Wanted: a few good friends

It's a combination of The Blob and The Exploding Salsa.

At least, that's what I'm thinking every time I walk into the kitchen and see those bags filled with Amish Friendship bread dough and hot air, looking for somewhere to go.

Will they explode?

Lucky I have a white ceiling, cuz if they do, the collateral damage won't look nearly as bad as the big splotches of split-pea soup, which had just just launched an upward splat from Helen Crockett's pressure cooker one day years ago at the precise moment my mother had come visiting.

Helen was beside herself, tears rolling down her face, while most of her pea soup was above herself, dripping down on top of her from the ceiling.

Mother never forgot that day, which was one of many memorable episodes she spent with her dear friend, including the day I launched off into life at the Bonner County Hospital. Helen had accompanied my mother that night for the birth of Mother's third child.

Well, we could have a lot of bread birth around these digs if I don't find some friends, and scenes reminiscent of that famous '50s movie "The Blob" could start scaring the heck out of anyone coming into my house.

For all Blob novitiates, the movie was a scary thriller about a mass of red gelatin-like stuff that just kept growing as it swallowed everyone and everything in its path. That movie had a lifelong impact on me, and when I looked at the bowl of my apple jelly on Thanksgiving Day, scary blob nostalgia came rolling back.

Now, we're beyond the nostalgia and it's not even Hollywood produced. This substance is white soupy stuff in plastic bags, and in each bag, the stuff just keeps growing and threatening to blow up.

I need a little help from my friends, if I have any out there willing to save me from Friendship bread extinction.

Here's the scoop.

I've been writing about the Amish Friendship Bread lately, ever since Annie said she was bringing me a starter if her spot on the Seattle dough donation rotation was timed with her trip to Sandpoint. Upon first mention, my friend Cis warned me that things were gonna get interesting and that possibly people would go running the other way whenever they see me coming.

Well, I'm beginning to understand.

First, I must mention that this Amish Friendship dough is illegal booty. Annie was not supposed to carry any explosives in her carry-on stuff, so she hid it in her suitcase and checked it. The dough in the baggies rode from Seattle to Spokane in the belly of the plane. It was also considerate enough not to explode while hidden away with her socks and shirts.

So, there's a plus for any potential friend who wishes to be one of my beneficiaries: along with the friendship comes a good story of intrigue. Betcha can't tell tales like that about your loaves of Wonder Bread.

When we arrived home from the airport Tuesday night, Annie pulled out two baggies of dough and some instruction sheets. She said I'd have to wait until Saturday before baking my first loaves.

In between, there was the day to add flour, sugar and milk, and then there were the days for smooshing the dough aka fondling the bags. I liked the smooshing, but that first morning when I walked into the kitchen and saw two bags on the brink of exploding, I got scared.

I knew Annie wasn't going to get up from her snooze for a couple of hours to advise me, so like the day last fall when my salsa almost exploded from the quart jars and that same morning when I sneaked into my mother's house while she was still sleeping and rescued her from sure salsa death, I took my life in my hands---well, maybe I took the baggies in my hands and carefully opened them.

No noise, no dough---just air escaped from the bag. Big relief!

Long story short, I baked my bread yesterday. And, when you bake your bread with two bags of donated dough, you're left with two bags to keep for yourself and six bags of dough to give away to someone---someone who's your friend or maybe even just someone who looks like a good sucker who could be a temporary friend cuz they took a bag of your dough.

I'm about to bake my second batch of two loaves of bread. I've asked Annie if she wants to take any of her illegal booty back to Seattle today, and she said an emphatic "no."

So, I've got six bags of Amish Friendship bread to give away. Even if you hate me or if I hate you, we could reach a rapprochement for mutual benefit. You could take your bag, bake your bread and find yourself in the same fix I'm in this morning.

Of course, I've thought about another solution, but I worry about evil forces taking over my life if I should just break the chain and throw a few bags into the garbage when Annie's not looking. But when I think about that, I think about those labels on the pillows which remain there to bug us because of the Federal law prohibiting their removal. I've never yet pulled a label from a pillow for fear of death by feather blitz.

And, besides, if I do stuff a few bags in the garbage can, what's to say they won't eventually explode all over the place, and then I'd have a real mess. If I take it to the transfer station and hide it in the dumpsters, they may be bringing the hazardous chemical crew and, for sure, they'll be able to trace it back to me.

I really do have a dilemma, so won't you help me out. Besides, the bread is pretty tasty.

I have the bags. Give me a call, and I'll be happy to help you out with a baggie or two or three or four . . . . Otherwise, maybe I'll have to go down there to Wal-Mart and put 'em in a box with a sign on it like they do for all those puppies:

Free: Amish Friendship bread.

But then, again, maybe there'd be so much excitement to get my dough, I could get trampled and killed.

But, then again, that could solve my problem.

Any friends out there?

Saturday Slight

We have a day off today from our Gonzaga grind. Actually, it's hardly been a grind; it's been great. Once again, the Gonzaga Bulldogs are providing their fans throughout the Northwest one of the simple pleasures of winter.

