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222 Southway Ave. | Lewiston Suite A
hello
Let me tell you about this little tree that finally made her debut.
About seven years ago, Tony and I planted this maple tree. It promised to turn into this wild orange color in the fall, and we were excited and hopeful to see it compliment our midcentury home that often has an orange door (I change the door color all the time, haha). Year one- nothing. She didn’t make any leaves. The next year was rough- she only made a few and they stayed green. This went on, year after year. Finally, in 2020 she was big enough to really change- or so we thought. Every day we’d look out the window to see the orange leaves shimmering in the early fall but no- a cold snap. Then a hot snap. All of her leaves would shrivel right on the branch, turning a brown color and staying put, never dropping. It just seemed like right when she was at her best and prettiest, all ready for fall, BAM! The weather would turn again and not a single orange leaf. Until last year. I think we got in the habit the last year or so of not even looking- forgetting to have hope. One day I set out to take a little walk and accidentally glanced up at it and screamed. I called Tony immediately. “SHE TURNED ORANGE!” I announced. It was a very beautiful fall and well worth the wait.
It got me thinking a lot about life, setbacks and feeling like things just aren’t working out. We’ve all gone through those timeswhen our dreams and goals feel like they don’t matter, or are too far away to be reached. Sometimes it feels like you try your best but don’t see the change you wish to in the world. This defeated behavior costs more than just a little self-pity time, it is a destroyer of peace.
After going through a particularly rough couple years (and who hasn’t, really, these last few years,) I’ve decided- you know what? So what. Like our beautiful orange maple, you must always, always, always try again. So what if you tried your best and something didn’t quite work out the way you thought it would? If you think back on your life, you can always see where the detour or change made things for the better. I remember my first true time singing on stage. I made the top 12 of Spokane’s Got Talent. I was so scared. Then, something horrible happened that’s never happened to me before or since. I got something called post nasal drip. I couldn’t sing at all. I had this horrible dry spot in my throat that made any powerful notes impossible or untrustworthy. The night of the show, I was the last to go on. I was in the basement of the Bing Crosby theatre, alone, waiting for them to call me up. I tried to practice my first big note in Aretha Franklin’s song Aint No Way, when she sings “…to HELP and love her man…” and every time I tried, I couldn’t do it. My voice would scratch. I just said I’d get through it and do my best. It was a huge, sold out show. I remember going on stage and starting the song. I decided to go for that note, come hell or high water. The first part of the song went ok. But then- right as I went for my mega note, I could tell it wasn’t going to sound good at all. I imagined my entire singing career down the tubes as I barely had any confidence anyway. This was the first time I was recorded on video. It was brutal… except… a miracle happened. Right when I went to sing that note- my microphone cord fell out. I stopped and put it back in without hesitation- the audience cheered. No one had any idea that my prayers were answered and I was able to get through the rest of the song and I tied for third place! I was proud of that considering voting was based on your family and friends using their cell phones and this was years ago. I only bought a few people and no one had a cell phone to vote for me. To this day- that “note” not working out turned into one of the best things that had ever happened to me.
The point of this is that when things aren’t going the way you wish they would- regroup and try again. Think of that orange maple. Of a crazy soul note. Sometimes things take time, but they will always happen in time. You are worthy of living the life you dream of, and it’s imperative to understand and have grace for the wait. No matter what it looks like, how it feels, or uncertain things may be, just try again. Things are never not working out- you are learning and becoming every day. Some seasons you may be the maple who won’t turn orange. And then some seasons you become a vibrant, stunning example of what it means to not give up. Yes, I’m talking to you. I believe in you. So try again. When a detour comes, or a bad note, remember that the things that happen are just as important as the things that don’t happen. Tony wrote that leaves carry their fall colors all year- you just don’t see them until it’s time. Remember that. You’ve got the color within. So try again. I can’t wait to see you bloom.
Love,
Heather Niccoli Editor-In-Chief Home&Harvest Magazine
Contentment
BY Jacqueline Cruver
In a chapter from a previous lifetime, known as my honeymoon, my person and I filled his pick-up truck with skis, climbing gear, hiking boots and sufficient camping gear for what could have sustained two people a nomadic lifestyle for a full year. Our plan was for one whole month on the road. Our flexible itinerary outlined brief stays along a loop down through central Oregon, south through several National Parks to Joshua Tree then east to Prescott, Arizona. We started out on April Fools Day, catching the end of some decent skiing in the mountain passes, the early cacti blooms in the desert, and absolutely perfect hiking temperatures below the snowline.
When we left the snow I was anxious to put my hiking boots on and find a forest trail. The first opportunity was easily located and after a light lunch we grabbed our day packs and tramped out of the parking lot. My excitement caused me to forget my water bottle so just as the parking lot was out of sight, I had to halt and return for it. Ah yes, the early days of true love. “Really? I don’t want to go back just for that. Just leave it.” exclaimed my fine prince charming.
“I will run. It will just take me a second.” I replied in my most amenable tone of voice. Keep in mind, at this tender early stage of marriage I was beseeching him to wait however the words: Please wait for me, were never uttered. He, a man who had been single until his late thirties, had no experience yet in mind reading or compromising behavior and continued up the trail. In mere moments I returned to the path and continued at a pace much more rushed than I would have liked. When my breathing signaled the level of my elevated heart rate I stopped, letting the sound of my pounding pulse subside from my ears. Scanning the empty path ahead for the smiling face of my beloved, I saw only the trail, tree trunks and shrubs. The only motion was a few birds high in the forest canopy suggesting the trail had been vacant for quite some time now. With no interest in what species of birds were mocking my state of chagrin I continued, but at a slower pace trying to regain that happy feeling I had left at the trailhead the first time. That excited anticipation of the sounds and smells and sights of a new forest had gotten lost in the rush of my boots dodging stones and branches to run a trail I wanted to slowly wander upon. So I did, for approximately ten feet then stopped abruptly, staring ahead of my boots at the most evenly traveled forked trail I had ever seen.
“Into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” John Muir
Glancing at my watch I noted I had been solo for half an hour. The absence of sound that I love in the forest would be the next casualty of this outing. “Patrick!” I hollered, shattering the silence. Yelling a name in the forest makes a unique sound as it absorbs into duff and vegetation. Birds apparently have been given that shrill frequency for a reason. The human voice is not so well adapted for distance in the outdoors. I remained at the fork for about a dozen unanswered bellows of his name, complete with megaphone hands at my mouth while carefully combing the area for any sign of a direction left by his long legged strides. I spun off to the right. After another thirty minutes, the number of boot tracks seemed to diminish from what I noted on the main trail so I returned to the fork. More calling, more straining my ears and eyes to no avail then I madly struck out to the left. After nearly half an hour in this direction I again turned back and could only imagine we had performed a comical skit of somehow missing one another at the fork in our searching and it was going to be hilarious when I returned to the parking lot, which I did in good form as a new bride with a sense of humor and humility. My pace was determined, as I was thinking of how worried he might be and assumed he had indeed reached the parking lot by now. My return to the truck was not a funny moment. The worry crashed around me like the dusk that was fast approaching. He was not there.
I perched on a large boulder just inside the trailhead and counted to ten a billion times. The gentleness of the forest slowly seeped in and I closed my eyes to absorb it and settle myself. Sensing something I opened my eyes that were already cast skyward and found I was looking at a big owl high in the tree near my boulder and he, at me. Motionless, I hoped he would stay and keep me company. A dialog began in my head as I wondered if he could see where the heck my trailmate was now from up there. His head swiveled in classic opinionated owl and I am certain his reply was; why? Well, we all know owls are very wise so this seemed to be a very good-question. I continued to stare at the large feathered body perched above me long enough to sense his ability to be simply satisfied with his reality, existing in the moment. I wished my intuitive skills matched his so my first reaction was not always alarm. Tensions I had created in my frenzy had departed and I took my cue from Mr. Owl to be still and enjoy the solitude. Just be. As I took in a slow breath the owl chose to depart as if his work was done. I then fully exhaled and found the day’s first moment of total calm.
“The mind is like water. When it is turbulent, it’s difficult to see. When it’s calm everything becomes clear.” Prasad Mahes
My person soon emerged from the lengthening shadows. No longer annoyed, I had been able to recognize the opportunity to separate after spending weeks together in the cab of a pickup truck had given us some well needed time on our own. I knew he had not orchestrated it that way in crossness. He had assumed I was taking in the tranquility of the setting on my own terms. He had of course overestimated my desire to execute such a high profile of independence but the presumption I was capable of that seemed somehow complimentary. That would actually be a version of myself I would like to aspire to. In line with the true optimist that-
-he was, my well-being had not crossed his mind nor that I had been concerned about his. When I offered my report of calling after him at the fork not knowing which way he had gone, “Oh” was his monotone answer. “I wondered what happened to you. . . .” and he merely placed his pack in the back of the truck and slid into the driver’s seat. He had just enjoyed a pleasant hike in the peace of the natural world, while I had squandered my time prancing around in circles.
In our years together, I would find that my person’s ability to calmly and methodically continue in the direction he set out was a character trait I had been attracted to and I grew to love and admire. He rarely wasted time attempting to second guess other people's actions or alter his goals according to hypothetical obstacles that may or may not lie ahead in his path. He always moved forward with purpose and commitment and good-naturedly accepted the pros and cons of each choice he made. His perseverance and stamina continues in his late seventies, although some do call it stubbornness.
As I demonstrated on the hiking trail, panic is not a useful emotion. I saw the unexpected situation as a setback when I could have seen it as an opportunity. I had not lost my way but I sacrificed my intended goal of a wonderful outing on a lovely forest path because I was unable to step away from the expectation of how I thought it was going to go. I think that often, reaching our goals requires us to be flexible and open to changing our perspectives. Is it a setback or an opportunity? Without predetermined expectations I can choose to expect the unexpected and embrace the positive side of any situation. It is empowering to shift from thinking that “things are happening to me” to “things are happening for me” and seeing everything as a miracle.
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
Albert Einstein
“I think I could stop here and do miracles.” are the words in the introduction from a book of my grandfather’s that I treasure titled Adventures in Contentment, written in 1906 by David Grayson. Without reading a word of it I carried it around since early childhood as though it was a vessel holding contentment itself. I wasn’t sure when I would be old enough to read it. I thought contentment was a very mysterious component of being an adult. I wasn’t sure if you had to find it or if it was something that happened to you. Maybe it was what made grown-ups so smart. Maybe it was something they found when they sat quiet for so long. I figured out that whatever it was, it must be a good thing because they seemed to want it, and smiled when they said they had some. It also appeared to be an elusive condition and was sorely missed as soon as it was lost. At long last, I picked up the book just this winter to finally give it a read, still feeling unsure what the word truly meant. I could think of times I’d felt happy, satisfied and pleased, but it suggested more grandeur than those. I hoped the book held some guidance for me. The white lettering on the spine had worn mostly off but the title was clearly engraved on the front cover beneath the etching of a split post fence at the edge of a field. To my surprise, below the title I found the image of my wild friend and courier, the owl. I am certain I had never noticed it before but there he was, waiting all this time to guide me again to that place where you stop running in circles.
The author tells his story of leaving the life he felt was running over him and his acquisition of a small farm. Every chapter spoke of his new found connection to the soil, his crops, the flowers, trees, insects and fully engaging his senses with the wonders of nature within his fence lines and beyond. Viewing the miracles around him as the seasons changed, he was in constant awe to have found such a profound window to view the precious life he had been granted. His spirit was at peace and his heart became full. The book’s message suggests contentment to be the most essential and treasured component of existence.
What brings contentment is very unique and personal to each of us. It could be what we feel in the safety of our family. It may be found like the author, in the ownership of land. That may not be within reach for many of us but experiencing contentment is a sense that can exist with no ownership. In fact, that in itself could be a path to contentment. The peace-of-mind place can be discovered in a large expanse of wilderness, a favorite bench in a park or a quiet corner with a good book. The creative flow of a sculptor or painter is a threshold to that place. I don’t think acquisitions bring contentment. I think it is more about putting aside things that distract us, and escaping our need for approval from others. It is certainly another one of those things that change through the stages of our lives as we collect years and experiences. I found great contentment in my youth secretly perched up in a tree. Later, I could channel it when I knew all of my children were happy, safe and asleep in their beds. I think today, contentment is what I feel in the absence of worry.
Even when we know where to find it, we don’t get to endlessly float on a cloud of contentment, isolated from our troubles and concerns. Those sly burdens always seep in. The curious thing about worry is that it is a cunning shape-shifter. I can identify one thing that is stressing me out and deal with it just as the culprit hides in some other compartment of my mind. When I am overwhelmed, clarity and common sense begin to shut down. A stress-buster is needed to stop the momentum. I had a cassette tape player once long ago that got stuck on fast forward. I frantically tried to push the stop button but it would not go down. The wild unrecognizable sounds sped out of my control until I successfully found the pause button to arrest the run-away audio. When I feel like things in my life are out of my control, my thoughts sound like that. I have to know how to hit that pause button. Stress will build if I keep running in circles looking for solutions but if I can just hit pause and retreat into my sanctuary where it is quiet, I can regain my balance.
“Within you, there is a stillness and sanctuary to which you can retreat at any time and be yourself.”
Hermann Hesse
The stress we have to address is not going to vanish without some tools in our tool belt. One is to learn how to pause, another is finding flexibility once we do. I cannot control everything. I am not going to find all of the answers. Those are unrealistic expectations. I have to be open to different solutions and not choose to list all of the obstacles and worst case scenarios as my first response. There is more beauty in the stained glass windows when there is light behind them. I want to hold the beacon of hope when I can’t see what lies ahead. My goals and dreams may materialize in different ways than I anticipate.
Like my native ancestors, the connection to the wild creatures can lead me to a place of peace. Animals are resilient in the face of adversity and do not carry worry. I can only imagine that they must live in a profound level of contentment. It can be heard in the evening chirps of the crickets and the gentle croaks of a bullfrog. Voices speak of it in the murmur of water gently tumbling over stones in a creek. I hear it in the hum of a hummingbird's wings and the powerful thrust of wind beneath an eagle’s. It is there in the lone howl of a wolf and the yip of a coyote pup. But I am especially fortunate to have found it inside myself in the language of silence when I can quiet my mind enough to hear it.
“....every writer however he may disguise the form of his production, is afterall chiefly concerned in reporting that which he discovers within himself.”
