Friday the 13th in the Blogosphere

I’m writing this post in Microsoft Word in hopes of publishing it sometime today.  For the first time that I can remember, Blogger seems to have a MAJOR problem.  It’s happened twice in the past 24 hours.

Yesterday I noticed the post I’d published in the morning was gone.  Upon going into the Blogger inner sanctum, I learned they were working on a problem.

Later in the day, the post returned.

This morning it’s not there, at least for now.  This time the Blogger gods left a more complete note.  They had taken down all posts published after 7:37 a.m. Wednesday.  When the problem was fixed, they’d be back up again.

A later note said that they’re restoring the posts and that things should be back to normal soon.  This must be huge on their end.  In the past, there have been times when they’ve announced shutdowns for doing any inner sanctum work, but they’ve never taken down posts that I can recall.

Anyway, it’s Friday, the 13th.  I hope the Blogger gods’ bad luck does not return.  And, let’s hope that good luck prevails on this superstitious day.  I have seen no black cats, and I’ve not walked under a ladder yet today.  So, I’m hoping to be careful in my wanderings.

Willie’s wandering this weekend.  He dropped the dogs off early this morning cuz he’ll head for Seattle this afternoon where he and Annie will take in the BIG soccer weekend.

The Portland Timbers are coming to town for a match against the Sounders tomorrow night.  This is the first time the two have met as Major League Soccer teams.  They’ve met before, and from what I read in the paper, there’s revenge scheduled in tomorrow night’s match.

Compared to a normal match, this ought to be exciting for the fans who already get pretty juiced up for any home match, i.e., “Let him die! Let him die!” when an opposing team player gets hurt.  And, that’s one of the nice chants.

Apparently, a Sounders player inflicted a bad hit on a Timbers’ player back in 2004, so the Timbers are probably not only gunning but axeing for some rough action tomorrow night. 

We’ll probably watch the match at 8 p.m. tomorrow on ESPN2, and it won’t surprise me if we see Willie and Annie in the heat of the fan action. Our couches will probably be safe zones for watching the match---in comparison.

Big weekend again.  Any weekend in May when things get pretty is a big weekend in Sandpoint.  I met the owner of the Sand Stallion last weekend.  Gail Trotta, a former Minnesotan who’s here in Sandpoint to stay, is opening her new Western store down on Cedar next to the Cedar Street Bridge.

She graciously invited me into the store to show me some of the features she has planned. The offerings will include both Western and English attire and tack and local art.   She even took some of my first two books to put on the shelves.  It was reassuring to hear her stress the importance of catering to locals and tourists, alike.

The project has turned into a family affair for her, and she’s excited about promoting all things local.  I enjoyed my visit with Gail and have no doubt she’ll offer a nice experience for folks who love a good Western store.

So, good luck to Gail Trotta and the Sand Stallion.  She opens her doors tomorrow.

Speaking of equine thoughts, my horses will get their first taste of legal grass today.  And, there’s been no Legislative action on that.  Theirs is the good ol’ fashioned kind, now growing profusely.  The pastures seem to be dried up enough for their heavy bodies and hungry mouths.

I fed them a big breakfast so they won’t gorge themselves when I turn them out, which will be for short periods of time---to avoid gut problems.

Slowly but surely, we’re getting into some spring---asparagus spears are jutting skyward, some trees have blossoms and the dandelions are in heaven.  I know the latter makes Pat Gooby, the DandeeLion King, happy. 

And, I can even smile, though I hate the fact that the Weed and Feed only fed my dandelions.  They’re a sure sign that spring has sprung, and that’s okay with me.

Happy Friday.  Stay away from those cats and ladders!

FINALLY, at 10:08, I was able to post; now we'll see if it shows up.  I think those Blogger gods have had some bad luck today.

And my post from yesterday is gone, gone, gone from everywhere.

Maybe it's hiding in Pakistan.

Update:  At 2:30 p.m. when I checked, yesterday's post had returned.  Hopefully the technical problems with Blogger.com are under control.

Wagon Wheels and Whimsy

I told my daugher-in-law last night that my yard decorations are originals.

Nobody else would put together such an odd combination.

I think that pretty much reflects my personality.

Nobody else would put together such an odd mix---it's my parents fault, in spite of efforts to do the opposite.

Anyway, this is a whimsical setting which will greet folks as they drive into the Lovestead.

That horse coming around the tree has a geranium on its back.  My sister-in-law Margaret understands my personality, so she sent it to me for Christmas.  Nice to have a horse that packs flowers and doesn't eat. 

And, there's a story behind that wagon wheel which sits there in disconnected segments.

When we moved to the Lovestead, I told Bill we needed to bring along at least one of the two wagon wheels, gathered for us by my some of my drill team girls from a neighbor's woods about 35 years ago. 

Of course, there's a story.  And, it's the stories that add value to the crazy yard decorations.

". . . . These gatherings created vivid memories for kids and for me, and they usually went off without a hitch.  A few times, however, the enterprising minds of a few teenagers looking for action led me to second guess the wisdom of extending my hospitality toward  my students. 

Take the drill team picnic of 1976, for example. After a sumptuous feast of weiners, hamburgers, Nalley’s chips and deli potato salad, we decided to take the girls on a hike up Greenhorn Mountain behind our house.  

Once the group had arrived at an appropriate promontory for viewing of the valley and lake below, Bill would top off the night by playing nostalgic favorites like “Oh Susanna” or “Shenandoah” on his harmonica.  

That first year that we’d added the hike-harmonica segment to the evening schedule, the girls received my commentary on the points of interest in the forest as where we made our way to the mountain. 

I pointed to the spot, for example, where I learned for sure I could never willingly kill anything.

One time, I’d pointed my pistol at what I thought was a grouse and couldn’t pull the trigger.  It turned out to be a stump.

Then, there were the two weathered-but-intact wagon wheels partially hidden in a depression surrounded by needles, ferns, bushes and trees.

