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Hello

In the celebration of this New Year, I have a special question for you: Is there room in your heart for a miracle? Let me explain.

A few years ago when I was at a low point, I read something that has stuck with me for years and now shapes my every day life. It was the concept that most people are unaware of their thoughts- and the fact that most of them are on repeat, are negative, and never noticed but ultimately shape your world. When I read this, I was baffled. I always thought I thought deeply, but beginning to notice my thoughts felt a lot like when you drive for hours only to arrive home not remembering how you got there- or listening to some weird music you had no idea was playing. I noticed how negative my thoughts were- and if I’m honest it was hard to even go a few minutes without a negative thought.

I share this with you now, in this time because I feel like many of us have gone to “driving” our lives on auto-pilot, and have checked out from possibility, hope, miracles, or even positivity. But you see, a strange and wonderful thing happens when you begin to think about and create a positive mindset on purpose- miracles happen.

Sometimes they happen in the form of newness. If you’re like me and experience anxiety- you can become so sure that you’ll feel this or that way or that you’ll totally have fear if A, B, or C occurs. You think about it so much you don’t even stop to wonder about whether it all works out! You forget that you are capable of being daring, exciting, or passionate about life when you think the same things every day.

You must realize that you’re life is to be created! To be celebrated with vibrancy. How can that be if you’re only having limited thinking?

This year, I want to encourage you to start by going a few hours, a few days, and then ultimately as long as you can by thinking positive, new thoughts about yourself and the world around you on purpose. I’m sure you’ve heard many people say that there doesn’t seem to be much magic in the world anymore… that the holiday spirit was lacking… there’s too much going on… etc. That’s because, my dear reader, the truth is that it is now up to you. You’ve got the baton in your hands. Sometimes I think we get stuck in unconscious survival mode for so long that we forget modern miracles. So what’s the answer? Start noticing those modern-day miracles! Maybe you’ve got to start with what you think might be small- the dandelion growing through a sidewalk crack (and let me tell you, there’s nothing not mighty about a dandelion- do your homework!). You’ve got to start thinking of the world differently if you want to create it. The truth is, it’s up to you. We all want to see a change, but we MUST be the ones to go first. I always tell myself, let there be peace in this world, and let it begin with me.

It’s time to make room in your heart for every day miracles and to do so, you must open both your heart and mind to broader thinking. Remember that feeling safe by being small is not safe at all- it’s a temporary way to control what can never be controlled.

You are meant to smile, to laugh, and to be loved. Sometimes we look around us and feel hopeless that we don’t see what we wish the world to look like. I know not everyone will see this message and some might not understand it. But if YOU do, begin today.

Don’t worry if you’re not good at it- I call it practicing your cognitive crunches. You’ll get a fit mind full of positivity if you just keep up on it.

So open your heart. Give love and positivity to others freely, especially if they are different from you. Be the first. Be the example.

Don’t worry about waking up to the possibility that your thoughts weren’t what you wish they were or how you want things to be better. Simply take a moment, be the peace and watch the room grow in your heart for miracles to happen.

Wishing you love, peace and all those seeds of miracles to bloom,

Heather Niccoli, Editor-In-Chief Home&Harvest Magazine.

08 Love At First Bite 16 Letters of Love 22 Courting Friendship 30 Flank to Flame 36 Strawberry Crunch Cake 38 Sprinkle Sugar Cookies 40 Cracked Pepper and Lemon Orzo 42 Espresso Chocolate Chip Cookies 44 Strawberry Shortcake Cookies 46 Baked Donuts 48 Cheesy Mini Quiche 50 A Reading for You 52 Looking for Love 56 Fall In Love With Seeds 62 Martha Lorang’s Journal, Part II 66 Moscow’s Convent 72 The Oh, Otis! Shenanigans

This here is a love tale. And what an impressive tale it really is. You see, this is the story of a fella named Geronimo who found himself true love in the wilderness of Idaho. But to start this story all the way back at the beginning, we need to take a look at just how he found himself in such a strange and wonderful predicament.

As early as the 1500’s there are records of fur trading between European explorers and indigenous populations – beginning near the Saint Lawrence River. But the early interest was primarily focused on furs that could be used for ornamentation. Their value was centered in the major cities of Europe where there was already a growing fashion of using decorative pelts as adornment for trimming out fine jackets and accessories. Being so remote, rugged, and unspoiled at the time, North America presented a seemingly limitless bounty for the traders and became one of the early commercial interests for continued settlement of the North Atlantic region.

As populations grew, and industries expanded, fishing took hold and provided another profitable exploit of the abundant natural resources to be found along the eastern coast. Facing harsh conditions and working year-round, these fishermen began turning to trade for their basic needs. They soon discovered that dried cod was a popular commodity and could be exchanged with tribes throughout the area for beaver pelts.

Though rough sewn, and unfashionable at the start of the trading, the beaver proved to be a perfect species for their specific needs.

Beavers had incredibly thick and dense under-fur and the natural oils and makeup of the fur rendered garments made from it almost entirely waterproof. It was the absolutely perfect thing to wear for someone facing cold blowing winds and a damp and often completely saturated environment during harsh winter storms.

But at this time, felted beaver hats were beginning to become the rage in European fashion. The beavers were especially prized for felting due to many of the same reasons that their fur worked so well for the fishermen. Naturally water resistant, dense, thickly scaled, and ending in an open barb, beaver fur was the ideal for hat design. It could be easily shaved and produced a long-lasting, attractive cover for a hat that was durable enough to stand up to exposure to rain and still able to remain warm even in tough conditions. Even in hats that used a lesser quality fur to reduce cost, a bit of beaver fur was still often added to increase the quality and functionality of the final product. As the trend caught fire and quickly spread across the continent, the beaver population plummeted. If Europe couldn’t supply the fur it demanded, the colonies in North America certainly could.

The English, French and Dutch, already actively staking claim in the new world, and hungry for exploitable resources that could bring wealth back on the continent, all began to send more industrious explorers and trappers. They even went so far as to charter specific companies whose primary goal was fur acquisition.

The famous Hudson’s Bay Company, one of the oldest companies in the world to still exist, was chartered in 1670 under the permission of King Charles II, with the stated purpose of finding the fabled northwest passage to the Pacific Ocean. They were given vast tracts of land along the Hudson Bay, and allowed to carry out any profitable industry that may become available to them as means of funding their research. That industry, for the first two hundred years of their history was trading fur.

Their original motto “Pro Pelle Cutem” actually means “A Pelt for Skin” and remains a part of the company’s logo to this day, even though their famous Saks Fifth Avenue brand has just recently sworn off the sale of furs. But the Hudson’s Bay Company was just one of many enterprises that was pushing trappers west in a continual hunt for beaver populations sufficient to supply the constant demand in Europe.

The beaver hat was a staple in both men’s and women’s fashion through the 1700’s – eventually taking on many different shapes and sizes. It was used in everything from fashion, to military dress, and even for some clergy. By the early 1800’s the beaver hat had become more than just a fashion symbol of someone that was well dressed, and it branched out to a necessity for almost any male member of society regardless of position or rank. In fact, the many various styles of the beaver felted hat, each worn by a specific social group, gave a quick approximation of status and rank for any passerby. To be unhated in many outdoor public situations became against decorum, and demand echoed across the Atlantic. Trappers became ever willing to go farther afield in search of sufficient beaver populations, facing extreme isolation and duress.

The fur trade had broken the western barrier of the Missouri River even before Captain Meriwether Lewis and Lieutenant William Clark had set out on their Corps of Discovery. Often alone, or in very small bands, the rugged trappers would spread out into an area and spend a year at a time deep within the wilderness. For survival they relied on trading with the indigenous populations, and attending yearly rendezvous or trading fairs where they could exchange huge stacks of beaver pelts for enough powder, flint, and medicine to get them through another year. Those who learned to survive the harsh winters and punishing landscape would be quickly rewarded with wealth, but more often than not, those without considerable experience, tenacity, and plenty of luck barely survived. It was the export of the furs back to Europe that drove the massive profit and that was well concentrated in the east, retained at the corporate levels. Much of the early exploration of the west was funded this way, with trappers eventually transitioning to guides along the Oregon Trail, or often working as advisors to military units.

As the western expansion pressed on, and heightened demand continued, settlements began to form – often centered on original trading and resupply locations used by the early trappers.

Populations grew, territories were drawn, and beavers continued to become more and more scarce. A tipping point had definitely been reached, and extinction in many areas was eminent.

Luckly for the beaver population of the world, and all of our collective streams and ecosystems, trends are always wanting to move on. And after just a few hundred years of fashionistas craving beaver felted top hats, silk eventually muscled into the scene and replaced the demand almost as quickly as it had started. By the late 1800’s the trade in mass quantities of beaver pelts was over, and the pressure was off in many of the most remote areas of the country.

However, near major settlements and homesteads, the destruction of the beaver and their habitats continued. Its an awful thing to have a region without beavers. You see, they are like little ecosystem engineers that naturally go about creating healthy habitats for tons of other plants and animals. They produce wetlands out of what would otherwise be a dry and overlooked creek. Without this service, seasonal rains cause damagingHome&Harvest | Jan + F eb 2025

-erosion, and species that are dependent on the continual moisture are driven out causing a follow-on loss of various animals up the food chain. Beaver dams block the flow of sediment into lower streams and rivers. This greatly improves clarity and water quality, and slows the overall flow. That’s not just beneficial to fish, amphibians and plants living in the river, but all the life living alongside – safer from persistent and more extreme flooding that occurs without the dams. Everything from the insects skimming along the top of idyllic ponds, to the plants growing up from marshy black soil, to the waterfowl circling above trying to spy their afternoon meal of trout is fully dependent on the beavers coming in diversifying the land with their creations.

All the life in any give area depends on and cherishes the beaver.

Except for settlements of people. No one wants a beaver to dam the creak next to their farmland. Waking up to find a lake on what used to be carefully cultivated crops is a disaster. Finding that your newly built house, right next to a seasonal creek, is now under a foot of water is simply unacceptable. Normally, when humans want some sort of dam or water retention, we want to build it ourselves – in exactly the way we specify. And even then there is endless debate as to how to best care for the environments that our dams effect. With beavers, you can point to the area you want dammed, but chances are they won’t listen.

And so for decades, even after their near collapse from fur trapping, the noble beaver was chased away from any settlements, or killed when they couldn’t be removed.

Knowing how endangered they were, and realizing how important they are to so much of our region, the US Department of the Interior had begun responding to calls for beaver removal and relocation in the early decades of the 20th century. They would send wildlife agents out to trap beavers in populated areas and attempt to move them into the more distant areas far from any settlements. They knew that the cost of transporting a few beavers was relatively low, but the tremendous gain from stable population upstream was worth far more than any associated expense for the project. The problem is that beavers are really tricky to move.

You could take a few of them a few miles away from a town, but that didn’t do enough to remove the pressure they created on the settlement, and it would only be a few years until they populations expanded and were right back where they started or in an even worse position. To be effective, you had to get them far into the interior mountains and hills – and you had to deliver them to these new areas in sufficient numbers to make successful breeding and repopulation possible. But a live and ornery beaver is a difficult item to move.

They need to stay cool, moist and calm. Now imagine being on horseback, traveling for days into the wilderness far beyond any roads or outposts. You have a few crates on the back of your horses, jostling about with every step, and you have to stop constantly to resupply your water, and drench the beavers to keep them cool and healthy. And this goes on for days under the blazing summer sun. Needless to say, it wasn’t working. Those that did make the trip alive were in no condition to thrive in a completely new home, or establish the bonds of a new community and successfully mate.

But its almost Valentine’s Day, and in the beginning of this story I promised you a love tale, and a tale you shall have. Remember that handsome fella I mentioned named Geronimo? Well, 11

“Remember “Remember that that handsome handsome fella fella II mentioned mentioned named named Geronimo?”

Geronimo?”

-he wasn’t the human that came up with a solution to repopulating the wilds of Idaho with relocated beavers – that was a guy named Elmo W. Heter at the Idaho Department of Fish and Game. Geronimo was the first beaver to actually volunteer for the program.

Geronimo, like the other 75 beavers who would eventually become part of operation, needed a new home. With pressure in developing areas like McCall, these Payette Lake beavers were going to be sent farther afield, up into the remote Chamberlin Basin. This area was selected for its seclusion in the rugged Sawtooth Mountains, the absence of local human populations, and the follow-on effect that the rehomed beavers would create by damming streams at higher altitude and helping to restore local ecosystems. The one problem, was that the Chamberlin Basin was so very difficult to reach – and that’s where Elmo came in.

Realizing that they had easy access to World War II surplus, in the form of readily available parachutes, and a very short flight time when compared to the arduous trek on horseback. Idaho Fish and Game drew up some plans and then began testing on a solution that would allow them to drop the airborne beavers behind enemy lines, landing them safely in the wilderness without the extreme stress caused by overland travel.

