New-old motorhome revisited

Well, it was about this time last year that I was writing about our new-old motor home, which we had purchased, along with a horse trailer, from my sisters. I think the Brougham motor home is entering its 31st year-----that's older than Willie.

Anyway, it just headed out the driveway, with Bill driving it, of course, toward town. I'm thinking I may have to write really fast this morning because I'm sure Bill took his cell phone, and I know he'll use it if he ends up in situations similar to last year's. I have hope, though, that he may make it all the way to the Idaho Department of Lands parking lot without incident.

That optimism comes from the fact that the motor home has been to Hope and back without breaking down. Since it went to Hope when we took it for a spin last evening, we must be optimistic. I thought we were going to play it safe and hang around the neighborhood like Bill did last year when he drove it to Yoke's, just three miles away, on its first run. Then, he drove it around our rural block.

Even though he did encounter some rural road rage on that trip at the Baldy Road-Great Northern Road junction, he made it home unscathed. The night he headed it up the Sand Creek hill to get some gas at the Conoco station gave him and the the convenience store clerk cause for concern, but that turned out all right.

It was after he'd practiced taking a shower in it, sleeping on its beds (for naps and nights) and putting about $1,000 dollars of maintenance in it that things started going downward for Bill and the motor home last year. The big crisis came the day he set off for Colville, Washington, and a foresters' convention, only to have it break down on Baldy Road.

He got it running again, and it huffed and puffed its way to North Boyer just past the sheriff's office. Nobody came out to help Bill when the motor home sputtered to a halt, but he managed to get it to the fairgrounds driveway. That's when the cell phones started ringing. Annie and I were enjoying a lunch at the Ice House Pizza---once again in Hope---when Bill started calling.

Knowing he probably wasn't in a great mood, I bought him a big fat brownie at the pizza house before leaving. Knowing she wanted to watch a movie, Annie stopped off at Yoke's before going to where Bill had reported to us later that he was now waiting for a wrecker and would need a ride home. Knowing we'd be in Yoke's for a few minutes, Kiwi ate Bill's brownie. To say he had a bad day was an understatement. He eventually drove his pick-up to Colville and stayed in a motel, with no fishing stops along the way, as previously planned.

It's a new year, and the motor home has had all winter to think of things to disorder Bill's life. So far, it's been behaving fairly well. It started right up the first time I turned the key in the ignition. It obediently went to my mother's house last week so that Bill could have sleep-overs in its living room and reduce Mother's concern each night while my sisters were gone.

Last night, I was surprised when Bill directed it on to Hwy 200 and the old gal happily cruised down the highway. Things were going so smoothly, I almost wished we'd packed some suitcases and could keep on going. We haven't taken a vacation forever, so with that big fat full moon gleaming over the gorgeous lake, it just plain seemed like a night for motor home travel. But we turned around at the boat launch and headed back.

No incidents last night, and I'm still typing. I'm figuring Bill's gotta be getting close to his office by now. No calls. That could be a good sign for new-old motor home success in 2007. If all goes well, maybe we'll even get to use it more than the one night we camped out last year.

And, if my dear cousin Sue's reading this posting, not to worry. Though it's tempting to make sure that old rig gets a lot more use this year, we will allow you to stay inside the house when you come visiting. That is, unless you'd like to give the new-old motor home a try. She's there and waiting!

Sounds

These weeks go by fast when the usual Monday is really a Tuesday. Hard to believe we've already met Hump Day. What's even harder to believe is that yesterday morning I was wearing four layers and still freezing. By afternoon, it was down to one. Both windows in this upstairs room are open as summer has come visiting. I can hear birds singing and cars rolling by on their way to work.

Speaking of hearing things, I've heard that we get to hear loud stuff pretty soon, stuff that might muffle out all moos, bird chirps and barking dogs. The telltale pattern of dug-up dirt that I saw in that field over on Selle Road just west of our place the other day gave me a firm clue that we're in for a change in this neck of the woods. As we drove by the field on our way to town Friday night, I commented to Bill, and he simply reacted, "Yup, we'll get to listen to 'wheeeeeeeirrrrrrrrrr, wheeeirrrrrrrre, wheeirrrrrrrrr' from now on."

Bill's prediction and my assumption were true. I learned from a good source yesterday that the dug-up dirt in that former Selle farm field will soon turn into a dirt track.

"Don't they have to have a permit for something like that?" I asked my source.

"No, they don't," I was told. "They just have to be quiet after 10 p.m. every night."

I guess time will tell how noisy it's going to be in our peaceful Selle sanctuary, but as I said to my neighborhood "Deep Throat," we've heard noise before, living between the train tracks and the airport. Somehow I have a feeling, though, that these upcoming sounds may be a bit more irritating. We'll see.

