Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Hats off to the Hair Hut
Update Tuesday afternoon: The Story of the Smiling Hair Follicles
Never have I been quite so happy to announce a "non-story." After writing the posting below, I set out to do my interviewing about the Hair Hut. My first call was to Margie. Her daughter Val took the phone because Margie's hands were deep into the goop on somebody's head.
Turns out the Hair Hut will shut its doors at it present location, but some of the gals will still operate under the same name at a facility less than two blocks away. It's next to Mr. Sam's in front of Foster's Crossing. Joyce and Margie will team up, each taking a few days a week. I've heard Karen may open up a shop in her home.
Anyway, go ahead and read my tribute to my beauticians and their establishment with this update in mind. My hair follicles are smiling from ear to ear after learning this news. All in the name of journalism!
Morning posting: I've got a long list of items to complete and folks to call over the next few days. In fact, the list is sitting next to my keyboard on an ASVAB tablet. Anyone remember ASVAB? It was a military aptitude test they used to administer every year to high school students in hopes of using the results to help direct their career exploration. I picked up this tablet last January at an Idaho School Administrators annual meeting in Boise, which featured a room full of booths, filled with goodies and manned or womanned by representatives from educational products companies.
My ASVAB tablet list has "pay bills" at the top. Then, there's a note to call Mike Wolcott. I need to ask him where I can track down Jodi Greve, now that she and her family are back in Sandpoint with their new car, compliments of Wendle Motors in Spokane. There's a wonderful story there, and I'll be writing it for The River Journal.
Another note says to "send more questions to Leslie." Leslie Wood Lippert is a young farm wife. She's a U of I graduate who married Harvey Lippert; he does my mother's farming. I taught both Leslie and Harvey in my journalism classes. The couple recently won a regional award from the Idaho Farm Bureau Federation, so I'm hoping to do their story in an upcoming column.
Finally, my list reminds me to "call, Margie, call Claire Lewis and call JoAnn VanStone." All these women should know something about the Hair Hut where I get my hair zapped every two months. First and foremost, Margie has already informed me that the Hair Hut will close its doors forever by Feb. 14. Last time I went there, she'd just gotten "the letter," asking her to vacate the premises by Valentine's Day.
This is to make room for the new Panhandle State Bank complex, which will occupy the block where Harold's Super Foods, the Hair Hut, the Spic n' Span Laundra Center and the Cinema 4 West movie theater have operated for years. Harold's closed down last April; the rest will shut down by Valentine's Day. I've been told that work will begin fairly quickly after that to prepare for the bank construction.
I plan to chronicle the Hair Hut's story in an upcoming River Journal piece. I also plan to find out where Margie and Joyce will be hanging out to cut, zap and curl in the future. Claire Lewis should be able to tell me some tidbits about the longtime Sandpoint salon's beginnings because I understand her mother Nita owned it back in the early years. JoAnn Sedar Van Stone also owned it before moving her business out to Hope.
Probably the most colorful anecdotes will come while sitting through a few Hair Hut beauty sessions this week and listening to the longtime customers who've depended on Margie, Joyce, Karen, Janie, Bobbie, et. al. to keep 'em looking good for years. A lot of information concerning the local scene has flowed through that quaint little place since it first opened at least four decades ago. It's a setting where Sandpoint's longtimers have always felt comfortable and welcome while the gals work on their heads and the resident squirrels beg for more peanuts at the door.
I know that Margie's sick about the whole situation. "It's the last of the old-time places to go," she sadly told me during my last visit while coercing locks of hair with that sharp crochet needle through that plastic bag on my head.
We agreed that the Tam o' Shanter aka "Tervan," "Tavern" somehow found a way to stay alive when the wise and sensitive folks, building the motel complex, just decided to build around the legendary Sandpoint bar. The Hair Hut staff has always maintained a close connection with the Tam folks, particularly through some generous, often unheralded humanitarian efforts for locals in need.
There's surely a lot more to tell about the Hair Hut as it disappears into history as yet another of Sandpoint's longtime bastions where "everybody knows your name and your business and genuinely cares what happens to you." I'm looking forward to learning it and writing the story. This is important work, I believe, because it appears that our only way of preserving local history these days is through the written word.
The visual evidence of our heritage is crumbling all too quickly, it seems. And, I wonder who will feed the squirrels when the Hair Hut doors close for the last time.
Never have I been quite so happy to announce a "non-story." After writing the posting below, I set out to do my interviewing about the Hair Hut. My first call was to Margie. Her daughter Val took the phone because Margie's hands were deep into the goop on somebody's head.
Turns out the Hair Hut will shut its doors at it present location, but some of the gals will still operate under the same name at a facility less than two blocks away. It's next to Mr. Sam's in front of Foster's Crossing. Joyce and Margie will team up, each taking a few days a week. I've heard Karen may open up a shop in her home.
Anyway, go ahead and read my tribute to my beauticians and their establishment with this update in mind. My hair follicles are smiling from ear to ear after learning this news. All in the name of journalism!
Morning posting: I've got a long list of items to complete and folks to call over the next few days. In fact, the list is sitting next to my keyboard on an ASVAB tablet. Anyone remember ASVAB? It was a military aptitude test they used to administer every year to high school students in hopes of using the results to help direct their career exploration. I picked up this tablet last January at an Idaho School Administrators annual meeting in Boise, which featured a room full of booths, filled with goodies and manned or womanned by representatives from educational products companies.
My ASVAB tablet list has "pay bills" at the top. Then, there's a note to call Mike Wolcott. I need to ask him where I can track down Jodi Greve, now that she and her family are back in Sandpoint with their new car, compliments of Wendle Motors in Spokane. There's a wonderful story there, and I'll be writing it for The River Journal.
Another note says to "send more questions to Leslie." Leslie Wood Lippert is a young farm wife. She's a U of I graduate who married Harvey Lippert; he does my mother's farming. I taught both Leslie and Harvey in my journalism classes. The couple recently won a regional award from the Idaho Farm Bureau Federation, so I'm hoping to do their story in an upcoming column.
Finally, my list reminds me to "call, Margie, call Claire Lewis and call JoAnn VanStone." All these women should know something about the Hair Hut where I get my hair zapped every two months. First and foremost, Margie has already informed me that the Hair Hut will close its doors forever by Feb. 14. Last time I went there, she'd just gotten "the letter," asking her to vacate the premises by Valentine's Day.
This is to make room for the new Panhandle State Bank complex, which will occupy the block where Harold's Super Foods, the Hair Hut, the Spic n' Span Laundra Center and the Cinema 4 West movie theater have operated for years. Harold's closed down last April; the rest will shut down by Valentine's Day. I've been told that work will begin fairly quickly after that to prepare for the bank construction.
I plan to chronicle the Hair Hut's story in an upcoming River Journal piece. I also plan to find out where Margie and Joyce will be hanging out to cut, zap and curl in the future. Claire Lewis should be able to tell me some tidbits about the longtime Sandpoint salon's beginnings because I understand her mother Nita owned it back in the early years. JoAnn Sedar Van Stone also owned it before moving her business out to Hope.
Probably the most colorful anecdotes will come while sitting through a few Hair Hut beauty sessions this week and listening to the longtime customers who've depended on Margie, Joyce, Karen, Janie, Bobbie, et. al. to keep 'em looking good for years. A lot of information concerning the local scene has flowed through that quaint little place since it first opened at least four decades ago. It's a setting where Sandpoint's longtimers have always felt comfortable and welcome while the gals work on their heads and the resident squirrels beg for more peanuts at the door.
I know that Margie's sick about the whole situation. "It's the last of the old-time places to go," she sadly told me during my last visit while coercing locks of hair with that sharp crochet needle through that plastic bag on my head.
We agreed that the Tam o' Shanter aka "Tervan," "Tavern" somehow found a way to stay alive when the wise and sensitive folks, building the motel complex, just decided to build around the legendary Sandpoint bar. The Hair Hut staff has always maintained a close connection with the Tam folks, particularly through some generous, often unheralded humanitarian efforts for locals in need.
There's surely a lot more to tell about the Hair Hut as it disappears into history as yet another of Sandpoint's longtime bastions where "everybody knows your name and your business and genuinely cares what happens to you." I'm looking forward to learning it and writing the story. This is important work, I believe, because it appears that our only way of preserving local history these days is through the written word.
The visual evidence of our heritage is crumbling all too quickly, it seems. And, I wonder who will feed the squirrels when the Hair Hut doors close for the last time.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Spokesman goes Jenny Craig
On the back page of Section A, there's a full-page ad with a happy lady showing off her new, slimmer body. She's lost 42 pounds through "Positive Changes Hypnosis Center -- Yes, it works." After pulling out my feather-lite Spokesman-Review from the paperbox this morning, I'm wondering if the paper has tried hypnosis.
It has certainly gone through a weight-reduction plan, and we viewed its coming-out party this morning with the "all-new look." Well, weight reduction definitely was my first thought as I carried the flimsy-feeling paper through the rain toward the house and wondered just how I was going to like this much-advertised smaller format.
I showed it to Bill---still in the orange plastic bag---and he even gasped. Grabbing a cup of coffee, I plopped in the Love seat and prepared myself to spout out a few critiques while reading--er---finding the morning news. Yes, the paper has taken on a dramatic change, and, no, I don't know if I like it yet. These things take some getting used-to; that's for sure.
Today's transformed Spokesman-Review includes new graphic styles, new copy and headline type, modified masthead, new names for sections and great big obituary photos. It's nice to see that the dead people are getting their due after that decision a while back to move them and their life stories to the classifieds. Now, it appears they're even more important than the columnists, including Mr. Huckleberries.
I finally found his tiny mug at the bottom of the section once touted at the "Idaho Handle," then changed to the "Region" and now known as the "Northwest." When they go to the next natural step and start covering the entire Western United States in those two pages, I'm gonna rethink whether or not it's worth it to maintain my subscription for my Good Paper. Wasn't that moniker one of the marketing ploys a while back?
Well, back to Mr. Huckleberries; he did provide a nice Northwest twist to the first segment in his newly-packaged column with the story of the cell phone play-by-play between Mom Love and Daughter Love during last week's Seahawks-Carolina game. And, in so doing, he carried off skillfull job of covering our Northwest region between Seattle and Sandpoint, so I thank my Blog Father.
In all sincerity, I thank my Blog Father and all the Spokesman-Review reporters/photographers/graphic artists/editors who bring us columns, stories, and illustrations every single day--even Mondays. Once a person gets past the dramatic visual changes, the guts of the paper remain the same, and that's why we buy it in the first place. We like that nice read, which features quality writing and reporting to go along with that cup of coffee each morning.
In my case, there's an adrenalin-charged Border Collie snuggled up next to me every day as I read and sip. This morning, I can report that the smaller paper size makes her a heckuva lot happier because the left pages don't extend clear over her head. That means from now on, I'll be unable to ignore that froth-covered tennis ball clamped between her teeth, waiting for me to once again throw it across the living room for her to retrieve.
Just like the happy lady on the back-page dieting ad, the Spokesman has dramatically reduced in size, and just like the lady when she views herself in the mirror, we'll take some time getting used to the new look.
It has certainly gone through a weight-reduction plan, and we viewed its coming-out party this morning with the "all-new look." Well, weight reduction definitely was my first thought as I carried the flimsy-feeling paper through the rain toward the house and wondered just how I was going to like this much-advertised smaller format.
I showed it to Bill---still in the orange plastic bag---and he even gasped. Grabbing a cup of coffee, I plopped in the Love seat and prepared myself to spout out a few critiques while reading--er---finding the morning news. Yes, the paper has taken on a dramatic change, and, no, I don't know if I like it yet. These things take some getting used-to; that's for sure.
Today's transformed Spokesman-Review includes new graphic styles, new copy and headline type, modified masthead, new names for sections and great big obituary photos. It's nice to see that the dead people are getting their due after that decision a while back to move them and their life stories to the classifieds. Now, it appears they're even more important than the columnists, including Mr. Huckleberries.
I finally found his tiny mug at the bottom of the section once touted at the "Idaho Handle," then changed to the "Region" and now known as the "Northwest." When they go to the next natural step and start covering the entire Western United States in those two pages, I'm gonna rethink whether or not it's worth it to maintain my subscription for my Good Paper. Wasn't that moniker one of the marketing ploys a while back?
Well, back to Mr. Huckleberries; he did provide a nice Northwest twist to the first segment in his newly-packaged column with the story of the cell phone play-by-play between Mom Love and Daughter Love during last week's Seahawks-Carolina game. And, in so doing, he carried off skillfull job of covering our Northwest region between Seattle and Sandpoint, so I thank my Blog Father.
In all sincerity, I thank my Blog Father and all the Spokesman-Review reporters/photographers/graphic artists/editors who bring us columns, stories, and illustrations every single day--even Mondays. Once a person gets past the dramatic visual changes, the guts of the paper remain the same, and that's why we buy it in the first place. We like that nice read, which features quality writing and reporting to go along with that cup of coffee each morning.
In my case, there's an adrenalin-charged Border Collie snuggled up next to me every day as I read and sip. This morning, I can report that the smaller paper size makes her a heckuva lot happier because the left pages don't extend clear over her head. That means from now on, I'll be unable to ignore that froth-covered tennis ball clamped between her teeth, waiting for me to once again throw it across the living room for her to retrieve.
Just like the happy lady on the back-page dieting ad, the Spokesman has dramatically reduced in size, and just like the lady when she views herself in the mirror, we'll take some time getting used to the new look.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Burpee day
My green thumb is driving my mind these days, and it's imploring it to hurry up and get those seeds ordered. So, that's today's assignment. I've never ordered seeds before, mainly cuz I've never had a seed catalog show up at my house. Well, around Christmas time, I looked up seed catalogs on the Internet and found a couple of old reliables. I ordered two, knowing full well I'd be hearing from these folks every year until long after I've turned into dirt.
The catalogs finally arrived a couple of weeks ago, and after thumbing through them, I found the Burpee edition to be much more reader friendly, at least for my simple mind. So, I carried it with me from room to room----even to the thinking throne----and circled a few "must have's" along with the standard veggies and flower packets.
One of the more intriguing items among the offerings of new varieties like Big Mama Lima Beans, Mango Tango Impatiens and Red Lightning Tomatoes was the Maple Sugar Sweet Corn. In fact, I think I'll order a 100-seed packet and give it a try.
It's a "new Burpee exclusive" ready to eat in 78 days. Who wouldn't want to try it after reading the following description?
"We knew from the first bite that we had a winner. This utterly unique yellow hybrid had us at 'hello.' It boasts sugar levels truly beyond belief, while retaining full texture and creaminess of older types.
"We like it grilled to bring out the most of its maple candy flavor. Petite 6-8" ears fit neatly on your plate. The size also allows for great husk protection, so each ear is a perfect specimen of kernels packed to the very tip."
Well, I can't wait for the late August days when Bill barbecues up some Costco tri-tip steaks, smothered in Stubbs Moppin' sauce to go along with a tossed green salad (topped with Litehouse Honey Mustard dressing, of course) and Maple Sugar Sweet Corn, freshly picked from the garden. We've got lots of stages to encounter before sitting down to that yummy meal.
First and foremost, is completing the seed order today. I'll drive to the post office and drop it in tomorrow's mail and then wait patiently for the UPS man or the mailman to come in the driveway in a few weeks to hand over the seeds.
After I've checked out just what a real live Burpee seed order looks like, I'll again wait patiently for North Idaho's ever-unpredictable spring to offer me a window of opportunity for preparing that garden dirt with the rototiller and rake, along with another year's worth of Rambo and Casey's home-produced horse apples. I might even go get a load of well-aged and well packed Colburn manure, compliments of my sisters' 13 Arabians. I've heard that Arabian manure breeds superior corn.
Then, when the last snow starts melting from Baldy Mountain, it'll be time to stick those Burpee seeds in the ground and then to pray---a lot---that an extra blast of winter doesn't freeze 'em to death or that rain doesn't rot 'em to death. Once they're up, I'll give the plants the best tender loving care I can muster, and we'll all wait, with mouths watering for harvest time in August.
Just thinking about it on this winter morning, I can already taste that grilled maple corn, smothered in melting Imperial margarine. And, those fresh tomatoes, and the sweetness of a baked Idaho potato, straight from the ground. Yum. Yum.
