It was like, ya know . . . .

The clearcut on the mountain was like aluminum foil.

I think the sentence above was my most favorite metaphorical classic during all my years of teaching English. That was like back then when everyone hated clearcuts like they hate milfoil, which, by the way, is like twisted sister. So, I was thrilled like a happy mayfly which has loosed itself from an aphid-soaked water tank when my friend Marian sent me some similes overnight.

Marian and I taught together at Sandpoint High School back in the late '70s, early '80s. She later moved across the state line and earned a lot more money teaching English and Spanish in Washington. My favorite memory of many with Marian occurred the day we sat in the darkened classroom watching the nauseating guy with slicked-back hair and the skinny black tie repeat "You are now what you were then."

For ninety minutes, he drummed that into our head with numerous anecdotes of support but with no stupid similes. While the well-behaved teachers among our group dutifully took notes on his every word, Marian and I exchanged notes about his every word. I thought his corny message at the time was about the stupidist thing I'd ever heard since the day I'd learned the ASS-U-ME message from Bill Sheffield during a U.S. Forest Service defensive driving workshop at Sandpoint Community Hall.

But like my missassumption about assuming making an ASS out of U and Me, I learned to appreciate the man's message a hundred times over after that curriculum day workshop where Marian and I, in spite of our naughty behavior, took it all in.

Anyway, Marian sent me another note, and unlike those I wrote to her during that in-service program, I'd like to share. Enjoy, and possibly some readers, with upcoming essays to write, may want to make copies so you can inject some of these prizes into you text and really impress your teacher:

Every year, English teachers from across the country are invited to submit their collections of analogies and metaphors culled from student essays. These entries are published each year, to the amusement of teachers all over the country. Here are the most recent winners:

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it, and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at solar eclipses without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E.coli, and he was a slab of room-
temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like the sound a dog makes just before
throwing up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six foot, three inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of thirty years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond, exactly the way a bowling ball
wouldn’t.

10. McBride fell twelve stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with
vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal
quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at
7:00 PM, instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain, like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leapt from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 PM, traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 PM, at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences resembling Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also
never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe, and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

Bicentennial grads

America celebrated its 200th birthday the year they graduated. Last night the Class of 1976 graduates celebrated at the Elks Lodge with drinks, photo shoots, Woods smokies, hamburgers and chicken. The talk was flowing as fast as the bartenders could serve the drinks, and everyone seemed happy to share.

I've attended many class reunions over the years, and they all seem to have a recurrent theme. People are proud of their kids/grandkids, they like to "remember when," and many are happy to be alive. That was particularly the case last night with Sherry Spears who sent me a smile as she walked from the deck to an inside room. To that point, I had recognized almost every former student and many who never even sat in my classes.

When Sherry smiled, I smiled back, but I'm sure she could sense my hesitancy in calling out her name. It was obvious her short hairdo hadn't been by choice. I asked around who she was, but apparently I asked the wrong classmates, who apparently hadn't known her very well. Finally, I ran into her again, and asked her story. Sherry suffers from a very rare form of thyroid cancer.

"I'm supposed to be dead," she told me within the first couple of sentences. She was diagnosed in January and was not supposed to be around for the reunion. But, a very determined Sherry has opted for alternative naturopathic treatments and had just flown in from one of those treatments in Seattle yesterday. She vows that she'll be a poster child for her rare illness and kick it, and she was very happy to share her story last night.

I knew Sherry with long, flowing blonde hair, and when I think of Sherry, I see her riding a horse. She says she hasn't been on a horse this year because the treatments have kept her pretty busy. I was glad to have had the time to visit with her, as I did so many others during the evening.

There was Nancy Buck Neely, whom I'd seen at DiLuna's earlier in the day. She's excited about what her kids are doing and excited that she's going to be a first-grade teacher in Boise this fall. I knew Nancy through English class, drill team and yearbook. She still exudes that beautiful radiance and intellect that so characterized her as a teenager.

I sat with Pat and Candy Moon for dinner and got caught up on Moon family happenings, which include the knowledge that Pat's older sister and my good friend Chris will be spending part of next year in Sweden. She does research on the speech patterns of newborns and will apparently be taking her research activities there for a few months.

Naomi Marquez and I chatted about her mom Laura and just a bit about her vocation as an ordained pastor in Western Washington. It hardly seemed like ten years had passed since we last visited. Naomi definitely has that special quality of making one feel like you just saw her yesterday.

I heckled Toby Carlson, who apparently was heckling Lennie Hess on the alumni site for overlooking him on the invitation list. Apparently, word about the reunion got out to Toby because he was there having a nice conversation (I think) with Lennie when I saw him the first time.

I saw former drill team girls and former Monticola students and exchanged pleasantries with all. I also checked out a few snapshots of kids and grandkids and even gently harassed Mark Johnson's friends from Issaquah who's never seen the inside of Sandpoint High School or even the outside of Sandpoint until Mark invited them along for his class reunion. They were great sports and seemed like they were having as much fun as the grads.

It was a good night of visiting former students and listening to brief, fascinating snippets of what life has dealt them and what they've done to control their destinies since high school. Jennifer Calkins told me about her plans to spend the next year traveling America in her RV with her 11 and 13-year-old. Tami Chappell shared with me how she got started renovating and selling homes in the Bellevue area---complete with hammer and paint. Pat Opfermann gave me a big hug and told me he'd recently moved back to Sandpoint from LA. He said as long as he still has that three cents in his pocket, life is good.

And, speaking of the good life, I've said often that there's no better elixir than a class reunion for an old teacher. Seeing these people as they reconnect and rehash every ten years revs up one's juices and reinforces the pride of having touched someone's life in a positive way.

The bicentennial grads who reveled into the night at the Elks last night gave me another welcome dose of that pride.

Ah, the coffee cult . . . .

It's Saturday, and I've already washed my hair. I'm going into the city today to reconnect with my friends at the coffee cult. Haven't been there since June, and I bet I've missed a lot of juicy commentary on what's going on in Sandpoint, Dover, Hope and all parts in between. Today, I can add Selle to the correspondents' reports.

I'm hoping they'll recognize me because it seems like so long ago that we sat at Di Luna's where my big news was the upcoming big move. As I recall, there was hardly a quorum the last time we met. Penny had gone off for her six-week trip with Amy and Olivia to Canada and the South country. The other day, on one of my first trips to town to do something other than haul more stuff from the old place, I was driving down Boyer toward the museum and there were Penny and Amy.

I stopped to say hi and ask how their trip went. They looked a little fatigued and told me they'd been back no more than an hour. They hadn't even taken their suitcases to the house yet. I'm sure by now Penny is rested, and she'll bring an album of snapshots to share at the cult.

Frances Crandell may bring her daughter Cathy to the cult this morning cuz she may be home for her 30th-year class reunion. I've already done my homework and skimmed the 1976 Monticola cuz Lennie Hess invited me to the reunion a couple of weeks ago.

The classmates met last night at the Power House and will meet tonight for hamburgers and lemonade (ha ha) at the Elks. Could be the Power House even might keep Cathy from wanting to come to coffee, but then again, a cup of coffee might be just what she needs this morning. Anyway, I'll probably see her sometime today because I'll be dropping in on tonight's reunion gathering for a glass of Hooties' lemonade.

It will be interesting to see what my friends' thoughts are on all the sniping that seems to occur at City Council meetings these days, and, of course, they're bound to have some spirited opinions on the tax rollback. I do believe they may not all agree on how it's being handled. Some will think it's great, while others may wonder about the politics of it all.

I've got to ask Maggie of Dover about that million-dollar house going in on the bluff at Dover Bay. Paul Perry told me last night at Second Avenue that he did the first construction up there at the bluff. It was his tree house, and it didn't cost nearly so much as what's going in there right now. Let's hope this million-dollar baby brings in lots of tax dollars; I'm sure Paul's taxes on his tree house were considerably less back in the '50s when life at Dover was so much more simple and serene.

It will be nice to hear from Sue Austin, now that her hubby Jim is fully retired from the Safeway pharmacy. Of course, that is if we see Sue Austin. I saw Jim about ten days ago, and he told me they've been going someplace every day since he retired. I recognized that beam in his eye that confirmed for sure he's a man enjoying his freedom.

I haven't seen my classmate Donna Coulter since either of us turned 59. So, it will be good to see her and compare notes about the thoughts of reaching the big Six-O next year. Of course, it will also be good to remind her that she reaches the magic mark before I do.

As always, it should be a fun time at the coffee cult today. Maybe some bleary-eyed stragglers who stayed out all night at the reunion will also show up at Di Luna's and we can heckle them like we do everyone else we know who walks through the door. Once I've spent some time back at that round table (the table top was donated to Di Luna's by the cult), I'll know that life is returning to normal.

Of course, it's Crazy Days in Sandpoint, so maybe I'm speaking too soon.

Happy Saturday all.

Jeff aka "Mercury"

He was always a good actor, even when he sneaked that bouquet of California poppies to my bus seat outside San Francisco so many years ago. Jeff Gustaveson aka Mercury has been pursuing his acting dream ever since his childhood in Sandpoint. His permanent address is New York City, but try to catch him there, and you in for a challenge. Jeff is often on the road with acting troupes, doing a little Shakespeare among other road show gigs.

