Everything's coming up fenceposts

Along with this extra day, we're having an extra growing season this year. Stuff is coming up all over the place here in North Idaho in February. The fenceposts peeped out of the snow a few days ago and are getting taller and taller by the day. Meanwhile, their wire-root systems are sagging sadly.

Over the past week or so, the antique manure spreader in the front yard has sprouted for another year, as has the bright-red rear-mounted tractor scooper down alongside the lane. The apple trees are getting a lot taller than they were just a couple of weeks ago when I stood over them and pruned their limbs.

Though we won't be harvesting or feeding on most of these crops of winter hibernators, we can delight in the fact that their appearance definitely means spring's a'comin and, along with that arrival, we'll be facing plenty of work on our daily "to do" plates.

Yesterday, while riding my bike along one of the country roads, I marveled at the strand of barbwire along one field that somehow found itself about ten feet off the ground. It will be interesting to see how that farmer retrieves it and reattaches it to the fenceposts. There'll be a lot of farmers out re-stretching wire and cleaning up the aftermath of this winter's wrath.

Yes, as mentioned, I did ride my bike yesterday. We have paved roads just a few hundred feet away from our driveway, so I went to the loafing shed, grabbed the bike and walked it down the snow-covered lane. Didn't even have to air up the tires. My pink wonder was as ready to go as I was. Putting the dogs in, I took off and enjoyed pedaling across the Selle Valley for about 8 miles.

The brisk February air felt revitalizing, the view from the road down into fields with meandering through thick snow blankets, the crows cawing along the way, and Randy Poelstra out there with his tractor moving those big round bales from his field to the barn----I enjoyed every minute of it, including my brief visit with my friend Jenny (www.mangymooseacres.blogspot.com).

Along my ride, I saw railroad workers enjoying their lunch near the Selle crossing. I saw Canadian honkers hanging out in fields, probably wondering what the heck about all this snow still hanging around. I saw and felt the sun being closed off occasionally by passing clouds and wondered if I should have brought my gloves.

Cold hands did not deter me, however, because the freedom to take this short jaunt on solid, fairly dry ground overpowered any discomfort I was feeling. The old legs worked well, even on the uphill climbs, and when I returned to the Lovestead, the early afternoon sun shining down on my horses' hides created the most breath-taking of pictures.

Both had their cloth blankets off, and, oh, that gorgeous leopard blanket on Miss Lily's big buxsom frame seems even more stunning this year than last. She has matured well, and I have absolutely no regrets about my mail order mare from Oklahoma. And, her pal, Lefty---breath-taking hardly suffices to describe his liver-colored presence as he prances with head, nose and tail in the air.

Lefty prances carefully, though, because the grass is not growing yet along with the fenceposts, and there's still a winter's growth of snow and ice, keeping the two of them pretty limited in their barnyard travels. Nonetheless, they probably gained some ground in yesterday's 50-degree sun, and that makes them happy.

Yup, inside my house, 'maters, melons, marigolds and pansies are coming along nicely in their potted worlds near the windows, and soon, when the fenceposts outside have reached full maturity, when the grass starts popping up along the fencelines, when the horses start nibbling on that tall grass, those indoor seedlings can move outside and join the world of upward motion.

And, by then, maybe everything will be coming up roses, and my slightdetour readers will hear no griping from North Idaho. The world keeps on spinning.

Enjoy this extra day!

Another Brandon highlight

I'm sitting there getting fitted for my new legs, and look who comes strolling into the room. It's Robert of "Everybody Loves Raymond."

Man, he was so funny. Great guy.

~~~Army Sgt. Brandon Adam from San Antonio's Center for the Intrepid~~~
Wednesday, Feb. 27, 2008


~~~~~

It makes my day every time I hear from Brandon Adam. He doesn't always answer all my questions, but he's wonderful about sending photos of great moments in his rehabilitation.
Last night I asked him how much longer his stay at San Antonio's Army rehab center will last.

Maybe he'll send me a note today. If he does, I'll share the news.