In the meantime for the next several months, we'll survive on packages of cut-up lettuce which turns brown with its first breath of air and tasteless hot house tomatoes---but there's always that Litehouse Honey Mustard to fool us into thinking we actually like the salad.
The catalogs finally arrived a couple of weeks ago, and after thumbing through them, I found the Burpee edition to be much more reader friendly, at least for my simple mind. So, I carried it with me from room to room----even to the thinking throne----and circled a few "must have's" along with the standard veggies and flower packets.
One of the more intriguing items among the offerings of new varieties like Big Mama Lima Beans, Mango Tango Impatiens and Red Lightning Tomatoes was the Maple Sugar Sweet Corn. In fact, I think I'll order a 100-seed packet and give it a try.
It's a "new Burpee exclusive" ready to eat in 78 days. Who wouldn't want to try it after reading the following description?
"We knew from the first bite that we had a winner. This utterly unique yellow hybrid had us at 'hello.' It boasts sugar levels truly beyond belief, while retaining full texture and creaminess of older types.
"We like it grilled to bring out the most of its maple candy flavor. Petite 6-8" ears fit neatly on your plate. The size also allows for great husk protection, so each ear is a perfect specimen of kernels packed to the very tip."
Well, I can't wait for the late August days when Bill barbecues up some Costco tri-tip steaks, smothered in Stubbs Moppin' sauce to go along with a tossed green salad (topped with Litehouse Honey Mustard dressing, of course) and Maple Sugar Sweet Corn, freshly picked from the garden. We've got lots of stages to encounter before sitting down to that yummy meal.
First and foremost, is completing the seed order today. I'll drive to the post office and drop it in tomorrow's mail and then wait patiently for the UPS man or the mailman to come in the driveway in a few weeks to hand over the seeds.
After I've checked out just what a real live Burpee seed order looks like, I'll again wait patiently for North Idaho's ever-unpredictable spring to offer me a window of opportunity for preparing that garden dirt with the rototiller and rake, along with another year's worth of Rambo and Casey's home-produced horse apples. I might even go get a load of well-aged and well packed Colburn manure, compliments of my sisters' 13 Arabians. I've heard that Arabian manure breeds superior corn.
Then, when the last snow starts melting from Baldy Mountain, it'll be time to stick those Burpee seeds in the ground and then to pray---a lot---that an extra blast of winter doesn't freeze 'em to death or that rain doesn't rot 'em to death. Once they're up, I'll give the plants the best tender loving care I can muster, and we'll all wait, with mouths watering for harvest time in August.
Just thinking about it on this winter morning, I can already taste that grilled maple corn, smothered in melting Imperial margarine. And, those fresh tomatoes, and the sweetness of a baked Idaho potato, straight from the ground. Yum. Yum.
In the meantime for the next several months, we'll survive on packages of cut-up lettuce which turns brown with its first breath of air and tasteless hot house tomatoes---but there's always that Litehouse Honey Mustard to fool us into thinking we actually like the salad.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
No Love Notes from Space
I was going to be the Erma Bombeck of Outer Space. That was the overall plan when I wrote eight essays on different topics as part of the application for the first "Teacher in Space" program. My pitch involved writing a daily humorous diary from my perch in the Challenger as we fulfilled our duties while soaring high above the world. After all, it seemed to me that with all that heavy-duty scientific stuff going on, someone had to act as the observer who would chronicle the story of the space mission in reader-friendly terms.
That someone, in my wild dreams, would be a wacky English teacher from Sandpoint, Idaho, who'd pen "Love Notes from Space." I believe that my colleague at Sandpoint High School, Ray Miller, also applied. The application process took a long time, but I finally completed it and sent it to Boise where a committee reviewed the Idaho candidates and eventually selected elementary teacher Barbara Morgan from McCall (wife of novelist Clay Morgan). Someone who'd served on the selection panel wrote to me later and told me that the committee had really enjoyed my essays.
That news made me feel good about losing out in this highly competitive nationwide process to determine who would be the first teacher to go with other astronauts into outer space. Eventually, we all learned that New Hampshire's Christa McAuliffe had been chosen and that Idaho's Barbara Morgan would be her back-up. That made me feel even better, knowing that one of our own potatoheads would participate in this exciting program.
I followed the Teacher in Space program closely from that time on. I remained admittedly envious but truly excited when the day finally arrived for a fellow educator to make history with the Challenger mission.
On Jan. 28, 1986, I was standing in front of my second period English class when a young lady with a solemn expression appeared at the door and said, "Mrs. Love, come to the library. Something's happened with the Challenger." I left my classroom and walked through the library into a back room where a crowd stood huddled around the TV. The librarian told me something really terrible had happened. As events unfolded and the true horror of the Challenger explosion revealed itself, I remember a student saying, "Mrs. Love, we're glad you didn't get chosen as Teacher in Space."
It was a thoughtful, sincere comment, and as I continued to absorb this tragedy, it certainly did make me ponder that "There but for the grace of God go I" truism. I eventually returned to my classroom and announced to the students what had happened. It was one of those days of single, unfathomable tragedy that all who witnessed at the site or watched replay after replay on television would never forget.
I find it hard to believe that today marks the 20th anniversary of the Challenger disaster. Seems like just yesterday, I was filling out that endless application. Seems like just yesterday, I was so filled with hope that my writing talents would land me the opportunity to represent my profession and to go on this trip, which would be like no other.
Twenty years later, Christa McAuliffe's memory lives on as the forever-young science teacher and mother, so contagiously enthusiastic and so perfectly representative of our noble profession. She has no wrinkles as we see her in that often-replayed video, dressed in that space suit walking proudly with her colleagues and armed with that big smile, ready to take on that mission of a lifetime, which ended so quickly and so tragically.
Last night, Barbara Morgan appeared on CBS news and reflected on the experience 20 years ago. . She related a story about Christa McAuliffe and how she was ever the teacher, finishing two recommendations for high school seniors the night before the mission. Barbara Morgan is no longer a McCall school teacher. She's now a full-fledged astronaut, eager and ready to go on a mission soon. She has wrinkles these days, as do I. Ray Miller may not have wrinkles, but he definitely has less hair. He continued his teaching/coaching career and eventually became Sandpoint's mayor.
Twenty years later, as a retiree from my own teaching career, I think of what might have been had I gotten that chance to write my "Love Notes from Space." Because of my sense of adventure, I still have no second thoughts about being one of the thousands of hopeful teachers who filled out applications and who would have given anything to be walking in Christa McAuliffe's shoes that day.
We went along with her in spirit, and on that day we were all so proud to be teachers. Her mark on our profession and our inner spirits is infinite.
Note: If you want to get out of the house on this snowy day and learn some history about the Humbird Lumber Co., I'm lettin' you know that Bill is about to head to town to get the equipment set up for his presentation, set to begin around 10 a.m. at Community Hall in Sandpoint. If you're in England or New Zealand, you can catch him at a later date.
That someone, in my wild dreams, would be a wacky English teacher from Sandpoint, Idaho, who'd pen "Love Notes from Space." I believe that my colleague at Sandpoint High School, Ray Miller, also applied. The application process took a long time, but I finally completed it and sent it to Boise where a committee reviewed the Idaho candidates and eventually selected elementary teacher Barbara Morgan from McCall (wife of novelist Clay Morgan). Someone who'd served on the selection panel wrote to me later and told me that the committee had really enjoyed my essays.
That news made me feel good about losing out in this highly competitive nationwide process to determine who would be the first teacher to go with other astronauts into outer space. Eventually, we all learned that New Hampshire's Christa McAuliffe had been chosen and that Idaho's Barbara Morgan would be her back-up. That made me feel even better, knowing that one of our own potatoheads would participate in this exciting program.
I followed the Teacher in Space program closely from that time on. I remained admittedly envious but truly excited when the day finally arrived for a fellow educator to make history with the Challenger mission.
On Jan. 28, 1986, I was standing in front of my second period English class when a young lady with a solemn expression appeared at the door and said, "Mrs. Love, come to the library. Something's happened with the Challenger." I left my classroom and walked through the library into a back room where a crowd stood huddled around the TV. The librarian told me something really terrible had happened. As events unfolded and the true horror of the Challenger explosion revealed itself, I remember a student saying, "Mrs. Love, we're glad you didn't get chosen as Teacher in Space."
It was a thoughtful, sincere comment, and as I continued to absorb this tragedy, it certainly did make me ponder that "There but for the grace of God go I" truism. I eventually returned to my classroom and announced to the students what had happened. It was one of those days of single, unfathomable tragedy that all who witnessed at the site or watched replay after replay on television would never forget.
I find it hard to believe that today marks the 20th anniversary of the Challenger disaster. Seems like just yesterday, I was filling out that endless application. Seems like just yesterday, I was so filled with hope that my writing talents would land me the opportunity to represent my profession and to go on this trip, which would be like no other.
Twenty years later, Christa McAuliffe's memory lives on as the forever-young science teacher and mother, so contagiously enthusiastic and so perfectly representative of our noble profession. She has no wrinkles as we see her in that often-replayed video, dressed in that space suit walking proudly with her colleagues and armed with that big smile, ready to take on that mission of a lifetime, which ended so quickly and so tragically.
Last night, Barbara Morgan appeared on CBS news and reflected on the experience 20 years ago. . She related a story about Christa McAuliffe and how she was ever the teacher, finishing two recommendations for high school seniors the night before the mission. Barbara Morgan is no longer a McCall school teacher. She's now a full-fledged astronaut, eager and ready to go on a mission soon. She has wrinkles these days, as do I. Ray Miller may not have wrinkles, but he definitely has less hair. He continued his teaching/coaching career and eventually became Sandpoint's mayor.
Twenty years later, as a retiree from my own teaching career, I think of what might have been had I gotten that chance to write my "Love Notes from Space." Because of my sense of adventure, I still have no second thoughts about being one of the thousands of hopeful teachers who filled out applications and who would have given anything to be walking in Christa McAuliffe's shoes that day.
We went along with her in spirit, and on that day we were all so proud to be teachers. Her mark on our profession and our inner spirits is infinite.
Note: If you want to get out of the house on this snowy day and learn some history about the Humbird Lumber Co., I'm lettin' you know that Bill is about to head to town to get the equipment set up for his presentation, set to begin around 10 a.m. at Community Hall in Sandpoint. If you're in England or New Zealand, you can catch him at a later date.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Oprah Stir-Frey: A Recipe for Liars
I've mentioned before on this blog that Oprah occasionally irritates me. Some parts of me view her as a lady who'd make a great candidate to join our Saturday morning coffee cult. She seems like a down-to-earth someone whom any of us would enjoy visiting with and giggling with in a one-on-one situation.
I often remain glued to the tube when her shows feature intellectually stimulating, timely topics or fascinating guests whom I admire. Other times, however, I switch the channel, especially when the topic hints of another dose of Oprah self-aggrandizement along with those nauseating but fawning audience screams, which seems to happen frequently.
I guess I'm really pretty ambivalent when it comes to Oprah. At times I admire her; at other times, I think she's a bit into herself and all the power she wields worldwide. In fairness, it's possible that any human being, given the success and spotlight she enjoys, would act pretty much the same.
Yesterday was an "I Admire Oprah Day." Two weeks ago, my assessment was exactly the opposite after listening to James Frey (author of the New York Times bestseller A Million Little Pieces, which I have not read, by the way) sit at Larry King's desk and make a less-than-lame attempt at dispelling the notion that he's nothing but a lying fraud who duped the best of them with his phony life story. As I sat listening to him stumble over answers for the hour, I could not believe that he actually had the smarts to pull the wool over all those Oprah producers and the Queen herself.
I reacted throughout the show by commenting about what a sham he was every time Larry would ask him a question about an event in his book and his answer would begin with "I mean . . . . " Often that response came to question which called for a "yes" or "no" answer.
"This is so phony," I thought. "This guy has totally unmasked his charade on this show. Oprah's gotta be so embarrassed at watching this. " Then, they paraded his doting mother to the desk and asked her a few questions about how proud she was of her little boy.
Then, Oprah called and uttered her now-famous testimonial supporting Mr. Frey's alleged memoir. I couldn't believe my ears. The shock was followed by dismay. Once more, a prominent figure in our society---one whose every word can rival the pied piper---had minimized the importance of truth in favor of defending an obvious liar and con man.
Since then, until yesterday, I've remained in an "I Can't Believe Oprah Would Do That -- Oh Well, I Guess It's The Bottom Line" mode. It was disheartening to think of how a woman who has earned admiration worldwide could stand behind this phony and continue to do so. It was also disheartening to know that he'd just keep on selling those books and would continue to enjoy the Oprah seal of approval all the way to the bank.
I don't know if James Frey's bank account is going to suffer after yesterday's giant and very public dismantling of the profittable myth he has created, but I'm willing to bet he didn't sleep last night. He surely knows the wrath of Oprah after she squished him through the wringer and then hung him out for the rest of the media to fling a little well-deserved pigeon poop his way.
Thankfully, Mr. Oprah Stir-Frey's publisher took a few hits too. The only sad irony to yesterday's revelations, heard round the world, is that Frey and the publisher probably will sell a lot more of those books because of this publicity.
Maybe he'll need all that money to find a high-priced shrink smart enough to cure him of that pathological lying. Maybe Dr. Phil's that man. I believe the only way Frey and the publisher could gain any iota of credibility and restore people's faith in publishers is to announce that money from all further book sales will go to a humanitarian cause such as mental health rehabilitation----not one more cent to their pockets.
I'm willing to bet that Oprah slept a lot better last night, knowing she had once again wowed the masses with her courage and conviction by standing before the American public and admitting she was wrong, that she had made a mistake, and that telling the truth is still pretty helpful.
Oprah, you've got my vote today. You have ensured a brighter future for the much-maligned, often abused but indisputably essential element of truth.
I often remain glued to the tube when her shows feature intellectually stimulating, timely topics or fascinating guests whom I admire. Other times, however, I switch the channel, especially when the topic hints of another dose of Oprah self-aggrandizement along with those nauseating but fawning audience screams, which seems to happen frequently.
I guess I'm really pretty ambivalent when it comes to Oprah. At times I admire her; at other times, I think she's a bit into herself and all the power she wields worldwide. In fairness, it's possible that any human being, given the success and spotlight she enjoys, would act pretty much the same.
Yesterday was an "I Admire Oprah Day." Two weeks ago, my assessment was exactly the opposite after listening to James Frey (author of the New York Times bestseller A Million Little Pieces, which I have not read, by the way) sit at Larry King's desk and make a less-than-lame attempt at dispelling the notion that he's nothing but a lying fraud who duped the best of them with his phony life story. As I sat listening to him stumble over answers for the hour, I could not believe that he actually had the smarts to pull the wool over all those Oprah producers and the Queen herself.
I reacted throughout the show by commenting about what a sham he was every time Larry would ask him a question about an event in his book and his answer would begin with "I mean . . . . " Often that response came to question which called for a "yes" or "no" answer.
"This is so phony," I thought. "This guy has totally unmasked his charade on this show. Oprah's gotta be so embarrassed at watching this. " Then, they paraded his doting mother to the desk and asked her a few questions about how proud she was of her little boy.
Then, Oprah called and uttered her now-famous testimonial supporting Mr. Frey's alleged memoir. I couldn't believe my ears. The shock was followed by dismay. Once more, a prominent figure in our society---one whose every word can rival the pied piper---had minimized the importance of truth in favor of defending an obvious liar and con man.
Since then, until yesterday, I've remained in an "I Can't Believe Oprah Would Do That -- Oh Well, I Guess It's The Bottom Line" mode. It was disheartening to think of how a woman who has earned admiration worldwide could stand behind this phony and continue to do so. It was also disheartening to know that he'd just keep on selling those books and would continue to enjoy the Oprah seal of approval all the way to the bank.
I don't know if James Frey's bank account is going to suffer after yesterday's giant and very public dismantling of the profittable myth he has created, but I'm willing to bet he didn't sleep last night. He surely knows the wrath of Oprah after she squished him through the wringer and then hung him out for the rest of the media to fling a little well-deserved pigeon poop his way.
Thankfully, Mr. Oprah Stir-Frey's publisher took a few hits too. The only sad irony to yesterday's revelations, heard round the world, is that Frey and the publisher probably will sell a lot more of those books because of this publicity.
