Trust and the Torch

I punched in Cherise's number. She answered and asked how I was doing.

"Fine," I said, then thought, "no, I wouldn't be calling you if I were fine." Seventeen years ago, could I have dreamt of a moment like this, telling my troubles to the shy young lady who sat in my sophomore honors English class? Never. Not at that time anyway. At that time, my job was to teach her some English, and as the teacher who loved to see kids blossom, I made a personal effort to encourage her past some of that painful shyness.

Yesterday, I hardly took time for small talk before telling her about my horse who'd had eye surgery three years ago. His third eyelid had been removed because the veterinarian feared cancer. All turned out well. No cancer cells appeared in the sample sent to WSU, but Casey's eye is looking suspect again. I've been sick with dread, thinking about the possibilities and have been reluctant to talk about the situation to anyone but Bill.

Knowing I had a busy three days of running back and forth to town early in the week, I let the thoughts set in and planned to call Cherise yesterday. Today would be the first chance to have her come and check it out. As I told her the story, a reassuring voice calmed me down at the other end.

"I think there's reason for optimism," she told me. "If it wasn't cancerous before, we may be able to just snip it out [the suspect tissue on the eyelid] and move on." Cherise is a realist, though, and so am I, but her reassuring words to her old English teacher were the perfect antidote to the awful feeling I've been experiencing every time I look at Casey's eye. Today, when Dr. Cherise Neu, confident and outgoing veterinarian, comes for a visit, we'll know more.

The torch has passed.

It has often struck me lately how often I'm relying on people whom I once knew as students for expert advice, for guidance, for reassurance and for their professional skills. It also strikes me how I've been able to cast aside the images I had of them as painfully shy, boisterous, unpredictable, sometimes even a bit arrogant. Those images have been replaced by thoughts of respect and confidence in who they are and how they play a role in helping me make it through my daily challenges.

I did not teach Billie Jean Plaster when she went through Sandpoint High School in the mid'80s, but I knew of her. After all, she was the Cedar Post editor. Over the past few years, I've worked with Billie Jean as a freelancer for Sandpoint Magazine. Now, she's even one of my new neighbors.

For the past few weeks, Billie Jean has been entrusted with one of my babies---my third manuscript. She's working for Keokee as its copy editor. The other night she brought it by, and we sat down and discussed some of the issues that concerned her, which were fairly minor--- contractions, style rules, and spellings. I spent the weekend going over her work and then spent two hours sitting beside her at Keokee as we discussed my responses to her comments and any minor changes I'd made.

We talked as one professional to another, with respect. Once again, I realized the torch has passed. I'm relying on her expertise to help me through the book publishing process. And, believe me, a book is like a child. So to grant that trust with confidence in someone I once knew as a somewhat quiet and shy high school student is a monumental step.

I talked about Scott Barksdale yesterday. When I drove my car into his shop Tuesday, I knew I was in good hands. I did truly marvel at his perspectives on life and what's important in one's career.

I accompanied my mother to an appointment with another professional yesterday. To see the unlimited trust she places in this individual whom I knew as somewhat of a rebel in high school, is striking at the very least. I've seen her interact in business dealings with several other students I've known and can happily say that they've all served her well.

Thinking of each of these situations and a host of others reminds me once more that we can never judge or assume an outcome when we observe young people in restricted, often one-dimensional situations, especially in the high school setting. Once out of the protective nest and when they're allowed to spread their wings, explore the possibilities, take action where opportunities exist, who knows their bounds? And, who will reap the benefits of their successes? We all do, and for that we can be thankful.

At this time in my life, it is comforting and even more satisfying to have been a teacher and to know and trust so many individuals who've matured, blossomed, and grown both intellectually and professionally since the days of their carefree youth.

The torch has passed, and I think, for the most part, we're definitely in good hands.

Damn door

Ever tried putting on lipstick while driving? No, Pastor Dennis, Phil, Gary, et.al. male readers, you don't have to answer this one. Ever tried putting on lipstick while driving several miles when your driver-side door won't close? I found out yesterday that beautifying chore is next to impossible while holding on to the steering wheel with one hand and the door in the other----all the way from Selle to Sandpoint.

I thought about calling Bill on the cell phone to tell him about my dilemma. You can't do lipstick and you can't do cell phones when the driver's side door won't close. I tried both.

The one thing I do know--that you can and will want to do in these situations--is to look straight ahead. I learned to do that by the time I'd reached the Bronx Road when people would pass me (yes, even in that 45 mph zone--where were Ponderay's finest?) and stare at me as if I had no clue that my door wasn't closed. Their stares were reminiscent of those you get when the coffee cup's sitting on the left front fender or the roof top--and staying there as you continue to drive 60 miles an hour, totally oblivious to its presence.

On my way to town yesterday, I stopped once at the Schweitzer Conoco parking lot to call Bill at his office and to slam the damn door a few more times in hopes that the heater may have thawed whatever part of the latch didn't understand "Close, dammit, close!" Apparently, heat wasn't the answer, and while using my cell phone in a cell phone safe environment, I learned that Bill had gone to the Coeur d'Alene for the day.

So, I pulled out to the highway again, stared straight ahead and made my way to Keokee for a meeting. Once there, I tried lifting the door and backing up against it before slamming. No dice. An added problem was appearing overhead. The dome light doesn't go off when the door stays open. I learned, however, after a very nice Scott Johnson came to my rescue with his Swiss Army knife and his W-D 40, that there is a dome light override switch just below my turn signal arm. Never noticed it before.

Scott tried really hard to convince the door to close after nursing it with plenty of lubricant and scratching at the latch a couple of times. He gave up and told me to call Alpine Motors. Before going back to his work, he punched the dome-light override button so I wouldn't have to come out every ten minutes or so and fire up the engine.

Toward the end of my meeting, I did call Alpine Motors and asked for Scott Barksdale in the body shop. Scott was one of my students, a very nice one at that---always friendly, witty and positive---a true gentleman. He also lived in my old neighborhood and always took time to stop and say hello whenever he saw me out walking. Answering the phone, Scott told me to come to the shop any time, and he'd help me out.

That meant one more time of careful maneuvering through town, using my right hand to steer and flip the signals while holding tightly to the left door, especially on right turns. Halfway there, I realized I had no time for applying some much-needed lipstick. When I arrived at Scott's office, he was busy finishing up some paperwork, but not too busy to notice that I'd pulled out the tube and started the lip paint job. After all, it was the body shop.

"Couldn't do it while driving today," I announced. That's when Scott conjured up the image of what it must be like for a desperate house wife to drive, hold the door and do that necessary primping at the same time. We chuckled, just as we had done back at Keokee when Chris Bessler had the same vision I had already considered: Marianne driving the Jimmy around town restricted from injury (?) by seatbelt and bungee cords.

My momentary thoughts of such a situation told me immediately not to go there because, with my luck, I'd come to a screeching stop at some intersection, a bungee cord would pop loose, and slap me smack dab in the face. If I thought the obnoxious staring crowd was bad with the open door, I knew a bungee attack in the next lane would really turn heads. So, I didn't go there; I went to Alpine.

At Alpine, Scott and his crew went to work and had that door shutting on command within two minutes. Apparently, the latch had slipped into a position so that every time I slammed it, I was pushing it further into refusal. Scott told me that if I'd kept that up, I'd be looking at a $200 repair at minimum. Going to Alpine was a good choice.

Besides, I had a nice visit with a former student and some other SHS grads, including the famous "Blackie," aka Duane Black who runs the car sales department there during the week and still works with the Schweitzer Ski patrol. He's in to his 35th year at Schweitzer now, and he told me he's the ski patrol historian.

In Scott's case, I learned about his kids, his ground-up index finger and his belief in the importance of learning to write well. Scott was always a good student in high school, and his appreciation for a good education has increased over the years. In fact, he could serve as an articulate poster child for emphasizing that communications skills are important in all areas, even if you want to work under the hood of a car.

After the Alpine team of car doctors finished the door, they also fixed the window-wiper fluid tank, which entailed a little bypass surgery. Later, I backed out of the shop with a great feeling: I could once again apply my lipstick while driving. In addition, I'd experienced one more reason to believe that teaching is one of the most rewarding profession one could ever choose.

Here was a slightdetour from the norm where an old lady who'd spent so many years trying to open young people's doors, needed hers closed, and one of her fine former students did just that. Thank you to both Scott's and to the Alpine surgery assistants.

It could be worse

Winter always has many less than subtle ways of humbling us. I think winter, hurricanes, tsunamis, earthquakes and other natural events serve as good reminders of just who's running the show. And, it's not us.

With winter in full force here at the Lovestead, we've already met with a few humblers. I listened to one of those yesterday every time I was in the house. Now, I know that ten inches of snow on a steep-pitched metal roof makes ten times more noise than a skiff of snow does.

All day long, the earthquake magnitude rumbling and roaring persisted. By late afternoon, our roofless deck that I had cleared the day before was covered from end to end with a seemingly inpenetrable snow berm about five feet wide and at least four feet deep. Most of it came tumbling off the roof. So far, fortunately, no animals or humans have been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I did hear a couple of horror stories about roof slides from the Meserves when I went for a walk last night and saw them standing in their driveway. During our visit, they told me about how one of their cats was temporarily entombed near the house when snow slid off their roof. Fortunately, it happened to be situated in a gap big enough to allow breathing and frantic meowing. An alert family member came with the shovel and rescued the scared little feline.