David Grayson
The author David Grayson was revealed in1913 to be a pen name of an investigative journalist named Ray Stannard Baker and that his popular magazine articles and books addressing the simple life were works of fiction. His many followers were not pleased he had deceived them and had never owned a farm but lived in a handsome home in Amherst, Massachusetts. The fact remains many were guided to find their place of contentment. His words had moved me to seek it. If he could convey such a believable journey in his writing, then we all have the ability to find it. As a reader knows, we can travel wherever our minds take us in our own quiet moments. What do you wish to discover within yourself?
Waiting for the spring bulbs to emerge from the warming soil has been like believing in my dreams. In the fall I knelt upon cold damp ground to squeeze more of these colored charms into the already crowded spaces of my mature landscape. They are transforming out of my sight as they grow roots and begin forming leaves, hidden examples of the mystifying stages of life. I’m not really sure now what I planted nor do I have a guarantee they are alive but the anticipation of them peeking up through the layer of dead leaves on a rainy March morning nurtures a sense of hope during the dark winter months for me. Breathe and be. They will come. I may find red tulips where I thought I put daffodils and the squirrels may have moved some while burying the peanuts they’ll probably never find but I will enjoy the surprising outcome and delight in the stunning show of colors.
I am impatiently waiting to warm up and feel Spring. I need to emerge from the cave already. Like a bear beginning to wake from hibernation, I woke up stirring in the middle of the night, not able to get back to sleep. In my restlessness, pillows were taking the brunt of my punches and blankets were being tangled into knots as my thoughts began racing. Above my deep sighs and frustrated grumbles and groans I thought I heard something. It took a lot of effort to lie still but I finally did long enough to hear a familiar and comforting sound. There it was, the clear call of an owl in the trees near my house. My struggles began to ease into the night silence as I waited, hoping to hear it again. Another came and replaced my distress with a feeling of protection. The owl’s proclamation reminded me to breathe, calm my mind and allow things to happen as they are meant to be.
The small key now wears a patina of rustic age as I insert it into the decorative clasp which locks in the secrets of my very first diary from when I was eleven years old. I smile as I read the first entry, which happened to be on my older sister's birthday. I only had a few lines of space per day, due to how the diary was printed, but I recorded her gifts she received, including an eight-track tape—the cutting edge of technology at the time! I also wrote that I got two toothpicks. To anyone else, that would probably be confusing and bizarre, but I recall with fondness how my mother would use toothpicks to hold the cake layers together and made it a fun game that if you got one in your slice, you got a kiss from the cook (my mom). A few entries later, I wrote how, at 7:38 pm, a double rainbow was right over our house. At that point in my life, we were packing up to move, and I taped some pine needles from my favorite tree into the journal. I recorded my fears about attending a new school, listed books I read and what I thought of them, penned day-to-day activities and special events. Over the years, I continued filling pages of blank books with the happenings of my life: what I felt, and what I thought. I wish I would’ve kept up with preserving the history of my life, but my journaling eventually tapered off to just an occasional entry.
The National Handwriting Association says, “To write is to be human.” That seems like an oversimplified statement but think about it. Yes, we now have AI that can “write,” but it is simply using what has already been written, and AI cannot take up a pen and create emotions on paper. The association also describes writing as “language by hand.” In our techy world, many have gotten away from writing things by hand. I propose a return to journaling by hand. When writing by hand, it helps us connect ideas, memories, and facts more quickly. This may partly be because we are focused on involving multiple senses, so our brains are more active. Writing and journaling help us slow down and focus, which is something many of us need to do in this modern, hectic world. There are so many benefits of both writing and journaling that it deserves a closer look.
The brain engages in a different way when a person writes, versus types. The brain benefits with practice processing thoughts and emotions as well as problems and solutions, as the narrative is created and written. Our brains need to be used in this way to keep and improve not only our creative processes but our memory capabilities. There are a lot of interesting scientific studies that show how the act of writing is uniquely multidimensional, how it helps develop overall literacy using the interactions between working and long-term memory, how writing assists in reading development as well as fine motor skills, and how writing forces multiple brain systems to work together. Delving into that may not be as interesting to you, however, as it is to me. Thus, let’s explore the act of journaling and three main benefits: physical, emotional, and goal-setting and achieving. First, how exactly, is journaling defined? The Cambridge Dictionary says it is, “the act of writing what you have done each day. Sometimes including your private thoughts, feelings, and goals.” There is a reason that diaries have locks on them! In all seriousness, writing these innermost thoughts and feelings can help your physical health, boost your memory, increase physical healing, and help the quality of your sleep. One study from 2022 that I read claims that journaling one’s deepest thoughts and feelings, and doing some deep thinking through your pen, reduced the number of sick days taken by adult workers. Why would that be? These days we sometimes tend to turn to medications for every ailment, but here is a non-pharmacological tool that we can use. The professionals—counselors and psychotherapists—use it, so why not give it a try? When we write, it is physically having to slow down and ponder before using those fine motor skills and neuromuscular pathways to create words symbolizing thoughts and feelings. A study in 2005 by Baikie and Wilhem found these physical benefits: lowered blood pressure, improved lung and liver function, less time spent in hospitals, fewer stress-related doctors visits, and less time off work. The fact that journaling has been shown to increase antibodies in our blood is amazing. Journaling boosts our immune systems.
Most of the physical benefits are directly related to the emotional advantages. Kira M. Newman says it best, “On the thinking level, writing forces us to organize our experiences into a sequence, giving us a chance to examine cause and effect and form a coherent story.” Processing thoughts through journaling gives a person a sense of control they may not have felt before, especially in a traumatic or upsetting situation. On the other end of the spectrum, writing about positive things helps us focus on the good in life and leads to that all-important virtue of gratitude. I remember, sometimes, the only “one” I wanted to share my frustrations and hurts with was within the cover of my paper friend. Rereading some of the entries, I see how I worked through and processed negative feelings and was able to come out on the positive side. This is due to being able to view the situation more objectively and create some space and distance that is needed in order to reflect. Cognitive diffusion is the fancy term used for this and basically means you can look more objectively at your thoughts, almost like an outsider, instead of miring in the quicksand of them.
Journaling also has practical uses for your personal and professional life. Journaling is a form of record-keeping, useful for discovering themes, patterns, and possibilities. It can be a great way to unload on paper instead of on a person. I know someone who has started journaling at work when there’s a situation he has trouble letting go of. After it’s written down, it helps him release-
-his frustrations. Closing the journal is symbolic of letting it go and setting it aside so he can be more positive and productive. My sister uses journaling in her business. When an idea lights up in her brain, she records it. She owns her own window covering business and runs all aspects of it, so her mind is constantly multi-tasking. She can return to her written ideas later to expand or discard them. Journaling, whether in your personal or professional life, can include goal-setting. Writing down goals down solidifies one’s resolve and makes them more permanent. Journaling about the process of attaining a goal can aid in determining what is working and what needs to be set aside. It is a record of meeting milestones along the way to reaching the end goal. It can be an encouragement to read how you felt along the journey, how you adapted and persevered. As a writer, I use journals to pen ideas as they come to me, which is sometimes at strange moments, so I try to always keep a journal handy. One spring, we were remote camping on Dworshak Reservoir. It was April so still a bit chilly. The sun came out and the peaceful lapping of the lake lulled me into taking a rare nap. In my half-awake, half-asleep state, I had ideas swirling around, ebbing in and out like the swells. After a bit, I sat up and dug my journal and pen out of my backpack. This is when I wrote the opening lines of my third novel.
"Closing the journal is symbolic of letting it go and setting it aside so he can be more positive and productive."
If journaling feels overwhelming to you, it need not be. You can start by buying a journal that speaks to you at the store or online. You can get a blank book, lined or unlined, or a locking diary if that inspires you. Grab your favorite pen while you’re at it. I recommend blue or black ink. In my youth, I enjoyed writing in colorful ink but have found it tends to fade and degrade over the years more quickly than blue or black. Pencil tends to smudge and fade. In my box of over forty journals, I have two that are handmade. Crafty or not, this is another option. One of mine has a cover made from brown grocery sacks with a picture of my childhood obsession glued to the front: gymnastics. Just use something that inspires you, that you enjoy holding and writing in. You can also buy journaling sets that contain stickers and fancy pens.
What works for you? Writing at a certain time of day, or just committing to writing a certain number of times a week? A certain number of pages? Don’t make it a chore, make it a pleasure. Do what makes sense to you! Whatever you feel like writing should be your guide. There really is no right or wrong way. You can write in full sentences, in an organized manner, or in stream-of-consciousness, where you write whatever comes to your mind when it comes. You can record in bullet points. You can do something called sketch doodling, where you write words or phrases and add corresponding doodles and artwork around the words. Whatever you decide, make your journaling experience personal and enjoyable.
Some of my entries are quotes I liked and found meaningful. Some had lines of poetry I’d written. Start small if you need to and as you get more comfortable and experienced, you’ll find your rhythm. Don’t feel guilty or beat yourself up if you miss a day, or a week, or a month. Journaling should be a positive experience. If you feel like you have no idea what to write, you can always Google some writing prompts or just write about your day.
Another reason to journal could be to build that family legacy or to preserve your personal history. I am the lucky recipient of my grandmother’s journal. Her writing is a peek into who she was as a human. Killed in an automobile accident when I was a baby, I never got to know her in real life, but I can get a glimpse into who she was from her own words—that she wrote with her own hand. Seeing someone’s handwriting is seeing a part of who they are. It’s not impersonal like the typed word. Keeping a journal is also a historical record of sorts, looking back at someone’s life who wrote about their journey along the Oregon Trail, or who, like my husband’s ancestors, sailed across the tumultuous ocean on the Mayflower. What a treasure.
I’ll admit I got distracted from writing this article to look through some of my old journals. At the age of eleven, I mentioned a story I was writing. It was fun to see how I’ve always been interested in writing. On September 5, 1976, I was excited that I bought a “Trixie Belden book #10, The Marshland Mystery. On September 6, I wrote, “I finished my Trixie Belden book. It was good. 212 pages.” I guess I was a voracious reader even back then. I wrote about taking a family Jeep ride to Mt. Champion Mine in the Rocky Mountains. “We got up to a certain place and couldn’t go on so Deb, Dad, and I hiked up to the mine. I found a hand-made button, two wooden combs, and lots of neat wood on the wall.” Adhered to the page with yellowed tape is the hand-made button. I’m sure that over the years it would have gotten lost had I not saved it in my journal. It was the beginning of my sixth-grade year when I began chronicling in a diary. I wrote, “We had a fire (making) contest, and I got an A on both.” First of all, I’d forgotten about that until I read it. Second, it is cool we learned how to make fires in school back in the day, and third, I love making fire, especially with flint and steel, as an adult. On our wintry move from Colorado to Oregon, I kept track of interesting CB handles from truckers or other rigs we heard on the radio: Mighty Moose, Taxpayer, Badger, Mechanic, and my favorite, Library Lady. When we got to Oregon, I got to attend Outdoor School. One of my entries reads, “Our tent flooded in the middle of the night. We had to get out while it rained and poured, carrying our sleeping bags down the road a long way.” Ah, fun memories. I’ve always claimed my good memory is due to writing things down, and later, from taking photos. Journaling not only preserves memories but also improves memory function. In a 1980 journal, I’d clipped a news article and underlined these words: “All you can do when somebody has beaten you is to go practice and try harder…I think adversity makes you grow as a person.” This was during my budding gymnastics career, which came with many challenges. The quote spoke to me then, and it still does today. Think ahead in time and envision the future. Someday, your kids, grandkids, great-grandkids…someday they could be sitting by a cozy fire with your journal open on their laps, engrossed in reading age-yellowed pages inscribed in your unique handwriting that flows across the page, a river of thoughts, feelings, observances, musings. The words are all drops that pour into a reservoir of family history, just waiting to water the growth of the next generation.
Write on!
We thrive on connection. Stepping outside your comfort zone can lead to big boosts in well-being!
Invite a friend or neighbor for coffee or dinner.
1 3 2 4
Join a local club, class, or sports team.
Say hello to someone new or check in with a friend.
Do something kind for your community.
byHeather recently got us into making overnight oats. For anyone who isn’t familiar, this was a fad that really caught on a few years ago as a simple way to make a healthy and delicious breakfast that doesn’t take any work to prepare in the mornings. When I first heard about it, I was still in what had been a decades-long phase of not having anything for breakfast. We would sit and enjoy coffee together every morning for at least 30 minutes to an hour, but Heather almost never had any breakfast and neither did I. It was only recently, while trying to make some changes (read: improvements) in our diet, that we finally accepted the idea that breakfast really is important and shouldn’t be routinely skipped.
We started with eggs and assorted other breakfasts that were relatively high in protein and fiber and eventually tired of all the extra work when we had just gotten out of bed and knew we had to get ready for a day of work. I never liked leaving the dishes in the sink before leaving and we would end up trading off the extra chores each morning – one of us cooking and the other cleaning. It meant less time together enjoying coffee as we always had, or just getting up earlier to fit in the extra routine.
And then Heather rediscovered the wonder of overnight oats. The idea is so simple and really does save time. Once or twice a week, one of us will line up a bunch of mason jars and just thrown together breakfast for at least 3-4 days all in the space of 10 minutes or less. We get high protein oats that are cut specifically for the long-term exposure to moisture without heat, and add one-part oats, one part milk, and one part water to start the base. You could do 2 parts milk, but we were trying to keep the fat content down and found we really couldn’t tell the difference in adding the water. With the three staples in the jar, give it a quick stir to mix. Everything after that is just for personal preference and flavor. We then like to add a mini scoop of vanilla protein powder, the same size scoop of chia seeds to up the fiber content, and usually a little bit of cinnamon. Stir again to get that all mixed into the liquid batter and it starts to be like a thicker paste. Finally, we add some type of fruit – and if you are using frozen fruit in the winter it is even faster because you just drop in pre-sliced peaches or a handful of berries and don’t need to slice anything. The jars get capped and go into the fridge where they need at least one night to let the oats “cook” in the cold milk and water, but they can be left for up to a week. In the morning it’s as simple as grabbing two jars, a couple of spoons and only cleaning those minimal items when we are done. Breakfast dilemma solved!