Maybe he'll need all that money to find a high-priced shrink smart enough to cure him of that pathological lying. Maybe Dr. Phil's that man. I believe the only way Frey and the publisher could gain any iota of credibility and restore people's faith in publishers is to announce that money from all further book sales will go to a humanitarian cause such as mental health rehabilitation----not one more cent to their pockets.
I'm willing to bet that Oprah slept a lot better last night, knowing she had once again wowed the masses with her courage and conviction by standing before the American public and admitting she was wrong, that she had made a mistake, and that telling the truth is still pretty helpful.
Oprah, you've got my vote today. You have ensured a brighter future for the much-maligned, often abused but indisputably essential element of truth.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Dah-da-dah-da-dah-da-dahhhhhhh
No, I'm not trying to illustrate a new poetic foot in my headline today. Actually, I think you'd call that a trochee, punctuated by a trocheeeeeee. Or, is it a dactyl punctuated by a dactyllllllllll? Who cares! My intention was to suggest something really weird. You know that sound they make when outside forces seem to be invading our normal daytime routine.
Well, it happened here the other night at 6:03 p.m. PST. The phone rang. I answered. I could hear rustling sounds like people gathered around the phone. Since there was no telltale computer click immediately after pickup, I said a second hello. The rustling continued for about 15 seconds; then I heard a click. Surely there were humans at the other end, I surmised.
I looked at the caller ID and then looked up the 916 area code. Sacramento. Hmmm. The only person I know who would call us from Sacramento is Bill's sister Margaret. The number did not look familiar, and usually she says something when she calls. So, I forgot about it, figuring it was some phony humanitarian organization wanting to sell lightbulbs only to chicken out at the end.
The next morning, I was working at my computer and the same number flashed up on the Call Wave. Figuring they'd say something this time, I just kept on working. This time, instead of voices, I could hear a continuous whirring sound. Hmmm. "Maybe George Bush or Dick Cheney are calling to see what I'm up to and taping my response," I thought to myself as I kept on working. Finally, after 20 or so seconds, I heard a click.
Two minutes later, the same number called. The click came immediately this time. "Oops, I've already called to spy on her; she's clean---just checking her email for the 15th time today," at least that's what I surmised this time the call came. I continued reading email and checking out my daily blog rolls.
Almost forgot about the calls when along came a third. This time, I stopped, listened and watched as whoever/whatever this was stayed on the line. I sadistically let 'em rack up 124 seconds until Catholic guilt implored me to finally disconnect my computer and break off the call. Later, not wanting to spend Bill's Verizon nickels, I went to my Cingular cell phone and punched in the number. Lo and behold, my cell phone voicemail box answered. Dadahdadahdadahdadahhhhhhhhhh!
"This IS weird," I thought, hoping the number would not call me again. How could I call that number and get my voicemail? Anyone? Anyone?
In a later planned and normal phone conversation I told my mother about the strange calls and suggested once again it was more than likely telemarketers with lightbulbs. Less than an hour later, while getting ready to go to town, I picked up my cell phone. Its window read, "One missed call."
Hadn't heard the cell phone ring, but I figured this must be Annie calling cuz she's one of the few who calls me on my cell phone. I punched the missed call and a few seconds later, someone who did not sound like Annie answered.
"Who is this?" I asked.
"This is Margaret," the voice answered. Sure enough it was Bill's sister. She wondered why I was calling her on her cell phone, which she seldom uses. Sure enough, the number that had been calling me was Margaret's cell phone. Okay, case solved!
Not exactly. Only problem was Margaret had NOT called me or Bill or anyone else in our house, but her cell phone did. I gave her the times that the calls occurred. She had her phone with her at both times but had not used it. Furthermore, she did not even know my cell phone number, but her phone did. Dahdadahdadahdadahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
She was happy with the unexpected telephone visit from me that day, but she was also wondering how the heck her cell phone called both our house and my cell phone without her fingers doing the walking. We're still wondering about this freak of cybernature and we'd like explanations. Annie says that it could be old calls that never got answered that simply sat in cyberspace waiting for a good wave to ride to our house.
We have no answers and will welcome any suggestions. In the meantime, we'll wonder if George and Dick are up to their slimy surveillance methods. And speaking of slimy surveillance, I'll point you to my website to read this month's "Love Notes," which deals with none other than spying on one's neighbor. Check it out www.mariannelove.com
DahdadahdadahdadahdadahGeorge,izthatu?dahdadahdadahdahhhhhhhhhh!
Well, it happened here the other night at 6:03 p.m. PST. The phone rang. I answered. I could hear rustling sounds like people gathered around the phone. Since there was no telltale computer click immediately after pickup, I said a second hello. The rustling continued for about 15 seconds; then I heard a click. Surely there were humans at the other end, I surmised.
I looked at the caller ID and then looked up the 916 area code. Sacramento. Hmmm. The only person I know who would call us from Sacramento is Bill's sister Margaret. The number did not look familiar, and usually she says something when she calls. So, I forgot about it, figuring it was some phony humanitarian organization wanting to sell lightbulbs only to chicken out at the end.
The next morning, I was working at my computer and the same number flashed up on the Call Wave. Figuring they'd say something this time, I just kept on working. This time, instead of voices, I could hear a continuous whirring sound. Hmmm. "Maybe George Bush or Dick Cheney are calling to see what I'm up to and taping my response," I thought to myself as I kept on working. Finally, after 20 or so seconds, I heard a click.
Two minutes later, the same number called. The click came immediately this time. "Oops, I've already called to spy on her; she's clean---just checking her email for the 15th time today," at least that's what I surmised this time the call came. I continued reading email and checking out my daily blog rolls.
Almost forgot about the calls when along came a third. This time, I stopped, listened and watched as whoever/whatever this was stayed on the line. I sadistically let 'em rack up 124 seconds until Catholic guilt implored me to finally disconnect my computer and break off the call. Later, not wanting to spend Bill's Verizon nickels, I went to my Cingular cell phone and punched in the number. Lo and behold, my cell phone voicemail box answered. Dadahdadahdadahdadahhhhhhhhhh!
"This IS weird," I thought, hoping the number would not call me again. How could I call that number and get my voicemail? Anyone? Anyone?
In a later planned and normal phone conversation I told my mother about the strange calls and suggested once again it was more than likely telemarketers with lightbulbs. Less than an hour later, while getting ready to go to town, I picked up my cell phone. Its window read, "One missed call."
Hadn't heard the cell phone ring, but I figured this must be Annie calling cuz she's one of the few who calls me on my cell phone. I punched the missed call and a few seconds later, someone who did not sound like Annie answered.
"Who is this?" I asked.
"This is Margaret," the voice answered. Sure enough it was Bill's sister. She wondered why I was calling her on her cell phone, which she seldom uses. Sure enough, the number that had been calling me was Margaret's cell phone. Okay, case solved!
Not exactly. Only problem was Margaret had NOT called me or Bill or anyone else in our house, but her cell phone did. I gave her the times that the calls occurred. She had her phone with her at both times but had not used it. Furthermore, she did not even know my cell phone number, but her phone did. Dahdadahdadahdadahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
She was happy with the unexpected telephone visit from me that day, but she was also wondering how the heck her cell phone called both our house and my cell phone without her fingers doing the walking. We're still wondering about this freak of cybernature and we'd like explanations. Annie says that it could be old calls that never got answered that simply sat in cyberspace waiting for a good wave to ride to our house.
We have no answers and will welcome any suggestions. In the meantime, we'll wonder if George and Dick are up to their slimy surveillance methods. And speaking of slimy surveillance, I'll point you to my website to read this month's "Love Notes," which deals with none other than spying on one's neighbor. Check it out www.mariannelove.com
DahdadahdadahdadahdadahGeorge,izthatu?dahdadahdadahdahhhhhhhhhh!
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Bridge over Troubled Water
We hear it all the time from the long line of transplants who continue to tell us, "I came, I saw, I bought." In essence, that's what many of our newer residents say in conjunction with that age-old (well, maybe a hundred years) motive for moving to this area, "I came across that bridge and fell in love."
This morning, I'm going to debunk that myth, so oft repeated. These people blame it on the bridge (or should we say bridges---there have been four of them connecting Sandpoint to the world south of us). I submit that they just aren't thinking when they say "bridge." Can you imagine looking at two miles of concrete and metal and then proclaiming, "I've found Heaven. I'm going to move here."
Nope, I don't think the bridge deserves all the credit. Granted, the bridge may have provided an instrument, but I'm thinking the tree-covered mountains surrounding Lake Pend Oreille may have played a part---at least, before they became fancy-house-covered. I'm guessing the number-one final, final answer to why so many people have moved here---or in some cases, got sent here and decided to stay at all costs---has to do with that big beautiful alluring lake.
Over the past couple of years, I've been involved with a book project, which if completed sometime in the next century, will showcase Lake Pend Oreille, its attributes and its history. My assignment concerns the history of the white settlement around the lake, which reportedly began in a very small way back in 1809 when British Mapmaker David Thompson paddled through and established a fur trading house on the Hope Peninsula.
It was called Kullyspell House, and we'd be hard-pressed to find any sign of it out there nearly 200 years later. Now, its site is surrounded by hundreds of high-end homes and docks and a lot of perpetually hungry but cute deer. After Thompson's visit, most of the permanent white settlement around the lake occurred when the railroads were constructed along its shores in the 1880s.
Then, came the loggers and the farmers. We had a huge number of military folks who trained at Farragut during World War II. Many remained in the area or came back. During the last 50 years of the Twentieth Century, recreation influences gradually took over as prime reasons for outsiders to fall in love with this place and stay here. Recreation possibilities still continue to drive the great influx of transplants who've discovered our area and want to grab their piece of Heaven.
Through all that, Lake Pend Oreille continues to be the draw. Unfortunately, in a relatively short period of time---historically speaking---because of a myriad of man-made influences such as mining, logging, construction and recreation, our beautiful lake's health has suffered. The scourge of an ever-growing weed called milfoil threatens its nutrients and its fisheries and, at the very least, provides a major nuisance for anyone trying to enjoy a day on the water.
Harmful chemicals can easily seep into the lake from the shear numbers of man-driven projects constantly occurring around its shores. General day-to-day activities of humans inhabiting the area can also take their toll if people are not aware of the consequences of their actions. Granted, these individual and often unwitting transgressions impact the lake in small ways, but collectively they can inflict heavy damage on this natural wonder which we all love so much.
That bridge into Sandpoint now leads folks over troubled waters which desperately need our collective help if the lake is to survive as our most precious natural gem. So, why have I gone on this gentle rant, you may ask. Yesterday, I met with three dedicated people at the Bonner County Soil and Water Conservation District---Gary Parker, Jamie Davis and Linda O'Hare. Teaming up with the Tri-State Water Quality Council, these staffers are implementing an educational and pro-active project which should enlighten our ever-growing population on what we can do individually to save our lake from future demise.
It's called Lake *A*Syst, and its purpose is "to educate for conservation." It's aimed at landowners near the lake's shoreline as well as recreationalists who use the lake. Basically, the BCSWCD) will publish a manual, identifying areas of concern, asking landowners to assess what they're doing with their land and providing suggestions on how to correct any problems that can potentially damage the lake's waters.
These BCSWCD staffers have asked me to write the foreward for the manual, which should be distributed sometime this summer. I'm honored to accept the assignment because their approach seems very practical, potentially effective and definitely timely. Since yesterday's meeting, I've thought a lot about this important writing challenge and just what needs to be said.
Somehow, I keep imagining the quiet, peaceful scene that David Thompson must've witnessed on that September day in 1809. Then, I think about the heavy impact we outsiders to this area have all had on our beautiful lake during such a relatively short segment in its 10,000 year-old history.
I wonder if folks coming across another bridge, 200 years from now, will still marvel at its magnificence, or will they be horrified with the extent that man has assaulted the natural world around it? Will that bridge in 2209 cross over even more troubled waters?
I guess we and all who love the lake will write the answer to that question.
This morning, I'm going to debunk that myth, so oft repeated. These people blame it on the bridge (or should we say bridges---there have been four of them connecting Sandpoint to the world south of us). I submit that they just aren't thinking when they say "bridge." Can you imagine looking at two miles of concrete and metal and then proclaiming, "I've found Heaven. I'm going to move here."
Nope, I don't think the bridge deserves all the credit. Granted, the bridge may have provided an instrument, but I'm thinking the tree-covered mountains surrounding Lake Pend Oreille may have played a part---at least, before they became fancy-house-covered. I'm guessing the number-one final, final answer to why so many people have moved here---or in some cases, got sent here and decided to stay at all costs---has to do with that big beautiful alluring lake.
Over the past couple of years, I've been involved with a book project, which if completed sometime in the next century, will showcase Lake Pend Oreille, its attributes and its history. My assignment concerns the history of the white settlement around the lake, which reportedly began in a very small way back in 1809 when British Mapmaker David Thompson paddled through and established a fur trading house on the Hope Peninsula.
It was called Kullyspell House, and we'd be hard-pressed to find any sign of it out there nearly 200 years later. Now, its site is surrounded by hundreds of high-end homes and docks and a lot of perpetually hungry but cute deer. After Thompson's visit, most of the permanent white settlement around the lake occurred when the railroads were constructed along its shores in the 1880s.
Then, came the loggers and the farmers. We had a huge number of military folks who trained at Farragut during World War II. Many remained in the area or came back. During the last 50 years of the Twentieth Century, recreation influences gradually took over as prime reasons for outsiders to fall in love with this place and stay here. Recreation possibilities still continue to drive the great influx of transplants who've discovered our area and want to grab their piece of Heaven.
Through all that, Lake Pend Oreille continues to be the draw. Unfortunately, in a relatively short period of time---historically speaking---because of a myriad of man-made influences such as mining, logging, construction and recreation, our beautiful lake's health has suffered. The scourge of an ever-growing weed called milfoil threatens its nutrients and its fisheries and, at the very least, provides a major nuisance for anyone trying to enjoy a day on the water.
Harmful chemicals can easily seep into the lake from the shear numbers of man-driven projects constantly occurring around its shores. General day-to-day activities of humans inhabiting the area can also take their toll if people are not aware of the consequences of their actions. Granted, these individual and often unwitting transgressions impact the lake in small ways, but collectively they can inflict heavy damage on this natural wonder which we all love so much.
That bridge into Sandpoint now leads folks over troubled waters which desperately need our collective help if the lake is to survive as our most precious natural gem. So, why have I gone on this gentle rant, you may ask. Yesterday, I met with three dedicated people at the Bonner County Soil and Water Conservation District---Gary Parker, Jamie Davis and Linda O'Hare. Teaming up with the Tri-State Water Quality Council, these staffers are implementing an educational and pro-active project which should enlighten our ever-growing population on what we can do individually to save our lake from future demise.
It's called Lake *A*Syst, and its purpose is "to educate for conservation." It's aimed at landowners near the lake's shoreline as well as recreationalists who use the lake. Basically, the BCSWCD) will publish a manual, identifying areas of concern, asking landowners to assess what they're doing with their land and providing suggestions on how to correct any problems that can potentially damage the lake's waters.
These BCSWCD staffers have asked me to write the foreward for the manual, which should be distributed sometime this summer. I'm honored to accept the assignment because their approach seems very practical, potentially effective and definitely timely. Since yesterday's meeting, I've thought a lot about this important writing challenge and just what needs to be said.
Somehow, I keep imagining the quiet, peaceful scene that David Thompson must've witnessed on that September day in 1809. Then, I think about the heavy impact we outsiders to this area have all had on our beautiful lake during such a relatively short segment in its 10,000 year-old history.
I wonder if folks coming across another bridge, 200 years from now, will still marvel at its magnificence, or will they be horrified with the extent that man has assaulted the natural world around it? Will that bridge in 2209 cross over even more troubled waters?
I guess we and all who love the lake will write the answer to that question.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Kiwi's back to herding her red lambs
One week ago today, I took Kiwi to Pend Oreille Veterinary Hospital around 8 a.m. At 3:30 p.m., that afternoon, I paid the $186. vet tab, watched her pee on the examination room floor and then led her back to the car. Kiwi was pretty quiet last Tuesday night---didn't even beg from the potato chip bag. She remained fairly miserable and uncomfortable for the next couple of days.
