Keys to the kingdom

Yesterday we signed the closing papers on the new place at Selle. We also received a set of house keys and a beautiful ceramic tile sign "The Loves" from the realtor, Mark Hall. So, when we left his office, we were smiling about his thoughtfulness and feeling good that, after four days, we once again are landowners in Bonner County.

Living in a motor home Sunday night seemed fitting since we were Loves without a home for that brief period of time. Now, we're renters here on Great Northern Road, and we're renters with a big job ahead with this in-town kingdom-----cleaning, sorting, packing, hauling and keeping up with the normal day-to-day operations associated with a large lawn and a smaller-than-usual garden.

I've planted five rows of veggies which should be harvestable within the next few weeks. That includes several kinds of lettuce, radishes, spinach and green beans. I'm also confident we'll be able to enjoy one more crop of our tiny cherries and some good pickings of raspberries before we leave. We're in the midst of enjoying our annual rhubarb crop.

I'm hoping to take several raspberry bushes with us since there are none on the new place. And, of course, after all these years of having homegrown apples that could be all tallied with my ten fingers, the trees are loaded now that we're leaving. We will, however, be enjoying apples, cherries, and blueberries when we move.

Yesterday, I worked in the barn. A green metal barrel has sat at a slight angle along the alley way for 30 years. It's also functioned as a catch-all. I spent about an hour digging through twine, old grain sacks and even broken down pots and pans from the kitchen, which later functioned as dog or cat dishes for the various felines and canines who've occupied the barn over the years.

By the time I was satisfied that all remaining inside that barrel was junk, half the alley was covered with an assortment of brushes, rubber curry combs, metal curry combs, hay bags, veterinary stuff and lots of rusty horse shoes---many with nails pounded into Tiny, Sassy, Rambo and Casey's hooves by Lloyd Bennett, Tom Selberg or John Fuller.

Just inside the barn door is a brush box on the wall. We always knew it was a brush box because my dad scrawled out its use "combs and brushes" nearly 60 years ago. His distinctive printing still appears on the front of the box. Like the green barrel, this wall box also contained a variety of horse wormer syringes. I also found several nails, a small kitchen fork and one very special treasure.

One of Willie's baby spoons sat deep inside the box. I have no idea why it made its way to the barn, but it was there, still shiny, once the film of grit was removed. I'll be giving the spoon to Willie because it's among the very few things remaining from his baby days. Everything else burned in our 1984 house fire.

After working last evening, Bill and I have the lower barn nearly clean. We also have a pickup load of stuff from both the barn and machine shed to take to the Colburn transfer station today. I think there might even be some good stuff for the freebie mall out there.

There's still plenty to do in the barn with the hay mow up above----lots of twine, pigeon feathers and dung, old hay, etc. When we leave this place, we'll be leaving that magnificent red monument to the old farming lifestyle that lured us here in the first place 30 years ago. It's not going to be easy to say good bye to the barn. After all, it has watched over us all these decades while serving as a proud beacon of this place we've called home.

But, we've got a new kingdom to explore and nurture out there in the country, and we realize there must be be trade-offs in matters such as this. We'll have more land to wander and those spectacular Selkirk and Cabinet mountains to admire, but we'll always appreciate the charmed life that this little piece of God's wonderful kingdom has provided for us and our family.

Amen to the Presbyterian . . . .

Gary Payton is the local Presbyterian minister's husband. He works for the National Presbytery in its mission activities. Last fall, he spent nearly a month in Mississippi helping with the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Gary also travels the world, especially to Russia, to fulfill his responsibilities.

He, his wife Nancy and their three sons moved to Sandpoint from Kentucky seven or eight years ago. They both serve in various capacities as thinkers, shakers and doers of our community. The Paytons have lived all over the country and the world as Air Force officers and as civilian professionals. It's easy to see, however, that Gary and Nancy truly love Sandpoint.

This morning a letter to the editor, written by Gary, appeared in the Daily Bee.

The letter reads as follows:

Dear FX3 Developers, Coldwell Banker Resort Realty, the Bitteroot Group, and all associated with Iron Horse Ranch,

Twice a year, I delight in opening the newest issue of Sandpoint Magazine. Over the years, I've greatly enjoyed the stories of our North Country community--our heritage, our natural environment, our art, and our collective love for this place we call home.

This season, however, you stopped me in my tracks. On page one, your prominent advertisement for Iron Horse Ranch, "a private gated community," stunned me as if I had been slapped in the face by an old friend.

Your promotion of "a private gated community" is the very antithesis of the values most hold dear about Sandpoint. And, it gets at the heart of the growing grassroots resistance to the multimillion dollar development projects spreading across Bonner County.

"A private gated community" brings forth images that are no community at all.

The phrase speaks of exclusion. It speaks of keeping others out, particularly if they don't share the background, the ethnicity, the wealth, the privilege of those within the gated walls.

The phrase speaks of separateness. Let "me and mine" enjoy the beauty of the mountains and the lakes, but keep us behind a gate so we don't have to mix with "them" inside our secluded retreat.

Your Web site at (www.ironhorseatsandpoint.com) poses an intriguing question, "How will visitors, invited or uninvited, be controlled through the entry gatehouse?"

Pity the "univited" person who is turned away by your guard in the gatehouse after the development is complete. Was he the logger who cleared the land? Was she the laborer who taped and mudded the drywall in the living room? Was he the painter in the old pickup truck that brightened your bedroom walls? Was she the immigrant who seeded your lawn and landscaped your yard?

The values of exclusion suggested by "a private gated community" don't fit in this place. You have the legal right to promote your vision of Iron Horse Ranch in ways that attract buyers. But, you do not have the moral right to introduce values which divide, not promote, community among us.

As a citizen of Bonner County, I ask that you not build the guardhouse to divide Iron Horse Ranch from all around you. And, I ask that you cease promotion of the development as "a private gated community."

I love the people, the mountains, the forests, and the wildlife of our North Country. Because of that love, I hope that I may always "welcome the stranger" and never turn another away based upon a valued system suggested by "a private gated community."

On Wednesday, May 31 the Bonner County Commissioners will consider the land use application of FX3 Developers for the Iron Horse Ranch.

Gary Payton
Sandpoint

I say "Amen, Gary!"

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

Thanks to Steven Palmer

This morning I heard an announcer on the radio suggest for listeners to go thank a veteran on this Memorial Day. As I was sitting in our "new-old" motorhome at Robinson Lake Campground near the Canadian Border, all I had to do was walk about 200 feet to thank my veteran.

We took the motor home for its maiden overnighter for Love adventures. All went well. We made it there in fine style. Kiwi accompanied us, and we all enjoyed its comforts and convenience. We fished and caught lots of trout. Kiwi is pretty fascinated by fishing, in fact, she even thought maybe she needed to herd the first trout I hooked.

We ate steaks, chicken and fresh veggie salad for our main course last night and later enjoyed some homemade rhubarb crisp. We listened to music on Bill's short wave radio, and we walked around the campground, which was filled with Sandpoint folks. Next door to us was Lou Rich, who just this week won the Republican nomination for county commissioner. I taught both of his kids, Jon and Jacquie.

Just as I said hello to him, along came the campground hosts, the Lynches and their son David and his wife. I taught David. David makes furniture, and his wife is teaching at Farmin School with my sister Laurie. And, of course, we had to talk about the Delamarters because Diane's mother Ruth was Eleanor's sister.

A few campsites up our motor home were several employees of PJ's Bar and Grill on First Avenue in Sandpoint. Vicki who cooks at the bar had brought her daughter and friends for the fourth consecutive years. Along were her group were Mike Dutton, a 1992 SHS grad, and my veteran, Steven Palmer, who graduated with my daughter Annie in 1997.

It took a while, however, for it to dawn on me just who Steve Palmer was. He's a big guy. His hair is receding, and he kept mentioning students I'd worked with on the school paper. He even told me when he first moved to Sandpoint he lived across the highway from my family. That still didn't register.

Later, when I went to bed, I continued thinking about who the heck that familiar face was. Suddenly, I put it all together. Steve Palmer of 2006 is Steven Palmer of 1996 who moved to Sandpoint when he was a junior in high school. At the time, he was a tall, skinny basketball player with a lot more hair and a lot less weight than the man with whom I spoke last night.

