No trick: it really happened--the beginning of the Byway

I got to thinking yesterday that politicians must get a lot of golden shovels, and then I got to thinking that they probably really need to keep a good supply for all the ---- they spread.

In all seriousness, yesterday was a monumental day in Sandpoint, Idaho's history. Locals who've waited an eternity, road-building officials, politicians ranging from county commissioners who can remember the decades' worth of red tape, and media gathered to ceremoniously begin construction of the Byway aka Bypass around Sandpoint.

The weather cooperated. No protesters showed up. Everyone seemed upbeat and thrilled that the day had finally arrived.

The Byway aka Bypass has been a controversial topic in Sandpoint for years. The concept is more than 50 years old. More than likely there will be plenty of grousing ahead, even from proponents was we endure four years of construction and occasional inconvenience.

The end-product, however, promises to open an "economic artery," as Gov. Butch Otter called it, which is so essential to intrastate, interstate and International commerce. In addition, it should alleviate the horrific traffic congestion we so often endure in downtown Sandpoint, making the downtown area a more user-friendly and safer place to shop and enjoy what the town has to offer.

The next significant date for locals will be the ribbon-cutting ceremony in four years to open the completed Byway, and we all hope to be alive that day and gather once more with big smiles on our faces.

Dignitaries lined up to dig in the dirt.

The dirt flew. Hooray!

It was a perfect day and a nice turnout for the ground-breaking ceremony.

I asked the governor if I could take his picture. He said, "No, let's find someone to take our picture." So, we did.

Longtime Sandpoint families, the Reeds and the Johnsons. Jim Reed, with the red cap in the back, remembers when his father Glenn, then a Bonner County commissioner, talked about a bypass around Sandpoint back in the 1950s. Sandy and her dad Bob Johnson came, and Bob was happy to sit back and enjoy the event. He is the perennial face of Sandpoint's color guard, and his son TJ works with Bill at the Idaho Dept. of Lands.

Luther, one of the many Yaws and proud Vietnam veteran, SHS Class of 1970.

One of Sandpoint's quiet angels, Cis Gors sat, like a fly on the wall, snapping her own pictures. Our family owes a huge debt of gratitude to Cis for her loving care and friendship extended toward our mother.

This guy knows a thing or two about building roads: Huckleberry aka Dick Creed. I worked with both Dick and Howard Converse of the U.S. Forest Service engineers back in the late '60s. Dick has also been instrumental in creation of our local bike trails.

Idaho politicians: Bill Sali, Jim Risch, Gov. Otter, Senators Crapo and Craig.

Trish and Bob Thurston

Brett, Myra and Howard of the Converse clan

Members of the construction crew

The banking folks turned out: Tom and Ron.

These local gals are excited about the Byway.

Beth and Mitzi of the Hawkins clan

The governor got to wear a cowboy hard hat for his role in throwing dirt.

Idaho Gov. Butch Otter

Idaho's U.S. Senator Mike Crapo

Paula and Joanne

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned journalistically

I'm flogging myself this morning, and I deserve it.

I have erred journalistically, and there's no way to take it back.

When I taught journalism at Sandpoint High School and advised the Cedar Post, a sign was tacked to the board above the light table.

DO IT RIGHT, the sign read.

I impressed that upon my students and expected no less from myself. I've worked long and hard throughout my life to DO IT RIGHT, especially as a writer. I'm proud to have succeeded most of the time.

I cannot think of enough words in the Thesaurus to list in expressing how deeply I HATE mistakes. And, the feeling of making them myself as a journalist ranks right up there with running over a dog. I've done both. I backed over my beloved Lab Ebony a few years ago. She died a few minutes later.

That may sound dramatic to use as a comparison, but when one works a lifetime to DO IT RIGHT and screws up royally, the resulting emotion is lower than low.

Here's the mistake.

I took a picture of the wrong house. It was supposedly the house where Gov. Sarah Palin and her family lived during her first three months in Sandpoint.

There are plenty of logical reasons and credible explanations why this mistake happened, but that is still no excuse.

Why?

The picture of the wrong house and the wrong street address appears in the winter edition of Sandpoint Magazine. For accuracy purposes, the address for the Heath's house on North Fourth should be 712, and the house next door to the one I photographed should be in the magazine picture.

Furthermore, Sandpoint Magazine, which is distributed and available around the area for six months, serves as a source for history. I screwed up on that history.