After all, she had two incisions on her belly and a tender spot on her shoulder from spaying, hernia repair and microchip insertion. With last week's medical visit, Kiwi is officially our thousand-dollar dog. In my heart, however, that's a pittance in comparison to how much I appreciate and love her. To me, Kiwi remains priceless, even though I've never yet used a Mastercard to pay for any of her needs.
One week after surgery, she's fully healed and back to her projects, one of which includes standing with her front paws curled over the fence and watching the water shoot out of the hose into the horse trough. After all, there's always hope of grabbing a mouthful from that forceful stream as it flows into the tank. Then, you can choke for a few seconds afterward from swallowing so fast. She's also back to enthusiastically greeting every human being she meets around town or at our back door. After all, there's always hope of landing a big, juicy French kiss right inside folks' mouths, if you can only catch them off guard.
Tom, the Schwan's man, had Kiwi pegged the first time he met her, so he enters the house with his pocketful of treats and implores her to sit still while we visit and talk about the order. When she complies, she gets a treat. She complies a lot. Others along Kiwi's path have experienced varying degrees of success at convincing Kiwi that dirty paws on their clean clothes or juicy passion all over their faces won't win big human popularity points from the canine crowd. But, she's learning.
Yesterday, we went on our first "go-to-town" outing since her surgery. We walked First Avenue and cut over to the railroad depot via the Coldwater Creek bridge. One natural fear we've noticed about Kiwi is heights. Anything three inches or higher off stable ground brings out the doggie paranoia in our otherwise outgoing pooch. Immediately, she hovers close to the surface and moves along carefully like a wind-up vibrating toy. It's really bad at the vet office when they ask her to step on to the scales, which rest in the lobby right in front of other people and other doggie patients. She refuses and then pees. What woman wouldn't!
I noticed Kiwi's acrophobia a couple of times yesterday as we crossed two bridges over Sand Creek. In fact, I had to gently persuade her---with great force on the leash---that hovering on the sidewalk next to the south railing was far safer than hovering down the middle of Bridge Street. I think she put two and two together when the car passed by in the very spot where she'd insisted on hovering. She's a pretty smart dog.
One of the big adventures of being on the mend for Kiwi is getting back to work with her herd. That herd now consists of one dozen Folgers coffee cans, which she believes are sheep. I haven't told her any differently. I started giving her these plastic lamb substitutes last fall. Immediately, she took protective ownership of the ever-growing herd. Every time we've finished off another can of Folgers Classic Roast, Kiwi has happily welcomed the new addition.
When winter came on, she knew the pastures offered little nutrition, so over a few days' time, she rounded up every can from all corners of our ten-acre farm and convinced them to remain huddled in their winter range behind the house. Every day, she'll cut a couple of cans from the herd and bring them along for our walks around the place.
As I amble along the groomed trails (either lawnmowers or snow shoes keep 'em passable), Kiwi runs ahead with one of her Folgers lambs, finds a hiding spot, and guards her Folger's baby with fierce maternal vigilance. Then, she lies in wait for me to come along and kick the can a few more feet across the pasture. With that motion, she immediately launches off and races to catch it before it rolls too far from her grasp.
The process repeats itself dozens of times throughout our trips around the place. By the time, I come back outside for the next walk, the entire herd is once more fully assembled behind the house, and a "lucky?" Folger's can awaits its turn for Kiwi single it from the group and herd it across the fields as I pick a new route.
I do have concerns for the day when we take Kiwi to learn how to herd real live, white sheep. Possibly, it would be wise for us to take along a couple of cans and explain to her that sheep come from precisely the same family as her Folger's cans; they just have four legs and go "baa" instead rolling around and going "clunk." When that day comes, we'll deal with it.
For now, Folgers seems to do the trick for our priceless, happy, herding coffee-can dog. Hmm. I wonder if Folgers would like to use Kiwi in their coffee commercials.
After all, she had two incisions on her belly and a tender spot on her shoulder from spaying, hernia repair and microchip insertion. With last week's medical visit, Kiwi is officially our thousand-dollar dog. In my heart, however, that's a pittance in comparison to how much I appreciate and love her. To me, Kiwi remains priceless, even though I've never yet used a Mastercard to pay for any of her needs.
One week after surgery, she's fully healed and back to her projects, one of which includes standing with her front paws curled over the fence and watching the water shoot out of the hose into the horse trough. After all, there's always hope of grabbing a mouthful from that forceful stream as it flows into the tank. Then, you can choke for a few seconds afterward from swallowing so fast. She's also back to enthusiastically greeting every human being she meets around town or at our back door. After all, there's always hope of landing a big, juicy French kiss right inside folks' mouths, if you can only catch them off guard.
Tom, the Schwan's man, had Kiwi pegged the first time he met her, so he enters the house with his pocketful of treats and implores her to sit still while we visit and talk about the order. When she complies, she gets a treat. She complies a lot. Others along Kiwi's path have experienced varying degrees of success at convincing Kiwi that dirty paws on their clean clothes or juicy passion all over their faces won't win big human popularity points from the canine crowd. But, she's learning.
Yesterday, we went on our first "go-to-town" outing since her surgery. We walked First Avenue and cut over to the railroad depot via the Coldwater Creek bridge. One natural fear we've noticed about Kiwi is heights. Anything three inches or higher off stable ground brings out the doggie paranoia in our otherwise outgoing pooch. Immediately, she hovers close to the surface and moves along carefully like a wind-up vibrating toy. It's really bad at the vet office when they ask her to step on to the scales, which rest in the lobby right in front of other people and other doggie patients. She refuses and then pees. What woman wouldn't!
I noticed Kiwi's acrophobia a couple of times yesterday as we crossed two bridges over Sand Creek. In fact, I had to gently persuade her---with great force on the leash---that hovering on the sidewalk next to the south railing was far safer than hovering down the middle of Bridge Street. I think she put two and two together when the car passed by in the very spot where she'd insisted on hovering. She's a pretty smart dog.
One of the big adventures of being on the mend for Kiwi is getting back to work with her herd. That herd now consists of one dozen Folgers coffee cans, which she believes are sheep. I haven't told her any differently. I started giving her these plastic lamb substitutes last fall. Immediately, she took protective ownership of the ever-growing herd. Every time we've finished off another can of Folgers Classic Roast, Kiwi has happily welcomed the new addition.
When winter came on, she knew the pastures offered little nutrition, so over a few days' time, she rounded up every can from all corners of our ten-acre farm and convinced them to remain huddled in their winter range behind the house. Every day, she'll cut a couple of cans from the herd and bring them along for our walks around the place.
As I amble along the groomed trails (either lawnmowers or snow shoes keep 'em passable), Kiwi runs ahead with one of her Folgers lambs, finds a hiding spot, and guards her Folger's baby with fierce maternal vigilance. Then, she lies in wait for me to come along and kick the can a few more feet across the pasture. With that motion, she immediately launches off and races to catch it before it rolls too far from her grasp.
The process repeats itself dozens of times throughout our trips around the place. By the time, I come back outside for the next walk, the entire herd is once more fully assembled behind the house, and a "lucky?" Folger's can awaits its turn for Kiwi single it from the group and herd it across the fields as I pick a new route.
I do have concerns for the day when we take Kiwi to learn how to herd real live, white sheep. Possibly, it would be wise for us to take along a couple of cans and explain to her that sheep come from precisely the same family as her Folger's cans; they just have four legs and go "baa" instead rolling around and going "clunk." When that day comes, we'll deal with it.
For now, Folgers seems to do the trick for our priceless, happy, herding coffee-can dog. Hmm. I wonder if Folgers would like to use Kiwi in their coffee commercials.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Monday-morning aftermath
This morning, Bill has concerns for his friends, the Watkins, and for his Presbyterian buddy, Don Helander. They're diehard Bronco fans, and their hopes of watching Denver play in the Super Bowl probably died pretty hard yesterday afternoon as Pittsburgh whupped 'em bad.
At times, when the quarterback Jake Plummer was lying at the bottom of a heap after being plowed under by the Steeler defense, I feared that Ruth Watkins might be having a heart attack out there in Hope. We didn't worry about Don cuz he runs the health club, so he probably just went down to the office and swatted a few handballs against the walls when the game ended so badly.
Now, on the Seattle front, what could we say!! The only disappointment was that Annie and her friend Rachel couldn't haggle down the scalpers to get themselves a seat inside Quest Stadium. The scalpers were asking $300 a ticket; she was willing to pay $112 for a few extras being sold at the last minute from the ticket office, but she was too far down the line, and the window closed. We provided her play-by-play via cell phone through the first two Seahawks' scores as she worked the crowd of hopefuls.
Finally, she called at halftime from a restaurant/bar across the street from the stadium and was spending part of that $112 for her dinner and free TV coverage. We had fun watching from our couch and providing her details on what was happening whenever that noisy crowd went wild inside where she was hoping to be.
There's definitely joy across the Pacific Northwest this morning. The Seahawks arrived at their stadium yesterday to do a job, and they did it well. Now, we'll all look forward to Super Sunday with a bit more reverence and regional pride than we've felt in years.
In fact, I believe this may be the first time our area football fans have been so excited about the Super Bowl since the 1970s when Sandpoint's Jerry Kramer was a big star guard for the Green Bay Packers. He was one of ours and we all followed the Packers faithfully. Of course, we were thrilled when our hometown boy "Number 64" for the Packers provided that famous block that won the big game.
On another occasion---I believe it was 1974----I remember watching the Super Bowl with a little more interest at my friends, Dale and Mae McCormick's house. We spent that Sunday afternoon studying the TV screen closely in hopes of seeing my brother Kevin in the crowd.
He got to go that year when the big game in Houston pitted the Miami Dolphins against the Minnesota Vikings. We never did get to see Kevin, but we watched the Dolphins seal an undefeated season with a 24-7 victory over the Vikings. As I recall, the game was pretty boring, as many Super Bowls have been over the years, but our family connection that year kept us interested.
Yesterday's television offerings kept us interested beyond the Seahawks rout over Carolina. While munching on Mr. Sub sandwiches, we moved right on in to the Extreme stuff, promised so long by Channel 4 and the ABC network. It was extreme, all right, especially the embellishment and suggestion that big black bears just lumber into folks' back yards as a matter of course here in "wild" North Idaho.
Sandpoint and what's left of its lovely surroundings didn't exactly play center stage in the production, which I personally thought was a good thing. Let's see, did that scene across the bridge last all of eight seconds or was it more like five? I can't count that fast, but the world does now know that we have trees here and that there's a family of three with a brand new house, complete with accessories and $50,000 to spend.
Sandwiched in between the big Extreme stuff on a local level were two Spokane-based commercials revealing a very touching consequence for another family who've endured situations beyond belief during the past few months. And, for that, I must say thank you to anyone who wrote letters to Wendle Motors in Spokane.
Cody and Jodi Greve-Likkel, and their son Mason, flew home from Seattle Friday afternoon. They're the family who spent several days in Harborview Medical Center recuperating from burns received a few weeks ago when they checked out a potential rental house. As they entered the house, it exploded into flames because of an electrical problem.
After all their misery, they had reasons to smile when Chud Wendle met them at the airport and presented them the keys to a brand new car. In addition, they learned about some other generosity bestowed upon them by clients of Inland Forest Management where Jodi is employed.
Mike Wolcott and his partner Dick Bradetich have definitely "stepped to the plate" for this couple who've experienced two tragedies in two months. Through Mike and Dick's leadership, others have followed, including anyone who sent in letters supporting their selection for this Extreme Car giveaway.
So, this Monday morning aftermath of a busy Sunday reveals gloom for some Denver football fans, sunshine for the Seahawks faithful, great joy for some deserving recipients and a pleasing sense of satisfaction for all who give so much behind the scenes.
At times, when the quarterback Jake Plummer was lying at the bottom of a heap after being plowed under by the Steeler defense, I feared that Ruth Watkins might be having a heart attack out there in Hope. We didn't worry about Don cuz he runs the health club, so he probably just went down to the office and swatted a few handballs against the walls when the game ended so badly.
Now, on the Seattle front, what could we say!! The only disappointment was that Annie and her friend Rachel couldn't haggle down the scalpers to get themselves a seat inside Quest Stadium. The scalpers were asking $300 a ticket; she was willing to pay $112 for a few extras being sold at the last minute from the ticket office, but she was too far down the line, and the window closed. We provided her play-by-play via cell phone through the first two Seahawks' scores as she worked the crowd of hopefuls.
Finally, she called at halftime from a restaurant/bar across the street from the stadium and was spending part of that $112 for her dinner and free TV coverage. We had fun watching from our couch and providing her details on what was happening whenever that noisy crowd went wild inside where she was hoping to be.
There's definitely joy across the Pacific Northwest this morning. The Seahawks arrived at their stadium yesterday to do a job, and they did it well. Now, we'll all look forward to Super Sunday with a bit more reverence and regional pride than we've felt in years.
In fact, I believe this may be the first time our area football fans have been so excited about the Super Bowl since the 1970s when Sandpoint's Jerry Kramer was a big star guard for the Green Bay Packers. He was one of ours and we all followed the Packers faithfully. Of course, we were thrilled when our hometown boy "Number 64" for the Packers provided that famous block that won the big game.
On another occasion---I believe it was 1974----I remember watching the Super Bowl with a little more interest at my friends, Dale and Mae McCormick's house. We spent that Sunday afternoon studying the TV screen closely in hopes of seeing my brother Kevin in the crowd.
He got to go that year when the big game in Houston pitted the Miami Dolphins against the Minnesota Vikings. We never did get to see Kevin, but we watched the Dolphins seal an undefeated season with a 24-7 victory over the Vikings. As I recall, the game was pretty boring, as many Super Bowls have been over the years, but our family connection that year kept us interested.
Yesterday's television offerings kept us interested beyond the Seahawks rout over Carolina. While munching on Mr. Sub sandwiches, we moved right on in to the Extreme stuff, promised so long by Channel 4 and the ABC network. It was extreme, all right, especially the embellishment and suggestion that big black bears just lumber into folks' back yards as a matter of course here in "wild" North Idaho.
Sandpoint and what's left of its lovely surroundings didn't exactly play center stage in the production, which I personally thought was a good thing. Let's see, did that scene across the bridge last all of eight seconds or was it more like five? I can't count that fast, but the world does now know that we have trees here and that there's a family of three with a brand new house, complete with accessories and $50,000 to spend.
Sandwiched in between the big Extreme stuff on a local level were two Spokane-based commercials revealing a very touching consequence for another family who've endured situations beyond belief during the past few months. And, for that, I must say thank you to anyone who wrote letters to Wendle Motors in Spokane.
Cody and Jodi Greve-Likkel, and their son Mason, flew home from Seattle Friday afternoon. They're the family who spent several days in Harborview Medical Center recuperating from burns received a few weeks ago when they checked out a potential rental house. As they entered the house, it exploded into flames because of an electrical problem.
After all their misery, they had reasons to smile when Chud Wendle met them at the airport and presented them the keys to a brand new car. In addition, they learned about some other generosity bestowed upon them by clients of Inland Forest Management where Jodi is employed.
Mike Wolcott and his partner Dick Bradetich have definitely "stepped to the plate" for this couple who've experienced two tragedies in two months. Through Mike and Dick's leadership, others have followed, including anyone who sent in letters supporting their selection for this Extreme Car giveaway.
So, this Monday morning aftermath of a busy Sunday reveals gloom for some Denver football fans, sunshine for the Seahawks faithful, great joy for some deserving recipients and a pleasing sense of satisfaction for all who give so much behind the scenes.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Extreme day ahead
The weather has improved, and so have the moods. Maybe we've turned the corner on Winter 2006. I know we've turned the corner on my most hated month of the year. January has always topped the list because of its extreme length. I think it seems long because the nights and time spent inside often feel endless because of darkness and yucky weather. Plus, we're often broke. Anyway, only nine days remain after this extreme Sunday for those of us living in North Idaho.
The day will be extreme for me because I'm starting it out by actually attending Mass at my home parish of St. Joseph's this morning. Rather than getting into specifics of why I'm doing this for the first time in two years, I'll simply say the timing is right and that a nice person called yesterday and invited me. Had another invitation from my friend Sue Austin last week, but it didn't work out. This morning, however, I'll be there, and I don't think God or anyone else is gonna yell at me.
I'll probably also make a visit to the health-club tanning room again today. This past week signaled the start of the annual January "bake-that-skin" sessions for me. Each year about this time, when I get tired of viewing my pasty white hands (with those ugly age spots) and all that other pale flab, I bite the bullet and sign up for a few weeks of tanning sessions.