And, then, I remembered we didn't call him Steve; we called him Steven-----and what a dummy I was. He mentioned my parents. That did it. Steven Palmer and his family lived across the dirt road from my parents, not the highway. His father has always been very helpful to my family.

During our conversation last night, Steve mentioned he'd spent some time in the Army and had traveled everywhere. I also recalled, during my bedtime realization, that he had gone in the service to be a military policeman. Well, this morning when the radio announcer said to go thank a veteran, I wasted no time. As soon as I saw Steven, I shook his hand and said thank you.

I learned during this morning's visit that he, indeed, has served all over the world: Korea, Egypt, Bosnia, Haiti, Panama, Cuba and, yes, Iraq. He told me he has a rather noticeable scar on his thigh where shrapnel hit him while he was running forward to guard a convoy being attacked.

Steve Palmer, now 80 pounds heavier than his high school weight, served in the Army for eight years, with Fort Polk, Louisiana, as his home base. He said every time he returned to Fort Polk he volunteered to go on another mission. He finally left the Army last November after joining to see the world and to serve his country.

I'd say he devoted a generous share of his life toward that cause, and I was proud to thank him for his service on this Memorial Day, 2006.

Look for Memorial Day posting in late afternoon

Since I want to cover some of my Monday morning activities, I'll not be posting my May 29th entry until later in the afternoon. So, for the first part of the day, think about John F. Kennedy, who was born on May 29, 1917.

I also must mention my personal heroes who died on May 29, 1986. His name was Tony Bottarini. He taught many people about courage, just as President Kennedy wrote about in his famous book. Twenty years later, both Kennedy's ideals and Tony's example about living with cancer touch me deeply.

Come back for a visit in the late afternoon. Have a great day. I hope you enjoy my Sunday morning posting below.

*****************************

A good time was had . . . .

It was the first time I'd seen Tammy Finney since she graduated from Sandpoint High School in 1979 with my sister Laurie. As Tammy, still strikingly beautiful, walked into the VFW Hall to join the party honoring June Paulet, I stopped in mid-sentence and yelled out her name. The visiting in the room was a bit too loud for her to hear me.

Eventually, however, we made eye contact, and then we shared mini-capsules of our lives since I'd been her sophomore honors English teacher and she was one of my students who rode horses in our neighborhood. She's been living in Denver all these years, and she's now the mother of four children. Tammy moved back to Finneyville two weeks ago. She's happy to be back home where there's still a sense of community.

Pardon me for going two days in a row on the same topic, but yesterday's gathering was another of those delectable events where snippets of nostalgia reigned supreme and faces from the past promised a smorgasboard of priceless memories.

Ginny Paulet Beller, who now lives in Salmon where her mother moved a year ago, delighted in telling about the old family movie she'd found of all of us little 4-H'ers walking out of Community Hall in our sewing creations. Ginny's observation suggested that it was obvious in the footage that Marianne was not feeling comfortable and would rather be home wrestling with a cow than preening for a style review. Ginny was right in her assumption.

Her mention of Community Hall jogged my memory of the 4-H achievement night when I was about 10 and one of my embarrassed older brothers walked up to me and said, "Put your legs together." Apparently, I didn't look too ladylike slumped in that big ol' chair in my dress with unds showing for all to see.

"How many years of sewing did you have to take?" Ginny asked me. When I told her that the flat-felt seam construction of my flannel pajamas during the third year project finally convinced my mother that it was time to quit putting me through this torture, everybody laughed. Of course, I added that I had to finish the project because Mother wouldn't allow quitters. I did and won a measly white ribbon for my efforts.

I saw another local author at the gathering. Steve Oliver of Spokane graduated with my brother Kevin. He's written a series of mystery books. He showed up because he's part of the same Oliver family as June. She's looking great at 78. She's had one knee replacement and will have to wait until the other, which she twisted, heals before having it replaced. June brought along a picture of her grandparents who settled here in 1908.

"Write a story about these people," she told me, handing me the photo. "They're always writing about people who have lived here all of 20 years as if they've been here forever." Again, June was right. Seems like, with all the newcomers, that many memories of local events and local people go back just so far--hardly far enough to be deemed historical.

Not with yesterday's crowd. The gathering offered a virtual goldmine of local lore. Manny Finney pointed to a picture on the VFW wall of a group of uniformed soldiers with a flag.

"This guy's name is Broadsword," he told me. "He was one of the last Civil War veterans in this county. He lived in Elmira." Another soldier in the photo had endured the Bataan Death March during World War II. Speaking of wars and soldiers, June told me she'd recently seen my brother Mike on a re-run of "Ollie North's War Stories" about his Cobra helicopter shoot-down by a SAM missile during the Vietnam War. June hadn't seen Mike since he had a mop of red hair and showed those Hereford steers in 4-H before going off to West Point.

"I remembered him with hair, and it was red," she said, "but I knew he looked familiar." She finally figured out it was that same kid who lived down Boyer from her Sand Creek Angus farm.

Manny also told me he had a tattered old quilt of his grandmother's, which featured squares with the names of all the Four Square Club members. I'm guessing the Four Square Club was out there in the Bronx area, and Finneyville was a part of it. Tammy Finney said she'd take that quilt and spruce it up a bit.

Judy Miller Spielman used to live on Boyer across the road from Racicots. I can still remember her big smile, her blue eyes and those blonde braids. The braids are gone, but the eyes still twinkle. Judy moved away when we were still growing up. She eventually married a nice man named Loren from Minnesota. One of their sons, Dallas, is one of my son's best friends from high school.

Anyway, Judy reminded us of her grandfather Bill Neu who owned land behind the Paulets at the base of Schweitzer, long before the present Schweitzer Road crossed through Paulets' northwest hayfield. I reminded Judy that my dad pastured his Hereford cattle in Bill Neu's fields. When he'd drive his pickup through those pastures to check up on old Mystic, Donna and their cow compatriates, we and the dogs got to ride in the back.

We enjoyed thumbing through pictures of Ginny's beautiful new home in Salmon which includes a guest house and a touching memorial for their much-beloved Thoroughbred race horse which had to be put down last fall because of Cushings Disease. Franny showed us pictures of their new 1,200-acre wheat and cattle spread in Whitman County where some of her dad's original Angus cows have a new crop of spring calves.

"We can sell our red wheat over the Internet," she said. "Steve's already got a couple of plots sold."

Frannie says her hubby Steve is fully retired from the University of Idaho farm and is now farming for himself. Frannie will retire this fall after finishing her responsibilities for one more year as the Latah County fair manager.

Indeed, a lot of water has passed under our Sand Creek bridges since we were all young farts growing up there on North Boyer. I doubt that when we were precocious little kids with snotty noses, ragged jeans and stinky tennis shoes, we ever gave so much as one thought about how much seeing each other and comparing notes about our lives would mean to us 50 years later.

Neighborhood stuff

We're going to a birthday party today. June Paulet has come back to Sandpoint for the weekend after spending the last year in Salmon. Her daughters decided to throw her a party to celebrate her 78th birthday and to give her a chance to visit with old friends she left behind after moving last June.

The party will be held at the VFW Hall for three hours today, and I'm sure it will include a tapestry of familiar faces. I'm looking forward to the event, and I can feel a little kinship with June now that I know for sure I'll be leaving the neighborhood where Paulets, Tibbs and Robersons lived for years.

The Robersons are the only ones left from the original North Boyer crowd. Back when I was growing up, we had the Bests, Joe Carter, the Millers and the Racicots to the south. Just beyond us to the north on Boyer were Mrs. Moore (my postal thief nark), the Robersons, Hudons, Shaffers, Delamarters, De Groots, Paulets and Beauchenes. As North Boyer extended to North, North Boyer beyond the Bronx Road, Finneyville reigned supreme.

Actually, Finneyville has grown as members of that family have branched out and settled amidst the many clusters of houses on their original spread. They may have even expanded their land holdings to the north, but a lot of Finney's haven't moved far from their original nests. In fact, when I went to vote the other day, four members of the Finney clan sat at the balloting table. So, they're definitely holding on strong in the neighborhood.

