Pumpkin Day

Happy Halloween

May you enjoy the day hiding in the closet of your darkened house, refusing to let any little spooky masked monsters scare the bejeebers out of you.

Or, may you get pure delight and joy out of scaring the bejeebers out of all little or big masked monsters who ring your doorbell.

And, because you have so bejeebered, may you have bags and bags and bags of mini Mounds, Reeses cups, or Almond Joys or caramel popcorn balls left over to enjoy as lunchies and munchies for many days ahead.

Or, may you simply give treats and receive no damn tricks.

However you choose to spend Halloween, may you have a happy day.

And, that's my treatise on Goblin Day.
Amen.

Happy Halloween

Whatever happened to . . . ?

I was talking with my friend Mow (aka Jean) yesterday on the phone. Soon, we're going to be related, if all goes well, that is. I was reporting to Mow that Saturday's ultrasound had indicated 5 or 6 babies, due Nov. 7. Mow was ecstatic but concerned. She wants to make sure that she gets to adopt one.

She has ordered one of Sam's Border Collie pups. Sam is Kiwi's mom, and she belongs to Robin McNall. We have ordered one of Sam's pups also. And, so has Willie. They'll be available around Christmas time, so it's definitely going to be a few dog-day afternoons around here until all the extra little pups go to their respective homes in Boise and Palm Springs.

During our conversation, Mow told me that she and her hubby Joe had house guests and that she had told them "the story." The story, which my friend, also well-honed storyteller herself, had relayed to her guests involved my "Amazing Cross-Country Search" for Mow. I hadn't seen her in 19 years since we both worked at Camp Neewahlu on Lake Coeur d'Alene. That summer she had eaten steaks and told stories around our dinner table. My folks loved Mow.

So while on a trip to Louisiana, poor Bill, Willie and Annie had to endure lots of time sitting in the car while I tracked her down, all the way from Deadwood, South Dakota, to Kansas City, Missouri. I went to great lengths to find my friend. We've kept in fairly good touch ever since. Now that we're going to be related, I have a feeling I won't lose track of Mow.

I'm kinda crazy that way about my friends. I love to reconnect. In the past year or so, I've reconnected with one of my first grade classmates, Shirley Beasley. Every time I'd go through my scrapbook and find her class photo among the piles that have been stuffed together for years, waiting to be tacked down on the pages, I'd always wonder whatever happened to her after high school. The Beasleys came to Sandpoint from Mississippi, and all I knew about her since the mid-'60s was that she'd moved back there.

Later, another long-lost neighbor friend, with whom I'd reconnected on the SHS alumni website, gave me a phone number. She had gone to school with Shirley's older sister. Upon receiving the number, I wasted no time calling Shirley who does live in Southern Mississippi with her long-haul truck driver husband. We've talked a couple of times since; I'm hoping she's okay because she told me she has a fairly serious heart condition.

Listening to Mow chuckle about my pursuit story yesterday, I got to thinking about some of those other folks I often wonder about, especially those from first grade at Lincoln. In particular, there's tiny Patricia Rash who always had pretty laced anklets in the class pictures. I don't think I've heard a word about Patricia since we left Lincoln and headed for junior high.

Then, there's Ronnie Swanson. He had blond hair, and he was one of the squirrely kids in our class. It seems like my brother told me he might live over in the Missoula area, but that's the only remnant of his existence I've heard in nearly 50 years.

I also think about JoAnn Levering. She moved to Pocatello, and I remember her dad Louis was an important businessman downtown. Could he have been the manager of Pacific Power & Light? That's all pretty hazy to me.

What's not hazy, however, is the day that JoAnn came to visit our North Boyer farm to play. My parents were gone. My brothers were home. We were still in grade school. That combination spelled disaster because my brothers were still in their "older brothers gone tormenting" stage. They harassed JoAnn (the fragile city girl) and me so much, chasing us around the place and making snide comments, that she finally went inside crying, called her parents and begged them to come and pick her up.

They did, and she never asked to come to our farm again. I'd love to know whatever happened to JoAnn, and I'd love to assure her that if she came to visit, the Lovestead would be safe from tormenting older brothers. Seems that's one of those childhood incidents that deserves a little correcting.

As a perpetual people person, I never grow weary of wondering what roads my early friends have taken, what they look like now, what major changes they took on in life, and would I feel the same about them now as I did then? It would be fascinating, especially to compare notes about our mutual memories of pre-Wonder Years.

In fact, the more I think about it, the concept is certainly worth a TV documentary series---answering the question "Whatever happened to . . . ?"

In the meantime, I know what happened to Mow and to Shirley, and I have no regrets about satisfying my curiosity. I wonder if Shirley wants a puppy.

I thought my good friend Don Albertson needed a new look to start his eighth decade, so I went to Wal-Mart and went the cheap route. I think this remarkable transformation for Don, whose hair is thinning, cost all of $5.99. Good deal, if you ask me. I don't know how Don feels about it.

Mother and Kiwi are buddies. This photo was snapped yesterday on our trip to Canuck Basin. It's at a camping area used by the Indians during huckleberry season.

WIPs gone bad

Once again, I failed to complete my new Sunday posting goals (Works in Progress aka WIPs), and I still haven't found out about Stan Meserve's wolf sightings. Life just gets in the way, and it darned well should. When I let my blogging schedule dictate my life, it's time to wrap it up. All day long, that is. Everyone knows to leave me alone between 7-8 a.m., but anything posted after that is just not gonna fly unless it works out.

So, yesterday's adventure got in the way. Around 12:30 we picked up Mother and headed for Bonners Ferry and on to Canuck Basin, where Bill, my sisters, their dog Pita, our dog Kiwi and I went on a memorable 8-mile hike to the Scout.

Of course, geocaching was involved in that hike as it was on yesterday's outing. We also stopped to do some target practicing with the .22 rifle. We offered Mother the opportunity to try her luck with the targets, but she was happy to sit in the sun and watch. She also enjoyed seeing the fruits of Bill's two geocaching finds and thought that might be a fun hobby.

We've got to get the folks at Groundspeak, Inc. to come up with a "Geocaching for Seniors" concept where wheelchairs, canes and easy access dictate the cache locations. Seems like it could open some whole new worlds for folks looking for mental stimulation and a little more excitement during their day.

Speaking of senior citizens, I do think Don Albertson looks quite dapper with his new hair. It wouldn't surprise me, though, if Don decides to re-gift his hair piece. Who's next? I vote Terry Iverson!

Happy Monday.

Sunday WIP and Wolves

I kinda liked going on a slight detour last Sunday, taking several little writing jaunts throughout the day rather than one big morning trip down the freeway of thought. Only problem was that by the time "60 Minutes" came on last week, my passion for writing took its own side road in the form of nodding off at the wheel. So, I had to finish up Sunday's stuff on Monday morning.

The best laid plans of mice and men and women don't always work out as scheduled. That's one of those things I've learned many times along this earthly journey. So, I'm not going to let that lack of closure last week get in the way of trying another Sunday of postings throughout the day. And, who knows, maybe this concept may turn into a semi-regular feature of the ever unfolding slight detours from my normal routines. The name for this new feature will be an acronym for Work in Progress, aka Sunday WIP.

