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BELINDA ROBERTS, FNP-C
AMY JOHNSON, MSN,AGNP-C
AMANDA MOORE, DNP, FNP-C
COLAS, DO
GREGGAIN, MD
DAVIS, MD
Lately I’ve been feeling a lot of shame with the difficulty I’ve had in an attempt to feel joy. It seems like there’s so much either going on in the world now, or at any minute going to happen. I used to dance around fear like this every day, finding comfort in painting my walls bright pink, sewing scraps of vintage fabric on my dish towels, and planting rescued discount plants from the local garden center. Sometimes it seems like there wasn’t anything an iced coffee and Aretha Franklin couldn’t fix.
Over the past few years, I’ve noticed our collective nervous systems have upped the ante to the point where I think it’s just come time to get back to the basics of enjoying life, especially in the eyes of the ongoing chaos. But how do you do this when all that seems to really get through is a nice round of doom scrolling and meme sharing? Is there any way out?
I wanted to share about thoughts on this because I know many of us are scared and struggling and have lost the ability to connect with what we love, especially ourselves. Survival mode isn’t the time to paint walls pink… or is it?
Survival mode and fear is something I know a lot about. I have experienced anxiety for as long as I can remember. I know the handbook: try to control your environment. Don’t step out of your comfort zone. Be perfect in your actions to stay safe. Make sure everyone is happy. Wow. That doesn’t sound like the handbook to life now, does it? There’s a lot to argue about letting up to feel joy. Because when you’ve been scared, joy feels like a privilege. A weakness. Joy can feel like a dangerous deep end of a pool without any warning signs. But that’s how you know it’s time to experience it. Keeping yourself in fear is the path to nothing. It’s an illusion where your world becomes smaller and smaller until there is nothing left. Fear will never be safety. Fear will only control you. It’s crucial to recognize the difference.
I wanted to remind you that there is more to life than this black and white thinking. In the colorful middlethat’s where you want to grow. I find inspiration when I think of my grandmother, making resourcefulness an art during the depression. I think of my messy home, and realize there’s a million cat toys everywhere because we have two crazy kittens. I think of people trying their best- realizing that sometimes it absolutely has to be good enough. When the world doesn’t look the way you want it to, you’ve got to remember to celebrate the effort, the love, the little things. Anything more than your best is perfection and that will never lead to you to joy. It will only steal your motivation and creativity.
A large part of me wanted to keep it light- joke about summer or something inauthentic. But I keep hearing about the people who are struggling and I just wanted you to know you aren’t alone. It’s ok to feel the fear. It’s ok to feel the joy. The most important thing you can do for yourself is to build the bridge between the two every day- sometimes in every moment. Continue to be a work in progress, and no matter what, keep expanding your walls now. Don’t shrink down to feel safe. Make that iced coffee. Stay off your phone. Look at the stars. Get barefoot in your yard. In the wildness of your mind you’ll soon find the little happy things are the very bricks of being that bridge the confines of fear into the expansion of joy. If I can do this, so can you.
Editor-In-Chief Home&Harvest Magazine
The incredible art on the cover of this issue was created by the beautiful, whimsical queen known as Julene Ewert. Shop her amazing pieces online: www.juleneewert.com
Brylie
Hayley
Laura
Sandie
“Get out of the water!”
Only moments before, the sun was happily bathing us in warm rays. The breeze was soft and soothing, the water gently lapping against our legs. We were camping at one of the remote, boat-accessible sites on Dworshak Reservoir, one of our family’s favorite places for summer outings. The sudden shift in weather caught us off-guard. A furious wind now swirled, sandblasting our bare legs with the fine grit from the shore. Clouds sprinted in and covered the peaceful sun. Looking up the lake, I saw an ominous line of dark water roiling and frothing in a wall that stretched across the entire span of the reservoir. It steadily marched our way. The sky, dark and angry, began grabbing debris— sticks, pinecones, and branches—and throwing them into the air where they rode the currents in spirals, ever-increasing in velocity. Emerging from the chaos was a black funnel cloud, graceful yet dangerous.
I grabbed my two girls who were now running for shore, shielding their eyes against the stinging sand and raced up the hill toward camp where my husband, Trent, had our youngest daughter. He handed her off to me with a shout I barely heard over the roaring wind that he was going to save our nineteen-foot jet boat that was being mercilessly beat against the shore.
Hugging my three girls to myself, I frantically scanned the campsite. Where would be the safest place to stash them?
I had to make a quick decision, and hoped I chose wisely. I had them sit, the roaring wind battering up against their backs, and put the eldest, just ten years old, in charge of keeping her siblings in place.
By now, our six-person geodesic dome tent, even though we’d staked it down, was tipped up, snapping in the near-hurricane winds and about to pull away from the remaining stakes that clung to the earth by their fingernails. I didn’t know how it was possible, since it was also loaded with all of our gear. I yelled at my teenage nephew to grab one corner of the tent and I reached for another. We practically hung on it with all the weight of our bodies, trying to pull it back down. It was a giant sail, catching the growling winds, almost giving in to the temptation to leave on an unknown adventure. I glanced down the hill to the beach, only to see a frothy rooster tail spew from the jet boat as my husband gunned the throttle. The waves rocked and tossed the Hewescraft like a toy in a bathtub with a rowdy toddler.
Laura
L.
Morgan
Family Values: Part Four TEAMWORK
I looked the other way and my nephew’s tent had simply laid down and died, offering no resistance. Branches were still flying through the air, but the girls were low enough to the ground they thankfully weren’t getting hit by any. There was nowhere else to go.
Eventually, Trent was able to steer the boat to the leeward side of the spit that stretched out from our campsite. It seemed a long time until the angry winds spent their wrath and calm returned once more. The aftermath of the storm was vomited all over the point and down the hill, some of our gear floating in the water, waiting for us to rescue it, some of it already sunk to a watery grave. The previous day, we had worked together as a team to set up camp: tents, kitchen area, water station, gathering firewood. Today, we worked as a team to deal with the crisis. Now, we would work as a team to pick up the pieces.
Go, Team Morgan!
Teamwork: coming together and working for a common purpose with a common goal. Why could teamwork be considered a family value? Teamwork takes the focus off of individuals and onto the family as a whole. Members learn self-sacrifice, and advanced communication and problem-solving skills. Being a part of a team gives one that all-important sense of belonging. Did you ever learn about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs? After the basic needs are met (food, water, shelter, safety…things like that) then the next need is for love and belonging. Family was created for this, for this sense of connection, but you have to BE connected to experience the benefits.
What are some ideas for creating a culture of teamwork in your family? First of all, be intentional about becoming connected. Put those phones away at mealtimes. Actually have mealtimes, eating dinner at the table and having genuine conversations. Make an effort to not go your separate ways every evening. Have game nights, reading out loud to each other times, and check-ins about how everyone is doing.
Play together! I have such fun memories of times when my family was a team, playing against another family team. One of the most epic was a football game on the beach at the Oregon Coast. It was us against my Uncle Joel and his crew. The feelings of family loyalty can be equated to something like national pride. This was my family, and I really wanted to win! We planned routes and plays, slapped each other on the back when our plans worked, and encouraged each other when they didn’t. Our bragging rights were on the line. It was time to hand the football to our secret weapon, my little brother. We would block the opponents, so he’d have a clear path to the end zone. That’s what families do for each other—figuratively and literally. You know each other’s strengths and can call them into play when needed. You can create the concept that you are a team in a simple way. When I was growing up, my dad would tell us kids we could do something because we were in this family. My husband and I also told our kids, “You can do this. You’re a Morgan.” This isn’t conceit, it’s a personal encouragement. Knowing they belong and are supported by “teammates” goes a long way toward creating that sense of belonging.
In previous Home&Harvest articles, I’ve encouraged families to do volunteer projects together: as a team. I’ve written about using outdoor adventures for growth: as a team. As kids grow in their confidence to be able to accomplish tasks as a family team, then when unexpected storms come in life, they know they’re not alone and can work through the chaos or danger or-
J O I N T O D AY !
-heartache together: as a team.
Take a moment to reflect about a team you have been on. It could be a sports team, a team in school, even a temporary team for a project assignment, a musical team, or a team at work. Think of how you felt when you worked well together to accomplish a task. There was a heightened sense of camaraderie, that someone had your back, and that you helped each other along, on the pathway to success. These are the feelings families need as well.
What else could you accomplish as a family team? Be creative. Two years in a row, our family planned and executed a family camp for our church. One year, we had a “Survivor” theme, playing off of the popular television series. Families were the teams. They came up with a motto and made a flag, which they proudly displayed at their campsites. They had physical challenges where they competed against other family teams, and they did this connected by a rope that tied them together. Skit night was so much fun watching families perform together.
On the front end of it, Trent and I involved our team members in all aspects of the process. Our two oldest daughters, Erika and Allise, were in the worship band. Erika played bass guitar and sang, Allise played keyboards and sang, and Trent led with his guitar. Our youngest daughter, Rylee, helped me with crafts, creating the daily tree mail, and other tasks. There was a group campsite to procure, boats to rally, supplies and food to purchase. We worked together to make it happen.
Go, Team Morgan!
Here’s the thing about teamwork. It doesn’t always go smoothly. Sometimes, lack of self-confidence for a big thing gets in the way and one team member wants to quit. Sometimes, someone doesn’t feel appreciated and wants out. Sometimes, ideas on how to accomplish something are vastly different. This is where communication, a commitment to love in the family, and resilience come in.
I went to a training many years ago that taught me the stages of team development: forming, storming, norming, and performing. Forming is just that. You are coming together as a team. Your family team changes over time as children grow up, new members are added, or because of certain experiences you’ve gone through. Thus, the stages are not linear and most likely will be revisited many times. Storming comes next. This is your team learning how to work together and communicate effectively. Will the parents always have the only say, or do they include ideas and input from the children? Are everyone’s strengths and weaknesses considered when assigning roles? If I would’ve been put on the family camp worship team as a singer, that would’ve been a complete disaster. Not my strength!
Norming is when everyone begins to find their special niche in the team. Actions normalize and that leads into the stage of performing. Have you ever felt your family did something together like “a well-oiled machine?” That’s performing.
When your family is performing, of course, it’s time to celebrate. Go, Team ______(insert your family name)!
Dinner Party How to Host a Gayle
Do you find yourself overly busy with life, but at the same time perhaps lonely for the laughter of people and sharing a meal with those you hold near and dear? Well, I have a simple solution for you. Throw a dinner party! That’s right. And I’m here to show you how or at least give you an insight into this girl’s world where I can honestly say I have hosted at least a hundred (or more) of them. Most of the time these dinners consisted of friends and family. And I did it enough that this gave me the courage to venture out and create a Farm to Table dinner party for complete strangers for several years. When I was married to a farmer, every September we would open our home and invite 8 people onto the farm to meet our farm family and get an up-close and personal look at the individuals who grow America’s food. We would have one other farm couple to help chat with the guests. The 12 of us all seated around our table eating, talking and navigating the sometimes-tricky issues about why farmers used the products we did on crops, why we were conventional farmers instead of organic farmers and all sorts of other interesting and sometimes prickly topics. Usually, the guests drove the conversation in these farm dinners. And these events took place for the first 3 Saturdays during the month of September which was during our garbanzo harvest (garbanzos are also known as chickpeas). That’s right, we would host about 3 dinner parties back-to-back for a month. And you know what? We survived every dinner. There is seriously something magical about gathering people around a dinner table with good conversation. And while I am not advocating you grab strangers off the street and drag them into your house, what I’m here to share is “How to Host a Great Dinner Party”. It’s really a simple act of gathering people together and setting the stage for a great evening. Being married is not a prerequisite to hosting, and I’m here to tell you I have hosted several as a solo gal. There is no reason why a woman or man can’t host a special evening among your favorite people. And with that, I’ll give you the up-close insight from a serial dinner party fanatic.
By: Anderson
First and foremost, as a hostess/host your job is to ensure that your guests feel special and that they have a wonderful experience. Rod and I have a friend who throws amazing parties, (and is single by the way!) and she plans every little detail to perfection. And when you go to one of her events, you just know that the evening will be a good one. If you don’t have a friend like that, I recommend watching the Netflix series called “The Lost Kitchen”. The woman serves this an amazing meal, and she creates an enchanting evening of perfect ambiance. While I am not a fan of edible flowers and don’t go to the lengths she does, the overall message from this show is that you want your guests to feel welcome & special. And that the evening that will unfold will be a lovely memorable event filled with good food and fellowship. And again I will reaffirm that it’s not hard, it just takes a little bit of planning & organization.
Date & Time
Set a date and time. That way you are committed. Now the fun begins.
Guest List
Assess how many you can comfortably seat. If this is your first dinner party, I suggest limiting the number of guests from 4-6. Are your guests all friends and know each other? Or will there be people who don’t know each other? I’m a big fan of seating assignments and putting place cards on who sits where. This takes the mystery out of where to sit for the guests. Plus, you can seat yourself closest to the kitchen if you need to jump up and grab something. If you have guests who don’t know each other, be strategic in the seating arrangement. Meaning if you have a friend who recently went to the Grand Canyon and you know one of your other friends loves State parks, then seat them next to each other. And then casually mention to the guest who traveled that the person next to them has an interest in State parks. It’s a natural conversation starter.