"Our" team is looking better than ever this year, and the players, coaches and staff are providing much-appreciated bright moments to the gloomy days that often drag us down during our winter months. After yesterday's enjoyable victory over Maryland in the Old Spice Tournament, our ZAGS stand 4-0 for the season.

They have their work cut out for them tomorrow when they play Tennessee for the tournament championship, but they've got a kennel full of talent this year, which could get the job done. We'll just have to wait and see. And, we'll love them, regardless of the outcome because they provide so many people so much joy and anticipation over the long winter.

Our Thanksgiving weekend has been filled with simple pleasures----the best being that nobody's mad at anybody. It's been fun, fattening and refreshingly low key, so far.

In fact, the closest I've come to conflict in the past three days spent with my immediate family and with my extended family was the gentle, gentle hint from my sister Laurie yesterday when I grabbed the remote and switched the channel from the ZAGS to the Boise State Broncos-Fresno State football game.

"Okay, they're tied; this is just a time-out," Laurie said to me with a hintful smile.

Laurie likes her ZAGS as much as any of us; she's pretty intense. And, because she's an Idaho Vandal with no direct affiliation to Boise State, which was at the time fully engaged in its last game of a perfect 12-0 season, Laurie gave her priority to the ZAGS.

I understood and quickly punched the button back to the basketball game. We were happy anyway cuz the Broncos still had two quarters to play when the ZAGS wrapped up their game.

And, what a victory the Boiseans enjoyed: 61-10!

Of course, like everyone who follows the Broncos, I can't, for the life of me, figure out why they can rank 9th in the nation with one of the few perfect records and the highest scoring percentage of any team in the NCAA---and they can't be considered for a BSC berth.

It would be different if they had never proved themselves against the big boys, but they have. I'm sure there are few fans alive who cannot remember what's been termed one of the most exciting NCAA football games ever two years ago when Boise State knocked off mighty Oklahoma (aren't they No. 2 this year?) in the Fiesta Bowl.

Mr. Obama, where are you? If you want to raise that Democratic percentage among Idaho voters in the next Presidential go-round, you could make a statement to the BCS about our Broncos and how they deserve more respect!

Okay, enough of that. I'm getting a bit worked up, but my intensity doesn't hold a candle to the lunacy that went on yesterday on what, somebody somewhere sometime when we weren't looking or listening, coined "Black Friday." And, a black one it was!

There is something wrong with the whole concept of Christmas when people get crushed to death because of ghoulish greed and insensitivity. Are those $8 jeans on the Wal-Mart shelves really worth killing an innocent soul who was apparently at the wrong place at the wrong time, simply doing his job?

I cannot believe the desperation, on the part of insane shoppers and the negligence on the part of store managers to allow such horrific behavior. And, when I read further in the story and learned that many of the maniacal throng who pushed their way through the doors in that New York store refused to quit shopping when asked to leave the scene.

I read about other awful situations at other stores on "Black Friday," and, again, I thought the day deserved its name----even though my perspective on its meaning may differ drastically from store owners and shoppers.

Back to simple gifts. No $8 jeans or $3 pair of shoes could ever make up for the gifts of human decency, thoughtfulness, respect, appreciation, kindness, generosity and the joy of living and loving. If we're looking for real deals, we can find them on any day by calmly embracing opportunities involving any of the above.

This has been a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend, and I am very thankful to have stayed away from the insanity of the outside world and to have found more than my share of simple gifts, which are available 365 days a year, usually for free, if we can be so lucky.

And, speaking of the simple pleasures, today is the day to bake the Amish friendship bread, so, look out, Cis, I may be coming your way with a gift of dough. Please don't hide!

Happy Saturday to all.

Thanksgiving Day scenes

Well, it's Black Friday, and we're not at Wal-Mart, Sandpoint Outfitters, Big 5 Sporting Goods and any other stores that opened before the birds got up this morning.

We're taking it easy after a great Thanksgiving Day, which involved a little logging, playing with horses, geocaching, movie watching, turkey eating, visiting, and ZAGS cheering. All turned out well for the big day.

ZAGS won. They play Maryland today.
Food tasted scrumptious, every bite.
People enjoyed themselves, whether outdoors walking or indoors loungeing and eating.

And, my blogging program has some new features, which I'm trying out today.

Type on the photos. Fun stuff.

Happy Friday. GO ZAGS!!!

Happy Thanksgiving

Turkey Eve

Well, Bill has headed off to work, and Annie's snoozing upstairs. Doggies are running off to the woods to stand at the base of trees where squirrels reside and torment their canine invaders from above.

If a doggie around here ever catches a squirrel, I'll be announcing it on the blog. I love those squirrels and I love the horses because both have ways of keeping the doggies occupied for hours on end.

We received a dusting of snow last night. It wasn't a fun drive from the airport because of substantial rain, but then the nail biting began north of Sandpoint where two hours of rain other places came down white on our route. There's not enough of it this morning to make me squawk, and I think we're done with it for a while.

The light snow served its purpose, and that is to create more outside ambience for a proper Thanksgiving. We're planning a fairly lazy day around here, and we're definitely not short of couch entertainment.

