This letter is dedicated to anyone who is feeling burned out- and no- I don’t mean from the ever-increasing temperatures outside. I’m talking about feeling tired, drained and just a little lost. It seems like everyone I speak with lately tells me how lonely, exhausted and hopeless they feel. And I understand this more than you know but…
It’s time for a new conversation.
The one thing I’ve really learned from the past few years is that repeating the same stories keep you stuck. It’s not that you can’t honor the past or your experiences, but once you find yourself overwhelmed everyday from everything, it’s time for a change. So how do you start when you don’t feel like you have the energy? Start living a new story. You know how they always say feel the fear and do it anyway? This is what I mean by starting a new conversation. It doesn’t require energy- it actually creates it.
For the past few years I found it difficult to do most anything outside of my job. Even work has been hard! I felt such a huge amount of burnout that no book or podcast could help. Tony’s dad always used to say, “Do the best you can and be proud what you’ve done.” And I’d always think that was a nice sentiment, but I never practiced it. The more tired I was, the harder I was on myself. Be proud? No way. Unless I was operating at level 100 Heather who gets everything done in lightning speed it just wasn’t good enough. But where did that judgment get me? Even.More.Tired.
One day I just decided to give up being overwhelmed. It makes me laugh to read this as I’m typing it but it’s true! It’s the one thing I didn’t try. I started to be like yep- I’ll always have a mountain of laundry most days. I’ll eat in moderation since every diet stresses me out. The news? I’ll know enough to be informed but not so much I can’t sleep at night. Fixing the world’s problems? How about I just try to start small- stocking local free libraries and food pantries with things that bring me joy. Volunteer for new things and give it a go. See who this new version of me is who keeps trying to emerge. I’ll be as kind as I can to every person I meet. And, the hardest one? I’ll be kind to myself and –gulp- be proud of it.
The moment I stopped fighting everything I didn’t want to feel was like this huge release. I gave myself permission to be tiredbut that meant rest, not retreat into the darkness. So far I feel like I’ve bounced back so much quicker. I started laughing more. I finally scheduled a trivia night with new friends and it has been amazing! I signed up to be the new flower show superintendent at the fair. I stopped freaking out about what colors to paint certain rooms and just picked something I liked that day. I bought some pants that actually fit me and now getting dressed is fun again. If the tired version of me picks up my phone to scroll or watch a mind-numbing show I don’t let it happen! I try to go grandma-style and do a word find or punch needle- anything that is mindless without the dopamine heist.
Changing the conversation from “I’m just so burned out,” to “Yes, I’m tired and that is why I’m trying random new things… knowing I might not like some of them,” was the answer. What really cracks me up is this is also the key to ending anxiety- accept and allow- but I haven’t mastered that yet beyond racing thoughts. Still- that is something to be majorly proud of!
So to all of you, yes, you who is reading this, and to the many of you I’ve had private conversations with; you haven’t lost yourself. No. You’ve just been on autopilot for awhile. And that’s great- but guess what? You deserve new things, new thoughts, and new energy. You don’t have to wait for everything to be perfect or great to start- or for a good news day to begin because we all know that isn’t going to happen. Tony is the one who suggested I stock little free libraries to get me out of my rut and guess what? We do it together now and it’s freaking awesome. You can go to the thrift store and find a book for a buck and trust me- it just rewires your brain for happiness. Allow yourself to be tired, AND allow yourself to try new things. If someone as introverted as me can now attend weekly trivia and laugh all night, you can, too.
So here’s to doing the best you can and being proud of it. For telling yourself a new story- one that’s sprinkled with kindness for how you’re feeling. I believe in you.
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
Sara Raquet | Alyssa Lyman | Kristi Sellers
Laura L. Morgan | Trent Morgan | Annie Gebel
Jacqueline Cruver | Diane Conroy
Temple Kinyon | Ada Shaver
Gayle Anderson | Jessica Wall
Kaitlynn Anderson | Tony Niccoli
8 Must Be A Big Kitty
16 Human Nature
22 My Favorite Mistake
28 The Jerky Chronicles
32 AM’s Special Potato Salad
34 Banana Cream Pie Cheesecake
36 Orange Creamsicle Cheesecake
38 Hucklepenño Popper Cupcakes
40 Huckleberry Curd Cupcakes
42 Ribeye of the Beholder
46 A Reading For You
48 Unsung Heroes
52 Martha’s Journal Part 5
58 Reflecting On A Moment In Time
62 Anaerobic Equilibrium
66 Under The Palouse Skies
74 The Oh, Otis! Shenanigans
Must Be A Big Kitty
By TONY NICCOLI
Around 10 years ago Heather surprised me with a wonderful book that lists tons of off-beat and unexpected places to explore in our area, and to this day it remains one of my all-time favorite gifts. To me, there is nothing as wonderful as actually holding a book in your hands! I use the computer and my phone proficiently, and can easily find any information needed in a moment’s notice, but when it comes to reading and letting my mind wander, I still insist on the visceral experience of holding a book. The weight, the sound of a finger running along the printed page as you near completion of a section and prepare to flip, the subtle sound of the spine adjusting as you open or close the cover, the smell of the pages that gently grows with age and pulls you back to early childhood experiences with precious books, and the wonder of throwing a book mark in just before putting it back on the shelf or side table – knowing that it will be there waiting when you return but fully unobtrusive in the meantime; all of this to me is the absolute joy of the experience that accompanies reading and learning when you take on print in the traditional manner. My phone however tells a different tale. How many tabs did I leave open? Where was that great article that I started while waiting in line and then lost to the barrage of life’s other distractions? Why are my eyes so tired? And so, while I might be a quick adopter for many of the conveniences and productivity aids inherent in rapid expansion of hardware and apps, I still don’t think I will ever adapt to the idea of a digital reader for books. And frankly, I don’t think that I ever want to. I cherish libraries and used book stores almost as much the books themselves and make it a point to check every little free library that we pass – often scouring my own shelves or the local thrift stores for a “care package” of sorts when I see that one is deplenished, or full of the same sad set of books that haven’t found any new homes since my last check-in.
And that love of books, and the joy of tangibly flipping pages to find new avenues for the mind, is what led me to cherish our local guide book so very much. In order to savor the little side trips, I keep it faithfully waiting on our largest book shelf and only occasionally pull it down to set us off on a new and unexpected adventure. Since every location is suitable for a day trip, I grab it a few times a year when we are having our morning coffee and either Heather or I takes the lead role of page flipper. You see, half of the adventure would be lost on a methodical search of the table of contents! Instead, one of us slowly flips pages while the other closes their eyes and then gets to yell out “stop” at just the right moment. The two-page entry is read aloud by the flipper, coffee is finished, the kittens are fed, and we hop in the car. Last weekend, as the cool breeze ruffled the curtains and spring reasserted its presence, temporarily chasing away the summer heat, I knew that it would be a perfect time to grab my favorite guide book and raced to the office as soon as the kettle was on the stove. Heather, seeing what I had in my hands and knowing it meant that we were setting off for places unknown on an adventure we couldn’t predict, was naturally excited and immediately closed her eyes. “Say when;” I began flipping from the back of the book, trying to give an equal chance to the often-missed places near the front. “Now!”
Tell me, have you ever heard of Pinestia? We sure hadn’t. Pinestia, “an island of trees in a sea of wheat” had been patiently waiting for us. We set off, heading towards Potlatch with the written directions in the book guiding us. I’m sure it would have come up on Google Maps, but for these little excursions, we rely on the printed word, and if you decide to head up there I hope you will as well. From Potlatch, go east on ID-6 for a few miles to Princeton. Once there, look for Gold Hill Road and Hatter Creek – it will be the most prominent road cutting through town. Turn left onto Gold Hill and drive about one mile. Pinestia will be on the left, and while the sign might be a little hard to spot, the massive trees certainly are not.
This is an adorable, fully isolated, 47.5-acre forest in the middle of fields of crops created by Roger Fuernsey, a University of Idaho forestry graduate from 1947. The area had been logged sometime around the turn of the 20th century, and while the rest of the region had been actively cleared and kept in a steady rotation of farming, this little parcel was left vacant, allowing the remaining forest to rebound. It was Roger’s mother who had come up with the name Pinestia, and she had hoped to one day be able to build her dream house there in the woods. As a tribute to her, and an endowment to support education in the principals of small woodlot management, Roger and Billie Lou Guernsey gave Pinestia to the U of I College of Forestry, Wildlife and Range Sciences in 1987. It serves as an outdoor classroom, is sustainably logged and cared-for by the university and their forestry students, and is open to the public.
Officially called the Roger Guernsey – University of Idaho Outdoor Classroom, but still affectionately referred to as Pinestia, this preserve is right in our local back yard but feels like you have instantly been transported much farther out into a vast wilderness. It has massive Cathedral Ponderosa pines, a small creek that runs across the lot and a wonderful pond that is full of beautiful flowering water lilies. You encounter dense woods, assorted water fowl, chipmunks scurrying about their day, the calls of myriad types of birds overhead, and scent of pines along a short trail that loops out from the car park and eventually returns you past a sagging old barn and once again back at the starting point. We were going slowly, trying to identify some of the wildlife we heard and saying just how much we enjoyed the light breeze on a calm and beautiful morning.
It was such an amazing walk. Until we hit the little bridge. Now, I have learned to implicitly trust in Heather’s instincts. Even when logic would dictate that it couldn’t be correct, her gut feeling on things almost always turns out to be true. So when she paused suddenly, and turned back with a bit of worry in her face I immediately took it seriously.
“Make a little noise.” I felt like we were being stalked.
“Woo-hooo! Hi, bear. Look out cat!” I didn’t think it would be possible, but let out a few quick shouts just the same. How could there be something out in these woods? We were literally surrounded on all sides by miles of cultivated farm land.
What would be the chance that a predator could conceivably be living or hiding out here? I didn’t even see any animals larger than the chipmunks that would provide a decent source of prey. We walked a little farther, letting out a hoot now and again. In our years of living here in wonderful Palouse region we have certainly seen our fair share of wildlife creeping into areas that you wouldn’t expect. On a drive to Lewiston, we once stopped to let a sweet lady know that there was a wolf out by her horses. She didn’t seem too fazed, and the horse that had lowered its head and charged the wolf as we were pulling into her drive didn’t appear to be worried about it either.
We just had a hawk land next to us and watch the sunset on the evening of the solstice. This wasn’t in the middle of nowhere, we were sitting on the hill of the U of I golf course right by the road. It landed about 6 feet away, looked at us for moment, and then looked back in the direction of the sun and stayed there. We even once felt really weird for watching a coyote going to the bathroom just about 5 feet off the road as we went down the grade. Maybe we should have given it a bit of privacy, but it was hard to look away even as it stared straight at us staring at him. There is fox living in our backyard, often carrying babies around in the spring – and we live on a normal street right in town. Bald eagles have landed in our tree and circled our house, and a few of my all-time favorite doorbell cam moments are the local moose standing on our porch to listen to the windchime in the fall, and then slipping and falling on our icy driveway in the winter, with its legs running in place like a cartoon for a moment before finally toppling over. And we once had a baby coyote try to follow our truck as we went down a dirt road just outside of Colfax. It was so cute, but we didn’t want its mom to get angry or let it get too far away, so after shooting a quick photo out the window, we kindly asked it to stop happily chirping and head back home for lunch. So yes, there are plenty of critters here – and if Heather thinks she feels one, my mind goes into high alert.
We came to the bridge that crosses the little stream and I looked down at the nearly dry creek bed below. Wow – that print was big! Back at home, we have two miniature cougars that we adore, and across the region there are unquestionably many Cougar fans, but when walking in the woods, no one wants to see a massive feline hunter. We stared at the print a little while, and examined one other that was half missing a few feet away. Both had been in soft mud and were eroded from the rising waters after the most recent rain. I turned slowly in place, letting out another shout, and hoping that someone had recently walked a really massive dog that was off-leash and enjoying the woods. With the prints having landed in soft mud and then being partially washed out, it was hard to make out more than the central part of a paw and four distinct toes on the better example, and just a central pad and the hint of one or two toes on the less distinct impression. Was that a claw mark? I tingle went up my spine.
“I’m sure its fine honey.” I wasn’t really sure. We decided to just let it go, enjoy the rest of the walk, and although we were still making occasional noise as not to accidently walk up on a potential predator and startle it, I tried my best to be alert but at the same time put it out of my mind. And that’s exactly when the day dreaming started. What if it was a ferocious beast? Somehow still here since the first round of logging in 1900 began to isolate it in an ever-smaller forest, the fearsome predator I now imagined must be a decedent of the originals – like the Loch Ness Monster of the Palouse. Maybe the linage of this silent hunter went back many hundreds, if not thousands of years. Right here in our own backyard, an ancient relic of the time before the forests were cleared and farming began.
But the farther back my mind went, the more my fears of the present moment subsided. Maybe this could be a wolf, cougar, or extra chonky golden-doodle. But maybe it was the last remaining relic of a species that had been wiped out many-
-thousands of years earlier. I tried to imagine just how large a dire wolf or saber tooth tiger would have been. I pictured the print we saw as being just the very bottom portion of one almost twice the size, now washed out as the creature’s anonymity was preserved in this little 47 acre preserve.
The saber tooth cats that roamed this area of the country until about 12,000 years ago would have been anywhere from 150 pounds all the way up to just over 600 pounds depending on the species and were capable of taking down creatures as large as a few thousand pounds in weight. In my mind’s eye I pictured one slowly stalking the trail behind us, only to veer off at the last moment and dive into the brush as it pounced on a giant ground sloth! The ten-foot-long gentle giant never stood a chance as the curved teeth bypassed its outstretched arm and went directly to the throat. It never did get that last bite from the massive branch that it was slowly pulling down but at least it distracted the cat. We continued walking. I let out a little shout again. “Hi kitty. Humans here!” I wondered if it would just end up attracting the pack of dire wolves that was circling a Columbian mammoth in the clearing ahead. Why take on a 20,000-pound giant that stood 13 feet tall and packed a staggering blow when it defensively swung its 15-foot-long tusks? The tapering pint of those straighter tusks could easily pierce even the toughest of wolf hides as the mammoth effortlessly tossed one thirty feet away with a rolling of its bald and rounded head. The pack looked hungry, and hearing defenseless humans calling, they melted into the underbrush before reappearing in a ring around us.