Well, this got me thinking about grilling. As I’m sure you know by now, grilling is somewhere that my mind often goes. There are a lot of nights where I really want to grill but it becomes either stressful to rush everything or we end up eating far later than we normally would. If you find yourself getting off work, heading home and getting changed, firing up that grill and then starting your prep, it can be either a whirlwind production using only items that cook quickly, or dinner at 7-8. Maybe we are becoming old fuddy-duddies, because after writing 7-8 PM for dinner, I almost said “how very European.” I guess I’ve just learned to enjoy dinner by 6:30 at the latest – especially in the summer when it feels that you have so many hours left to go enjoy a long hike or working in the yard before you lose the sun.
I started writing down a few ideas for easy prep that would allow me to get home, light the grill before I change, and be cooking within 10-15 minutes. Especially focusing on items that we really enjoy having often for sides in the hope that one or two evening of prep would yield at least four nights of grilling that week. I thought I would share my favorite here as food for thought in the hopes of inspiring you to come up with a simplified routine of your own. Anything that gets us outside and grilling more often is a win in my book!
When I have a lot going on I never stop to think about making chicken. Prepping thighs and breasts takes time, the cook is slow compared to most proteins, and the margin for error is nonexistent. You could always push a steak or mushroom a little and serve it medium rare instead of medium that night, but serving undercooked chicken just adds time when you factor in the hospital visit. But simple, versatile, healthy chicken is one of our absolute favorites. So I decided that it was simply time to shake up my routine.
I always like to brine chicken. Long-time readers will certainly remember all the times I’ve gone off on a marinade vs brine tangent, so I’ll keep it short here. Marinades are based on acid and are best used for tougher cuts of meat or game. They loosen up the muscle fibers and break down connective elements while imparting a lot of flavor. To make them at home, just start with something like vinegar (any flavor you think will work with your seasoning) or citrus juice. You can even use salad dressings that have a lot of acidity, but beware of any high in sugar because it will smoke or burn too quickly on a grill. Brines on the other hand are just salt solutions, which impart minimal flavor and work to retain moisture when an item is cooked. Meat that is already tender calls for a brine and not a marinade – chicken falls decisively in this camp.
Anything that gets us outside and grilling more often is a win in my book!
I also like to pound out my chicken breasts. I let thighs go in their normal shape, but the breast can be tricky to cook especially if your time is of the essence. They tend to be dramatically thicker down at one end. So on the grill that fat end takes forever to cook, and even if you use a direct/indirect heat combo you can expect about 70% of the breast to be dry and overcooked by the time you finally get to a safe 165 F in the center of the thickest part. To make it cook faster and have the entire breast succulent while still getting excellent grill marks on the outside, just place them in a Ziploc bag and use a rolling pin to beat down the fatter end until they are relatively uniform in size across the entire breast. And while you already have it going into a bag, simply add a brine solution of 1 TBS of salt and ½ cup of water per breast. Put the sealed bag in a bowl so there isn’t any contamination risk and then put it in the fridge. This can be overnight, or up to two days before you cook.
When you are ready simply pull the chicken and allow the brine to drain off back into the bag, and give it a hit of salt and pepper before going onto the grill. Because this is so spice-neutral, you have lots of options for the final outcome, and don’t even need to decide before hand when you prep. It could be served as-is and-
-will be perfect, but you could also top it with BBQ sauce, salsa or Pico, maybe even a cheese sauce – the sky is the limit with brined chicken breasts or thighs. And having breasts pounded down means it should only take a few minutes on each side to properly cook.
So now we have chicken in the fridge ready to go at a moment’s notice – how about those sides? For Heather and I, serving chicken or steak with a large salad is always a favorite, and that can be accomplished while the meat is on the grill. But for something a bit more exciting you could also use prepped veggies. Most restaurants actually prep and store well ahead of time, so why shouldn’t you? For my easy spring and summer nights I wanted to have a few days of grilling and took a look at what would be the best to pre-cut and hold in the fridge. Bell peppers can easily be sliced ahead of time, onions as well provided that you have a perfectly air-tight container or don’t mind the fridge smell that will follow. Asparagus can also be washed and cut to size, or even mushrooms that need a little extra care before going on the grill. Corn is one of our favorites, but adds precious minutes to husk and wash, so that could also be done the night before. And any glaze, sauce, or dry rub can be in a jar ready to go so things come out of the fridge and are grill-ready in moments. Avoid anything leafy, delicate, or easily-browned and you will find excellent results with this process of early prep and last-moment seasoning. The real miracle of setting up grilling nights like this is the flexibility to work on it after dinner the night before, or even on a Sunday afternoon. Take your time and enjoy getting ready, it only heightens the excitement knowing that tomorrow you get to come home to a fabulous feast. I hope you keep those fires lit and enjoy your spring evenings cooking outdoors!
MINI CLEMENTINE
almond cakes
kitchen: alyssa lyman
INGREDIENTS
3 cups all-purpose flour
4 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
8 small clementines
3 eggs
¾ cup melted butter
1 ½ cups granulated sugar
½ tsp almond extract
1 tbl orange juice
1-2 tbl milk
1 cup powdered sugar
Sliced almonds
5 miniature foil loaf pans
STEPS
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease the mini loaf pans and place them on a baking tray. Sift together flour, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl; set aside. Rinse and dry the clementines, then, use a paring knife to cut any remaining stem pieces or imperfections off of them. Place the whole clementines into a blender or food processor and blend them until you have reached a smooth consistency with no lumps.
In another bowl, combine the pureed clementines, eggs, sugar, melted butter, and almond extract. Mix until well combined. Gradually fold in the dry ingredients, being careful not to overmix. Once the mixture has just come together, distribute it into the loaf pans. Lightly tap each loaf pan against the surface of your workstation to get out any air bubbles. Place the cakes on a baking tray and bake for 30 minutes or until a knife comes out clean.
Meanwhile, make the glaze by combining the orange juice, milk, and powdered sugar. Once the cakes come out of the oven immediately glaze each one and sprinkle with sliced almonds.
CARMELIZED
onion & gruyere crepes
kitchen: alyssa lyman
INGREDIENTS || batter + onions
Crepe Batter:
3 eggs
¾ cup milk
¾ cup water
3 tbl melted butter
Pinch of salt
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
Carmelized Onions:
1 large yellow onion
2 tbl butter
1 tsp sugar
½ tsp salt
Additional butter to saute the crepes
8 oz shredded Gruyere cheese
Chives
STEPS
Place two tablespoons of butter in a saute pan on medium-low heat. Halve the onion and slice as thinly as possible; place the onion in the melted butter, keeping at medium-low heat. Add a teaspoon of sugar and a half teaspoon of salt. Cook the onion on low heat for 20-30 minutes until soft and carmelized. Set aside.
To make the crepe batter mix the water, milk, and eggs until well combined in a large bowl. Slowly whisk in the melted butter and add a pinch of salt. Add the flour gradually, sifting it in while whisking constantly to avoid the mixture from getting clumpy. The batter should be quite thin and have no lumps. Preheat a large non-stick pan or skillet to medium-low heat. Once the pan is preheated, pour in half a cup of the crepe batter and pick up the pan and swirl it to allow the batter to cover the bottom surface of the pan. Place back on the burner and let cook for 1-2 minutes. Flip the crepe and cook for about one minute. Repeat until you’ve used all of the batter.
To fill each crepe, smear some of the carmelized onions onto one quarter of a crepe, followed by a small handful of cheese. Fold the crepe in half, and then in half again and saute it in some butter on medium low heat just to warm the filling. Garnish with chives.
almond raspberry
BUNDT CAKE
kitchen: sara raquet
INGREDIENTS || cake + filling + glaze
Almond Cake:
2 1/4 cups flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp salt
3/4 cup unsalted butter room temperature
2 1/4 cups sugar
6 eggs room temperature
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp almond extract
1 cup sour cream room temperature
Raspberry Filling
1/2 cup seedless raspberry jam
1/2 cup of cake batter
Almond Glaze
2 cups confectioner’s sugar, sifted
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tsp almond extract
1-2 Tbsp heavy cream or whole milk
STEPS
Preheat oven to 350°F. Use a 10-cup bundt pan and spray with baking spray or grease and flour the pan.
Cake:
In a medium bowl, whisk flour, baking soda, and salt. Set aside. In the bowl of a stand mixer, cream the softened butter and sugar on medium speed until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. After eggs are all incorporated, scrape down bowl and add vanilla extract and almond extract. Mix until blended on low speed, beginning and ending with flour mixture, mix in flour alternating with the sour cream into the butter and sugar mixture until just incorporated. Reserve 1/2 cup of batter for filling.
Filling:
In a small bowl, mix reserved cake batter with raspberry jam. Fill prepared pan with almond cake batter, filling about half of the pan. Spoon raspberry jam filling over the batter in a ring, careful not to let filling touch the sides of the pan. Add the remainder of the cake batter until the pan is ¾ full. Bake 55-60 minutes or until the tester comes out clean. Cool cake in pan for 10 minutes, then invert onto cooling rack to finish cooling.
Serving:
While cake cools, prepare glaze. In a small bowl, whisk all glaze ingredients except cream until smooth. Start by adding 1 Tbsp of cream and mix until smooth. Add 1 tsp of cream at a time until desired consistency is reached. Pour glaze over cooled cake, slice and enjoy!
CHOCOLATE CHIP
Brown Butter Blondies + Pecans
kitchen: sara raquet
INGREDIENTS
1 1/4 cups salted butter
1 cup pecan halves
2 cups + 3 tbsp packed dark brown sugar
2 tsp vanilla extract
3 large eggs room temperature
1 large egg yolk room temperature
2 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
1/8 tsp salt
1 1/4 tsp baking powder
½ teaspoon of cinnamon
1 1/2 cups chocolate chips
Sea Salt flakes for sprinkling over the top
STEPS
Brown the Butter: Add the salted butter to a medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Melt the butter, stirring occasionally. Once it’s melted, turn the heat to medium, and continue cooking the butter, stirring frequently. The butter will get bubbly, then foamy, and then turn a deep golden shade with a nutty aroma (about 5 minutes ).Once the butter reaches this stage, remove it from the heat. Pour the butter into a Pyrex measuring cup and place in the fridge to cool down to room temperature.
Toast the Pecans: Add the pecan halves to a skillet over medium heat and stir frequently, toasting for 2-4 minutes. Once toasted, immediately pour the nuts onto a cutting board so they don’t burn in the hot pan. Chop them roughly and set aside.
Prep: Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Spray a 9×13 metal baking dish with nonstick spray and line with parchment paper.
Make the Blondie Batter: In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the butter and brown sugar until well combined. Whisk in the vanilla, eggs, and egg yolk until smooth and thick. Add the flour, salt, baking powder and cinnamon and gently fold in until a few streaks of flour remain, then add the chocolate chips and chopped pecans and stir to combine. Evenly spread the batter in your prepared pan.
Bake: Bake the bars for 27 to 30 minutes. The center will have a slight wobble. Sprinkle with flaked sea salt. Place pan on a wire rack to cool for about 1 and 1/2 to 2 hours before slicing.
If responsibilities were stickers, I’d look like a masterpiece a four-year-old creates when left unattended. Just one of my titles is Mother. On its own it’s a big word, right? Let’s break it down, though. Cook, chauffeur, cleaner, caretaker, worrier, planner, project manager, inspiration, guide, encourager, dream crusher, alarm clock, pillow, shoulder to cry on, memory maker, cheerleader, story teller, steady presence. I could go on and on, but I’ll stop with that list and, just for good measure and to prove a point, dig a little deeper into just one of those sticky words.
‘Cook’ really means planning meals that are hopefully somewhat balanced and nutritious and will be eaten by most of the family members. It also means planning food for the week that can be eaten on the run or before or after sports, meetings, and the like and probably also thrown together on the run or tolerated as leftovers. It means making sure there’s enough of whatever everyone needs for lunch at school and work, snacks, and the all-important breakfast that will get us all out the door on the right foot. It often means not only planning all of this but then shopping for it and now having to worry about the rising price of groceries and the fact that certain companies support politics you don’t agree with. And not only do you have to shop for the food you’ve planned out, but then all that stuff needs to get put away in the fridge, freezer, and pantry. It might need to be pulled out on particular days to thaw for a meal or prepped into containers upon getting home from the store. Shopping is never as easy as a trip to the store. When all is said and done, you can actually cook something. And then hear about how Susie doesn’t like potatoes anymore and corn’s not really a vegetable and your husband doesn’t like the sound of your toddler’s chewing and Tommy wasn’t hungry at the table but while you’re putting the food away he suddenly wants to know if he can have a snack.
Deep breath.
I know that it’s not always like that and not like that at all for everyone. I also know that every label we have stuck to us is more complex than it might look on the surface. And it adds up. It’s heavy.
The last week or so I’ve been feeling that weight. I’m a divorced mother of two adult children and one highschooler. All three kids have stuff in their lives that I feel responsible for and other things going on that I’m excited for. I’m still a caretaker for their father and my ex-husband and that comes with a load of stickers and a bag full of labels that were previously stuck to me. I may have peeled them off, but I haven’t been able or willing to fully let go of it all just yet. I am a homeowner, full time employee in a public service field, and a friend. All of this weighs on me.
It wakes me up in the middle of the night and invades my time in the shower. It sneaks up on me at the grocery store or sitting at a highschool volleyball game. It comes out over and over again in therapy, in my journal, in my tears. I feel called and nudged in certain directions only to wonder if I’m selfish or misguided. I feel sad about decisions I know are right and uneasy about things that I have no control over. It all weighs on me.
IAnd in the midst of being all that sticky labeling and responsibility and seeking to improve my life and sometimes just make it through the day, I am occasionally hit by the question of who I am. Really. Me? Annie. Who is she?
I do have my own personal passions and dreams, desires and goals. I am an intuitive, a dreamer, and a lover. I’m a writer and a card reader. I am educated and I still love to learn more. I am unlearning deeply entrenched beliefs that were never my own and choosing each step I take forward. I’m a student, an employee, a mother, a sister, a daughter, and a friend I enjoy warm hugs, belly laughs, and smiles that reach my eyes. I’m leaning into the uncomfortable corners of who I’ve always been and looking at parts of myself I haven’t wanted to face. I love nature but don’t like gardening. I follow the moon and see the cycles that occur in my own life. And I’m this and more, every day.
And this, too, weighs on me.