They also told me a story of years ago when three neighborhood girls were near their barn when heaps of snow decided to descend. Two did not get out of the way in time. The third ran for help and was so distraught she could hardly bring herself to talk and tell where her sisters were buried. Fortunately, she calmed down long enough to point, and shovels started furiously digging. The story had a happy ending because the girls beneath the snow were not physically injured. Who's to say how it affected them emotionally.

Now that the temperatures are dropping with the Arctic burst that's rolling in, I've come upon another wintertime humbler. Water builds up from the snow that melts along the side of our barn. Then, when the temperature drops, the water freezes. This morning I discovered that I'll be spending a lot of time this winter digging out ice jams which prevent the side doors to our box stalls from opening. Fortunately, my seasoned geldings are showing patience while I work to get those doors open and release them to their breakfast in the field outside.

I'm sure as the winter wears on, we'll discover lots more humblers and we'll complain a time or two, but our problems are relative----and not so bad it seems. When I came back from digging away ice jams, a note from my daughter appeared in my inbox. We were missing the keys to the ATV and figured they went to Seattle when she left Saturday, so I wrote and asked if she had them.

Her response follows:

Did you check for the keys on the window sill above the kitchen sink? I don't have the keys with me here...I always put them on that window sill.

I'm not feeling so well right now. I can barely think straight. Kristi was coming in for her layover last night. She was supposed to arrive at 9 p.m. She didn't come in until 11:30 p.m...this was after it had taken me an hour just to get to the airport because the roads were really bad by the airport.

When I was driving there, the traffic headed back toward Seattle was really bad...but I figured it would have been gone by the time Kristi finally came in. It wasn't. The road was complete ice and when the cars moved, they only moved about a mile an hour. Several cars were off in ditches...several cars were abandoned yesterday all over the interstates.

The two miles it takes from the airport to I-5 took us 4 hours. It would have taken even longer, but I decided to head south on I-5 instead of north to try to save some time. Luckily I took the right exit to turn around and head the right direction on I-5, because as I was crossing the bridge I saw complete gridlock on the freeway at 4 a.m...no one was moving...most semis pulled over on the side of the road. I saw people sleeping in their cars on the side of the road.

And then I remembered that in about an hour I had to get Kristi back to the airport....so I called taxis and finally I found a towncar company actually willing to take her from downtown. I knew if I had gone back to the airport to drop her off that I would still be stuck in that mess now and wouldn't make it to work in time.

Anyway, I've had no sleep and I have to go to work now. I know I can't call off because someone else already called off today. Hopefully I can come home early, but I doubt I can even do that. Well, time for work.

Annie had left the coat she was wearing while driving the ATV, so we found the keys. And, after reading her note this morning, I know for sure that the headaches associated with winter that we encounter here on the farm could be worse. When I think of a miserable night spent on I-5, I know it could be a LOT worse.

We could be sleepless in Seattle.

Piled higher and deeper

I'd call it "heart attack" snow this morning cuz I've already done some serious shoveling. The white stuff piled up and up and up through the day yesterday and through the night time hours. Still, this morning, it continues to fall. They said this was the snow belt out here. They were right, but I don't think Selle Valley is unique this morning.

Surprisingly, the Bonner County kiddies have to go to school today, while the Boundary County kiddies get to stay home. I've already talked to my sister Laurie who's been up since 4 a.m. They've cleaned out their driveways with the snowblower, cleaned their barns, fed their 11 horses and have headed off to school.

I can remember days like this at school, and I remember them with disdain. We came close to killing ourselves in the morning hours to get there. In our case, we had a super long driveway that drifted shut with every breath of air that dared to blow in from the north or south.

Many times there was no way we were ever going to get our east-west driveway cleared until the wind stopped blowing and the snow quit falling. Whenever there was advanced warning, we parked our rigs out near the road the night before. I clearly remember many a morning of grumbling and hoofing it through those drifts, loaded down with books and bags full of school work.

Once at school, the public complaining would begin. First, we shared our wicked thoughts in the faculty room, wondering who on earth would ever send kids to school on days like these. It was worse in the classroom. All day long the whining continued.

"Why are we here?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think they're going to call school off early today?"

"I don't know." After an adequate period of total ignorance regarding potential school closure, I'd finally let loose with some pertinent information. "It's the lunches. You can't call school off until the lunches have been served."

We often blamed our unwelcome situation on the cooks. We knew they came early in the morning to get lunch ready, and the district certainly wouldn't want to waste all that government subsidy food. So, that lame excuse could at least temporarily dampen the hopes and shut the mouths of adolescent minds more focused on the possibilities of falling snow than on the possibilities of schoolwork.

After lunch, any time the intercom clicked on, we could count on instant silence. All noise halted. Ears listened as the announcer let loose with the information.

"Could we have a janitor please report to the girls' restroom?"

Immediate groans, and the letdown continued. In later years, janitors became custodians and the restroom summons took on euphemistic number codes in hopes that the entire school wouldn't know that someone had left a deer head or a feminine napkin in the toilet.

But everybody knew. And, yes, that did happen, only I believe the custodian was summoned to the boys john where that discovery of nature's outdoor lifelessness occurred. I think someone got in trouble for that deposit.

On most days that we felt should have been snow days, we stayed until the last bell rang. There were a few times that they dismissed us early---after lunch, of course. One time remains very distinctive to me.

That was the day that the wind was blowing about 50 miles an hour from out of the north. Our powdery drifts had grown to mammoth proportions. They were very soft. As I began scaling the first mound of many on my trip to the house, my legs sank clear to my torso. I tried a couple of steps, but to no avail.

Instead of lugging those heavy books and bags over hill and over dale, I literally rolled home. The books and bags rolled with me as I lay down and maneuvered my body round and round and round through the snow.

The books were pretty wet by the time I got to the house, but at least I arrived, and Bill didn't have to plow me out two weeks later when he finally broke through the drifts, which eventually turned to rock-hard cement. That may have been the same year when tourists made special trips down Great Northern Road just to see the Love drifts, which hid all signs of fenceposts.

Now that I think about it, life could be a lot worse than it is this morning. I could be fighting my way to school like my younger sisters. We could still have that driveway, and I could be telling lies about the poor cooks. Instead, I'll just count my blessings that I don't have to go to school ever again and that we have a short driveway well-protected from snow drifts by Meserve's huge trees.

Guess I'll go shovel some snow and admire the beauty of it all.

A wintry walk in the woods

I took a slight detour from my normal schedule this morning. After feeding the horses their breakfast, I headed west down the lane toward the woods. It's a lovely winter morning here with a new skiff of snow and a general quietness that only the earth's newly initiated slumber can create. I say "general" because the creatures of the earth cannot keep still. Squirrels chirp. Woodpeckers shriek, and dogs feign ferocious growls as they wrestle one another while happily racing down the trail.

The old Ford tractor parked inside the barn this morning reminded me that Bill had started building a bridge yesterday. We are now learning where the water stands and where the water flows as we spend each new day on this place.

A lot of water---rain and snow---has been falling from the skies lately, and a portion of the recent heavy snow has melted during the warmth of some afternoons. So, we can now see several pockets in the pastures where small ponds will remain throughout the winter. We've also kept track of other winding dips where the neighbors' excess water will flow through the Lovestead on its route to bigger dips to create bigger ponds.

One bigger pond is on our neighbor Rob's place to the west. He's probably happy to see Love waters flowing his way, filling his pond for another several months. When we first viewed this place, Rob's pond was full to the brim and home to dozens of geese and ducks. When we moved here in July, it was nearly empty. The long, dry summer and fall kept it dry until just a couple of weeks ago.

Our excess water is forming a small creek leading directly to Rob's pond. I remember pulling up my pant legs last March to jump across this area while we were touring the place. At that time, the creek's pathway was significant. Bill remembers that too, so he decided to be the early bird and get a bridge built before it's too late. He's taken railroad ties and some other big beams to give the structure some height. Today he'll nail down the decking.

That will allow us to cross the creek throughout the winter when we want to take our daily walks in the woods. I have a feeling we'll enjoy those moments of inhaling cool, crisp air, spotting fresh deer tracks or listening to squirrels as they chastise us while jumping from limb to limb. It will also be pure joy whenever the geese and ducks decide that Rob's pond is suitable for their residency.

We still haven't spotted Jim Wood's herd of elk, but we keep hearing that they appear around the neighborhood from time to time. Maybe they'll choose our woods one day, and maybe we'll be walking at the right time to get a glimpse of them as they travel through the area.

We're pretty confident that we'll often see a wild turkey herd, which reminds me that I must tell this Thanksgiving day tale. I do not exaggerate one bit when I say that the very instant I began stuffing Mr. Butterball in our kitchen, Willie jumped from the couch and yelled, "Turkeys! We've got turkeys in the front yard!"

