It's the maternity ward, Stupid

I read a new take on the big "D" word today. Seems a DEVELOPER who's involved in the preliminary aspects of building 1,500 homes on the Rickel Ranch just off Highway 95 south of Athol addressed concerns about what's causing the population boom in North Idaho. He said it had nothing to do with developers; instead, his opponents need to look at what's happening in the maternity wards.

That makes me a bit nervous, knowing the way some locals can react to having their space overrun with a whole bunch more people. Will pregnant mothers be in danger now that this developer has spilled the beans? Will irate folks wishing to express concerns about mega-housing developments showing up next door now start picketing hospitals and labor rooms to "stop the crazy growth" (thanks to a fellow Huckleberries Online blogger for that terminology) rather than attending stack-the-deck planning and zoning meetings?

This claim also begs the question: are women suddenly back to having a dozen babies per family? I don't think so. Somehow, I don't think maternity rooms should get the sole blame for development in North Idaho. My theory is that development is occurring at high rates in this area for the same reasons it's happening virtually all over the United States.

Telecommunications advancements have allowed people to be much more flexible about where they do their work. No longer do they necessarily have to spend their careers in population centers. This phenomenon has been unfolding over the past decade, along with some aggressive marketing of our area. The "if you build it, they will come" philosophy also plays a part in our population influx as does a huge retiring baby boomer generation.

I was told by a realtor the other day that for the next 12 years we can expect to see a booming real estate market, especially in the South, because of our huge retiring crop of maternity ward products from the '40s and '50s. Finally, I think our world economy plays a role in what we're seeing show up in our disappearing farm fields.

Those fields are becoming available to developers because of the increasingly prohibitive cost of farming. I just did a story about Harvey and Leslie Lippert who recently won a Young Farmer and Rancher award for the North Idaho region. Though they're dedicated to spending their lives working the soil, they worry about being priced out of this dream because of rising fuel and fertilizer cost, along with that of the necessary huge implements needed to do their work.

So, the developments continue to dominate the local planning and zoning, commissioners' and city council meetings. This Rickel Ranch development appears a bit different from the original idea I heard about while interviewing Gary Norton for Sandpoint Magazine a couple of years ago. He's the genius who created Silverwood. At the time, he was expressing the desire to complement his ever-growing theme park by creating a town at the Rickel Ranch, dedicated specifically to a family atmosphere.

I don't know if he's connected with this developer because the approach seems to be different, according to this morning's Spokesman. The same guy who blamed his job on maternity wards says he wants the 1,500 homes to offer affordable housing. I think a price of $125,000 homes was mentioned. In today's construction market, I wonder what those are gonna look like and how long they're gonna last.

Speaking of affordable housing, I've also heard about another developer's dream for the old Elmira townsite north of here. One of my former students, Kent Compton, has purchased the townsite and is planning his own attempt at offering affordable housing. I do believe, however, he's looking at a little more money going into each house he plans to build on the individual lots up there off Highway 95. He also told me that he hopes to use part of the area to showcase Elmira's history as a rough-and-tumble railroad town.

I'll hand it to Kent because he hasn't used the "maternity ward" card in rationalizing his approach to Elmira. He's a developer. He hopes to provide a need, and he admits he'd like to make a little money while doing it.

So, I think Bonner General Hospital and all potential mothers it serves are safe. I don't know about Kootenai Medical Center, though. Those young mothers-to-be might be wise to come in the back door when they show up for the labor room until this developer comes up with a new reason for planning those 1,500 homes at the Rickel Ranch.

Butts, guts and nuts: Sex and the single bull

Warning: You may not want to read this posting because I had too much fun this morning. Therefore, you may want to plug your ears or cover your eyes and go on to the next link on your computer.

I read it right on the front page of the Spokesman-Review this morning. It was a story about a truly buff beefcake named Prescott. Seems Prescott, who's Black---Angus, that is, has what it takes to do his job----a scrotum exceeding the diameter of a ruby red grapefruit. There will definitely be no calling Prescott a fruit with jewels that size.

Yup, this front-page story in the regional paper was all about bulls. I was glad to see it because I've known bulls in my day, and I've known at least one who didn't measure up to Prescott's testosterone potential. And, he could very well have come from that same sale in Spokane where the bulls are being primped for show today and sale tomorrow.

I believe we called him Percy. He was a handsome young Hereford who came from a ranch in Connell, Washington. Talk about primped, you could eat off him he was so clean and pretty. Blow-dried, in fact. That's what you do to make young bulls have the proper "butts, guts and nuts appearance."

You want 'em to have a nice big barrel and a big rear end, cuz if they have those attributes, they're gonna produce little babies with at least the butts and guts. We certainly wouldn't want our little heifers to have those nuts now, would we? Furthermore, anyone who's ever eaten a nice beef steak should know the importance of the guts and the butts. More of each means more juicy red meat on those bones.

Now, let's get to the nuts of this situation and back to Percy. My folks brought him home, and we all admired his large frame and big rear end. We figured Percy would make a wonderful outcross for our Ponderay Hereford ladies like Millie or Mary Elephant. Their huge frames mixed with his could mean nothing but plate-sized rib steaks and pan-sized rounds coming off the next generation.

We kept Percy in a barnyard pen until early summer after the cows had calved. Then, my dad turned him out to do his thing. When summer was nearly over and Millie and Mary Elephant were still passionately interested in romance, we got to wondering about Percy.

Seems the bull sale officials didn't do the intricate measurements back then. Upon inspection, Big Percy certainly had the guts and butt all right, but his abundant qualities up above kinda hid the fact that his scrotum measured more the size of Yakima-valley apricot. He just wasn't getting the job done. All he wanted to do was eat and lounge out there in the pasture.

His harem, however, was getting pretty frustrated. It kinda frustrated my folks too cuz they had to go back down there to Connell and tell his former owners that the bull just didn't have it. So, Percy later returned to Connell, and the folks brought a new bull---which would never make the hunk centerfold in Bulls Illustrated, but he must have had what it took. Every cow had a calf later than usual the next year.

Yup, I've known bulls, and I know from past experience, that you just can't always judge a bull by his blow-dried cover-up. Like anything in this life, there are more dimensions and you've gotta check 'em out.

Even when you don't have to ask, "Where's the beef?" you may have wonder about the nuts.

Grace and Disgrace: 2005 Winter Olympics

Just before the closing ceremonies for this year's Winter Olympics tonight, we can watch a documentary with Tom Brokaw, featuring St. Maries, Idaho, resident Vernon Baker. According to today's Spokesman-Review, Baker, a member of an all-Black infantry platoon led an attack on a Nazi fortification near Torino, Italy, during WWII.

A few years ago, long after World War II, Vernon Baker received a medal around his neck; it's called the Medal of Honor, and he's the only living Black recipient of this distinction from WWII. Baker was in his early 20s and considered the old man or father of his platoon, which lost 19 men while the young lieutenant was advancing his troops, along with three rifle platoons toward their objective, a German castle called Aghinolfi.

He received no thanks or recognition until January 1997 when President Bill Clinton awarded him the Medal of Honor for "gallantry and intrepdity at the risk of his own life above and beyond the call of duty in action on 5 and 6 April 1945." Baker, now 87, has since written a book with a former Spokesman-Review reporter Ken Olson. It's called Lasting Valor, as is tonight's documentary.

After we watch the documentary about this American hero, who overcame daunting odds, not only in battle but also in life, we'll get to watch our young American athletes marching past cameras in uniform---officially-sanctioned Olympic uniforms for the athletes who've represented our country over the past couple of weeks at the world winter sporting event. These uniforms have most likely been subsidized by donations from large American corporations who spend millions to provide the very best for our athletes.

I wonder whom we'll see cheesing before the cameras as all the pomp and circumstance of the ceremony takes place. I know whom we won't see. What's that young man's name---yeah, the acrobatic skier named Peterson who got sent home for starting a fight in an Italian bar. I can't recall his full name right now, but I'll always remember the footage last night as he was receiving hugs from all his friends, apparently just before departing from the Italian venue not far from where Vernon Baker lost his men back in 1945.