Speaking of Finneys (they're all related to June, by the way), we're going to be neighbors with Gary Finney when we move to South Center Valley Road. He's one of my classmates, and he's been raising his Percherons out there for a number of years on his place just a quarter mile up the road from us. Sharon Finney told me the other day that he's recently acquired a small herd of longhorns and that I oughta go see them. Well, maybe I will once I get perched out there.

We're also going to be neighbors with the Meserves. They're right next door to the north. Mr. Meserve's father used to deliver our mail on North Boyer. I believe that was before I stole mail from Bill Brockus' deliveries, so maybe my reputation isn't too soiled among the Meserve clan.

I can't leave Eva out. It seems that South Center Valley Road is teacher populated, and Eva Whitehead's one of them. She's a little over a mile up the road as are the Filipowski's (Colleen teaches with my sister Laurie) and the Butlers (Debbie, Dan and their son Jessie) all teach. So, with our move, one more will be added to the pedagogical mix.

Across the road from us are Jim and Mary Taylor. They have a beautiful farm, and I've noticed they've got a bunch of bee hives sitting out in the field not far from where our mailbox will be. We've known and enjoyed the Taylors forever through church and other activities. The boys were in Bill's scouting troop and later, I had Michael Taylor as a student in my graphic arts class.

Well, I'm veering off from June Paulet's birthday party, but be patient. I'm just so excited to be moving back to a rural atmosphere where neighbors are like family. So many of our longtime friends have left this neighborhood that I miss that camaraderie. It will be nice to get a taste of it today and to know we'll be entering a whole new realm of the wonderful concept of "neighbor."

We're taking off . . . .

By about 10 this morning, we will no longer own our home here on Great Northern Road. We will be signing closing papers for a sale to Quest Aircraft Co. They are purchasing the property because aircraft production of their Kodiak will soon be in full gear, and to put it mildly, sales are for the new turbo prop plane are going well.
Once all certification standards have been met, the company plans to produce a plane a week in its manufacturing facility just behind our barn. That will mean a growing staff of production workers and engineers. It will also signal a need for expansion of their facilities.
Our land is key to that expansion.
It will be sad to leave this place which has been our home for almost 30 years, but we will not be homeless.
We figured we're going to Heaven on earth because our contingency for ever selling this place was that we could find another home to our liking. That discovery took place in late March, and ironically that's when Quest began talks with us about their plans for future expansion.
As the Quest CEO said to us, it's possible that the "hand of God" played a part in this fortuitous situation for both parties.
In early July we will be moving to a 20-acre farm on South Center Valley Road in the Selle Valley north of Sandpoint. We are thrilled, to say the least.
The farm is surrounded by farmland. It's a beautiful piece of property with nary a bad view to be found anywhere. When I wash dishes at my new kitchen sink, I'll be looking at the back slopes of Schweitzer. When we sit on our new deck facing the east, we'll once again be enjoying the magnificent Cabinet Mountains. The place has a beautiful forest with about ten acres of trees. Of course, Bill loves the fact that he can practice his own forestry when he retires. Our animals will have pastures aplenty.
In short, it's a good deal for Quest and a dream-come-true for the Loves.

Now, I'd better get out to Colburn and take care of the horses at home, while Barbara and Laurie enter another day of competition at the Eastern Washington Arabian Show in Spokane. Below is a photo from yesterday.


My sister Barbara riding her Half Arabian-Half Quarter Horse mare April at the Spokane Arabian Show yesterday. She took second in a Western Pleasure class. Then, Laurie rode her and took third in a 40-over pleasure class. Not bad for the first show of the season.

More Family Fotos

American Idol Taylor Hicks may have his "Soul Patrol," but I'm doing Poop Patrol this week while my sisters compete in the Eastern Washington Arabian Club's annual show in Spokane. That means I don't do a lot of thinking in the early morning, just shoveling.

So, today I'll share some more family photos taken this past weekend when Laura, Sefo and the triplets came to visit. We hoped to ride bikes in the Kootenai Wildlife Refuge, but the rain refused to stop. So, we ate lunch at the Chic 'n Chop and visited the Meadow Creek Campground along the Moyie River, which was threatening to flood.
My dad and Laura's grandfather lived at Meadow Creek back in the 1920s; his parents ran the school, and my dad chopped and hauled in wood for the stove.

Enjoy! Just think, you could be spending your morning, shoveling horse apples like me!

We're pals, even when it's raining: Justine and Grace along the rushing Moyie River near Bonners Ferry, Idaho.

Rain-soaked portrait along the Moyie: Laura, Justine, Grace and Sefo. Young Jacob was snoozing in the car after a tonsillectomy week.

Laumatia Sisterhood: Justine and Grace 

Tractor driving with the triplets: Princess Grace, Justine and Jacob.

A Kiwi time-out

Family Fotos

From the Alaskan family branch: Scott and Miss Aggie Sue

Throw the bums out---campaign planners, that is

I'm going to go vote today, but I don't want to. I feel no passion for participating in the "democratic" process during this primary election because I'm mainly voting to see that some people DON'T get elected. That's not a good attitude.

I used to think I might want to run for public office some day. That was when I was an idealistic teenager. That was also before I had a clue about all the phoniness and back-biting that's involved. Now, I'd run but as far away as possible from any elective office.

The out-and-out political prostitution that seems to be a key for getting elected these days makes me sick. An independent thinker need not apply. Instead, potential candidates must dance to the murky beat of a party line or forget it. They also need to conjure up dirt on their opponent----or a raise a lot of money to blitz the voting public with their ugly ads, daily firestarters in the mail or nauseating telephone calls to homes where the occupants hate politicians as much as they loathe telemarketers.

I certainly don't want to group all elected officials in the same category because I know there are a few who are very dedicated and who perform exemplary service to the public. In fact, I even quietly support a few with my little contributions, and they represent both parties.

To hear or read the campaign ads, however, you'd think every last candidate or incumbent is a lying, cheating crook who gets up every morning just to do evil things to voters, like trying to steal their money. Granted, a few are, like that Louisiana congressman who hid all his fraud money in his freezer. I'm hoping he's an exception.

Or, you may think that many candidates represent those "bad" political philosophies, that these days appear pretty much the same, depending on how you want to interpret them. If you really want to get elected in Idaho, claim that you're the purest conservative that ever lived and that other scumbag is a surely a lame liberal. Or, throw in the abortion card; it can work either way.

Then, there's the technique oft used but requiring no thought on the part of the voter: Throw the bums out and vote for me, even if I don't have a brain. I do have big signs, though, and I know where to park my trucks.

I think what gets me most about campaigning these days is how the campaign gurus play to your dumbest instincts. The ads are insulting to most voters, using wild and crazy statements with absolutely no support or taking information completely out of context. The assumption is that if we tell you this stuff, you'll believe us. Sadly, there are some few voters who gobble up this crap lock, stock and barrel.

The noble reasons for running for public office seem to have fallen by the wayside in recent years, as have many noble people who would serve their constituents well if only they didn't have to play the stupid games to get there in the first place.

I don't know what peabrains have been coming up with the modern rules for getting elected, but I wish they'd change the policy manual and get back to the basics for promoting their candidates: brains, integrity, vision, organizational and communications skills, consistency, common sense, and proven leadership skills.

If those attributes are clearly demonstrated in a candidate, I'll vote for them, whether they're a liberal, a conservative----or even a bum.

Dayne Javis

As a neacher in teed of occasional diversions, I used to play the spoonerism name kith wids' games. See, I dust jid it. Spister Mooner was known for wixing up his mords by fransposing the tirst consonant. He did it so often he earned a dord in the wictionary.

Okay, enough of that. I'm toing to galk about Dayne Javis today. I've been dinking about the thate, and it seems that Dayne's birthday is one of these ways this deek. I do this speculation every year, and it seems like every year when I ask her when her birthday is, it's never the day I think it is. So, I'm just going to designate today as the day; to heck with accuracy.

I once told Jayne Davis to break a leg, and she did. Really badly. She was on my high school yearbook staff at the time and was headed up to Schweitzer to ski for the afternoon. I learned that evening that she was in the hospital because she had done exactly what I told her to do. For once in my life, I felt really bad about someone actually complying what had been meant as a joke.

