Saturday Slight

It's cracked-fingers season, and I'm hating it. If anyone out there has the "best damn cure, period for cracked-fingers syndrome," which comes along with the winter season, I'd be happy to check it out. I've done the bag balm, the hoof-and-tail lotion, Vaseline intensive care--you name it. Still haven't found anything that works.

I'm taking my sore fingers to Bonners Ferry today: two bake and crafts sales. First, I'll stop at St. Ann's Catholic Church with the "best damn apple cobbler." Found the recipe in the St. Joseph's cookbook which came out last year, and I've whipped it up no fewer than half a dozen times since finding it earlier this fall.

It's easy, and it is, without a doubt, the best apple cobbler I've ever made, and the best part is that, like some temperamental dishes, this one turns out right every time. How many out there have had at least a dozen levels of quality when making toll house cookies? I know that every time I make those cookies, the outcome is a bit different.

But this cobbler, you can't miss. I'll post the recipe later if anyone's interested. And, by the way, I'm using "best damn . . .period" today because I've been totally amazed with the numbers of visits to this site searching for the "Best Damn Pumpkin Dessert, Period" recipe that I posted two years ago. It came from Sue Brooks, and who knows where she got it; I just gave it an emphatic name.

Anyway, if Rachel Ray ever brings it up on her show, you'll know where she got it. And, of course, I'm hoping to generate equal enthusiasm with the apple cobbler dish.

I'll be taking two pans of cobbler to the St. Ann's craft fair and then moving on to the Menonnite Church north of Bonners Ferry where they're selling crafts, baked goods, lunches, etc. This will be like a dream-come-true for me because I've always wanted to attend either Menonnite or Amish sales but have never had the opportunity.

My biggest hope is that everything isn't sold out by the time I arrive at about 10 a.m. It's been advertised very well, and, more than likely, there will be a lot of butt bumping as customers mill through the offerings.

Speaking of the Amish, that makes me think of my cart, which makes me beam with excitement about a set of harness that was given to me yesterday. The only payment: I want to go for a ride in your cart when your horse is trained to drive, if I'm still alive.

A neighbor called my sisters and said the harness had been sitting in her closet for five years and it was time for someone to take it and use it. My benefactor no longer has horses, and she has a difficult time getting around so she figured Barbara or Laurie would know someone who would appreciate the ensemble.

They did, and I'm happy, excited and looking forward to the day when I can call this lovely, generous lady up and tell her to "get ready, I'm headed over your way in my cart."

That occasion could come as early as next summer if all goes well. Little Lefty seems to have the right personality and the cool head needed to be a good cart horse, so we'll see. In the meantime, my benefactor will have to enjoy the jar of dewberry jelly I gave her yesterday.

It's been a busy and fun week. Mother and I even had fun yesterday, leaving bright yellow mums at Harold's grave at Pack River Cemetery. It was a beautiful day to stop by and say hello. Later, we went to the Pack River General store for a bite to eat. It was good for her to get out of the house, and she really enjoyed visiting with the neighbors where we picked up the harness.

I've lived moments of great joy this past week, and that has come mainly through seeing and visiting with old friends, rekindling long-ago relationships and coming in contact with a host of new faces----in all cases, providing great enrichment to my life. Much appreciated.

I'm reminded that today is the day most of us over 50 remember so vividly, as if it stood still in time. Facts come to mind: my classmate and fellow editor, Barb Kitt, the Knothole (our Journalism I newspaper), the mimeograph machine where Barb and I were running off the paper, Imogene Davis walking into the room after being summoned to the door, Imogene soberly announcing that the President had been shot in Dallas, leaving Imogene's room, sobbing all the way down the hallway to Mr. Hamilton's room at the far end of the main hall, learning that the President had died, leavng his class, heading to the girls' restroom, being comforted by Claire Sodorff, having school dismissed, walking to the Catholic Church on a drizzly Friday, kneeling, praying, wondering what would happen in our world after this unspeakable tragedy, riding the bus home, seeing my mother who had been glued to the black-and-white TV while holding my month-old brother in her arms, hardly leaving the living room for several days as we watched and participated in a monumental national mourning, feeling for years afterward as if our country had lost a slice of its soul. . . . hard to believe it's been 45 years.

We've seen the best of times; we've seen the worst of times. Days like today remind us.