About the size of a modern gray wolf, the first one to approach curled back its lips around a menacing snarl. I could smell the awful breath from twenty yards away as I watched a long stalagmite of drool hang down from one of its blood-caked canine teeth. Its head was a foot long and as the mouth opened wider, I could see teeth much larger than any wolf alive today. It moved slowly towards me, never braking eye contact, its shoulders just over three feet tall, and powerfully rippling with every graceful but determined step. It was nearly six feet long and pure muscle. I knew we had no chance of outrunning one, let alone an entire pack that now stood guard for any avenue of escape.
I wondered again just how the amazing animals had all survived without notice in such a little plot of land. But knowing that I was surrounded by ice-age megafauna gave me a little reprieve. Should a modern mountain lion or coyote cross my path now, it would be a trivial adversary compared to what used to roam this land. Back in the present moment I smiled at Heather and let out one more whoop.
And that’s when I heard the rumble coming from the denser brush to our left. Above even the tallest of shrubs you could immediately see the massive curling horns. Ancient bison! They heard me, startled by my yell and came thundering across the trail. Almost eight feet tall, and some as long as small truck, they lowered charged through the scattering dire wolves with three-foot-long horns that easily parted any vegetation in the way as well. Through the clearing that had just been created by the stampeding bison, I could make out a few grazing camels. They stood about seven feet tall at the shoulder and long sloping necks raised their heads about two feet higher in the air as they calmly took leaves off of some of the heartier branches in the canopy over our heads.
One hump that started near the shoulders and ran lower along the spin than a modern camel reinforced to me that these were no cross-continent imports brough here by local settler. I was observing the last remnants of the camelpos – though to have disappeared many millennia before our time.
“Do you still feel like there is something out here?” A chickadee alighted on a branch just ahead and called back at us. I was feeling pretty confident that all we had seen was weeks-old print from a friendly but sturdy dog. Still, I wanted to keep calling out occasionally and check to see if Heather’s Spidey-sense was still tingling.
The twill call from the friendly bird almost covered the sound of heavy breathing just behind me. I heard a low, guttural vibration as I glanced over my shoulder. Arctodus! We were in trouble now.
The short-faced bear approached and inquisitively sniffed the air, trying to understand my strange and modern odor. I shouldn’t have used that juniper and huckleberry scented soap today – I must remind it of one of its favorite meals. Still on all fours, it was already taller than either of us, but as it rocked upwards and onto its hind-legs, the bear now stood at least 10 feet tall and must have weighed around 2000 pounds. I held my breath and hoped that it would consider us too much of a hassle and return to its primary activity of foraging. The seconds seemed to stretch out into days as I waited to see its next move. “No, I think it was just a funny feeling back there.” Heather was signaling the all-clear. I took a deep breath and refocused on the modern squirls and bunnies that patrolled the forest floor, and the friendly song-birds above. Nothing to worry about here – either modern or primordial. Somewhere in Pullman, I knew at this very moment there was happy chorus of, “Go Cougs!” But out here in Pinestia, I wasn’t going to have to scream out, “Go! (Run, Heather!) Cougs!”
We finished out the loop, taking a little extra time to poke our heads into the falling barn and look at the internal braces, and look out across the fields near the pond as we enjoyed the view of the back-side of Moscow Mountain in the distance. We watched some ducks descending on the still water, and saw the yellow lilies bob gently in their soft wake. The sun was high in the sky and smell of nature surrounded us as we witnessed the normally invisible wind showing its form in the swaying shafts of wheat. Another perfect outing, selected at random, from one of my favorite books.
We had just reached the car, still the only vehicle parked in the little clearing near the gate, when I noticed something strange. There as a white trash bag tied up near the guide post, allowing any visitors a place to discard anything they packed out. And though almost empty, I could see the outline and color of some empty packaging that had been left within. I knew that bag from somewhere. “Hey, babe – what does that look like in the trash bag there?”
Heather squinted at the form just visible and slightly blurred beneath the plastic trash bag. “Looks like the bags of shrimp that Luna loves. But it’s a lot bigger.” I see you, sabretooth! I know you’re out there surviving into the present era, and all with the aid of some local cat-lover that brings you bags of my kitten’s favorite treats. I’ll be back soon to visit you, and I promise to bring along some cat-nip and toys next time. Pinestia is truly magical place, and I can’t wait to return the next time that page gets selected.
I am engaged in a battle with nature. Me, a nature lover. It began a good while before my neighbors hung their yard banner, a written invitation welcoming squirrels. In my years of having a yard adjacent to theirs I have lost more than a considerable number of plants from being uprooted in the ongoing peanut burying of these resident rodents. They know me well enough to scatter when I aim the hose nozzle in their direction. The squirrels, not the neighbors. They have repaid me for the damage a hundred times over with thoughtful holiday gift baskets and baked goods fresh from the oven. They have even tried moving the peanut supply to detour the direct route these fierce little feral animals take from the feeders in their yard to the soft worked soil of my flower beds and pots. Through their efforts and my hostile hose attacks they now prefer an aerial route through the connecting tree branches about ten feet off the ground. They trapeze from the huge maple tree to lilac bush to juniper tree to ash and down the trunk of the fir before touching down in my enemy territory.
One day, upon my arrival back to my parking spot which is across the side street from the banner that clearly states Squirrels Welcome, I approached my steps to find a similar mounted banner that says, No Squirrels Beyond This Point. The image of one of the furry tail varmints is clearly circled with a red line banning the beast. The neighbors were hiding out of sight to see my reaction. It was a jolly joke and I laughed long and loud. I left it in place hoping college town squirrels were literate. It was proven a correct theory when several weeks later they had chewed holes in my banner and all but tore it off of the holding device. I watched one morning from the window as one was wildly pulling on it from dangling above. Inspecting the welcome banner at the home of the enablers, I found not a trace of damage. Nature evolves unhindered by rules, or perhaps it is writing them.
It is a fact that I will not be able to change the nature of nature. It is programmed for survival. When I remember we are also one of nature’s creatures, I see it is not a battle as much as all of us looking for creative ways to exist together. I can ease away from the malice when I trust that nature will take its course. It is up to me to stop overthinking everything and allow my instincts to direct me. If I am at odds with nature then I am in a battle with myself. A recent experience has helped me see this quite clearly.
Since toddlerhood I have refrained from asking anyone for help so I headed nearer to my first major surgery with overwhelming anxiety growing with each passing day. As the dreaded day on the calendar arrived, one of my sons appeared and provided transportation to the hospital, remained until I was released the following day and stayed with me for a few days. When he had to return to his many obligations, my other son arrived. They both just kindly dismissed my stoic claims that I was fine and did not need any help. I soon had to accept that I did. My body flat out demanded rest as though I’d slipped on a giant banana peel of lethargy.
The role of caring for one another was transitioning to them. Maybe it was temporary this time, but it will become the pattern eventually. They became adults when I wasn’t looking. The intentions of their kindness was sincere and although against my nature, I had to permit the unthinkable and surrender. They were at the giving helm and I would need to learn how to receive their gestures of care and love with grace. The I-don’t-need-help part of me has been my survival mode and indeed has served me well but I am approaching a new chapter in which I will need to become more flexible. It is time to learn how to accept the warmth of feeling valued and loved.
When each son had hugged me goodbye I could barely process the amount of unspoken emotion. No, it wasn’t due to the pain pills prescribed because of course true to form, I didn’t need those. It was from gratitude. It was from the power of their unsolicited acts of kindness. It was from my acknowledgement of life’s sweetest gift. It was from love.
“Be the reason someone smiles. Be the reason someone feels loved and believes in the goodness of people”. Roy
T. Bennett
Some days I fall prey to cautionary tales, but I hope to always be able to have faith in the goodness of people. The concept was very easy to grasp as a child. Spending a lot of time with my grandmother, I accompanied her to many different social club meetings that all focused on altruistic activities. One of the projects she spent many hours on was making quilts for a cause that I was too young to grasp. Pieces of fabric from each of the ladies that were making them came from scraps leftover from the wardrobes they had made for themselves and family members so it was like pieces of a lot of people all put together just like the community that was creating them. I remember how the random pieces of a ‘crazy quilt’ fit together to make an attractive and warm treasure for someone. Maybe for a child like myself. I knew the time and talent put into each one represented great compassion in the skilled hands that surely had many other tasks demanded of them, however still dedicated the time for another person in a time of need.
The world has changed and as I attempt to expand my giving nature, the headlines are quick to overwhelm me. There are so many areas of need in the periscope it becomes difficult to find a path to being prosocial. No, that’s not a political party. It is intentional behavior that benefits another person or society as a whole, however the enormity of the circle has grown so large that it seems our hearts and minds can no longer stretch to encompass it. Back in 1955, an author wrote, “...modern communication loads us with more problems than the human frame can carry.” Anne Murrow Lindburgh lamented this observation in her book, A Gift From The Sea, written when most information was found only on the printed page. Today, only seventy years later, our advanced technology and communication systems have placed an even more unbearable load on our human frame. We juggle our work life, our spiritual life, our creativity, intellect and human relationships in addition to trying to process the planetal dilemmas that overwhelm our senses and envelope our compassionate souls. We begin to tire and worse, we begin employing a numbness to survive the pain in our hearts which could ultimately alter one’s human nature. When things get too difficult, avoidance becomes second nature before we realize.
“A responsible warrior is not someone who takes the weight of the world on his shoulders, but someone who has learned to deal with the challenges of the moment.” Paulo Coelho
I cannot hold the entirety of mankind or single handedly quiet the discourse of conflicts in other countries or my own. I have-
-to focus on a smaller orbit, a workable portion, a reasonable piece of the pie. I have to learn to detach and process one thing at a time to cope with the chaos so I can enjoy the days granted me. I am only one person and there will be days I won’t be able to find the energy to perform miracles even though I believe I can. The truth is that even the smallest acts of compassion can reverberate outwardly like the circles in a pond. Share that smile. Share that compliment. I can tell the nervous new waitress just learning to take my order that she has a confident aura and she will be great at this job. A young mom at the park may need a granny-nanny so I offer my number and some references. I can give the bag of excess basil harvest that keeps coming and coming to the onlooker passing by my garden. I can ask the DIY mechanic who is changing an intake manifold in the street with rain clouds looming if he’d like to use my unused market canopy. The invites are there beckoning and the network created by these deeds establishes and strengthens a system of roots much like adding mycorrhizae to the garden soil. The augmented strands create a solid base to grow your community.
The hippies of my era had a similar message. The peace anthems of that time prove the universal message was love, unity and goodwill. The message will continue to be heralded until changes emerge. If I may note here, being a hippie in the city was very difficult. You just can’t wash that asphalt off bare feet. No small wonder we were called dirty hippies. Today, if I put a flower in my hair and tried to give everyone a hug, I would cause great alarm. Read the room Jacqueline. There is an emoji for that. We are rapidly moving toward total automation, which could have many advantages but not if it crosses a line and threatens the essence of our human nature. Since I am preaching my antiquated opinion as I always do, This is why I think we need more organic interaction, making connections, practicing greetings, handshakes and hugs. Does it seem to you like the three foot distance has become second nature? If that makes you comfortable then it is what you need to do. If it is just a behavior pattern you do from habit then maybe it needs reviewing before being personable becomes a lost art or we become immobilized by fear of each other. When we recognize our humanness we can cast aside that fear of the unfamiliar. Is diversity something that threatens me? Yes, we differ as individuals but unless your neighbor is a resident alien from a distant galaxy, we are the same genus and species. Within our odd groups of friends and even our bizarre biological families, we are all very different examples of peculiar. We are the experts, the amateurs, the misunderstood, the confused, the painfully withdrawn, the popular, the geeks, the opinionated, the lazy, the over-the-top flamboyant, the optimists, the pessimists and the most utterly belligerent of characters. We are from here, there and everywhere and interesting people from all pages of the atlas are placed on the street where we live. Just remember that means you get to be just exactly who you are. Inclusion is the act of welcoming and respecting the value of everyone just the way they are.
“What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make”.
Jane Goodall
From a very young age I gave out hugs, invited or not, deeply convinced that we are all connected by love. It is everywhere if you look and even sometimes hiding where you can’t see it.
It is in the flood of emotion at the birth of a new family member, a graduation ceremony, a wedding, a celebration of a colleague’s retirement, and the reflective gathering of families saying goodbye at a memorial service. Love is in attendance and easily visible at these events in our tears, our knowing glances, our thoughtfully expressed sentiments and the warm embraces we exchange. Those hugs are signs of our instincts, our human nature to express love as a verb. Maybe love is our instinctual plan to survive. It is the nature of nature to exist and thrive in an integrated system. Last I checked, our species is included in the living organisms of the planet. Both humans and animals make choices within constraints of their instincts and environment to strengthen the integrated system in which they live. Using our intelligence to make deliberate decisions, each individual exercises free will to develop their moral character so differences arise from their choices, actions and perspectives. This is where it becomes confusing. Human nature is defined as the core characteristics shared by humanity however in searching for quotes to promote my positive angle on human nature I found a hollow leg. There were equal numbers of opinions that depict human nature as being self-serving as there were those claiming that people are basically good. Apparently the jury is still out. This is baffling. How can this be an and/or situation? Are we not yet able to use our erect posture and advanced brain function to live in harmony? There are challenges as I mentioned before, of sharp things being thrown in our way. I see fear and misapplied technology as only two of them. Human nature may even impact the outcome. The International Encyclopedia of Social Sciences denotes that in our interactions with our own species we will find behaviors motivated by psychological altruism contrasted with psychological egoism. This means two contradicting groups. (A) prosocial, altruistic, trusting personality types who focus on collaborating, and not winning or losing, but also (B) the group operating from envy who focus on being right, being better than, and having more than everyone else. You remember those kids in school. They were often the popular kids who stayed together in a somewhat discriminatory clique. The truth of course surfaces at the fifty year reunions, that we all endure the same triumphs, failures, and eventually humility in this mortal life.
“Humility is the foundation of all virtues.” Confucius
Looking back in history for answers about the nature of humans, 2525 years ago the Chinese sage Confucius, formed and recorded his thoughts on societal rules and moral values. He believed wisdom, compassion and courage were universally recognized moral qualities. These are stellar examples of the traits of human nature that have endured for centuries. I also found several different translations of the Chinese philosophy of Taoism, which leans more toward the harmony of living in balance with nature. Based on the teachings of Lao Tzu, “Simplicity, patience, and compassion are your greatest treasures.” Both of these philosophies carry the commonality of compassion. I think that confirms my opinion. Love is the core of human nature that remains the common denominator as societal changes continue evolving. As I place interesting pieces of driftwood, stones and chicken wire around the plants in my yard to try to live in harmony with the neighbors’ pets, I think about the nature of humans and the nature of nature. I believe that human nature will find the power of love to be equally as strong as the drive the squirrels have to bury those darn peanuts.
lBy Laura L. Morgan
It was a long drive, many times repeated out of necessity, from a daughter’s heart for her dying mother. Her cancer was an invading army, relentlessly advancing, and I wanted to spend as much of the precious time I had left with her as I could. I was on my own for this particular journey as my husband was not able to take off work. My three young daughters and I were about a half an hour south of Biggs on a long stretch of sagebrush and juniper-bordered road of the Eastern Oregon high desert. We traveled comfortably in our new Ford F150, my youngest, Rylee, of the age she was still strapped into a car seat. It was the time of year when a cold drink was refreshing and welcome. To this end, and to appease young, fidgety travelers, I had made a pit stop at the convenience store in the small town of Biggs.