Invite
I’ve learned the hard way that when I say dinner is at 6:00 pm, that my guests didn’t understand that dinner is served at 6:00pm. I’ll admit that time is crucial for me so now when I invite people over, the invite will read like this:
“Please plan on arriving no later than 5:30pm, as dinner will be served promptly at 6:00pm.” This normally works like a charm, and everyone arrives at the assigned time. However, we all have that one person who is always late… ugh. And if you think it will be a problem, then invite them to come ½ hour early, and if they do show up at the time your invite said, graciously tell them you wanted to enjoy some time just among yourselves before the other guests arrived. (wink – wink)
R.S.V.P.
In your invite, ask your guests for an RSVP and add a little something like, “Kindly let me know by (insert a date) so I can be sure we know how much food to prepare. And please let me know if there are any food dislikes or allergies, I need to be aware of.”
(Side note- and I’m using “my mom voice; If you-
-receive an invite and are asked for an RSVP – do the host a favor and be prompt!! In today’s world of being next to your phone 24/7 – a quick text/call is easy. NEVER ever RSVP the day of the event. That puts your host in an uncomfortable position if she/he has to say they didn’t plan on you as they hadn’t heard back).
Meal Preparation
Organization is the key here. I cannot cook and talk to others at the same time. So I will plan on having all my food prepared ahead of time. Then all I have to do is pop it in the oven. This brings up the issue of what kind of oven space will be needed. If you just have one oven, it’s best to just have just the main dish cooking -as you do not want to overload the oven with too many items and then it delays cooking time. Mentally map out the time you need to put your entrée in the oven so it will be ready to be served at the allotted time. Go for simple menus at first. I’m a comfort food kind of girl, so my menus are not super fancy or time consuming. If you know me personally, you are aware that I am a vegetarian. While this presents a bit of an issue with cooking meat – what I often did for the farm dinners was try out a new recipe on close friends who would be give honest feedback. Once I had meat dishes figured out, that was what I would serve for all the dinners in September. In all seriousness, no one is expecting fancy gourmet food. And I still recommend if you are a bit nervous about serving a particular dish, do a trial run. On a personal note, my favorite dinner to serve is lasagna (I’ll usually have a meat & a vegetarian one), green salad, a fresh fruit salad and a good crusty bread. I’ll have the lasagnas in the oven about ½ before the guests arrive, then it frees me up to welcome guests for the remaining ½ hour it needs to cook. The salads are in the refrigerator and ready to be served once the lasagna is out of the oven and I’ll have the bread cut up, wrapped in foil and popped in the oven for the last 15 minutes of cooking time. I make the lasagnas the day before and prepare the salads the day of. Plus make the dessert. Easy peasy. I find a buffet is the easiest way for guests to dish up. Arrange the items in an orderly manner. Have the main dish first, all hot foods first followed by any cold items. Put butter, salt/pepper on the table.
House
A clean and orderly home sets the mood for a fun evening. Make sure all your public areas are tidy and inviting. Have soft soothing music playing in the background playing quietly. Keep it low so your guests aren’t shouting over the music. Set the table earlier in the day. Use a tablecloth. I personally love cloth napkins and even use them in everyday use, but a quality paper one works too. A simple but lovely table set with nice linens tells your guests that they are worthy of those fancy touches. If you are unsure how to set a table properly, look it up. However, a quick rule of thumb is if you have a bread plate, it goes on your left and your drink goes on your right.
Guest
Care
When your guests arrive. Greet them, take their coats/purses, lead them to the living room to gather, chat and offer them a-
-drink. Make introductions if your guests don’t know each other. If serving alcohol, make sure to have non-alcoholic choices. If you have a spouse/partner, decide ahead of time who is doing this duty. Be mindful of the time so you don’t forget to put the entree into the oven or take it out! Here’s a quick, easy tip that is easy and impresses guests; dip a glass rim in caramel ice cream topping, then dip it in coarse (Demaria sugar). Have the glasses and apple cider ready for them to serve themselves. Have your spouse/partner keep an eye on the guests to ensure they are comfortable and enjoying themselves. Typically, guests are so happy to be invited that most likely are having a grand time chatting with one another. A fast and hard rule… stay away from topics on politics and religion.
If you notice someone not chatting with anyone, make a beeline over to them, smile, show genuine interest (that is crucial) and ask them an open-ended question, such as “now that Summer is almost here, what are your favorite things to do?” In all the years that I have hosted or attended dinner parties, there has never been a lag in conversation and most likely this will not happen to you either. (Remember – people are excited to get an invite out and the mood will be festive. Trust me on this.) However…if there is a lag at the dinner table conversation, here is my favorite thing to get conversations going, look at everyone and say “I’d love to know what is the funniest thing that has ever happened to you at work? Then say, while you are gathering your thoughts, I’ll start”. (Note: share a short, humorous moment – make sure it isn’t off color, or do a Google search on table topics ahead of time to get additional ideas.)
The Unexpected Issues
If someone spills/breaks something. Assure them it’s okay and downplay it. If it’s a spill – simply sprinkle salt on the spill, cover it with an extra napkin and move on as if nothing happened. If you have a guest who is being argumentative, try to de-escalate the situation. Worst case scenario if that doesn’t work, is to ask the person to “help you in the kitchen” and then kindly ask them to refrain from arguing.
It should be a commonsense thing that cell phones are tucked away. However, if you have a guest who is glued to their phone, privately and gently ask them if there is an urgent need to have their attention glued to their phone. And if there is no emergency, ask that they put their phone away & enjoy the evening “sans cell phone”. (As a guest, if you need your phone in case the babysitter calls, silence your phone & drop it in your pocket. Also let the host know that you may need to step away to take an important call, then be brief if you can and return as soon as possible back to the party).
Wrapping Up
As the evening is winding down, most guests will normally leave after coffee and dessert are served. If that doesn’t happen, I recommend saying something like, “oh my look at the time! What an enjoyable evening this has been, but it’s getting close to my bedtime.” Usually the guests will take the hint and leave. I’d recommend gathering their coats and handing it to them and thank them for coming. Seriously, hosting is easy. Preparation is key to ensuring a smooth evening. Before you know it, you will be the hostess extraordinaire.
DINOSAUR BONES
Flank Flame -to-
There are certain grilling moments that you can distinctly remember. Some bring a cringe, and the recollection of a terribly burned mistake. Others transport you instantly back to wonderful time and place, sharing food with family and friends. And then there are the memories that stand out simply because of the perfection in the cook and flavor. My first time having beef ribs slow-smoked on a charcoal grill is just one of those memories. I’ve chased after that moment of bliss again on both smokers and charcoal grills ever since, but never managed to perfectly duplicate it. Maybe it was just the added wonder of that first experience watching as a few racks of absolutely massive beef back ribs were pulled from the grill, pungent wood smoke curling up into the evening air, and then my mouthwatering anticipation as they were cut and served. I can still recall the sweet but spicy dry rub that dusted my fingers as it broke apart from the outermost crust, and having a bite without any added sauce to start them off. Pink, succulent beef hid just under that perfect ring of smoke-infused bark – and my senses came alive as the taste, texture and impeccable cook all came together in a single moment of delight.
One real joy is sharing these with kids. Get creative (if they aren’t really picky eaters) and rebrand your beef back ribs as Velociraptor Ribs, or Brontosaurus Bones! If your kids have tried regular baby-back pork ribs before these are going to be a shocker. Lean into that massive size and have some fun pretending that you are enjoying a caveman feast.
Ribs on a Grill
Its been quite a few years since we have talked about balancing heat on a gas or charcoal grill to allow for true barbeque at very low temperature with slow cooks, so it definitely bears repeating here. The most important thing to remember is that the types of meat you love most at BBQ restaurants are all going to be much tougher than regular steaks, and always have more connective tissue.
-by- Tony Niccoli
Cooking these too quickly will result in safe and edible temperatures but hard, chewy, or unappetizing dishes. Or by the time everything has a chance to get tender it will be completely overcooked and burned unless you run a very low temperature. Grills are not the ideal choice here and this had led to many more people moving into the realm of smokers or grill/smoker combination units in the last few years. But that is absolutely no reason why you can’t still pull off these cooks on the regular charcoal or gas grill that you already own.
First, you need to set up an indirect zone so that the ribs can cook as far away from the heat as possible. This might just mean turning one burner on low and leaving the other side unlit, or getting a small pile of charcoal going, then spreading it in just one corner – far away from where you plan to cook. On a grill, I also avoid putting too much wood in so that the smoke won’t overpower the food, bring up the heat past my control point, or burn our too quickly. A very few small pieces of hardwood can be added in a thin aluminum grilling pan directly over the hottest point of your fire, or presoaked in water and spread amongst the coals on a charcoal grill. Remember that if you are using charcoal, you will need to pause the cook to add a few more coals later and can always put in more wood at that point. The key is to keep few vents open so there is little air flow and lower temperature, but be able to have the lid on without going much past 250 degrees. If you can hold at 225 that will be absolutely ideal!
Your thermometer on the top of the lid won’t be much use here. You can safely assume that the temp you read up there is inaccurate to start with, and also far lower than the temp lower where the meat sits much closer to the heat source. If you have a good probe thermometer, using it to keep track of the actual temp on the meat will be essential, and a grill or smoker thermometer can help keep track of the cooking temperature as well. Be patient! Smoking foods is as much art as it is science and you can often run into cooks that take a good deal longer than you anticipated. Luckily even the biggest slabs of beef back ribs just aren’t that thick from the edge of the meat to the bone so this won’t be a full day like taking on a huge pork shoulder or brisket. Still, you can expect to run them for at least two hours before you even begin to get close to the ending range. If you are using probes, just leave it all covered as much as possible, but if you need to get in there to check the temperature, allow the lid to stay on at least 45 minutes at a time so you are doing more smoking than checking!
At 150-170 degrees you are going to enter a stall. This happens at various temperatures with most meats that are being slow cooked and it just seems like that temperature will never climb. One option is to grab another cold drink and wait it out. But if you want to eat much sooner you can use a tight wrapping of foil or butcher paper – otherwise known as a Texas Crutch. Butcher paper will preserve the bark you have going on the exterior, but foil will run a little faster, allow you to add some apple cider vinegar or sauce to give a little blast of extra flavor, and keep the exterior from overcooking better than the paper. If you do go foil, add a little extra time at the end to get a good crust back on the exterior. Either choice, just try to wrap your slabs quickly and get that lid closed again.
For me, the perfect transition temp when crutching beef ribs is about 190-195. Here I remove that butcher paper or foil, throw a little extra wood on my flame and cook direct over the heat. We want to hit about 205 interior temp, and firm up the bark before we pull them. Allow a few minutes to rest before you slice and-
-ring a great-big triangle to let Fred and Barney know that the Dino Ribs are ready! I know you’re all going to love this recipe.
Now here is where I want to introduce just a little bit of heat –make sure to start slow if you need, and work up to more heat based on preference. Either way, I do suggest getting some spice in here, even if it just means you add a little extra smoked paprika and forgo all chipotle. You definitely want that extra depth of flavor to balance the honey, even if you aren’t going to really bring the heat.
Add equal amounts of salt, ground cumin, paprika, dry mustard powder, and dried chipotle pepper – for a few racks of ribs start with a tablespoon of each, and remember that you can keep any unused rub sealed in an airtight bag for your next grilling adventure. Now add double the amount of brown sugar as you did salt and paprika. This is an excellent base with very little heat. Go ahead and add up to 2 more tablespoons of dried chipotle if you want it to really zing, or just a little more if you want some extra heat but don’t want to risk going too far on your first outing.
Honey BBQ Glaze
You don’t need to make a sauce from scratch every time, but if this is an entirely new experience for you, I couldn’t recommend it more! The satisfaction in tasting something you created really elevates the final product. This is full-on grill master level and you deserve to bask in that glory, amazing your friends and family and appreciating your own cooking on an even greater level than ever before. It won’t be difficult, so just make this the summer you give it a try.
Using a large saucepan, bring 2 cups of ketchup up to medium heat and then add 2 teaspoons of salt, 2 teaspoons of garlic powder and onion powder, and one teaspoon of crushed black pepper. Stir for a few minutes and then add ½ cup of apple cider vinegar and 2 teaspoons of smoked paprika. Stir to combine and then add 5 tablespoons of honey. Bring it all to a low boil while you stir continuously and then reduce the heat so it can simmer for 15 minutes. Make sure you allow for plenty of time to let it cool before serving, and store any extra in sealed and refrigerated mason jar for up to 10 days.
Keep it Simple - and Fun!
Above all else, remember that this isn’t your full-time job (unless you are a professional pit master and reading my article in which case I’m flattered). Having a beer or iced tea and idling away the better part of the afternoon next to your grill is meant to be pure enjoyment – not work. So just keep the parts that sound fun and toss out anything you don’t love. Maybe that means making your own spice rub but skipping over that pesky and often messy BBQ sauce. You can always buy a great bottle at the store. Or even picking up premade rub and sauce, so you can focus on just the ribs. Heck – you could even toss the ribs in the oven for the first two hours using a foil covered pan and 325 degrees, and then remove the foil and bring them down to 200. Now all you have to do is just give them a quick 10-15 fire on the grill to build up the perfect exterior. I won’t tell anyone that you didn’t spend hours watching over them outside. I’m just happy that you’re out there grilling!