Along with her usual Trader Joe's loot for Mom and Dad's foraging needs, Annie brought the entire set of "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman; that's 42 DVDs, 120 hours and 24 minutes of watching, and WAIT---there's more.

Add to the segments: Exclusive Featurettes: Beginnings and Favorites, Four Cast Commentaries, Interactive Tour of 19th Century Colorado Springs, Boarding House: Guest Stars, Trivia Quiz, Photo Galleries, Cast Biographies and Filmographies, and, last but not least, Series Honors and Awards.

Plus, it's all enclosed in an attractive box with a lovely photo of the pretty doctor and her sexy long-haired hunk, standing arm in arm next to a rustic, picket-type fence and a lush green field. All for the low, low price of ????

Actually, I think Annie got hers for free, but you can check at Amazon.com, if you're interested in purchasing your very own set.

Speaking of Amazon.com, here's a book commercial.

If you're in the area on the evening of Dec. 5, plan to stop by Vanderford's from 6-8 p.m. Patrick F. McManus, Sandy Compton, Boots Reynolds and I will be signing books----our own.

The books will be fun, but I'm also figuring the combination of personalities could possibly get a little out of hand, as it has before. Now, Sandy's never been mixed in, but I still remember the day the other three of us, along with Pat's friend, went to lunch at Connie's.

That day was the second time I had almost gotten kicked out of the restaurant for making too much noise. The first time was a few years before with Pat's sister Pat.

Well, her full name was Patricia, but we all knew her as lovable Pat Gass. At the time, I was interviewing her about her cookbook Whatchagot Stew, and she was telling me about the old-time family delicacy of fried baloney slices.

Anyway, for the Vanderford's signing, I've got a special homemade present for Boots, so it may be worth coming, just to see what it is. I'll give one clue: it may be bigger than a bread box, depending on how many loaves of bread you need to use it all up. Any guesses?

Again, that's Dec. 5, Vanderford's from 6-8 p.m., and we'll be happy to sell to you and sign for you our books for the Christmas stockings. If you can't make it, we can still autograph copies for you; just call 208-263-2417, and tell 'em Marianne sent you.

Enough advertising, but this year, even starving authors have to do their thing.

It's amazing how day to day I keep hearing of more and more people I know who've lost jobs, and this is definitely not one of those situations where the more the merrier. In some instances, they've found different lines of work, which, in the long run, might even turn out to be a silver lining.

For now, however, I think we'd all like to see any slight hints of certainty as we move ahead and face changes in life as we know it. A couple of days ago, I heard a TV talking head say that when we figure out that we're never going back to what we know, we can move forward. Sounded like some good wisdom to me.

So, I'll follow that today and see where it takes me. The one certainty for me on any given day is that the horses left me some rich, green deposits overnight, so I'd better go put them in the future food bank.

Have a good Turkey Eve.

Tuesday twitter and turkey

Well, the "Turkey Day," festivities begin for us today. Annie's coming home. I'll be driving in to Spokane later this afternoon to pick her up. We haven't yet agreed on whether a stop at O'Doherty's will be on the itinerary, but I don't think the issue will take too much discussion.

Annie will be here through Sunday, and the weather forecast, except for a little wet stuff tonight, is nothing less than divine. Cold, clear, crisp, no snow. Can't ask for anything better, in my mind.

We'll be doing Thanksgiving dinner at my sisters' house. Barbara likes to organize feasts, and she especially likes to cook a turkey, so there will be no complaining from this domicile. We'll be taking butterflake rolls, a green-bean dish, and Cyrus O'Leary pies.

As the only real out-of-town guest this year, Annie's hoping to bring a starter for Amish friendship bread. She's apparently part of a bread-sharing group in Seattle. She says if the cycle's right, she'll have her latest supply. I hope it turns out that way because I'm looking forward to having some of my own.

We're planning to watch some movies, play some Trivial Pursuit and definitely watch the ZAGS. They're playing the first game of a tournament at 6 p.m. Thanksgiving night, so we'll be gathered around Barbara and Laurie's super boob tube to watch to cheer 'em on.

Saturday night we'll all go to Second Avenue Pizza for the obligatory "when kids are home" pizza feast.

It will definitely be a true Thanksgiving this year as we celebrate our mother's wonderful recovery from some medical setbacks this past summer. We're thankful to hear her talking about fixing her cranberries, cooking up her rutabagas, and whipping up a batch of her green beans.

She's been been meticulously preparing these items for the past several days and announcing each time a dish has been completed and ready to go to Barbara and Laurie's refrigerator.

I remember a Thanksgiving several years ago when Bill and I had just returned from a week in Washington, D.C. On our way, we had stopped in Chicago where mother's cousins Rae, Bud and Richard met us at the airport. Rae handed me an envelope full of letters.

One was a letter written by my grandmother shortly after Thanksgiving, 1924. She was writing back to the family in Chicago from her home in the woods near Wallace, Idaho.

My mother was 3 at the time, and her sister June was just an infant. Our grandmother described the Thanksgiving dinner and the excitement she had observed in my mother's eyes as she anticipated the upcoming Christmas.