I wonder if Big Bode Miller will be performing for the camera. He's had plenty of experience, bombing out in five Olympic events and then giving an upbeat spin to his follies on the various ski runs. I think he's really happy because he's skiing exactly the way he wanted to ski and because he's living the high life exactly the way he's accustomed to living it. According to Bode, he's had a wonderful Olympics, representing our country and taking the place of some other skier who might have tried a little harder in those five events.

And, I can't leave out our own local participant who bragged to everyone just how he was going for nothing but gold, only to wipe out, throw his snowboard on the ground and then blame his teammate for making him lose. That was neat to read about in last week's Los Angeles Times commentary the day after he performed. I wonder if he'll still be over there, proudly marching past the cameras in his American team uniform.

I also wonder if those two speed skaters, who obviously didn't like each other through most of the Olympics and then finally shook hands, will be marching proudly, side by side showing their unity and pride in representing the United States of America. If they do that, maybe people will forget all their temper tantrums and juvenile acrimony. We do know they'll both be wearing their shiny medals, unlike Vernon Baker got to do when he left Italy back in 1945 after fighting for the American ideal of freedom and justice for all.

Most of our American competitors in this Italian Olympics did their jobs with magnificence and grace. Our women ice skating participants each wrote individual stories of dedication to their sport and demonstrated impressive eloquence and integrity while reviewing their individual performances for the worldwide television audience. That eloquence involved no excuses for jobs not done as well as expected and suggested sincere gratitude for the opportunity to perform in the Olympics and represent their country.

There was also the soft-spoken winner of the American snowboardcross competition, who remained out of the limelight in advance of his competition, performed magnificently and accepted his rewards with humility and grace. There was Apollo Ohno, who conducted himself so honorably and hung in there in spite of early disappointment. Apollo will certainly be wearing his medals with justified pride.

Is it because of the media, always hungry for a good controversy? Or, am I alone in my disappointment toward some Americans who've worn the title of Olympian---an honor demanding dedication to a discipline, sportsmanship, respect for those who provide support, and integrity toward the commonly-accepted Olympic ideal of conducting oneself as a role model for others who may follow? Have these athletes squandered this much-envied opportunity by adding a bit of tarnish to our cherished American ideals that Vernon Baker fought for in World War II?

In this morning's paper, a couple wrote a letter to the sports section, suggesting that the "Ugly American" has become the "Arrogant American," thanks to the behavior of many of our Olympic athletes. These privileged athletes have performed in the same region of Italy where a young black man, with no corporate sponsors other than his own government and with no self-esteem coaches stroking his ego, displayed leadership and courage beyond what anyone could ever expect, only to be reprimanded later by a commander for a minor uniform infraction.

He came home from Italy with no television cameras recording his every move or reporters inteviewing him on what went wrong or right with his performance. He lived a quiet life for several decades in a small Idaho town. Finally, in the twilight of his life, he received his much-deserved honor and that much-coveted medal awarded to so few. I'm glad NBC is featuring Vernon Baker tonight to remind us of how true heroes have conducted themselves in the Italian mountains.

Warning: The following cartoon fringes on bad taste and may offend certain groups. The cartoonist assumes no liability for any violent acts of any kind (with the exception of violent laughter) that may result from its publication.

Further Disclaimer: Nowhere in this image is the prophet Mohammed depicted.

Another hometown gal does it big

Kristy Osmunson (from Sandpoint) and Buffy Lawson (from Kentucky) make up the hot new country duet called "Bomshel." Be listening and watching for them on a country station near you. See posting below. Photo from booking page.

Let's do the Bomshel

I was driving to Hope yesterday morning to pick up Jim Watkins. We were going on to Noxon for a meeting of the Clark Fork-Pend Oreille Conservancy. After quitting the conservancy board last year as a newbie thrust into a sea of acrimony, I rejoined after reassurance from Jim that the conservancy's issues have been worked out.

The group is now going full throttle ahead on convincing land owners to enter into conservation easements, which will prevent development for perpetuity while offering the owner an attractive tax break. I believe strongly in this approach to saving our lands, so I'm looking forward once more to participating in the process as a board member.

Anyway, while admiring the beauty of the lower Pack River drainage on this gorgeous February morning, my ears suddenly focused on Sandpoint's country radio station where the announcers were introducing a song called "Bombshell" and promising an upcoming interview with one of the singers. It's definitely a catchy tune, which makes ya wanta just get up and start stomping with your SK's. That wasn't an option, though, cuz I knew Jim would be waiting at Holiday Shores and doing a line dance out there along HWY 200 with the ducks and geese might delay my arrival.

When the song ended, the interview began. The announcer was glad to have two members of the singing group, which just happened to be called "Bomshel." I later checked it out on the web and found out the customary "b" and the second "l" in the name have been ignored, probably in respect for other copyrighted groups. Anyway, these gals seemed pretty laid back and still surprised that their song, which came together one night at a Nashville recording studio after too much champagne, had made it big on the country charts---up to 6th place, they said.

Then, the bombshell dropped. One member of this singing duet announced she was from Sandpoint. I hadn't yet heard a name when she followed up with a "Go Vandals." Later, the announcer did introduce them by their real names, and I learned that the Sandpoint singer is none other than Kristy Osmunson, who graduated from SHS in 1998.

I believe she was also ASB president, and I know she got some wonderful musical training from Jon Brownell, the SHS choir director. Furthermore, her mom Kathy was one of my colleagues who started the nursing program at the high school. Her dad, Dr. Willard Osmunson, was a local dentist who also served a couple of terms on the school board.

Let me tell you, this group is good. I would not be the least bit surprised to see them rival the Dixie Chicks, Alison Kraus or any of the groups that have been hot over the past few years. They've got their own distinct sound; it appears that they're having a blast and pinching themselves with their quick success.

I don't know if Kristy let the cat out of the bag, but she did announce in the interview that they've been booked for the Festival at Sandpoint this summer. As yet, I don't know if that's a warm-up act or a featured performance. We'll see.

After their interview, the DJ played another of their songs which has a strung out title with too many words for this old mind to remember, but "It's a ___________, __________, Finger-lickin' Love Song" promises to be a winner on their CD called "The Alternative," which is due to be released soon.

I tried to call Kristy's grandmother to find out more, but her line was busy. Possibly a few more nosy sorts like me heard the interview and had the same idea. Anyway, watch and listen for "Bomshel." If you're in to country tunes and some good foot-stomping lyrics with great back up music, I think you'll like this pair.

Like me, when you hear 'em for the first time, you may even want to jump out of your car and do the Bomshel stomp with the nearest Canadian honker or meandering moose.

Two golden sports stories

If the chips were down, I'd want Sasha Cohen and Jason McElwain on my team. Through individual efforts this week, both beautifully exemplified the cliche that sport imitates life. In both cases, the human spirit shined brightly and poignantly, reminding us once again that it's what's inside that counts.

Jason McElwain is the autistic high school basketball manager who worked alongside his team and coach, always ready to run as the "gofer" whenever the need arose. During the final moments of the final home game, the coach, who'd told him to suit up in a basketball uniform for his senior night, gave him one more assignment--to check into the game during the final moments and "gofer it."

Gofer it he did. Jason's wonderful story is now running crazy through the media. Six three-point baskets in the last four minutes, 20 points total. Adam Morrison, eat your heart out! This came from a 5 foot, six inch young man who couldn't make the junior varsity team, so he worked as a manager. He couldn't make the varsity, so he, again, worked as a manager.

As the senior season ended, his coach thought he deserved a chance to at least play. His coach prayed that he could make just one basket. He missed the first two or three and then went to work. A miracle took over in that gym that night, and a young man who'd served his coach and his teammates, and who had waited for his call, wasted not one moment during this great opportunity in his life. I'll never forget this story, and I'm sure anyone who might be a bit skeptical about the potential of the human spirit won't either.

Last night, I watched the eastern feed of the Olympics because I knew the women's figure skating finals would be on as the grand finale, and I didn't want to nod off. So, at 7, I tuned in and remained mesmerized for two hours as skater after skater performed. Of course, the big story was Sasha Cohen. Sasha kept falling down during her warm-up.

The commentators sensed, through her eyes, that Sasha lacked confidence before she began her program, especially because of all those unwelcome meetings with the ice. She did look tired, and she did continue to fall during the early part of her program. Though a worldwide audience, including me, figured it was surely over for this beautiful young lady, Sasha didn't.