Last I knew, his day job when he's in New York dealt with computers and banking, but most of the time he's into some sort of dramatic endeavor. Yesterday, he apologized to all dial-up folks for sending about eight photos apiece in two separate notes entitled "Recent Work."

Accompanying the first note and photos, Jeff wrote:

This batch is work I did on the We Are Marshall film which is Matthew McConnaughey's latest film. Alas, I was only an extra but work must be had, however it may be found.

Photo Descriptions:

The most intriguing thing I found on this film were the inflatable dummies that are used to "fill in" the stands. Often felt like a "dummy" myself for sitting in the sun for 12 hours a day, cheering until my voice was hoarse. The stands that are empty will be filled digitally. Even with 300-600 extras a day, the dummies outnumbered us by three to five times that.

But as you can see in the "extra" photos, from a distance they look just like a crowd. Typically, real people are the sections with umbrellas (to shade them from the sun) and the rest are our oxygenated friends. Are ya digging the 70's clothes?

The picture labeled McConaughey, if you look closely and triangulate between the tuba, black flag, and white bounce, you'll see him dressed in a green shirt and white cap. Sorry ladies, cameras were banned on set so I got what I could surreptitiously.

Of course, as a featured reporter on the field, this is what I would look like in 1971-ish.

And of course, I ran up into the crowd of dummies and sat with them. Can you find me?

In the second note with pictures, he touched on the movie My Christmas Soldier:

This story set during Christmas 1943 is based on true events. I was featured as a German P.O.W. You will find various photos of German P.O.W.'s as well as American soldiers.

The out of focus shot of myself by the train is just to show how large the trains were. They are amazing, and the shoot was incredibly fun.

To view the trailer you can go to:

www. MyChristmasSoldier.com

Oo-la-la, if you pre-order a dvd, you will be listed as an "e-producer" on the dvd when it is released.

Cheers,

M

Jeff aka "Mercury" graduated from Sandpoint High School in 1983. Since then, he's traveled the world and has lived out his dramatic aspirations in a variety of venues. We've kept in touch over the years, and I've devoted a story in my new book to a very special gesture which he kept up for years; it will be called "Emmel's May Day Memories."

It's certainly been somewhat of a banner week for learning about the creative pursuits of former students. Jeff's news provides one more of the hundreds of reasons I cherish my opportunity to have taught all those years and all those talented kids.

Jeff aka "Mercury" as a reporter in Matthew McConnaughey's new movie We Are Marshall.

A well-controlled crowd of fans

Jeff aka "Mercury" in "My Christmas Soldier."

"Jenny's Journal"

It's been a convergence of sorts. It started more than 25 years ago when Jeff Bock and Jenny Jacobson were first graders together at a Sandpoint elementary school. Their paths weaved back and forth over the years as they continued on through high school. That's when they both became a part of my life as sophomore honors English students.

Jeff sat in the front row, right in front of my desk, during fifth period English. During sixth period, Jenny sat in the front row near the door just one seat in front of where her mother Carrie had sat when she was one of my sophomore honors students my first year of teaching back in 1969-70.

Both Jeff and Jenny participated in a major writing assignment during their sophomore year. Jeff wrote about Mrs. Nordgaarden who had 13 kids, while Jenny wrote about her grandfather Elmer Jacobson who ran a mill on his farm at Oden. I was extremely proud of the work they and their other classmates did to portray the lives of long-established people who had contributed so much to our community in both ordinary and extraordinary ways.

The students' works were eventually published in the first Beautiful Bonner history book, which was released the following year. Jeff continued on as one of my students for the next two years. He wrote a killer athletic column his senior year as a member of the Cedar Post staff. Students and teachers alike couldn't wait to read Jeff's next take on athletic happenings at Sandpoint High School because he caught nuances of big games while injecting his own brand of humor into each piece.

Jeff and Jenny went off to college (Montana State and Whitman, respectively) as I continued to teach. I didn't see much of either of them until Jenny returned to Sandpoint with a degree from the University of Idaho, where she had transferred midway through her college career. She married her classmate and soulmate, Jeff Meyer. He had been the outstanding athlete at SHS, while Jenny had been the outstanding student leader.

I saw Jenny from time to time when she'd come to school as a substitute teacher. Our friendship rekindled. I saw Jeff Bock less frequently, but one time he was home and visited the school to talk to the drama classes. By that time, he'd arrived in Los Angeles to pursue a career in the film industry.

One week I heard the news that Jenny and Jeff Meyer were expecting their first child. A few weeks later, I heard that Jenny had been diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer and that it was possible that her baby might have to be terminated. Naturally, everyone who knew and loved Jenny was devastated, but she and Jeff considered the options and moved on with rigorous treatments. Happily, their baby reached full term, and beautiful Miss Grace Meyer entered the world on election day in November almost six years ago.

A few years ago, I called together a Christmas vacation Cedar Post gathering at Second Avenue Pizza parlor. Jeff Bock attended. During our conversations, I shared with him about an idea I had for a documentary or dramatic film series. He was taken with the concept and discussed it in more detail with me via email over the next few months.

The premise was for the hometown teacher to spend time visiting and documenting the lives of her students on location wherever they happened to end up after high school. It could include hundreds of students with fascinating stories, spanning my three-plus decades of teaching, so there were plenty of stories to be told.

We agreed that we'd need to work with a prototype, and that the prototype needed to be someone fairly accessible to both of us. My first choice was Jenny Jacobson Meyer because our friendship had grown, and I'd been following her struggles with cancer, with remission and with reoccurrence. Jeff was elated with the choice; after all, she'd been his good friend too.

So, about three years ago, we began the process of filming and interviewing Jenny in her day-to-day routines. We talked to family members. We talked to friends and church members at Cedar Hills. We interviewed Dr. Neher, who first discovered the cancer. We shot hours of video. Then, as we reached a point of where we'd have to boil down what we'd filmed, Jeff took the bull by the horns, transcribed all the footage and eventually dedicated all his extra hours to the project.

For three years, he has devoted his talent, his expertise and hundreds of hours in Los Angeles and in Sandpoint piecing together a documentary about Jenny, her struggles, her relationship with her husband and daughter, and her courage. Jeff received a great boost in this enterprise this past year while enrolled in a Master's program at the University of California at Northridge.

A few weeks ago, he sent Jenny and me the finished product, a 23-minute documentary entitled "Jenny's Journal." To say I was moved at seeing the film is a dramatic understatement. The story has been boiled down; it is accompanied by some very moving musical pieces donated by the artists, and it's a brutally honest, poignant portrayal of a brave and determined young mother who lives each day for her beautiful daughter Grace.

Jeff also told us when he sent the copies that, that with Jenny's permission, he wanted to enter the project in some Northwest film festivals, including Bozeman, Missoula, Portland and Sandpoint. We had no idea until yesterday that he had also entered it in the Calgary Film Festival, which occurs next month. We learned that piece of information yesterday because Jeff wanted us to know that the film was accepted, and it will have two screenings in Calgary, Aug. 12 and Aug. 14.

This convergence of individuals has led to a very special, intensified friendship, thanks to the visions, work and love that have gone into "Jenny's Journal." Next month Jenny and I will be in attendance when Jeff marries the love of his life Chrisianna on the shores of the Pend Oreille River. Who knows what the future brings for Jenny, for Jeff and Chrisianna or even for their old teacher!

For now, however, we all feel blessed that our lives have converged to produce this beautiful story about a brave young woman, who faces daunting challenges and defies them every day for the love of her daughter, her husband and her family. The great blessing is that her story has been recognized by critical eyes in film circles for its meaningful poignancy.

Congratulations, Jeff and Jenny. It continues to be a beautiful friendship and a beautiful story. I am honored to know both of you.

Manure Spreaders International

Some folks think their tractors are so sexy they start clubs to admire each other's beauties, and they take them to parades. Others even get together in conventions across the country to talk Cummins diesel engines. In fact, I couldn't believe that I actually had a writing assignment once about a Cummins diesel engine gathering in Kellogg, which was one leg of the Cummins diesel tour. What a way to promote tourism, I thought.

Once, I also wrote a story about rail fans and how they cruise the country looking for ideal settings to catch a good picture of a cross-country freight train with a certain engine pulling the load. That story rose out the fact that Sandpoint is a hot spot for these rail fans to gather because of its designation as "The Funnel." The town rose because of its railroad past with three major lines running through the area: the Northern Pacific, Great Northern and the Spokane International aka Union Pacific.

If people get charged up about tractors, diesel engines and trains, why not give manure spreaders a try? I would be happy to lay the initial groundwork for a National Antique Manure Spreader tour. I just need a few interested bodies to help me promote the concept, and judging from my Farm Macheenery Exploding project yesterday, this may turn into a diamond in the ruff for a novel tourism extravaganza.

Fortunately, none of our farm implements exploded during their transport yesterday. Mr. Gary Nelson got the nod as Dan Smith's Evergreen Towing driver who would move our farmyard fleet. He came rolling into the driveway with his first delivery about 11 a.m. Gary was genuinely excited and equally proud to be hauling our manure spreader out HWY 95 and along Selle Road.