Usually there's also an upcoming trip to the south country egging me on. This year is no exception. I use the need to get a tan for the big trip as an excuse to the clerk when I walk into the club without my sweats, bathing suit or gym shoes and simply sign up for ten minutes of lounging in the bed. It doesn't make me feel one bit guilty hearing all those folks just outside the Cabo or Maui door, working up a sweat on the weights, walking machines and exercise bikes.
After all, I've got my own exercise equipment here at home--- heavy sticks of firewood for lifting, hay bales for dragging, dirty horse stalls for shoulder-and-arm action, and snow shoes or feet for getting those legs in shape. We also have bikes for pedaling down the road when it's not icy and a stationary bike on the front porch for inclement weather. I prefer fresh air exercise to the sweat shop, but I do like those health-club tanning beds.
After I'm tan, fit and once again blessed by God, today will continue its extremity with the Seattle Seahawks-Carolina Panthers play-off game at 3 p.m. We, like so many other football fans in the Pacific Northwest, are stoked for our Seahawks and hoping they can make it to the Super Bowl. I just learned a few minutes ago from Annie that she's gonna go to the stadium after work at the hotel and try to buy a ticket off a scalper, so maybe she'll call us from the game.
Finally, the Extreme Makeover Home Edition, set in good ol' Sandpit, Idaho just a mile or so away from our house, airs tonight on ABC, complete with a Spokane-produced lead-up to the main show at 7 p.m. So, those of you who live outside of North Idaho be sure to tune in whenever the national show airs in your area. It will be interesting to see how much Sandpoint benefits (?) from this national exposure.
By the time the day ends, I'm hoping we'll all be EXTREMELY happy with its outcome---for a variety of reasons. And, I'll take this moment to wish my sixth-grade teacher Frances Fredstrom an extremely happy 94th birthday.
Go, Frances! Go Seahawks!
The day will be extreme for me because I'm starting it out by actually attending Mass at my home parish of St. Joseph's this morning. Rather than getting into specifics of why I'm doing this for the first time in two years, I'll simply say the timing is right and that a nice person called yesterday and invited me. Had another invitation from my friend Sue Austin last week, but it didn't work out. This morning, however, I'll be there, and I don't think God or anyone else is gonna yell at me.
I'll probably also make a visit to the health-club tanning room again today. This past week signaled the start of the annual January "bake-that-skin" sessions for me. Each year about this time, when I get tired of viewing my pasty white hands (with those ugly age spots) and all that other pale flab, I bite the bullet and sign up for a few weeks of tanning sessions.
Usually there's also an upcoming trip to the south country egging me on. This year is no exception. I use the need to get a tan for the big trip as an excuse to the clerk when I walk into the club without my sweats, bathing suit or gym shoes and simply sign up for ten minutes of lounging in the bed. It doesn't make me feel one bit guilty hearing all those folks just outside the Cabo or Maui door, working up a sweat on the weights, walking machines and exercise bikes.
After all, I've got my own exercise equipment here at home--- heavy sticks of firewood for lifting, hay bales for dragging, dirty horse stalls for shoulder-and-arm action, and snow shoes or feet for getting those legs in shape. We also have bikes for pedaling down the road when it's not icy and a stationary bike on the front porch for inclement weather. I prefer fresh air exercise to the sweat shop, but I do like those health-club tanning beds.
After I'm tan, fit and once again blessed by God, today will continue its extremity with the Seattle Seahawks-Carolina Panthers play-off game at 3 p.m. We, like so many other football fans in the Pacific Northwest, are stoked for our Seahawks and hoping they can make it to the Super Bowl. I just learned a few minutes ago from Annie that she's gonna go to the stadium after work at the hotel and try to buy a ticket off a scalper, so maybe she'll call us from the game.
Finally, the Extreme Makeover Home Edition, set in good ol' Sandpit, Idaho just a mile or so away from our house, airs tonight on ABC, complete with a Spokane-produced lead-up to the main show at 7 p.m. So, those of you who live outside of North Idaho be sure to tune in whenever the national show airs in your area. It will be interesting to see how much Sandpoint benefits (?) from this national exposure.
By the time the day ends, I'm hoping we'll all be EXTREMELY happy with its outcome---for a variety of reasons. And, I'll take this moment to wish my sixth-grade teacher Frances Fredstrom an extremely happy 94th birthday.
Go, Frances! Go Seahawks!
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Who ARE these people?
Bill went to Coeur d'Alene last night to give one of two presentations that have dominated his waking hours for the past six weeks. At last night's Society of American Foresters (SAF) meeting, he teamed up with his longtime friend and former colleague Dewey Almas to talk about the flora of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. He even had pictures of some of those plants which have been preserved and on display at Idaho State Museum.
His next presentation comes next weekend with the Native Plant Society. Surprisingly, he's not going to talk about those Lewis and Clark samples. Instead, he'll discuss the Humbird Mill which dominated the logging and sawmill scene in this area back in the early 1900s.
The mill was located along the Northwest shore of Lake Pend Oreille in what's called Timber Bay and stretching from Sandpoint to Kootenai. Its owner was one of the timber magnates from the Midwest who came West in search of white pine to harvest---and harvest they did until 1931 when the company liquidated and left town. Bill will tell about the influence this family had in Bonner County through employment and land holdings.
While Bill was telling his fellow foresters about 200-year-old plants last night, I joined Rose Marie and several Thompson family members (thanks again, Judy) to the Panida Theater where we watched a dramatic display of rhythm and dance, Japanese style. The Somei Yoshino Taiko Ensemble came to town from San Francisco.
As the program states: Taiko (Japanese for 'drum') is more than just a muscial instrument and it involves more than just striking a drum skin. It is an art and a fusion of movement, rhythm, philosophy and form whose history has been an important part of the everyday lives of the Japanese people. The idea of becoming one with the drum is a fundamental part of taiko.
Well, a packed house saw all of the above last night. The program was, indeed, remarkable and breath-taking as the two men and two women kept the audience spellbound throughout the performance, which involved, at times, nearly a dozen drums of different sizes and tones. Even the set changes involved second-by-second precise choreography.
We had a lot of time before the performance and during the intermission for visiting and people-gawking. Of course, the latter is always interesting for me, and I must say that a new wave has definitely descended upon Sandpoint. I could probably count a couple of dozen familiar faces in the crowd. Rose Marie, who just moved here permanently last May, seemed to know just as many audience members as I did.
I've noticed this phenomenon several times in the past couple of weeks while socializing in the downtown sector. A couple of weeks ago, Bill and I considered dining at Eichardt's. We walked in the door, through the crowded restaurant/bar, saw that no tables were available and noticed that we did not know one soul inside the premises. So, we headed on down the block to Arlo's. We knew the owner but that was all until my classmate Dann Hall walked in just before we left.
Earlier this week, Rose Marie and I had lunch at Cafe Trinity. In this lunchtime crowd, I spotted all of two faces who looked familiar. Sure enough upon walking over to those ladies by the window overlooking Sand Creek, I happily knew the names: Holly Remmers Wood and Lila Nordgaarden Peterson (please note 'Holly Wood').
Both women graduated from Sandpoint High School a year behind me. Lila works in the county licensing bureau. Holly's mother Barbara used to manage the Sandpoint Chamber of Commerce when it was located in Community Hall. I hadn't seen Holly, now an Oregon resident, for a long time, so this meeting offered a double bonus----a friendly face from the past and two people I actually knew in downtown Sandpoint.
That phenomenon of unexpected recognition is becoming more the rule than the exception these days, and it has happened so fast. Often, people like to tease me by saying, " you know everyone." Well, a couple of years ago that might have been sorta true----not anymore.
Lots of unfamiliar faces are staking their claim on our old Humbird logging town these days. That huge mill just up the creek and over the railroad bed from the Panida Theater once employed a majority of the new residents who'd moved here early in the Twentieth Century, primarily from the Midwest. They came to this unknown, remote, rough-shod place so long ago, looking for a better life and grubbed out a town around the railroads, the lumber industry and a rural economy.
I have a feeling most of the folks I saw last night enjoying their evening of Japanese culture at the Panida Theater are not associated with any of those entities. And, I have a feeling a whole new chapter in Sandpoint's existence with another cast of interesting characters is unfolding.
It also looks like I've got a lot of work to do if I'm gonna uphold my reputation of "knowing everyone."
His next presentation comes next weekend with the Native Plant Society. Surprisingly, he's not going to talk about those Lewis and Clark samples. Instead, he'll discuss the Humbird Mill which dominated the logging and sawmill scene in this area back in the early 1900s.
The mill was located along the Northwest shore of Lake Pend Oreille in what's called Timber Bay and stretching from Sandpoint to Kootenai. Its owner was one of the timber magnates from the Midwest who came West in search of white pine to harvest---and harvest they did until 1931 when the company liquidated and left town. Bill will tell about the influence this family had in Bonner County through employment and land holdings.
While Bill was telling his fellow foresters about 200-year-old plants last night, I joined Rose Marie and several Thompson family members (thanks again, Judy) to the Panida Theater where we watched a dramatic display of rhythm and dance, Japanese style. The Somei Yoshino Taiko Ensemble came to town from San Francisco.
As the program states: Taiko (Japanese for 'drum') is more than just a muscial instrument and it involves more than just striking a drum skin. It is an art and a fusion of movement, rhythm, philosophy and form whose history has been an important part of the everyday lives of the Japanese people. The idea of becoming one with the drum is a fundamental part of taiko.
Well, a packed house saw all of the above last night. The program was, indeed, remarkable and breath-taking as the two men and two women kept the audience spellbound throughout the performance, which involved, at times, nearly a dozen drums of different sizes and tones. Even the set changes involved second-by-second precise choreography.
We had a lot of time before the performance and during the intermission for visiting and people-gawking. Of course, the latter is always interesting for me, and I must say that a new wave has definitely descended upon Sandpoint. I could probably count a couple of dozen familiar faces in the crowd. Rose Marie, who just moved here permanently last May, seemed to know just as many audience members as I did.
I've noticed this phenomenon several times in the past couple of weeks while socializing in the downtown sector. A couple of weeks ago, Bill and I considered dining at Eichardt's. We walked in the door, through the crowded restaurant/bar, saw that no tables were available and noticed that we did not know one soul inside the premises. So, we headed on down the block to Arlo's. We knew the owner but that was all until my classmate Dann Hall walked in just before we left.
Earlier this week, Rose Marie and I had lunch at Cafe Trinity. In this lunchtime crowd, I spotted all of two faces who looked familiar. Sure enough upon walking over to those ladies by the window overlooking Sand Creek, I happily knew the names: Holly Remmers Wood and Lila Nordgaarden Peterson (please note 'Holly Wood').
Both women graduated from Sandpoint High School a year behind me. Lila works in the county licensing bureau. Holly's mother Barbara used to manage the Sandpoint Chamber of Commerce when it was located in Community Hall. I hadn't seen Holly, now an Oregon resident, for a long time, so this meeting offered a double bonus----a friendly face from the past and two people I actually knew in downtown Sandpoint.
That phenomenon of unexpected recognition is becoming more the rule than the exception these days, and it has happened so fast. Often, people like to tease me by saying, " you know everyone." Well, a couple of years ago that might have been sorta true----not anymore.
Lots of unfamiliar faces are staking their claim on our old Humbird logging town these days. That huge mill just up the creek and over the railroad bed from the Panida Theater once employed a majority of the new residents who'd moved here early in the Twentieth Century, primarily from the Midwest. They came to this unknown, remote, rough-shod place so long ago, looking for a better life and grubbed out a town around the railroads, the lumber industry and a rural economy.
I have a feeling most of the folks I saw last night enjoying their evening of Japanese culture at the Panida Theater are not associated with any of those entities. And, I have a feeling a whole new chapter in Sandpoint's existence with another cast of interesting characters is unfolding.
It also looks like I've got a lot of work to do if I'm gonna uphold my reputation of "knowing everyone."
Friday, January 20, 2006
Miss America in Sin City? How 'bout Miss Ellaneous in Sandpit?
I read this morning that organizers are hoping to rejuvenate the Miss America pageant by moving it from Atlantic City to glitzy Las Vegas. And since Bert Parks died (or is awfully old like Dick Clark), they figure that using one of the hunks off "Desperate Housewives" ought to add an extra shot of debonair adrenalin. Who knows if these strategies will work?
Whatever the case, I've always enjoyed a good beauty pageant. I think it has to do with that word "vicarious," which seems to crop up in a lot of my secret desires, i.e., singing, drawing, and, yes, beauty. Since I've been severely lacking but desirous in all such departments throughout my life, and since my singing, drawing and beauty genes will surely never develop, I've always quietly cheered for the folks fortunate enough to receive these gifts.
In fact, I like beauty pageants so much, I even conceived and coordinated one back in the mid-'70s. Since its great local success, I've always dreamed that "Saturday Night Live" would snatch my idea and use it on one of their shows. Every year, when we put on the Sandpoint High School Drill Team Variety Show to earn money for our spring parades, we had to come up with a unifying theme for the production.
One year in the early '70s, our student body president, Dave Winfrey, submitted the winning idea, "Do You Walk to School or Carry a Lunch?" Russell Strange, whose band played in the show, even created a fun musical arrangement to go with the title.
Everyone thought the theme was pretty catchy, and it seemed to draw a crowd who got to watch Tom Evans mimic the local curfew siren, Pat Gunter topple over on a tricycle and Jim Hubbard demonstrate an original duck call, which involved blowing up a brown paper bag and then calling "Here duck. Here duck." Somehow, 35 years later, I still haven't come up with the connection that any of those talents have to walking to school or carrying one's lunch.
It was probably 1975 when I came up with my own wacko idea for the variety show theme.
"Let's have a 'Miss Ellaneous' pageant," I announced to the Ponderettes. The girls did look at me like I was nuts, but after a brief explanation, the ideas took off, and our pageant turned out a great success. We opened the door for a variety of candidates to show off their individual talents, brains and beauty and all-around desirabilty as they vied for the illustrious title of "Miss Ellaneous."
I believe we had about a dozen candidates. Miss Adventure appeared in hiking boots and climbed a metal ladder, hygraded from the custodian's closet. Miss Fortune dressed to the nines and had deep pockets---filled with money---which she threw out to the judges.
Miss Shapen wore a tight dress which barely covered her excess blubber. For her talent, she ate a large bowl of spaghetti. Of course, some willing teen-aged male counterparts delighted in supplying the sound effects as she shoveled in bite after bite and sloppy spaghetti dripped from the corners of her mouth. Meanwhile, Miss Fit's clothes look smashing on her, while Miss Matched just never could get the colors right in her ensemble.
Miss Spell tried but did not sucede with hur speling wurds. She provided a good role model for Miss Stake who apologized a lot. Then, there was Miss Quito. She had a prominent pointed nose and glided around the stage with her long legs trying to suck blood out of anyone in her path. There were others, like Miss Demeanor who committed crimes and Miss Judge who wore a black robe and shot discerning expressions toward Miss Demeanor.
The competition was fierce, but finally the pageant judges made their decision. Unlike the 2006 Miss America pageant, which has cut back on scholarships to save money, we didn't worry about money because the statute of limitations now allows me to divulge that our pageant was rigged.
In the end, we did not have to give away any crown, any long-flowing robe---not even a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. We had no need to raise scholarship funds to award our pageant winner in 1975.
If I recall correctly, our Master of Ceremonies that year was a most debonair and personable young man named Steve Gill. He provided a smashing Bert Parks' imitation throughout the pageant, but, in the end, he had no need to sing "There She Is, Miss Ellaneous" to the winner as she did her victory walk across the SHS stage. The reason?
Our winner was "Miss Ing."
Whatever the case, I've always enjoyed a good beauty pageant. I think it has to do with that word "vicarious," which seems to crop up in a lot of my secret desires, i.e., singing, drawing, and, yes, beauty. Since I've been severely lacking but desirous in all such departments throughout my life, and since my singing, drawing and beauty genes will surely never develop, I've always quietly cheered for the folks fortunate enough to receive these gifts.
