Good bye 2010

On days like yesterday, pictures do the talking.

A beautiful adieu to another year.

Deafening Silence

I went to the Immediate Care place the other day.  Had been wanting to go there for quite some time, but couldn't find an ample time slot to follow through until the day before yesterday.  

A blocked left ear since Thanksgiving has remained stubbornly blocked through Nedi-pot cleansing, hydrogen peroxide swabs, cotton balls dipped in rubbing alcohol, one sudafed when two are prescribed (hate that stuff) and nasal spray antihistamines.  

Some days it's better than others; some days it feels like a slowly simmering pressure cooker.  Nothing major but definitely a change from its normal behavior.

Anyway, getting up the guts to go to any doctor takes a lot of thinking on my part.  That's ironic, too, cuz I spend a lot of time in doctors' offices------with my mother.  So, the phobia should be nonexistent.

It's the same weird phenomenon as this longtime school teacher who brews up days and months worth of nervous anxiety prior to any public speaking gig.  Doesn't make sense, but to use the great cliche of 2010, "It is what it is."

A fairly open schedule the other day gave me no more excuses to avoid seeing a doctor about my ear.  So, I conjured up the nerve, drove by the place, saw half a dozen cars AND an ambulance parked in the lot.  

Not now, I thought.  So, after some errands, I returned to fewer cars in the lot and even had the nerve to get out of the car. 

"Are you slammed?" I asked the receptionist.  

"Yes," she said.

"I'll come back later," I said, giving her my name. Leaving the facility, I figured this would be enough excuse not to return, rationalizing that I could say to myself, "At least you tried."  

Long story short, I later reasoned that I had only myself to blame if the ear kept feeling like someone had pulled a curtain within to deflect outside interference.

So, on my way home from another errand, I pulled into the lot, walked inside, sat and stewed quietly for about ten minutes.  Shockingly, they called my name in record time, and they were ready to see me.

Inside the exam room, I told the nurse of my doctor-phobia, just in case my blood pressure was high.  It was a bit, she said, but not alarmingly so.  She left.  Just seconds later, the doctor walked in.  I had time to spit out about 20 words describing the symptoms.  

He picked up his ear exam instrument, looked in both ears, then rubbed his fingers and thumbs on both sides of my head, asking, "Can you hear this on both sides?"

"Yes," I said.  

"I don't see anything wrong," he said.  "If it keeps up, I can suggest a specialist."  He told me to take Sudafed before going to bed.  

I talked to the pharmacist about that cuz I've heard Sudafed gives a buzz rather than sweet dreams.  The pharmacist suggested an antihistamine spray.

So, that's what I've done.  The ear is still a bit plugged, but I've gone to the doctor and done my duty.  

I can hear and I'm not dizzy so I'm figuring I'll follow another great cliche of  longtime wisdom, "Deal with it!"

That's pretty much what I do anyway with aches and pains.  Now, at least, I feel licensed to follow that path cuz I've got a doctor's appointment under my belt to go along with "dealing with it."  

So there.  

And, yes, there is deafening silence here this morning.  No TV movies downstairs, no humidifier rattling in Annie's bedroom, no snow rumbling off the roof and Annie Dog isn't even down there in the garage doing her demented arf-arfs. 

It's a quiet house again, for a few hours.  Willie will bring the dogs, and we'll probably keep them overnight.  He's headed in to Spokane today to pick up Debbie who stayed two extra days in Boise and then he has a basketball game to coach this evening.  

They probably won't get home until late,  so it will be doggie sleepover tonight. 

By the way, Annie and Bill had a little excitement on their trip to the airport yesterday----slid off the freeway near Liberty Lake.  At least, they weren't alone.  A state cop was nearby, monitoring and helping all the slide offs yesterday.  

Definitely a wild and woolly day on the road, and I was glad to stay home and take my big chances plowing the driveway.  That's enough excitement for me.

I'm going to savor the silence for the rest of the morning AND enjoy this beautiful day after the big snow storm.  

Happy Thursday to all.

A Wintry Wednesday

Busy day ahead, and I'm guessing it will get busier, thanks to the snow.  Weatherman Tom Sherry predicted the big dump last night.  

We figured he would be going to bed early last night so he could get to work early this morning and break in on KREM-2 programming every 15 minutes to alert folks about the progress of the snow.

How did we ever function during winter in the 1950s when we only had K-SPIT radio station, and it was off the air half the time?

We had to depend on Watt Moreland and Norm Bauer to help us run our day way back then.  I guess we lived through it and did not really need to turn on the radio to know that it was winter.

This is the Information Age, I guess, so with all the added facts, maybe our shoveling and plowing should go easier.  I haven't noticed a difference yet.

Snow hasn't changed much since the '50s, nor has wind.  Snow still falls; wind still blows.  Sometimes they team up and give us a heckuva deal. 

And, when you pick up a shovelful of snow, it's sometimes heavy, sometimes light as a feather.