After our initial niceties, he couldn't wait to suggest that we hold on to some of the remaining stuff that Bill had labeled "Pacific Recycling" and give it extra life as yard art. He thought the manure spreader was, indeed, beautiful and suggested we keep at least one of the two plows bound for the recycling shop. Gary even pointed to a spot at the end of the driveway where the plow would look really nice.

I weakened quickly and said, "Okay, bring the smaller one." The smaller one is an Albertson Special---that is, it was hand-crafted by the Albertson family of Gold Creek. We bought it for $25 a few years ago at their yard sale. Gary said we ought to paint it up and plop it out there next to the road. I said Bill was concerned about the mowing and weed-eating necessities that come with a plow at the end of the driveway. Then, I came up with a novel idea: put it on a square platform where mowing would be much easier.

After our discussion, with great care, Gary backed the tow truck on to the front lawn and lowered the manure spreader to its new home in between the trio of tall poplars and the young orchard of apple trees. It looked perfect there. Gary and I stood for a moment admiring its rustic beauty with weathered wood and barn-red metal. I painted it a couple of years ago and started planting flowers in it.

Gary eventually went on his way and spent the rest of the day delivering the implements to their assigned spots. On his final run, he reported that the crane operator at Pacific Recycling was eyeing that two-bottom plow and commenting that he might just have to take it home himself.

During the day, I ran over to All Seasons Nursery and picked up some beautiful echinacea plants. The echinacea and some of my other flower pots went inside the manure spreader as did the scare crow crafted by Cheryl Klein's cheerleaders a few years back. The wooden scare crow with her pink corduroy bibs and long-sleeved shirt has gone through a sex change since my secret pal Jayne Davis gave her to me as a gift one year while I was still teaching.

The sex change, however, didn't involve a lot of hormone replacement, and it had nothing to do with her frustration of being a man living inside a woman's body. Instead, it had more to do with the fact that Kiwi had chewed off one of her pigtails. I figured the snip of the scissors would solve the problem of a poor embarrassed scarecrow with just one pigtail, so that's what I did. Instantly, "she" turned into "he" with a crewcut.

His improved self esteem is evident as he stands out there on the back of the manure spreader admiring his bevy of beautiful flowers. Speaking of All Seasons Nursery and pretty flowers, one of the clerks displayed a "covet thy manure spreader" attitude when she asked if I'd be willing to sell ours.

"My dad's been looking for one of those for eight years," she told me. "Where'd you get yours?"

"It's been on our place for more than 30 years," I responded.

"Well, is it photogenic?" she asked.

"Of course," I said, "and it will be especially so when these flowers are inside its box."

The clerk is a talented photographer who's learned her craft from none other than Ruthie Eich of Windward Studios, and she said she'd stop by sometime with her camera. Just like the rail fans, she appreciates a good manure spreader when she sees one.

So, with this much interest, I think manure spreaders offer a new and different way to get folks with cameras on the road, touring the country. Why not establish Sandpoint, Idaho, as the nation's manure spreader mecca!

Any takers, to my proposal? If so, do a drive by and check out South Center Valley Road's newest and most picturesque manure spreader. You may just want to get in on the act----if you can find your own model, that is.

From what I've learned, a good-looking manure spreader is hard to come by.

Farm Macheenery Exploding?

Welcome to another fun-filled edition of "Dumb Poetry in a Card Type Trash".
Today our theme is musical. So sit back and enjoy. And remember, the
opinions expressed here are not necessarily shared by the Geeks with Guns
Association.

"Clarinet"

With a wild look in her eye,
she snapped the long
clarinet into playing position--
with spit flying, she played
a furious rendition of
"Christmas in Poland"
only to realize later
Her mouthpiece was
missing.

No, I did not write the above poem. I give credit to either Melissa or Renee, creators of the best newsletter you've probably never heard of------Farm Macheenery Exploding. I came across their creative works nearly ten years ago while surfing the web. Being so taken with the offbeat newsletter title, of course, I contacted them, figuring they were definitely of my ilk. I learned they were a couple of high school girls from Wisconsin's dairyland; then, I no longer had to wonder where they got their inspiration.

The poem above appeared in the second issue of FME, along with movie reviews and surveys and their wisdom tidbit: Where there's duct tape, there's hope. I had a personal subscription to their newsletter for a couple of years and even used their title in one of the stories in my second book. I know that since those days, Melissa has moved to Australia, while Renee lives in Georgia. Last I heard, she and her husband Daren still worked for Delta Airlines. Bill and I even met them once when they came to Sandpoint on one of their many excursions. We had a great visit over pizza at Second Avenue.

For some reason, I thought of Melissa and Renee this morning because we'll soon have a "farm macheenery" project underway. I'm hoping for no explosions as Dan hauls the stuff to its destination. As I write, Bill is putting labels on the brush hog, the antique manure spreader, the hay elevator, two plows, one old hay with a bent wheel and several spike tooth harrows. The farm macheenery assemblage is sitting in our old driveway awaiting Dan Smith's Evergreen towing truck.

Some will go to Pacific Hide and Steel for recycling, while other items will come out here to be used as farm equipment and yard art. Bill anticipated quite a job removing those harrows from the hog pen where they had resided for at least 15 years, at least since the last set of hogs fattened up within the pen, only to escape on the rainy, muddy day when they were supposed to be transported to Woods Meats for slaughter.

I was lucky enough to be gone that day while Willie and Bill pursued the porkers around the barnyard and while Rambo escaped the barnyard and ended up in the hog pen. Eventually, the hogs were encouraged to get in the truck, meet their maker and eventually land on our dinner plates. I won't soon forget the two pairs of stinky, muddy jeans that could stand by themselves in the laundry room and tell the tale of chasing pork through knee-deep pig slop. For some reason, that was the last time Bill wanted to raise swine.

Anyway, the task of loosening the harrows from the knotted grass that kept them firmly attached to the ground wasn't nearly as bad as anticipated. Bill also was able to move the buck rake and plow with apparent ease, so Dan can just drive in, look at the line-up and their labels and deliver them to the appropriate sites.

I'm hoping that by day's end, we don't have any Farm Macheenery Exploding tales to share. If so, I'll contact Melissa and Renee, who long ago abandoned their newsletter, and tell them they may want to revive it for one more issue.

Hungry blogger

The blogger ate my posting. I'd finished it and was publishing it when I got word from the blogger gods that the connection had gone bonkers.

So, I want readers to know that I wrote a nice post this morning, but like the cheerios, my words got gobbled up for cyber breakfast. Oh well, too much to do today to rewrite.

I'll just wish everyone a happy Monday and tell you that the posting had to do with finally being almost free of the moving mindset. I'm sure a lot of readers will be glad to know that. No more boxes, a little bit more grit and grime, some work on the part of the wrecker service, and we're done. The keys to the old kingdom should go to Quest this week.

On to life again and some different topics! Have a cool day, and don't let blogger.com near your thoughts. It's hungry today.

Heat defeat

I let it get to me yesterday. Determined to defy the 100-degree temperatures, I did pretty well the first two times we went to the old place to remove our belongings. Two loads went to the dump---one we'd collected the night before.

The second load included the king-sized mattress with duct tape over places where the springs popped through. The mattress has been sitting on the back porch since early July. Of course, it's definitely touched off my "what are people going to think" horror every time I've arrived at the house to see it still flopped against the railing surely, suggesting to all visitors that the Loves are surely closet hillbillies.

Well, the mattress is now gone and deposited at the transfer station as is the huge scout tent which has rested in an all-encompassing heap in the barn tack room for at least a couple of decades. We called upon our teamwork to drag it out of the barn onto the tractor platform. We even entertained the notion of sawing it in half so we could lift it into in the bins at the dump. That was not necessary, though, because the dumpsite hostess directed us to a second transfer pile where we could just dump it in the pile.

After a break, which allowed me time to give my horses their daily soakdowns with the hose, we headed back to the place for our third load. When I asked Bill what he planned for this trip, he said he wasn't sure. Well, once we got there, the temperature had to have hit 100, and, in concert, I was noticing my own internal combustion meter starting to go off the charts.

We've been at this move since early May, and no matter how hard or fast we work, it still seems endless, and, of course, the process involves the grimiest, most time consuming stuff. I must have hit the wall on this never-ending job by yesterday afternoon. Some might call it "meltdown." On this trip, it was boards that needed to be cut so they'd fit in the pick-up bed. Bill had originally thought about using my sisters' trailer, but the boards were too long for it. So, one by one, he measured and cut.

I kept myself busy for a while, but then when I realized this wasn't gonna be a quick trip, I allowed the heat get to me in the best of Irish performances. Needless to say, Bill observed that it was time to take me home and plan to come back later when he could work without listening to a huffing, puffing, complaining, cursing old nag. So, we packed up and came home.

I knew that I'd let the heat win. My behavior did not present a pretty picture, but after a bath and a dinner, which included my one and only green bean harvest from our dried up garden at the old place, my attitude improved, but by that time, my ambition and energy had totally evaporated. So, I slouched on the couch, hoping for a moment of inspiration.