After reading the paper this morning, even the thought of a dirt track doesn't detract from my continued love affair with this area. Knowing that Boyer Avenue is gonna be closed off for the next month brings back vivid memories of what it was like a couple of years ago when Boyer Avenue was closed off for several weeks. Great Northern Road, with all its bumps, bruises and pock marks, served as on of the main thoroughfares for traffic wanting to get to areas in West Sandpoint.

I won't miss that.

Summer is definitely upon us with all its sounds and nuisances. We bought a second freezer this weekend, and I've heard that the assistant priest at St. Joseph's will soon be the main priest at St. Ann's Parish in Bonners Ferry. So, what connects those two thoughts, readers may ask?

Well, on Sunday mornings, I can drive north on South Center Valley Road, turn west on Center Valley Road and then turn north on HWY 95. From there, it's a straight shot to Bonners Ferry, and a pretty drive on top of that. I can attend Mass, stop off at the Boundary Trading Co. on the way back, stock up on groceries, fill up that freezer and avoid most of the insanity from Selle Road south.

Sounds like a winner and sounds a lot more soothing to the ears than the alternatives.

Tuesday gremlins and Yaak

Well, as often happens, I've been sitting here for nearly an hour, downloading photos from my digital camera, only to have the blogger gods send their wrath on me. Occasionally, for no clear reason, pictures don't appear on the blog, even after all steps have been followed. In other cases, every single one appears with no problem.

Anyway, I was going to post some photos of Yaak Falls in Montana. Annie and I went there Saturday on a geocaching/site seeing trip. She found her first-ever cache in Montana and then found her second. Both were alongside HWY 2 near the Yaak Forest Service campground. With that goal accomplished, we decided to head up the highway to the remote little village of Yaak, which definitely has an "off-the-grid" feel.

It's home to the Dirty Shame Saloon and the Yaak Mercantile. We learned that the Dirty Shame is temporarily closed because the new owner's husband had to have open-heart surgery. She bought it from Willie's husband after Willie died. My friend Chris Moon and I met Willie a few years ago on one of our day-long drive and "Yak" excursions. We drove to Trout Creek, had some breakfast at Katy Jack's where the "ugly waitress" has a tummy so big his buttons almost pop in your face when he comes to serve coffee.

Chris and I worked for the Forest Service engineers, so we took a nostalgic trip from Trout Creek over the Vermillion River Road (where we had conducted traffic surveys 30 years before). Back in those days, we just went to the summit, turned around and came back. On our visit a few years ago, we went on over the mountains and came out east of Troy. So, then it was on to Yaak, where we had a hamburger and listened to Willie, the proprietor, tell her stories.

She was a rough, tough ol' gal. Well, at least the first part was right; we found out during the conversation she wasn't quite as old as she looked. Apparently, life running a saloon had aged Willie. She was the same age as Chris but looked like she'd lived 30 hard years longer. We learned a couple of years ago that Willie had died of cancer. Her husband apparently sold out to the new gal.

While asking about the Dirty Shame on Saturday, we learned from the Yaak Mercantile clerk that things had changed at the saloon. Remodeled with carpet. No smoking, and . . .
"There'll be no more dancing on the tables," the clerk told us.

We bought our treats and used the bathroom in the mercantile bar where a large pack of motorcycle riders were hanging out. We'd seen some of them down at the falls. It's hard not to stop there because those falls pull you in. They're huge and magnificent, and there is one spot where you stand over them and know that it wouldn't be a good idea to get too near the edge. The water flowing below is about as hypnotic as it comes.

Annie snapped lots of photos with her big fancy camera, and I caught a few with mine. If I'm lucky, when I try one more time to post a picture or two, maybe the shots will take up the thousand more words I'd have to write to describe just how pretty Yaak Falls is.

Note: Well, I tried again, but the gremlins won. You'll just have to check out Annie's blog at (www.nnlove.blogspot.com) in the next couple of days. I'm sure she'll have more luck than I did this morning.

Family fun and food

Stay tuned . . . .

Coming later . . . photos. I always post photos from my laptop. It' in the next bedroom where Annie's sleeping, so when I return from horse chores, and she's up, I'll put up some fun shots from the past few days.

Bill's 4-day holiday weekend came up short. He received a call last night about 10 p.m. that there's already a forest fire in Caribou Creek north of Sandpoint. So, he left early this morning to do his logistical work---hotshot crews, helitech, etc. Maybe the rain will come and put out the fire.

Later . . . .

Well, later came later than I thought. Annie and I went up the Yaak River Valley today; did some geocaching and some photography. So, I'm posting a few photos tonight and more tomorrow. The white Persian cat in the photos is Charlie. She's about 12 years old, and she had never been outside until about 10 days ago. Charlie LOVES the outdoors. So, who says the elderly can't enjoy new life adventures?

The early-morning drive on South Center Valley Road presents infinite photo possibilities, especially while passing Jack Filipowski's Hereford herd.