They eventually settled on a simple wooden crate, built in two halves, with a spring-loaded hinge that wanted to pop the box open whenever pressure was released. They drilled tons of air holes along the top, bottom, and sides of the box and included a few special holes that allowed a rope harness. With a beaver placed inside, they could manually push the crate closed, lashing it with ropes that attached to the parachute. Gravity held the box shut tight during the decent, but as soon as it landed, and the parachute was fully on the ground, the lack of tension on the ropes allowed the two halves of the crate to spring open, and the beaver could easily walk out.

It took a few tries to perfect the system, and once they were certain that it would work, the team loaded Geronimo for a few initial test runs. The plane would fly a pattern over the waiting team below, the parachute and create would be carefully pushed out of the open hatch, and Geronimo would parachute down.

On the ground the team would be trying to predict the exact landing spot, and desperately sprinting there to intercept the crate, and wrangle the eager beaver as he quickly took off in a random direction trying to once again escape into the local McCall area. There were a few close calls, but the system was shown to work perfectly, the test parachuter was always successfully recaptured, and the team was ready for the official drop.

In respect for his admirable dedication and selfless service, Geronimo was chosen to be the first drop and was given an extra special territory to call his own. On August 14, 1948, deep within the wilderness of the Chamberlin Basin, Geronimo slowly descended to his new home. Coming just behind him, and landing in the same zone were three young females. But don’t get the wrong idea – this is still a classy love story!

You see, while beavers may live in colonies of extended families, all sharing a single lodge and equally distributing food from a common supply, each colony only has one breeding pair. Mates for life. They happily cohabitate with their yearling and most recently born kits, but even occasionally take on some older members of either sex. So dropped with three possible love-matches, out in the middle of nowhere, our pal Geronimo got immediately to work, establishing his colony, meeting what would become his partner for life, and starting on the next generation of beavers. In fact, most kits are born right about this time of year, arriving in the deep winter, somewhere between late January and early March. Valentine’s Day babies, who are already swimming within an hour of birth, and excited to explore the greater world just as spring is breaking.

And when you think for a moment about the verbiage we use to describe love, it fits perfectly with Geronimo and his little family. Was he swept off his feet? Was she the wind beneath his wings? Did he feel the rush and exhilaration, knowing that he was falling in love? Well, we do know for a fact that Geronimo and his mate took the plunge, and did fall helplessly, head over tail in love. We know because of the beaver population in his happy little corner of that distant and seemingly unreachable expanse of untamed land that still lives there to this day.

And that is the perfect ending to a perfect love tale.

By Laura L. Morgan introduction:Trent Morgan

Laura and I, along with my siblings, Rhett and Lana and their spouses, surrounded by wonderful wiggling broods of children and grandchildren, recently spent time pouring over the final boxes of mementoes from our parents, Dawn and Jim, and our grandmother, Frances Maib. Many of these items were frail hand-written letters or typed accounts pounded out on manual typewriters with thick layers of carbon paper rolled on the spool to create duplicates so they could send one to everyone in the family. I remember my dad hammering away on that machine, so loud the clatter filled the house. The letters are of life and the minutiae of happenings on a given week on the farm or with family. Many names mentioned were unfamiliar to us as were faded slides of people in places with no context: no one to tell the stories and give meaning or emphasis. But the letters and faded photos are evidence of lives lived: hints at dilemmas of heartaches…of unions and separations, peaks and valleys of life they were sharing and working through together. Now we only see shadows through the continuum of time, distant and faded. Yet. I can’t help but think these stories do still matter and, in a way, have trickled down to us through an unconscious rift in the fabric of time, filling us with legacy and warmth and substance that makes us part of an eternal story (Trent).

Think about that. Your life is an eternal story. This is a part of the legacy I wrote about in the last issue. If one does not write anything down about one’s life, memories fade over time. Writing has a permanence about it, it serves as history, it is a record of ordinary and extraordinary happenings, it conveys thoughts, hopes, and dreams. I love the imagery the character Iseult creates in The Pale Horseman by Bernard Cornwell when she says, “Words are like breath,” she said, “you say them and they’re gone. But writing traps them.” She was in awe that Uhtred knew how to read and write and understood the magic of it.

There’s also a difference, I believe, in hand-written versus digitally written, especially when it comes to letters. My grandmother, Mildred Swanson, was a dedicated letter writer, and I enjoyed penning a missive in reply. When I opened the mailbox and saw her distinctive handwriting—a bit of messy cursive due to her arthritic hands, I immediately had a sensory reaction. I could smell (real or imagined) the talcum powder scent from her clothes, feel her paper thin skin I recalled from holding her hand, and felt a general happiness from the times I visited her and was spoiled by her as only a grandma can do.

She typically tucked in a five dollar bill, so that added to the anticipation. One does not get that with a text or an email. These are definitely convenient ways to communicate in our modern world, but letter writing by hand has some special attributes that you may not have considered before. I’d like to talk about general benefits of hand-written communication before homing in on a specific type of letter—the one that may be relegated to the holiday on February 14th, but should be practiced year round: the love letter.

Scientifically speaking, our brains get a workout when we write, engaging a part of our brains reserved for that neuromuscular pathway development. A person must move between thinking or pondering and how to physically get those thoughts onto paper. If you’ve ever taught a child how to write, you realize how complex of an operation it is. If you’ve ever been a teacher and tried to read some students’ handwriting, you realize it is an art to be mastered.

Using multiple areas of our brains in this task also gives us more of an open mind as we contemplate different perspectives because writing a letter necessitates intentional thought. What will I share?

How will I phrase it? How can I accurately convey not only the words but the emotions behind them?

It may take some time and struggle, but when the letter is finished, signed, and folded, there comes a sense of accomplishment.

You have just spent time creating a thoughtful connection with loved ones that cannot be deleted with the click of a button. This sense of connection helps to ease feelings of isolation and loneliness. The letter writer feels a bond across the miles with someone they can’t speak to in person at the moment, or it becomes an extra special message to those we do see often.

Think of how you feel when you get a letter. You realize someone spent the time and effort to thoughtfully communicate with you.

You are special to them. This brings joy. Maybe the sender picked out a special greeting card with a message they thought you needed to hear. Maybe they wrote on some beautiful stationary that makes you feel happy. Maybe it has a unique or perfumed smell that evokes memories or brings joy. Now think of how you feel when you write a letter, knowing you’ve just sealed joy in an envelope. Letters are not as disposable as electronic communication and a person can return to treasure another reading of it.

Letter writing is relationship-oriented and takes some practice. I have loved receiving letters from my Uncle Joel and, when he was alive, from Trent’s Uncle Bud. Both are accomplished, creative writers. That is what a letter is, really: a personal creation, a work of art. They both have/had such a way with words. I laughed, I sighed, I pondered, and I reminisced. Perhaps Uncle Bud honed his craft while sitting on a cot inside a canvas tent, waiting for the next battle or mission in the Pacific during World War II. He had moments of time in the steamy jungle to think deeply about what he wanted to pen while swatting at the mosquitoes that eventually gifted him with malaria. I’ve also saved many letters that held special meaning to me. My dad was never much of a letter writer, but I have a couple he sent me when I was in college. It meant so much to know he took the time to write, and they also held some tidbits of sage advice.

Mark Travers, Ph.D., says, “The exchange of hand-written letters is not merely a transaction but rather a shared experience that says—here’s something special between you and me.”

That something special brings us to a specific type of letter— the love letter. If you’ve ever had a long-distance relationship, you know how important letters can be. They are a vehicle for getting to know someone pretty well. There are books and moviesHome&Harvest | Jan + F eb 2025

-about the iconic wartime romance that was just budding when the man was called to or volunteered to go fight for his country.

Letters are penned and by the time the soldier returns home, the couple is even deeper in love and feels like they really know each other because of the love letters sent back and forth. Love letters are a way to share joys and sorrows, encouragement, aspirations, and innermost thoughts.

If you are in a relationship with a significant other, you may experience a moment of panic at this thought. How in the world do you pen a love letter? What if you don’t describe yourself as romantic? What if you don’t do it the “right” way? First of all, there isn’t a right way to write a love letter except to express your love. You can write flowery language like Sullivan Ballou, a Union officer in the Civil War. He wrote to his wife, Sarah, “Sarah, my love for you is deathless. It seems to bind me with mighty cables, that nothing but Omnipotence can break…my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, nor that, when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name…” Or, probably the most famous love letter of King Solomon in the book of the Holy Bible, Song of Songs, “How beautiful you are, my darling!

Oh, how beautiful! Your eyes behind your veil are doves…Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon; your mouth is lovely…Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb.”

“My love for you is deathless...”

If you can rock the similes, go for it. If not, how about just telling your love how you feel? Johnny Cash wrote a simple, yet endearing note to his wife, June Carter Cash, on her birthday. “We get old and get used to each other. We read each other’s minds. We know what the other wants without asking. Sometimes we irritate each other a little bit. Maybe sometimes take each other for granted. But once in awhile, like today, I meditate on it and realize how lucky I am to share my life with the greatest woman I ever met.

You still fascinate and inspire me.”

See—nothing terribly fancy, and he even addresses their shortcomings, but he meditated on their relationship. Letter writing requires pondering, remember, and he said what his heart was feeling. Even though it’s not flowery and filled with figurative language, it is obviously heartfelt. That’s the goal of a love letter! Just express how you feel toward your love in your own style.

What if I can’t figure out what to say? you ask. The novelist, Vladimir Nabokov wrote to his wife when they were apart. “My delightful, my love, my life. I don’t understand anything: how can you not be with me? I’m so infinitely used to you that I now feel myself lost and empty: without you, my soul. You turn my life into something light, amazing, rainbowed—you put a glint of happiness on everything—always different: sometimes you can be smoky-pink, downy, sometimes dark, winged—and I don’t know when I love your eyes more—when they are open or shut…Today I can’t write about anything except my longing for you…I don’t know how I’ll survive the week. My tenderness, my happiness, what words can I write for you? How strange that although my life’s work is moving a pen over paper, I don’t know how to tell you how I love, how I desire you. Such agitation—and such divine peace: melting clouds immersed in sunshine—mounds of happiness.” He’s a novel writer and still feels inadequate, but he tried anyway. It’s totally the thought that counts.

18

Love letters can be short notes or longer declarations of adoration. Think of one or two traits you really love about that person. Thank them for something in your relationship.

Compliment them on something about their physical selves, their personality, or character traits. Tell them what you look forward to in your relationship. You’ll find yourself focusing on the positive aspects of your significant other and this strengthens relationships.

If you are feeling extra creative, try using some of those similes and metaphors, or write a poem: rhymed or free verse-style.

One of the most fun love letters I’ve received was when my husband, Trent, and I were in college and dating. I had a four-hour drive south and he had a five-hour trek north. We were both heading home for a holiday. As we said our goodbyes, Trent handed me a stack of envelopes with instructions to read one as soon as we said our farewell, then to open one every hour on the hour during my drive home. I looked at my watch as the hour crept slowly by, then I found a rest area or other place to safely pull over. The notes were numbered. I held number two in my hands, looking at his unique writing. Wow! He thought ahead that I’d be sad being apart even for a few days and took the time to create something special just for me. That alone could have been sufficient to make my heart swell, but I slit the envelope open and unfolded the paper. By the time I pulled into the driveway at home, I was ready to read my last one. Some were fun memories we’d made together. One was a poem—the rhyming a bit forced, but I absolutely loved it. I read and re-read my gift until we were together again. Sappy? Perhaps, but who cares. I knew I was loved. Anytime I felt down, I could read them again.

Here’s my challenge to you, reader, and to myself: commit to writing some love letters this new year. Start now, or choose Valentine’s Day for your debut. If it helps, write a reminder on your calendar so you don’t let the busy part of life steal your opportunity to bless someone you love and to give you positive thoughts and a sense of accomplishment that you’ve completed something of true and lasting significance. Sometimes, we take important relationships for granted. This is an opportunity to show someone how much they mean to you and to build them up. Write one love letter a month and see if it improves your connection. There are many things in life that are hard. Giving love is the antidote, so write your love down as an enduring memorial.

I’ll leave you with the words of an Elvis Presley song, “Love Letters.”

Love letters straight from your heart Keep us so near while apart I’m not alone in the night When I can have all the love you write I memorize ev’ry line I kiss the name you sign And darlin’, then I read again right from the start Love letters straight from the heart You can do it! Make the commitment. I’m rooting for you. Now, excuse me as I go write a love letter to my husband for our thirty-seventh wedding anniversary.

There is no other time in the year that I crave companionship as much as the dark months of January and February and don’t know why. Even when I had kids I still fought a crazy urge to bring home stray cats, dogs, chickens just to add to the roll call. I actually brought home a four foot tall stuffed lion once that looked great buckled into the passenger seat of my car. My sons exchanged glances from the back seat when I picked them up from school and said with heartfelt concern, “Mom, you really need some more friends.”

It is said that a soul craves deep and authentic connection. The need for such a relationship drives us to be a couple but is also met in meaningful and fulfilling friendships for those of us not coupled by choice or luck of the draw. In the same hope that cupid’s arrow will find and hit the target of that special one, the same careful aim is important in finding true friends. It seems like the real friendships that have endured through my journey were established and held by some magical epoxy. I sense their epic importance but there is a mystery about them. Just how do we find friends?

On a recent wander in the woods I gazed skyward at the sound of wind shushing in the huge pines towering above me. They seemed so solid and secure. Each sturdy trunk spaced in proximity to the others exactly where they first began growing roots. Their tops high above the rest seemed stately in their lofty dignity. It brought to mind how I’d happened upon a group much like this in a local pub recently. Almost all were retired and had been sharing one another’s company for many years. Some had hung out together at that very pub in their college days fifty years earlier but all had witnessed each other’s challenges and successes through their different careers. Although I knew only one face at the table, they were all welcoming and I joined in the warmth that the eight attendees shared. Their brief reflections on life were dealt out like a casual game of cards and they conversed in a dialect not taught on any language app. The friendships, so obvious in their exchanges, genuine and beautiful, were a result of placing roots and allowing decades of history to form around them.

I am keenly aware I have not created a friend group anything like this. I have moved around a lot in my adult life and envy the familiarity that results from solid roots. When I think about my connections when I was a very young child in a stationary environment, there were outside people that made up what I will call my nest. A deep sense of belonging existed from the people whom I knew watched out for me like my grandparents, the neighbors, my playmates’ families, and my pediatrician. Yes, don’t laugh. I even remember his name. I felt there were witnesses to my life and it gave me security and balance. They made me feel like I didn’t have to change for them to like me. I hear the sentiment repeatedly in podcasts aimed at helping people who are struggling to regain their self worth, to tell yourself “I am enough”. The practice of daily self-affirmations is very healing but seems a sad substitute for a caring posse of close friends showing us they support us, they cherish us, they choose us because we are awesome. I can’t help but wonder if so many of us are feeling unseen and searching for our confidence, are we attempting to function on a dangerous level of relationship deficit?

The ages under 25 years old are notably the prime friend-making years, while school activities unite us and our wide-eyed acceptance of one another’s differences are just part of our growth and static excitement of viewing the world as our oyster. The number of friendships we make and maintain while we build careers and families drops considerably for most of us and the term revolving door describes the motion of people in and out of our lives.

Neighbors, teachers, physicians, supervisors, coworkers, friends, are always coming and going as success and survival demand. It is interesting how the words community and transiency are contradictory yet simultaneously exist in our realities, making it hard to develop relationships.

Then fast forward to the age group of over 65. Of the millions of households in the United States, a startling thirty percent of us older adults are inside those walls uncoupled and alone. Yes, that’s around 6 million men and 10 million women. I found no statistics of how many people of any age feel like they lack a healthy balance of social connectivity. I can only venture a guess that the high demand of mental health counselors may be an indicator that this is a challenge for more folks than myself and maybe not just us boomers.

How does one find friends? I considered making a sign for my front yard that says “Friends wanted. Leave a brief resume in the mailbox.” I acknowledged the folly of this and instead reached out to a professional. Not a counselor but a person who I know has friends of quality and quantity. My son. Our conversation brought up some good perspectives. When I crooned about the few old friends I have that know my history and feel like kindred spirits that know me so well, he compared them to a few he has kept through a shorter span of years but feels the same connection. When he spends time with them it is as though they haven’t been apart but his theory is that if they indeed spent intense time together it may lose some of that shine. I did not want to admit it, but there could be some truth to that. I completely lost one of those BFFs under such circumstances.

“You have three types of friends in life: Friends for a reason, friends for a season, and friends for a lifetime.”

Ziad K. Abdelnour We agreed the friendships you make form themselves into many different levels of intensity from casual to close. Too many relationships become draining so quality is more desirable than quantity. My need for friendships has changed throughout my life, and also what I need from those friendships. That feeling that I click with someone when dating to find courtly love, also needs to be there when I find new friends. We feel a trust with certain people when we feel accepted as our true selves. This leads to that kind of friendship you want to hang on to as long as it is meant to be. Platonic friendships run their course like any other kind of relationship, some fleeting quickly through changing life circumstances, but some become authentic and even reflect a caring more like love, just shy of romantic. There have been times I have shared intimate struggles in my life with a trusted close friend before a lover. Good healthy friendships can help us attain that mindfulness that we are enough, helping boost satisfaction with our life.

But I still wanted to know exactly how my son initially made friends. I have joined meet-up groups, taken community-offered classes, attended galas, and even crashed coffee klatches. I actually feel more lonely in these settings because most of the folks attending are tightly paired with friends or spouses. This might be geographic, but I am not seeing many other solo societal misfits besides me and often feel like a zebra in a herd of elk. Am I misreading the room and missing opportunities to make meaningful friendships? Or….have I forgotten how? His answer was a simple, Yes. “You absolutely have to practice!”. This is coming from a son who identifies as an introvert, just as I do, yet knowing it is his dominant side has been practicing his extrovert skills needed to be a successful entrepreneur since grade school. He has practiced being an extrovert so well that his confident demeanor actually attracts friends. But practice what? How does he open the door?

He gave me a tip on how it isn’t enough to just attend an event, I was missing the window to exchange contact information in a natural and logical way. Ohhh. That explained the missing piece in a recent exchange I had.

Before winter landed around us, I was completing my list of winterizing tasks like shutting off outdoor faucets, cleaning the chimney, and getting heavy mil plastic stapled over the porch windows and remembered I had an additional home maintenance issue. I had to figure out how to avoid the ice dam that mysteriously formed last year at the back porch entrance. Being the only entrance I use, I was surprised one morning when I couldn’t open the door to leave my house. Hoping to not repeat that comical feeling of being trapped in a vestibule, on a day back in late October I examined my options and determined the door frame needed something protective above it. With daring creativity I envisioned fabricating something out of aluminum that would not look too bad, as if aluminum flashing could be anything but an obvious atrocity attached to the exterior of a house painted white.

I purchased a small roll of it meant for a roof valley that would be bendable enough for my needs. Before getting home I realized I’d forgotten tin snips to cut it so I pulled into another hardware store to complete the list for the job. I was not sure exactly which tool would be best and not seeing a salesperson, looked around for a gentleman customer for his opinion. I approached a man about my age a few aisles over. He had an attractive long white braid trailing neatly down his back and tasteful work clothes suggesting he knew what tools were for. I simply asked if he thought I had chosen the right tool for my intended use. He was kind enough to follow me back to discuss the pros and cons of the choices available. Conversation flowed easily and I learned he’d spent his life as a general contractor. We shared our grief that our hands didn’t seem to work as well as they once had and that the aches of age suggested we may have worn them out. Our guitar playing days were over. Little pieces of who we were, who we are, were shared between strangers in the local tool department.

Our stroll from the tool section of the hardware store paused at the aisle leading to two different directions to exit the store and instead of following him to continue our friendly exchange, or asking if he had a better suggestion to deal with my ice dam dilemma, I heard my self-talk say, he’s busy, he’s married, he doesn’t want to talk to me. Caught up in the pace of the speeding train of life, I heard myself sincerely thank him for helping me as I peeled off to the other cashier closest to the side of the store that I’d parked.

I had abruptly ended a nice exchange without even introducing myself or thinking of asking his name. I circled back. I would beHome&Harvest | Jan + F eb 2025

-bold and approach him before he left to at least tell him I liked his braid. Halfway there I was stopped again by my self-talk, and felt my behavior to be perhaps too pushy, too intimate. I turned away again but caught a clear glimpse of him at the check out, a picture frozen in time as a missed opportunity to connect with another human. Waiting for the customer before me, the urge to go to the other exit kept tugging at me but I stood rigid, breathing to be patient. I was afraid of being regarded as crossing some line.

“Fear can be one of the most destructive emotions. It is, of course, also very important, in that fear sometimes stops us from doing stupid things. But it can also stop you from doing creative or exciting or experimental things. It can cloud your judgment of others, and lead to all kinds of evil. The control and understanding of our personal fears is one of the most important undertakings of our lives.” Helen Mirren I had a restless evening after the experience. I felt crestfallen. I even looked up the word. Yes. I felt I had unexpectedly failed at something important. I was angry with myself in a deep and disappointing way. The nagging feeling that I missed out on meeting a person who was so easy to talk to was overwhelming. What was I afraid of? I really could not figure out what had caused the barrier to go up. Was I gendering him as a man and therefore worried about appearing flirtatious? In fact, in our conversation I was so aware of being “a girl” I defended my use of tools and knowledge of work gloves. Grandma’s generation held fast to the roles of men and women but I thought I had evolved. A conversation doesn’t cross a line. Had I imagined one? Is there an unspoken rule that restricts me to express only impersonal simple salutations like, have a nice day? Is a conversation that reveals commonalities so rare that it approaches being “intimate” ? I was so confused and uncomfortable that I had withdrawn like a turtle pulling my extremities inside my protective shell.

“Holy ice-o-lation Batman!”

My son was right. I was so out of practice that I forgot how to make a new acquaintance. Before retiring from the workplace I recall being so comfortable in my familiar environment that I was reprimanded for voicing too many of my opinions. What happened to that confident outgoing version of me? Maybe following the restraints of the pandemic, I simply remained comfortable in my solitude and slipped deeply into my introverted tendencies.

Holy ice-o-lation Batman!

Change is constant and I have to evolve. I am reminded how fast the world is changing around me and how difficult it is to roll with it. Think of how the art of making friends has changed through history. One wrote intimate letters and formed bonds with only the written word in times long passed. Entire towns attended barn dances where one would have opportunities to mingle with every resident in the county. In the twenties the speakeasies attracted crowds and the elegant soirees closed the late 19th centuries with talk of the town galas. Wandering and mingling in a sea of potential friend connections at crowded outdoor concerts in the seventies was age appropriate in my twenties but I am at a loss to figure out where we go now in my mature years that still require socializing.

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CARE YOU CAN TRUST. ppgwni.org

If we recognize we are out of practice feeling connections, we also have to be aware of the critical importance of regaining it.

Herd mentality is not to be dismissed as a danger, it is a natural need. According to Wikipedia, human-based herd behavior means voting, demonstrations, riots, strikes, sporting events, religious gatherings, everyday decision-making, judgement and opinion forming. I don’t have to say more.

It is winter and I’m watching the ice dam form again at my back door. It seems a perfect metaphor for what can happen when you fail to connect with other people. The door closes, and stays closed. I have friendships that I am grateful for but I have been amiss in making acquaintances that could have formed into more friendships to add to my little black book.

I am caught by surprise by the degree of my withdrawal and vow to brush up on my social skills in time for spring but still face a disconnect. Where and what are some diverse opportunities in our communities to practice my extrovert skills? Where do I find a place to delight in being a zebra in a herd of unique and -different realities? I can’t be the only one out of practice and looking for a more healthy balance between alone time and social interaction. What’s out there?

“If we recognize we are out of practice feeling connections, we also have to be aware of the critical importance of regaining it.”

Collectively, our readership is within a 40 mile radius of each other and I am sincerely curious what you all do in your separate rituals and routines to meet people in person. How did you find a real life friend group (not dialog on a website) or do you have any advice on how to start one? Where do you practice your organic socializing skills? What keeps you connected to the herd? If you have any thoughts to share I would love to hear all of them. Please. You can send them to: heather@homeandharvestmagazine.com and she will forward them to me. If I get enough responses I will compile a synopsis of the findings. I will protect everyone’s anonymity and won’t share any identities or email addresses.

And to the kind man in the tool aisle, my son said I just should have asked for your business card for a way to break the ice.

Wow, I am out of practice.

When from the Heart Becomes for the Heart

BY TONY NICCOLI Valentine’s Day is always such a wonderful opportunity to give from the heart. Here we are, a few months past the holiday, already well on our way to keep up those resolutions and forming new habits in 2025. And with so many people marking the start of their year with a commitment, or recommitment, to working on bettering their health, Valentine’s Day also stands as a unique opportunity to give to the heart.

One of my absolute favorite treats is a great fish sandwich. I would pass up a burger almost any day if given the opportunity at a restaurant that has fish on offer as well. But I realized that I hardly ever make them at home. At first glance, and considering the effort that Heather and I are making to eat more intuitively and with a significant decrease in our fats and sugars, this made sense. I wouldn’t deep fry a breaded fish fillet and then load it up with tartar sauce that I know is high in cholesterol, assorted other fats, and sodium. I wouldn’t put it on an enriched-flour bun with added sugars and serve it next to a basket of salty fries at home. I might opt for that on a rare occasion when eating out, but never even considered making that something I grill at home. But then I noticed something interesting – even at restaurants, I was opting for healthier sides and options but still enjoying it just the same.

And that got me to thinking about a making a few healthy takes on my beloved fish sandwich, and perfecting them at home where it could become more of a staple. And while Heather loves these just as much as I do, it felt like a great idea to share with you for Valentine’s Day because of the care for your partner’s wellbeing and not just their favorite dish.

Because in the past, I have written several articles about using your grilling skills to make something from the heart, in full recognition of your partner’s favorite meals as an expression of love for this special holiday. But what about doing something more long-term, not just a single meal from your heart, but a dietary change for their heart.

Don’t panic! I am not going to ask you abandon steak, sugary sauces, delicious breads, or the fats and salts that make some of your favorite foods so memorable. I’m just advocating the idea of taking a few things that you know you love, and finding a way to make them healthier. For the things you would like to eat all the time, this shift might just need to be a little farther to the side of restriction, but can still be just as delicious. With careful thought, it is surprisingly easy to take any recipe and move the needle to a more heart-conscious ingredient list without giving up any of the taste you love. It often becomes even more elevated. And for things you only eat every once in a while, your only real concern is finding the ones that are the absolute worst for your health and working to bring them a little more in line with your commitment to improving how you eat. Following this simple step of placing the greatest importance on the daily items and secondary importance on improving the most indulgent meals while keeping them to an occasional treat has made a major impact for Heather and I in the last few months, and has been a lot of fun in the process.

So here is one of my new favorite takes on a fish sandwich at home. Both heart health focused, and more delicious than most of what I have tasted at restaurants. And the formula here is simple – so don’t be afraid to take this approach and expand it to your partner’s favorite dishes. You can cook from your heart and for their heart at the same time!

My goal was something healthy enough to eat often – so I went for a tuna burger. This was meant to the be farthest from the fat, oil and salt found in most restaurant dishes, and so I made the greatest sacrifices here, but the results stunned me. It turned out healthy enough to eat whenever we want it, and tasty enough to actually make it come up often in our rotation! So, think about what makes a good burger – it should have distinct flavor, be moist and juicy and have a satisfying feel on every bite. Its hard to go past that point – because if you are being honest, you may love cheddar and ketchup on a potato bun, or lettuce and mustard on a kaiser roll, or all the fixings on sesame seed buns, but you have to admit that at least a few times you have been somewhere that served them much different than your normal favorite, and yet you have still been amazed by their burger. In fact, it happens all the time to most of us. And this just proves that the basic concept and structure of the burger is what’s most important and not just one highly specific way of making it. Realizing this, I took that quest for flavor, succulence, and bite and threw out the ideas of which ingredient needed to get me there.

I was left with a blank slate, knowing I wanted to start with fish and end with burger. So here goes.

I had already decided that it was going to be served in a wholegrain bun, of this I was certain. The texture and bite would be perfect, but there would be much less sugar and wheat flavor in there – exchanged for a deeper flavor of savoriness. It would also feel a little drier than a standard hamburger bun. So, I had my texture, and some increased depth, but I knew that I needed to up the fat or moisture.

The main ingredient was going to be a healthy fish, served in a way we would both enjoy – but definitely not fried. I thought about just a seasoned fillet directly on the grill, but Heather-

-doesn’t like these anywhere near as much as I do. With frying out, I turned to the idea of a burger patty – and tuna was the obvious choice. I took two cans tuna and put it in a little food processer with one egg, half a chopped onion, a dash of Worcestershire, and half a slice of whole-grain bread that was finely chopped. I pulsed just a few times to get a workable consistency, then gave it a hefty dash of old bay and a little dill.

As I formed patties I tried to squeeze out as much moisture as possible. The tuna is already cooked but that raw egg needs to get to safe temperature. We also want to bark the outside and get it to a good serving temp. I decided to go with a scorching hot pan and just a tiny bit of olive oil. I gave each side a little under a minute, then pulled it off the heat and threw on a lid for a few minutes so the interior could finish cooking.

It was going to be delicious, but still that tuna, coming from a can and precooked, was going to do nothing to help my succulence though. I was running out of ingredients and still needed some oil or fat!

I pictured the final product in all it’s glory. Tuna burger – seasoned and stuffed patty bursting with flavor, but on the edge of being too dry. Lettuce and whole-grain but providing a perfect bite, and depth of tastes, but even more dry than that patty. It needed tartar sauce! But that was going to push this from a go-to healthy option to an occasional treat. Until I looked up the ingredients in tartar sauce…

I guess that I always just assumed that tartar was something very heterogenous and unique – like the sap from a tartar tree or the puree of some bizzarro legume. Nope, its just mayo. You toss shallots and capers in mayo, and church it up just a little with pickles, dill, tarragon, fresh herbs or a touch of mustard if you’re trying to be fancy. Tartar is mayo not magic, and we can work with that!

On my first run, we just used some avocado mayo. I chopped up a little extra onion when making the patties, and some mini pickles that we had in the fridge. Nothing special, but it was amazing! Since then, I transitioned to making it from scratch with low-fat Greek yogurt, finely chopped dill pickles and capers, a little drizzle of pickle juice, a tiny rub of lemon zest, dash of salt, and touch of tarragon and black pepper. This has honestly become my favorite tartar sauce of all time, and I am planning to experiment with artichoke hearts and olives in place of the capers for my next round.

I had the perfect combo once I figured out the tartar sauce trick.

I threw some sweet-potato fries in the oven as our side, quickly grilled the tuna patties and set the table for a healthy meal from my heart and for our hearts. I’m planning to make these again soon, but will do a homemade fire-roasted tomato soup as the side – perfect for dipping.

So, this Valentine’s Day, from my heart to yours – I hope you enjoy this recipe and get inspired to start creating your own, to care for the health of the ones you love.

SWEETHEART strawberry crunch cake kitchen: sara raquet

INGREDIENTS || cake + glaze + topping cake ½ cup unsalted butter, room temperature 1 ¼ cups granulated white sugar 3 egg whites 1 egg 2/3 cup buttermilk, room temperature 3 ounce package strawberry Jello, just the powder 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 2 1/4 cups all purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1/2 teaspoon baking soda 1/2 teaspoon salt glaze 2 cups powdered sugar 6-8 Tablespoons of milk ½ teaspoon vanilla extract crunch topping 15 Golden Oreos, crushed 1 cup freeze dried strawberries 4 Tablespoons unsalted butter, melted STEPS Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease and flour a 10-cup bundt and set aside. Cream the butter in a large bowl with an electric mixer until smooth. Add the granulated sugar and beat again until creamy.

Add the egg whites and egg and beat until fluffy, about 3 minutes on high speed. Pour in the buttermilk, Jello powder, and vanilla extract and beat until combined. Whisk the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt together in a large separate bowl. Add it to the wet mixture and beat on low speed until just combined. Pour the batter into the prepared baking pan and bake for 40-50 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean when inserted into the center of the cake. Let it cool for 15 minutes in pan and then flip over onto a cooling rack.

Combine powdered sugar and 6 tablespoons of milk in a bowl and add vanilla. Add additional milk as needed to make a pourable consistency. When cake is cooled, pour glaze over cake. Let stand about 10 minutes before adding topping.

Crush the golden Oreo cookies and dried strawberries together in a Ziploc bag with a rolling pin until it forms a rough, pea-size crumb. Pour in 4 Tablespoons of melted butter, seal the bag, and toss to combine. Sprinkle over cake!

SPRINKLE sugar cookies kitchen: sara raquet INGREDIENTS || cookies + icing cookies 3 cups of all-purpose flour 1 tsp. baking powder 1/2 tsp kosher salt 1 cup of butter, room temperature 1 cup granulated sugar 1 large egg, room temperature 1 Tbsp milk 1 tsp pure vanilla extract Icing 1 8-oz. of block cream cheese, room temperature 1/2 cup of butter, room temperature 4 cups of powdered sugar 1 tsp pure vanilla extract 1/4 tsp kosher salt Pink and red food coloring Sprinkles STEPS In a large bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. In another large bowl using a hand mixer, beat butter and sugar until fluffy and pale in color. Add egg, milk, and vanilla and beat until combined, then add flour mixture gradually until totally combined. Shape into 2 flattened discs and wrap in plastic. Refrigerate for 1 hour.

When ready to roll, preheat oven to 350º and line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Lightly flour a clean work surface and roll out dough until 1/8” thick. Cut out shapes with a 2 1/2” heart-shaped shape cookie cutter and transfer to prepared baking sheets. Freeze for 10 minutes to hold shape while baking. Bake until edges are lightly golden, 8 to 10 minutes. Make frosting: In a large bowl using a hand mixer, beat cream cheese and butter together until smooth. Add powdered sugar, vanilla, and salt and beat until combined. Divide the frosting into 3 bowls. Add pink food coloring to one bowl and red food coloring to another. Stir each bowl and add more food coloring until the desired color is reached. Frost cookies using an offset spatula with each color of frosting, then top with sprinkles.

You can also melt chocolate and dip the cookies in it and add sprinkles (shown in picture).

ORZO cracked pepper + lemon kitchen: alyssa lyman

INGREDIENTS 2 tbs butter 16 oz box of orzo 48 oz chicken broth Juice of half a lemon 1 egg yolk ½ cup shredded parmesan Cracked pepper

STEPS In a large pot melt the butter on medium heat. Add the orzo and stir constantly until lightly golden. Add the chicken broth and bring to a light boil. Simmer until the orzo is tender, about 12 minutes. Add the lemon juice and stir well. Remove pot from heat and add the egg yolk while stirring vigorously so the yolk doesn’t scramble. Incorporated the parmesan cheese and add cracked pepper and salt to taste. Yields 8 servings

ESPRESSO chocolate chip cookies kitchen: heather niccoli

INGREDIENTS 14 tablespoons butter 1 tablespoon ground espresso 1/2 cup + 2 tablespoons dark brown sugar 1/2 cup granulated sugar 1 large egg 1 large egg yolk 2 teaspoon vanilla 1 2/3 cup + 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking soda 1/4 tablespoon cinnamon 1 teaspoon salt 1 cup chocolate chips STEPS Preheat oven to 350 F. Melt the butter over medium heat until you create brown butter- roughly 10 minutes. Transfer butter to a mixing bowl and add in the espresso grounds. Whisk in sugar and brown sugar until well incorporated, then add in the egg, egg yolk, and vanilla. Lastly, fold in the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, salt, and chocolate until just combined. Don’t overmix! Scoop cookies onto a parchment or greased baking tray.

Bake for 10-12 minutes, or more if you like crispy cookies!

HEART strawberry shortcake cookies kitchen: alyssa lyman

INGREDIENTS 2 sticks unsalted butter (room temperature) ½ cup sugar ¼ cup brown sugar 2 eggs 1 tsp vanilla extract ½ tsp almond extract 2 ½ cups flour ½ tsp salt ¼ tsp baking powder Parchment paper

STEPS Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Cream the butter and the sugars until light and fluffy. Add the eggs and mix until well incorporated. Add the vanilla and almond extract and stir. In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, salt, and baking powder. Stir the dry ingredients into the butter mixture and mix until just incorporated. Separate dough into 2 equal parts and place each one in between two 15 inch sheets of parchment paper. Roll each dough sheet out to be about ¼ to ½ inch thick. Pre-rolling the dough between two sheets of parchment paper avoids a tough and chewy texture. Refrigerate the dough for one hour.

Remove the dough from fridge and from in between the parchment and lay onto floured surface. Lightly dust the top with flour. Use one larger cookie cutter to cut out the cookies, then using a smaller cookie cutter, cut out the centers of half of the cookies. Lay out all cookies on a parchment lined baking sheet and bake at 375 degrees for 10-12 minutes or until the bottoms are lightly golden brown. Cool completely and dust with powdered sugar.

Fill with strawberry jam.

Yields 12 cookies

BAKED sprinkled donuts kitchen: sara raquet

INGREDIENTS

|| donuts + ganache

donuts 2 cups all-purpose flour 1 cup sugar 2 teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon kosher salt 1 extra-large egg, room temperature, beaten 1¼ cups buttermilk, room temperature 2 tablespoons salted butter, melted, slightly cooled 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract ganache 2 tablespoons heavy cream ½ cup chopped chocolate Sprinkles STEPS Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease 2 donut pans with coconut oil or butter. (I used a 2.8 Inch 12-cavity donut pan). In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt. In a small bowl, whisk together the egg, milk, melted butter, and vanilla. Stir the wet mixture into the dry ingredients until just combined. Place batter into a gallon Ziploc bag , snip off corner of bag and fill each cavity three-quarters full or just below the edge of pan. Bake for 17-20 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool for 5 minutes, then tap the donuts out onto a sheet pan. Let cool completely before topping.

Place the chocolate and cream in a medium bowl. Melt in 20 second increments in the microwave, stirring after each time, until completely melted and smooth. Dip the tops of the donuts into the chocolate glaze and then cover with sprinkles!

TASTY cheesy mini quiches kitchen: heather niccoli

INGREDIENTS 2 unbaked pie crust (make your own or use store bought!

5 eggs 1 cup milk or heavy cream ¼ cup chopped bacon ¼ cup spinach 1/4 cup finely chopped onion ¼ tsp salt 1/8 tsp pepper 1/2 cup shredded cheddar cheese

STEPS Preheat oven to 375 F. Grease or line your muffin pan. Roll out your pie dough and using a mason jar or by eye, create your shells and place in the pan. This is optional, but I like to bake my crusts for about 8 minutes and then fill them with the egg mixture.

Combine the eggs, heavy cream, bacon, spinach, onion, salt and pepper together.

Pour egg filling into each baked or unbaked crust, then sprinkle each with cheese.

Bake the mini quiches until the center about 25 minutes, or until a toothpick comes back clean from the center. If using my baked crust option, cover quiche with foil so edges don’t brown.

Lookingfor Love

A few Sundays ago, a young woman at church who was doing announcements was enthusiastic about the number of “old people” that were now members. And it dawned on me that she was referring to me (gasp!) and my sweet man, Rod along with several other couples who have reached that certain age of what I would assume looks like geezer-hood.

In my mind’s eye, I am still about 32. My body, however, has a very different point of view. And my hair color says I have logged in my fair share of hours here on earth. The one thing that is the same, whatever age you are, is that we all want to be loved. As Valentines Day is just around the corner, we are all aware of the most important thing is being loved and being in love. The world is built for two and most of us want to have “our person” to share our life with. Rod says “twosomes are better than lonesomes”. And as I look at other couples, do you ever wonder how they met? I love a good life story, so when wanting to get to know others better, my very favorite thing to ask couples is….” How did you meet?” It’s soooo interesting, because when you ask that in front of them, they will immediately look at each other, there will be a combined shared knowledge of that memory and depending on circumstances, you may or may not get the actual true version of how they met.

Usually you do, but sometimes not. Or you may get the condensed for public TV version. Regardless, it is fascinating to hear in their own words how couples meet and then merge into “couple hood”. I think it’s safe to say that we all want “a happy ending”, right? Yep, our own “Hallmark Love Story”.

And strange enough, when I get asked how Rod and I met, it is still a bit of a jolt to share that we met online, because dating in today’s social media age is so different now than when we were in our 20’s. It’s like going from horse and buggy to cars as back then there was no social media, apps or dating sites. Dating back in our youth involved several methods, friends, social settings, being a member of some kind of club, shared interests/groups or church. In today’s world the most common way to meet is social media. And for a mid-aged to older person, it’s a bit daunting but definitely doable. And when asked to write about the topic of finding love in today’s world, I’ll share a bit of my story and as well as some insights from a mid-age male’s point of view and two young females in their 30’s.

Both Rod and I found ourselves single in our mid 50s. He was a widower, and I was divorced. Not the fairy tale ending we imagined when we said our vows. And yet both of us went on our own journey to find that someone special to ride out the golden years together.

My 24-year-old daughter who was a widow was my co-partner and guide into the online dating world. When she was ready to begin dating, she decided that I was too! For the record, I wasn’t too sure about launching into this new foreign landscape of online dating. She however, had other ideas and sometimes you need a good kick in the pants to kick start your adventure.

By

Gayle Anderson

Plus, I was terrified that she would set up my dating profile and who knows what it would say (complete truth). So one evening we opened a bottle of wine, poured ourselves a glass and I got a crash course on “dating online 101”. Seriously who knew that online dating is really like a “catalog for ready to date men”!?! She thought maybe I might be interested in the “Farmer Only” dating site since I had been married for almost 30 years to a farmer.

We perused the site and looked at profiles. It appeared that the 50ish age farmer/rancher wasn’t too sure about how to appeal to a prospective mate as their profiles had limited information about themselves and mostly what we saw were lots of pictures of cows, their machine shops and when I saw the state of their farm equipment… well I got a bit judgmental and shockingly realized that I was a farm snob! I decided that site was NOT for me. Next we looked into other dating sites. Do you know that there are very specific ones for your interests? Such as Christian singles, meeting people through volunteerism, Bumble wherein women are the ones who take the lead in reaching out, and several others.

I chose Match.com, paid the subscription fee and then began the daunting task of writing a profile about me. This is the weird part, as how do relay in essence the kind of person you are? What do you say? Do you tell them that you have a seriously wicked & warped sense of humor? Or do you entice them in like a Venus fly trap plant waiting to catch a fly with all sweetness and light stuff, then when they are in range… you spring your goofy self on them? A quandary for sure. To be perfectly honest, it is pretty similar to writing a cover letter when applying for a job (pointers will be provided at the end of the article). Long story short, after the uncomfortable part of posting pictures of yourself and writing a profile, it was actually sort of fun getting messages and winks. It compares with getting a note in grade school from some random boy who likes you. You then look at their profile, make the determination if you want to see if they are someone you want to know a bit more of. As I had not dated in high school and had limited dating experience after high school before getting married, this was a definite learning experience as an adult. And even worse... as a mom, I got the “today’s version of a sex talk” from my 24 year old daughter…( I can’t even begin to tell you how uncomfortable that was!)

After a couple or so years and countless emails and “get to know you first coffee dates”, I think I was the queen of once and done meetings. Rarely did I want to have a second date, however I did end up having a couple of dating relationships that lasted for a few months, but ultimately it would be me that would end them when you actually get a true insight into their life. When you are older there are just some things that you will not compromise your standards on that perhaps you might have when in your 20s. I was dating weary and had decided that I was going to stop the online dating thing. I had recently bought a six acre farmette just outside of Moscow, I had a dog and had come to terms that I would stay single from here on out. After a conversation with God and some sincere heartfelt prayers, I had felt I would give it one more chance before I removed myself from the dating scene.

And low and behold I had recently gotten a lovely inquiry from a man who lived in Spokane. He wanted to know if I really was immersed in the farm lifestyle. He was a farm boy who grew up in Ritzville, was a former fire chief and was now ground crew for a medical transport company. He was a widower, had two kids, a dog and his profile indicated he had a sense of humor (bonus).

Home&Harvest | Jan + F eb 2025

I broke my rule of a coffee only first date and agreed to meet him at a local brew pub for lunch. The first date was okay and pleasant, we had lengthy phone conversations several times after that, and our second date was attending a Cinco de Mayo party thrown by some close work friends. Very gutsy on his part since we really didn’t know each other well and he was already inviting me into his personal world. That was a fun date and after that we made the decision to exclusively only date each other and we closed our dating accounts.. Our friendship blossomed into a romance, and we became inseparable. And a funny thing on Rods part was he was about to close his account too, then he saw my profile and decided to give it one last shot.

Having been out of the dating lifestyle now for almost 8 years, I reached out to a male family friend in his late 50’s who I had helped get launched into the online dating world to get his perspective. The number one item he mentioned was geographic location is sometimes challenging and most likely it will require a person to drive 1-3 hours for a date ( I also found this to be true).

If you are serious about finding that special person, be prepared for a time and expense commitment. He also mentioned that he had to develop a tough skin to be able to handle rejection, mainly in the form of no replies to your inquiries. And to try not to get discouraged and stay in the game. Patience will hopefully pay off.

After several months, he has found someone and has been dating for over a year and half.

I interviewed two young female executives in their mid 30’s, one from this area and one from the Seattle area. Again, geographical areas play a factor in the selection of available men to date, and both mentioned that given their age, they are finding men who are now divorced and re-entering the dating scene. Currently the local woman isn’t on any dating sites and said she is burned out on them. Instead she prefers to use different ways to meet others in a non-dating group activity scenario commonly known as a “meet-up”. This is where other single people gather to do fun group things like hike, ski, raft, etc. And she is open to meeting men through hobbies, church or work. She did mention that the only group meet up around this area was around Cd’A area, so travel is necessary. The urban based woman felt dating apps were the best way to meet someone and she is now in a nine-month relationship. Both did mention that being single when most of their girlfriends are married is hard.

As promised, here are some pointers. First and foremost, as with anything when communicating with new people, there are precautions you need to adhere to. For safety tips, the internet will give you abundant information, so I won’t go into that. What I would share are tips that I found useful if you are looking for a long-term partner and want to dip your toe into the online dating world: Realize that you are a beautiful worthy person. It may sound trivial, but it’s important to have a good self-image and that you deserve a healthy and loving relationship.

Take stock of what are your positives attributes. What makes you unique? This helps you write a profile about you. Highlight yourself, but don’t exaggerate. Be real. Be specific in what kind of relationship you are seeking. In today’s world with AI, I would imagine that could be quite helpful with wording.

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Decide up front if you are or are not willing to relocate should you meet that special someone who may live in a different city/ state.

No trash talk about ex’s (plus don’t even mention the ex, especially for the first few dates). Negative vibes are not attractive. My suggestion is forgiving the ex and move on. Resentment only hurts you and keeps you chained in a downward cycle. Learn from the past and take that knowledge with you as you move forward.

Pictures say a thousand words about you! Paint a story of who you are with pictures. (hint: guys - no bathrooms selfies – number 1 turnoff. Ladies be classy.)

Take time to identify what is important to you in a mate. For me sometimes what I thought was “a given that everyone should possess” these was not the case as you get to know someone. Write down the qualities you liked about your date and the things that you didn’t like. It will give you a better idea of what kinds of qualities your “perfect for you” mate should possess.

Treat each new date as a wonderful opportunity and as a fun social experiment. You get what you put into it.

Pay attention to “red flags” and don’t dismiss them. Your subconscious only has your best interest at heart, so pay heed if something doesn’t feel right.

Be polite, respond to all written inquiries, even if you aren’t interested. A simple reply of, “thank you for reaching out, but I do not feel that we have a lot of common interests to pursue this further.

Best of luck finding your special person.”

If you are weary in the dating game and you are not finding that soul mate, don’t be tempted to “settle” for just having a warm body in lieu of waiting to find that special someone. Stay strong and keep hope.

Regardless if you are young or young-at-heart, my sincere hope is that you feel loved. And if you are single and are looking for love, I wish you the best. If you are married or in a relationship, please take a moment to celebrate your person, your relationship and hold them close. And as I close, here are some words of wisdom: “Love is a gift of one’s inner most soul to another so both can be whole.” —Buddha And the best for last…

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” —1 Corinthians 13:4-7

Fall In Love With

SEEDS She caught my eye from across the room and my heart jumped; that soft glowing form, a little over-sized but still a seductive look that catches my eye and makes my heart skip a beat..I take her in my hands. Like many times before, there is a tingle and my memory transports me back to our relationship years past and the passion we have shared. Another year together, my dear, and you only grow better, more beautiful, more diverse… you are my favorite. How will I choose among so many plump fruits you have to offer? It is my thrill to try them all!

Seed catalogues get me excited and Gurney’s is still my favorite. I’ll bet you have yours.

They have responded to consumer pressure to offer more non-GMO plantings, more traditional heirloom crops which are more disease and climate extreme resistant. Like many great seed companies, Gurney’s actually has a pretty compelling story, being started in 1866 by Civil War veteran, Charles W. Gurney. I imagine he, with many other boys and young men on both sides of that brutal conflict, spent lots of idle time between gruesome battles longing for home, the plow, and for harvest of something other than blood.

Like many great seed companies today, they have, for a long time, tried to offer seeds to beget plants with qualities a good gardener desires—plant hardiness and vigor, disease resistance, good flavor, and most importantly nutritional value. These are qualities you simply cannot often get with commercially-grown food on grocery store shelves chosen for convenience, shelf-life, and transportability. I won’t even get into what is used to keep those mega-commercial food sources weed and pest free. As I walk a personal journey being more sensitive to food as medicine, this is important to me, and I am making seed decisions now to reflect that. And, the excitement is even greater this year as for the first time, my greenhouse is fully up and rocking a warm, humid environment. Let it snow, let is snow, let it snow! Prior readers may recall my journey of prepping the greenhouse location, choosing the right structure for quality and function, and the long process of getting it up and functional. Now complete, I began some planting as early as December, and the space is becoming my new happy place.

By

Trent Morgan

Built for the road ahead.

2025 Subaru Outback

Seeds are an interesting concept. Sometimes I wonder if modern gardeners give seed much thought. So many of our plantings now can be purchased already germinated, matured, blooming, and even laden with fruit. I know the just-under-one-billion-dollar U.S. garden seed industry gives seeds some thought. I wouldn’t say that starting every garden annual or perennial is that easy at first, so I do get the convenience of buying them by the “flat.” It also takes a lot of work and commitment to start plants from seed that need to get busy fast enough to have the time to produce loads of fruit or vegetables before we get the first fall frost. Seeds can be tricky. Of course, some seeds are not picky and sprout with ease, but others, like people, have their quirks and particularities that make them finicky. These types of people, however, are usually the most interesting once you get to know them and so are these types of plants.

And of course, this is what makes gardening fun; there is always more to discover and nothing is guaranteed. I do think mastering seed gardening is important as you not only can be more particular about your crops regarding variety, form, flavor, and nutrition, but also because the process calls you to a deeper understanding of what makes things grow: soil, light, heat, moisture. This has some great rewards on the dinner table. Some seeds are not picky and can be tossed into freshly-tilled soil in May and forgotten, but the real good stuff, in my opinion, needs the kind of care you might give a healthy relationship on Valentine’s Day. The seed-to-table process makes you a little odd; I’m just warning you… and to that point: Late in December I had my little farm tractor out for a random task. It was a warm Lewiston day and sunny, so I thought I would give a “turn” to my compost pile. I removed the cattle panels I have holding the big pile together and tossed off the chicken wire that I lay over the top to keep the chickens from spreading the pile to the wind, and then, gently edged the tractor bucket under the corner of what looked to be a dead mound of leaves and turkey manure.

I lifted a heavily loaded bucket high and dumped it to the back of the pile. The wonderful, steamy aroma of microorganisms working away deep in the mound filled my nostrils. The sweet steamy effervescence drifted skyward in an illuminated misty white, glowing in the heavily-angled winter sun. It was a beautifully wonderful sight and smell! If you appreciate that, yup, you are weird. You are a gardener! My mind in that moment wandered to how much my seed sprouts would appreciate my composting efforts once they germinate, as I use sterile soil to start my seeds. The “steamscape” also took me back to ponder how much life is a cycle where wonderful transformations occur when the old dies and is broken down to be regenerated into something new again. What a joy to be part of that cycle.

Seeds have always fascinated me from when I was a little boy, picking them off display trays with my dad at the Grange Supply. Seeds are beautiful packages of genetic material, sometimes called “germ” that is basically a dormant embryo. Fats, minerals, proteins, and B vitamins combine to form a structured double helix DNA molecule, just like in humans and just as unique to each seed as we are unique humans based on our parents’ DNA. Unlike humans though, the future prodigy is completely ready to go, stored in a dormant, protected, safe-state until conditions are right. You might say that the sex happened and then the plant knew that time was needed for the right season and conditions to grow the new life, so it protected the embryo in a tough outer layer to wait for the right conditions—sometimes for a very LONG time. I read once that a two-thousand-year-old Judean date palm seed was found duringHome&Harvest | Jan + F eb 2025

excavation of Herod the Great’s palace in southern Israel. It was, somehow, well-preserved over two millennia in a cool, dry place and was germinated in 2005. WOW! Seeds are a time capsule and think of the diversity of climates and areas on our planet where things grow. Over time and change, plants make our planet alive and drive the cycle of respiration for us and them, from tiny seeds…kind of mind blowing. Seed genetics is complex and mostly beyond me, but I did learn in Master Gardener classes that the number of embryonic leaves which first emerge when a seed sprouts indicates a genetic difference. There are more differences based on how seeds store food for growth but that is more than I want to know for my purposes. These things do matter, however, because it is these components that provide nutrition to us when we eat food from seeds. Between fifty and eighty percent of the world’s nutrition is from grains. I am glad that people make it their life’s work and mission to preserve seed genetics and that others produce seeds for sale for all of us to enjoy. We kind of take it for granted, really.

I recently watched a short video about the Doomsday Seed Vault in Svalbard, Norway. Google it some night when you can’t sleep, and a picture will pop up of a weird, dystopian protrusion jutting from a mountainside on a frozen, remote island above the Arctic Circle. Apparently, smart people think seeds are worth preserving and have about as much faith in society’s ability to not ruin our planet as I do. In a “worst case scenario” situation, over two hundred countries have sent crop seeds to be preserved there, deep in caverns kept strictly at minus eighteen degrees Celsius where it is predicted these seeds can literally last almost forever. Do they know something we don’t? I must admit, I have a bit of doomsdayer in me and have jars of Indian and sweetcorn I have dried and harvested, along with green beans and some flowers that I like. In fact, the remote frozen bank has already saved heritage seeds in the Middle East as the Aleppo Seed Bank in Syria was threatened in the recent regional wars. Can you imagine losing the genetic material from plants in an area that may well have been the cradle of civilization?

Getting back to the greenhouse and planting, I know that some seeds are going to need to be planted earlier than others, but some I have learned not to jump the gun on, namely tomatoes. This gets at a very important date you must consider when plotting seed planting, germination time, and growth rate. That date is simply called for your region the “Last Frost Date.” Enter the Farmer’s Almanac. I started noticing racks of the 2025 almanac at local garden stores last September, so there must be lots of us out there thinking ahead. I think the Farmer’s Almanac is sexy too, but not in the same league as a glossy seed catalog. Of course, the other thing you will need to know is days to germination and maturity, and a good seed catalog will give you this information before you order. Seed packets will tell you more, namely days to germinate, depth to sow, seed and row spacing, and days to harvest. Of course, lots of seeds can be planted in the garden before the last frost and don’t need a greenhouse. I had an absolute blast with my nineteenmonth-old grandson, planting garlic in late November. If you are planting inside, you don’t need a fancy greenhouse, you just need to purchase some heated seed mats. These are mats that you plug in like a heating blanket and set your planted containers on. They heat to an average of seventy to eighty degrees Fahrenheit and work like a dream! Some seeds just won’t germinate without this type of consistent heat.

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Basil is a perennial that is on my list this year as a new love, even a fetish, that needs to be started inside. Perennial, you question?

Yes! We often treat it like an annual, but I am trying to keep mine over this winter, as well as plant new varieties, though they don’t look too happy about it. This all started when I attended a local seminar on herbals and health by Heather Thornton-Witters, and I sampled her pesto while learning of the healthful power of Holy (Tulsi) Basil. I am now a bit of an addict. Olive oil, basil, pine nuts, parmesan cheese, and salt… what’s not to love? But, you find out that it takes a lot of basil leaves to make pesto every week, so I bought some plants and experimented. Holy Basil is also hard to find locally. There are actually LOTS of varieties, so I ordered a pack with eight, and I am hoping to be able to make gallons by next August without buying out local grocery stores.

Hope springs eternal when it comes to new love!

This is a wonderful time of year to ponder the romance we have with our gardens and the lessons nature shares we can apply to our lives, relationships, and loved ones. The anticipation of renewing a relationship we have with the soil, past successes and failures, builds with warmer weather and longer days. Like the garden, we have relationships in all stages of life, be they in the early nurturing stages in the greenhouse or the spent basil that I have brought back in to try and save for another year, although it looks pretty droopy and sad. Regardless, both need tending to thrive and survive if that is their fate, and my skills are up to it.

“Enjoy, but let go when the season is done.”

From tiny seed in fresh compost through to the final throes of each plant’s life cycle, I see such wonderful patterns in nature that reenforce and affirm patterns in life as if to say, “Plant, tend, nurture, and harvest all you can. Enjoy, but let go when the season is done.”

I have a good friend who is nearing the end of his life. He is a brilliant guy I worked with in a challenging, stressful, hospital environment who was respected and well-known locally. If he were a plant, I imagine him a hawthorn or some type of hardy thorned mountain rose. He had a hard early life. You might say the seed was cast into a place that was difficult to take root. Regardless, to his testament, he did sprout and grow despite, from what I can tell, was a garden where not much tender care was offered. As a result of that environment, he grew a hard outer-shell. Not many could penetrate it, and many bled trying. He tells me now during times of mental clarity and vulnerability unclouded by the mental and physical confusion of Parkinson’s Disease that he has many regrets. His family has not been able to get past their wounds. It is truly hard to see the value he possesses as a human, every bit as much a creation as anyone else, being so discarded. Yet, I am so blessed to be the one to nurture him now and shine a light, give a little water, and love. Each seed needs that level of respect and caring. Happy planting.

Here is the continuation of a little girl’s story of growing up at the White Spring Ranch in Genesee, by Martha Lorang.

“While I do not remember the workshed being built, I remember Dad having a fire in a pit and a bellows that fanned the fire from below to keep it hot and burning. There was a handle on the bellows which was operated by hand. The fire must have been from coal and was used to mend iron or whatever.

About the barn – we had cows in stalls on one side on the south end and horses in stalls on the north side. Cows were brought inside about November 1st every year when the raining season came. Otherwise, we milked them outside, by taming the new ones until they would stand still and not kick our bucket over, while sitting on a stool Dad made. I milked as many as 10 cows and went to school three miles away afterwards. We churned butter with a stomper by hand and made butter for sale which we took to Genesee City and sold for 40 cents a round roll of two pounds. The roller was made of wood for that purpose. It had hinges in the middle and you put the butter in and closed it tight, trimmed the edges, and there was a beautiful two-pound roll of butter. Dad let Mother have the butter money to buy our clothes, or fabric to make them. About 1910 or there about, we sold milk instead of butter to Smolt’s Store. We would fill a 10-gallon can, set it to cool overnight in the running water fountain in the front yard, and Ed Smolt would come in his Ford pickup in the morning and take it to his confectionery store where they served meals, ice cream, etc. We filled he barn each year and I remember Henry brought the hay to the side of the barn on a header bed. A header bed was a rack made of wood that fit snugly into the truck body to hold a lot of hay or whatever, to be hauled.

I drove a derrick to hoist the hay into the loft. The derrick line was hooked to a single tree – driven by two horses. Henry forked the hay to be brought into the upper loft and when ready, he would yell, “O.K., go ahead.” He had the hay in the barn and was dumping it. I stopped the horses and ran them back to the starting point, to do it all over again – as Henry pulled the fork back to refork again and we filled the whole barn to the rafters that way. One day when we were stacking hay in the field and I was driving the derrick that hoisted the hay on the top of the stack, Charles (my youngest brother) was playing on the rope that went into the pulley.

I was driving forward and did not recognize Charles’ yells as anything other than play, until it was too late and he got his hand in the pulley and ended up with a crooked small finger.

Days back when I remember, we had an outhouse near the underground cellar, a bit west and south. I remember Mother being in there one time and Viola thought I was in there and she threw rocks at the outhouse – she got a comeback from Mother, “You are going to get it.” What a laugh! Also, we had a small and large hole in the outhouse. Viola was in there on the “little hole” (she was so small) and I came in there and took her off the “little hole” and took possession. She got on the “large hole” and she jackknifed. Luckily, I was strong enough to pull her back on top. I said to Viola, “Don’t tell Mama.” Neither of us did tell her either. That was a close call and I still feel faint to know what could have happened. Viola was always a good and game little sport. I was one year and eight-months older than she was.

This is pretty late to get to this, but the new house with the four bedrooms upstairs must have been built around 1901, (1904) as I remember having a ride in the house when it was being moved on rollers. I remember how much fun I thought it was.

I just do only remember the bedroom of the old house before being rebuilt. Mother had a sewing machine and was sewing while I was safely in her bed and the Blessed Virgin picture was over my head. I thought I am real safe with mother close by and the Virgin Mary to protect me.

One thing I hope all will remember, to pass on to whoever buys the house – that a deep well is under the wash room – do hope it is cemented over. (it is covered now). Our house was heated by wood stoves, a kitchen range, and a heater in the living room, and dad and mother had a heating stove in their bedroom. Mother would heat bricks which we would wrap in heavy cloths, and put them in our beds to warm them. Our light was kerosene lamps for years. We even used the lamp shades to heat our curling irons - by putting them in the shade for a time.

Later on we put in gas, which was put in the ceiling. It had a mantle which was cloth over the spigot to be lighted. We had a tank upstairs that we pumped up to keep the lights burning.

Pretty nice light too. Later Dad put in electric lights by buying his own electrical system. It was called Western Electric. Dad had to run an engine frequently to generate electricity. It was good light but a lot of work and worry for dad.

When Dad brought the water from the spring to the house and barn, he also built cement troughs for the animals for drinking. One was in the barn, one in the barnyard, and one across from the house by the road road (that is not there anymore).

c Martha Lorang’s Journal, Part II

By Diane Conroy

2025

; is it the year to find your dream home?

128 E THIRD STREET, MOSCOW, ID | LATAHREALTY.COM | 208.883.1525

The road was abolished when the new State Highway moved it to where it is now and cut us off from the highway. There is still a road though, that runs from the highway to the house.

This is kind of disconnected writing – but I am putting it into script as I think of it.

When Genesee, Idaho, and the surrounding country was in demand, Mother said that in Genesee Proper, “There were tents all over the place and all was blooming.” It was thought Genesee was going to be a big city.

Dad was always at some Farm Bureau meeting or another to promote this or that and once was asked to run for Representative of Idaho. He put out cards but would not solicit, so, of course, he wasn’t elected. Governor Alexander thought a lot of Dad and for what he did and stood for. He came past our place once one Sunday and we had a big gathering there for dinner and he stayed and participated in the dinner. Governor Alexander appointed him to represent Idaho in a World meeting of Farmers – somewhere in a southern state. He had to stand up and give a talk, and he said, at first, his knees shook, but that he got courage and did very well. It was a farm group of some kind.

Dad’s petition changed the road that now goes around the hill up to Borgen’s and it cut a small part of Matt Kambitsch’s land from his main land and he refused to have anything to do with Dad after that, and said that no Lorang should buy any of his land. The road used to go up over the hill on the north of our property, where Dad planted the trees, which, I think, are still there. It was on our property and next to the fence of Matt Kambitsch. It was reasonable to put it around the hill where it now is rather than go over that rather steep hill. However, it made enemies of neighbors. That was before my time, but I remember that is why we remained unfriendly for as long as we did.

Our mode of transportation was by horse and buggy. The buggy had a top on it and one-cushion seat that carried three by squeezing in together. It was pulled by one horse with shafts hooked to the horse’s harness and to the buggy. We also had a two-cushion seat, top buggy, pulled by two horses. It was called a Surrey. Finally, we converted to a 7-passenger Paige and the Ford pickup.

For washing facilities, Dad invented a wash machine that we used for years. It had four legs, and the wash machine set up on them, which were about a foot and one-half tall. The body had a curved bottom like a wheel that was lined with heavy galvanized material. The sides were reinforced to guard against any leakage, and it had a lip on one end where the wringer was fastened.

In this curved area, a cradle was set that was held securely by having it set into grooves. It had a handle over the top and sides so that two people, one on each side rocked it to and fro over the clothes to wash them. It was very efficient. After the first washing, the clothes were placed into a long boiler which was placed over a two-hole firebox. Water was put into the boiler and the clothes were boiled with soap (which was made before hand) and consisted of lye and, I think, tallow or lard. I know it did a good job. After boiling, the wash was again put into the wash machine and rocked to thoroughly clean them. The clothes were then wrung into cold water where bluing was added so the wash came out really white. The clothes were hung outside summer or winter. In winter, the clothes froze stiff as a board but they were left there to freeze dry or eventually the wind whipped them dry.”

To be continued……..

Moscow’s Convet

by Hayley Noble

In many minds, Idaho and Catholicism do not seem like an obvious pairing. But surprisingly, northern Idaho has a long history with the Catholic Church, including what is believed to be the oldest building in Idaho: The Mission of the Sacred Heart also known as the Cataldo Mission, near Coeur d’Alene, which dates to the 1850s. Most of the other Catholic connections are not nearly that old. Another well-known Catholic site in the region is the Monastery of St. Gertrude near Cottonwood. This Benedictine order established their footprint in 1909 and constructed their current chapel in 1919.

Moscow’s own Ursuline convent was founded similarly in 1908 along D Street between Howard and Monroe Streets. The house on that plot originally belonged to Julia and Charles Moore (See the May/June 2024 Home&Harvest for more info on Julia Moore).

When Mother Mary Rose Galvin, Sister Paula Slevins, Sister Theresa Slevins and Sister Mary Carmel McCabe came to town by train, they leased the Moore house and immediately established the Ursuline Academy, which first opened to students on September 14th. Twenty-two students came that first day, ranging in ages from six to fifteen. In 1912, the convent purchased the property with financial assistance from Eleanor A. Galvin in Toledo, Ohio, where the sisters hailed from.

Soon the Ursulines were also teaching music and art lessons and taking in boarders, both on a permanent basis and temporarily if a parent had to leave town. In 1908 boarders paid $20 a month, which roughly adjusted is around $685 today. The sisters attended mass at St. Mary’s, taught routine classes and specialty lessons, and stayed busy cooking and cleaning their convent building. Occasionally they would also visit neighboring towns like Potlatch and Troy.

The Ursuline Academy served students at all grade levels with classes instructed by the nuns, and a school board appointed by Bishop Glorieux. The school was open to all regardless of religious affiliation. In 1940, the sisters also opened a nursery and kindergarten, St. Rose’s Garden, which specialized in early education at a time when early education opportunities were rare. By 1952, nine sisters taught roughly 200 students. But in 1955, high school enrollment dipped and the Ursulines decided to discontinue high school classes.

St. Mary’s Catholic Church saw the need for a larger school and purchased the adjacent lot from the Ursulines, between Monroe and Lincoln Streets along D Street in 1954. It was agreed that in the new St. Mary’s Catholic School the sisters would teach, and the parish would assist the school financially. The lot was originally used by the Ursuline Academy as a playground, and construction began for the new school in spring 1956. St. Mary’s opened for students first through eighth grades in the fall of that same year, and the sisters continued to offer the daycare and kindergarten in the convent. Classes at St. Mary’s soon after transitioned to be undertaken by both nuns and lay people, alike.

Eventually St. Mary’s ended seventh and eighth grade classes in 1966 after the public school district reconfigured the Moscow Junior High School to house seventh, eighth, and ninth grade students. The school has continued to operate under this model and the convent celebrated its 100th anniversary in September 2008.

Many of the nuns had long careers as teachers and were highly respected members of the Moscow community, buried in the Catholic section of the Moscow Cemetery. The sources related to the Moscow convent detail an emphasis on music, education,-

Home&Harvest | Jan + F eb 2025

-and charity, which is evident in the work they did throughout the region. Several women touted long years with the Ursuline Academy, then with St. Mary’s. One of the first four women to establish the convent, Mother Mary Rose Galvin taught for more than 25 years at the Academy before she died in 1934. 2017 and 2018 saw several sisters pass away who served more than a combined 200 years with the Ursuline Order: Sisters Mary David Hartse, Dolores Helbling, and Maura Murphy. Facing declining members of their order, the Sisters decided to sell the convent with the 1962 building and 1900s masonry fence. In 2018, the Ursuline Sisters sold the property to Archimedes: A Center for the Arts. Now the property is owned by Mark Beale. St. Rose’s moved across the street and is now part of St. Mary’s Catholic School.

Because not many photos exist of the convent, resources like Sanborn maps can illuminate property histories and changes to buildings. The Sanborn Map Company created intricate maps of late nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century towns detailing building materials for fire insurance purposes. These maps are invaluable for creating timelines of structural histories, especially in the absence of photographs. These maps declined in use during the 1950s and the Sanborn Company printed its last maps in 1961, and with one last update in 1977.

Sanborn maps can be accessed online via the Library of Congress, or the University of Idaho Library has conveniently compiled Idaho-related maps at https://www.lib.uidaho.edu/digital/sanborn/.

The Latah County Historical Society also has a select few paper copies of Sanborn maps for reference of county towns. LCHS staff regularly consult Sanborn maps for research questions. The maps aren’t without their limitations though. Early iterations only include the most populous parts of towns, so more rural areas are left out, and few maps detail areas beyond the 1920s. LCHS has a couple of maps that were printed in 1928, and 1963 and 1955 maps were pasted over the original printed ones. When held up to the light, one can view the 1928 version underneath the more recent edits.

The map entries for the Moore House first date to 1904. Then in 1909, the Ursuline Convent is clearly delineated with renovations to the Moore farmhouse. The next map is from 1928 showing the expansion of the property, with an added chapel, and a separate building for classrooms and an auditorium. A gymnasium, added in 1934, is included on the 1955 map too. The convent soon needed more space and constructed renovations in the 1940s over the original Moore house footprint. The Sisters erected a new building in 1962 and that is the structure that still exists today, visible on the 1963 map. The wall around the property from the early 1900s also remains. These maps illustrate the multiple iterations of the convent and the evolution of the buildings over time as needs and building materials changed and renovations were made.

Similarly, many of Moscow’s buildings can be traced through time this way by using the Sanborn maps. These maps are incredibly useful when trying to determine remodels, types of buildings, and materials. Their online availability also makes them easy to look up for those who cannot always make it into a reading room. It’s also fun to see how our built environment and community has changed. Without many photographs, these maps can help fill in gaps in our knowledge, particularly in this case regarding the Ursuline convent. The convent building and Ursulines themselves are in interesting look at the early Moscow history in a place not known for Catholicism. The legacy of the Sisters lives on in St. Mary’s School with its dedication to education that the nuns invoked early in 1908, when they moved from Toledo to Moscow.

68

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Otis!

The Oh,

Shenanigans

Episode 27 - Club

“Your mom is the best!” Clark said as he licked his fingers.

“She does make an good cupcake,” Otis said as he poked his last bite into his mouth.

Fertis smiled revealing blue frosting smeared on his white teeth. “And her frosting is so tasty!”

The three friends giggled, and each helped themselves to one more cupcake. Mavis made enough for each boy to have two, a generous after school snack to tide them over until their dinner.

It was Club Day. Once a month the area women gathered together at the community center for a program and dessert. Programming involved things like how to plant an herb garden or how to change the oil in your car or how to do your taxes. They normally started at 2:00 p.m. sharp and finished promptly at 4:00 p.m. to give the ladies time to get home to conduct their evening activities.

Club goers held a hard and fast rule that no males could attend… females only. The one exception came into play if someone couldn’t find childcare for their pre-school aged son.

Or, say, when Mavis, along with Fertis’ and Clark’s moms, wrote a Christmas skits requiring male—or extra—children. This predicament had gone over like a lead balloon with Otis, Fertis, and Clark the two times over the years that it had involved them. They’d adamantly fought against their mothers flaunting them in front of the Club ladies. But they’d lost the battle; two years prior they’d been sheep in a cheesy version of the Nativity. And one year ago, the skit called for an all-female cast of children, and the moms needed a few extra. There weren’t enough daughters of Club members to round out the cast. After much arguing and protesting—and finally bribing—the moms forced the trio of boys to tolerate dressing up like females … with make-up … and wigs … and dresses … and the girls teasing them and telling everyone at school.

That was the final straw. Otis, Fertis, and Clark refused to put up with their mothers’ shenanigans. They’d put their foot down and said never again.

“I refuse to ever go to your club again, Mother,” Otis scolded Mavis—a daring move.

Mavis relented. She agreed that she and the other moms had pushed Otis, Fertis, and Clark a little too far with dressing them up like girls. When Otis stated that on Club days he would walk over to Clark’s house after school with Fertis to hang out until she came and picked him up after Club, she’d agreed. Fertis’s and Clark’s moms agreed, too.

Clark’s mother, however, did set the strict rule that on Club days, the boys could only hang out in either Clark’s clubhouse located outside, the back yard, or in the basement rec room. The boys had enthusiastically agreed to the terms. Clark’s house was only a block away from school, so on Club days the three walked there at 3:00 pm, and, for the most part, spent their precious alone time in Clark’s clubhouse.

With the help of his dad, Clark had transformed their family’s old potting shed sitting behind their house into a perfect space for preteen guys to hang out. The previous summer, Otis, Fertis, and their dads had chipped in with their muscle to hang sheetrock, insulate, and paint the inside, which was now a lovely shade of army green.

The original rickety wooden door still hung on its rusty hinges, in a rustic door frame needing attention. The dads had gotten busy with harvest, then fall work, then the holiday season and hadn’t gotten to installing a new one. They’d agreed that sometime before spring work, they would all help Clark and his dad replace the door, frame, and hinges.

This particular February day boasted a bright, blue sky and balmy 40-degree temps, which was perfect weather for the boys to hang out in the clubhouse. They sat on old plastic milk crates around a big lantern for light since there wasn’t electricity—yet—in the little remodeled shed.

“We need a name for our club,” Otis stated once the cupcakes were gone.

“Yeah,” Fertis agreed. “Something stating no girls allowed.”

“How about the ‘No Girls Allowed Club,’” Clark tossed out with a smirk.

“Seems kind of obvious,” Otis replied. “Let’s think on it.” He smiled his well-known impish grin and added, “Think on it over these.”

He reached into his winter coat pocket and revealed three Swisher Sweets cigars he’d borrowed from his Grandpa Ed’s stash.

Clark giggled as he removed a lighter from his jeans pocket. Fertis added to the jocularity as he pulled out a pack of fire crackers from his coat pocket.

“Looks like we’re all on the same page,” Otis said laughing.

“Remember not to inhale, or we’ll all be puking together. We’ve learned that the hard way.”

“More than once,” Fertis muttered.

The clubhouse had no windows, but cracking open the wooden door allowed just enough ventilation for the light-up. They didn’t risk smoking in the back yard since the neighbors would most definitely tell the boys’ parents.

The three practiced blowing smoke rings; Otis had it down and instructed Fertis and Clark on technique. Soon, the clubhouse sat in a smoky haze and the cigars were nothing more than the plastic tip.

“Now, let’s blow up stuff,” Fertis exclaimed.

The boys closed the door and commenced to setting off three dozen little incendiaries. Red and blue paper littered the cement floor like confetti, along with the discarded plastic cigar tips.

“Gentlemen, we’ve thoroughly celebrated our manhood this afternoon,” Clark stated. He looked at his Davey Crocket wrist watch.

“It’s only three-thirty, so we have time to go inside, freshen up aHome&Harvest | Jan + F eb 2025

-bit so we don’t smell like Grandpa Ed, and be all innocent looking when the moms get here after Club.”

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOW! The boys momentarily froze, eyeing one another.

“Who’s that?” Otis whispered.

“No clue,” Clark whispered back. “We’re not expecting company.”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” a sparkly girl voice filtered through the wooden door.