I did not know this until yesterday. I had no idea the magazine had already been distributed, and my editor did not know of this error until yesterday when a man called the office to inform the staff that the mistake was out there. He had heard about it at work, Arlo's Restaurant, to be exact, where he is a server.

I received an email yesterday afternoon from my editor telling me of the wrong street address, appearing in the story. That was bad enough, but when I learned upon going to the house later in the afternoon that it was not only the wrong street address but also the wrong house, the flogging began.

As I said, there are plausible reasons for this mistake, but they are too convoluted to explain. Plus, they do not undue the wrong.

Fortunately, the nice man who lives in the wrong house has an upbeat attitude about this situation.

"I'll have a story to tell every time I serve this jelly," he said to me with a big smile. I came armed with a magazine and with a jar of fresh apple jelly to soothe whatever frustrations he may have if people come knocking on his door, asking if Sarah had lived there. I am so indebted to him for his acceptance of the situation.

To err is human, they say. I've made my share of mistakes but very few journalistically. To me a journalistic mistake on anyone's part is like a mortal sin because the public deserves truth and accuracy. Reporters are the stewards of both, and they should take that responsibility seriously with every word, every phrase and every sentence, and, yes, every photograph appearing in their work.

I'll move on after this blunder, but it will haunt me and drive me to work overtime from this day forth seeing that mistakes do not happen in my work. I guess that is the only silver lining in this story. We learn by our mistakes, and I have learned one more time never to assume anything, even when it appears to be correct.

DO IT RIGHT. As my penance, I vow to work even more diligently than ever before in following that journalistic commandment.

Local milestone, maybe . . . .

I'm typing this post with extra-special care because I don't want to do or say anything that will change the course of a ground-breaking historical event, sure to allow many of us to move forward.

Readers know that I have often expressed my opinion in favor of a monumental event sure to change the way we live our lives and to brighten our outlook on the future.

If this event occurs, the employment picture will improve, people will suffer less stress, the nation will move along more smoothly, and we'll all finally feel a sense of equality as we go about our business every day, knowing that we no longer have to express anger toward the guy who got ahead of us in our day-to-day struggles to get where we want to go.

No, this is not the election of Sen. Barack Obama next Tuesday as President of the United States of America. Though I hope to see that happen, I must report something just as significant, something just as dear to my heart.

Tomorrow, October 30, 2008, a bunch of politicians are coming to Sandpoint, not to ensure election of their favorite candidates to state and local offices.

Instead of campaigning, the governor, the U.S. Senators (hope they have lots of honeybuckets placed strategically away from one another so no foot tapping can occur), Idaho legislators and other state honchos will be here to officially break ground for the beginning of THE BYWAY aka BYPASS around Sandpoint.

I know this because the Daily Bee, which never misses an opportunity to make a buck, has sold a lot of advertising for the official program. The event will occur tomorrow at 2 p.m. at the site of Walt and Vera Jones' Lakeside Motel. Former Mayor Ray Miller will lead the flag salute, Daily Bee publisher David Keyes will act as emcee, and Gov. Butch Otter will give the keynote address.

I don't know who will be there with protest signs, but I'm sure that will occur, and I need to go through my Daily Bee official program to see who bought ads and who did not. People said we weren't supposed to shop at the businesses who did not support the BYWAY aka BYPASS (to all of us oldsters who have waited a lifetime for this).

I would guess that a process of elimination would reveal those adamant nonsupporters, but I would proclaim publicly that not shopping at those places because those people had their opinions opposing the BYWAY aka BYPASS is downright stupid. Everyone has a right to an opinion.

This has been a hard-fought local issue for decades. I understand and empathize with many of the reasons for folks opposing the route. Nonetheless, if all goes well over the next four years, the BYWAY aka BYPASS will eliminate the need for cattle and pig trucks and all cross-country transporters and travelers, in general, to endure the insanity of driving through the congestion of downtown Sandpoint.

I also submit that Sandpoint has, by now, established itself as a destination place, and concerns over losing the tourist dollar seem inconsequential at this point. Sandpoint also depends on the local dollars, and I believe that a great percentage of our population has refrained from spending time in downtown for a number of years because of the traffic insanity. Maybe they will come back when the streets are a bit more peaceful.