The one thing I wish Tom Sherry would do is to counsel those of us who have Border Collies how to shovel snow and miss the dog's mouth when it insists on jumping right into the line of fire each time we try to fling the snow.  

Now, that's different from the '50s. I don't think our pathetically dumb Duffy (he walked under electric fences wagging his tail and never figured out where the shock originated/also walked off the back of a moving pickup)  or our beautiful Irish setter Kit ever came out to help us shovel.  

They left well enough alone, but these Border Collies, they've been bred to work all jobs.  And, they take flinging snow just as seriously as monitoring horses and playing keep-away with the big ball. 

I'm guessing the Kubota will come out later today, and I'm betting I'll be yelling at Border Collies when I make my next trip to the barn.  That stuff is coming down and piling up.

Annie has to go to the airport this afternoon for her flight back to Seattle.  Must be age cuz I was feeling pretty much like a chicken, anticipating that drive in this deep stuff.  Bill was nice enough to say he'd take her.

So, I'll keep track of animals, yell at Border Collies and push that snow off the driveway once it decides to stop.  

I told Annie I was wishing she'd leave tomorrow because the drive into Spokane in spite of colder weather should be breath-taking with clear skies and a brand new glistening blanket covering up the earth's blemishes. 

All good things must end, though.  She needs to get back to do some work, and it will be sad to see her go.  

Good things will be on the TV tonight if the weather folks don't break in every fifteen minutes.  The ZAGs play at 5:30 and the Cougs a couple of hours later.  So, we can settle back in the warmth of whenever and enjoy a distraction from what's happening outside.

Happy Wednesday all.  Let it snow, let it snow, and let our friend Tom Sherry have a fun day telling us about it!

Tuesdayslipperyslide

Looks like we're going to be dealing with wet, wet, wet and snow, snow, snow for the next few days. Then, the sun will come out and the thermometer will dip back down to the teens.  Not a bad way to end a week.

And, I'd say Schweitzer folks must be pretty happy with Mother Nature this year.  She's been dolling out some healthy portions of white stuff for the skiers and boarders this week, and that will continue.

Annie's going up to Schweitzer today with her snowboard.  She's in her second year of snowboarding and figuring it out, so today she may just have fun up there at Schweitzer.

I'm one of those rare birds who never really had much fun on the slopes.  I think my inability to learn anything involving coordination along with my unbalanced gravity  have played a major role in my lackluster attitude toward downhill skiing.

Two days at Schweitzer stand out in my memory.  One occurred while I was still in college.  One of my brother Kevin's  smokejumping friends, Hank Carpenter, who was attending the University of Idaho at the time, came home to Sandpoint with me for a weekend.

Of course, we had to try Schweitzer because Kevin was head of the ski patrol at the time.  I had also worked there selling season tickets.  So, we had an in.

Nobody told my body that we had a good deal up there, though.  It seems that we did take a lesson that day, but I don't remember learning much.  

What I do remember was all the time (approximately two hours) I spent, mostly lying in the snow, below the Baby Bear Chair Lift.  

Skiers, many whom I knew, kept cruising up the lift above me, waving and surely wondering if she was ever gonna get down that hill.  

I was thinking the same thoughts.  And, as the hours passed and seemingly everyone passed by me at least a couple of dozen times, I got pretty frustrated.

Hank was a little more advanced than I.  He made it down the kiddie hill about three times, even though one run was completed almost totally in reverse.  That was quite a sight, but even then, it was far more successful than anything I was experiencing.

Finally, my embarrassed ski-patrol-honcho brother came over.  After ordering me to get up only to watch me slump back into the snow about three or four times, he actually offered a hand.

"Get up, dammit, get up!" he said while pulling with all his might.  I started upward but discovered a force pulling me back to the ground.  My coat was firmly planted under one ski.  

Still, Kevin pulled with such might that I had no choice but to rise to my feet.  The coat had about a foot-long rip after that.  

Totally discouraged, I walked down the slope with skis in hand while my brother skied off, surely hoping never to be seen again in the skiing public with this clumsy sister of his.

On another occasion, I was at Schweitzer the same day my sister Laurie brought her sixth graders from Farmin School.  This time, my lesson made a little more sense, so I was pretty gung ho, for starters.  

That enthusiasm waned a bit when I was trying to get situated alongside the rope tow, only to have Jesse Harris, a rather long and slender young man who would eventually be one of my students, connect with me up close and personal.  

Within seconds, the two of us were intertwined and rolling around in the snow like one big pretzel.  

We eventually untangled and I actually made a few decent runs that day.  Still, my passion for the sport remained tepid at best.  I haven't gone back since.

My kids enjoy going to the hill, though, and I am glad.  So, I'm hoping Annie has fun and some good runs with her board today.

In the meantime, we'll find plenty to do with the snow down here on the flat-----maybe even some snowshoeing.

Happy Tuesday.

Monday Miscellany

Chad, the dad, and Miss Elli.

Annie and I went to an open house yesterday afternoon at the Berkleys.

We had a great time catching up with Chad, one of my former students and a fellow photographer friend of Annie's.

