, he enjoyed a quick transition from NCAA March Madness to April's Mariner Mania. So, his TV remote has hardly been idle since he moved back to Boise to be with Debbie, who's been driving to Nampa regularly to work as recreation counselor at the Idaho Youth Ranch troubled teens home.

Willie had more important news, though, and it involved a TV and sports. Seems the Idaho Press Tribune in Nampa has a sports TV station playing continuously in its sports bureau. So, that means Willie can leave home without the remote and still keep up on the Mariners, the Cubs, and anybody else who's showing up on ESPN, et. al.

He started his first day as a sports reporter for the Idaho Press Tribune. I don't think he worked regular hours yesterday cuz he's gonna be going until midnight on his shift to cover daily sports happenings for 17 high schools across the Treasure Valley. Right now, it's a fill-in position, but if all goes right, he'll likely go full time.

An added benefit emerged yesterday when someone walked up behind him in the office and said, "Hi, Willie." It was Bryan Evans, his Sandpoint High School Bulldogs basketball teammate and classmate. Seems Bryan works in the advertising department at the paper. So, the ball bounced, and some old friends are working once again on a little different team.

And, speaking of teams, Willie (born April 1, 1977) and Chad Berkeley (born March 31, 1977) both played city recreational league basketball on the same team when they were about 12 years old. Later, Chad went the way of soccer and Cedar Post newspaper editor. Willie went the way of basketball and worked as a sports reporter on Chad's Cedar Post team.

The two reconnected this past weekend for a social evening in Boise. Chad and his fiancee Andrea moved to North Boise from Santa Barbara earlier this month. Chad's gonna take up flying helicopters. He's already started, and he's hoping to complete the flying school later this year. From what Willie reported yesterday, the reunion of the two teammates was a "good time had by all."

So, that's the way the ball bounces down Boise way, and it looks like some fun times ahead for all of our Sandpoint boys. I couldn't be any prouder.

Why I like spring

On this Easter Monday, I can finally write about spring. I like it a lot. Here are my reasons:

The first blue sky of 2006 without a cloud.
Red and gold finches fluttering about in the feeder outside the window.
Red-winged black birds, robins, ducks, geese, grackles and chickadees auditioning for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
Promises of future pinks, oranges, purples, exploding from newly-rising buds.
Resurrection is good in many ways.

Grass, rebelliously reviving from winter's sedateness, promising daily stand-ups to the Sears Craftsman.
The first distinct smell of soon-to-be mown lawn.
Green grass, without those damnable dandelions of May.
Daffodils bursting open their yellowness, even on Easter Sunday.
Yellow daffodils enhancing that deep green grass.
Aspen and willow buds ready to blast open their greenery for another year.

Hope for a release of those manure-mud tags when I curry my geldings.
A respite from the daily muck-down when Kiwi comes to the house.
Good bye to ducks, hello to rototiller in the disappearing garden pond.
Joyous good bye to driveway puddles.

Good moods. Good thoughts. Good work ahead.

Good bye, winter!
I won't miss you.

I like spring.
I'm glad it's here.
I've missed it.
I promise to make it feel really welcome this year.

Hallelujah!

Good Grief: good visiting, good food

If ya call ahead, Kathryn will bake those cookies. I still haven't tasted one, but next time I'm headed for Good Grief, Idaho, I'm gonna call. After all, when they have white chocolate, oatmeal, cranberry and pecans all mixed together, they've got to be good. Yesterday, when I asked her if she had any cookies to go with my coffee, she mentioned macadamia nuts but no cookies.

That's when I learned to call ahead. We hadn't planned to dine at Good Grief. We'd left Sandpoint and the rain to go explore the area around a couple of abandoned mines near the Canadian border. Bill was scouting out new geocaching possibilities. He'd put out caches at Meadow Creek, Copper Falls and the American Girl mine, so yesterday he was checking out the prospects for the Bethlehem and Tunsten mines.

We didn't make it to the Tungsten mine because the road up there turned from a hint of water trickling down the middle to a full-fledged stream cutting its way through foot-deep snow. After walking about half a mile, we turned around and headed back to the pickup. The next stop, turned out more productive----just half a mile up a bare road and there stood the old mine shack, with a claim scrawled in paint, apparently by the Brackenbusch brothers.