My first WIP today is to get to the bottom of a story I heard last night from Marilla and Kay Kemmis. They heard it at a birthday party yesterday afternoon from Stan Meserve. Stan seems to have spotted two wolves last week in his field---right next to ours. Now, all my faithful book readers know that if Marianne Love said she spotted a wolf, you've gotta take it with a pile of mud. Just ask Larry, Ardelle and Jolene Book---who've been there, done that.

But when Stan Meserve, who's lived in these Selle parts his entire life, says he spotted two wolves in his field--next to ours--I've gotta go do some sleuthing. The story goes that Stan even got out the binoculars to verify what he saw.

And, if the story's true, it will validate other claims around the Selle area where people say they've seen wolves. Better yet, it will lend a lot more credibility and respect to our sign (donated by the mud flung Book family), which warns everyone at the end of the driveway of a "wolf x-ing."

Stay tuned . . . check back for more Sunday WIPS. . . .

. . .WIP 2, High Noon: Still no word on the wolves. Stan and Geneva must be off visiting. We're off to Canuck Basin for the last of the fall colors. We're taking Mother with us too. So, she'll be snapping and I'll be snapping. Between the two of us, maybe we'll get some nice pictures. . . .

. . . WIP 3, refer to Monday morning posting. Another example of best laid plans changing or not coming to fruition.

Saturday Slight

Cold beauty. I've got my heater going for the first time this fall. Gotta keep those toes warm, even with their three layers of socks. The mountainside out the left window is ablaze with golden larch accenting the blue-green blanket of evergreen forests. A giant golden larch sits next to the loafing shed, and the sun is casting a bright light on the rest of the landscape.

Yesterday I could hear a steady crackling rain of dry, crisp leaves tumbling to the ground. By Monday, I'm guessing this cold air will complete the job of stripping all those deciduous trees around the yard, except the oak, that is. Those oak leaves love to cling until the last ounce of energy gives way in the early spring.

Yup, fall is upon us, and winter's not far behind on this last Saturday of October.

This last Saturday of October 27, 2007, is also the 70th birthday of one of my good friends. His name is Don Albertson, and he loves to play on the telephone. Well, he's been known to play on the phone as recently as his late 60s. So, I believe that he wouldn't mind if friends and even strangers satisfied his fetish for fun telephone talk by calling him to wish him a happy birthday.

But, if you do, first tell him his horses are out galloping down the road or, better yet, toot the birthday song through the phone as if you're a tuba. He'll know who put you up to it, and I know he'll enjoy it, and maybe you will too, if you like to play on the phone.

Don's telephone number is 208-263-0900. If his wife Terri answers, I'm sure she'll help you add some cheer to his birthday. 'Twould be nice for Don to have a telephone call for every year of life, so I hope folks will help see that happen. Tell your friends to call him too.

In other news, the newest edition of Sandpoint Magazine is out. I was honored to meet Jack and Dorothy Fowler at the Keokee publication party yesterday afternoon. Jack was the guy who stopped by the side of the road at Hope while returning from a Montana ski trip, looked up and saw possibilities for a ski hill at Schweitzer many, many years ago.

Dorothy is a renowned sculpter whose work has gone all over the world. Very nice, down-to-earth people. Dorothy told me they came to the party early because Jack, who's now 85, had to get up early this morning to go duck hunting.

The magazine also has pages and pages of wonderful stories and photographs about the people and beauty that co-mingle in this area. It presents a nice mix of the old with the new, and I'd say my favorite feature is the newcomers/longtimers who talk about their thoughts on the area. I noticed one high school kid who came here from Hawaii thinks the winter ought to be a month long.

I like that kid. He's got the right idea, and maybe we could talk to Al Gore to see if he could do something about formulating a plan. But, the plan would have to include allowing the winter to stay up there at Schweitzer for six months. Down in the valley, we could say good bye to the snow and the gray every Jan. 31. I'm sure Al could figure this out since he invented the Internet.

Nampa won last night---and big. Lakeland won last night---and big. So, I think that means that sports reporter/editor William Love gets to fly up here next Friday to cover the Nampa-Lakeland playoff game. He'll just stay overnight here at the Lovestead because he has to fly back to celebrate his wife Debbie's 30th birthday. Willie and Bill will have the house to themselves cuz I'll be in Moscow for the first of two Young Authors' conferences.

So, I guess I'll have to wait until Christmas to see Willie. Annie will be home for Thanksgiving, but right now she's adventuring in Hawaii on the big island. She's been posting her photos every day on her blog at (www.nnlove.blogspot.com). So, be sure to check them out.

I'd better quit yakking and get out there to that cold barn where Mr. Lefty, who lost his manhood Tuesday, is still recuperating. I'll turn him out into the barnyard and hope that this is the last day for him to incur pain and some bleeding from the incision. Lefty doesn't make it easy on himself cuz he tears across the barnyard, and that's not good for healing incisions.

Sometime this morning, Laurie will be hearing from Barbara on how the judging team did at the Arabian Nationals. Poor Merissa Turnbaugh went down there with more than enough pressure for anyone who does well at everything. Last year she won first place in the nation and brought home a lot of loot. Where does one go from there? I guess the crowning glory would be for the whole team to win first place. Knowing my sister Barbara and how hard she works, that's gonna happen one of these days. (Check the blog later today, and if they do have some exciting news, I'll post it so you can read it here first).

Lefty, here I come! Happy Saturday, and do call that Don. Believe me, he deserves all the telephone calls he can get!

To my friend, John, the John Joker

Dear John,

I'll bet you're nervous because you're receiving a "Dear John" letter. And, coming from me, you certainly should be shaking in your boots. After all, I've not yet gotten over your obvious amusement at the Rotary that day when you told everyone at the noon meeting about those snot-nosed kids climbing up on top of the Honey Bucket at The Festival and peering down at me as I was going No. 1.

That wasn't a nice thing to do, John. I should never have told you that story because I didn't think you'd repeat it to all the town business brass. I guess you just thought it was hilarious because it occurred in the John, and since your name is John, it's got to be funny. My whole psyche was injured for life when I heard that you had told the story. John, I've never been quite the same since. One of these days, you'll get your come uppance, but I'm writing this letter to you for an entirely different reason.

I'm writing to you, John, cuz you actually did a good thing. Oh, I know you have that company that provides nice employment and benefits for a bunch of locals. And, I read recently about those business wizards you attracted from the outside world to help keep the company cruising right along on a worldwide scale. Yup, old friend, you've done all right with (www.unicep.com), but that's not what I want to talk about.

Instead, I want to talk about your and your wife Mary's team effort in rearing that fine son---and those lovely daughters. I got to sit right behind Sarah last night at the candidates forum, and, of course we all love Sarah because she won the first "Harold Tibbs --- Toby I" memorial belt buckle a few years ago.

While sitting behind Sarah, I could whisper commentary into her ear whenever the mayoral and City Council candidates performed. I said some not so good things. I refused to say some things, and I said good stuff too. It was kinda like sitting in geometry class many moons ago when I used to whisper in the ear of the girl in front of me, only to see her kicked out of class one day after she got snotty with the teacher who reprimanded her for turning around.