I saw Jayne the other night at a retirement party for Linda Hunt, who's been an office secretary at SHS for years. Jayne was one of the large crowd of well wishers. She teaches math at our alma mater. And, like she's done so many times in crowds, she flattered me once more by announcing to someone that I was her favorite teacher. Well, I think she knew that during my first three years of teaching at Sandpoint High School, she was also one of my favorite students.

I first met this dynamic young lady, who loves to skiing and all things outdoors, in September 1969 when she came through the door of Room 4 to occupy a classroom desk on the first day of my teaching career. Jayne spent that year as a member of my third period honors English class, and if I recall correctly, she sat by the wall near Carrie Anderson.

She had spunk; she was outgoing and friendly I don't know if we hit it off because of my association with her wonderful dad Cap who snapped most of our yearbook photos at the time, or if I just plain liked her spirit. She kept coming to Room 4 for three years as a member of the yearbook staff and eventually served as its editor.

Jayne and I have remained friends ever since. We've enjoyed many years as teaching colleagues at Sandpoint High School. She came back home several years ago after living and working in Chewelah. She even ended up being "my" teacher shortly thereafter when she taught a DOS computer class, which got me started on my addiction to computers. We also shared some hairy times while teaching in the portables located behind Sandpoint Middle School far away from the main SHS complex.

We've watched our children grow up. She taught math to my daughter Annie. My sisters have taught her kids how to ride horses. Speaking of horses, we talked about manure at Saturday night's gathering. She's looking for some good dirt to use for a garden box for her mom Verna Mae, who's been another delightful friend for years.

Probably the most touching quality that I'll always appreciate about Jayne is her heartfelt thoughtfulness. For the last several years of my teaching career, she brought me a lovely bouquet of fresh flowers for the first day of school, always punctuating the gesture by announcing "You and Ray Holt are my favorites." My humble words can never adequately express how much that yearly gesture meant to me.

Jayne is a dedicated teacher, mother and friend. So, Dayne Javis, whenever bour yirthday bappens to he, I yish wou a donderful way!

Bappy Hirthday!!!

Note: Speaking of past SHS yearbook editors, Miss Annie Love has some new photos on her blog. You can view them at (http://www.nnlove.blogspot.com/)

Painful moment

I was watching TV the day the undefeated Thoroughbred named Ruffian broke her leg in the big match race. According to this morning's paper, that was 31 years ago. I still can feel the emotions of that day seeing the beautiful mare loaded up in the equine ambulance and learning soon after that she had been euthanized.

Like most horse lovers, I feel a great heaviness in my heart this morning for the tragic sight we witnessed on the Preakness yesterday. It's been hard for me not to think almost constantly of the horror of hearing that the magnificent Kentucky Derby winner Barbaro had pulled up early in the race, shortly after he had broken through the starting gate early.

The announcers said that didn't bode well, but when the jockey and handlers calmly brought him back and led him into the gate again. I figured the announcers were accentuating the situation a bit. He looked just fine, and I felt confident that this horse, who won the Kentucky Derby so handily and who reportedly lives a happy, laid-back life in his home pasture, would rise to the occasion and set in motion the potential of a long-awaited Triple Crown winner.

That was not to be. The great Barbaro will never race again, and this morning, I'm sure all horse lovers who watched yesterday's Preakness tragedy are waiting anxiously to hear if he'll win the challenge of walking again. At first, the veterinarian said the multi-fractures in Barbaro's right hind ankle were not life-threatening. Then, he mentioned something called blood flow. Then, he said Barbaro's fans should pray.

It might sound a bit melodramatic for me to write in these terms about a horse I never heard of until three weeks ago, but anything tragic associated with horseflesh affects me and millions of others exactly the same way. We feel a lifelong kinship to horses, and when they're hurt or sick, it's emotionally devastating. I guess it's something ingrained in us when we've spent our entire lives loving, admiring and caring for horses.

I won't forget yesterday's Preakness. I sat on the couch at Colburn with my niece Laura and my mother, watching the rest of the race after Barbaro's accident and not really caring who won. I will grant, however, that the winner Bernardini is a gorgeous animal. Later, when they showed the footage of the horrific agony Barbaro was enduring, I could not look at anyone else. My eyes were too filled with tears, and I'm sure mine were not alone in that room.

As the commentators, tried to make the best of it, I continued to stare straight ahead. Then, I heard someone else enter the room. I turned that way and saw tears streaming down Laurie's face and sober expression on Barbara's. They had just returned from a Sport Horse Show in Spokane where Laurie had competed on Rusty. Having left Rusty in Spokane for today's events, they'd simply parked their new trailer outside their house and had run in to watch the race.

It's hard to explain to folks who just view horses as "hay burners" or "dumb nags" why these emotions run so deep. They just do. I guess it might have a lot to do with the love, care and time invested in these animals who are just like kids or good friends to us. We know how much we love our own horses, and we know those passions run just as deeply in other true horsemen and horsewomen. So, we all take a bit of ownership of their triumphs and tragedies.

They say that these days the doctors can work magic with horses' leg injuries compared to when Ruffian had to be put down. I pray that we hear good news after Barbaro's surgery and that he'll be able to return to his carefree life in that pasture as another unforgettable champion in horse racing history.

Note: I belong to an equine journalists' newsgroup. The writers come from all over the world. The note below was posted just before 9 this morning. I thought readers who watched the Preakness may find it interesting.

Just to give you all a little update today.

First I have to mention, I work as an ex. rider/asst trainer at Del. Park.
Many of you know that one of barn's charges is Scrappy T, famous for last
years Preakness. And additionally starting June 1, 2006 I will begin my new
job, doing much the same thing, for Michael Matz.

Ok so credibility listed.. here's the news..

First, Michael is doing very well. I spoke to his Del Park string asst. tr,
and a few riders from Fair Hill that were at Del later this am. He was up
and on the track at FH and most report that he was doing a whole lot better
than most would be faring in his shoes. He is trying to think positively and
move forward.

Second, Barbaro himself had a good night at New Bolton according to the Matz
barn. He actually laid down and got up under his own power without further
damaging himself. Additionally he ate up his food and seems in general to be
using his famous laidback attitude for the good.

All signs are positive.

Now to remark on the ability to repair the ankle fractures, All of us on the
track, espcially those associated with this horse, believe in doing
everything possible to save a horse like this. But I have to say if the
surgeons at New Bolton didn't think they could fix it, they would say so.
Because keeping a horse alive to do a surgery that has less than a 2% chance
of success would be akin to letting him suffer.

I know what Bramlage said, and I understand the dynamics of the fractures he
detailed, but at some point don't you think we, as non-surgeons, should
maybe let the actual surgeons decide what is possible and what isn't?

Lets try to keep a positive attitude and send our best wishes that way, not
our worst fears.

~Emily

Saturday stuff

We had a wild light show for several hours last night. For a while, the lightning strikes and thunder claps were coming so fast I thought we were in the Midwest, and that was the second time the electricity went off. The first time happened before 7. Lights, computer, TV all shut down a fraction of a second before the loud crack.

Just minutes later, sirens from town started screaming and getting closer and closer. I stood out on the porch and watched the first fire engine race into the Quest Aircraft driveway (aka Turbine Drive). I could see two employees' vehicles still parked in the parking lot but no smoke and no flames. I called Bonnie Johnson, whose husband Bruce has been associated with Quest since the get-go. She said Bruce was out of the country and asked me to please call back when I knew what was going on.

Then, a second fire engine came speeding down the road. Bill and I drove over to the main office in time to see the firemen coming back out the door. Apparently, when the power goes out at Quest, which houses all kinds of expensive high-tech equipment, it signals an alarm at the fire station, and the engines roll. All was okay, and it was nice to report that to Bonnie.

Bill had just come home from his afternoon hike to the top of Greenhorn Mountain. We were planning to go to dinner but wondering if any restaurant had power. As we drove to the Schweitzer Cut-off/Highway 95 stoplight, we noticed it wasn't working. Even Wal*Mart had shut down. Its associates stood in uniform, guarding the doors. No electricity in Ponderay, not even at Duke's Cowboy Grill. I'd actually told Bill we could go there if they was serving. No dice.