From the sounds of things, he's progressing nicely, and how nice of people like Brad Garrett to pay these wounded warriors a visit. Surely, their interest provides the soldiers that much more inspiration to continue their therapy.

~~~~~

Keep up the good work, Brandon!

The stress-free job

My horses listen to country music these days. It's taken some getting used to because that KPBX mix of classics, jazz and NPR features was pretty soothing and enhancing to their critical ears. It also gave 'em some extra culture and sophistication for if they ever go to some hifalutin' horse show.

Don't get me wrong. I love country music, but I just viewed the classical station, except for the pledge drive, as enriching. Going country in the Lovestead barn was not really a choice; it became a necessity the day the radio fell off its perch into the tool box and the antenna that reaches out and grabs those Spokane stations broke off. Now, I'm pretty limited to KSPT, KPND and K102.5.

Since I don't want them getting any hard-nosed discipline ideas from Dr. Laura (does she still give out advice?) and I know for sure that they and I are not gonna like the music offerings on KPND, the country station won out.

I like it, but Lily and Lefty have yet to share their opinions. As long as they get their grain and hay, I'm pretty sure they're happy to listen to anything.

This morning while scooping out Lily's stall, the radio boys were asking people to call in and suggest the most stress-free jobs. For a while, they thought the audience had misunderstood their request because someone called in and said truck drivers, while another said school teachers. I've never driven a long-haul truck down Wolf Creek Pass or the Great Divide, but I have taught school and can vouch without hesitation that it's hardly stress free.

Still, some lady called in and argued that point, saying she was a pre-school teacher and giving all the reasons why she believes her job provides her no stress. I agreed with her that pre-school is a time when the kids still love their teachers. She gave a number of other reasons, but by that time I was into my own time travel, thinking about the stress free jobs I'd had in the past.

These do stand out in my memory because, for the most part, I've chosen the high octane pressure cooker routes----school teaching and writing for deadlines. Granted, there are many occupations, offering even a higher threshold, but these two choices can keep a person on the emotional edge pretty much all of the time.

As I look back on my stress free moments that earned me money, I have to say that dishwashing at Camp Neewahlu on Lake Coeur d'Alene with my classmate Terri Chronic (we were named Spic and Span, respectively) ranks right up there. Not so at the beginning. We did plates, cups, and utensils three times daily for the nearly 100 campers and staff who occupied the camp every week.

At first, we almost went nuts, just finishing up when another meal's worth of dirties came our way. It did not take us long to coordinate and collaborate our efforts into a streamlined system. Within the first couple of weeks, what was taking us nearly eight hours was boiled down to three. And, we were hired by the University of Idaho and the work-study program, strictly as dishwashers.

So, the remaining portion of our 8-hour paid work day was spent on the dock, sunning ourselves, swimming, visiting and reading. Not a bad gig, and definitely turning into a pretty relaxing, fun-filled summer.

My job with the U.S. Forest Service as a traffic surveyor for the engineers rivaled Camp Neewahlu. We put out traffic counters on Forest Service roads twice weekly and conducted 12-hour on-site surveys with drivers entering the forest three weekends out of four.

The hardest part of that job was getting up early in the morning and driving to places like Priest Lake by 6 a.m. to sit in lawnchairs and eat out of ice chests for the next 12 hours. Occasionally, people came along, meaning we had to get out of our chairs, take our clipboards and go talk. It was tough, but someone had to do it.

Thinking about stress-free jobs this morning also took me back to a strawberry field, where that Beatles song definitely comes into play. I wanted to learn something about gardening and getting things to grow. So, I went over to Gooby's, which was just down the road from where we lived for 30 years. Bob showed me how plant starts work, with potentilla and some other shrubs. I did that for a while, and then strawberry season started.

So, he asked if I was interested in picking berries for their customers who didn't want to pick their own. I happily agreed, and Bob's partner in the gardening effort got me started out in the fields. I picked for a couple of days and then began to wonder how I was going to get paid. So, I asked the partner. He said my pay would come through the strawberries I could take home while picking after hours.

Now, eight hours of strawberry picking can get kinda old. And, even my little pea brain figured out that something was wrong with this "strawberry fields forever" scenario. I went home that night and sputtered a bit to the family, finally conjuring up the nerve to call Bob about my berry creative salary.

Thank God. When he learned that I'd been told that my pay for picking strawberries was to pick even more strawberries, he chuckled and reassured me that that angle had not been part of his plan----and he paid me---money. The job became more stress-free after that revelation.

Now, back to the radio request for stress-free jobs. I've always wanted to be the Napa Auto Parts driver. Now, that may seem a little too much like a pizza delivery person, but I think it's a better situation. You're simply driving around all day, during work hours (not during late-night drunken brawls when someone orders pizza to defuse the fueled up situations).

I like to drive, and it seems like it would be pretty easy to take those parts from the shop, put them in the car, drive to the delivery spot, hand them over, and be on your way. I can't imagine anything about this job being too high-pressured, except maybe when you've got to deliver something across downtown Sandpoint in the middle of summer traffic. That could get a little stressful for anyone, but overall I think this would be a pretty mindless and relaxing way to spend the workday.

I can feel stress building right now: has Kea run out to the road? Is Lefty faunching at the bit, anxious to get out there so Lily can chase him around the barnyard all day? Is the phone going to ring right in the middle of this sentence with someone wanting something?

I'm retired, and like most retirees, I can assure you that I'd never call into K102.5 and suggest that retirement is a stress free gig. There's just too much involved in the job description, and with that in mind, I'd better get running out to the barn to put Lefty out and to hear if they've figured out what the record-setting "secret sound" is on the country station.

Has Hillary seen her shadow?

I'm wondering how long this Democratic shoot-out is going to last. I'm also wondering if Hillary saw her shadow sometime, somewhere---meaning we have six more weeks or more of the "silly season," as my candidate Sen. Barack Obama and a few others call it.

I'm wishing the race for the Democratic nominee would end sooner rather than later. Also, in what surely could be termed a "delusional" state, I wish that when the candidates are determined, this year's Presidential race could turn into an elevated event in which we're all proud to participate instead of more of the same "Gotcha" politics we've endured for decades.

Could we, as Americans, handle sensible, issue-related debate, or have we stooped so low that the personal attack nasties we've witnessed so far have become an essential ingredient to the political decision-making process of choosing our national leader?

I've watched many of the many debates this year, and, for the most part, I've been impressed with the dignity and civil tone they've kept as the candidates for both parties have been grilled to the core. We've been able to learn a lot about the people seeking higher office.

The debates have been both entertaining and informative as we've had ample opportunities to watch body language, the all-important thinking on one's feet or seat, and grace or lack thereof under pressure.

Who would have guessed that Mike Huckabee would become a household word? And, heck, I've never heard of Ron Paul until he started showing up at the debates, definitely adding some snippets of specifics to the conversations that most smooth politicians would dare not touch. I always enjoyed listening to Sen. Chris Dodd and Gov. Bill Richardson and wondered why neither could attract more voters to their candidacies. Both seem like sensible men.

Sen. John McCain defied all predictions when he rose again from the assumed MIA status of Republican hopefuls and thumped 'em left and right to take the nomination. I kinda think he had some stoolies in the race (like Rudy) gathering up the forces, knowing all the time, that at the crucial moment, they'd turn those Republican foot soldiers over to their friend, the Vietnam War hero.

I was surprised that Gov. Mitt Romney did not do better in the Republican race, and I have to hand it to him that he spared us from dipping even more millions out of the American till to elect our President by funding much of his own campaign. He entered the race with grace and dignity, he fought a good fight, and he stepped aside with even more grace and dignity.

So, that brings me back to where I started. How long will this Democratic shoot-out, which grows nastier by the minute, continue to keep us riveted to "Who's gonna fling what next?" I guess it's entertaining, but in my naive mind, some of the behavior we've all witnessed lately does not seem very statespersonlike.

I've made my feelings known in past blog postings, so I guess today's no time to change that tune. I believe it would be a both dignified and appreciated public gesture if Sen. Hillary Clinton were to continue with the magnanimous tone in which she completed last Tuesday night's debate by graciously stepping aside as a candidate for President in 2008, throwing her support to Sen. Obama and sincerely wishing him well.

For her to do so now would end the silly season of outlandish acrimony and desperate measures that have dominated the Democratic race these past few days. For her not to do so and to continue in the vein we've seen of late will only diminish her respect and credibility among the people who have faithfully followed her pursuit of the Presidency.

To continue on with the shotgun approach of spraying the end of the campaign with every tone and gimmick imaginable appears as nothing more than desperation at this point. I can imagine how weary the American electorate could be at this point in this long campaign if we had to witness this same behavior on both sides for months.

It would be nice if the mudslinging could end with both parties enthusiastically rallying around their candidates, mutually agreeing to take a six-month break until Labor Day, and then engage in the great debate to elect America's next leader. I'm sure the candidates could use a breather, and certainly we, the voters, wouldn't mind a vacation either. Plus, it might cost a lot less money.

I know that's all a dream and that I am delusional, but I believe three months of intensive campaigning in the fall at a time when we know specifically what the current issues will be could be much more productive than nine long months of regurgitation.

So, those are my thoughts this morning. Has Hillary seen her shadow? Will we be subjected to the full-meal deal in this down-and-dirty political Democratic warfare? Or, will she make a courageous decision that will not only enhance her image among her followers but could also inspire at least an ounce of respect toward her among delusionals like me?

Hoodoo howdyadoo

I saw one of my students from yesteryear yesterday. Once again, 38 years after the fact, while visiting with him and his wife, I silently lamented that a different turn of events should have happened with my teacher-student relationship with him during his sophomore year of high school.

What a wonderful human being he turned out to be, and, of course, my English-teacher ear marveled once again as I listened to his flawless expression that an injustice had done to this young man because of a typical youthful indiscretion.

Basically, the kid flipped me off. I was attaching the attendance sheet to the nail on the Room 4 door at Sandpoint High School and happened to see his gesture out of the corner of my eye. I don't know what I had said to him to provoke "the finger," but his response was unacceptable and definitely grounds for immediate discipline.

"To the office!" I said. I was an inexperienced young teacher then, unaccustomed to handling such behavior in my own way. I learned over the years, however, and had this young man done the same thing later in my career, I would have given him the finger back----my index finger, that is----directing him to the door, following him and having an in-your-face "discussion." If my points in this hallway visit were satisfactorily taken, we would have both re-entered the room and moved on with class business.

Back in 1972, this young man obliged, headed out the door in a visible tiff, and never came back. They switched him to a basic English class, which is euphemistic for "bonehead." I was horrified. All he needed was a good talking to----not a demotion in brain potential. But then again, I was a young, inexperienced teacher who knew better than to question authority.

That changed with age too. Although I was considered a strict disciplinarian, a few of my efforts of going to bat for kids who had erred like any normal adolescent might do could be considered legendary to those who could hear my heated protests with administrators through the office walls. As I look over the outcome of those isolated cases, I'd do it again. The students in question hardly turned out to be derelicts---quite the opposite.

Anyway, to run into this young man---who was wronged academically in 1970---during my Sunday drive chance visit to the Vay Cafe aka Hoodoo Creek diner/store (good guess, it might be Hoodoo Falls) yesterday was a great pleasure, as it always is wherever I see him.

Over the years, I expressed to him my dismay at the discipline approach that was used, even though probably with the best intentions in mind. I'm sure the school administrators knew he was a little rough around the edges, and they wanted to spare me, the neophyte, any future classroom behavior problems. Nonetheless, he was a rough-around-the-edges country boy with eloquence and writing talent beyond his age.

He comes from a family of loggers/truck drivers, but that should not dictate a preconceived lack of sophistication in anyone's mind. I remember once hearing another local logger tell me how people were always amazed when he'd disclose that he attended almost every Festival at Sandpoint concert. He said, "I want to say back to them: am I supposed to be stupid because I'm a logger?"

No way. And, my student with the finger gesture from way back was a perfect example---typecast because of what the family did for a living. Inside that rough exterior was a brilliant poet. If I could use the language like he could, I'd be thrilled. I've always wondered what might have been had events turned differently for him. I know that had he stayed in my class, allowing me to view more of his written work, I'd be first in line to encourage him onward.

But I was young and dumb then, and he was young and brilliant but a smart-aleck to boot. So, life went on. He's very successful at what he knows. He has a wonderful wife and some phenomenal kids, and he expressed to me yesterday that, for him, life is good. Using two examples of friends with major medical problems who're his same age and six years younger respectively, he feels fortunate and very reflective about the bounties of his life.

