Instead of smashing it, I found a large plastic container and held it next to the spider. It immediately dropped down into the bucket and happily and safety rode with me upstairs and outside into my garden. “Uh... what are you doing?!?!” Tony laughed at me. This spider, these bugs, everything deserves grace just as much as we do, I told him. And so the years of setting bugs and bees free have commenced. I’ve gotten to the point where I can walk up to a fly, let it know I’m here to help and then, voila! Put it in the container or my hands and set it outside. I’m not a fan of wasps and I’ve been able to carefully catch and release those as well. We now have an upstairs and downstairs container and it takes less than a minute and always reminds me that there’s always a kinder way of life. I know that so many of us like to make jokes about the lack of grace for things but the truth is it only makes you a better human being to practice it. It’s too easy to assume the worst in others, to be impatient, to take what isn’t ours or assume we’re always right. Grace is the action that gives us the right of way to something better and has quite a ripple effect. I wanted to share this because as kind as I am to bugs and others, sometimes I have a difficult time giving it to myself. I wanted to dedicate this message to anyone who is trying their best and needed a reminder that if you’re in a season where the results aren’t showing or you’re feeling stuck, just apply a little grace! I promise you it has a huge payoff. I am so excited for you to read this issue. Between the call for volunteering, enjoying summer, feasting, history, and reflection, I know you’ll find something special in these pages. I truly appreciate the fact that you read this magazine, share it, support it and most of all, believe in it. I hope your summer is in full swing and you always remember I am rooting for you! With all the grace,
Heather Niccoli Editor-In-Chief Home&Harvest Magazine
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A few years ago, had this profound thought that really humbled me. It was during the time I started sitting with myself and noticed how negative my thoughts were. I was trying hard to shift to gratitude but it was like going from zero to a hundred- not doable. I realized I was missing something that needed a lot of encouragement- the idea of grace. Not just the idea of it, but how it’s more of a verb than a concept. Suddenly, I was able to shift to appreciation that I was at least trying something new, and I was able to build it from there. I practiced it everywhere, constantly asking myself, how can I use the art of grace in situations I really don’t like? Whenever someone was rude to me, I’d silently wish for something amazing to happen to them that day. If someone made a mistake, I tried to think of all the times I made a mistake, It really took the wind out of my sails of anger. And then one weird, funny little idea came to my mind when a spider ran across my living room rug. Grace.
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Legacy Gardening By
Trent Morgan
The year was 1984, but this was no dystopian Orwellian tale… this was my life. I squirmed in the swivel chair, trapped in my cell-like freshman dorm room tucked in an indiscreet college campus in Portland, Oregon. I held a thick book in my hand. The novel, only the second substantial read of my late teen life, dwarfed the first; that being Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. That shorter tale of a world predicted by George Orwell in 1965, ironically, the year of my birth, told the tale of Winston Smith, forced into thought conformity in a world patrolled by “thought police.” Some may recall we learned first in this novel of what would become common vernacular: Big Brother and the use of “double speak,” describing how an ever-watchful government manipulated free thinkers into submission. A world where the meaning of words were changed and the ever-watching and listening ruling class monitored your every move and dialogue. Hmm… I remember barely getting through those pages in time to write my final senior-high English assignment. The novel I thumbed through now appeared to be more daunting. The well-known epic historical fiction novel by James Mitchner, The Source, had a yellow cover with several characters excavating a dig site in an exotic desert land. The 1,100 pages of squint-worthy font emitted a pleasing new book smell; the only thing pleasing to me at that moment. I was tasked with the novel as an assignment for my Culture of Western Man course and had serious doubts about my ability to read such a book in a mere semester. But, the way Mitchner blended historical, geographical, and archeological information in the vibrant characters over the span of history got its hooks into me. It was a wise reading assignment by who was to become my favorite college professor, Lou Foltz. So many years later, it is amazing how often I reference the novel’s concepts and the critical thinking inspired by Lou’s courses. On a side note, I recently spent hours in airports and on a ferry on Alaska’s Inside Passage and I observed no more than a handful of people reading books; myself and my avid-reader wife being two. I suppose it could be thoughtful novels the confined masses were scrolling on screens cinched up close to and illuminating their faces? Hope springs eternal. Reflecting on something I learned from reading The Source for this publication’s article on Legacy Gardening is an example of the impact good writing can have on your life. It is another form of creating legacy to pass along. What I hope to emphasize in this writing for Home&Harvest is the power of generationally sharing and passing along a heritage of growing things together. In forming what I hope are interesting thoughts on the topic of Legacy Gardening and while sitting together with family next to a freshly-tilled garden plot in our back yard in Lewiston, my mind recalled from chapter one of The Source, the character Ur. The thought happened as I observed my granddaughter helping her mother go through seed packets for our Victory Garden laid out closely resembling a 1940’s published garden plan by Better Homes and Gardens. We were using it as a guide and were all discussing what vegetables we liked best and, in particular, who liked and didn’t like lima beans. I realized I was sharing my experiences, some of which started with my dad whom my daughter never got to meet. Oddly enough, this brought Ur to my mind. In chapter one of The Source, Ur and his wife are surviving on a primitive planet earth. They are quintessential hunter-gatherers set in an approximate time frame of 9,800 B.C.E. when Ur does something all good husbands should do; he listens to his wife. She noticed that discarded seeds from their gatherings grew more of the desirable plants.
Ur ponders this, his hairy thick brow furrowed, and thinking hard, he decides to regrow on purpose. Or his wife does and he takes credit for it. He has noted which soil, sun exposure and moisture content best favors cultivation and voila, the first garden is cultivated. This fictional or true tale leads Ur and his clan to minimize the risks of the nomadic hunter-gatherer lifestyle, chasing dangerous game and unpredictable harvests around Tarnation, and soon they have built themselves permanent shelters… then a city… and just like that, modern civilization has arrived. If you think about it, though technology has changed and mostly commercialized agriculture, we owe our relatively secure, stationary lives to Ur, or his wife. But in more recent history this has led to a new problem; too much distance nowadays from the relational aspects and observational knowledge from planting to harvesting and to the plate. And, too few moments like the time I spent with my daughter and granddaughter interacting and getting our Victory Garden planted. This is why I hope you will entertain the topic of legacy gardening. Here, we have arrived at a point for awareness and action for interested readers. Many of my generation remember mandatory, supervised chores at least getting us some exposure to the outdoors and to the knowledge and labor that goes into growing things. My expected responsibilities as a youngster moving aluminum irrigation pipes, performing orchard tasks like hauling brush and mowing acres of rows between cherry trees, seemed mundane at the time, but I now realize I was learning about myself and a trade craft. Not only about the uncomfortable components necessary to produce a fine, edible product, but also details of a trade, cherry farming. Today, many folks know I have some knowledge of tree pruning and disease or pest management, which is a legacy passed to me. Thanks, Dad! At the time, it often felt like miserable torture. Turns out, data is showing childhood chores are a key indicator in child coping and mental health. Through time and more focused lenses of maturity, I realized my parents had a plan. My mother was also dialed into legacy gardening. When her and my dad graduated from “The U,” as the story goes, they took a Pacific Northwest map and an old-school compass (one with one pointy end and a pencil on the other end to trace a circle), stuck the point in Moscow and traced a 300-mile radius on the paper map. Far enough away from family drama, but close enough to visit. They then searched for a community that had teaching jobs. Eventually, they surveyed the eight acres of sagebrush, rusting out automobiles, and the remnants of an abandoned turkey farm they just purchased in East Wenatchee, Washington. It needed a lot of work and a touch of home. On visits back to Moscow, Mom took drives up Moscow Mountain to dig seedling native trees to transplant on their developing homestead. I literally grew up with these trees; tamaracks, spruce, and Douglas fir. Over the years they grew, providing shade, shelter, and a feeling of home in the desert landscape of Central Washington. In Mom’s later years, her drive to cultivate and share this legacy never waned. On a visit to East Wenatchee about ten years ago, I noted repurposed black pots lined up next to the driveway with baby fir trees flourishing; it had my mom’s signature all over it. She had been mentoring my brother’s daughters, showing them how to transplant and relocate them. “Can I have a couple of those trees, Mom?” I asked. Her broad smile said yes. I bet you can guess what I did with them. Yup, back to Idaho and now one is a moniker on our two acres in the Lewiston Orchards. That is legacy gardening. Home&Harvest | July + Aug 2026
On our place, I have rhubarb that sojourned from my Grandma Bishop’s meticulously groomed garden in Grandview, Washington, to the place in East Wenatchee. I then brought a root cutting to our first home in Lewiston, eventually transplanting it to our current location in the Orchards. Along the way, we have shared many root cuttings from this prolific variety with friends. We actually call some of our trees and perennials by names related to from where or whom they originated. “Mom’s” second generation Doug fir, now probably fifteen feet tall, has a funny, cropped look to it from when our goat nibbled the top off a few years ago, but we all refer to it as “Momo’s tree.” Our good friends, also in the Orchards, took a maple tree that was growing too big on our place, and it is still flourishing off of Linden Avenue; they call it “The Morgan Tree.” Are you beginning to see the possibilities? These plantings can hold great generational sentimentality. In the 60’s, my mother planted a grape by our back porch in Central Washington. I’m not sure I was even born yet! It was a heritage variety, of course. The Black Monukka grape thrived with my mother’s excellent nurturing and soon needed a heavy arbor and was trained over a large picnic table. I remember many family reunions with adults and kids sharing time together under the canopy of shade it offered and the delicious clumps of black grapes we shared in the fall. One reason I started a hobby table grape vineyard in Lewiston was the inspiration and knowledge from my mother and this vine. A few years ago on a visit, I was inspecting the massive girth of its nearly sixty-year-old main vine, for which I have never seen the like. My sister mentioned she was going to take it out. I was bummed as we drove back to Lewiston, but then a thought! I called my sister and explained to her how to take cuttings and asked if she would mail me some. I received the padded envelope in the mail a few weeks later and using the inspiration handed down to me, had them rooted in pots in no time. They now flourish in my vineyard. Each winter I take and start more cuttings for friends and family with the hope to inspire my children and grandchildren to do the same. This summer, another large family gathering is planned on the place where I and my siblings were mentored in orcharding, gardening and so much more. I look forward to talking cherries with my brother and inspecting my sister’s roses, some of which are varieties that originated from cuttings from our great grandmother’s garden in Grandview, Washington. My son-in-law has found an interest in roses, and I bet my sister will let us take some cuttings of these beautiful plants to cultivate for another two or three generations to enjoy. So we see, there are many benefits of a purposeful strategy to include our children, grandchildren, and friends in our planting. The physical activity and interpersonal interactions surrounding the process binds us together in a special way. Sharing our knowledge of growing things goes well beyond the virtue of teaching a work ethic, though that is a great benefit. Think back yourself to your great great grandparents, many I bet were homesteaders and farmers, and even further back, to perhaps our shared ancestry, to the likes of Ur. There is something grounding, unifying, when you ponder the relational aspect of propagating knowledge and the work of cultivating together. Just maybe, getting us all back to the garden together is the place where we find each other again.
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It’s midsummer, and as I sit on the deck gazing out at our beautiful world, I hear crickets, birds, and buzzing bees. The best way to learn is to listen, and I have a message for you from the bees: it’s a gorgeous summer on the Palouse, and these buzzing creatures appreciate the hard work our community has put into making sure they are thriving. Just take a short drive around the local neighborhoods, and you can see countless blooming gardens overflowing with a joyous environment for pollinators like moths, butterflies, dragonflies, and especially the bees. Peeking over fences are sunflowers, hollyhock, and the blooming purple thistle flowers of artichokes. Me, the bee, and the wasp One hot summer day I was doing work in the garden, thinking of some of the different environmental processes happening alongside me. On this day, the honeybees were on my mind. I recalled their critical role in pollinating many of the plants that would harvest later. I saw the bees dancing all over the field, bouncing from one flower to the next. I took a mental snapshot of the beauty they were creating around me. Just as I was about to switch projects, I heard a loud, aggressive buzzing sound coming from directly behind me. I wondered what it could be as no one else was on the field that day and no equipment was left on. I whipped around only to find a battle going on. A wasp had jumped onto the back of a honeybee and was trying to kill it. Wasps are omnivores, eating plants, insects, and even animals. I have seen them attacking other small insects, but I had no idea that they preyed on bees too! Wasps have only caused me trouble before, so I was worried. As I witnessed the wasp going at the poor honeybee, I thought of how this little battle was really a fight for the prosperity of my field and the whole local ecosystem. That’s when I made the decision to act. Thinking quickly, I grabbed the fork I was using to transplant starts into the field. I plunged the prongs right between the wasp and the bee, separating the two. The wasp quickly jumped right back onto the bee. I swung my trusty fork back at the wasp. A few back and forth blows between me, the wasp, and the bee, and the wasp finally gave up and took towards the hills. The bee was saved! It took off quickly after the encounter. But, not without sitting and staring at me for a second. I thought the bee was trying to say, “thank you” and I hoped it would tell all of its bee family that I was friend, not foe. The quick interaction between me, the bee, and the wasp would only make a small difference in the health of the hive and the struggles of the wasps. But every little thing you do will make a difference. Even if it is the smallest act, the kindness and teamwork built by cumulative small actions will be the ultimate reward. Bees provide us with food to eat and nature to live in. We should be protecting these delicate little creatures to protect ourselves, too.