I've always liked issuing quiet, often quirky commentary at events to whoever will listen, but I still feel bad about that girl getting kicked out of class when it was really all my fault that she had turned around to respond to some smart remark I'd made.

It was safer last night with Sarah because the theater was pretty dark, and people couldn't hear me anyway because of that clock in someone's pocket across the aisle that kept going off, announcing that "THE TIME AT THE TONE IS SEVEN P.M., just like my mother's living room Debbie clock.

Okay, back to Steven. John, he's an impressive candidate who demonstrated ultimate respect for the office for which he is running. He spoke from the heart. He spoke with obvious knowledge that he had done his homework, lots of it in fact. He displayed respect for the constituency. I still can't understand why a dozen candidates had to define "constituent" last night, but they found every way in the book to do so and still have an original answer.

I was most impressed that Steven has studied the issues and has walked the talk of learning how the city government operates by attending meetings and coming up with ideas to solve some of the major problems facing the city. What really impressed me was his literal walking the talk: he hopes to visit every home in Sandpoint and meet with the constituency one-on-one at least twice before the election. That's pretty amazing.

John and Mary, you did well. I'm so impressed with your son I may just forgive you for telling that story about me and the Festival john to your Rotary buddies. You've more than made up for any indiscretions aimed my way by rearing a tremendous young man who should serve the community of Sandpoint well, if he gets elected to the City Council.

A Visit with Army Sgt. Brandon Adam

Love Notes

by Marianne Love

for The River Journal

October, 2007

Until recently, I had not seen nor talked to Brandon Adam since the days when his fifth-period junior English class provided a heart-warming and wonderful last chapter to my teaching career at Sandpoint High School. With 20-plus lively boys and four patient girls, we laughed every single day as I did my best to teach them some English.

On National Teacher Day May 8, 2007, five years later, I saw Army Sgt. Brandon Adam’s picture on the front page above the fold in the Spokesman-Review. During his second tour to Iraq on the morning of May 5 in Baghdad, Brandon lost both legs above the knee in a roadside bombing.

Since then, I’ve received updates about his recovery in San Antonio, thanks to my friend Connie Book Lloyd who posts information and photos about his progress on her blog (http://www.livelovelaughhope.blogspot.com/). This month I’ve had the opportunity to visit with Brandon during several phone conversations. In this special edition of “Love Notes,” and through Brandon’s words, I’m sharing the highlights.

Brandon is the son of Doug and Karen Adam of Post Falls. Before joining the Army, he was a happy kid, a highly competitive dirt biker and soccer junkie. In fact, he’s proud to have played on a state champion soccer team. This friendly, blond-haired, blue-eyed young man likes people to do their job. If they don’t, he gets on their case. That trait doesn’t always make people happy, he told me.

Rapper Kanye West’s “Stronger” plays on Brandon’s cell phone answering machine. What doesn’t kill me just makes me stronger, one lyric states.

“That’s what I listen to when I work out,” he says. “It helps me work through the physical pain and break the mental barriers.” Brandon faces both obstacles every single day as he learns to walk with prostheses, which will gradually lengthen until he reaches his normal height of 6 feet tall. Right now, he’s 5 feet, 6 inches. He’s walking up to 30 minutes a stretch, lifting weights and hoping to be running on indoor and outdoor tracks by the New Year. He’s learning wheelchair racing. He’s played some hockey, and recently surfed for four days at Pismo Beach, Calif. Brandon has especially enjoyed driving his new black Ford 150 four-door truck, complete with sun roof, hand controls and a stick substituting for pedals. His best high school buddy Ty Thomas came for a visit.

Lots of options, including wheel-chair competitions, skiing, earning a college degree and possibly a career in film editing await Brandon once he decides he needs no more physical therapy at Sam Houston Army Base near San Antonio. He figures that may be March, at the latest. In the meantime, he’s getting ready for the next phase of his life after serving and sacrificing for his country.

Sgt. Brandon Adam, recalling the May 5 attack in Baghdad: It was night. I was the gunner on the route clearance vehicle. I was up in the turret and halfway hanging out of the vehicle and had my 240B machine gun and my 12-gauge shotgun for warning shots. We have non-lethal rounds in the shotgun and shoot their direction for buffer zones. I had my night vision goggles. A blast went off and hit the right side of my vehicle. It punctured a hole through the vehicle. A copper slug, called an Explosive Formed Projectile, hit me and then blew apart inside the truck. It goes straight through something, then goes from concave to convex and forms into a slug probably twice as big as a man’s fist. It hit the driver (he suffered a laceration but was fine). The blast force bent the framing and hit my squad leader in the back really hard, breaking some vertebrae. The other soldier in the truck was fine.

Life-saving measures: I’ve pieced this together from what people have told me. I remember about 30 seconds after I got hit. I slumped over, fell and was all disoriented. It was dark. I couldn’t see. There was smoke everywhere. I was more worried about my buddy who was sitting where the hole was. I thought he had died. I tried to get up and couldn’t . . . suddenly it felt like a million hot needles in my legs. I yelled out twice that I thought my legs were on fire. They found me, dragged me out and immediately my best buddy John put a tourniquet on my left leg. The right leg was too mangled for a tourniquet. They have these things like a patch that coagulate the blood. They couldn’t really control the bleeding on my right side.

Next, Brandon was taken to an aid station for preliminary surgery and prepped for a larger hospital on the other side of Baghdad. Hospital medics stopped his bleeding, ran blood through his body and administered pain medication. He was then choppered to the Baghdad Airport and transferred to an air hospital bound for Germany where his mother met him. She later accompanied him to the recently opened Center for the Intrepid in San Antonio, a state-of-the-art rehab center for amputees and burn victims. Arriving there May 8, he underwent major surgery to clean up the wounds. He also received more medication to keep him comfortable from the swelling and to fend off infection.

Brandon’s first memories since the attack: I woke up. My father was next to me and my older sister Trisha. I looked down. My legs were all wrapped up. I don’t remember my first thought. I guess I was always flirting with the nurses. I think the clearest memory during ICU was when my Sgt. Major Kilpatrick pinned my purple heart on my chest. . . . Brandon stops briefly to control his emotions. . . I remember my squad leader was hurt with me, and in the same hospital, and they pinned him and me.

Brandon left the hospital in early June after having his stitches removed. He moved to his own room at Fort Sam Houston Army Base. He was fitted for sockets on each leg. He’s been walking for increasing amounts of time—as much as pain from damaged nerve endings allows. Each prosthesis will eventually have knees added.

Brandon: They’re holding off on the right leg because it’s so short. It’s going to be a real challenge with the weight on the knee, so they’re taking it gradually. I’ll get my right knee probably before Christmas and will start running after the New Year. They won’t tell me to stop therapy until I say, ‘I think this is it.’ My goal is to go run a couple of miles without stopping.

In spite of his characteristic intensity, Brandon occasionally takes a day off from therapy, as he did on Tuesday, Oct. 16: It’s one of those days when I woke up in a good amount of pain. I didn’t feel like going to therapy, so I took a day for myself. I used the shower head to massage my leg. That helps with the pain. My buddy Nick came, and we went to Best Buy and got the movie Transformer. I suggest you rent it; it’s pretty cool.