That moment came around 8 p.m. when I knew it was time to put the horses in. As I walked to the barn, I looked over in the field to see Rambo standing with his head down, his mouth hanging open and his body almost vibrating from rapid breathing. The old boy was miserable, to say the least. I put a halter on him and led him to the water trough, hoping to get him to drink.

He wouldn't drink, but he seemed to appreciate my lapping up handfuls of water toward his mouth. I could see that he was at least attempting to swallow the water. Casey was concerned; the dogs were concerned, and I was scared. I walked him around, and he seemed responsive in spite of his misery.

A few minutes later, I called my sisters. They said their horses had been pretty miserable too. Rambo is 21, and in spite of his afternoon soakdown, yesterday's heat had gotten to him too. He eventually quit breathing so hard, started drinking, eating grass and acting like his normal self. But he went to bed with a fan blowing in his stall, a block of salt to entice him to drink and an extra bucket of water. My sisters have suggested getting electrolytes to help him through these high temperatures.

This morning he's fine, but I'll be watching him closely to see that he stays as cool and comfortable as possible during what's supposed to be even more miserable heat than yesterday's almost killer version. I'll be glad for my animals and for my own sanity when this blistering, uncomfortable heat subsides. I'm sure Bill will too.

THIO (the heat is on) certainly had the upper hand yesterday.

The final push

I'm really glad that I declined her request when the local 4-H coordinator Nancy asked me to announce one day of the Bonner County 4-H Horse Show. At the time, we were in the throes of moving our household goods to this place, and I wasn't sure how long it would take for us to complete the entire moving process.

So, instead of sizzling in an announcer's stand for hours on end in triple digit temperatures, I'll be sweating alongside Bill as we do the dirtiest, most dreaded aspect of moving----emptying and cleaning the outbuildings. Last night we spared ourselves a bit of misery by removing the dog and cat beds and a bunch of garbage from the bunkhouse.

Over the past year, Annie Dog's bed has continued to grow as I've bought new pillows and cast off the old ones as well as old bed spreads. By the time we moved, it had expanded to king-sized doggie and cat bed. Each night "Beddie Bye" meant that Annie and her feline friends Licker and Fuzzy Wuzzy shared the rather large palette, which took up about a third of the bunkhouse. The only problem with this bed and all the pillows, doggie beds and blankets that made it up was that Annie is also known as "Stink Dog."

She has always set off a pungent aroma which would curl your nostrils. We've found over the years that no amount of bathing, swimming in Lake Pend Oreille or Lady Levi could ever dull her personal odor. In fact, it's possible the milfoil doesn't grow so well out Trestle Creek way, thanks to Annie's occasional visits. Maybe the folks in the know about ridding the lake of milfoil are missing the boat with their 2-4-D. They need a good infusion of Stink Dog instead.

Annie Dog always be Stink Dog, no matter how friendly or loving she tries to be in making up for her doggie BO. So, removing Annie's bed during the relative coolness of the evening last night saved us from dreading the event during today's heat. By the time, the pickup heads back to the old place, bed and all its parts will be residing in a dumpster at the Colburn Transfer Station.

We've been frequent patrons of that place over the past month. In fact, we've gotten to know the expected routines out there. Bill informed me the other day that I'd have to flatten the load of empty moving boxes before depositing them at the landfill.

"They'll show you how to do it," he assured me. I wasn't looking forward to a hot afternoon of flattening cardboard boxes, which I'd already assembled from their flattened state after collecting them from Schweitzer Conoco, but I headed to what we used to call "the dump" to face the music. When I arrived at the gate, however, the lady just whisked me on in and said, "You can have any dumpster you choose, Honey." She didn't say a word about flattening boxes, so I didn't either.

While unloading the pickup, I saw an elderly couple drive in with their station wagon. They didn't empty anything into dumpsters. Instead, the lady got out with a framed painting and took it to the "freebie" pile. I'm assuming those folks didn't have a lot to do on a hot afternoon if they felt the need to drive to the transfer station and make one measley deposit. I'm sure they made someone happy though and that the painting is now a treasure in someone's house.

Anyway, even though we'll miss the daily action at the transfer station, we're looking forward to the conclusion of this huge enterprise of moving. We should have the outbuildings cleaned by the time this hot weekend cools off, and Dan Smith of Evergreen Towing should have our farm implements dropped off at their new home by early next week. Then, we can hand over the keys to Quest Aircraft Co. and let them worry about the next chapter in the saga of our former Great Northern residence.

Happy Saturday to all. Stay cool.

THIO Season

I think I'm going to post on this blog several times today because it's the beginning of The Heat Is On (THIO) season. Rather than wasting the cool morning hours these next few days where most temperature predictions indicate 104 temperatures, I'm going to get the barn cleaned, do my morning rounds and work really hard to stay cool.

Staying cool will mean coming back inside this house (which is fairly comfortable if blinds are down) and finding projects to complete inside. I might even sit back and watch a movie or two.

So, stay tuned. I'll be back as events necessitate comment, and for all who are in warm weather situations, STAY COOL during THIO season.

Later . . . .

• It's after 11, and I've just returned from the old place with another load of assorted items from the bunkhouse---tennis racquets, a cedar chest lid, green and yellow pots bought by Irene Williams for homegrown sunflowers at Willie and Debbie's wedding almost FIVE years ago. Hard to believe. We have transplanted the beautiful little blue spruce they gave us the night of their rehearsal dinner. Maybe it will like the soil out here better than the clay at the old home. Every year around their anniversary time, I take their picture next to the tree, and every year, I'm amazed it hasn't grown. Bill says spruce are like that; they take a while to build up a root system.
• For once, I went to Yoke's and found four boxes of my favorite Meadow Wood French vanilla ice cream. They've had a shortage the last few times, and I'm guessing it's people like me who cause the shortage by buying four boxes at a time. We're hoping to see the Schwan's driver pull in on Monday, so Bill can get stocked up on all his Schwan's goodies. He always places generous orders and is getting pretty itchy to place his first out here in Selle.
• Mother and I may drive to Clark Fork this afternoon. Barbara and Laurie have been gone all week for summer school classes, and Bill has gone hiking on Keno Mountain for the day. In fact, just as I type, he is calling me on his cell phone from the top of the mountain. He says he'll have some lunch and take a few pictures. He also says the scene from Keno reminds him of that famous scene in Sound of Music. With everybody off galavanting, we'll follow suit and get inside our air conditioned car to beat the heat, at least for the afternoon.

Later . . . .

Books, barns and wolves

I nailed up my "wolf crossing" sign yesterday. Within five minutes of tacking it to an sawed-off utility pole at the end of our new driveway, I notified the Book family to let them know that the yellow warning sign they'd given me years ago had not sat idle for very long.

Visitors coming into our driveway on Great Northern Road often wondered about the sign. I'd just tell them Larry and Ardella thought we needed it after I'd spotted what I thought was a wolf in a field along Woodland Drive. The story after my sighting turned into a classic called "To Assume It's a Wolf" and appeared in my second book.

Of course, I've not yet seen any wolves out here in Selle, but there's always the possibility that they might sniff out where I've moved and make their way out here. Therefore, all who drive by the Lovestead will have advance notice now that the sign appears along their route.

I saw Ardella yesterday driving past me as I walked through the Bonner Mall parking lot, and she yelled something about an art tour, asking if I was going on it. I wasn't quite sure what she was meant, but I heard another phrase about artists' homes. This morning my understanding became more complete when I read about art tours here in the Sandpoint area.

One story focused on the annual artwalk and listed where artists' works will be displayed. Of course, Judy Pederson's name jumped out from the list. She is a magnificent water color artist, and her works are on display at Northwest Handmades. She's also a friend and neighbor from our old neighborhood. Judy loves barns, and last year, she painted an awesome piece of our Upper Tibbs Place barn and machine shed. It's now sitting in our new living room waiting to be hung, as is the autographed poster for this year's Festival crafted by my classmate and friend Dann Hall.

Somewhere among the boxes to be unpacked, I've yet to find a piece by Larry and Ardella who specialize in carving birds from local pieces of wood. In fact, before we moved, Larry came to salvage our birch tree at the end of the driveway. Sadly, the beautiful tree suddenly died last summer, so now Larry will bring it back to life many times over, using it for his carvings of wildlife.

I discovered this morning that Larry and Ardella are not listed on the artwalk; instead, they're part of the Artists' Studio Tour, which offers some amazing works with special events this weekend and next. There's a website at (http://sandpoint.org/arttourdrive/index.html) which shows the artists featured on the tour and offers a place to obtain more information. The Books live on Woodland Drive in northwest Sandpoint where they operate their Wood'nWings studio.

I don't know if they feature any wolves in their collection, but I'm sure that if I were to ask, Larry would happily carve me one and laugh himself silly through the process just like he did that day I assumed I saw a wolf and got the old Dodge Caravan stuck. Larry saved me from that dilemma, but I'm sure he, Ardella and their daughter Jolene will never forget the price they paid to serve as Good Samaritans to Marianne.