Chad and Andrea (his wife, now with Oregon State Parks) are parents of Elli who will soon turn 2.

A well-behaved and charming young lady, I must say.

Today's posting will be fairly light with just a couple more photos.

I'm a week late on completing my column, so duty calls. 

Enjoy the photos below.

New parents Melinda and Paul Nieman came to the open house.

One salivating host dog made the rounds in hopes . . . .

That's Elli's first horse in the lower left, by the way.  

Next spring Chad plans to bring her to the Lovestead to meet some real horses----and maybe even sit on one. 

Yeah, I caught my friend Kathy sampling one of the many fine treats she laid out for her guests.

That's Andrea, Elli's mom, holding Asher whose parents are Paul and Melinda.

Kathy watches Asher during the week days when Mom and Dad are working.

Thank you, Kathy, for a lovely gathering and tasty munchies.

If ya buy a Zaggie---that's the Gonzaga version of a Snuggy---one size fits all.

We were figuring after Mother unwrapped her personal Zaggy that the designer used 7-foot tall center Robert Sacre as a model for their prototype. .

Mother should stay warm while watching future Zags games.

We just hope she doesn't get lost inside her new cuddle piece.

And the Holidays Move On

Let's just say Christmas here at the Lovestead did not go quite as expected.  Let's just also say that the day was filled with one unplanned adventure after another, sometimes of the calamitous nature.  

At the end of the day, though (don't ya just love that cliche?),  all was well.  

I finally sat down with a glass of Chardonnay, some Nacho chips, chased with a couple of slices of Second Avenue Pizza,  and joined Bill and Annie who were watching the Morgan Freeman/Matt Damon movie "Invictus."  

I missed a few segments of the movie but did grimace a bit when those South Africans beat New Zealand's All Blacks in a hard fought World Cup Rugby final. Despite the Kiwi defeat,  I fully appreciated the historical aspect of the match and what it meant to South Africa.

Still, some of the movie's scenes were blotted out of  my slumbering mind.

It was the usual scene of holiday movie watching at our home where Annie occasionally checks with Mom, "Are you watching, Mom?  Are you awake?  Did you see the movie, Mom?"

Of course, I always lie just a tad during my semi-slumber, insisting that, of course, I'm watching. 

After "Invictus" I asked Annie to put on the funny movie she had brought home.  She said I may not like it and that if she put it on, I'd better stay awake.

Well, I did nod off a few times while Bill and Annie were still in the living room, but they both retired long before that movie ended.

And, when I fully awakened to see just how stupid it was, I turned it off and watched WSU losing in the final minutes of its Hawaiian tournament game against Butler.

Then, came a much-needed long winter's nap.  The going and going and going of this ever-aging boomer body over several days had reached its point Christmas Eve.

Plus, those few unplanned situations on Christmas Day tested my body and mind beyond limits.  I don't think I passed the test with any flying colors, but I did eventually make it through the day.

We did have a nice time in the morning,  opening presents.  Bill liked his new talking Tom Tom GPS.  For once, I had some idea of what to get my hard-to-shop-for hubby. 

I observed last summer while we were driving around Texas and Louisiana that the lady on the unit telling us every turn to make and when to recalculate totally fascinated Bill, so I made a mental note of what to get him for Christmas.

Annie brought her mom and dad "His" and "Hers" fleece jackets with the official geocache logo, so we were both happy.    Bill gave me a new "barn coat" which is too nice to wear to the barn.  

I also liked the "Seattle Sombrero" with Gore-Tex that Annie selected for me.Pretty cool hat---you can put the sides down in downpours and then velcro them back up for that "Aussie" look on dry days. 

Annie liked her big coffee-table book about all the possible countries in the world which she can put on her bucket list for future travels.  It's a big one with more than 800 photos and basic highlights about each country, when to visit and where to go.

There were other goodies, but those are enough highlights to suggest that it was a good morning of unwrapping and checking out the gifts.

With a long winter's nap, I'm ready for this day after Christmas.  Part of it involves feeding Lefty nine more benadryl capsules (twice daily) and using a syringe to squirt some medicine into his mouth.  

Poor guy has a serious skin allergy, and over the past few weeks has rubbed several spots on both sides of his neck so raw that the initial wounds are beet red.  So, Cherise, my vet,  came Christmas Eve and gave him a shot and handed me a list of instructions on how to get him over this.  

We're taking alfalfa out of his diet in hopes that it's the culprit, and we're doing everything possible to get him to stop his masochistic urges to rub himself to death.

Seems like with these horses if it's not one thing, it's another.  So the beat will go on,  keeping them healthy and well-fed through the winter.

I also have to get really serious today about writing my skijoring column.  Have had way too much fun watching folks practice and taking lots of photos, but comes a time and a deadline (regardless of Christmas in between) that the pedal needs to meet head-on with the metal. 

So, as the holidays move on, there will be more snoozing in front of the TV, attention to duties that call, and hopefully an end to the gnawing of another deadline.