Licker Love

Saturday Slight

Bill's gone fishin' to Cocolalla Creek---his ritual every first day of stream season. Annie's snoozing in the bedroom next door. She drove over from Seattle last night and arrived just before midnight after bumper to bumper 20 mph traffic for the first couple of hours of her trip. A concert at the Gorge and Memorial Weekend boats, trailers, campers took up plenty of space on I-90 late yesterday afternoon.

My sisters are at their annual Memorial Day horse show in Spokane. Actually, it's two shows in one with two days under one judge and two days under another. The show is their ritual every year at this time.

So, that means I'm headed for my ritual of taking care of their nine horses still at home. That always means a lot of picking and thinking. Picking apples (certified equine variety) and thinking about whatever happens to float through my mind during the tedium.

The triplets are here. The triplets are here. They and their entourage (I think that includes Mom, Dad and Uncle Amato) are over at the Thompson cabin, and we expect to see them today.
It will be a busy but beautiful day.

Sometime this weekend, we'll visit the cemeteries and place flowers at my dad's grave at Pack River and my sister's grave at Pinecrest. She died at two months from crib death in 1950. Her name was Jeanne Marie, and it's always a challenge to find her grave, as she lies among the babies of Bests and Bergstroms. We always know the approximate location, but the tiny identification windows are often buried beneath the grass. We always find it and always vow that we need a better marker.

This weekend I'll think about our soldiers of all wars and remember the sacrifices they've made so that we can enjoy our American lifestyles and a certain amount of freedom of thought. No matter the extent of our personal humanitarian gifts to society, nothing rivals the sacrifice of so many of our troops. This weekend gives us pause to remember that.

So, this Saturday Slight will remain slight. May you all have a weekend of good memories of loved ones lost and of loved ones living.

Friday thoughts

Many thanks to all who expressed such eloquent thoughts in the blog comments or emails yesterday. As every horse lover will agree, they're far more than just hayburners. They're family, and losing them leaves a giant void in the close-knit family structure, which in our case includes the humans, the horses, dogs and cats.

A few words on Rambo. He was tall, elegant, smart, talented and remarkable. Bill, Willie, Annie, Bill's sister Margaret and I ushered him into the world a 2 a.m. July 7, 1985. As Bill said, "Marianne, you were there when he was born; you were there when he died." Through a teary conversation Wednesday afternoon with my sister Laurie, who had ridden him to glory in a horse show or two, we agreed that he was one of those "bigger-than-life" horses.

My sister Barbara, who was riding him (yesterday's photo) after he won a reserve championship in show hack and a reserve championship in hunter pleasure at a regional Arabian show many years ago, knows the pain all too well and quite recently.

Her phenomenal show horse Tellie (Rambo's brother) died last fall shortly after Barbara had retired him from a stellar horse-show career, which included regional and national awards. Oddly enough, both horses may have died from strokes. We'll never really know for sure; in both cases, we knew that to prolong their agony would be inhumane.

Without going into detail about the events of Wednesday, I certainly want to thank our wonderful veterinarian Dr. Cherise Neu, her mom Colleen, my neighbors Bev, Ron, Jack and Jim for being there when the need was urgent. Out of all sad events come lasting memories of goodness, both of horses and humans.

Life goes on for the living. It was painful to watch Rambo's buddy Casey who sensed an extreme loss almost immediately. Rambo raised Casey. Casey came to our family as a two-month-old colt, so his surrogate dad/mom of 17 years served as a constant companion. When they moved out here to the Lovestead, it was obvious they fell in love just like the humans did.

Rambo and Casey have spent the best year of their lives, feeling so at home in this place. The memories I'll take with me forever are the many pleasant morning and evening walks to the pastures with two geldings in hand, plodding quietly side by side, just like well-seasoned draft teams.

Casey served as Rambo's seeing-eye horse. He did not wear a bell; he just kept track, and whenever Rambo displayed the insecurity of not knowing exactly where he was, Casey returned to his side. Ultimate friendship.

Casey and Lily will have to become friends. I don't know if that is possible because Lily thinks she's a queen. She hasn't learned to share just yet. She tormented Casey but respected Rambo. The dynamic has changed for both horses. Maybe they'll find a way to build a good relationship; after all, they have just each other now.

Rambo is buried in a grassy opening among the trees in that same pasture where the God tree stands watch. I found the strength to walk down there yesterday, and it gave me strength to do so. As a gentle breeze blew through the trees and birds chirped, I said out loud to myself, "What a wonderful place to spend eternity." I'll take a rake down there soon to smooth out the dirt in the spot where Rambo lies. I'll plant grass and some perennial wildflowers.

We'll never use that enclosure as a pasture. It's more like a sacred sanctuary for reflection and remembrance. So, Rambo can sleep peacefully in that peaceful spot where we all can visit and remember the joy he brought to us as show horse, pasture horse, mentor and friend.