Another lawnmower fix

I wonder what kind of psychological training lawnmower repair specialists have received to deal with the stories--er--lies they must hear while on the job. I got to thinking about that last night when Tony Bitton showed up at our house for his second session of fixing our Sears riding mower. He met the mower for the first time last fall when the engine had gone bad.

Tony looked it over for a second and said the engine had gone bad. He'd bring a new one. When he brought the new engine and installed it, I sold him our old riding mower and the rototiller that had worn out their welcome with repair specialists. Tony eyed both machines for their parts and gave me $125. So far, with Tony's visits, I've gotten a new engine, $125 and, most recently a new mantle. I haven't put out a penny; instead, Bill pays each month for the "Sears maintenance agreement."

In spite of the Sears maintenance agreement which generally takes care of our frequently-needed repairs, I go through a certain amount of stress with every time a lawn mower technician comes to visit. That anxiety evolves from the fear that maybe this time the repair person is going to know exactly what I did to the mower to necessitate his house call.

And, like my dentist Dr. Neuder used to do when I'd show up with a mouthful of cavities after five years between visits, the repairman could rightly give me a good, stern lecture and explain to me that mowing rocks along the ditches or jungles of six-foot high weeds in an old garden bed is not really good for the machine. Each time I face this visit, I try to think of the most reasonable excuse for why the deck is hanging by a thread.

Before Tony's visit last night, I had to talk to Sears customer service agent Irene (whose call could be monitored). She had a Southern accent.

"Now, Mizz Love, was the mower working correctly before you used it last?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Miss Love, could it have possibly hit a big object or a rock or anything like that?"

"No, I don't think so," I responded. "Actually, it was working just fine before we moved, but this lawn surface out here is kinda rough." Never mind the fact that the rough lawn probably had nothing to do with the breakdown. I wasn't gonna tell Irene that while I was mowing the overgrown garden spot the mower started smoking and making rude sounds.

I also wasn't going to tell Bill who reasoned when he heard the mower going "clackidy, clackidy, clack" the day after the garden assault that if I'd take it the other direction on the rough lawn, it might work better. Fortunate for me, Bill, for once, suggested no guilt on my part.

Irene assured me that a repairman would call in 24 hours, which did happen. When Tony came, I was ready for my latest performance of lying by omission. He started working on the mower and soon had the deck removed.

"Looks like a mantle broke," he announced.

"Whaddya spose would cause that?" I asked.

"I dunno, " he said while removing the broken mantle and discovering that all three nuts holding it in place were broken. "Must've hit something hard."

"Well, this new lawn surface---it looks pretty, but it's pretty rough," I announced, being careful not to mention any mowing sorties through the garden spot.

Soon Tony's training for dealing with guilty lawnmower owners kicked in.

"Bad bearing," he said. "When the bearing goes, there's not much you can do."

"Whew," I thought to myself. "Got off scot free from 'the lecture' one more time." Within minutes Tony had the Craftsman mowing like a dream.

As he headed out the driveway at 8:30 p.m., finishing off another long day of Sears maintenance agreement repairs, I wondered just how many other mowers along Tony's Tuesday route had secretly assaulted garden jungles and "hit something hard."

Note: Annie's got photos from her Mt. Rainier hike yesterday. Go to (www.nnlove.blogspot.com)

Where's da rulebook?

Nearly two years after the subject first came up, I grimace every time I see those piles of dirt and that big heavy equipment sitting idle at what was once the Upper Tibbs Place. Last summer, I got to watch the charming old farm slowly disintegrate piece by piece to make way for a new subdivision, which would bring many tax dollars to the city.

In the many months since the original developer, a man of many names and addresses, put forth his application to subdivide the place and have it annexed into the City of Sandpoint, I've waited and watched for several townhouses (of the 'affordable' variety) to spring up on the hillside overlooking Great Northern Road. So far, just piles of dirt.

In spite of opposition from neighbors surrounding the place, which included reminders about wetlands on its south end and the busy and oft-blocked train tracks to its east, elected officials seemed determined to bring that land onto the city's tax rolls. The wetlands claim from the neighbors fell on deaf ears because the developer announced that he'd stood in that area in July, and it was dry as a bone. Never mind that my dad always avoided that area with his tractor because it was so boggy.

It took a few meetings and eventually a new developer, who had a biologist tell him, lo and behold, those were, indeed wetlands, but the city sages got their way. The land was annexed into the City of Sandpoint, and a more conservative subdivision was approved. Now, it sits. I wonder how much tax money the city has derived from that 22 acres.

I bring up this situation because of my own experience of sitting through several meetings where citizens were invited to speak their peace. At the end of these meetings, we'd leave scratching our heads, wondering why we were invited. It was very apparent that our comments served as merely a part of the necessary "going through the motions" of government officials and their cronies getting their way in the end.

This morning I chuckled about the letters in the Daily Blat concerning those rebel City Council types who had the audacity to seek out public opinion in hopes of determining the direction Sandpoint ought to be moving. Somehow my civics classes taught me that publicly-elected officials should seek the opinion from their constituents. I never saw any handbook, however, on just how this was supposed to be done.

Therefore, I always assumed these elected officials used a variety of methods. They talked on the telephone or visited with people in the supermarket or even wrote letters to folks asking for ideas from the people they represent. So, when I heard about the rogue survey by two council members a week or so ago, I was quite amazed at the wrath it incurred. Again, I'm scratching my head.

How does a survey and what the people think cause harm to the workings of our publicly elected bodies? Can't other elected officials take the initiative to use their own methods of collecting information? Do people who get elected by the people automatically lose their right to ask questions of their constituency? Does gathering information automatically translate into decision-making? Aren't elected officials expected to debate issues using information they receive from a wide base of opinion and expert knowledge? Are there some rulebooks these people ought to read before they run for public office?

If so, I think the public needs to know about them and where they can be obtained. Maybe, if we, the neighbors, who opposed the subdivision that was going to earn Sandpoint so much tax money, had gotten a look at the rulebook we could used a more effective strategy with our elected officials and saved the city from one of its current white elephants.

Alumni fun

Bob Dunn has signed up for the alumni site. He and 336 other Sandpoint High School graduates have found their way to (www.sandpointhigh.com). And, as I write this morning, I notice that Toby Carlson (Class of 1976) is on the site; he's a lawyer for the Washington State attorney general's office in Spokane.

Bob, on the other hand, has spent most of his time, since graduating in 1975, working in the wine business in California's Napa Valley. In fact, he manages a winery in Napa. So, when Bob came for a visit to North Idaho last week, he brought his wife Patte (SHS 1975 also) and three cases of fine wine to share with friends. I was fortunate to be on Bob's delivery list. First, he promised one bottle, then two and finally threw in a third.

After a nice afternoon visit with Bob and Patte, complete with reminiscing about the their days at Sandpoint High School where Bob played basketball and asked Patte (the new girl) out on Valentine's Day of their senior year, I waved good bye to them. Then, I planned which bottle would accompany our spaghetti and meatballs dinner. I chose the Trinity Oaks 2002 Cabernet Sauvignon. The Menage a Trois 2004 and Trinchero Family Merlot 2003 will wait for another occasion.

Earlier in the week, I'd used the services of Sandpoint Satellite, owned by 1976 graduate Lenny Hess, to hook up our TV's. While on the phone, Lenny took time to invite me to his class reunion in a couple of weeks. Later, I saw on the alumni site a query from Darrell Gustaveon regarding the extracurriculars associated with the 30th year reunion.

I chuckled to myself about "extracurriculars" going along with a class reunion, thinking the reunion itself usually turns out to be one large extracurricular which by the 30 year time begs for nothing extra than some time to sleep and rest those weary bones. After my chuckle, I wrote a note to Darrell and told him Lenny Hess knew all about the reunion and that I'd urge Lenny to sign up for the alumni site and provide the details.

So far, Lenny hasn't completed his old English teacher's assignment, but I have read a nice note from Darrell, whom I haven't seen in at least 15 years. That's why I'm mentioning the alumni site once more and hoping those who've been reluctant to register will reconsider. Of course, being a teacher at SHS for 33 years offers me a plethora of good times as I hear from students like James Martin (Class of 1990) and E.D. Nelson (Class of 1988).

I felt a surge of real excitement when I discovered Karen Holm (Class of 1977) on the list. She married Harry Jaentsch from Germany and has lived there for quite some time. I saw her name, found her address, sent a note, let my horses out, came back to my computer, and there was a nice note from Karen. Karen's the oldest of five Holm sisters, whom I taught over the years. I'm hoping she'll convince Nancy, Susan, Janet and Carol to sign up for the site too.

Anyway, the site's been a lot of fun for me, and I've been told by several former students and classmates of my own that they've enjoyed the opportunities it offers---reconnecting with names from the past, discussing common interests on forums and learning about gatherings of friends in various areas. There's even a "15 minutes of Fame" section on the forum list.

Once again, I tip my hat to Pete Neisen, Brian Fischer and Colt Mehler for their vision and their hard work in creating this tool that will rekindle so many friendships among Sandpoint High grads. And, I'll encourage once more readers to sign up or to spread the word to those who ought to sign up.

It's free and fun.

Supply deficit at the Lovestead

I found my red sweatpants this morning. I usually wear them to bed but have had to settle for a threadbare pair of blue ones for the past several days. The red sweats were actually in a box labeled "Marianne's dresser clothes."

When the move occurred two weeks ago, my dresser drawer stuff was quickly emptied and dumped into boxes. So, I've spent the past several days strolling along the many box aisles in the garage and shop, looking for something that might resemble a container of my clothes.

If only I'd asked St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost items, he would have promptly directed me to the bedroom where the clothes belonged in the first place. My friend Ela from London told me a similar story yesterday about months and months of searching for song lyrics to Lord of the Rings, only to discover them in the book she'd read long ago.

If I could be so lucky with the myriad of other needed items both Bill and I have pursued in vain during our short stay at this new home. More than a year ago, my blogger friend, Cis the Retired, counseled me on the perils of moving and subsequently going through daily disorientation after having lived at the same place for decades and knowing where most items were located. I took her advice and decided to stay put at the time.

But, when everything worked out that we could come to this farm, I hoped I could organize our move well enough that Cis' admonition would not come true. I organized all right, but my brain didn't keep up pace with the extent of my meticulous planning. I clearly remember putting Bill's vast supply of batteries in a box, but I don't remember what the box looked like. Was it a Kokanee beer box from Schweitzer Conoco, or was it one of those apple boxes from Yoke's? Damned if I know.

Yesterday, Bill bought Triple A batteries for the new TV remote before coming home from his third load of leftover items at the former place. Of course, I threw away the instructions for the new remote which tell what code to type in so the batteries didn't do much good when I tried to flip on the tubes around the house.

A few days ago, I needed an envelope to pay a bill. Not one of those 50 boxes out there in the garage would raise its hand and say, "We've got envelopes." I finally found some old greeting cards in a pile from a kitchen drawer that I'd rubberbanded together for the move. Within the stack was one unused greeting card-sized envelope, even with no writing on the outside. I was getting so desperate to mail that bill that I even entertained the idea of crossing out the writing on a used envelope.

The next morning, Bill asked where the envelopes were. He needed to pay a bill. That night we stopped at Yoke's and bought envelopes.

I cannot find my place mats for my new dining room table. Again, the labels on boxes give no clue. I've gained a strange fondness for those many boxes that say "Bill's books" or "Marianne's books" because, at least, we know that we didn't stuff the envelopes, batteries or placemats inside them, and we can just walk past and leave them alone.

This morning, those boxes offered up a great find for Bill who was getting ready to go to church. After ironing some clean clothes, he realized he hadn't seen his dress shoes for two weeks. I was shoveling Rambo and Casey apples out in the barn when I heard him holler, "Marianne, I've got a find!"

"Whaddidyou find?" I yelled back.

"My shoes," he said triumphantly, holding them up for me to see. "I've got shoes!"

Speaking of needed apparel, the most urgent problem I've encountered from all this confusion is the location of my half dozen bras. They're lost somewhere among the stuff we packed, but I'm guessing St. Anthony is just too embarrassed to come around and tell me where they are. After all, he showed up on the scene long before women's lib, and I'm sure he must be "old school" when it comes to telling women where their undergarments are located.

Having been unsuccessful so far in the uncovering the mystery of my bra whereabouts, I've been wearing the same one since we moved. Finally, the other day, I planned the wash cycle in the Maytag to occur early enough but late enough in the evening that I could remove my sole, sweat-soaked and soiled bra, wash it, and throw it in the dryer so it would be ready to serve me the next morning.

In the meantime, I continue to search the garage and shop without much luck. I'm pretty sure Bill won't be to enthusiastic about stopping by J.C. Penney's any time soon to pick out a 38 C to bring home to me, so I'll keep searching and hoping.

Cis, why didn't I listen to you?

Give 'em all A's, and they'll shut up

During my years as a teacher, I occasionally ran into situations where the majority of my students did not perform well on a test. Varying factors led to these situations, including lack of study, difficulty of material, confusion of test questions, etc. It was tempting at times to inflate all the grades just to fend off the wrath that was sure to occur when students learned their test scores.

I don't recall ever succumbing to that temptation because I knew that grade inflation was not going to erase the problems encountered with the test. If the kids didn't study, maybe they'd work harder the next time to learn the material. If the material was difficult, maybe we could review the problems and try another test over that material. If I had erred in the way I constructed the test, maybe I could eliminate the problem questions and refigure the grades.

Whatever the situation, I always worked for the solution that was best for my students to learn their material rather than finding a way to gloss over the problem. Indeed, it would have been easier on me and easier for all concerned for the short term if I'd taken the easy fix and simply inflated all those bad grades. For the long term, however, I found that such denial of reality does not translate into learning. Instead, it teaches a clear lesson. Gripe and the problem will go away. It may not be fixed, but it will go away for the time being.

Occasionally, as an educator, I even saw situations where students and parents, unsatisfied with a teacher's grading approach went to higher authority bypassing the teacher when little Johnny didn't get the desired grade. And, on rare occasions, I saw higher authorities buckle to the demands of said students and parents, allowing the grade to be changed and totally undermining the teacher's role in the matter.

I'm looking at yesterday's move by the Bonner County Commissioners as a similar situation to what I faced occasionally in the classroom. Bad grades---the masses are gonna be mad, and they're gonna inflict their ire on me. In the county's dilemma, high tax assessments for 2006, and the masses are gonna be mad. Certainly, our county assessor knew that when she and her staff calculated tax assessments this year.

She could have said, "Ah, Hell, let's make it easy on everyone and pretend that demand for Bonner County's piece of Heaven really hasn't happened. Let's pretend land owners have not been selling property for exhorbitant prices, driving up the valuation of similar properties. Let's just stick with the status quo and keep those assessments intact and keep those folks who are gonna have to pay high taxes happy."

Judie Conlan and her staff could have done that to save themselves a lot of grief. Instead, Judie, a lifelong Bonner County resident, did her job to the best of her ability and the very best she could with the resources available. In spite of the stifling criticism she has weathered over the past several weeks, she has stuck by the assessments, remaining true to her word. She has continued to explain to the public that the assessments do not necessarily reflect what the tax payments will be, adding that the county budget determines what tax payments will be.

Yesterday, the county commissioners took a bold public move, and, according to what I read in the paper, neglected to inform Judie of their intentions before calling a meeting to announce that all tax assessments would be rolled back to the 2005 level. Of course, that made big headlines and inspired big smiles on the part of anyone who has to pay taxes in Bonner County.

I hope, for the commissioners' sake (two of whom will not be in office come January) that they have made the right decision. Just like anyone else who pays taxes, I'd like to avoid the discomfort of paying through the nose because of inflated land prices. The move yesterday will keep the masses from revolting. It will save inordinate amounts of time for the commissioners who faced long hours of board of equalization review.

I wonder, however, after reading about the possible state reaction to this move, what the next chapter in this ongoing property tax dilemma will be. Like my students who really needed to learn the material, Bonner County is really going to need extra tax monies to support the infrastructure necessary for the influx of new residents who want decent roads, good schools, and adequate utilities.

Let's hope the right decision has been made and that this wide swath of tax relief does not come back to haunt us all.

True Love, where are you?

I found a stack of letters yesterday. They almost got delivered to the Colburn Transfer station, but when I took a closer look at what I'd just dumped into the garbage can at the old house, I scooped them out of the trash and brought them home with me.

Mixed among old newspapers and magazines were assorted letters written to Bill Love in Louisiana from MCB at Route 1, Box 244-1A, Sandpoint, Idaho--postmarked from August to December 1973. MCB was Marianne Catherine Brown at the time, and Bill Love was Marianne's new flame. We'd met at the 1973 Boy Scout Jamboree, and had enjoyed a "summer romance," as my mother called it.

The plan was that Bill would return to McNeese State University and finish his degree in forestry by December. Then, he'd come West and hopefully find employment. Then, we'd get married. So, in the meantime, we kept up the relationship through hand-written letters to one another---now, that's a novel idea these days: sitting down with pen and paper and writing a letter.

Since that doesn't happen much any more, these "Love letters" were an extra bonus. I haven't had much time to read through them, but the first few lines from that time so long ago indicated a North Idaho potatohead who was certainly smitten with this Luzianna forester. There were concerns about him finding a job. Apparently, I'd sent him information about forestry firms in the area, including Diamond National and some from Montana.

In one letter, I'd spent the weekend in Missoula visiting with my brother Kevin and his wife Joyce.

"I'm afraid I'm being affected more and more each day with the symptoms of LOVE," I wrote. "I keep going through experiences and thinking of how much better it would be 'if Bill were here.' The drive from Missoula to Sandpoint was out of this world with fall beauty. The highway stays along the Clark Fork River, and there are thousands of beautiful color combinations---but you weren't there."

In another letter, I spoke of two twenty-acre plots of land with lots of aspen. Both were for sale, and I'd even inquired from a realtor as to price. Ironically, I heard back then from the oldtimers to stay away from anything on North Center Valley Road because there's no water up there. So, I apparently thought about the land for a while and forgot it.

Having read only three letters so far, I'm anxious to pore through the rest to see what was on my mind back in those days besides this new flame named Love from Louisiana. Maybe the rest of my findings will end up in an upcoming, truly literal "Love Notes" column, but for today I'll share the topper which came at the end of the third letter.

At the time, a young man named Bill Gee was student teaching for me at Sandpoint High School. Apparently, young Mr. Gee (geocaching folks now know him as "Cross Country Shadow") gotten into a discussion about the possibility of my marrying a man named Bill Love. In the letter, a "P.S." appeared: if we ever have a daughter, we can name her 'True," I wrote. "Bill Gee told me if he ever had a son, he'd name him 'Al.'"

Well, all I've got to say after reading that line is that Annie should consider herself pretty lucky that Mom came to her senses by the time of her birth. I'm also pretty sure that Bill Gee did the same once he took a teaching job in Newport and later became a father. Like a good journalist checking the facts, I'll have to call up the Gee residence and ask if Al's there.

Dateline: Grass Pants

First, congratulations to my classmate and friend Dann Hall who's unveiling his 2006 Festival at Sandpoint poster this evening at the Season at Sandpoint Clubhouse. Dann was chosen earlier this year as the creator for this year's Festival poster. You can be sure that many of our SHS Class of 1965 members will be proudly purchasing a copy of Dann's creation.

Secondly, my brother, the cartoonist, wants to share his story about a hang gliding experience with slightdetour readers. I'm assuming he meant to do so today. So, stay tuned. Take it away, Jim Tibbs, our Grass Pants correspondent:

The author, AKA 'Airhog', on final approach

A slight detour from Slight Detour…

Time to take a break from ‘tooning to sing the praises of a small town (and brag about some great flying)…

Lakeview, Oregon, at 4,500-plus feet above sea level, holds bragging rights to being the ‘tallest town in Oregon’. I’d wager to say it’s also the friendliest, at least to us hang glider pilots. And for good reason…

Years ago, Lakeview and the surrounding small communities were faced with a crisis which has become common for most small towns throughout the Pacific Northwest: The mainstay of its citizens has in the past been lumber and farming, and we all know too well what has become of these industries. It just so happens that it is also a darn great spot for hang gliding as well, with several outstanding flying sites, such as Black Cap Mtn. just outside of Lakeview proper, Tagues Butte and Palisades at the south end of Abert Rim (an amazing 17-mile-long and 1000-foot-plus tall vertical rock face), Hadley Butte to the north, Doherty Slide to the east, and Sugar Hill, a ‘jumping off’ point for cross country flights north to Lakeview and east to the high Oregon desert (Sugar, and its lower launch, ‘Sweet’n’Low’ are actually 25-plus miles south of Lakeview and just across the Oregon-California border), and numerous other scenic flying sites.

When faced with the likelihood of becoming yet another ghost town due to its waning industries, the citizens of Lakeview banded together and opted to capitalize on its one remaining resource, tourism, mainly bolstered by the steady numbers of hang glider pilots who spend their time (and money) flying this awesome area. The Rogue Valley Hang Gliding Association, a 100-plus-strong foot-launched flying club headquartered in Medford, Oregon, began holding annual flying meets in the area. These meets, each dubbed the Umpteenth Annual Foot-launched Festival of Free Flight, draw hundreds of pilots from throughout the country (and the world) on Fourth of July weekend, and every dollar spent by participants and spectators serves to keep the town of Lakeview in the black. To this day, it is not uncommon to be greeted with appreciative honks and waves as one disassembles his/her glider after ‘landing out’ in one of the abundant flat farm fields (referred to as landing zones, or LZ’s) in the area.

This year I was meeting up with a couple of buddies in Lakeview to partake in the flying and festivities. David Frazer, a great friend and ‘man of many hats’, spent his early life in Florida, most of which was on a sailboat. He also served in the Air Force as a weather man, became a ‘carnivore expert’ working with big cats on wildlife preserves in Florida and eventually Roseburg, Oregon (where he currently resides), operated his own tofu business for awhile, and currently works as the inventory manager for the Veteran’s Administration hospital in Roseburg. He’s been active in the sport for the past 25 years. Ken ‘Wind Dummy’ Hawes who, with his wife (and faithful driver) Marti, owns a beautiful place in Eagle Point that is also the locale for his (often too-busy-for-him-to-go-flying) cabinet shop. Ken and I learned to fly at about the same time and from the same instructor, Mike ‘Viper’ Stevenson, and actually unknowingly lived a mile or two down the road from each other in Bigfork, Montana (well, I guess we were actually a few years apart as well, but it makes a good story). No doubt we would be seeing many of our other flying buddies from throughout the area and meeting many new ones along the way.

When I arrived at Lakeview on Friday afternoon, I called Ken first thing to see where he wanted to fly. He and Marti were already on top of Black Cap and reported that the conditions were light yet but appeared to be picking up. After registering for the meet and getting the latest weather forecast at the Chamber of Commerce I headed up the hill to meet him, forgoing setting up camp for later (the main LZ for Black Cap is the campground in which most other pilots and I intended to stay). It was in fact picking up, but not enough for any airtime, so after assembling and disassembling our gliders (along with a great deal of waiting for the right conditions, aptly termed ‘hang-waiting’), we headed down the hill. Meanwhile David called me to tell me he had arrived and set up camp in the LZ, so I set up my tent as well.

The following day we decided to try our luck at Hadley Butte, which is just outside the little town of Paisley, the home of the annual Mosquito Festival (the mosquitoes here are as big as buzzards!). David had some 12,000’-plus altitude flights here in the past, and Ken and I had never flown this site yet and were up for something new. Unfortunately, a large cumulus cloud kept shutting off our sunshine and even sprinkled on us a time or two. David decided to chance it anyway and launched into a light wind cycle. His reward was an extended ‘sled ride’ to the LZ. Uninspired (particularly by my short flight to the end of the launch ramp), Ken and I broke down our gliders, met David in the LZ, and the three of us went back to Lakeview.

Sunday was the day of the Trophy Dash, a timed 26-mile race from Sugar Hill to Lakeview. It was a strong south wind day, so we thought we’d give it a try. After making the drive (complete with honks and waves from locals) we set up among the 30-plus other hang gliders and worked our way into line. I was the first of us three to get to launch, and by the time I got there it appeared that the thermals were all but gone and the only thing left to soar was ‘mechanical lift’ from the wind blowing up the ridge. I launched anyway and fought my way through the rough air down the ridge and out to the rock point that, I was told, might still be ‘working’. I circled out front several times with little hope of ascending until my vario (an instrument which audibly indicates if you’re rising or sinking) began to shrill. I banked my glider and mentally mapped out the core of the thermal, keeping the lower wing pointed directly toward the center. Several other gliders were working the same lift, including a large, odd-looking wing (with a like-sized pilot) called a Predator, but I was rocketing upward past them and they began to look like non-resident mosquitoes. Several 360-degree turns later I was at 11,500’ ASL (above sea level, roughly 4,300’ over launch) and over halfway across Fandango Valley, a 5-mile-wide pass that is the first crux for the Sugar-to-Lakeview run. The Predator meanwhile had located my core and got to within 50’ directly below me. Topping out the lift, I pointed my glider downwind and hauled in the VG (or ‘variable geometry’, a pulley and rope system which, when activated, tightens and flattens the wing and increases its efficiency while decreasing maneuverability). I was still at 10,000’ ASL when I reached ‘Hildreth’s Heater’, a hit-and-miss thermal source on the far end of the pass. The Heater was missing at present, so I pressed onward. I worked a few bumps along the hilltops, but didn’t seem to be gaining much. At one point I watched a glider overtake me at a lower altitude, find some lift, and work it up 1,000 or so feet, so I headed his direction to do the same. No luck. Apparently he’d caught the tail-end of that one. Oh well, I’d made it across the pass and could now make New Pine Creek (a small town on the Oregon-California border) on glide. Anything from that point northward was icing on the cake.

The wind was still strong out of the south, so as long as I stayed over the hilltops I would maintain altitude (or at least minimize my descent). It’s amazing what difference a 15 mph tailwind can make on one’s ground speed and glide ratio. At one point I glanced at my GPS to find that my ground speed was 55 mph, and I suspect that I’d been going faster still at some point.

I found myself choosing fields that I could easily glide to with sufficient altitude to set up an approach and drop my wind flag (a portable spear with one end weighted and pointed and the other with a bright orange flag that, when dropped, indicates wind direction for landing. Also commonly referred to as ‘death from above’). Gliders that had ‘sunk out’ along the way already occupied many of the fields, providing me with a little boost of confidence. Today I would outfly a few competitors! I would choose a field, fly past it with plenty of altitude, and look downwind for my next potential bailout, all the while knowing that each field I passed by meant I was another quarter-mile closer to Lakeview, everyone’s ultimate goal.