Hope everyone had a happy Christmas and that your long winter naps are pleasant.  

Merry Christmas Eve

Let's just call the photo above my card sent to all the faithful followers and occasional visitors to this blog.

For background information, I must tell you that the card on the tree arrived here yesterday.

It came from Loves, spending Christmas in Boise.

The note inside reminded me of a lovely day spent this fall with my daughter-in-law, Debbie.

That was the day we went to the Mennonite Craft Sale in Bonners Ferry and then on a trip through the Kootenai Valley where I reconnected with a friend from way back.

While at the craft sale, I picked up the card and loved it but could not find an envelope to fit it.  After all, it's an original and finding proper-sized envelopes for originals is not always that easy.

Well, someone picked it up when I wasn't looking and saved it for our Christmas card from the younger Loves.  I smiled when I realized that was the very card I had shown to Debbie.

Such thoughtfulness, which is, indeed, a trademark of Debbie and so many people I know.  And, at Christmas time, the thoughtfulness is accentuated everywhere we turn. 

I wish to all of you a most joyous Christmas celebration.

I also thank you for sticking with the mutterings of this country hick who loves to talk about the good life and the peaceful happiness that so often marks a part of every day here on Earth.

Merry Christmas. 

I'll leave you with a most poignant, moving (both literally and figuratively) you-tube favorite.  This video was prepared by the fifth-grade class at Quinhagah, Alaska. 

The entire community worked with the students.  It took ten hours of work to put it together.  I'm guessing its impact will last a lot longer than ten hours.

Neighbor Day and the Cookies

It takes a lot of time in the kitchen to bake all those cookies and holiday treats.  Any cook can attest to that.  And, when the dog eats your cookies, there's even more toiling to do over the mixing bowl, but I figure it's all worth it.

The reward for all these hours in the kitchen comes on days like today when we get to at least say hello to our neighbors, for whom most of the cookies/breads/candies and treats are intended.  

Those visits don't ALWAYS occur at delivery time, but they happen eventually during the season, and when they do, one of the highlights of Christmas comes to fruition.

The Ten Commandments tell us some rules about our neighbors----specifically no coveting.  Let's hope there's some fine print in there saying it's okay to covet your neighbors' cookies or caramel corn, cuz along with those goodies comes the yearly reminder of just how important, valued and loved your neighbors happen to be.

Is there a "love thy neighbor" clause in God's rules?  I think so, and I do love my neighbors.  In fact, I have,  for the most part,  throughout my life.  Oh, there have been a few incidents causing a little conflict from time to time, but those work both ways.  

I'm sure my neighbors along North Boyer did NOT love the unknown soul who stole their mail every day for three weeks.  Of course, except for Mrs. Moore, I think most of them never knew who that neighbor was until I revealed my sin publicly as an adult.

I guess I got off on good behavior for coveting my neighbors' mail at such a young age.  That incident and its repercussions alone taught me some strict lifelong guidelines about coveting and then acting on one's covetry. 

Anyway, cookie plate time with the neighors goes back to the days when my mother toiled for long hours in the kitchen on those long winter nights before Christmas.   I'm guessing my cookie plates so many decades later look a heckuva lot like hers did as far back as the '50s.

Mother's plates went to the Hudons, the Bests, Mr. Dusty (the hermit), Pappy White, Joe Carter, Roy Spear and other friends who spent a lot of time at our farm or vice versa.  

They say the best way to teach others is by example.  

I guess I learned from my mother how much those cookie plates were appreciated and that their meaning went beyond sweets and too many calories.

If only the neighbors knew what my mother endured to get a full plate prepared for them, they would have really appreciated her annual gestures.

Mother had dogs and cats, but they knew enough to leave the cookies alone.  Besides, they couldn't get into the freezer to sample them.  

Mother also had kids----enterprising kids----kids who learned that the butcher knife would work just fine at tripping the latch of her locked freezer and that a screwdriver used on the hardware for the padlock could get you into her "fruit room."

There was usually an explosion and maybe a few banging pans when Mother would happily go to her freezer or fruit room to bring out the goods, slip the key into the lock, open the top and discover cookie containers with a sudden shortage of goods inside.

I don't know really what she did after these discoveries to take care of the shortages because we usually disappeared when her scary maternal noise started blasting off in the kitchen.

Somehow she managed, though,  and the neighbors were always happy with most folks (except the bachelors)  exchanging their own offerings for the annual Tibbs cookie plate.  Most notable each year was John Hudon's homemade huckleberry and raspberry wine.  

John is not aging  wine at his North Boyer farm anymore.  As his nephew Pat Gooby noted in the annual Pat Gooby Christmas epistle, John found his place in Heaven this year---where he and many of the aforementioned neighbors are probably sitting around smiling and sipping on his brew.

And, so today is Neighbor Day here in Selle as well as in the old neighborhood with the cookie plates.  Some have already been delivered, but the bulk of these deliveries will involve walks in the snow to make the drops or a few short drives where some offerings may have to go into mailboxes.