Sure enough, about half a dozen were casually strolling through the yard headed south. I don't know if they did it on purpose, to send a symbolic message, or if they just knew that people would get a thrill from their presence. Whatever their motivation, their visit made a good Thanksgiving show---one we'll never forget. Plus, it gave Mr. Butterball a respite from his upcoming oven fate.

I'm looking forward to many more wintry walks in the woods. We're so fortunate that our next door neighbors, the Meserves, have given us permission to walk through their woods too. Their woods borders a magnificent pond where artistic, huge cedar stumps remind us of days past when this was all Humbird Mill land. I can only imagine how beautiful the sight of that pond will be with this new cover of snow.

For the first time in years, winter promises some grand, new adventures for us Loves. And, considering my experience on this morning's peaceful stroll, it will be an added bonus to the many we've already experienced at this wonderful place.

Saturday Slight

There's a slight air of grouchiness in the Love house this morning. It's almost 7 a.m., and no newspapers have arrived. That means Bill and I are off synch. He's been putting off his breakfast, and I've been putting off my blog posting. I've made several trips out to the boxes, but still no deal. We humans tend to be set in our ways, and to pull a Saturday morning number like that on us is inexcusable in our minds---until we move on and just deal with it.

So, this morning, I have little knowledge of the outside world, including the most recent Byway story. I suppose I could read the Spokesman Online, but the Daily Blat for today's news probably won't show up until Monday. Besides, we old geezers still like sitting and sipping on coffee while skimming those morning headlines, reading some stories and commenting out loud about some of the morning zingers to whoever will listen.

We're dealing with this situation. Bill has his oatmeal going. Annie has turned on the TV, and, just in case you didn't notice, I'm here typing. So, it's on with the Saturday Slight . . . .

• Airborne was the drug of choice around here yesterday. I don't know if it's the dryness of our heat or if it's real germ proliferation, but I noticed a brand new bottle of those wonder cold pills was almost empty as family members were plopping the pills in water, waiting for them to fizz and then downing multiple doses. Besides the telltale pill bottle, I had no problem noticing that left-side sore throat, which appeared and disappeared earlier in the week, had made an even more monumental re-appearance yesterday. By the time we drove to the Hoot Owl, to meet with the Jeffres folks for breakfast, I'd already downed two Airborne with no noticeable results. So, I guess it's another cold and flu season, and with the Thanksgiving germ exchange, it's probably something we'll be dealing with for the next couple of months.
  
• New snow this morning. We have about an inch which has whitened up the four inches from the night before. Yesterday was the first day of Schweitzer's newest ski season, so we frequently stopped by our sliding glass door with the binoculars and watched skiers glide down the slopes of Colburn Basin. There was plenty of sun and, from reports we've heard, plenty of snow for an opening day. We're tempted to tell some skiers to take their cell phones up there and call us from Colburn Basin so we can wave at them.
  
• Annie started installing the Christmas light show at the Lovestead yesterday. So far, she's decorated the ornamental bushes and the spruce tree on the north side of the driveway. The mountain ash in the front lawn has its Christmas decor, and she'll do the bushes on the right side of the driveway as well as another tree or two and the front deck. The initial scheme shows that the place will be pretty festive for the holiday season. Annie will be flying back to Seattle this afternoon. As usual, she's made the most of her visit here and has taken a nice assortment of photos, so be checking out her blog: (http://www.nnlove.blogspot.com) in the next day or so for her latest photo show from Sandpoint.
• This has been a Napoleon Dynamite/Prairie Home Companion/Gonzaga weekend. We've gathered around the tube several times to laugh or cheer as some of our favorite TV personalities have done their thing. For anyone with a quirky sense of humor who has never watched Napoleon Dynamite, I'll encourage you to put it on your list of "things to do." You must watch it more than once. I don't know if watching it at least a dozen times as my husband has done is wise, but it's definitely one of those movies where loyal viewers eventually learn all the lines. And with every watching comes a nuance we have not noticed previously. Last night, we watched Prairie Home Companion for the second time, and I have a feeling we'll see it again. I love the music and the acting. Actually, the acting is so good, it doesn't even seem like acting. As for the Zags, yes, we watched quietly last night. The cards were not in their favor at any time during the game, and it's obvious that little Butler is a strong team. Somehow, I didn't mind their loss, though. They had satisfied their fans far beyond what was imaginable Wednesday night when they soundly defeated No. 2 North Carolina. The season is young, and adversity teaches. I believe they'll bounce back and have us screaming and yelling and clapping in no time. Go ZAGS!
• It's my turn to go to Spokane today. I'll probably just drive to the airport, say good bye to Annie, turn around and come straight back home. Bill did stop in at most of the venues I'd suggested in yesterday's posting. He also bought a new cell phone and a better coffee maker. We had a new one that made only four cups, and we were noticing an empty pot much too soon every morning. The new one will make up to 12, so we should be able to keep our caffeine jolts on schedule from now on.
  
• Larry Jeffres----I decided I must talk about him today. Larry and I got off on a bit of the wrong foot several years ago because of a high school "project" gone bad. As they say, however, there are those silver linings, and this one must have been laced with gold. Out of that "project" came one of the wonderful friendships I've cherished throughout my adult life. Larry is one of those people who, by their genuine warmth and caring, makes other people fall in love with Sandpoint. He's been gone for a few years to Milwaukee but has returned to live out his life here with his wife Mary Ann. Sandpoint is a better place because of his return. Welcome back, Larry.
  
• I received this blurb from Will Valentine who does an online newsletter promoting museum events. So, check out these events and help support the museum. Sip & Shop-December 12th. 4-7 PM: The Pend d' Oreille Winery has added the Bonner County Museum to the organizations it supports with its Sip & Shop program. Ten percent of all sales betweeen 4 and 7 pm on December 12 will be donated to the Museum. So if you are looking for Christmas gift ideas or would just like to sample their fine wines, please drop by the Winery on that date and see what they have on offer. This is an enjoyable way to support the Museum.
  Local Author Book Signing & Museum Holiday Open House - December 15th. 3-7 PM: Vanderfords will not be hosting their usual local author book signing event this year so we will hold it out at the Museum on Friday, December 15 from 3-7 pm. While you visit with our local authors and peruse the books they have on offer, you can also check out our latest exhibits including the newly painted caboose. While sampling the wine and refreshments that will be provided, you can visit with the folks who keep the Museum running. In addition to the books by local authors, we will also have a fine assortment of other books suitable as gifts for anyone who enjoys reading about history.
  
• The manuscript is sitting on the end table in downstairs in the living room. Billie Jean, the Keokee editor, brought it by the other night for me to look over her copy editing marks and questions. She's been pretty kind to me, except we have had discussions about contractions, which I tend to love. We have agreed to compromise on that issue, and I must say she's had a sharp eye in catching glitches and typos here and there. We'll be getting together again next week and moving on to the next stage of production. Chris, the publisher, told me that an order form for the new book will be posted on Sandpoint Online sometime next week. So, if you're interested, keep checking (www.sandpointonline.com)
  I've promised to autograph every pre-ordered copy when they arrive even if I have to burn midnight oil to do so.
  

That's it for the Saturday Slight. I wish you a happy day and a safe trip if you're returning from a Thanksgiving visit. Stay away from those germs!

Shopping drop-out

I don't claim the title of drop-out for too many things, but I'll proudly wear the crown when it comes to shopping. I go when needed and usually grab whatever's needed fast. Well, I must admit that trips to Yoke's can get lengthy at times, depending on how many locals are moving through the aisles on their grocery mission. If there's a glut of familiar faces, a 3-minute run to pick up chips, cheese or salad fixings can easily stretch into an hour. But that's my social life, so I don't mind.

Nonetheless, when it comes to getting up at 2 a.m. on the Friday after Thanksgiving to join the crowd of overfed, under-rested humanity pushing and shoving outside the Wal Mart door, you're never, ever gonna find me anywhere in the vicinity. And, that's definitely a situation where I can confidently say that never saying "never" is a certainty.

Why do people do this? What is so ingrained in their natures to think that their shopping efficiency will improve one iota by arriving in a dark, freezing parking lot that early in the day? How sharp can their mental faculties be after filling their stomachs with 10,000 calories, lounging around a living room for hours in a tryptophan stupor, and finally falling into bed with the alarm set for four hours later?


I can't imagine deriving any sense of fun from rising out of a deep winter's nap and standing outside in the cold shivering with a bunch of other crazy shoppers whose gastronomical systems are also fighting off turkey, gravy, potato, green bean, wine, turnip, rolls and jelly, cranberry, stuffing hangovers as they wait for those doors to open and hope they won't get tripped up in the stampede. From what I see on all the news reports indicating that this trend is fairly ubiquitous, I may be in the minority.

I used to be part of that crowd, albeit a little later in the day. There were times when I did look forward to the day after Thanksgiving when we'd pile in the car and go to Spokane like all the other shopping lemmings from throughout the Inland Northwest. It was fun to see who we'd spot on the "down" escalators in Northtown or University City while racing to the next floor on the "up" escalators.

There was also great anticipation of which food faire we'd hit in what mall come lunch time. Once there, money would be dolled out, and each person could go pick out their ethnic food of choice. Bill usually went to Ivar's Fish Bar, the kids preferred pizza, and I came back to the table with a plate filled with Chinese goodies.