So, we drove to Hope and had a nice dinner at Dock of the Bay. Barney and Carol seemed pleased that they were getting some Sandpoint overflow due to the power outage. When we got back to town, the power was on but Wal*Mart still remained closed. Definitely a dire situation. However, the Lost in the '50s dance was in full motion at the fairgrounds, so all was not lost.

The front-page pictures in today's Bee showed that "Lost in the '50s" parade goers had gotten a little wet. It's hard to tell what kind of weather we've got in store for today, but we'll give the Bird Refuge and Bonners Ferry a shot for a possible bike ride. Then, we'll come home and watch the Preakness.

If it's raining more today and you're stuck inside, then I do have to announce that Sandpoint Magazine is out, and it offers plenty of reading. This summer edition has a record number of pages----122. It's even coffee table quality. I've written six stories for this issue, and I'm pretty pleased with how they look on the pages.

There's plenty of material about the "gated" or "planned" communities which are quickly taking shape around the area. Pat McManus's new book is showcased. There's also an informative piece by Steve Drinkard about Quest Aircraft Co. and its Kodiak turbo-prop, which is about to get off the ground into full manufacturing mode.

That story hints of an upcoming story I may be telling fairly soon. In the meantime, grab a copy of Keokee's local magazine. They're available around town and at the Chamber of Commerce. The Keokee staff have done themselves proud on this publication.

Happy Saturday.

A time for getting lost

I don't know if an unknown island far from civilization is the answer, but this weekend in Sandpoint is definitely a good time for getting lost. Some folks, a lot of them, in fact, follow the expected trends. They go to town to join all the others who are doing exactly the same thing----admiring beautifully restored classic cars and a few dirt-bag clunkers, eating fresh-grilled German sausages, drinking a little beer, doing some dancing and a lot of visiting.

It's "Lost in the '50s" weekend, and the crowds will be millin' from late this afternoon until well after dark on Saturday night. These days, in Sandpoint, not even the Fourth of July seems to bring in the numbers who turn out to spend the weekend here for Carolyn Gleason and gang's annual springtime downtown reunion. The big unifier of humanity starts tonight with the parade when the classic rigs (I've been told 30 years makes a classic) rev their engines and cruise around town at least two or three times apiece. Maybe we ought to enter our motor home.

I rode my bike to town for the parade last year and stood with Rose Marie, Jim and Shirley on the corner of First and Cedar right across from the "old" Coldwater Creek retail store. I call it the "old" one cuz the new one in the middle of First Avenue is supposed to open in the next few days. Rumor has it that the Cedar Street Bridge, which has housed Coldwater Creek retail for the past several years may go back to its original intent----a bridge market featuring a variety of stores. That's yet to be seen, but like anything in Sandpoint, it will be interesting to see what transpires.

Anyway, that parade last year was kinda fun, especially if you're in to people watching and people greeting. "Lost in the '50s" offers a sumptuous smorgasboard of both, but look out if you're trying to eat at a downtown restaurant. The only other problem I ever encounter is the multitasking of talking to three groups of people at the same time. It just wears me out. I love to see all these folks, but I find it hard to carry on a decent conversation, when in mid-sentence, someone taps me on the back to say hello. At this age, that much of a distraction can turn my brain into instant mush.

Bill and I may take in some of the stuff associated with the weekend, but we'll probably do our best to just get lost and go to the hinterlands until all the craziness dies down. That's looking pretty likely too cuz Laura, Sefo and the triplets are coming with their bikes. She's put in a request to go to the bird refuge at Bonners Ferry. And since I'm, for once, not up to my ears in things to do, I'm probably going to honor her request. I told her we just had to make sure we're back in time to watch the Preakness tomorrow.

I know one place we'll probably not go to get lost. That's up to Schweitzer where mountains of mud are sliding off the hillside on these hot sunny days and taking condos for a ride. I read in the paper this morning that the folks in the know up there are concerned. They think that more mud slides caused by extreme hot weather, fast melting snow and construction excavation could take out a couple of other condos besides the Red Cricket, which introduced the word "condo" to us locals back in the mid-'60s.

I'll let them worry about that. For now, I'd better quit writing and get a few things done before losing myself for the next few days. Hope everyone finds the perfect getaway this weekend, even if it is in the midst of hundreds of chatty people.

Thoughts of Mike

I handed the newspaper to my brother Kevin last night. He read the obituary on the back page and handed it back, simply saying, "That's too bad." Mike Wilson was one of Kevin's classmates and friends from Day One at Lincoln School. Mike died May 12 just 12 days after his 60th birthday.

It seems our entire family had connections with the Wilson family in one way or another. Almost all of us six siblings sat alongside or near the Wilson siblings at Lincoln School or during catechism or Sister School at St. Joseph's Catholic Church. Mike's talented younger sister Terry led the choir in which my mother participated. At St. Joseph's, Mike's mother Eleanor was a dedicated queen bee of all things associated with the parish---catechism, altar society, you name it---Eleanor did it faithfully for years.

Eleanor even stayed after the noon Mass one day when my half-grown "pagan babies," as Fr. O'Donovan pegged them, were baptized. Fr. O'Donovan had cornered me at the post office and asked when I was gonna get them baptized. I had no better answer than to say "this week . . . when's a good time?" Eleanor was there.

A few years after that, I got to know Mike's daughter Melissa who lived with Eleanor on Division Street. Melissa was bright, supportive and fun. Every year for teachers, there are students who stand out among the crowd. Melissa was one. I've maintained my friendship with her ever since she graduated in 1990, and since then, she has maintained an occasional friendship with one of those pagan babies in Boise. She has earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Boise State University and will soon have her Master's. She's a talented photographer and artist.

Now, she's devoting her time to her own family. I'm sure Mike's passing has left another huge void in Melissa's life----just as Eleanor's did several years ago. Mike had a huge presence wherever he went----from grade school on. His obituary reflects that dynamic, upbeat manner that took him through the Navy and Vietnam. He received four impressive medals for his Vietnam service.

Mike returned to Sandpoint from time to time. I always enjoyed meeting up with him and catching up on whatever was going on in his life. I don't think he wasted too many minutes of his life. That's especially evident in the obituary, which mentions college in his 40s, work as a human resources director. That all came after a 20-year Navy career. Lung cancer eventually slowed him down physically but not his "optimism and positive attitude."

I send my best wishes to Melissa and all the Wilson family at this time. The Wilsons were and are like family in my heart. After all, there is a lifelong bond among us Lincoln School kids of Marvel Ekholm times and St. Joseph's kids of the Fr. Dooley era who struggled, played and learned together before making our unique marks on the world. So, saying good bye to Mike means we've all lost one of our own.

A ride into the past

It's shorts weather and evening bike riding time again. A train had blocked the tracks on the road leading to town, so last night I decided to bike over to the fairgrounds. I was hoping something might be going on in the outdoor arena. Sure enough, as I pedaled closer, I could see at least a dozen rigs with horse trailers.

It was barrel-racing night, and the high-tech timers were set up in the ring. As families and friends of the participants sat scattered in small groups in the bleachers, an announcer called off names of the next rider along with those on deck. Like clockwork, each racer came through the in-gate, loped a few small circles and then started the pattern.

In some cases, it was hard to think of "racing" while watching a few horses lope leisurely around each of the three barrels, some taking extra-wide loops, ensuring they'd never get penalized five seconds for knocking down a barrel. The extra ground covered, however, more than made up for any five-second penalty.

After watching about three horses finish the pattern in just under 30 seconds, I figured this must be the beginning of the season, and they're just going through the motions to get a feel for the course.

The announcer called off a few more names. I recognized them from my own horse-show announcing experiences and knew they were more than competitive while participating in pleasure and equitation classes. It would be interesting to see if that same spirit drove them in the speed events.

Sure enough, they didn't disappoint. One rider on a short, stocky chestnut flew around the course, looking a lot like the barrel racers who almost took our breath away when we attended the San Antonio Rodeo earlier this year. A rider immediately afterward gave her a run for her money. Their times were down in the teens. I imagine the competition between these two throughout the season is going to be pretty hot.