I have observed that in Bonners Ferry, and I see it in Wallace. In fact, I believe that Wallace thrived after I-90 bypassed its downtown.

Bypass construction will be a headache, as is any road construction. I remember the year that Division Street was rebuilt. That was my direct route to work at Sandpoint High School, and every morning as I'd have to turn into the residential area, taking a more circuitous route to school, I groaned. When that brand new, better street opened, however, all the headaches were forgotten. Sorta like a pregnancy. You have to deal with a bit of discomfort, but the end result is worth it all.

I wondered out loud to Bill this morning if I really wanted to deal with finding a parking spot and walking halfway through town to view tomorrow's monumental event. We both agreed that the reporter in me says it must happen. So, I'll plan my schedule, take my camera and stand in the crowd observing and listening.

It should be something to behold, for sure. Let the BYWAY aka BYPASS begin so that some day the heart of Sandpoint will again function without so much emotional and physical distress.

A Heather horsestory

I do not need an extra horse. Let me make that clear from the beginning. I was not looking for an extra horse, but an extra horse found me, and, of course, there's "horsestory" to go along with my new ownership of Scotch Heather, a yearling rose grey filly with four white stockings and a blaze (pictured below).

She will not stay that way; she'll eventually lose her coloring because that's what happens with any grey Arabian. For now, her coloring is a bit on the flashy side. Today, if all goes well, she'll leave home and move temporarily to the Spokane Equestrian Center where our dear family friend Monty will give her some kindergarten lessons and maybe a little beauty parlor attention.

In a few days we'll bring her home where she'll get used to an entirely new family and occupy stall three in the Lovestead barn.

Here's her story.

First, I'll backtrack. A couple of weeks ago both Bill and I noticed an article in the Spokesman-Review about a respected scoutmaster/businessman/horse lover named Dean Dinnison from Spokane who had died. Since Bill and I first met each other because of Bill's involvement in Boy Scouts, we both took note of the article but didn't comment.

Saturday night, my friend, Shirley Carter Jones, called and said, "You're the first person I thought of . . . ." She went on to mention that some Arabian horses belonging to a Dean Dinnison needed homes. She specifically mentioned the yearling rose grey with me in mind and wondered if I'd be interested in giving her a good home. She also mentioned Debbie Copenhaver as the contact person for the horses.

That name rang a bell. I had heard about her father, Deb Copenhaver, all the time I was growing up in Sandpoint. He had Quarter Horses, and he was a rodeo star. I didn't know until this weekend, however, that he was a BIG rodeo star who won World Champion Saddle Bronc rider back in the golden days of rodeo.

I also didn't know until this weekend that he was a close friend of Casey Tibbs, also a World Champion and probably one of the most famous rodeo stars ever. Well, as you can imagine, Casey is a big name in our Tibbs family. He was a distant cousin of my dad's. Harold met him once in San Francisco, and Harold always spoke highly of his buddy Deb Copenhaver.

I also vaguely knew that Deb's daughter Deborah was a sculptor, but I couldn't figure out the connection to Dean Dinnison. I've since learned that Dean, the scoutmaster, was Deborah, the sculpter's, stepfather. All of this, of course, made an interesting story to go along with the gift horse, Heather.

Actually, gift horses are not really gifts. Gift horses are like any other horse. They eat and they require care, and their continued upkeep costs money. Debbie was adamant to protect the interests of these horses that her stepfather had loved so much. She wanted to make sure they went to good homes.

When I talked to her yesterday, I said the little filly would have nothing fancy for living quarters---just a box stall, cleaned out every day; food, morning and night; pastures in the summer time, and a lot of love. She said that was music to her ears. So, we agreed that I would drive in to Spokane yesterday to check out the filly.

Heather has been well fed but not handled much. Her owner loved his horses, but he was 85, so Heather probably hasn't had a lot of schooling, just good food and companionship with her siblings, her mother, her father and her owner. She's not a fancy horse, but she's basically well put together and has potential.

Somehow, it's the stories around her that drove me to say, "Yes, I'll take her" after snapping a few photos and walking around the corrals with Debbie, who lives in Arizona and who has plenty to do to settle affairs associated with her stepfather's estate before returning home.

We had a great visit, especially since we grew up at the same time among old-time horse families and attended college at the same time at separate universities in the Palouse. We also knew a lot of the same horse people---revelations which brought Debbie to say that she could certainly feel at home back in this area again.