“These belong to my first grade teacher, Mrs. Kinney,” I explained. “She’s lived here in the neighborhood forever.  Must be they were left here when some pioneers came to Idaho.  I wish I had these in my yard.”

Lesson:  Don’t ever suggest your secret desires to students.  The ol’ phrase “you may just get what you ask for” happens more often than not---especially if teens feel a sense of loyalty.

A year later, the Ponderettes again gathered in late May at our tiny one bedroom rental house situated below Greenhorn Mountain.  This year, for some reason, the mountain hike seemed to be just a popular precursor for expectation of the evening’s events.  

Some Ponderettes just couldn’t wait to get going.  Stuffing down their hotdogs, Jackie, Sue and Mari seemed uncharacteristically anxious as they prompted the others to hurry up eating their dinner.  

Soon, two dozen well-fed troopers set off across knee-deep grass squealing as they stepped into the puddles left from the previous day’s rain.  

As we reached the base of the mountain, the group began to splinter off into smaller groups,  so when we arrived at Bill’s concert site to await his annual harmonica performance, the fact that we had a few stragglers seemed like no big deal.  With most of the girls seated on huge rock boulders or soft green moss, the show began.  

Several songs later and after enthusiastic applause for the outdoor musical treat, the May mosquitoes arrived for their blood-sucking smorgasboard, so we wasted no time heading back to the house. 

“See ya there,” I announced.  “Be careful going downhill and don’t trip.  Stay away from the bears! We’ve seen moose in these woods too!”   

That reminder usually got the slackers to speed up a bit.  It was nearly dark by the time I arrived at the house in time to find the Ponderette revelers picking up their leftovers and heading for their cars.  

Exchanging pleasantries with the teens while enjoying the thought of another succesful picnic, my mouth was too busy and my math skills were too tucked away to notice that not all the girls who headed up the mountain had returned to the house.

Suddenly, as I waved good bye to the last group to leave the house, I noticed an extra car still parked in the driveway.  It was 9:30 p.m., almost dark.

“Where ARE they, and which ones are they?” I began to wonder out loud. “Bill, they haven’t all come back!”   Looking again at the car, I could see that it belonged to Sue, the drill team captain.

“Now, who was she hanging out with?” I asked as Bill and I stood outside our home, nervously wondering if someone had fallen over a cliff-----and very quietly at that.  We hadn’t heard any screams or shrieks-----but then again, we had all been talking so much and so loud, how could we?  

Certainly someone would have noticed.  I began deducing who would have been with Sue.  Before any likely prospects had popped into my head, we heard an sound far off across the fields toward the mountain.  

We listened. 

A somewhat high-pitched “hee, hee” and playful little screams followed by obvious but muffled giggles broke the still night air.   Wherever they were in the darkness, it had to be some ways from the house, and whatever they were up to sounded pretty suspicious.

“What are they doing out there?” I asked.

 
“Dunno,” Bill said, shrugging his shoulders and turning toward the house, convinced by the gleeful sounds that his Boy Scout first aid wouldn’t be needed tonight.

“Guess I’ll go see what’s going on,” I said as he rounded the corner.
By now, it was pitch dark.  Avoiding the puddles lurking in the tall grass would be impossible,  so I accepted the notion that wet feet would be a part of this reconnaissance mission.  

As a country girl who had practiced faithfully over the years all the cunning strategies that I’d watched and learned from the ‘50s TV Westerns, I also welcomed the notion that it would be fun to sneak up on these stragglers and catch ‘em in the act.  

So, I crouched down and took careful, silent steps toward the sounds.  There really was no need for my slinking because whatever their deed, it was obviously keeping them totally focused on the territory immediately around them.

 
“Oops! Gotta hold it  tighter,” an indistinguishable voice commanded.  “Now, you grab this side, and I’ll hold on here.”

“What the heck are they doing?” I again asked myself while slowly lifting one leg and carefully, quietly advancing it one step closer to the action far across the field. 

Suddenly I heard a uniform outburst of giggles; something had obviously distracted their focus.  Curiosity was distracting my concentrated effort to remain undetected, but again, they remained oblivious to all outside stimuli. 

“Okay, let’s get moving,” I heard the captain command her unknown lieutenants.   

I too followed her instructions and took a few more giant, hopefully indiscernible steps, one foot landing smack dab in the middle of a cold, wet rain puddle. I prayed that the splash would not carry across the evening air.

  My prayers were answered.  

They still had no idea of my presence as their grunts and groans became one giant cacophonous, shrieking outburst.  

The noise certainly announced to any critters of the night that their hallowed ground had been invaded by unknown two-legged monsters.  It also firmly implied that I wasn’t going to like my impending discovery.

 
Deciding my attempts to scare the bejeebies out of them would go in vain, I sped up and  yelled to them across the pasture.

“Hey, what’s going on out here?”

“UH-OH! She caught us!” one shrieked.  “We’re in trouble now!”  Squeals and giggles echoed in the darkness.

My feet couldn’t move fast enough for me to finally see for myself who was involved and why they hadn’t returned to the house with the rest of the group.

  Suddenly, I was flopping flat on my face in the wet grass.  This mishap not only delayed discovery but once again revived the ever-present  reminder of just why I had never tried out for drill team when I was these girls’ age and why I had questioned my principal Dick Sodorff’s intelligence when he asked me to advise the group that first year of teaching.  

Pushing my wet clumsy body upward, I took off again, intent on seeing the nefarious activity.  

One more obstacle, however, reminded me that it was dark----the barbwire fence, which I collided into with full force.  

I fell once more,  this time partially pinned to the fence where the barbs had grabbed various parts of my apparel, refusing to let loose. 

Farm folks will tell you there’s is no graceful or easy way to remove oneself from a barbwire fence without ripping one’s clothes or even body parts. Having a little extra bulk in the latter can complicate the situation further-----and I had plenty of extra posterior to attract any barb looking for a place to dig into.  
Since there’s a definite dance that goes along with the effort to escape such a situation, getting stuck in the fence is the closest this clumsy body has ever come to performing the barbwire ballet.     