In the really old days, when the kids were little, we'd go to the Davenport for lunch. I always loved walking the sidewalks of downtown Spokane admiring the Christmas light displays on the Bon and its surrounding stores. When the kids got a little older, we all enjoyed our annual sessions of trying on crazy hats and amusing ourselves by modeling each creation and checking out its effect in the Burlington Coat Factory mirrors.

All that was fun at one time, but it grew old just like I have. On a day like today, the thought of enjoying the new fallen snow and spending time with Annie as she figures out the outdoor Christmas lighting scheme is much more appealing than going anywhere near the masses of humanity. And, that's precisely what we're going to do with one exception.

Bill has just left with Willie and Debbie for the airport. Once he's dropped them off, he'll represent the family in the annual Black Friday free-for-all in Spokane. He still likes to shop, so I'm guessing he'll hit Sportsman's Warehouse, REI and the White Boots store, along with Costco. Somewhere in between, he'll pull into DICKS Hamburgers for some fish and chips and a chocolate shake. More than likely, he'll be lined up for some fresh Krispy Kremes in the Spokane Valley.

While he's doing that, we'll go to the Hoot Owl Restaurant to meet Carson Jeffres, his girlfriend Karen who are up from Northern California. After one of those 10,000 calorie breakfasts to top off last night's 10,000 calorie turkey feast, we'll go to Home Depot, fight the crowds and pick up some Christmas lights and decorations for the new Lovestead.

I don't mind doing that little bit of shopping because I know Annie will come up with some good ideas to add magic to the Christmas seasons for years to come.

Happy insanity, everyone, from a self-proclaimed shopping drop-out. And, GO ZAGS tonight at 4 p.m. on ESPN2 from Madison Square Garden: Gonzaga vs. Butler!

Ten for Turkey

I saw some turkeys crossing the road yesterday. I did not stop to ask them why. Besides, they seemed to be on an important mission. I don't know if anyone told them that Thanksgiving is early this year and that it might be a good idea to avoid crossing the road in front of hungry drivers.

These turkeys seemed unconcerned with calendar dates or anything dealing with platters. They were headed into the Wood's field, probably to get their own stuffing ready. My brother's cartoon in the current issue of The River Journal turned the tables. Instead of raining cats and dogs, the cat and the dog were looking outside the window watching people fall to the ground.

With that in mind, I was speculating that maybe those turkeys had found themselves a finely fed, pleasantly plump homo sapien. Possibly they'd hidden their turkey-day dinner out there in Wood's woods to thaw out underneath a fat spruce tree. After all, Wednesday is thawing day.

Now, it's Thursday, Thanksgiving, 2006, so it's probably best that I go no further with my imagination about what those turkeys might be doing this morning to prepare for their Thanksgiving dinner.

I'll just move on with my own plans for Mr. Butterball. He's been thawing off and on since Tuesday night. I put him away while the crowd was here last night eating lasagne and Cyrus O'Leary's pumpkin cheesecake while cheering on the Zags.

Don't you hate it when those sports announcers from the East Coast call 'em GonZAHga. Can't you imagine folks on the West Coast yelling out in their living rooms, "Go ZAHGZ!" I don't think so. Somebody needs to tell those announcers who've never once heard "Go ZAGS" to get it right. After all, the ZAGS left "Cinderella Team" status several years ago, and they have yet to turn into a pumpkin.

Okay, so I got off topic. Back to Butterball. After the happy Zag revelers left, I brought him back to the kitchen, and he's been sitting in that kettle all night. Pretty soon I'm gonna go over there and perform my surgery on his innards. I'm hoping he's thawed out enough by now. The innards will go in a saucepan to simmer away while I wait for Annie to get up and prepare the stuffing.

She's got six boxes of Stove Top basics, and she's going to use Grandma's recipe. I don't know if we'll eat six boxes of Stove Top plus Grandma's ingredients during today's feast, but folks around here like that stuffing. So, it's better to have too much than not enough.

Today there will be ten hungry mouths to feed: five Loves, four Tibbs, and one Julie. I don't know Julie's last name. I don't even know what Julie looks like, but she's driving up from Spokane today. She's one of Debbie's friends from the YWCA and she was going to spend turkey day alone, but not anymore.

Maybe, while Mr. Butterball is roasting away in the oven, the kids (almost 30 year-olds) will go outside and make a snowman. We have snowman style snow falling on the ground, about three inches so far. We've never had a snowman at our new Lovestead, so that will be a nice thing to do on this first Thanksgiving here.

And, we are thankful. Turkeys and snowmen aside, I'd say I'm feeling about as thankful as ever, knowing we're living in this peaceful, pastoral setting, surrounded by the best neighbors anyone could ever order. And the day after a monumental ZAGS victory over No. 2 North Carolina, it doesn't get any better. Today will be a happy day of cooking, vacuuming, enjoying the outdoors and most of all, enjoying family along with Mr. Butterball. Plus, I must let my favorite Napa Valley reader know that the special wine is chilled and will be on the table.

May you all have good turkey, ample stuffing, hotdogs or beans. I've been told that the latter are on the menu at some gatherings today. And, may those turkeys who didn't take time to tell me why they were crossing the road enjoy their celebration wherever they choose to gather out here in Selle Heaven.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Precious cargo

Lots of people waited for their precious cargo yesterday. I saw Marcy and Rich Neher. Their precious cargo is pushing 90; she's Rich's mother. I saw the mother of one of my former students who was waiting for her daughter to arrive from Las Vegas where she's now an interior designer.

As I waited for my first shipment of precious cargo, I saw some coming down the concourse where their loved ones were waiting at home for their arrival. Justin Boeck came in from Texas with his wife, while Bart Cochran and his wife Tracie flew in from Boise.

I hadn't seen Bart for at least four years, so when my precious cargo arrived, they got a hug and an "I'll see you in a minute," as Bart and I did a little catching up. He's working with three other entrepreneurs who've started their own branch for a New York bank in Boise. He says it's been a "learning" year. We caught up enough that I told him it was time to make like a mom and be nice to my children. Debbie and Willie weren't far away; they were waiting for their luggage. Besides, they know from a lifetime of waiting that Mom has to talk to everyone.

With more precious cargo coming in sometime in the afternoon from one of those much-delayed flights from Seattle, we knew we had time to go stock up at the Gonzaga bookstore and to take in a lunch at the Davenport. Debbie had never been there, so it would be special, especially because it's about the prettiest place around when the holiday season rolls in. The Davenport has a bit of history in our family. Our Grandmother Brown used to stay there on a long-term basis.

Besides, when the kids were little, we started a tradition of going there for lunch on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Then, they had the nerve to close the place down for several years. Now it's back, better and more elegant than ever. So, we try to go there occasionally. Yesterday turned out to be the frosting on the cake for Willie, who had interviewed Seahawk great and former Oklahoma legislator Steve Largent the day before.

While traveling from Boise he had seen Mica Downs, one of the new Gonzaga basketball recruits who had broken his ankle. Willie saw him in a wheelchair. He also saw Dennis Franz, the former NYPD Blue star who now resides in Coeur d'Alene. He commented while leaving the airport that he was on a roll with famous people.

Well, the roll wasn't over. After stocking up on sweatshirts, tee-shirts and posters for the big Gonzaga game tonight, we were seating ourselves in the Davenport Peacock Room chairs when Patrick F. McManus, the famous homegrown author, walked in with his one-man McManus show actor, Tim Behrens. Of course, we had to visit.

Pat once more suggested we get together for lunch at Sandpoint's Connie's Restaurant and see how long we'd last before they kick us out. I suggested the Davenport might be even more appealing for our reputations. We agreed our lunchroom demise would have to come one of these days. Then, once more, I said, "I've got to pretend to be a good mommy to these kids." So, Pat and Tim went on their way to eat lunch far, far away from us.

We ordered and began eating. My cell phone kept ringing as we dined on sandwiches and enjoyed the festive atmosphere. It was Annie calling. She announced at 1:30 that she was booked on stand by for the 1 o'clock flight. Later, she called and said the 1 o'clock flight was now leaving at 2:20. I was in the lovely bathroom stall at the Davenport when the phone rang again. As I was sitting on the commode, she was sitting on the 1 o'clock flight that now would be leaving at 2:35.

"We'll see you in an hour," I said, while flushing. When precious cargo's coming in, you dispense with the rules of etiquette. Normally, I try to avoid cell phone visits in the bathroom, but this time was crucial. An hour later we were visiting with my former neighbor and well-known Democrat Bob Wynhausen when Annie came through the gates. All precious cargo had arrived.

It was time to head home, punch the cell phone keys at Post Falls and order those medium Second Avenue pizzas to be picked up when we arrived in Sandpoint. All went well from there, except Willie's 24-hour run on spotting and meeting famous people had ended. Now he has to settle for family, but that's okay too.

Besides, it's possible that next week he may even get to shake Steve Largent's hand when he comes to Boise to be installed in the Humanitarian Bowl Hall of Fame. Not a bad gig for an up-and-coming sports reporter!

One more thing: GO ZAGS!!!