The scene took me back to the days of our mare Ol' Largo. Adare's Countess Largo was a Saddlebred-Morgan, born in 1948, just a year after I was. Mother bought her from Dub Lewis and kept her in a lot behind our house on Euclid. The neighbors didn't like having a horse living in town so it wasn't long before Mother purchased the North Boyer farm where Largo could have a corral and fields for grazing.

When it came time to "break" or "train" Largo, Mother called upon Guy Hesselgesser who also had horses in town but neighbors who didn't care. "Hessie," as he was called, was an old horse trainer from way back. Folks in Sandpoint saw Hessie plodding along on a horse far more often than behind the steering wheel in a car. He was one of those perennials like Gertrude Racicot who looked the same for decades. They never changed.

Anyway, once Largo was trained, Mother started riding her in horse shows and in parades. She was a solid bay just like her father, Danny A'Dare, a purebred Saddlebred. The Racicots down the road owned Danny, and Catherine Racicot would always ride with Mother in the parades. They'd braid their horses' manes with green and white ribbons and use green and white matching coronas under their saddles. I don't know how many Fourth of July parades they rode in, but that used to be the highlight seeing them prance by.

Largo loved to run fast. By the time I got old enough to ride on my own, Largo was my mount. Mother had raised another mare named Cricket, so she turned Largo over to me with strict instructions not to run her on the roads. Well, Largo loved to run, and so did I. I had a friend who loved to run too. Her name was Susie. Once we were out of sight, we didn't always follow Mother's riding rules.

We took our horses to the old rodeo grounds on Baldy Road for our evening rides. And, we often put on our own spontaneous races. No barrels, no announcers, no audience. Just us and our two horses. Susie rode an ancient white gelding named Major. He had a long, slow stride, while Largo's full-blown racing mode was full speed ahead hitting the ground about four times to Major's one.

We'd take off at the starting gate and race opposite directions around the arena. Largo always won, and not because of her great rider. Largo won because she was a lot like my mother who owned her. She hated losing. Largo would kill herself before allowing herself to lose. Well, there was one time that I did lose against Susie. Largo didn't.

We blasted off on a hot race and Largo took a sharper-than-usual turn around one corner of the arena. I flew off head first, but Largo didn't care. She had to win, and she did. I'm still amazed to this day that I'm able to walk and talk, considering the speed she was going when I hit the ground. Largo could have cared less what happened to me.

I kinda miss the days of climbing on Largo and galloping through our back pasture like the Lone Ranger. Those were days of no fear. If I fell off, I simply moaned and groaned for a minute, gathered my body together and just got right back on. Nowadays, the thought of falling off spells certain doom for this well-worn body.

As I leaned on my bike and watched the speedier horses race around those barrels last night, I couldn't help but wonder if Ol' Largo were alive just how fast her time would be. It seemed, back then, like lightning speed and must faster than what I was watching.

But then, again, I remember how some people who were so imposing when I was little turned out to be kinda shrimpy when I saw them years later. Nothing like a convenient memory to enhance the visions of our youth.

Do it for the Burches

Tonight "American Idol" starts at 8 p.m. on the Fox entertainment channel. Just two weeks remain until the 2006 American Idol is chosen by America's voters. Almost since its beginning, the show has attracted millions of diehard fans who reflect all segments of our population, including age, religion, race, culture, etc.

I can't really explain my own fascination for the show, but it's been a "must watch" at my house every week for the past four seasons. It doesn't matter to me how many times the producers decide to have a show or what time slot it happens to fill, I'm watching. And, I know from lots of conversations, I have some good company in my addiction.

This year's "American Idol" has garnered more significance than ever in many households across North Idaho because there's a North Idaho connection. I mentioned in a post fairly early in the "American Idol" season that Katharine McPhee's grandparents have lived in Sandpoint and still maintain their ties here.

I can also tell readers Bill and Gloria Burch are fine and generous people whose buttons have been popping as their granddaughter has continued to succeed in her quest to be the American Idol for 2006. Yesterday, I received a note from Gloria. She had sent it to a host of friends who've been following Katharine and happily dealing with a big ongoing dose of "McPheever." In Gloria's words:

Wow! It's getting scary but exciting. Sure do appreciate your votes and support. Gloria and Bill

I wrote back and told her I'd seen her a couple of weeks ago sitting with Katharine's parents. I also asked her to pass along a few thoughts about the whole experience. She sent the following note:

It was fun to be there and see all that goes on before and during the show but prefer to see it on TV. You can hear and see much better. We waited after to see the contestants, and I gave Paris a big hug not knowing she would be off the next night.

They will all go on tour this summer and will be coming to the Tacoma Dome on Sept. 2. There are so many from here that want to go we will probably charter a bus. It is getting so exciting now. We think she will win, but if not, she will have a career for sure. Hard to believe she has come this far. Of course, we always thought she was very talented. She was always singing.

We were just in Spokane for the past four days. Bill received an Honorary doctorate of laws at the law commencement at Gonzaga on Sat. Most of our family were there and lots of friends. It was so special for him. Love Gloria

Needless to say, it's been a big week for the Burches. Of course, like so many folks who know and admire Gloria and Bill, I'd love to see their granddaughter win it all over the next couple of weeks. She's definitely talented and beautiful, but she needs America's votes. So, if you're so inclined, watch the show tonight and follow the instructions for voting. Catch the McPheever and enjoy Katharine's ride.

It would be fun to see her win. I'm sure her grandparents will appreciate your support more than anyone.

Abu Casino aka "Casey"

Note picture below

I turned the boys out to their big pasture yesterday. "The boys" are Rambo and Casey. Rambo's 21 and pretty blind but pretty amazing too. He seems to find his way around just fine three years after his second eye went bad because of a displaced lens.

Casey's had eye problems too. A few years ago when we were returning from Willie's graduation in Boise, I received a call from Connie, who was taking care of the animals for us. She was concerned about one of Casey's eyes not looking quite right. Right after our return, we called the vet, and he diagnosed that Casey had cancer in his eyelid. A few days later, he had surgery to have the third eyelid removed. The odds of the cancer returning within a year or so were fairly strong. It's been four years now, and so far so good.

That's good too because Casey is the watch horse at our place. He's 16 years old this year, and he's lived here since he was two months old. Our friend Judy Trenholm gave him to us after another veterinarian said it would be okay to wean him from his mom Tangerine.

Well, Casey never skipped a beat, and because he's been reared mainly by humans, he feels enough kinship with us to see that nothing uninvited comes on to the place.
Look out dogs, deer, strange humans, or even bears. All have entered the pasture at one time or another throughout the years, and all have made quick exits once they see this Arabian gelding fast on their trail.

Casey also takes care of Rambo and sees to it that he's okay if he ever gets disoriented. In fact, if I dare take Rambo for a short ride out on the roads, I can count on Casey being a lather by the time we return. He races around the barnyard and whinnies the entire time I'm gone.

Casey also believes in schedules. In fact, that's why I'm writing about him this morning. Last night I turned my boys into a smaller pasture which limits their intake a bit. We have to be careful this time of the year, for fear of our horses foundering (poison from too rich of food causes them excruciating pain in their feet) or tummy aches. So, I monitor their green-grass intake. Casey is especially vulnerable to the sore feet syndrome, but he hasn't gone to vet school, so he doesn't understand the concept of staying away from the rich grass.

In Casey's mind, if it's 6:30 a.m., and "she turned me into the big pasture yesterday at this time, she'd better get out here and do it again. Never mind the fact that I've been eating all night." Casey hates to have his eating schedule disrupted, but I have to be strong and ignore his demanding whinnies that greet me every time I appear at the doorway. He just doesn't understand that Mom is looking out for his best interests---no matter how many times I've tried to explain it to him and even told him just to "shut up."

Casey's been part of the family for 16 years, and he definitely adds his uniqueness to our day-to-day lives.

I can hear him whinnying right now, and I'm gonna ignore it as long as I can.

Happy Mother's Day

Saturday bullets

It's glorious. Finally, the day they promised has come. No clouds and 70s today. Thank you, God, and whoever else does the weather.