We were back on the road after me giving instructions about keeping things tidy. It was a new truck, after all, and we like to keep our vehicles nice. As three-year-old Rylee ate her snack and prepared to drink her coveted “Bug Juice,” I again cautioned her to be prudent and to not spill the sticky, dyed-in-neon-blue sugar water she had picked out. Minutes later, I heard what was perhaps inevitable—the distressed, “Oh, no!” and the splashing of a spilled drink.
The new truck! Worrying about things getting stained and sticky, and with the grip of stressed irritation in my chest, I glanced in my rearview mirror to see if I could quickly pull over to sop up the mess before it soaked into the carpet and seats. There was an SUV too close for me to brake quickly. In fact, it was pretty much right behind me, so I clicked on my blinker and eased off to the red-rocked shoulder of the road. My tailgater confidently zoomed on by down the highway and around the impending corner.
Let’s just say I grumpily cleaned up my daughter’s spill, admonishing her for not being careful. My tension over the spill was escalated by the underlying strain of the reason for the trip. I, regretfully, caused a great many tears for my sweet kid. My two older girls sat in tense silence, white-knuckle gripping their drinks so as to not meet a similar fate. Irritated at losing five minutes of travel progress, I got back on the road, an under-the-breath growl floating into the silence, mixing with Rylee’s sobs. In all of sixty seconds, I came to the bend in the road. As I eased around the corner, our startled eyes widened at a disturbing scene. The aforementioned, impatient SUV that had been following us too closely prior to the spillage, was on its roof on the edge of the blacktop, mangled and crunched. The driver was hanging upside down, suspended by her seatbelt, as a passersby attempted to extricate her. There were other victims, bleeding and in a dazed shock, milling around outside the vehicle. Since other cars had already stopped to assist, I carefully skirted the accident and continued on. I almost had to pull over as I was uncontrollably shaking. We made it safely to Bend that day. Later, we found out that the driver had perished and a roadside cross was subsequently erected to commemorate the journey her soul took to eternity in that desolate place.
Every time we drove to Bend in subsequent years, I would reflect and regret as we drove past the cross, until one time I pulled over and asked an older Rylee to stand next to the memorial. I took a photo. I took a photo because I wanted to preserve the memory (not that I’d ever forget) of God using Rylee and her spilled Bug Juice to save our lives. That car had been following closely enough that it undoubtably would have rolled and crashed right into our truck, taking us with it to destruction. I have no doubt of that. I want to remember the prayer of thanks we said. I want to remember that one’s perspective can make all the difference. I want to remember that life is precious and possibly shorter than we think it will be. I want to remember to live life as I should. I want to remember not to steal love by being upset over unimportant things. I want to remember my favorite mistake.
Being a mother is a difficult job, but oh-so-worth-it. I’m happy to report that Rylee still loves me and we have a close relationship. In all seriousness, we are human and will make mistakes (news flash, I know!). As mothers, we need to give ourselves some grace, learn from our mistakes, and carry on. Being a mom is about learning as you go, maybe emulating a great example of motherhood, or trying to be the opposite of your example. Our lives as mothers won’t always look like the famous Madonna and Child painting, in fact it may look more like a play-ransacked house, dog poop tracked across the tile, and watery bubbles shimmering on the bathroom floor.
Giving yourself grace. What does that mean? Here are some practical ideas to help you navigate being a mom. First of all, it is important to recognize that, as much as you want to and strive to be, you’ll never be perfect. That bothers some with Type A personalities more than some who are laid back. Whichever style you possess, learning to forgive yourself for imperfections is important. I often think of the “Bug Juice Incident” as it has become known in our family lore, and wish I had handled it differently. We still would have been saved from the accident if I had responded like it wasn’t a big deal; messes can be cleaned up. What if I hadn’t made Rylee feel badly and just told her to be more careful, relieved her shame instead of added to it? I wish I had, but guess what? I didn’t, so I did the only thing I could do—I apologized and asked for forgiveness, gave her hugs, and assured her I loved her.
Kids are resilient and respond well to genuine contrition and honest assessment. Moms and kids can both learn from mistakes. The next step is to let the mistake go and forgive yourself. Remember it for the sole purpose of knowledge, so you don’t repeat the error, but don’t dwell on it. That, too, can be destructive. Silence any negative self-talk (or criticism from others) and focus on positively moving forward. Do the best you can with what you know at this point in the timeline of your life. Appreciate the beauty of each stage of motherhood.
If you are on social media, you may be tempted to feel inadequate because you’re bombarded with the best, and sometimes disingenuous, snapshots of others living the motherhood life. Do they ever make mistakes? Comparison can become a thief who steals your confidence. Many mothers struggle with imperfections— your body has been through the wringer, and your hormones can be a swirling complication. Everyone else’s babies seemed happy and cherub-looking, but one of mine had horrible colic and never slept. I was exhausted all the time, and…I made mistakes. I had to give myself grace and realize my kids needed me, even if I wasn’t perfect. Every hug, I love you, and moment of my undivided attention was a deposit into the account of their lives and our relationship.
How else can mothers give themselves grace?
Laugh instead of cry when plans don’t work out like you want them to. Humor is a great companion who can provide comic relief. There may be a hidden gem in there somewhere, and if you keep a healthy outlook, you’ll find it.
Celebrate small victories when you are able to mitigate a mistake. Focus on the positive.
Prioritize and acknowledge what is out of your control. I couldn’t do anything about the spilled sugary drink, but I could control my reaction.
Realize you won’t enjoy every minute of being a mom, but there are plenty you will.
Think of motherhood like a garden: you are planting seeds for a future harvest. In the meantime, you water and place your children in the sunlight for optimal growth. There will be some weeding involved—pulling up the roots of those mistakes so the plant can thrive. Throw those weeds away, so they can’t take root again.
Write your story of motherhood. Literally, write yourself a letter. Tell yourself you will make mistakes, it’s inevitable, but to remember to give yourself grace. Remind yourself to be forgiving, even as you strive to use mistakes as a learning opportunity. Tell yourself to celebrate the positive things you are doing to be a loving mother. When you feel like you’re not rocking the mom thing, journal a few things every day that you are doing well. If you are feeling discouraged, like you aren’t cutting it at all, write something like, “I fed my children.” “I did laundry.” “I smiled and told my kids I love them.” These are important things, even if some are considered mundane. Go back and read them to encourage yourself until you have an amazing experience to add into your journal.
James Joyce, regarded as one of the most influential writers of the twentieth century, wrote, “Mistakes are portals of discovery.” If we look at the positive side of mistakes, maybe we can all discover new things about ourselves, about others, about motherhood, about life. Maybe we each can throw a confident glance over our shoulder, hair fluttering in the slight breeze, eyes gazing into the sunset of our past, and know it’s okay to see that favorite mistake broken down on the side of the road. Broken down, never to achieve ignition again. At once ugly and decrepit yet glowing in the fading light.
Let’s talk about beef jerky. You know—those salty, chewy, intensely flavorful strips of dried meat that somehow manage to taste like pure rugged adventure. It’s the snack of road trips, the sustenance of cowboys, the bite-sized fuel for backpackers, hunters, and snackers alike. Whether you love it spicy, sweet, smoky, or classic, beef jerky has a rich history and an even richer flavor profile. Personally, I’m a fan of a classic flavor and my husband loves a spicy version. We are the beef jerky yin and yang. So, where did this tough little treat come from? And more importantly, how can you make your own at home? Let’s dig into the history (with our teeth), and then we’ll guide you through crafting your very own batch of beef jerky goodness. Fair warning: you’re going to want a snack after this.
The Jerky Journey: A Global Snack with Ancient Roots
The story of jerky is far older than vacuum-sealed convenience store packets. The word “jerky” comes from the Quechua word ch’arki, which means “dried, salted meat.” The Quechua were part of the Inca Empire in South America, and they perfected the art of preserving meat centuries before refrigeration or beef sticks at gas stations. Definitely before The Macho Man started doing commercials for Slim Jim. The Incas dried strips of alpaca or llama meat in the sun and then pounded them into flat pieces with salt and spices. This wasn’t just a snack—it was a survival technique. Dried meat was lightweight, nutritious, and portable, making it the perfect food for long journeys or food storage. Meanwhile, Native American tribes in North America were creating their own version of jerky, often using bison or deer. Tribes like the Cree and the Lakota combined meat with fat and dried berries to make pemmican—a kind of prehistoric energy bar that could last for months. When European settlers arrived, they saw jerky and thought, “Hey, that’s a great idea.” The practice spread rapidly, with pioneers and cowboys drying meat over fires and in the sun to preserve food during long cattle drives or brutal winters.
Beef Jerky Goes Mainstream
Fast forward a few hundred years, and jerky went from being a trail food to a full-blown snack industry. Soldiers in World War I and II relied on jerky as a shelf-stable source of protein. By the late 20th century, jerky found its way into gas stations, vending machines, and sporting goods stores—basically, anywhere someone might need a quick boost of protein without a fork. Today, beef jerky is a multi-billion dollar industry in the U.S. alone. It’s no longer just “beef flavor” either—you can find jerky made from turkey, salmon, elk, boar, and even mushrooms. Flavors range from teriyaki to jalapeño to maple bourbon. It’s basically the wild west of meat snacks. If only I could fit Clint Eastwood into this somehow.
Why Make Your Own Jerky?
Sure, you can buy beef jerky just about anywhere these days. But making your own? That’s where the magic happens.
Here’s why DIY jerky is worth the effort:
Flavor control: You want ghost pepper honey lime jerky? Go for it. Maybe you want loads of garlic. So much that vampires will definitely avoid you. Go for it.
Better ingredients: You choose the meat and seasonings—no weird additives or mystery meat. You control everything.
Cost savings: Store-bought jerky is expensive. Making your own cuts down the cost dramatically.
It’s fun: There’s something satisfying about turning raw meat into a preserved snack with your own hands. It’s a bit primal—in the best way.
Are you ready? Let’s walk through how to do it.
Step-by-Step: Making Your Own Beef Jerky at Home
You don’t need a smokehouse or fancy dehydrator (though they help). You can absolutely make delicious jerky in your oven. Here’s how.
1. Choose the Right Cut of Beef
Not all beef is created equal when it comes to jerky. You want lean, lean, lean meat. Fat goes rancid, so the less of it, the better.
Top picks:
Eye of round
Top round
Bottom round
Sirloin tip
Flank steak
Buy about 2 to 3 pounds to start. Once it’s dried, you’ll end up with roughly a third of the weight in finished jerky.
2. Trim and Slice
Trim off every bit of fat you can. Then pop the meat into the freezer for about 1 hour to make slicing easier.
Now slice the meat against the grain for a more tender chew or with the grain for a tougher, more traditional jerky texture. Aim for slices about 1/8 to 1/4 inch thick.
3. Marinate Like a Champ
Here’s where you bring the flavor. Your marinade should have a balance of salt (to cure), sweetness (to balance), acidity (to tenderize), and spice (to kick).
Basic marinade (feel free to customize):
1/2 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup Worcestershire sauce
1 tablespoon brown sugar or honey
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon onion powder
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
Optional: crushed red pepper, liquid smoke, cayenne, ginger, etc.
2. Sweet & Spicy Sriracha Jerky
AKA: The Flavor Punch
This one’s for folks who like a little kick with their chew. The sweet heat combo is addictive, and it smells amazing while drying.
You’ll need:
2 pounds lean beef
1/2 cup soy sauce
2 tablespoons honey or brown sugar
2 tablespoons Sriracha (add more if you’re bold)
1 tablespoon rice vinegar or apple cider vinegar
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional but recommended)
Mix everything in a big zip-top bag or bowl, add your meat slices, and refrigerate for 12 to 24 hours.
4. Dry It Out
There are three main ways to dry jerky:
Oven Method (No Dehydrator? No Problem!):
Preheat your oven to 170°F (or the lowest temp it goes).
Line baking sheets with foil and place a wire rack on top. Lay the meat out in a single layer, not touching. Leave the oven door slightly open to let moisture escape (a wooden spoon works well). Please use a high level of safety here. Bake for 3 to 6 hours, flipping halfway through.
Dehydrator Method (My favorite method):
Follow your machine’s instructions (typically 160–165°F for 4–8 hours). Rotate trays for even drying.
Smoker Method:
Smoke at low heat (about 160–175°F) for 4–6 hours. Adds that extra smoky flavor.
You’ll know it’s done when the jerky is dry but still flexible, like leather. It should bend without snapping but not feel wet or sticky.
5. Store Like a Pro
Once cooled, store jerky in airtight containers. It will last:
1 week at room temp
2–3 weeks in the fridge
3+ months in the freezer
Use vacuum-sealing for even longer storage (if it lasts that long before you eat it all).
Jerky Tips, Tricks, and Troubleshooting
Too dry? You likely overcooked it or sliced it too thin. Try marinating longer next time. Too tough? Try slicing against the grain and using a more acidic marinade. Mold?! Yep, that can happen. Either you didn’t dry it enough or stored it while still warm. Always allow jerky to cool completely before sealing.
Want variety? Try different meats like turkey, venison, or even tofu. Each one absorbs flavor differently.
Beef jerky is more than a snack—it’s a piece of culinary history, a testament to human ingenuity, and a little bite of survivalism. Whether it’s hanging in a smokehouse in the 1800s or on a convenience store shelf in 2025, jerky has earned its place in our snack pantheon.
Making it yourself brings you full circle—from ancient methods of preservation to modern kitchen creativity. And it’s surprisingly easy, ridiculously delicious, and fully customizable. Plus, nothing impresses friends quite like offering them homemade teriyaki beef jerky and casually saying, “Yeah, I made that.” So go forth and marinate. Slice with confidence. Dry with pride. And enjoy the delicious results of your jerky journey. Just try not to eat it all in one sitting—we dare you.
