Connie's: A last laugh

Let's hope it's not permanent, but for now, here's one last laugh as a requiem to yet another oldtime Sandpoint landmark: Connie's Restaurant. I'd heard a few months ago that Sand-Ida Service, Inc. would not renew the lease, which ran out at the end of January. I'd also heard that there was hope that someone would come to the rescue.

Possibly they have. I guess we'll just have to wait and see, but the closing of the doors this week definitely signals the end of a long love affair between the cafe established by Connie Balch and generations of Sandpoint's locals. A book, rich in lore and filled with colorful quotes from the characters of our community, could be penned about Connie's. Betsy Dalessio, in her first story for the local blat, captured some of that this week.

I read a comment on "Huckleberries Online" yesterday chastising the Hagadone network for allowing the word "Bull Shit" to be used in Betsy's story. Well, it's pretty hard to categorize much of what occurred around the counter there in any better way. I'm sure the word even got used a time or two amidst ample helpings of deep and passionate North Idaho vernacular blended with the next slurp of good ol regular Connie's coffee, always available and full to the brim with the friendly waitresses' keep-fill service.

Loggers gathered at Connie's. In fact, almost every time the name Leonard Plaster comes to mind, I see him leaning close to the counter, exchanging insults with his friends like Les Rogers or maybe even his brother Mike, always keeping track of who's coming in the door. After all, it's fun to harass the locals across the room too. I learned early on to snap back at Leonard. I think he respected that.

Crusty ol' Ted Grant used to sit up there at that counter in his Woolrich pants and shirts. That was usually when he was walking to his home at 1111 Hickory Street after drinking a couple of gallons of regular joe down at Leonard Haugse's Pastime. Ted would tell anyone willing to listen about how Sandpoint went down the tubes back in the 1930s when Humbird left and the village council screwed everything up.

Ted was a railroad gandydancer who worked the rails around the area for decades on end. He'd come from Clark Fork and he could remember the winter way back in the teens or early twenties when folks drove cars right out on the river cuz the ice was frozen so solid. In his rough and gruff voice, Ted told his stories over and over for hours on end.

One day Lorraine Bowman got kinda tired of Ted telling everyone within earshot, and maybe even as far back as the bathroom, about the village council and the old steam engines and such. She asked him to tone it down and when Ted got a little louder, she kicked him out. I think he moved on down to the Kentucky Fried Chicken Restaurant (now Spuds) after that.

Besides the folks at the counter, there were the regular families. I think Digger Dale and his wife ate most of their meals at Connie's cuz I saw them there every time I showed up. Our family used to go there when the kids were little. We weren't like these new fangled families who take their kids to only "family friendly" restaurants.

Willie and Annie went with us wherever we chose to eat out. In those days, Connie's was just plain one of our favorites cuz we could count on seeing at least three dozen people I knew and could take time to talk and joke with just about every one of them. We believed in having our kids learn manners in public.

Sometimes a glitch or two occurred, though, like the breakfast time flight of the fork. Annie may have been the launcher while somebody's hash browns, eggs and bacon at the table next to us served as the launchee. I was kinda embarrassed about that and apologized to the victim profusely. In spite of that, the kids learned manners at Connie's and a host of other local restaurants.

Speaking of Annie, I still remember the amazement on Betsy Foster's face when she and Dick came into Connie's one morning, walked by the booth where Bill was eating breakfast while I was simply watching and asked, "Did you ever have that baby?"

"No," I said, matter-of-factly, "but I'm going to as soon as Bill finishes his breakfast." Betsy's mouth hung open almost to the carpet. Four hours later, Annie was born.

My sisters and I and anyone else who wanted to join us used to live for "FRY" day at Connie's. Another school week would be ending, and by fifth period English, I could already taste those Connie's fries and that ranch dressing. The combination was always included three cups of that coffee and a whole lot of classroom debriefing. A few "ain's it awfuls" topped off a good time.

One time, though, we encountered a food surprise. I think that occurred when I realized that my sensitive tummy did not love ranch dressing, french fries and coffee quite as much as I did. It protested vehemently, so one FRY day I decided to use ketchup on my fries. The waitress brought me a bottle of Heinz.