• My horses are in horse heaven. It's their first morning in the big pasture. They won't spend long cuz they can get bad tummies if they eat too much spring grass. John Fuller trimmed their feet yesterday, so they don't look like platypusses any more.
• Hallelujah! My Outlook Express mail is working for the first time in about three weeks. Of course, all mail sent to me in the past five years is gone. Even my archives box got devoured yesterday. BUT while discussing the issue with me, Chris Curtis from Sandpoint Computers uttered one sentence that made all the difference after I'd brought the computer home for the second time, only to have the mail situation go from bad to worse. He told me that without the details from the MSIMN error that kept shutting down the program and eating everything, he could not speculate what was going wrong. DUH! That's the first time I ever knew I could look at the "details" when the ugly error message kept disordering my life. So, the next time it appeared, I copied the details, sent 'em to Chris. He sent me four links which could tell me how to fix the problem. I opened one, followed instructions and 30 seconds later, my Outlook was fixed. Thank you, Chris. You're the hero of my week.
• Saturday tip: Try the new brew pub on First Avenue. I believe it's called Mick and Duff's. It's located in the old Pend Oreille Sports Shop, Whistlestop, Griff and Willies (in that order). We ate there last night. Great soup. Huge delicious sandwiches made with varieties of home-baked bread. Nice atmosphere. I told Bill that Annie was going to like this place because it has much the same feel as O'Doherty's in Spokane. We did have to wait for a few minutes, but once they realized the oversight, the serving staff more than made up for it. I'm sure we'll be eating there again.
  
• Tomorrow is Mother's Day. So, to all mothers, I wish you the best of days. May your families remind you in their unique ways how much you mean to them. I received a letter from Laura Delamarter Gray this week after the blog posting about her birthday. We both agreed that we are so lucky to have our mothers at this stage in our lives. "They're both strong women," Laura wrote. I agree.
• Speaking of a wonderful mother figure, I'd like to extend my deepest condolences to the Haynes family who lost their mother Jane this week. She has always been one of Sandpoint's treasures, having been lured here decades ago, along with her husband. They came from Oklahoma where Jane's father coached Oklahoma Sooner football. She was a woman of many achievements, but I'm sure she'll always be most honored for her motherhood. I know that her family all admired her very much.
  
• Sandpoint lost another of its longtime respected citizens this week when Jim Nelson died. Jim and Alice were always among my favorite couples. It was obvious they were lovebirds from the get-go. I don't think Alice ever lost an election when she served as county treasurer, and I'm sure not a person in town can ever remember a time when Jim didn't greet them with a big smile. We'll miss that smile and miss seeing the friendly team of Jim and Alice in local gatherings. They contributed so much to the wholesome atmosphere in this community.
  

Now, it's time to get outside and enjoy all that this day has to offer. May it be a good one wherever you are.

No cookies for the starlings

I sat down to write my blog posting yesterday. Suddenly, I heard such a clatter that I jumped from my chair to see what was the matter. I also looked at the date, quickly noting to myself that Santa doesn't usually come down the chimney on May 11. Something was coming down the chimney, and it didn't sound like it was packing a bag of gifts to bestow on the Love family.

This is the second time something of the avian variety has taken a slight detour down our chimney. So, the sound of desperate scratching against the metal caused a familiar irritation to my ears. Now, that sound isn't nearly as bad as the obnoxious kid scratching his fingers down the blackboard, but it's unwelcome enough to incite immediate and effective action.

Having had one bird come for a visit to our Blaze King several years ago, I now knew the drill. Don't stand in front of the stove door when you open it, Marianne. Having been assaulted by a pigeon once in my life, I've learned not to stand in one spot for more than a millisecond any time I go to the hay mow. And having had that previous bird down the chimney, I know how fast and how directly a stoved bird flies when it wants out.

In the previous case, I just escaped the feathered missile as it flew out the door. The first time, I hadn't gotten all my "ducks in line" so to speak. Hadn't opened a window and hadn't put my dog away. She, at the time, was wearing one of those Elizabethan collars cuz she wouldn't quit licking her spaying stitches. So, when the bird buzzed past me, my black Lab Ebbie took up the chase.

Imagine the sight of a black lab with a lamp-shade around its neck chasing a scared-almost stiff sparrow around the living room furniture. I don't remember all the details in that pursuit to get the damn bird out of my house, but I did write about them in my second book Postcards from Potato Land. It's in the chapter called "Black Lab Tests."

That saga provided me enough bird chasing experience to get those ducks in line yesterday. I moved Bill's rocking chair, which sits in a direct line from the stove. Then, I opened the window straight across the living room from the stove. Next, I carefully opened each latch on the door and stepped off to the right while pulling it open.

Nothing happened. I gingerly stepped closer to see why the stupid bird didn't fly out. It must've had the same problem that some Santas do and got stuck in the chimney. "Great," I thought, "Now, I've get to listen to bird scratching all day." I shut the stove door, deciding that my only choice was to think about it.

The scratching persisted. Fuzzy Wuzzy, the long-haired cat, who sits on the porch railing next to the living room window, decided to come on in. Since she's an outside cat, I sent her back out the window and slammed it shut. I then walked outside to look at the chimney top in hopes the openings would tempt that bird to fly upward and outward. It didn't look too promising.

Besides, I think that once the elevator goes down a chimney for a bird, the poor creature is so frantic, it just can't think to do anything but scratch. There's no pushing the up button in a crazed bird's outlook. When I came back inside, Festus, the cat, came with me. It took him about ten seconds to realize that the house had another inhabitant.

He stood right next to the stove, sniffing and contemplating. I figured I'd better give this bird release one more shot. So, I opened the window again before once again releasing the stove latches and carefully opening the door from a safe angle. This time a millisecond may have passed before the ugly starling shot out of the stove like a bullet. This must've been a blind or stupid starling. It had a choice of flying out the open window or hitting the double thickness window head on. It chose the latter.

Love and Logic says to live with your choices. This bird lived, but I don't think its brain will ever again function on full throttle. It bounced off that window and took a left turn toward the Love seat where Festus had launched himself after its great escape. The bird dive-bombed a rather shocked Festus and landed on the carpet next to the counter. While Festus sat contemplating, the bird remained rigid in that spot, like a statue. I tried to shoo it away. It would not move---just stared straight ahead.

So, I went to the kitchen, got a big brown Yoke's Shop 'n Save bag and the broom. After scooping the creature into the bag, I released it out the window. The bird fluttered its wings rather feebly and landed on the ground next to the house. I didn't care where it landed. It was gone from the stove and gone from the living room. If Fuzzy Wuzzy wanted some breakfast, that was okay with me. A minute or so later, I went back out, and it had apparently come back to life and flown away.

With my new, improved experience at releasing birds from my stove, I'm sending out a message to all starlings, sparrows, and chickadees: the only time the Loves ever put cookies and milk near the chimney is on Christmas Eve. You're gonna have to compete with Santa for the chimney space, and if you make it to the cookie plate, there's likely to be a hungry cat or dog waiting for your arrival.

This whole experience has got me to thinking: I wonder how many times those dumb birds have come down the chimney when there's been a fire going. Roasted starling. Yum. Yum!

A community violation

While driving across the Long Bridge Tuesday morning, I saw just one person on the bike path/pedestrian bridge which runs alongside the motor route. It was a woman. She was headed north toward Dog Beach. For the first time ever, I wondered if she had read the morning papers and if she had any idea about the rape that occurred in that same area three days before. Certainly if she had, I thought, she wouldn't be out there walking by herself.

I had wanted to write about the rape in my posting on Tuesday, but because of a glitch, I could not post until later in the day. At the time, a morning's worth of frustrations had put thoughts of the rape on the back shelf for a while. Nonetheless, I've thought about it many times since and, after reading this morning's paper, am feeling more disturbed about it than ever. No one has been arrested.

The thought of such a blatant violent action takes me back to last August when a murder occurred just down the road. We waited anxiously for a few days before that crime was solved, and during that time speculations ran rampant about the outside influences that were taking over this area. Since it happened in the neighborhood, we also maintained extra vigilance until the arrests. The speculation of seedy outsiders committing the murder fell disturbingly short, however, when two local men were arrested and charged with the crime.