Brandon Adam decided to join the Army on Sept. 11, 2001, during his junior year of high school. He still feels passionately about that decision: I was actually taking my driving test in Mr. Givens’ class. We were listening to the radio, and it (news of the New York and Washington, D.C attacks) came on. I was so overwhelmed with anger, frustration, sadness, and I just wanted to do my part. On that very day I made my decision . . . it might sound kinda cliche, but it’s a true thing for me. I wanted to go in the military, and nothing else mattered. I just knew.

I feel the same way as I did when I joined, that there is a need to help. If we left Iraq now, it would upset a lot of soldiers because people would have died in vain. That’s the biggest thing. People always pick out the negative in everything. The reporters are always so pessimistic and anti-Bush. He was a man who made a decision that a lot of people wouldn’t want to make. And, now that it’s not going as well as expected, they have to crucify the man.

The future for Sgt. Brandon Adam remains uncertain. He’ll receive disability and forced retirement compensation for the rest of his life. He can attend college on the GI Bill. He worries about finding a wife. He’s anxious to start his own family. For now, he’s very aware and humbled by the outpouring of generosity and caring he’s received from friends, family and strangers since the May.

Brandon: I can’t believe the reaction. I’m just one soldier. At first, I thought, ‘why am I any different from anyone else?’ I’m trying to filter through all this. I don’t feel like anyone should owe me anything. I was just doing my job. I just want to say thanks to everyone who helped support me and my family through this time in our lives.

This writer to her former student, Brandon: I’m sure that I speak for the entire community in expressing deep appreciation for your service and sacrifice. I’m also honored and grateful to share your story.

Too polite? Or, no eagle eyes?

I'm wondering how many alert readers out there zeroed in on the spelling error I purposely left in my "Spell Check" post two days ago. So far, not one soul---not even Florine---has written me a veiled note to hint to me the error of my weighs.

I'm more inclined to believe that civility is still alive and well in this crazy world of ours than I'll accept that folks just didn't notice that misspelling. And, that's a good thing, I think---most of the time. When do we cast civility aside in favor of painful, sometimes embarrassing honesty?

Take the story of a former student who fashioned a fake booger out of Super Glue, pressed it to the lower side of her nostril and went to the classroom next door, walked up to the teacher, and asked her a question about the math assignment. Not once did the teacher say a word to the young lady about the young lady's monster-sized booger, begging for notice.

Then, there was the principal, whom my sister said looked exactly like Ichabod Crane once when she saw him mysteriously walk past her classroom window in a raging rain and wind storm. Looking like Ichabod Crane was bad enough for this style-impaired soul, but the day he walked into the band room with his pants unzipped, surely someone should pulled him aside and told him. They didn't.

Of course, with this situation, we must consider the audience. When is an audience of teenagers gonna show consideration for a principal already noted for looking bad when he's looking even worse? Probably never. There is an unwritten principle among most teens that forbids aiding and abetting the other side, especially when it's the principal---especially the same one known for stuffing his always-wrinkled, baggy suit pants inside his Wellington-style barn boots and coming to school.

I can remember one day at noon in the hallway when this same guy summoned me for a conversation about some school issue. He was tall. I was shorter. He was eating an apple. The juice and its accompanying pith was draining down both sides of his face.

Did I stop in mid-conversation and say, "Hey, you might want to get a handkerchief and wipe that stuff off your face"? Heck no. I was so mortified while staring at the yucky sight that I could hardly come up with responses to what he wanted me to say, let alone throw in a helpful hint to clean up his chin.

One time I got caught with my pants unzipped--at school. It was in front of a class of "stoners." They weren't actually stoned all the time, but they sure wanted to "stone" anyone who passed the speling tests because it wasn't cool in their minds at the time to pass anything except joints during their weekend parties.

I was fortunate that day. My pants were unzipped because I'd just left the room for a moment to go to the ladies' room. In my haste to not leave that bunch of yahoots alone too long, I forgot to zip before coming back. Before I had the opportunity to experience another of my many humbling days in front of teens, a note appeared on my desk, from my thoughtful English aide.

"Don't look now, but your pants are unzipped," it stated. I looked her way. She smiled. I wheeled around and quickly wrote something on the blackboard, allowing me time to zip and save myself from humiliation one more time in my klutzy life. The stoners never saw. I was relieved in more ways than one, and my aide, Sherry Marks, endeared herself to me forever.

Why, though, is it so difficult to bring ourselves to be honest when frank honesty could be helpful? Seems like that same feeling we get while bumping into and talking to someone who knows us, but we don't know them, or, worse yet we do know them, but---for the life of us---we CANNOT THINK OF A NAME to go with this dearly beloved, long lost buddy.

I think the same bodily emotions occur in either situation. Buy time. Keep thinking really hard. Keep talking---about anything topic that will save us from the inevitable moment of exposure. Pray that the name comes. Pray that the poor little girl feels the booger hanging out her nose and removes it so we don't have to say anything.

I don't know if these social situations will ever get solved, but I do know what I read. I read that scientists are discovering these days that, as people get older, there's something in their brain that allows our prior inhibitions about blunt honesty to gradually evaporate. And, with the baby boomer population fast approaching that age of oldness, I have a feeling we'll have to be very careful about our errors and about our allowing food to dribble out of our mouth.

Instead of Art Linkletter's famous claim that "Kids Say the Darndest Things," we'll be entering an age where "Geezers Say the Damnedest Things." Gotta adjust the language to the times!

Someone's gonna notice, and they won't be too embarrassed to tell us. Now, what's that word I spelled wrong the other day? Anyone? Anyone?

Cold stocks

I wondered when I read in the paper a few weeks ago that Coldwater Creek's earnings had taken an unexpected dive during the third quarter. This morning, I learned that the situation was even worse: 50 weeks of free fall. So, we all shared in the big announcement, which hit Huckleberries Online about 5 p.m. yesterday: the University of Idaho Sandpoint campus plans have been put on hold.

After reading both papers this morning, I'd say the picture doesn't exactly look rosy right now where Wild Rose Foundation is concerned. Another article stated that the planned construction for an animal shelter/hospital is being delayed also because of wording in Friends of the Shelter bylaws.

Though the sun will be shining today, I call it a dark day for our community. All stories report that there are hopes that the tide will turn, but for now, the hopes and dreams of locals being able to stay home while attending college will have to wait.

I can't even imagine the gravity of disappointment for all concerned in the process, but I'm glad a decision came before Sandpoint became another UniversityPlace-gate as Boise saw a few years ago with all the university lost when that satellite project went sour.

I've read for years that Dennis Pence is a hard-driving, ambitious man who wants things done yesterday. I'm sure that intense personal pride in having the foresight and means to make a significant difference goes along with that profile also. This could not have been easy, but I applaud him for considering all the entities involved and their futures in making what had to be one of the more difficult decisions of his life.

The sun will shine today in Bonner County, and it will shine again on this concept. That we have to wait is not novel for folks in Sandpoint. Look how long we've awaited the Bypass/Byway. Life will go on, and what's meant to be here in this community will happen. For now, we can be glad that the hard decisions saving certain dark days ahead, have been made, and for now, all that's lost is a little piece of the dream.