Remembrance

Today is a significant day in our family. Three years ago on Nov. 21 we said good bye to a husband, father, grandfather, and great-grandfather at about this time on a wintry morning in Spokane's Sacred Heart Hospital. That man, Harold Tibbs, now rests eternally a couple of miles down the road at Pack River Cemetery.

We'll go visit his grave on Thanksgiving Day, when family members who're here for the holiday are not working or traveling. We'll let him know we have not forgotten.

This day was on my mind as I picked up the paper, opened to Page 2 and saw three obituaries. I knew them all. I taught one, taught with one and collected one's memoirs for her family.

Tim Perry was the nicest young man. I had him as a sophomore in my English class. His mother, Grandma Perry, babysat my kids, and I knew many of his siblings, all wonderful people. It was shocking this morning to read of his life ending so soon at 43. It looks as if he led a full life---degree in architecture, family, and church. I know from my own experience with this true gentleman that he touched many along his route in positive ways.

I wrote about Alfons Alt yesterday. His story in today's paper showed a life filled to the brim-- great athlete, all-around teacher, beloved coach, husband, father, grandfather, brother, outdoorsman, even a state champion boxer. I never knew that Al had gone on to play professional football in Canada. Instead, I knew what I saw as his colleague, and the spirit he exuded was phenomenal and always fun.

A few years ago, I wrote nearly 70 pages typed and single-spaced about Yvonne Keltner. She was living at the Bridge for Assisted Living at the time. Sometimes, over a period of months while interviewing, I visited her. Sometimes I simply typed as she talked over the phone. She had not told her family very many stories of her early life. That was why her daughter Brigitte asked me to interview her.

I learned of her life in Egypt where her father was an engineer and her life in Germany during WWII before she came to the United States. During one of my visits to her apartment, Yvonne played some classical pieces on the piano for me, just like she had done so often for the residents at the Bridge. Her stories were fascinating, and on this morning when her obituary appears in the paper, I'm glad to have recorded them for her family, which included some grandsons who were Bill's Boy Scouts.

The memories. The people leave us, but, thank God, never the memories of how they walked this earth and so profoundly affected our lives.

auf Wiedersehen, Herr Alt

I always called him "Herr Alt," as did many of his friends. After all, he had come from Germany as a young boy. If I'm correct, he grew up in Bonners Ferry where his older brother still lives. His brother frequently greets parishioners at St. Ann's Parish in Bonners Ferry.

I first saw Al Alt at St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Sandpoint. This Wednesday, his family, friends and colleagues will say good bye or "auf Wiedersehen" to Herr Alt. He died Saturday night after another round of cancer. Al was one tough guy, and he beat his cancer a few years ago. That victory meant some quality years of retirement to spend with his beloved wife Margaret.

Both were teachers for more than two decades in our school system. Margaret taught elementary school while Al taught several disciplines at Sandpoint High School. Many students knew him as their shop teacher, while in later years, he offered German classes for some much appreciative students. One, I believe, even majored in German when she went to college. Al was a football, wrestling and track coach. He taught driver's training.

I'd forgotten about his driver's training stint, but Tina Gustaveson Wilson (SHS 1978) hadn't. She shared a few of her memories of Al on the www.sandpointhigh.com website yesterday. I'm sure Tina won't mind if I borrow her words for readers this morning.


It was with tears this morning that I found out that Al Alt passed away in the night. I was fortunate to have Mr. Alt as my wood shop teacher and my drivers education teacher. He survived them both and that was really something.

I was in the first woodshop class that girls were allowed to take. Mr. Alt had such patience with this girl who had no experience, I still remember I made a dictionary stand and then a desk. Mr. Alt taught us how to read legal descriptions written in aliquot parts, something that I still use today.

But his real courage came from teaching me how to drive, in one particular lesson, we had to drive over the long bridge (what is now the walking bridge) and I was scared to death I would run off the side and land in the water. Mr. Alt calmly told me that such a thing would never happen because he had confidence in me. I made it across the long bridge with no problems. His words made all the difference to me.

I am sure that everyone has more memories of Mr. Alt, I know that he coached football for many years. I have had the opportunity to see Mr. Alt a time or two since graduation and he always remembered who I was. Mr. Alt you will be sadly missed.

As one who worked with Al for years, I remember a great sense of humor, a genuine interest shown in any conversation, and an intensity to move on to the next thing. It seemed like Al always had something important to get done. And, he certainly accomplished a lot during his life, sharing his knowledge with so many young people and being a good friend.

As one of Terry Iverson's construction buddies, Al came out once to repair a problem our bathroom. He was all business but never made us feel like we needed to get out of the house while he worked. We no longer live in that house, and so I no longer go in that bathroom, thinking of Al who reinforced the floor and put down new linoleum.

My most recent memories of Al will be all the times I saw him and Margaret out for their walks. They lived over on the west side of town near the high school, but it was not uncommon to see them just about anywhere in town, walking together, staying healthy from both of their bouts with cancer. It was obvious that they were a loving couple who enjoyed each other's company. They had two sons, Mike and Jimmy.

As we get to this stage in life, it becomes old hat to say that the obituaries of people we know are coming all too often. When the obituary concerns part of the teaching family with whom we worked for so many years, the impact becomes much more significant. Al Alt was a good man, a wonderful educator and a fine friend to all who knew him.

We, of the SHS family---especially the 'old guard', are saddened this morning to say "auf weidersehen" to this fine man who was always so generous with his talents, especially when it came to molding young people's lives.

Justice due

I was happy to see Mindy Cameron's letter in today's North Idaho Sunday. Her letter was placed below a guest opinion offered by Bryce Powell, defense attorney in a Boundary County case which ended in a plea bargain agreement. The case dealt with an incident that occurred at a keggar in Boundary County. A young woman received burns after allegedly being pushed into a campfire by a young man attending the party.

Potentially hurtful words were uttered during the party. Different witnesses offered different accounts as to how the fire incident happened and why certain things were said. Can ya tell I'm being vague? I'm being vague because I've read lots of comments about this incident, and the more I read, the more murky the picture becomes regarding the sequence of events and sequence of words uttered.

Based on some newspaper reporting, however, folks have launched off on blogs, in letters to the editor and in guest opinions about what should happen to this judge, who, according to observers, gave a light sentence for the defendant who pled guilty.

The rhetoric about this case has been flying for the past several days, and many folks who are incensed by hate crimes here in North Idaho have uttered or written some pretty nasty statements, including hateful epithets launched toward the judge. One writer even came up with a tutorial that ought to be imposed on the judge.

Early on, in the free-for-all discussion on one blog, I asked a few questions about obtaining some better information which might put to rest the conflicting reactions many readers have had to stories in both the local and regional papers. I was told transciptions of discussions in judges' chambers are rarely produced. The furor among readers was based on second and third-hand quotes. Those quotes were disputed by the defense attorney in a second story refuting the first story about the case in the local paper.

I watched on the blog as some people who had read transcripts of the Boundary County hearing provided more details to the case. For the most part, their comments were met with some resistance by those who seemed to prefer to keep up their attacks on the judge, the defense attorney and anyone else who might question the reliablility of information in the newspaper accounts. It got downright ugly at times, and I was disappointed that no voices of reason from newspaper staffs made any effort explain why second and third-hand quotes stood as Gospel.

A voice of reason has come forth. She's the former editorial page editor of the Seattle Times who has retired to the Sandpoint area. I'll post her letter which appeared in this morning's paper with no further comment except to say, "Thank you, Mindy."

from Bonner County Daily Bee, Sunday, Nov. 19, 2006

Headline: Judge's ruling of case handled better than story.

It is unfortunate that Paul Krames (guest opinion, Nov. 14) relied on questionable reporting in this newspaper to castigate Judge Debra Heise for her ruling in the recent Boundary County case.

Reaction to the case was inflamed by a story based on one person's account of what went on in a meeting that the person did not attend. That story violated basic rules of Journalism 101 and influenced subsequent stories as well as reader reaction.

It demonstrates two important principles: The power of the press and the need for readers to pay close attention. Stories based on the remarks of only one person should be taken with a grain of salt. When the sole-source story is about a disputed incident where parties on both sides have an ax to grind, it shouldn't be in the newspaper. When it is, readers should dismiss it altogether.

The judge in such circumstances is the only neutral party. Judge Heise is an experienced and fair judge. I trust her handling of the situation, especially in the face of this distorted news coverage.

Mindy Cameron
Sagle

Saturday Slight

There's a telltale dryness in my throat this morning. The Airborn I took earlier has done nothing to convince it to go away. I hate the first signs of a cold, mainly because I know what's ahead; just don't know how long it's going to last or how much misery it's going to mean. I'll keep busy throughout the day and try to will it away. Ha! Fat chance.

Anyway, it's live from Saturday Slight, so let's get on with the show.

• In an earlier post this week, I was encouraging people to join the local historical society. That was the day I was headed to a Board meeting. Well, I learned of two more ways of supporting the museum at the meeting. In one case, on Dec. 12, at Pend Oreille Winery, the museum has rights to all "Sip and Shop" funds. The owners, rather than donating every time someone comes begging, allow nonprofits to pick a day for "Sip and Shop." A percentage of sales go to the organization that day. Ann thinks the hours are from 10-7, but someone else suggested a different span, so I'll find out about that. But if you're Christmas shopping and want to pick up some goodies at the winery, remember Dec. 12 and help the museum simply by shopping and sipping.
  