Our grandmother died two weeks afterward, leaving my mother and her little sister in the care of our grandfather. The trio stayed in Wallace for a while and later moved to the mountains of Northern California. As a 6-year-old, my mother began a life of living in Catholic boarding schools in Texas and Michigan.

She seldom had real family experiences. Later, when she had a family of her own, she made up for her lifetime of loss. Family has been supreme in her book, and holiday meals mean everything to our mother.

That Thanksgiving after Bill and I returned with those letter was very poignant as my niece Maureen sat at the dining room table before we began our feast and read the letter our grandmother had written after Thanksgiving nearly 70 years earlier.

Though there won't be big amounts of family at the Colburn holiday meal, I'm sure all of us will share in our gratitude that our mother is still with us---happy, spry and eager---to sit around the table, revel in the Thanksgiving celebration and, of course, to hear just how good this year's version of the cranberries, rutabegas and green beans taste.

The Flaims of my life

I think Monica is ready to go, so I'm going to take a chance on it and post the following blog address: http://flaimlife.blogspot.com/ Check it out. It will lead you to the adventures of
two very special friends of mine and of the entire Love family.

Mike and Monica Flaim live in The Netherlands, near The Hague. I think they've been there for three or four years. My, time flies! It seems like just yesterday that I was writing a letter of recommendation for Mike to obtain a teaching job in Europe. He's been there, done that.

But Mike is not the kind of person who simply goes there, does that. When Mike Flaim is in one's midst, look out! His incredible zest for life, energy, intelligence, cosmopolitan experiences and impish irreverence made him an instant friend the day I met him at Jeralyn Lewis Mire's wedding.

I don't know how long Monica had known him by that time or if that was the occasion that brought them together, but the "Flaim" ignited, and they've had a happy, fascinating marriage which has taken them on a steady stream of inspiring adventures.

In this most recent sojourn, Mike is continuing to do what he was born to do: teaching the children, smart ones too. Meanwhile, Monica is enjoying the Dutch culture, helping out at Mike's school and doing what she was born to do: riding horses, Arabians, and, yes, they're as smart as those students of Mike's.

I could tell countless stories about Mike and Monica as our paths have crossed in numerous wonderful ways. In fact, I mentioned this couple in a posting a while back while telling about Chase Mikkelsen's giveaway party where he received his Gros Ventre Indian name and invited a small group of folks who'd provided special guidance to him along his 18-year journey. Keep Chase's name in mind; he may just make the roster for the Seattle Sounders Soccer team.

Monica told me that they lit their gift of sweet grass, given to them by Chase, when they christened their home in The Netherlands. She also concurred with my thoughts that the gathering was a momentous lifetime experience for each of us, who were fortunate to be invited.

I could tell stories about Monica, one of my students in the late '80s, who never forgot when our English class recited Edgar Allen Poe's "The Bells."

We performed that poem a lot during my teaching tenure, and I can't think of a single time when it wasn't one of the most fun times of the school year. It always started out slowly, since the kids weren't quite sure they wanted to partake, but once they got hooked by the mesmerizing sounds of the poem, they engaged themselves full speed ahead.

Hear the sledges with the bells - Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!

While the stars that oversprinkle

All the heavens seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells

From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells -

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

If you want to inspire a fun Thanksgiving Dinner-table performance with family, you can find the rest of the poem at http://www.online-literature.com/poe/575/ In our case, the class who taking first place in the annual "The Bells" competition won donuts from Safeway.

Mike endeared himself to me in various ways. We often discussed church matters. He understood my frustrations but we chose different routes---in my case a slight detour to a different church. Mike was much stronger than I in that category.

We were, however, on an equal plane during faculty meetings. Faculty meetings were never favorites for either of us, so we entertained ourselves while other staff members discussed, at length, the newest tardy policy or while the principal issued the perennial warning about using too much copy paper.

While this was occurring, facial gestures were subtly shooting across the library. Somehow Mike always positioned himself for a straight shot toward my eyes. Once our attitudes deteriorated toward the "compelling reasons for having to sit through this one more time," the facial Olympics began.

Primitive behavior would be the best description: how many of you can reach the tip of your nose with your tongue?

Mike and I could-----without detection from the powers that be. Mike was also pretty adept with his remote-controlled fart machine. One of our English colleagues was not adept at figuring out "who was doing that?" We never told her, but we sure giggled a lot.

Mike and his sister Geraldine sang at our son and daughter-in-law's wedding at St. Joseph's Catholic Church seven years ago. The combination was lovely, to say the least. Mike and Willie also played basketball together at our local hoopfest on none other than the Flaims.

I miss the fun times we had when Mike and Monica lived here, but I'm excited to be back in touch with them, especially touched that they've decided to chronicle their fascinating lives in The Netherlands through their own blog. So, if you want to read some fun stuff, check out their blog site.

Then, go into the bathroom, face the mirror and see how far you can extend your tongue up toward your nose.

Mixed bag of weekend goodies

The palate has experienced great pleasure this weekend, as have the eyes. Hard to sum it all up in adequate terms to match the overall eloquence of each delightful visual and edible tidbit, so I'll just be practical.