Note: The USDA recommends that beef jerky reach an internal temperature of 160°F to kill any potentially harmful bacteria (like E. coli or Salmonella) before or during the drying process. Always aim for a safe internal temp of 160°F. If your dehydrator can’t guarantee that, a quick trip to the oven at the end gives you peace of mind—without affecting flavor or texture much.
A.M.'S
very special potato salad
kitchen: alyssa lyman
This is my mom’s potato salad. When I was a kid she would always tell the story while making it of her going to her best friend’s deli in Sayville and having this type of potato salad. Even though it’s basic, it’s the most special recipe to me.
INGREDIENTS
3½ lbs Russet potatoes
1 cup cider vinegar
½ cup + 1 tsp granulated sugar
¾ cup mayonnaise
2 tbl pickled pepper brine
½ tsp salt
Fresh dill
STEPS
Peel the potatoes and rinse them with cold water. Slice them into thin rounds using a mandolin or knife. Place the potatoes in a stock pot and cover them with water; boil them on high until just fork tender. While the potatoes are boiling, prepare the brine by bringing together 8 cups of water, the cider vinegar, and ½ a cup of sugar in a separate pot. Bring the brine mixture to a boil and transfer to a large bowl.
Once the potatoes are cooked and drained, transfer them carefully to the brine. You can optionally add ice cubes to speed up the cooling process. Transfer the bowl to the fridge and leave them until they’re completely cooled.
Meanwhile, prepare the dressing by mixing together ¾ cup of mayonnaise, 2 tbl of brine from pepperoncinis or other pickled peppers, 1 tsp of sugar, and ½ tsp of salt in a large bowl. Once the potatoes are completely cooled, drain them and add them to the dressing to combine. Optionally garnish with dill or green onions.
Banana Cream Pie
CHEESECAKE
kitchen: alyssa lyman
INGREDIENTS
16 oz cream cheese, softened
2 medium ripe bananas
1 tsp vanilla extract
⅓ cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
1½ cups crushed Nilla Wafers
3 tbl melted salted butter
STEPS
Preheat your oven to 325* fahrenheit. Grease a regular-size muffin pan. In a medium bowl combine the crushed Nilla Wafers and melted butter; combine until well integrated. Distribute this mixture into the bottoms of the muffin pan and press down firmly with your fingers or a spoon. Bake the crusts for 8 minutes.
Meanwhile, mash the bananas and stir in the cream cheese until well combined. Add the vanilla, sugar, and eggs and mix well; the batter should be slightly runny. Once the crusts are done, distribute the cream cheese mixture evenly on top of the crusts. The cheesecakes are baked with a water bath to reduce cracking. Boil enough water to fill a 9 x 13-inch baking dish. Place the baking dish on the lower rack of your oven and carefully add the boiling water. Place the muffin pan above the water bath on the middle rack and bake for 30 minutes.
After 30 minutes, the cheesecakes should be slightly golden and almost set. Remove the pan from the oven and cool on the counter for 15 minutes; then, place the muffin pan with the cheesecakes in the fridge until completely cool. Remove each cheesecake from the muffin pan and top with whipped cream, Nilla Wafer crumbs, and a slice of banana.
orange creamcicle
no bake cheesecake
kitchen: sara raquet
INGREDIENTS || crust + filling + topping
Crust
24 whole Golden Oreo cookies, crushed
5 tbsp melted butter
¼ teaspoon of salt
Filling
1 (3-oz.) box orange jello
1 cup boiling water
1 1/2 cups whipped cream (can substitute with Cool-Whip)
2 (8-oz.) blocks cream cheese, room temperature
1/4 cup sour cream
1 cup powdered sugar
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
¼ tsp of salt
Topping
1 cup whipped cream ( can substitute with Cool-Whip)
STEPS
In a large bowl, whisk together orange jello and boiling water until jello is completely dissolved. Set in fridge to cool completely. Make crust: In a medium bowl, mix Oreo crumbs, butter, and salt. Press into the bottom of an 8” springform pan and up the sides. In another large bowl, beat cream cheese and sour cream until smooth, then add powdered sugar, vanilla, and salt. Fold whipped cream into cream cheese mixture, then pour half of mixture into cooled Jell-O. Whisk until smooth. Alternate pouring the cream cheese mixture and the Jello mixture to create layers. You can swirl with a knife if you would like the swirl effect. To serve: When firm, pipe dollops of whipped cream around the cheesecake, and serve.
HUCKLEBERRY BATTLE WINNERS
2024 Huckleberry Battle Youth Winner: Ada Shaver From Moscow
Title: Hucklepenño Popper Cupcakes
Cupcakes:
2 ½ cups flour
1 cup sugar
1½ tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
2 eggs
1 tbsp vanilla
¼ cup oil
¼ cup butter, softened
¾ cup milk
½ cup huckleberry puree
½ cup water
Directions:
Preheat the oven to 350 F.
In the bowl of a stand mixer, whip butter until light and fluffy. Add oil and whip again until light and fluffy and fully mixed in. In a separate bowl, combine dry ingredients. Add to butter/oil mixture until just incorporated. Add the remaining wet ingredients to the bowl of stand mixer and mix until just combined. (Don’t overmix!) Line muffin tin with cupcake liners. Fill each with 1/3 cup of batter. Bake for 15-17 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center of a cupcake come out clean.
Huckleberry Jalapeno Jam:
1 ½ cups (about 1 ½ lbs.) fresh or frozen huckleberries rinsed
1 ½ cups apples (about 1 granny apple + 1 ½ pink lady apples, medium), cored, skins removed, ground
1 jalapeño pepper, seeds removed
½ of a 1.75 oz. package Fruit Pectin
4¼ cups sugar
½ tbsp lemon juice
Directions:
Grind the fruit and peppers, with the lemon juice, in a food processor to make 3 cups. Pour into a large pan, add the pectin, stir and bring to a boil. Add sugar, stirring well and bring to a full boil again. Pour the hot sauce in jars or plastic tubs. Put the lids on and let sit out on the counter overnight. Freeze. Will keep for months. When cupcakes are baked and cooled, use a butter knife to cut a hole about the size of a nickel in the top. Set top aside. Gently scoop out some of the center of the cupcake, making sure not to go all the way to the bottom. Fill with 1 tsp of jam and replace the top.
In a stand mixer, combine egg whites and 3 cups powdered sugar. Mix just until combined. Scrape down sides of bowl, then beat on medium speed for 5 minutes. Turn speed down to medium/low and add butter, 1-2 tbsp at a time. After butter is mixed in, add vanilla. Scrape down side of bowl, then beat on medium for 10 minutes. Add remaining powdered sugar and beat on medium for 1-2 minutes. For multi-colored frosting, remove 1/3 of white frosting and place in bag #1. Add 1-2 tbsp huckleberry puree to remaining frosting and mix until fully incorporated. Remove 1/3 of frosting and place in second bag. Finally, add 1-2 tbsp huckleberry puree to mixer and combine fully. Place last portion of frosting in a third bag and use tri-color tip to pipe on cupcakes!
Title:
Huckleberry Curd:
2024 Huckleberry Battle Adult Winner: Sara Raquet From Moscow
Huckleberry Cupcakes filled with Huckleberry Curd and topped with Huckleberry Ermine Frosting
1/3 cup granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1/8 tsp sea salt
¼ cup lemon juice freshly squeezed
1 cup frozen huckleberries
¼ cup unsalted butter cold and cubed
Huckleberry Curd Directions:
In a medium saucepan, combine sugar, eggs, salt, and whisk until smooth. Add lemon juice and huckleberries whisk to combine. Heat on medium low heat, whisking frequently to prevent burning. Cook until simmering and thickened – its ok if the huckleberries don’t break down completely. Strain the curd through a sieve into a heat safe non-metal bowl, mashing the huckleberries to release all the juice. Remove the seeds and skins. Add the cold and cubed better into the strained hot curd. Whisk to melt the butter. Cover with a piece of parchment paper or plastic wrap placed directly on the surface to prevent skin from forming. Refrigerate until chilled and thickened. Store up to a week in an airtight container in the fridge.
Cupcakes:
¼ cup unsalted butter softened
¼ cup coconut oil, melted and cooled
½ cup granulated sugar
1/8 tsp sea salt
2 large eggs room temperature
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
½ cup buttermilk room temperature
1 ½ cup all-purpose flour
1 ½ tsp baking powder
1 cup frozen huckleberries
1 tbl all-purpose flour
Preheat oven to 355 F (180 C). Prepare a 12 regular sized cupcake tin by lining it with cupcake liners. In a large bowl or stand mixer, combine softened butter, oil, salt, and sugar. Beat together until lightened in color and creamy. Add eggs, one by one, beating well in between each addition and scraping down the sides of the bowl. Add vanilla extract and buttermilk, beat to combine. Sift flour and baking powder into the bowl of wet ingredients. Fold the batter until no more dry streaks of flour remain. Combine huckleberries and 1 tablespoon of flour in a separate bowl. Mix well to coat the huckleberries and add into the cupcake batter. Fold to combine. Portion the batter evenly into the cupcake liners and bake for 15-17 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean with a few crumbs attached. Remove from oven and let cool completely before frosting and filling. Cut a circle out of the middle of each huckleberry cupcake. Fill the cupcakes with cooled huckleberry curd. Place the cut-out piece of cupcake back on top to cover the curd.
Huckleberry Ermine Frosting:
1 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
¼ tsp salt
½ cup whole milk
½ cup huckleberry puree
1 cup unsalted butter, room temperature
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
Frosting Instructions:
In a medium saucepot, pour in sugar, flour, and salt. Whisk to combine. Gradually pour the milk into the flour/sugar mix, whisking well as you do to prevent clumps, until fully incorporated and smooth. Add the huckleberry purée and whisk to combine. Place your pot over a stove burner set to medium-low heat. Cook the milk mixture, whisking constantly, until the flour and sugar are fully dissolved, the mixture boils and it thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon. It should be about the consistency of pudding, but it will firm up a bit more as it cools. This will take about 8 to 10 minutes of cooking. Pour your cooked milk base into a medium sized bowl. Cover with plastic wrap pressed against the surface of the base to prevent skin formation and condensation. Set aside to cool completely to room temperature before using. In a large bowl, cream butter until lightened in color and fluffy. Gradually add the cooled milk base to the creamed butter. Add about 2 tablespoons of the base to the butter at a time, beat well to incorporate before adding in another addition. Add your vanilla to the frosting and combine.
A few weeks back, Heather and I were out to lunch and I overheard someone at the table next to us ordering a steak. Ribeye – medium rare. About as good as it gets in the steak world and definitely one of my all-time favorites. But the next request he made got me really thinking.
He asked the waiter if the chef cut their own steaks from the primal, and whether they did so in-house or not, he wanted to know if it might be possible to request the ribeye with the largest cap. The waiter seemed a little confused by the request, and so the guest took the time to explain the cut to him so that the request could make its way back to the kitchen. The cap – also called the spinalis muscle – he explained, is the portion of meat on the top of the full ribeye cut just above the eye. Working your way down the primal, it will start very large on one end and gradually get smaller and smaller with each steak you cut. Knowing that most guests would never think to even ask about this, the guest was hoping that if it wasn’t any extra trouble, and since someone was going to get it anyway, could he please be the person with that perfect steak that had greatest portion of the most tender and delicious piece.
I must tell you that I’ve never even considered this approach. And if I was the chef in that kitchen about to sear a perfect medium rare steak for a guest who happened to know their favorite cut so well that they could put in a kind request of that sort, I would make sure to grab or cut the absolute best I had for them. But as I found myself considering it more and more, I realized that with many of the items I grill or order the most, I have never really done enough experimenting to know exactly what I like best.
I mean, something can only be good or bad by comparison. For years I knew that I like steak. Then at some point, and I honestly can’t remember when, I went from ordering or attempting to cook medium to asking for medium rare. This transition makes sense however when you consider that like it or not, I was experimenting and comparing. Both my inability at that point (and even occasionally to this day I must admit) to hit a perfect cook, and the inability of every restaurant to do the same, meant that while I was ordering or attempting to cook a perfect medium, I was also getting chances to try medium-well, medium-rare, and even the occasional total miss of well or rare. So, I can safely say that I came into the preference for medium-rare by honest evaluation. But what about the cut?
My first experience with steak was – well, I guess just steak. I never knew that that were so many varieties. I had ordered a steak in a restaurant on very rare occasions, and when I first got into grilling I even grabbed a pack of some mystery cut at the local grocery store from time to time. I’m sure they had it properly labeled, and that the butcher would have happily explained it to me if I asked, but that was long before I became so inquisitive in the arts of grilling and so it was most likely the price or look that caused me to toss it into the cart with a second thought. Then I remember going to what I considered to be a very fancy restaurant and seeing filet mignon on the menu, which I would imagine I promptly mispronounced while ordering. It was both mind-blowing and disappointing at the same time. Why would they serve such a tiny cut for that crazy price? I had seen the less expensive New York strip come out at more than twice the size and decided then and there that it would be my choice going forward.
But as the years went on, and I decided to first peruse the art of grilling, and then eventually to follow that with a better understanding of the science, I started to take an interest in just what differentiated the various cuts. If you enjoy steak, but haven’t ever taken the time to educate yourself about the bounty of unique flavor experiences that so dramatically change just by moving to a different part of the animal I really encourage you to do so! It often has to do with how much that particular muscle group is worked in the daily life of the cow, with tougher areas like shoulders containing less fat and needing much longer cook times and relatively docile regions like the rib or loin being much fattier and more favorable as well as doing well with high heat for quick cooks.
And then there are the surprises, areas that buck the trend by being very tough due to strenuous use but rich in flavor – a few of my favorites in that group are flank and skirt steaks. But without all that experimentation there is no way that I could have ever arrived at a list of current favorites, or the knowledge that I will always be learning and therefor those favorites are bound to change again.
In the end, after a quick deliberation with the chef, the waiter returned to that table behind us and sadly informed the patron that their ribeye steaks all had the cap removed during prep. I can understand this – it would make all the steaks much more uniform, and some guests might not like to have all that fat served between the two portions, especially if they didn’t understand the treasure that was sitting just above it. So where did that spinalis go? Chances are, it was still at the butcher’s shop already rolled up and ready to cook. By cutting that out, the top of the ribeye served at the restaurant would be much less fatty, and the portion would be just a little smaller and possibly more to the liking of some guests. Meanwhile, that marbled-gold would be silently waiting in the chilled case, just dreaming of the joy it would bring to the next knowledgeable shopper that had a trusty grill or castiron pan ready at home.