So, who's to know what curves life throws to us and really if they're good or bad. I don't know that he would have been a happier person had he not flipped me off that day and instead moved on into literary circles rather than logging. And, he probably doesn't care because he's happy out there in Hoodoo country, and that's what counts no matter what road we take.

Still, as a teacher, I can't help but wonder what might have been. . . .

On Love and the Babyboomer death countdown

I read a commentary today that makes me a little nervous. I'm wondering when someone's gonna come up with a Babyboomer death-desk calendar. They've got one for George's upcoming Presidential termination. It has sold well.

From what I'm told, that's the one which has all the days of George W. Bush's Presidency. Owners can pull off a day at a time, wad up each day George has served, shoot it into the wastebasket and shout for glee as their calendar gets smaller. If Hillary gets elected, I'm registering my patent for the Billary daily calendar. It should sell well too.

But this Babyboomer news disturbs me. Seems there's a tally going on, thanks to some guy by the last name of "Love." According to Spokesman-Review columnist Rebecca Nappi (http://www.spokesmanreview.com/opinion/story.asp?ID=233288), James Love's "Baby Boomer Death Counter subtracts a Babyboomer from the ranks of the living every 50 seconds. When Rebecca wrote her column---which was probably this past week, 7.6 of us born between 1946 and 1964 had kicked the bucket.

And at the rate of one every 50 seconds (the amount of time it usually takes me to write a couple of sentences), I'm sure that this Sunday morning we're inching up there toward 8 percent. So, I guess the first lesson we have to take from this is to write those sentences faster, got off yer behind and get busy doing all those things you've dreamed of doing cuz yer gonna end up as one of that Mr. Love's statistics.

Not a great way to start a snowy Sunday morning in February. What's with you, Rebecca, putting a somber mood on an already gray day for all babyboomers in the Spokesman reading audience? Your column this morning even provided us some options for our upcoming demise.

I think I'd like to know some more information about the "green" way of dying and deposition before signing on with that one. No casket, no embalming and a suggestion that we'd be peppered with biodegradables before ending up in some eco-park where the worms and maggots could feed on us.

I don't think I like the idea of having my family stand around to bathe and dress me either. There's a reason I wear clothes 24-7. My Seattle cousins can tell you how modest I am. They tried really hard last year to get me a gift certificate to a massage therapist. They failed. Heck, the one time in my life when I went skinny dipping at midnight, I felt like someone was looking at me. Never did that again.

I'm more than mildly modest, and my toenails aren't the prettiest. In fact, I've kept them hidden from family members and friends all these years, and I'd like to keep it that way. Don't put me in any dress either cuz that would be phony, and I figure on taking my blunt country hick honesty to whatever grave they dump me in. A dress would hardly suit me for eternity. Jeans please, and make sure those toes are covered.

I do kinda like the harp music idea, but be sure throw in a little Neil Diamond, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Allison Kraus, Joan Baez, and John Denver stuff added to the mix. They should all fit in the babyboomer music-loving realm, and I certainly want my contemporaries entertaining me as I head for the great beyond.

Gosh, a stunning thought just hit me. I've been sitting here for twenty minutes now. That's 1,200 seconds divided by 50, and that means another 24 of us have died. Better bring this blog posting to a close and get on with life. Cuz my time's a comin'

Have a nice day, and---in all seriousness---whether we're Babyboomers, Greatest Generationers, or all those other labels applied to age groups, there's one common denominator: life is our precious gift to be appreciated and lived well. We never know when the next 50 seconds could be our turn at the Mr. Love's clock.

Saturday Slight

Less than one week left of February, the Oscars are tomorrow night, and just a few weeks until Daylight Savings time starts. None of the above has done much to remove the four feet of snow still on the ground. I looked at the weather forecast for the next week, and it seems doubtful that much will change soon. Days in the low 40s, nights below freezing.

So, we just sits and waits----finding creative ways to occupy our days leading up to that annual overnight phenomenon when everything outside suddenly demands our attention almost 24-7----growing grass, awaiting garden soil, growing weeds, fence fixing, horse grooming, bike riding. Yes, bike riding is just as important as all the others, cuz we've gotta have some recreational fun in addition to work.

I'm pretty anxious for spring so that I can finally use one of the gifts Bill gave me for Christmas. It's been sitting in a corner next to the couch since then and has yet to come out of the box. I've always wanted a metal detector, to take along when we go on some of our geocaching outings and comb through areas where structures once stood or old mines once operated.

One of my favorite areas is at Meadow Creek where there was a teacherage and a school, and where my dad chopped the wood for the schoolhouse stove each morning while his mother prepared herself for another day of teaching the students northeast of Bonners Ferry. I've always figured the ground around there could yield some fascinating finds.

This past year, the yearning for a metal detector was even more enhanced by Stan and Geneva Meserve's tales of the Humbird influence on our very own land. Seems one of the logging railroads ran north and south through the fields between our barn and the machine shed. Stan says a mill operated on the spot where his barn now stands.

Knowing that information provided more than ever an urgency to have my own metal detector for those occasional idle moments of wandering the fields. Certainly with this winter dumping, we've had no need to even get the thing out of the box since Christmas, but once the snow disappears, I'll pull out the instructions and put that gismo to work. Bill also plans to take it along with him sometimes when he's cruising timber on Humbird land.

He loves finding signs of where horse stables once stood or logging camps operated, and he's found a few artifacts, like nails and remains of barrels. So, this year when the gift request list was announced, Bill didn't think twice about honoring my wishes on that item.

Another dream of an upcoming spring, and that's what keeps us going. But there's also a barn to clean and a cute little Lefty out there waiting to join his buddy Lily. So, I'd better get moving.

Happy Saturday to all. Also, for your viewing enjoyment, Annie has some new photos up on her blog at (www.nnlove.blogspot.com). Last weekend, she went to the Oregon coast---to our family fun spot from years ago---Rockaway Beach, and she's snapped some nice images, along with some good moon shots from the eclipse. Enjoy.

Fry Day

Thank God It's Friday. TGIF just doesn't mean much to me anymore. As my brother so often said when he first retired---every day's a Saturday. Nowadays, though, Fridays do mean no dinner to cook. Bill comes home from work, eats a snack or two, reads the paper, watches the news, dozes off for a few minutes and then we go into town to dinner.

It was absolutely amazing last Friday when we checked out almost every restaurant in town during our snowy walk, finally settling on Jalapenos cuz the wait wasn't so long, and as we sat waiting, out walked Bill and Connie Madsen Malone. They'd just finished their meal.

Just like clockwork, they were slightly ahead of us in their Friday night dining routine, and, as happens almost every Friday, whatever restaurant we happen to pick, Bill and Connie are there first. I'm beginning to wonder if we have a hidden camera in our brains. I don't know how long this restaurant rendezvous string is gonna go on, but it's nice to know we'll see them at least once a week.

Years ago, Fridays meant French fries at Connie's with my sisters and with whoever else wanted to come along. Ranch dressing was the big draw. I think Connie's came up with that combination long before anyone else in town. The gathering for gobbling and gabbing was our way of celebrating the completion and survival of another week in the classroom. We also let off a lot of steam while discussing each week's imps.

After the French fry session, I usually went home and crashed. It was the only time during the week to do so because along with me always came a pile of papers to grade and lesson plans to devise for the next week.

Now, as a retiree, I find that the days tend to run together. Friday is still special, but not quite the golden day it used to be. As a freelance writer, I know no weekends---just deadlines. It doesn't matter what day of the week the story is due, it's always gnawing away at my mind until I've finally pushed the "send" button, and it zips off to an editor.

After a short break from deadlines, I'm finding on this TGIF day that three stories will be looming over me within the next three weeks. "Love Notes" goes tomorrow, and it's just about completed. I'm focusing on the cat-bite saga, and I've received some excellent medical advice from Dr. Tricia Dickens, one of Mother's five doctors this past week.

Mother loves her doctors but has a extra special admiration for Dr. Dickens, not only because she's a very knowledgeable down-to-earth physician but also because she practiced her specialty at Borgess Hospital in Kalamazoo, Mich. The hospital is right next door and connected with Mother's alma mater, Nazareth College. Ya don't often meet folks from Kalamazoo in Sandpoint, so Dr. Dickens has received a special place in Mother's heart.

Back to the stories: In early March I'll write a story based on some interviewing I'm doing right now with a couple in England who own Appaloosas. The great part is that their Appaloosas descended from our dad's world famous foundation stallion Toby I.

The other great aspect of this story is that until 18 months ago, the couple lived in County Cork, Ireland, and they were very dedicated to getting Appaloosas established in the Emerald Isle. With my own Irish background deeply rooted in County Cork, this should be a fun assignment.

Later in March, I'm doing a feature for Sandpoint Magazine about pontooning. Some will be based on my sisters' and my pontooning experiences last summer, while, overall, I'll touch on the big and little of pontoons. I'm told that Brian Wood may own the biggest pontoon/houseboat on the lake. I've learned that Tom Anderson, owner of Sandpoint Outfitters, is a pontoon aficionado, and that John Knowles built his own pontoon houseboat from scratch.

So, on this TGIF day, I'm formulating lots of questions to glean lots of information for those three assigned stories. And, there'll be no French-fry period to gasp a sigh of relief until every last word in the "Pontooning in Pend Oreille Country" story has gone to bed.

For all those who still enjoy the purity and exhilaration of TGIF, I send you wishes of a wonderful weekend from this poor ol' retiree who's still sweatin' eternal deadline stress.

ChEEE-EEEzeburgers have returned

I found the headline above already used among my past postings so I looked to see the date it had appeared. It was March 4, 2006, and we lived in town----not out in the deep snow country.

Bill came in this morning from his walk across the snow and announced that he'd heard the cheeseburger birds for the first time. I was happy to tell him that I had heard them calling out to each other yesterday morning while walking out to get the paper. So, this year's first official observation of the little chickadees sending their love calls at the Lovestead will be recorded as Feb. 19, 2008.

I find that fascinating, considering all that snow which still remains atop the ground with its general consistency of cement. Two weeks earlier than usual for the cheeseburger birds----I'd say that's a good sign that spring is trying to get here.

We've been walking on top of the hard snow for the past week. It's been great fun for dogs and humans to set out across a field with a little higher, cleaner, safer perspective that the alternative of icy pathways, mud and the feeling of claustrophobia as we try to peer over high snow banks from deep ground-level passageways. The other day I even took a lawn chair from the barn and sat in the middle of one of our pastures soaking up the intense February sun.

We've been blessed with beautiful day-long visits from the sun this week, and its presence has created better moods all around. So, to my dear friend, Andrea in Bend, thanks for your thoughtful card. I'm happy to tell you that I've had no need to resort to that tequila! Let's just wait until you show up in Sandpoint and go enjoy a margarita over some good visiting.

Speaking of good visiting, JoAnne from California, it was great to meet you yesterday when we dropped in to your Colburn home unannounced on our way to Bonners Ferry. I always love putting faces to the readers who occasionally comment on the blog. We visited briefly with JoAnne when my mother, our two Border Collies and I took a quick spin up north in the outpatient SUV to enjoy sunny scenery and to do a little shopping at the Boundary Trading Co. store.

While Mother did therapy exercises with her two limp fingers, Miss Kea spent her time in the back seat chewing her leash into two pieces. I kept chastising Kiwi for growling at her little sister who's recovering from surgery, but now, in retrospect, I think Kiwi was probably telling Kea to quit destroying her pretty pink leash.

Kea wasn't complying because when I went to take the two canine ladies for a walk around the parking lot while Mother shopped, I had to use makeshift leashes on both. That's when I remembered that Kea had removed Kiwi's collar a couple of weeks ago from too much tugging while running. In spite of the band aide approach, the dogs enjoyed their Bonners Ferry parking lot walk.

In other early spring news, I've got lots of little green things sticking up in my planting pots. The pansies are taking a while in the kitchen garden window so I'm going to move them to the living room where it's a little warmer. While looking over the plants this morning, I posed the possibility to Bill of rigging up a green house with the dog kennel.

He may regret uttering his magic solution.

"Why don't you go down to that place in Kootenai that rents movies and sells nursery items (All Seasons Nursery) and see how much those little greenhouses are?" Bill suggested.

He didn't have to defend his suggestion one bit.

"Okay," I said. "I will."

"You don't need it this weekend, do you?" he then asked, to which I said I could wait a little while. For some reason, Bill doesn't think it's too practical to haul one home just yet. BUT as soon as it is deemed possible, I'm taking him up on the suggestion.

So, greenhouse possibilities and chEEE-EEEZeburger love calls have this ol' gal pretty excited today. It's pretty safe to say, "Spring is in the air." Now, when the much-awaited season hits the ground, we'll be off and running for another wonderful year at the Lovestead.

Have a great day!

This and that . . . .

I pulled this pic off ESPN.com. This was taken of me in Crested Butte, Co. Pretty cool. Only two weeks of sking and look at that. lol. --Army Sgt. Brandon Adam.

Brandon sent me this photo yesterday and said it was okay to post it on my blog this morning. The heading in his note read, "Skiin' maybe a future?" Knowing Brandon, whatever he wants to make as his future will be, and in a big way. Keep up the good work, Brandon. We are proud of you.