Spell check

The email came last week from Farmin-Stidwell assistant principal Jan Rudeen.

"Marianne, can you please help us be the pronouncer for the Farmin-Stidwell spelling bee the afternoon of Jan. 18?" she wrote. "We paid $99 to get lists from the National Spelling Bee."

That was good news. This past January when I was pronouncing words and had to provide a sentence for "thong," I did a pretty quick two-step in my brain to come up with something appropriate for fourth graders. I made sure the kids knew in context that thongs used to be worn on the feet.

The spelling list had to have been copied at least a couple of dozen times since the original from the looks of the smudgy words. And, for sure the original was compiled at least a generation ago. So, I'm glad they've opted for a new list rather than another trip to the copy machine, cuz when the pronouncer pulls out "thong," it can be a bit unsettling.

I told Joan yes. What happened to that "I'll think about it" that I was talking about in yesterday's post? Yup, I may be working hard to live life slower but that seems to be successful only in the upper story. Actually, those spelling bees are kinda fun, except for when the kids cry after missing a word and having to go sit down and wait clear 'til next year to move on to the next level.

I see from this morning's paper that spelling bees are moneymakers, especially when adults show up. I also see from this morning's paper that city officials don't always make the best spellers. Sorry, Helen, but those Spokane municipal brass lost out on "ribald." Hmm. Even I could have spelled that. Maybe the pronouncer screwed up. When all was said and done, the folks at the Inlander and that guy with three top-brass college degrees won the bee.

The paper also had an article stating that Spokane schools have done away with spelling pre-tests and tests. Now, all the kids are gonna learn the words in context with what they read and write. Seems to me that not all kids would necessarily find "ribald" in everything they read or write.

Why does this sound similar to what might happen if kids were not all exposed to their multiplication tables? Or, how about the brilliance of having them learn the parts of the skeleton in context? Or, let's learn the musical scale when we feel like it. As writers, we've all gone through the phases of "feel good" writing practices, only to call on basic grammar to understand why that sentence sounds so damn strange. If we don't know basic grammar, we may not ever understand.

I'm admittedly old fashioned, but it seems like every learning discipline should still include the bare bones basics for every kid. Then, let 'em take it on in context as they move their separate ways through life's learning.

What has happened to the basics? Is this occurring cuz kids are whining too much and teachers don't want to deal with the emotional brick walls that come along with unwilling kids learning anything? Sometimes learning is hard. Sometimes it requires repetition, and sometimes those basics prove helpful throughout life if taught well.

Most often, those who've endured the rigorous and the repetitious foundations of all facets of learning are mighty glad later in life. Those who lucked out while going through the educational system often regret what they missed later in life. It's up to the education professionals to maintain a consistency in all disciplines and then build on those foundations with the fun stuff----even speling.

A day in life . . .

I see from this morning's paper that students from several high schools in Spokane photographed and wrote about a day in their respective lives. The result was a cross section of photos and notes from journals snapped and written by kids all over the community.

I also read a feature in this morning's paper about taking life slower and enjoying it more. That's a notion which has certainly been on my mind lately; I just have to, some day, reach the end of the list of "to do's" for the "will you do's?" that always seems to grow.

In fact, when I returned from my weekend in Seattle and Vancouver last week, the telephone messages involved three "will you do's?" added to an already long list. I've taken care of most of those and am working really hard (but not hard enough) on rehearsing the response "Let me think about that."

So, with those two newspaper articles in mind, I'm gonna take a cue and add to my blog postings throughout the day. Plus, I'm going to try to live the day with a few different twists which include "do for myself's." So, I'll go slowly into the day plotting my own route and planning to post intermittently throughout. Stay tuned . . . .

. . . 11:25 a.m. Just returned from Bonners Ferry where I went to Mass at St. Ann's. I saw Fr. Carlos---out of uniform---at Wal-Mart the other day, and his gentle nudge made me decide to go. He knows not to see me on a regular basis, and he understands. Two things I got out of Mass: the difference between a sermon and a homily. When a priest does a sermon, he picks a topic; when he does the homily, his thoughts are based on the readings and the Gospel. The other point I came home with and do appreciate: Fr. Carlos' "sermon" was about the missions around the world and those at home where we're all expected to evangelize the existence of Jesus Christ. Well, the part I liked was that St. Francis of Assissi evangelized in his village---but not through words----more through deeds and example. I'll take that route.

An added bonus to the nudge from Fr. Carlos. I stopped at the Boundary Trader to pick up some groceries and grab a cup of coffee. I turned around at the bakery counter, and there was Nissa Clark. Haven't seen her for probably 20 years. Yup, another one of those students. We had a great visit, talking kids and horses. Now, the day goes on . . .

. . . 1:30 p.m., Barbara, Laurie and Pita left a while ago from their usual Sunday visit post-shopping. We talked about Barbara's upcoming trip to Albuquerque with her judging team, about rigs, about horses, about dogs and about school. I'm going to be helping Laurie with barns this week. About five minutes after they left, the phone rang. It was Barbara; she had a flat tire right in front of Eva Whitehead's house. So, Bill put his lunch aside and drove down to help them. He's now eating his lunch. I'm heading over to Mother's to give her some cinnamon rolls from the Boundary Trader and some freshly preserved strawberry jelly from yesterday afternoon's inside project. It's mighty good-looking stuff. . . .

3:10 p.m. Mother was making applesauce and doing her crossword puzzle. Laurie was talking with two women looking for a rideable horse to buy. Barbara was doing lesson plans for her upcoming week away from school. Pita and Kiwi made several rounds around the house. It was a nice visit, and we talked about going to dinner together this Saturday when Barbara is gone. I came home, and Bill was out in the woods. I wrote a note to Jeff Bock and thanked him for his contribution to a project I'm doing for two upcoming Young Writers' Conferences in Moscow and St. Anthony. Jeff got his assignment in late, and noted that nothing much had changed since high school back in the early '90s. Any writing assignment from Jeff, whether on time or late, is worth the wait.

. . . 4:25 p.m. I thought I might burn a pile of vegetable stalks in the garden, but that's a few days off. We're supposed to have dry weather this week, so I'll probably try to burn on Tuesday. I've got to remember to ask Bill to put the brush hog on the tractor; this should be a good week for mowing weeds and tall grass in the pastures. In the meantime, I took the rake and started on those huge flower beds. I love this large yard, but there's a lot of work with the fall clean-up. With the weather being decent this week, I should be able to chip away at it a few minutes at a time. This day has hardly been a slow-down day, but it's definitely followed a different routine---and I think that's good from time to time. Now, I'm headed out to get the barns ready for Lefty and Lily. Lefty, by the way, wore his new baby horse blanket to bed last night, and he's had it on all day today. He doesn't seem to mind it. When it turns really cold, I'll put Lily's heavy blanket on her too. That way she won't have green manure stains all over her pretty white hair. Appaloosas are much prettier without green manure stains. . .