In those moments we can be strengthend by the inspiration he provided while facing adversity with grace so often throughout his "larger than life" existence.

Rambo RIP

Black Rambo

July 7, 1985 ~ May 23, 2007

Champion ~ Hero ~ Friend

RIP

Are you a turtle?

I became a turtle at Camp Neewahlu on Lake Coeur d'Alene during the summer of 1965. That was my dish-washing summer when my classmate, Terry Chronic, and I worked for the University of Idaho on the Federal work-study program.

The program had just been launched, so we worked at the university for a few weeks in June and then moved up to Camp Neewahlu for eight weeks, once the little Campfire Girls started showing up from towns throughout North Idaho.

Terry and I had a lot of free time, once we got our dish-washing routine down. We streamlined our system and reduced our workload from eight hours in the hot steam to three. The work-study program paid us for eight hours regardless, and we were designated dishwashers---nothing else.

So, in time spent on the dock or sitting around at night visiting with camp counselors, we did a lot of yakking, learned a lot of crazy songs and even went through the ritual to become Turtles.

Over the years, whenever the urge has hit me, I've occasionally spouted off in the midst of a roomful of people, "Iz anyone in this group a turtle?" To my delight, there are usually at least one or two folks who answer correctly because they know precisely what I'm talking about.

They've been initiated, probably during their youthful days, and they more than likely haven't thought about turtledum for decades. It's always fun for club members, especially because we pick up a few more recruits in the process. Then, years go by, and turtles keep plodding along minding their own business and never thinking about their purest of minds that got them into the club in the first place.

This morning marks a first. I've got the turtle urge. I've never inquired in a blog posting if anyone out there is a turtle? I doubt that anyone has. Maybe I'll make history by this cyber-inquiry, or maybe I'll hear from someone who claims credit for being the first to seek out turtles through blog postings.

Why am I thinking about members of the Turtle Club? Well, there's a hint in my answer. Trish Gannon wrote to me and told me of the great success---financially speaking---of the Clark Fork Donkey Basketball game last night. I was supposed to participate but chose to donate instead.

Trish says the event raised enough funds to match those offered up by a local bank. Those funds will help improve the Wampus Cat football grandstand so fans can sit above the action for a much better view.

When Trish shared this story with me, there was something about a donkey basketball game that made me think of the Turtle Club. Only Turtle Club members will understand why. So, there's your challenge for the day. Let's see how many official Turtles exist out there.

If you don't know what the heck I'm talking about, just spend the day asking a lot of 50-60-somethings if they are a turtle. With luck, the answer will eventually come, and you won't think this gawd-awful cold has started affecting my brain too much.

Or, if you happen to be a turtle, answer up in the comments section. Extra credit for putting your name with your answer.

Gotta cold in my node and sorry looking hands

I told Bill this morning that this has to be the worst cold I've had since retiring five years ago. At first, I thought it was just allergies from all those blossoming bushes here at the Lovestead. After all, I could never get a lilac bush to live through the winter at the Great Northern place, so springtime pollen wasn't too much of a factor during those 30 years.

This place, however, is loaded with lilacs, and they're at their full show right now. Nonetheless, after several days and several new symptoms I've decided the lilacs deserve no blame for the healthy amount of congestion my head and lungs have taken on lately. And, it seems to get worse by the day. What was a raspy throat has turned into sneezing, blowing and a lot of coughing, so much so that I broke down and used a liquid Nyquill last night.

When you have a cold in your node and it's pretty outside, that makes you feel even worse. I've tried to get my coffee to give me jolt enough to feel a little more energy, but no luck. Bill had this cold before I did, and I noticed it sure was liquidy when he came down with it. He also tells me that no amount of caffeine helped him through the worst days, so my next strategy is to get out there and work really hard at some project, hard enough to make me forget the damn cold.

Which brings to mind, while sitting and thinking after reading this morning's newspapers, I took a good look at my hands. Gosh, they're ugly. I was just reading my friend Jenny's blog which talks about the simple life in the country surrounded by animals, and I thought once again about my battle-worn hands.

They're covered with evidence of all the work that comes with the simple life. There's still some red spray paint from the aerosol can I used the other day to dress up my remaining pilfered wagon wheel (read Lessons with Love for more details).

I also used red and blue spray paint to provide a whimsical look to the rock flower bed where the wagon wheel sits. The whimsy comes in the form of several old horse shoes, which are no longer rust-colored. Now red and blue, they hang at angles on oversized sticks resting on top of the rocks.

The can of red spray paint also spiffed up a set of wooden wind chimes in the front yard and the top of a frost-free hydrant near the barn. Fortunately, the can went empty before I found another item to dress up.