Eventually, I had lost enough altitude that it was time to take the idea of landing more seriously, so I headed away from the hills and toward the fields on the opposite side of the highway. I wanted to land as close to the road as possible to shorten the carry distance to the pick-up vehicle (whoever that ended up being. Since my radio push-to-talk system was receiving but wasn’t transmitting, I couldn’t contact Marti while I was still in the air), and the field I’d chosen was directly adjacent to the highway. After making a standard aircraft base leg pass, I decided at the last minute to go for the field immediately downwind, since the first one I’d chosen had a powerline at the downwind end and I’d have to come in low over the lines in unknown conditions to avoid overshooting the field. I made another short downwind-base-final combination in the newly-chosen LZ and landed just short (50 yards or so) of the powerlines I’d sought to avoid. My glider was still in a slight turn as I flared, so my right wingtip made light contact with the ground – not a pretty landing, but both glider and pilot were unscathed.

As I carried my wing to the highway I heard an angelic voice ask if I was all right. “Um, yeah”, I responded. Rather than a celestial guardian, the voice came from the driver for the pilot that had passed me up a mile or so back. I could see his glider over the distant hills still quite high and headed for Lakeview. “Looks like someone’s going to make it today”, I thought to myself. His driver informed me that I was lucky I didn’t land in the field immediately upwind (the first one I’d chosen), since it was part of the ‘Snake Ranch’, one of the few no-no bailouts on the Lakeview run. Maybe she was an angel after all, and had a hand in saving me from serpents and powerlines? She told me she had to get going to catch up with the other pilot, but offered to contact someone if I wanted. “No thanks”, I told her. My radio was working fine with the push-to-talk unplugged and I’d already made contact with David.

My first order of business after reaching the highway and unhooking from my glider was to enter my position as a waypoint in my GPS and see how far I’d flown. I knew it had to be a decent distance, since the north end of Goose Lake was a short walk from my current position, and Sugar Hill looked hazy in the distance. It turned out to be 16.5 miles – not a record by any means, but a personal best for distance and altitude. I knew other much more experienced pilots who’d not gotten this far, so I was pleased all the way around. Another ten miles and I would have made Lakeview and finished the race, but I could always try again another day (I later learned that the winning flight was just under an hour – less time than it took for me to reach my landing area).

Making radio contact with David, I’d learned that he couldn’t get to 10,000’ ASL, the minimum suggested altitude to leave the hill and cross the pass, and that he was heading for the Sugar LZ. He passed my position along to Marti (she was out of my radio range) and she headed the car my direction. As I waited, several people stopped to chat and offer rides, and one even offered me a beer. It was hot and I was thirsty, so I gratefully accepted. More honks and waves by other passers-by.

After packing my wing on the car and heading back to pick up David and Ken, we were surprised to discover that Ken was still in the air after 2-plus hours. Ken’s maximum airtime to this point was restricted to about 90 minutes due to his limited bladder capacity. Somehow he’d managed to overcome this handicap and had bested his personal record as well. He did have to scramble to get out of his harness and ‘dump ballast’, using his glider to screen his activities from view of the passing motorists. They just honked and waved.

Monday was the day of the spot-landing competition in Lakeview, so we opted to stay ‘local’ and give it a try. First we met with Mike Stevenson, our instructor (He’d driven from Ashland to judge the event) to see if he was taking bribes, but he wasn’t. Then we drove up to Black Cap and set up our wings. David launched first, flew out front, and found some lift and began working it upward. I launched next, hoping to find the same lift, but it wasn’t there anymore. In fact, I couldn’t find any lift. Bad timing on my part, so I headed for the LZ with hopes of hitting the spot. I’d underestimated the wind strength in the LZ and landed 100 yards short. Ken launched right after me, found as little lift as I had, and landed long by an equal distance. Meanwhile, David worked his thermal up to 12,500’ ASL and was tempted to fly to Abert Rim, an easy glide from his altitude. He opted instead to try for the spot, which turned out to be a good choice, since he nailed it and won a great trophy and $100.00 cash. Yesterday belonged to Ken and I, but today was David’s day.

On Tuesday, July 4th, we decided to make the hour drive to Doherty Slide, a steep cliff in the high desert to the east. I’d flown there the previous year and was completely blown away by the beauty of this site from the air. I’m not a desert person, having lived my life in the mountains for the most part, but this site is magical, particularly near sunset. The colors are indescribable and the view is stupendous, particularly from 10,000’. We decided to make a day of it and take the scenic route up through the small burg of Plush and the Hart Mountain Wildlife Refuge, a beautiful place in itself, where we munched down peanut butter and honey sandwiches for lunch. After a brief pause at the Plush General Store for ice cream sandwiches, we headed out to the slide. The wind was cross from the south with some serious lulls, making it unsoarable, so after contemplating the high desert beauty for awhile we drove back toward Lakeview.
When we got back to town, we headed back up to Black Cap to see if we couldn’t get a glass-off flight. A glass-off happens when the valley floor, having been heated all day, releases its entire mass of warm air triggered by the downward flow of cooler, mountain air (catabatic flow) in the evening. It makes exceptional soaring since the lift is not localized and a pilot can float just about anywhere in the smooth lifty air. We arrived just in time to catch the last half hour of glass-off. David elected not to fly, so he helped Ken and I get set up. I launched first and floated across the hillside at launch altitude for a half hour or so. Ken launched after me and sunk straight to the LZ. Not a terribly exciting day for flying, but any airtime is better than none. We returned to the campground just in time for the final minutes of the annual pig roast and later enjoyed the local fireworks display.

Wednesday morning David headed back to Roseburg and Ken & I decided to take another crack at Sugar. When we arrived, Steve Seibel from Corvallis was on launch and waiting for a decent cycle to launch into. Ken & I started setting up as Steve flew the hill, not getting terribly high and coming close to sinking out several times. The wind was from the south-southwest – not ideal for crossing Fandango Pass but still soarable at Sugar. Ken and I launched and experienced the same yoyo flying that Steve was having, but after a few close calls we figured out where the lift was strongest and hung on. The highest we could get was 8,500 ASL, but the longer we hung on, the smoother and liftier the air became until we experienced a full-fledged glass-off. At one point as I completed a 360 turn, I was surprised to find myself at close-quarters with an immature bald eagle with its talons flared in my direction. Shortly after flashing its warning it joined a companion in front of the rock face below, and the five of us (3 gliders and 2 birds) shared the same airspace for awhile.

About 3 hours into my flight I made a frustrating discovery. I had apparently over-lubricated the zipper on my harness, and the teeth had separated below the zipper-upper part (I know there’s a technical term for that part), leaving my legs to dangle out of my harness if I didn’t keep pushing on the harness boot. This can be extremely tiring if done for extended periods, so I knew I’d have to abbreviate my flight if I wanted to have any legs left to land on. The position of the zipper separation would also make it difficult to suspend my legs fully for landing purposes. Fortunately, the designers of hang gliding harnesses discovered long ago that if the zipper is attached with Velcro to the harness, there is a backup system in place should such incidents occur, so I didn’t waste too much time worrying about it. At this point I decided to leave the hill and the best lift and see about landing, so I pointed my glider southward and started flying toward Alturas, California. As I left the hill, my vario beeped continuously, indicating that I was still ascending. If this kept up, I was in for another long flight (with legs dangling) and, since I’d been unsuccessful the night before in my attempt to repair my faulty push-to-talk switch, I had no way of informing my companions of my intent. I’d just have to wait till I landed to radio them. I continued flying south for seven miles before I’d lost enough altitude to set up a landing. A 4’ deep irrigation ditch bisected the field I’d chosen to land in, but I thought I had enough altitude to make the other side. Apparently I’d miscalculated and I flared at the far side of the ditch. Once again, not a pretty landing, but an otherwise successful one.

I unhooked and walked my wing toward the highway where I planned to radio the others about my location. My radio battery, however, had run out of juice and, with the weak cell phone reception in the area, I had no way of making contact. Fortunately, a white van pulled up and the woman driver offered me a ride back to the LZ, so I disassembled my wing, hid it in the bushes, and climbed into the passenger’s seat. The driver, a somewhat eccentric local with her three overly-friendly dogs, warned me that I’d think she was crazy, but the birds (which she often talked to) told her that something unusual would happen to her today, so she figured this must be it and she’d better stop. It’s interesting the people you meet in this sport.

When I got to the LZ, Marti was still there waiting for Steve and Ken to land. I grabbed the truck and headed south to retrieve my wing, returning in time to catch Ken’s perfect landing after a 4-1/2 hour flight – another personal best for him. Of course, once again he had to perform his ballast-dumping ritual before breaking down his glider. After watching another glider fly from the lower launch of Sugar Hill (called ‘Sweet’n’Low) and head north across Fandango Pass, Steve decided to follow. He made it across the pass, but came in low to land in a field on the other side six miles from launch. His total airtime was 5 hours. All three of us slept well that night, exhausted from a long day of flying.

I left the following morning and Ken & Marti stuck around until Saturday to do non-flying tourist stuff in Lakeview. While in the area we topped our personal bests for flying, enjoyed beautiful scenery, met up with a few old friends, made a few new friends, and basqued in the hospitality of the Lakeview locals. All in all it was a great trip, and I hope we do it again soon.

So if you should happen to find yourself in the high desert of south central Oregon and a strange-looking chevron-shaped multicolored object made from Dacron and aluminum should catch your eye, remember to honk and wave. It’s what the locals do…