The "New Sandpoint " Ten Years Past

I searched in vain this morning for a Spokesman-Review column I'd written several years ago about the Senior Citizens Thrift Store ladies dolling out $10,000 worth of scholarships to Bonner County's graduating seniors.

My desire to find the "Panhandle Pieces" column arose from reading another Spokesman story this morning about the Senior Citizens Thrift Store moving from its headquarters today. Seems their rent was recently raised at least threefold by the new property owner. Seems he said it was just "pure economics" to up the rent by that much and that he "wanted to help."

Now, I know only what I read in the paper, but it seems to me that it's pure economics for this owner to consider the humanitarian angle on this deal between landlord and tenant. I wonder how far the several thousand dollars donated by the Senior Citizens Thrift group every year for decades have gone to ensure countless young people's college educations or to ease the burden that our poverty-stricken locals or troubled teens face.

Seems also to me that this person---if he's the one I'm thinking of who owns several hunks of valuable real estate here and throughout the country---could go far in enhancing his community image by stepping back, reconsidering his rate hike and extending a generous humanitarian gesture toward the Senior Citizens and their store.

Anyway, I hope this problem gets worked out for the betterment of the Senior Citizens and for our community before this afternoon when that donated Litehouse truck has to haul off all the thrift store's donated items for storage while the organization finds more "affordable housing" in our town.

Speaking of my hometown and thinking about the fact that this is the last full day I'll be a resident of the city of Sandpoint, I did find another column, I wrote ten years ago in July for the Spokesman. It shows just how far we've gone in a decade, and the column certainly makes me wonder what's in store for the ten years ahead.

Enjoy:

Spokesman Review, The (Spokane), Jul 20, 1996 by Marianne Love Correspondent

Not long ago, a gentleman told me he had heard that I knew all there is to know about Sandpoint.

His comment flattered and amused me. I guess I do know a lot about my hometown because I've lived here for nearly half a century and my journalistic dealings take me places where I ought to learn these things.

However, the more I see, the more I realize that the gentleman's compliment was a bit far-fetched. My wanderings take me throughout the Kootenai, Ponderay and Sandpoint area.

While driving past the new Wal-Mart to the Coldwater Creek campus last week, I discovered the area's seventh stoplight. I silently wondered if more stoplights could even begin to slow the changes that take place on a daily basis in my community.

During my rounds, I discovered that one restaurant that had closed its doors and thanked its customers three weeks earlier, had reopened.

While at another, the owner told me the place would be closing for good in two days.

One art gallery on my itinerary had moved to the newly renovated Old Power House, which used to be known as Sandpoint Marina.

While at the Power House, I met the manager of one of the two new bank branches, due to open in Ponderay later this year. Speaking of banking, this summer both places where I do my financial business have changed names.

While continuing on my way, I discovered that another store, which had moved three times this year, was completely empty. Further on, a restaurant that had closed in the spring was now thriving with new owners and a Mexican menu.

Down the street, I even noticed that someone felt the need to change the Tervan's name to "Tavern." I also passed several new vendors who are among the herd that continues to spring up on the Sandpoint sidewalks.

Last month, I attended the opening of the new Cenex farm store, which moved from Sandpoint to Ponderay.

Parishioners at St. Joseph's where I attend Mass are planning for a new church to replace the building where Sandpoint's Catholics have worshiped since 1907.

The high school where I attended and began my teaching career is now a middle school, and the Bulldog our Class of 1965 had painted above the gym doors was covered up with paint a few years ago.

Sandpoint's fire and police departments also have moved.

Bonner County voters have finally agreed to finance a new jail, which will be constructed in my rural neighborhood inside Sandpoint's city limits.

Within the past two weeks, Sandpoint's boundaries have once again changed because of a court decision to void the city's most recent forced annexation. Now, the residents in those areas may be forced to seek different fire and police protection.

I look around my hometown for places that haven't moved, changed their name or gone out of business since my childhood years. The numbers are dwindling.

There's the Pastime Cafe and Sports Shop and the 219 Lounge on First Avenue.

I beam with pride every time I drive down Boyer Avenue and see my once-condemned Lincoln Elementary school still thriving as an educational facility. I hope it stays there forever as a last vestige of the community I knew as a child. And when someone says, "You know all there is to know about Sandpoint," all I can do is chuckle and say, "I wish!"

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Note: We do intend to start moving to our new home on South Center Valley Road by tomorrow. I hope to document these activities, but if by chance our major detour in life, gets the best of my time for posting on the Slightdetour.blogspot.com, please stay tuned.

I'll get back soon with stories of what it's like to once again live in the country. And, wherever the Senior Citizens Thrift Store ends up, we'll probably have a few items to donate when the move is completed.

Tractors, ATV's and Cal

I walked into Cal Russell's office at Boundary Tractor Co. yesterday and said, "Bet you have no idea who I am." I was figuring I'd win my wager since I've met Cal only once in my life, and that was several years ago. I've written about him in my second book because he was the guy my dad always talked about when he was making tractor deals in Bonners Ferry.

I believe my brief mention of Cal even included some incorrect information, namely the name of his business. I called it the Bonners Ferry Tractor Company. It was close but not quite correct, so I'm hoping this morning's acknowledgement of error will satisfy Cal. Cal's an easy guy to deal with, and he's got a good memory.

"Well, you're Marianne Love, " he said, not skipping a beat. I was impressed. I was also impressed this morning when I went to my book and read the reference about Cal. Turns out my folks had gone to his office ten years ago in July, 1996, to talk about purchasing an ATV. They had just visited a longtime family friend Jean Martin at her place near Priest River and had ridden the Martin's ATV's while looking over Jean's timber-thinning project.

They came back from Priest River impressed and ready to invest in their own. A 4-wheeler soon joined the tractor fleet at Tibbs Arabians, while one member of the tractor fleet helped pay for the new 4-wheeler. Bill purchased that 1956 Ford from my dad and brought it home, happy to be a tractor man himself, just like his father-in-law.

Well, the Ford came into yesterday's discussion as did ATV's and my dad, Harold. Cal has fond memories of Harold because he bought the first Kabota tractor ever sold in this area. Cal told us yesterday he's sold that same tractor five times now. And, Mother told me last night, after hearing about the tractor's many new homes, that she couldn't ever figure out why Harold ever sold it in the first place.

"There was nothing wrong with that tractor, " she still insists. Well, she really knew why he sold it. Harold was always interested in a new tractor deal. He may have been smiling from above yesterday as we pulled into Boundary Tractor and started looking at a Yamaha 4-wheeler with a rear-end dump box. Bill's actually been eyeing those for years, saying they'd be perfect for my mother because you don't have to straddle anything to ride them. He's also thought they'd be perfect for working around a farm.

Well, we'll soon be working on a bigger farm, so we had an excuse to get serious about an ATV of our own. And, what better place than Boundary Tractor and what better person than Cal to give us a deal. During our visit yesterday, we delighted in telling Cal that listening to all that tractor stuff during her childhood had even rubbed off on our daughter, Annie.

A few weeks ago Cal's Uncle Wally Adams, an owner of Coeur d'Alene Tractor Co. stayed at the Courtyard Marriott in Seattle. When my daughter registered him, she noticed his business card and asked if he'd ever heard of her grandfather because she knew he had bought a tractor or two in Coeur d'Alene too. Sure enough, the name sounded familiar to Wally.

As we started the second generation of equipment purchases from Boundary Tractor which Cal has proudly managed for 30 years, we found it fascinating to learn that he's a fourth generation tractor man. His great-grandfather started Adams Tractor Co. in Spokane after a stint of selling apples at the old Spokane train depot.

One day two men got off the train from the East and bought some of his apples. Their names were Edsel and Henry Ford. They were looking for folks to start Ford tractor businesses out West. So, Cal's great-grandfather accepted the challenge, and the rest is tractor history.

Speaking of tractor history, Bill was proud to inform Cal that our 50-year-old Ford still has the Adams Tractor metal identification tag wrapped around its steering column. While sealing the deal on the ATV, Cal promised to make arrangements for the old Ford to go up to his shop for a good tune-up.

In the meantime, that new Yamaha 4-wheeler will get some farm use on our new place, starting with a grand tour of the property for my mother. Moreover, a whole new era of family to family farm equipment association has begun to unfold.

Countdown to the Fourth

There's another countdown going on in our family, and it has nothing to do with moving. Just six shopping days remain until the Fourth of July Parade. Well, actually no shopping is necessary for our excitement dealing with this year's big event. My mother didn't even need to rely on her Mastercard to get prepared for her upcoming priceless experience.