Fortunately, unlike some of my human friends, cows and horses have always had enough decency to refrain from commenting about my lack of grace and refinement as they’ve watched me perform the necessary escape steps.  

With the barb-laden wire one’s unsolicited partner, the effort definitely calls for a slow dance.    Fast dancing with barbwire nine times out of ten results in disaster.  

To successfully loosen in loosening oneself from the grasp of this fiendish partner, one must keep feet in delicately balance and wiggle the torso ever so slowly.  Maybe the barb will let go.  

If not, a few intricate arm motions are needed; one hand clutches the wire and the other contorts attempting to reach the point of contact between the body and the barb.  

After carefully raising the wire and wiggling the torso a few more times, usually you can free yourself.  

But you have to be careful because those barbs know a good meaty body when they see one, and just as one has succumbed to your escape tactics, another might just grab the seat of your pants.  

Using my long-practiced strategies gained from many similar predicaments, I eventually freed myself from the fence and sloshed onward through at least eight inches of water and grass.  

Even at up-close range, I could barely make out the two figures in the darkness, but by now I recognized the unknown voice.  It belonged to Jacque, a junior member of the marching squad.  

Somehow her involvement in this great wagon wheel caper came as no surprise.  

I admired Jacque’s spunk and identified with her tendency (outside of drill team, of course) to walk to the beat of  her own drummer---figuratively, that is.   Therefore, it was difficult for me ever to get mad at her. 

Sue’s involvement in this crime did surprise me.  Up to this time, I’d seen nothing but her maturity and no-nonsense leadership skills.  Sue’s senioritis must’ve finally gotten the best of her on this spring evening.

Now that I knew WHO the culprits were, I didn’t have to spend any time trying to figure out WHAT they were doing.  They were crouched in the grass huddled over something they could not hide.

“OH-MY-GOD!”  I intoned with articulation adequate for any creature within a mile radius to clearly understand.  

Sue and Jacque appeared ready to join me in prayer as they gripped different sections of one of Mrs. Kinney’s rustic wagon wheels and knelt before me.  

I towered over them, totally stunned, not only with the nature of their crime but with the perseverance they had demonstrated in carrying it out.  

While on our hike to Bill’s mountain concert, they had left the group shortly after we crawled through the fence on Mrs. Kinney’s property.  Somehow they had remembered for an entire year the precise spot in the bushes in those strange woods where I’d pointed to the wheels. 

GPS devices weren’t available to the general public at that time, so these two must have had X-ray vision or photographic memories.  

Even more amazing was that the petite young ladies had manhandled that heavy wagon wheel with its iron axle and rim across, over,  or under two barbwire fences and through a rutted pasture with knee deep grass and, often, knee deep water.

“We remembered how much you liked them,” Sue announced. “We wanted you to have them.  We’ve been planning this ever since last year.”

Rather than chastising them, I couldn’t help but marvel at their prowess and fortitude but most of all at their desire to do something nice for their drill team adviser.  

How could I get mad?  Besides, Mrs. Kinney obviously hadn’t used those wagon wheels for quite some time.  

Since she was living in a retirement home somewhere away from Sandpoint and hadn’t been on her property for at least ten years, I doubted she had even thought of them for several decades.  Better that someone who appreciated them should take over stewardship of the old relics, I rationalized.

 
“She’ll never know,” I thought to myself.  “As long as they’ve moved it this far, might as well take it all the way.  It’s too far away from the woods to return it this time of the night.”  A favorite discipline line in teaching circles suggests that “life is full of choices.”  Well, after all these rationalizations, I made a choice.  

The wagon wheel would move on to the Love house.   I’d served as an partner to this crime in progress.

We set on across the field.  As we pushed and urged the wheel forward, it kept insisting on falling to one side or the other, pulling all of us with it.  

At one point, it landed on Sue’s arm.  Her watch broke.  At another point, on wheel thief passed loud gas in the night air.  Someone may have wet her pants.  

At several points, we just let the wheel tumble along its way, collapsed on our backs, looked at the stars and giggled our hearts out.  Eventually, we maneuvered the pilfered artifact through one last barbwire fence, onto the lawn, and up the ramp to a well-lit garage.  

I summoned Bill.

“Would you believe these girls?” I commented as he inspected the wheel.  “This is what they were up to.  Looks like we have a new addition to our yard art.  But ya know we need the pair.”  The girls-----wet, bedraggled, scratched and bruised----stood proud, admired the wheel and smiled at their achievement. 

“We’ll get the other one for you next year,” Jacque promised.  She kept her promise.  

The following year Sue went off to Idaho State University to learn to be a teacher, so Jacque recruited two other Ponderettes---her sister Jeri and her friend Mari Beth---to step up to the plate, eat their hotdogs, and later detour from the party to retrieve that second wheel.  

I now had a set, and Mrs. Kinney never seemed to mind. 

I stood prepared to return them if anyone ever complained, but I felt comfortable with the notion that one person’s junk is another’s treasure.

  Indeed, the set has had a place of honor, both at our first little home and now just outside my kitchen window of the home where we lived for nearly 30 years.  

Every year I paint the rims and hubs bright red, the same color as Mrs. Kinney’s fingernail polish and adorn the area around the wheels with flowers.

  In my mind, they serve as a reminder of my first-grade teacher and one of the many hysterical experiences of my own teaching career.  

If Mrs. Kinney were still alive,  I think she would highly approve of the direction her set of abandoned wheels have rolled

Note:  This story (written a few years ago) is a segment from  "Stay Outa My House" from my book Lessons with Love, available at http://www.keokeebooks.com/ or http://www.amazon.com/

". . . the places you will go."

~~Sisters on the Fly, trail riding at Wyoming's Willow Creek Ranch~~

--Photo courtesy of SOTF

Dr. Seuss's famous words often reverberate inside my head when I think of where journalism has taken me over my lifetime.  

In some cases, I haven't exactly "gone there," but I've still lived the adventure vicariously.

Such is the case with a story assignment, which just this past week appeared in a worldwide horse magazine Appaloosa Journal. 

I've yet to hit the open road on even one of the multitude of adventures taken by Sisters on the Fly, but "the assignment" provided a few teasers.  

One of these days, I'd like to follow suit, find an old beat-up vintage travel trailer, fix it up and join the sisterhood for a few of their adventures.  

For now, I'll settle for enjoying their wonderful tales of the road,  which have allowed me to get acquainted with several of them---not yet face-to-face.

But Grace Brown of Spokane is seeing to it that I get the opportunity to check out the scene where a few real-life sisters will be doing a little "glamping" near Spokane.  I'll be sure to report back.

Until then, I'm going to send readers to an Appaloosa Journal link in hopes that they'll derive just a bit of the excitement I felt while gleaning information and piecing this fun story together.

So here goes---nothing more from Slight Detour but a fun adventure with this month's Appaloosa Journal.  Enjoy!

http://www.appaloosajournal.com/2011/05/sisters-on-the-fly/

Tuesdaytwitterdeehallelujah

~~~This couple has been visiting our bird feeder the past few days. ~~~

The aluminum boat just left the Lovestead in the back of Bill's big pickup.  Later today it will go to Mirror Lake, along with Bill and a fly rod.

So, if that news reflects what the splendor of this spring morning has inspired, it says it pretty well.

Doggies came early this morning.  Their Mom Love is in Omak for Girl Scouts.  She noted in a Facebook post yesterday that the sky roof was open in her rental car and that it was a good day for being on the road.  

The day had turned from nice to glorious when Vicki and Regan showed up with their pickup to pick up some barnyard gold.  Along with that came plenty of good visiting.  

It's been a long time since I've seen or talked with Regan Dolsby, so we packed in a lot of gabbing.  She's the latest inductee into the Lodgepole Society.  

We actually could walk across the hay field toward the God Tree and hit the high spots to avoid the remaining standing water.  

Things are picking up around here as Mother Nature allows us some banner days for doing what we love most in this country---spending hours outside, working, playing, admiring the beauty. 

Just got a call from a friend who's itching to ride his horse today or tomorrow, so I suggested the Ginter Fish and Game property up Rapid Lightning Creek Road.  

I'd like to saddle up and go somewhere, but Miss Lily needs shoes.  Her hooves are pretty sensitive to virtually any rocks, so until John Fuller comes to fix her up, rides will have to be limited to the Lovestead.

Today will be an extension of the fun I enjoyed yesterday, transplanting flowers, hauling more dirt and maybe even cutting up some taters to stick in the front-yard planters.  

There's no other message for today than Hallelujah---except Happy Birthday to a bunch of my very special friends.

Laura Delamarter Gray---we've been enjoying each other's birthdays for 63 years now.  She attended my first birthday party, and she's 64 today.  I love it when people are older than I.  

Andrea Venishnick Carlson---she and Laura are both classmates.  And, we've been friends since junior high.  Every month when I turn one of my calendars with its beautiful photography, I think of Andrea.  She produced the calendar.

Pam Eimers---With Pam, I always think nose-taping up times and wine and really OLD Christmas cookies, among other happy thoughts.  We taught together at Sandpoint High School, and we've enjoyed many wonderful moments since.

Brendan Short---he's my cousin and the famous Chicago author.  It was about this time a couple of years ago that we last saw each other at the family reunion in Chicago. 

Buddy Chambers---he's the youngest.  I think he turned 17 today.  I've known him since he was born.  Next year Buddy will serve as co-editor of the Monticola yearbook. 

Anyway, their birthdays are today, and they're all very special to me.  So, I'll end with Happy Birthday to all, Hallelujah and Happy May 10.  May the force of this beautiful sunshine be with you. 

Monday Miscellany

~~~Mother on Mother's Day, 2011~~~

I believe my mother had a good Mother's Day weekend, with visits from kids, lunch with kids, church with kids and a Sunday drive with kids.

The photo above was taken at my sisters' house where they had prepared a great lunch of croissant sandwiches, chips and cookies. They were taking her for a drive afterward.

In the photo, she's wearing her new "bling" blouse from Eve's Leaves.  

As one who seldom goes "downtown" shopping, I must report a great experience with owner Marilyn Dalby Sabella and her helper Mary Vale.

This weekend, Marilyn was celebrating 30 years in business.

My experience in the store made me wish life weren't quite so busy; I'd do that style of shopping more often rather than constantly being on the run.

The Mother's Day weekend was fun for me too.  Flowers and a call from Annie, a new garden ornament from Bill and specially prepared dinner from Willie and Debbie.

They brought over spaghetti and garlic bread, which Debbie says Willie has down to a science.     It was a delicious spread and much more meaningful than dinner out.  

The big weekend has ended, and we move on into May with a promise of not one---but TWO---dry days this week.  

Can't complain about yesterday because the rain sidepassed us, and we enjoyed a fairly pleasant day.

I spent a few minutes yesterday morning at the Ponderay Garden Center.  And, I must say "they've come a long way" since their first year of existence.

Going to the Garden Center these days is a magical happening, to say the least. 

The place (the old Kalk farm) just north of Sandpoint along HWY 95 has shades of the old Arcadia Greenhouses, only even more enhanced.  

Classical music playing and different buildings housing different specialties make for a fun visit. 

Under the leadership of Kevin, who says the center is fast becoming a destination place, the whole experience of strolling through the beautiful and varied offerings is nothing short of delightful.

I want to go back and spend more time, even if I don't have a lot more money to spend. 

Yesterday I brought home another solar-powered garden butterfly and three new starts of rhubarb.  In five years, our token rhubard plant yields almost enough for a pie, so it's time to add to the patch. 

Today I'd like to direct any readers who didn't visit Slight Detour over the weekend to yesterday's post about my former colleague and friend, Rick Gehring.  

One more time, I'd like to encourage people to spread the word about the fundraising campaign, created to help bring Rick home closer to his family for his rehabilitation.  Thanks for your help.  

On today's agenda, I'm figuring bean seed will go into the ground, along with more transplanting of onions.

I'm hoping the ground may dry enough for the horses to have a little time out in the pasture.  They're getting less and less patient, standing in the mud and looking at that grass growing.  

And, mouse eradication will continue.  Yesterday, another dozen went for a swim, but there are plenty more where those came from. 

The day that the barn is not hopping with creatures scurrying along the walls, in the stalls, in the grain buckets will be a day for celebration.

One little critter was so bold the other day that it sat on the edge of Lefty's grain bucket with a big mouthful of corn just staring back at me.   No sign of guilt whatsoever!

Well, time is a wastin', so I'm headed outdoors. 

Have a wonderful Monday.

Let's Give Rick a Lift

This morning's post is aimed directly at readers who know my former colleagues and longtime friends,  Rick and Ann Gehring.

Please read the story below. Do whatever you can do to help spread the word about this fund drive [send emails/direct folks to the website listed in the story, etc.]and help show support for the Gehrings.  

Your efforts will be much appreciated. Thank you.  And, Happy Mother's Day to all mothers.

Donation Drive for Retired SHS Math Teacher Rick Gehring

Special to the Bee

By Marianne Love

For nearly three decades, math teacher Rick Gehring and his classes dominated the annual holiday food-drive competition at Sandpoint High School. 

Each year before Christmas vacation, individual classrooms of students and their teachers competed with one another, formulating strategies for gathering and loading up tons of food and toys bound for the Bonner County Food Bank and the Lions Toys for Tots.

Even though Rick’s classes usually won the spirited competition, everyone involved viewed the activity as a win-win situation. Students learned the art of giving.  And, families in need throughout the county enjoyed an extra boost during the holiday season.

Besides his ability to inspire his students with humanitarian goals, Rick also distinguished himself both locally and nationally as one fine math teacher.

The common saying among his students was that Mr. Gehring knew how to explain mathematical principles in a way that they could understand.  He also constantly inspired them to reach toward high levels in their learning.

This encouragement and good teaching led toward Sandpoint High School’s domination of district, regional and state math competitions under his tutelage. Also, after graduating from high school, Mr. Gehring’s students moved on to topnotch universities and excelled in math-related fields.

Rick was honored several times for his teaching abilities and dedication---including the Presidential Award for Math and Science teaching.

Throughout his career at Sandpoint High School, Rick helped his students, the community and his colleagues (including coordination of a fundraiser for a fellow staff member recovering from a brain tumor).

Now, this gifted and much-admired retired teacher could use a little help himself.

On Feb. 7, he suffered a massive stroke while he and his wife Ann were in Palm Beach, Fla., set to take off on a cruise through the Panama Canal with their Sandpoint friends, Allan and Debbie Koski.

He was immediately transported from the condo where they were staying to nearby St. Mary’s Trauma Center. He was initially administered a clot-busting drug which, at first, appeared to be working well.  Soon, though, when his condition suddenly deteriorated, doctors realized the need for angioplasty to clear a blockage.

“Unfortunately, it meant the stroke was very serious,” Rick’s wife, Ann Gehring says. “The damage was to his left brain, so his right side and speech were affected.”

Further early treatment included a medically-induced coma, which lasted for three weeks.  In addition, his recovery has been hindered by several infections.  Progress is “excruciatingly slow,” says Ann Gehring, “but it is progress.”

On March 1, Rick was moved to Kindred Hospital – The Palm Beaches, a long-term acute care facility, where he is undergoing rehabilitation.

“He has a tracheotomy. He is on a feeding tube, and he is unable to walk or talk,” according to his wife. On Easter Sunday he could sit up by himself, with help; he could lift his right leg and had some strength in his right arm.

“His speech therapy has been the slowest, ironically [he has always referred to his ‘gift of gab’], but he is not getting it back very quickly,” Ann added. “ . . . just now, starting to make sounds . . . it is very frustrating for him . . . .”

This past week he was again moved to Bethesda Memorial Hospital Cornell Institute in Boynton Beach, Fla., for more intense therapy.

With many months of rehabilitation ahead, Ann, the Gehring children, Kristen, Natalie and John, would like to move Rick closer to home, specifically to North Idaho Advanced Care in Post Falls.

“My goal is to have him home by Memorial Day,” Ann says.

Options for transporting Rick from Florida to North Idaho, all  involve expensive price tags, not covered by insurance or Medicare.  Costs range from $15,000-$30,000.

This move will occur when Rick can be without a sitter for 12 hours.  At this point, because of two falls from his bed, he still needs someone sitting with him 24 hours.

In the meantime, the family looks toward a time when he can return to Idaho.   

 

Doctors estimate he has at least four more months of intense therapy.  

“Mom is racking up bills left and right,” explains Natalie Gehring Auth,  “and she knows the whole thing is going to cost money, but if she can get him home so she doesn't have the cost of her living down there anymore, it would help them.”

In hopes of helping with Rick’s transportation costs, the family has set up accounts where individuals can donate to a “Rick and Ann Gehring Fund” at Panhandle State Bank or at an account under the same name at any Wells Fargo bank in the United States.

A website http://rickgehring.com/ has also been set up where people can donate online via a paypal button [it is not necessary to have a paypal account to donate].  

Get-well cards can be sent to Rick Gehring, 408 West Oden Bay Drive, Sandpoint, ID 83864.

Ann would like to thank the many community members, friends and family who have already reached out through cards, calls, gifts and even a cell phone with a plan.

“My story is incomplete without addressing all the good things that have happened since the initial horrible event,” she says. “We decided we needed to start keeping track of all the good things.  It is nearly impossible to list them all. The moral support I have received  . . . is unfathomable.”   

Soggy Saturday

It was a race this morning.  I awakened, saw the clock:  5:43 a.m.  Maybe it was intended to foreshadow another greater race this afternoon.

I hadn't intended to sleep in, but I'll say that the realization sure gets the juices going faster than usual.  In fact, I found myself at a mental alertness level, rivaling the usual last sip of the first cup of coffee.

This morning has led toward more efficiency in coffee drinking too.  I think my latte (usually moving on into the third cup) has part of that first cup in it.

So, maybe there are some advantages to sleeping in unintentionally. 

Besides, it's wet, wet, wet this morning----but warm.

I told Bill that this rain may be more beneficial than the other 100 days or so.  Several bare patches in the lawn have grass seed.  Yesterday I planted broccoli and chard.  Earlier this week:  peas. 

So, the warmth and the wet should get some of that seed into action.  No complaining today.

Besides, it's Kentucky Derby day, and I've put that on the "must do's" for this weekend. It will be a lot easier sitting inside watching all the features leading to the big race if the sun is not shining brightly on our North Idaho home.

I think I'll invite Mother to our house today to watch the race.  She went to a tea yesterday where Sandpoint's Mary Faux (the local hat lady) brought a bunch of her hats.  Everyone got to wear one, and Mother was thrilled with the event. 

So, I'm thinking of searching out a nice hat for her, maybe even one for myself and giving it to her to wear while we watch the race.  With all this William and Kate stuff and with the Derby, it seems like a hat would be appropriate.

Mother loves the Derby.  As a young girl, she gleaned most of her information of the outside world from reading the papers, and whenever the Kentucky Derby was run, she would cut out clippings about the winners.  Two of her favorites at the time were Twenty Grand and Equipoise.

It should be a fun day ahead, in spite of the rain. The birds singing outside seem to think it will be A-okay, so I'll take a cue from them and get on with whatever is meant to unfold on this soggy Saturday.

Have a great day.

Stollen goodies and Such

It's already been a busy morning.  Bill just headed off for work.  The grandpups are here.  Debbie and I have had our morning meeting and have adjourned.

Each morning when she brings the dogs, we deal with old business, new business and then adjourn.  Occasionally as she walks to her car an addendum or two will end the daily gab sessions. 

I love having a true friend as a daughter-in-law. 

Today she goes to Spokane for her Girl Scout work.  Tonight she camps in a tent with some other scout volunteers, and tomorrow they'll do some leader training.  So, her weekend is pretty well plotted out.

Before Debbie left, I had her slice off a piece of the fresh raspberry cream-cheese stollen (sliced almonds on top) I picked up yesterday at Miller's Country Story (Baldy and Division).  

Last weekend I took care of the Miller's mare Mia while they traveled to Ellensburg to visit their daughters.  So, in return, Nan gave me a choice of several different items which they prepare daily in their fabulous bakery.  

Oh, that stollen;  I'll use my usual play on words to point out that it is SO DELICIOUS.  

"How delicious is it?" readers may ask.

"So delicious, I have to hide it, lest it be STOLEN.  

I've managed to save enough for Mike and Mary to sample if they come by for a visit this morning.  I haven't seen them since the Ireland trip, so it will be fun handing over the souvenirs.  

The rest of the day will be spent taking care of some writing activities and attending to as much yard/garden work as the weather will allow.  So far, so good.

I bought some broccoli and Swiss-chard seed yesterday.  The owner of The Flower Farm shared with me a perfectly safe method of ridding broccoli of those pesky green caterpillers that always seem to rise to the top once the veggie is boiled.

He said Dipell or Thuracide works and that it can be applied even a day before harvest.  So, with that information, I decided to go all out on growing broccoli this year.  

We had that conversation about the pest control when I went over to The Flower Farm to purchase some celery starts.  The sign on the pots says "lots of water and direct sun."  

I decided to give celery a try again this year after failing miserably with it a few years ago.  Since that time, I've learned a lot about the condition of the soil where things are planted.  

So maybe this year's will be a success.  The starts are in the garden as I type, along with lots of lettuce and some blooming pansies.  If all works out okay, the next couple of weeks will see a great transformation from the blahs to vibrant color here at the Lovestead.

In other news, Bill and I enjoyed a nice visit last night at Mick Duffs with my classmates Rick and Janet Anthony.  They're here, along with a few other family members, for the weekend.

We had a great time comparing notes on our recent travels.  For Janet and Rick, the most recent adventure took them to the Panama Canal.  Janet is a birder so they also enjoyed one day of viewing various varieties of birds in that region.  

It's always fun to visit with them and do some catching up on family, travels and old friends.  

Well, I guess that's about it for this Friday.  Have a great TGIF and weekend. 

The green, green grass of home

Last time I took a photo like this was exactly two months ago yesterday on the ground of the Rock of Cashill in Ireland.

To think that was March 4, and yesterday, May 4 was the first time I could wear my Crocs to the hay field.

It was a fulfilling, exhilarating experience on that gorgeous day in May.

The sun and the dry are still hanging in there this morning, so I'll take advantage.

This post will be short---just photos of the much-awaited green, green grass of home here in the Selle Valley.

Oh, and I went for a lovely bike ride last night, making the loop down Selle Road to Hickey Road to East Shingle Mill and back home.

What a treat!

Happy Thursday and Cinco de Mayo to all.

Enjoy the photos below---if Blogger behaves, that is.

Let the beauty begin

I shot this photo last night in between rain showers.

Nothing like early evenings in May for some striking, rich photography.

The sunlight did not last long, as another set of clouds came rolling over the mountains to block the sun as it dipped into the west.

Nonetheless, the contrast of the sun shining on budding life just after an evening storm is incomparable.

Now, this morning we are experiencing ever-thickening fog on what is supposed to be "the day" of this week.

The forecasters have promised a good one, and I'm just patiently realizing that the fog often comes before the sun.

I think of this as the "Thoreau" time of the year.

In May, when I was still teaching,  my juniors kept a three-week journal focused on nature.

They could go sit in the same spot every night and note the changes.  They could sow seeds and watch them grow.

They could engage in virtually any activity that would get them outside to appreciate ever-changing, ever enhanced magic of the natural world.