~~~~~~~~~~

I have sad news to report about a former student, colleague and friend, Roberta Welker Bostock. Roberta died Sunday at Bonner General Hospital due to a rapidly-developing colon cancer.

Roberta graduated in the early '70s from SHS. She was a member of my Ponderettes Drill Team. Somewhere, tucked away either in my memory or in a box, is a photo of Roberta serving punch at Bill and my wedding reception in June, 1974. I also will always cherish the beautiful horse mug along with the thoughtful retirement card she gave me when I left SHS for good in 2002.

Roberta married SHS grad, Bill Bostock, and they had two wonderful boys, Kyle and Casey, both the apples of Roberta's eyes. I told friends the other day that I'll always take with me the many times Roberta would share with me the good news of her boys. She was so proud of them.

As my sister Barbara said, Roberta was one of the nicest, sweetest persons anyone could ever meet. Another friend and former colleague said she never, ever had an unkind word to say about anyone, no matter how obnoxious or deserving that person could be. Roberta saw only the good and spoke only the good of people. A rare trait, indeed.

Roberta worked in several secretarial capacities at Sandpoint High School, including receptionist---the kind, warm, smiling face that greeted everyone who came to the office window. And, if a person happened to be standing at her desk and the phones were ringing off the hook, she did her best to multitask with the phones and still tend to that person's needs.

Most recently, Roberta served as administrative assistant to SHS Athletics/Activities Director Cheryl Klein. Cheryl predicted the other day it would take her a long time to find anyone with all the rare and wonderful qualities Roberta brought to that office.

This has been a stunning piece of news to digest for anyone who knew Roberta---not only because of the void it will leave with her much beloved family but because of the hundreds and hundreds of friends, colleagues and perfect strangers whom she has affected so positively during her lifetime. Plus, it has all happened too fast. She was diagnosed over Christmas vacation, leaving little time for all who would have wanted to communicate to her how much she meant to her family, her school and the community.

Yesterday, I received information about her memorial service and about funds being set up to help the Bostock family and to honor Roberta's memory. That information follows along with a reminder of the impact a person with such goodness has on a community.

~~~~~~

The service for Roberta is Saturday at 10:00 at First Christian Church. They are going to be serving lunch and they are expecting a large turnout. Kim Brackett is preparing the lunch and needs help with salads, desserts, and side dishes. If anyone can bring something you can e-mail me or call Kim at 290-5021 or 255-4865. She would appreciate any help!

A Memorial Fund for Roberta will be established later this afternoon at Mountain West Bank, by Bill and Kyle, for the purpose of donations that will later be made into a long-term memorial account.

Bill, Kyle and Casey were very excited the high school wanted to create a foundation in her honor and are excited to help us get started. Until they decide what specifically her memorial account should focus on, whether it become a scholarship or donate to Teen MOPS each year, etc… the account will be titled “Roberta Bostock Memorial Fund” at this time for those who would like to contribute.

For those who would like to donate to the family personally, please send contributions to:
First Christian Church: Bostock Memorial Fund , 201 N. Division, Sandpoint, Idaho 83864
This would help their family out greatly as well.

I hope that we will be able to carry on Roberta’s tradition of kindness and compassion through this memorial.
Thank you for letting everyone know. ~~Erica Loveless Haynes

Dog day morning

Gotta load Kea up in a few minutes and take her to Cherise's. She'll go over to Pend Oreille Vet Hospital at Newport for spaying. Cherise, her vet, will bring her home tonight. Nice to have service like that, but it's only cuz Cherise is working over there today and it's just as easy for her to take Kea as it is for me.

Kea knows something's different this morning because she hasn't had any breakfast. I've been getting lots of extra hugs today. Anyway, for today----hopefully the whole day, I'll be switching from people doctors to the animal doctor.

More later. . .

~~~~~~~~
Later: Well, Kea and Cherise are on their way to Newport. I had to call Cherise while going down Jacobson Road to deliver Kea because a moose was taking up the roadway. The snow banks are high on each side and the snow is deep on the other side of the banks, so the moose are using the roads and railroad tracks (not a good choice as evidenced by the number killed each year).

I told Cherise that I was staying safely behind this big critter because I've heard my share of stories dealing with their belligerent behavior of late. Patsy Sletager tells the story of the one that attacked their black lab right in their yard. The dog needed 50 stitches to fix the wound. I've heard from several people the story of Tom Albertson who had to slug one to get it out of his way. I want to hear that one directly from Tom.