Debbie and her husband Fred Fellows, also a renowned Western artist, live in Tucson where they create their exquisite works of art and where she raises Quarter Horses and participates in team roping.

Her sculptures are included in Pres. Ronald Reagan's art collection. The Vietnam Memorial in Spokane is hers, as are the Bing Crosby and Bulldog sculptures at Gonzaga University, and a Korean War monument at the Washington State Capitol---just to name a few.

That brings us back to Heather's owner, Dean. A bronze statue of an older Boy Scout leading a younger scout will be installed in Spokane's River Front Park next spring. The bronze not only symbolizes the roles of volunteerism and leadership, but it will also memorialize the work that Dean Dinnison did, "molding little people into powerful men," as Debbie stated in the Spokesman article.

So, when this little horse of Dean's comes to live at the Lovestead, she'll symbolize a number of significant and positive influences in my life---the artists, the cowboys, the cowgirls and the scout leaders. Besides, it will be fun to watch her grow up, to continue writing her story and to see what directions she takes as a beloved member of our equine family.

Heather, the horse in the middle, will soon be coming to the Lovestead. She's 63/64 Arabian and one year old. That's her full sister next to her and renowned sculptor Deborah Copenhaver-Fellows. A neighbor to their Scotch Acres farm west of Spokane watches the action.

Late afternoon in the forest primeval

My sisters and I stood around the kitchen island visiting. It was their usual Sunday stop-by after shopping at Yoke's and Wal-Mart. I told them about the little horse I planned to go see during the afternoon.

Lots of horses need homes this winter. That's a sad fact of the economy. I've already read among my equine newsgroup topics of large numbers of nice horses in Oregon needing foster parents. The price of hay---the price of everything, actually, is doing a number on the animals as well as people.

In my case, I'd been asked by a friend to consider taking on an extra little filly for the winter. I'm still thinking about it and did not get to go yesterday afternoon because the owner had another commitment.

As we wrapped up our visit, Bill came home from church. My sisters left, and that's when I called to find out the planned trip would not work out yesterday.

"What do you have planned this afternoon?" I asked Bill.

"Nothing, do you want to go up to Grouse Creek and walk through that logging camp?" Bill didn't have to ask twice.

I love Grouse Creek. I worked the nine miles of the Grouse Creek Road with the Forest Service engineers nearly 40 years ago. And, in the years since, I've hiked it, cross country skied it, ridden it by horseback and have driven it many a time.

I've also nabbed a few apples from the abandoned trees along the roadside and in some of the meadows well off the road. Grouse Creek, however, like much of our back country, has become inhabited permanently by a lot more humans since the days of the early 1900s when loggers lived temporarily in camps along the creek, worked the woods and sent out their logs via the old logging railroads.

Bill had been checking out an area for some fisheries consultants the other day when he stumbled upon a piece of rail and an old bucket. He wanted to go back and look some more.

So, we loaded up the dogs, got some gas at the Samuels Store where I visited with Ron, the licensed plumber, who's gonna fix my automatic waterer. We then headed for Grouse Creek.

It was late afternoon and cold in the woods, so we were glad that we'd brought along an extra layer of warmth. As dogs raced off to and fro, making plenty of ruckus with their claws smashing beds of crisp fallen leaves, Bill and I made our way down the trail. All along the way, Bill surmised what must have been the garbage dump, what might have been a road, and where flumes most likely helped transport logs.

He was also trying to remember where he had run across that rail. We did not see it yesterday, but we did see the old bent-up bucket. We also came upon the remains of an old trestle.

We spent a few minutes standing at the same spot where Bill had stood on a big, flat rock the other day, watching a small fish grab its afternoon lunch of winged critters off the water. It was probably one of that little fish's last suppers before winter, Bill suggested.

He was hoping it might show up again yesterday as the sun was making its last appearance on the creek. Like the rail, though, the fish was elsewhere.

As we headed back to the pickup, I could not help but smile. This area was also one of the first places I had taken Bill so many years ago when he first moved to Idaho in the dead of the winter. I loved Grouse Creek so much then that I wanted him to see where I had spent part of that summer surveying the road.

Back in 1974, Bill was impressed with the size of the stumps from the old days when Humbird Lumber Co. had logged the Grouse Creek drainage, setting up its mills, logging camps and railroad system. Nearly 35 years later, through study and talking to oldtimers, Bill has become somewhat of an expert on the stories associated with those logging camps.