The students turned in their journals and any special visual project they may have done while involved in the assignment.

Of course, we read Thoreau and segments from Walden, and we discussed the simplicity and beauty of our world.

I felt like yesterday was a Walden sort of day for this ol' retired English teacher.

Seeds from pea packets kept in the freezer overnight went into the ground around the kennel.  

I told Bill about the process of fooling those seeds into thinking they were entering Global Warming as opposed to a polar ice cap.

I did not want him to think that I'd totally lost it by putting my garden packets in the freezer.  He had never noticed.

I hauled a load of barnyard dirt to the area where my sweet peas grew last year.  Some heavy shovel work to remove the weeds and turn the soil was followed by a new dump of rich dirt.

Then, came the sweet pea seeds, saved from last year's crop.  I still had to do some shelling.

The pods cracked open easily, and I dumped a liberal amount into the ground, reveling in the fact that I had not had to pay $1.79 for maybe 19 seeds.

More dirt went to a depression in the lawn where once a fruit tree stood and apparently died before we moved here.  

With every lawn mowing, I almost get stuck in that depression.  So, it and a lot of other bare spots received grass seed, purchased from Co-Op.

While there, I asked about a Miracle Gro product which can be sprayed to get rid of weeds.  I'd seen it advertised on TV.

Three employees came to help, topped off by my old friend Dave Dawson who attended the University of Idaho during my era.

I asked him what I could use to get rid of the weeds from the barnyard gold in the flower pots.

"Well, my mom used to turn on the oven [and put the dirt containers inside at a certain temperature]," he said.  I'd heard that one before somewhere and was pleased to be hearing it again.  

Only problem is that process is just not convenient.

So, Dave suggested taking home a container of Round-up since I don't have posies in the planters just yet.  He added that my horse barnyard gold is likely to produce a whole lot more weeds cuz of horses' digestive systems.

I did some spraying in key spots and am anxious today to see if it did any good. 

I also built a shavings-and-manure bridge over the slop to the prime barnyard gold hill.  And, did some shoveling, sorting out the grass roots. 

With one shovelful came a giant potato from last year's crop.  The spud was in almost perfect condition.

That discovery gives me an idea. 

The manure pile kept the potatoes [several other new red potatoes have come flying from shovelfuls in another manure plot] over the winter better than my in-house methods did.

So, I may just leave some of them in the pile this winter, for some good eats next spring. 

I planted poppies in an area where a rose died off two winters ago and sowed some seeds gathered from some tiny, hot pink flowers from the deck.

Henry David Thoreau might even be proud because I'm learning, through trial and error (many errors) some efficient and economical ways to play in the dirt. 

And, with luck and more work, the beauty will spring forth as will some big smiles of satisfaction. 

Tuesdaytwitterdeebirdies

I never get tired of listening to the birds on spring mornings.  They sing---rain or shine.  I'm thinking I could take a lesson from them.  

Anyway, they're out there happily tweeting and chirping this morning after a night of heavy rain.  

We received a thorough washing last night; not that we needed one, but I must say the lawn looks rich, clean and dark green this morning.  

Yesterday's partially dry day allowed me to carefully run the mower over most of the lawn, cutting the ragged edges and chopping up the riffraff left over from winter.

Just before the rains came, I even tilled my "bend-over garden."  I'm still old school in some of my gardening, even though more planters for less bending over are showing up every year.

I have a large "bend-over" plot for tomatoes and above-the-ground plants that won't get eaten by deer.  Beneath-the-ground plants the past couple of years have been eaten by the rodents, so I'm using the planters for them.  

My lettuce usually occupies a plot close enough to the house that its only nemesis is an occasional digging frenzy by Brooke.  Yes, Brooke not only escapes to the neighbor's house, but she also digs.  And, last year she almost decimated my young lettuce.  

I was able to salvage and replant it fast enough that it survived; plus, Debbie brought me more lettuce seeds.

Back to the bend-over patch.  I'm so proud that over the past few years of virtually everything going wrong with my equipment that could possibly go wrong has reaped some educational rewards.  

Yesterday my rototiller did not want to fire up.  First, its rope would not recoil back into its case after each pull.  Before getting mad, I recalled fixing the rope and the recoiling mechanism a couple of years ago with help from my brother. 

"I can do this," I thought to myself.  So, I gathered a couple of wrenches, removed the casing and found that the rope recoiled quite nicely when it wasn't part of the rest of the machine.

That meant something in the machine wasn't working right, namely the hardware that rotates the rope.  

Out came the miracle drug for virtually anything that doesn't want to work:  WD-40.  A few sprays here, a few sprays there, and by golly, the rope recoiled when I reinstalled its casing back on the rototiller.

Even then, however,  the rototiller refused to fire up. 

Before getting mad, especially in front of Annie Dog, my stalker who watches every move I make during each day, I thought, "I can do this." 

I remembered another occasion a few years back when the thing wouldn't fire up.  Bill brought out a gas mixture and poured it into the carburetor.  So, I followed suit.

It started.  Things were a bit crazy as I tried to get the covering for the carburetor screwed back into its spot.  A vibrating rototiller will make that process difficult, but I eventually succeeded.

Then, I moved the running rototiller over to the garden plot.  Once the tiller blades were engaged, the wheels would not move.  

Back to the shop to grab the WD-40.  Everything got lubricated AND the stick which I found directly under the blades was removed.

From that point on, the tiller worked like a charm.  I was proud AND I never got mad in front of any stalking dogs. 

So, that garden plot is worked up for the first time.  When and if the rain decides to stop again for more than one day, I can work it up again and maybe throw in some seeds. 

I long for the day when rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off to get stuff done while it's dry will cease.  Don't know if that will happen, but it will be nice if it does.

Today I'm putting some pea seeds into the ground near the dog kennel.  Haven't grown peas for years.  So, it will be nice to have a few fresh batches when they mature. 

This year for the first time, my garden will include onions grown from seed.  I've never had them from seed in all my gardening years, and it's kind of exciting to see them pop up from the potting soil with their long, skinny stems.  