Anyway, knowing of these and other situations, I gave that moose its space. Cherise said she'd come and meet me wherever I happened to be. In the meantime, the moose turned around and went back to Colburn-Culver where some dipstick with a van refused to slow down and kept a steady speed behind the poor thing as it raced down the road. Finally, it found a long driveway and turned in there.

I don't know why people can't use a little common sense and some humanity toward these creatures who don't want to be hanging out on the roads or driveways any more than we want them getting in our way. We all (wildlife and people) suffer during times like this, and it would be good to lower the threshold of idiot human behavior just a tad.

Well, the sun is out, the sky is blue, and Mother doesn't have to go to the hospital for I-V's today. So, we're hoping she gets some rest and that her life turns back to as normal as it can possibly be. Yesterday, during therapy, the doctor and the therapist brought up the possibility that some tendons may have been destroyed by the infection. Mother can't control two of her fingers, so she is to do her therapy and there will be some more observing in the next couple of days.

I've got a barn to clean and tax stuff to cipher so I'd better get at it. Have a great day.

Weee're gonna have a hog killin'!!

There was no squealing except maybe the giggles. The doctor's handshake was pretty low key, but the twinkle in his eye suggested some good times ahead. And, that twinkle was right on---as was the doctor.

Dr. Michael DeBenedetto is our mother's sixth physician that she has seen this week; that includes the cardiologist who told her she's good to go with that much improved heart. Well, she's been good to go all right----constantly from doctors' offices to emergency rooms, and we're still going to be on the road today, but we're hoping we've turned the corner in this slight detour on our mother's path to good health.

After lots of I-V antibiotics to fight off the infection injected into her right hand by that innocent cat bite, Dr. Dickens called on Dr. DeBenedetto to look at Mother's hand. There were growing pockets of infection beneath the skin, and they needed to be released. So, when the good doctor who's an orthopedic surgeon hailing from Ohio walked through the door and took a look, he immediately announced, "There's gonna be a hog killin' in here."

The hog killin', however, was going to have to wait a couple of hours while he went to the operating room to fix someone's ankle. In the meantime, Mother read the newspaper and napped while the morning antibiotics dripped into her system. I called my sisters and told them to come on down.

Shortly after they arrived, Dr. DeBenedetto returned, along with Dylan Food, the 1999 SHS grad who's going to medical school in Pennsylvania and hanging around Sandpoint's ER to observe. He's planning to be an ER doctor. He'll graduate in two months and will move on to Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit as an intern. Both Barbara and I taught Dylan---photography and journalism, respectively. So, it was kinda neat for us to see our student assisting the surgeon.

Dr. DeBenedetto probably hasn't missed his calling, but Saturday Night Live could use him any time they need a fill in. He also does a good job of attracting an audience. From time to time during the half-hour surgery, heads kept popping through the curtain, just to watch the action as the comedic doctor kept us all laughing and his hands pretty darned steady while administering about half a dozen shots of anesthetic into Mother's hand, having Dylan slit it open and then working his instruments through the pockets of infection.

Mother grimaced a few times. She used that word in describing her reaction to the pain and wondered if it was the precise term. Her eldest English teacher daughter assured her that "grimace" was, indeed, the proper term for her facial expressions.

One time Dr. D (as the nurses call him) summoned her to look at the hand as he gleefully pulled the drain tube back and forth through the two openings. She did more than grimace on that observation. In fact, I don't think she looked back that way again until the hand was sewed up (by Dylan) and wrapped up by the funny doctor. The hog killin' was over. At one time, Mother said the pain was worse than any of her seven times at childbirth. She was a trooper!

The guy knew his stuff. The hand looked 100 times better when those mounds holding that infection had disappeared. Mother and my sisters went back to the hospital last night for another dose of the I-V antibiotic. She and I will go again this morning and will later go to a hand therapist, followed by a visit to the hog killer who will see how her hand is progressing.

So, this innocent cat bite continues to dominate Mother's life. That doesn't make her love her Rowdy any less. She pretty much figures that he feels really bad. She also figures that the good doctor yesterday made a horrible situation go pretty well with his humor. Since we're a family who thrive on humor, we all agree.

And, we all agree that the staff at Bonner General Hospital's ER is topnotch. We've gotten to know a lot of them over the past several days. They've taken excellent care of our mother---especially during the hog killin', and for that we appreciate them very much.

Happy Feb. 17

I don't know what's significant this day, but I'm sure there's something important to celebrate. So, I'll give it a special high five, just to cover any an all birthdays, anniversaries, or historical happenings. Maybe something big will happen today to set it apart from all the other Feb. 17th's that came before it.

We shall not know until midnight, so I guess we'll just have to slog along and see what's to come. I do know a few things to come today. I must turn Lefty out. I must clean his barn. I must take another sack of Nutrena Youth over to the barn, so he and Lily will have grain tonight.

I also know that I'll be taking Mother to the ER again this morning for her antibiotic treatment. I do not know what the doctor or her intern Dylan are going to say when they see the hand. It appears better, but it still is somewhat swollen and has a couple of "problem" swellings that concern the doctor.

Mother has faithfully done everything instructed to her, which so far includes: soaking in warm moisture, administering salve, elevation, taking antibiotics, taking more antibiotics, forgetting the salve and soaking in Epsom salts four times daily. This morning there is a possibility that the doctor may have to lance one of those problem areas, but again, we don't know.

We have learned a lot about cat bites, and have I said many times during this saga----they are bad and people should not waste a moment getting them treated.

So, on this Feb. 17, I'll be on my way to the barn and eventually to the ER where Mother and I are getting to know lots of nurses, doctors, office workers and other people who have to come to the ER. Maybe I should take my laptop with me and start writing a book about ER's. But then again, maybe not, cuz I think someone else already has.

Have a Happy Feb. 17. And, to Joanne who wrote in yesterday, if you're the one at the other end of the Colburn hayfield, hang in there. Winter will definitely not end Feb. 17 but sometime soon in a field near you. And, when it does, we'll holler!

Saturday Slightly Sh----y day

I may get bounced off from doing my blog, so if it's incomplete, I'll be back later when the telephone line into our house, which has been damaged by too d--- much snow decides it can work for a few minutes. It took me at least 30 tries and a lot of bump-offs to get this far this morning.

I've reached one of those points in North Idaho winter when my use of the word which my dad always said, "I wouldn't have in my hand what you just had in your mouth" is working toward a crescendo. We all reach those points from time to time in North Idaho winters, and I'm admittedly experiencing one of my worst this morning.

No particular reason, just sick and tired of everything going wrong, tired of winter, tired of the notion that it will be weeks before we can do anything productive outside, tired of the realization yesterday that all the fencewire we strung last year will need to be stretched again, adding one more chore to the pot of fixing up from the destruction of this winter.

And, when you can't even get the enjoyment of using your antiquated dial-up computer for a little recreational writing because the d--- phone line is semi-destroyed and can't be fixed until the d--- snow covering up the phone unit outside gets down to just a foot, you get a little irritated. Poor Bill. He knows I'm irritated today cuz he's heard that word my dad never wanted in his hand or coming out of my mouth far too many times already this morning.

So, today, I'm going to return to my computer from time to time and note all the reasons to be positive and to refrain from uttering 300 times a day that S-word we don't want in our hand or our mouths.

For starters on the positives:

The wet snow that dropped on us all the time we were walking all over town last night looking for a restaurant with less than half-an-hour wait quit coming down by morning, leaving just an inch of new snow to melt along with the other four-five feet. There are patches of blue sky.

The ice we've been sliding on with virtually every step through the driveway all week due to melt has been covered up with that new inch of snow, so no slipping this morning. That was good.

Back later . . . must run. Mother thinks her cat-bitten hand is better today, and we're going to go see what the doctor thinks.

Later: 1:30 p.m. You get to see lots of folks you know at the ER. At least, it seemed so today. Our neighbors up the road were there tending to their mother. The doc today is our neighbor, Tricia Dickens.

Just got back after arriving down there around 9:30 a.m. Dr. Dickens X-rayed Mother's hand and put her on another I-V antibiotic. She'll do another tonight at 10 and another tomorrow morning. This brings to three the kinds of antibiotics she's had this week and four, the number of doctors she's seen. Today's instructions include soaking the hand four times a day in Epsom's Salts. That's something we all, who live on farms, thought of at the get-go. Now, five days later, we go to the old doctoring methods, along with the I-V's that is.