Homemade Dry Rub
Huckleberry Battle WINNER 2023 YOUTH
Brylie Baldwin from Princeton
INGREDIENTS
1 box of lemon cake mix
1 can of Sprite
3-4 Tbsp huckleberries
STEPS
Mix cake and sprite together in a bowl. Add the huckleberries. Bake in a cake pop maker. Cool and decorate.
Huckleberry Battle WINNER 2023 ADULT
Heather Chamberlin from Troy
INGREDIENTS
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
½ tsp baking soda
1/8 tsp salt
½ cup butter
1 ¾ cups sugar
1 tsp vanilla
4 egg whites
1 1/3 cups buttermilk
Also needed:
1 or 1 ½ cups huckleberries
¼ - ½ cup sugar depending on taste purple candy melts green fondant
Imagination
STEPS
For Cake:
Grease and flour a 9x13 cake pan. Mix together the dry ingredients but leave out the sugar. Beat the butter for 30 seconds and add the sugar and vanilla – beat well. Add egg whites 1 at a time and mix well after each. Add flour mixture and buttermilk alternately. Mix until just combined. Pour in the pan and bake at 350 degrees for about 35 minutes or until done. Let cool.
Cake Pop Assembly:
Crumble cake into a bowl. Take 1 to 1 ½ cups of huckleberries – smash and stir in sugar to your taste. Cook down so not liquid. Let cool. Stir the huckleberries into the crumbled cake. Gather golf-ball-sized mounds and form them into a ball. Melt candy melts to color you like and dip the end of a stick into the candy and then into the center of a cake ball. Dip the whole ball into the candy melt to finish the cake pops.
creamy chicken
noodle soup kitchen emory ann kurysh
INGREDIENTS
Serves 4
3 tbsp oil, any kind
1/2 yellow onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups water
2 cups milk
2 cubes chicken bouillon
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 large carrot, chopped
1 celery stock, chopped
3/4 cup frozen corn
1 cup cooked chicken, chopped
Dill, optional
STEPS
In a large saucepan, heat oil over medium. Add onions and garlic and cook for approximately 2 minutes. Then add the water, milk, bouillon cubes, and flour. Stir until combined. Remain cooking over medium-low heat. Chop and add the carrot, celery, chicken, and corn. Bring to a simmering boil and continue to stir for about 5 minutes so it won’t stick to the bottom of the pot. Finally, remove from heat and serve! Add dill if needed.
no bake death by CHEESECAKE chocolate
Kitchen Sara Raquet
INGREDIENTS
Oreo Crust
2 3/4 cups Oreo cookie crumbs (about 31 Oreos)
5 tbsp butter, melted
Chocolate Cheesecake Filling
24 oz cream cheese, room temperature
1/2 cup sugar
3 tbsp natural unsweetened cocoa powder
8 oz 60% cocoa chocolate, melted
1 1/4 cups heavy whipping cream, cold 3/4 cup powdered sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
Chocolate Ganache
1 cup heavy whipping cream
2 cups semisweet chocolate
Whipped Cream Topping
1 cup heavy whipping cream, cold 1/2 cup powdered sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
Desired toppings, such as chocolate shavings, fresh fruit, mini chocolate chips, sprinkles, etc.
STEPS
For the crust
Line a 9-inch springform pan with parchment paper in the bottom and grease the sides. Combine the crust ingredients in a small bowl. Press the mixture into the bottom and up the sides of the springform pan. Place the crust in the fridge while you make the filling.
For the filling
In a large mixer bowl, beat the cream cheese, sugar and cocoa powder together until well combined and smooth. Add the melted chocolate and mix until well combined and smooth. Set aside. In another large mixer bowl, add the heavy whipping cream, powdered sugar and vanilla extract and whip on high speed until stiff peaks form. Gently fold the whipped cream into the cream cheese mixture in two parts until well combined. Add the filling to the crust and spread into an even layer. Refrigerate cheesecake for 30 minutes then make ganache.
For the Chocolate Ganache
Heat heavy cream to the point of boiling. Pour over chocolate chips, let sit for about three minutes. Store until combined and pour over cheesecake. Put cheesecake back in refrigerator for 5-6 hours or overnight.
For the whipped cream topping
Add the heavy whipping cream, powdered sugar and vanilla extract to a large mixer bowl and whip on high speed until stiff peaks form. Remove your cheesecake from the springform pan and set it on a plate or serving platter, then pipe the whipped cream around the rim of the cheesecake. Top the cheesecake off with your desired toppings, such chocolate shavings, mini chocolate chips, sprinkles, etc. Store the cheesecake in the fridge until ready to serve. Cheesecake is best if eaten within 4-5 days.
donuts
apple fritter
Kitchen
INGREDIENTS
(For the dough)
1 1/2 cup warm milk
1 tbsp active dry yeast
4 tbsp granulated sugar
1/2 cup butter or margarine, melted
4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp salt
(For the filling)
2 Granny Smith apples, peeled and chopped
1 tbsp butter or margarine
4 tbsp granulated sugar
3 tsp cinnamon Oil, for frying
(For the glaze)
2 cups powdered sugar
1 tbsp butter or margarine, melted
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 tbsp milk, or until desired consistency
Emory Ann Kurysh
STEPS
In a large bowl, combine the milk, yeast, and sugar. Stir and set in a warm place until mixture becomes bubbly (for approximately 10 minutes). Next, add the butter, flour, and salt. Mix with a mixer or by hand until dough is a nice and non-sticky consistency. Transfer to a new well-greased bowl and place in a warm spot. Let rise for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, peel and chop the apples. Place in a skillet with butter, sugar, and cinnamon. Cook over medium heat for about 5 minutes. Set aside and let cool. Once dough has risen, remove from bowl and roll into a flat rectangle roughly 1/2” thick. Pour the apple filling into only the middle third of the rectangle. Gently pick up one side at a time and fold it over covering up the filling. Take a large knife and cut your newly folded rectangle into 12 short strips width-wise. Then length-wise, cut more lines into the rectangle. Carefully bring a pot with a few cups of oil to a boil. Reduce to medium heat. Meanwhile, separate the 12 strips and pinch each of their ends together to form a fritter-shaped donut. It will be quite messy and will take some trial and error, but you can do it! Put each fritter into the pot of oil. Boil for roughly 45 seconds on either side. Remove, and set down on a cookie sheet. Once all of the fritters have been cooked, prepare the glaze. Pour over one side of the fritter, flip, and repeat. Enjoy them warm or cold- they are delicious either way!
II think I’ve mentioned before that I love music. If not, now you know! I love music! I create playlists based on my mood or by goals or the phase of the moon. I enjoy finding new artists and exploring different genres. Sometimes I focus on the feel of the songs and other times the lyrics. In all sorts of ways, music holds me, helps me, and heals me.
Last night I attended an outdoor high school concert and the choir director took to the mic and talked about how much she looooves Meghan Trainor. The only song I knew by her was “All About That Bass,” but that’s not what they sang. Instead, the words that floated on the wind to me were from “Like I’m Gonna Lose You,” which features John Legend as well…when it’s not sung by the 6th through 12th grade choir of my local high school.
“I found myself dreaming
In silver and gold
Like a scene from a movie
That every broken heart knows. We were walking on moonlight And you pulled my close Split second and you disappeared And then I was all alone
I woke up in tears
With you by my side
A breath of relief
And I realized No, we’re not promised tomorrow.
So, I’m gonna love you
Like I’m gonna lose you
I’m gonna hold you
Like I’m saying goodbye”
From behind my sunglasses, tears fell.
You all know that I’ve been working through some grief with my writing. The foundation of that grief is that a man I was married to for two decades changed overnight into a man I didn’t recognize, didn’t like, and couldn’t be with anymore. Summing it up in one sentence simplifies the years of our lives that I struggled to find a way to stay married and help him only to figure out that I couldn’t do either. During those years I was unrecognizable to myself. Everything was wrong and hard and vulnerable. It doesn’t matter if I tell you the story in one sentence or use thousands of words, though. The bottom line is the same. He’s not the same. I’m not the same. I left him. We were divorced. And here we are now.
And my here and now, at least last night, was crying on the lawn of the high school. What was real for me in that moment was both incredible sorrow and incredible pride, and a few other things too. And as I heard the lyrics, I realized so many things.
I am now one of those broken hearts that knows that splitsecond-and-everything-is-changed moment. I also know the continual changes that take place following that split second. Practical questions that need to be addressed but are tangled in so much emotional and history. Brains that can’t seem to think past the very next task and certainly can’t comprehend next week or next month or next year. The ripple of consequences and reactions in family and friends, maybe even those who weren’t in your circle at all. The unexpected support. The expected support that is yanked away. The split second is just the beginning of life as you know it disappearing and the sighs of relief don’t come in the morning.
Tomorrow, especially not the tomorrow we planned for, my husband and I dreamt of, was certainly not a sure thing. We thought it was a given. We worked for it, and deserved it. And yet…gone. It’s not a possibility anymore. In less than a week a day will pass that would have been our 24th anniversary but now, simply isn’t. It’s just another Monday.
Even though we assumed our future together was coming just the way we’d wanted it to, we didn’t take each other for granted. I loved him every day. I held him tightly. I kissed him heartily. Maybe being a military family taught us that any goodbye could be the last one, but whatever the reason, we loved each other like it might be our last time. As the song goes on to say,
“In the blink of an eye
Just a whisper of smoke
You could lose everything
The truth is you never know.”
And we did. In the blink of an eye and a few very agonizing years, we lost everything.
And I’d do it again.
I’d do it again because knowing love is worth it. The depth of my grief reflects the height of my love and knowing I am capable of that is empowering. Knowing the truth behind these lyrics means I also understand the hope and joy of the love I had. If he hadn’t meant so much to me, leaving wouldn’t have been so hard. And it was. And I did it. I did it because of love and with love.
I’ve mentioned in my writing the birth-death-rebirth cycle that exists around us and in us every day in every season. Even as it seems like a step by step process, it’s truly all happening simultaneously. In the death of my marriage, our dreams, and my role as wife, something new was being born and something else rebirthed. Many somethings, actually.
The love for our children. Love and compassion for myself. New roles to step into. Different ways to care for a man that is no longer who he once was.
”and remind you to love“
Grieving what will never be is important, yet so is understanding that there was always something that would never have been if the life I’d planned for had been the one I lived. Choosing one path always leaves others unchosen. The great thing and the sometimes gut wrenchingly hard thing is that life allows for death and rebirth. Life allows for plans to change, paths to be altered, seeds to sprout where you only saw bare ground. And sometimes, the changes are brought on by our own actions and choices. The catalyst for change is wanting something different or new. Maybe the alteration isn’t even that big in the grand scheme of things - downsizing a house or changing jobs - not nothing, mind you, but perhaps something you feel in control of and excited about. You may still grieve what was and what will never be. I know I miss the land at our old house, friendships that faded when we moved. Yet this kind of thing seems proactive and positive, generally speaking.
Other times…”in the blink of an eye, the whisper of smoke…”
And in these times you have to react and relearn. You have to-
-scramble to find footing. You have to find different music to move you, support you, and remind you to love.
“When all your hopes are shattered And you feel like your soul is a sea Your dreams don’t seem to matter Your heart is bruised and battered You can’t feel anything Love anyway Love anyway
When your world has gone to hell No story left to tell Love anyway”
This song, aptly titled “Love Anyway,” by Drew and Ellie Holcomb is a great start.
I recommend starting with yourself.
Swede Moscow’s Town
Many American towns and cities drew immigrants from all over the world. Those from Scandinavia grouped together forming cultural neighborhoods throughout the country, keeping Scandinavian traditional practices and languages alive. Moscow was no different and was home to many of the town’s early Scandinavian residents at the turn of the 19th century. In Moscow, the largest country of origin was Sweden, hence the term “Swede Town.” Many of the Scandinavian families who settled here previously lived in the Midwest before deciding to make their way west by railway. Here, “Swede Town” most often refers to the area centering on 7th and 8th streets near Lynn Street, in southeast Moscow, but those are loose boundaries. The early 1900s census records are full of 7th and 8th street addresses associated with Ramstedts, Olsons, Nelsons, OtnesMoscowses, Obergs, Linds, Lundquists, Gustavsons, and others with birth places in the mid-west (think Minnesota), Sweden, or Norway. Of course, not everyone who lived in the neighborhood was of Swedish descent, but the nickname was wellknown around town and stuck. Lucinda Tuttle Jenks recalled that her family moved to 724 E. 7th Street near Lynn in the summer of 1920. The Tuttles were of British and Scottish heritage, with Lucinda’s parents born in Michigan. They moved from Michigan to several Washington farms before settling in Moscow. Lucinda remembers that living in town was different in many ways compared to the farms of her youth. The chiming church bells were a vivid memory, as were running water and electricity.
by:HayleyNoble
Lucinda walked to the Irving School, adjacent to the old Russell School, while her sister went to the Whitworth School, where the present high school is located. Lucinda attended the High School and the University of Idaho through the 1920s and early 1930s and continued to walk to classes while living at her family home.