The amazing intelligence and empathy of bees The variety of insects you can watch swarming around a garden in summer is astounding. Male Valley Carpenter bees look like cute little teddy bears. The Blue Orchard bee shimmers with a metallic blue exoskeleton. Pantaloon bees carry pollen on their legs, which resemble little pants! Some, like the Vulture bees, have even evolved into carnivores. Bees are amazingly smart, they dance to communicate, they can smell with their feet, they can both fly and walk, they have the ability to become any type of worker in the hive by turning specific genes on our off, they work for a queen who spends her entire life laying larvae, and they have even been known to mourn their dead. A bee brain may be as small as a sesame seed, but it sure does contain a lot of knowledge! If you were plopped miles from your home, would you be able to find your way back simply by instinct? Bees can. When first leaving the hive on a foraging mission after hatching from a larva, a bee takes a mental note of what the environment around the hive looks like. They use this information to safely find their way back home, with spiky brushes and combs attached to their feet, laden with pollen and nectar, which provide necessary proteins for the hive. Throughout spring and summer, bees collect their food from the landscape around them and then store it over winter as a food source. They reproduce mainly in early summer, so spring is a great time to get started. If you love the fresh produce of summer, like strawberries, cherries, and peppers, you may like to learn that almost all the abundant produce you see at the farmer’s market was touched by a bee or other local pollinator in some way. Honeybees are critical to ecosystems and colonies should be nourished for a productive and ecologically sound future. Why are bees so important? Bees are not only pleasing to look at, but they also provide us with many benefits. Our human lives and the lifecycles of the hives are intricately intertwined. Even the simple sound of a buzzing beehive has shown to increase a person’s mood. In fact, I listened to a long track of a buzzing beehive while writing this story, and I can confirm it really brings calm and focus! About one-third of the food we eat requires pollination before producing the fruit, seeds, and veggies we consume. Without bees, we would lose this huge portion of our food web. And with famines, disruptions, and shortages occurring around the globe, we cannot face losing any of it. The pollination that honeybees provide also has huge effects on ecosystem health. Intense agricultural practices have wiped out a lot of natural ecosystems. Many natural species are dependent on pollination to reproduce. So, bees have a huge role in protecting and preserving natural ecosystems, specifically native plant environments or protecting the food source for endangered animal species. When bees (and other pollinators) drink nectar or eat pollen from plants, they move it around on their feet and bellies with each flower they visit, which mixes genetic information between the male and female plants, creating new fruit and seeds for the next generation. They are crucial for pollinating backyard garden plants, and you can thank them for the seemingly endless giant zucchinis you pick from your garden this year! Colonies collapse, then amazingly, rebound! One of the major problems with honeybee health is the use-
-of neonicotinoid insecticides. These products are used to kill a wide range of plants and insects, often inadvertently. Honeybees crawl over the substance, but do not immediately die. They fly back over to their hive, then begin bumping, crawling, and spreading the poison all over each other and the hive itself. The result is that the entire hive is affected and most of the bees in the family will sadly succumb. Hence the term “colony collapse.” Luckily, with the rise of backyard gardeners and bee lovers, the bees are making quite a recent comeback. Increased awareness of the dangers of pesticides paired with the trending interest in growing your own healthy food, has led to a worldwide increase in bees, which we see in the latest global count, published by the University of Wollongong’s evolutionary biologist Dr. James Dorey just this past February. New estimates put the number of different bee species on Earth at between 24,705 and 26,164 bee species, but there could be more. Amazingly, there are between 3,700 and 5,200 more bee species than previously known. Accurately monitoring the numbers of bee colonies is crucial for maintaining the longevity of a healthy ecosystem. As Dr. Dorey explains, “Bees are a keystone species; their diversity underpins healthy environments and resilient agriculture. If we don’t understand how many bee species there are, we’re missing a key part of the puzzle for protecting both nature and farming.” Biodiversity plays a big role in the health of native bees, with each species perfectly adapted to living in different environments like mountainous regions, meadows, rivers, forests, or desert habitats. Plants and bees work well in specific combinations, so research what might work best in your yard. Native bees usually carry the heavy lifting in a habitat. For example, 10 mason bees pollinating a cherry tree can pack the same power as 60 honeybees would! Bees are often their own protectors. While we can be their environmental partners, beehive colonies have many ways of defending themselves. One bee species uses fragrant leaves to cover the scent of their hives and protect them from hornets; a rare and incredible use of tools in the insect kingdom. They work together so flawlessly as a team, sharing the load of carrying, teaching, larvae-raising, foraging, and they even will switch places when huddling for warmth so no one bee gets too cold – quite like how birds take turns when flying in a V-formation! They care deeply for the colony members and will make altruistic decisions to protect the whole. As Rudolf Steiner says in his book Bees, every beehive is vibrating and permeating with love; and everything bees do is an expression of that. Your Backyard Bee Guide To bring the power of bees to your neighborhood by becoming a backyard beekeeper (also called an apiarist when done professionally), first make sure local regulations allow for it. Then for the greatest success, consider the best time to incorporate them in your yard; this is typically in the beginning of spring, after the danger of frost has passed. While you don’t need approval from your neighbors if the city/development allows it, it is a kind and neighborly thing to do to give them a heads up and provide education, if needed, about how it will benefit the community as a whole. Most people are as excited as you are to learn about it! It’s important to note that honeybees specifically are not native,Home&Harvest | July + Aug 2026
-despite producing lots of wonderful honey and thriving in our community. That’s why it’s important to also plant more pollinator-friendly plants, so native bees aren’t pushed out of the neighborhood. In terms of how much effort it will take to run your hive, experienced beekeepers can conduct the maintenance and complete the honey harvest in a short amount of time, but generally you’ll want to plan for up to a few hours a week, which is usually enough time to maintain the hive and keep it healthy. Starting off takes the most upfront time investment and remember to factor in the time it takes to keep your garden in tip-top-pollinator-shape. Some beekeepers joke that bees will take a bit more time to care for than a housecat, but not as much time as a dog! You can also consider the commitment to be similar to keeping a small tropical fish tank. Bee boxes are the home for a beehive, where the queen lives with her colony. Each colony is one family, and only one family lives in each bee box. They’re often one to three wooden layers high and typically painted white to reflect the heat of the sun, but any light color can be used if you want to get more creative with the design. Despite there being roughly 26,000 different types of bees worldwide, only 4,000 of them are native to North America. And as for locally? There are more than 600 native bee species in Washington, and more than 700 in Idaho! Even with the possibilities reduced, it’s still a lot to sort through and identify. So how do you best care for them if you don’t know which type is in your backyard? As Washington’s Fish & Wildlife Department shares, all bee species need the same basic things. This includes a pesticide-free food source, shelter & nesting area, and human advocates that can help with the care and preservation of their hive. The Bees’ Favorite Garden Plants The best way to bring bees to your garden is to make sure they have an ample supply of pollen and nectar. But does it matter which flowers? Bees and flowers just go together, so you have a huge selection of plants to choose from that can attract pollinators. Many do double or triple-duty by attracting different pollinators, like butterflies, moths, and hummingbirds. Keep an eye out for native flowering plants as they will be the best to attract native pollinators and have the best outcome longterm, are typically more drought-tolerant, and easy to care for. North Idaho, Eastern Washington, Lewiston/Clarkston Valley, and The Palouse are a unique set of growing areas, spanning multiple growing zones, so check your town for the exact map, which will help you grow plants that will thrive and survive the climate. Generally, our region ranges from Zones 6a, 6b, 7a, and 7b. Here are some of my favorite North American-native flowers for the bees; and they happen to grow quite well on the Palouse: Bee Balm: Aptly named blooming perennial and a fantastic addition to the cottage garden aesthetic, with purple, red, pink, or white varieties. Milkweed: Blooming in spring and summer, this plant also provides food for monarch butterflies! Aster: Bringing colorful late-summer and fall blooms, these deer-resistant, star-shaped perennials resemble daisies and often come in bold purple hues. 15
Best Annuals for the Bees And to expand your garden palette, annuals provide bright bursts of color and offer a regular drumbeat of blooms throughout the summer season. Some lovely ones that grow well in our area include Cosmos, Zinnia, Sunflower, Snapdragon, and Borage. The Old Farmers’ Almanac reminds us to also stagger the bloom times in your backyard garden, by planting your seeds or starts a few weeks apart, to maximize bloom time and ensure there are no interruptions in abundant flowers for our buzzing friends. A delicate balance of water will ensure your bees don’t get thirsty this summer. In the heat, leaves begin to dry and bees are less able to find pools of water or dew to dip their toes in and take a drink. Putting out small pollinator watering cups will help keep them cool and hydrated. You can use small bowls or plates, just make sure the water level is low, under an inch, so the bees don’t fall in and drown. An easy way to keep these filled is to put them somewhere an overhead sprinkler may hit on a regular basis. You don’t need to limit yourself to ornamental flowers, either. Bushes, trees, and grasses also provide valuable food for forager bees, especially berries like blueberries, blackberries, or currants. Many people are hesitant about beekeeping because of the risk of getting stung. Luckily, bees are rather harmless when undisturbed, so stinging should be at a minimum compared to more aggressive insects like wasps or hornets. The basic supplies of apiarists include a bee suit, and a full body protective garment with a hood, that lowers the likelihood the bees can reach you, if perturbed. Another tactic is smoke, which calms the bees when working directly with the hive. They also die if they sting, so they aren’t willing to make that sacrifice unless they really see you as a threat. However, gauge your risk tolerance, especially if you have family members who are allergic to bee stings. Bee keeping is fun, educational, but the most common reason people get into it is because it produces delicious honey, right on your property! If you have a backyard hive or two, you may have more honey than you can handle! If you have extra, consider sharing with friends and neighbors to spread the sticky, golden, sweet honeybee love. In addition to honey, your backyard beehive can also produce beeswax and honeycomb. By producing this on your property, a window opens to a whole new world of homemade products like skin and bath care, baked goods, and more. Can I still support bees without a hive? If you can’t or don’t want to have a backyard beehive, there are many things you can still do to support your local bees! Further your knowledge by reading up on beekeeping for when you can host bees in the future. Some great books include: The Backyard Beekeeper by Kim Flottum, or The Beekeeper’s Handbook by Diana Sammataro and Alphonse Avitabile. Or A Book of Bees by Sue Hubbell is under 6 hours listening on audiobook, so you could gather the basics in a few short listens. I also recommend docuseries by PBS and National Geographic which provide some up-close views of hives with gorgeous cinematography, and talks about lifecycles of the bees, along with conservation efforts. If you’re interested in the history of beekeeping, check out The Hive and the Honeybee edited by Joe Graham. This book, originally written by L.L. Langstroth in 1853, provides an interesting look into the fundamentals while immersing yourself in a different time and place. The best ideas are created in community, so talk with your friends and neighbors about what can be done locally to protect bee colonies in your area. You may find that someone has space to host your hive or a connection with a local business or organization where they can host, and you can sponsor the hive through monetary donations or caring for it on their property. Get creative, just like the bees would! A good environmental steward considers all aspects of the beautiful, intertwined ecosystem we live in. The smallest creatures can often have the biggest impact, especially on our local region. With the diversity of people, plants, animals, and habitats, we have a unique opportunity to protect biodiversity and ensure a strong future. Be nice to bees and they’ll be your allies for life. Now go spread the sweetness by sharing this message with a friend!
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XPANSION by
d. estelle ramsay I pop a strawberry into my mouth. My hands are red from berry juice and my jeans are covered in dirt. My berry picking bucket is all but empty, quite unlike my stomach which may be a little too filled with summer’s gifts. In this story, I am seven years old, picking berries with my family at a local berry farm in my hometown. I’m not someone who has a lot of memories from my childhood, but that’s one of them. I wonder if that’s why summer has always been one of the easiest seasons for me to exist in. Fast forward two decades, and I’m in the shade of thick pine trees that shield me from the sun as I forage for one of the Pacific Northwest’s most precious gifts: huckleberries. I don’t think we ever really grow out of the version of ourselves that wants to eat the sweet, plumb berries right here and now. Who ever needed moderation anyway? Maybe this is why I have always been able to connect with myself in the summer. I know it’s tricky, because everyone’s schedule is a little different, and there are many of us who don’t get the summer time off of our childhoods. I certainly don’t. What’s curious to me is that I still thrive in these months, and I enter the busyness of the fall feeling grounded more in who I am. I think it’s because as much as something like berry picking offers physical delights in the sweetness of the berries, there is a kind of openness created by this relationship with the physical world that opens us, too. It seems shallow and surface-level, but the warmth of the season keeps me from closing in on myself. In the shallow sense, this can mean because I don’t have to hunch over and bundle up, I can have a more relaxed and open posture. Another thing summer offers me that gives me a chance to reflect is the light of the long days. I have a small child, so I know how inconvenient it can be for the days to be so long, yet I can’t help but feel grateful for them anyway. Light serves as a wonderful metaphor, but even its very reality has much to teach us. Summer, to me, has always been revealing, literally and metaphorically. I think of how light offers us a way to exist in this world with ease, illuminating our way without us every asking it to. Before we were even a thought in the story of our world, light has been here, driving away darkness and providing warmth, facilitating new life. I’ll be the first to say that illumination is not always the most comfortable thing, even if it’s only to yourself. It can be difficult to sit with our full selves, especially if we are sitting in the midst of tougher emotions or feelings like grief, anxiety, or trauma. This is when I think the light is so incredibly helpful. Even in the summer there are days when I want to stay in my cool house with the window curtains drawn and maybe even a blanket around me. Inevitably, when I get up and open the blinds, no matter how much I might blink in surprise at the light, a steady flow of relief washes over me. I always wonder why it is that we avoid the things we need the most, and I don’t have many answers for us, but I do know that when we push through that avoidance and seek the light, we will find who we really are. There’s another sort of light I love in the summer, and that is the light of the stars. The stars, interestingly, are situated within the darkness, and through the hard work of scientists we know that even the light from the stars we are seeing has long been extinguished. The stars that we see in the sky are often light from stars that have already dimmed, but they are so far away that the light makes it to us long after the life cycle of the star has moved on. This light is so unafraid of darkness that it persists, speeding throughout the universe even when the original star that emitted the light has gone out.
When I stand on a summer night and look up at the stars, sometimes I imagine myself underneath a giant colander, with those little pinpricks of light a kind of window to something that is both beyond me and within me. Maybe that’s what summer feels like to me: connection and expansion. When I look at the stars on a summer night, just cool enough to shiver a little but not even cool enough for a jacket, I feel like I understand both everything and nothing all at once. I know not everyone feels this way, and maybe you don’t feel anywhere close to this. There is nothing wrong with having a different experience than someone else, of course, but I want to offer an idea or two for how you might return to yourself, reexperience connection (with yourself and others), and maybe grow just a little, tiny bit. The first is to find a way into your body. Your body is the way we can experience this connection and expansiveness, but we spend so much of our time up in our brains and our intellects that we can forget the miracles of ourselves! I had someone tell me recently that an effective way to mitigate anxiety is to stick a sour candy in your mouth. I have to admit, I was skeptical! As someone who regularly deals with anxiety, it wasn’t long before I had the chance to try it for myself… and what do you know, it worked! This makes me think of the way I started this article, with the sweetness of summer berries dripping down my seven-year-old’s chin, oblivious to the troubles of the world. Much like sour candy, the plump, ripe summer fruits can bring us back home. It seems strange, I suppose, yet when I think about it, it’s the most natural thing in the world. The recommendation here isn’t prescriptive: it’s not about sour candy or berries, but it’s about literally tasting the season in order to be more present within it. Think of your favorite summer fruit, and maybe try to have it on hand more often the next few months so that you can always tune in. The second recommendation I have is to rediscover an old activity, or an activity you always intend to do and somehow never quite find time for. The extra light of summer makes me feel like I have more time, and when I’m feeling not quite myself,-I like to take advantage of that time. And don’t just return to the activity in the same old way. Maybe you change locations. For instance, I love to read and this year, I’ve just been in such a slump with my reading. So, as the summer lengthens the days, I’ve been thinking about taking my book from the couch out into the grass of the living room, maybe even a park! Or you could shift something small about the activity itself. If you paint, maybe try picking up a few colors you’ve never painted with before. If you love to play board games, maybe invite a coworker you’ve never spent time with outside of work to a game night. The possibilities are endless! It’s a wide range, but the fabric of it is woven together for me in one of my favorite things, a paradox. The paradox is this: we find newness even as we return to ourselves. That’s what this season always brings to me. A new perspective on old experiences, new opportunities in a familiar place, or the very simple idea that I, too, have so much room to grow, connect, and expand. Whether you make a mess of the berries or the paints, whether you try a new hiking trail or watch the sunset from a new hill, this season of light provides us with endless possibilities. Did you know that light literally exerts pressure on physical objects? In reality, the force it applies to our everyday objects is negligible, but the lesson for me is that we can be deeply impacted by the season of light! The light itself can literally change us. And I’m sure it’s going to change us for the better, if we let it.