First, the apple cobbler recipe. I did receive some interesting solutions to yesterday's call for cracked-hand relief. I liked the wine idea, wondered about the hot wax (was that a sadist out there?), wondered enough to look it up and found my hickster lifestyle has not taken me to the world of wax and its possibilities for skin improvement. It may be a while.

I did receive an email, however, from a partner in cracked-finger pain. She suggested coconut oil, but she also told me that I had to earn the advice by providing the apple cobbler recipe, submitted to the St. Joseph's Centennial Cookbook by Sally Reynolds.

So, here goes:

Apple Cobbler

Filling----
1 cup sugar, 1/2-1 tsp. cinnamon
4-5 tart apples, peeled and sliced
1/4 cup butter

Combine the sugar and the cinnamon and mix with the apples to "coat." Place in 8 by 8 pan and dot with butter. Cover apples with crumb mixture below.

1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
pinch of salt
1/4 tsp. baking powder
1 beaten egg
1/4 cup cold butter

Combine sugar, flour, sal and baking powder. Add beaten egg, then cut in butter with fork or pastry blender until crumbly. Spoon over the apples. Bake for 1 hour at 350 degrees. Yummy!

So, there ya go. If you try it and like it as much as I do, let me know.

Now, I must talk about yesterday's trip to Bonners Ferry. I dropped off my St. Joseph's apple cobbler to St. Ann's craft sale. Talked to Liz Wood for a few minute about Gary Finney's longhorn steer who spent the summer with Liz and Bert's cow herd. Apparently, some good stories ensued when it was time for the longhorn to get separated from the Wood herd. I'm sure I'll hear Gary's version one of these days when he stops by.

I told Liz I was going to the Menonnite craft sale, and a lady standing near us said, "You may be too late." So, I scurried.

Thank goodness, the lady's assumption was wrong, although it was obvious, the sale had attracted half of North Idaho. It was difficult to find a parking spot, but I squeezed in and headed for the school house. Its regular occupants will benefit from the profits of yesterday's event.

I walked past two large kettles where people stood working and conversing with passerby. One was cooking up kettle corn, while the other, apple butter. Inside the school, amidst a large crowd, I could see pies, beautifully crafted wood products---tables, hutches, chairs, etc., handiwork, and lots of hands grabbing items from the displays.

It was obvious people came to buy.

One table was filled with loaves of homemade white bread. I bought three and started heading back outside to the car. Then, I realized that I had no receipt. What if someone wanted proof of purchase? I walked back, and the young man said not to worry. A sense of trust ruled the proceedings, adding to the comfort!

I went back inside and selected a container of Amish peanut butter, pulled out four more dollars and plunked them down on the table.

Outside, I spotted the huge bags of kettle corn and knew Bill would love one. Seven more dollars and another trip to the car.

On my way, I asked the man with the big wooden ladle at the steaming kettle what he was preparing. That's when I learned of the old method for making apple butter. I asked if it was okay to take a picture. Bill and Sarah Byler were more than generous with their information and their hospitality as the nosy lady asked all those questions.

They told me about cane sorghum, which they've prepared in past years at past Menonnite craft sales held every year at the school, always on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. While we talked other visitors were climbing aboard for a wagon ride with the Arabian-Haflinger team.

Bill and Sarah's son Ed came by and we talked about Arabians and Percherons, and speaking of Gary Finney and his longhorn steer, he also has Percherons. Ed Byler bought his first Percheron from Gary.

Bill and Sarah convinced me that I needed to purchase a quart of that apple butter, which was also available in the jar inside. I did. To assess the event: it was priceless.

I also visited the craft show at Bonners Ferry Middle School, where basket-maker Sharon Gunter (also a teacher at Farmin Elementary) enjoyed yakking.

After dropping off two loaves of bread to my sisters and my mother, I came home, sliced off a piece from my loaf, toasted it, dabbed on Imperial margarine, scooped up a big glob of that Amish peanut butter and coated it all with apple butter.

All I've got to say is "Yummy," and where do I get more of the same without waiting for a whole year for the Menonnites to have their annual sale?

fun day and good food. Oh, and I can't forget the few minutes snapping a few shots of Laurie and Barbara's eye-appealing young horses. Enjoy the photos.

Happy Sunday.

Scout, the Grape

Barbara and her buddy Dusty.

Buddies of color

A tad fuzzy but still fun photo of Laurie and her new buddy Scout.

Saturday Slight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keepin' our noses clean, remembering Harold