. . .later. A day in life ended pretty much the same way it usually does. I prepared dinner while Bill kept working in the woods; he had his first bonfire of the fall season. Since there's no more need for permits, he burned some small slash. My stuff in the garden was still too wet. Back to dinner. The Schwan's man gave us a special on chicken alfredo dinner, so I bought. It was an easy enough Sunday meal, cooked in the microwave and complemented by slices of those garden tomatoes and French bread smothered with that new strawberry jelly. The horses went into their stalls for their dinner just before we ate ours. Bill watched some of the Boston-Cleveland baseball game while I worked upstairs at the computer compiling a large amount of data sent from 24 writers over the past couple of weeks. I'm using their thoughts---written well by the way---for my keynote speech at the Young Authors' gatherings. Then, I'll open up these contributions in their entirety on a blog for the young authors and for the folks who contributed. It's some pretty fun stuff. By that time "60 Minutes" was on----a staple here at the Love house. We both watched the segment on forest fires in the West and all the Global Warming. Bill said they left out a few things to contribute to the argument. I asked Bill if Global Warming and all those auto/factory omissions caused the 1910 burn-off of most North Idaho forests. I guess argument of omission works well whenever you want to push an idea. Anyway, he headed upstairs to do some work, and I watched a fascinating and touching documentary called "Dwarfs, Not a Fairy Tale." The film followed some wonderful segments in the lives of Little People---everything from being stared at, to being dismissed, to having productive fulfilling lives. The usual at this house includes several nodding offs in between seeing that all cats and dogs are in their respective quarters for the night. Festus and Lonesome are always the last hold-outs among the cats, but last night's rain convinced them that playing the "find me if you can" game was not a wise option. Final nod-off from yours truly occurred at the end of "Cold Case." I caught about half the show off and on.

Saturday Slight

Well, I'm still dealing with computer problems. Don't know if it's my Internet provider, but yesterday was, indeed, a strange and frustrating day at both my laptop and my HP desk computers.

Gremblins were busy all day sabotaging virtually everything I tried to do. Took me half the day to get my River Journal column sent to Trish. Then, I tried to send her photos---four times. I kept getting messages that something with the attachment could not be sent. Later, Trish told me she received the photo four times. Often, Hotmail said the server was too busy. Haven't seen that happen in a long time.

At times, Imbris rejected my laptop log-in. At times, it has accepted it. When I check my Outlook mail through Imbris on my HP, incoming mail appears; then, the computer clicks offline. One friend sent me an attachment which used Microsoft 2007. Neither computer can open anything that makes sense----just a bunch of gobbledygook. During this past week, several people finally reached me by email, telling me Imbris had rejected their first attempts.

Whenever I complain, Imbris always tells me they're protecting us from viruses, so they block certain providers at intermittent times. So, I don't get mail I want but get all the mail I don't want----the lottery prizes and affordable health insurance offers and the extended penis offers. If they're working so hard to protect me and tell me I have a virus, from whence did it come? My big computer's CD drive doesn't work so I never put anything foreign into my computer. And, for that matter how can a virus get into two different computers?

My thinking and questioning through the last couple of paragraphs tells me to wait and see. I have a hunch this is all related to Imbris because the whole situation defies any clear explanation. It also definitely disorders my day when a simple online maneuver that should take thirty seconds takes whole new approaches and several hours.

Okay, there's my Saturday morning rant. Now, I'll get on with the Slight.

I'm excited about my column next week. It features Brandon Adam, the young soldier who lost both of his legs in a roadside bombing near Baghdad in May. Brandon and I visited over the phone several times during the past couple of weeks.

When I read the finished product to him yesterday over the phone, he was headed from New Orleans to Baton Rouge and looking forward to attending the LSU-Auburn game today. He said he would be the only one in the audience with a USC shirt; I have no doubts. Anyway, Brandon's comment on the column was pretty simple and very welcome: perfection.

Now, I don't know if it's perfect, but it definitely makes me proud and honored. Brandon is pretty amazing. So, be sure to pick up a copy of The River Journal next week. We'll also post it online, once the paper comes out.

Bill and I took chairs from the museum to the Wrencoe schoolhouse yesterday. Shirley Barksdale told museum curator Ann Ferguson that she couldn't ask Jim Thompson for one more favor, so she asked Ann to come up with someone to do the errand. Ann thought of the Loves, so we had an enjoyable time both at the museum where they were getting ready for a Scotchman Peak Wilderness reception and at the schoolhouse where the autumn decorations are magnificent. I'm sure the Wrencoe-ites are gonna have a great story-telling time tonight as they enjoy a harvest dinner and plenty of nostalgia at their Bonner County Centennial event.

After dropping off the chairs, Bill drove me up various roads on Wrencoe Heights. Once again, it's amazing to see every nook and cranny where someone thinks they need a development. We were pretty amazed at the Elkhorn conspicuous display of wealth up on one of the roads: big gateway, bronze elk, fancy landscaping---all for an entry to a five or seven-acre lot in the woods. I'd like to see the gold-plated castle.

Well, today the coffee cult beckons, so I'd better go get my barns cleaned and head for DiLuna's.
Happy Saturday! The burning permit requirements are no longer in effect, so I'm hoping to start my fall clean-up today.

'puter problems

Seems like every time we get any substantial rain out here in Selle, we get really erratic Internet service to go along with it. I have not been able to send any mail through Imbris this morning, including birthday wishes to my daughter Annie. They just keep bumping me offline.

So, I'll use the blog---and hope it posts my message of happy birthday to Annie on her 29th. I hope you have a great day, Annie, and that Seattle weather on this day is a bit more pleasant.

We had three things going here this morning. One has been cancelled because of the rain. Bill was going to accompany his forestry buddy T.J. Johnson and T.J.'s new little hunting dog to Bonners Ferry for some pheasant hunting. They both agreed today was not the day. By the way, Bill did bag a pheasant last week. Brought it home and baked it.

We're supposed to have a chimney sweep come at 9 a.m., but I'll bet he bails. After all, our roof is pretty darn steep, and a pretty darned steep wet roof spells disaster, I'd say. So, the chimney will probably wait.

Cherise, the vet, is supposed to come at 9 also to geld little Mr. Lefty. I've told Lefty it's not gonna be a good day. We'll see if the weather or the barn allows her a place to do the surgery. Otherwise, Lefty may keep his manhood for a few more days.

And, the worse part about this rainy weather is that it gives me an excuse to stay inside and get some work done on an upcoming major writing project, along with submitting my upcoming column. BUT the Internet outages may cause those projects to sit for a while too.

Guess I'll go get a new kettle and make some strawberry preserves. My kettle has a bad bottom. I barely made it through with the last big batch of apricot jam, but thankfully it did not get scorched. Tastes pretty good, in fact.

This is definitely a worst made plans of mice and men and chimney sweeps and pheasant hunters and maybe vets and desperate writers' day. So, I'll make the best of it somehow. I see Bill is leaving for work on the day he planned to take off with T.J.

I wish everyone out there a great day on this TGIF. Also, think good thoughts about my birthday girl. We love you, Annie.

Downtown brain farts

I felt like a fish out of Sand Creek yesterday. One more time I played sucker. Our job was to walk the folks in Leadership Sandpoint around town and tell them how it used to be in our town. Alice Woolsey Coldsnow asked me to join her. I was third choice on Alice's list. First choice was Ernie Belwood. I don't know what he's supposed to know about old-time Sandpoint. Didn't Honest Ernie grow up in Priest River?