She held herself together, maintained a grace and finesse like nothing I've ever witnessed, and continued to skate as if she'd won the gold medal. The remaining performance was stunning, to say the least. Everyone knew she would not win the gold medal. Sasha said later she figured she'd won no medal at all, but she also demonstrated an impressive sense of gold-medal perspective.

Though the interviewer offered her the excuse of her painful groin muscle, Sasha would have none of that. Instead, she said she just didn't have what it took to make those jumps. She was more proud that she had maintained her composure and that she'd finished what she'd started. While watching her skate the rest of her program after those falls, I could not help but think, "There's a true champion."

When it was over and when she acknowledged her genuine surprise at actually winning that silver medal after all, I believe that Sasha Cohen showed the true meaning of being an Olympian. She performed her best, offered no excuses and reveled in her personal victory of overcoming the "agony of sure defeat" by hanging in there and giving it her all.

Sport does imitate life. Both of these athletes, in their perseverance against daunting odds, have so eloquently demonstrated qualities necessary as we face each new day. Whether we're going about our usual mundane business or aiming for that elusive gold ring, we constantly need to reach deep within ourselves for the discipline and desire to succeed. Our rewards will come. They don't always have to be gold, and they're often more valuable.

In unwittingly scripting their own triumphant stories--sure to be told over and over--Sasha and Jason, have poignantly demonstrated what it means to be true role models.

Three-timing Bootsie

Boots as seen by fellow cartoonist Jack Davis of Mad Magazine fame. Reprinted with permission from Boots Reynolds.

His wife says it's okay if her ol' geezer husband invites two rather mature women to lunch. So, that's what he's gone and done. Yup, Bootsie's gonna do some three-timing today. He's taking me to lunch at Hope's Holiday Shores Restaurant----and he's invited my mother along. When I talked to Beckie the other day, she told me he said he'd better invite my mother cuz she likes him so much.

My mother just lights up whenever the name "Boots" is mentioned. This idolatry began one February Sunday when I took her for a drive. It happened to be her first Sunday drive since our dad Harold had died a few months before. My folks thrived off from those drives throughout their marriage where their Batch One kids learned the fine art of roadside deer spotting (of the live kind) and not killing each other in the back seat.

After Harold retired, their Sunday drives turned into Monday, Thursday drives or whenever it seemed like a good idea to just get in the car and go. So, on this Sunday in February, 2004, I picked up my mother and before we left the house, a tear or two rolled down her face as she thought about Harold. We headed toward Clark Fork with no goal in mind. Long about the Lower Pack River bridge, an idea came to mind, as I could tell this experience was mighty raw so soon after Harold's death.

I turned up a road off the highway, refusing to tell her where we were going. As we climbed a hillside drive, with carefully designed gutter speed bumps, she wondered what kind of fix I was going to get her in on this day. After all, Harold had driven her down a power line pathway on the top of some Montana mountain when she was nine months pregnant with Laurie.

"I just want to see something," I said as we rounded a corner and came on to a plateau. Soon, we drove into Boots' driveway, which is lined on one side with Becky's box garden and on the other with a mini-Western town and a whole lot of stuff I won't even try to describe. Boots happened to be standing at the door, along with his dogs. I told him we were just stopping by to say a quick hi and would be on our way.

He insisted that we come inside where he and Becky had been watching TV. We ended up staying an hour, drinking lots of their coffee and laughing until more tears rolled down Mother's cheeks as we visited with Boots, Becky, the dogs and the house pig, which slept in the closet at the time.

That special Bootsie-Becky fix turned out to be exactly the right medicine for my mother on that February afternoon. She smiled all the way home, thinking about all the funny stuff we'd discussed in that house at the end of speed bump row.

Since then, we've also gotten together for lunch at the Hoot Owl Cafe at Ponderay, where I arranged for Boots and my fishin' and huntin' brother Kevin to meet each other for the first time over a birthday luncheon. The two of them have birthdays at the end of March, but Boots is a LOT older than Kevin.

Boots has been talking about going to lunch again for a long time, but somehow the recent release of Pat McManus' new book, which includes mention of no fewer than 35 zillion calories associated with numerous helpings of plate-sized chicken-fried steaks at Dave's House of Fry, has gotten Boots' tastebuds yearning for some good grease.

So, we're going to pig out at the Holiday Shores today where the cook knows how to load up the cholesterol with fries, huge hamburgers and delicious chocolate shakes, colored-up with cake decorating sprinkles. I also think Boots is also a bit nostalgic, hearing about our San Antone trip cuz he and Becky got married in a little town south of there a while back. He'll be nice and let Mother tell her own San Antonio stories, and then he'll throw out a few zingers for us.

I doubt the calorie count is gonna affect our "svelte" figures today because I know we'll be getting a lot of exercise during our Bootsie Tryst at the gas-station cafe. Mother'll be falling on the floor from laughing too hard, and I'll be picking her up and putting her back on her chair while Boots revs up for another crazy story that only Boots can tell.

I know this scenario to be true because readers may recall my posting a few days ago where I told about my prior experience of rolling around like a crazy woman on my own kitchen floor when the Boots and Pat McManus team went into full story-telling throttle at my house a couple of years ago.

I know from long experience with a book that has yet to materialize that my lovable buddy and Western cartoonist, Boots Reynolds (http://bootsreynolds.com/), is of chalk full of BEANS and even more B.S., but I can tell you that's a good thing for anyone who's suffering from a bad mood. He lets loose with a lot during any visit, and you always go home knowing that you've had an experience that's good for whatever's ailing you.

Pastoral passing

I can remember pleasant, warm summer nights, spent with my mother, plodding down Great Northern Road on Tiny and Cricket, respectively. We'd saddle up at the main farm, head north on Boyer, turn on to the back road (now known as Woodland Drive) remark about the tiger lilies growing in the ditches along our woods or maybe check out the dewberry supply.

On those evening rides, we might go to the rodeo grounds on Baldy Road or up Robinson's road, which, in those days, ended at the Robinson's farm (now Crooked Lane subdivision). Sometimes, we'd go across the railroad tracks to the Upper Tibbs place and visit with my dad, Harold, who might be sitting in his pickup, smoking a roll-yer-own or two or three while looking down over the family spread.

We never worried much about the horses' safety because most folks driving through understood horses and respected our space as we enjoyed our evening's ride. Occasionally, a car would come behind us, slow down for the horses and carefully pass by---or, if it was a Gooby or one of the Watts family, we'd all hang there in the middle of the road for a neighborly gabfest.

Events last Friday night signaled another major hint that the pastoral has probably long since passed in this neighborhood. If it hasn't, the flame of those peaceful times remains but a flicker. On Friday night, there was hot pursuit by the law in my lifelong neighborhood, and it was intense.

I had invited myself to dinner with the Colburn family because Bill had gone to a meeting in Coeur d'Alene. He wouldn't be home until at least 11, so I didn't want to spend the evening all by myself. It was also Friday night at the end of a long week, and my sisters didn't want to stay awake much past the weekly taco salad gathering at their home. So, I planned to eat and run before they all nodded off in front of the TV.

The Olympics were about to come on at 8 p.m. when I pulled out of their driveway and headed home. Once on to Boyer, I spotted flashing lights near the infamous corner where I used to rob the mailboxes at age 5. A cop had pulled off the road at a funny angle and had walked a couple of hundred feet ahead to talk to a lady in an SUV.

I didn't think much of this until I pulled on to the back road where those tiger lilies still grow. As I reached the open fields to the west, I spotted a car racing southward on the dirt road paralleling the railroad tracks. Nearing the corner of Woodland Drive and Great Northern Road, I could see it was another cop car, which turned my direction and hastily headed back toward Boyer.

While traveling Great Northern, I met two more police cars and deduced that someone must've escaped from the jail or the juvie detention center over on Boyer. This has happened a few times before, but the only way we've figured it out is to see all the white cars zipping back and forth, occasionally flashing their lights. We also have a police scanner, which confirms our visual suspicions.