Once again, the community wonders what vile creature would commit such a horrifying attack on a woman enjoying an afternoon of walking her dog. Rape is a violation of the worst kind. In this case, the horror is compounded with the location and time of the alleged crime. Newspaper reports say that it occurred in mid-afternoon somewhere along the popular bike path near Dog Beach. Just a few feet above the area beyond the gardrail, but just out of sight from the path, the hum of busy motorized traffic seldom stops.

I'm sure that now our community of women are thinking twice about heading off along the bike path for an enjoyable jog, walk or bike ride. I've done that many times alone. In fact, often on afternoons since retiring, I've taken off along the path by myself, in the rain or sunshine, walking or biking or most recently taking my dog.

Many times while crossing the bridge, I've marveled at how so much can be happening all around us here in Sandpoint, yet we can still at times enjoy the solitude of walking or riding across that bridge with an exclusive ticket to lap up the breath-taking beauty that surrounds us. I will admit, however, that I have felt a sense of uneasiness while walking in that hidden zone approaching Dog Beach where nobody from above can see the path. It's always given me the hibby jibbies, thinking about the possibility of someone lurking in the bushes just off the railroad tracks to the east.

In fact, at our Saturday coffee cult, we've talked about this area, and some women have said they just won't go down there. Now that a violent crime has been committed, apparently by an assailant not even hiding in the bushes but riding by on a bike, I'm know I'll probably pick the Dover Bike Path from now on for my solo outings. At least, its route is visible to traffic along HWY 2 most of the way.

The saddest part of this crime is the impact it and others continue to have on our "Norman Rockwell" community. Although we have no idea who is responsible, the simple news that it happened reminds us once more that Sandpoint is quickly falling victim to increased violent crime. Our safe community and our fun-loving favorite venues for recreating have taken a hit just as horrifying as that of the human victims of these violations.

I hope the police are able to solve this disturbing crime and soon. If not, we'll have to adjust to one more shackle that population growth imposes on the innocence and safe atmosphere that has made our community to appealing to that outside world and all that comes with it.

Double wishes

Among my cherished possessions, which will never be cast aside until someone goes through the stuff after I die, are some pictures from my first birthday party and a postcard sent to me from Mark Twain's home in Hartford, Connecticut. I ran across the postcard just the other day. It was with my school mementos which always stayed in my desk, no matter how many times I moved to another classroom during my career.

The card came from one of the key women in my life. Her name was Pat Venishnick, and at the time, she and her husband Joe were traveling around the Eastern United States. She thought of me while visiting Twain's home so she sent off the card. Pat sent me notes many times in my life, especially when I was a teenager growing up in Sandpoint. I was amazed that someone I hardly knew cared that much about my achievements.

During my teaching career, I got to know Pat better. We talked education a lot because she cared so much about what was happening in the local schools. She devoted countless hours of her life as a volunteer, working with Sandpoint's young people as a music accompanist. She also served for several years as a respected member of the school board.

In that capacity, she visited my classroom one day. Her visit occurred immediately after I'd been teasing my students, saying they had to figure out the assignment for themselves. It was the day before Spring Vacation, so I jokingly told them I was gonna kick back and enjoy myself while they worked hard. The joke turned out to be on me.

About five minutes after my announcement, I looked up in time to see more than 30 paper airplanes flying straight toward me and my desk. About 10 seconds after they landed, Pat and the superintendent Bob Leonard walked through the door. I had a difficult time explaining the situation, and they had a delightful time watching me try to explain. The class loved it.

I had no problem later, however, speaking words of praise for Pat Venishnick when we dedicated the new SHS auditorium in her honor. Her family came to the ceremony, and it was then that her eldest daughter Andrea and I rekindled our friendship which had drifted during the decades since we'd graduated from Sandpoint High School together.

Pat Venishnick served as one of the truly great women in my life because she cared about me from afar and let me know through her thoughtful notes when she was proud of my achievements. We later turned that relationship into a good friendship. She affected scores of others exactly the same way. That was very apparent with the turnout at her funeral at the local Lutheran church.

Like Pat, Eleanor Delamarter is one of those special women we all admire along our life journeys. Eleanor, who lives in Oregon, earned sainthood nearly 50 years ago for all the hours she devoted to me as I sat at her sewing machine trying feebly to learn how to sew. If patience were compensated by the hour, Eleanor would be a multi-millionaire.

Not only did she employ heroic patience with my sewing debacles, but that trait in this wonderful woman had to be tested to its enth degree at the 4-H meeting one day when I ate 13 of her fresh-baked cinnamon rolls-----in one sitting. She simply smiled and offered me more. Never mind that a group of 4-H'ers who were shy about taking seconds sat and watched the now infamous spectacle.

Eleanor's cooking was legendary in the neighborhood---fresh-baked bread every day, toast so good the DeGroot kids from up the road came to the Delamarter house to clean up on the leftovers. Of course, I would be remiss not to mention the piles of delectable bread crusts I ate every day as Eleanor's daughter Laura and I sat together for lunch at Sandpoint Junior High. I'd clean up on my own sack lunch and then wait patiently while she'd take the heart out of her tunafish sandwich and give me the rest.

Laura Delamarter was Eleanor's older daughter. She, like Andrea, is my age. Laura appears in those photos of my first birthday party, which was celebrated in town at our house on Euclid. The Delamarters lived around the corner. In the photos, there are balloons and tiny girls in pretty dresses---even me. Both of our families eventually moved to the country and remained neighbors. I'd venture to say that we celebrated at a few more birthday parties together, but I doubt too many photos would show me in a dress.

I've known Laura for nearly all of my almost 59 years. She is 59 today, as is Andrea. With my uncanny memory for birth dates, especially those of folks from my early life, I never forget these two good friends on May 10. Both live in Oregon. Both are mothers of wonderful children. Both had mothers who were very special to me during my formative years. And, as friends, these classmates will always remain cherished, just like those birthday pictures and the postcard from Pat.

On this their very special day, I wish them the best, and I thank them both for a lifetime of special friendship. Happy birthday, Laura and Andrea.

Call me Lenny or call me George

Yup, things didn't work out for Lenny and George in Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. And, that's the way they've been going for me so far on this beautiful May morning.

My computer was hungry for breakfast again this morning and gobbled up all my email again. The computer is going back to someone's shop of horrors to get fixed this time, I hope. While uttering a few expletives about the email, I attempted for two hours to get into the blogosphere with no luck.

I was supposed to go with the lands committee for the Clark Fork-Pend Oreille Conservancy to look at a couple of potential sites for conservancy easements. We were told to meet at the Long Bridge Grill at 9 a.m. I headed out with Kiwi, who has no leash. I think it's in a Mazda in Seattle. My cell phone kept ringing. It was my brother trying to call, but my cell phone battery was on its last breath.

I worried that maybe he was calling because something might be wrong at Mother's house. So, I figured when I met the committee at the Long Bridge someone would have a cell phone. I could give Mother a call to see that everything was okay. I was worried because the last time I wasn't available for Mother, she was hauled off to the hospital in an ambulance for a nosebleed. None of her kids was around because we'd all gone on the Hiawatha bike ride with Laurie's fifth graders.

Not even the next door neighbors were home that day, so Mother called 911, and they came quickly---too quickly for her to put her teeth in. All turned out just fine, but it was weird to think that I'm around every single day and it was the one hour I wasn't that something went wrong. I was sure---based on the bad luck I'd already had before leaving home---that this would be another of those days.

I arrived at the Long Bridge at 8:55 and saw Jim Watkins' pickup, but nobody was in it. So, I figured they were inside drinking coffee and waiting for everyone to show up. No deal. The door to the restaurant was locked. They had already taken off without me. So, no cell phones and no trips over potential conservancy sites.

When Kiwi and I arrived back home, I immediately called Mother, who was doing just fine and enjoying the morning sunshine. Kevin had called me twice on the home phone. I'll get back to him later because I know Mother had no problems. Before that, I'm calling the computer shop again and seeing if they have any bright ideas on what's eating my email.

The blogosphere, as you can see from this posting, is back up and running. So, one of my usual best laid plans is coming to fruition. As for the rest of the day, I think I'll sit outside and soak up the sun " cuz the vibes don't suggest that the mice or wo(men) at this house are gonna get many of our plans to go right today.

I think the mice had better hunker down too.