Harold Tibbs on his beloved and famous Appaloosa stallion Toby I, riding off with his loot after winning the performance championship at the first-ever National Appaloosa Show at Lewiston, Idaho, in June, 1948.

~~~~Harold Tibbs~~~~

April 12, 1916 ~~~ November 21, 2003


It's been 60 years since the picture above was snapped, and we're having a hard time believing that it's been five years since we said good bye to our dad, granddad, great-granddad, husband and friend, Harold at Sacred Heart Hospital in Spokane.

It's been at least five years since any of us have heard Harold remind us to "keep our nose clean," but we still work at it.

We have not heard the stories of Montana's Madison Valley and the Millard Easter Ranch, of Meadow Creek where his parents ran the school, of Simon Francis' horses, of horse logging north of Bonners Ferry, of this horse or that horse.

Nor, has any of us watched intently as Harold, the oldtime cowboy, pulled cigarette papers and tobacco can from his wool-shirt pocket and masterfully "rolled his own" in preparation for the next smoke and the next story.

We've not been reminded to "shut the gate," "put stuff back where it belongs," nor "to take care of your animals before you take care of yourself." But we shut the gate, try to remember to return items to their appointed places---and the animals get first attention.

We've not heard a strong opinion on how things ought to be done right, especially when you're driving your tractor and pulling equipment while harvesting a field of hay.

We've not watched the man with the perennial limp, sustained from a horse-logging accident back in the 1930s, head off for the barn or to his shop to putter.

We've not seen that brilliant, practical mind or those skilled, seasoned hands miraculously come up with an inventive way to build something or to repair a piece of equipment.

We miss seeing all those things, but we do work hard every day to carry with us the influences that guided us, inspired us and entertained us when Harold was alive and such a central part of our lives.

We do not forget, and we cherish his memory on this and every other day.

Bless your heart, Betty

I promised Betty a place in the Slightdetour spotlight yesterday. We were enjoying lunch at The Coeur d'Alene Hotel. I'd never met Betty before. We had talked on the phone and emailed, but yesterday was a first in the face-to-face category.

Betty is a retired first-grade teacher from Coeur d'Alene but originally from MINN-e SO-ta. She's also a shaker and doer in the 3 C's Book Club of Coeur d'Alene, and several months ago she invited me to join their list of monthly speakers for this year's reading season. That means they'll read my book Lessons with Love, and we'll talk about it next month.

Yesterday, they focused on The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. EWU college professor Tony Flynn led the discussion. I also learned that he is aka Kendall Feeney's hubby (she's the well-known Northwest contemporary pianist/instructor).

Having just completed my cousin Brendan's book, Dream City, I have had time to read only the first few chapters of Wall's memoir about growing up with eccentric, nomadic parents, but I was hooked after the first paragraph. Yesterday's discussion among the 125 book lovers was lively and insightful, to say the least.

After the morning program, we gathered for lunch, and Betty invited me to sit at her table. There were MINN-e-SOT-ans aplenty, and we North Idahoans learned quickly not to gripe about the weather. I kinda got the hint that weather gets discussed a whole lot more in MINN-e-SO-ta than it does in North Idaho. And, the opinions may not always be glowing.

Well, there was a lady from Indiana at the table, one from Great Falls/California, and another who had taught for eight years in one of the Carolinas. She talked of her naivete with some of the expected behavior within the state and with the true meaning of the local vernacular.

It was then that we learned that "Bless your heart," can really a veiled insult---but a diplomatic one. She said she thought everyone was being nice to her when they'd look at her lovingly and simply say, "Well, bless your heart." Apparently, she took it in stride until one day she learned the true meaning of the comment uttered by the well meaning locals.

"You're full of crap, but I love you anyway."

A rather nice, genteel putdown, if you ask me.

Well, after learning the true Carolinian translation of "Bless your heart," the luncheon-mates grabbed their pens and paper and jotted down the saying and its definition for further use. I promised Betty I'd put it to good use today.

And, she has unwittingly given me ample reason to fulfill my commitment.

Betty wrote me a note this morning after I had told her she appeared pretty well-preserved for a lady with a daughter just six years younger than I.

To which she wrote back something about you "skinny" girls putting on a few pounds if you want to look young.

To which, all I've got to say is "Thank you, Betty" for being the first person in my 61 years on this earth who ever referred to me as "skinny," and, of course, "Bless your heart, Betty."

You're so full of crap, but I love your for saying it. My self esteem has skyrocketed.

Now, to all you, readers, go out there and bless the hearts of all the people full of crap that you truly love. But don't ever tell 'em what you really mean!

In all seriousness, thank you, 3 C's, for a wonderful introduction to your group.

News Flash from Old Story

If I ever write another book, it will have to be fiction. I have made that decision based on the fact that I am old. Old people have so much material floating around in their minds sometimes facts kinda blend together. And, when things blend together in one's old mind, mistakes can come rolling out.

And, I'm becoming more confident that this condition will only get worse.

Last night in an email from a former student, I was reminded one more time that maybe my recollections of how things happened and who was really responsible might be a bit different from what I recorded for posterity in my most recent book Lessons with Love.

I now know of at least two glaring errors of fact in that volume, and I'm sure that if I put out a call for all readers to submit any further corrections needed for a second edition, the list would be long enough to write another book. Hey, there's an idea!

Anyway, I must report the truth, like I always do, as an old-school journalist.