For three hours, as I sat alone in my house with the big living room windows, I watched teams of cop cars glide past, slow down, turn in to railroad path along the wooded area across from our driveway, hunker down at the northwest corner of our property, or head back and forth with their spot lights shining into the bushes. The scanner didn't reveal much except that someone dropped their shoes along the way. It was zero outside, so someone was pretty desperate and probably had cold feet.

I was afraid to go outside to get the keys from my car. I was afraid to go to bed because Bill was still coming home, and it wouldn't be nice to lock him out in the cold. I was dismayed through the entire evening that, with all that action a few feet from my house, not one cop car came in to notify me that someone had escaped or to please be on the look-out. So, I sat in my glass house, surrounded by law officers, feeling far from safe.

Eventually, Bill came home, brought both sets of keys into the house and locked the doors. This morning I read in the paper that the police were chasing not one but two escapees---young women who'd been arrested on drug charges, one of whom eventually punched a cop when they later tracked the pair down in Trestle Creek, which is 15 miles away. I guess I should feel safe now, knowing they've put them in another jail 45 miles down another road.

But, when I consider the once peaceful road where Mother and I enjoyed those many memorable summer evenings aboard our beloved horses many moons ago, when I consider last fall's murder/drug scene one quarter mile to the south, when I know that a convicted sexual offender lives to the north, and when I reflect on this most recent three-hour pursuit of shoeless meth addicts virtually outside my window, I think it's time to say good bye to the idyllic life that has kept me in this little area for so long.

Where once car drivers met horseback riders and stopped for a friendly roadside chat, the horses and their riders dare not go. And, nowadays, cars gather all too often along our road to catch the criminals. The innocence has passed. Not a pleasant thought. Times have definitely changed in the neighborhood.

Dog and Pony Shows and Bill Adams Bull

My nephew Scott and his daughter Aggie Sue make a new best friend in Alaska.

Ride 'em, Aggie. Looks like Miss Aggie's gettin' the gist of it all as her mom J.J. looks on. Now, the pony doesn't appear so enthusiastic. But then, what pony does?

Miss Aggie Sue is keeping up with the family tradition, while her mom J.J. helps out.

Idaho dogs, Miss Kiwi and Miss Annie Dog, bask in the February sunshine at the Love farm.

We met these Shelties at Garner State Park in Texas last week. They actually had been to a dog obedience show, and I'm betting they did pretty well.

Well, folks, wouldya believe this used to coach basketball at Sandpoint High School? The one on the left, that is. This is Mr. Bill Adams, and he was out standing in Sheri Williams Remmers' field just a couple of weeks ago training Sherri's bull. Look for him and the bull at your local county fair.

Update, Feb. 22: Okay, so maybe Bill's leading the cow---not the bull. I heard the bull gored him in the thigh during one of their training sessions a few weeks ago. Anyway, this two miniature bovines are husband and wife, and it seems Bill helped the wife deliver a baby around 9 p.m. last night. It's black. Explain that one, Farmer Bill or Mini Bull---whoever has the answer!

This one makes my heart melt. Found this on a slide that had been sitting in a kitchen drawer for 20 years. It's Miss Annie Love with our Uncle Frenchie's pup. Taken circa 1985 in Montana.

Shake hands, how do you do, state your name . . . .

I can so clearly remember those awkward freshman mixers at the University of Idaho. Before attending these carefully orchestrated social events for guys to meet girls, we Carter Hall gals would gather around our large dormitory mirrors and primp up. This process usually took about an hour.

Primping in those days of the now-distant '60s meant rubbing our face and neck with several coats of greasy make-up base, dubbing a little rouge on the cheeks, sticking about six ounces of that black, sticky goop called mascara on our eye lashes and attempting to draw brown or black lines with a pencil on a parallel track at the base of our eyelids.

Then, we'd "rat" our hair until it stood ten inches high, carefully shape the gnarled mass with a comb, and empty at least half a can of hair spray to hold it all in place. We also tried really hard to hide the hair spray smell (and cigarette-smoke odor) with half a bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume. Just before leaving the dorm, we'd top off the production with whatever color of lipstick matched the rest of the paint job.

Then, with great expectation and a few jitters, we'd walk en masse over to Gault Hall, Willis Sweet or Shoup, enter whatever boys dorm was hosting the mixer and then find our way to a dimly-lit room where romantic music of the day was playing, and guys were waiting to greet us.

The evening always involved a lot of small talk or maybe a lot of close dancing, depending on how ugly or fat you happened to be. Even the dim lighting didn't help much where I was concerned. I usually spent more time talking than dancing because I certainly could never pass myself off as any voluptuous pin-up. Wallflower, yes, but pin-up---not in this lifetime!

That's how people met each other in the fall of 1965. The dialogue usually involved little variation from one of my very first encounters, except for the stutter.

"Hi, my name's Marianne Brown. Whatchyer major?"

"I'm Bill. They call me B-Ba-Boston Bill c-c--cuz I'm from B-Ba-Boston. I h-a-a-aven't declared my major y-y-et."

"Well, I'm from Sandpoint. Have you ever heard of it."

"N0, ccccccan't say th-th-th-that I ha--ha-ve"

The fact that this guy stuttered didn't bother me during that particular mixer, which happened to be the first I attended in my pursuit of the opposite sex. He had two legs and he was male. That was adequate, and that's how it was in those days.

Often, our standards were pretty flexible when we were brand-new freshman women on our college campus in Moscow. After all, when we headed home for our first vacation, those times dictated that it was equally as important to succeed in the manhunt as it was to further your education. With this Boston Bill match-up, I could bring home a promising report to the Mother who, like many of her era, worried that her daughter might not find a man.

Boston Bill didn't last. I eventually dumped him and continued going to mixers at other boys' dorms where I carried on the same predictable conversation without much success in the collegiate romance department.

As I reflect on those days so long ago, I'm thinking this morning---after reading the umpteenth story about "MySpace.com," which offers young folks the opportunity to get acquainted with their contemporaries across the nation via the Internet---- times and methods have certainly changed in the meet-and-greet department. Granted, in some ways a bit dangerous for those who don't use common sense, but for the most part, offering much more comfort in the introductions department.

This weekend, some of the bloggers who frequent Blogfather Oliveria's "Huckleberries Online" got together in Bayview and, in some cases, viewed each other face-to-face for the first time after mixing venom, gotchas, passionate argument and general banter for more than a year while communicating with each other on a daily basis. From reports I've read, they were all pleasantly surprised with how much they enjoyed each other.

And, they didn't even need to primp for an hour in front of the mirror. They could just show up and start talking. No name, rank and serial number or stupid small talk necessary. They already knew where everyone was coming from, so their conversation just went into automatic pilot. I wish I'd attended this gathering cuz it sounds like it was much more successful than those old freshman mixers.

I witnessed a similar phenomenon last fall when Bill and I attended a geocaching picnic at Farragut. "Schweitzer Guy" was turning 40, so he invited all the geocachers in North Idaho and Eastern Washington to help him celebrate. About 30 people came and even brought their families. Like the Bayview Bloggerfest, as soon as their geocaching "handles" were matched up to live bodies, the words began to flow. They all had a common passion, they'd already read personal profiles on each other, and nobody needed to go through that awkward initial small talk.

We often yearn for the good ol' days when things seemed so much better, but when I look at the methods we now have to expand our horizons and meet folks, I'd say we're on a better track. Granted, with Internet sites like "MySpace.com," users must learn to take great care, but for the most part, some of these other venues seem to offer a much more sensible way to meet people who might share common interests with us.

Somehow, at this point in my life, I've come to realize that our human relations extend far beyond the mascara or the perfume, which does nothing other than cover up the real person.

A Sunday morning murder mystery exclusive

I thought Dan Webster would have it plastered all over the Spokesman-Review this morning. I knew better than to expect to see anything about it in the North Idaho Sunday. After all, it doesn't have anything to do with Extreme Makeovers of homes or journalism. And, I doubt you'll hear anything about it on K-spit Radio Station here in Sandpoint today because they're stickin' to the cowboy songs.

So, as "Slightdetour" readers, I'm presenting you a genuINE exclusive bit of news. Tell folks you read it here first, and this news has abolutely nothing to do with controversial bare bottoms mooning the Westerners. Last I heard, the cartoonist still lives-----well-hidden in the bushes, probably praying a lot.