The shack was surrounded by cement blocks which had been used for folks to sit around a campfire. A few feet away and over a small hill, the mine shaft was closed off and a good-sized stream came flowing from beneath the door. Up above, Bill found a large hole in the ground leading to the mine shaft. It had been cordoned off by a metal fence, but that hadn't stopped someone from throwing the Forest Service sign to the bottom.

I think Bill is planning to put a cache there. It's a pretty area, especially nice for walking. We also drove up the Hall Mountain Road, where we startled two yearling moose, probably twins, who were standing at rest on an embankment just off the road. They started up the hillside and took a moment to check us out before disappearing. Bill and Kiwi found an established cache a few hundred feet up the road from the moose. He said the place was covered with signs of moose and elk.

Next, we decided to go back by way of Meadow Creek, but I wanted a cup of coffee by then. That's when I found out about ordering ahead for the cookies. I also learned that Kathryn knows about geocaches. Bill, who'd been sitting in the pickup, was quite pleased to know of her interest. So, after visiting the Forest Service picnic ground with all the fish sculptures alongside the Moyie River, we decided to go back to Good Grief for a bite to eat.

We enjoyed much more than good food. We were tempted to order the Good Grief pizza, which could rival a Second Avenue jukebox special any day. Kathryn brought it out to Mike and Dolly who'd shown up for lunch and had such a good time visiting, they decided to stay for dinner. The Good Grief (about $17) has the works: if we have it, you get it. That includes four kinds of cheese too.

I passed up the temptation, knowing I have to go to Mass today. My stomach doesn't always react to my weakness for food. So, I had the turkey bacon melt, while Bill enjoyed a huge chili cheeseburger with fries. All the time, we participated in the neighborhood gathering which seems to be a regular event for Kathryn.

We met Bill, a retired Marine and single action shooting friend to our Mayor Ray Miller. He enjoyed cracking his one-liners. We learned that he doesn't like or dislike horses (even though he wears a nice Western hat). He also holds a healthy skepticism for journalists. He's traveled several times to China, and he was pleased to learn of Bill's association with the Boy Scouts, since he's an old Sea Scout leader himself.

Now, Mike and Dolly have been living along the river in their Fifth Wheel for more than two years. Now that they know how much they truly love it up there, they'll break ground for a house this summer. Mike's retired, but Dolly runs the Dollar Value store in downtown Bonners Ferry.

As for Kathryn, she's been cooking and taking care of stray cats that wander to the restaurant for a little over two years. Her sister-in-law works at the Border; her brother's a retired ex-cop from California. Kathryn gets up every morning at 5:30, and starts cooking the staples, like soups and cookies. Then, she takes a nice walk and later opens the restaurant. I heard she also puts on quite a barbecue on the Fourth of July after the Good Grief area residents have marched in their short parade up at the Border crossing.

Could be we might keep the Fourth of July at Good Grief as a distinct possibility on our schedule. In the meantime, I'm keeping my Good Grief Grill & Grocery menu, which has Kathryn's telephone number, and I'll order ahead for those cookies the next time we head up there. I have a feeling that, since Kathryn suggested that Bill hide a cache somewhere around the restaurant, that it may be sooner rather than later.

Not today, though, cuz Kathryn's taking Easter off. Happy Easter to all, especially the friendly folks we met in Good Grief yesterday.

Happy Easter

A long, long time ago, I remember a discussion that took place in our living room. It had to do with the meaning of Easter, and we were very young. When quizzed on why Easter was important, one member of our clan simply replied, "Easter's for the chickens." At the time, when we were all a very Catholic family, the response was considered a wrong answer, although it has remained a family classic for years.

If I were asked today, what Easter's for, I'm probably spew out a similar answer. It's for the ducks. I looked out my window a few minutes ago and saw half a dozen mallard males swimming in my garden. Maybe Noah knows something about this and maybe Noah would understand why we've had rain for nearly every day of April, most of March and a major portion of February.

I don't know if it's hit the 40-day count yet, but at its present rate, I do know that I heard our KREM-TV weather man Tom Sherry announce two days ago that we'd already had more rain in the first 13 days of April than we'd had in the entire month last year. And, except for a few brief breaks, it's been raining continually ever since his assessment. That steady downpour has turned my garden into a nice swimming pool for the ducks.