THE GREAT HOT DOG DEBATE by
KRISTI SELLERS
Why Every Region Swears Its Dog Is the Right Dog. Why They’re All Deliciously Wrong When it comes to arguing, Americans could win a gold medal. We debate sports teams, weather forecasts, and whether chili qualifies as soup. Entire friendships have been tested over the proper way to load a dishwasher. Where I’m from, serious debates over football loyalty is the norm. (Roll Tide!) But somewhere near the top of the list of strangely passionate disagreements sits a topic that seems almost too simple to inspire controversy: the humble hot dog. On the surface, it’s merely a sausage tucked inside a bun, right? Yet mention ketchup in the wrong city or suggest that chili belongs everywhere, and you’ll discover that hot dog loyalty runs surprisingly deep. Every region has its own traditions. Every family has their rituals that have been passed down for generations. And every backyard grill master firmly believes that decades of culinary wisdom have been given to them directly into their hands through a pair of stainless steel tongs. The hot dog’s story begins long before baseball games and Fourth of July cookouts. Sausages had been enjoyed throughout Europe for centuries before German immigrants brought frankfurters and wieners to America. Somewhere along the way, a culinary genius decided to place the sausage inside bread. Suddenly, the meal became portable. People could walk with it, cheer with it, and spill mustard on themselves without requiring a table. By the early twentieth century, hot dogs had become fixtures at amusement parks, fairs, and sporting events. They were affordable, easy to prepare, and perfectly suited to American life. More than a century later, they remain one of summer’s most enduring traditions. Few foods can boast that kind of staying power. Of course, agreeing that hot dogs are wonderful is the easy part. Agreeing on how to dress them is another matter entirely. Chicago, for example, approaches hot dogs with the seriousness of constitutional law. A proper Chicago dog consists of an all-beef frank tucked into a poppy seed bun and topped with yellow mustard, fluorescent green relish, chopped onions, tomato slices, a pickle spear, sport peppers, and celery salt. The arrangement is so colorful and elaborate that it almost resembles a garden that accidentally grew on top of lunch. A beautiful garden that you want to take plenty of pictures of.
Yet Chicagoans insist every component serves a purpose. The sweet relish balances the sharp onions. The pickle adds crunch. The peppers provide heat. The celery salt ties everything together. And then there is the matter of ketchup, or rather, the complete absence of it. Suggest adding ketchup, and a Chicago native may react as though you’ve proposed putting whipped cream on a steak. Gross. Entire generations have been raised to believe that ketchup and hot dogs simply do not belong together. Whether that’s culinary wisdom or hometown pride masquerading as food philosophy depends largely on your location. Travel east to New York, and the philosophy shifts dramatically. New Yorkers have little patience for excessive toppings. Their classic dog relies on spicy brown mustard and onion sauce, allowing the frank itself to take center stage. It is simple, efficient, and perfectly suited to a city where everything moves incredibly fast. There are no elaborate garnishes or decorative pops of color. New Yorkers seem to view hot dogs the same way they view conversations: direct, uncomplicated, and preferably completed before missing the train. The city’s famous sidewalk carts have fed generations of hurried businessmen and curious tourists, proving that sometimes less really is more. Meanwhile, Detroit enters the conversation with a dish that inspires loyalties bordering on family feuds. The beloved Coney dog, which, confusingly enough, has nothing to do with New York’s Coney Island, features a beef frank covered in savory meat sauce, mustard, and diced onions. Ask Detroit residents where to find the best Coney dog and prepare yourself for passionate opinions delivered with the confidence of Supreme Court rulings. Restaurants separated by only a few feet have spent decades competing for bragging rights. Families inherit their favorite establishments the way others inherit their grandmother’s china or silverware. People who agree on nearly everything else somehow draw the line at meat sauce recipes. And honestly, that’s part of the fun. Then there are the Carolinas, where someone looked at a bowl of coleslaw and apparently thought, “This needs a sausage!” The result is the slaw dog, a glorious combination of chili, mustard, onions, and creamy slaw that somehow works far better than one might think. The cool crunch of the slaw balances the richness of the chili and creates a combination that feels perfectly suited for sticky summer evenings and roadside diners. It sounds unusual until you take the first bite, at which point you begin to wonder why the rest of the country hasn’t fully embraced the concept. Great culinary breakthroughs often come from unexpected places, and the slaw dog deserves a place among them. Seattle decided traditional toppings were nice but wondered what would happen if cream cheese entered the chat. The answer, surprisingly, is something wonderful. Seattle-style dogs pair cream cheese with grilled onions and sometimes jalapeños, creating a combination that sounds mildly concerning until you actually taste it. Then suddenly everything makes sense. Rich, savory, creamy, and smoky, the unlikely marriage works with such confidence that it almost feels inevitable. Food history is filled with happy accidents (thank you, Bob Ross), and this may be one of the most delicious examples. Despite all these regional rivalries, perhaps the greatest hot dog in America isn’t served in a famous restaurant at all. It’s served in backyards. It appears beside folding chairs and paper plates. It emerges from grills operated by dads who wield barbecue-
-tongs like medieval knights brandishing swords. The backyard cookout is the BEST place to find the perfect hot dog. Kids load their dogs with ketchup and enough mustard to stain everyone’s t-shirts. Grandpa insists sauerkraut is all anyone ever needs. Someone experiments with barbecue sauce. Someone else discovers jalapeños. And inevitably, one brave soul creates a strange combination involving crushed potato chips and macaroni salad that nobody requested and nobody quite understands. Somehow, despite these questionable decisions, everyone is happy. Everyone is together. Part of the magic lies in the ritual itself. There is something deeply satisfying about standing around a grill while pretending to supervise or know how to actually grill. Every gathering has at least one person who feels compelled to lift the lid every thirty seconds. Hello, Uncle Bruce, always ensuring an even coating of soot on the meat. Another insists they know exactly when the hot dogs are done based solely on instinct, inherited wisdom, and perhaps a little wishful thinking. Someone burns the wieners. Someone forgets the mustard. And somehow none of it matters. Summer food has always been more about memories than perfection. Even science has something to say about hot dogs. That satisfying “snap” when you bite into one comes from natural casings, which provide texture and structure. The charred edges that develop over a hot grill result from the Maillard reaction, a wonderfully complicated chemical process that creates hundreds of flavor compounds when proteins and sugars meet heat. In plain English, browning tastes good. It’s why grilled hot dogs smell irresistible and why even people who weren’t hungry five minutes ago suddenly find themselves wandering toward the patio asking, “May I have one of those?” Science, it turns out, is delicious. Perhaps nowhere does the hot dog feel more at home than at a baseball game. There is something magical about sitting in the stands with mustard on your shirt and a paper tray balanced precariously on your knees. Nobody expects gourmet cuisine at the ballpark but it is DELICIOUS. That’s precisely the point. Hot dogs belong here. Little League games. County fairs. Fireworks. Summer vacations. Family reunions. They possess a remarkable ability to turn ordinary days into memories. The smell alone can transport people back decades, reminding them of childhood summers and simpler times. My boss loves hotdogs. They remind him of his childhood in NYC playing ball with his friends. What a magical way to remember. So who makes the best hot dog? Chicago? New York? Detroit? The Carolinas? Seattle? Truthfully, asking the question misses the point. Hot dogs were never meant to be perfect. They were meant to be shared. They were meant to accompany laughter, baseball games, backyard conversations, and summer evenings that seem to last forever. Every region has its traditions, and every family has its favorites. That’s what makes the humble hot dog so remarkable. It isn’t just food. It is quite literally nostalgia in a steamed bun. And if somebody at your next cookout insists that ketchup belongs on everything, perhaps the wisest response isn’t an argument at all. Hand them a plate, pull up a chair, and remember that summer is far too short to fight over condiments. Besides, Fido waiting patiently beneath the picnic table would be thrilled to settle the debate by eating whatever falls.
At its essence, this series has always been about cooking, over fire, and preferably outdoors. Now I know that I have on occasion taken a slight detour and created variations in our culinary adventures to take us indoors or to focus on deviations in traditional grilling and smoking, but at its core my favorite method will always be the most classic – simple cuts of meat over a direct and open flame. Recent studies have yet again pushed back the origins of humans using fire, now going firmly beyond 1 million years before present – with a possibility of dating even earlier near the 1.8 million year mark. And evidence of actually cooking on fire already dates as far back as three-quarters of a million years. Staggering! How can something last, with such continuity, for such an incredibly long time? I think that the answer is simple - because it’s unbelievably delicious. In the Iliad and Odyssey, Homer describes the ancient art of charring meat over open flame. Try souvlaki today, and you may be sharing in something incredibly similar to the flavors that were adored so long ago in antiquity. And the discovery of Bronze Age grilling racks dating to the 17th century BCE pushes back the fascination with this specific type of grilling even farther. Ornate firedogs with artistic ends fashioned into the shape of bull’s heads flanked a bed of hot coals, and groves along the top allowed the careful placement of skewers, keeping the meat a perfect distance from the flame below. It’s startling just how similar this is to the design of any modern charcoal grill, and a testament to the universality of our shared love for cooking simple meats over the dancing tendrils of an open fire, or searing heat of a bed of lit coals. Let’s go out under the wine dark sky this summer and travel back in time to enjoy some souvlaki at home. Souvlaki: Of the traditional pork, lamb, or chicken, I have to say that for both Heather and I, chicken is the definite favorite here. We like to serve these in a pita with plenty of homemade tzatziki, some very thinly cut tomatoes and red onions, and either a few slices of grilled bell pepper, or eggplant fries. Using a-
standard French fry is the more recognized option, but to keep it healthy and preserve the same textures we like to sub in a fresh veggie instead of the deep-fried starch. To get deep flavor into otherwise bland chicken breast, I use a thick marinade and coat large cubes of the chicken overnight before grilling. Mix ½ cup Greek yogurt, the juice of one lemon, 4 minced garlic cloves, ¼ cup extra virgin olive oil, 1 tsp paprika, 1 tsp salt, 2 tsp thyme, and 2 tsp oregano. Make sure all the chicken has been dredged in the mix and leave it in the refrigerator to take on a much flavor as possible. The following day, press the cubes onto your metal or wooden skewers, keeping them tightly pressed together and leaving at least a few inches of exposed skewer on one end to allow easy flipping. You can drizzle on a bit of the remaining marinade as the skewers go on the grill but then discard any leftover. I keep the lid open, the grill cranked up, and run these for about 9-10 minutes, consistently flipping so that all sides get browned. Remember to test the temperature if you are unsure, always cooking chicken to at least 165 degrees. To serve, you can have the souvlaki as-is on the skewers alongside some fresh veggies and when we serve like this, I always like to have a few lemon wedges on hand to season when eating. But the very best is wrapped in a warm, fresh pita that is straight off the grill and completely slathered with homemade tzatziki. To look like a pro, spread plenty of tzatziki on the pit, drop the chicken skewer in the middle, wrap both sides around the meat – holding tightly – and then just slide the skewer out in one smooth motion. Add veggies, feta crumbles, and a dash of salt to taste and you have a perfect summery feast! Pita: If you don’t want to put any work into the pita, but still dream of a perfect Souvlaki, there are some pretty good options available at the store. But with just a little bit of effort, I have two suggestions for making it fresh at home. The first, and easiest is just using store-bought pizza dough. The recipes are so close as to be nearly interchangeable, and then all you have to do is cook the dough in a pan on the stove.
Start by cutting the dough into small balls about the size of a racket ball and the allowing them to rest before kneading into a flattened, round shape, finished with little dimples created by firmly poking your fingers in random places across one side. If you want a more crispy exterior and hollow interior, just use a hot cast-iron pan and add them one at a time, flipping a few times to allow both sides to lightly brown. If you prefer something closer to a restaurant experience, put about a teaspoon of water into the hot pan, followed by a piece of cooking parchment paper cut to the approximate size of the pan, with a few more drops of water and a quick drizzle of olive oil. Then add the flattened pizza dough and quickly drop on a lid. This will cook and steam for 10-12 minutes, requiring only one flip followed by just a little more cooking to brown up the second side – with the results being a much fluffier and solid pita that works best when wrapped around the meat and veggies rather than being cut in half and hollowed. If you want to take on the dough yourself, it really only requires white bread flower (or a 50/50 mix of white and whole-wheat) some lukewarm water, a little instant yeast and a bit of sugar and salt. In a mixing bowl, use a ratio of 1 cup water, ½ tsp sugar, and 1 packet of dry instant yeast (2 ¼ tsp). The sugar is only there to give that yeast something to munch on as the reaction gets started and should not be omitted. To get the correct balance of flour, use a spoon to fluff it a bit before gently scooping into the measuring cup, and then drag across the top to level it off. This ratio needs ¼ cup. Wisk the water, sugar, and yeast together and let it sit uncovered for about 15 minutes. When the top is fluffy and bubbling, mix in 2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil and 2 ½ more cups of flour to create a sticky, elastic ball. Wrap with a towel and allow this to prove for 20 minutes as it doubles in size, then knead and divide it into the smaller portions for pita. These should rest for an additional 15 minutes before you shape and poke dimples just before cooking. I actually like to make these on the grill where they only take a few minutes per side and puff up nicely. The smoky flavor and crisp exterior are a wonderful addition for a traditional pita experience. Tzatziki: A few years ago, we started making tzatziki at home with full-fat Greek yogurt and we have never looked back. It is simple and amazing! Put two cups of yogurt in a large bowl, drizzle in 2 Tbsp of extra virgin olive oil, and the squeeze one fresh lemon, stirring it all together. The drop in 4 cloves of finely chopped garlic and 1 cup of finely chopped cucumber and stir to mix them in. From here you want to season to taste – I like about 1.5 Tbsp of dill, a few twists of fresh black pepper, and plenty of salt. If you want to add a little more kick, a pinch of crushed red pepper flakes, a tablespoon of minced mint, or just a tiny drop of Calabrian chilies will really bring some serious impact. This keeps for around 4-5 days in the fridge and has become a staple for us – especially in the summer. It’s wonderful on almost anything coming off the grill and make a perfect veggie dip as well. As long as we have fresh tzatziki in the house, I find myself often heading to the fridge actually feeling excited to grab some carrots, celery, or broccoli, instead of something unhealthy when I’m craving a little snack. I hope that you enjoy these as much as we do, and that you take a little time to stare into the fire as you cook. Smell the sweat, smoky flavor, connect with that primal drive to roast meat on open flame, and just send a bit of gratitude back in time for those crazy human ancestors that first decided to risk scorched fingers to put flank to flame.