According to Carol Ryrie Brink, Moscow had several social classes. The largest was the middle class who attended to business and their social life mainly revolved around neighborhoods and church. Below that class, were the people of “Swede Town,” then the “pool hall and saloon habitues, the plumbers and gravediggers.” Harry Sampson recalled in his oral history interview that Moscow was divided, and since his family was Norwegian, they naturally settled on the corner of 7th and Logan Streets at 616 E. 7th Street. The neighbors, Gustav and Theodore Johnson and Allen Ramstedt, all pitched in to build the Sampsons a house, outhouse, barn, and plant fruit trees. The land south beyond Mabelle Street was home to orchards and fields, considered the “outskirts” of town by the early 1900s, and numerous descriptions recall the rows of fruit trees that occupied the area at the time. Many of the “Swede Town” men found work in Moscow’s various stores, like Creighton’s and David’s, or as bookkeepers and clerks. One of the few jobs afforded to women was to work in domestic service, often as a “hired girl” in one of the upper-class homes. Those duties usually consisted of cooking, cleaning, and childcare. Elsie Nelson wrote in her memoir that her mother, Mary Linda, worked as a nursemaid first in the Hannah home, then in the Sweets home, where in addition to childcare, she helped prepare and serve dinner to guests in the late 1880s. We know that the McConnell’s also kept a Swedish hired girl but not many details remain as to her identity or duties beyond urban legends.
A large portion of “Swede Town’’ found community at church and those remain as reminders of this past. Cordelia Lutheran Church is believed to be the oldest Lutheran church in Idaho, dedicated in 1883 and home to the first Swedish congregation in Idaho. The church is eight miles outside of Moscow in the countryside and served those Swedish farmers who resided outside of Moscow. An in-town church was needed, and the Swedish Lutheran Church was constructed in 1888 at the corner of 2nd and Van Buren Streets. The Norwegians also wanted their own church and established the Norwegian Lutheran Church at 217 E. 6th Street. Each church offered sanctuaries of language, cultural traditions, food and cookbook publishing, and community service groups, like Ladies Aid Societies. Both churches merged in 1961 to form the Emmanuel Lutheran Church. Additionally, community picnics on Moscow Mountain were popular ways to spend an afternoon. Attendees brought food, sang folksongs, and played games together. In any culture, food is one of the most prevalent ways to connect to ancestors and homelands. The Scandinavian peoples were no different, serving lutefisk, krumkake, koldalmer, potatis korv, and other holiday delicacies in celebration of the current season.
In 1909, the Moscow School Board constructed the Ward School, also known as the Lincoln School, at 730 E. 8th Street, which served many of the children in “Swede Town.” Clarice Sampson recalled that Mattie Heddington was the principal of the Ward School, with Myra Moody taking on the job later. The neighborhood was also home to the Swedish Hospital at 845 E. 7th Street. Both of these buildings are still standing, but are now residential homes, with the Ward School converted into apartments.
“Swede Town” is also home to a different kind of history, when Theodore Pritchard created an artist colony on Apple Lane just off of 8th Street. Pritchard designed the homes in the 1930s and lived there with other University of Idaho faculty members Marion Featherstone, Alf Dunn, and Mary Kirkwood. All four were accomplished artists teaching at the University and comprised this small, off-the-beaten path neighborhood on the edge of “Swede Town.” The residents called their neighborhood “the farm,” and believed in an alternative concept of social aggregation based on cultural and ideological connections. Now, Pritchard, Featherstone, Dunn, and Kirkwood are all household names in the Palouse art scene, and this tid-bit about them being neighbors makes the history a little sweeter.
Not long ago in 2019 and 2020, University of Idaho landscape architecture professors Roberto Capecci and Raffaella Sini explored this history of the Apple Lane development in an outdoor installation that projected art and photos onto one of the existing houses and a piece that was displayed in the Pritchard Gallery. The projection piece titled “Community,” explored Moscow’s artist village from the Great Depression to our times at 808 Apple Lane. The showing was perfectly timed to happen in September 2020 as the COVID pandemic and social distancing meant outdoor gatherings The legacy of university faculty in “Swede Town” continues with their interest in the development’s history and with Sini as the current owner of 808 Apple Lane. Moscow was not alone in this influx of Scandinavian immigrants – Troy, Nora, and other Latah County communities and farms saw an increase in immigrants from the 1880s to the 1920s. Nora and Big Bear Creek even gained the nickname “Little Sweden” because Swedish was spoken so frequently. Many Latah County towns can trace their residents back to some of the early Swedish settlers.
Few remnants remain of “Swede Town’s” history beyond the structures that survive. The churches are still standing, and most of the houses continue to be occupied although some have been moved or renovated to their original shapes can be difficult to discern. Small references in oral histories or recollections name the neighborhood, but nothing formal exists recognizing the former Scandinavian residents. The local lore is that “Lynn” Street is thought to be the anglicized name “Lind” reminiscent of one of the families who resided there. Mentions of “Swede Town” persist from those who have lived there for decades, but many of the newer residents do not know that this neighborhood was considered “separate” from other parts of Moscow. I know a few folks who grew up in the neighborhood and never left. Because of the area’s long history, in 2021 the City of Moscow Preservation Commission considered turning the neighborhood into a historic district by nominating it for the National Register of Historic Places. They had proposed that the parameters of the district would encompass 6th Street to north, Spotwood and Mabelle Streets to the south, Hayes Street to the east, and Jefferson Street to the west. To my knowledge, the survey work to make this a reality has not been completed. I hope this short glimpse into some of the Scandinavian history of Moscow sheds some light as to why the area surrounding 7th and Lynn Streets is still referred to as “Swede Town” by certain Muscovites.
u g u s t 1 7 , 2 0 2 4
Bundles Bunches of Kids and
by Diane Conroy
There were a total of 24 children that were raised in three families at White Spring Ranch, Genesee. Maybe you’ll find some similarities with your family. We know stories about each one of them and I wanted to introduce them to you one by one...
Peter Lorang was born in 1884, the first born of John and Mary Gesellchen Lorang. Peter was born in a loft in Colton, WA. Shared by John and Mary Lorang and Sebastian and Mary Dahm, newly arrived from Wisconsin. Straws were drawn to determine who would get the loft. And here Peter was born. Mary Dahm was also pregnant and had her little girl baby downstairs. When Peter grew up in Genesee, he was sent away to get an education; at a young age, when most children his age were working in the fields. With this privilege Peter eventually became a Bank Examiner in New York during the Great Depression. He was the only one who wasn’t much on journaling. Here is the sum total of his writing in a big blank journal that we found, although he did write one wonderful letter to his younger brother Henry during WWI. It can be found under “Letters” on the website at www.WhiteSpringRanch.org.
Barney Lorang was born in 1886. The first born at home at the Ranch in Genesee was my Grandpa. Both Barney and his older brother, Peter wanted to get out of the farming business and went to school, but father John had learned his lesson this time and asked Barney to help in the fields as well. He later was a manager for C. J. Brier of Lewiston, selling men’s fashions.
Grandpa came to live with us when I was 5 years old and passed when I was 8. It was from him that I learned of the Ranch and history here and he would talk about it all in an amazed tone of voice. Very impressive for a 5 and 6 year old. Grandpa worked on the Family Tree to get all of us involved with the stories. Barney never liked his name and always made sure to sign his papers as Bernard or B.T., Bernard Theodore. He also loved children and played games with us “Little ones”, giving us pony back rides as he called it.
Henry Lorang was born in 1888. Henry was the most prolific writer. He journaled every day of his life in notebooks, in notes, on the back of letters and left them everywhere about the Ranch. When I first arrived here all the boxes and piles had-
-notes attached that just dared me to ignore them. There was only one thing to do. So, now we know all the escapades he got into throughout his whole life, including the story of hiding his street clothes under his overalls so he could take off from working the field and head into town with a horse. This was necessary because Henry played so many parts in the Genesee Community plays and had a lot of rehearsals that he was supposed to attend. One time, he said he had to perform the play without enough rehearsals and made up the dialogue as he went along. He and his father John got in a few scrapes over this. Henry lived through WWI, the Great Depression and WWII at the Farm, having 12 children.
Albert Lorang was born in 1889. Albert was the renegade and kept falling in love with the “Non-Catholic” girls and staying out too late to work very well in the early morning. Father John Lorang finally sent him away to St. Martin’s College in Lacey, WA, to set him on the straight and narrow. Albert loved the baseball team at St. Martin’s, but his father’s guide was too straight and narrow for Albert who eventually came home and fell in love with the sweetest, most motherly woman, Hazel Misner, also a non-Catholic. But Hazel was too sweet for prejudice and won over the hearts of all who knew her. They had the first grandchild and three more beautiful children. Father John made amends by crafting a highchair for Albert and Hazel with early mementos built in. It’s story is carved in the bottom of the chair and is here at the Ranch.
Christine
Lorang was the first girl, born in 1891. Christine was never asked to work in the fields, but milked the cows and had a job from an early age. She had a wonderful sense of humor and worked as a telephone operator for most of her life. She found her love at age 57 and when she retired, everyone signed a big poster with a drawing of Christine at her desk.
Amalia
(Mollie) Lorang was born in 1892. Mollie started out as a precocious little girl also with a sense of humor but was hit with a lot of tragedy in her life. After marrying in 1913, her little girl Marie died at age 12 of congenital digestive problems, complicated by barely surviving the 1918 flu epidemic. Mollie’s husband died the next year of cancer and she was left alone to raise two children. Both of these children grew up and helped Mom in her life after they moved to California because daughter Monica had been discovered right out of highschool. Monica became a 1940’s blues radio singer and T.V. personality who sang with Bob Hope and Bing Crosby. Son Rodney changed his name to Roger and was instrumental in the New Orleans Dixieland Jazz revival while being a radio announcer. Mollie had quite a life. She wrote poetry and music to balance it out.
Bertha
Lorang was born in 1895. By this time father John had learned his lesson again and Bertha helped in the fields. She would ride the horses when needed and helped gather the wheat into shocks. Bertha learned early on that she was capable of many things and became the first one after Father to learn to drive a car. Even a little bit better as the story goes.
Bertha developed this talent and was soon driving cars for anyone who was afraid to drive their own new contraption. She later worked for the Latah County Superintendent of Schools.
Martha Lorang was born in 1897. Martha was responsible for the wonderful memories we have of when she was growing up on the Farm, which later became “Martha’s Journal” available in local libraries. One of the quotes from her journal: “The new house with the four bedrooms upstairs must have been built around 1904, as I remember having a ride in the house when it was being moved on rollers. I remember how much fun I thought it was.” And “In the early Spring, Viola and I would go into Borgen’s field to pick Yellow Bells, Blue Bells and Bird Bills, and bring them to Mother with heavy mud on our shoes, but we never got scolded.” Find this library book for more of her story.
Viola Lorang was born in 1899. Viola was a sweet little girl who loved to play outside. She was teased by her brothers because her arms were almost as long as her legs when she was little. Martha says, “Days back when I remember, we had an outhouse near the underground cellar, a bit west and south. I remember Mother being in there one time and Viola thought I was in there and she threw rocks at the outhouse – she got a comeback from Mother, ‘You are going to get it.’ What a laugh! Viola was always a good and game little sport. “When she was older, Viola argued with her father for permission to wear overalls instead of a dress when picking apples. She won out after some discussion. Viola later grew up to run her own business of Office Supplies and Advertising.
Charles Lorang was born in 1902. from sister Martha; “We did not have sleds to go around so we would give Charles a dishpan to go down the hill, which did not work very well. It would start out okay, but end up going round and round – instead of forwards. We had fun though, even getting dumped was fun. In the winter, when the snow was on the ground, travel was by a one-horse sleigh or by a bobsled – two horse sleigh. Sometimes we would lie down on the bed of the sleigh with blankets to cover us to keep warm. One time, Charles and I were driving to school in a one-horse sleigh with a rather frisky horse and as we were going down a hill, I held the reins too tight and the horse’s hoofs kept hitting the front of the sleigh. Well, it scared him and he went faster and faster and I held tighter and tighter. Charles was younger, but tried to help. We ended up in the ditch with a broken sleigh and the horse ran through two wire fences before he quit running, with the shafts still attached to his harness. With my inexperience, as I was very young, if I had not held the reins too tight and let the horse go, it would not have happened. The horse just got scared with his hoofs hitting the front of the sleigh. No one got hurt and we just got the horse and drove him to school, without the sleigh, with the shafts dragging behind. We were going to the Catholic School (St. Joseph’s) and Dad had permission to build a one-horse shelter where we housed our horse every day. In the winter and muddy season, many times when we got to school, we had mud on our faces and clothing. The Sisters would wash us up and we would go on to school.” In a 1910 letter, while parents John and Mary-
were in Europe, Aunt Tina gives more away about Charles, “everybody well and happy they all took part in the sisters entertainment even Charley he stood in the front row and sang a song with the rest of them and he opened his mouth so big that I nearly died laughing.” Charles was also a precocious little boy that wouldn’t go to school while the Parents were gone until he was bribed with a nickel. One time the St. Mary’s Church of Genesee held their yearly 4th of July bazaar at the Ranch. Charles ran a candy booth saying, “Two for a nickel, Three for a dime!” Charles later became employed by “Integrated Business Machines” in the early 1920’s and this helped him quite a bit as an adult.