It was fun to reflect upon our own personal history with that area and also that of earlier generation of folks who wrote their own colorful history of Grouse Creek. We walked their pathways yesterday and speculated their activities.

Halfway back to the pickup, we came to an open area where I snapped most of my photos. It was too dark in most other places. Bill pointed to the right and asked if that wasn't an old apple tree.

Sure enough it was. As I walked closer, I spotted apples and reclaimed memories of other Grouse Creek apples. This was a tree I'd never seen in my other adventures, and this was a tree begging for me to steal its forbidden fruit. Forbidden because it was much higher than my reach.

One learns, however, to be enterprising when reaching for fruit. I found a piece of old log, stood on it and finally grabbed hold of the limb's end. I snatched the apple, took a bite and threw it to the ground. Ever bite into a mushy transparent apple? Kinda reminds me of soggy bread in milk, which I've never enjoyed.

I did take my bite, and I was satisfied. One more day of pilfering apples in Grouse Creek and a wonderful afternoon of escaping into its colorful past.

Thriller in Seattle

They made Yahoo's world headlines this morning. I opened up the link with the video from KING 5 and looked for my daughter, but the participants' costumes looked too much alike for me to zero in on her.

But I have my own documentation with the photo above.

Annie and her friends Miriam and Mihae practiced and dressed for success. Then, they joined hundreds of other costumed souls of all ages and sizes at Pioneer Square in Seattle yesterday.

Seems there was a worldwide simultaneous effort to set a record for the most people ever to dance Michael Jackson's "Thriller." This was all part of the 25th anniversary celebration for the song which will put the beat into even the most klutzy of souls.

All I have is the pictures and the assurance that it was fun and well photographed.

Dressing up for fun has been a family sport for as long as I remember. I was asking Bill this morning if it was I or if it was Jeralyn who dressed as the pregnant nun about a quarter century ago when Jeralyn hosted a Halloween party at her house.

I'm sure my friend Bigfoot from down there in the South country will help me out in this because it seems like he may have donned one of his father's priestly robes for the celebration. I do remember a trip to the hospital maternity ward where, of course, the nurses were impressed with the possibilities of a nun giving birth in their midst on Halloween night.

My mother started us out at a young age with the dressing-up-ridiculously stunts. I think I've mentioned before when she thought it would be cool if us three kids from Batch One would march through the Fourth of July parade as a cow. I don't know if we ever pulled it off, but I do remember practicing at home, with one kid standing upright and the other two leaning forward to form the body. I also remember the polish sausages she brought home for the cow's teats.

Our Schweitzer Valley Dwellers 4-H Club used to win the mounted group trophy every year when we'd don costumes from different countries. I was a Russian cossack once; my brother Jim was an Arab. I still have part of his homemade Arabian costume stuffed away somewhere. Jim always liked the part where he could take the family's ancient sword from the Franco-Prussian War.

Willie dressed as Santa Claus once for a school fundraiser, and he tried out for the Senior Ironman, dressed in a long green gown. Seems like he may have crooned the "Gilligan's Island" theme while gliding across the stage.

My most favorite costume ever was my Ratfink get-up, which earned me a nickname in high school. I was a junior and the senior girls nabbed me one day, telling me I was gonna wear this costume for comic relief. It had an ugly rat head with great big whiskers. I remember wearing a gunnysack top and black leotards.

Whenever they needed a space filler, I stumbled clumsily across the stage doing stupid things---one of my few talents. I did one smart thing during the performance, however, when Marilynn McKenney lost her contact on the stage. During one of my run-throughs, I looked down and saw the contact. Everyone was happy with that and with my performances.

I also can't leave out the day I wore Travis Chapin's pink pig outfit at school---as a teacher. I particularly liked its baby bottle nipples down the front. But one of my teaching colleagues, Dave Cooke, wasn't too impressed when I came into his math class on all fours, moved down the rows between his classroom desks and oinked at his students. I guess Dave was too in to logorrhythms to take time out to acknowledge my performance. The kids liked it though.

So, to see Annie participating in a worldwide dancing/dress-up event? Ah, it does my heart good, and I'm just "thrilled" to death, knowing that the family tradition for being a little crazy every now and then continues on.


Happy Sunday.

Saturday Slight

Apples, cherries and berries, oh my!