One More Blast, Brownie Garden, Et. Al.

 

Earlier this morning I looked at the temperature on my computer.  It read 35 degrees.  

That seemed about right because during my first trip outside with Bridie, rain was spitting from the sky, and it felt somewhat balmy out there. 

An hour later, I opened the door and saw the scene above. I could also feel a distinct difference in the temperature.  Much colder and the cold aided by wind. 

By this time tomorrow, the temps will be in the single digits.  Plus, we're supposed to encounter some steady, gusty winds to go along with relatively light snow. 

Winter is inflicting its last blast, we hope.  

I do remember a blizzard on March 13 a few years ago when everything that could possibly go wrong here at the Lovestead did----highlighted by a geyser out in the second pasture, spewing from a broken pipe. 

That said, I'll hold Mother Nature to my expectation that this will be the last of the snowstorms, frigid temperatures, ice, tank heaters, etc. 

 Those ever-increasing patches of grass over the past several days and the sounds of a growing population of songbirds have been nice. 

Speaking of grass and thinking green, my brownie garden patch is continuing to grow in spite of the petrified snow just outside the window. 'Maters are looking much better than those from last year. 

Hard to believe it will be just a few weeks before I transfer this assortment to the greenhouse where the plants will be helped along by heaters and even more daylight.   

I don't often post obituaries on this blog but couldn't resist including this one. 

Not many people get almost half a page in the Daily Bee, but John Cochran did. 

Our family has known the extended Cochran family forever, it seems. 

I picked cherries from Neal Cochran's overloaded tree one year.  

Neal used to come over to our farm to castrate Hereford bull calves so he could harvest tasty treats called Rocky Mountain oysters to enjoy later. 

Neal was John's brother, as was Allen "Pinky," who's responsible for at least two names for the "three-name lounge" on Cedar Street in Sandpoint.  

Some folks call it the Tam-o-Shanter; others the "Tervan" or maybe even the "Tavern."  

There IS a story there, which I have chronicled in one of my books. 

We also know other generations of Cochrans, and they have made their mark on the community too. 

I don't know, however, if they could match up to Johnny. 

A fun obituary of a life well-lived.  

https://bonnercountydailybee.com/news/2023/feb/21/john-cochran-92/

Last Saturday while killing time and waiting for the State Championship game, I drove to town, looking for a place where I could walk for several hundred feet on bare ground.  

The parking lot and walkway to Lakeview Park next to Memorial Field filled the bill. 

I walked around for a while snapping pictures of whatever would enhance the late, bleak winter scene of the Pend Oreille River shoreline and the lake to the east. 

My search for pictures involved some close inspection of anything that could add some pzazz to the scene. 

Thankfully, rosehips and brush flowers helped me out. 

While I was taking pictures, the guys on the motor scooter showed up.  One jokingly announced to me that I need not be afraid that a motorcycle gang was invading. 

I told him I wasn't the least bit concerned about a gang but sure did like the artistry of his beard. After we exchanged some banter, I looked closer at his friend.  

Lo and behold, it was Slate Kamp, whom I've known since he was a long and lean pre-adolescent.  

His dad Bob helped Bill secure his very first job in North Idaho with the U.S. Forest Service.  The floods of early 1974 had washed out bridges and rerouted roads all around the area, so the Forest Service was hiring. 

Later, Slate's mom Marilyn did a similar favor for Bill, opening the door for him to work at Schweitzer as a chairlift operator.  

Slate and I told some stories for Mike the bearded man's benefit.

 Then Mike provided his share, including anecdotes about the farm he had owned near Dillon, Mont., and some land he also owned along a great trout stream near Twin Bridges, Mont. 

Twas a fun interlude with these Lavina Street guys, cuz I hadn't seen Slate in years and Mike was a great cigar-smoking storyteller. 

We said our good byes, and I headed home, exhilarated from the fresh air and the visit AND filled with even more hope that we'd see Sandpoint win a State Championship on that laptop screen. 

And, we did. 

Happy Tuesday.  Stay warm.