In the next generation:
Bob Lorang was born in 1920, son of Henry Lorang and Marguerite Tobin Lorang. By the time Bob was 10 years old, he was enamored with the new Radios. He attended a correspondence class for Radio Technology and also St. Martin’s in Lacey, WA. From here Bob writes home:
We lost this young Radio enthusiast in an A26 WWII Bomber in 1946. A vapor lock showed up while switching fuel tanks and he had to ditch the plane in the Sea of Japan. Bob left behind a wife and a 5 month old daughter.
Jim Lorang was born in 1921. Bob and Jim both lived through the Great Depression, but also were the dandy Grandchildren of the Tobin grandparents. So the grandparents stepped in with matching jackets and short pants with big bows under their chins for the two boys. Jim was the bigger child and thought this was pretty silly. In 1928, both Bob and Jim had a serious bout with Scarlet Fever. They were sent to the relatives to heal and both made it. It made the Genesee News. Jim also loved photography and radios and became a radar man in many harrowing Pacific battles during WWII. He later worked with the team which designed and constructed the Lunar Surveyor, Lunar Apollo and the Mars Viking.
I tried, but decided it was too difficult to contain this bundle of 24 children and their stories all into one issue. So look for the next issue of Home&Harvest to see the continuation of the children’s stories here at the White Spring Ranch, Genesee.
Boundaries by Jacqueline
Cruver
I stepped out of my dirty dome tent this morning into the warmth called summer and smiled for countless reasons. For starters, standing erect I detected no creaky, stiff joints. Mother Nature said good morning with a sweet forest smell and I basked in the tranquil moment, congratulating myself for throwing the gear into the jeep and heading out for an impromptu campout. There are very few things I enjoy more than a forest’s early filtered light slowly creeping across the duff at my feet, declaring a fresh new day. Nature can fairly be described as a divine gift, no matter who you are. I sipped my coffee in the place nature intended; gazing into a campfire, and thought about the early naturalists’ tireless essays and the presidents who deemed forests and wild places important treasures to protect. I admit to having been in a political coma until late in life but I recognize now that we are the benefactors of the efforts of several presidential administrations that made bold decisions to create boundaries to protect our wilderness. Some as early as Abraham Lincoln in 1864.
John Muir wrote a book in 1901 called Our National Parks that influenced President Theodore Roosevelt to visit Yosemite and soon after he began to increase America’s conservation efforts leading to President Woodrow Wilson creating the National Park Service in 1916. There are now more than 85 million acres managed by the National Park Service in the United States and its territories. In the text of many of Muir’s books he cited how an “overstressed, nerve-rattled humanity” needed to saunter in the calming environment of nature. Mind you this was in the early 1900s, proving our society has been practicing elevated levels of stress for a long time and the prescription for relief remains the same; spend time in nature.
At the dawn of environmental awareness in the sixties, when America began showing signs of a garbage problem the obvious visual was the unsightly litter. Instead of addressing the source; overproduction of plastic packaging and wasteful containers, campaigns were unleashed to point the finger at individuals being litterbugs and signs were everywhere to remind us that “Every litter bit hurts.” The message of the Keep America Beautiful and the ad council had convinced the public they were the guilty party and that it wasn’t really an issue of regulating production. Jail time for individuals guilty of littering was even supported. Let’s all recite a few lines of Alice’s Restaurant Massacree here. “Yes, sir, Officer Obie, I cannot tell a lie, I put that envelope under that garbage.” Arlo Guthrie’s 18 minute long spoken monologue reflected on absurdity and the issues of 1967 like being jailed for littering.
As a young boomer I was launched into the world amidst headlines that brought it to my attention that there was a war being waged on Mother Nature. She was the oracle of my youth as I was developing my values and individuality in the vibrations of the back to nature movement. About the time I dashed out of the doors of high school in 1972, the wave of legislation addressing many environmental issues had begun. Protests and petitions brought the clean water act which restructured the previous one passed in the 1940’s. Topics of air quality were also on the table and important protections put into place. Not all of the outcomes were as successful as hoped. There are some that have left unjust burdens, as ranchers and farmers will attest to. But work continues and we inch toward ways to find the balance.
Sadly, our world has become dependent upon plastics and the industry is still overproducing them by the tons for consumer packaged goods that are really not easily recycled. Both the EPA and MIT Technology Review reported that only 9% of plastic waste gets recycled. The Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development reports a rate of 350 million tons of plastic waste each year globally which will increase significantly by 2040. I am sensing a missed window here on imposing some boundaries. The Ocean Conservancy says “Globally, 11 million tons of plastics enter our ocean on top of the estimated 200 million metric tons that currently circulate our marine environments.” It is difficult to argue that the scope of the environmental movement today reflects an extensive and extremely complicated web of our activities as humans. I remain hopeful we will find the answers we need.
When I lived deep in the woods, I was touched by a calm that resulted from the absence of humans. No signs of their existence, their dwellings or activities. I experienced harmony around me in the balance only nature can achieve. The river flowed at its correct seasonal pace, the trees stood in silence until the wind gave them motion and in return they gave it a voice as it passed through their branches creating a well rehearsed recital. There was no other language. There was no social structure. The only restrictions were the length of daylight dictated by the orbit of the sun, the seasonal challenges of weather, and how much physical exertion I could endure in a day before I dropped from exhaustion. Across the boundary created by a scenic river, I shared my days with Mother Nature; earth, water, fire and wind. These four classical elements are mentioned throughout history in all cultures on our planet since the dawn of time. I lived by a primitive and basic mantra. Earth is beneath my feet and like the rocks that form it, it is stable. Water is fluid, it is adaptable. Fire is energy, it is life. Wind is movement, it is expansion. Immersed in the powerful elements of nature there was no question she was a force much greater than I and my problems seemed quite insignificant. Today, I still create chaos and barriers in my mind but remembering I am just another one of her living things, I can permit myself to become stabilized, adaptable, alive and in motion.
It turns out Mother Nature is far more complicated than I ever imagined. In the attempt to preserve our natural resources and environment in general we have discovered the importance of our biodiversity, a term used to describe the enormous variety of life on Earth. Yes, every living thing. Consider the vastness of a list including all plants, bacteria, animals, and humans. Then grasp that we are all connected and rely on each other for literally life’s sustainability. It is difficult to interpret the mysterious bonds holding all forms of life together and almost mystical when we sense those extraordinary connections
“Like music and art, love of nature is a common language that can transcend political and social boundaries.” Jimmy Carter
I recently found myself attending a children’s choir recital that I admit I only held lukewarm interest in. A proud parent’s invitation just happened to coincide with my being in the area and as the crowd moved me through the doors I was questioning why I had considered coming in alone. I was dressed much too casually, sitting solo and out of place from the well-dressed city-attired pods of parents, siblings, friends and grandparents of the star performers. My attention eventually shifted to the afternoon light streaming through the colorful leaded glass windows. From up in the large old church balcony, I had a good view of the little munchkins filing onto the risers. Their white shirts and black pants suggested more coordination than their little legs revealed as they all focused on the audience and not the large blue dots marking their positions. Once each set of little shoulders were physically placed in the proper spots, the director quietly held her baton waiting for each pair of eyes to finally shift to her. This took some time but the moment arrived and the baton drew the sound of tiny angel voices in perfect pitch and in unison-
-unimaginable for their five and six years of age. Following only moments of applause, the next age group had taken their places and continued the enchanted score, promptly followed by the next older age group. Before the last selection there was a brief introduction of the two high school seniors that would be graduating and leaving the arms of this group. I watched as they thanked the youth advisors and shared embraces with each other and the director. As the choir began to sing their last song together, with no warning the tears came streaming from my eyes from a deep place inside me. I was moved by the voices of complete strangers singing of their triumph, thanks and gratitude. I perceived their story as my own but glancing at people seated around me, there were others wiping the same sign of emotion from their wet cheeks. With the senses we share as creatures of the same planet we had united. Through song, the choir and the audience had shared a collective moment of compassion, empathy, joy, all of our boundaries lowered, Love. Can the arts really transcend boundaries? Art is perceived differently by each onlooker. It is, however, grounded in nature. Anyone who has studied the basics of design knows they mimic her patterns of 3, 5, and 7. Look at most naturalized groupings and you will see. It is found in floral design, interior design and architecture. Making the acquaintance recently of a landscape architect, it was a surprise to learn how he is actually an artistic storyteller that uses the elements of nature. My thought was that architects are restricted to the images on a blueprint or elevation drawing but I had not seen the whole picture, or in this case, story. Colors of flowers, textures of vegetation, water features, shapes and sizes of stones all carefully placed to create a plot can direct the viewer’s steps through a maze of paths, let them pause at a certain place, make them choose a direction or stop them with an abrupt wall of foliage meant to force them to hesitate and reflect just like an artist can do with brushstrokes and patterns that draw the eye on an intentional path through his composition. A good designer or artist must imagine what thoughts might be in the mind of the audience to succeed at being inclusive. In creating a successful healing garden, he offers solace in seclusion, providing places to rest and reflect. Fragrance gardens are of course chapters of different scents that we all know can transport us to another time and place we recall in our own story and childrens gardens are meant to invite mingling and touching of natures’ very own story. Inclusion. The perception through our senses unites us in the common language of our human experience. The artistry of nature is recognized by everyone. Her beauty even speaks to us when we are in need of processing grief or facing mortality. The peace in her arms is the only memorial garden where I can grasp a trace of understanding…. where she illustrates her everlasting miracle of the circle of life; emergence, growth, bloom, seed, wither, only again to emerge
If I asked my beautiful friend Midge, a choreographer by nature and profession, how she sees the natural world she would describe to you a vision of dancers in delightful costumes taking well-timed cues from a musical composition written and directed by Mother Nature herself. She compares the similarity of the beautiful, expressive positions of a dancer’s body to a tree swaying in the wind or even in the weeping of withering tulip petals as they curl and spiral into an altered asymmetrical statement of form. One day, driving along below the towering bluffs of the Snake River gorge she caught a glimpse of the passing cloud shadows appearing to dart swiftly in and out of the deep vertical gouges of the steep terrain. Following an unexpected gasp that-
-made me jump, expressive movements came leaping from her as she clearly and passionately described the dance she envisioned, inspired from the grand scene. Her passion came from her heart and reflected that connection with nature that also speaks to me. Two very differing backgrounds, me from humble west coast roots and little exposure to the arts and an east coast Juilliard graduate and retired instructor at an elite east coast private school could connect in a moment of common perception of nature’s majesty.
“There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen.” Rumi
It is precious and rare to enjoy the moments when even small boundaries drop but as adults we know life is full of obstacles. Some of them are established by us and some imposed by others limiting our options and behavior. As young children, we learned that boundaries are important. They helped teach us to understand right and wrong, feel safe, and if we were lucky, boundaries set by good parents taught us life skills that we carried on through adulthood. Boundary and barrier are thought to be synonyms but one sounds like a fence and one sounds like a wall. I have been known to trespass over a property boundary but not very successful at scrambling through a barrier of blackberry vines. I am not sure which one I need for things like wild eyebrows (can you relate?) and invasive weeds taking over my garden.
Personal boundaries are more of a framework we set for ourselves. I set healthy boundaries when I limit my couch time to less than three hours of Netflix in one sitting or when I say no to eating the whole bag of Cheetos unaccompanied. I also have to set boundaries when I realize I am letting people or schedules interfere with my wellbeing or critical needs.
Voices and opinions of others can sometimes be like weeds or wild eyebrows and I need to be careful to not let the weeds become a barrier to truths because personal barriers are something even more lethal than those sticker bushes. We make barriers for ourselves that stunt our emotional growth and worse. Some of them are fear, procrastination, low self-esteem and lack of goals. Most of us have on occasion experienced the lack of self-discipline but it can become a serious problem when it keeps us from holding ourselves accountable. I used to do this when I wanted to avoid something uncomfortable. I eventually learned that I was creating a barrier to my life, and more importantly to other people when I failed to take responsibility for showing up, hiding behind excuses. Our comfort level around people we don’t know or feel like we are different than they are is exactly what reinforces social boundaries and increases the divides we are plagued with. As a society we could use more bridges right now. I see there is a time to establish boundaries but sometimes it is important to transcend them.
This evening as I drive back into the congested traffic of Pullman, choked by the construction that has been putting angry faces on the commuting drivers, my point of view remains positive. I know the project is only temporary. Wait. Did I say that? I was once an impatient driver. Where has my road rage gone? Maybe I can attribute it to nature teaching me the virtue of patience. Nature has always been my bridge through life’s obstacles. I remember a girl who seldom felt she belonged-
-anywhere and I wrestled with uncertainty that I didn’t belong in her temple the first time I entered. I stepped forward with courage over a boundary I had created for myself and she kindly rewarded me with total acceptance. Just me, exploring in my tucked in chambray shirt and faded jeans and my pocket knife on my belt.
Does nature have virtues to teach me? Did I see Buddha in a butterfly or hear God in the wind? Go spend some time out sauntering where things are just what they seem and see if you find answers to questions you haven’t asked. Become aware of the simplicity of life while watching a turtle sliding along just below the surface of the pond then raising his little head up just enough to get a brief glimpse and submerge again in his lazy voyage, appearing to have no pressing plans in mind. I can imagine his carefree bliss. Enters an incoming blur of a dragonfly gliding much faster above the surface and equally as graceful. An instant landing. A moment of stillness. Then just as quickly the agile pilot takes off again in his hurried flight, obviously determined to reach a destination charted somewhere deep in his tiny senses. There is rapture in feeling the freedom of his flight, totally and completely on course. A turtle swimming and a dragonfly flying. Anyone watching them witnesses the same thing but what story do you perceive? What story is nature telling you?
“I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.”
John Burroughs
If serenity is simply defined as lack of anxiety and stress then nature seems to be the best over the counter remedy. I feel strong and confident when I am there. There is a sense that nature is providing a temporary shelter from an over civilized world. I can push aside the stresses of finances, time constraints, physical and mental malaise and other non-negotiable conditions that quietly swim laps in my head and pull up a lilypad and rest. We are creatures of nature and like plants we emerge, grow, wither and return like the myriad of living things in our ecosystem. Between the beginning and the end is a vibrant life bursting forth with energy and love that is meant to be shared as we work together and grow in our bubble of life. When we notice our similarities and recognize our common ground we reverberate with the enharmonic of the miracle we are a small part of. Sharing a love of nature is a start. Love for our fellow humans is just around the corner.
“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and fInd all the barriers within yourself that you have built.” Rumi
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A Reading for You
by Annie Gebel
Sometimes I don’t know the right question to ask. It might be that I can’t seem to get my mind clear with all the thoughts running through it. “What’s for dinner? Did I remember to shut the coffee pot off? Get gas on the way home. Oh! But don’t be late for practice.” On and on. Other times it’s that I know the exact subject I want the cards to help me with but the options I see all seem less than ideal and I don’t want to put them fully into play with a question. And I’m sure there are other reasons too. No matter what though, it’s perfectly fine, because the cards will always give us what we need. Even when we don’t know what to ask.
Today is one of those days. So, rather than go in with a subject or question in mind, I simply say, “What do we need to hear?” These three cards, from the WildWood Tarot deck, contain messages for you that might not be easy or might seem obvious but always need to be heard. What do you need today?
xPage of Arrows - Wren
This card is one of the court cards in the minor arcana suit of Arrows, which is the suit representing air. The element of air has to do with dreams, strategy, communication, and intellect. The Page is an intelligent go-getter who thinks outside the box or at least tests boundaries with clever, and sometimes, cunning ideas. Today this card isn’t about you, though, but someone in your life. If you’re feeling stuck in some way, consider who might have a different perspective on the situation and the creative solutions to help you wiggle out of that stuck spot. This person can also be a great companion during difficult times. Maybe their humor doesn’t let you ruminate in grief but still allows you to feel it. Maybe they just keep showing up with support even if others seem to have turned away. Don’t count them out, consider accepting their help and support and maybe even friendship. Or perhaps your connection will just be for a season before they flutter off. Either way, their honesty is something you’ll find quite refreshing for the time being.
The Seer
bIf you’ve been gathering tools for healing, understanding, processing emotions, or even connecting more deeply to Spirit or God, it’s time to put them into practice in your daily life. Sometimes we feel like we’re not ready yet. There’s more to learn. Truth is, though, there’s always more to learn and you are ready. You’re ready to bring what you know about breathwork or connecting to nature to the office, to the sports field, to Girl Scouts. You don’t need to dump the whole toolbox out all at once, but consider how you’re already using what you know in your daily life and how you might be able to expand on that to share with others, get your work done more effectively, and feel even more fulfilled. Consider what you can weave into conversation, share, and model for others. You’re ready to be more fully and authentically you.
The Archer
x
This card signifies a new adventure! Maybe you’ve been considering a change or maybe the opportunity will seemingly come out of the blue. Either way, it’s time to release your arrow and with it, whatever is stopping you from saying yes to something new. You know, deep within you, that this thing is meant for you, this step will take you further. It just feels right, even as it feels scary, and that’s okay! Both can be at the same time. Like the Archer has practiced her skills, you’ve been trained with whatever you need - through life, through school, through experience - to step into this new adventure. Now, this new thing could be a big change (a career change that means moving to another state) or it might be a fairly small change to everyone else but feels big to you (a shift into a different department in the same business). Either way, take a deep breath, steady your bow, and let your arrow take flight.
THE GRAND GOLDEN LOOP
Sandie Lowther By
THE GOLDEN POND
My ninety-two-year-old neighbor Jim tells me of his logger friend Bob, who lived in Anatone, about twenty miles from Jim’s house in Asotin.
“This was probably thirty or so years ago. Bob invited me to come for a ride in his logging truck.”
“Have you ever seen the Golden Pond?” asked Bob “Nope,” Jim responded.
“I’ll pick you up at your house in the morning. A short distance beyond the entrance to the cemetery, we’ll pull off the road and look down into the gully.”
“Sure enuff, there it is, a pond retained by a small earthen dam. Its water is glittery and frenzied with hundreds, maybe thousands, of flashing goldfish. Truly a Golden Pond,” said Jim.
“Why? How?” I ask.
“Bob and I surmised that someone dumped their pet goldfish upstream. The fish were obviously propagating and thriving,” responds Jim as he wraps up his anecdote.
My husband and I have lived in this river valley of neighboring states, Idaho and Washington, for over fifty years. We’re familiar with the region but have yet to learn about the Golden Pond. We lived in Asotin twenty-six years ago and enjoy this tiered town; each numbered street is a half measure higher than the preceding one. Our house sits on the banks of the Snake River at an elevation of seven hundred sixty feet. Our friends, Jim and Bev Stewart are newcomers who have moved here from central Washington. They live on Fifth Street. We call them our lofty neighbors.
I shared the tale with Stewarts of the golden pond, and I also heard that a golden eagle’s nest is located about forty miles from here. The nest can be viewed from the highway leading to Enterprise, Oregon.
A date was set for our quest to find The Goldens. Jim Stewart has a nice four-wheel-drive pickup and offers to be our driver. I’ll pack a lunch, and Jim Lowther will be our navigator. Since they are both Jims, I will refer to them as Stewart and Lowther.
The Stewarts arrive at ten o’clock on a bright, crisp morning in May. The men put the cooler and lawn chairs in the truck’s bed. While the men lean against the hood to discuss our route for today, Bev confides in me that she’s excited but a bit anxious about being gone all day.
“Our route has its ups and downs, even twisty in some places. Do you get carsick?” I ask.
“No,” responds Bev.
“You’re well prepared with water, a jacket, binocs, and a camera. I’ve packed food and drinks. Granted, there are no service stations or fast-food restaurants where we’re going, but there are several bathrooms. In case of emergency, there’s always the bushes,” I assured her.
“Okay, I’m ready for this adventure. Let’s go have fun,” Bev declares.
Our first goal this morning is to locate the Golden Pond. Stewart drives slowly up State Highway 129, past the entrance to the Asotin County Cemetery. It takes a couple of stops along the roadside before Lowther reports that this is the spot. Once parked, we get out and gather at the guardrail on the opposite side of the road. There it is! A small pond, held back by an earthen dam. But, to our disappointment, there are no goldfish to be seen. Rather, the pond water is mossy green and lily-pad-covered. Many chukar partridges mill about the edge.
A lone tree sentinel, who, if able to speak, would say, Yes, this was once The Golden Pond.
ANATONE, WASHINGTON, ZIP Code, 99401
Highway 129 rises out of our valley and passes through broad agricultural fields dotted with deer, a young foal, and a few calves. Clear blue skies and puffy cumulus clouds mark a perfect day for a road trip with friends.
We enter Anatone, the home base of our logger, Bob. We pause to read the entrance sign maintained by the 4-H club:
Population 38
Dogs 20
Cats 17
Horse 11
Elevation 3560
The wording changes with the demographics. I’ve heard that in other years, one old grouch and one hundred marijuana plants were worth mention. Anatone has a post office, a community building, a church, and a hardly-ever-open cafe.
The vast open fields yield to dark green evergreens as we descend the thirteen-mile Rattlesnake Grade. Lowther says. “It’s a fine motorcycle drive, but many auto drivers and passengers find the steep canyons and the road’s switchbacks daunting.”
Stewart pulls over at Mile Post 10. Across the draw to our right and tucked back in the edge of the timber is the cabin, built in the late 1980s by Jack Hemingway, son of the author, Ernest. A friend who grew up in Anatone says that Jack was just a regular guy in the community, took part in the annual June Anatone Days celebration, and hosted potlucks at his cabin. “To us locals, the cabin was more like a grand lodge,” she adds.
The vegetation changes as we descend. Early clumps of bright sunflower-yellow Arrowleaf Balsamroot dot the hillsides. In another few weeks, bouquets of spicy chocolatey fragrance flowers will lend the hills a golden cast. With its large taproot, the plant tolerates these arid landscapes and provides forage for deer, elk, cattle, and other grazers. Birds feed on its oil-rich seeds. Historically, balsamroot was important to native tribes. The tiny hairs cover the large arrow-shaped leaves and lend a gray-green appearance to the foliage. The long taproot is high in protein. When cooked, it supplemented the tribes’ diet. Dried, it was steeped for coffee or tea. The leaves were pounded to make poultices. A myriad of medicinal uses have been documented. I find it endearing that this sunny flower is beautiful as well as useful. Near the end of this twisty grade and off to our left, we catch our first glance of the Grande Ronde River, deep in the canyon. In the local vernacular, the es are silent. It is often referred to simply as The Rond. Like a stream of milk chocolate, it is running brown and near its peak due to recent rains and spring snow melt. I pipe in, “When it’s like this, we call it the Grand Brown. It is important for any river user to keep abreast of the river flows.” Lowther reports, “The Rond is flowing at 6,000 cubic feet per second (cfs) today,”
“How and who measures that?” Bev asks.
“The US Geological Survey (USGS) collects the data at the various gauge stations along the river. The flow numbers are available on their website,” responds Lowther. * * *
When we cross the small, picturesque Rattlesnake Creek, which drains into the Grand Ronde, we’ve descended to 2,000 feet. In 2017, an illegal earthen dam (not adequately permitted) on the ranch formerly owned by the Hemingway family blew out. The rush of water caused severe stream erosion. Virtually all of the trees, shrubs, pastures, and corrals came down, scouring the-
-draw, and a two-and-a-half-mile stretch of highway was undercut. Road repairs resulted in many months of closure. The restoration of stream and steelhead spawning habitat will take years. A regional news network reported that the current landowner has agreed to a multi-million dollar plan to repair the damage wrought by the failure of the illegal dam on their property.
BOGGAN’S at THE GRANDE RONDE RIVER
Boggan’s Oasis was established in 1958 by Minnie Boggan and her son, Russell. It was, and is, a halfway stop for sportsmen and tourists traveling between Enterprise, Oregon, and Lewiston, Idaho.
Soon after I moved to the region in 1972, I learned of the Oasis and its famous milkshakes. At that time, Bill and Farrel Vail were the owners. The cafe was a no-frills one-level rectangular building with a gas pump and angle parking out front. Inside, the dozen or so tables lined the front window wall, while the kitchen, soda bar, cash register, and bathrooms occupied the back half of the space. The walls were decorated with historical photos and taxidermy specimens of prized deer and elk. A steelhead trout that surely challenged a short yardstick hung next to the drink cooler. Fishing and hunting licenses, candy bars, and snacks were sold. A shuttle could be arranged to meet rafters at their take-out spot downriver and return them and gear back to their base camp upriver.
Unfortunately, the cafe burned to the ground in 2017. It was doubtful that the elderly Vails could rebuild. There was a groundswell of encouragement from family and patrons, and once the insurance came through, the cafe we see today was the result. When Vails retired in 2022, they sold the cafe. The new owners, Louis and Tia Villagomez, strive to retain the original flavor of this iconic business.
Historic photographs and a few taxidermy specimens still decorate the wall. A map has been added to illustrate the full excursion of the Rond, pinpointing the named rapids and campsites. Comfy couches sit at one end of the cafe—a perfect place to lounge with friends or meet a fishing guide. Operating hours vary during the off-season. This Wednesday, at eleven o’clock, the cafe is closed.
Fortunately, the blowout did not damage the bridge that spans the Grande Ronde beside the cafe. We stopped under the bridge to use the vault toilet maintained by the US Forest Service. Directing our line of sight to the canyon walls, I point out the dikes that jut from the steep hillsides. In geological terms, these dikes form when molten volcanic lava is forced through cracks in basalt columns and then cools.
We marvel at the surrounding topography as Bev and I walk to the river’s edge. Two young hoodie-wearing fishermen are casting.
“Catching anything?” I ask.
They respond, “We just got here.”
It’s time for a route conference. Lowther lays out the options. “To the left is Highway 129, which continues to Joseph, Enterprise, and Wallowa. The gold eagle nest is about ten miles from here. Conversely, the road to the right is longer and more scenic, as it follows the Grande Ronde to Troy, Oregon. Formed by volcanic flows deposited eons ago, its headwaters are in the Elk Horn and Wallowa mountains. It is a free-flowing river (no dams) and wildly popular with steelhead fishermen. Mountain snow melt, deep-
-gorges, and the force of gravity make for an exhilarating rafting experience. We might see deer, bighorn sheep, elk, or even an occasional black bear or cougar.
After Troy, we can drive to Flora (Oregon) and circle back to the nest location on our way home.”
Since this is the Stewarts’ first time in this area, and Bev is an avid kayaker curious about the river’s nature, they chose the Grand Ronde Road. This narrow stretch of pavement meanders over bridges, open meadows, and cow pastures. Stewart must avoid several rocks that have rolled down onto the roadway. We spot a bald eagle in a treetop, then eight bighorn sheep grazing high on the steep hillside. Lowther alerts us to be on the lookout for elk. A faded, unimportant-looking sign lets us know we are now in Oregon. There are more yellow balsamroot, stalks of pale lavender asters, and flowering white shrubs of syringa. Syringa was first mentioned by Merriwether Lewis and is honored by Idaho as its state flower. It’s an exuberant shrub that cannot be contained in only one state. Bev and I sniff the delicate four-petaled flowers. “It smells citrusy,” exclaims Bev. I add, “That makes sense, as mock orange is another name for syringa.”
We pull off at a large, flat area to stretch our legs. My husband and I have camped here with our fly fishing club. There’s a vault toilet and a rudimentary boat launch.
A small group of merganser ducks startles from the water. With their cinnamon-colored heads aligned in a perfect V, they fly downriver, seeking a more serene spot.
My digital camera alerts me that I’ve run out of on-camera storage. What? Now, I recall seeing a storage chip floating around on my desk. It did not register with me then, but that chip belonged in the camera I now hold in my hand! Gads. It’s not a catastrophe but a frustration. I’m confined to my cell phone camera. Bev assured me she would share her photos. We pause at the bridge at the base of the Redmond Grade, leading to Flora. We’ll come back here later.
Between the road and the river is a camping spot, a rather large, level grassy meadow with a vault toilet and a boat launch. Twenty or thirty RVs and/or tents could park here. Stewarts might try it later in the summer, say in July or August, when temps are warmer, and the river is clear, running slower, say 500-800 cfs. Bev could launch her kayak here. As her shuttle, Stewart could leisurely drive and fish along the way, then meet Bev at her planned take-out spot.
TROY, OREGON, ELEVATION-1,610 FEET
The directional signs at the entrance of this small, unincorporated community are numerous and photogenic. A disorganized patchwork of cabins, RVs, wall tents, and open space presents an essence of impermanence, a population under 30. The Wenaha River flows into the Grande Ronde here, eventually emptying into the Snake River that passes by our house in Asotin. The Snake flows into the Columbia and meets the Pacific Ocean tides at Portland, Oregon. Steelhead make this annual and arduous upriver swim during spawning season.
Several Septembers ago, we Lowthers and our fishing guide launched his inflated raft into The Rond, six miles above Troy, and spent the day steelhead fishing. The weather and river flow were ideal, the catching great. The guide pointed out wildlife and a celebrity cabin as we floated by. We took out at the Flora bridge. Winter snow lingers in this canyon country. The town’s only-
-commercial enterprise is the Troy Resort and Wenaha Bar and Grill, formerly the Shilo Inn. The cafe and tavern are on the ground floor, with a few rooms to rent on the second level. The cafe is a community gathering place; however, it holds irregular hours in May and is not open today.
Back in 1987, John Fogerty, lead singer and songwriter for the Creedence Clearwater Revival rock band, built a hunting lodge across the river from the inn. He and other band members played impromptu sets at the bar, adding to the mystique of the iconic Shilo Inn.
The current managers operate the public bathhouse, restrooms, and laundromat and also sell propane but no auto fuel. Cabin and RV sites are for rent. I pause to enjoy the familiar fragrance of wood smoke wafting through the air, adrift from someone’s fireplace or campfire. Tourists keep Troy going. They flock here in the summer and fall months to river raft, fish, hunt, and hang out in the beautiful setting.
We walk around the town and onto the pedestrian bridge (formerly used by cars but now deemed unsafe to support such weight). It leads to the school and library across the river. A lone library user parks her car on the town side, gives us a “hello” wave, and walks across the bridge to visit the library. Lowther notices a small foam sign attached to an upright bridge support: Visit our local FLYBRARY. Need one? Take one. Have one? Leave one.
Lowther explains, “This sign invites fly fishermen to hook one of their flies into the foam. Others will do the same and perhaps take a fly. It makes for a gentlemanly exchange. Perhaps a Golden Demon is exchanged for an Intruder, Spawning Purple, Green-Butt Skunk, or a Fool’s Gold. These fly patterns can be found in John Shewey’s tome, Steelhead Flies, two-hundred-pages worth of ‘recipes’ devoted to the art of tying flies targeting steelhead.” Several old cars, tipping towards the vintage stage, a few occupied RVs, and one or two wall tents, like those that can accommodate a vented cast iron stove, flush out the remaining sights of downtown Troy.
ROAD NOT TAKEN
If we were to take the road beyond Troy that follows the Grande Ronde upstream, we’d come to the Powwakta Bridge, a heads-up location to rafters from Minan that Troy is the next and final stop. The road veers away from the river and becomes the Promise Road. Eventually, this connects to Highway 82, near Enterprise, Oregon—a road trip for another day.
...ON TO FLORA, OREGON
We backtrack to the Flora Bridge and climb up Redmond Grade, leaving the river canyon. It’s almost noon, and we girls are making hungry hints. However, this gravel road is steep, with nowhere to pull off, and the lunch is stowed in the far-back bed of the pickup.
Bev pines for a cookie. Me too, but we are soon distracted by the spectacular views of the serpentine Grande Ronde hundreds of feet below us. Piercingly white clouds float against the robin-blue sky. What a wonderful day for a road trip and picnic with friends.
FLORA AND LUNCH
We pause to take a picture of the ornate wrought iron gate at the entrance to the Flora cemetery, established in 1891. Today, the unincorporated village is sparsely populated. It reminds me of-
-a sleepy ghost town. There is no traffic. There are several early 1900s vintage ramshackle houses. Back in those days, this was a thriving farming, mining, and timber community, complete with businesses, a post office, and a school. We’re all lunch-focused, so we don’t tarry. The two Jims are looking for a flat place wide enough to pull the truck completely off the road. We continue through greater downtown Flora. At the highway junction, we turn left on Highway 3. Soon, we find an ample graveled road maintenance space. A communications tower of some sort stabs into the sky. This is our spot! We have lawn chairs, coats, and sunshade hats.
Stewart announces that our elevation is 4,200 feet, the outside temperature is 42 degrees, and he sees snowflakes in the air. When he opens his door, a frigid wind whips through the interior.
It’s unanimous. We’re eating our picnic inside. Our chivalrous men dash to the back of the pickup bed to recover the lunch cooler: Ham and cheese sandwiches (Bev’s favorite), chips, and homemade cookies. We all enjoy this too-early-for-picnics picnic inside the comfy cab. When you are on a road trip, you must remain flexible. Now, back on the road.
GOLDEN EAGLE NEST
My golden eagle guy assured me that the nest can be viewed at eye level as you stand on a wide spot alongside the Oregon highway that leads to Enterprise. Off our left side, we spot the tall Ponderosa pine snag, with its root base anchored into the steep hillside. At the top of the tree, at eye level, in a wide crotch of its largest branches is the nest of heavy sticks. It is padded with grass and lichen clumps. Getting this close is quite extraordinary, as these big birds prefer to build their nests in remote cliffs.
From my recent research, I learned that the golden eagle is larger than the bald eagle. As with other raptors, the female golden is larger than the male. With their body and wings of chocolate brown with some white streaks, they have the signature golden sheen of feathers on the back of their head and neck, thus their name. Their wing span can measure over seven feet. This nest has a panoramic view of ravines and forest chocked full of their prey, such as rabbits, ground squirrels, chukar partridge, and other small mammals. The golden eagle is the fastest and most nimble raptor in North America. We each have our binoculars. We see the nest, not much else. We are under-awed and a bit disappointed. Stewart sets up his spotting scope. Everything changes.
By turns at the scope, the two Jims and I are thrilled to see movement. The female golden eagle is chocolate brown with buff, mottled spots on her wings.
There she is on the nest, likely setting on the three eggs seen in my friend’s earlier photograph. Bev is the last to take her turn at the scope. When she finally spots the female, she lets out a shriek and does a happy dance. We all share her elation.
We linger for another ten to fifteen minutes, hoping the female might lift and turn in the nest or the male might fly in with a feast of chukar to share with his mate. None of this happens, so we call it an excellent golden day.
HOME STRETCH
Back on Highway 129, we soon pass Boggan’s Cafe, regretting that today we missed out on their famous milkshake. As a consolation, we devour our remaining cookies.
When we arrive back at our driveway, it’s four o’clock. Stewart marvels, “I’m thinking we only saw twenty or so other vehicles today.” We’re tired but happy to have spent this golden day together.
No reservations needed. No standing in TSA security lines. Excellent meal service and scenic beauty, all achievable within a hundred-mile radius of our Asotin home.
This is the way to go.
Be a tourist in your own country.
TheOh, Otis!
by Temple Kinyon Shenanigans
StarskySandwiches and episode24:
Otis grabbed the round black plastic game piece and jumped three of Fertis Smenk’s red pieces. “I win!”
“Oh, Otis,” Fertis sighed. “You beat me again.” He leaned back against his pillow in the massive hospital bed that almost enveloped his small frame. “I’m tired.”
“OK,” Otis said, putting the Checkers away in a box.
Fertis watched his friend. “You know, Otis, I almost died. But I didn’t, and as soon as I get better, I’m going to whoop you good in a rematch of Checkers.”
Otis smiled and watched Fertis drift off to sleep. He carefully slid off the side of the bed and walked over to the window. His best friend’s appendix had burst several days ago, and Otis’s parents, Mavis and Marvel, had brought him to visit Fertis to perk him up. Otis decided it had worked for a bit, but it certainly didn’t last and didn’t do much for his perk. He exhaled and looked back over at his friend. A feeling of worry and helplessness started to creep over him.
This was the first time Otis had ever visited a hospital, and he didn’t like the experience one bit. He’d walked bravely into Fertis’s room and saw his best friend hooked to a big water bottle thingy on a metal hanger with a tube going into his arm. A machine beeped out the staccato rhythm of his friend’s heartbeat. Fertis looked grey in the face and seemed weak. Otis had stood shocked, unable to speak at first, so Marvel and Mavis produced a couple of comics and a Hardy Boys mystery for Fertis to read when he felt up to it. Fertis had weakly squeaked out a “thank you.”
Fertis’s parents had taken Otis’s parents out to the hallway, leaving the two boys with their Checkers game. Now, the door stood ajar just enough for Otis to sneak over and listen to the adults quietly talking.
“Fertis is lucky to be alive,” Mrs. Smenk shared in a hushed tone. “The infection had spread when the appendix burst. The doctors say he’ll be fine, but for now, he’s still at risk, so they’re keeping him a few more days.”
“Whatever help you need when Fertis gets back home, just let me know. I know Otis will want to help, too, if he can,” Mavis said.
Otis turned and walked back to his friend’s bed. He suddenly had the urge to climb up and sit next to Fertis, so he did and gently took his hand in his own. He squeezed it and leaned over close to Fertis’s ear. “You better get better and quick. I need you.” Concern conjured a thousand questions. Would Fertis wake up? Would he be the same crazy pal he used to be? Would he get to ride bikes and swim and fish at all this summer with Otis? The sound of the adults returning to the room prompted Otis to quickly let go of Fertis’s hand and jump down to stand next to the bed. It was no one’s beeswax that he was worried sick about his sick friend.
After they got home, Otis took off on a bike ride, and Mavis and Marvel sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.
“Something happened to Otis while we were in the hallway,” Mavis said. “He had relaxed and started giggling with Fertis, and then we came back, and he didn’t say a word.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have taken him,” Marvel said. They talked about Otis needing to get his mind off his sick friend and devised a plan.
Marvel walked over to the phone on the wall and dialed. “Hey, Dad. Do you and Mom want a visitor tonight?” He explained the situation concerning Otis.
“Hey, I got a better idea,” Grandpa Ed replied. “How about Otis and I head up to the Hollow with a couple of fishing poles, our sleeping bags, and some hot dogs, just the two of us? Spend the night and come back in the morning refreshed and rested.”
“Great idea,” Marvel said. “I’ll bring him over in a few.”
Otis was ecstatic when his parents told him the plan. With so many siblings, Otis spending one-on-one time with his grandpa at the pond was a grand and rare event. He couldn’t wait.
Otis crept out of his sleeping bag and blinked several times. The full moon lit up the pond and Hollow well, but the dark shadows from the trees loomed eerily around him. Normally, he would be afraid of those black voids, but fear wasn’t registering right now. His goal to get to the end of the dock, sit, and dangle his toes in the water held his focus and seemed like a perfectly logical thing to do in the middle of the night. He passed the fire pit, which still held on to the last orange embers from the hot-dog-roasting, s’more-making flames from a few hours ago. His concentration remained locked on the dock until…
CRASH CLATTER BANG CLANK
“What in the Sam Hill?!” Grandpa Ed jumped out of his sleeping bag at the ruckus, rubbing his eyes. He fished his glasses out of the front pocket of his overalls and peered out toward the noise. He spied a silhouette by the dock. “Otis?”
Otis blinked and looked around. He had no idea how he got to the dock. Panic started to rise up his spine. He slowly turned as he heard Grandpa Ed lumber toward him.
Ed put his hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “Otis, what are you doing out here? And why in tarnation are you wearing a bucket on your foot?”
Otis looked down. His foot was indeed inside an oversized galvanized bucket. “I…I….,” he looked up at Ed, alarmed. “I don’t know how I got here or why I have a bucket on my foot.”
Ed smiled one of his big grins and chuckled. “It appears you’ve been taking a sleepwalk.”
Otis removed his foot from the bucket. “I was sleepwalking?”
“I don’t like hospitals,” Otis stated from the backseat of the car on the ride home. “They stink.”
“But the doctors and nurses and staff help people get their health back,” Mavis replied.
“Yeah, well, Fertis didn’t seem so healthy to me,” Otis grumped. He’d slouched back in the seat and stared out the window. Marvel and Mavis looked at each other but didn’t press Otis further on why his visit left such a negative impression on him.
“I guess so,” Grandpa Ed replied. “If you don’t remember getting here, that seems the logical conclusion. Good thing you clattered into that bucket, or you may have walked right off the end of the dock.”
“I’d like to think I’d be smart enough not to keep walking,” Otis breathed. “But I was asleep. I coulda drowned!”
“Nah,” Ed said. “If you kept walking and had fallen in, the water would’ve woken you up.” He didn’t know if that was true, but he did know his grandson, and if he didn’t reassure him, Otis-
Subaru Forester
-would worry and stew incessantly about what could’ve happened. The whole reason for bringing Otis to the Hollow was to get rid of his worries. “C’mon, kiddo, let’s get some shut eye. I’ll sleep with my hand on your arm, so if you get up again, it’ll wake me up, too.”
The two ambled back to their sleeping bags. Ed placed his hand on Otis’s right arm and immediately started snoring. But Otis lay awake, staring at the moon and stars, terrified at why he was about ready to walk out on the dock and had no memory of getting there. He imagined plunging into the inky depths of the pond and not being able to see his way to the surface. Then he thought about how Fertis almost died. His tummy started to hurt, and a single tear silently escaped and rolled down his cheek.
When Ed and Otis returned the following morning, they found Mavis and Marvel in the garden.
“Hey, you two,” Mavis said. “Have fun?”
Otis looked at Ed. “Uh, yeah, it was really fun.”
“Seems we have ourselves a sleepwalker,” Ed said. He winked at Otis.
“Sleepwalking?” said Marvel.
“Yep, you used to do it as a kid, too,” Ed said to his son. “I’m sure Otis was just tired, is all.” He tussled his grandson’s head. “Probably will never do it again.”
But that night, as Marvel and Mavis watched television, they both jumped in their seats as Otis quietly entered the living room, walked in front of the TV, and stared at the screen. Several minutes ticked by without him saying a word.
Finally, Mavis softly said, “Hey, Otis. Whatcha doin’ up so late?”
“Nothing,” Otis replied flatly and continued staring at the TV.
“Are you awake?” Marvel asked.
Otis shrugged.
For several minutes more, Mavis and Marvel stayed silent. Finally, Marvel asked Otis if he was hungry. Otis looked away from the television screen to his parents, bewilderment plastered all over his face.
“What the heck am I doing in the living room?” he blurted out. Marvel chuckled. “Seems you’re sleepwalking again, buddy. How about a bologna sandwich?” Like clockwork, every night Marvel enjoyed a sandwich and a glass of milk before bedtime. Food equaled love at the Swan house, so it was his way of calming Otis’s nerves about his sleepwalking.
Otis had heard of this ritual but had never been up late enough to partake. Despite his concern about his sleepwalking, he said, “Yes! I’d love a sandwich!” He followed Marvel into the kitchen, and they got out the fixings, including fluffy, homemade white bread, mayonnaise, dill pickles, bologna, and yellow mustard. “Dad, why do they call it yellow mustard?” Otis asked. “Is there any other color?”
“I don’t rightly know, son,” Marvel said with a smile. “I guess I never thought of it before. We’ll need to look up mustard in your ‘M’ encyclopedia.” The two marched back into the living room, each clutching a sandwich and a glass of ice-cold milk. Marvel landed back in his chair, and Otis settled on the floor in front of the television.
“Otis, the show that’s just starting is called Starsky and Hutch,” Marvel explained. “It’s one of the best detective shows on-
-television.”
“Never seen it,” Otis said with a mouthful of sandwich. “I mean, I’ve seen those dudes on the cover of TV Guide but not the show. You don’t let me stay up this late, remember?”
Mavis and Marvel both laughed and nodded. It was summer break, so Otis being up later than usual wasn’t too concerning to them. But his sleepwalking was.
“Otis, why do you think you’ve started sleepwalking?” Mavis asked.
Otis shrugged. “I have no idea why my body wants to walk around while my brain is still asleep. It scares me a little, though. When I woke up out by the dock with a bucket on my foot, I thought how close I was to going in the pond and drowning.”
Mavis and Marvel looked at each other but said nothing.
For the next week, Otis showed up in the living room, always right around 10pm, in a trance-like state. A few nights, he went back upstairs on his own after his parents suggested he go back to bed. One night, brother Chuck, who shared a room with Otis, put Legos around the side and foot of Otis’s bed so he would wake up if he stepped on one. Instead, a sleepwalking Otis stepped over the menagerie, padded downstairs, promptly woke up after Mavis threatened to start sleeping in his room, and scored a bologna sandwich with a side of Barnaby Jones.
Otis’s siblings teased him at the breakfast table each morning after he shared tales of his late-night walks.
“For the first time in his life, Otis avoided stepping on his Legos lying around his bed,” Chuck said, giggling.
“Better keep his bedroom window shut, or he’ll go out on the roof,” Doris snickered.
The more his siblings groused, the more worried Otis became that one of his late-night walks would end up hurting him…or worse.
Mavis took Otis to visit Fertis again, who was still in the hospital. Otis’s sneakers squeaked on the shiny waxed floors, which he loved because the noise echoed loudly down the hallways. But it was the only thing he loved about the stinky hospital. Everyone he saw was either sad or rushing someplace with a grave expression.
He and Mavis knocked on Fertis’s door and walked in quietly. Fertis was sitting up in bed, eating a bowl of ice cream. The color had returned to his cheeks, and his big, toothy grin left no doubt that he was on the road to recovery.
“Hey, dork,” he said to Otis.
“Hey, banana head,” Otis retorted.
“You boys talk while Fertis’s mom and I go get coffee in the café downstairs,” Mavis said. “No shenanigans, got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the boys said in unison as the moms left the room.
“So, how’s it going?” Otis asked.
“I feel a lot better than I did,” Fertis answered. “What’s new with you?”
Otis shared his sleepwalking incidents. “Fertis, I don’t know why I keep doing it. I go to bed just fine, and then I wake up standing somewhere, like in the living room or by the dock. It’s really starting to freak me out.”
Fertis hung on his best friend’s every word; he’d never known a real sleepwalker before. “That’s wild.”
Otis looked around Fertis’s room. “Dude, why does a hospital smell so funny?”
Fertis giggled. “I have no idea, but it does smell. Maybe it’s all the medicine and antiseptic they use. Or the bedpans. Or the-
-dead people.”
Otis’s eyebrows shot up. “Dead people?!” “Yeah, brainless,” Fertis teased. “The hospital is where people die sometimes. Like when I almost died.”
“Stop saying that! You didn’t die!” Otis snapped. “Well, it’s true,” Fertis said. “My appendix blew up and had an infection, so it went everywhere.”
“Ewwww,” Otis said, feeling a flush in his cheeks.
“Dude, it blew up inside me, not outside,” Fertis said. “I know, but it’s still gross.”
“You wanna see something cool?” Fertis said with an impish grin. He wiggled out from under the covers and lifted up his hospital gown. “Check. Out. This. Amazing. Incision.”
Otis stared at the four-inch line of black stitches running from Fertis’s belly button across his lower right abdomen. He looked his friend in the eye, looked back at the incision, and broke out in a cold sweat. The room swirled and went black.
“Ummm… I guess,” Otis answered quietly.
“I think that’s probably what’s causing your sleepwalking,” Dr. Freddie said. “It’s OK to be upset about your friend. That just means you care about him. I can send you home with a light sleep aid, but I’d rather you not take it unless you have to. I think this will all resolve itself now that you’ve seen Fertis on the mend. Any questions?”
“Did my friend almost die?” Otis asked.
“Otis, Fertis was here at the hospital when his appendix actually burst, and we took good care of him. But yes, he could’ve died had we not given him antibiotics. He’s fine now.”
Otis let out a big sigh of relief. “I was really worried about him. But don’t tell my mom. Then she’ll worry that I was worried, and it’ll be a big deal.”
“Anything we talk about is what we doctors call privileged information between a patient and a doctor,” Dr. Freddie said. “I won’t tell your mom you were worried.”
They shook hands, a gentleman’s agreement. “How about a soda, Otis? I’ll tell your mom your blood sugar was low, so you needed it. Kinda like medicine.”
“Otis! Otis!” Mavis smacked her son on the cheek. “Wake up!”
Otis opened his eyes and found himself lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His mother, Fertis’s mom, and Fertis were all peering over him with concerned looks.
“What happened?” Otis’s words squeaked out of his mouth.
“Buddy, you fainted,” Fertis said. “You went down like a sack of spuds. You OK?”
Otis slowly sat up and looked around the room. He felt a little clammy and shaky but otherwise fine. “I guess.”
Mavis helped him stand, promptly grabbed his chin in her firm, motherly grasp, and stared into his eyes. “You appear to be fine, but maybe while we’re here, we should get you checked out.”
“Oh, Mom,” Otis protested.
But Mavis was already out the door. In the time it took Otis to sit down in a chair, she was hauling a gentleman wearing a white coat into the room, talking a mile a minute. “This is Otis, and he fainted, and he’s been sleepwalking, and I just don’t know what’s going on with my baby boy!”
“Hi, Otis,” the man said calmly. “I’m Doctor Freddie. I’m Fertis’s doctor. Let’s take a look at you.” He took an otoscope from his pocket and peered into Otis’s eyes, then ears, then told him to open up and say “ahhhh,” which Otis did. “Tell me how you’ve been feeling.”
“I feel like I always do, other than I got a little jittery after Fertis showed me his stupid stitches,” Otis replied. “I have no idea why I’ve been sleepwalking.”
“When did that start?”
“About a week ago.”
“OK, why don’t we take a walk together?” Dr. Freddie indicated toward the door to Otis. “The rest of you can hang out here for a minute. We’ll be right back.”
Otis and Dr. Freddie slowly walked down the hallway and found a bench by a window. They sat, facing each other. “So, you feel fine other than seeing stitches made you faint?”
“Yep,” Otis said.
“It’s completely normal to get queasy or faint when you see trauma on someone you care about,” Dr. Freddie said. “So, I’m not worried about the fainting. Sleepwalking can sometimes happen when you’re stressed or not sleeping enough. You think seeing your pal in the hospital is stressing you out?”
“Privileged information?”
“Yep,” Dr. Freddie said and winked.
“Deal. I’ll take a Mountain Dew.”
Three days later, Fertis went home from the hospital, and Otis jumped on the Hot Rod to drive over to see him. They played Slap Jack and watched game shows. They also discussed Otis’s sleepwalking.
“I haven’t actually done it since I talked to Dr. Freddie,” Otis admitted. “But don’t tell anyone.”
Fertis did the “my lips are sealed” gesture and threw away the key.
Later that night, Otis shuffled into the living room, where his parents watched TV.
“Otis,” Mavis cooed. “Wake up.”
Otis blinked several times and looked around with confusion.
“Oh, man, I did it again!”
“Honey, it’s OK,” she soothed. “You’ll get better soon. Dr. Freddie said so.”
“Want a sandwich?” Marvel asked as he jumped out of his chair and headed for the kitchen.
“Sure,” Otis said and followed his dad. He tried to act as normal as he could but couldn’t help but giggle.
“What are you giggling about?” Marvel asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Otis said. “Just thinking about what a dork I am because I’m a sleepwalker. So, what’s on TV tonight?” He already knew the answer.
“Starsky and Hutch,” Marvel replied.
“Awesome!” Otis said.
Marvel’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his son. “Say, you wouldn’t be faking the sleepwalking to get a bologna sandwich and watch Starsky and Hutch, would you?”
“Oh, Dad,” Otis said and smiled. “That’s privileged information.”
When having summer fun, accidents can happen.
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