Yes, I learned from my postal pilfering days that it is better to give than receive when it comes to mailboxes.  

I'm looking forward to whatever short visits transpire from cookie-plate deliveries.  I love sharing the headlines of life with these people of common geography.  Most notable out here in Selle have been visits my to the Meserve's next door. 

Geneva brews up some coffee and asks Stan to reach for the cannister of hard gingersnaps up on a high shelf in the cupboard. Gingersnaps and coffee have been a staple for many Meserve visits.  

Meanwhile, Geneva pulls out her home-baked cookie supply and a basket.  We all chat while she selects an assortment of cookies for the basket.  After a good visit, it's off to the next delivery. 

By the time the entire neighborhood cookie-plate exchange has ended, we're all caught up on what's new with kids, animals and local happenings.  

Then, it's time to graze off the neighbor's goodies for the next few days and then resume a life of waving as daily life goes on for all of us----all sweet fodder for chapters to be reported with next year's cookie ritual.  

Yeah, I think Mother's example of long ago created its share of work but better yet,  many joyful memories.

Journey through a Lovely Day

It was a day of family, friends and a Border Collie-feeding frenzy, along with drop-dead gorgeous winter weather.

Family members got together with Mother for dinner, where we enjoyed seeing lots of old friends.  The food was delectable as was the atmosphere. 

Earlier in the day I toiled over the kitchen island, frosting some gingersnaps and filling some cookie plates.

As I worked, outside continued to become more and more alluring with bright blue skies and intense sunshine, so I worked faster, finally finishing that project about 2 p.m.

I hurriedly put away boxes of Christmas cookies, too hastily in one case. 

On came the snow pants, two fleece jackets, the gloves and a camera around the neck.

Doggies knew immediately we were headed off for a walk, with no snow shoes on this day. 

The snow below an inch or two of fresh powder was hard-packed enough to walk anywhere and everywhere.

We chose Meserve's field.  Dogs were in great moods, and so was I, snapping photos every few feet, it seemed. 

The outdoors scenes yesterday were like a well-stocked smorgasboard, beauty, beauty everywhere.

I finally decided that if I took it all in with my camera, my purpose of getting some brisk exercise would suffer.

So, I slowed down on the camera clicking and sped up on the step-taking.

Dogs ran, played, frolicked and faked friendly fights.  

It was good they enjoyed themselves because later while we were out having dinner with Mother, Kiwi's nose found an unsecured pan of those "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" cookies. Her mouth went to work devouring every last one.

Upon my discovery, Kiwi cowered with guilt near the door to the garage, then ran into the house and upchucked on the living-room floor.

At that point, there was absolutely no guessing about which Border Collie stole the goods.

She's fine today, and the day is mighty fine too:  another chapter of blue skies and hot-pink snow-capped mountains outside my window.  

I'll go to town soon to spend an arm and a leg for more "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" ingredients, and you can be sure the resulting cookies will be well -secured from Border Collie noses.

Enjoy the photos below. 

My sister Barbara, dishing up from sumptuous buffet offerings. 

That's Bill's hand, plate and thumb, by the way.

That's our veterinarian and former student, Cherise (second from left with her hubby Eron) and several of her family members, including Grandpa Larry Neu (also a former student) and her sister Kim.

Cherise and her family are home for the holidays from their temporary home in Houston.

Mother, looking festive for the dinner.

Kiwi with her neck-knap ornament:  we call it Kea.

Annie Dog (age 14) and Kea, in search of Kiwi's neck.

Kea: gotta find! gotta find! I can't translate what Kiwi's saying.

Dan Wood's cows are happily eating snow-er-hay in the background! :)

A lovely day it was!

King Cole: He made a difference.

I like to think that Expo '74 defined Spokane as we know it these days.  And, I believe that Schweitzer Mountain Resort, when it opened as Schweitzer Basin Ski Area in 1963 defined Sandpoint.  

Granted, other happenings along each community's timeline have had significant impact on their present state.  

Nonetheless, I believe that an overall historical perspective would support both of my claims.  And, if this assertion is incorrect, a fun among discussion from naysayers would be most welcome.

I'm thinking about Spokane in particular because King Cole has died.  

And, he could very well have claimed the title of  merry old soul, according to Rebecca Nappi's reporting in this morning's Spokesman-Review, noting how much he loved to have his children drive him through the streets of Spokane in his later years.

I inferred from the piece that he was downright giddy about the progress that had happened within his adopted community since Expo '74 when he had served as the most visible leader in the cadre of the World's Fair organizers. 

I'm old enough to remember Spokane before the World's Fair.  The memories were not that great, except that we were driving to the "big city."  

Most vivid in my childhood images of the trip were the miles and miles of dead cars along the highway (was it a freeway by '74; can't remember for sure on that one).  

The city's east entrance would have certainly been defined as an eyesore. 

At the time preceding the World's Fair, I also recall the continued resistance expressed by so many who opposed Spokane's hosting of the event.  Reminds me of Sandpoint's Byway disputes.