Actually, my hot news is a big mystery.

Now, to get you more in tune with this mystery, I'll tell you it's mostly red with big yellow letters. It's about the size of a loaf of flattened bread, so forget using the box as a benchmark. There's a bronze star, set off with a Filson red-and-black checkered cap, smack dab in its center. There's a goofy guy named Bo Tully involved, and he's a fearless law man.

Have ya guessed it yet?

Well, let me tell ya a little more. The number '16" is significant. A guy named Simon and a guy named Schuster bank-rolled this mystery. There's an lying Irishman with a white beard involved. And, he knows how to tell some whoppers. In fact, once, in a Sandpoint Magazine story, I termed him and his buddy Bootsie as the "mouths of the Clark Fork River." Bootsie loved the nickname so much, he uses it with his newspaper column.

Any idea now?

Well, the mouths of the Clark Fork River like to fish. Problem is they don't often catch anything, so when they don't catch anything, their tales kinda grow a bit. And this Irishman can make up some pretty gigantic fibs about fishing and hunting and strange bicycle riders-----and, now, about strange law men.

I'll bet by now you've guessed that I'm talking about our premier North Idaho literary product, Mr. Pat McManus. His newest book hit the shelves this week, and it's a novel. He's been telling me about this novel for just about as long as I've known him, and that's got to be at least 26 years. Well, maybe 25.5. Along with his 15 other story collections, he's had this novel floating around in his mind for some time.

The first time I heard about it, he was planning to set it in Sandpoint in the 1940s, but I've read the first chapter, and there's a Ford Explorer in it. Were Ford Explorers alive in the 1940s? Maybe his mind did some updates.

The last time I talked to him was the day he, Bootsie and I got together for lunch at Connie's and then came out here to my house for tea and crumpets-----and lies. While they sampled my tea and my crumpets and wouldn't shut up, I recorded their musings on my laptop. Occasionally, I took time-outs to laugh and even got down on the kitchen floor and rolled around from giggling way too much.

During that afternoon social party, Pat told me he was writing 1,000 words a day to get his novel finished. That was two years ago. Well, he finally got it done, and it's on the shelves at Vanderford's and The Corner Book Store. I'll bet some other stores have it too. I purchased my copy yesterday and have read the first chapter. It's about the sheriff of Blight, Idaho, who receives a call about a male body in a pin-striped suit hanging over a fence out at the Batim Scragg residence.

Now, that's all I can tell you today. I could tell you a whole lot more about Sheriff Bo Tully's impressive arsenal or about Batim's sons, Lem and Lister, but I'm gonna let you learn about that yourself. I should tell you that the bronze star with the Filson is really a badge and that the book title is The Blight Way. It's pretty cool when the author's gotten so important and so darned famous that his name dwarfs the title.

Go buy the book, which does happen to be Mr. Patrick F. McManus' 16th. And, it's lookin' like we all might have some fun goin' alongside Mr. Tully as he tries to solve the mystery of the pinstripe-suit murder in the Scragg pasture.

And, please, humor me by telling the folks at the book stores that you read about it here "fust" on "Slightdetour."

Gone to the birds

Home two days, and work is piling up. Almost immediately after finishing my next column for the River Journal yesterday, four more story assignments signaled an end to my laid-back life of the past couple of weeks. The day before, I talked to an advertising man in Spokane about another rather involved writing assignment to promote a Priest Lake resort. So, it looks like the old saying of "no rest for the wicked" is once more appropriate.

The assignments involve some fun stuff----a Western Pleasure adult horse camp, five more profiles of business owners who've hung around Sandpoint for a few decades, a new display soon to appear at Hope's Sam Owen Campground dealing with David Thompson and the local Indian tribes, and the sport of birding. I came up with the idea of writing about birding after one of my classmates, Terry Gray, introduced a few of us to the sport last summer while we trekked up the Mickinnick Trail during our class reunion.

We stopped and listened a few times for birds, but that hot July afternoon may have been a bad time to spot any wildlife, let alone rare winged creatures. Terry demonstrated some whistles he uses to attract the birds, and I was amazed to learn that if you make the right sounds, you could expect to have an up-close-and-personal encounter with some curious two-legged species. That's about all I remember from our primer that day, so I'm looking forward to contacting Terry as an expert for this story.

He's one of the resident bird gurus down in the Moscow-Genessee area, and Bill was impressed enough with his dedication to the subject that he asked him to speak at the Family Forest Landowners Conference in Moscow next month. Terry has a website, featuring hundreds of photos of his bird encounters: (http://www.flickr.com/photos/terryandchristine/).

I'm looking forward to learning more about birding because I've read that it is one of the fastest growing pastimes for baby boomers. And, it makes sense that it would be---it gets you outside into pretty areas, it presents a pursuing challenge and it forces you to use your senses with a more heightened awareness. Besides that, I like birds---most of them, anyway.

We've got about half a dozen bird feeders around the place, including one right next to one of our big living room windows. The deluxe feeder, crafted by our neighbor Bernie Pederson, allows us to see the cute little chickadees pigging out on sunflower seeds virtually every day. I've thrown out cracked corn for the geese and ducks who might show up any of these days and hang around as long as the pond water does. We've got lots of woodpeckers of varying sizes and species who like to do their pecking here. And, of course, the grackles and starlings fly in regularly to steal the catfood on the front porch.

How could I forget the pigeons, who've taken up residence in our hay mow over the past couple of years. Right now, nine regulars occupy the hay-mow rafters. I must admit that pigeons and I have not always been the best of friends. Family members love to tell the story of the summer day I came out to help with the hay at the Upper Tibbs Place where we were living at the time. That was back in the '70s before I had kids and when I still had long hair.

I'd just washed my hair that day and had just shown up to help move a few bales. As I bent over to lug one off the elevator, I heard a thud and felt a blow to the back of my head. My immediate reaction was to reach back and see what had happened. Within a split second, I knew my immediate reaction was one giant mistake. A pigeon from above had dumped its more-than-ample load right square in the back of my head.

Now, I don't know how many readers out there have ever fondled pigeon dung, but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. It's pasty. It's like cement. It doesn't come off easily. Those uncharitable souls witnessing the bird attack thought it was pretty funny. They chuckled a lot as I attempted to get the dung off my hand by shaking it really hard. No dice.

I ran from the hay mow, back to the house and spent twenty minutes washing the stubborn crap out of my hair and from my hand. Upon returning to the barn, but not the pigeon loft, I met with more laughter. They all thought it was really funny, and they still do. Over the years, I've secretly wished for just one of those fiendish souls to have a similar experience. So far, they've managed to avoid the air drops----partly because my brother cleans out the pigeon population in the Colburn barn every time he comes to town.

Now, the Love Barn pigeons are pretty safe here because you can't discharge a gun in the city limits. I'm hoping, however, they've gotten the message from their ancestors to stay away from me. Nonetheless, every time I go up there to feed the horses, I look toward the ceiling a lot and move around the mow very carefully as they warble away with their pigeon talk.

Speaking of avoidance, I found myself moving quickly and quietly last summer after making the mistake of moving a baby crow from the barnyard. All the experts told me this was not wise, but I didn't want the horses to kill the poor thing. I paid for that crow humanitarian gesture for at least a couple of weeks---every single time I went outside the house. Within seconds, Mom and Dad Crow would fly from wherever they happened to be and pursue me with passion and irritatingly loud, chastising cackles. Eventually, something lured them over to the Gooby's field across the road, and they finally left me alone.

So, even though my birding experiences haven't been all good, but I'm still looking forward to learning more with the upcoming story assignment.

Terry didn't get pictures of birds on our birding tour, but he did snap this one, which shows our place in the lower left quarter (green roof-barn next to the big white building.

Pictures today

Standard fare at Stubbs Barbecue in Austin, Texas. There's some good, live music too.

Three generations at the Gunter Hotel in San Antonio. This is where Mother would join her Aunt Anna for Sunday brunch from 1927-29. Mother lived at and attended Catholic school at Ursuline Academy (now Southwest Institute of Art and Craft), while her aunt lived at the hotel. After brunch, they'd spend the afternoon at Brackenridge Park where Mother rode a donkey.