“Carla.” Otis said flatly. He knew that voice anywhere.

The three boys groaned as they heard several girl giggles on the other side of the door.

“We know you’re in there,” Laurie sang.

“You can’t hide from us,” Angela chimed in.

“Come out and play with us!” Jodi chirped.

“It’s all four of them,” groaned Fertis. “Now what do we do?”

“You come out and play tag with us!” Carla yelled with gusto.

“Nooooo way,” Fertis yelled back through the closed door. “I’m never playing tag with you guys again. I don’t want your girl germs! I was sick for a week the last time you nailed us with your stupid kiss tag.”

“Oh, we don’t mean that kind of tag,” Angela said. “We have a new tag that doesn’t involve us kissing you. Promise.”

“Dudes, we gotta get outta here and get cleaned up before our moms get here,” Clark hissed. “We can’t hide in here. Our moms will smell us!”

“GIRLS!”

she shouted.

“Get ‘em and kiss ‘em!”

“Okay, so we make a run for it to the house as fast as we can,” Fertis whispered. “The girls have to stay outside because they weren’t invited inside. It’s the rules. We freshen before the moms get here so we don’t smell, and we’re good to go.”

Every kid in town knew you were not to go into anyone’s house unless a parent invited you in or had okayed it. They would be scot-free of the girls if they could make it inside Clark’s house.

“When I open the door on three, we run to the back patio door,” Clark whispered. “Push them out of the way if you have to. And if one of the girls catches you, the other two save yourselves and keep running for freedom. Deal?”

“Deal!” Otis and Fertis whispered loudly.

“Okay,” Clark said as he placed his hand on the wobbly doorknob.

“One, two, THREE!” He ripped the door open, and Otis and Fertis shot out with Clark on their heels. Angela, Laurie, and Jodi stood in the back yard about ten feet away from the clubhouse. The boys easily raced past them, but to their horror, Carla stood in front of the back door… the door to freedom.

“GIRLS!” she shouted. “Get ‘em and kiss ‘em!”

Otis, Fertis, and Clark froze for a millisecond, shocked at the quick escalation of events, but recovered quickly and dodged full-speed in different directions. Laurie, Angela, and Jodi chased as Carla stood her ground. The door to freedom was no longer an option.

74

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Clark’s parents had purchased two additional lots when they built their house, so the back yard stood like an enormous playground.

This, thankfully, gave the boys plenty of room to avoid capture and the inevitable barrage of smooching.

“Keep running!” Fertis shouted. “Tire them out!”

In the far corner of the yard stood four large pine trees. The boys zigged and zagged toward them, and the girls stopped in the center of the yard, bent over, hands on knees, panting heavily.

They reached the retreat of the trees. “We only have a second before they catch their wind again,” Clark’s words spilled out of his mouth. “Our only hope is to go back into the clubhouse and wait them out until our moms get here or they leave.”

Otis and Fertis nodded.

“Fertis, you go left, I’ll go right, and Otis, you come up the middle,” Clark instructed. “They’ll have to split up. And again, men, save yourselves if one of us gets caught.”

“Agreed,” Otis and Fertis said in unison.

“GO!” Clark ordered, and the three took off like rockets on their designated course. Clark sailed by Laurie who still stood bent over trying to catch her breath. He easily flew into the clubhouse.

Meanwhile, Jodi lagged behind Clark, and he, too, roared into the clubhouse. The two boys closed the door enough to be able to slam it shut if needed, but still be able to see their third man out …Otis.

Otis ran up the middle of the yard, but realized a tired Jodi and Laurie could come at him at any moment. His only hope was that they wouldn’t because Angela was coming straight at him at high speed. Moments before she could reach out and grab him, Otis ducked and whizzed toward the clubhouse, making a wide swath to stay clear of Laurie and Jodi, who still stood gasping for air.

He glanced up to where Carla stood and for a brief moment, he thought she would stay put guarding the back door.

Nope.

She came at him like a Mack truck with Angela still closing in from behind. He again waited until the last second before Carla could grab him, then dodged and darted around the garage. He knew Angela wouldn’t catch him because she was slowing way down.

But Carla hadn’t been running, and she was fast. Flashbacks of the sled hill game of kiss tag at Fertis’s popped into his head. He could NOT lose this race. It’d taken at least a month for his friends and brothers to stop teasing him about losing at kiss tag.

He gave his last push of energy and sprang toward the clubhouse door. His two amigos opened it wide and then jumped back to give Otis the room to run through. As soon as Otis cleared the doorway, he grabbed the old rickety door and gave it a good hard slam.

The door, indeed, slammed shut, but then, to Otis’s horror, it kept going…through the door jamb where it stuck fast on the other side.

“Hooooly cow,” Fertis breathed. “You slammed it so hard it went all the way through!”

Otis immediately grabbed the door handle and pulled. The door didn’t budge. The entire thing stuck shut but on the wrong side of the casing. He tried to push it further and then pull it back open.

Nothing. He whirled around and looked at his friends, who stood bewildered.

“What do we do now?!” he said, mostly to Clark since it was his door.

“Like I have some miracle fix?!” Clark shot back. “Dude, you broke the door. It’s stuck. We’re stuck. We don’t even have a window to crawl out of.”

Fertis nervously started pacing. “We’re in so much trouble. We smell like your Grandpa Ed after Lodge night, and there’s a bazillion pieces of firecracker paper in here. There’s no hiding from-

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-our moms what we did now because WE’RE STUCK IN HERE THANKS TO YOU, OTIS!” “Ummm, excuuuuse me!” Angela’s sweet voice lilted into the clubhouse. “It appears you’re stuck.”

“Way to figure out the situation, brains,” Fertis shouted through the door.

“I suppose we could help in some way,” Carla said in her singsongy voice. “But it’ll cost you.”

“Whatever is your plan, oh smart one who got us into this in the first place?” Clark said, thick with sarcasm.

“I don’t have one,” Carla stated. “I don’t need one. YOU’RE the one in need here. You guys shoulda just let us kiss you.”

The four girls howled at that comment.

“Oh, you think you’re so funny,” Otis said and smacked the door with his fist. “You have to help us because it’s all your fault. Clark didn’t invite you over. You’re in hot water, too, because you’re not supposed to even be here.”

The girls stopped laughing, realizing they were caught in the web of trouble just as much as the boys.

“Okay, so what are we going to do?” Carla shouted through the door. “Your moms are going to be here soon.”

“Go into the garage and on the back wall are hammers and a mallet,” Clark said. “Go get them.”

They heard the girls run off.

Fertis walked over and inspected the door. “I guess I now know why they call it a jamb.” He turned and looked at Otis and Clark and immediately started laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face.

“This isn’t funny,” Clark stated.

Otis started laughing along with Fertis. “Clark, it IS funny. We’re so desperate, we’re relying on the girls for help! That’s funny!”

The three boys broke into hysterics even though they knew this was exactly the kind of trouble they didn’t want. They needed to prove to their moms that they were responsible. And the way they saw it, smoking cigars, blowing stuff up, and busting a door were only acts of irresponsibility if they got caught.

The girls came noisily back from the garage. “Now what do we do?” Angela asked.

“Bang on the door with the tools to see if it’ll go back through the casing,” Clark hollered.

The four girls banged and hammered over and over, to no avail.

“Stop, stop,” Clark shouted. “You’re not strong enough.” He paused and started pacing. “Now what are we going to do?” He directed his question more at Otis and Fertis than the girls.

“If you give me permission, I can go into your house and call someone to help us,” Carla interjected.

Otis, Clark, and Fertis looked at each other. “Grandpa Ed!” they shouted in unison.

Otis shouted his grandpa’s phone number through the door. Carla and Laurie took off, and after a few minutes, the boys heard a commotion at the door.

“Grandpa Ed said he’d be here in about ten minutes,” Carla said through the door.

“How upset was he?” Otis asked.

“Well, after he stopped laughing, he didn’t seem upset at all,” Laurie replied. *** “Gentlemen, you seem to be in a pickle,” Ed said through the doorHome&Harvest | Jan + F eb 2025

-when he arrived and inspected the situation.

“Grandpa, please help and hurry!” Otis begged. “I’ll do whatever I need to do to pay you back for this, but please get us outta here and don’t let our moms find out what happened.”

“Your Grandma Helen called me earlier to say they were going to go a little later today so they could make Valentine decorations for the Sweetheart Dance next week. You fellas caught a break of about an extra half an hour.” He heard the boys breathe a sigh of relief through the door and chuckled.

“Wait a minute, Mr. Swan,” Carla said. “I think us girls deserve some sort of reward for helping and promising to keep our mouths shut. We know they were smoking and blowing up stuff because we were spying on them.”

“Hmmm,” Ed thought as he scratched his chin. “Your spying doesn’t earn you any points, but you are helping and potentially keeping them out of trouble with the moms. I’ll allow it. Whatcha thinkin?”

“Awwww, Grandpa Ed!” Otis lamented among Clark and Fertis’s groans.

“So, like a date?”

Ed said, smiling.

“We talked about it and decided that we want them to take us to the Sweetheart Dance,” Laurie stated.

“And we want corsages, like our moms and grandmas get,” Angela said.

“They have to dress up,” Jodi added.

“And smell nice and comb their hair,” Carla finished.

“So, like a date?” Ed said, smiling.

The three boys started yelling through the door at the girls and Ed. “Noooo waaay!” “Not a date!” “I don’t want to be seen with any of them!”

The Sweetheart Dance brought the entire community together to celebrate Valentine’s Day. The affair was a dressy occasion and where many “first dates” happened with the younger crowd. To show up with someone as their date got tongues wagging if it wasn’t an already-known duo.

“NO!” Otis yelled. “The whole town will think we like them!”

“Calm down, Otis,” Ed said. “It seems to me you don’t have much of a choice. They called me, and I’m the one that’s going to get you out and keep my mouth shut. And they will, too. Right girls?”

“Yes!” they said in unison.

“Boys, they have you dead to rights guilty for smoking and setting off fire crackers,” Ed said.

“And we know about the magazines, too,” Carla said.

The boys looked at each other, eyes wide-open and round in shock.

“How’d she find out about those?” Clark hissed.

“I have no idea,” Otis whispered back.

“Okay, we’ll go as their dates,” Fertis said. “But they are in trouble for being here uninvited in the first place, so we won’t tell if they won’t tell.”

“Girls?” Ed asked.

“Deal. We won’t tell if they won’t tell,” Jodi said.

79

“And if they tell anyone ever about what happened today,” Otis added, “we’ll make it our mission in life to torment them. Forever.”

“Do we now have a deal, ladies?” Ed said.

“Yes!” squealed the girls.

For the next half an hour, Ed worked to get the door on the correct side of the jamb without inflicting too much noticeable damage.

Finally, he worked it back through, and the boys ran out to freedom. Ed looked inside the clubhouse. The cigar smell alone would have busted them, but the mess of fire crackers didn’t help. He didn’t even want to know about the magazines. *** “Say cheese!” Mavis instructed.

Otis, Fertis, and Clark stood stone-faced, as Carla, Laurie, Angela, and Jodi smiled with emphasis. The group of youngsters stood in front of a large red, pink, and white balloon display set up in a far corner of the community center. The Sweetheart Dance commenced with twirling dancers and laughing punch-drinkers around them.

Otis, Fertis, and Clark wore suits and ties, with their hair slicked back and even a dose of aftershave (Ed’s suggestion). The girls all wore frilly dresses and wrist corsages purchased out each boys’ allowance (also Ed’s suggestion). They had all walked into the dance together, Clark with Laurie, Fertis with Jodi, and Otis begrudgingly with Angela on one arm and Carla on the other. The entire room had erupted with “awwwws” and “ohhhhs” upon their entrance, making the boys want to bolt. But Ed had vetoed a speedy exit and explained that there were three dances owed to each of the four girls.

“And Otis, be a dear and go get me some punch,” Carla smiled and winked.

After all the dancing, punch, and photos, the boys dodged out and trotted over to Clark’s house to hang out in the clubhouse. They’d bundled up in their coats and managed to sneak almost two dozen cookies into their pockets. Clark had his mom make a thermos of hot cocoa ahead of time for their escape, and he’d stashed it out in the clubhouse before the big date and dance.

The three boys once again sat on plastic milk cartons with the lantern on the floor in the center. They ate cookies and sipped on hot cocoa in silence for a while.

“Well, guys, we did it,” Otis said. “We fulfilled our obligation. And so help me, if one of those girls squeals on us, there’s going to be trouble.”

“They won’t if they know what’s good for them,” Fertis added.

“I really like our sign,” Clark said, indicating toward the back wall where a large painted black sign with white lettering hung with holiday lights strung around it. They’d made the sign the week prior and gotten the okay from Clark’s dad to string an extension cord into the clubhouse so they could light it up.

“It’s perfect,” Fertis added.

“And our club name is the best,” Otis said with a smile.

The He-Man She-Ban Club was officially official.

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