Anyway, back to this Easter stuff, if it's for the chickens, God bless the chickens. If it's for Jesus Christ's resurrection, God bless the day. If it's for families to get together for church, brunch and a nice ham dinner afterward, God bless the families. If it's for dressing up in brand new spring fashions and going to a parade in some big city, that deserves a blessing too. If it's for spending a quiet day walking in the woods and beholding all that God has created, that's truly a blessing.

As adults, most of us who are raised Christian know the story of Christ's crucifixion and subsequent resurrection. We know of the characters---the denials, the alleged betrayals, etc. As children, it seems reasonable these days that chickens might come into the mix. After all, where do those painted eggs originate? I'd wager that at the time of the great revelation in our household, the responder was much more astute than a lot of kids who thought their bottled milk came from that truck driven by milkman. I'm sure in a lot of cases, no cow ever showed up in the picture for many kids until they got a little older and understood stuff about farms.

In our present household, we have varying traditions about Easter. My husband attends church several times during Lent. He's been down there at the Presbyterian Church almost every Thursday night when they serve soup and then have their service. Of course, he's there every Sunday also. In my case, I've been to Mass once in the past several weeks. My mother, my sisters and I will go to Mass in Bonners Ferry tomorrow and have breakfast at the Chic n' Chop Restaurant. (Hmmm. There's those chickens again). Then, Bill will join the rest of us for a ham dinner tomorrow afternoon at the Colburn farm.

I do not believe that God keeps score the same way humans do. I believe that God figures if we're doing the best we can to live out the basic principles of His teachings in our individual ways, he's not gonna strike us down for how many times we don't show up at church. I also don't believe we need to confess every error of our ways. This demand was pounded into us as children where I grew up, and I had a problem with it then. They'd already taught us that God knew everything. That basic lesson of God's ominscience came before they taught us that we needed to confess everything. Maybe if they'd turned it around, I would have had a different attitude.

Somehow, the need for confessing to a priest didn't quite make sense to me. Besides, through my religious teachings, I've been made to feel enough guilt to last several lifetimes. I always feel terrible the minute I know I've done something wrong. Since those teachings of long ago, during my childhood when the Church ruled all its flock with an iron hand, I've watched what has gone on in my church---among its leaders, many of whom were designated to listen to and comment on the sins of their flock.

A lot has changed since that long ago proclamation of Easter and the chickens. It may have been the wrong answer that day in our household, but I'm wondering what God was thinking when He heard it come from the mouth of an innocent child. I'll bet he chuckled a bit. I also wonder what God is thinking when He watches the hypocrisy which gets spewed across this world in the name of religion. I'll bet he's shed a tear or two.

I think God is much more forgiving than many humans. I believe that He smiles upon those who are doing their best both inside and outside the church buildings. If they're treating their fellow man, the Earth and all the wonderful beasts on this planet with respect---even the chickens at Easter, I'll bet He's smiling.

Happy Easter to all wherever you are and however you choose to celebrate.

Guestbook stuff

This past week, the web gurus have been dealing with some technical glitches in the websites where my (www.mariannelove.com) is hosted. In my case, the guestbook was inaccessible. This morning I could get into the guestbook but couldn't access my administration window. As mentioned a while back, I have a new guestbook because of the inordinate amount of spam that was blitzing the original.

So, once again, if any of you blog readers have signed before, I invite you to sign again, especially if you're a Sandpoint High graduate. I'd love for the guestbook to serve as a message board, of sorts, for SHS alumni. It would be great if folks sign in and give a few brief highlights of their lives after high school. The more the merrier because I'm guessing other graduates like to read that stuff as much as I do. So, sign in. Plus, you'll find several items of interest, especially under "Love Notes," which I've published during the past year or two.

This morning when I did access the guestbook, the following entry appeared. I thought I'd post it here on the blog for now, since I can't write back to this lady. If anyone knows information of interest to her, you can either send it to me or just post it on the guestbook. Eventually, the technical glitch will be corrected, and I can send it to her myself.