Mother and Annie at Ursuline Academy in San Antonio. A lovely, peaceful place---now home to arts and crafts.

Mother at the Frio River in Garner State Park. This is in the Texas Hill Country northwest of San Antonio. Annie climbed the mountain and found some geocaches, while Mother and I enjoyed the sunshine and scenery, which included lots of goats, some geese and a live armadillo. Beautiful place.  

Yup, we rode in style. This is our PT cruiser, which served us well and turned a few heads. Mother Tibbs, Annie, Marianne, and Laura headed out for a night on the river.

Marianne and Annie at the Texas State Capitol. Photo by Mother Tibbs 

Everybody wants to be in the picture at San Antonio's Hard Rock Cafe, but those we know are Marianne, Mother Tibbs, Annie, and Laura Laumatia. Laura and Annie are cousins, both granddaughters of Mother Tibbs. Laura happened to have an extension conference in San Antonio during our visit, so we enjoyed an evening on the River Walk.

Granny and Annie at Stubbs

Cousins meet at Stubbs. We met our cousin Brendan Short, his lovely wife Stephanie, and their adorable daughter Elizabeth for the first time ever at Stubbs in Austin. Mother Tibbs said this meeting was the highlight of the entire trip to Texas. Look for Brendan's novel one of these days.

A penny for your future

I don't often go public with my political leanings. In fact, sometimes folks get downright mad at me when I refuse to sign petitions. As a columnist and freelance journalist, I still believe in old-school principles which advocate public neutrality on debatable topics. Therefore, my personal views on politics and many hot-button issues often remain inside my house or with a very close circle of family and friends.

When it comes to the issue of education, however, I see no risk in letting the world know that the rest of my functional years will be devoted to supporting any sensible strategies that can enhance a consistent positive environment for our students and their teachers. As a retired educator, it comes as a no-brainer to me that the investment we make in our kids' future training--be it academic or vocational--is money well-spent.

With that in mind, I'd like to encourage all friends of education to seek out and sign a petition which is currently circulating and which will eventually be sent to the Honorable Ben T. Ysuras, Secretary of State of the State of Idaho. The wording is long---as we usually see on such documents.

It's an Initiative Petition advocating "adequate and stable funding for local K-12 public schools; adding one percent (1%) sales tax rate, effective July 1, 2007, or requiring legislature to develop alternative revenue stream for this component for K-12 local public school funding; creating the Idaho Local Public Schools Investment Fund which, along with other revenue sources, will be used exclusively for K-12 public education, and which must be used for supporting students in the classroom and improving local schools; requiring that increased revenues in the Idaho Local Public Schools Investment Fund augment, not replace, current K-12 public school support revenue; establishing the method to compute each year's general fund appropriation for public schools; providing distribution of increased revenues through the current K-12 public schools funding mechanism; requiring advisory revote on Act in year 2020; and containing a severability clause."

There's more, but essentially this advocates re-establishing Idaho's sales tax from 5 percent to 6 percent. We went back to 5 percent in July, 2005, and I've been told a lot of folks didn't even realize this. So, what more painless way could we employ to help our young people and their teachers? The petition says these additional monies gleaned from the extra sale tax percent will go exclusively for education, will add to the existing education funding avenues, and will continue to do so until a review of the funding in 2020.

Yesterday, my sister and former student Barbara Tibbs, who's a dedicated English/media teacher at Sandpoint High School, gave me a petition to circulate. She told me that Brian Smith, another of my former students, is in charge of circulating the petitions at the high school. I suggested to her that she encourage him to make them available at the school office for folks to sign during the next week or so. My instructions are to have my petition back to Barbara by Feb. 23, so I'll be doing my assignment.

If you believe in the importance of providing consistent funding for our education programs, I strongly encourage you to seek out a petition and sign it. Just make sure you sign only once because we all know what happens when there's fraud. I'm sure any teacher in the area would be happy to provide you a petition to sign, or you can check at the area schools during the next week.

If successful, the petition drive will put this measure on the ballot in this fall's general election. So, signing the petition is the first step. You can make up your mind later on how you would officially vote on this measure.

As a former educator who kinda keeps track of 33 years worth of students and the wonderful vocations they're following to make this world a better place, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of continuing and improving our financial support of education. Granted, this support helps young people find their way in this world, but it also provides an investment on how they will be able to ensure a secure future for folks of all ages.

Thanks for taking the time to do this. I'll be carrying my petition with me, and if you'd like to sign, I'll do my best to make it available to anyone who believes in this vital cause for our youth and our state.

Those pennies will add up fast and will mean thousands of dollars funneled into our school district for at least 13 more years.

Slow start in the frigid zone

Only two sips of coffee for me so far, and morning hay needed in the horse corral. So, I'll write more when the correct letters start appearing on the screen. It was a very short night.

Check back.

After 14 hours of traveling---either in a car or plane---my brain did take a slight detour this morning and refused to function properly. Of course, the three hours of sleep may have done it more damage than harm. All is well, now, though. Horses are happy; I've kicked a few Folgers cans across the snow-covered fields for Kiwi, and I'm slowly getting back on track.

We knew we would hate yesterday and last night. Our moods reflected that predestined loathing of leaving a place of such beauty and fun. God smiled on us, though, and gave us a few days of crisp, cold air with cloudless blue skies for basking in the memories of time well spent in Texas.

Our last stop in San Antonio yesterday noon took us back to Mother's Ursuline Academy where Annie found her 100th geocache. She brought Mother the trinkets, which were refrigerator magnets depicting NASA's slogan about "failure not being an option" and some brand of Texas wildflower. It seemed historically fitting that Annie would go sleuthing at her grandmother's old haunt for this milestone in her geocaching pursuits. I'm sure those magnets will hold great nostalgic meaning to Mother every time she passes her refrigerator.

With Annie at the helm, failure was not an option on this trip. Her planning and enthusiasm for making sure both Mom and Grandma had a superior experience surpassed our wildest expectations. The hotels were magnificent. The car---especially with its top down---turned a few head along the San Antonio sidewalks.

My niece Laura's extension agency colleagues were pretty impressed when that gorgeous convertible pulled into her hotel lobby to pick her up for dinner at Hard Rock Cafe on the River Walk. We'll soon have pictures to show for it, and if my blogging picture poster works, I'll share some representative pictures. Speaking of River Walk, it can be deceiving.

I went out for a short stroll yesterday and came back an hour later. Somehow, you've gotta memorize which set of stairs takes you back to where you started, and I went back almost to where I started two or three times but didn't recognized the exit place. So, I got to see more of the city on foot than expected, which is not a problem at all in San Antonio.

We definitely turned into three pumpkins about 10 p.m. last night as our plane was descending over the mountains of North Idaho. We could see the snow, and we were very reluctantly anticipating the cold after sitting in 67-degree high noon sun. We were all kinda grouchy and much less communicative than we'd been for six days, but once we get some sleep and the cobwebs back in order, we'll be reminiscing for some time about this very special trip.

Now it's time to put the glass slippers---er---new shoes away from Kiwi's active teeth, go through the mail, start back on that column that's due today and face February reality in North Idaho. But, that bright Northern sunshine doesn't look half bad out those windows, and now I can start thinking about putting some of those wildflower seeds in some potting soil.

Team Love

This will be the first Valentine's Day in 32 years that I haven't spent with my love. We're 2,000-plus miles apart so I'll send him my Valentine through this posting. My love is a gentle man named William E. Love, Jr. We met at a Boy Scout Jamboree at Farragut State Park back in 1973. He lied to me and told me he was really my more mature age. I later learned he was three years younger.

I'm glad he chose the topic of age to lie about way back when, rather than what some Bill's I know have done so very publicly. I didn't really mind that Bill was really only 22 when he said he was 25; I figured I could raise him right. Well, that doesn't happen in marriage---we all learn that eventually.

He still doesn't clean toilets, but he does pick up his dishes and occasionally his Schwan's ice cream wrappers. I'm betting a few of them have been lying around the house this past few days, but I'm also betting they'll be picked up by the time I arrive home late, late tonight or early, early tomorrow morning. Bill knows full well the wrath of Marianne from times past when unkempt houses have greeted her upon her arrival home from a trip.