Second choice was Penny Nelson Armstrong. She would have been good---even better than Alice, the head tour guide. That's cuz she's older and has been around longer---ten years longer than I and two years longer than Alice. But, as Penny told me the other day, she's turned 70 and the body has started falling apart. Since her sciatica or slipped disks have been making walking hard, she bowed out.

So, at last resort, Alice called me a week ago and said, "All we've gotta do is go down there, eat lunch and then take 'em around town." That sounded easy enough to me, so once more, I said yes. Well, the night before Alice called and said, "She told me to have an outline, " adding that whoever "she" was got told by Alice there'd be no outline. We'd just talk.

Alice and I planned to meet at the Cedar Street Bridge Market where the group was having their all-day class. I got there first but thought I'd found the Bonner Mall. I saw that same guy who hangs out, always looking busy, at the mall, and then I saw the same cleaning lady with the expressionless face and the mop.

I also saw a couple of store clerks so bored with no customers that they were walking up and down the bridge commons. I walked around and looked at the stores, talked to Pradreep who, along with his wife Jennifer, own that Nepalese store down at the end. Pradreep seemed a bit depressed with the lack of activity.

I checked out my favorite bathroom stall, there at the end by the window, that same one I've written about in the past with the magnificent view of Sand Creek. Since renovation, they've blocked out a significant portion of the view by installing metal lattice. Maybe this is to satisfy their liability insurance and ensure that nobody tries to commit suicide by breaking through the window and jumping into Sand Creek. I don't know the reasoning, but I'm disappointed that one of Sandpoint's most wonderful features has been dulled. It's almost as bad as the Byway!

After bathroom duty, I went back to the Bridge entrance and sat on a bench waiting for Alice. Again, I saw the cleaning lady. Again, I saw no shoppers. Was this deja vu? Was I really at the Bonner Mall of two years ago? After all, that place has come to life, thanks to the Dollar Store. The cleaning lady was up on the second floor by the railing, and it was still deafeningly quiet, so I said, "You get around, don't you?" She informed me that she's doing a double gig---at the mall and at the Bridge.

Later, Alice came, and we headed up the spiral staircase where we met our hosts, Erin and Lisa. We were just outside the old coffee bar where Bob Gunter was inside talking to all those people. Erin and Lisa told us they'd introduce us to the group in a few minutes when Bob was done speaking. Then, some guy came out and told us to be quiet. So, we complied and waited to be ushered into the room.

We were introduced, ate our lunch and then started "mingling," as we'd been told to do. I think I mingled better than Alice did, but she was the head tour guide so she had things to think about. Finally, after listening to that guy I always see working at Bonner Mall talk about what's happening at the Bridge, Alice and I assumed our assigned duty. Take the group around town and tell them how it used to be.

Our job wasn't so bad over by the railroad depot except Alice and I had our first dispute about the correct name of that bottling company where I used to take my gunny sacks full of "Marianne's" as my dad called all those beer bottles I picked from ditches. On those days, I could have some money to buy one of Hayworth's Bakery 5-cent maple bars, but I couldn't tell that story cuz I'd already talked too much telling the story about Mother, Mike and Peggy. I knew to tone it down because Alice had already told me about Honest Ernie on past tours who got on her case cuz he thought she hogged the show.

So, I tried to keep my mouth shut, but it was hard to zip, until we reached First Avenue. I think both Alice and I suffered from a series of serious brain farts all the way down First Avenue. Heck, the all the store fronts have changed so many times in the last ten years, we could hardly figure out what had occupied each while we were growing up in our hick town. Our job challenges intensified as at least 400 big trucks roared past our eager-to-learn group strolling down the sidewalk.

Somebody said they couldn't hear at the back of the pack, so why didn't we just stop every so often and talk in general. Well, we couldn't even hear each other, so I don't know how that was gonna help. We did shout out a few highlights, and Alice scored a perfect 10 with her story about the old Lake Theater where the bowling alley was down below. I could tell that they seemed to really enjoy my story about my classmate, the late Ron Sipes, former owner of the 219 Lounge, who starred in the Godfather's Pizza ad where the bowling ball rolls off the roof and hits the sidewalk in front of him as he's scratching his lottery card. Then Ron, wearing a pimp hat, says, "I guess I hit my lucky day."

Speaking of luck, Alice and I finally really looked good when we dragged Dann Hall out of his gallery and made him talk. Then, we made the group go inside Dann's gallery where he talked and talked some more. They were all really impressed, but I was stunned during Dann's presentation to learn that "heifer dust" was not a Cap Davis original. Dann says his dad Ross, the famous photographer, brought it up from Texas where he grew up out in the middle of nowhere and where they created their own vernacular. Still, Cap used the word, and that's where I first learned it. So, I'll give Cap credit.

After the Hallans Gallery finale, we parted company. Some of the group---all strangers, except that Methodist minister, who's earned the Helen Newton seal of approval---told us thank you and seemed genuinely pleased with our attempt to educate them.

Actually, come to think of it, I think Alice and I got the biggest education, and that was learning that we don't know a heckuva lot about our hometown any more. Oh, heifer dust!

WOW Ladies

I just had to post this photo of my mother and Marilyn Chambers. It was taken by Kathy Chambers (Marilyn's daughter-in-law) this past Sunday during the Women of Wisdom (WOW) fall luncheon at the Sandpoint Elks Club. Mother had a wonderful time visiting with lots of her sorority of WOW honorees. My thanks to Kathy Chambers and Jacquie Albright for seeing that Mother had a wonderful experience at the luncheon.

She thought her "bling" (that's all the sparkles on her denim jacket) might be a little too much but felt quite comfortable seeing lots of other bling-wearing WOW's among the crowd. Mother's only regret was that they moved the microphone from her end of the room to the other end when Hazel Hall (who's also hearing impaired) showed up. So, Mother didn't exactly get to hear everything, but that did not stop her enthusiasm toward what she termed a fun afternoon.

Women of Wisdom, in many situations, are longtime Sandpoint women who have contributed to the community through their good works and good examples. The sponsoring organization, Women Honoring Women, likes to tap the honorees' brains as often as possible. So, Sunday the women each shared some golden nuggets of their own learning about life.

Speaking of learning, I'm going to accompany another long-timer, Alice Coldsnow, on a mission today. We're accompanying the Leadership Sandpoint class around town. I guess they want us to talk about what used to occupy all those real estate offices downtown. Well, there are some other stores too.

And, while thinking of Kathy and her association with Tomlinson-Black Sotheby's and Seasons at Sandpoint, I'm thinking Bonner County School District 82 administrative offices, Harlan Walker's Cabinet Shop and Pacific Power and Light. How's that for starters?

We're starting our tour at the Cedar Street Bridge Marketplace (Is that what they call it these days?). I'll tell 'em about how that piece of real estate marked the preliminaries for my being germinated and planted in Sandpoint. My mother's first view of the town came on a dreary Christmas in 1945 when she got off the train from Chicago with my older brother Mike and our English Setter Peggy in tow.

There was also a bunch of soldiers coming home from the war, and I learned just a few years ago that one of them was Joe Rogers. I learned that cuz Murle Rogers told me about her memories that night of the young mother, the little boy and the dog as she waited to see her husband.