Here's her entry: I wonder if you ever heard any stories about the "DP" family that lived on the McNall farm in the mid'50s. I was the middle child--4 years old when we arrived in Sandpoint. We lived there a few years and then moved to Cleveland, Ohio. A few years ago, one of my sisters, Mom, and I made a trip back to Sandpoint to visit the McNalls. The people of Sandpoint and the McNalls welcomed us to America. Julia Pojuda Ruggeri of Austin, Tex.

Now, I know Robin McNall checks in from time to time to see the latest on Kiwi, my Border Collie. Robin thinks of herself as Kiwi's grandma, and rightly so. She and Kiwi's real mom, Sam, nurtured Miss Kiwi through her beginning stages of life. Anyway, if Robin or any of the McNalls has some information to share with this lady and if I can learn some more of her story of coming to America, I'd be happy to elaborate in a future posting.

I promise to all McNalls that if they respond to this morning's appeal, I won't tell one detail of the day one of their Shorthorn's turned the annual countywide 4-H picnic at the old fairgrounds ---next to the Moran Addition---into a circus. I think the errant cow's swimming venture in the Pend Oreille River has been well documented enough in old newspapers and in a chapter in my first book. So, there's no need for me to repeat the story and embarrass the family any more.

Speaking of McNalls and Miss Kiwi, she says she'd sure like to see it quit raining so she can go out there to Curlesses to learn the difference between her collection of Folgers coffee cans and Randy's herd of little lambs. Coffee cans are getting old. SO IS THE RAIN.

May you all have a good Friday.

Tobias Carlson reflections

I can remember when he used to sit in the back seat of his sophomore honors English class and lean his long body off to the side so I could see his face whenever he had something to say. He stretched a lot taller even after those days, it seems. I'm guessing he must stand about 6 feet, 6 inches by now---or maybe I've gotten shorter. By any means, I have to look up whenever I run into Toby Carlson these days.

And, it's been a while. I heard from him yesterday, though, when he contributed the following comment on my recent posting about "Developing blues."

Marianne, go down and check out our old lake place in the Moran Addition. Someone bought it for $1.8M, tore down the house, barn and corrals (and tore out the apple trees and the Italian prune tree), and they're building six (6) houses on the property. We rode bikes down there the other day, and they've moved fill around and lopped trees so that even the property contours are unidentifiable.

The only thing that remains the same is the wonderful view of the river, the bridge and the mountain. And I suspect the trains sound the same at night rumbling over the bridge (a few minutes after they've shaken the foundations of Seasons at Sandpoint).

I remember admiring that place, where the Carlson family lived, from the days when I used to go visit the Whittaker family who lived in the same neighborhood. Those were the days when everyone talked about the Whittaker "Mansion" down on the river at the edge of the Moran Addition. At the time, we figured it was biggest house in Sandpoint. A rich Californian had moved here, had bought the Pend Oreille Sport Shop and had hired local contractors to build it. Let's see, could that be the McCormick Bros.?

I wonder how many residents of Sandpoint would know what Toby or I speak of when referrring to the "Moran Addition." The Morans are a longtime family here in Sandpoint. If I remember right from the days of listening to Joy O'Donnell doing her sleuthing down at the museum, one of the Moran ancestors served as chief of police here during the early Twentieth Century. I taught Patty Moran, who was one of his descendants. Seems like her dad worked for the postal service.

I'm bettin' anyone who's moved here in the past twenty years wouldn't know where to go if they were sent sight seeing in that "new" part of town where the "rich" folks lived in their fancy homes. It's located south of the Lutheran Church and west of the museum. At the time, we'd also hear people talk about "Mortgage Hill" out there just east of Dover. A doctor or two lived up there. Now, ya have to drive a bit higher than Mortgage Hill to see its present day counterpart, called Ravenwood.

Anyway, back to Toby. I think I'll be seeing him if his class is having a reunion this summer. Thirty years ago he graduated from SHS and went on to college. I don't know where, but he must've done well enough to become a lawyer. He spent several years in Saudi Arabia before moving back to the United States and eventually settling in Spokane.

Seems like he brought a piece of Hadrian's Wall back with him and showed it to Joy, who'd also taught him English when he was a senior. I also remembering sampling one of his crepes during his entrepreneurial days at Northtown Mall. His wife Tani is part of that McCormick Bros. clan who, I think, built that mansion next to his childhood home. I taught Tani too.