Back to the hands: the finger nails are short, caked with indelible dirt and definitely in need of repair all around. No matter how much I wash my hands, I cannot remove the evidence of hours spent digging in the dirt or pulling ever-growing weeds. Ground-in soil runs in straight lines and curves, especially on my right hand which seems to get the biggest workout of the two.

A few weeks ago I remember so vividly Virginia Wood shaking my hand at a funeral and commenting that it was definitely the hand of a working woman with its well-formed callouses residing side by side across the palm. Her astuteness impressed me, and I didn't feel one bit of shame. My callouses, my rough, cracked skin and shoddy-looking fingernails serve as badges of sorts, honoring the life I prefer here in the country.

I don't take time to look at my hands very often, but this morning's viewing made me think that the best darned therapy in the world for this node cold is to put them to work outside rather than sittin' on the couch, thinking about how awful I feel.

So, that's what I'm gonna do.

Return to Grouse Creek

Before talking about Grouse Creek, I must talk about Snoqualmie Tunnel, Annie and geocaching. She has posted pictures on her blog at (www.nnlove.blogspot.com) of her Saturday geocaching adventure with Groundspeak colleagues. Annie said the cache, located inside the Snoqualmie Tunnel, is one of the most popular, attracting geocachers from all over the world. I haven't yet heard how the adventure went, but from looking at the photos, they must have found the cache.

Bill and I had time for a short outing yesterday, the first in quite some time. He had to be back to town by 4 for a concert at the Presbyterian Church, and since he returned from Sunday worship at about 12:30, our drive had to be abbreviated. One of those weird moments resulting from many years of marriage occurred just before I suggested we go for a short drive.

I haven't been to Grouse Creek for at least a couple of years, I thought to myself. Then, I made my suggestion and asked where we'd be going. "Grouse Creek," he said. No argument there. In ten minutes, Bill, Kiwi and I were on our way.

Grouse Creek has always been one of my favorite destinations---well, most of the time. The day the mother moose decided to charge our Dodge Caravan as we drove through the big open meadow near the falls kinda kept me away from there for a while.

I remember being so scared as the kids (little at the time) sat in the back seat that I almost drove clear to Elmira to avoid turning around and coming back through that meadow. I knew Mama moose was laying in wait for me. We came down the hill from the north, sped up on the level and raced back through the area. No moose to be seen anywhere.

Other than that fateful day, Grouse Creek has provided pleasant memories for me. I got to know the area really well while working for the Forest Service engineers as a survey aide. My first assignment ever was to accompany Vern Eskridge, Dick Creed and Dave Lee on a nine-mile survey job of the lower road.

That was about 1969, when Sis Ballenger and I were the first "girls" to work in the field for the Kaniksu National Forest. When they featured us in an article, they called it "Hard Hats and Curls." That was also when we named Dick Creed "Huckleberry" cuz during every lunch break he spent his time on the hunt for berry bushes.

We worked that job, crawling up and down hillsides every 50 feet with our abne levels, for at least a couple of weeks, and the experience served as my epiphany that there sure was a lot of country back there in them there hills. That realization sprouted a love for back roads on any mountain anywhere, but Grouse Creek always remained special because it was the first of many roads to conquer.

Grouse Creek was also one of the first places I took Bill when he moved to Idaho permanently in 1974. I still have a few black and white photos of our winter wanderings in areas where Bill was blown away by the size of the cedar stumps that had been logged out of the area during the Humbird Lumber Co. days.

Years ago, I was fortunate to go on an overnight trail ride with the Gold n'Grouse 4-H Club where we went from the McNall place into Boulder Meadows, climbing our way back out through snow so deep we had to get off the horses, send them up the hill, hold on to their tails, and follow behind. Definitely an experience I'll never forget.

Also, years ago, approximately the late '70s-early '80s, I loved to go off on side roads up there for cross country skiing, sometimes with my dog Sarah and on other occasions with my friend Ann or my yearbook students. On one of those skiing ventures, I was terribly disturbed to see where someone had chased and possibly shot either a moose or an elk on their snowmobile. The tracks and the blood on the snow were telltale, but fortunately, I never saw the final result.


Yesterday's drive was pretty tame. We drove to the end of the road, and I commented that it seemed strange not to see Gary Beauchene's turquoise horse trailer parked in the opening where the trail into Boulder Creek takes off from the road. We also drove the South Fork of Grouse Creek where Bill showed me a subdivision of sorts.

The road ends at Caldwell's house where Dr. Caldwell, a substitute veterinarian, has a professional cremation service for animals. Bill says they had all the rock hauled in (at least a mile's worth) and her husband maintains the road all winter so his wife can make her veterinarian calls and pick up deceased animals for cremation. Their home at the far edge of a big meadow is pretty enough to make such a drive and so many sacrifices worth the trip.