But don’t take my word for it! Go get a few for yourself this summer. And don’t worry if you mispronounce it, or miss the temperature a little and over or under cook your target! Or try a new cut that you have never heard of by grabbing a book on grilling or getting online and looking for a chart of primal cuts of beef and the corresponding steaks. See just how much flavor you can coax out of the least expensive cut you can find and then compare that to the fanciest you have ever made. Start the habit of taking your first bite without any sauces if normally only have a steak with a particular topping, or add a little sauce now and again if you normally only have them plain. What has always been your favorite might just get replaced!
So here is my recipe for a home-made steak sauce. As many of the long-time readers know, for me its always just a very liberal amount of salt and healthy dash of pepper on steaks. No bearnaise, peppercorn, wine reduction, or chimichurri for me please. But I know that now because I have tried making all of these and more. Please put down your trusty A1, don’t even think of ever picking up ketchup again, and whip up a homemade sauce. I would challenge you to try a bite without and then one with. And when you do try a bite with the sauce you made, look for the notes of each ingredient. Ask yourself if a little more onion or less acid might improve it and then tweak the recipe. And with enough experimentation and learning about the flavors you like the most, soon you may find yourself in a local restaurant confidently ordering something that you already know is exactly what you like best.
Simple Steak Sauce:
2 cups of ketchup
juice of two fresh lemons
½ cup water ½ cup white vinegar
4 cloves of minced garlic
½ red onion, finely chopped
2 tbl spicy mustard
3 tbl Worcestershire
3 tbl light brown sugar
½ tsp black pepper
Optional ½ tsp cayenne
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UnsungHeroes & Inspiration
AndersonGayle by w
When you look back at your life, do you remember all those ordinary, yet important people in your life who have played a pivotal role in shaping and guiding you? On the heal of area high school graduations and seeing the young fresh faces of these 18 year old kids stepping out to make their way in the world, it made me think back to my own graduation. I remember waking up the next morning thinking, now what am I going to do? I didn’t have a plan; my hardworking blue-collar parents hadn’t sat me down to help me figure out life. My dad had a mistrust in educators and didn’t want his children to “conform to the teacher’s narrow-minded standards”, rather he valued free thinking, hard work and finding your own path in life. Back in my parents’ day, men were the breadwinners for their family and when women married, they usually stayed home to raise their babies. However, my mom had to work to help put food on the table due to some of my dad’s free-thinking views that often lead to the unemployment line. My mom was and still is the calm in the storm, a tower of strength as well as the nurturing and supportive parent to her three semi-well behaved independent children. And just for the record…. Mom blames ALL her gray hair on my brothers.
I don’t fault my folks at all for non-guidance of preparing their children for a future, rather it left me and my brothers a blank slate to figure life out by our own by trial and error. Having had a good work ethic instilled at a young age by being on the construction job sites and wielding a brick hammer to clean cement off bricks, I liked earning wages, the work not-so-much.
However, by the time I was sixteen I decided I needed a different job. Back then, most girls either worked at the local A&W as car hops or worked as clerks in the department stores being paid a minimum wage of around $1.60 per hour. I knew I needed to think outside the box of typical “girl jobs” and go for something that would earn me more money. (yep… a lesson from my free-thinking dad). And with that thought in mind, I marched into the Safeway store, asked for the manager, introduced myself and asked if I could be the first female “box boy”. I guess the manager liked my earnestness and hired me on the spot and I started making $2.65 an hour! I was thrilled. Working in an adult world was a huge contrast to the immature environment of high school and it was refreshing to know life outside of school was so much more. I began observing coworkers and customers and how they interacted. I would make mental notes of what characteristics in adults that I deemed were good and the not-so-good traits. I saw it as a personal development class in real life. For me, high school wasn’t enjoyable as I sort of fit in yet sort of didn’t. I tried to avoid all the high teenage drama and insincere popularity driven peers, so I worked as many hours after school and weekends as I could. I was caught between two worlds, and mostly I started hanging out with my female coworkers whose ages ranged from college-aged to my mom’s age. I have always been an “old soul”, so quiet laidback gatherings were the norm, except the one time I tried sneaking into a bar with my collage aged girlfriends and …. well, that didn’t turn out so well for me, but that is a story for another time. This was the start of an excellent foundation of social interactions and real-world expectations in what I would call my pathway towards getting my “working man’s PhD” in the business world. As my career grew into the professional sector, I was fortunate to rub shoulders with extraordinary individuals. I recall going to a high school graduation and the keynote speaker was Terry Armstrong, whom I happened to know and respect. As Terry stepped out to speak to the excited Genesee graduates, he didn’t say anything at first, rather he had in his hand a rope with knots in it. He held one end, and someone took the other end and walked to the other side of the gym. Then Terry addressed the students, and said, “this rope is 100 feet long and as you can see there are knots every 5 feet. What this represents is the average life span of a human and each knot represents 5 years of your life”. Then he held up 3 ½ knots and said, this is where you are now and every decision you make at this end affects this end- and he pointed to the end of the rope. That message hit me like a ton of bricks. And I wondered if this was as impactful to these young graduates as it was to me. I also wondered if I had watched this message as a young adult would I have done things differently? Perhaps. Some regrets? Definitely. However, I loved where I had ended up. I was a mom of two beautiful daughters; I was helping build up the family farm and was embracing life in small-town America. And like anything, life has an ebb and flow and suddenly you are going down a new and different path that takes you to uncharted waters. And you hope that if you flounder, that there is someone who will lend you a lifeline and pull you to safety.
Growing up, we were not raised in a religious household, however even as a young child, I somehow knew I was a child of God. At every large or small crossroads, it seemed there was something that helped me navigate life. When I did stupid things and was-
-headed down a wrong pathway, there was gentle yet firm guidance to get me back on course. Sometimes it was a person, sometimes circumstances were the guiding force. And as I am now about 2/3 along in my “rope of life” and looking back, I know that I have lived a good life and that I am on the home stretch to the end. Some parts of my life were easy & fun, some not. Yet through it all was character building, life lessons and putting one step forward in a sometimes-scary world. Once again, I have a perfect for me mate who is always up for whatever adventure or project I get myself into, I get to see (and chuckle) as I watch my daughters raising up good humans who give their mommas a run for their money and probably some gray hair in the process. And like my youngest said, “may we be strong women, raise strong women and survive our strong women”. Yep- and I remind them, “she is just like you at that age!” And yes, I have earned every gray hair on my head.
And yes, I have earned every gray hair on my head
We all need the kinds of people that I call “True North People”, maybe some people call them earth angels. The ones who guide, inspire and help you find your way. For some, it might be just one, such as a parent or grandparent or maybe an educator, like Terry. For me, it was all of the above, plus a multitude of other right people appearing in my life just at the right time to help guide this bumbling young woman launch into a colorful and somewhat interesting life. At first, I didn’t recognize these True North People, rather I thought it was just good luck. Now I realize it was our Creator’s plan all along. I probably just needed more guidance than maybe some… who knows. But I am forever grateful for every little action, word or deed that helped me on my path. And this scripture pretty much sums up my life: Jeremiah 29:11, “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future”.
I don’t know about you, but it now makes me stop and think and hope that I am behaving in a way that may be a tiny bit of inspiration to someone. We are all spheres of influence in today’s world. Our words and actions have impacting legacies. And in closing, I hope you take a moment and think about your True North People and here’s to leaving good legacies of courage, wisdom and kindness.
Martha’s Journal PART 5
Here is the final part of Martha Lorang’s story:
“Viola told about a bull chasing her and Charles when they were very young. Viola took Charles by the hand and ran as fast as they could. Luckily, there was grape arbor near enough and she dragged Charles through and under it and the bull lost them there. They continued running and over a fence to be sure they were free.
Some of the fun things Bertha, Viola, and I would do at home was to play Hide-and-Seek and run races. I would be first, Viola second, and Bertha always last. We had a lot of company and a good game to play was Drop-the-Handkerchief. Horseshoe was another sport. We also played Croquet – after meals – when we should have been washing the dishes. We also played Tag – where you would hit the ball thrown to you, run to a place and back again before you got tagged. Henry Lestoe (a cousin to our neighbor, Borgen) worked for us. He said he was giving me a hope chest. I said I didn’t want it so he gave it to Viola. It still exists – someone else has it – not me. I thought he might have other ideas – Dummie!!!
A young pig – to keep it from rooting – was run through a chute and a board was slid over them to hold it in place, and a ring was put in the nose. When Dad sold a bunch of hogs, he always came home with a big sack of candy for us. Our chickens were left to roam about the ranch and the eggs were found in the barn, chicken coop, under sheds, under the barn, or any comfortable place. It was fun hunting them. It was fun seeing the colts, calves, pigs, kittens, or chickens being born during the year. Also, climbing tress as high as you could go, was fun, or jumping off a table by the wash line, figuring the next time you might take off and fly. To the younger ones at home, it was great to have those who had gone to come back for a visit. Sometimes, at a family reunion, there was really a crowd. Here is something funny. Christina Broemmeling lived about a mile from school and we lived three miles from school, but we went the same route. One day she said, “I’ll bet you don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.” I said, “What do you mean?” She said ,”O.K.,” and she dug two holes in the ground and she said, “Here is your ass and here is a hole in the ground,” I thought, “Silly, I know which is my ass.” I pointed down to where she said it was and she said, “I knew you did not know your ass from a hole in the ground.” I sure was mad at her after that – I all the time knew where my ass was. She didn’t need to tell me. Ha! Ha! We were very young and I should not have fallen for that. I really was a Dummie!
by diane conroy
In the teens, “20”s,” “30”s,” or even into the “40’s,” everyone wore hats and it was good taste to wear gloves too. In Church, women always wore hats, but men took their hats off – for double respect. When a man went outside, he put his hat on again. When he met a lady, he tipped his hat. If he stopped to talk with her or was introduced, he took his hat off and held it in his hand.
The road to our house was muddy in the winter but graded in the spring and made smooth. It was traveled a lot and became dust. Coming home from school, we would take our shoes off and walk in the dust.
Dad invented a gate at our driveway at the ranch. It had a rope tied to the entrance and exit, that opened and closed the gate without leaving the buggy or car. It was nice when roads were muddy. Over the gate he put a curved sign which said, “White Spring Ranch.”
I cannot relate much about the older brothers and sisters. Peter was 18 years when I was five, so do not remember him at home. After leaving and going to Washington State College, he followed the banking profession. There always was a big celebration when he came home on vacations. Barney also attended Washington State College.
Barney and Henry worked the farm when Mother and Dad traveled for six-months in Europe, in the summer of 1910. The highlight of their trip was the Sphinx in the desert of Egypt. They rode on camels, with a guide on horseback and one guide on foot leading the camels. They also had an audience with Pope Pius X, now known as Saint Pius X. Many articles were blessed, which my Mother and Father brought back. They made a visit to Lourdes, France, to see the shrine of the Blessed Virgin, where many canes and crutches were displayed, left there by people.
More about Barney and me at 14-years of age. He took me to a dance to learn to do the two-step. My long underwear was rolled up above my dress, and I had a memorable time Henry used to save funny papers when away from home and would send a big roll of them home to us kids. He also taught me how to tie my shoelaces. It was a great achievement and I think of it most every time I tie my shoe.
Albert was put in Lacy College to divert his time and love from a girl in Genesee, Idaho, who was not Catholic. Later, while working in Lewiston, he met Hazel, and married her. She was not a Catholic at that time and so they were married by the Justice of the Peace. Dad was going to disown him. They were then married by a priest and Dad attended the marriage. What a great beginning that was. The children went to a Catholic School and when Ida Marie received her First Communion, Hazel received Holy Communion too. She was studying silently on the side. What a beautiful family it turned out to be.
Something more about Albert. When Viola and I were about five or six-years old, we were gathering something in a little bucket, that we thought was very special, along the fence line. We asked Albert what it was and he said they were rose seeds and to show our find to Dad, who was working in the shed. So, we gathered enthusiastically all we could find, for Dad to see. When we showed our precious find, he just laughed. We couldn’t see anything funny about what we had found. However, we discovered later that what we were gathering so diligently were jack-rabbit turds, that to us were so special. Ha! Ha! You don’t forget such things easily.
The older boys used to play tricks on the hired girl. Those days they wore aprons with ties. The boys would untie the string and down the apron would come. She would tie it again and think all was okay, and soon it would come down again.
Christine helped Mother in the house. I remember her ironing; my bonnets to go out to play. Mollie helped in the house too –like baking bread. She was very loveable. She played games with us in the wintertime – in the kitchen – with the door closed to the dining area- as we got pretty noisy at times.
Bertha was more or less of a loner and did not play much. She stayed home from school a lot to take care of Charles. She stayed back one grade and graduated from the eighth grade when I did. She was smarter than me so I just had to study more. Bertha was artistic and did some painting with some training and had beautiful handwriting.
Martha liked working outdoors best – milking, hunting eggs under sheds and such – hoeing, driving derrick, or whatever. Viola was small, cute, and loveable. She worked inside and outside.
Charles was easygoing and if we wanted him to do this or that, he would always say, ”Yes,” – but he did it when he got good and ready to do it. He was always so sweet about it though, you couldn’t reprimand him further. He was a champion sack-sewer on the thrashing machine. He was strong too and in high school he also won first prize competition in Lewiston, Idaho, as a discus thrower.
As a family, we had chicken pox, measles, smallpox, lots of flu, mumps (for once I had a full face).
Viola, as a baby, would have died of whooping cough, but Mother for a last try blew hard in her mouth to revive her. I also had whooping cough too at that time.
Dad seemed to like the unusual. One time while visiting a Fair of some kind in California, he had a picture taken sitting on top of an ostrich. He also went up in a balloon, as sort of a challenge, but was glad to get back to earth as he got very scared and the wind really shook the balloon, and for a time he thought it was breaking and on the way down.
The Public Library in Spokane, has a book “Discovering Idaho,” which says the railroad came to Idaho about 1880 and the telephone at the same time. The telegraph in 1866 and electricity in 1892. Another book, “Whispers from Old Genesee” by John Platt. The “Lorang” name is mentioned several times.
The Armistice for World War 1 was signed in 1918. The United States went wild as did Spokane. We were excited, especially because our brother, Henry, was also coming home. Henry was with the Navy Air Force. The Unit was just getting ready to go into the fighting front. What a rejoicing it was to have him home. He soon married Marguerite Tobin and they moved into the smaller house built near the calf barn. Henry loved the land and wanted to farm. Their first child, Robert, was born and while they were still living in the smaller house, Jim, Joan, and John, were born. Mother and Dad remained in the big house where the first 10 brothers and sisters grew up.