I opened the cap and waited for the ketchup to come dripping out on my fries. Nothing happened because, of course, it was Heinz which was touted for not being diluted and runny like other brands. I grabbed a knife, stuck the blade in the bottle, and when I removed it, out came a french fry.

"YUCK!" my sister barked, as I pulled the extra long fry from the bottle. Apparently, some impish high school students had enjoyed their FRY day just before we had arrived. I chose not to have ketchup that day.

Our family always went to Connie's after music concerts. On those occasions, the dessert of choice often came in a large goblet: a giant chocolate sundae with cherry and whipped cream on top. Someone in our group might even order a piece of hot apple pie with cinnamon sauce.

Mornings after drill team practice back in the 1970s meant hot butterhorns with those giant dabs of whipped butter adding 5,000 calories to the cholesterol challenge. Our family even took the lazy route a few times on Turkey Day or Christmas and let the folks at Connie's feed us our holiday meal, always making sure the waitresses got an extra tip.

I don't even want to get started with the waitresses because I could write all day, but I must write about Annie Ginter. She knew me well because I was always bringing different crowds in with me. Annie worked there forever and knew everyone really well and exactly how to handle their unique personalities. She was pretty thrilled that I had a daughter of the same name.

At the beginning of this post, I mentioned a last laugh. If I were to talk about the one ingredient that set Connie's apart beyond the food and the wonderful service, it's definitely the healthy doses of laughter. So many stories told. So many chuckles, so many giggles and so many out and out hysterics. I can think of a few times that, like Ted Grant, I felt like my time inside Connie's was limited.

For instance, there was the night back in the '70s when I told Jack Knaggs, Mae McCormick and probably Mae's daughter Julie the giant turd story. In the interest of decency, because as the "Huckleberries" complainer noted yesterday that ten-year-olds could be reading, I won't repeat the giant turd story. I'll just say it's all true and that Guiness should have been consulted. I'll also say that its telling that night in Connie's led to my first encounter with human snorts.

Jack Knaggs, I learned, knew how to snort. Lord knows the turd tale could possibly even elicit a snort from someone so prim and proper as Laura Bush, but she's in the White House and she would remember her manners. This was Connie's, however. Jack snorted and snorted for several minutes after the story was told, and I was so impressed that I later worked on his technique. I do believe there are occasions when a delightfully funny story should elicit a good snort. Nobody kicked us out of Connie's that night, thankfully.

Then, there were the two times with McManus family members that tested the Connie's staff patience. It's hard not to laugh about fried baloney slices, and it was especially hard not to laugh when Patricia McManus Gass described the big build-up her mother would provide on the nights they'd dine on the Depression-era delicacy. She told me other stuff too that day, and I do remember laughing so hard that my entire body leaned off to one side and almost fell out of the booth. I also had tears on my french fries that day.

About three years ago, I bought lunch at Connie's for Boots Reynolds and Pat McManus. They met me for an afternoon of interviewing for a fishing story called "From the Mouths of the Clark Fork River." Since then, Boots has pilfered that idea for his River Journal column. A lot of locals came in that day, and when there are locals, people like Pat, Boots and I like to perform. We did a good job, and I think it's only because we sat in the back that nobody kicked us out.

One more story involves my friend with the two last names. Merriam Merriman always tries to eat at Connies (sorry, Merriam, no more) when she comes to Sandpoint. She was astounded to watch locals like me when we had a really good story to tell. Prior to launching any controversial story/gossip, it was customary to take that needed moment to check the booth behind us and the booth in front of us, lest we be talking about someone's relative. That pretty much amazed Merriam who'd moved to Sandpoint and delighted in the "everyone knows everyone else" syndrome.

Well, that syndrome is sadly departing our community as are places like Connie's, the Pastime, Harold's IGA, the Hair Hut, et. al. As the visuals slip away, our hearts ache. Fortunately, we can cling to the gift of memory. For each of us who passed through those doors and found a booth or plopped down at the Connie's counter, there's a storehouse of past moments which bring joy to our hearts and certainly a smile, a giggle, a guffaw, or, yes, even a snort.

Connie's: RIP (: