Smoke on the Sand Creek Waters

 

Well, Mama said there'd be days like this. 

All my text for today's post disappeared.  

Blogger gremlins are at it again. 

So, rather than sitting here typing it all over again (20 minutes' worth), I'll just wish all a happy Friday and hope that tomorrow's a better day. 

It was neat to see in this morning's paper that the Popsicle Stick Bridge has gone through a makeover, thanks to some folks in Ponderay.  

I had a story from the 1950s  associated with that bridge, and maybe later I'll retype and post it.  

And, then, the title to this post might make some sense. 

Thanks for your patience.  Maybe check back later in the day. 

Update:  I did have time to retype the story.  You will find it below. 

Happy International Women's Day.  

                                                                                       ---Photo by Evie Seaberg

https://bonnercountydailybee.com/news/2024/mar/08/popsicle-bridge-receives-makeover/

A Memory of That Bridge

On most summer days during our preteen era, we left the house about 10 a.m. as Mother rolled out the wringer washer and hooked the hose to the kitchen faucet.  Our morning itinerary took us about a mile away to the Sand Creek bridge (now known as Popsicle Stick bridge) connecting Boyer and Highway 95. 

We rode our bikes and took homemade fishing poles to go after penos, suckers, trough or bluegills.  In those days the creek, which originated near the top of Schweitzer Mountain and fed into Lake Pend Oreille, teemed with a wide assortment of fish. The boys usually pulled in at least a dozen per day.

I was never so lucky.

It was a rare day when the fish---or my fishing equipment---cooperated.  My tackle consisted of a stick pole made from a willow or aspen tree, almost ten feet of line and one No. 4 hook.  Hook and line usually conspired to find some ingenious way to grab hold of a snag within the first thirty seconds of use.

Either my habitual impatience or the knowledge that some mess-up was bound to happen triggered the same reaction.  As soon as my hook snagged hold of the first stick bush or log that came into view, I jerked the pole back, pulled with all my might, uttered a few obscenities and stomped my feed in the sand as I heard the inevitable snap that ended the day’s fishing venture.

Mike and Kevin always had a supply of extra hooks and sinkers in their tackle boxes, but they never cared to share with their little sister.

Fully aware that I had at least three hours to kill while the boys continued their quest for the largest lunker of the day, I found other projects around the bridge.  Throwing rocks into Sand Creek lasted about as long as my fishing; with the last splash, an older brother instantly reminded me of my mortality, convincing me to consider some other pastime.

“You’d better not throw another one, or I’ll come over and slug you,” was all the warning needed.  I then wandered up the hill and began searching for ripe thimble berries or long, thick strands of timothy to chomp on. Often, leaves from the cottonwood trees suggested another activity.

“It’s time to try a smoke, I sometimes decided. Ripping off several leaves, I sat down in the road, shredded the leaves into tiny pieces and created a pile large enough to build a homemade cigarette.

Then, I looked for some paper to serve as a wrapper.  It never took too long because that area was where pickup trucks owned by grown-up anglers parked during the evening hours. 

Since there wasn’t much concern about the environment or many Idaho litter laws in the 1950s, these folks usually left behind an ample supply of cans, bottles, and paper for youngsters like me to gather and recycle the next day.

Choosing the most likely litter for cigarette paper---with no concern for its origin, history or germ count—I returned to my pile of leaves and attempted to copy Harold’s  (my stepfather’s) roll-yer-own technique.  I never quite mastered that skill either, but my end product sort of looked and acted like a cigarette.

Never mind the fact that bits of leaves dribbled out as I ambled down the road toward the bridge to ask Kevin for a match.

Kevin always had matches.  They fascinated him.  He always kept at least a couple of books in his pocket.  After a little pleading I could usually convince him to hand over a few so I could light up my smoke.

Whenever I managed to get them burning, I would fail to get much enjoyment out of my Sand Creek specials. The usual result was a few singed fingers because most of the time only the paper caught fire while the leaves cascaded to the ground.

What was left inside generally got stuck between my teeth or on my tongue as I took each puff. Occasionally, my brothers left their fishing poles propped against the yellow bridge rails and joined my attempts to enjoy a cigarette. Their efforts always matched mine.

Our disappointments at Sand Creek only fueled our need to have a good smoke.  So on several occasions we resorted to what we knew best:  household intrigue and creative theft.

Note:  the rest of the story can be found in the story “Smoke, Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette” in my book Pocket Girdles.

💚💗💜💛💓💖 

Many thanks to the people of Ponderay who led the effort for the Popsicle Stick Bridge to have a makeover.   That bridge, like Lincoln School, remains as one of the few remaining visible remnants of my childhood memories of growing up on our North Boyer farm.  All signs of our farm are gone from the landscape but not from my memory.