In 1926, our Father died and Mother was alone in the big house. So, in 1928, Mother, being alone, decided to come to Spokane to live with us – Christine, Viola, Charles, and myself. Charles was not with us when Mother died in 1938 as he had married in the meantime.
The children born to Henry and Marguerite, after moving to the big house in 1928, were Mary-Frances, Mary-Jean, Daniel, Peter, Lois, Mary-Alice, Albert, and Rita.“
So we come to the end of Martha Lorang’s sweet journal. You can find it in local libraries to read again. If you would like to see this farmhouse where they all grew up, stop by on Sunday afternoons in the summer. It’s a step back in time to walk into the old farmhouse kitchen and then there is the 1878 Log cabin. You are welcome.
Reflecting On A Moment In Time And A Life Well Lived
JESSICA WALL by
Each collected item holds a piece of history, a connection to a moment or a person that can never be replicated.
Working in museums, I know this to be true. In fact, this sentiment is literally the lifeblood of my profession. The material objects we leave behind tell stories; stories of happiness, sadness, life transitions, and the everyday mundane. To hold an old photograph or an old letter in our hands is to literally hold a moment in time. In our fast-paced lives, it allows us the opportunity to stop and reflect on what is truly sacred in this world. It allows us to draw closer to those who came before us in a tangible way- affording us a rare glimpse into their lives that would otherwise be gone forever.
When people collect something from the past, they are seeking out history in a way that promotes preservation and connection. Each piece of a collection is a true testament to the resilience of material culture over time and space, and a reminder of our own personal fleeting existence in a world full of stuff. Simply put, when we collect something, we are participating in the story telling of multiple generations- both before us and after we are long gone. As a trained Anthropologist, I deeply understand the attachment we have to the material things we keep in our lives- and how those things play a large part in how we view ourselves. It also becomes profoundly clear that everyday simple objects have the capacity to become relevant long after their prime. About two years ago, I found my first piece of carnival glass in a vintage shop. As I was casually perusing the shelves it immediately caught my eye, and I knew with a ferocious certainty that I simply had to have it. At the time, I had never even heard of carnival glass before. I knew nothing of its history or the joy it once brought to people around the world. All I knew was that this little deep ruby colored cream pitcher with its inlaid flower pattern was utter perfection. As I held it in my hands the light seemed to literally dance off it, the iridized colors giving way to a gorgeous hue. I had never seen anything like it before- at least that I could recall. Let me caveat this story with somethingOutside of my profession, I am not a natural collector. I generally prefer simplicity and clean spaces; ironic since I work in the museum field, right? But the moment I held that little red cream pitcher in my hands, I knew that something was different- the reaction I had to that little object was one of intrigue and fascination!
I asked the employee about it, and she informed me that it is carnival glass from the early 1900’s and that similar pieces often show up as discarded items in thrift and antique stores around the world. That was it. I had received marching orders and I was suddenly on a mission to find more! While I had never collected anything before, literally a whole new world opened up to me and I quickly found myself researching all things carnival glass! I went on thrifting trips and created Pinterest boards with all the different styles, colors, and even the histories of all the different variations. It turns out that this one little piece I had found had just become a catalyst for my newfound obsession! You see, my little red cream pitcher wasn’t *just* an everyday object- to me it was a small little materialistic nod to a life and time before my own. When looking at it, I found myself wondering what type of person owned it previously… Did they buy it new a century ago, displaying it in their house proudly? Did they use it every day, or was it a statement piece only brought out on special occasions? Did they save up for it, or was it a gift from someone they loved? As I wondered these things, I knew that this sweet little pitcher was nothing short of a physical souvenir of a life well lived- and to hold it in my hands is to literally hold onto a moment in time.
As I started my collection journey, I started researching the origins and history of carnival glass. What I learned was that it was first produced in 1908 by the Fenton Glass Company. Originally called “Iridill”, this glass was inspired by the fine blown glass by world renowned makers like Tiffany and Steuben- but was marketed at a substantially lower cost. No longer out of reach for many families, it quickly gained notoriety as “poor man’s Tiffany”. In fact, it was often purchased by households to brighten homes at a time when only the well-off could afford bright electric lighting, as its finish catches the light even in dark corners (Thistlewood, Glen, and Stephen Thistlewood. Carnival Glass: The Magic and the Mystery. Schiffer Publishing, 2008.). Over time other manufacturers created their own variations of colors and patterns in an effort to outsell their competition. This resulted in myriad styles that are now collected the world over. Much of the US produced Iridill glass ceased by 1925, although it was still being produced in other countries. The term “Carnival Glass” was adopted in the 1950’s by collectors, as it had become an item that was being handed out as prizes during carnivals and other large celebrations during that time (as part of an effort by the glass companies to revitalize its popularity).
Learning the history of my little cream pitcher- and carnival glass in general, gave me the connection that I was yearning for. Knowing that my newfound prized possession had most likely brought someone great joy long ago (just as it had for me) is such a gift. No longer was it a material object gathering dust on an antique store shelf- but rather it was a glimpse of a life long forgotten. I will never know if my pitcher was saved only for special company- or whether it was brought to brighten up someone’s home (and life). Maybe it was neither of these things and simply served as a prize handed out to someone who won a game in a carnival. What I do know is that it stands in my home as not only a silent representation of a lost moment in history- but also as a subtle reminder to me that life is fleeting, and we have a profound opportunity (and dare I say- responsibility) to center ourselves in an otherwise chaotic existence. Things (and-
-people) come and go throughout our lifetimes, but when we slow down and appreciate our place in the timeline of the worldwe get to see ourselves from an outsider’s perspective. It gives us that 10,000 feet view of our own lives in relation to others, and reminds us that someday, someone is going to look upon our own lives based on the material culture that we leave behind. What stories are we going to tell? Will people look at our lives differently than their own, or will they have the same feelings of connectedness to us that I have to others when I hold an antique in my hand? Whether it’s a piece of carnival glass from the past or something more modern, the people who come after us will most likely hold pieces of our very own lives and wonder about their own place in the universality of the human spirit and story. I have since collected other pieces of this beautiful glass which ranges in yellows, reds, greens, and even white and black. My favorite though is the carnival glass made of blue and purple hues. In the sunshine it sparkles with radiant color, and seemingly projects beams of light outward. While it’s gorgeous at varying times of the day, the symbolic nature of it is even more amazing to me. The sparkling lustre of the glass speaks volumes about the people who loved it so long ago- the people who maybe couldn’t afford the fancy version, but were just as happy owning and displaying this one. Their story of resilience is such a beautiful part of the American story, and one that I can collectively identify with. Just as carnival glass once lit up a dark world, it now stands as a beautiful reminder of how much changes over time- and yet, how things also remain the same. People always find a way, even when they don’t have the means. They invest in the things that make them happy- and equally- often find immense joy in the everyday mundane.
It almost seems as if perhaps my little red pitcher has the capacity to brighten areas of my own life that I didn’t even know needed it, just the same as it has for others over the past hundred years. This little red piece of tangible history reminds me to slow down and truly appreciate the soft glow of nostalgia and connection to others- because someday my life will cease here, and I hope that whatever I leave behind is something of love and beauty; something that sparkles and brightens even the darkest of corners.
LIVE TO GARDEN GARDEN TO LIVE PART III
ANAEROBIC EQUILIBRIUM
by Trent Morgan
I remember vividly the day my family cleaned out my grandmother’s house in Moscow, Idaho. She had retired from “The University” and was moving out of the old brick home at the top of what used to be the snaking Circle Drive. This was well before the lower portion of the original road was closed off. There, at the top of the drive on C Street, was the red brick house. I remember a lot about that house and knew it well: from the front porch’s south-facing view of Moscow with the University and Kibbie Dome in the distance, to a serene view from the backyard looking north toward Moscow Mountain. I had endless hours playing on the massive brick fireplace in the backyard. These are childhood memories I will carry for a lifetime with warm feelings of security, family, and belonging; I know I am blessed to have such memories. As an exploring youth I thought I knew all the old home’s nooks and crannies but was amazed during my grandmother’s move to find there was a hidden door to a secret cellar used for storing Cold War preserves. I suspect the entrance had been well-disguised from a certain curious boy all the years prior! The expansive low-ceiling space had not been touched or inspected in years, even forgotten until moving furniture exposed the shallow door portal. My mother later related that she remembers during her young adulthood in the 1950’s in this home, canning, preserving, and storing food often for what all expected to be the eventuality of the “Cold War” going hot. Her parents were of the GI or Greatest Generation who, having lived through the Great Depression and a World War, knew what hunger and deprivation looked and felt like! The potential for nuclear war was real to our parents and grandparents in the 50’s and early 60’s. Some things feel the same today sadly, urging me toward preservation and preparation. The secret room was well-stocked as is our home’s pantry today. According to FEMA, the average American family only has a few days of food on hand in case of an emergency. There is more to consider than just preserving the fabulous nutritional value of your home grown produce when you put up your garden fare for a rainy day!
As we extracted layers of ancient shelves of canned fruits and vegetables, I was specifically helpful due to my size and enthusiasm; I felt important. I could easily move around inside the “secret” space to ferry out hundreds of dust-covered jars of preserves. I remember the contents of some of the jars, possibly canned forty years prior, were black and macerated, making it impossible to know what was inside. The tin-plate lids and metal ring bands in many cases were corroded and crusted with what I can only assume were remnants of the mystery contents; the long-ago fresh garden and orchard produce. What I most remember is my grandmother telling me to be very careful because breaking one could expose us all to deadly botulism toxin. I didn’t know what that was, but it sounded bad. Turns out, it is bad! Well, kind of, as now people are getting it injected into their faces. But ingesting it…definitely bad! And, probably a legitimate reason why more folks don’t put up food in various ways to preserve it for times and seasons past harvest. Perhaps you have had a similar experience or harbor fears that keep you from taking up canning and preserving your own great garden and orchard produce? Let’s talk about it. Despite all this perceived danger to my young mind, my family carried on a vigorous fall canning process where we repeated the tradition of my great-grandparents by canning and preserving for the winter. We did some pickling but canned only fruit as my mom said some vegetables were unsafe to can and the conversation ended there. Vegetables are for the root cellar, my grandmother would say, so that was the end of it. Sadly, we did not have a root cellar, but I remember entering my grandparents’ cellar when visiting them in Grandview, Washington. It always had a sweet, musty smell and the cool air was a shock as I moved back into the dimly lit underground space to search for relics before the adults found me out and ran me out. There are many family stories of the root cellar being packed in the fall with potatoes, root vegetables, and even homemade root beer until it was “ready.” While I don’t have a root cellar today, I have insulated and converted a small room in my shop to a walk-in cooler I can drop to as low as thirty-eight degrees, which works very well extending the viability of our produce. I guess you could say it is a modern rendition of the root cellar as long as the power is on.
As life moved on and my wife and I started our family unit, I found out that my wife’s clan were also radical preservationists but canned differently than my family did. While the botulism issue was branded in my memory and avoided by my family by canning only acidic fruits or pickling, not so for my wife’s family who canned every garden vegetable as well as venison and crab meat; thus, I was introduced to the pressure cooker! Turns out there are lots of ways to preserve. My wife and I carry on the preserving tradition.
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We jar-up venison from the whitetail deer we harvest, put up salmon we catch in Alaska, jar whole or jammed fruit from our trees, can corn and beans from the garden, and of course ferment! During spring and summer months when garden work is most intense, when plants and trees need daily watering, weeding, and pest management, I try to remind myself that it will be worth it with a full pantry by December. The fruits of the harvest will support our health as we consume what we grow and know is 100% free of herbicides, pesticides, and other preservatives, picked at the peak of ripeness with all the nutritional value nature intended. Before we talk steam vs. pressure canning and then finally get to the fun science of fermenting foods to keep the homegrown nutrition flowing well after the snow flies, let us have a simple under-graduate discussion about bacteria, their differences, how and why they grow and how they can benefit or harm humans. In my last article I discussed how critical the gastrointestinal-gut biome is to our physical and mental health, and how healthy bacteria play a crucial role in synthesizing and making available nutrients for cellular function. I wrote how these tiny organisms can be supported by our diets, so this discussion is an extension of those ideas. Everything is related and interconnected. This idea has inspired our ongoing discussion about Living to Garden, and Garden to Live. Though unseen and often hastily blamed as a cause for many illnesses, bacteria are essential for all life. Without their little single-celled (mostly) existence, essential nutrients would not cycle in living things, organic material would never break down, and all ecosystems would collapse. Bacteria do this in all diverse realms of our planet; from our garden soil, to the peaks of the Himalayas, to the deepest crushing depths of the ocean, they are working away whether we know it or not. Pretty awesome. Some need oxygen to do their work, others don’t. Some like an acidic place to thrive, others cannot tolerate that, which is an important idea to think about when it comes to safely canning and fermenting. Another thing to know is that the most dangerous illnesses from getting on the wrong side of bacteria are usually not caused by the growth of bacteria as we have a pretty good handle these days on controlling infections with antibiotics. In food preservation, the real worry we have is related to the toxins that bacteria can produce. Botulism is an “exotoxin” released outside of cells by clostridium botulinum which thrives and grows in low to non-acidic environments with low oxygen such as after an improperly prepared canning process. High heat and pressure, such as used when following strict USDA canning guidelines prevents this occurrence, and while we may want to blame sloppy home canners for this risk, there are rare examples of foods off of store’s shelf making people sick. I say that not to prevent you from eating store-canned food (if you must) but to encourage you that with care and diligence, you ABSOLUTELY can preserve anything you can grow or gather. I will make an argument shortly that perhaps the best option for putting up garden goodies like cabbage, beets, carrots, and even green beans is by fermentation, due to the magical creation of lactic acid during the process and the preservation, even promotion, of life-healthy bacteria. Lactic acid is a chemical compound that shows up when cells are working without enough oxygen such as during that intense work out that leaves your muscles sore and aching for a couple of days. You’re on acid, man! The same anaerobic (without oxygen) process occurs during fermentation, creating lactic acid and dropping the acidity of the fermenting environment below the critical pH of 4.6. This acidity kills bad bacteria, so they have no chance to do bad things. So, why not just ferment everything? Some-
-may, but it requires constant maintenance and attention. Plus; I’m sorry, but there is nothing better than tender home-canned green beans nestled on a plate next to a venison strap and homegrown mashed potatoes! Hold onto your fermenting fomenting… this fun discussion is coming!