• Another event which will help the museum is coming up Friday, Dec. 15 at the museum. It's an author signing/Christmas open house from 4-7 p.m. I know that we have at least half a dozen local authors committed and we're hoping that number will be closer to a dozen by the time we contact everyone. So far, artist Bonnie Shields will be there with all those books she's illustrated. By the way, Bonnie and my buddy Boots Reynolds are being roasted at the Cowboy Cartoonists convention in Las Vegas next month for their 25 years of supplying art to Leanin' Tree cards. On to other authors. Those who've also committed to the signing include Bob Hamilton, who's going to have a new book about the Cotton Barlow sports eras at Sandpoint High School (called Cotton). Paul Rechnitzer will have his new railroad book, Nancy Renk will have her driving tour book, and yours truly will be there with Pocket Girdles and Postcards from Potato Land along with an order form for personally autographed copies of Lessons with Love, slated for publication in February 2007. Ben Olson, a young man who recently penned a brilliantly-written fictional travelogue based on his own cross-country train trip, has given us a "maybe," depending on his travel schedule. As indicated, we're waiting to hear from other authors and still trying to contact some. It should be a fun gathering, so put it on your calendar. Thanks.
  
• I've started doing some serious interviewing with my mother about her life. It's for family consumption. When I say "serious," that means I'll go into as much detail about as many events as possible, but I can't say that everything she tells me is of a serious nature. We've been doing a lot of laughing as she's told me stories of youthful ways. It's amazing how much one learns about why one acts the way one does after interviewing one's mother. Truly amazing, and she always led us to believe while we were growing up that she was such an angel. Apparently, now that we've told her all the naughty things we did when she wasn't looking, she figures we're mature enough to learn about her antics. One of the best lines she's told me so far concerned the fact that adults during her childhood era tried to keep important matters from the children. They'd always say "Little Pitchers Have Big Ears," my mother told me. Then, she added, "I was always listening." Sounds familiar.
  
• I forgot to tell a few days ago that Bill's hometown made the national news recently. It now has a famous citizen. That would be Andrew Fastow one of the naughty boys of the Enron Debacle. He's going to be living in Oakdale for the next few years----at its Federal prison. Bill tells me he might have a chance to get to know Louisiana's former Governor Edwin Edwards while he's there. Cuz Edwin lives there too.
  
• Today feels like a coffee cult day, so I'd better wrap this up, and speaking of "up." I'll wrap it up by putting up a thing one of my former students Liz McNeil sent me this week.
  
• There is a two-letter word that perhaps has more meanings than any other two-letter word, and that is "UP."
  
  It's easy to understand UP, meaning toward the sky or at the top of the list, but when we awaken in the morning, why do we wake UP? At a meeting, why does a topic come UP? Why do we speak UP and why are the officers UP for election and why is it UP to the secretary to write UP a report ?
  
  We call UP our friends. And we use it to brighten UP a room, polish UP the silver, we warm UP the leftovers and clean UP the kitchen. We lock UP the house and some guys fix UP the old car . At other times the little word has real special meaning. People stir UP trouble, line UP for tickets, work UP an appetite, and think UP excuses. To be dressed is one thing, but to be dressed UP is special.
  
  And this UP is confusing: A drain must be opened UP because it is stopped UP We open UP a store in the morning but we close it UP at night.
  
  We seem to be pretty mixed UP about UP ! To be knowledgeable about the proper uses of UP, look the word UP in the dictionary. In a desk-sized dictionary, it takes UP almost 1/4th of the page and can add UP to about thirty definitions. I if you are UP to it, you might try building UP a list of the many ways UP is used. It will take UP a lot of your time, but if you don't give UP, you may wind UP with a hundred or more. When it threatens to rain, we say it is clouding UP. When the sun comes out we say it is clearing UP
  
  When it rains, it wets the earth and often messes things UP
  
  When it doesn't rain for awhile, things dry UP
  
  One could go on and on, but I'll wrap it UP , for now my time is UP, so............ it is time to shut UP .!
  
  Oh . . . one more thing:
  
  
  What is the first thing you do in the morning & the last thing you do at night? U-P
  
• Have a wonderful Saturday! Now I'll shut UP!
  
  
  

Costco Friday

Today is a double whammy. Bill's going to Costco, and the Schwan's man is coming to deliver frozen goodies this afternoon. With these two events coinciding, our cupboards, freezer and frig should be full for the onslaught of kiddies coming home for Thanksgiving next week.

We have our standard purchases with occasional runs to Costco in Hayden, while Bill's Schwan's orders can vary, especially in the ice cream department. I'm sure he's taken into consideration that "Big Man" will be home during this two-week run. So, the ice cream order of drumsticks and specialty bars will probably double this time.

As for Costco, there's always the mixed nuts, the chocolate-covered almond clusters, the giant bag of paper towels, the huge block of Tillamook cheese, the sour dough bagette bread and two sacks of Atta Boy dogfood. Some runs also include meat items like tri-tip steaks and unbreaded boneless chicken breasts. Usually, we bring home one of those hot rotissierie chickens too. For sure, this time the list includes one of those large pumpkin pies and a new package of glasses---225 strength.

I have glasses of varying strengths, colors and condition all over this house and scattered around my car. I've decided, since a purchase earlier this year, that I prefer the Costco brand over Wal-Mart's. Because I'm kinda rough on glasses, it's already time for a new triple pack.

I wear my glasses on a chain because they're just for reading. Invariably, though, during my daily travels, I seem to be picking up cumbersome, heavy things---bales of hay, sacks of grain and groceries, even a few tree branches. All too often when that happens, the glasses get squashed, and vital parts fall off.

If only my eyes were good enough to do some refined repair work, I wouldn't have to buy so many pairs of glasses. But when you consider three pair for $17 that's not too bad. I did get a package of three for $7 at Wal-Mart a couple of weeks ago, but a step-up in quality to the $17 variety seems appropriate.

There's something exciting about Costco runs. They remind me of the good ol' days when my mother did her "Pay Day" shopping. That always happened once a month when my dad brought home his monthly paycheck from the City of Sandpoint. In our minds, this day was a great occasion because with Mother's payday shopping came bigger bags filled with more food and some items we never usually had during the month----an extra bag of potato chips or my dad's "payday" candy.

Ironically, his payday candy is exactly what Bill now buys as Costco. He loved his chocolates with nuts. The sack was usually hidden somewhere in the house so that grimy little mits couldn't pilfer pieces when no one was looking. I think it often ended up in the top drawer of my folks' bedroom dresser. Since we knew where it was hidden, Mother's efforts to stop the grimy little mits didn't always work.

Grocery shopping habits have changed dramatically since those days. Chips and candies have become staples instead of the rare treats of yesteryear. Trips to the grocery store seem to happen more frequently because of more money to spend and less planning ahead. These days, the concept of one big day set aside for payday shopping is rarely mentioned. In my adult life, we've also have never resorted to locks on fruit room doors and freezers to save the food from disappearing too fast.

One thing that never seems to change about these special shopping runs is the excitement within the house whenever those cupboards and shelves are stocked to the brim with a whole new assortment of good stuff---even brand-new cheap glasses.

Morning meetings

Two meetings in one day. That's beyond my inner capacity in more ways than one, but I've gotta show up. Every time I go to a meeting I wonder why I ever said "yes" to serving on boards. The folks to whom I said yes know my disdain for sitting through meetings so they just humor me and figure my sense of responsibility will get me to most of the monthly gatherings.

This morning's meetings include the Historical Society board and a production meeting at Keokee about my new book. I figure both are pretty important, so I'll go.

Next year is the Centennial for Bonner County. It seems like a good time to flush out the citizens and encourage them to pay a membership to the Bonner County Historical Society. I've deduced that doing such would make a nice birthday present for the county. So, I've suggested to Ann that we launch a "100 Years: 1,000 New Memberships" campaign. Ann hasn't told me what she thinks yet, but I'll talk about it anyway.

After all, when membership ranges from $15 for singles and $25 for families-----do the math for 1,000 new members, and the museum could do well with the increase in funds. In my view, members don't really need to do anything but join. They get newsletters from the museum and a few other little perks dealing with museum use. More than anything, though, their contribution is fairly painless for them but, matched with a whole bunch of other memberships, it becomes very significant in helping a financially-strapped operation move forward.

The museum gets its money from a yearly allocation from the county, from admission, from donations, grants and from memberships. The facility has many, many needs to keep going. Right now, a cadre of dedicated volunteers assume a lot of jobs normally performed by paid employees at other museums. If I'm correct, our curator/director doesn't even get a full-time salary. If the public knew the hours she puts in for the museum far beyond her job description, they'd be stunned. She does much out of the goodness of her heart and because of her passion for history. Bonner County is very lucky to have her.

So, with that little bit of information, I hope some readers out there will feel inspired to call up the museum at 208-263-2344 and sign up for your single or family membership. And, tell your neighbors to do the same. I'm sure the folks at the other end will happily accommodate you. You don't have to live in Bonner County to be a member either. They're happy to accommodate anyone from anywhere who wants to help out.