In fact, I like beauty pageants so much, I even conceived and coordinated one back in the mid-'70s. Since its great local success, I've always dreamed that "Saturday Night Live" would snatch my idea and use it on one of their shows. Every year, when we put on the Sandpoint High School Drill Team Variety Show to earn money for our spring parades, we had to come up with a unifying theme for the production.
One year in the early '70s, our student body president, Dave Winfrey, submitted the winning idea, "Do You Walk to School or Carry a Lunch?" Russell Strange, whose band played in the show, even created a fun musical arrangement to go with the title.
Everyone thought the theme was pretty catchy, and it seemed to draw a crowd who got to watch Tom Evans mimic the local curfew siren, Pat Gunter topple over on a tricycle and Jim Hubbard demonstrate an original duck call, which involved blowing up a brown paper bag and then calling "Here duck. Here duck." Somehow, 35 years later, I still haven't come up with the connection that any of those talents have to walking to school or carrying one's lunch.
It was probably 1975 when I came up with my own wacko idea for the variety show theme.
"Let's have a 'Miss Ellaneous' pageant," I announced to the Ponderettes. The girls did look at me like I was nuts, but after a brief explanation, the ideas took off, and our pageant turned out a great success. We opened the door for a variety of candidates to show off their individual talents, brains and beauty and all-around desirabilty as they vied for the illustrious title of "Miss Ellaneous."
I believe we had about a dozen candidates. Miss Adventure appeared in hiking boots and climbed a metal ladder, hygraded from the custodian's closet. Miss Fortune dressed to the nines and had deep pockets---filled with money---which she threw out to the judges.
Miss Shapen wore a tight dress which barely covered her excess blubber. For her talent, she ate a large bowl of spaghetti. Of course, some willing teen-aged male counterparts delighted in supplying the sound effects as she shoveled in bite after bite and sloppy spaghetti dripped from the corners of her mouth. Meanwhile, Miss Fit's clothes look smashing on her, while Miss Matched just never could get the colors right in her ensemble.
Miss Spell tried but did not sucede with hur speling wurds. She provided a good role model for Miss Stake who apologized a lot. Then, there was Miss Quito. She had a prominent pointed nose and glided around the stage with her long legs trying to suck blood out of anyone in her path. There were others, like Miss Demeanor who committed crimes and Miss Judge who wore a black robe and shot discerning expressions toward Miss Demeanor.
The competition was fierce, but finally the pageant judges made their decision. Unlike the 2006 Miss America pageant, which has cut back on scholarships to save money, we didn't worry about money because the statute of limitations now allows me to divulge that our pageant was rigged.
In the end, we did not have to give away any crown, any long-flowing robe---not even a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. We had no need to raise scholarship funds to award our pageant winner in 1975.
If I recall correctly, our Master of Ceremonies that year was a most debonair and personable young man named Steve Gill. He provided a smashing Bert Parks' imitation throughout the pageant, but, in the end, he had no need to sing "There She Is, Miss Ellaneous" to the winner as she did her victory walk across the SHS stage. The reason?
Our winner was "Miss Ing."
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Life's gifts----a bonus
First, let me tell you something weird. My classmate Janis Puzuhanich's birthday is this Saturday, Jan. 21. My classmate Andrea Balch Boyle's birthday is Monday, Jan. 23. My longtime teaching friend, Joy O'Donnell's birthday was Jan. 23. She died the day after Christmas.
At Joy's funeral, Pastor David Olson began his homily by mentioning a piece of writing he was going to share with Frances Fredstrom at Christmas time. The instant he completed his sentence, my jaw dropped. I almost blurted out loud during the service, "You mean she's still alive!" I hadn't seen or heard of Frances Fredstrom, who was my sixth grade teacher, for years. I assumed she had died.
To my astonishment and good fortune, I learned she's alive, sharp, independent and looking forward to her 94th birthday, which happens to be Sunday, Jan. 22, the day before my friend Joy's birthday and my classmate Andrea's and the day after my classmate Janis' special day. So, what's the big deal?
The interesting twist to this story is that, upon discovering a few weeks ago that Frances Fredstrom was still alive and well, I wasted no time letting two people in my wide circle of friends know: Janis Puzuhanich and Andrea Balch. Both classmates were friends of Frances' daughter Karen who was tragically killed in a car accident after our sophomore year of high school. I knew both of my classmates would be as thrilled as I to know that Karen's mother was still doing just fine.
I don't know quite how to explain the coincidence that I would come across this information at my friend Joy's funeral and that this assortment of people would have birthdays so closely aligned, but I do find it a bit mystifying in a positive way.
I learned about Frances' upcoming birthday yesterday while talking to her on the phone for the first time in I-don't-know-when. At the other end was that same deep, soothing but strong voice. I remembered it so clearly from when she teamed up with Mr. Scheibe to teach us sixth graders, including her daughter Karen at Lincoln Elementary School. I began the conversation by anonymously asking "Mrs. Fredstrom" if I could please get up and sharpen my pencil.
After hearing who the goofball was at the other end, Frances quipped, "I don't have a pencil sharpener, sorry." Mrs. Fredstrom had always seemed like such a prim and proper lady to me during my grade school years. Prim and proper she still is, but the Frances that I talked to yesterday has a great appreciation for humor. When I told her I hadn't changed much---was still a bit impish---her comeback was "We all need to be impish."
In our telephone conversation, I embellished the truth a bit by telling Frances I'd lost track of her over the years, not wanting to admit that I thought she'd died long ago. Also, in our conversation, I learned she'd never read my books, one of which follows events she would definitely appreciate because of the Lincoln School stories. I told her I'd drop them by sometime, to which she generously responded, "Plan to come and stay the afternoon."
Later in the day, I couldn't stifle my curiosity to see Frances. So, I autographed a set of books and dropped by her home, where the only outside help she gets is someone who comes to vacuum. She does all the rest. She welcomed me at the door and appeared so genuinely delighted with this surprise visit that my own comfort zone immediately kicked in as we caught up on my family, our class reunion and highlights about Janis and Andrea.
And, during this visit, she even made me feel so comfortable that I finally confessed, "I thought you'd died." Frances laughed and said she supposed a lot of peope had thought she'd died because she didn't get out and about much anymore. I had a hard time tearing myself away from my spontaneous visit with this amazing woman who had "risen out of the ashes" in my mind. With promises for more drop-ins and dropping off more reading material she might enjoy, I said good bye.
As I drove home with a smile on my face, anxious to share this experience with Andrea and Janis, I thought about what a gift this revelation in Pastor Olson's homily at Joy's service has turned out to be. It's a added bonus, indeed, to know that I can share some extra time with a forgotten but wonderful lady and admired teacher who played a key role in molding me so long ago.
Maybe Joy sent me this precious gift.
At Joy's funeral, Pastor David Olson began his homily by mentioning a piece of writing he was going to share with Frances Fredstrom at Christmas time. The instant he completed his sentence, my jaw dropped. I almost blurted out loud during the service, "You mean she's still alive!" I hadn't seen or heard of Frances Fredstrom, who was my sixth grade teacher, for years. I assumed she had died.
To my astonishment and good fortune, I learned she's alive, sharp, independent and looking forward to her 94th birthday, which happens to be Sunday, Jan. 22, the day before my friend Joy's birthday and my classmate Andrea's and the day after my classmate Janis' special day. So, what's the big deal?
The interesting twist to this story is that, upon discovering a few weeks ago that Frances Fredstrom was still alive and well, I wasted no time letting two people in my wide circle of friends know: Janis Puzuhanich and Andrea Balch. Both classmates were friends of Frances' daughter Karen who was tragically killed in a car accident after our sophomore year of high school. I knew both of my classmates would be as thrilled as I to know that Karen's mother was still doing just fine.
I don't know quite how to explain the coincidence that I would come across this information at my friend Joy's funeral and that this assortment of people would have birthdays so closely aligned, but I do find it a bit mystifying in a positive way.
I learned about Frances' upcoming birthday yesterday while talking to her on the phone for the first time in I-don't-know-when. At the other end was that same deep, soothing but strong voice. I remembered it so clearly from when she teamed up with Mr. Scheibe to teach us sixth graders, including her daughter Karen at Lincoln Elementary School. I began the conversation by anonymously asking "Mrs. Fredstrom" if I could please get up and sharpen my pencil.
After hearing who the goofball was at the other end, Frances quipped, "I don't have a pencil sharpener, sorry." Mrs. Fredstrom had always seemed like such a prim and proper lady to me during my grade school years. Prim and proper she still is, but the Frances that I talked to yesterday has a great appreciation for humor. When I told her I hadn't changed much---was still a bit impish---her comeback was "We all need to be impish."
In our telephone conversation, I embellished the truth a bit by telling Frances I'd lost track of her over the years, not wanting to admit that I thought she'd died long ago. Also, in our conversation, I learned she'd never read my books, one of which follows events she would definitely appreciate because of the Lincoln School stories. I told her I'd drop them by sometime, to which she generously responded, "Plan to come and stay the afternoon."
Later in the day, I couldn't stifle my curiosity to see Frances. So, I autographed a set of books and dropped by her home, where the only outside help she gets is someone who comes to vacuum. She does all the rest. She welcomed me at the door and appeared so genuinely delighted with this surprise visit that my own comfort zone immediately kicked in as we caught up on my family, our class reunion and highlights about Janis and Andrea.
And, during this visit, she even made me feel so comfortable that I finally confessed, "I thought you'd died." Frances laughed and said she supposed a lot of peope had thought she'd died because she didn't get out and about much anymore. I had a hard time tearing myself away from my spontaneous visit with this amazing woman who had "risen out of the ashes" in my mind. With promises for more drop-ins and dropping off more reading material she might enjoy, I said good bye.
As I drove home with a smile on my face, anxious to share this experience with Andrea and Janis, I thought about what a gift this revelation in Pastor Olson's homily at Joy's service has turned out to be. It's a added bonus, indeed, to know that I can share some extra time with a forgotten but wonderful lady and admired teacher who played a key role in molding me so long ago.
Maybe Joy sent me this precious gift.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
All is right---American Idol has returned
Willie came to stay overnight last night. I put out a meal of steak, garden beans, Clark Fork Pantry garlic bread, tossed salad with the all new, improved Litehouse honey mustard dressing and Cyrus O'Leary's lemon cheesecake. Midway through the meal, I issued the television rules for the rest of the evening.
At 8 p.m. the family would be watching the season premiere of "American Idol" in the living room. Any naysayers could move to the back bedroom. Willie informed me he'd probably be heading down the hallway at 8 toward his room. Bill said nothing. Toward the end of the season last spring, Bill went to bed later and later on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. He spent more time hanging around the living room TV set as we both watched the finalists sing it out until Bo and Carrie went head to head in that final show.
Now with "Jesus taking the wheel" several times daily on the local country station, we both know Carrie Underwood, the cute, wholesome farm girl from Oklahoma, currently reigns as America's most recent singing idol. She joins Fantasia from North Carolina, Kelly Clarkson from Texas and big Reuben Stoddard from Alabama as American Idol bluebloods. Those runners-up, Clay and Bo and Diane, aren't doing too badly with their record careers.
Anyway, last night I had no doubts Bill would be glued to the set, watching as the talentless took top honors in the preliminary shows. Last night he spent most of his time trying to stifle giggles as the dorks got up and proved they're full-fledged dorks or the singing wannabes, who really should have had a mother like mine before meeting with Simon's seemingly cruel and unusual assessments, screeched out of control.
For me, these early American Idol shows do take me back to seventh grade choir when my mother warned me beforehand that I couldn't carry a tune. I covered up my tonal impairment for most of the year as a second soprano in Dona Meehan's choir. We learned "Bali Hai" from South Pacific and Dvorak's "Going Home" in between those other infamous sessions of removing the screws from the auditorium seats (full story in "The Nuts and Bolts of Junior High Choir").
I really can't think of the other songs we learned because it's been so long ago. For some strange reason, however, I remember clearly the moment when Grace Nordgaarden (Brixen) issued the now-famous line that fully validated my Mother's earlier critiques, which I realized later in life were designed to save me from myself.
"Are you singing the same song we are?" Grace uttered that as we stood side by side on the bleachers at the annual spring music competition in Coeur d'Alene. Grace was an eighth grader. Mrs. Meehan had blended the seventh and eighth grade choirs together for the contest. Grace had never heard me sing until that day on the bleachers. She never heard me sing again after uttering her "innocent" query. I lip-synched through the rest of the contest.
Too bad there aren't a bunch of Virginia Tibbses or Grace Nordgaardens to save all those unfortunate American Idol contestants from themselves and from the ultimate wrath of Simon. The saving grace (no pun intended) is that all the untalented people, who are smart enough to stay home, get to experience a sense of arrogant sadism while sitting on their couches in the safety of their living rooms, watching their singing soulmates go through the humiliating torture of brutal public rejection.
Looks like we have a few similar shows ahead as we learn who's going to Hollywood from those major auditions and who's learning, literally, the message of Dvorak's classic "Going Home." I read recently that American Idol cuts a wide swath in its viewing audience---everything from grade school kids to grannies. I can't explain why I'm so fixated on the show.
Maybe it's that inate desire to pick a favorite early on and follow that person as he or she climbs the steep stairs to stardom. Maybe it's feeling like we've endured the process along with that person, and we can share in their success. Maybe for people like me, who'd give anything to be able to carry that tune in any kind of bucket, it's a way to live out our dreams vicariously through someone else.
All I know is that I have a hard time tearing myself away from American Idol, and during the past couple of years, its annual reappearance on the tube has become one of the few reasons I've found to like the long dreary month of January.
At 8 p.m. the family would be watching the season premiere of "American Idol" in the living room. Any naysayers could move to the back bedroom. Willie informed me he'd probably be heading down the hallway at 8 toward his room. Bill said nothing. Toward the end of the season last spring, Bill went to bed later and later on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. He spent more time hanging around the living room TV set as we both watched the finalists sing it out until Bo and Carrie went head to head in that final show.
Now with "Jesus taking the wheel" several times daily on the local country station, we both know Carrie Underwood, the cute, wholesome farm girl from Oklahoma, currently reigns as America's most recent singing idol. She joins Fantasia from North Carolina, Kelly Clarkson from Texas and big Reuben Stoddard from Alabama as American Idol bluebloods. Those runners-up, Clay and Bo and Diane, aren't doing too badly with their record careers.
Anyway, last night I had no doubts Bill would be glued to the set, watching as the talentless took top honors in the preliminary shows. Last night he spent most of his time trying to stifle giggles as the dorks got up and proved they're full-fledged dorks or the singing wannabes, who really should have had a mother like mine before meeting with Simon's seemingly cruel and unusual assessments, screeched out of control.
For me, these early American Idol shows do take me back to seventh grade choir when my mother warned me beforehand that I couldn't carry a tune. I covered up my tonal impairment for most of the year as a second soprano in Dona Meehan's choir. We learned "Bali Hai" from South Pacific and Dvorak's "Going Home" in between those other infamous sessions of removing the screws from the auditorium seats (full story in "The Nuts and Bolts of Junior High Choir").
I really can't think of the other songs we learned because it's been so long ago. For some strange reason, however, I remember clearly the moment when Grace Nordgaarden (Brixen) issued the now-famous line that fully validated my Mother's earlier critiques, which I realized later in life were designed to save me from myself.
"Are you singing the same song we are?" Grace uttered that as we stood side by side on the bleachers at the annual spring music competition in Coeur d'Alene. Grace was an eighth grader. Mrs. Meehan had blended the seventh and eighth grade choirs together for the contest. Grace had never heard me sing until that day on the bleachers. She never heard me sing again after uttering her "innocent" query. I lip-synched through the rest of the contest.
Too bad there aren't a bunch of Virginia Tibbses or Grace Nordgaardens to save all those unfortunate American Idol contestants from themselves and from the ultimate wrath of Simon. The saving grace (no pun intended) is that all the untalented people, who are smart enough to stay home, get to experience a sense of arrogant sadism while sitting on their couches in the safety of their living rooms, watching their singing soulmates go through the humiliating torture of brutal public rejection.
Looks like we have a few similar shows ahead as we learn who's going to Hollywood from those major auditions and who's learning, literally, the message of Dvorak's classic "Going Home." I read recently that American Idol cuts a wide swath in its viewing audience---everything from grade school kids to grannies. I can't explain why I'm so fixated on the show.