She will need to go practice, however, and that's scheduled for sometime tomorrow at Evelyn Pucci's house in south Sandpoint. Before long-timers get too concerned, I'll issue an emphatic "No, my mother's not gonna dress up in yellow silks and a fancy hat and twirl a baton like LaVerne Hebert did for so many years back in those parades of yesteryear." She's got a bad knee, so she won't be marching to the beat of the Town Band.

Mother is going to be part of an entry in the parade, however, for the first time since at least the 1970s when our Schweitzer Valley Dwellers 4-H Club used to dress up to different themes and ride through the streets waving at the crowds on Independence Day. Before that, she rode with the Bonner County Horsemen's Assoc. and before that, it was aboard her Sadddlebred mare Adare's Countess Largo, riding matched pairs with Catherine Racicot who was on Largo's father Danny A'Dare.

The idea for my almost 85-year-old mother's appearance in this 2006 Fourth of July Parade occurred one summer day last year when we had cousins from Washington who had come to town. They called us and said they were just passing through and enjoying lunch at Ivanos. So, Mother and I jumped in the car and went down to see them.

While we visited with the relatives, Skip Pucci and his daughter Gina sat in a booth behind us having their lunch. When they finished, Skip got up, walked to our booth, looked at Mother and said, "You and I have a date next Fourth of July." Of course, my mother was both giddy and flattered with his announcement. "You're going to ride with me in a doctor's buggy in the parade. Now, don't forget."

After several "why's?" Mother accepted the fact that Skip was totally sincere and that she'd definitely have to mark Fourth of July, 2006 on her calendar. The date has been mentioned a few times since, especially after we heard that Skip, who's 63, had suffered a stroke in Seattle a few months later. When Mother and I saw him again one day after his stroke, he assured us he was doing just fine and the buggy ride was still on tap.

Skip called the other day to make sure Mother was still up to joining him. She had entertained the idea of having a knee replacement but learned from the doctor that a knee brace may give her the support she needs. So, with thoughts of that surgery out of the way, she was good to go for the doctor's buggy. She's especially good to go since my sister Barbara suited her up in a fine Western ensemble, complete with a rhinestone shirt and fancy hat.

Of course, with my mother and her faulty hearing, there's a good story to be told. Skip called me first the other day and informed me that she'd need to wear her Western clothes. Then, he called her, and, according to my mother, he said she'd need to wear her "wedding" clothes. We corrected that notion right away and suggested that her 95 percent hearing loss in one ear may have caused some confusion.

Now, we just have to figure out how to get her in the buggy. Mother does still ride horses several times a year. A few years ago, my brother Kevin built her a mounting stand with stair steps allowing her to get even with the saddle, raise her leg just a bit and she's on.

I don't know if she's ever climbed into a doctor's buggy even when she had two fairly decent knees. So, tomorrow we're going to Skip's mother's house to talk about logistics and getting into the buggy. I don't know if he's going to have it there for practice, but we'll figure it out, and if we have to haul that mounting stairstep down to the parade, we'll do it.

Mother is still giddy about this adventure and still asking why Skip picked her. We've told her that Skip's just that kind of guy. There's not a nicer, more thoughtful person in Sandpoint, and for him to come up with an idea like this----that's just vintage Skip Pucci.

So, we family members will be clapping, yelling, snapping and filming this special event. If you're reading today and planning to attend the parade, be sure to look for that doctor's buggy with Skip Pucci and Virginia Tibbs (definitely some vintage Sandpoint folks) and give 'em a big hand. I'm sure it'll be a scene almost as good as Cliff Irish bringing his logging truck to a halt during the parade in front of the Tam O'Shanter to go grab a beer.

Speaking of the Tam, I wonder if Skip has plans to stop there and buy Mother a tall, cold one.

The heat goes on; the grime goes off

I'm not going to complain about the heat. It may get to me, but I'm not going to complain. I have complained for months now about dreary, wet, cold weather, so I can take the heat. My body complained last night---it told me that it was more tired than usual. I wonder why.

Maybe it was because I spent the morning at high, hot altitudes in the kitchen. I spent a good share of my birthday at high, hot altitudes in the kitchen too. Anybody checked up there in your home lately? Things grow above the cupboard line over the years. In our case, a thing grew. It was a sticky deep mass of chicken, hamburger, and steak grease combined with a touch of lint and a healthy dose of dust.

I started trying to remove the stuff about two months ago when I went up there to retrieve a severely tarnished silver goblet, which had sat just above the microwave for years. When the silver goblet refused to let go, I knew something was "amess." So, I found a higher bench to stand on. That brought me to almost eye level with the cabinet tops for the first time in twenty years.

"Eeeeeeeyuuuuu!" as my daughter would say. The grit-and-grime was downright scary, plus, it's been disturbing to open our sticky above-stove cupboard doors for years. I'm surprised we didn't have a bug morgue on top cuz any self-respecting fly coming in for a landing would have gotten stuck up there permanently. Must be they knew better than to light on the Love cabinets.

Anyway, my first attempt at removing the yucky growth went foul after about half an hour. Nothing in this house would even dent the mess. So for two months, I've looked up there each day, thought about the challenge and have opted to do other things. Finally, Sunday I talked to a professional house cleaner in hopes of finding something that could attack the grime.

"Well, I might have something," he said. Then, I talked to another pro at dunging out people's houses.

"I've never found anything that will take grease off from wood," she said. "Some of that stuff just stays there, and if you paint over it, it will sweat right into the paint." That revelation was reassuring. I had no intentions of painting my oak cabinets, but I did entertain the idea of sand paper when she mentioned that.

Instead I found some wood cleaner, some Formula 409 and a sharp metal spatula. First, I stood up there in that altitude, in that heat and began the excavation process with the spatula. I dumped each load in an old mixing bowl. Looked like some good stuff to mix in with chocolate cake dough. Yum. Yum.

Then, I found a set of sponges with scouring layers, grabbed the bottle of wood cleaner, sprayed and scoured, sprayed and scoured, sprayed and scoured------that was on the cupboard doors. On top, I doused the residue with killer amounts of Formula 409, then scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Slowly, stubbornly, the stuff eventually started coming off. I could smell victory over the odor of 20-year-old grease.

With every war, there are pockets of resistance. I discovered that yesterday morning when I realized the cabinets above the refrigerator have tops too. And, their tops, though not so saturated as those above the stove, had layers of growth too. So, while Don Palmer worked away at some fix-it jobs in the kitchen, I continued to scrub.

It was hot and sweaty up there, but eventually I could come down with a sense of satisfaction that I had gone to the cabinet tops and had come down a winner.

We still have much to do to leave this house in respectable shape for future tenants, but I'm feeling pretty good in this summer heat, that the worst challenge has been overcome, thanks to a spatula, and several overdoses of wood and grease cleaner.

Floral family legacy

My sisters scared the beejeebers out of me yesterday. I was vacuuming in the bedroom, deep in thought, when suddenly a voice yelled out "Hello." Barbara and Laurie stood in the doorway with big smiles and certainly an impish delight of watching their older sister jump like a crazy woman.

They had come to show me my birthday present. They handed me a card, crafted on their computer which featured photos from a memorable bike ride through the Bird Refuge with our brother Jim on Laurie's birthday. Then, we walked outside where a decorative bench sat in the back of Laurie's pickup. They said they would keep it at Colburn until I was ready to come and take it for the new place.

We strolled around, looked at horses and visited. As we walked back to the pickup, I pointed to the rose bush they'd given me for my birthday several years ago. Its buds had just popped open, and the bush was putting on quite a show for this 59th birthday. That sight reminded them of the rose bush in their yard where they've placed a bench just like the one they brought for me. I had given them the rose several years ago, and it has flourished in the yard next to their house.

Since they were going shopping, my sisters asked if they could leave my birthday bench in the yard and come back to pick it up later. So, when they left, I went to get a shovel.

My plan was to dig up an assortment of flowers for them, including pansies. Barbara said the supply had been pretty grim at the nurseries so I said they might as well have some of mine, which have thrived through the cold wet spring. I also dug up a start from our yellow rosebush which covers one side of the bunkhouse, bursting with thousands of buds each early June. Bill has requested that we take some of that to our new place, so I figured my sisters would appreciate their share too.

I also separated some Iris given to me ten years ago by Kelsi Camp from her family garden. Its sweet fragrance is unmatchable and profound each year as the bluish purple blossoms put on a two-week show. I'd read in yesterday's paper that it's time to separate the Iris and the chives, so Barbara and Laurie reaped the benefits of that lesson. Their bucket of goodies was overflowing, but still there was the huge orange lily behind the bunkhouse.