Good news is a Gonzaga game today at 5. So, Mother and my sisters will come over with pizzas and Epsom's salts, and we'll watch the game. Afterward, we're watching the new version of 3:10 to Yuma with Russell Crowe. By that time, it will be time for Mother to go back to the ER for her treatment.

Good news is that I got online this afternoon, and the good news is a warm sun. So, I'm going outside to enjoy some of it. Haven't said that word that my dad wouldn't have in his hand for several hours now.

Later . . . maybe.

Don't let a cat get your hand

This week has been the best of times and the worst of times for my mother. I just returned from taking her to the emergency room for a third doctor's visit dealing with a cat bite. On Tuesday, she received a glowing report from her cardiologist on her congestive heart disease. So far, she hasn't been in a frame of mind to celebrate.

It all started shortly before she was supposed to go to her semi-annual check-up with the cardiologist. Her much beloved cat, Rowdy, was playing with her cane as he frequently does. When she reached down to pick it up, he continued to play and accidentally grabbed her hand with his teeth. He left a couple of wounds, which she washed and treated immediately with neosporin.

I came to pick her up, and we went on to the appointment, which included an echo-cardiogram. By the time that test was finished, she looked at her hand, and a significant hematoma had formed. The hand also started hurting. After other tests were completed and the doctor gave her the wonderful report that her heart has improved significantly, we headed off to her other doctor's office for the cat bite.

The wound was dressed. She received a tetanus shot, and the doctor prescribed a strong antibiotic cream and instructed her to keep moist heat on the hand and change the dressing a few times each day. By the next day, her hand had swollen even more. When it was still swollen yesterday morning (like a Pillsbury doughboy's), we went immediately back to the doctor. He prescribed some antiobiotics and told her to keep it elevated.

Yesterday afternoon, she seemed to be on the mend, even though the hand was still swollen and still giving her excruciating pain. This morning I received a call at 5 a.m. to come and pick her up and take her to the ER. A red streak was moving up her arm, and the swelling had not gone down.

So, we went to the Emergency Room, where they agreed it was a good decision. She received an I-V antibiotic and another different prescription for antibiotics to take twice daily. One of the nurses also had to cut her heirloom ring from her finger. The ring can be fixed, by the way. Mother is now home, and I have to go back to town when the pharmacy is open for the new antibiotic. She is to report back to the ER tomorrow for observation and possibly more IV's.

I've heard stories about cat bites before, but I've never seen the real consequences until now. My advice, after this experience, is not to waste any time going to the doctor when you receive a cat bite of any kind. It's a frustrating situation at best, and we still don't know how long it's going to take her to get past this so that she can revel in the news that her heart is in better shape than it's been for years.

Happy Valentine's Day

It's all you need, and it's what the world needs now, so spread it today and every day.

Happy Valentine's Day to all.

Dirt-road grit

Yesterday, while driving to and from town, I saw two roof cave-ins. One was especially sad. The back end of one of the more rustic barns along HWY 95 just south of my mother's, along Sand Creek, had gone down in the past few days. I always loved that place for its picturesque qualities, and the barn was the centerpiece. Part of the roof is still hanging in there, but who knows for how long.

While driving home along Center Valley Road, I noticed that a side roof on a barn was lying at an angle on the ground beside the main structure. I surmised that we're certainly not alone in the neighborhood with the demise of our storage shed. And, within the area, the stories continue to filter out about Jean Offermann's roof, and the two cave-ins up at Western Pleasure and some at McNalls.

Last night, I was telling my sister about the additional story Bill had told me about a horse being lost due to one of the cave-ins at Western Pleasure when she told me about yet another rather significant roof collapse at a dressage arena a few miles from where we live. I'm sure there are plenty more horror stories to share about the destruction of this winter of '07-'08, and I'm sure they're being shared.

One of the better stories I'd heard came from a neighbor who moved here several years ago from California, vowing never to return. Even he, who has a back hoe to clear his snow, has entertained thoughts similar to the fabled family who reportedly left many of their belongings at the Dufort Mall "free" pile a few weeks ago and headed out of town, planning not to return again.

Our neighbor had just had it a week or so ago and even expressed surprise that he hadn't read about more suicides in the local paper. Bill jokingly suggested to him that maybe nobody's found them yet cuz they might be buried under a snow pile. As readers know, this season has been wearing on all of us, but-----

In spite of everything that has gone wrong and all the work we've asked of our bodies over the past couple of months, I remain committed to this lifestyle, and I'm more than confident that a lot of other battle-worn winter warriers, even my neighbor, share the same conviction. An undying, yet often tested, spirit runs to the core of our being. That spirit constantly reminds us that we're willingly in it for the long haul, and when you're in anything for the long haul, you're going to be tested.

Buildings will crumble. Bodies will scream in protest as we hurl one more shovelful of heavy snow with our achy arms. Things will just get in the way, making us often wonder just how insane we must be to put up with all this toil and trouble.

We know, however, that enduring this rural life can be summed up just like mothers-to-be who deal with nine months of physical challenges, topped off by the most excruciating of pains as they, at last, give birth. In most cases, at that moment, all undesirables of the past few months are immediately forgotten when the pain ends and another beautiful newborn miracle screams its arrival to the world.

In the rural life, so many pluses outweigh the minuses. Even on the darkest of winter days, in this country especially, we know that tribulations will eventually end. We know that in what seems like a far-off spring when another multitude of newborn miracles surrounds us and sustains us, we'll be wondering why we ever complained. Loving the rural life is just a part of our souls.

This morning, Bill read to me a short segment from a book he's currently reading about fly fishing. Written by John Gierach, it's called Standing in a River Waving a Stick. Apparently, Bill thought it pretty much summed up our situation and the situation of so many others who've been tested to the core this winter and who will continue to embrace the lifestyle. I agreed. So, with no further adieu, I'll close with John Gierach's apt words:

"McCook is the kind of small Middle American city where you can find a cheap motel patronized mostly by truckers and hunters this time of year---complete with a garbage pail and a yard light out back for cleaning birds---a quiet little bar off Main Street that serves a great steak dinner special and a breakfast joint where the farmers hang out and where the waitresses ask you how the hunting has been without first having to ask what you're doing in town.

"It's hard not to overhear snatches of conversation in a place like this, and I'm always struck by a certain sensible outlook I've come to miss here in the People's Republic of Boulder County, Colorado, which is a hell of a lot less rural than when I moved here almost thirty years ago.

"(I don't mean that Colorado has gone completely to hell, it's just that there are a few too many people around now who moved out west so they could live on a dirt road, only to spend all their time bitching about the dust.)

"You see, urban folk somehow assume that things are supposed to go perfectly for them at all times: schedules must be met, expectations must be fulfilled, comfort must be maintained. Consequently, they're aggravated beyond all reason by any little mistake or delay. But rural people understand that life is basically a dangerous, unmanageable mess, so when things go wrong, their suspicions are confirmed and it's just a blessing no one was killed. When things occasionally go right, they're delighted. Whatever happens, they have a comfortable grasp on reality, not to mention an ironclad work ethic."

The right to think and the right to be respected

Why do some who disagree have to stoop to the lowest levels? I read this morning on (www.sandpointonline.com) that a movement is afoot to boycott local businesses who do not agree with the mythical byway.

Then, I read a letter in the community issues forum "comments" section from one of the business owners who has already been the brunt of nastiness incited by his overt opposition to the Byway.

A portion of Pierre Bordenave's letter reads:

I personally have experienced the willingness of people in our community to vandalize my property, violate my privacy, threaten me over the phone, attack the people who I associate with, and even target my son in an "anything is fair game" approach to silence me. All through cowardly anonymity. I recognize and accept that I set myself up as a focal point by stating openly what hundreds of people in our community want to say but were not willing to subject themselves, their families, friends, and businesses to the hateful acts of some. What I did not recognize was the length that some were willing to go to hurt and destroy anyone to try and suppress an opposing opinion. It has not been successful. It is not successful. It will never be successful. I am willing to defend anyone's right to agree or disagree with me just as strongly as I am willing to state my right to agree or not agree with others. That is what it means to be truly American. Not just saying the words and pledging the allegiance to the flag when in public.