As we turned around at Caldwell's, Bill looked at his watch and said he'd better be heading back. Soon after that, we came to another roadside parking area, and, sure enough, there was Gary Beauchene's turquoise stock trailer. He and the Paddleford's (Bob with the white handlebar mustache and Sue with her leather duster) were getting ready to load up horses and mules after a ride up to Wiley Knob.

I have a feeling Gary and the PaDelford's know more square inches of Grouse Creek country than I ever did during that nine miles of surveying. Bob showed me his wooden stirrup and pointed to the place where his boot has worn down the wood from so many miles in the saddle.

Grouse Creek has changed a lot the nearly four decades that I've visited its forests, trails and roads, but it still holds that alluring charm that impressed me so many years ago when I was so young and so green behind the ears when it came to Idaho back roads. The experience of working there changed all that, and I know I'll always enjoy every upcoming return to Grouse Creek.

Oh, by the way, we did see a cow moose yesterday. I did attempt to take her picture as she simply turned in the road and stared back at us. Only problem---the moose didn't charge but the camera batteries needed to.

Friends, fun and flowers of May

My classmate Janet Eakin Anthony came to the Lovestead for a visit.

Tibbs Arabians chauffeur and matriarch Mother Tibbs with Karlen McBirney

Helpers for Farmin day at the horse farm: Karlin, Merisa, Jenny and Grace

Miss Tibbs gives instructions on expected behavior

Headin' off to Horseland

Beautiful Rusty, Laurie's dressage horse

Making friends and learning

Sittin', thinkin' and eatin'

Good ol' Beau comes for some brushing.

Chris gets a little massage therapy

Can life get any better than this for horses and kids?

Lilacs at the Lovestead

Saturday Slight

It's a slow Saturday, and that is good. We're getting a much-needed downpour after several days of magnificent spring weather. My former student Carmel Hawn, owner of Hawn Sys, Inc. in Lihue, Hawaii, came to visit this past week and said she enjoyed the nicest weather ever in her home visits since moving to Hawaii more than 25 years ago. I tend to agree with Carmel. We were blessed this week. Now, it's time to replenish the soil and all the little growing plants and grass with some moisture. Maybe we can prolong the green, which provides such a striking contrast to all things colorful. Right now at the Lovestead, lilac bushes are just about in full bloom and the peonies are about to pop out of their neatly and fully packed round buds. What a show that will be! It's time for Saturday Slight:

• I was pleasantly surprised this week to receive a call from my dear friend and classmate, Janet Eakin Anthony. She was in town on family business and had some time for a visit. So, she came over Tuesday evening, walked the fields, signed the Lodgepole Log and caught us up on life in Packwood where she and her hubby Rick (another beloved classmate) have lived for a number of years. Janet and Rick both turn 60 in the next week, so I wish them a happy celebration. Yesterday my friend Jeanne from the Spokesman hit the milestone, and in three days, Donna Olson Coulter does the same.

• Bill and I had a nice time last evening at Keokee's celebration of another bigger, better Sandpoint Magazine. In this newest issue, 2007 Festival at Sandpoint commissioned artist Janene Grende has painted the cover art "Midsummer Moose." It's a moose standing on Gold Hill looking across Lake Pend Oreille toward the Festival at Sandpoint tent. Must be the final night for the concert series cuz the moose is watching some colorful fireworks.
• Janene's artwork is as striking as ever, and the magazine pages within are striking for a number of reasons. Lots of ads about luxurious private communities, a touch of old Sandpoint mixed in with a touch of the new. Lots about recreation, lots about fascinating people with fascinating backgrounds who've landed here to live. Fun stuff about Bonner County history for 100 years, 25 years of the Festival happenings, and restoration of a magnificent brick school house. The Keokee folks and their cast of contributors have poured out a potpourri in this 170-page issue which should keep folks reading for hours.
• The party last night was nice too. I listened to a very energetic young man who has a very energetic plan and dream for being a big-time published author soon. I enjoyed visiting with attorney Paul Vogel who told me of how he landed in Sandpoint in the '70s from his native North Carolina. John Monks of Robinson Lake (north of Bonners Ferry) fame told me of his summer trips to the family property and his eventual move to Sandpoint from Oregon. John does hydro-geoscience for clients far and near, including a big dairy in Southern Idaho.
• I finally met the Bookcrossing.com creators, Heather and Bruce Pedersen. Their daughter Rio was featured on a recent BBC show called "My Life as a Child." She filmed herself and her brothers while homeschooling and traveling for a year. In addition, the television crew came to Sandpoint do some of their own filming. While visiting with the Pedersens, we talked geocaching.com, which has distinct similarities to the bookcrossing website. Heather expressed an interest in meeting my daughter Annie and maybe finding ways to collaborate with the geocaching folks. Who knows if anything will come of it, but it was fun to compare notes.
• Besides talking to a lot of other interesting folks, we watched the "Lost in the '50s" parade from Keokee headquarters, and I was struck during that hour or so and later, while we drove through town, how many of those hundreds and hundreds of pedestrians I saw taking in the action were total strangers. I'd use an estimated 10-1 ratio in the number of strangers vs. familiar faces I saw last night. Sandpoint is definitely at the crossroads, even though events like "Lost in the '50s" bring people together and lend continuity to the town's down-home and fun history.
• We had a great day yesterday at the Tibbs Arabians Colburn farm. My sister Laurie's students appreciated and respected what she does during her hours outside of school. Merisa, one of Barbara and Laurie's riding students who won a national championship as a youth judge last fall, rode her bike for 40 minutes from her home near Kootenai to come and help out. I've assisted Laurie with this activity for lots of years, but I don't think I've ever seen such an interested busdriver, Mr. Moore, who got into the horsing around as much as the kids.
• It was inspiring to watch one of the students, Margo, take my friend Jenny's daughter Grace under her wing. And, when the day's events ended after a grooming session with five or six kids to each horse, the hugs and good byes to the horses were more than touching. Laurie said she never has heard so many "thank you's" from kids who loved their day at the farm.
• We often concentrate too much on the negative aspects of this world and how everything seems to be going downhill. There are. It does. But I'd like to talk ratios again. I'd once again use 10-1 with good people working for the betterment of others: bad people tearing down the good. That equals a lot more reasons to smile than to frown.