I don't remember the reasons for people opposing the fair, but I do know that a lot of folks around the area harbored a cynical view of such an undertaking----until they attended the event, that is.  

In most cases, a visit to Expo '74 dispelled all cynicism. And, in many cases, one visit led to another and another . . . .

Spokane's Expo was a magical, uplifting experience for me.  The fair attracted exhibits from several different countries, including Iran, where the Shah was still in power at the time.

I couldn't get enough of my visits to each exhibit.  And, having the opportunity to sample food from all over the world was a highlight too.

Talk about a cultural eye opener for a country hick, this was it.   

King Cole and his staff did that for me and for thousands of other residents around the region at a time when exposure to other cultures was pretty much reserved for those who had the means to go visit those countries. 

The World's Fair cleaned up Spokane and left behind  the gift of a beautiful river front and a magnificent park which has continued to evolve and to serve as a setting for many wonderful gatherings ever since.  

In my eyes, Spokane changed for the better after the World's Fair.

And, so,  from that point on, I always looked at King Cole as one of Spokane's heroes.  It was fun to learn later---once when he attended Mass at St. Joseph's Catholic Church--that he had been one of Msgr. O'Donovan's fellow Franciscans at the Mission of Santa Barbara. 

Both were working toward the priesthood at the time, but  King Cole opted to go a different direction.  He certainly succeeded in making a difference in the lives of many people, a community and an entire region.

RIP King Cole.

December 20, 1984: A day of Family Infamy

In my busYness, I almost forgot that we have reached another anniversary of one of the most life-altering days our family has ever experienced.  

It was a life-altering because of significant material losses that could be replaced and because of intangible gains from lessons learned about life and the goodness of people which will remain with us forever. 

This morning the calendar date popped into my mind, so I decided to plagiarize myself and lift word for word from an unedited story for a book I wrote a few years ago. 

This story, chronicling a teaching Top Ten list, concludes the collection of tales from Lessons with Love.  

Teaching Moment No. 1: Supreme Lesson:  It was a Thursday, the day before Christmas vacation, 1984.  We had experienced a wintry week with temperatures going below zeroes, roadways posing hazards because of solid ice surfaces, and snow blowing in from the north.  Bill had gone to Louisiana.  His father had died the previous weekend and had been buried in Oakdale the day before.  On this Dec. 20, I’d taken my time picking up the kids from Patti Howell’s Day Care center.  After all, we had an abbreviated class schedule the next day, so I could afford some extra time to go to the post office and mail cards.  While there, I even enjoyed the luxury of yakking with Pam Parks, one of my colleagues.   Stopping at Patti’s, I chatted with the kids' babysitters, Bernetta Young and Carol Blessington, before summoning Willie and Annie to load up in the pickup, which I'd driven that day because of the scary roads.  We headed north on Boyer and broke into a lively chorus of   “Jingle Bells.”  Turning on to Baldy Road, we continued our merriment.

Days before vacations---especially those of the two-week variety---always brought on a sense of euphoria for me as I thought about the good times ahead.  Once the Christmas craziness ended and company had headed home, we could enjoy the silence of winter and a temporary break from the down-to-the-minute time management of school.  There’d be lots of lazy hours, lying on the couch watching TV. I also looked forward to cross country skiing and pulling the kids on their sleds around the fields, quiet afternoons reading----definitely a time to savor.  Bill would be home soon from Louisiana.  All would be well for the Love family within the next couple of days.

While these festive thoughts resounded through my mind, our voices continued to celebrate “one-horse open sleigh.”  Suddenly,  I caught a glimpse of something unusual off to the north, toward Greenhorn Mountain.  A dramatic, orange conflagration reached skyward, lighting up the night sky.   In front of the giant flame, I could see the silhouette of our majestic classic red barn.  Within an instant, joy turned to horror.  Our house was burning up across the open fields less than a mile away.  The driving route at that moment stretched a bit further.  We’d have to continue down Baldy for half a mile, turn off on Great Northern Road and proceed another three quarters of a mile to our driveway.  We all instantly began to shriek, sob or wail as I composed myself enough to control the pickup from sliding off the icy road.  The remaining drive home lasted seemingly forever as we finally turned north. 

I have no clear memory of the next few minutes----just fragmented images of  myself screaming hysterically while standing before the giant flames as they shot into the night air. Neighbors like Pat Gooby and Eddie Nordgaarden tried to comfort me.  Fire trucks with flashing red lights and wild sirens maneuvered their way from out of the darkness up the snowed-in driveway.  I do remember a sheriff's deputy interviewing me, asking my name----did I know how the fire started?    I knew nothing at that moment.  All I had to offer anyone was uncontrollable emotion.

In seconds, I realized the reality that our possessions amounted to the clothes we'd worn that day, a sweater left in the back seat of the station wagon, and ironically, a freezer full of meat lugged miraculously by adrenalin-filled neighbors from inside the laundry room.  In the light of the next day we would discover another item ironically rescued from that room just off the kitchen---a lone green plastic bag filled with garbage.