Also, I said there are no obligated job assignments for members, but the beauty of joining is that if you do want to volunteer, they're happy to have you. Most people who inhabit the museum on a regular basis see it as a setting for one big happy family who appreciate and address the need to preserve our history in every way possible. In short, it's a fun place to hang out.

Okay, so I got off on a tangent about the museum. It's hard not to do so, but I do encourage and will continue to encourage membership. A healthy membership can do wonders for our museum, and as we move into our second century as a growing county, we need all the help we can get in preserving our history for the next 100 years. So, folks, give the gift of history: join the Bonner County Historical Society. If you do so before the year ends, it can help you with next year's taxes.

Now, to my second meeting. I'll know a lot more about plans for my book publication and its promotion after visiting with Chris, Jackie, Billie and the crew at Keokee. Chris told me last week he's shooting for a Feb. 5, 2007, release, so that means busy times over the next several months. It's hard to believe that it's finally come to this point after so long, but I'm ready for the fun times ahead.

In the meantime, I'd better shut up and get ready to head to town. Have a great day.

Pondering . . . .

The last time I bought a horse was at night. It was a black horse which I viewed standing in a dark corral. I paid the price to my friend Jean for Mrs. Black. I had no regrets. She was a registered Quarter Horse mare, who'd spent most of her life raising foals. That's what she did at my house. She produced two phenomenal horses, both stars among our family herds.

One is standing out there in our barn pasture eating his breakfast. He's blind but that doesn't matter to Rambo. He's also very smart, and he hasn't allowed his disability to get in the way too much. Occasionally, a barn wall or a fence post may get in the way, but Rambo's smart enough to avoid moving too fast. Thus, the bump on the nose when he encounters such obstacles is soon forgotten.

Rambo had a magnificent future as a show horse, and during what little time he spent in the show ring, he wowed audiences with his performances and his beauty. His showing career ended several years ago when another horse kicked him in the forearm, fracturing the bone and causing him to stand in a box stall for six weeks while it healed. My extra money for campaigning him at the time was pretty minimal, so he has spent the rest of his years as a pasture horse and my good friend.

Mrs. Black also produced Tellie, another gorgeous gray Half Arabian gelding. My sister Barbara owned Tellie, and she also owns scores of awards that he won over the years at shows across the region. That includes a Canadian Top Ten as a trail horse. He continued to win, win, win up through this summer when Barbara decided to retire him at age 20. Sadly, he's the one who died suddenly this fall.

Because of these two wonderful horses, I never once had any doubts about buying that black horse in that dark corral. I later sold her to my friend Carolyn. She actually came in the daylight to see Mrs. Black for the first time, and she liked what she saw for a potential broodmare of her own. Carolyn raised three more foals, I believe. They were purebred Quarter Horses and they fetched some pretty attractive prices. Mrs. Black passed on a few years ago.

As I think about Mrs. Black, I realize it's been more than 20 years since I bought a horse. Our Casey came to us free, compliments of my friend Judy Trenholm who was looking for a good home for a baby horse. He was two months old at the time, and he's never seemed to have any regrets about moving to the Love corrals.

So, this morning, I'm pondering the possibility of purchasing a new horse for the first time in two decades. I keep using that impulsive Mrs. Black purchase as one of my arguments for deciding whether or not to buy this horse, but it's not quite as easy. Mrs. Black's temporary home at Jean's was about five miles away. This horse lives in Oklahoma. So, I've got a little more to think about.

It's an Appaloosa yearling filly which has already won state futurity classes. Its bloodlines feature some of the big names in modern-day Appaloosa circles and some of the classics from the past. The owner, whom I just wrote about in my last story, tells me she may stretch to 16 hands, which is the size of Rambo. That means a mounting block, for sure, but I love sitting atop a tall horse once I get up there. She's a leopard Appaloosa with bay points.

I've approached this whole idea as "doing something silly, something outlandish." And, to analyze it closely, the whole concept seems crazy. Aren't there enough horses available in North Idaho? Why go that far out of your way just for a dumb horse? Horses are hayburners; they just keep costing and costing and costing. Facilities need to be improved if a horse that's been so pampered comes to stay. Spend that much money on a horse and what if something goes wrong? You would buy a horse sight unseen? What's with your brain?

Those are just a few of the arguments that keep floating through my mind as I ponder this situation, but there are several good reasons too. For one, I'd think of this as sort of a tribute to my dad whose name remains legendary in Appaloosa circles. My two horses are getting older. Because of Rambo's dependence on Casey, I can't do anything with one horse without the other one having to come along.

The price for a horse of this quality with such notable bloodlines is more than reasonable. Once she's trained, I could probably sell her in a couple of years for double the purchase price---if I wanted to, of course. After all these years of writing for the Appaloosa Journal, it would be fun to own a horse raised by a well-known and highly respected breeder from Oklahoma---bastion of both Quarter Horses and Appaloosas.

Fortunate for me, the owner is not the "hard-sell" type person. He's happy to keep her and keep on showing her. Plus, he's quite willing to take the time to send me more information. He's renowned for his integrity and the care that he puts into horses.

I have time to think, but I'm sure leaning toward those Oklahoma winds. Every time I consider the last horse I purchased which led to so many good times in the past and my present day-to-day love for that big blind horse, I feel a tug at my heart, suggesting that this new purchase wouldn't really be too crazy.

Time will tell my brain what to do.

Slap my thigh; Ima WSI

I talked to an old friend last night. We all knew her as "Mow," the Water Safety Instructor at Camp Neewahlu on Lake Coeur d'Alene. Actually, we didn't know much of anyone by their real names. It was a Campfire Girls camp at Kidd Island Bay where staffers went by nicknames. I knew that Pop was Barb Diltz from Coeur d'Alene.

She was part of the fun-loving trio of counselors, Snap, Crackle and Pop. I was part of the kitchen team where Ginger was the cook, and Salt and Pepper were her helpers. My job was dishwashing; hence, our duo's assigned names were Spic and Span. Betcha can't guess which one I was.

Mow had a great job as water front director, and she didn't even have to take an assigned name like the rest of us. She simply took the first part of her last name and that was that. We got to know her well because the more we perfected our dishwashing routine, the more time we got to spend on the dock, talking to the swimming instructors. Mow always wore a red bandanna and a white pullover. She came from Kansas where she was an English major at Kansas University.

While Pop visted my house in Sandpoint once on one of our one-day weekends, she didn't make a good impression. Hard to believe but she was even more impish than I, and when she started snapping dish towels on people's rear ends in our kitchen, my mother spoke up. We could tell immediately that my mother didn't appreciate Pop's antics. I kept in touch with her for a while but then lost track of her for many years. About ten years ago, we exchanged letters when she was living in Michigan. Haven't heard from her since.

Now, Mow had different success when she came to our house. A great conversationalist and wonderful listener, she charmed my dad who loved to tell his own stories. My mother fed her huge homegrown steaks, which I'm sure she still remembers today. My dad would never let anyone touch his farm equipment, but he allowed Mow, whom he'd met only once, drive the yellow cow truck with its green rack to Priest Lake one time when we had a rare two-day break from the camp.

About half a dozen of us loaded up sleeping bags and headed to my brother Kevin's blister rust camp. There we met Kevin and his ribe-pulling crewmates. They climbed into the cow truck with us, and we did what folks back then did for summertime entertainment at Priest Lake. We drove to dumpsters where bears were feeding. We may have thrown stuff at the bears; I can't recall. I just know it was entertaining.

Then, we drove the Forest Service workers back to camp and headed for Dickensheet Campground where some slept in the back of the truck while others slept in the cab-----until it started raining about 1 a.m. The truck was low on gas so Mow drove it to nearby Lamb Creek, where we took our wet sleeping bags into a laundromat and bedded down on the floor.

The next day, after gasing up, Mow drove the truck from Priest Lake to Farragut State Park. I remember sitting on a picnic table admiring the view to the rugged mountains across the bay and listening to her marvel that it was the most beautiful scene imaginable. I agreed.

Since that day, I've been back to Farragut a lot. That's where I met my hubby who, like us, was taken with the beauty of the surroundings. Since that day, Mow's life and mine have taken different routes. She did teach English after graduating from KU, and I taught English after graduating from U of I. She's lived on a sheep ranch in South Dakota, in a beautiful home in Kansas and now resides with her husband Joe in Palm Springs.

Over the decades we've reconnected from time to time. She's been back to Sandpoint; I've visited her in Palm Springs. She leads a far different life from mine, but we've still got a few things in common: we love to talk and we love to laugh. We're still pretty good at both. So when we talked on the phone last night for nearly two hours for the first time in two years, it got a little noisy at my end and maybe at hers too. We enjoyed lots of giggling and lots of tales on the new home and all the latest family updates.

We also enjoy a common love for Border Collies, so many details of individual dogs were shared as minutes ticked by. At one point in our visit, I glanced at the muted TV and saw that the mad man on CNBC's "Mad Money" was talking about Coldwater Creek. During his characteristic dancing around, he kept donning Coldwater Creek clothing---hats, blouses and skirts as he practiced ordering items on the computer and telling his audience all the good reasons Coldwater Creek stock would be a good investment.