I've stolen from its roots several times over the years, leaving the main plant looking virtually untouched, and I figured they'd better have a generous sample. So, that topped off the offerings for when they'd come back and get the bench. I enjoyed telling them the story of each species.

They added to my commentary, however, by reminding me that the lily came from the original North Boyer farm. It had thrived out back of the house, Laurie recalled. Like the good thief I am, I hadn't limited my pilfering to mailboxes. Years ago----probably 32---I'd stolen from Mother's orange lily and had planted it on the Upper Tibbs place where we lived for three years before coming down the road to our present home.

When we came down the road, so did a portion of the lily. Now, its parts will travel once again: to my sisters' home at Colburn and our new home in Selle. So, the floral legacy shall continue, even after its gone full circle, in family terms, that is.

And, when I think of those flowers in family terms, I can't help but think of the mother my mother barely knew. In fact, Mother brought out some photos of her mom last night who'd died near Wallace when my mother was three. She reminisced as we ate cake and ice cream around her dining room table where three of my pink peonies and one of Barbara's plum-colored roses combined for a beautiful summer arrangement.

I could not help but think that our grandmother must have been smiling at the scene, knowing that in a funny way her legacy lives on. After all, her name was Lily.

The Beddie Bye dilemma

Yesterday marked the last time I'll ride my bike to coffee cult. In the future, I'll probably drive since the route is eight miles further. I won't forget yesterday's ride because it was such a glorious morning for pedaling to and from DiLuna's. I even enjoyed one of those moments while passing Farmin School where we suddenly look at the world around us, take in the fresh morning air, welcome the breeze blowing against our faces and thank God for being alive. Good weather fosters that appreciation.

This week marks a lot of lasts. As mentioned earlier, I'll mow the yard for the last time. I'll walk the fields around the house and try to fix the special images enjoyed every day for 30 years in my mind: the pond, the view of that old red barn from the road, a few more trips to its interior, including a climb up the ladder to the hay mow for one last peek out the south opening toward the airport, to town and over to Goobys.

We'll see the cars coming and going to work for the last time: Larry Book driving by with his John Deere lawn mowing tractor, Karen Feist headed to the store, the Gooby's taking a jaunt to their north field and their Christmas trees, Doyle Reader behind the wheel of that gray pickup bound for a contracting job, the folks in Nick's subdivision and those in Crooked Lane, many of whom always wave. Soon we will no longer see Perry Palmer headed to his heavy equipment shop or the dozens of Quest employees turning onto Turbine Drive just north of our pasture.

One "last" that really concerns me is the last time I call Annie Dog and her two feline friends for "Beddie Bye." They sleep in the bunkhouse at night. When Beddie Bye comes each evening around 8:30, all cats know to report to their assigned areas. Annie Dog knows she needs to report but doesn't always comply right away. So, Kiwi heads to the bunkhouse and waits for her pal. Licker and Fuzzy Wuzzy play hard to get, but they eventually trot on in to the shed where they sleep on a large bed next to Annie.

While I'm still yelling "Beddie Bye" and beckoning for that yellow dog to show up, Lonesome Love and Festus are waiting in the wings, either under the cars or near the nut tree. Once Annie's in the bunkhouse, Lonesome and Festus usually report to the house for their nightly slumber. Charlie's already inside waiting to stare at them each evening and to stare at that black-and-white charged up pup that usually disorders the peace and quiet inside for half an hour or so.

The last Beddie Bye time at this Love house signals some nervous days ahead for my menagerie. I've been trying to tell them about the move to the new home, but they're still content to beg for more Meow Mix or go flop on the couch for a nice nap. They seem pretty unconcerned.

I wish there were a way to prepare these much beloved pets for the upcoming trauma to their routine. I know they'll all be staying inside for a while as they get familiar with the smells of their new home---the house, the barn and surrounding fields. Eventually, however, they'll have the freedom to explore new territory. They'll establish new boundaries for just how far they'll wander each day before returning for that nightly Beddie Bye drill.

I'm hoping that all my beloved critters soon realize that Beddie Bye may be different from what they're used to, but their human friends will remain the same, continuing to love and care for them in Selle just like they've done all these years on Great Northern Road.

Conversations and power

It was early evening on Thursday, and I sat on a bench by the living room window. Bill sat in his rocker while Colin plopped cross-legged on the living room carpet. We'd enjoyed a summer dinner and had just finished watching a video documentary about a mutual friend dealing with cancer. That friend is a former student, and the creator of the video is also former student of mine and friend to all of us.

"Powerful" was the first word coming from Colin's mouth once the credits ended. Colin, a wordsmith himself, had arrived at that instant assessment fresh off from a three-week trip to Kenya and Nairobi where he lived as a guest with several African families. During his visit to Africa he saw poverty and suffering at their extremes residing right next door to an upscale golf course. He stood on the railroad track depicted in last year's powerful movie The Constant Gardener, a murder mystery dealing with pharmaceutical company experimentation on Africans.

Having just come from his own cultural odyssey, Colin was visibly moved by the video as was Bill. We talked about the documentary, and as we talked about the individuals associated with the video, I could not help but express my oft-felt exhilaration of being "so lucky" to have worked with so many wonderful people during my tenure as a teacher. And, to have done it all in this little ol' North Idaho town.

Colin agreed. He remembered a comment made many years ago in his English class when I'd told him and his classmates about the power of growing up and learning in Sandpoint.

"You can go anywhere," I had told them. "You can do anything you set out to achieve." That statement seemed so true at that moment, as I thought about Colin with his magnetic personality, his quick intelligence, his ability to ignite people into action and his choice to use all those wonderful attributes right here in his hometown.

Colin is an assistant pastor at a growing and active church called Cedar Hills. Colin has coached, taught, preached and studied. He was a finalist in the Rhodes Scholar competition while doing his undergraduate work at Seattle Pacific University. He worked on his Master's at Rice University; he now goes to Seattle every week in pursuit of a divinity degree.

He lives in an older home in Sandpoint next to his father's veterinary clinic. Colin had come to our home Thursday night on his mountain bike after a grueling ride with his colleague up and down the Mickinnick Trail. He has chosen to do his life's work here. He has proven the notion that his hometown provides all the inspiration he needs to achieve the great goals of his life, which boil down to something so simple as making a difference in people's lives.

As I write this morning, I think about the visit with Colin on Thursday night and a visit with Kari Saccommanno on Wednesday night. Like Colin, she just dropped in after seeing me walking around my yard. She'd been in the neighborhood for a Festival of Trees meeting. While sitting in one of our backyard Adirondack chairs, Kari batted away mosquitoes as she, like Colin, proclaimed that there's no place else on earth she'd rather spend her life than right here in this community and on her farm near Wrenco.

She told me about the secluded spot in their woods where the family has set up a picnic table and where they go to enjoy the simplicity of family just being family. She hardly even mentioned her high-powered job in the photographic department at Coldwater Creek Catalog Co. Instead, she focused on the good work of gardening, helping her husband Clay cut wood and watching her daughters learn how to work and to learn responsibility while growing up on a farm.

Kari also told me about telling her daughter Kendall that of all the places she's traveled and worked in the film industry, Sandpoint, Idaho, is the place she prefers the most. Kari lives in the same general neighborhood, not far from the farm where she grew up. She graduated from Sandpoint High School in 1983 as a great student and phenomenal athlete.

She received her degree in cinematography from Montana State University and set off on a career as a production assistant with the filming of nationally-televised commercials. She worked up and down the West Coast but always dreamed of returning to Sandpoint. That dream has come true, and Kari couldn't be more thrilled.

I couldn't be more thrilled either, and I couldn't feel any luckier than to have the good fortune of knowing Colin, Kari and a host of other phenomenal former students in their adult lives. I pinch myself every time I get to share in their enthusiasm toward all richness that their hometown offers them as they pursue their professional passions and enjoy the simple pleasures of life.

Happy Birthday, Kiwi

Kiwi is one year old today. Bill went to the store last night to buy her a special box of doggie biscuits. I took her birthday picture this morning, but technical difficulties prevented me from posting it.

I'll also gave her a new Folgers coffee can to add to her herd, and if it works out, I might just take her out to Grouse Creek, where she was born, to see her mother Sam. Robin told me to bring her by sometime to herd the ducks, so what better day than her birthday.

In less than a year's time, Kiwi has won over a huge herd of hearts among family, friends and lots of strangers around town. The folks at Co-Op Farm Store love to see her trot through the door, and she loves to see them. She knows they'll stop what they're doing, give her a big hug and hand over a treat or two. And, of course, there are all the customers whose faces light up when they meet her in the aisles.