What will be next for our local proud flag wavers who thump their chests and intimidate people from their freedom to question what every American has the right to question? Perhaps if you do not hang a cross in your window, you should be boycotted because you are not Christian enough. Or maybe you should be forced to put a specific candidates political sign in your window as proof that you would not vote for someone with different skin color. Or maybe something as minor as declaring whether you were for or against the Panhandle State Bank's building will get you blacklisted and boycotted.

~~~~

Apparently this was discussed on a local radio show yesterday. I'm sorry to have missed the forum because I have a strong opinion and this one has nothing to do with the byway. I favor the byway, always have and probably always will.

What I do not favor, however, is the need for passionate opponents to any controversial issue to resort to measures beyond the realm of civilized public discussion to get their point across. I also believe that the anonymous among this world are cowardly; if they don't have the decency to attach their names to their thoughts, those opinions stand no ground.

I've seen this behavior in a number of arenas during my lifetime, and all I've got to say is that these people's efforts do nothing more to their opponents than to cause them to dig their heels in even further. I can remember distinctly, years ago, when I publicly expressed opposition to a forced annexation which took our farm into the City of Sandpoint.

That issue divided the town, like no other that I can remember, not even the byway question. The difference was that the annexation was a more immediate issue, affecting directly the lives of those who paid taxes on property desired by the city for addition to its tax coffers. The controversy, by byway standards, was short-lived. That, in itself, made it more intense than the byway discussion which floats in and out of the public debate.

At the time of the annexation issue, I distinctly remember standing in front of an English class, going about my business of teaching English when the child of pro-annexation parents suddenly popped off in class, mocking my involvement in the annexation opposition movement.

His comments were out of line and inappropriate to whatever we were doing at the time. As a teacher, however, I had to stand a fine line and just keep my mouth shut while allowing him to spout out his rather pointed and demeaning comments directed toward me. It was a difficult moment, but I lived through it.

I've always believed in respecting others' opinions and in not pushing mine on others, especially if I'm aware they're not welcome. I also do not believe in aggressively demeaning others for what they think.

I learned a long time ago----during what we considered kind of a crazy curriculum day presentation: you are now what you were then. While watching the presentation, we at first mocked the ever-repeated thought, simply because of the annoying presenter on the video. The more I thought about statement, however, the more it made sense.

All humans are defined and driven by their unique personal experiences in life. Therefore, it's pretty hard for all humans to have exactly the same unique personal experiences in life, so, with that in mind, we can see that they "ain't gonna" have exactly the same point of view on all issues. They have reasons for their opinions, and we have reasons for ours. And, for that reason alone, it's important to respect them for what they think----not demean them.

With that in mind, doing physical and emotional harm to others, anonymously, seems more than unfair. I adamantly disagree with Pierre Bordenave's stand on the byway, and I adamantly disagree with NICAN. I have my reasons because, like many who yearn for a byway, I get sick and tired of getting stuck in downtown traffic.

I have also grieved inwardly while watching my share of beautiful, pristine settings where I've lived my entire life destroyed by what we call progress. In my mind and because of my personal experiences, those open expanses of farm land and tree-covered mountainsides, now dotted by metal buildings and high-priced mansions, WERE once just as pretty as Sand Creek. The bottom line is that this is going to continue to happen as long as people choose to inhabit this earth.

The byway issue goes on, but let's not stoop to uncivilized and inappropriate methods to intimidate people into changing their minds. Let's respect those who disagree with us and hope that some day, through civilized, open discussion where names are attached to the opinion holders, this issue and others on which we disagree can be resolved.

Note: Happy birthday to Mangy Moose aka Jenny: (www.mangymooseacres.blogspot.com)

Mangy Moose b-day, et.al.

Mangy Moose turns 34 tomorrow. And, I'm not talkin' about the mother moose that keeps visiting us. I'm talking about that mother of Amazing Grace who posts on her (www.mangymooseacres.blogspot.com) every week day. Please note on your "things to do" list to check in on Mangy Moose tomorrow and wish her a happy birthday.

Every birthday is meaningful to Mangy Moose aka Jenny. She's one tough cookie, a cancer survivor.

Every time she celebrates another birthday, her family is happy, especially her amazing daughter Grace who's now a first grader. Mangy Moose hoped to live long enough to go hand-in-hand with Amazing Grace to the kindergarten door.

She did.

And, since then, Mangy Moose and Amazing Grace have gone hand in hand to the first-grade door.

My dear friend and hero, Mangy Moose, ordered her garden seeds a week or so ago----little late if yer asking me, but knowing her Type A competitiveness, she'll catch up and surpass me in the gardening department just like she did with her cookies at the fair last fall. I don't mind though; I'm happy to concede defeat to Mangy Moose cuz each time I do, that's a victory for her and for all who love and admire her.

And, speaking of gardening, I can speak of spring this morning. The lay of the land doesn't support its gradual appearance, but lots of other small signs are popping up in advance of those crocuses, which don't stand a chance in Selle of showing their face for some time.

But . . .

I can see tops of fenceposts. I shut the barnyard gate without pulling arm muscles this morning. The newspaper was IN the paperbox WITHOUT a plastic protective bag. The satellite dish that I dug out last Thursday now shows at least a foot of its stand above the snow.

The snow is melting but freezing at night, necessitating extra care with each footstep, but the dogs are thrilled. They were racing across the yard and into the fields this morning on top of the snow, acting like giddy canines who'd just been released from prison. They won't be able to do that all day, but it's good morning fun for dogs.

Yesterday I used the snow for a table. Just stood out there in the driveway, with just a sweater, and placed my potting trays on a shelf scooped out of the snowbank by hand. That way I could breathe that fresh early spring air, listen to the chickadees and pour potting soil into the pots without worrying about it slipping over the sides and making a mess.

This morning the dusty outline of those long rectangular trays frames a solid white snowbank still life. That's the closest to art I'll ever get, but I can take satisfaction in the fact that watermelon, cantaloupe, marigold, golden daisy, tomato and California bell pepper seed has found its home for the next couple of months. All that seed awaits the moment of sprout and growth and great care.

I've got new routines this morning as I go to the living room window and the garden window to hold my hand over the glass, gently allowing the water to drip to the potting soil. Those pots I planted last week now have little green critters reaching upward for their daily drink and dose of light from the window.

Yup, nice little, welcome signs of spring. We'll take 'em.

I'm sure they'll multiply by the day, emerging powerfully from above and from beneath those white blankets that have protected them and kept them in check for the past several months.

And, as they do, moods will improve with the feeling of exhilaration that, at long last, we can begin anew and that we can celebrate, with Mangy Moose, another great season of life.

A good time was had by all

My former SHS colleagues, Pat and Dwight Smith were the first to show up at Bob Green's BookPeople in Moscow. Of course they had a basketball game to attend. GO COUGS! Right, Dwight?

When you see people with whom you've worked, people you've taught, people with whom you started the first grade, people who've happened into your life and stay put as all-time favorites, people who have taught you, people you babysat, people who knew you when you were knee high to a purty horse, people who are family members, people who came to your slumber parties, along with a bunch of people you've never met before----and you sell a few books, it's a pretty good day.

I had a great day yesterday.

The roads were clear and dry, even though it was obvious from the scalped snowbanks north of Worley, there had been some drifting. The drive to and from Moscow and Lewiston went without incident. I did switch into 4-wheel drive while maneuvering the side streets in Moscow and Plummer.

I also felt kinda stupid wearing my boots into Hastings at Lewiston, where the ground is bare, Russ Gee is raking leaves and his daffodils are peeping about an inch above the ground.

Oh well, nobody seemed to care cuz there was a lot of good visiting going on throughout both book signings. A very special thanks to everyone who came to both events.

You made my day. Great stories swapped and wonderful memories to cherish.

Saturday Slight

Well, this will be slight today. When chores are done, I'm going to head on down the road and see if I can make it through to Moscow. I just looked at the highway report, and it doesn't show the best of conditions.

As I told Bill last night, though, there's always the option of turning around if it looks too bad. Plus, it's a trip out of town, and I didn't have anything else scheduled today---'cept for maybe a little shoveling. Now, who would want to walk away from that possibility?

I heard from my friend Edna last night, who left Sandpoint and headed south with her hubby Terry on Jan. 14 and------and today is the first day we have put on shorts. It has been cool everywhere. We spent a week in Death Valley and froze! We are in Parker Arizona on the Colorado river. It is finally warming up so maybe the warmer weather will hit Sandpoint.

Amy and Justin have had to plow and shovel all the snow at our place. (Pay back time) Amy calls and lets me know just how much they are shoveling while we sit in the desert. Keep your chin up; spring will come. Edna

My chin's up, Edna. Thank you.