That's all for this rainy Saturday Slight. Happy weekend to all.

Good news bees and Moore

Well, I wrote about the return of the bees in yesterday's post. Since then, I've learned more from Mr. Moore, the beekeeper. Chad Moore married Tracy Hicks who was one of my students several years ago. I knew him always as Tracy's husband, the beekeeper until yesterday.

While going to town, I saw him and his assistant Mariah Leen Yetter working at the hives in their beekeepers' apparel and standing in the midst of clouds of honey bees. I stopped and told him that my blog had featured his bees. Apologizing for not ever knowing his name, he happily told me to call him Chad Moore from now on.

Chad is a happy beekeeper. He proudly announced to me that his bees are doing better than they've done in 25 years. He says that his hives have already gone through the problems we're all reading about, and that this year is looking excellent for his beekeeping enterprise.

I told him how happy I was to see the bees back, to which he replied, "Yup, it's officially spring now. The bees are back. I wouldn't put these boxes out until I was sure it was spring." So, for all who worry about bees, knock on wood. That problem we're reading about has come and gone to Chad Moore's Idaho variety, so the plants and animals around wherever he keeps his hives should have a good year ahead.

Now that the bees are here, I'm going to participate today in another "rite" or "right" of spring. Well, actually a couple of activities. First, I'll be joining my dear friend Jenny and her daughter Grace at the Colburn horse farm where Tibbs Arabians will host another Farmin School fifth grade visit. We'll be helping my sister Laurie, who---if the kids are good throughout the year---buses them out to the farm and spends the day talking horses.

She shows how to groom, she talks about breeds, coat colors and basic training. After Laurie's done with the talking, the kids get a chance to actually work a horse with the longe line. Then, they split up into groups and do some grooming. The horses love it. The kids love it, and whoever else shows up loves to see this experiential education on beautiful days in May.

When that's over, Bill and I will attend the Keokee "Lost in the '50s" party to celebrate the release of the 2007 spring edition of Sandpoint Magazine. I hear it's the biggest issue yet. We'll nibble on treats, sip some suds, visit with other contributors and watch the parade of 800 vintage/classic cars roll by Keokee's headquarters on Church Street.

A spring day in May doesn't get any better than this. Right now, I'm hearing the birds singing, when I go outside, I'll hear Chad's bees buzzing, and for the rest of the day, I'll enjoy all the sounds that go with kids and horses and grown-ups and old cars.

Definitely a good news day and a great kickoff for official spring in Sandpoint. Enjoy your Friday.

Return of the Honey Bees

We've been reading about it, hearing about it and lamenting about it. Bees are having some problems in certain parts of the country and the world. Many are dying off because of what appears to be an unsolved mystery.

Everything from cell phone transmissions to a virus, to pesticides or even genetically modified plants seems to be suspect in the bee crisis. Adding to the mystery is the fact that no dead bodies of bees are found near hives once the "colony collapse disorder" strikes. Experts say the problems can be far reaching if the bees continue to disappear. Bee pollination is important to fruit and vegetable production as well as to a wide range of animals and birds.

I don't know the full story behind the hives that reappeared after a winter's absence in Taylor's field across the road from our house, but I was glad to come home yesterday afternoon to see those familiar white boxes. We have a jug of honey in the cupboard produced last year by the owner of those hives. He's a second generation beekeeper, and last year while working with his hives, he told me the bees were suffering from a disease, so he was giving them some sort of treatment.