Murle had no way of knowing what Mother was thinking as she stepped off that train and saw the back side of Sandpoint and, later, the wild and crazy town with all the bars as she headed from the Cedar Street Bridge down First Avenue to her first home at the Rowland's Hotel (That was an ez money mortgage place last time I walked by).

Mother's first impressions of Sandpoint on that soggy night were not quite what Murle or anyone else would want to hear. Fortunate for her and all the rest of us, those thoughts have changed fairly dramatically in the last 62 years----along with the town.

Smile! It's a Ponderette milestone

Had it not been for the Federally mandated Title 9 program authorizing equal support for girls sports, this would be a monumental year for a Sandpoint High marching group. I read in this morning's "50 years ago" historical account that a drill team was forming at the high school, with Mrs. Plastino as its adviser. Of course, I noticed the article because, for nine years from the fall of 1969 to 1978, I served as adviser to that same group.

As noted in the first story of my new book "Ponderettes and Pie, Not a Good Mix," the only way I got out of advising that drill team was to announce the upcoming birth of my second child. That would be Annie, who turns 29 this Friday. If I recall correctly, Betsy Walker, the French teacher then and Kootenai School principal now, took over.

I was not all that eager to advise the drill team, but being a rookie teacher I knew enough back then to say "yes" rather than the "no," a word I'm still having a difficult time mastering in my retirement. To have refused Dick Sodorff's generous but desperate extracurricular job offer back then would have spelled doom to a 22-year-old new kid on the SHS block, especially because my boss had been my principal in high school. I knew not to cross Mr. Sodorff.

So, of course, I said "yes" to the generous $200 stipend and an extra duty that would continually test me and would push me beyond limits I ever thought possible for an overweight klutz, totally devoid of musical or marching knowledge.

Lots of bad things happened during my time spent as Ponderette adviser. I had to break up fights. I got speeding tickets while trying to make the 7:30 a.m. practices almost every morning of the school year. The band teachers who had to help coordinate our music were never very cooperative. Ponderettes could also be hyper-hypersensitive, snippy, and sneaky (I still remember surprising the smokers grabbing a few puffs behind the gas station when we did a pit stop on our way to the Wenatchee Apple Blossom Festival).

Early in my career, when a drill went sour, my overweight similarity to what high school girls and boys "a cow that needed to be turned out to pasture" made underground paper news headlines at the high school and additional journalistic fodder for months thereafter on the local radio and within in many traditional newspapers statewide. It still hurts to write about that situation nearly 40 years later. We had a few other disasters with the marching routines, but in all those cases, our best performance ever always followed, as it should with any trip to the bottom.

Ponderette responsibilities never stopped. For that $200, I worked the entire year, except for a few weeks in the summer after the Fourth of July parade and before football drills started. Advising the Ponderettes also involved having some seamstress skills. I had none. Thank God for parents like Jan Meneely and other students like Carleen Hamann who stepped in with their sewing machines and creative minds as 35-40 sets of accessories to the traditional white Ponderette uniform changed with each drill. And, since the sleeves, pompons and other extras changed each time, we were constantly fundraising to pay the bills----Rex soap sales, candy bars, drill team sponsorships, variety shows, etc.

Granted, the down side of Ponderette advising did take its toll, but I also benefitted from my association with the group. Most cherished are the lifelong friendships that spawned out of the years of getting to know the girls and considering them like second family. In fact, when Willie was born and I continued advising, we joked that he had 40 aunts. There was fun associated with the group too. In fact, I could never stick with any school activity very long if fun times didn't accompany work times.

Eventually, I started learning some of the finer points of successful routines and the secrets behind a snappy drill team. The most crucial element accompanied everything we did: SMILE. I even vividly recall the day we were practicing for a parade, marching down Pine Street. I was walking backward at a fast pace, facing the team, constantly reminding them to "smile" when smile big time they did as I rammed full force butt-on into the back of a car parked in my pathway. The girls enjoyed that one.

In those later years, we even won some awards at parades, and, overall, the pride of being a Ponderette and being associated with the organization far outshadowed those painful moments.

As the girls' sports programs at Sandpoint High School continued to grow, the interest and the elite feeling of being a Ponderette eventually diminished. Also, precision marching eventually gave way to dance routines. I think the drill team kept going until some time in the '90s. Now, it remains but a memory in the minds of many women who can look back at their SHS football and basketball halftime performances and parades with great nostalgia.

I'm glad Dick Sodorff asked me to advise the Ponderettes, and I'm glad I was too stupid and too scared to say no. Had I done that, there would have been no real reason to SMILE when I saw that history note in this morning's paper.

Love is all we need

There are two ways about it when you think of 'LOVE.' In fact, there are myriads of ways to think of love, and it played a part in this weekend getaway.

I don't have a photo to show for it, but Annie and I topped our weekend off by going to Into the Wild last night in downtown Seattle.

We both had our own personal connections to the movie besides being intrigued with the compelling, true story. Annie registered director Sean Penn and actor Emile Hirsch at her hotel when they were in Seattle for movie production.

A long time ago, ten years-plus, I met the book's author Jon Krakauer in an elevator at the Pacific Northwest Booksellers convention. He happened to have a few copies of the book with him and personally autographed one and gave it to me.

I was honored but not nearly so much as when I had finished reading the amazing story he had written based on the journal of Chris McCandlies aka Alexander Supertramp.

One of the entries in Alex's journal, toward the end when he was all alone and dying of starvation, said something to the effect that ultimate happiness in life comes from sharing it with others. How true!

I enjoyed true happiness this weekend, sharing wonderful adventures with my daughter.

Thank you, Annie. All we need is LOVE!

Fun in Vancouver

It's fun when you have high-speed Internet and don't have to wait five minutes for every photo to upload to your blog. It's also a lot of fun in Vancouver.

Highlights of the day included: flat tire with nail before we left Seattle, which led to a walk downtown while we waited for the tire to get fixed. That meant a raspberry donut at that cool donut shop across from where Annie works. Lots of knowledge in there with all the old sets of encyclopedias and lots of every kind of fattening donut you'd ever want. We met Rich who works at Groundspeak. Telephone rang. Tire fixed. Then, on to Jeremy's---oops, I meant JT's catering shop for some yummies for the trip.

On to Vancouver where we're staying at the Residence Inn near the water but facing the "glass city" skyscrapers. We're on the 12th floor, so looking down off our deck is a bit scary, but there's plenty to see looking up, including the cranes involved in fast-paced construction for the 2010 Winter Olympics. What a venue for the Games!

Many photos were taken in Stanley Park, which seems endless and limitless in its features. The black and white of it with the squirrels and the beluga white whales. At least 14 million digital cameras at every turn, which means endless ducking to get out of the way of a camera which may be aimed at anything but you. It's a great place for an October Saturday stroll, and stroll we did for about four miles. Then, we caught the end of sunset near the Lion's Gate Bridge, and I asked a stranger to catch a photo of Annie and me. Dinner at the Milestone along the beach topped off a great day.

Today we're going to do some more geocaching outside the city, investigate the city some more and then head back to Seattle. We may try to see Sean Penn and Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild tonight. Not a bad weekend.

Happy Sunday.