Kiwi loves people. Her exuberance gets a bit much at times as her body wiggles and her nose and tongue go into action. Kiwi's a bit like me in the people circles. She loves to greet everyone along her way. Instead of words, the folks along the way get French kisses when they least expect them. I try not to do that when greeting people, so we're a little different in that respect.

I still can't figure out how dogs know about banks and biscuits. Kiwi had visited only one bank and received just one doggie biscuit one day when we were driving my mother around on her errands. Mother needed to drop off deposits at two different banks. After getting her doggie biscuit at the first bank, Kiwi went back to her "round-town" nap as we made other stops.

Later, when we pulled into Bank of America, that little pup was wide awake and waiting. She'd never even seen the Bank of America before, but her doggie sense told her that another biscuit lay waiting inside that window. I've often thought that if banks wanted to do some good advertising, they should use dogs like Kiwi to advertise their superior biscuits.

I can't imagine life without Kiwi. I know Bill feels exactly the same as do the kids, even though they don't get to see her as often as we do. Now the cats---I think their opinion might vary. Charlie still growls at her as do my mother and sisters' cats. Our Lonesome Love lurks around the house in her midst, but Festus still doesn't mind having his entire head inside her mouth.

Kiwi and Festus hit it off from the get-go. Just like her sense for doggie biscuits, Kiwi knows to play very gently with Festus's head. The two of them even get into some good boxing matches on the love seat. Seems like a strange place for pugilism, but they pound at each other with their paws lovingly.

We feel very fortunate to have our Kiwi, and so does her pal Annie Dog. Annie moped around for a couple of months last year after her longtime friend Ebbie died. She spent most of her time lying in the bunkhouse, getting more and more arthritic. Then, along came the new pup on the block.

After a few initial growls and snarls had established the ground rules, Annie and Kiwi formed a close friendship. Though Kiwi can run circles around her, Annie can still outdo Kiwi with the coffee-can tug. Those Yellow Lab teeth of hers have decimated enough sticks over the years that they could probably pull a car down the driveway.

As we celebrate Kiwi's special day, it seems like she's been with us forever. We hope that continues to be the case. She has brought great joy to us, and we look forward to many more Kiwi adventures.

Who knows---maybe next year we'll even buy her a real sheep for her birthday.

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

She Leaves the Grass

We have fewer than ten days of living at this place now. Gradually, I'm leaving visible reminders that we'll no longer be running the show here. I did something similar when I retired from teaching. About six weeks before my last day of school, I started driving to school a minute later each week. It was amazing how much that minute's difference revealed in what was going on in the world beyond our driveway.

I met different cars on the road, driving from town or pulling on to Great Northern Road from Gooby Road. I started seeing kids standing along the road waiting for the school bus when I'd never seen them before. Sometimes I had to wait for a train blocking the tracks, when I'd usually avoided that delay with an earlier departure. Arriving at school, I noticed a more active parking lot with fewer slots to choose from. Inside, the lobby was bustling with kids and more teachers were congregated in the staff room, chatting or preparing for their 8 a.m. classes.

My strategy of breaking with a strictly-established routine allowed the rebel inside me to strike out, albeit somewhat tamely, but the process also gave me a different perspective on how much effect a minute has on a day.

My strategy for preparing to leave this home we've loved for thirty years has involved a day-by-day process of removing visible objects within the house which have given it our personal touch---the photos, wall hangings, horse trophies, knicknacks, etc. The walls are getting more bare by the day, but so far, all that's revealed to me is a need to fill all those damn nail and tack holes.

Outside, I've followed another gradual releasing of my personal touch. That would be my lawn mowing routine. It's been documented a time or two that I love to mow lawn and that I love to continually add to the manicured state of my surroundings. Neighbors have wondered from time to time just how far I was going to extend that lawn along roadside beyond our driveway to the north and to the south. I wondered the same thing because the internal desire to beautify the world pushed me a few feet onward every year.

Well, my mowing operation has decreased gradually over the past couple of weeks. No more do I mow the Coxes' field, which borders our south lawn. No more am I mowing clear out to the pond with the riding mower and the pathway along its shoreline with the push mower. Earlier this month, I quit mowing the trail to Quest Aircraft Co. property and their patch of pasture along our adjoining fenceline.

The grass is growing. It's looking ragged and ugly out out there. Like the obsessive-compulsive souls who can't stand to see a picture leaning ever so slightly off balance, I'm having a difficult time disciplining myself. I like order. I'm obsessed with neatly-mown lawns. I hate what I'm seeing out there---the tall grass, the thistles and that disgusting hawk weed.

I'm so tempted to jump on my Craftsman and mow down the eyesore. But I remain strong. There are other more important things to do when one moves 30 years worth of belongings than to spend almost one full day out of every four maintaining an estate-like setting.

I'm figuring on one more push with the mower before we go north, and I'll probably select another area of grass to leave standing. What has this process revealed to me? What have I learned about the world at this end of my driveway?

I've learned that hundreds of red, orange and yellow hawk weed sprouts have been lying beneath the surface, hating my guts every time I've shave their heads, and those little devils have been secretly waiting for their chance to rise up and put a blight on one more acre of Bonner County. I've also learned that I can't wait for my mower to go to work out there on South Center Valley Road and cause the neighbors to wonder just how far she'll take it down those ditches.

I think I enjoyed my school rebellion much more than my lawn-mowing retreat.

Garden parties and the Browns

Annie and I went to a garden party a couple of weeks ago. Well, actually it wasn't a garden party. It was Keokee Creative Group's grand opening their new digs on Church Street in Sandpoint. They're just across from the old Harold's Foods and the new Panhandle State Bank Financial Center, once it gets constructed. They've moved into a house, which has a beautiful back yard. I do a lot of freelance writing for Keokee, and they're going to publish my next book.

I put this picture on today's blog because I was thinking about the SHS alumni site (www.sandpointhigh.com) and how much it's already meant to so many people who've signed up (now 220).

Now that really has no connection, but when I tell you that this photo was snapped by Danielle Huguenin Pati, who's the oldest daughter of Bobbie Brown Huguenin, the connection will unfold. Next, I must mention that I saw Bobbie Brown Huguenin yesterday at the Post Office, and she told me that she'd already reaped a benefit from the alumni site.

Bobbie said she received a nice email from another SHS grad who had spotted her email address on the site. She was pleased to have heard from the graduate and pleased that she'd signed up. I've known Bobbie since I was a toddler, and I've watched all her kids grow up---have even taught most of them: Danielle, Joelle, Nicole, Suzanne, Gabrielle and Jean Pierre aka JP. Hmm. I guess Jean Pierre is the only one I haven't taught. He graduated with Annie, by the way.

It's always fun to visit with Bobbie and always great to catch up with what's happening in her children's lives. I had a chance to do some good visiting with Danielle that day as she made her way around the open house snapping photos of the guests. Her husband Carlo is one of Keokee's talented graphic designers and computer gurus.

During our visit, Danielle and I reminisced for Annie's sake about the time she carried the flowers for the SHS Homecoming queen. She was pretty young then and looked exactly like Tatum O'Neal, who had just won the Oscar for her performance in Paper Moon. Danielle never forgot the big deal I made about the resemblance, nor did she forget the big lollipop I gave her for doing a good job carrying those roses.

It was kind of cool that she took the time to snap a mother-daughter pose of another Brown girl and her daughter. We've enjoyed that Brown connection since the good ol' days in Sandpoint. We may not be related by blood, but we Browns have always enjoyed a mutual admiration society.

So, thanks Danielle, for the gift of your photography. I'll remember your gesture just as long as you remember that lollipop.


Annie Love and Mom Love
at Keokee Open House

Boxes of life

Bill caught the humor long before my pea brain did. When I told him that I'd deposited two dozen boxes out in the box stall, he said that was a good place to put them. Duh! Yup, it's a pretty appropriate place to store boxes all right. I had put in my order with my sister Barbara a couple of months ago.

"I'll take all your yearbook boxes," I told her. She promised to fend off any other teachers coveting cardboard storage containers when the annuals arrived and she'd save them for me. Except for a few that she needed for her own purposes, Barbara gave me about 35 Walsworth Co. yearbook boxes over the course of two weeks. And, without thinking, I stored them in the barn box stall, which today is empty.

Every single one of those SHS Monticola yearbook boxes has since come from the barn to the house to be filled with the contents of the Love house and the Love's lives. There's definitely a lifetime or two of golden memories in them there boxes.

Yesterday, Willie's childhood years went from his walls and bookcase into the yearbook containers. Seems just as fitting as their temporary resting site in the barn that yearbook boxes would serve as containers for the mementos of childhood, adolescence and early adulthood.