Mow switched her set in Palm Springs to the same channel, and we shared a few Coldwater Creek stories---- including the fact that she's got a big store in her area and that we have a new store in Sandpoint which has replaced the one on the bridge. Mow and I met each other long before Sandpoint had the sophistication of Coldwater Creek and the soon-to-come Jack Nicklaus golf course. She loved the place then, and I'm sure she'll still love it the next time she comes north for a visit.

We've been friends from afar over the decades since those days at Neewahlu in 1965 when she taught swimming and I washed dishes. Though we're bigtime story tellers ourselves, we've lived a few good ones of our own as we continue moving through life and catching up on the lost years in between visits.

November's Haunted House

There's a drawer in the kitchen crammed full of information. I think it might be time to open it for the first time and read what's inside. Jolene, the former owner, pointed it out to me just before they got in their trucks and moved themselves to South Dakota. Inside is all pertinent information about this house, its parts and its behavior.

I've avoided looking at the materials in the drawer since July in hopes that we can figure most things out for ourselves. In most cases we have, but this morning we were dealing with an unexplainable mystery. Bill thought I was moving furniture upstairs and wondering why I was doing it so early in the morning. I thought Bill may have set up an indoor gym downstairs. He hadn't told me about such plans, but it sounded like he was working out with great gusto.

I took my bath, got dressed, walked out of the bathroom and again heard the rumble right next to the door to the garage. Oh, it must be the dogs, I thought. Opening the door, I looked into the garage to see the dogs snoozing away on their couch. By that time, I was really curious. I shut the door and listened in the wall, summoning Bill from the kitchen to listen along side me.

First, silence, then the mysterious noise again. It sounded like a big critter was inside the walls, scratching to get out. We thought about cats and wondered if one of them had gotten into the upstairs storage rooms overnight. A check of both doors showed them firmly latched shut. We could not find Lonesome Love under beds, where he usually hides, when threatened with ousting for the day.

We still haven't found Lonesome, but we have surmised---hopefully correctly---that the rumble and tumble comes from snow sliding off the roof. Now, we've had snow sliding off house roofs before but never with such a variety of loud noises. Sometimes it sounds like a thunder storm, sometimes like a critter scratching to get out, and sometimes the notion of a full-blown earthquake comes to mind.

Bill thinks we've solved it for sure. While I was reading the paper this morning and he was eating his breakfast, he yelled out, "That's it! I just saw some snow hit the ground." He was pointing toward the eave near the sliding glass door.


We're now living in a two-story home with a tin roof and a steep pitch. It's certainly a new frontier in winter time fun, living here in this house. As I write, the wind is blowing wildly and while typing this posting, I've left my computer three times to go downstairs and shut the door to the garage. We've discovered in the past three weeks that it does not like being closed in cold weather.

I've also just discovered the whereabouts of Lonesome Love. He was, indeed, hiding under a bed, one where he has never dared to go before. Maybe this haunted house has him a bit disoriented too.

I think I may just open that kitchen drawer with all that information and see what other surprises might lie ahead. But then again, maybe I won't. Those surprises might just fill our first winter here with a touch of adventure. And, during long North Idaho winters, that's a good thing.

Time for a change

I read three items in today's local paper referring to information improperly attributed to individuals by news writers, columnists and publishers. I was wishing I'd read four, but I was glad to see that someone is demanding accountability for the inaccuracies, inuendos and ill-informed information that has been landing on newspaper pages all too often.

One case dealt with an accusation. In his politically-charged editorial in the paper's Sunday edition, the publisher had accused a candidate of stealing signs from the company's paperboxes. Since then, the candidate has been offered a column to write his side of the story, and this morning, we saw a full-blown retraction and apology in the same space where the public accusation occurred before the election. Fortunately, for the candidate, the voters saw through the attempt to muddy his name through desperate reporting of "the facts." He won the election.

The publisher probably avoided a libel suit.

As I moved on through the paper, I glanced at the sports column. Here was another writer from the same paper apologizing to Idaho Vandal football coach Dennis Erickson for a column he'd written in earlier edition about integrity, implying that the coach had "shined him off" by not answering his calls. Apparently, the writer had not checked his voicemail and had launched off a column questioning Erickson's reluctance to talk about the issue at hand. I'm not privy to the column, but from what I read in this morning's paper, he filed the column and checked his voicemail later to learn that Erickson had returned his call, eager to talk.

This morning the columnist admittedly ate crow for his oversight.

I read a letter to the editor in the same paper, intended to run BEFORE the election (actually there were two in today's paper written for pre-election purposes) suggesting that the local paper's publisher and a reporter had pretty much manufactured a story about another political candidate. The story, as written, could have left questions in the minds of readers about this candidate. This morning's letter implied that information used in the story had no factual basis and that when pressed for where the information originated, the writer received two conflicting answers from the newspaper staffers.

The candidate in question lost the election.

These admitted and alleged oversights of professional journalists appearing on one day's edition of one newspaper send a message that's been talked to death on the streets for some time. Where is the accountability? Where is the careful assemblage of facts to make sure stories, columns or editorials are soundly accurate? Where are the checks and balances that give readers the confidence that what they see in our newspapers is true? Where is the sensitivity to all sides involved to make sure that any person mentioned is given a fair shake?

I was taught by a very good high school journalism teacher and by several mentors along the way that we must double check every fact, even name spellings, to make sure we are providing our readers the truth and the complete truth.

This is essential rule exists not only for readers but also for the people involved in the stories. Finally, it is essential for the benefit of the reporter who wants to establish and maintain any sense of credibilty. After all, if we stick to that rule unfalteringly, there will be more stories ahead, more people to interview and more people reading what we've written. Maybe. We'd like to be able to do our jobs. We can't do our jobs if people don't trust us.

I was called a cow once----in a newspaper article. "What do you expect when you've got an old cow for an adviser?" the story read, "Our suggestion: lead the cow out to pasture." The story appeared in an underground newspaper written by teens. It concerned a drill team performance which had gone bad. I was the adviser at the time, and I was overweight.

The article was first circulated around the high school where I taught. It was so tantalizing that papers were distributed around the community and then throughout the state. I went to a journalism convention a few months later only to have the story revived in a seminar discussion about the role of underground newspapers.

By that time, I had hoped to forget the hurtful period which also involved contacting a lawyer and demanding a retraction. The irony of such situations is that retractions must appear in the same prominence in the same location where the potentially libelous story first appeared. Hence, another underground had to be published.

Those were dark days for me, to say the least. I'll also say they tested my will to stay in education. Happily, I stayed, and happily, the young men involved later became some of my best friends. But I'll never forget those words and how painfully unfair they felt at the time.

That was a situation of high school kids doing what high school kids will do. I taught long enough to know that teenagers are capable of unlimited youthful indiscretions. I have long forgiven the situation and considered it one of thoses tests of mettle that come along in a teacher's career. I have not, however, forgotten the unfairness of that article.

I mention this because we who call ourselves "professional" journalists should rise to a higher level. We who call ourselves professionals have a responsibility to go far beyond what looks like the juicy or incriminating story. When assembling a story--any story---we must think of our own accountability, our publication's credibility, the people we write about and the consequences of our words. Used recklessly, our words might make some good reading for the time being, but the ramifications often come back to haunt us and the people involved.

I mentioned a fourth situation that I would like to have seen addressed in a newspaper this morning. That one concerns the story about the plea bargaining agreement, the judge, the prosecution and the defense. When I read the first report about this trial last week, my first thought was that there must be more to the story. Then, I chalked it up to just another situation in the local paper where possibly the whole story wasn't told.

A few days later, I read a story in the same paper where most that had appeared in the first piece was disputed. I was hoping to see this addressed in-depth in the regional paper. Another piece did appear on the front page of the Spokane paper. Again, something didn't ring true. I, as a reader, still had questions because the quotes used appeared to be second and third-hand. I guess I kept thinking that something surely was quoted out of context. I still feel that way.

This was a hot-button issue which deserved utmost care and time in making sure that information was complete and totally verified, especially considering stereotypes often attributed to North Idaho. As I recall from journalism classes, we were instructed to verify each sensitive fact at least three ways.

Because of the diametrically different stories I've read in the local paper and continuing questions I still have after reading the third article in the Spokane paper, I feel unsatisfied as a reader. I've also followed a regional blog where one poster and another newspaper publisher have suggested that more facts exist about this case which could influences readers' responses to just what happened in the court proceedings.

These are just four cases of far too many where we've witnessed questionable if not reckless journalism. It's time we who call ourselves journalists, we with whom the trust of our readership has been vested---it's time we review what our journalism instructors implored us to never forget. Do not ASSUME. Always, always, always go back and revisit the basic rules of journalism. Those include truth, fairness to all sides, healthy skepticism for the motivations behind what sources say, double and triple checking, and a complete representation of the facts.

I applaud the two gestures I saw in today's paper to right wrongs. It's a start, but there's a long road ahead in restoring journalistic integrity to a level that people can once again respect.

As for now: All I know is what I read in the papers. As an old-fashioned journalist, it scares the Hell out of me.