As the minutes passed, my family members---my dad, my mother and my siblings came down the driveway.  All had spotted the flames at almost the same moment from different locations in the neighborhood.  Seeing my condition, Mother immediately insisted that we go with her to the family home about a mile away.   Annie, then just six years old, stood just a few feet away from us, but we could not find Willie.  We frantically looked among the crowd of people and still no sign.  As I walked over to our Ford Escort station wagon, parked near the huge willow tree, thinking he might be sitting inside, my eyes were drawn upward toward the expansive tree trunk.  The kids played in a partially-completed tree house, calling it their apartment.  That’s where Willie was crouched with an expression reflected the horror of the moment----his huge, fearful brown eyes transfixed on the leaping flames which cast an orange tint on his face.  He was silent, but his statue-like pose spoke far more eloquently of the depth of this catastrophe than any words I was able to speak.

In less than one week’s time, Bill had lost his father, and we had lost our home.  We faced a daunting situation, especially five days before Christmas.  A lifetime’s worth of philosophical sayings would be uttered or would drift through my mind over the next few days.  This event would demonstrate their truth firsthand in so many ways.   Material possessions are fleeting, but life is precious.  Possessions can be replaced, but lives cannot.

After convincing Willie to come down from his perch in that giant willow, we accompanied Mother to her house.  In the kitchen, my sister Barbara had been tutoring Rod Berget, also one of my students.  His mother, Judy, another teacher, had come to pick him up.  She teamed up with Mother to try to calm me down as I, still blubbering like a baby, headed to the telephone to call Bill in Louisiana.  The two women immediately urged me to calm down before making the call.  Knowing that words would not quite do the trick, my mother held out a small bottle of whiskey, a souvenir from an airline flight she'd taken to Spain that summer.  Judy held a glass. 

“Drink this; it will help you,” Mother announced.

“No,” I said.  “I'll be all right.”

“No, Marianne, this will help calm you down,” she insisted.

“I'm NOT going to drink it,” I shot back just as Mother began pouring the whiskey into the glass in Judy’s hand.  It was obvious these two women were on a mission.  In that split second, however, the “calmers” stood over the “calmee” and accidentally proceeded to pour the entire bottle of hooch into my crotch.

Although I did not imbibe a drop, the whiskey did jerk me to my senses.  If ever there were a need for comic relief, this was it.  I had to laugh.  Looking down at my Jim Beam-soaked khaki slacks, I reacted calmly as the two women who hovered over me immediately broke into apologetic laughter.

“Thank you so much!  The only clothes I own in the world are the ones on my body,” I announced taking great pains to enunciate each and every word. “And now you've spilled whiskey all over my crotch!” The incident served as a turning point.  Humor does help in the depths of despair. 

The momentary levity put me back on course for the obstacles that would lie ahead.  I called Bill, who had ironically been having dinner with the Oakdale, Louisiana, fire chief.  His location 2,500 miles away spared him the horror that all of us in Idaho had just witnessed. It was shocking, yes, but in his usual fashion, he remained calm, knowing that he'd have to concentrate on a pretty big obstacle of his own---getting home earlier than planned in the midst of hectic Christmas airline traffic.   We had a lot on our plate that night, but we would soon learn that we also had a lot of guardian angels looking over us.

As soon as I hung up, Mother's phone started ringing.  It rang steadily that night.  In every case, the caller had heard about the fire and wanted to offer help----a temporary home, clothes, money, food.  The gestures seemed endless and continued the next day when cars started streaming into Mother’s driveway with bundles and baskets with envelopes, containing cash or checks.   A student in my first period class, Robbie Hubbard, brought a plate of cookies, a hug and a simple “I'm sorry for your loss.” 

School lasted until noon, and soon thereafter, my sister Barbara came home from the high school where she also taught.  She carried her books and a heavy cloth bag, which she set in the middle of the kitchen table.  We all stood,  wondering what it was for a second.  Then she explained.

“This is from the high school staff and students,” she said. “There's over $1,000 cash in that bag.  They collected it this morning.  You are also to go to the counseling office at the school when you have time to pick up the other items.”  A later trip to the school revealed a huge room filled with dozens of piles of items stacked to the ceiling, all brought to school by students and colleagues that morning. Overcome with the magnitude of such widespread generosity, I broke into tears after Barbara finished telling me about the efforts that had transpired overnight and during the morning hours at school.

“How can I ever repay all these people?” I asked, feeling overwhelmed. “There's no way possible.”

“You have a gift,” my mother suggested. “You have the gift of writing.  You can write something for the paper, and they'll know that you appreciate what they've done.”

Later that day, my brother Jim and I drove into Spokane to pick up Bill,  only to learn that his flight had been delayed until the next morning.  After a few hours sleep, I sat in the  motel restaurant with a yellow legal pad and penned my thoughts,  which later appeared in the local paper.

The fire and its aftermath involved a tapestry of giving, caring people representing every age and every interest in our community changed my outlook forever.  I couldn't repay each person individually, but since that time, I've followed the simple suggestion of one of my favorite folk hymns “Pass It On.”