I am hoping you are thinking about taking that first step into canning? Do your research, talk to Mom or Grandma, seek wise council from reputable online sources, remembering that not every self-proclaimed homesteader on YouTube (God-bless them all) has really done much of what they claim to be an expert on. County extensions may hold clinics and workshops on food preservation, which is a great option. Make a list of fruits and vegetables that when processed, create acidic environments when canned, and then hit the garden or farmers market and get to work. Making jams, jellies, and pickling is a great place to learn the steps of hot-water or what some call steam canning where temperatures are limited to 212 F or 100 C. The process creates plenty of heat to expand the contents of the jars, so when they cool with properly pre-placed canning lids, the jars seal as they cool. This is a great, safe and fun space to begin canning and jamming fruits and even acidified tomatoes. From there don’t be afraid to pick up a pressure canner and put some of your best produce to the heat and pressure. Heat plus pressure plus time will kill all unwanted pathogens still hanging around from the soil and once sealed, the jars will be safe for consumption for up to five years per the FDA…turns out Grandma’s preserves on C Street were beyond “expired!” I would suggest creating an outside space with a high BTU camp stove for the process to keep the heat and steam outside. It always seems like it is a ninety-five degree day when we can; keeping the heat outside is nice. Don’t plan anything else, and if you have kids, perhaps loan them out to Grandpa (shameless grandpa plug) for a few hours, so you can fully focus on heat, pressure, and timing. If you do that, I know you will find success and real reward. We have sadly run out of time to dig deep into fermenting and give it the detail it needs, so we will save that for the final installment of our Live to Garden and Garden to Live series…don’t miss the fall edition of Home&Harvest! The timing will be perfect. If you have a root cellar or cold storage, harvest and hold what you must or throw a thick layer of clean mulch over root crops to preserve them a bit longer as the first frosts guide us into winter. There will be plenty of time to ferment. We will discuss key components to fermenting: meticulous hygiene, salt concentration, temperature, and timing. Fun, fun, fun! Let all organic chemistry professors rejoice! In the meantime, dry, preserve, can, and eat fresh. Do what you can do today in the garden, breathe and enjoy all that creation has to give without putting pressure on yourself. While I ponder this and prioritize, I think I’ll take a break to dig out the pressure canner and pull the big bag of kokanee that Laura and I caught while overnighting at Dworshak Reservoir out of the freezer. I have smoked some (OOOH another fun topic to share) but we love canned kokanee, so that is next on our preservation list. YUM! What are your gardening, foraging and procuring goals as you consider eating healthier and experience summer adventures? What will you do to preserve your harvested goodness? Whatever it is, you can do it!
Under the Palouse Skies: The Era of Drive-In Theaters
One of my fondest childhood memories is going to the drive-in movie theater with my family. On the 45-minute drive, my parents would stop to pick up a Little Caesar’s pizza and let us pick out candy at the Dollar Tree. Once we arrived at the drive-in, we had to look for the best parking spot available where we could get the greatest possible view of the screen. While the previews were showing, my brothers and I would join the other kids on the wooden ship playground and swing set. All the kids rushed back to their respective vehicles once the first movie of the night started. We would never stay awake long enough to watch the second movie. Reminiscing on my drive-in theater memories and experience makes me consider the history of that form of outdoor entertainment.
The first drive-in movie theater appeared in New Jersey in 1933 on ten acres of land and featured the film Wives Beware. The theater was built by Richard Hollingshead, who aimed to create an entertainment space that was accessible to families, particularly those with small children. During the process of creating the first drive-in, Hollingshead also patented the parking logistics for patrons. The original drive-in could accommodate roughly 400 vehicles, and the cost per vehicle was twenty-five cents with an additional twenty-five cents per person in the car. The screen at the theater was 40 feet by 50 feet and utilized a simple projector with speakers on either side of the screen.
After individuals and businesses learned about Hollingshead’s drive-in, they aspired to create their own model, but with some improvements. Patrons had a difficult time hearing Hollinghead’s audio speakers, so others tried to improve that feature. One of the most notable enhancements was the in-car speaker system. Located at each parking space was a wooden post with a speaker. Patrons attached the speaker to the top of the door window and rolled the window up, so the speaker was inside the vehicle. This improvement allowed audiences not only to hear the audio better but also created a more private and intimate viewing setting.
By Kaitlynn Anderson
Another improvement was the addition of a concession stand. Items for purchase included the favorite movie-goer’s snack, popcorn, but also candy, hamburgers, and hotdogs. We might not think too much of having a concession stand available at the movies or other events, however, fast food would not become widely popular until the 1950s. Many drive-ins even added specialty services, such as bottle warming, pony rides, and car washes to enhance the movie-going experience.
By 1958, there were approximately 5,000 drive-ins throughout the country, mostly in rural areas. The demand and growth of driveins throughout the country can be credited to the post-World War II birth of the baby boomer era. As individuals returned from the war and the number of families increased, drive-ins became a family-friendly activity where children could play and be noisy, unlike at a typical sit-down movie theater. Thanks to the enactment of the G.I. Bill in 1944, suburban communities were created outside of urban city centers, which required residents to have vehicles. New vehicles unavailable during the war and unrationed gasoline allowed cars to become more popular and attainable to individuals and families. Traveling to and visiting drive-ins seemed to be a natural fit for the nation post-war. Drive-ins provided a place for families to spend time together, young couples to go on dates, and kids to have mischievous fun. Opportunities were presented for audiences to be social, yet private at the same time. The Palouse was not exempt from the trend of drive-in theaters. Although Moscow did not have any, Pullman had three drive-in theaters. The first drive-in on the Palouse, located on the state border along Airport Road, was the Auto Theatre, later named Varsity Theatre. The drive-in opened on August 4, 1950, and was owned and operated by Edward Metzgar. Some of the amenities included a parking lot to accommodate a total of 466 cars, indoor bathrooms, and a concession stand, which is where most revenue was made. With the success of the drive-in, Metzgar eventually opened four additional drive-ins in Lewiston, Grangeville, Clarkston, and Richland. However, his many business ventures occupied too much of his time and Metzgar sold the Pullman business to Donald and Ellen Boyd in 1960. The Boyd family operated the business by running the concession stand, projecting the films, maintaining the grounds, and selling tickets. Eventually, the drivein closed and was torn down in July 1974 under the ownership of James Ayling. According to an Argonaut article, the drive-in showed adult films the last few years it operated. What was a family-friendly activity had transitioned into one that was for adult eyes only. Many questions come to mind about the legality of showing adult films outdoors, regulation of the films and patrons, and attendance numbers.
Since the Varsity Drive-In proved to be profitable, it wasn’t too long until other drive-ins opened in the area. Closer to downtown Pullman, the Pullman Drive-In opened in 1952 by Russell Tate and Jack Hutchinson. Previously located where the Pullman Trailer Court was, this drive-in is now where Paradise Creek Trailside Taproom and other businesses stand. This drive-in provided different amenities compared to the Varsity Drive-In. For instance, there were only 300 parking spaces, but the screen was the largest in the area, measuring 62 feet tall and 60 feet wide. Even with these changes, the drive-in only remained open for two years. Speculative reasons for its closure could be that the land was too expensive to pay for, there was not enough room to expand since this was a flood plain, or other competing drive-in theaters.
Big Sky Motor Movie opened on present-day Wawawai Road on the outskirts of Pullman in 1953. Operating on leased land, the drive-in was owned by LaVance Weskil, but was eventually sold to Milburn Kenworthy a few years later. Kenworthy, who was known for owning the Kenworthy and Nuart Theaters in downtown Moscow, utilized the manager that Weskil hired to run the drive-in. Big Sky Motor Movie included 475 parking spaces, which was more than both competing Pullman two drive-ins. One of the memorable features that many remember about the drive-in was the cowboy sign at the entrance of the parking lot. Movies continued to play at Big Sky Motor Movie until its closure in 1983. It was the last standing drive-in on the Palouse.
The downfall of local drive-ins followed the national trend of other drive-in closures throughout the country. The decline of drive-in theaters can be credited to the rise in popularity and size of televisions and the creation of videocassette recorders (VCRs). This decrease is reminiscent of the decline of traditional movie theaters today.
Streaming services allow families to watch movies in the comfort of their own homes, allowing ease and rambunctious children in much the same way that drive-ins catered to families. This expansion of technology was not the only cause of the decline of drive-ins. Since most of the theaters were in rural areas, the cost of the land was too expensive to lease as commercial and residential land development was intensifying. Today, there are roughly 300 active drive-in theaters in the United States. It makes one wonder: how long until drive-in theaters are extinct? The nostalgia factor might be the saving grace for the remaining drive-ins, as well as the lower ticket costs compared to a regular movie theater. The rise in screens and use of technology is driving many to seek out these “old fashioned” ways of entertainment reminiscent of another generation.
1. A couple embracing each other in a car. LCHS Photo ID: Rick Jones 0108
2. Entrance of Big Sky Motor Movie. Courtesy of Cinema Treasures.
3. Pullman Drive-In. Courtesy of Greg St. Pierre.
Otis! the Shenanigans Oh,
Episode 30: Twelve Going on Thirty
Temple Kinyon
To anyone walking into the hospital waiting lounge, the man staring into the fireplace on a chilly October afternoon seemed calm. But that man was Otis, and the jumble of emotions rumbling around inside his head and heart were far from calm.
He was going to be a dad. Very soon.
How in the Sam Hill did this happen?! He had turned thirty the day before, and his wife was now currently dozing in a room down the hall, her labor contractions coming and going. He’d slipped away for a minute to regroup. How had life raced by so quickly? It felt like only moments ago that he was spending time with his family, running around with his friends and screaming down Main Street in The Hot Rod. . . on fire.
He chuckled at the memory and let his thoughts wander. They took him down Memory Lane.
Fall 1978. Otis had just turned eight-years-old, two weeks after Grandpa Ed had presented him and his brothers, Otho, Deanie, Cletus, and Chuck, with a momentous gift: an old Craftsman riding lawnmower. In the interest of safety, Ed had removed the mowing deck and explained the idiosyncrasies of the touchy, old Briggs & Stratton engine. He’d also warned that the brakes were a bit unpredictable. “They’re good if you’re going slow, but once you speed up, it’s hit and miss,” he’d explained. “Top speed is 7 m.p.h.”
The five brothers had danced around, elated, and unanimously dubbed it The Hot Rod. Fast forward to the Annual Halloween Night Lighted Parade. Otis had begged his mom to buy him a new costume that year. He’d never had a new one; he’d always had to wear hand-me-downs. She’d relented, and this year he was Dracula, complete with a flowing black velvet cape, fake vampire teeth, and the bright idea to take The Hot Rod through the parade.
He and his sister, Gladys, had decorated The Hot Rod with gobs of orange and black streamers and three fat Jack-o-lanterns placed on the hood. A few weeks prior, the brothers had outfitted The Hot Rod with a large flashlight duct taped to the front of the hood as a headlight and an old “ah-Ooga” horn bolted near the steering wheel. The Hot Rod was parade ready.
On Halloween night, Otis maneuvered The Hot Rod into his assigned parade spot in line—behind the high-school marching band. Using his lighter, he lit the carved pumpkins, and then unsheathed five extra-long sparklers left over from the 4th of July that he’d secretly squirreled away inside his cape. He torched the sparklers and stuck them in a crack behind the seat, hoisted himself onto the seat, and scooted forward enough to keep his cape and hair from catching on fire.
The parade started, and butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he crested the hill of Main Street. He stared down the long slope, and it struck him. The steep hill could create problems if the brakes gave out, but he never thought to abort the mission. He started down the incline, squeezing the “ah-Ooga” horn and waving at the spectators. And just like that, the brakes gave out, and The Hot Rod began to pick up speed. Otis was closing in on the band . . .fast. He frantically honked his horn to warn the band he was coming in hot. Several tuba players turned, only to see the sparkling Halloween Hot Rod barreling toward them. They bailed into the crowd.
Otis knew he was in for the ride of his life—the almost-ninety-degree turn at the bottom of the Main Street hill awaited him. He gripped the steering wheel and dodged left, then right to avoid getting smacked by his three jack-o-lanterns as they flew off the hood and hurtled toward the crowd like flaming severed heads.
The band parted like the Red Sea, giving Otis a pathway. But suddenly, the streamers flowing behind him met up with the sparklers, and POOF, a trail of fire flared behind the fast-moving Craftsman. Marvel, Mavis, Grandpa Ed, and Grandma Helen stood in utter horror, witnessing their Otis streaking down Main Street in a flurry of fire, sparklers, and flowing black cape. “Hold on, Otis!” Grandpa Ed shouted as his grandson whizzed by him.
Otis’s instincts took over. He gripped the steering wheel with all his might, stood up, and leaned into the curve at the bottom of the hill. The Hot Rod cleared the corner balanced on two of the four hard rubber tires, and the sparklers and streamers burnt out with a puff of smoke.
Christmas in July
Otis laughed as he remembered that wild night on The Hot Rod. “What’s so funny?”
Otis jumped in his seat and whirled around to see his older brother Otho standing there with a grin plastered on his face.
“O Bro!” Otis shrieked and jumped up.
The two men hugged for a long time, slapping each other on the back and exclaiming how good it was to see each other.
“What the Sam Hill are you doing here?” Otis said.
“Surprise!” Otho laughed. “We got to Grandma and Grandpa’s last night. We wanted to be here for you guys and meet the baby. Everyone is here, but as the oldest Swan sibling, I ordered the rest of the clan to stay at Mom and Dad’s and hold down the fort. I have to call them the minute the baby comes.”
“Aww, O Bro, it’s great to have you here,” Otis said with a little lump in his throat. “I was just thinking about the flaming Hot Rod.”
Otho started chuckling. “Now, that was funny.”
“I never even got grounded for that,” Otis snorted. “I hope I’m a cool parent like ours are.”
“You’ll do just fine,” Otho assured him. “Just pull up your bigboy Toughskins and dive in.”
Otis smiled. “Speaking of Toughskins,”
The O Bros looked at each other and started cracking up.
“Boy, do I remember that!” Otho giggled.
The two brothers walked down the hall together, taking a stroll down Memory Lane.
Fall 1979. Ed and Otis had sauntered between the clothing racks at Minnie’s Department Store for about twenty seconds before Otis’s eyes landed on a festive red, orange, and gold plaid blazer. He immediately yanked it off the hanger and slid his arms into the soft satin-lined coat. “What do you think about this one,
Ed inspected his grandson. He wanted to laugh out loud at the wild-colored plaid, but he stifled it, not wanting to squash Otis’s excitement. “I think you look mighty sharp.”
Otis rushed off to the tie section and immediately grabbed a red
Ed nodded in approval. “You need pants?”