For nearly 32 years, I have been truly blessed with one of the most patient, pure of heart, decent human beings to walk this earth. I'll never forget when my friend Ray Holt gave a speech at my retirement party in 2002 and said, "She married the nicest man in Sandpoint." I could not help but agree.

He's been a wonderful husband and a patient, loving father. His two children admire him and share in many of his interests. He's a most devoted Presbyterian and a passionate forester who's so respected in both circles. He geocaches with the same zeal that he once golfed, fished, biked, cross country skied, backpacked, and batted tennis balls. He stands as a shining example for how a good man ought to conduct himself. I think anyone who knows him would agree.

For 32 years, we have shared a team unit which occasionally has a spat or two, sometimes just runs on auto-pilot, or often involves just a few words exchanged each day as we follow our individual passions. In fact, I'm thinking right now as I write this blog, how Bill knows not to say anything to me while I'm deep in thought and typing away. Later, however, he happily listens to whatever crazy epistle I've created for each new day. He listens like a kind, supportive editor and then adds his own zingers to be carefully planted in the postings.

So, when you read Slightdetour, you need to know that almost every morning, it's the workings of Team Love---another Bill and Marianne special, brought to you from the House of Love. Our House of Love does not include a lot of steamy stories for X-rated movies. Instead, it houses a couple of aging babyboomers who nod off a lot, who enjoy dining together, hiking together, taking drives around the countrysides, who've come together, grown together, done their individual things, raised two phenomenal kids and nurtured a heckuva lot of animals over the years.

I always love the monikers Bill has lovingly given to the animals and kids over the years: "Precious" for Miss Annie; "Big Man" for Willie, "Baby Horse" for Casey, and, of course, years ago, there was Pink Cat who wandered in one day, as so many cats have. The names stick and the names are appropriate.

While I'm the cheerleader, screamer of this marital union, Bill's the quiet, steady soul who seems to love all the critters that rule his life, including his unpredictable wife. I haven't heard any of the monikers he may have had for me a time or two. He keeps those to himself, but Lord knows I deserve them!

I feel most fortunate to have met Bill on that hot July day while conducting a newspaper interview so long ago. It's been a great ride, and I'm looking forward to many miles ahead as this Team Love continues its journey toward geezerville. Happy Valentine's Day, Bill. You're the love of my life, and I appreciate you very much and do believe I married a saint.

Happy Valentine's Day to all!

Monday morning in San Antone

Busy day ahead. We're bound for the Western part of the Texas Hill country this morning in hopes of making it to Rocksprings/Barksdale to meet my cowboy friend Joe Cox. Annie has scoped out the stuff along the way and plans to do some geocaching/hiking in a state park. We figure we'll get some picnic stuff in a small-town grocery and enjoy it somewhere along the road.

I must comment on the general friendliness I've always seen in Texas. In fact, it's easy to say I've never met anyone I didn't like down here. Yesterday, while Mother and Annie were relaxing, I did some shopping along the River Walk. Picked out what I'd buy and planned to come back later to purchase it. While soaking up the wonderful sunshine, I decided to have a latte and grab a chair where I could get its full intensity.

As I walked toward an empty table, another lady came along and asked if other people were coming to join me. I said no and invited her to sit down. Within three minutes, we were talking about families, houses, etc. She's from Wisconsin and she and her husband have just purchased an older home called the Hubcap House. She says it has that name because the owner sold hubcaps out of the house for 30 years. She and her hubby will restore it and move in this fall.

Before we finished talking hubcap houses, another couple came along and asked if they could join us. We found out they had just celebrated their Golden Wedding. Well, their name is Golden, and they were married in Alabama on Saturday. So, I guess you'd call it the Golden Wedding, right?

They were in their 30s. He had a sad story. His first wife had died from a heart condition while delivering twin boys about three or four years ago. He has definitely experienced some highs and lows in the past few years. Both were upbeat, positive people who had picked San Antonio as their honeymoon place because of its history. When they head back home, they'll be mom and dad to three nice-looking young boys. Yes, we saw the kiddie photos.

In half hour's time, there on the River Walk, four travelers from Wisconsin, Idaho and Alabama came together, shared stories and thoughts on life and marriage and said their good byes as if they'd been friends forever. Later, last night while taking our River Walk cruise, my Hubcap House friend Chris arrived in time to sit right across from us.

By the end of the trip, she had two more new friends from Idaho and I'm sure lots of folks going home to talk about that Hubcap House in Wisconsin. If you want to see it and vote on the exterior color for its renovation, just go to www.thehubcaphouse.com, and put in your vote. Chris Johnson will be glad to hear from you.

I met another new friend, for sure, in the ladies' room at the LBJ Library. Her name is Candy Williams, and she works for Chevron in Houston. Candy thought it was neat that Mother, daughter and granddaughter were traveling together. We struck up an instant friendship as we stood at the bathroom sink and exchanged names, states and stories. Candy even waited outside with her husband Calvin so she could take a picture of us.

That's how it is in Texas. Everyone seems to have the friendly bug, and it's contagious. A nice gentleman stopped what he was doing in the Houston hotel and ran over to help us with our luggage as we were headed down the escalator. And, yesterday at the Gunter Hotel, a cowboy came from his group to help Mother into the car. The elevator operators at the rodeo get gold stars for friendliness and charm too.

I'm not suggesting other places aren't friendly, but I'd say Texas does everything in a big way, and they didn't leave out manners while doing the planning. We love it, and it's especially nice for an 84-year-old mother who gets that special attention which really makes her day. Yesterday's events included breakfast at the Gunter, a visit to Ursuline Academy, which is now the an art and craft center, and, of course, the Alamo. I heard from our Alabama friends that there's an ordinance in San Antonio prohibiting construction of any building that blocks the sun from the Alamo.

As I see how these folks have honored their history with such respect, I can't help but think of how nice it would be if the planners for the future of my own community would take a lesson from their example. When you can attract people from around the world to come and view your story through the physical structures you have preserved, you're doing something important for history and for the knowledge of all who visit.

On to the Hill Country to meet Cowboy Joe and a rendezvous with my niece Laura tonight. She's flying in for a conference, so we'll be having dinner together. Have a good Monday, all!

Celebrating Life in San Antonio

I've just written a note to my friend Jenny Meyer who is 32 today. She's one of my heroes because every waking moment she serves as a shining example for celebrating life. Jenny's endured a lot of setbacks, treatments and challenges the past few years with a ruthless opponent called cancer.

Nonetheless, she's shown me and a host of other friends and family that when there's life to live, you deal with what comes and get on with enjoying your family, friends, pets, great scenery, continued learning and wasting not one minute of what God has given you. So, on this sunny morning in San Antonio, I send my best wishes to Jenny, her hubby Jeff and her daughter Grace for a happy and special day of celebrating.

We're still celebrating life in Texas and not regretting a minute of our time spent here. Actually, I'd say our only regret is not having more time and not having any more room in our suitcases. Somehow, we always pack way more than we need and then, like fools, buy way more than we need. I've been thinking over my inventory of clothes and wondering what could be cast aside so I can get the poster, the booklets, the 5-pound rodeo program, etc. stuffed in.

We've talked about purchasing another suitcase, but we also know that we've used every square inch of that PT cruiser for our luggage and our bodies. Another suitcase may have to ride on the convertible roof, and we Love family members have known difficulties associated with luggage on rooftops before. I think it might have been 1980 when a suitcase fell off our Ford Escort station wagon before we hit the bridge leading out of Sandpoint.

With that in mind, we may get a box and mail stuff home because we haven't really started sight-seeing yet. We did visit the Lyndon Baines Johnson Library yesterday, where Mother and I purchased some Ladybird wildflower seeds. She also bought a tote, which is already getting full of other stuff.

Our hotel looks like it might be one of the larger ones in San Antonio. The lobby opens right on to the River Walk and hundreds of stores and restaurants. We spent a little time here relaxing yesterday afternoon before going to the rodeo and stock show. That was where we realized that two days' time set aside for the rodeo and all that goes with it might have been nice.