Last night I transplanted a few in the planter near the barn.  I think they'll survive being outside; if not, there are plenty more in the greenhouse.

And, this morning, for Delores, I'll report the current data in the ongoing story for 2011 called "Of Mice and Marianne."  

Delores' husband drew me an illustration for a better mousetrap than what I'd been using out in the barn.  Bill was quite pleased when he saw Clint's drawing because it resembled what he had already described to me from his days of Forest Service camping. 

He was so pleased that he even volunteered to put it together.  Well, we've been a little hit-and-miss (literally) on the mouse eradication plan around here, but we've done away with more than a dozen.

It's hit-and-miss cuz they're still getting into the horses' grain buckets.  I've found them in there a few times and have had the presence of mind to tip the buckets over into the trap.  

Some still escape, but others meet their fate.

I think the demise of the first dozen has sent a message to most of the other little creatures who've been popping up or skittering away virtually all over the barn.

There's a lot less of that activity these days, and for that I'm grateful, as are the horses. 

Enough twitterdeedee for this morning.  It's not raining so I must get outside and seize the dry day. 

Happy Tuesday.

What a day in May!

Today is a gorgeous day to wave the flag.

My flag is out at the end of the driveway, fluttering in the sunshine.

I remember doing a little flag waving almost ten years ago, when this country suffered one of its deepest wounds ever. 

I remember sitting at my computer and seeing the headline:  plane hits the World Trade Center.

I remember immediately turning on my TV and seeing a second plane hitting the Twin Towers---live, of all things.

By the time I'd called both of my kids, had gathered my emotions and had driven to school, the news of the Pentagon had hit.

It was horrible; these shocking events would not stop.

I remember spending the day in the library as my classes watched the day's events unfold and the aftermath---all in mostly silent, stunned horror.

I remember the student in first period-class who asked to be excused so he could go call his family.  His brother was in the Navy, and "I'll bet he'll have to go to war," he said.

I remember the Sunday afterward when a group of locals gathered at the south end of the Long Bridge, flags in hand and waving them proudly, sending one of endless messages to all who passed by:  we are proud Americans.

Hundreds of vehicles rolling past on the main bridge seconded the motion by waving or honking their horns. 

My mother was with me that day, all decked out in her red, white and blue.  We drove around the community and were touched by the patriotic displays in virtually every yard.  

I remember President Bush telling the nation that tracking down those who did this could take years, but Americans would do it. 

He meant it, and demonstrated that resolve throughout his Presidency. 

I also remember an eventual resistance to the War on Terror.  It all seemed to get muddled and skewed among other motives.  

A new President came to power, and Osama bin Laden was still on the loose, transmitting messages to the world, laced with hints to provoke more fear. 

Almost ten years have passed.  As President Bush said a decade ago, tracking down these people would take time.  Over that decade, the various entities charged with the mission to find them have seen some successes.

Still, the "head of the snake" remained hidden, ironically not in a cave but in a high-priced compound in the midst of affluence.

 

May 1, 2011, was a day for rejoicing in these parts.  The sun came out; it was a beautiful day just like Sept. 11, 2001.  

People enjoyed the outdoors, running in Bloomsday, tidying up their yards, fishing, soaking up that long-awaited sun.

During the day as I bathed horses, hauled dirt, mowed lawn, etc., I kept thinking about the segment advertised on "60 Minutes" about CBS news correspondent Lara Logan, who had endured a brutal attack while reporting on the jubilation in Egypt when their dictator stepped down.

Later, I learned there would also be a segment on the Kentucky Derby.

I was primed for watching some compelling features on my favorite news magazine.

Tears rolled down my face as I watched Lara Logan recount her story.  It was beyond awful.  

The raw facts reported by the victim were sickening, but Lara Logan is a journalist, and she felt the story needed to be told. 

When the segment about the phenomenal Thoroughbred mare came, I switched from sadness to exhilaration.  After all, the big race is coming this Saturday, and I love anything dealing with horses.

Suddenly, unusual "breaking news" gizmos disrupted all concentration.  As the banners continued, I commented to Bill that maybe this was a technology glitch because there was really no substance reported in the "breaking news."  

It's all history now.  There was definite substance.  Conflicting emotions rule one's mind about such news.  It's not nice to be happy that someone died, but when thousands have died because of this individual, I would say it's okay to be greatly satisfied.

When we think of the people that died on Sept. 11, 2001, and all who have died or who sacrificed greatly in the years since in pursuit of this enemy to our nation, we should take time to rejoice.

We should also take note in the resolve that we have witnessed so many times in the history of this great country.  

It is alive and well.

We are Americans---all races, religions, political affiliations, etc., and days like May 1, 2011, provide us reminders of just what makes us so proud to be Americans. 

What a day!  What a country! 

Quick Visit

Annie came over from Seattle to visit, to put on a geocaching presentation and to run Bloomsday.

She and her friends left about an hour ago heading into Spokane for the big run.

Seemed like the time flew by during their visit, but they packed plenty into every moment.

Above, Annie is showing one of the SHS students how to use her GPS to find a cache at the high school.

Overall, the seminar and practice finding caches afterward was a hit.

In fact, some kids borrowed GPS units to head out looking for caches elsewhere.

The whole family attended Annie's talk, which was coordinated by an outdoor skills club at the high school.

Teachers Willie, Malia and Alex supervised the event, and Groundspeak, Inc. from Seattle supplied GPS units for the kids to use during the program.

In addition, when the groups had found several caches while doing some "cache in-trash out" activities, Groundspeak gave away several nice prizes.

Once more, Bill and I thoroughly enjoyed the Seattle invasion. It went by all too fast.

We're both looking forward to the sun coming out sometime today and enjoying time outside doing exactly what each of us wants to do.

In Bill's case, it will probably be fishing; in mine, that long-awaited, full-fledged yard and garden work.

A horseback ride might even top off the day.

Happy May Day.

Enjoy the photos below.