So, sometimes, I take all the heady, touchy-feely, dreamer shenanigans and put it aside. Sometimes, like today, I’ve just got to read this week’s assignments and let all the rest be there later. Trust me - it’s not going away! So, this morning when I sat down to start reading (after I did the dishes that didn’t get done while I was sick last week, started my laundry, fed the cats, ate breakfast, and solved today’s Wordle) I said out loud to myself, “Today, I am a student,” and immediately felt called to not be a student and instead be a writer! A little compromise is sometimes a good thing so I agreed with myself that I’d be a student until lunch and write afterward. I’d say it’s worked out okay.
I’d also say that if you feel the heaviness of all your labels piling on like I sometimes do, you’re not alone. Spring is a perfect time to do a little cleaning out of all your spaces - not just your closets. Take a look at what you’re carrying that maybe it’s time to let go of. It’s okay to be rid of labels you don’t want, don’t believe anymore, that aren’t yours, that no longer align with your goals, that were meant to be temporary, or that you’ve completely forgotten about. And, if you’re ready to do just that, here are a few practices that might help.
Shadow Shower
This is something I started doing a few years ago and find to be very powerful.
Use a charcoal mask or scrub to rub all over yourself before taking a shower.
As you cover your arms and legs, belly and face with thick brown-black streaks, think about the sludgy or shadowy memories, beliefs, or labels you’d like to be done with. If you don’t know exactly what you want to see gone, you can simply think about the general feelings of yuck that plague you. Then, when you step into the flow of the water, imagine all of that washing away. Everything that was stuck to you comes clean off and you can watch the color of the mask go down the drain. It’s very satisfying and freeing.
Tap and Brush
This is a practice I learned from my mentor Heather, of Divinely Sensitive. Start by gently tapping with your fingertips on the parts of your body that you’re called to and while doing so, think about or feel into what you want to loosen and release. Again if you know the beliefs or thoughts you’re targeting and can name them, great, but you don’t have to. It’s just as effective to set the intention to loosen and let go of anything you no longer need or that isn’t presently in the interest of your highest good. You may want to tap your heart space, your lower back, your temples or head, your throat. You can’t do this wrong, so let your fingers tap where they want to and when you feel like you’ve done that part long enough (if you like a more specific guideline, feel free to set a timer for a specific time), it’ll be time to brush. For this part you gently swipe your hands over the areas you’ve just tapped. You might like feeling the brushing of your palm against your body or you might not actually touch yourself and only be moving your hands through the air just above your body. When you’re done brushing, you might feel like shaking your hands or brushing them against each other in a conclusive manner, which is perfect because you’re done!
Swamping
This is a practice I first learned from another mentor, Jessica, of The Dream Navigation, and have made my own and incorporated teachings from Heather as well.
Swamping involves letting your body feel all the emotions. You can find swamping playlists or create your own and just let the music dictate your dance. You may sway or stomp or jump. You may shout or groan or cry. You may twirl or run or fall to the ground. Whatever you feel like doing is right and good and exactly what your body needs to release what it’s been holding onto but is ready to let go.
Now that you know you’re not alone and you have some practices to help peel off the stickers you don’t want to be stuck with any more, it’s not only time for another deep breath, taken with appreciation for the seasons continuing to come, but it’s also time for me to get back to reading. Afterall, today I am a student.
A Little Dirt Never Hurt ........................................................
By Kaitlynn Anderson
When thinking of gardening, many consider it to be a fun hobby in their spare time. However, it has been a necessity over time to provide food for families, especially during periods of food deficits or when food was in high demand during conflicts. Examples of this include the Civil War, War World I, and World War II (See the March/April 2022 Home&Harvest to learn more about victory gardens and rationing). Over time, gardening served as an outlet for women to participate in social and civic clubs during the Progressive Era (See the March/April 2023 Home&Harvest to learn more about women’s groups in Latah County). Women’s garden clubs became closely related to historical preservation by focusing on the restoration of landmarks and landscapes. Today, we can see evidence of their hard work to preserve those areas. For the sake of this article, the term ‘gardening’ refers to both gardening for food and gardening for aesthetics and ornamentation. The history of gardening falls under the “cult of domesticity,” in which it was a woman’s role to manage the household. This included everything from cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children, being pure and submissive to their husbands, comforting and not strong-willed. Gardening and tending to plants fell to women as it happened in the home and was considered “her hobby.” It follows then that men participated in the agriculture and commercial side of farming and gardening, which brought money to the household and fell within the capitalist system. Again, these roles reaffirm the concept that women were meant to stay at home and not work, while the men were to get their hands dirty and make a living for their families.
The stereotype of women managing gardens and plants can even be seen in our collection at the Latah County Historical Society. Many garden-related photographs within our collection often showcase women and young girls in gardens. There are only a select few images that have men in them actively gardening. The perpetuation of this stereotype is not accurate to the reality of who participates in gardening. In the past, women primarily participated in gardening, whereas today, gardening is enjoyed by both men and women of all ages.
As technology and society developed, suburbanization spiked in America at various times, including the early 19th Century, and the time surrounding World War II. Suburbanization allowed homeowners to take pride in their space, including their landscape. Plants at the front of the home made it appear more welcoming, while also adding street appeal. Eventually, suburbanization caused a shift from gardens in the front of the house to the backyard. The backyard is usually viewed as a private space for the owner, where an individual must be invited into that space. We see most gardens in backyards today, where privacy is valued, and it is a relaxing, safe-haven environment. Even some apartment dwellers can take part in gardening by hanging pots on patios, where backyards are not available. This is most popularized by retailers offering hanging tomato cages during the summer months.
One of the many ways to spend free time in the mid-century was to join a club. Aside from civic clubs, hobby clubs provided an outlet for people with similar interests to gather and enjoy each other’s company. One of the first organized garden clubs in Latah County was the Moscow Garden Club. Founded in 1949 by a group of twenty-one women, their main goal was to provide improvements to the flower show during the Latah County Fair. During the club’s history, they completed several projects around Moscow, including planting flowers at Sunset Memorial Cemetery and planting rosebushes in front of Moscow City Hall. The club is now in its 76th year of service in 2025 and has expanded its goals to provide education on beautification, horticulture, flower design, and wilderness survival. Club members are still actively involved in the horticulture show at the Latah County Fair every fall.
Another of the garden clubs in Latah County was the Town and Country Garden Club. The club was founded in 1959 by a group of women from Troy, Deary, and Bovill. Over the twenty years that the club existed, they supported several programs to educate the community on types of flowers and gardening tips. They also collaborated with other organizations throughout the county to host garden shows. At the height of the club, there were twenty-four members; however, at the last club meeting, only five members were present. The remaining money in their bank account was divided between the Zion Lutheran Church and Deary Community Church when they dissolved in 1979.
The next iteration of gardens is houseplants. In a way, gardens have moved from the backyard to inside the home. Reasons for this range from the plants needing a specific environment, or the threat of animal damage, to the amount of care needed to help them thrive. Individuals can purchase plants that suit their lifestyles, whether they want plants that are low maintenance, such as succulents, plants that are meant to bring good luck, such as money trees, or even fake plants that primarily serve an aesthetic purpose. These plants are a great option for individuals who possibly don’t have the space to cultivate a full garden outside or only want the responsibility of keeping one or two plants alive.
Aside from the fresh produce and beautiful flowers that gardening provides, it also serves as a positive outlet for both physical and mental health. Physically, tending plants takes exercise. Preparing pots and flowerbeds to adequately germinate a plant requires tilling the soil, weeding, and bending. That is hard work and any gardener will tell you that it’s not easy on the body.
You have your floor plan in mind, and know exactly what features you want. Our loan professionals can help you get into the right loan for you to make it a reality.
Additionally, fresh food can assist with a healthier diet. Vegetables and fruit cultivated at home also come with a sense of pride in providing for yourself. During war years, gardens were considered downright patriotic and doing your duty for the war effort. In terms of mental health, individuals typically experience reduced stress levels through their time outdoors and grow a social community with other gardeners.
Before the popularization of grocery stores and restaurants, residents needed to garden to survive. Due to the fertile soil and moderate rainfall, flowers and produce have thrived in Latah County. If you live in Latah County you will notice that some of the prominent items that thrive here include popular bulbs like tulips and daffodils, and vegetables like zucchini, peas, and rhubarb. The Palouse is also one of the nation’s leaders in producing wheat, peas, beans, and lentils. Both commercial agriculture and individual gardens thrive in Palouse soil, making it a popular location for settlement in the late 19th Century.
The craft of gardening is still ever present in Latah County today. Whether you would like to grow a home garden in your backyard or participate in a group effort, many opportunities are available. The Moscow Public Library offers the Palouse Exchange-A-Seed program to add new seed varieties to your garden or to drop off any excess seeds you may have. The University of Idaho Extension offers the Master Gardener Club to answer gardening questions, while also creating the space for hands-on experience and to serve the community. For individuals who do not have outdoor space to grow the garden of their dreams, the City of Moscow offers the Hamilton Community Garden. Additional opportunities include Rural Roots, Backyard Harvest through Inland Oasis, Idaho Native Plant Society, and the Moscow Garden Club. For more information on the history of gardening within Latah County, visit the Great Room at the 1912 Center to view the accompanying exhibit in the staircase display cases.
Information
1. The Moscow Garden Club planting flowers at Sunset Memorial Cemetery, circa 1950s or 1960s. LCHS Photo ID: 01-07-038. *colored by Heather Niccoli
2. Homer David showing off his tomato plants. LCHS Photo ID: David.H.08
3. Elva Belle Gray enjoying a garden. LCHS Photo ID: Gray.El.01
4. The Moscow Garden Club in the 1970s during a meeting. LCHS Photo ID: 01-11-045
5. Backyard garden at the Bennett home located on Palouse River Drive in 1977. LCHS Photo ID: 01-05356
6. Dora and Henry Hull’s back porch garden in Kendrick in 1896. LCHS Photo ID: 10-05-010
Photo
Gayle Anderson BY
Hygge – (“hooga”) a Danish concept about taking time away from the daily rush to pause and be grateful as well as focus on self-care and not feel guilty about it. It’s being able to relax and enjoy life’s quieter pleasures such as informal time with family/friends. Typically, it is focused on sharing a simple meal or a beverage with your special people. No agenda, no drama, just enjoying the small joys of life and embracing slow living. Where inner well-being is as important as creating an inviting comfortable physical environment in your home. It could be small things such as lighting candles, snuggling up with soft blankets and sipping a warm drink.
Ever since I saw the concept of Hygge during the rush of the holidays, I have been in love with the notion of slow living, savoring every moment and filling your life and home with whatever you deem cozy. Hygge…. This one little word basically sums up what I have been searching and wanting to implement for my entire life. How could I not have known about this for so long? I’ll chalk it up to my work ethic of putting “my head down and get it done mode” sacrificing needs in order to accomplish goals. I have lived like this for so many years that I can’t remember when I wasn’t driven to accomplish over the top tasks. There were so many times in my life that when I looked back after accomplishing a project, and I wished I had taken the time to relish the journey instead of rushing through it. I’ll admit it, I’m a slow learner, and suddenly after all these years there was a change, and it occurred in the midst of Christmas season. During this shift, I forgot the end goal of perfection and embraced simple. It felt amazing. And now I’m in full swing of savoring and enjoying those sweet moments throughout each day instead of racing through life like it was a race. Pure bliss is sipping coffee in the mornings next to the roar of the fire and if I don’t have to be anywhere… well even better. It’s about stepping outside and listening to winter’s quietness. To feel the brisk air. It’s about slowing down and really listening to conversations and relishing that connection to someone.
And you know what? The Nordic countries of Finland, Denmark and Iceland are ranked the happiest people in the world based upon on the Gallup World Poll. Their culture as a whole embraces Hygge. We Americans should take a page out of their playbook as Americans are listed as 23 in 2024 on the happiness scale.
As I’m writing this article for the Spring March/April edition, we are fresh off the holidays, and it seems the season of good cheer has been packed away. It’s bitter cold outside and I feel a different kind of coldness trying to seep into my life and realize the political climate on social media and the news has made me beyond weary. As a sanity saver as well as protecting my new Hygge mindset, I have decided to take a much-needed breather and turn off the news and tune out FB. For me, both are emotional vampires. Perhaps you feel the same way? Maybe that is why the notion of creating a physical and mental refuge where simplicity and gratitude are your cornerstones that invite wellbeing. And yes, doing it is easier said than done. Boundaries are going to be needed; self-monitoring is a must in order to not let “frantic” seep back in. It’s a life change that is here to stay.
To show my commitment and progress, Rod and I, along with my youngest brother and my mom took a few days away to visit some of our Montana family. Simple meals were shared, and the hours were consumed by lots of laughter and conversations. And I’ll admit publicly that I got seriously skunked by my 90 year old aunt playing Scrabble. Of course, my 88 year old mom was and is still miffed that she didn’t win. I foresee a rematch the next time we visit. In the meantime, I will try to sharpen my skills as these two are wicked and show no mercy. You have been warned in case these two try to sucker you into playing with them. And I remind myself that my bruised ego is a small price to pay for just getting to share a beautiful hour or two of their company. One of the other simple pleasures I have been embracing is once a week a couple of lifelong girlfriends and I walk about 3 or so miles each week, then we go have coffee. It’s therapy of girl time, exercise and coffee. Recently during one of these walks a friend shared a story about attending a celebration of life for a professional colleague and she marveled over his impact on so many people’s lives and how he connected people to people. And it got me to thinking about how each of us touch so many people in our day-to-day doings.
As my girl pals are also married to farmers and being in the Ag industry myself for 28 years, we are all familiar with the talk about a farmer’s “carbon footprint” that we leave on the ground we farm. And it came to me that each of us are responsible for our own “personal carbon footprint” that we leave on someone with each and every interaction. Sort of sobering, right? As I was pondering this, I recalled this older gentleman who was a grocery checker, and he would smile and greet each person warmly, however the difference was he was genuinely kind and was sincerely interested in how your day was going. And not only me but other women would choose to stay in his long checkout line simply because he made us feel valued not only as shoppers, but as a person. Remembering him and from my own experience as a service worker with the public in my teen years, I decided to make a habit during the Christmas season to give a random service worker a $50 or $100. This past Christmas, I felt compelled to stop into my fav coffee shop to give the person who served me a large tip. As I walked in, a sort of quiet and not overly friendly young woman waited on me. Seriously I wasn’t impressed by her attitude and was debating on the tip, but that gentle whisper in my heart said give her the tip. So, I placed my order, looked her in the eye and asked “how is your day going today”? Are you having a good day? This startled her, she looked closely at me to see if I was being genuine and then proceeded to tell me she was in pain with a shoulder injury and needed to get to a doctor. I told her I would pray for her and said, “I want to give you this $50 tip just for you in hopes it makes your day just a bit better.” She was speechless, then sort of teared up and profoundly thanked me. For me it was a gentle reminder that you truly never know what is going on within a person’s life and the best thing you can do is simply be kind. A few weeks later I stopped in to grab a coffee, she was behind the counter making drinks and I asked her how her shoulder was, she stopped what she was doing, looked up at me and that memory flashed back to her and a big ole smile crossed her face. She said she had gone to the doctor and was doing PT and feeling so much better.
That day I had left a good carbon footprint on someone. And as hard as I try, some days I know I miss the mark on being a gracious human. And if I’m honest and have a little bit of self-reflection, when I neglect myself and let too many demands invade my life, either by my own hand or from others, I find I am cranky, impatient and very stressed. Now I understand I’ve fallen off the Hygge wagon of nurturing myself as well as setting boundaries. It’s so easy to do, and I think probably every woman would understand, because it seems to be an internal reflex to want to take care of everyone and everything little thing and neglect our wellbeing. From my observation, it seems men have a better sense of prioritizing wellbeing by doing some kind of leisurely activity that nourishes them. They have not forgotten the art of playing or enjoying themselves.
And with that thought in mind, I hope this brings a bit of thought-provoking insight on your part if you are feeling the need to recharge your life. Do you need to embrace the Hygge lifestyle? It seems that practicing Hygge and being aware of our own personal “carbon footprint” that we leave on ourselves as well as others can shape our own happiness factor as well as being a positive force in the outside world. Maybe it’s time to slow down, turn off your gadgets and embrace the art of finding your place of coziness and slow living. After all, spring is on the horizon where new beginnings are emerging.
transformation
A Creative Approach to Living Your Most Authentic Life
As we head into spring and the cycle of renewal and rebirth, I think it is vitally important to reevaluate what is most important to us all. Even if desired outcomes feel a million miles away, the process of revival and maybe even reinvention is always worth the pain, heartache, and trials of the journey. Perhaps this is part of the reason that thrifting, upcycling, and creative reworking feels so valuable to me… Aside from my innate desire to protect our incredible planet and reduce my own consumption, thrifting and upcycling give me the ability to embrace a creative life at every opportunity. I honestly get so much joy out of creating new and beautiful items from the discarded and old. From the thrill of the thrift store hunt to the sometimes messy and creative process, it has become an outlet for my desire to put beautiful art- and good- into the world around me. Further, the idea that we all have-at our core-an incredible beauty just waiting to be rediscovered, is what drives me and fuels my passion. That maybe, just maybe with enough love and imagination (and a daring recognition of what could be)- that we will all find new life and new hope through patience, change, and a little bit of reworking; just like my favorite thrifted and upcycled objects.
If you know me at all, you know that my creative energy always needs an outlet. I am constantly in the middle of projects- whether it’s Christmas gifts that I am making year-round, putting together activities for kids to do in my workplace, or finding and revamping fun and unique items for my home, art and creativity not only play such an important role in my life- but it truly has become the medium in which my soul sings. It is the only place in my life that I have total freedom- that place in which all of the mundane gets forgotten and side swept, and I am able to truly get lost in passion and my purpose as an artist.
My purpose as an artist. There, I said it. Perhaps one of my life’s greatest missions is to show others that art and the creative process have the power to give people connection, confidence, and hope. That perhaps something like a DIY thrift store art project- the simple act of transforming something covered in dust (or something just sad and dull)- into something beautiful suddenly becomes a catalyst for helping others to find *and reshape* their own identities.
See, it’s so easy to get lost sometimes. The world does not stop moving, even if you feel as if you aren’t moving with it- and that alone, is daunting. Things quickly become overwhelming, relationships become strained, and things that maybe once brought you joy, somehow become lackluster over time. Before you know it, you feel as if maybe you are unseen- that maybe you are somehow a shell of what you used to be… or what you could be. You long for revival. Of your dreams, of your life goals- or maybe honestly just to climb up out of that slump you’ve been living in for so long. When we experience these moments, it is so easy to question everything: our path- the ultimate reason we are here, and what truly brings us purpose.
By
Jessica Wall
In fact, real transformation often requires us to question whether our path is the one we are meant to be on- or whether there is actually more to this life than we are currently allowing ourselves to experience… Sometimes, perhaps- it takes real moments of clarity, tough journeys, and dare I say- pain and suffering- to realize our full potential. And honestly, this isn’t just a story- or even made up feel better words of encouragement. This resonates so strongly with me, as I have spent the last few years of my life finding and redefining my new sense of hope and vision. You see, in 2018 I was diagnosed with very aggressive breast cancer. It gutted me. My kids were young, and I just couldn’t imagine them growing up without a mom. I had also lost so many loved ones from this disease, and so I knew first-hand the toll it takes on people. On families. I am not going to sugar coat it- there were so many dark days along that journey, and I found myself questioning my purpose so frequently. I remember one time in the beginning of treatment, my mom telling me “Never give up- even on the worst days… even when you feel like it- and there will be days that you feel like it. Just know that you are loved and supported, and we are all here for you.” I will never forget those words, as they brought real validation and hope to a miserable experience. An awful, terrible and gut-wrenching experience full of fear, pain, and despair. In the middle of that fear, pain, and despair however- there was beauty. Every time I travelled across the water for treatment in the city, I eagerly watched for my all-time, most favorite animal on this planet: orcas. And you know what… sometimes I saw them! To me, they represented strength, love, and hope for the future. In fact, modern interpretations of orcas within contemporary culture symbolize resilience and freedom. They inspire artistic expression, resonating with human themes of interconnectedness and the natural world. Simply put, every encounter was spiritual in a way that I cannot explain, and every encounter gave me the motivation I needed to keep going.
I was lucky. I am still here. But with that being said, life no longer looks the same. Physically, mentally, emotionally, or otherwise. As I crawled out of a 3-year treatment regiment, I have had to reinvent myself along the way. Sometimes I miss the carefree days of pre-cancer, but other days I am grateful for the lessons that having a life-threatening disease can often bring. Please note that I want to take the opportunity here to honor the fact that not everyone has the same experience and acknowledge that my optimism can sting for those who do not share my same sentiment or path. But this is my truth. Cancer brought me down hard, but it didn’t have the final say. For now, every day that I wake up is a beautiful reminder that my life is my own reinvention. I am free to sit in my pain, and the longing for what used to be- and then rise above and figure out what I truly want out of this life. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable, but sometimes it’s glorious- full of hope, wonder, and dare I say: freedom.
So, as you consider these words in the context of a DIY project, remember that when you embark in the creative process, you are giving a new life and beauty to something that can feel hopeless. With a little bit of imagination and vision for better things to come, we can truly transform anything we choose to. We alone have the power to breathe new purpose into the mundane, worn down, and lackluster.
For this project (and article) I found a piece of thrift store art that was dirty, buried, and long cast aside. Passed over by countless others, in it I saw true possibility. Where they saw dusty grime and cliché word art, I just knew that this piece could serve as the base for something even more amazing.
Through some paint and inner reflection, I was able to create something that not only brings me immense joy every time I look at it- but also serves as a reminder of the power of transformation, hope, and the spirit of resilience. Now this once hasbeen shines with new life, and a new story. For me, this is the very archetype of how I desire to live out whatever years I have in this beautiful world. Like this piece of art, my soul is renewed.
Martha’s Journal spring: part 3
From Martha Lorang, b. 1897, of White Spring Ranch, Genesee…
“Dad planted wheat, barley, oats, and hay in usually half of his acreage and left the rest in summer fallow - where a great deal of it was planted with corn, potatoes, pumpkins, and squash. All this was hoed and cultivated – I did a lot of weeding row by row. One year, I got $5.00 for my work. We girls picked our potatoes and sacked them.
Usually our cellar, that was connected to the house, would have a foot or two of water in the springtime, but would go into the ground as summer approached. The cellar was usually stocked with jellies, preserves, and canned fruits – pears, cherries, and prunes. We ate most of the berries during the summer. Before we had a cream separator, we also had fewer cows and less milk. At that time, we used to put the milk in pans and set them down in the cellar and skim the thick cream from them as it rose to the top and it was thick and delicious.
We had many large gatherings at our house – dinner parties, dance parties, and card parties.
Dad had trouble trying to pay for the farm. He borrowed $300.00 from Matt Kambitsch and almost lost the farm because he had difficulty paying for it. I think it was one year when we were rained out, in the 1900’s. We had wet grain stored in the grainery and the hired men, who were living at our place that winter just for room and board, went into the grain bin every day to turn the wheat to keep it from getting hot and mouldy. I was told this but do not remember it. I do remember one year when we were hailed out. We were in Moscow with Mother and Dad buying clothing for us and were on the way home when we saw the hail in the distance. Dad said, “I can see it, we are hailed out,” and we were. Some if it was cut for hay – I was very young when that happened.
Dad never had an English education. He went to a German school in Johnsburg, Wisconsin. Mother had English in her school and after their marriage, Mother helped Dad to read and write in English. They both had a beautiful German handwriting. Dad had trouble spelling, but did a great job and was always for perfection.
Education for the children was as follows: Peter had, in addition to grade school, several years at Washington State College in Pullman, Washington, as also did Barney.
by DIANE CONROY
Henry had high school in Genesee, Idaho, and Northwestern Business College in Spokane, Washington. Albert attended Lacey College, as well as having grade school in Genesee, Idaho. Christine and Amalia had grade school in Genesee, Idaho, and further education at the Convent in Colton, Washington. Bertha had 8the grade school in Genesee, Idaho, and Northwestern Business College, Spokane, Washington, Martha had grade school and high school in Genesee, Idaho, and Northwestern Business College, Spokane, Washington and later while employed in Spokane, Washington, took 2-years of a Certified Public Accounting course and Commercial Law at Kinman University – at nights- in Spokane, Washington. Viola had grade school and high school education in Genesee, Idaho, and also Northwestern Business College, Spokane, Washington. Charles had grade school and some high school in Genesee, Idaho. He graduated from high school at Gonzaga School in Spokane, Washington.
My remembrance of Genesee is in the teens. On the south side of the main street, was Sampson’s Barber Shop, Hasfurther Hardware Store, Clark’s Drug Store, Rader Meat Market, Follett’s General Merchandise, Meyers Implement Store, and Gus Fickens Blacksmith Shop on the street further south. Also, a livery stable. On the north side of the main street was a bank on one corner and an Exchange Bank across the street, where Fred K. Bressler was President, and Charlie Whalen (Amalia’s husband) was the cashier. Later, Don Bressler worked there with his father. Also, on the north side was a real estate office, a law office, and Smolt’s Confectionery.
The confectionery store started out as Wm. Smolt Cigars (he manufactured and sold them). His wife was Mother’s sister, Christine. Besides helping a lot in the store, she had a millinery store next door. There was a telephone office on the off street north of Main Street and a dentist’s office as well. Dr. Hasbrook was the dentist in earlier times and Dr. Leavett in the teens and 20’s. We also had a post office on north street. To the west of the city is a park and the Genesee High School. Then on up the hill, the Catholic Church, and the school, and Lutheran Church.
My sister, Christine, was the telephone operator at the telephone company about 1911. It was operated manually and had a switchboard. A call coming in would light up the jack and a led line was lifted and plugged into the jack. The person calling gave the number wanted and another lead was lifted and plugged into the jack of the number wanted, and they were ready to converse. With that experience, Christine went on to Spokane, Washington, and worked for the telephone company for another 45 years, until she retired at the age of 65 with a nice pension.
My Dad and Mother, John and Mary, traveled for six months through Europe, the Holy Land and visited Lourdes of France and the Sphinx in Egypt in 1910 at a cost of $3,500 with money earned from operating the farm. We had a diversified farm and many avenues of income to make this possible.
When we drove to Genesee with horses, we had to hitch our horse or horses to a hitching post. I usually tied my horse to the hitching post at St. Mary’s Catholic Church and walked the two blocks to the business areas. Mother drove to town but with a very tame horse named “Kate.”
Near the spring that supplied water to the house and barn, there was a pond. Dad had goldfish planted there and, every year, he sold them and took some of them to the Davenport Hotel in Spokane, Washington, in a five-gallon kerosene can with slits in the top for air. Every now and then some fish were stolen from the pond.
We had a small horse – it was not a Shetland, just small. I used to get on him and ride bareback with legs clinched around him. I had no bridle – just flying high in the wind wherever he would take me. One time, when I was in the open field back of the barn, there were other loose horses there too, so my little horse started running, and all the other loose horses were at my heels. I was very scared and, coming down a steep hill, I fell off. I bragged that I jumped off, but I did not, I fell off. Imagine all the horses back of me – running over me – luckily they did not pound me into the ground.
One year Mother let me go to the country school, which was the Thorncreek School – all eight-grade school. Instead of going by the road, we went through fields following fence lines. I was in the second grade. It was stove-heated and the toilet was an outside privy. In school, I sat in the back and instead of studying, I would look over at the boys on the opposite side. Miss Carpenter decided to place me in the front seat. That did not help as then I looked backward – where more things were of interest. She took me and set me on the top of the desk facing all the children so I bent forward to almost double as I was so ashamed. How long that lasted, I do not know. We played games, girls and boys together, Many times I came home with my dress torn – playing “Pump-pumppull-away” – as I would not stop when I was tagged. I must have been like the wild little horse. Katie Mertes, our second cousin, was older and used to carry an umbrella to shield the sun, so we used to throw dirt clods at her umbrella. She never did anything about it and just kept walking.
It must have been in 1911 when Christine was working in the telephone office. Viola, Charles, and I lived with Christine in a house Grandpa Gesellchen gave Mother in Genesee, Idaho. It was on the south side, near the railroad tracks. It wasn’t much of a house, but it saved us from walking back and forth from the ranch. The house was heated by a heater in the living room and a cookstove in the kitchen,
Dad died in 1926. He went to water and feed the calves or cow in the evening. Mother waited for him to come back. He did not return and she was afraid to investigate. She was alone and Henry was not there at that time. She called Bill Borgen, who came and found him. The water was still running for the animals and he was on the hay with his hat on. He apparently had stomped with his feet in the hay – likely from pain. He possibly died from gas crowding his heart. Mother collapsed when told of it. Dr. Gritman from Moscow came to attend to her and looked after her for several days.
We had a black dog for years, we called, “Buff”. He would follow our rig when we left. We also had a spotted dog we called “Sport.” Charles had a cat he called his “Sister Cat.”
The house as it stands on the farm has, downstairs – a parlor, dining room, living room, sewing room, kitchen, cellar, washroom, toilet and bath, a hall with bedroom off the hall, and one bedroom off the parlor. There are four bedrooms upstairs. The bedroom off the hall was Mother and Father’s bedroom. From the washroom, there is a stairway that leads to two rooms up there, which were used for sleeping rooms for the hired men. Also I remember a crawl-in place back of the woodshed that was entered from the outside. It was used at times for sleeping quarters for the men.
In the early spring, Viola and I would go into Borgen’s field to pick Yellow Bells, Blue Bells and Bird Bills, and bring them to Mother with heavy mud on our shoes, but we never got scolded.”
Tune in next time for the continuing adventures of the Lorang family at White Spring Ranch, Genesee.
1 if by Land 20,000 if by Sea
Every one of us living in this special region has experienced its magic. There is a certain draw, a siren song that emanates from the land itself and calls us to its embrace. We drive dusty country roads, beset on all sides by the rolling hills of the Palouse, with miniature valleys ushering us along under the path as the windblown waves of earth that flank us pass in measured succession. Wheat sways softly against the breeze now, and long before it was ever planted here the native grasses did the same. Hawks on high circle and are lost to our sight as the pass before the golden sun, only to reemerge at an even loftier vantage after riding a thermal to new heights. We hear the rivers lap the shore and break and gurgle over rocks before rejoining in a dissipation of whitewater and a continued pursuit of lower elevations and greater flow enroute to the sea.
We can stand atop manmade grades that follow carefully down natural descents and behold the splendor of cities below – their only separation the rivers and their backdrop the foothills that run all the way to peaks of the Rocky Mountains. It is a land that even after development still finds itself imbued with a rugged and untamable spirit. Where mountain goats still hold fast to craggy outcrops as they balance above the alluvial fans that untold seasons of rain have carved into the foreground of our prized vistas. Where nature still rules the hillside and stunted, scraggy brush drops widely weaving roots into soil that has still never felt the plow. And when we travel, taking with us the descriptions of this majestic land that we call home, from the gently rolling hills, to majestic river canyons, everyone we share it with stares at our photos, hears our words and comes away longing to either see or even settle in our little slice of paradise. Few words or descriptions do it justice, and though comparisons may be attempted, they always fall short of the mark.
I’ve always felt that it cheapens the experience when someone says that we are the Tuscany of America. Those splendid Italian hills could look upon our endless array of perfectly proportional crop covered dunes and come away wanting – knowing that they have no answer for the declaration of perfection of place that is sung daily from every mountain in miniature that makes up our prized landscape.
by Tony Niccoli
Its unimaginable to me that anyone could ever look out on this region and not see a wonderful place to call home. Its understandable that for so many centuries and millennia innumerable people have. To follow the twisting rivers deeper into the cavernous canyons, to dip your toes in the cold water that so recently had been snow upon the peaks, and to taste the bounty of fish and game that make passage along these superhighways of the natural world, to experience the clouds riding high overhead adding occasional accent to boundless sky that seems to stretch for miles, all of it is a connecting act that tethers you to the terra firma underfoot. You realize that you a just as far from being the first person to fall in love with land as you are from being the last. Someday this will all be gone. Thankfully, that time will come long after we are all comfortably gone, but someday this land will cease to exist as we know it today. Perhaps it will be the Yellowstone Creator that swallows the Palouse and the river canyons we adore, or the ocean may move its shores to come to meet us here, it may even be the return of a great period of glaciation that stretches farther south than it ever did before. However, the end slowly descends on the land and erases any remaining recognition of the nature we currently enjoy, at least we know that it will be replaced elsewhere in the creation of a new home for those most distant of descendants of ours that venture into the unknown to seek a new place to settle their families. But if we cannot fathom the tolling of the bell that marks the ending of this place we hold in our hearts, perhaps we can manage to understand a little more about the beginning – the time when people first looked out on the land and decided that this was it, here is where they would stop wandering and start living.
a marvel without name or comparison
If you harken back to your elementary school texts then the answer seems simple. During the last ice age the sea levels dropped and a land bridge was exposed, connecting what we now know as Siberia and Alaska. Following migratory animals and in pursuit of more habitable domains, the bravest of explorers risked everything to move entire tribes in what have must seemed a surreal landscape that first followed along a nearly frozen ocean shore, and then trekked inland to traverse a narrow gap between two towering sheets of ice that rose up as far as a mile overhead. Eventually they turned south, channeled by the only open ground that was not on top of the glaciers and exited the frozen wonderland to find a paradise that was waiting just beyond. And like most simplifications it is at once both elegant and informative, but also possibly inaccurate. The idea that people could have made this journey without the incredibly fortunate window of opportunity afforded by the separation of the two major ice sheets building a livable path boggles the mind. To the west, the Cordilleran Ice Sheet was covering much of the Aleutian Islands, the southern Yukon, and all of British Columbia. It ran from the coast, uninterrupted until it reached the Mackenzie and Rocky Mountains. And for thousands of years that meant that it ran directly into the Laurentide Ice Sheet. Starting just east of the Cordilleran, the Laurentide was even more massive, running all the way up to Arctic in the north, down to the Great Lakes region where it-
-dipped furthest south, and clear out to the Atlantic Ocean on its eastern border.
So, what would that mean for human travel when the two sheets were conjoined? People are resilient, innovative, and adaptable –they always have been. But can you possibly imagine traveling all those thousands of miles on the top of a sheet of ice that was over a mile high? With no vegetation, no fresh water without finding a fuel source to melt ice, and no game to hunt? Is it even conceivable to wonder if families could make that journey while carrying enough supplies to sustain them along the way? Well, if the overice idea is unthinkable, then the timeline for their journey must fit precisely between the opening of the land bridge from Asia, the division of the two glacial ice sheets into separated boundaries at the end of the ice age, the inhabitation of flora and fauna flourishing within that space, and the first evidence of humans settling on the North American continent. And for a very long while, at least certainly when the books we read as children were printed, everything fit neatly in that window required for that elegant simplification.
The ice-free corridor would have opened at least around 14,000 years ago, it would have become passable for migrating humans a few hundred years later, and the earliest evidence of settlement was appearing shortly after that. It seemed safe to say that people walked across the Beringia land bridge, were funneled by the restrictive corridor, and popped out in the south – eventually continuing along in that direction to warmer areas where the living conditions better suited them. Everything worked out until older settlements were found.
Tossing out that land bridge idea that had seemed so intuitive to all of us after repeating it so often in our early education, what would be the next most likely path of migration? Perhaps along the coast. Traveling by boat, hugging the shores, it would have been entirely possible for a brave and seafaring group to make the same journey across continents, but well before there was any hospitable opening in the great sheets of ice. They could have traveled down the coast of British Columbia, gone south past the frozen inlet of what would become the Salish Sea, and found coastal Washington free of ice, uninhabited by humans, and positively perfect after such a difficult journey. There, they would have discovered a greater abundance of marine and coastal life, with forgeable landscapes beckoning them to continue to the south. Eventually they would arrive at the mouth of the awesome Columbia River. Wouldn’t that be an ideal point to turn the journey inland?
As they traveled upstream, we would call the land they saw to the north Washington, and to the south Oregon, but to them it would have been a marvel without name or comparison. The trees, bushes and grasses all foreign to them like something from a fever dream. Wild beasts and bountiful birds awaited their first hunting expeditions, and incredible animals now long extinct would have presented a worth challenge of even the best prepared tribes. Life would be better here, south of the ice and worlds away from the lands of their origin. The rivers carried them inland, and people could have settled and expanded, enjoying the environment they had found. No doubt it is grand there, but still the call of our interior splendor was waiting to be found.
The Columbia River would eventually lead them to the Snake River, and from there they could travel that great tributary to the Salmon River closer to our homes here in the Quad-Cities region. Finally, gazing out on the cannons that make up the backdrop of our local they would have seen what we so admire today. They-
may have picked a prime piece of land where the river bends and the shore offers a nice flat expanse of gently treed land just in the shadow of the protective hills and canyons. A home that they could make permanent, where they could develop their community and raise successive generations.
Along the banks Salmon River, just upstream from the confluence where it dumps into the Snake, beside the drainage of Rock Creek there is just such a place. West of Grangeville, and sitting about 12 miles south of Cottonwood is a historic settlement that the Nez Perce call Nipéhe. The superb location has everything that makes the region so charming. And visitors that take the time to venture out there today are quickly transported back to a distant era when the Pacific Northwest was far more sparsely populated, and rugged but welcoming landscapes stretched for days in all directions. The sun shines just a little brighter in an area like this, the bird chirp in tones somehow more divine, and the wind knows just the way to lightly dance across the tops of the swaying brush in patterns that set the soul at ease. With the cacophony of the modern world so removed from the nature around you the river can be heard clearly, intoning its millennia of wisdom to hearts willing to listen. This is big water but not frighteningly so, with gently smoothed stones that line banks and central depths that can support the largest of fish. Its current cool and swift, but its shores approachable and always inviting for a summer session of barefoot wading. When your mind slows and clears like the crisp blue sky that has been patiently herding the last of the wispy clouds away just as you have allowed your passing thoughts to dissipate, the sense of place can fully engulf you. You can feel the history in your bones and smell the dream-like remnants of their bounty and cook fires still wafting on the wind.
To the Nez Perce, Nipéhe has always been known to be an ancient place, where a young couple built a home together after having to leave their place of birth when it was destroyed in a flood. They tell of a settlement that flourished on the banks of the Salmon River and produced generations of people that stretch back far beyond any history we can fathom. Their oral traditions have passed on the tale of those first two voyagers arriving by boat in this ancient place and realizing that it was the home for which they had been searching. To those with the ears to listen and heart to hear it had always been so, millennia before the language of the Europeans would arrive and the spot would become Cooper’s Ferry, this special place had been Nipéhe, and it was old beyond imagination. But for many of the latter settlers in the area, those oral traditions had just been imaginary stories. Until one day the earth began to give up her precious treasure which had so long been hidden below our feet.
Archaeological work in the 1960 produced recognizably old projectile points, but there wasn’t any certain dating available at the time to tell the tale of just how long people had hunted and fished this shore. More work was done in the 1970’s, but it was not until much later that startling results would begin to come out into the light. In 1997, Loren Davis was working as an archaeologist for the Federal Government with the Bureau of Land Management attempting to locate and record important sites. He had been educating himself about previous dig sites in the area, and decided to dig a test pit at Cooper’s Ferry to see if he would be able to learn more about the specific dating for the deposit that had been recognized in earlier work. He went all the way down to loess soil that makes up so much of the features left in our region – particulate that had been blown on the winds during the time of the glaciers.
And that’s when he started to discover a circular, gravel-covered pit that contained man-made objects. A human had dug this out thousands of years ago, during or before the time that those glacial dust fragments were being blown around. And in their pit, they had left 4 spear points at the bottom, and various stone tools in the and dirt they used to refill the hole. They had marked the top with gravel, perhaps a sign to remind them where the tools were hidden at some later date.
The dating for the objects he found here came back at around 13,200 years ago. Already, this was looking like one of the very oldest finds in the Americas and an important discovery. Loren moved on to finish his PHD, but would eventually return to attempt to find more. Working with the Nez Perce and BLM, Dr. Davis and his team from Oregon State decided to take on a much larger scale excitation in an attempt to answer many more questions about the lives of the ancient people that had made their home on this river bank, and see if they could pin down even more evidence to support the incredibly early dates of settlement. Returning from 2009 – 2018, Dr. Davis and the archaeologists, students, and volunteers that accompanied him found more pits, a hearth, an area where food may have been processed, and even animal bones – including some from a now-extinct type of horse. They also came across more wonderfully preserved, razor sharp stone projectiles. Many of these artifacts have now been conclusively dated to between 14,000 and 16,000 years ago.
These dates force the timing back before what would be considered as an acceptable time to journey through the ice-free corridor. That does more than just change the probable migration to one of a sea-fearing group that hugged the coasts and moved by boat rather than coming overland and down the ice-free gap further into the continent. It also opens the possibility for even earlier settlement. No longer constrained by the exact timing to thread the needle of the corridor, these maritime navigators would have been able to arrive thousands of years earlier than previously projected. Perhaps the settlement at Nipéhe was one of the very first, or perhaps far beneath the current Pacific coast, on wide swaths of land that had been exposed during the late ice age but is now deep under water, even older settlements silently wait for a day that we can find them. One thing that is fun to ponder is the suggestion that many of the projectile points found here in Idaho, ones dated to up to 16,000 years before present, very closely match projectile points found in northern Japan on the island of Hokkaido, which date from the same period of time, and even earlier.
Its fascinating to wonder and just how far these people traveled to end up near the borders of what we now call Idaho, Washington, and Oregon. Had they been born somewhere along the journey, or from parents that had been living on this continent for generations before the earliest finds that we have so far? Did they spend their whole lives living on the banks of the Salmon River, or just used this location as one of many seasonal stops as they traveled the land making the most of all that nature provided? How far did their social connections range, and were they in contact with other people spread all across the region? And just how many generations may have loved this little piece of earth before any of us arrived to see it and fall in love ourselves.
We might not have the definite answers to many questions about precisely how or when they came. But all we have to do is take a look for ourselves today, and it becomes easy to answer the why. Not necessarily the why of their decision to leave behind their previous homes – but certainly the why of their decision to choose this place as where they would call home.