Minnie stood waiting with a pair of gold Toughskins in one hand, red in the other. “How about one of these?”
Otis grabbed the gold pair and raced to the dressing room. Minnie swiftly grabbed a white dress shirt and scurried behind him. Ed groaned. What in Sam Hill was Minnie thinking? Gold
To say the outfit was flashy would be an understatement. “Wow, Otis, you’re quite festive,” Ed smiled as Otis showed off in the dressing room area. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“It’s exactly what I want,” Otis stated. “I want to look my best for the concert since I’m the third-grade conductor.”
“Oh, Otis!” Minnnie breathed. “Congratulations! Such exciting news. I’ll go get started on ringing you up.” She smiled and
The school Christmas concert was the event of the season. The entire district—first grade through twelfth grade—gathered in the gymnasium to sing and bring in the holiday season. Miss Hampton, the music teacher, selected a student from each grade to conduct their class’s songs. The honor signified that the student conductor had paid attention, listened, and shown respect during the rehearsals. To say Otis was shocked to get selected-
-would be yet another understatement. Carla and Angela from his class had shook their heads in disbelief.
“You never listen!” Carla had whined.
“Yeah, you never show respect, either,” Angela had lamented. Otis had just shrugged and took in the praises from all the guys in his class.
Ed walked up to the register. Mavis is going to kill me. Gold pants?! But Otis’s look of pure joy had melted Ed’s heart. His youngest grandson would certainly be the stand-out at the school Christmas concert.
The next evening before the concert and after consuming three bowls of homemade chili and four pieces of cornbread, Otis ran upstairs to don his new clothes. He’d selected his white Converse sneakers to finish out his sporty look.
When the Swan family arrived at the gym that night, it was humming with excitement. The massive half-circle of risers faced the audience, and when the students marched in single file, class by class, and took their designated spots on the risers, the din settled. Grandpa Ed immediately spied Otis. It wasn’t hard. The other third-grade boys wore either white dress shirts or collared polo shirts with dark jeans or slacks. And no ties. If Otis’s goal was to stand out, he’d accomplished it in spades.
Miss Hampton walked in front of the audience. The crowd hushed. “Welcome to the all-class Christmas concert. I’ve carefully selected pieces to kick off Christmas in style. I’ve also carefully selected this year’s class conductors, and for the finale, I will select one of those children to lead the entire group for our last song. Enjoy the show!”
The first graders stumbled through two songs, and the second graders slogged through theirs. Finally, the third graders were on. Otis confidently made his way down the risers to the music stand in front. He took a small bow, with one arm folded across his stomach and the other stretched out. Ed laughed out loud. The kid has style, that’s for sure.
Otis turned to the music stand and took Miss Hampton’s precious baton in his hand. He tapped the stand, started to lift his arms into the air, but dropped the baton. It clattered onto the wooden floor. Oh, no! Not Miss Hampton’s baton! He dashed to retrieve it, embarrassment filling him.
And that’s when it happened. All the chili Otis had eaten for dinner concocted into a situation, that, when he bent over to grab the baton, released itself into the air for all to hear.
BBBRRRAAAAAAAAAAPPP!
It slipped out before he could even attempt to stop it. He quickly snatched the baton, jumped up, tapped the music stand, and flicked his eyes at Mrs. Himmel at the piano. She was laughing so hard, the first few notes to Jingle Bells were clunkers, but she recovered, and the third grade wailed into the tune, as Otis conducted with gusto.
Otis spied Clark, his best friend, and started giggling and in doing so, sped up his conducting motions to the point that Mrs. Himmel couldn’t keep up with the children. Finally, the song ended in a speedy jumble of “aonehorseopensleighHEY!” The audience rippled with clapping and snickering, but Otis didn’t care. A fart was always, always funny.
With confidence, he tapped the music stand again, nodded at Mrs. Himmel—who was still laughing all the way—and his classmates plunged into Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. When they finished, Otis turned and stretched his arms out, as if to shout out, “Taaadaaaa! The Third Grade!”
The audience’s applause and laughter filled the cavernous space. Otis scampered back into his spot amongst his classmates. Carla and Angela looked at him with utter disgust, but the rest of his classmates whispered praises.
After all the classes had performed, Miss Hampton stood up to announce the all-class conductor, but before she could utter a word, the community stood with applause and cheers, a few chanting, “Otis! Otis! Otis!” When the din settled, she thanked them profusely. “It gives me great pleasure to announce our final song’s conductor. . .” She paused, maybe for emphasis, maybe from disbelief of what she was about to say. “Mr. Otis Swan.”
The audience erupted into a frenzy. Otis made his way back down to the music stand, took his signature bow, turned, picked up the baton, and tapped the stand. Mrs. Himmel played the beginning of Deck the Halls.
The glorious notes of practiced harmony and melody enveloped the gymnasium with warmth. Otis waved his arms in fluid motions, adding flourishes here and there for effect. Fa la la la la, la la la la never sounded so good.
As with any student body, if given an opportunity for mischief, they will jump in with reckless abandon. And armed with the ability to whisper a secret in lightning speed, they can conspire, knowing that the severity of any potential punishment was always less if they were all in it together.
That little imp probably sealed the deal on her becoming the new
Director of Arts
When the final few verses of Deck the Halls arrived, a distinct crescendo ensued from all twelve classes.
“Troll the ancient Yuletide carol. . .”
Otis’s arms wildly flailed. Here it comes! The big finish!
“Fart la la la la, la la la laaaaaa!”
The entire gymnasium exploded to their feet in a tidal wave of applause and laughter. Miss Hampton also stood with a shocked look on her face. Who knew her Christmas miracle might be Otis Swan and his voluminous digestive issue? That little imp probably sealed the deal on her becoming the new Director of Arts for the entire school district.
Otis and Otho laughed so hard they had to lean against the wall.
“Oh, Otis!” Otho breathed. “You were so funny that night! Miss Hampton got that job all because you ate too much chili.”
The O Bros broke out in another fit of roaring.
Otis finally caught his breath. “Come on, we better go see how my wife is doing.”
They reached the room and peeked in.
“Oh, Otis,” his wife said. “I just woke up with a contraction. Guess we’re starting in again.” She noticed Otho. “Oh, Otho! I had no idea you were coming!”
Otho walked over and hugged his sister-in-law.
“It was a surprise. The whole family, like the whole family, is here, all thirty-something of them. I insisted everyone stay at the house.”
“Thank you,” she said, with a look of relief. “Not that I don’t love your family.”
“Oh, I get it. They’re a bit much most of the time,” Otho said and winked. “Otis and I were just reminiscing about his childhood.”
“I love hearing Otis shenanigans,” she said.
Otis settled next to her on the hospital bed and kissed her forehead. He gazed into her eyes; his love displayed as a dopey look on his face.
“Tell me a story,” she cooed.
Otis thought for a moment. “There was the time Grandpa Ed helped me shellack the sledding hill with ice.” Otis snorted a giggle as he remembered his siblings and cousins—but not him and Grandpa Ed—careening off the icy monster. There’s nothing funnier than seeing someone launched into the air.
“Heard it,” she said.
“How about another launching memory, only this time, Otis was the launch-ee,” Otho piped up. “Remember when you and Chuck became members of the Hooky Bobbing Club?”
I love hearing Otis shenanigans,” she said.
“Heard it,” the mom-to-be said. “Come on. There’s got to be Otis shenanigans I haven’t heard. Oh!” She started in on a contraction. Otis’s tummy did a little flip-flop when he watched her breathe through the pain. He coached her, and again realized that he would be a father soon. Will I be a cool and calm dad, like mine? Impish and full of love, like Grandpa Ed? Or like Otho, running after his five kids to and from school events and sports, like a maniac?
“Otis, you have the dumbest lovey-dovey look on your face,” Otho said, and he pretended to throw up. “Ha. Ha,” Otis shot back.
“How about the shenanigan where Otis almost got shot stealing fruit?”
Contraction gone, Otis’s wife sat up in bed. “I have not heard that one.”
Otis rolled his eyes.
Otho shot him a look that said be quiet. “It all started with a guy’s camping trip with Dad, Grandpa, me, Deanie, Cletis, Chuck, and Otis.”
“However,” Ed continued. “We need dessert.” The light from the fire danced across his expression, and his bushy eyebrows created shadows on his forehead that made him appear almost devilish. Marvel chuckled. “I bet I know what you’re thinking.”
The five boys knew, too, and jumped out of their chairs and ran toward a rickety barbed-wire fence about one hundred yards beyond the trees that established the property line between the Swan’s land and Farmer Ralph’s.
It was rumored that Farmer Ralph would shoot his 12-guage shotgun at anyone stealing fruit from his orchard, which made the escapade exciting and dangerous.
Each brother held the barbed wires for the other to get through to the orchard.
Marvel and Ed piled into Ed’s pickup and slowly crept toward the fence to wait and watch. “So, is Ralph around?” Marvel asked. Ed snickered. “Oh, he’s around.”
“The boys haven’t figured it out, have they?” Marvel inquired. “Nope, not even Otho,” Ed snorted.
Marvel leaned out the pickup window. “Be quick! I don’t want to explain to your mother why you have buckshot in your butts!”
Ed parked just short of the fence and flicked on the headlights to illuminate the dark shadows created by a dense orchard. Five Swans perched in five different cherry trees, methodically picking as many bulbous red rounds as possible. They deposited the fruit in their shirts, folded up like baskets, revealing their tummies.
“Hurry up!” Ed ordered. “Farmer Ralph will shoot you if he catches you pilfering his precious cherries!” He winked at Marvel and grabbed the CB radio mic. Volume down, he said in a low tone, “Breaker, breaker, this here’s Old Yeller lookin’ for Ralph Malph, come back.”
“Hey, Old Yeller,” a voice came over the radio.
“I see some varmints in your orchard,” Ed said quietly. “How’s about you let ‘em know they’re not welcome around your fruit?”
“I’ll grab my shotgun.” Ralph’s house sat only about two hundred yards from the edge of the orchard, giving him a front-row seat to the action.
“Let ‘er rip anytime,” Ed snickered. He returned the mic to its hook and nestled back in his seat. “I think I’m going to like this here CB thingy. It’s handy for more than just farming.”
A loud and distinct BANG suddenly sliced through the twilight. “BOYS! Get your butts outta there!” Ed shouted, suppressing a laugh.
Deanie, Cletis, and Chuck dropped out of their trees and bounded at break-neck speed through the grass to the fence. Deanie held on to his shirt bulging with cherries and, with the other hand, held up one of the fence wires wide enough for Cletis and Chuck to duck through. Chuck did the same for Deanie. They reached Ed’s pickup out of breath but faces lit with exhilaration.
“Wow, that sounded close,” Ed breathed, faking his worry.
Summer 1983. The old canvas tent stood enormous, nestled among the trees, set up with cots for Ed and Marvel and sleeping bags for the boys. Away from the overhang of the trees, camping chairs circled a campfire where cleaned and filleted fresh-caught fish sizzled in cast iron pans, and several large potatoes wrapped in tinfoil snuggled in the coals. All the condiments needed, including a supersized container of bacon bits, sat on the picnic table. The men feasted, and when finished, Ed leaned back in his lawn chair, rubbed his belly, and burped loudly. “That, gentlemen, was a meal fit for kings.”
Marvel and the boys agreed.
“Where’re Otho and Otis?” Marvel asked, also feigning concern.
“Dunno,” Deanie breathed. “It was every man for himself once Farmer Ralph started shooting.”
BANG!
Ed suddenly spied two faces illuminated in his high beams and yelled out, “Kick it in gear! That’s Ralph behind his 12-guage.”
Ed and Marvel stifled their laughter as they watched Otho and Otis run hell-bent for leather toward the fence. Otho slid between two of the barbed wires as Otis scurried behind him. Thinking Otis had cleared the fence, too, Otho scooted toward the pickup.
BOOM!
Another shot by Ralph made even Ed jump in his seat. Otho made it to the truck, breathing heavily. “Safe!”
“Uh, you left a man behind,” Marvel stated.
Otho turned his attention back to the fence and spied his youngest brother flailing about, snagged on the wire.
“Helllpppp!” Otis shouted. “I’m stuck! I’m gonna get shot!
Otho rolled his eyes in exasperation, and quickly deposited his cherries into an empty bucket sitting on the tailgate of Ed’s pickup. “Leave it to Little O Bro to get stuck, for crying out loud!” He raced back to help Otis.
“That’s it, Otho,” Ed encouraged. “O Bros for life and all!” KABOOOOM!
Another shot rang out, and Ed and Marvel watched as Otho worked franticly to free Otis’s soda-stained t-shirt. Fighting a losing battle, he finally ripped the shirt, freeing Otis. They sprinted to the pickup.
“I thought I was gonna die!” Otis exclaimed. “But look! I didn’t drop one cherry!”
“A successful mission, men,” Ed stated to the boys. “Let’s go eat your plunder.”
The boys piled in the back of the pickup and began eating cherries. A spit-the-cherry-pit-at-your-brother war ensued, and Marvel closed the back window so none would come zipping into the cab.
Otis’s wife laughed. “Now, that’s funny!”
Just about that time, the doctor rushed in.
“That’s my cue to go get a cup of coffee,” Otho said. “Good luck! I’ll be in the waiting room. Oh, Otis, when they hand you the baby, don’t drop it.”
“Ha. Ha,” Otis said as Otho left the room.
While the doctor examined the situation, Otis reflected. He was one lucky guy. His parents and grandparents were all still alive, still living at the farm in their respective homes, and still just as fun and funny . . . just a little slower.
He was excited to tell his new son or daughter about growing up as a farm kid—family get-togethers, sledding parties, camping at the Hollow, and living the small-town life. He’d share his stories: the infamous haircut, nailing himself to a board, blowing up Grandma’s washtub with cherry bombs, sleeping over at Ed and Helen’s and watching Wonderful World of Disney with his siblings. The memories flooded into Otis’s brain, one after the other. It seemed just like yesterday when he and Grandpa Ed went to pick out a puppy and ended up with three. He watched his wife, marveling at her strength and calmness.
“We’re ready!” the doctor exclaimed.
Otis positioned himself at the head of the bed. “Push!” the doctor instructed. “Come on, Carla! Push!” Carla.
Carla?
CARLA?!!
“Nooooooooo!” Otis wrestled awake and shot up in his bed so quickly, he smacked his head on the bunk bed above. “Owww!”
“Dude,” Chuck barked from across the room. “I’m tryna sleep!”
“Nightmare! Awful, awful, horrible nightmare!”
“What happened?” Chuck asked.
“Not what,” Otis shouted, as he rubbed his head. “Who!”
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