For several years afterward, whenever it came time for the school-wide food/toy drive,  I looked forward to  galvanizing my students into action by telling my Christmas story of 1984 when our family became recipients of that very drive. I told them about the sack of money gathered in less than three hours, the room filled with boxes, the dozens of visitors to my parents’ driveway. “You never know when a split-second incident can put you on the receiving end,” I said. “And when you are, I know from experience that you're overwhelmed with gratitude for living in such a caring community.”

After telling the story, I'd challenge them to do their best and to have a good time attempting to unseat the “master of all food-drive organizers,” my colleague, Rick Gehring,  who taught math at Sandpoint High School. Every year a plaque went to the classroom that topped the charts for items collected. We always exchanged friendly banter between our classes to inspire enthusiasm.  Although always competitive, we never did win first-place because Rick, never showing his hand until the last day, had calculated a foolproof strategy for getting his troops to comb the town for donations.  I believe his homeroom held an undefeated record for more than a decade---regardless of what method was used to determine who was the best. One year my students chose not to compete in the drive. 

“Let's pick just one family and put together something really special for them,” Christine Bauer, then a senior, suggested to her fellow photography students. So, we followed her lead and gathered money, food and clothing.  We also extended our fun by  meeting at my house one Saturday and baking Christmas goodies.  The satisfied pride among those students when their collection was ready to be delivered rivaled the thrill experienced by athletic teams capturing the state championship. Whether they won or lost the annual food drive title, each year wonderful stories emerged about students sacrificing for others as homeroom classes gathered thousands of pounds of food and welcome items for families in need. 

     Because of these annual holiday food drives and thanks to one life-changing catastrophe, I learned the ultimate “Lesson with Love.”

Notes from Schweitzer's Shadow

I don't know if my title today is accurate in any way, but it sounded good.

Plus, Schweitzer's looking mighty pretty up there this morning. 

It's the Sunday before Christmas, and all through the house, things are fairly calm.

The newspapers came a little later than usual today so I went for a walk on top of the snow around the hay field.

It's cold enough but not too cold.  Snow has become crusted hard enough to support a human's weight.

I always enjoy the days when we can set off any direction in any field and enjoy a free walk, so to speak.

No sinking in, no water below the snow, just a solid surface and a clear pathway for 360 degrees and as far as you want to go, except for fences and trees.

I also love days when the north wind is blowing against my face, not cutting it with ferocity but simply stroking it and providing a sense of winter solitude amidst the forces of nature. 

Did that make sense?  

I don't know, but it probably does make sense to say that today is a good day.

After my walk, the papers were in the box.  

Bill and I sat quietly reading stories of the day.  Of course, one of my favorites was about the ZAGS wonderful victory yesterday over ninth-ranked Baylor.  I actually cried tears of joy over that one cuz our ZAGS are back!

Doug Clark's column about tooting his trumpet in the EWU makeshift band surely got Bill's attention.

And, Bill actually asked for the sports section when I read to him a few paragraphs from the impressive  back-page feature about geocaching http://www.spokesman.com/stories/2010/dec/19/on-the-trail-with-gps/

The feature explains the sport, including the general guidelines and focuses on a lady from Spokane who sells geocaching products and teaches others about the sport.  

She said that, despite the economy, her business increased by 80 percent this past year.  That's the beauty of geocaching, and I tell folks all the time.  It's a wonderful, relatively inexpensive and educational activity for young and old.

Geocachers get out of the house, discover places they've never visited, learn about the area and find camaraderie with other geocachers.

I was thinking earlier this morning while on my walk about how geocaching has so positively affected our family---from Annie working for the company to all the friends we've met because of the sport and all the places we've gone on the hunt for the hidden treasure.

And, while I was reflecting, another recurring thought came to mind:  how one person makes a difference.

My friend Alan, whose wife Pam Eimers used to teach with me, first told me about geocaching about six years ago.

He lives in California, and, of course, trends perennially used to hit California before they'd ever find their way to Idaho.  (I think that may have changed, thanks to wider Internet access).

Anyway, Alan told me at the time that he had incorporated a geocaching adventure into his son's birthday celebration.

I asked him to explain the sport and immediately thought, "That's something Bill would like."  

We may have eventually learned about it through other means, but Alan lit the fuse for our current family passion. And, to say it has exploded (both the sport and our passion) would be an understatement.

So, if you're out there, looking for a nice family Christmas gift which will give you hours, weeks, months and years of adventure, check out the Spokesman article or go visit www.geocaching.com.  

If you decide to partake, you can take the sport anywhere in the world and add to the five million or so who have discovered "the fastest growing sport you've never heard of." 

Got a busy day ahead, purchasing a few more gifts, decorating some cookies and maybe finishing my outdoor light display.  

On the latter, the light show is pretty lame right now, so I'm hoping to have a proper display by the time Annie arrives home on Christmas Eve.

Happy Sunday to all, and Happy Birthday, Florine.