Apparently, his bees are doing okay this spring. We'll keep our fingers crossed, and we'll enjoy having them over for their frequent summertime visits. Yesterday, as I drove into the driveway, got out of the pickup to get the mail and walked back across the road, I could hear a distinctive dull roar. Bees were buzzing to their heart's content. It was a good sound.

Later, as I walked along the flower boxes located around our front yard deck, I could see that several had already come to visit. At least half a dozen were cruising over a spreading white flower and happily doing whatever honey bees do. Mary Taylor told me last summer that the crops, both garden and field, thrive in areas where honey bees dare to tread. So, we're thrilled to see their return.

We'll also be thrilled if the beekeeper can keep ahead of whatever this mysterious dilemma seems to be. After all, it's his livelihood, and it will be nice if he can continue nurturing the bees and helping nurture all that benefit from their work.

Huckleberry Hound has chased me down

I'm going through interrogation today. I have to drive to Coeur d'Alene to endure a half hour's worth of intense questioning, to which in some cases, I may be wise to simply plead the Fifth Amendment and avoid incriminating myself or others. Take, for example, the following question:

What did you and/or your fellow teachers do to Larry Spencer when he was your student to turn him into such a rabid, foaming anti-public school attack pomeranian?

Now, what's a person to say? Larry was, indeed, my student for a time, and Larry's now known as the constituent with deep pockets who has sent out several mass mailings to convince voters to vote "no" on issues he felt would spell doom for taxpayers.

Now, I get along with Larry just fine, but I unequivocally and categorically (isn't that nice politician lingo?) inflicted no Pavlovian tactics on him---ever. Those must've come later in his academic journey. When Larry sat in my English class as a sophomore in high school, we worried more about Word Clues sentences, stabbings of Roman dictators and turning in assignments. Besides, I thought of him as more of a contented Lab back in those days.

And, then there's the question about the "moldy-cheese layer" of Sandpoint. Now, I've been around Sandpoint a long, long time, but I cannot speak with great authority on the "moldy cheese layer" in our community unless it deals with someone's dirty socks. Apparently, it's a term for young unwed mothers, but I've never quite heard of that sociological segment of society referred to in such ways. So, I'll approach that one carefully.

Finally, someone wants to know what I think about showing the movie "Brokeback Mountain" to a class of 12-year-olds----which apparently happened in a classroom somewhere in this nation---probably geology class, cuz those gorgeous mountains sure did have some interesting faults.

Talk about being on the hotseat. I told my friend Ann that if I were that teacher, I would have checked with the principal first and if, by some stretch of the imagination, it progressed from there, I'd send home the obligatory notes to Mom and Dad or to whoever's minding the children. Then, I'd call in sick, have them hire a substitute and blame it all on the sub.

These educational situations are on the minds of folks who were asked to submit questions for me during a half-hour's guest appearance on "Huckleberries Gone Wireless" with my Blogfather Dave Oliveria. There were others---about my thoughts on home school or whether science and math get too much emphasis over other disciplines.

Never dreamed that writing a book about the lessons I learned as a teacher for 33 years would elicit such demand for my modest amounts of knowledge. Believe me, folks, an educational expert/pundit I'm not. A storyteller I am. So, it should be interesting.

Dave tells me I'll sit in his office from 10:30-11 a.m. while he sits with his laptop at the ready, asks me questions and then types the answers. Every five minutes or so, he'll upload the answers to the "Huckleberries Online" blog, so readers can see what the results of this relatively new style of public discussion. The text-only interview will appear on the Huckleberries blog for the rest of the day.

So, if you're interested, tune in to (http://www.spokesmanreview.com/blogs/hbo/) between 10:30-11 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time today. And, tell your friends. It could turn out to be mighty scary or a heckuva lot of fun-----as is any new frontier we embrace.

Now, before heading to Coeur d'Alene, I've got to go off and do some sleuthing about the "moldy cheese layer." Any suggestions? Anyone? Anyone?

Fun stuff and flowers

Everyone has a mentor. Bob Hamilton was my head man. Had he not believed in a floundering farm kid looking for a direction so long ago, I doubt this moment ever would have happened. His support and guidance when I was 16 made all the difference, as it did with dozens of other aspiring journalists.

By the way, Bob also recently published a book about legendary North Idaho coach Cotton Barlow and Cotton's own phenomenal mentoring of many Panhandle athletes. It has involved years and years of research, and it's called "Cotton." It's available in Sandpoint bookstores and at the Bonner County Museum.

This group includes some of the friends, former colleagues, former students, parents and even a family member who showed up for my signing at Vanderford's Bookstore this past Saturday. Owner Marcia Vanderford, a former student, is in the back left corner mixed in with all those Jacobson family members.

All behaved very well during my reading.

No wolves this morning