Maybe it's that inate desire to pick a favorite early on and follow that person as he or she climbs the steep stairs to stardom. Maybe it's feeling like we've endured the process along with that person, and we can share in their success. Maybe for people like me, who'd give anything to be able to carry that tune in any kind of bucket, it's a way to live out our dreams vicariously through someone else.
All I know is that I have a hard time tearing myself away from American Idol, and during the past couple of years, its annual reappearance on the tube has become one of the few reasons I've found to like the long dreary month of January.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Thoughts on the Kootenai Rec Center
I notice that all four letters-to-the-editor in this morning's paper have focused on the upcoming vote to decide whether or not we want to add a recreation district to the list of entities benefitting from our taxes.
The concept involves construction of a multi-use recreation center located alongside HWY 200 in Kootenai. The center would include a swimming pool, skating rink and meeting rooms, among other amentities. We will have the opportunity to vote for or against this proposal in February.
I believe the results of this election will determine what course our community intends to follow over the next decade or two. If the measure passes, I have great fear for many of the people who live here. I'm afraid of what will happen to segments of our population, including "the kids," for whom this facility has been reportedly conceived.
I'm for the kids, who deserve first and foremost a good education and decent facilities for receiving that education. I'm for the twenty/thirtysomethings who would like to be able to afford to own a home in this area. I'm for the babyboomers who would like to be able to afford to retire sometime before they die. I'm for the elderly on fixed incomes whose homes---if they still own them---have shot up to such a taxation value that they may not be able to afford to own them much longer.
So, since I'm for all these age groups, I think I'll vote "No" on this proposal. I would like for all these segments of our local population to realize their most important needs: education, an affordable home, an affordable retirement, and the ability to keep the home they've spent a lifetime buying.
It seems to me that a hefty smorgasboard of possible additions to our tax statement looms in the future. Some members of our community have invited everyone and his brother to move to our area. Many have complied. After this weekend's national exposure through ABC's "Extreme Makeover Home Edition," many more are likely to comply.
That means a whole lot more folks coming across that bridge because they've found "Heaven." It's likely a lot of those people will need to find a place to live in their new "Heaven"---a place with water, sewer, electricity, passable roads, and the other amenities that people expect when they move someplace else.
That means water systems and an aging sewage system---and need I say anything about Great Northern Road---will need some improvements, and who's gonna pay? We're already facing a countywide increase in urban renewal taxes to pay for some of this stuff.
Many of those new people to our area will have kids, and those kids may need to go to school. Could that possibly mean that our schools may get the squeeze, and could that possibly mean that we need to expand our educational facilities to take care of this influx? Schools and their accessories are expensive.
The last time this district added new schools, the money came from a bond election back in the late 1980s, nearly 20 years ago. One of the major schools that grew out of this bond levy, Sandpoint High School, opened in 1991, too small for its population at that time. In 1996, one portion of that school's roof caved in, requiring major repairs.
In 2005, the SHS gymnasium roof started leaking, causing the sports teams to have to scramble to other facilities to play their games. In an email late last week from SHS Athletic Director Cheryl Klein, I learned that the roof continues to leak, students have sustained injuries from slipping on the gym floor and teams are still scrambling to other facilities for their games. Who's paying to have that roof repaired, and who's gonna pay for all the new educational facilities to meet the needs of an ever-increasing influx of students occupying our classrooms?
I have a son who's 28. Like a lot of young people his age, he'd love to be able to afford to come back to his hometown to live. It made me sad to hear him say, "I'll never be able to afford to live here unless I'm a millionaire." He'll be spending his life elsewhere just like a lot of folks his age. They can't afford to buy, and how could they ever afford the taxes to pay for property if they could purchase it?
I know a lady who's owned property in Bonner County for decades. She says her tax statement now is higher than what she originally paid for her land. She's retired and on a fixed income, and she says there could come a day when she'll have to sell her property because she'll no longer be able to afford the taxes.
When I think of all that needs to be done to prepare for all the people we've invited to live in this area and how much it's all gonna cost, I think I'd put a new tax-supported recreation center far down on my list of priorities while planning for future tax bills. I'll support schools (the kids) and our educational facilities and the senior citizens on fixed incomes long before I'll support this concept at this time in our community.
I believe it would be wise for the proponents of the recreational facility at Kootenai to explore methods other than property taxes to support their dream.
The concept involves construction of a multi-use recreation center located alongside HWY 200 in Kootenai. The center would include a swimming pool, skating rink and meeting rooms, among other amentities. We will have the opportunity to vote for or against this proposal in February.
I believe the results of this election will determine what course our community intends to follow over the next decade or two. If the measure passes, I have great fear for many of the people who live here. I'm afraid of what will happen to segments of our population, including "the kids," for whom this facility has been reportedly conceived.
I'm for the kids, who deserve first and foremost a good education and decent facilities for receiving that education. I'm for the twenty/thirtysomethings who would like to be able to afford to own a home in this area. I'm for the babyboomers who would like to be able to afford to retire sometime before they die. I'm for the elderly on fixed incomes whose homes---if they still own them---have shot up to such a taxation value that they may not be able to afford to own them much longer.
So, since I'm for all these age groups, I think I'll vote "No" on this proposal. I would like for all these segments of our local population to realize their most important needs: education, an affordable home, an affordable retirement, and the ability to keep the home they've spent a lifetime buying.
It seems to me that a hefty smorgasboard of possible additions to our tax statement looms in the future. Some members of our community have invited everyone and his brother to move to our area. Many have complied. After this weekend's national exposure through ABC's "Extreme Makeover Home Edition," many more are likely to comply.
That means a whole lot more folks coming across that bridge because they've found "Heaven." It's likely a lot of those people will need to find a place to live in their new "Heaven"---a place with water, sewer, electricity, passable roads, and the other amenities that people expect when they move someplace else.
That means water systems and an aging sewage system---and need I say anything about Great Northern Road---will need some improvements, and who's gonna pay? We're already facing a countywide increase in urban renewal taxes to pay for some of this stuff.
Many of those new people to our area will have kids, and those kids may need to go to school. Could that possibly mean that our schools may get the squeeze, and could that possibly mean that we need to expand our educational facilities to take care of this influx? Schools and their accessories are expensive.
The last time this district added new schools, the money came from a bond election back in the late 1980s, nearly 20 years ago. One of the major schools that grew out of this bond levy, Sandpoint High School, opened in 1991, too small for its population at that time. In 1996, one portion of that school's roof caved in, requiring major repairs.
In 2005, the SHS gymnasium roof started leaking, causing the sports teams to have to scramble to other facilities to play their games. In an email late last week from SHS Athletic Director Cheryl Klein, I learned that the roof continues to leak, students have sustained injuries from slipping on the gym floor and teams are still scrambling to other facilities for their games. Who's paying to have that roof repaired, and who's gonna pay for all the new educational facilities to meet the needs of an ever-increasing influx of students occupying our classrooms?
I have a son who's 28. Like a lot of young people his age, he'd love to be able to afford to come back to his hometown to live. It made me sad to hear him say, "I'll never be able to afford to live here unless I'm a millionaire." He'll be spending his life elsewhere just like a lot of folks his age. They can't afford to buy, and how could they ever afford the taxes to pay for property if they could purchase it?
I know a lady who's owned property in Bonner County for decades. She says her tax statement now is higher than what she originally paid for her land. She's retired and on a fixed income, and she says there could come a day when she'll have to sell her property because she'll no longer be able to afford the taxes.
When I think of all that needs to be done to prepare for all the people we've invited to live in this area and how much it's all gonna cost, I think I'd put a new tax-supported recreation center far down on my list of priorities while planning for future tax bills. I'll support schools (the kids) and our educational facilities and the senior citizens on fixed incomes long before I'll support this concept at this time in our community.
I believe it would be wise for the proponents of the recreational facility at Kootenai to explore methods other than property taxes to support their dream.
Monday, January 16, 2006
The views from Lake Love Begone
Yup, our lake front property has mostly disappeared. I should have gotten that ad on Sandpoint Online's free classifieds during those two days when our house was completely surrounded by water.
It was going to read: For sale, by owner: Varying degrees of lake front property on ten acres in beautiful North Idaho. Surrounded by spectacular mountains. Located just 15 minutes from popular ski resort. Five minutes from Coldwater Creek's shop-until-you-drop hometown store. Five minutes from ABC's Extreme Makeover Home Edition home. One minute from Sandpoint's most recent murder scene. Only 30 seconds from Sandpoint's famed America's Promise Church.
Situated in midst of transportation hub with busy airport to the east, fast-running freight trains to the west. Barking-dog center just beyond the murder scene down the road. Road could use improvements but passable. This piece of property is a steal at $1 million. No realtors and no damn telemarketers.
Unfortunately, on this Martin Luther King holiday, I see no lake frontage out my front windows. It all sank into the clay, replaced by a light frosting of white stuff. I did see the new sculpture out there by the mailboxes this morning. It has remained but has also sagged to the point that its connecting elements no longer connect. No takers from POAC yesterday, so the likelihood of our site making it to the 2006 Artwalk is looking pretty iffy.
I'm not letting a little disappointment regarding lost lake frontage or rejection from the POAC goddesses get me down, though, cuz we did see the sun yesterday. Kiwi and I went to inspect the repair work on HWY 2 where the weeks of rain caused the slough to eat away at the fill, which caused the road to buckle and eventually cave in.
We combined a little doggie discipline with our walk down the bike path leading to the highway repair. Seemed everyone in Sandpoint was out for a walk on that bike path during this welcome dry Sunday. Kiwi is learning to control her tendency to lunge toward every moving animal (human and canine) she meets on the path. She lunges at the humans in hopes of planting a French kiss in their mouths. She lunges at the other dogs to let 'em know not to plant any French kisses on me.
She's getting better each time I take her out, and I have noticed after seeing a great number of dogs on leashes that Kiwi is really pretty civil in comparison that there must be a lot of young dogs---just learning---in Sandpoint. Many people we met along the trail were tugging with all their might as their Rovers pulled them down the path. In my case, sore right arm muscles can attest to the fact that at least Kiwi and I can create the appearance that all is under control.
We did make it to the viewing site above the highway, with no incidents, except for a ferocious Australian Shepherd (who was "just learning" some discipline). Once there, I sidled up next to Bob Bristol, a longtime local engineer, and asked him if they were doing it right down there where a steam shovel and a bunch of hard hats had gathered.
"Well, looks like they could use another culvert," he told me. They had installed two, and it did look like a third would be coming to a depression formed in the gravel base. Bob did his looking and inspecting, and then headed on his way. Kiwi and I visited with a few of the onlookers. By that time, my bladder was telling me it was time to start back to the car.
The rest of the day was pretty pleasant too, cuz Bill and I went geocaching over Newport way. We found one old logging road overlooking the Pend Oreille River that extended seemingly forever. It was level and relatively dry throughout. Huge Ponderosas provided a bit of cover and a lot of natural beauty.
I'm glad our Lake Love has begone. Didn't need that million dollars anywho. And, from the looks of the skies today, some more of the grumpiness from the past couple of weeks should dissipate just like the water.
Have a good and dry Monday everyone. Special note: the blogger site must've been pretty busy this morning cuz this took a long time to post. Thanks for your patience.
It was going to read: For sale, by owner: Varying degrees of lake front property on ten acres in beautiful North Idaho. Surrounded by spectacular mountains. Located just 15 minutes from popular ski resort. Five minutes from Coldwater Creek's shop-until-you-drop hometown store. Five minutes from ABC's Extreme Makeover Home Edition home. One minute from Sandpoint's most recent murder scene. Only 30 seconds from Sandpoint's famed America's Promise Church.
Situated in midst of transportation hub with busy airport to the east, fast-running freight trains to the west. Barking-dog center just beyond the murder scene down the road. Road could use improvements but passable. This piece of property is a steal at $1 million. No realtors and no damn telemarketers.
Unfortunately, on this Martin Luther King holiday, I see no lake frontage out my front windows. It all sank into the clay, replaced by a light frosting of white stuff. I did see the new sculpture out there by the mailboxes this morning. It has remained but has also sagged to the point that its connecting elements no longer connect. No takers from POAC yesterday, so the likelihood of our site making it to the 2006 Artwalk is looking pretty iffy.
I'm not letting a little disappointment regarding lost lake frontage or rejection from the POAC goddesses get me down, though, cuz we did see the sun yesterday. Kiwi and I went to inspect the repair work on HWY 2 where the weeks of rain caused the slough to eat away at the fill, which caused the road to buckle and eventually cave in.
We combined a little doggie discipline with our walk down the bike path leading to the highway repair. Seemed everyone in Sandpoint was out for a walk on that bike path during this welcome dry Sunday. Kiwi is learning to control her tendency to lunge toward every moving animal (human and canine) she meets on the path. She lunges at the humans in hopes of planting a French kiss in their mouths. She lunges at the other dogs to let 'em know not to plant any French kisses on me.
She's getting better each time I take her out, and I have noticed after seeing a great number of dogs on leashes that Kiwi is really pretty civil in comparison that there must be a lot of young dogs---just learning---in Sandpoint. Many people we met along the trail were tugging with all their might as their Rovers pulled them down the path. In my case, sore right arm muscles can attest to the fact that at least Kiwi and I can create the appearance that all is under control.
We did make it to the viewing site above the highway, with no incidents, except for a ferocious Australian Shepherd (who was "just learning" some discipline). Once there, I sidled up next to Bob Bristol, a longtime local engineer, and asked him if they were doing it right down there where a steam shovel and a bunch of hard hats had gathered.
"Well, looks like they could use another culvert," he told me. They had installed two, and it did look like a third would be coming to a depression formed in the gravel base. Bob did his looking and inspecting, and then headed on his way. Kiwi and I visited with a few of the onlookers. By that time, my bladder was telling me it was time to start back to the car.
The rest of the day was pretty pleasant too, cuz Bill and I went geocaching over Newport way. We found one old logging road overlooking the Pend Oreille River that extended seemingly forever. It was level and relatively dry throughout. Huge Ponderosas provided a bit of cover and a lot of natural beauty.
I'm glad our Lake Love has begone. Didn't need that million dollars anywho. And, from the looks of the skies today, some more of the grumpiness from the past couple of weeks should dissipate just like the water.
Have a good and dry Monday everyone. Special note: the blogger site must've been pretty busy this morning cuz this took a long time to post. Thanks for your patience.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
POAC's Newest Artwalk Venue
Let's just call it "Art in the Potholes." The season has begun for Pend Oreille Arts Council to launch its newest moneymaker and most unique Artwalk venue ever.
Maybe this Sunday announcement is catching the POAC folks by surprise. They should be no more surprised than I was in this morning's moonlight (no clouds, no rain) when I spotted a ghostlike entity standing motionless across the road next to our Daily Bee paperbox.
Suddenly, a human-like entity named Marianne stood motionless in the moonlight uttering, "What the Hell is that?" My dog offered no answers. I refused to step closer. An about-face and a march back to the house gave me time to ponder just what this could be. It looked like a snowman, but all readers know we've seen no snow.
I announced to Bill that Vandals had struck, or could it be Cougars like Mike Wolcott who thought it hilarious to attach his WSU mascot decal on the Spokesman paperbox during a "drive-by" a few years back? Bill rose from his desk, ready to get the shotgun. I encouraged him to remain seated, as I would take a flashlight outside and get to the bottom of this.
Kiwi and I returned to the scene where a little light on the subject revealed a unique artistic creation, using three media: wood (Douglas Fir), ceramic of the cherubic nature and paper (most likely the cheap Western Family variety), all finely and skillfully intertwined for a questionable central focus and then extended tastefully to suggest motion and a temporary connection with unrelated but fixed elements of the setting. Utilization of the late night air to provide a continuing sense of sag adds great drama to the finished product. And, oh, the element of surprise it must have provided for the paper deliverers stopping by on their early morning rounds.
And the bonus: two thirds of a roll of untarnished TP left in the mailbox. Saved me that trip to Yoke's I'd planned for later this morning.
Since the surprise sculpture was just that, I suggest that the POAC jury arrange time in their schedules today to visit this spot and decide if this inaugural sculpture at the new Great Northern Pothole venue meets the tough standards expected for artwalk participants. Maybe bring along a full-fledged local judge to help you in your decision-making.
And to the artist in question, I say, "Good beginnings. I'm looking forward to future displays. Of course, there's always room for improvement on technique. As a suggestion, the Pothole Road affords a great variety of hubcaps along the ditches to use for future media."