The two glaring errors in the book, ironically, have to do with pies. I have a feeling there was a little bit of horror leading to one error when I incorrectly used the example the famous TV episode of Lucy trying to remove all those pies from the conveyor belt.

I included that parallel in the chapter about parent conferences while trying to describe the frustration of having an endless line of dedicated parents wanting to know if Johnny or Jill would survive in life with that 99.04 average in honors English class. Almost without fail, my line of parents never ended until long after the night custodian had turned down the heat.

Well, Lucy's famous scene seemed like a good comparison. Only problem was Lucy was not trying to take pies off from a conveyor belt. It was chocolates, Stupid!

Well, the lady who proofread my book shortly before its publication made the correction. Even though she was a Cornell graduate, I still doubted her and changed it back to the wrong facts. After all, I remembered pies and a lot of them, associated with desperation, so pies it was gonna be.

A few readers brought the mistake to my attention AFTER the book was published, much like that guy a few weeks ago who called Sandpoint Magazine and said that maybe the publication did NOT have the correct address for Sarah Palin's first home on North Fourth Avenue.

Both awakenings to my total and, oh so public, ignorance felt equally bad.

Well, I've fessed up to the chocolate debacle in an earlier blog post, but now I've got to fess up to the actual pie debacle. Seems a bean counter---or should I say PIE counter---who ought to know, says that David Jones did NOT consume nine pies in the 1973 Sandpoint High/Ponderette-sponsored pie eating contest.

At this point, I'll step in and say there was no way in hell I was gonna know that David did not, indeed, gobble down nine pies, as documented in my story, because I have learned that he cheated just a tiny bit to win the contest. Thirty-five years later, I have learned the facts.

And, they follow---straight from the pie eater's mouth. Well, maybe from his keyboard in Oregon where he teaches school.

First, a confession--I did not eat nine pies. While the “fracas “ with the pie-throwing ensued, one of those bad boys, like Chester Schilling (or someone) plopped a pie on my head.

All the filling stayed on my head, but the pie plate was empty. So it was 8, not 9. I vividly remember the fight, and how sick I was afterwards.

To this day I do not eat “anything” cream pies. (Oh, I was a junior that year.)

So, there you go. David has fessed up, and I have fessed up about the wrong facts, which, in part, resulted from that form of untruth which we all know as a "lie of omission." He could have told the truth, but if he had, a lifetime legacy of high school triumph would have rolled off the conveyor belt and gone "plop" on the floor.

So, there you have the rest of one of the more traumatic stories of my life. Oops, maybe it's not all corrected publicly yet because I recall a while back when my former teaching colleague, Florine Dooley, wrote and gave me another twist to the pie-eating debacle, a moment in SHS history which almost got me fired early in my career.

Maybe I AM going to have to write a new book with all the corrected facts, and to save face, I'll label it all fiction. But then again, I guess you can get in trouble doing that too.

Remember that guy who got chewed out by Oprah for duping her and all the other millions who read his "memoir"? Then, again, I'll bet his bank account didn't suffer.

All in the perspective, I guess.

Classroom stowaway

I had some fun yesterday, and I learned some stuff. One of the "stuffs" I learned is that I need to do a geography refresher course.

Both the fun and the learning occurred at my alma mater (different building-same school) and my place of work for 33 years (one of the two buildings).

I'm in the midst of gathering nformation for a story about the National High School Model United Nations http://www.newton.k12.ks.us/sch/nhs/MUNquestJune02/index.html.

Nearly 30 students from Sandpoint High School will be attending the NHSMUN conference in New York City next March. So, I've been learning about their fundraising, their preparation and about the two countries they'll represent as participants in the national conference.

I decided a trip to the classroom and sitting through a typical class session would be helpful to my story, especially since this is the first time our local school has participated in the program.

So, I checked in at the office, visited with a few friends and headed toward Debbie Smith's classroom. Students were still passing from one class to the next; the hall was dark and packed tight with slow-moving humanity. I had to pass my sister's classroom to get to Debbie's.

My chronic imp of the perverse struck. I'll go drop in on Barbara and see how long it takes for her to notice me, I thought. As I opened the door, a perfect situation for my invasion presented itself. It was yearbook hour, and kids were in various clusters around the classroom.

"Miss Tibbs" was talking to a student with her back to me. Katy Chambers, whom I've known since birth, spotted me at the door, opened her mouth to say "Hi." I shhshhed her and took a seat near the door at the end of a classroom table. Three girls sat along each side.

"I'm her sister," I told them. "Don't say a word. I want to see how long it takes . . . ."

Of course, the girls loved it and happily cooperated. Long story short, Miss Tibbs walked past me twice. I maintained the pose of a student intent on reading the paper on the table with a short note scrawled across it announcing that someone hated someone else. My partners in crime loved it every time Miss Tibbs didn't notice the intruder with highlighted hair and green vest.

Barbara went to her desk and answered a few more questions from students. Finally, I decided it was time to end the fun and get to Debbie's class. It took about a 20-second stare down before she focused on her big sister's ugly face and smiled, assuring me she would have noticed within the next five minutes.

I went on my way to Debbie's class where she was going down the list of items to be accomplished for the class hour. She introduced me to the class. I gave one student who owed me some responses to an email interview a rough time and sat down in the only empty desk.