If I make it to Moscow, there will be familiar faces, so the adventure has its rewards. And, then if I can make it to Lewiston afterward, more familiar faces may show up. And, if this all happens, and I make it back to Sandpoint tonight, I might have something new to talk about on tomorrow's blog.

Come to think of it, whatever happens today will be refreshingly new for me to write about and certainly refreshingly new for folks to read. So, it could be a win-win day---especially since the turnaround point for avoiding the 12-foot ever-evolving drifts on HWY 95 is the Coeur d'Alene Casino.

Happy Saturday.

Anywhere? Anyone?

I read in the paper this morning that television personality and political pundit Ben Stein has bought a Seasons at Sandpoint condo. So, that means lots more Ben Stein sightings in Sandpoint. Thinking about Ben Stein makes me think about what's on my mind today. Ben was nice enough to endorse the back cover of my book, and he even said something nice.

And, thinking of Ben endorsing the back of my book correlates directly with the big thoughts of the day. Will I or will I not be able to go to my two book signings in Moscow (BookPeople 11 a.m~1 p.m.) and in Lewiston (Hastings 3 ~ 5 p.m.) tomorrow?

I actually allowed myself to get excited about the prospects of getting out of town yesterday when the sun started shining and its warmth sent thoughts (ever so silent, of course) of spring and much desired change.

I could feel myself getting into a better mood while snow shoeing up and down the lane with armloads of wood and a new spring to my step---but still yelling at dogs to get out of the way. (Has anyone ever figured out why dogs, with 20 acres for roaming--even on top of snow--have to be right under one's feet?)

After finishing all chores, I happily scurried around to find my book boxes and load them into the car. I was stoked. I even decided that for tomorrow only I could cast off my flannel-lined jeans and go for a new pair I bought last November for the trip to St. Anthony.

In November, those jeans were slightly snug. Yesterday, when I pulled them off the dresser top, where they've been sitting since November and tried them on, my optimistic mood intensified. Slightly loose. A cinch to zip.

All that shoveling has done some good! I've lost a bit of blubber over the winter, and, as another growing local cliche states, "I'm probably in the best shape of my life." That's the word on the street around here. People have not had to go to the gym; they just go outside and pick up the shovel.

Later, I went to town to get ingredients for the Appaloosa cookies. In my ploy to creatively market Lessons with Love to a few good horse people down Moscow way, I promised that anyone who came in to the book signing, bought a book and identified themselves as an employee of the Appaloosa Horse Club would get a spotted cookie. They know my cookies down there at the Journal office. I might even consider giving a few to the non-horse gentiles too.

If I get there, that is!

In the Palouse area where spring is usually far, far ahead of us, main highways have been closed and may remain closed because of ruthless winds and huge, ever-growing snow drifts. I learned yesterday that the road from Moscow to Lewiston was closed. People in the Palouse are suffering as much or more than we-----which is, indeed, hard to believe.

So, I'll have to check with the bookstore people today. Weather can change quickly and high temperatures can melt a lot of that snow. So, I'm keeping my hopes up cuz I sure do want to get out of town, if only for a day. If the book signing gig doesn't work out tomorrow, I'm entertaining the idea of fulfilling one of my lifelong, quirky dreams.

These notions fit in the category of going on a cross country big truck excursion or hopping a freight. Also, years ago---when it was still there---I thought about finding away to steal the boat off the marina roof. The boat is gone, and the marina is now the Old Power House. I used to drive from the Long Bridge, into town, look at that boat and think of how much fun it would be to sneak it down from its perch and see how long it took someone to notice.

Well, another of my crazy dreams has been to leave home one morning, drive to Spokane International Airport, board a flight to somewhere like Dallas or Phoenix or Palm Springs, etc. have lunch, and fly home-----all in one day. I don't know what one accomplishes by doing this except to say it's like scaling the mountain---you do it because . . . .

At this time of the year, to be anywhere else where you can walk without falling through snow clear to your waist, to be where you can go outside without fourteen layers of clothes and footgear, to be where you can see green grass, to be where you can soak in the sun's rays and to be where you can actually see a flower or two---it is the dream of all who endure here and definitely a fortifying elixir which, if experienced, could help one tough it out till those flowers, that sun and that green grass emerges for another season.

So, I'm hoping to go to Moscow and Lewiston tomorrow, and if that does not work, I must borrow from Ben Stein's question and seek alternative suggestions: Lunch, anywhere? Anyone?

Other news: Annie is going to see Barack Obama today at Key Arena in Seattle.

A game of inches and forward momentum

Bill started sharing his analysis of the Winter of '07-'08 a couple of weeks ago. He bases his conclusions on the daily work he performs with the snowblower and the two tractors in the driveway and the lane. My football-loving hubby maintains that every major achievement and challenge associated with this winter is governed by inches.

And, the way I see it, we've got an ample roster for putting on a good daily game of an inch here and an inch there. The three dogs do well as the tackles----getting in the way and tripping you when you're trying to carry a wiggly load of wood for 100 yards through a foot of snow.

The snowblower and the human shovelers are the guards who open significant holes so everything else can do its work. The tractor and loader functions as the quarterback, only after the tractor and blade (defensive lineman) pushes snow out of the way, so that the Kubota can hurl that snow even further through the air.

And, the horses and cats---they're the laid-back spectators watching us all work and cheering us on because they know we represent their passageway to paydirt aka food and shelter. Occasionally, Mama moose and her baby represent too many men on the very small field of space, so they get penalized by being yelled at and sent somewhere down the road.

Well, it snowed seven inches last night, thereby adding to the height of the canyon walls and and an overtime period to winter. So, Bill went out there again this morning and cut through the snow one more time so that I could get to the barn door and to the barnyard gate.

I still had another 20 minutes of shoveling to open the barn door and the gate---both of which fit nicely into his inches theory. The day I can open that gate more than 24 inches and not get scrunched by Miss Lily as I turn her loose will be a day of celebration.

In Bill's daily X's and O's for clearing the driveway and lane, he figures if he can cut off an inch here and an inch there along those canyon walls, the effort could make all the difference in whether or not there's room to park a vehicle. Bill has always been meticulous that way, and that has been good for our survival in these winter struggles.

He also keeps himself motivated by the goal of days marked by forward momentum and no lost ground. Well, we had two or three days in a row where we used all those shovels he bought at Merwins, along with the trusty old ones and made visible progress. We could see out windows. We found the deck, at least a pathway's worth. We could walk down the lane to the machine shed without having to plan ahead for the trip. I even found my way into that caved-in storage shed to retrieve my planting pots.

We were starting to feeling pretty darned good with those few days of forward progress. Well, today we've lost most of what we gained. We've been sacked, and we're about 25 yards behind the line of scrimmage. Today most of the windows around the house will once again be blocked by snow. I say "will" because the seven inches of new snow has just begun to slide off the roof.

They've also been blasting for avalanches up at Schweitzer for the past hour, and I'm sure that the booms from up there and the roof sliding snow have sent Annie Dog to the barn for another day. We've noticed lately that this has been pretty hard on her because she's afraid of thunder or any similar sounds. She has discovered that the country music blasting in the barn muffles out all the other bad sounds.

We now have so much snow coming off the roof that it's threatening to break some windows, and, at this point, we can't do much about it cuz it's solid ice underneath. So, momentum lost. I noticed this morning that I'll have to shovel another path out there to the satellite dish because it's nearly buried after last night's dump. And, to get wood for today, I'll be walking or snow shoeing through seven new inches of snow down the lane which Bill plans to attack again tonight.

It was a game of inches for a school bus this morning. I called my sisters to see if they had to go to school. They did. We had a bad cell phone connection, so my sister Barbara called me back and said not to go around the Center Valley way to their home because a bus was stuck in the ditch just past their driveway and was blocking part of the road.

I know I will be going over there because I'm sure my mother's satellite dish has a dose of that seven new inches of snow, and she may want to watch TV today, along with feeding her squirrels. But then again, maybe her windows will be blocked off again too.

We're very weary, as are our neighbors. Bill told me last night that one of our neighbors told him that he has actually entertained many thoughts of returning to California after living here for several years. He's sick and tired of plowing snow, as are we all.

The weather experts say it's going to start changing today. It will get warm, and it will rain.

That means a snow melt. That also means the snow has to go somewhere, and it will definitely need some inches of space to find its way. There are very few inches available for the snow to find its way out of here. We all know that, and we all fear how many inches deep the water's gonna be when it all starts melting. We Loves also wonder about forward progress when the rain falls on top of the 48 inches or so of frozen snow on top of our storage shed.

We have very few choices, though. Like all the other weary folks in this region, we'll keep on huddling inside this house and plotting our defense for the winter of '07-'08's next offense.

One of these days, we're gonna break loose with a big play and find the goal line of spring. That's when we're gonna get a big jug of gatorade and pour it all over ourselves for winning this Super Bowl of Winters.