After all, the years of Young Willie are represented well inside those containers with all his Rolling Stone Magazine covers from the wall, the posters of "Michael" of the Bulls, a pewter cross given as a First Communion symbol, the "Will and Deb" poster decorated with yellow and green ribbons for a wedding rehearsal dinner in 2001 and the Spokesman Review In-Life front-page color photo of Willie, Romain, Alana and Deanne wearing their tie-dye T-shirts.

Also, packed away is another front-page photo from the Cedar Post high school newspaper, entitled "Newest Bulldog." Willie, with his sagging baby jowls, is being propped up by Mom and where the cutline offers of long list of expectations for Young Mr. William E. Love III. At 29, he still has time to complete the list, especially for his two terms as President of the United States.

Across the hall from Willie's room, Annie's walls are bare. Her younger life is packed into boxes too. She did that by herself a week ago. Her closet is now filled to the brim with boxes of old annuals, books, her hubcap collection, assorted music boxes given each year of her youth, the First Communion wall hanging and all those posters of Hollywood actors/movies, the 1997 Bulldog football team, Kurt Cobain at his wildest, etc.

While organizing her mementos, Annie even brought me a check found under her bed. Ironically, it was written a year ago yesterday by my sister. Speaking of beds, I haven't bent over to see if more boxes or maybe a wastebasket will be needed for what lies beneath. Seems those areas always provide an assortment of treasures and trash.

The yearbook boxes are full. Now we're filling up the whiskey and Kokanee boxes donated from Schweitzer Conoco's box bin. Yesterday, Michelle generously opened the door to the bin and told me to take my pick of flattened cardboard containers.

So, last night Bill started filling boxes. He began with his bookcase but took a break to thumb through the dusty photo albums of kids in cherubic stages: Willie hugging his baby sister Annie, Annie climbing on the antique rake, the kids running through the fields with their golden retriever Pupper, the kids standing with those "gone dog" English Setters, Bogey and Julie; Willie on a blanket at three months with a pair of ruffly "girlie" panties, Annie throwing rocks along the shore of Priest Lake.

I told Bill that packing those boxes can be hazardous for the emotions. It's best to not look, to not think of the days so long ago. It's best to just grab the piles, stuff them in the boxes, and tape them shut, and label the contents. Those frequent breaks taken to remember all those cherished moments of life can slow down the moving process, but they're oh, so sweet.

Perspective

Bill was looking for the trail to the Burton Peak lookout. He said there was an old cabin up there, and that he'd like to hike to the lookout sometime. After all, Burton Peak represented one more tall mountain among the Selkirks that he had not hiked. Last summer, he reached the top of three major peaks in that ruggedly beautiful area northwest of Bonners Ferry.

We drove to Bonners Ferry yesterday afternoon, like so many other locals who'd heard about possible flooding of the Kootenai River. Of course, when a big natural calamity happens in this area, people want to witness it. I remember a few years ago when the Myrtle Creek fire west of the valley kept folks busy driving to and from Bonners Ferry for several days to see how much of those beautiful mountainsides overlooking the Kootenai Valley the unruly August blaze intended to burn.

We drove through that very forest fire area yesterday after checking out the river and agreeing it was mighty close to flowing over its banks. Along our way to the Myrtle Creek road, we saw a few docks that appeared unleashed and floating like wooden islands several feet from shore. High, slow flowing water in Deep Creek at the Bird Refuge suggested sure mosquito heaven among the cottonwoods.

Bill had heard the Myrtle Creek Road was closed, and the sign at the turn-off indicated as such but six miles up. We drove two or three miles before turning off at the Burton Creek Road. I'd never been on that route before, but Kiwi had. While Bill reminded her of the day she accompanied him and Willie on a geocaching run, I took in the open hillsides of huge Ponderosa pine rising out of rich green grass. The drive also provided us several spectacular views of the wet, expansive Kootenai Valley below. At one point as we rounded a bend, a young whitetail buck in the velvet stood like a statue on the hillside above staring down on us.

We drove for several miles before coming to a large turnaround area at the end of the road and to an obvious fire line separating the Myrtle Creek burn from untouched forest land. Bill said a few fingers of fire had gone over the top and down the other side, but for the most part, the fire fighters had stopped its action before it could do more damage.

A trail led off into the woods from the turnaround spot. Kiwi and I took it to see where it led while Bill stood near the burn and looked off toward Roman Nose Mountain, still complaining about how a reporter had called it Sundance Mountain in yesterday's Daily Bee.

Our trail was covered with lots of fresh moose droppings and huge beds of colorful wildflowers growing within moss blankets and thriving at full bloom, thanks to the southern exposure. Later, Bill joined us as we climbed on some huge rocks and looked off toward the expanse of mountain tops. As I panned the grandeur of the Selkirks, I spotted a most familiar sight in the distance.

"There are the Green Monarchs, and there's the lake," I announced to Bill. Although interrupted by layers of other peaks in the foreground, a portion of the very recognizable Monarchs on the southeast side of Lake Pend Oreille near the Clark Fork River could be easily seen from my rocky perch. Bill stepped up to take a peek. He simply acknowledged my discovery and commented about the area lying just before the scene being that of Jack Nicklaus' new golf digs.

I don't know why, but it struck me as odd to be standing on a peak northwest of Bonners Ferry where a view southeast of Sandpoint nearly 60 miles away via road could be seen so clearly. I marvel at such moments and never cease to be amazed at how new perspectives can make all the difference in how we see our world.

To all Dads: Happy Father's Day

Great-grandpa, Grandpa and Dad Harold

Annie and Dad Love in Seattle

Saturday Stuff

It's bullet day again. That means I give myself a break from sticking to one topic. It's kind of fun to touch briefly on several subjects from time to time. So, here goes:

• Bill's working today. He's one of the instructors for a tree-pruning/thinning work shop at the Federal Building and later at Round Lake State Park. He says 45 people signed up so it sounds like there might be a lot of pruning and thinning happening among the forest lots around the area.
• The Sandpoint High School alumni site list is now up to 197. Maybe it will surpass 200 today. I saw Becky Kiebert and Tracey Albertson Roos yesterday, and they planned to spread the word among their families. Full participation from either would add significantly to the list. Also, saw Judy Lines Farmin and Nellie Garrison at the museum They promised to sign up. If Nellie does, she'll break the record for the oldest alum on the list. She graduated from Sandpoint High School in 1946, and she's looking forward to her class's 60th reunion in September.
• We enjoyed our visit to Costco. I noticed a relative calmness there last night. On our past trips there the place has been buzzing, but the crowds just weren't there. Could be that the free hand-out carts were pretty limited, probably in anticipation of a big day today. Bill did his usual looking at things----digital cameras, two-way radios, but we kept our purchases to food and those eye glasses. Turns out they're three for $17, but that still beats Wal-Mart. I received a suggestion to go across the street to the Dollar Store, but we decided to stick to Costco where the quality might be a tad higher. Thank you, though.
• We ate at Moon Time on Sherman Avenue, and, of course, we sat down and immediately spotted a familiar face. Jack Lewis, son of Dave and Mardette, grew up here in the neighborhood, and he served on my Monticola staff back in the '70s. He was there having dinner with his son. Also saw another former student, Naomi Hellen and a former colleague, Carol McPhee. She used to be a Clark Fork Gunderson, and she's taught high school English forever. Definitely no getting away from the locals if you travel anywhere in North Idaho, it seems.
  
• I might pick lettuce, radishes and spinach from my garden today. These veggies have been ready to pick for about three days now, but I didn't want to sink to China while picking. Actually, two days ago I nearly had a floating vegetable garden. Fortunately, the plants remained rooted, and it's going to be nice to have fresh salads for the rest of the summer. I'll probably have the seed packets ready to go the instant we set foot on the new place so we can have a continuous supply of salad makings. Speaking of which, it's going to be interesting moving my four tomato plants. They're blossoming, and they stand at least four feet now in their big black pot. Gonna have to be tender loving tomato care when they get moved to Selle.
  
• We received our slick 4-color Tomlinson-Black Real Estate Catalog with today's paper. I noticed a changing trend from the past few catalogs: more million dollar-plus homes and acreages but lower prices on the lower end. Maybe a few regular folks can afford a home here now.
  
• Speaking of that catalog, there's sadness associated with it. Justin Caswell's photo still appears among the realtors, right next to his mom Mickie. Justin died last week at 24. He was the second young person in our neighborhood to die within a few days. The other was Kip Smith, who was one of Bill's Boy Scouts. Justin and Kip grew up about half a mile from each other. Justin was one of my students and a phenomenal young man. Hearing of his death so soon after Kip's was just about too much to take, especially because I so admired him as a polite, intelligent, engaged and mature young adult. Every time I'd see either of these guys around town, they always flashed big smiles and generous hellos. They both left their positive marks on this community. Both left us much too soon.
  