Live to Garden Garden to live k
part 1: Basil
Trent Morgan by
Have you ever wondered what draws YOU to the garden? Not everyone, after all, is so inclined. A cool morning breeze on your skin for an early weeding, or later, the warm soak of the afternoon sun through a worn shirt; a reprieve from a day spent staring at a computer screen? Perhaps memories of good times spent with a father or grandmother with dirt squishing between your bare toes? As an adult, the need for a few moments unplugged, using your hands in a basic and natural simplicity—moments of mindfulness? With summer visible on the horizon, there will be the rewards; fresh fruits and vegetables that you know you grew, that are wholesome, and you nurtured from a tiny seed or tender start. Maybe it is an experimental, inquisitive tendency to try something new you saw on a YouTube video or read in a magazine. Are we drawn on a deeper, subconscious, cellular level? We have discussed before the intricate balance our bodies’ immune systems have with microbes that we touch, smell, and taste: for instance, when we pull a baby carrot, wipe it off, and crunch its fresh grandeur. I’ve been doing that since I was a kid and never once thought that would hurt me, though a bit gritty. This “land connection” even has a name—The Farm Effect. The Farm Effect relates to the science behind the reasons that those closest to the land have some sort of advantage in boosting natural immunity. Another reason to be drawn to the garden, orchard, and greenhouse. For me, there is a sense of deep well-being in the therapeutic sights, smells, textures, and sounds of the family garden harvest. It remains but a hobby as it must be for most of us, but it seems hard-wired. My soul and cells need, demand more.
The first humans did get their start in a garden. Every one of our ancestors was, at some time, a successful gatherer or cultivator of some kind, well acquainted with plants, soil, and seasons. In western culture we forget there are peoples who still depend completely on toiling in the soil to live or die. In our “first world” we have professional gardeners filling the shelves at the local markets with an unfathomable diversity of food that somewhere all started as a seed or tuber from a tree or vine. These foods commercially grown around the world are processed and shipped, wrapped and packaged, to be laid out before us. Or, even more convenient, further processed and packaged hot and ready, so we don’t even have to pause long enough to get out of our cars for the grab-and-go. For all that is gained in the modern food industry and agriculture, what have we lost to the detriment of our health? For convenience, for efficiency, for productivity? Not just lost nutritionally and wholistically, but lost in the process of the cultivation and interactions with nature and family? This makes me motivated to grow more.
I have a pretty significant garden space and yet it amounts to a few tasty herbs here, a tossed salad there, fresh salsa for fun and canning, and pride in sharing late summer cantaloupes, sweet corn, and baking potatoes in season; just a hobby really. If you can live off of what you grow and preserve and are doing so; I am jealous! That is not practical for most of us, but could we close the gap to at least grow, preserve, and consume home-grown food-medicine that we need to be well? As I pause to snap off a sprig of parsley, enjoying its bitter fresh flavor, I wonder, Will this little offering of freshness make a difference in my health? For the skeptic in me, and for readers, I wonder, do our efforts make us healthier or is this just a feel-good hobby we share? I have concluded the answer is overwhelmingly YES to both. This should bring us real excitement and joy!
Today, let us explore a tasty practical home “remedy” for which you can grow simple ingredients. You can plant them now and consume later to help you feel and be better. Combine what you can grow, locally source and even forage with a few positive lifestyle changes, and you will be amazed at the physical and emotional control you can gain over your health. Sometimes getting started is best done by breaking things down to the simple ingredients and a simple plan. Let us do that, and start with basil and garlic.
I have worked side by side with some great folks during my long career in nursing. It can be intense, challenging work, and bonds of friendship grow quickly and run deep. Most nurses have a nurturing “gene” embedded somewhere in their brains, probably right next to the investigator gene when it comes to solving problems. Many nurses are passionate gardeners. Their desire to keep things alive seems to extend beyond the people world to the plant world. One of these friends I have to thank for my current obsession with basil. Thanks, Heather! No, really, thank you.
It might seem strange to some, how Heather and I met. She kept calling me at odd hours of the night. My flip phone would ring and I would answer, trying to brush off sleep as she would say something like “Sorry to wake you, but I need to tell you about a patient I need your help with…” When you get woken up a lot for your job, it is nice to have a voice on the other end who gives you a minute to shake out the cobwebs as you realize you’re not going to get a good night’s sleep. Heather is an obstetrical nurse and early in her career and mine, we worked at a hospital together where I took anesthesia calls and she worked the night shift in labor and delivery. Let me just say, not everyone was so kind as Heather with those wake-up calls for laboring mamas needing an epidural.
Since those days, Heather and I have both moved on in different ways, though she still works locally in the labor and delivery setting when she is not doing serious work with her homestead. She does not have to call ME at two a.m. anymore thankfully, but I am now obsessed with growing basil, thanks to a different type of wake-up call from her! Heather Thorton-Witters is a Community Herbalist who gives lectures and prior to one of these interactive lectures that I attended, I had not gained a true appreciation for basil pesto. A sample of her simple fresh pesto changed all of that. WOW! That one little taste, linked with understanding the powerful punch of the simple combination of ingredients has led to an obsession in trying to grow the volume of basil needed to supply my new habit. I eat pesto almost every day and realize I can easily grow and locally source the ingredients for my new habit. I have found out that basil, a key ingredient, is expensive, -
-and not that easy to grow in our climate, even with a greenhouse and a drive to make it work. Challenge accepted! It takes a lot of basil to meet my current habit. I can solve the problem if I can figure out how to produce bundles in my greenhouse early for transfer outside later, when we get the June warm-up. Besides the wonderful flavor of pesto, why am I adding it to my diet as often as possible? Simply put, the ingredients in basil pesto are a power punch for healthy living and a perfect example of something you can grow for your health. Did you catch that? You can grow this. Basically: garlic, basil, walnuts, a cheese of some type, olive oil, lemon juice, and a bit of salt and pepper are ground into a paste. Let us talk about the ingredients you can grow and how to grow or source them to help you feel more empowered to support your health, mood, and wellness.
Pesto is an Italian word of action meaning “to pound.” As in, mashing or food processing ingredients together until it is a smooth paste. Crushing the basil, garlic and other ingredients helps make available the wonderful nutrients they possess. Other ways to extract nutritional value from foods are to make tinctures and extracts, but that is a discussion for another time. Herbs other than basil can be used to make pesto such as cilantro, mint, sorrel, parsley, or dill. I learned all of this, by the way, from Heather. I’m sticking with basil in my garden, so the next question is, which variety should I grow, and which is best to use? You can start plants from seeds or cuttings. Use the type you can find in stores now, and soon garden stores will offer varieties of potted herbs. Some sources say there are up to two hundred varieties of basil. I have started ten from seed in my greenhouse. Some are doing better than others. I have learned to wait until nights stay above fifty degrees before transplanting them outside. Seeds take a while but you can propagate plants from cuttings, which I am doing as well. Take healthy long cuttings and set them in a warm sunny window in clean water and they should root in one to two weeks. You may need to change the water and some find that trimming the cutting just below a leaf node works best. They will want warmth and indirect sunlight to start. The most common basil found in stores is sweet or Genovese basil. I’m looking forward to seeing the differences in my basil plants for growing ease and taste. Holy or Tulsi basil is the most researched variety and commonly attributed to having the greatest medicinal potency. Besides being a strong antioxidant and anti-bacterial, basil is known for its positive effects on cardiovascular, gastrointestinal, and immune systems. It is also known to help treat anxiety and depression as well as help control blood sugar levels. And, it tastes wonderful.
I have heard that garlic can kill some types of cancer cells in a petri dish. I don’t know if there is a double-blind randomized study to prove this, but it has been seen as a golden-bullet for health for thousands of years, so I’m going say it is possible. Since garlic is easy to grow, with powerful medicinal and flavorful properties, it is a must-grow in any garden big or small. Somehow, I almost always forget to plant garlic in the fall as the momentum is in harvesting and putting things to bed, not planting. This November, during a couple of warm-up days in Lewiston, I had a wonderful afternoon, planting garlic cloves with my two-year-old grandson. He had more fun than I did. Using his designated stick to poke a two-inch hole in the loamy soil I had tilled, he moved in feverish fashion as I dodged the stick end and tried to keep up. He had a hard time accepting that one clove-
-per hole was enough, and I spent my time digging cloves up and making sure the growing plates were pointing down. We’re going to find out if that is a big deal or not as I’m sure I missed righting many of them. You can plant garlic in the early spring so it is not too late to get some in the ground, though you may need to use culinary garlic as seed; garlic from the grocery store. Seed garlic likely will produce a better garden result, but sometimes you have to use what is available.
Other ingredients: Walnuts are abundant in our region, thanks to a favorable climate and a proliferative population of squirrels planting trees. Thus, I am using walnuts in my pesto. I gathered two wheelbarrows of them last fall and I bet no one in our region has a hard time finding local sourced walnuts. Pine nuts are a tasty ingredient, but expensive, and almost exclusively sourced from China. It seems like they should be a Western United States product. It turns out that is true. Down another rabbit trail with my forester friend Richey Schaeffer where I found out what we know as pine nuts come from the Pinion Pine—native to the Southern Rocky Mountains. China is growing our nuts! Well, that’s okay and Richey tells me Ponderosa Pine nuts are similar and very tasty. Add another camping trip to my schedule—one to find a local forest squirrel cache and do some foraging. Go through the rest of the ingredients for basil pesto and see how healthy they are. Of course, olive oil supports the immune and circulatory system; rich in monounsaturated fatty acids (MUFAs), which lower "bad" LDL cholesterol. For the salt ingredient, I have been using Celtic Sea salt which naturally contains magnesium, calcium and potassium. Lemon juice is packed with vitamin C and antioxidants. For the cheese, I like to use parmesan due to its sturdy flavor, high calcium content and probiotic properties developed during the aging process. Plant and grow now, invigorated that you can make use of the herbs and produce.
“Food is medicine” – Hippocrates; Greek philosopher, physician and herbalist. I wonder what he grew in his garden? Whatever it was, I am sure he knew, as do we, what we grow can make a difference in our health and well-being. So go, grow, and pound with vigor!
Recipe: Basil Pesto Complements of Heather Witters
2 cups fresh basil leaves, tightly packed (may substitute other herbs)
¾ cups shredded parmesan cheese
½ cup walnuts or pine nuts
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
2-3 garlic cloves (large)
¼ cup lemon juice
½ teaspoon salt, or to taste
¼ teaspoon black pepper
Wash and dry basil leaves. Place basil in food processor or mortar, add cheese, nuts, garlic cloves, lemon juice, olive oil and salt/ pepper. Process (“pound”) until smooth. Season with more salt to taste and enjoy on crackers, bread, pasta, or by the spoonful!
Otis! the Oh, Shenanigans
Otis put the rubber band around his big toe, pulled it back as far as he could, aimed, and let go. The red stretchy circle shot off his toe and whizzed through the air. Smack! It hit the television screen right in the middle of Erica Kane’s forehead. He giggled and got up to grab the band on the floor to do it again. He sat down on the couch, looped the band around his big toe again, pulled back, aimed, and released. Smack! This time it nailed Jenny Gardner in the cheek, just as she was going in to kiss Greg Nelson. Otis giggled again and fetched the rubber band.
Otis was bored, stuck at home during Spring Break. Chores complete, crappy weather, and nothing but soap operas on TV. Everyone else was gone—his mom and grandma went shopping, his siblings were working, and his dad was at Grandpa Ed’s shop servicing equipment to get ready for Spring Work. His mom and grandma had always watched the soap opera All My Children, so Otis knew all the characters. He hated soap operas, with all the kissing and fighting. He’d found a large rubber band on the floor under the couch as he was vacuuming that morning and had stuck it in his pocket in case he needed it. He ate lunch in front of the TV and had devised the toe shooting game, a seemingly harmless pursuit to kill the doldrums.
A commercial came on, and he loaded up his toe shooter again and pulled back, ready to aim for the big tuna named Charlie on the screen. He lined up the rubber band with Charlie’s tail and pulled back as far as it would stretch. Smack! Only this time, it didn’t hit the television screen.
It would take about fifteen minutes for Ed to drive Otis to the eye doctor. Bill and Anne Durbin ran the clinic in town, and thankfully, were willing to see Otis since it was an emergency. Otis had frantically called Ed’s shop, and since Marvel was out making a parts run, it was up to Ed to take Otis to deal with his injured eye.
Episode 28 Buddies
by Temple Kinyon
“So, what in Sam Hill were you doing to get into this pickle?” Ed asked his grandson, who held a bag of frozen peas over his right eye.
“Shooting a rubber band off my big toe,” Otis said. “I pulled it back, and whammo, it came off the wrong way and snapped me in the eye.”
Ed shook his head and chuckled. “Oh, Otis, only you could shoot your eye out screwing around with a rubber band.”
“Thanks for taking me to Dr. Durbin,” Otis said. “I’m probably going to go blind in my right eye. Or worse, I have to get glasses because I messed it up.”
“Can you see out of it?”
“I can’t really open it very well,” Otis said. He pulled the peas away from his eye. Tears streamed from his right eye. He struggled to open it. “I think I can see.”
“Then you’ll probably be fine,” Ed said. “And if you do go blind in that eye, you can always get it removed and get a fake glass one.”
Otis looked at Ed to see if he was serious.
Ed laughed and looked back at Otis. “It’s a thing, I swear.”
“Wow,” Otis breathed. “That would be kinda cool.”
Ed laughed. “So in order of worst case scenario to best case scenario, it goes glasses, then going blind, then getting a glass eye?”
“Yep,” Otis said.
“You really don’t want to wear glasses, do you?”
“Nope,” Otis replied. And he meant it.
"So dramatic," Ed chuckled.
They pulled into the eye clinic parking lot and walked inside. “Hello, Otis and Ed,” Anne Durbin said. She ran the office, while her husband was the eye doctor. “I’ll get you checked in.”
Otis smiled in spite of his mood. He liked Anne. She was pretty, smelled nice, and always made him feel special.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your eye,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll get things figured out in a jiffy.” She bustled around the corner of the reception desk and walked down the hallway. Otis flopped down in a waiting room chair next to his grandpa and took off his coat. A heavy sigh escaped.
“So dramatic,” Ed chuckled. “You okay? Does it hurt much?”
“Not really,” Otis lamented. “Mom and Dad are going to kill me.”
“Nah, you’re worth more to them alive than dead,” Ed teased.
“The doctor is ready for you!” Anne said. She took the now unfrozen pea pack from Otis and laid it on her desk, then led the way down the hallway lined with framed photos of beautiful people wearing glasses and having fun. They arrived at the last room on the right. The big spaceship-looking exam chair sat large and foreboding in the corner of the dimly lit room. She told Otis to take a seat, and he climbed into the monstrosity of an exam chair. A lit-up letter chart illuminated the wall opposite Otis. He tried to open his bad eye, but it hurt too much. He focused on what he could see on the chart with his left eye. “Oh, Otis, that’s cheating,” Anne smiled and flicked a switch behind the chair. The chart disappeared. “Tell me exactly how you hurt your eye.”