The huge Western market with its 600 vendors in the coliseum next to the home of the San Antonio Spurs included more body bumping than buying. The masses just moved along in a steady stream past booths of fine leather goods, millions of rhinestones, hundreds of turquoise rings and things (which had my mouth watering) and a whole lot more tempting items that I could never afford. While Annie and I made our way through the crowds, Mother sat in the stands, people watching and hoping that Rowdy might walk by.

She never saw him, and he wasn't on the schedule for last night's bareback go-round, but we figure he's in San Antonio someplace since the rodeo goes on for two weeks. I recommend this event to anyone. These Texas folks know how to put on a show with fast action, glitz and fun for anyone there. We liked the Montgomery Gentry concert, which followed, but left early to avoid more body bumping in the darkness of the parking area.

Today is set aside for seeing and visiting Mother's old haunts---Ursuline Academy where she attended in about 1927-28 and the Gunter Hotel where her Aunt Anna Douglas lived while Mother was in the Catholic boarding school here. We're also going to spend some time in those chase longes down at the pool cuz the sun has come. We're ready to meet it head on.

One of the highlights of yesterday came during the rodeo with our frequent cell phone calls home to the Love house where Bill and Willie were glued to the tube as Gonzaga played Stanford on a big-time, national ESPN feature with Dick Vitale announcing. Well, I'm sure Dick had plenty of color in his commentary as the Zags beat the Cardinals in what had to be a thriller. Final score 80-76.

Go Zags! Celebrate Life wherever you are! Happy birthday, Jenny!

Texas tasties

Waller, Texas, is about an hour away from Houston on the road to Austin. It's a small bedroom community just off the freeway. At the Love's truck stop near the exit, there's an Arby's, but before you see the Arby's you'll see a red-and-white sign with an arrow pointing you to the left and The Lunch Box. We were hungry and decided we'd combine a breakfast/lunch stop.

I lobbied hard for The Lunch Box, and after Annie drove the main drag, which isn't very long, she turned in. Pat Hoffman and her gang of workers in white T-shirts were ready to greet us as we walked in the door to several tables covered with red-and-white checkers. Pat stood behind the deli preparing cold cuts and accessories as we looked over the menu on the wall behind her.

Yesterday's special included meatloaf, corn, fried okra and a roll. I don't usually eat lunch, but this is a vacation, and this is Texas where one must sample the food. So, I ordered the special, while Mother had a BLT and Annie, a chicken sandwich. Pat encouraged Annie to go scoop up some of the salad bar, compliments of the house. We visited with everyone and made 'em guess where we were from. Finally had to tell them "Idaho," after they guessed several Midwestern states before we pointed them Westward.

We enjoyed our lunch and had a great time visiting with the ladies who recommended places to visit and told us about how the urban sprawl is slowly coming their way. I'd never had Okra before and kinda liked it; the meatloaf was delicious, and I assured Pat that the full plate of two huge slices of meatloaf and the trimmings was much more than I ever eat. As we left, Pat, who's originally from New York, insisted we needed some of her fresh-baked brownies (about 4 by 4 inches) for the road. We tried to pay for them, but she refused.

So, if you're driving the road from Houston to Austin, check out The Lunch Box. You can eat at Arby's anywhere (including at Pierre and Denise's franchise in Sandpoint, Idaho), but Pat's establishment in Waller provides a tasty food stop as well as a staff of really friendly ladies.

We moved on through some rather torrential rains to Austin and our luxurious, swanky hotel. Annie has done well in arranging our accommodations. After relaxing for a while and talking to our cousin Brendan, we arranged to meet him, Stephanie and their adorable daughter Elizabeth at Stubbs Barbecue Restaurant near 6th Street at 6 p.m.

We visited the Texas State Capitol on the way. I met a Capitol guard who can't wait to retire and move to Whitefish, Montana, and I met Adrianne Eml, who just started a job inside the Texas State Senate. I think she said she was a messenger. Whatever she was supposed to do, she charmed me with her enthusiasm and natural friendliness.

Eating at Stubbs fulfilled a family responsibility for Annie and me. After all, when one of Stubbs' number-one fans happens to live at your house and use the mopping sauce every time he stokes up the barbecue, ya gotta go there. We weren't disappointed. It's a rustic place, not the least bit fancy but exuding charm with posters on the wooden walls, showing some of the folks who've performed in the downstairs stage area where people stand and drink beer, talk and listen to the music. It came as no surprise to see Willie Nelson's picture on the wall.

We ate upstairs in a back room where the music wasn't quite so loud. After all, we had cousins to meet. By the way, Stephanie is a distant relative of Willie Nelson, so we knew we were among the bluebloods of the country set. Mother didn't notice her barbecue too much because she was having such a good time talking family with Stephanie and Brendan. Elizabeth did notice the French fries and enjoyed her fair share.

Afterward, we accompanied the Shorts of Austin to their home not too far from where we're staying. We visited for another couple of hours and enjoyed hearing Brendan's stories about teaching creative writing at Washington, D.C.'s St. Albans School where children of political bluebloods attend.

Stephanie told us some interesting stories about her work at a psychiatric hospital. We could have talked longer, but the yawns started getting in the way, so we said our good byes and promised to meet again. Great couple!

Today, it's on to San Antonio. Tonight, the rodeo. We hope Rowdy's there, but if he's not, it's still gonna be a good show with the rodeo followed by Montgomery Gentry.

Yup, we're having a great time and eating well. Happy Saturday to all!

On the road again

I've gotta borrow from good ol' Willie Nelson for my title this morning cuz we're close to his diggings here in Texas. Haven't looked out the window, but all indications of the scientific nature tell us we're going to see some rain here. We don't care, though, cuz we've got enough on tap to keep us occupied without having to talk about the weather.

We can talk about the nice flights on Frontier Airlines to Denver and on to Houston. Good service, nice planes, and some fun folks to chat with while waiting for flights. Saw Bonnie Miller and her hubby at Spokane Airport as well as Bill's colleague Don Lyon, his wife and my classmate Sharon Clark Bayless. Turns out Sharon was on our flight; she was headed to Omaha to see her daughter. We met some people from Canada at the Denver Airport. They were going on a cruise out of Houston. They'd come from Spokane yesterday morning but had shopped at Sandpoint's Wal Mart at 2 a.m. on their all-night drive from their home near Fernie, B.C.

I'm sitting here in the Houston Airport Marriott, which is a crazy place because of an inefficient elevator system. Most folks we met last night had spent up to 15 minutes waiting and an additional several minutes going up and down, up and down, up and down. Nobody ever figured out what the problem was or how to solve it, but a bunch of us got to know each other really well. We weren't quite on first-name bases but close.

When we hit the road today, we'll be going in style. Annie got us a new beautiful deep blue PT cruiser convertible. Only one downside---two doors---but we figure we'll handle it. It brings back a few memories for Mother who had her own convertible days back in the '30s when she was a well-to-do college girl, in the Depression, no less.

My brother Mike will be happy to know that we dined on $22 and a few extra pennies last night at a Mexican eatery called Carlos' Restaurant off Hwy 59 South. Mother loved her taco salad; my nachos were good and whatever Annie had (can't remember the name) satisfied her. As we walked out the door, we maintained respect from the Louisiana crowd by topping off the dinner with a Texas praline. Not quite as good as Aunt Sally's from the French Quarter, though.

Mother's happy as a clam. She's been riding in those airport golf carts and thinking that's pretty cool, and she'd never ridden a tram before. So, she thought the tram that wound its way along some pretty sharp curves on the tracks from the airport to the hotel was downright impressive. She also counted the pillows between our two rooms---15 in all! Mother just got out of bed and said she could stay here forever. I reminded her we'd be traveling today and that when she gets to San Antone (as Aunt Fanny used to call it), she can take it real easy and stay in that bed all day if she wants.

Tonight we'll meet Brendan and Stephanie and maybe another cousin Eric for the first time. We're looking forward to some good talk about all the Chicago connections, and, of course, I'm hoping to pick up some literary vibes from Brendan. He's a very accomplished writer who's had his works published in a number of literary journals, so my mouth will be hanging open with awe and my ears will be on overdrive to have some writing wisdom rub off on me.

All is well in Texas. We're having a good time and looking forward to a fun day on the road. Maybe we'll even find some yellow roses. "Just can't wait to get . . . "