• I'll probably pack a few more boxes today and do some refrigerator cleaning, especially the freezer. Since we're leaving all our appliances except the freezer, all that stuff has to look pretty decent when we get out of here, so there's no rest for this wicked soul.

Happy Saturday to all.

Costco specs

I'm getting mentally prepared for a Costco run today. Since that incident last year when my finger almost touched one of the sample chimchangas, which in turn set off the crazy woman in charge of the sample tray, I can feel stress building every time I go to Costco. Bill and I are going to the Hayden store today as part of our anniversary celebration, and I'm vowing to be very careful near the hand-outs.

We haven't made a Costco run for several months. It's time. We're down to three garbage bags from the supply purchased the same day I threatened to touch the chimichangas. The bags would have lasted longer if we hadn't been moving, but with the six trips we've made to the transfer station in the past few weeks, the supply has rapidly depleted itself.

Besides garbage bags, we need to stock up on paper towels. Bill, like his Depression-era mother, likes to stay ahead of the game on certain items in this house----garbage bags, cleaning materials and especially paper towels. Again, however, the moving process has taken a toll on his carefully-calculated projections that dictate if he purchases packages totaling at least 250 paper towel rolls, that amount should last us for at least two years and any possible paper shortages.

Our paper-towel roll count now stands at 4, so I'm figuring our Jimmy's back end is going to be pretty full when we pull away from the Costco today. I don't even want to talk about the cleaning supplies. Annie came home last weekend ready to pack and clean her bedroom only to find one dozen empty spray bottles sitting on the laundry room counter.

When she complained, I informed her that our cleaning-supply hoarder, who does logistics on forest fires, had missed miserably on his projections and that, of all times for needing Windex, Mr. Clean, wood cleaner and Comet cleanser, he had really slipped on his calculations. So, I'm expecting to see some giant containers of each of the above squashed in there with the towels and garbage bags.

As for me, I'm going to spend the time I don't spend sampling the chimichangas at the spectacles counter. I'm down to one set of Wal-Mart glasses without permanent smudges, bent frames or missing lenses. I do have a collection of various-powered lenses, but those are just for emergencies. It's time to stock up with some new models, and I've heard that you can get packages of spectacles at Costco in the half dozen count for about $15. That beats $17 apiece at Wal-Mart by a long ways.

I figure my newly-purchased supply ought to do me for at least a year, allowing me a set for hiding away in the medicine cabinet, one for the bedroom, the car, my computer and my purse. Of course, I'll have a pair around my neck for whenever I leave home. Lest any former optical assistants, who choose to remain anonymous, be reading this morning to swoop down on me with their expertise, I have tried the ophthalmologist route. One told me I needed glasses when I was 38.

I wore them for two years and swore I couldn't see as well with them as I could without them. Upon visiting another eye doctor and having my eyes tested, I was told there was no need for glasses and that probably during my forties and fifties, my arms would get too short just like most other people's. He added that I'd probably need a little magnification for reading. He was right.

I can't read telephone books, and they now make the tables too high at restaurants for me to see whether I'm ordering oysters or artichokes. So, I buy the cheap brand of glasses. Besides, if I paid $500 for one set of eye doctor glasses, I'd lose 'em within a month. I don't think they're very anxious to issue free replacements.

I'll get that package of specs today, and I'll also select one of those rotisserie chickens to smell up the car with wonderful chicken aroma all the way back to Sandpoint. Mother loves those, and every time we go to Costco, she puts in her order. We'll purchase a few more items too, like the $11. block of Tillamook Cheese and the 6-pack of pasta.

I can guarantee one item that won't be riding back in the Jimmy on this Costco anniversary celebration----no chimichangas. I learned my lesson last year, and my fingers will walk right past the free sample carts.


Note: The Sandpoint High Alumni website (www.sandpointhigh.com) continues to grow. My buddy Gary Pietsch took the big step yesterday and led the way for the Fabulous Fifties era. Last time I checked, 185 grads had signed up. The creators, Pete Neisen, Colt Mehler and Brian Fischer, keep updating the site. It's very attractive and now has the chat feature as well as several forums and polls. So, keep passing the word and encouraging your kids, siblings, parents, friends to sign up. Thanks.

New frontiers in bliss

I haven't seen Noah rowing down the road yet but would not be surprised if he's on his way. My teaching friend George Marker loved to use the phrase "new frontiers in XXXX." I'll refrain from divulging what George's secret word is, but I rather liked "new frontiers in . . . ." It seems to fit a lot of situations, so I'll use it this morning.

Yesterday, we hit new frontiers in ugly days for sure. I thought the drippy wet Sunday a week ago was pretty bad, but yesterday's steady downpour and continuous socked-in dreariness had that beat by a long ways. Though the lakes covering the driveway remain calm this morning with no interruption of droplets from above, the heavy somberness outside would suggest that it may be a while before we have to get out the sunscreen tube.

This dreary, yucky morning marks 32 years of my living with the same husband and 32 years of Bill living with the same wife. I'm sure I've gotten the better deal. Our wedding day of June 15, 1974, was far from depressing. In fact, when Fr. John (he's Tim now) O'Donovan asked us to exchange vows on the altar of St. Joseph's Catholic Church, guests were using their programs as makeshift fans to cool themselves from the 96-degree heat.

In fact, so much Hi-C punch was consumed by thirsty guests at the reception in the church hall that my friend Chris Moon had to run off to Harold's IGA for more. Indeed, our wedding day was a bright, sunny summer day, and a good way to start a life together.

That was back when Bill used to sing to me "You Are My Sunshine," and tell me the story of how Gov. Jimmy Davis rode his white horse named Sunshine to the steps of the Louisiana capitol in Baton Rouge and sang that song. Bill sang it to me quite a few times as we drove the back highways to the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone on our honeymoon.

Just as we've heard for the past few days on the news, there was high water and flooding in mid-June 1974. In fact, the Clearwater River flowed over parts of the road as we headed east toward Missoula from Lewiston on June 16. Later, when we arrived in Jackson Hole and walked the streets, we invested in a can of mosquito repellent cuz the near-flooding conditions had brought on the bugs.

Well, 32 years, and lots of mosquito bites later, we're looking at another chapter of high water, but that throws no damper on this marriage. We exchanged anniversary cards this morning, and my wish to him was that we look at this upcoming adventure of beginning a new life in the country as our gift to each other. He agreed. We're looking forward to new frontiers in our long-lasting marriage.

Maybe in a few weeks some evening when we get all moved in to our new home and have time to sit out on that Trex deck, admiring the beautiful yard and its magnificent Cabinet Mountain back drop, Bill will be inspired to play his harmonica or, better yet, to sing Jimmy Davis's classic. I'd like that.

Note: Speaking of new frontiers, the (www.sandpointhigh.com) website continues to grow. It has nearly 180 names of Sandpoint High graduates ranging from 1960-2006.

And, today it has an attractive new look as well as a fun chat feature. If you're a grad or know SHS grads, encourage them to check out the site and to sign up. Thanks.

Bill's excellent RV adventure . . . not!

Bill's excellent adventure plans turn sour. See story below

Like a good Boy Scout, Bill spent a couple of weeks preparing meticulously for his big trip to Colville, Washington, and the Society of American Foresters Convention. He planned his driving route for our new-old motor home to include geocache locations and good fishing holes during free fishing day in Washington. He made appointments for the RV's servicing and for a tune-up. The servicing went well, and the mechanics suggested some items that could use attention in the near future.

He took the RV to the same shop for its tune-up, which was scheduled for last Tuesday, just two days before his Colville departure. For some reason, the tune-up could not be done on Tuesday, but he received assurance it would be complete by Wednesday afternoon. On Wednesday afternoon, he received a call vaguely explaining that something was harder to get to than the mechanics had anticipated.

Bill, the Boy Scout, had planned to leave for Colville Thursday morning. In spite of his disappointment, he patiently waited until noon Thursday and received a call that the motor home was ready to go. So, Annie and I dropped him off and headed out to Hope for lunch at the Ice House Pizza.

Just as we'd finished our pizza and calzone, my cell phone rang. It was Bill.

"You aren't broken down on the side of the road, are you?" I asked.

By this call, it was the third time the motor home had broken down in the middle of the road----once near Wal Mart as he left the shop, once near home and once near Peak Paving on Baldy Road. The Baldy Road motor sputter occurred on his way BACK to the shop.