GRILLED Shrimp & Andouille with Polenta kitchen alyssa lyman INGREDIENTS || skewers + polenta Skewers 1 lb Large Peeled and Deveined Shrimp 1 lb Andouille Sausage 1½ Sticks Unsalted Butter 1 Tbl Smoked Paprika 1 Tbl Onion Powder 1 tsp Cayenne Pepper 2 tsp Dried Oregano 4 Cloves Garlic, minced Parsley Wooden Skewers Polenta 3 Cups Water 1 Cup Heavy Cream 1 Cup Cornmeal 2 Tbl Unsalted Butter ½ Cup Grated Parmesan Fresh Cracked Pepper STEPS For the polenta, bring the water and heavy cream to a low boil in a medium saucepot–add the cornmeal while whisking constantly. Turn the heat to medium-low and cook the polenta while stirring for 15-20 minutes. Remove the pot from the head and add the butter, parmesan, and pepper. Pour the cooked polenta into a greased 9x13 baking dish and place in the refrigerator. Place the wooden skewers in a baking dish and add water–leave them to soak. Slice the andouille sausage into ¾ inch pieces and set aside. Combine the paprika, onion powder, cayenne, oregano and salt and pepper to taste in a small bowl. Use half of the seasoning mix to coat the shrimp, set aside. Melt the butter in a small pan on medium-low heat; when melted, add the garlic and the remainder of the spice mix. Set aside. Skewer the shrimp and sausage and baste them with the seasoned butter. Cut the set polenta into triangles and baste with seasoned butter. Using the grill method of choice, grill the skewers until the shrimp is cooked, about 3 minutes per side. Grill the polenta until heated through. Use the seasoned butter to baste both the skewers and the polenta. Garnish with parsley and serve immediately.
turnip AND RADISH SALAD
kitchen SHAY DRIVER
INGREDIENTS || salad + dressing 1 bunch of radishes, separate and clean greens for salad 1 bunch turnips, separate and clean greens for salad Tahini-miso dressing 2 Tbl miso 2 Tbl tahini 1 Tbl honey 1 tsp lime juice 1 Tbl sesame oil 2 Tbl water Optional toppings Cashews or sliced almonds Wonton crisps Sesame seeds STEPS Thoroughly was turnips and greens removing any dirt. Wash leaves and dry throughly before tearing into bite-size pieces in large serving bowl for salad. Set aside. Slice radishes and turnips approximately 1-2 mm in thickness. Place vegetable slices on cutting board in single line (may need to do multiple of these) slicing into match stick slices until all are cut. Place vegetables on top of salad and make dressing. In bowl, combine miso, tahini, honey, lime juice, sesame oil, and water and vigorously whisk until smooth. Add or remove water based on desired thickness. Add desired toppings to large salad or individual bowls, adding dressing.
H E S
HERBED EGG SALAD INGREDIENTS 8 hard boiled eggs, chopped 1 Cup cucumber, chopped Butter lettuce leaves Herbed vinaigrette 5 Tbl light olive oil 3 Tbl white balsamic vinegar 1 rounded Tbl Dijon or whole-grain mustard 2 Tbl finely chopped fresh mint or dill 2 Tbl capers with juice Salt and black pepper to taste
kitchen shay driver
STEPS Cook hard boiled eggs in desired method (my most preferred is the InstantPot 5-5-5 method—5 minutes pressure cooking, 5 minutes natural pressure release, 5 minutes in an ice bath). Peel eggs, chop to desired size, add chopped cucumbers, set aside to make dressing. In medium bowl alone with light olive oil, white balsamic vinegar, and mustard whisking vigorously. Once emulsified, add capers with juice and fresh herbs. Add salt and pepper to taste. In bowl with diced eggs and cucumber, add half the dressing to start and adding more as desired. Lay two or three butter lettuce leaves together to create boat for egg salad to be placed. Additional cracked pepper, capers, and dressing as needed. Dressing can also be used as an alternative for cabbage coleslaw for picnics. Use cilantro and green onions in place of mint and dill.
NO BAKE
PEANUT BUTTER pie kitchen alyssa lyman
INGREDIENTS 1 Family Size Sleeve Thin Oreos 6 Tbl Unsalted Butter 1 1/2 Cup Heavy Whipping Cream 1¼ Cup Powdered Sugar 1¼ Cup Creamy Peanut Butter 8 oz Block of Cream Cheese, softened 2 tsp Vanilla Extract Mini Peanut Butter Cups to taste STEPS Empty the sleeve of Oreos into a large Ziploc bag and crush with a rolling pin. In a large mixing bowl, combine the melted butter and the crushed Oreos. Mix thoroughly and press into a 9-inch pie plate. Place in the refrigerator. In a large bowl, combine the whipping cream and powdered sugar; whisk by hand or with an electric mixer until the cream is whipped and has soft peaks. Place the bowl in the refrigerator. In another bowl, combine the peanut butter, cream cheese, and vanilla; mix for 2-3 minutes until fluffy. Fold the whipped cream into the peanut butter mixture until well incorporated and spread the filling in the prepared pie crust. Garnish with miniature peanut butter cups and refrigerate for at least an hour. Serve as is or with whipped cream and chocolate sauce.
HUCKLEBERRY WHITE CHOCOLATE CHIP CHEESECAKE
BLONDIE
winner: Lana Lenssen INGREDIENTS || blondie + cheesecake Blondie: 12 Tbl of softened salted butter ½ cup of white sugar ¾ cup of light brown sugar 2 eggs ½ tsp vanilla extract 1 ¾ cups of flour 1 ¼ tsp of baking powder 2 cups of white chocolate chips Huckleberry Cheesecake: 8 ounces of softened cream cheese 2 Tbl of sugar 1 Tbl of sour cream 1 egg ½ tsp of vanilla extract 1 cup of huckleberries frozen or thawed STEPS Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Line a 9 inch square baking pan with parchment paper. Blondie: In a large bowl, cream the butter, sugar and brown sugar together until light and fluffy. Add in the eggs and vanilla and mix well. Add the flour and baking powder and mix until just combined. Cheesecake: In a second bowl, beat together the cream cheese, sugar, sour cream, egg, and vanilla. It will be lumpy but it’s ok, it ends up great and not lumpy. Then with a rubber spatula stir in the huckleberries. Put ⅔ of the blondie batter into the bottom of the square pan. Flatten it out. Then pour all of the cheesecake batter on the blondie batter. Smooth it out if needed. Then get the rest of your blondie batter and flatten little pieces of it out and set them on the top. After you have finished that place the pan in the oven for 50-65 minutes or until the top is light golden brown. After it is baked, place it on a cooling rack and let it get to room temperature until sliced into squares.
Huckleberry Battle Winner Youth
DECADENT
ROASTED HUCKLEBERRY & GOAT CHEESE
BLONDIE
WINNER: Lynzie Sendra INGREDIENTS 1 cup unsalted butter, melted 1 ¼ cup brown sugar, firmly packed ½ cup granulated sugar 2 large eggs + 1 egg yolk, preferably at room temperature 2 tsp vanilla extract 2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour 2 tsp cornstarch ½ tsp baking powder 1 tsp salt 1 cup goat cheese 2 cups roasted huckleberries STEPS Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line a 13×9-inch metal baking pan with parchment paper, or lightly grease and flour the pan. Glass or silicone pans will need to bake longer. Place fresh or frozen huckleberries in baking sheet lined with parchment paper and roast for 15-25 minutes or until berries start to shrink a bit. Set aside to cool. Set oven temp to 350°F. In a large bowl or mixer, combine the melted butter and both sugars. Stir well. Add the eggs, egg yolk, and vanilla extract. Stir until the mixture is completely combined. Set aside. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, cornstarch, baking powder, and salt. Gradually stir the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients until just combined. Fold together goat cheese and roasted huckleberries very gently. Carefully fold into batter until just combined. Spread the blondie batter evenly into the prepared pan. Transfer the pan to the oven and bake at 350°F for 25-30 minutes. The blondies are done when a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean or with a few fudgy crumbs. Allow the blondies to cool before cutting and enjoying.
Huckleberry Battle Winner Adult
Laura L. Morgan
By
This year around the 4th of July is a perfect time to feel some nostalgia. America is turning 250 years old! We’ve gone from being birthed by independent, rugged individuals whose bravery carried them across turbulent seas in search of land and freedom, to our first wobbly toddler steps as we crafted timeless words declaring our freedom to be the United States instead of the English colonies. Our teenage and young adult years have had conflicts and growing pains, and in some ways, we are still in the process of defining who we are. Our Constitution holds provision for this—we are continually working on forming “a more perfect union.” Setting politics and divisiveness aside, I hope we can come together as Americans to celebrate our shared birthday. I hope that on this semi quincentennial, we can enjoy some good old-fashioned nostalgia, remember our core values, and celebrate the Spirit of America. Norman Rockwell’s iconic paintings snag my thoughts as I consider slices of Americana, that nostalgic look at quintessential and idealized American life. At eighty-two-years-old, Mr. Rockwell painted a scene for America’s bicentennial in 1976. It was titled Happy 4th of July! and would be his final magazine cover illustration. The simple image depicts the artist, himself, putting a Happy Birthday banner on the famously cracked Liberty Bell, his art supplies at his feet. In 1976, I was living in a small mountain town in Colorado. I remember the local businesses and residences decorated with red, white, and blue banners. American flags were everywhere. I collected stickers, buttons, and other memorabilia. Of course, we had a parade. Americana 101: be a kid in a parade! Typically, I was either dressed as a pioneer and riding my bicycle along with my older sister, Debbie, or making my way down Main Street doing cartwheels, walkovers, and back handsprings with my gymnastics club. This year, however, I rode double with my best friend, Roxanne, on her appaloosa. There’s something cozy and bonding about a small-town parade. People are smiling and visiting with neighbors and strangers. Excited children scramble for candy thrown by the participants on floats and in fire trucks. Those on floats wave while those on lawn chairs at the sides of the street wave back and cheer. Handshakes, hugs, and flyers for the community barbecue are handed out while bands play peppy tunes. If you’ve never experienced a small-town parade, I encourage you to find one to attend. There’s often a palpable feel of camaraderie, neighborly bonds, and pride in community. One year when we were visiting our daughter and her family in Alaska, we got to participate in their town’s (population eightysix) 4th of July celebration. They hauled out the fire truck, piled all the kids on, along with a few parents and grandparents (us!) and drove about two hundred yards down the dirt road to the library. Everyone loved it!
Another event during America’s bicentennial that made an impression on me as an elementary school student was a play we performed called Let George Do It, the George referring to he of Washington fame. My character was a participant in the Boston Tea Party. We sang and danced a number I still recall to this day. “Gonna have a party, yeah, man, and what you think we’re gonna do? We’re gonna drop some tea in the bottom of the sea…” Our parents showed up in droves after all the time they’d spent working on our costumes, even though they’d already heard most of the play since we practiced singing all the songs at home. What a fun time of community, backed by proud parents. Hearkening back to the Liberty Bell in Rockwell’s painting, when our family lived in Maine while my husband, Trent, was earning his Masters of Nurse Anesthesiology, we took the opportunity to visit Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He had to attend a board review course, but my two daughters and I went to see some historical sites. Walking around Liberty Square with guides dressed in period attire, there to help with directions, answer questions, or have a conversation in the persona of a new American was quite profound. I saw Independence Hall where the Founders haggled, argued, drafted, voted, and sweated in the sweltering heat of the enclosed room. All this, so that I can be an American. I stood in front of the Liberty Bell, holding the hands of my two daughters, and was thankful. Rockwell also painted a series called The Four Freedoms in 1943. They were inspired by U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s 1941 State of the Union address known as “Four Freedoms.” One of the freedoms he painted was Freedom From Want. This one definitely conjures a nostalgic scene. A multi-generational family is happily gathered for a Thanksgiving feast. Grandma has cooked a large turkey. There is bounty in the shared meal. Families gathering for home-cooked meals, those seated around the table having conversations, bonding and connecting are a slice of Americana. These types of moments don’t fall into the category of only in the past for many Americans, and I hope for you, readers, it is not a practice of a bygone era. I hope your family puts away the phones and prepares and shares healthy meals, perhaps with bounty from the farm, from hunting, or from your garden. This can be nostalgic and a present practice. When I think of Americana, collectables and antiques also come to mind. This may elicit images from the American Pickers show. They find some amazing pieces of history. Do you have a decorative piece that brings you a sense of nostalgia? On my shelf is a paper-maché figurine. It is a boy, dressed in blue and white striped pants, a red shirt, and a folded paper hat that is red, white, and blue. He holds aloft an American flag. It has a vintage look and also celebrates patriotism. It just makes me happy. I also have an old, glass butter churn that was Trent’s great grandma’s, along with an antique butter mold and some wooden trenchers. Antiques like this are important pieces of Americana. Once gone, they are irreplaceable. Pondering our heritage, knowing where we came from, and thinking of the values that shaped us connects us to our futures. I think that’s why I like having these antiques around. They cause me to pause, consider, and be appreciative. The Spirit of America runs deep in our families. Trent’sHome&Harvest | July + Aug 2026
-ancestors came across on the Mayflower. They sought that freedom and independence that is now sewn into the fabric of our nation. Both of our heritages hearken to men who fought in the Revolutionary War, making it possible to have a 1776. I wonder if, as our ancestors huddled in the freezing muck at Valley Forge, they had a thought that someday America would be turning 250 years old, and that I would be thinking about their lives and sacrifices from so long ago. Maybe that’s part of what kept them going. More recently, my brother and father both served, as well as Trent’s uncle and father. Military service is definitely part of the Spirit of America, but it also thrives in those on the home front. What comes to your mind when you think of the Spirit of America? I asked my brother, James, what he thought about when I said the term “Spirit of America.” James served in the military, like I said, and recently retired from the police force. He thought for a moment, then said that to him, American pride was joining the military, “learning what the sacrifice was to be who we are.” He then added how Americana to him meant “learning from our Dad how to build things, plant and maintain a garden to grow our own food, and the importance of work ethic.” As I pen this article, Trent and I are in Alaska. I found two patriotic buntings in storage and will hang them up on the stair railing. They will look perfect alongside the American flag that adorns our rustic cabin. Alaska is the perfect segue to another idea of Americana that reflects American values. Up here on the island, it is a fairly remote location. Many of the roads are dirt and gravel. There are no signal lights. The nearest grocery store and gas station are nearly two hours away. Here, I sense a piece of Americana that we should never forget. People helping people. Alaskans are often fiercely independent—for good reason—and many have distinct and strong opinions that they are happy to share and argue. However, they are quick to drop that like a spiny fish when needed, because the majority of folks who live here are extremely generous in helping others. You need a tool? Come borrow it. There’s too much snow on your roof? We’ll come help you shovel it off. Your car gets a flat, or breaks down, or the battery goes dead? Strangers will stop and assist. Your family experiences a tragedy? We’ll get a group together, finish the drywall and painting at your house and move some furniture for you. People seeing one another as a human being of worth and willing to act on that: this is the American spirit, still alive, and I hope it always will be. Isn’t that one reason why we’re here on this earth, for relationships? For passing on our knowledge and traditions? This time of year, as you drive around, I hope you see decorations of red, white, and blue buntings draped across porch railings, American flags snapping to proud attention, and banners and streamers flowing gracefully along the eaves of dwellings. I hope you take a moment to think about our heritage, values, and what our future should be. I hope you think about community and bonds with your fellow humans, and I hope you are proud to be an American.
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COME VISIT THE National National
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History
Of Healing
Early Healthcare in Latah County By Hayley Noble Like many professions, homesteaders and families settling in Latah County necessitated healthcare expertise with the hard life of the American West. Latah County was no different, and with the growing populous, doctors were needed. The earliest doctors in Latah County had to be versatile, treating patients in hospitals and making house calls to the rural communities. Moscow Dr. Henry Blake was Moscow’s first physician in 1878 and several soon followed. By the early 1900s, the area had many clinics and hospitals with full staff to serve the growing population. Dr. James Newton Clarke was a popular doctor and many recall fondly that if a patient couldn’t pay for his services, Dr. Clarke treated them anyways. Later, patients would pay him back or gift him produce and other goods as tokens of their appreciation. He served as the city health officer from 1923-26 and was later elected mayor for a short time. Another of Moscow’s pioneer doctors met his early demise in 1901, fictionalized in Carol Ryrie Brink’s Buffalo Coat. Dr. William Watkins was a prominent doctor and an active member of the community. Dr. Watkins was returning from a house call, when he was shot by William Steffen as he rode through town, pursued by the sheriff and a large posse of men. Steffen led the group to his home and a shootout ended when Steffen was killed. The area saw its fair share of “childhood diseases” like diphtheria, typhoid, and polio. Folk remedies and doctors alike were used to combat these deadly diseases. Bernadine Adair Cornelison remembered her father, Dr. William Adair, treating her sister, Flora, for diphtheria, which she succumbed to in 1900. “Daddy was so terrified that the rest of us would get it. I still can remember this house, and he hung wet sheets up over each door. That was one way of hoping that the rest of us didn’t get what she had, and we didn’t.” Moscow was not spared during the 1918 Flu Pandemic either. The town was particularly susceptible to the flu due to the influx of World War I trainees on the University campus. Able Goff recalled in the 1970s, “doctors, nurses, and volunteer nurses worked day and night. They could prescribe no remedies but aspirin, hot soup and bed rest. Moscow volunteers manned soup kitchens. Every place was pressed into service for hospitals.” Dr. Warner H. Carither’s established the Inland Empire Hospital in 1908 at the corner of First and Jackson Streets in Moscow. At some point, ownership of the Inland Empire Hospital was transferred to Dr. Charles Magee and his wife. In 1933, Frank Robinson, the founder of the Psychiana religion and business, opened the Psychiana Clinic in that same space under direction of Dr. Magee. The clinic was short-lived and this property continued as a medical building until 1945. There is little information about the treatments received at the Clinic and how they related to Psychiana. The structure is now home to apartments and recognizable by the colorful bicycles out front. Frank Robinson also constructed The Robinson Professional Building at the corner of Third and Jackson Streets in 1936 (now the Turnstone Flats building). That property housed many of the doctors in Moscow and one of three pharmacies that Robinson owned, although none of these businesses were connected to Psychiana. Two of Moscow’s longest-serving doctors were Joseph G. Wilson and Doyle M. Loehr, who began their private practice in the Urquhart Building in 1932.
In 1936, they moved locations to the Robinson Professional Building, where Dr. Wilson practiced there for nearly 30 years. Dr. Wilson later went on to deliver the first baby born in the new Gritman Memorial Hospital on Christmas day in 1940. After 31 years of private practice, he “hoped to have 31 years more.” Dr. Wilson retired in 1962. Dr. Loehr stayed with Dr. Wilson for a few years but took a break to serve in World War II and returned the open the new Moscow Clinic on North Main Street with Dr. Corney J. Klaaren. Dr. Loehr retired in 1968 after practicing for 37 years. He recalled the busy time delivering babies following World War II, the increased medical costs and specialization throughout his career, caring for the Civilian Conservation Corps camps on the Lochsa and Selway Rivers and in the Elk River-Deary area, and delivering babies in homes in the early days. Ruth Hodson, Mrs. G.F. Savage, and Mrs. J.M. Kimberling opened The Little Hospital at 220 W. Third Street in 1933. The demand soon outgrew what the house could support, and the hospital relocated to the University of Idaho, in what was later the Delta Sigma Phi house, and was renamed The Community Hospital. The University of Idaho did not have a proper infirmary until it was able to utilize Public Works Administration funding in the 1930s. That building was later expanded in the 1950s and continues to be used as the Vandal Clinic. Dr. Justus Millard Fleming worked at the campus infirmary from 1955 to 1962. Kendrick After completing medical school at University of Utah, Dr. Douglas Christensen moved to Kendrick in October 1931; he immediately started treating patients. He hired Susan Davidson as a nurse, whom he worked with for 35 years. She eventually purchased a house and turned it into a nursing home for mothers and babies. Dr. Christensen and Davidson both traveled to do many, many home deliveries in their time working together. While Dr. Christensen officially practiced in Kendrick, he also traveled to Potlatch and Juliaetta. He treated injuries that occurred during hard labor at places like the the county logging operations, gave vaccinations, treated childhood diseases like polio and typhoid, and serious illnesses related to heart attacks and cancer. The bulk of his recollections details the sad, strange, and notable deliveries of babies in his career. Those house calls often involved traveling up the grades to the ridges in hard weather, sometimes in feet of snow to assist with births. Surgeons were located in Lewiston, but Dr. Christensen treated just about everything else. Eventually he moved out of town to a farm in 1938: Byrne’s Flat south of Kendrick. In 30 years of practice, Dr. Christensen only missed three days of work due to illness. But by the late 1960s, his own health conditions caught up with him, and he retired Dec. 31, 1971, after a 40year career. Juliaetta Dr. Foster and his wife Nannie Nichols moved from San Francisco to Juliaetta and established a medical practice there in 1903. He specialized in cancer treatments, although he claimed to treat a wide variety of ailments. The couple moved into a large home at the corner of 4th and State Streets, and Dr. Foster began practicing out of his home, establishing the Foster’s Osteopathic Sanitarium. He later changed the name to Foster School of Healing.
In 1908, Dr. Foster constructed the Stump Building at 215 Main Street to accommodate his growing practice. Around the same time, he also began teaching students in his methods. In addition to cancer treatments, Dr. Foster saw patients with issues related to digestive and nervous systems and skin disorders. Despite Dr. Foster’s legitimate certifications and training, he believed that people could heal themselves through mental suggestion, with magnetism, telepathy, natural foods, and the power of intuition. By this time, Dr. Foster seems to have moved away from western medicine, turning instead to osteopathy, suggestive therapeutics, and medical electricity. He mixed his own salves and could even cure skin cancer without a knife. Stories abounded about how he could just look at someone and diagnose their ailment without even touching them. Some criticized his “charlatan” practices, labeled him a “quack,” while other doctors called his methods unscientific, with Foster declaring someone cancerous just to receive payment for treatment. Despite these criticisms, Dr. Foster’s methods seemed to have some success, and word spread, bringing people to Juliaetta seeking his cures. Business in Juliaetta and the surrounding areas prospered. Foster also had the reputation of a philanthropist, and did not turn patients away who could not pay him. Regardless of his critics, people praised Foster for his generosity and positive effects on Juliaetta. Additionally, Foster was a devout Christian, which kept him “on the up and up” in Juliaetta’s eyes. Dr. Foster and his family left Juliaetta in 1911, moving to Clarkston, Washington, where he remained until his death in 1934. No one is certain why he moved, although some speculated it could have been due to strict state laws regulating medical practices. Others wondered if Foster’s broken leg obtained at the bank could have been due to an altercation or maybe the larger population in Clarkston was more appealing to his business. Nobody knows for certain why the Fosters left, but after their departure, the praise seemingly vanished. The bitterness of his leaving lead to people labeling him a “drunk,” apathetic in regard to Juliaetta, and a phony. The healthcare history of this area is vast and varied, just like the treatments and people doctors served. The growing community in Latah County in the late 1800s and early 1900s attracted physicians to the region, with many caring for generations of families. They saw the evolution of healthcare and the changing field, from house calls in horse-pulled buggies, to state-of-the-art facilities. Cover Photo::The Inland Empire Hospital established by Dr. Carither at First and Jackson Streets. LCHS Collection. 1. The University of Idaho infirmary. LCHS Collection. 2. Prescription from Dr. Adair dated 3-21-1902/1912. LCHS Collection. 3. The Little Hospital founded by Ruth Hodson, Mrs. G.F. Savage, and Mrs. J.M. Kimberling at 220 W. Third Street. LCHS Collection. 4. The Robinson Professional Building at Third and Jackson Streets, ca. 1940. LCHS Collection. 5. Opening announcement of the Robinson Professional Building in 1936. LCHS Collection. 6. Foster’s Osteopathic Sanitarium in Juliaetta. LCHS Collection.
V
olunteers (Part 2)
by Gayle Anderson
“Without volunteers, we’d be a nation without a soul.” - Rosalynn Carter There is something remarkable that happens when like-minded people come together with a shared focus. Individual efforts become collective strength, and small actions grow into meaningful change. As people are united by a common goal, these service minded warriors can accomplish far more than any one person alone—creating real and lasting good for the greater community. So come along while I share stories and hopefully inspiration to join in.
Helping Hands Rescue Animals, so near and dear to our hearts and when serendipity comes into play, it can change lives, both for the animal as well as the human. Don’t believe me? Well, read on! Helping Hands Rescue (HHR), a volunteer-based 501c3 nonprofit began around 2000 by two local women seeing a need in the community to help save unwanted, abandoned or neglected dogs and cats in the LC valley. They receive no governmental funds and depend on donations to carry out their mission of helping with spay/neuter of animals and placing them in a forever home. In 2003 an ad was placed in the local newspaper seeking volunteers to help this grassroots non-profit. Polly, who had just moved to the area, was looking for something to do with her time. Little did she know that she would eventually take over the rescue operation ten years later as president and devote approximately 40 hours each week to the fur babies. As Polly puts it, this organization is run on faith and luck. The first meeting she attended, there were about 3 or 4 people, the bank account was zero… and the future of the mission to save animals looked bleak. The next week, a check arrived in the mail for $5,000! I personally call that a “God Kiss”. And from there on out Helping Hands Rescue was in business with a bright future. Today there is a devoted core group of about 12 volunteers and around 40 foster homes.
Polly introduced me to Lori, their treasurer, also a devoted lifer in the HHR mission. Lori who owns and operates a dog grooming business in the valley was asked by a client a few years ago if she would be interested in being a “foster cat mom” for 2 kitties that were needing a temporary home. She said yes and a lifelong love of HHR began. As Lori puts it, once you get into their closeknit group, you never leave, you become a lifer. This core group of 12 are like family to one another and the commitment to help these animals runs deep.
“our community steps up and donates. We are abundantly blessed by their generosity” Polly and Lori gave me an insight into their world by saying this is rewarding but heartbreaking at the same time. They see the animals who come in neglected, injured, starving and then see them get placed into forever homes. As HHR does not have a physical shelter, they can only accept animals if there is a vacant foster home available. When needing a safe loving place for the animal, Polly puts out the call to her foster fur parents. One of the amazing things about the foster program is that HHR provides everything they need, food, meds, vet care, toys, and treats and in return, the foster fur parents provide a safe loving home. When the animal is ready to be adopted, the foster parents will bring the animal to the adoption event at 1101 Bryden Ave, Lewiston, ID from 10am-2pm on Saturdays. The cost to adopt a dog is $300 and $90 for cats, which both Polly and Lori said doesn’t really cover the cost of the care, neuter/spray, shots, etc. However, they feel this is an affordable price and last year 746 animals were placed into forever homes! And each adoption is a celebration as explained by Lori. The new owners will get an “adoption bag” for the animal that usually consists of a homemade blanket, treats, toys and whatever else has been donated. It’s personal to the members and the foster fur parents. Although sometimes there is what they call a “foster fail”, and that means that the foster family falls in love with the animal and chooses to keep their fur baby. I asked Polly if this happened to her, the answer was yes. She has 3 dogs and 12 cats. One of the main goals of HHR is to help reduce the population by promoting neuter/spraying of the animals. Animals in their care are neutered/sprayed; however, they have a process where they help pay 1/3 of the cost to help pet owners financially cover the surgery. And when I asked how do they pay for all of this? Both Polly and Lori looked at each other and said, “our community steps up and donates. We are abundantly blessed by their generosity.” They went onto to say that they just received word that a woman they never knew or had contact with had left 5% of her estate to HHR. And the 12 members are very active in fundraising as well. They host a spaghetti feed in the fall and a yard sale in the spring and both events are well attended and help boost theirHome&Harvest | July + Aug 2026
-bank account. During the fall and winter, the crew volunteers as servers on bingo nights at a local brewery and their efforts are generously rewarded through a well-supported tip jar. When I asked about the other volunteers, they said each person has their own strength and way to help. For instance, one man shows up on adoption day to clean out the cages, one woman knows almost everyone in the area and uses her social connections to help fill needs that HHR has. Each member plays a vital role in the success of HHR and is appreciated. However, it is evident from talking to Polly and Lori that what they is for the true love of an animal getting adopted into a loving home. That is their mission and goal. While they do appreciate receiving recognition for their work, the bottom line in their world is they have helped a fur baby find the love that animals so willingly give. If this isn’t the best kind of love story ending, I don’t know what is… but then again, I own 2 rescue dogs myself. And like most pet owners my dogs are completely spoiled and adored and understand that they have gotten a second chance. How about you? Ready to help? How to help: donate, volunteer or foster. There is a wish list on their website, and more information at www.HelpingHandsRescue.org. Adoption days, every Saturday 10am-2pm at 1101 Bryden Ave, Lewiston, ID
Colfax Thrifty Grandma’s Shop This modest storefront on Colfax’s main street stands as a testament to how a dedicated group of women can bring the power of good to life in their community. From their Facebook page, the business is described as this:” The Colfax Thrifty Grandmother’s Shop is organized for charitable and social benefit to the community. We operate a second-hand store and donate proceeds to deserving causes in the community.” I sat down with the officers, Judy, president; Darlene, vice president and Gabriella, treasurer of this non-profit thrift store to learn more about this business. I immediately learned this store gave away the sum of $57,435 through community grants in 2025. An even more impressive sum is that from 2007 to 2025 the total amount of community grants given totals $802,830! Mind blowing when one of the volunteers put it this way, “for every $1,000 grant given it takes processing 500 t-shirts”. Let that jaw dropping statistic sink into your brain for a second. And then you realize the sheer amount of donations that must come in and get sold to raise those kinds of funds is almost58
-incomprehensible. Especially when they are only open 3 days a week (Friday, Saturday and Tuesday). So let me take you into an up-close look at this group of about 15 active members whose ages range from 60’s to 87. The store mainly has clothes, jewelry, hand-bags, kitchenware, décor, crafting items and books. It was a Wednesday and the store was closed to the public, however there were about 9 volunteers working in the backroom sorting, pricing and getting merchandise on the floor. Judy explained that the officers assume the duties of running the store and the merry little band of volunteers sign up to work shifts they desire. Judy, Darlene and Gabriella typically work 5 days a week. When I asked each what was their “why” to volunteer, it was simple. They were all retired and needed the connection to others. It was clear to see that these ladies have developed a close-knit connection to each other. Plus, they love their community, its people and the mission of the store. In 2025 the 34 grants given out ranged from $60 to $10,000. Priority for grants given are #1 kids, #2 elderly and #3 community. While everyone loves a bargain, it is that personal touch and friendliness that keeps customers coming back. Gabriella recalled one day as she was the cashier, a longtime customer came in and as she was waiting on him, he shared that his beloved dog had just died. She said they both teared up as he was recounting the story. During the Christmas season, a special day is set aside to host an exclusive holiday shopping experience for children ages 4 to 12, allowing them to shop independently without their parents. Each child receives a $10 credit to shop in the store for their family and volunteers will accompany each child as their own personal shopper assistant. Judy explained that as donations come in, new items are set aside and stored for the kid’s holiday shopping day. There is pride in keeping the store neat, clean and well organized. Judy said each volunteer finds her own “niche” in managing the retail side and makes it their own. As Judy was giving me a tour, she pointed out that one woman’s specialty is window design from her former employment and has several seasonal tubs in the storage area to help keep the window display fresh and interesting. Darlene shared that her focus is on jewelry and purses besides being a cashier. As we toured the store, clothing was expertly arranged and has a floor life of 3 weeks before it is moved to the sale rack. They are choosy about what merchandise is displayed and that they price items at 25% of new. There I met a lively lady named Joyce, who was updating the craft section with items, and she proudly told me she was 87 and has volunteered for the last 22 years. Judy advised Joyce takes personal pride in the craft section and is known for taking home rolls of ribbon and such, measuring it out and bagging it up before returning it to the store. As we continued the tour, the book section felt like you had walked into a bookstore with its articulate display and organization. Then Judy shared that Gabriella was a former librarian and takes particular care in what content goes out on the shelves and has a talent in the way she displays books. And it was evident. And the price on the books is a steal. As the tour concluded we ended up in the back section which is the employees only section. And it was a lively environment of sorting and pricing items with the occasional laughter heard and again I could sense a true comradery in this group. There was such a happy atmosphere going on that I asked if the ladies had a cooler of beer stashed under the desk, which one lady giggled and said no, just diet soda. I was then forewarned that if-
-I lingered too long, they would put me to work! Seeing the impact of this all-woman all-volunteer business, I had the urge to immediately begin to start downsizing my household belongings and closet once I got home and fill up their donation bin. How to Help: Donate. Shop. Volunteer. Address is 118 N. Main, Colfax, WA. Hours of operation: Tuesday 10am-4pm, Friday 10am-4pm and Saturday 10am-3pm. Phone 509-397-2786. Become Facebook friends for up-to-date events and info.