Let's say the brain pool between those two is pretty substantial. Tani earned a degree in English and taught for a number of years on the East Coast. Last I heard (cuz I haven't heard directly from Toby until yesterday), he was serving in the Washington State Attorney General's office in Spokane and making a trip or two up here to the Hope area to enjoy the family houseboat.

Toby's kinda special to me cuz he wrote a testimonial on the back of my second book. I didn't even have to pay him to do it, and it was even very nice. Plus, it's a bit haunting when you think of the Sandpoint that Toby describes in his blog posting as compared with what he described for my book just ten years ago. He was living in Arizona at the time:

"Marianne Love's writing is pure escapism: it allows us to escape for a while from the frenzy, cynicism and noise of the 'modern' world into a slower, richer, funnier and altogether more authentic place. Those of us who were fortunate enough to grow up in Mrs. Love's Idaho are able through her writing to recapture the magic of those days."

I guess after rereading his comments for the first time in a few years, I've come to a couple of conclusions. A lot can happen to a place within a decade. I wonder what we'll be observing ten years from now in our hometown. And, I guess I'd better keep on writing, so we all can continue to escape through our memories of better times in our hometown.

Thanks, Toby, for continued inspiration.

In loving memory . . .

Harold Tibbs

April 12, 1916--Nov. 21, 2003

Husband, dad, granddad, great-granddad, friend

Harold Tibbs, a lifelong horse/animal lover and consummate story teller was born April 12, 1916, in Sheridan, Mont., to William and Iva Tibbs. His parents, both teachers, eventually moved the family to Bonners Ferry, Idaho, where Harold’s equine interest began. During the summers, he rode horses belonging to Kootenai Indian Tribe interpreter/elder Simon Francis. These experiences sealed his great respect for the Native American culture. After graduating from Bonners Ferry High School in 1934, Harold fulfilled his dream of becoming a cowboy by riding 40,000 acres of cattle range while employed at the Millard Easter Ranch in Montana’s Madison Valley.

He also worked in the woods around Bonners Ferry and as a truck driver for Big Lakes Logging Co. in Northern California. A horse logging accident near Bonners Ferry resulted in Harold spending the rest of his life limping from the pain of a broken leg that did not heal properly. He also contributed to the war cause as a civilian at Farragut where he delivered tools. He often told of being the last civilian at the World War II naval training station and having to check himself out of the facility. For 33 years, he worked for the City of Sandpoint as its water filter operator, frequently enhancing his knowledge with water treatment short courses at the University of Idaho.

As a person who loved the land, Harold seldom left his ranches on North Boyer and alongside HWY 95 just north of the “two halves of beef” at Colburn. Nonetheless, he’s known worldwide in Appaloosa horse circles because of the time he took his stallion Toby I to the first-ever National Appaloosa Show in 1948 at Lewiston and came home with a passel of trophies, including the performance championship. His name and story appear in several books, including the Farnam book about Appaloosas, Idaho Rodeo by Coeur d’Alene author Louise Shadduck and the recently released coffee table book Spotted Pride where he and Toby are featured in the first chapter.

For several decades, Harold raised registered Herefords and worked hard, through the Bonner County Cattlemen’s Assoc., helping organize annual bull sales at the local livestock auction company. He also helped with the early rodeos in the Sandpoint area when they were held on Great Northern Road and later on Baldy Road. He was an active member of the Sandpoint Saddle Club and the Bonner County Horsemen’s Assoc.

An outdoorsman and marksman who enjoyed rebuilding rifles and constructing black powder weapons, Harold bagged his share of wildlife, including elk, deer and antelope. He also loved to fish. From these experiences came many a story to swap with family and with his special group of friends on Saturday mornings at the Pend Oreille Sport Shop. Harold was a practical genius who could construct or fix just about anything, whether it was a fence or an old tractor. He gave of himself quietly for his neighbors and once received recognition from the Eagles Lodge with its annual humanitarian award.

Most of all, he was proud of his family, having taken on the responsibilities of three small children with his marriage to Virginia in 1954. The couple later “added to the litter with Batch No. 2,” but all six children, Mike, Kevin, Marianne, Barbara, Laurie and Jim, considered him their dad. His influence and many guiding principles helped direct each child to a successful life.

Harold and his 1940 Ford