"Do you want us to come and pick you up? I asked.

Bill said that wasn't necessary, but when we said we'd be there, he didn't argue. He said he'd be at the shop if he could get the thing back there. So, we agreed to meet him there in a few minutes. I bought Bill an Ice House brownie to soothe his sad situation. While driving back to Sandpoint, Annie told me wanted to get some movies before picking Dad up so we turned off the Kootenai Cutoff Road and headed for Yoke's. The phone rang again.

"No hurry," Bill said. "It broke down again in front of the sheriff's office and some guys helped me push it to the fairgrounds driveway. I'm waiting for a tow truck." When Bill had bought insurance for the motor home, the agent told him that towing insurance would be just $10 extra, so, of course, he signed up.

Knowing we had plenty of time to pick up movies, we went to Yoke's and selected three or four. I walked back to the car early and in time to see Kiwi finishing off the last of the three cookies we'd purchased, including Bill's brownie.

"This just isn't Bill's day," I said to Annie. The tow truck had just arrived when we got to the fairgrounds. I took pictures to document the event. After all, we'd just been to the movie RV, and I knew our adventures with our new-old motor home would either rival or top Robin Williams', so visual documentation was important. It was a sad moment but hard not to laugh.

We followed the tow truck to the shop and then took Bill home to his pickup. He'd had plenty of time in between motor home deaths to use his cell phone and reserve a room at Benny's Motel in Colville. He headed out the driveway at 3:45, approximately 7 hours and 45 minutes later than his meticulous plan had projected for a trip which would include geocaching and leisurely fishing along the way.

Bill did not fish. He did not geocache. He did reach the SAF convention in time to take in a few programs, but even that wasn't going so well. When I called him to report that the motor home needed a new carburetor, brake work and a suggested compression test to see if it was all worth it in the first place (tab $700), he said it was okay to talk for a while because the power point presentation he was attending had an equipment meltdown.

"Go ahead and get the compression test and if it's a go, have 'em do the carburetor and brakes," he said. "It's going to have to be done sometime." Then, came the wait. Did I purchase a 30-year-old lemon? Would we have a motor home which wouldn't motor? The hours went by, and nobody called. Finally, just before closing time, the mechanic called and said the motor home had passed its compression test with about a B+, high enough to proceed with repairs.


The news got better a few days later when he called again and said the carburetor didn't need replacing after all. It just had a few screws loose, literally.

We picked it up last night, and it does drive much better than before. The good news is that the bill amounted to just over $400. The bad news is that Bill's meticulously planned trip to Colville, especially the fun side excursions on the itinerary, was a bust.

So, now he must find a new excellent adventure for the motor home and formulate a new excellent plan. And, in so doing, that guarantees me yet another chapter in the continuing saga of our new-old motor home.

By the way, I know now that the common belief that chocolate will kill dogs is a myth. Kiwi never skipped a beat after devouring Bill's brownie.

Let's storm the gas stations

I'm gonna get a little political today. Normally, I refrain from such things, but I think one of my friends is getting a raw deal in the press. My friend is smart, dedicated to doing her job right and honest to the core. She grew up here in Sandpoint. She knows this community as well as I do, and she loves this community with the same passion that I do. She's the last person who would ever inflict pain on the people she knows or on the place she calls home.

Her name is Judie Conlan. After working for years on the Bonner County Assessor's staff, she assumed leadership of the office a few years ago. Since that time, she has worked tirelessly to communicate with the public and to run the assessor's office with the utmost efficiency.

We have just received our property tax assessment. It sky rocketed from last year's, but Bill and I aren't blaming Judie. We're not rushing down to her office demanding answers. We think we know the answers because we've been watching what's been going on here in Bonner County and North Idaho for the past three or four years.

Has anyone else out there noticed that a thriving real estate market has driven property values through the ceiling? Has anyone noticed that a lot of people are flocking here from all over the country and the world and that their demand for housing (be it affordable (?) or palatial) causes that real estate market to remain at an outlandish level?

Judie did not invite all these people here. She had nothing to do with opening the doors and welcoming the masses to find their nirvana here in good ol' Bonner County. Our population has increased because of media attention, because of career flexibility created through the Internet, because of a global economy, because a growing business sector is attracting workers from throughout the world, because this place is so pretty and people tell other people how pretty it is. The list could go on.

The world is moving, and it's not just moving to Sandpoint. The population boom is occurring in several other parts of the country also where real estate prices and tax assessments are also increasing. But, let's stick with this area. With all these people moving here, we have some major infrastructure needs. None of us would like to think about that, but eventually something's going to have to be done about the schools, the wastewater facilities, the roads, and the general utilities that need expansion or improvement when more people are putting more demand on their use.

While all this has been happening Judie Conlan and her assessor staff have been doing their jobs to the best of their ability and with the resources available. Judie has done her job just like the folks in the gas stations do their jobs every day---the managers and their employees. The people in the gas stations are not responsible for sky-rocketing gas prices, just like Judie Conlan is not responsible for sky rocketing real estate prices.

Now, if I were like some of the media outlets I've been reading lately who seem to delight in inciting the masses (basic journalism says that's a no-no in news stories), I'd suggest that while you're rushing the assessor's office to complain about your property tax bill, you should also stop at your regular gas pump and hassle the workers there too. After all, you have to pay those high prices for your gas, and they're the poor saps who expect you to pay up when you use the pump. From what I've read lately, gas prices make people mad too.

We live in a small community here in North Idaho which is going through the growing pains of events virtually beyond our control. Property taxes make us seethe no matter what. It's been that way since the tea party. But even since the tea party, somebody's had to be the bearer of the bad news. The old statement "don't kill the messenger" seems to be as appropriate as ever with this latest sticker shock in Bonner County.

I believe it's ridiculous to aim animosity at the assessor's office for a situation precipitated by a host of other factors having nothing to do with Judie Conlan and her staff. I believe in Judie, my friend. I believe in Judie, the assessor. Whether Judie, a Democrat, or XXXXXX, a Republican, were running the assessor's office, the situation we are seeing today would not be any different. XXXXX could hardly stop the masses from flowing in here and driving up real estate prices.

Yes, it is just as ridiculous to accost the gas station workers as it is the assessor and her staff. Let's calm down, and put the pressure on the people who make the laws, which Judie and all other assessors follow when they compute those tax statements. Seems like that would make a lot more sense.

The only other idea I have is to construct a gate and an all-encompassing fence around Bonner County. Since the Commissioners said just a couple of weeks ago that it's okay to have private gated communities here, maybe they can put my idea on the agenda when they determine the budget. After all, their budget is gonna determine how high the tax payments are actually going to be anyhow.

Root Rot and founder among syrup and spuds

When two foresters sit in the front seat and two horse lovers sit in the back, dual conversations can work just fine. In the front seat, terms like "blister rust," "bark beetle," or "root rot" will likely get some use as the car rolls down the highway with mountains and trees on either side. And, when you do the loop from Sandpoint-Bonners Ferry--Troy--Bull River--Hope and back to Sandpoint, "Cushings disease," "founder" or "moon blindness" may be part of the lingo.

Intersperse all that with high water along the Kootenai River, a bear sighting along the Ross Creek Cedars road and a pregnant cow elk feeding in a meadow at the base of the spectacular Cabinet mountains and you've got a pretty good trip for a couple of visitors from Vermont.

I've known Hallie McEvoy via the Internet for several years. We first connected when I was doing a story for the Appaloosa Journal about equine writing careers. Among her careers as cop, lumber broker and ski resort public relations lady, Hallie's been writing about and judging horse events on the East Coast for several years. So, she made a perfect interview for my story.

Since then, we've kept in touch. Over the years, we learned that our husbands were both foresters. Thom McEvoy has taught forestry at the University of Vermont for nearly three decades. He came West this past week to speak at the same conference that my husband Bill was attending, so Hallie came with him.

Bill met the McEvoys last Friday, and we all met here at the Love house yesterday. It was amazing how no time for warming up was necessary. A steady stream of conversation has flowed ever since---except during sleep time, that is. Thom and Hallie were genuinely amazed at the old-growth forest where those Ross Creek Cedars south of Bull Lake in Montana span up to ten feet across. Nothing like that in Vermont, they agreed.

Along our brief hike through the enchanting forest with its crystal clear babbling brook, we came across a couple of young college graduates doing a research study for the Montana Fish and Game, Brandy and Hillary from Red Lodge and Whitefish, respectively. They were having a great time taking close-up shots of mushrooms and wild flowers growing in and around the cedars.