Blessing Beds
The mission is that every child deserves a bed. And on the website, Blessingbeds.com says this: “We are a grassroots movement with one simple but important mission: getting kids off the floor and into safe, comfortable beds of their own”. I met up with Zach and Daisy at their Pullman home to get the full story on this unique small non-profit. Zach, a self-employed remodeling contractor had set aside some time with his wife to provide a full perspective about this 6-year-old volunteer group. In January of 2020, a local Pullman pastor felt the urge to build a child’s bed. He had no knowledge of any young person who didn’t have his or her own bed, all he knew was he felt called to do it. And in his basement, he made a simple bed. Then placed an ad on social media to see there was an actual need. What he found out was there was an overwhelming response from 100 parents who said they needed a bed for their child. With that Blessing Beds became an official 501c3 non-profit and within 12 days there was a Board of Directors and a group of volunteers. The goal was to make 500 beds and 3 nights a week, volunteers including Zach and Daisy worked out of the pastor’s basement. The pastor kept his volunteer work separate from his church role. Daisy noted there is a strong spirit of kindness and compassion present—one that reflects Christian values—yet it remains open and unaffiliated with any specific religious organization. In 2022, the pastor left the area, and Zach & Daisy took on the role of overseeing all aspects to continue the work of supplying beds to kids. The volunteers are made up of all ages and backgrounds. With no basement to work out of they put the word out about needing a place and for a year they searched for a location. And the applications for beds kept rolling in. Then though a friend of a friend of a friend, they landed down in Lewiston in a former cabinet maker’s shop. The owner was impressed by the non-profit mission and only asked that they clean up the left-over stuff left from the previous occupant and that they pay the electricity bill. No rent. Daisy calls that “a God thing”, and I must agree. Every Wednesday from 6-8pm is “build night” and Zach is shop lead. Being in the construction industry, it’s safe to say he knows his way around a shop and all the tools. The last Friday of eachHome&Harvest | July + Aug 2026
-month, the build night starts at 6pm and besides bed assembly they like to offer food and fellowship for the volunteers. As Zach says, besides building beds, they are building communities. Daisy is the administrative part of the operation. And they both average 10-15 hours a week. They excitedly told me they have met the goal of 500 beds, which includes mattresses, pillows, bedding. The Genesee Quilters also donate handmade quilts. Daisy says they often ask the volunteers to accompany them on delivery day. She says the smiles on the kids’ faces as they come to the house to set up beds is pure joy. The child gets to choose their own quilt and as Daisy puts it, it is basically like Christmas for that child. They also encourage the child to help “install” the bed and eager little hands are ready and willing. The experience is priceless for the child, their parents and the volunteers present. Daisy also mentioned that they will accommodate groups who want to volunteer and have their own work night event. Meet Rick & Doreen who have been volunteering with Blessing Beds since September 2024. Doreen first learned of this organization when the credit union she works for does a community service project. And while she has volunteered at other non-profits through her employment, this one has been near and dear to her heart.
“I’m here… how can I help?”
Rick, her husband, has been helping as well. Doreen explained she has a mission focused background and was employed by a Christan non-profit to do humanitarian work in other countries as the boots on the ground group coordinator for 5 years. Rick, her husband, is also strongly led to serving others and the bonus is that he likes to build things. And understandably this group quickly became their favorite way to help, and they often show up on the Wednesday build nights. As Rick said, it is life-changing and very emotional. They both went onto explain the most humbling and beautiful part of this bed building process is when you go to deliver the bed or often, beds. When I asked them if they had a favorite memory, Doreen recalls the time when they delivered beds for a family with 7 kids who were sleeping on the concrete floor. It was all hands-on deck as a crew of volunteers, with help from the kids, set up bunk beds and a single bed. The parents were beyond grateful, and the kids were joyous over having their own bed to sleep in. Doreen said the experience is beautiful and humbling. The first time she went on a bed delivery, the experience was so powerful that once they left the family’s home that she wept. And every bed delivery is a glimpse of what a little bit of kindness can do to make a positive difference in someone else’s life. How to Help: Give Financially - Volunteer Your Time - Spread the Word. For more information go to Blessingbeds.com Whether it is helping pets, kids, and community through simple acts of volunteerism— it serves to help remind each other how beautiful life can be when we show up and say, “I’m here… how can I help?” 60
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From Castoffs
to Canvas
The Art of Reimagining our Story
By
Jessica Wall It is a foggy morning, and I am out for a walk. The dew on the leaves looks like miniature, round crystals refracting the sun- as if all the water on each leaf has magically collected in one little spot. The ravens squawk and the blue jays hop about unfettered. Small wild rabbits nibble on grass and clover. The sun is starting to peek out from behind the clouds, and I am confident that it is going to be another gorgeous day. This is a beautiful summer morning in the Pacific Northwest, and it is here, in this very setting, that I feel like my soul is at peace. The sounds of nature combined with the calm essence of simply being, is pure magic. I look around, taking it all in. Suddenly, my utopia is quickly smashed as if someone just pulled the rug from under me. I see it everywhere. Trash. Crushed soda cans flashing silver in the sun, blue bottle caps buried in the dirt, a faded strip of caution tape caught in a chain-link fence, a toy wheel separated from the toy it once completed. Cigarette butts lying about. Clear and precise examples of human carelessness. Or at best, clear and precise examples of human oblivion. Either way, these man-made and man-discarded objects somehow have the ability to ruin even the most beautiful of surroundings. I feel immediate frustration. Immediate defeat. Well, at least that used to be the case. Where I once felt anger, I now feel inspired. You see, to most passersby these objects register as nothing more than litter- and while I still desperately wish that humans did better, I have learned to shift my perspective to one of wanting to become part of the solution rather than simply complaining about the problem. I have trained myself as an artist to see that everyday discarded items can become color, texture, memory, evidence, and invitation. Simply put, when put together in a creative way, recycled-material art signifies a radical act of attention- and intention. It asks us to look again at what people discard and to imagine that an object’s usefulness does not end when someone lets it fall from a pocket, blow from a truck bed, or drift from a picnic table toward a storm drain. This is powerful, as it forces us to reexamine our own practices and become more acutely aware of how our everyday habits leave a lasting impact on literally everything around us. Recycled art can be uncomfortable. But then again, that is the point.
Trash is found everywhere people and weather meet: along sidewalks and bike lanes in rain-darkened neighborhoods, beside bus stops, in schoolyards after a game, in alleyways behind restaurants, on beaches after a holiday weekend, in trailhead parking lots, and along the banks of creeks that carry the traces of an entire watershed. The numbers behind everyday waste are staggering. According to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, the United States generated 292.4 million tons of municipal solid waste in 2018, equal to about 4.9 pounds per person per day. That total includes the ordinary objects that make up daily life after use: packaging, bottles, paper, food waste, furniture, electronics, tires, and more. Spread across a year, the national figure is difficult to picture; translated into daily habits, it becomes easier to feel. Every coffee lid, takeout container, shipping box, produce sticker, and broken household item quickly becomes part of a larger story of overwhelming consumption. The figures vary by method and location, but the lesson is consistent: discarded objects do not stay put. They migrate, fragment, and accumulate. Further, few regions make the contrast between natural abundance and human discard feel as vivid as the Pacific Northwest. In a mossy forest, litter can seem especially out of place: an energy bar wrapper bright against nurse logs, a cracked plastic bottle tucked beside a trail, a strip of flagging tape wrapped around salal, a lost glove slowly becoming part of the duff. Forest trash often arrives through recreation, roadside dumping, wind, or overflowing bins at busy trailheads. Beaches tell a different story. Along the coastline, the tideline acts like a sorting edge, gathering kelp, driftwood, shells, rope, plastic shards, bottle tops, and fishing gear into what researchers and beachcombers often recognize as accumulation zones. For wildlife, discarded material is not an abstract problem. Birds face both entanglement and ingestion risks, as they often eat pieces of debris from beaches. Whales are vulnerable in that they often become stuck in rope, buoys, and fishing gear. Fish can encounter microplastics and lost gear. Crabs and other shellfish can be trapped by abandoned pots. Otters may be tangled in nets or lines. Even inland animals—deer, raccoons, coyotes, owls, and salmon-bearing stream life—can encounter litter in forests, culverts, and river corridors. When you read the statistics, it feels overwhelming, doesn’t it? The good news is that it doesn’t have to be. In fact, rather than feel the daunting weight of this reality, why not view it as a beautiful and creative call to action? We all have unique gifts, and we also have the incredible capacity to see different solutions for existing issues. As an artist, my medium of choice is to create awareness through tangible beauty. Through vision, a willingness to get dirty (both metaphorically and physically), and the heart to be impactful, I believe that every single one of us can truly change the trajectory of what is happening- to what can be. Whether it is using fishing lines and translucent plastic to echo fog, rain, and tide, or creating a forest assemblage using wrappers, bark-colored cardboard, and rusted metal, it becomes evident that trash can be inspiring. With a little bit of creative ingenuity, a plastic fork becomes a feather, whereas a broken umbrella rib becomes the spine of a sculpture. Aluminum pull tabs suddenly become scales, sequins, or armor. Bottle caps pixels in a mural. Simply put, what was once overlooked becomes impossible to ignore. Home&Harvest | July + Aug 2026
Of course, each site offers a different palette. At the beach, you may find sun-bleached plastic, fishing line, and rope. Neighborhood streets offer things like cardboard, receipt paper, rusted metal, wire, and the bright geometry of packaging. A forest trail may reveal snack wrappers, bottle caps, and scraps of fabric snagged under sword ferns or tucked among cedar needles. Not only is there inherent value in removing these items from the environment, but these materials often carry the marks of their journeys: dents, scratches, fading, stains, salt, mud, moss, and weathering become traits that no art-supply store can replicate. When viewed from this perspective, the goal becomes clear: not to romanticize litter but rather let the landscape speak through the materials removed from it. As a trained Anthropologist, I have long understood that the material culture we leave behind tells the story of our collective human experience. As an artist however, I have learned that through creativity we can insert emotion into this story. In this way, the artist becomes collector, witness, editor, and translator. Ultimately the finished work may be beautiful, humorous, unsettling, or all three, but it carries a quiet argument: the things we throw away do not disappear. They move through streets, landfills, waterways, animals, and communities. Through the practice of making recycled art, these objects get a second life and give viewers a reason to pause. If you would like to create art from recycled materials and found trash, it is helpful to remember a few key points when considering the message you are trying to convey. As you collect material for your artworks, keep a journal noting where objects came from, as these notes can become wall text, captions, or spoken introductions when the finished pieces are displayed. Context helps art avoid feeling like decoration alone; it connects beauty to accountability. Another talking point is scale. A single discarded straw may be easy to dismiss; a wall covered with straws collected in a park becomes difficult to ignore. Scale transforms anecdote into evidence, repetition transforms clutter into pattern, and pattern transforms waste into language. My mission through this artwork is not simply to point out human greed and apathy but rather challenge people to see things differently. My deepest hope is that they ask themselves: what are the different creative ways I can contribute to the solution? Is it through a path of public artwork (like I have chosen), or some other method? Ultimately, if there is one takeaway, I would like people to know that making art from trash is to practice a kind of optimism with open eyes. This optimism does not pretend that reuse alone will solve the waste crisis, nor does it excuse the systems that produce disposable objects at enormous scale. It does, however, insist that attention matters. The simple act of picking up a bottle cap, washing it, sorting it, and setting it into a larger design becomes a small refusal of indifference. It is such a beautiful way of saying that the world is not merely a background for consumption, but instead a landscape that we as its inhabitants- choose to love and take care of. My hope is that people do not feel overwhelmed, but instead, inspired; inspired to take action, lean into the messy, and leave the world just a little bit nicer than they found it. When we can achieve this, we all become storytellers.
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Home&Harvest | July + Aug 2026
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Henry Lorang, 1918
Are We
Patriotic Yet?
We have given. Fathers, husbands, sons and daughters. Given to fight for the belief in the American Way of Freedom, Free Speech, Right to Choose, to respect “Mom” and protect our families from any number of atrocities that could destroy that peaceful living. We have gone to war for our beliefs. Gathered people for projects, sewn thousands of Red Cross items. Wrote letters. Saved letters. Every family has. Every family has gotten up at 4 a.m., worked all night, shown up for others, learned about respect, raised the children. This family did also; they just had a habit of recording it.
“DO NEIGHBORS WORK IN HURRY, May 22, 1942 Genesee News. Henry Lorang was a happy man Tuesday evening when six of his neighbors—Frank Kamitsch, W. O. Borgen, Fred Baumgartner, John Kluss, Ed Hasfurther, and Ed and Steve Kambitsch moved their tractors onto the Lorang place Tuesday noon and disked, harrowed, seeded, and harrowed 45 acres of land. Walter Klemm drove the Kluss tractor, and on each of the other machines were their owners, who did a quick job of putting in the 45 acres of peas. Mr. Lorang was made happier on Wednesday morning when Fred Comnick, Frank Kamitsch, and Ed Hasfurther plowed an additional 15 acres of ground, work which had to be done this spring. Rather unfortunate this spring and unable to get all his work done, Mr. Lorang was so appreciative and thankful that he groped for words to express himself. However, he wants to thank his kind neighbors most sincerely. He also wants to thank the women of his community for the offer of their domestic services. With time nearing a late limit for seeding, the assistance given Mr. Lorang was a most kindly act, which he feels he never can repay. The men who donated their time and equipment enjoyed being of service as the red tractors, yellow tractors, harrows, discs, and drills followed one another about the field located across the road from his home. No doubt the kind neighbors will witness the crop grow to maturity with more than a passing interest, hoping that it will be one of the best in the country.” As for War service, it was an important part of the story for the Henry Lorang family. First was Jim, then Bob, then John, then Dan.
“JIM LORANG IN NAVY, Dec. 25, 1942 Genesee News James Lorang left Lewiston Sunday, December 13 for Boise to take his final physical examination to enter the navy. He is now stationed at Bremerton, Wash. He left in company with Don Herman who is also stationed at Bremerton. Henry Lorang, who accompanied his son, James, to Lewiston, recalled that twenty-five years ago, on December 13, 1917, he left for service in World War 1.” “Service Honors Lt. Lorang, Lewiston Tribune, May, 1946 According to recent dispatches from Ashiya, Japan, Lt. Robert H. Lorang, son of Henry Lorang of Genesee and Mrs. Marguerite Lorang of Spokane, crashed to his death on May 15 while piloting an A-26 Bomber on a surveillance mission. Memorial services for the young flier were conducted by the Roman Catholic chaplain of the military area on May 19. Lieutenant Lorang was a graduate of the Genesee high school, and prior to his entry into service in July 1943, attended St. Martin’s college at Lacy, Wash., and a business college in Spokane. He received his wings as a flight officer December 23, 1944, and was assigned to duty in the Pacific area. Before the close of the war he had flown several missions over enemy territory. In March he received his commission as second lieutenant.
By Diane Conroy
Surviving also are his wife, Christine, and baby daughter, Lynn Ann; four brothers, James, John, Dan and Albert; and six sisters, Joan, Mary Frances, Mary Jean, Lois, Mary Alice and Rita.” One of the girls, Joan Lorang, wrote to the soldiers. here is a reply she received August 14, 1945.
“Tuesday Aug.14, Nite Dear Joan, Tonite is really a wonderful nite, a day that the world has long been waiting. We have just recieved the news that the war is over. I suppose that you are very happy at the same time. I have been here at South Dakota since last Sunday. This is really a place of wild confusion, there are thousands of overseas men here waiting for transfer to different bases in the U.S. They check your records here and a lot of other red tape. Really a mixup. I am supposed to be moved out of here in a week or two. Thanking God that the war is over. I am about positive that I won’t go overseas again. But getting out of the army is a much different problem. It looks like many months of waiting to me. Unless something changes pretty soon. I suppose you are busily engaged in harvesting now. Sure wish I was putting in the harvest my self now instead of lying around here and waiting. I hope your dad is feeling well and that all the work is not getting you down. There isn’t to much else to say, so will write you when something new turns up. So Good nite. Love Jerry” But father, Henry Lorang had also gone in…his father, John’s letters were also preserved.
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“Genesee Idaho Nov.10, 1918 Dear Son Henry, Yesterday we have received the good News that the war is over with and that the Kaiser has abdicated, which gives us much good cheer and happynis, for we now have reason to beleave that the fighting is all over, and that some of thase days you Bois will all be home again, and we old people can take it a little easier. The other day on Nov. 7, I was picking apples and along about 10 o clock, Mamma came out and called to me and said the peace was declared, and to lessen and hear the bells ring in town, and so we went to town right away. And when we got there the people were all out on the open streets, and the stores, Banks, Post office, and every other bussenis was closed. People were marching the streets up and down cheering and waving flags, and all so the same were some cars deckerated and loaded with mostly wemmen and children, and shouting and waving a flag or a hankerchif. Even some old gray hears Lodge were marching the derty streets , and everybody was in its every day working close, (clothes) and some boys wit out hats on there heads, and the Ladys were all bear headed. We older men amused or selfs by discharging the fire works and trowing the papper bombs up in the air, and cheering. Many farmers were in town to take part in the celebration , ontill 12 o clock wen all went to dinner half worn out, but hapy. The celebration was repeaded in the eavening by having a big bond fire below the schoolhouse in the park. But the next morning we felt sore when we got a report that this report all was falce and that they were figting the same as ever. But we all beleave-
-now that the fighting is over and we ar waiting for the declaration of true peace. And we don’t care what they do with the Kaiser, We hear that he and the Grown-prince ar in switzerland to save there lives. The Bielenberg folks received a message that there son Harry died in a hospital in France on september 4th of wounds received in action, In a letter written home by him 3 weeks befor he died, stated that he had ben in hard fighting for some time and that he had ben over the top 5 times, and I guess the 6th time he got cilled. LeVeque Whalen was in the same squadron. Ed Lawn died in camp fremont , Call., of Influenca and was shipt home and berried here last wednesday.” From Henry’s Mother, Mary Lorang…
“Genesee Novem 8th, 1918 Dear Son Henry! We received a card from you and Uncle John Gesellchen received a letter they where very glad to hear from you, and so where we glad to see that you where well and hope that you will be till you come home again, anyhow I hope by the time you will recieve this letter that we will have peace. Henry yesterday we had a big holliday in the fornoon we received the news hear in town that the war was over and that the Germans surrendert and laid down arms but Oh joy I tell you we did not only laugh but some of us cryed for joy and I was one of them! Charley phoned and tolled us so Papa took the car and he and I went to town but you ought to seen the people in the streets everybody was just wild all the bells were ringing churches, fier and (aid?) bell and they where marching with flags and cars where driving with lots of people up and down the street and all had flags. They where blowing horns and playing drums. I tell you everybody was excided for about two hours and we staid in town till after dinner and everything was quite (quiet) but we doubt the peace news so in the afternoon we heard it was not true. Oh disapointed we where! so in the evening they had a big bonfire close to the high school…and sang Patriotic songs and everybody seemed to be happy over it that we had peace. but today we heard that it was not true and that they where fighting just as hard as ever but I hope by the time you read this letter that everything will be over and that we wont have any more boys killed! We have four golden stares in our service flag you ought to see the flags flying hear in our town it looks like a fourth of July celebration! Sorry to say the golden stars in our flag are a boy by the name Smith was the first one, then was a boy Caldwell died in an eastern camp of the influence, then was Harry Bielenberg killed in action in France, went over the top 6 times but was killed at last. he was with LeVeuge (Leveque) Whalen in the same Squadron. LeVeuge is still their yet about a week ago when Charly recieved a letter from him he said he (had) quite close calls but always got save home again. And the other gold star is Eddie Lawn he was in a camp in California he got the influence he was siriusly sick and Miss Lawn went to see him but he died and came home with the body and was buried last Wednesday. We will know in a couple weeks with my best wishes and love I will sent you this letter everybody is in bed and the house is getting cold, your Mamma.” White Spring Ranch Museum/Archive Library is now Open for the Summer on Saturdays 1:30-4:30 pm.
Otis!
The Oh,
Shenanigans By - Temple Kinyon
Episode 34 Bullseye
“It’ll cost us about $115, so if we go in together, it’ll be about $60 bucks each,” Fertis said. Otis scratched his head. “Where we gonna get $60 each? Any money I earn helping my dad this summer has to go for school clothes and stuff.” “Yeah, me, too,” Fertis replied. The two friends were sitting on beach towels spread out on the concrete next to the city pool. Their friends and a bazillion other kids were splashing around in the pool on a hot July day. About that time, Carla and Laurie climbed out of the pool and joined Otis and Fertis. “Hi, guys,” they both said and sat down on their towels. “Whatcha talking about,” Carla asked as she set about slathering suntan oil on her damp skin. “We need money,” Fertis answered. “What for?” Laurie asked as she, too, slicked on some suntan oil, SPF 4. “We want to buy a video game console,” Fertis answered. “And a game,” Otis added. “Cool!” Carla breathed. “Would you let me play if I help you out?” “Maaaybe,” Fertis said with slight hesitation. “But you don’t have that kind of money.” “I do, actually,” Carla quipped. “But I’m not giving you squat.” She giggled. “Seriously, I know a money-making opportunity. If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you in on it.” Otis and Fertis leaned closer. “I’m going away to camp for a week at the end of the month, and I need to help the Lingle’s find someone to babysit for me.” “Babysit??!” the boys said at the same time. “What makes you think we could babysit?” Fertis laughed. Laurie rolled her eyes. “Idiots. This is a chance for you to make some real money. DUH.” Otis and Fertis looked at each other and shrugged. “So, how much we talkin’?” Fertis asked. “Two dollars an hour, five ten-hour days,” Carla said. “That’s a hundred bucks!” Otis shrieked. “He can do math!” Laurie teased. “What do we gotta do?” Fertis chimed in skeptically. “Uh, DUH, babysit,” Carla said. “You watch Mr. and Mrs. Lingle’s baby boy, Eugene. He’s eleven months.” “Eugene?” Otis giggled. Carla giggled, too. “Yeah, big name for a little guy. Anyway, you feed him, change him, put him down for naps, play with him, watch some television. But you can’t talk on the phone unless you need to call them or your parents. The Lingles need to be able to get ahold of you while they’re at work.” “Sounds doable, especially for that money,” Otis said. “Piece of cake,” Fertis smiled. *** Carla called Otis the next day to let him know the Lingles were okay with him and Fertis watching Eugene. Otis immediately called Fertis after he and Carla hung up. “Dude, how hard can it be?” he asked Fertis. “It’s not that big of deal,” Fertis said. “I’ve babysat my younger sister a few times. It was usually when Mom and Dad went out at night, so I never had to change her diaper, but you and I shovel cow and horse manure all the time, Otis. It can’t be any worse than that.” Otis had never babysat or changed a diaper, but he certainly had cleaned up after dozens of farm animals over the years and that couldn’t really be that different than keeping a Eugene clean. *** At promptly 6:30 a.m. on Monday morning, Otis jumped on the Hot Rod and roared over to pick up Fertis. They headed into town to be at the Lingle’s by 7:15. They would stay until around 5:30 p.m. when one of Eugene’s parents got home from work. Otis had the Hot Rod wide open as Fertis shouted, “By the end of the week we’ll hopefully have enough to buy the game console and one game!” Otis steered with one hand and lifted the other for a high-five. Fertis smacked it hard. They arrived to find Mrs. Lingle rushing around the kitchen packing her lunch and setting out items to feed Eugene, who was sitting in his highchair.
“You can feed him anything I’ve left out on the counter and marked in the fridge,” she instructed. “There are plenty of snacks and sandwich makings for you guys, too. Our office numbers are by the phone.” She pointed to the bright yellow telephone on the wall next to the avocado green refrigerator. “Television remote is on the coffee table. His diapers are all stacked next to the changing table. Follow me.” Otis and Fertis followed behind as Mrs. Lingle veered down the hallway and into the nursery. “Crib, diapers, extra clothes in the closet, and lots of toys in here and in the living room. He has to have his blankie to fall asleep.” She indicated a small blue and white quilt in the crib. “He’ll need a bottle before his nap, which is any time between eleven and two-ish.” She turned and smiled at Otis and Fertis. “Any questions?” The duo looked at each other and shrugged. “No, ma’am,” they said in unison. “Call either one of us anytime if you have questions or concerns,” said and swished back into the kitchen. She said goodby to Eugene and gave him a big kiss, leaving a perfect imprint of hot pink lipstick lips on his forehead. “Bye, guys!” she said as she left. “Bye!” Otis and Fertis said. “Baaaaaaa baaaaaaaa!” Eugene yelled and waved. Otis and Fertis giggled. Fertis leaned down to be eye level with Eugene. “Hey, buddy, are ya hungry?” On the highchair tray, he and Otis set out some sort of creamy, white cereal in a plastic bowl, some cut-up banana, and several pieces of a tiny sausage. Eugene was already wearing a bib, and Otis handed him a tiny plastic spoon. Eugene shot out his chubby hand and grabbed it from Otis. “Poon!” “He can talk!” Fertis exclaimed. He again bent down to eye level with Eugene. “I’m Fertis. Ferrrrtisss.” Eugene ignored him and started eating. Otis moseyed into the living room and clicked on the television. Fertis followed him, grabbed the TV guide off the coffee table, and flipped through it. “We should watch Captain Kangaroo. It’s on in ten minutes. Then Sesame Street after that.” “Dude! What are you doing?! You left him alone!” Otis dashed into the kitchen and stopped short. Eugene’s high-pitched laughter filled the room as he rubbed banana in his hair, which was already plastered with some of the pasty cereal. “Aughhhh,” Otis groaned. “He’s a disaster!” “I was only in there for like five seconds!” Fertis exclaimed. “Might as well let him finish his breakfast and then clean him up,” Otis said. They pulled up chairs and sat facing Eugene, who babbled and ate, finally forgoing the spoon by throwing it across the room. His chubby hand shoveled the creamy cereal into his mouth. “Good job, buddy!” Otis praised. “Way to not drop any!” Eugene delighted in Otis talking to him and in his exuberance, he blew a wet, cereal-and-drool-laced raspberry right in Otis’s face. “Auuughhh!” Otis jerked back, cereal dripping from his nose and eyebrows. “Dude!” He started laughing, and Eugene joined in.
Home&Harvest | July + Aug 2026
“Nothing a little warm water and a wash cloth won’t fix,” Fertis said optimistically. He jetted over to the sink, grabbed two washcloths, and wet them down. He went to Eugene to wipe him off and handed Otis the other cloth. “There!” Fertis inspected his work. “Alllll clean, Eugene! Well, except your hair.” Suddenly, a juicy “brrraaaaaaappppp” erupted from Eugene’s backside. Otis and Fertis looked at each other in horror. “Oh, maaaaan,” Otis groaned. “That sounds really serious.” Fertis leaned closer to inspect the situation and groaned as he lifted Eugene—who was laughing hysterically—out of his highchair. “Oh, it’s serious, alright.” Otis looked at Eugene’s backside. “Eeeeeeesh!” The aftermath of Eugene’s super explosion showed itself up his back and down his legs. “It IS really, really serious.” “BATHTUB!” both boys shouted. They trucked down the hallway to the bathroom, Fertis holding Eugene—who was still giggling and chattering—at arm’s length, and Otis running ahead to turn on the water in the tub. He checked that it wasn’t too hot, and instructed, “I’ll strip him down while you hold him.” Otis only gagged three times but managed to get Eugene undressed and undiapered. He deposited the soiled diaper in the trash, turned back toward Fertis and Eugene, and was immediately met with a shower emitting from Eugene’s front side. “Auuuugghhhh! He sprayed me! Get him in the tub!” Fertis howled with laughter as he gently placed Eugene in the water. “I can’t believe he just whizzed all over you!” “Shut up!” Otis growled. “Now what am I going to do?” “Well, his clothes are trashed, your shirt is trashed,” Fertis answered. “Go put them in the wash together.” “Good idea,” Otis said. He scrubbed his face in the sink first, then headed for the laundry room. He stripped off his shirt— thankfully his jeans didn’t get hit—and threw it, along with Eugene’s pants, shirt, onsie, and socks in the washing machine and set it on a forty-minute wash cycle. He meandered back through the kitchen and noticed the time. “Fertis, my friend, it’s only nine o’clock,” he shared as he walked back into the bathroom. “This may very well be the longest day of my life.” “But wait, there’s more,” Fertis said. “He’s all washed and clean, so grab a diaper and more clothes. Then help me dry him off so I don’t drop him.” Otis obliged and returned with fresh everything for Eugene. Fertis had laid out a towel on the bathroom mat and laid Eugene on his back. He set out to start drying when once again, a golden shower erupted from Eugene, only this time it landed on Fertis’s shirt. Otis started laughing hysterically. “I can’t believe he whizzed all over you,” he mimicked what Fertis had said to him. Fertis glared at his friend. “If you hurry, you can get your shirt in the washer with the other stuff.” Otis suggested. “You deal with him,” Fertis said and sprinted to the laundry room. He returned shirtless and watched Otis as he cinched up a fresh diaper and maneuver Eugene into his clothes. Fertis carried Eugene as they all went to the living room. Otis turned on Sesame Street. Fertis set Eugene down on the-
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-carpet in front of the screen. Eugene immediately screamed at the top of his lungs in sheer bliss at the sight of Big Bird, Oscar, and Grover. Otis and Fertis flopped onto the couch, shirtless and shellshocked. *** Over the next few days of Eugene-sitting, the boys deployed tactics learned from the first day’s escapades. To prepare for breakfasts, Fertis placed a large trash bag over the highchair, and Otis stripped Eugene down to just a diaper. Anytime Eugene propelled his breakfast through his perfected mouth raspberry, the only damage was to himself, the tray on the highchair, and maybe the kitchen floor. For added protection, Otis and Fertis wore goggles and lab coats they’d brought from their home science kits. When it came time to change diapers, Fertis would lay Eugene down on the changing table and as he removed the dirty diaper, Otis would quickly position a clean one over the “fountain” so if a shower erupted, it would hit that rather than the boys. Fertis would clean all of Eugene’s body parts, and Otis would quickly fit and fasten a fresh diaper. Captain Kangaroo, Sesame Street, and Mr. Rogers Neighborhood were always on the agenda after breakfast. The boys would play with Eugene on the floor and watch the shows with him. “Dude, I’ll only admit this to you,” Fertis said. “But I love these shows! It brings back good memories when I was a little kid.” “I know, me, too,” Otis said. The last part of Mr. Rogers meant morning bottle time. Otis and Fertis had taken turns administering the warmed milk and rocking Eugene all cuddled with his blankie, who would drift off, and the boys would carefully place him in the crib, quietly close the nursery door, and tiptoe back to the living room. “Whew!” Fertis said one morning. “I get why my mom always made us kids take naps.” “Yeah, me, too,” Otis said. “I think us playing with him wears him out, but it wears me out, too.” “I like our running-Eugene-down-the-hallway-like-an-airplane the best,” Fertis shared. “He’s a hoot playing hide-and-seek,” Otis giggled. For that, Otis or Fertis would take turns—one hiding and the other taking Eugene around to seek. “And I like teaching him words, especially how to say our names,” Fertis said. “Oooooo tis,” Otis said. “Ferrrrrr tis,” Fertis replied. *** By Friday morning, Otis and Fertis were feeling somewhat smug that they’d figured out Eugene. Two days straight they’d avoided anything that created extra laundry. Eugene now greeted them with jolly giggles and smiles and loved playtime with his new best friends. The three boys were watching Sesame Street on the couch—Otis and Fertis on either side of Eugene. Otis looked over the top of Eugene’s head and said to Fertis, “You know, he never cries.” “I know it,” Fertis said. “He cried a little the first day, and on Wednesday at lunch when we ran out of applesauce. It’s the craziest thing! I love it. I’d babysit more if they were all like him.” “Me, too,” Otis said. “Although, I wouldn’t want to do it by myself. Part of the fun is that you’re here to take off the pressure of doing everything. You know, Mrs. Lingle left his stroller for us and said we could take him to the park today. Wanna?” “Sure,” Fertis answered. “We could do that and then come home for lunch, bottle, and a nap!”
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By 10 o’clock they had Eugene belted into his stroller and the diaper bag tucked under the seat. “Think we need a bottle?” Otis asked. “Nah, we’ll only be gone a little while,” Fertis answered Otis helped Fertis maneuver the stroller down the front steps of the house, and they set off to walk the two blocks to the park. Eugene babbled and pointed at everything to which Otis and Fertis would shout out what it was. “Bird!” “Sky!” “Car!” Eugene would respond in his own way. “Birrrr!” “Ssssssyyyyyy!” “Caaaa!” When they got to the park, Eugene excitedly pointed. “Puppeee! Puppeee!” “Yeah, buddy, that’s a puppy,” Otis praised. He turned to Fertis with pride and a little surprise. “He knows how to say puppy!” “Otherwise known as a doggie,” Fertis added. “Puppeee! Daadaadaadaaa!” Eugene screamed out in delight. The dog turned its head in reaction to the scream. It was a beautiful black lab with a purple leach held by a young woman. “Would he like to pet my dog?” she asked. “Her name is Bug.” “Pupppppeeee! Daaadaaadaaa! Bugggg!” Eugene hollered. “Oh, my gosh! He said bug!” Otis shrieked with pride. “Yeah, I think he’d like to pet your dog, ma’am,” Fertis said and rolled the stroller over to Bug and her human. “Puppppypupppypuppppypuppppppy!” Eugene stuck out his cubby hand and immediately grabbed onto the dog’s tail. “Can you say Bug?” she asked Eugene. “Buggggbugggbugggg!” Eugene exclaimed. The woman, Otis, and Fertis laughed and praised Eugene at his pure genius, while Eugene kept petting Bug and chattering. Finally, the woman said, “I’m so sorry I have to go. Bug, say goodbye to the baby!” Bug let out a little “raw-raw-raw” and started to walk away from Eugene. “Baa baa, Bugggg!” Eugene yelled out and promptly stuck his finger out to point. Only the point turned into a poke. Otis and Fertis watched in horror as the tip of Eugene’s fat little index finger made direct contact with Bug’s bottom “bullseye.” “Nooooo!” they both shouted, but it was too late. Eugene had touched Bug’s bum. Euguene immediately jerked his finger back and looked at Otis and Fertis in utter shock that his two best friends had yelled at him. He crumpled his face and geared up to let them know how hurt he was. “Oh, Eugene!” Fertis crouched down to get at eye level. “It’s okay! You’re not in trouble! Don’t cry!” Otis grabbed a stuffed giraffe out of the diaper bag. “Look, Eugene, a giraffe! Isn’t he cute?” The two boys tried to stave off the cry, but Eugene’s crushed feelings erupted in a howl anyone in the entire park, city block, town, and next three zip codes could hear. “Oh, man!” Otis groaned, and he unbuckled Eugene and lifted him out of the stroller. He hugged and bounced. Eugene responded with louder cries. “We better get him home!” Fertis said. He took Eugene out of Otis’s arms and hurriedly buckled him back into the stroller. The three boys raced toward the house, two filled with panic, one filled with loud, sobbing devastation. Otis and Fertis hurriedly maneuvered the stroller up the stairs and back into the house. “He’s just getting madder and louder!” Fertis yelled as he pulled Eugene out of the stroller and began walking up and down theHome&Harvest | July + Aug 2026
-hallway with him. They tried several other things to soothe the little beast to no avail. “Maybe lay him down?” Otis shouted over the din. They headed into the nursery, and Fertis gently laid Eugene down next to his blankie in the crib. Eugene erupted with what now sounded more like barbaric yelling than baby crying. Otis immediately went to the kitchen to call Mrs. Lingle. “I’m sorry, she’s in a meeting right now, but I can get her a message,” her receptionist said. “No, not yet, I’ll call back,” Otis said. He hung up and thought a moment. Then it hit him. He quickly dialed his house. “Mom?” Relief flooded over him as she answered. “Otis?” she said. “Is everything okay? I hear the baby crying.” “No. It’s really not okay,” Otis said. “He’s not hurt, he’s just mad. Like really mad. We can’t get him calmed down.” “Why is he mad?” she asked. “Uh, well,” Otis started. “We sorta yelled at him.” “You what?” “He was going to put his finger on a dog’s … um, well, bottom area,” Otis said. “Fertis and I both yelled ‘no’ at the same time, and it hurt his feelings, I guess.” Mavis laughed. “Oh, Otis. You were trying to save him from potentially getting bit by a ticked off dog. You did the right thing. He’ll calm down. Humor me, though, and go check on him and make sure he’s not running a fever. I’ll hold on.” Otis tore into the nursery where Fertis sat in the rocking chair with Eugene perched up against his shoulder. “Is he feverish?” Fertis felt his head. “I don’t think so, but he’s so red and upset it’s hard to tell.” Otis tore back to the phone. “He’s not feverish we don’t think.” “Do you want me to come in and help you?” Mavis asked. “Umm, not yet. I’ll call you back,” Otis said. He hung up and went back into the nursery. Fertis stood, positioned Eugene on his left arm facing downward. He held on to him with is right hand and began slowly swaying Eugene back and forth. Back and forth, slow sweeps. Over and over, back and forth. Otis started singing is his softest, most soothing voice. “Ohhh, say can you see…” “The National Anthem?!” Fertis whispered in confusion. “Well, what should I sing?!” Otis loudly whispered back. “I don’t know, but not that!” Fertis thought a moment. “Wait! I got it!” he said and sang, “Sunny day, sweepin’ the clouds away…” Otis joined in. “On my way to where the air is sweet. Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street?” Suddenly, Eugene quieted down to normal cry volume. “Keep going!” Fertis said. “Sunny day…” Suddenly, the phone rang, startling Eugene, who amped up his cries again. “Keep singing and swaying,” Otis instructed as he dashed to grab the phone. “Hello?!” he said. “Otis, it’s Mrs. Lingle. My receptionist said you called, and she could hear Eugene crying.” “Oh, thank the Lord! He’s not hurt or wet or poopy or hungry. He’s just ticked off. But we’re singing to him, and he’s calming down.” “Oh, Otis, I’m so sorry!” Mrs. Lingle said. “I wonder if he’s teething. If you can’t get him to settle down, give him one of the little popsicles in the freezer.” 79
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Otis walked across the kitchen, opened the freezer, and grabbed a tiny popsicle. “I’ll go give it a try. Thank you!” “Call me back if it doesn’t work!” Mrs. Lingle said. “I will!” Otis said and hung up. He raced to the nursery with the popsicle and stopped short. Fertis was quietly humming Sesame Street as he gently laid Eugene down in his crib next to his blankie. “Nice job!” Otis whispered. “I think the little guy wore himself out,” Fertis whispered back. They tiptoed out and closed the door. They then helped themselves to leftover pizza, chips, and soda as they watched soap operas until Eugene woke up a couple of hours later. They went in to get him and leaned over the crib. “Hey, buddy, are you feeling better,” Otis cooed. “We missed you,” Fertis smiled big. “Ooooooooooooo TISSSSS! Ferrrrrrrrrr TISSSS!” Eugene answered, wriggling his tiny legs and clapping his chubby hands. “Oooooooooooooo TIS! Ferrrrrrrrrr TIS!” Otis and Fertis looked at each other and high fived. “Yesss!” Otis lifted Eugene from the crib and hugged him. “Dude, I’m so proud of you!” *** “Here is your payment for the week,” Mrs. Lingle said as she handed Otis and Fertis each a long white envelope. “You did such an amazing job with Eugene. Would you like to come back when Carla can’t watch him?” “YES!” both boys replied enthusiastically. She walked them to the door, holding Eugene. “Thank you again, so much. Bye for now!” “Bye!” both boys said. “Ba ba, OooooTISSS! Ba ba, FerrrrrrTISSSS!” Eugene giggled and waved. “Awww, buddy, bye-bye!” Otis said and kissed him on the forehead. “Bye, Eugene,” Fertis said and kissed Eugene’s pudgy cheek. They both thanked Mrs. Lingle and walked outside to the Hot Rod. The trip home was quiet, with both boys lost in thought about all the fun they’d had doing something they never would have considered had Carla not brought it up. Otis pulled into Fertis’s driveway, parked, and shut off the Hot Rod. “I had such a great week. Who knew babysitting could be so hard and fun all at the same time?” “I know, I totally agree,” Fertis said, as he got off the Hot Rod. “Should we count our money?” They each opened their envelopes and fingered through the bills. “Wait.” Otis said. “Dude,” Fertis breathed. “Is yours…” “More than what Carla said it would be?” Otis finished the sentence. “Yes!” Fertis replied. “She either lied to us, or Mrs. Lingle felt sorry for us!” They both snickered, recounted, and totaled it up. Plenty of money to buy the video game console, several games, and maybe even some left over for a movie … with popcorn. They smiled at each other and high fived. Fertis started to walk off toward the house but then turned around. “Hey!” “What?” Otis asked as he fired up the Hot Rod. “Ba ba, OooooooooTISSSS!” Otis started laughing. “Ba ba, FerrrrrrrTISSSS!”
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