His embarrassment flooded his cheeks in a flush. Anne would think he was the dumbest person on the earth. “Well, you see, there was this really big rubber band,” he started. About that time, Dr. Durbin came into the room. “Hello, Otis. It’s good to see you but not under these circumstances. Hello, Ed.”
“Hi, Doc,” Ed said and shook Dr. Durbin’s hand. “Thanks for seeing Otis on short notice.”
“Not a problem,” Doc said as he sat down on a stool with wheels. “So, Otis, a rubber band went rogue and smacked you in the eye, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” Otis mumbled.
“Well, let’s take a look,” Dr. Durbin said. He reached around Otis’s chair and flicked the switch. The bright square with letters reappeared on the wall. “Can you read anything with that eye?”
Otis struggled to open his right eyelid as tears poured out. Anne handed him a couple of tissues, and he dabbed at his cheeks. “It really hurts,” he said. “I can see, but the tears are in the way to make out any letters.”
“Okay, go ahead and close it for now,” Doc said. “How’s your other eye?”
“I can see great with my left eye.” Otis blurted out the letters on the second to last row. “R, S, Z, P, O, F. I can make out the R, T, and B in the last line, too.”
“Well done, Otis,” Dr. Durbin said and made a note in the chart. “That’s 20/20 vision with a little 20/15 added in.”
But Otis’s panic started to bubble up. His left eye had gotten a little fuzzy over the last year, to the point he sometimes caught himself squinting to see the chalk board in class. The only reason he knew the letters was because several years ago, Otis’s brothers, Otho, Chuck, and Cletis, had memorized the lines and shared with Otis. The boys assumed Doc didn’t think people would remember—or memorize—the letter chart from year to year. The Swan boys had avoided wearing glasses and the inevitable teasing that went with it.
Dr. Durbin interrupted Otis’s thoughts. “Let’s look at your bad eye and see what’s what.”
“Uh, okay,” Otis stammered. He struggled again to open his right eyelid. He finally worked through the discomfort and got it open. “I…I…,” his words trailed off. “I’m having a hard time making out the letters.” Fear formed a lump in his throat. “Am I…going blind?”
“Oh, Otis. Don’t panic,” Doc said. He saw the terror in Otis’s eyes. “It’s okay not to be able to see the letters. You just pummeled your eye with a rubber band flying at high speed. Let’s switch it up a little.” He reached behind the chair again and fiddled with the projector.
Otis watched as a bunch of different sized Es showed up on the wall. They were sitting at different positions; some were normal, some had the E legs facing up, some were facing left, some facing right. He’d never seen this chart before.
“I’m going to cover your left eye, and you tell me which line you’re reading with your right eye and use your hand to indicate which way the E is facing. If it’s facing up do this.” Doc turned his hand, so his fingers point up. “If it’s facing down, do this.” He turned his wrist, so his fingers faced down. “Left, fingers to the left; right, fingers to the right. Got it?”
“Okay,” Otis said. “I can make out the Es on line four.” He made his way down the row of oversized Es, switching hand positions to show what way the letter’s legs were facing. There were only four Es on the line. They were huge.
“You got everything right,” Doc said. “See? You’re not blind. Just a little out of focus.” He swung a piece of equipment around from the side of the chair. “Put your chin in the rest and touch your forehead to the bar.”
Otis settled his chin on the cool plastic rest and blinked furiously. It felt like a rock was in his eye.
Crosstrek Wilder ness
Click. Doc turned on the bright light making Otis cringe. “Try to keep still. I’ll be quick, but I need to be thorough.”
Otis gritted his teeth and tried to keep his eye lid open but failed. Anne had been watching with Grandpa Ed and sashayed over to gently hold Otis’s right eye lids apart.
Otis’s tummy flip-flopped. If he had to be in this predicament, having Anne help him wasn’t so bad.
Dr. Durbin slowly moved the light around so he could see Otis’s eye from all angles. “Hmmm.” He pulled a small optical flashlight from his pocket. “Ready, Otis? It’s going to get really bright.”
He shined the flashlight beam straight into Otis’s eye. That was bad enough to make his eye ache. But then out came the glass prism, and Doc directed a white-hot laser into Otis’s eye … that’s what it felt like to him, anyway. He squirmed.
Finally, Doc finished, and Otis sat back in the chair. The tears flowed from his right eye. He was sweaty and a little shaky. The rock feeling in his eye had now grown into feeling like a boulder.
“Otis, you scratched your cornea,” Dr. Durbin stated. “It’s pretty bad but will heal with a little time and care. I’ll give you some eye drops and an ointment. We’ll get you a patch to wear for several days until it starts to feel better.”
“Did you just say a patch?” Otis asked.
“Yep, like a pirate,” Dr. Durbin smiled. “Cool!”
Ed snickered. The best/worst list just changed to pirate patch, then glass eye, then going blind, and then wearing glasses.
“I want to check your left eye again since it’ll be your sight until your right eye heals up,” Doc said. He reached behind the chair and flicked the letter chart.
Otis rattled off the memorized letters once again. “R, S, Z, P, O, F. I can still make out the R, T, and B in the last line, and now I see there’s a C.” He sat back and smugly smiled at Doc.
“You sure, Otis?”
“Yep,” Otis replied.
“Look again,” Doc stated.
To Otis’s horror he realized the letters were different. Very different. Apparently, Doc did change his chart.
“Uhhh, heh, heh,” Otis stammered. “I was just joking around.” Doc, Anne, and Grandpa Ed weren’t impressed.
“Let me try again. Fourth line. D, O, B, S, K, R. I can’t read any of the last line.”
“Hmmmm,” Doc said. “Try the third line.”
“N, D, Z, O, V, and … uh … C?”
“Okay, you got those, but you missed three in the fourth line,” Doc pointed out. “I wondered if you’d memorized the letters.” He rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Okay, now let’s play a game.”
Doc swung a set of big ocular goggles into place in front of Otis’s face and eyes. Normally, Otis loved this part. But this time Otis wasn’t having fun. He’d gotten busted for memorizing the chart, and now Doc knew his left eye was blurry. He leaned to the goggles and looked through the holes. Doc had covered the right hole so only his left eye could see. The letters were fuzzy. Really fuzzy. “Okay, this is how you see things right now,” Doc said. “So now, which one is best? One or two?” He flicked a lense on the goggles back and forth in front of Otis’s left eye. “One. Two. One. Two.” “Two,” Otis said.
“Good job,” Doc said. “How about now? One… two?” He flicked the lense back and forth again. “One?” Big pause. “Two?” Big pause. “One?” Big pause. “Two?” Big pause. “One,” Otis said.
“Awesome,” Doc replied. “One more.” He went through the motions again.
“Two,” Otis said.
Dr. Durbin reset the letters projected on the wall. “What can you read?”
Otis whipped out the last line in a flash.
“Your left eye has changed since last year,” Doc said. “So, that means you’ll need some corrective lenses, Otis.”
Otis didn’t register what those words meant.
Grandpa Ed squirmed in his chair. “So, does this mean glasses?”
Otis sat straight up in his chair. “GLASSES?! Ohhhhhh nooooo. I’m not getting glasses. I’ll just squint a little. I’m not interested in glasses.”
“It’s either glasses or contacts,” Doc stated, “and no offense, Otis, you’re an overly rambunctious kid. I don’t think it’s quite time for contacts.”
Otis sunk back into his chair. He felt defeated. “But I don’t want glasses.”
“Oh, Otis,” Grandpa Ed assured, “it’ll take some getting used to, but you’ll adjust. Think of how much better you’ll be able to see.” “Yeah,” Otis snarked in a flat tone. “Wearing stupid glasses. Grandpa Ed, kids tease kids with glasses. Grandpa Ed thought a moment. “I don’t know what to say to that, Otis. But remember I did teach you how to throw out a good right hook.” He winked at his grandson.
“I’ll talk to your grandpa a second while you go out to where Anne is sitting,” Doc said to Otis. “She’ll put in some drops for you and help pick out frames. Then we’ll patch you up.”
Otis’s lower lip started to tremble. First he would get teased about the patch, then about the glasses. He could hear it now, four eyes or nerd. He slid out of the chair and moped down the hallway. His life would never be the same.
Anne caught sight of Otis slowly walking down the hallway. “Otis! Come sit with me. I heard we need to pick out some frames.”
News travels fast, he thought. “I guess.”
Anne patted a rolling stool next to hers. “Come sit. Let me guess, you’re worried the kids without glasses will mess with you.” He looked at Anne in awe. “Yeah,” he nodded. “How’d you know?
That’s exactly what’s going to happen.”
“I started wearing glasses in the first grade,” Anne said. “Believe me, kids teased. Just look at them and say, ‘Yep, you’re exactly right. I have four eyes now.’ They can’t argue with you when you tell them they’re right. It’ll die down when they get used to seeing you with your glasses. And when you get a few years older, we’ll get you into some contacts, and you won’t have to wear glasses all the time.” She leaned over and gently opened Otis’s right eye lid. She swiftly dropped in some drops. “Close your eye for a second and then open and blink a lot.”
“Feels a little better,” Otis said.
“I’ll send two bottles of these drops home with you,” she explained. “And ointment, too. I’ll put the instructions on them.” She reached behind Otis and grabbed a pair of frames. She placed them on Otis face. “How about these?”
Otis looked into the big mirror hanging among the frames. He started laughing. “No way!”
“I guess cat-eye glasses with sparkles aren’t it, huh?” She winked at him and removed the frames. She replaced them on the big wooden shelving unit filled with frames and grabbed another pair.
“How about these?”
They were round and wire framed. Otis wasn’t sure. “I don’t hate them.”
“Okay, let’s put them on the counter, and we’ll see what else we-
-can find.”
For the next fifteen minutes they went back and forth, Anne picking frames, and Otis deciding what he liked. Grandpa Ed came out with Dr. Durbin and joined them.
Finally, Otis declared, “These are the ones I want.” There sat Otis, proudly wearing a very large pair of thick, black plastic frames, squared off in the upper corners and rounded at the bottom.
“Look, Grandpa!” Otis gushed! “Aren’t these cool?!”
“Well, buddy, I think they look grand on you,” Ed answered. Otis was the spitting image of the famous singer, Buddy Holly.
Dr. Durbin shot a look at Ed and had to turn his face away to not reveal his snickering. He quickly recovered and scooted over to where Otis sat. “Let’s take a look, buddy.” He inspected the fit. “I think if these are the frames you want, then you should have them. Ed?”
Ed knew Otis’s mom, Mavis, may not think these were the best frames out of all the choices. But Ed also knew kids, and they would tease Otis no matter what frames he wore. He shrugged. “I think if Otis is happy, I’m happy.” And that was the truth.
Otis looked into the big mirror hanging among the frames. He started laughing. "No way!"
“I love ‘em,” Otis said admiring himself in the mirror. “I look like Clark Kent!”
“I was thinking Buddy Holly,” Ed said.
“Who?” Otis asked.
“He was a famous singer,” Ed replied. “I have an album with his face on it. I’ll show you when we get home.”
“I’ll order you the frames,” Anne said as she removed them from Otis’s face. “They’ll be in about the time your right eye is healed up.”
“I’ll check your right eye in two weeks and get your current prescription,” Doc said. “We can get a lense popped into your new frames in a day or two after that, and you’ll be set.”
Otis spun himself around in circles on the wheeled stool. He was feeling pretty good. If he had to wear glasses, he was going to look good doing it.
Dr. Durbin walked over to something covered in plastic sitting at the end of the counter. “Roll on over here Otis,” he said as he took a seat on yet another rolling stool.
Otis rolled over to where Dr. Durbin sat. The doc uncovered the funny looking thing and told Otis to go to the opposite side of him and put his chin on the chin rest. Otis obliged.
“Look straight ahead, Otis,” the doctor said.
Pfffffffttt.
A punch of air blasted Otis’s left eye, startling him so badly he jerked his head back and pushed off violently. He rocketed backwards and crashed into the wall of frames. Dozens of frames cascaded off the beautiful but delicate wooden shelves, and poured over Otis’s head and onto the floor, making a horrendous commotion. Otis looked at the mess he’d created, then looked at Dr. Durbin, then Ed.
“Uhhh, this is my new machine to test for glaucoma,” Doc said. “I guess I should’ve warned you about the puff of air, huh, Otis?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Durbin,” Otis said as he scrambled to start putting the frames back onto the shelves.
“It’s okay,” Doc said. “I really didn’t expect you to get out of here without some sort of mischief.”
Otis walked into school sporting his eye patch. Since the eye incident happened during Spring Break, no one but Fertis and his family had seen him. He received a lot of stares and heard a lot of whispers.
Fertis walked next to his buddy and nudged him with his elbow, “Just ignore them, Otis.”
A collective and sympathetic "ohhhhhhh" fluttered out from the pack of girls.
Suddenly, a flurry of popular sixth-grade girls came at him, led by the most beautiful, most popular girl in school. Starla Whitbaum, or Star, had curly red hair, big blue eyes, and a personality everyone in the community loved. “Oh, Otis, what happened to your eye?” she gushed.
Otis stood, stunned. The patch had gotten him noticed by the popular girls in the school. He recovered quickly, not to lose his one chance to talk to them. “Oh, it’s nothing really,” he scoffed and shot a look at Fertis in disbelief that Star would even talk to him. “I scratched my cornea helping my mom out over Spring Break.”
A collective and sympathetic “ohhhhhhh” fluttered out from the pack of girls.
Otis amped it up. “Yeah, and after it heals, I’ll have to wear these special glasses that make me look like Clark Kent. Or Buddy Holly, according to my Grandpa Ed. They’re big black frames.”
Another “oooooooo” emitted from the girls.
“Well, I wear glasses, too, when I read,” Star said. “You do?” Otis had no idea since he’d never had the pleasure to read with Star.
“Yeah, and when I first got them, everyone teased me,” she said. “So, if anyone messes with you, tell them to talk to me.” She winked and pulled out a case from her book bag. “Let me show you something.” She removed a pair of glasses. “Are these like yours?”
To Otis’s delight, they were exactly like his. “Yeah!”
She put them on and smiled. “See? You can be Clark Kent, and I’ll be Buddy Holly. We’ll be glasses buddies.”
And that was all it took. Otis was in love.
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As rated by the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid
Services
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