I mentioned moneymaker in reference to this particular Artwalk stop. Here's how that works. Today's sculpture and all others will remain as long as weather allows or for two days, whichever comes first. As new sculptures appear, which I'm guessing had better not be more than once a month, and always in the morning (must conform to the rules) , I shall announce their appearance on this blog.
During each sculpture's living tenure (no more than two days) the voting public can come by and, for one dollar per entry, guess the sculpter(s), put your name and telephone number on entry. Money to be placed in envelope addressed to POAC and brought to Love house to be transferred to POAC committee. We'll take a page from the geocaching rule book and offer the "First to vote" a free piece of candy.
At the end of the Artwalk season, said sculpter will reveal identity at Panida event. Drawing will be held from entries. Winner pockets half the money collected or acts real civic-minded and gives it back to POAC.
So, let the Arwork improve and the guessing begin with this morning's exhibit. POAC executives, start counting your money! I've already forked over the first dollar and filled out the first entry. And, I ain't tellin'
Maybe this Sunday announcement is catching the POAC folks by surprise. They should be no more surprised than I was in this morning's moonlight (no clouds, no rain) when I spotted a ghostlike entity standing motionless across the road next to our Daily Bee paperbox.
Suddenly, a human-like entity named Marianne stood motionless in the moonlight uttering, "What the Hell is that?" My dog offered no answers. I refused to step closer. An about-face and a march back to the house gave me time to ponder just what this could be. It looked like a snowman, but all readers know we've seen no snow.
I announced to Bill that Vandals had struck, or could it be Cougars like Mike Wolcott who thought it hilarious to attach his WSU mascot decal on the Spokesman paperbox during a "drive-by" a few years back? Bill rose from his desk, ready to get the shotgun. I encouraged him to remain seated, as I would take a flashlight outside and get to the bottom of this.
Kiwi and I returned to the scene where a little light on the subject revealed a unique artistic creation, using three media: wood (Douglas Fir), ceramic of the cherubic nature and paper (most likely the cheap Western Family variety), all finely and skillfully intertwined for a questionable central focus and then extended tastefully to suggest motion and a temporary connection with unrelated but fixed elements of the setting. Utilization of the late night air to provide a continuing sense of sag adds great drama to the finished product. And, oh, the element of surprise it must have provided for the paper deliverers stopping by on their early morning rounds.
And the bonus: two thirds of a roll of untarnished TP left in the mailbox. Saved me that trip to Yoke's I'd planned for later this morning.
Since the surprise sculpture was just that, I suggest that the POAC jury arrange time in their schedules today to visit this spot and decide if this inaugural sculpture at the new Great Northern Pothole venue meets the tough standards expected for artwalk participants. Maybe bring along a full-fledged local judge to help you in your decision-making.
And to the artist in question, I say, "Good beginnings. I'm looking forward to future displays. Of course, there's always room for improvement on technique. As a suggestion, the Pothole Road affords a great variety of hubcaps along the ditches to use for future media."
I mentioned moneymaker in reference to this particular Artwalk stop. Here's how that works. Today's sculpture and all others will remain as long as weather allows or for two days, whichever comes first. As new sculptures appear, which I'm guessing had better not be more than once a month, and always in the morning (must conform to the rules) , I shall announce their appearance on this blog.
During each sculpture's living tenure (no more than two days) the voting public can come by and, for one dollar per entry, guess the sculpter(s), put your name and telephone number on entry. Money to be placed in envelope addressed to POAC and brought to Love house to be transferred to POAC committee. We'll take a page from the geocaching rule book and offer the "First to vote" a free piece of candy.
At the end of the Artwalk season, said sculpter will reveal identity at Panida event. Drawing will be held from entries. Winner pockets half the money collected or acts real civic-minded and gives it back to POAC.
So, let the Arwork improve and the guessing begin with this morning's exhibit. POAC executives, start counting your money! I've already forked over the first dollar and filled out the first entry. And, I ain't tellin'
Saturday, January 14, 2006
This is a test. This is only a test. Do NOT touch your dial.
If there were any damn dial to touch, I'd turn the rain off. One week later, one mustard yellow bathroom later, one expensive trip reservation later, one rotten Western flick on the Encore channel later, 500 washed-away dog turds later, I have finally announced to Bill that I've had enough.
I have, at long last, flunked my test on maintaining a patient, positive, calm, accepting attitude about the importance of our abundant moisture. It's time for people to stay out of earshot from me and cross over to the other side of the street if you see me coming. My grumpy-old-womandum might scare you otherwise.
I issued my proclamation to my husband last night when he came in the door with a plastic bag full of books, checked out from the local library. Usually you don't get your library books in a plastic bag, but as we continue to get the rain that promises a new wet record for Seattle, plastic bags, hip boots, confused Iris bulbs and rained-on Winter Carnival parades have entered the discussion circles.
I heard that last night's parade in honor of SNOW lasted about 15 minutes from one observer, while another suggested maybe it was more like seven minutes. I wondered why they were throwing out all those Mardi Gras beads. Was that possibly to remind everyone who might have forgotten about Hurricane Katrina that it could be worse?
A few brave, wet parade revelers waltzed into Second Avenue Pizza last night with their beads and fogged-up glasses. One chastised me for not watching the parade, to which I responded that my parents had instilled in me long ago the instincts for being smart enough to come in out of the rain. That didn't impress my critic, but, at least, he shut up and got in line to buy his beer.
The trip to the Post Office to mail off some photos for a story and my sandwich and beer at Second Avenue kept me from going raging mad yesterday. Of course, a trip to the post office is not often the best way to soothe one's irritations.
After waiting in line for a long time with a bunch of people you've never seen before ('cept Marilyn Anderson yesterday) and then stepping up to the counter where the postal clerks have been beaten into submission to ask you if you want those 37 things--or is it 39--- the U.S. Postal Service is trying to hawk, it's hard to be in a good mood. But you feel so sorry for the clerks, who once enjoyed the liberty of acting like an ordinary human beings, that you feign a happy face just to make their day.
Now, today I'm banking on an hour or so spent at the coffee cult where we'll talk about that highway that caved in to Chuck Slough, thus closing off one of the main roads to Sandpoint. Kiwi and I happened to be on the bike path day before yesterday, looking over that very spot where all of Chuck Slough's headwaters have eaten away the fill and created a muddy mess in the river right next to the McFarland estate. At the time, cars were zipping by without a care in the world. I've heard that a mere two hours later, the road had buckled and was closed down. I have a feeling that situation's gonna get worse before it gets better.
The Seahawks game this afternoon and the Zags game this evening will provide something of note to anticipate after I leave the coffee cult weekly discussion at Di Luna's. I do have to talk to my Texas friend on the phone one more time today, so that'll keep my mind off the rain for about 20 minutes. By the way, every time I tell him about the rain, which has been frequently lately, he says to send some down their way cuz they don't know what it looks like anymore.
And speaking of Seattle and its impending rain record, my daughter called me yesterday from I-5. She had just left her Seattle apartment and was driving to Mt. St. Helens, where she figured that at least a change of wet scenery would help her mood. She was also holding off hope that if she went far enough south, maybe she'd find a dry spot of ground. I kinda doubt that she did after seeing that parking lot in Portland on the news clips, where a bunch of funny things were sticking up in the water; they were cars.
I tried this morning, while sloshing my way through the driveway, to think happy thoughts about the rain. I came up with a few. The rocks will be clean. Most November, December and January dog turds will disintegrate, leaving very few brown blotches to avoid during March. I'm wondering if those turds are floating into the Pend Oreille River off toward exclusive Dover Bay via Chuck Slough cuz I think that's the drainage path for our water here in the Bonner County boghole.
Back to the positives. The frogs are happy. There's harmony in town because for once, most people have something of mutual agreement to cuss about. Tom Sherry won't be able to annoy us for some time by issuring dire warnings about a water shortage and a bad fire season on his weather report. The grass is green. I haven't had to fill the horse trough in nearly a week.
I'm sure there are many other good reasons to like the rain. I just haven't taken time out of my complaining schedule to think of them, but I do know the number-one, all-time best reason ever: when it quits, people will once again love one another and smile on their brothers--even at the post office.
I have, at long last, flunked my test on maintaining a patient, positive, calm, accepting attitude about the importance of our abundant moisture. It's time for people to stay out of earshot from me and cross over to the other side of the street if you see me coming. My grumpy-old-womandum might scare you otherwise.
I issued my proclamation to my husband last night when he came in the door with a plastic bag full of books, checked out from the local library. Usually you don't get your library books in a plastic bag, but as we continue to get the rain that promises a new wet record for Seattle, plastic bags, hip boots, confused Iris bulbs and rained-on Winter Carnival parades have entered the discussion circles.
I heard that last night's parade in honor of SNOW lasted about 15 minutes from one observer, while another suggested maybe it was more like seven minutes. I wondered why they were throwing out all those Mardi Gras beads. Was that possibly to remind everyone who might have forgotten about Hurricane Katrina that it could be worse?
A few brave, wet parade revelers waltzed into Second Avenue Pizza last night with their beads and fogged-up glasses. One chastised me for not watching the parade, to which I responded that my parents had instilled in me long ago the instincts for being smart enough to come in out of the rain. That didn't impress my critic, but, at least, he shut up and got in line to buy his beer.
The trip to the Post Office to mail off some photos for a story and my sandwich and beer at Second Avenue kept me from going raging mad yesterday. Of course, a trip to the post office is not often the best way to soothe one's irritations.
After waiting in line for a long time with a bunch of people you've never seen before ('cept Marilyn Anderson yesterday) and then stepping up to the counter where the postal clerks have been beaten into submission to ask you if you want those 37 things--or is it 39--- the U.S. Postal Service is trying to hawk, it's hard to be in a good mood. But you feel so sorry for the clerks, who once enjoyed the liberty of acting like an ordinary human beings, that you feign a happy face just to make their day.
Now, today I'm banking on an hour or so spent at the coffee cult where we'll talk about that highway that caved in to Chuck Slough, thus closing off one of the main roads to Sandpoint. Kiwi and I happened to be on the bike path day before yesterday, looking over that very spot where all of Chuck Slough's headwaters have eaten away the fill and created a muddy mess in the river right next to the McFarland estate. At the time, cars were zipping by without a care in the world. I've heard that a mere two hours later, the road had buckled and was closed down. I have a feeling that situation's gonna get worse before it gets better.
The Seahawks game this afternoon and the Zags game this evening will provide something of note to anticipate after I leave the coffee cult weekly discussion at Di Luna's. I do have to talk to my Texas friend on the phone one more time today, so that'll keep my mind off the rain for about 20 minutes. By the way, every time I tell him about the rain, which has been frequently lately, he says to send some down their way cuz they don't know what it looks like anymore.
And speaking of Seattle and its impending rain record, my daughter called me yesterday from I-5. She had just left her Seattle apartment and was driving to Mt. St. Helens, where she figured that at least a change of wet scenery would help her mood. She was also holding off hope that if she went far enough south, maybe she'd find a dry spot of ground. I kinda doubt that she did after seeing that parking lot in Portland on the news clips, where a bunch of funny things were sticking up in the water; they were cars.
I tried this morning, while sloshing my way through the driveway, to think happy thoughts about the rain. I came up with a few. The rocks will be clean. Most November, December and January dog turds will disintegrate, leaving very few brown blotches to avoid during March. I'm wondering if those turds are floating into the Pend Oreille River off toward exclusive Dover Bay via Chuck Slough cuz I think that's the drainage path for our water here in the Bonner County boghole.
Back to the positives. The frogs are happy. There's harmony in town because for once, most people have something of mutual agreement to cuss about. Tom Sherry won't be able to annoy us for some time by issuring dire warnings about a water shortage and a bad fire season on his weather report. The grass is green. I haven't had to fill the horse trough in nearly a week.
I'm sure there are many other good reasons to like the rain. I just haven't taken time out of my complaining schedule to think of them, but I do know the number-one, all-time best reason ever: when it quits, people will once again love one another and smile on their brothers--even at the post office.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Burn victims' update: how you can help
I talked with Mike Wolcott last night about Jodi Greve and her family, who sustained burns last Saturday from an explosion inside a potential rental house. Mike co-owns Inland Forest Management, where Jodi has been working. He said things are looking up, although Jodi still suffers from intense pain and has difficulty sleeping.
Her husband Cody was released from the hospital Wednesday, and he's residing in an apartment across from Harborview Burn Center. Mike says it's customary for the medical staff to teach family members how to treat the burns. Patients return to the hospital occasionally for observation. Cody's mother has taken th treatment responsibility, while he's doing his best to keep Jodi's spirits high during this tough time in her healing.
Their son Mason, who's six years old, reportedly looked in the mirror yesterday and said, "I have my Mason face back." Those who watched and listened were very touched, and Mike says observers are using the word "miracle" in conversations about their recovery, especially since "unrecognizable" was being used in earlier conversations when they were first admitted to the burn center.
During our telephone visit, Mike agreed with me that upbeat cards or letters could certainly go far in helping Jodi's outlook as she withstands the pain and treatment in the hospital. So, if you're so inclined, I doubt any of them would care if they know you or not---your words could work some much-appreciated magic. The address is as follows:
Jodi Greve-Likkel, patient
Harborview Medical Center
325 9th Avenue
Seattle, WA 98104
Mike also said some friends have suggested submitting the family's name for a car giveaway by Spokane's Wendle Motors, being held in conjunction with the Sandpoint Extreme Home Makeover Airing on ABC network Sunday, Jan. 22 at 8 p.m. PST. I cut and pasted the following information at their website, which is found at (http://www.quisenberry.net/extremecar/)
Wendle Motors is embracing the season of giving by donating a new Suzuki Aerio to a local family or individual in need through their Extreme Vehicle Giveaway.
Wendle is accepting nominations for potential recipients beginning Saturday, January 7 and running through midnight Tuesday, January 17. Nominations must be received in writing and include why the nominee deserves the new Suzuki Aerio.
Her husband Cody was released from the hospital Wednesday, and he's residing in an apartment across from Harborview Burn Center. Mike says it's customary for the medical staff to teach family members how to treat the burns. Patients return to the hospital occasionally for observation. Cody's mother has taken th treatment responsibility, while he's doing his best to keep Jodi's spirits high during this tough time in her healing.
Their son Mason, who's six years old, reportedly looked in the mirror yesterday and said, "I have my Mason face back." Those who watched and listened were very touched, and Mike says observers are using the word "miracle" in conversations about their recovery, especially since "unrecognizable" was being used in earlier conversations when they were first admitted to the burn center.
During our telephone visit, Mike agreed with me that upbeat cards or letters could certainly go far in helping Jodi's outlook as she withstands the pain and treatment in the hospital. So, if you're so inclined, I doubt any of them would care if they know you or not---your words could work some much-appreciated magic. The address is as follows:
Jodi Greve-Likkel, patient
Harborview Medical Center
325 9th Avenue
Seattle, WA 98104
Mike also said some friends have suggested submitting the family's name for a car giveaway by Spokane's Wendle Motors, being held in conjunction with the Sandpoint Extreme Home Makeover Airing on ABC network Sunday, Jan. 22 at 8 p.m. PST. I cut and pasted the following information at their website, which is found at (http://www.quisenberry.net/extremecar/)
Wendle Motors is embracing the season of giving by donating a new Suzuki Aerio to a local family or individual in need through their Extreme Vehicle Giveaway.
Wendle is accepting nominations for potential recipients beginning Saturday, January 7 and running through midnight Tuesday, January 17. Nominations must be received in writing and include why the nominee deserves the new Suzuki Aerio.
The public will get to meet and hear the story of the local winner during the January 22 episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition on KXLY that features a local home makeover in Sandpoint, Idaho. Wendle Motors is excited to have the opportunity to benefit a local family or individual in need.
If you have the time and would like to nominate Jodi's family for this opportunity, go to the website and send off a nomination. I'm sure there are many deserving families for consideration around the Inland Northwest, but I think this family could use a bit of good news after the tragedies they've incurred in the past couple of months.
So, thanks for your interest, and thanks for whatever you can do to give this family a much-needed and appreciated boost. They've got a long road ahead in patching their lives back together, and they're definitely folks who work hard. If you'd still like to donate to the bank fund, check out the address on my Jan. 9 posting.
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