The magic of a high school classroom instantly came back. I do miss this, I thought to myself. I miss the excitement of taking a rough product and developing it into something more mature and more knowledgeable through both teaching, guidance and friendship. Maybe I'd better throw in a little cajolery and unadulterated threats too! Cuz both definitely fit into the mix of teaching from time to time.

Anyway, Debbie went down the list, including the African map quiz, the newspaper reading assignment, the magazine article on the Congo, the research assignment on the two African countries the class has been assigned to represent at the March NHSMUN conference. The day's discussion also included "housekeeping," as Debbie put it.

The students, the community, the parents, and Panhandle Alliance for Education (which has given $16,000 for this year's efforts as part of a "Big Idea" grant) are coordinating the fundraising effort, and that's pretty much been the focus of the past two months. I met some of the students at a weekend bake sale a couple of weeks ago.

Yesterday, they talked about attending a Chamber of Commerce evening activity and tickets sold for a Kiwanis spaghetti dinner. The main focus is an upcoming International "eclectically elegant appetizer extravaganza" at the Talus Retreat Center on Dec. 8.

Dalton Hawkins and Matt Charbonneau prepared the tickets, and Matt distributed them to the class, announcing that everyone must sell two tickets and DON'T LOSE YOUR TICKETS!

Only 130 tickets at $30 apiece or $50 per couple will be sold. Students will dress in costume representing world countries. Parents are spearheading the food and beverage for the evening which calls for cocktail attire with an International flair. The students are also gathering items and preparing them in a "presentable" display for a silent auction as part of the evening's fundraising efforts.

During the hour, the students and I took a map test. I'll just say I flunked, and I need to spend a little more time looking at my African map to memorize the location of Sao Tome & Principe, Cote D'Ivoire, Sahel, et. al. Now, I do believe I properly identified South Africa, and Debbie acknowledged that I had the correct location of Morocco. I chose not to turn in my test, but vowed to myself that I'll spend some time reacquainting myself with "the continent" of Africa.

It would be an understatement to announce that Debbie has basically given up 95 percent of her personal life to guide her students through this project. True, she's getting a lot of help from the community and she has a classroom full of bright, engaged students, but the ultimate responsibility always falls on the teacher who sits at the center of the swirl of activity.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time spent back in an SHS classroom, especially because there was no pressure. I could soak it all in, enjoy observing the dynamics among the students, get to know a few, take some notes and go on my way with a newspaper assignment to be completed at a later date.

Now, I just wonder if I sneaked in to my sister Laurie's classroom if I could remain unnoticed for as long as yesterday's experience in Barbara's. Of course, the fact that Laurie teaches fifth graders might make a little difference.

Old-home day on the cruise

We went to a state convention yesterday. It included folks from all over Idaho who are connected with the Soil and Water Conservation Districts.

The gathering started with a cruise on Lake Coeur d'Alene, with emphasis on Bald Eagle migrations, which are bringing the regal birds to the shorelines of the Lake for the next several weeks.

I had a feeling I'd know a few people, and right off, that feeling was confirmed as we sat at a table with Lloyd and Alice Wallace, Dale and Jo Ann Van Stone (pictured above), Fairy Delay and her son Ray.

Before the eagle presentation began, a tall, lean gentleman walked over to our table to say hello. I had been eyeing him and thinking he sure looked a lot like my friend Susie's dad, Dick Baldwin. They could almost be twins, I thought.

Well, it turned out his name was also Dick, but when I saw the last name, memories of forty-plus years ago at the University of Idaho came floating back. Dick Rush was a couple of years ahead of me and served as student body president at the university. Now, he's a big wig with the soil conservation program.

We listened to a very informative talk about eagles and their migratory habits while cruising past the many holdings of Coeur d'Alene's empire building Duane Hagadone. We also passed another house, which is pictured, and I don't think it belongs to Duane, who has some rather notable houses. I'm sure one of my friends from Coeur d'Alene will help me out on who owns it.

After the cruise, Bill and I took our second trip to Costco. Then, we changed clothes for the evening dinner/program in The Coeur d'Alene Hotel parking lot. We were probably the only participants in the convention who did not stay the night. We had animals to tend to at home.

Anyway, I found my seat at our banquet table and met a man named Steve Miller. He said he was from Fairfield, near Twin Falls. So, I asked him if he'd ever heard of Louise Lanting (was Bandy when she lived in Sandpoint). He said the name sounded familiar.

Later, his wife Linda came to sit down, and he mentioned she was a teacher. So, I asked her what she taught. She gave me a list of sundries, since she has taught everything from K through 12. I asked her where she went to college.

"U of I," she said, beginning in 1965.

I could feel the adrenalin rush.

"Where did you live?" I asked.

"Carter Hall," she replied.

I practically jumped to the ceiling.

"What was your last name?"

"Coats," she said.

"Well, I was Marianne Brown."

We were part of the inaugural group for Carter Hall when the Wallace Complex opened at the University of Idaho. We both lived on the 6th floor.

Needless to say we had a great evening catching up, throwing out names and telling each other what we knew about the faces from Carter Hall that we knew so long ago. Of course, we also bragged about our kids.

Turns out her suite mate was Louise Lanting's sister-in-law Trish and our hall president during our sophomore year. So, of course, we told her husband why that name ought to sound familiar.

A little later, Alice Wallace introduced all of us at the head table.

About twenty seconds after that, someone tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around, and there sat none other than Louise Lanting and her husband, Jim.

Small world, and fun day of rekindling a bundle of old and good memories.