Again, the subjects of horses and nature dominated the conversation which welcomed two more perfect strangers. Hillary's dad had exercised horses at Churchill Downs during his youth, so, of course, Hallie, who owns a few Thoroughbred race horses (even one racing today), jumped into that conversation. Hillary's dad is also a high-ranking roper on the senior circuit when he spends time in Arizona.

After leaving the Ross Creek cedars, Hallie placed a quiet bet with me that root rot or bark beetles might get mentioned again up front within the next fifteen minutes as we headed back toward Idaho. But, the guys must've sensed the bet in the back and failed to bring up the terms again. After all, when you're looking into a sunset and silhouetted mountains along the Clark Fork River and observing the grand expanse of Lake Pend Oreille for the first time ever, it's hard to think of forest diseases or equine maladies.

Dinner at the Dock of the Bay----even after hours----topped off a great day of meeting, visiting and comparing notes of striking similarity between the maple syrup folks and the Idaho spuds.

Lots of bites but no whoppers

Yesterday was free fishing day in Idaho. We finally got around to dangling our spinners in the water about 3 p.m. It seemed like we'd never get to the lake. Once Laura arrived around noon with her triplets and her two adult friends, including Michelle from Coeur d'Alene and Gayle from Wellington, NZ, we finally set off to for our roundabout trip to Round Lake.

Round Lake is southwest of Sandpoint, about ten miles down Highway 95 and off Dufort Road. We headed north on Highway 95 after picking up a few goodies at Schweitzer Conoco. We needed one more fishing pole to add to the gear already on hand. Each triplet carried a brand new designer pole. I even saw a Barbie tackle box.

One of our spinning rods and all of our spinners had spent the winter in our boat. Our boat spent most of the winter in Marilyn Chambers' barn, so our first stop was the Burning Tree Ranch to retrieve the pole and lures and for Marilyn (a brand-new grandmother of her second set of twins) to meet the triplets.

We even enjoyed watching a couple of fruity canines meet each other and proceed to race in wide circles around the Chambers hammocks and outdoor play stations. Yup, Kiwi and Peaches (Marilyn's Boxer/Rottweiler cross) hit it off big time while the kids and adults enjoyed recreating and talking. Of course, Kiwi should like the Chambers dogs since we Love's have owned two dogs born and bred at the Burning Tree Ranch. That would include Annie Dog, Kiwi's buddy here at the house.

After a good visit with Marilyn, we loaded up again and headed for Mother's house at Colburn. While Laura visited with Mother, the triplets with adults headed outside to see the horses. The triplets learned a couple of weeks ago at the Love house how much horses love willow limbs. They had not forgotten, so we witnessed many trips by 4-year-olds trotting up the hillside to Mother's willow tree and galloping back to provide welcome gobbles to Rusty and Telly at the barnyard fence.

Once again, we left to go fishing. As we drove into town, with fishing on our mind, I remembered that a famous fisherman was holding a book signing at that very time. So, we made one more stop, unloaded all occupants (except Kiwi) and headed for the Corner Book Store where Patrick F. McManus was wrapping up his signing. He met the triplets and happily signed a few books for us. Then, we told him we were going fishing. He was impressed.

Finally, we arrived at Round Lake. The new poles for triplets came from their packages and were soon doing their job off the dock, which was lined with far more kids than adults. When we first arrived, one of those kids was holding up a blue gill or sun fish and beaming with pride. With all the lure action, I'm sure most of the wiser fish had figured out it was free fishing day, so they were doing their best to remain free fish.

We did catch a lot of green fish though. They're the kind that grow from the bottom and bend the heck out of your pole, making you think you've surely hooked a big one. Annie snapped a few photos of the larger catches of green stuff, just so the folks back home would believe our fish stories. We also marveled at the giant blue heron swooping back and forth overhead and apparently unconcerned about all these fishing folks invading its space.

Eventually, when it became apparent that we might be hooking more humans than rainbows, we decided to head on down the lake trail to Cocolalla Creek. With the wooden bridge constructed high over the water, the scene was splendid and the water looked as if it could be loaded with fish. No luck at the bridge, plus Justine kept threatening to jump in, so we moved a little further down the creek where an open shoreline offered us plenty of room to cast.

That's where they started biting. The mosquitoes, that is.

With a heavy barrage of the critters landing every which way but loose and inflicting their clodhopper-like stingers, we didn't last too long at that great hole. Plus, four lures were lost within two minutes, so nobody argued when someone suggested we call it a day.

We rewarded ourselves with some of Carolyn's delights at Second Avenue Pizza and all agreed that our roundabout trip to Round Lake had been a success, even though the whoppers are still out there swimming and waiting to dodge the hooks come Free Fishing Day 2007.

A good time was had by all, including the fish and the mosquitoes.

Busyness

This will be short today. A busy weekend lies ahead.

Remowing the lawn I mowed yesterday, thanks to the wind blowing willow leaves all over it. I love North Idaho weather.

Free fishing day in Idaho; the Laumatia family is coming up from Plummer so Annie and I are going to find a place where everyone can fish. We'll probably end up at Round Lake State Park, where there is a stream and a lake.

Bill's on his way home from Colville and the SAF convention. He shortened his original plans because of a funeral today for one of his Boy Scouts, Kip Smith. Kip, who just turned 39, grew up in the neighborhood, and he earned his Eagle Scout rank under Bill's guidance. He died tragically last Saturday from heart complications. His scouting friends will be coming from hundreds of miles away to attend the funeral, so I'm sure there will be plenty of visiting after the funeral.

Company coming tomorrow from Vermont. We've never met them, but we know them. Thom McEvoy is a forestry professor at the University of Vermont. He came west to speak at the SAF convention that Bill attended. His wife Hallie is an equine journalist who writes mainly about Thoroughbreds and horse racing.

We've "known" each other for more than five years via the Internet. Now, we're going to meet in person. Bill tells me she's excited to meet all the family horses too. So, we'll show them horses, trees and North Idaho during their visit.

Gotta get a move on to stay on top of all the happenings. Happy Saturday to all.

A night to remember

The stories began to flow faster than the placid waterfall. Pascal Spade, a spry 90-year-old family patriarch, was taking credit for bringing his wife Bernice to North Idaho from Nebraska 69 years ago.

"I've known her since she was nine," he repeated a few times. Pascal had come here three years earlier and then brought his bride. She wanted to go back home in the worst way, but after a while, home turned into the Sandpoint area. She never wanted to leave, once she got used to North Idaho and its people.

I teased the Spades last night about signing up for the SHS alumni site, suggesting that if they all did so, it would double in size. Bernice and Pascal raised a large crop of kids during their long marriage. And, during those years, Bernice got into 4-H. Like her new home in Idaho, she grew accustomed to the 4-H way and gave it her all until her death a year or so ago.

Bernice was just one of several longtime folks associated with the Bonner County Fairgrounds who've passed away after influencing hundreds of others with their vast amounts of farm knowledge as 4-H leaders, community leaders or teachers. Our dad Harold was one of them, as were Leora Bandy, the Falks of Priest River and their friend Ann Van Fleet who recently passed away; Werner Paulet, Bernice Wood, Elizabeth O' Brien, etc.

A special dedication to their memorial garden and a ribbon-cutting ceremony to the fairgrounds band stand envisioned by musician Ed Brown brought nearly a hundred people to remember their loved ones last night. After the program in the indoor arena and the ribbon cutting ceremony outside, most attendees gathered around the beautiful pond, waterfall and garden next to the main exhibit building.

It was a peaceful setting near that garden, and it was fun to eavesdrop on the tales being told. Mother was having a great time telling Gail Curless and any others who came along how handsome Harold was and how he'd helped start the Bonner County Horsemen's Assoc. next to our old wood shed on the North Boyer farm.

During the program I passed the picture of him riding on old Toby I, his famous Appaloosa stallion. It was taken when he won the performance championship in the first-ever National Appaloosa Show in 1948 and it had been sent to us by the Appaloosa Journal staff shortly after Harold died nearly three years ago. I passed it around because a lot of those people never saw much of Harold.

His influence and teachings showed up in big ways, however, through his family, especially his two daughters Barbara and Laurie. While Harold stayed home working on the farm and taught through example on how to care for animals and how to do any job right, Barbara and Laurie passed that knowledge along to hundreds of 4-H'ers at shows and seminars.

During the program, Tim Cary from Priest River got up and told how Leora Bandy would have loved the peacefulness of the memorial garden because she always radiated a sense of peace herself. One lady inspired some chuckles when she told a Werner Paulet story about the difference between line breeding and in-breeding.

It was a nice evening, which provided a good time to remember these people who contributed so much for others and to remember that their remarkable influence never dies.