A couple of years ago, I wrote about how Tony and I were going to live like his dad did- the amazing philosophy of just “enjoying your own backyard.” What’s funny about that is we’ve really tried to do just that- even though a few years ago our deck seemingly rotted overnight and Tony and our great friend Dwight rebuilt it and created the retro deck of my dreams! Still, I find it difficult to just get out there and enjoy. Sometimes I focus on the things I don’t like- for instance our grass hasn’t grown back around the construction zone. The remaining lawn always needs to be mowed. The garden is always full of weeds… you get my point. The same goes for camping- especially if we’re taking Henrietta- our 1967 Airstream. Sometimes I feel like I have to have it totally cleaned and ready to go. To have everything right BEFORE I can enjoy life.
I’ve been thinking about this mindset and how quickly it spreads to other things. Sometimes I’ll struggle starting on the magazine unless I feel really confident, which guess what- almost never happens. I’ve really begun to learn that you truly have to just dive in and get started, no matter what it looks like. While I’m proud of our progress of being outside more last year, I’m happy to report we’ve got an even earlier start on enjoying things by just throwing a few snacks in the car- maybe a metal detector or two and seeing where the day takes us. I love this because it reminds me of how life should be lived! Yeah, there’s always laundry to fold. The garage always needs cleaning. The other day I wrote in my journal that the opposite of this could be that my house is spotless because I spent time on cleaning and not finding a 1930’s lipstick metal detecting (that we actually found and it was still totally red lol). Tony’s been inspiring me by having tons of easy camping food ready and being willing to seriously just jump in the car to take a new route- ride our bikes, sample a different restaurant, whatever is on the agenda!
The truth is that summertime is the best time for just getting out of your own head. Sometimes I feel we become so trapped in our own thinking that we forget to live- because often the first steps of getting out of our own way are laced with fear or uncertainty. When Laura wrote about adventure a few issues ago, it reminded me of the times Tony and I have just faced the open road, even with some strange side quests. One of our funniest memories will always be a terrible motel on the road to Idaho from California when we first moved here. We were at the base of Mt. Shasta and were absolutely exhausted. I had just towed Henrietta in my 1998 4-Runner (which was already a stretch) down a huge grade. We couldn’t find a hotel that would let us stay with our two cats and the Airstream was still a mouse hotel we hadn’t remodeled. Finally, a “motel” that shall not be named was suggested very weakly. Let’s just say we had to pay extra for bedding and at one point there was a cat in our room that wasn’t ours. To this day, we laugh out loud when we talk about it.
I hope this inspires you to just throw your sunglasses on, take the adventure, board the plane, or break out the carrots and ranch or whatever snack you love on your own porch while the weeds blow in the wind. There is no perfect set time because it’s not about the setting, it’s the happy heart you bring to it. So no matter how you feel, I encourage you to enjoy your summer. To be a little messy. To be brave. To be willing to smile, laugh and make memories. And if you have to spend a little extra money to get a motel comforter to keep you and a weird cat warm, so be it.
One of my neon tetras failed to make a showing at this morning’s roll-call. My first reaction was to determine how I was at fault. Tracing back my actions since the last sighting of the tiny fish proved that I was innocent. My conscience was clear. Searching for the lifeless body, I was happy to discover the little loafer was merely hidden in the aquarium cave sleeping late.
The event made me think about my conscience, such a strange alarm system built into my wires. I can tell when it is clear and when it is troubled but where did it come from? If my conscience is indeed a cocktail of emotions, experiences and intuition all swirled, shaken or stirred to create my moral compass, then I soberly wonder what has created this unique internal system.
If I act with kindness and protective intent, I know my conscience remains clear. My upbringing leaned heavily on the golden rule and I try to always treat others as I would like to be treated. I have failed on occasion and am quick to make amends when I realize my shortcomings. There are also past actions that weigh heavy on my conscience that I did not know at the time would cause everlasting regrets. Of those, I can only hope to someday find self-forgiveness. In my mature years the most central focus of my conscience seems to be tethered securely to the natural world. Crimes against nature can not be amended with a heartfelt conversation. I would say I am an advocate for sustainable practices to maintain my clear conscience. I consider my actions purposefully to allow the best stewardship for the earth, its people and creatures. This includes eating habits, gardening practices and what corporations I will or will not support with my dollars if I have an option. But when did I become this radical nature lover?
I know I was irresistibly drawn by curiosity to wide open spaces. At about four years old I escaped my cousin’s supervision and scurried on little legs down a hill to the forbidden creek behind my uncle’s house. I had no desire to capture, only to watch, one of those fascinating water skippers. My pedal pusher pants were stained with the black organic-rich creek mud and I was scolded sufficiently to ruin that outing so not sure if that was a piece of the puzzle. It wasn’t the day I boarded a crowded YMCA day camp bus full of riotous little rascals to identify plants in an undeveloped natural area. Although I did learn from the counselor applying it, that the juice of a fresh bracken fern could ease the sting of a nettle that had whipped me across the face. No, the siren spell of the untamed environment came a bit later, probably about the time I graduated from grade school, declaring my arrival to maturity and independence. I was truly a liberated free-spirit. My words. My mother’s words may have been “wildly headstrong”. After stating our differing opinions, I often just did what I was going to do anyway. But I will save those stories for future entertainment. Today I want to reflect on the outing that seems to be pertinent to my conscience being born, a baptism of sorts, in nature’s profound beauty.
I was not at all happy to give up a weekend to drive out of Seattle to the Olympic Peninsula with my mom. I had hoped to spend it with my two best friends staying up all night talking about stuff like what we would do when we became omniscient teenagers and how all three of us had a crush on Mr. Hermes, our sixth grade teacher. My mom was sure we would have time to talk about those important things another time and agreed to host a future sleepover to accommodate a two day summit meeting. I accepted her counter offer, grabbed my newest MAD magazine, stuffed some warm clothes into a laundry bag and Mom and I boarded the Buick. Due to the destination, my mom was in a pair of men’s dungarees and a plaid shirt. I liked it when she dressed like that. It was not her daily attire, always encouraging me to dress like a lady. School days meant dress codes and girls still measured required skirt lengths from the knee. I was not fond of any of it. Purses, dress shoes, curly hair were not to my liking and her pleading was lost on me. I never thought about it, maybe our “grub day” attire was a reason why I liked going for long rides with her. I kind of liked being Mom’s co-pilot when she announced, “Let’s go for a ride!” It meant we would be cruising some back road watching things go by and not engaged in a battle of wills except for control of the radio stations, a ritual of our drives. I would quickly turn the knob until I heard a top ten hit, and she would sneak the knob back to something she could sing to when I was messing with my wing window or reaching in the back for a pop.
The heavy traffic lightened as we rolled farther out of the cities and once we passed over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge the cars continued to dwindle with each mile. I hated going over that bridge because mom would always recount seeing the original one collapsing into Puget Sound during a storm. I really didn’t want that image in my head and rarely looked down at the water below. The houses along the roadside mixed with thick woods as we got closer to the 620,000 acres of the very green Olympic National Forest. My mother’s sense of navigation always astounded me and her turns at strange landmarks soon brought us to a sign mentioning no motors on the lake. Her familiarity with back roads had a lot to do with driving all over Washington State before freeways were layed like ribbons past the little communities where she grew up. I am thinking now that maybe she had discovered a lot of territory in her “wild” days. The destination of Woody’s shack on Lake Carney was announced on a weathered and dripping wooden sign down a short bumpy road of deep mud holes and moss covered trees. Three cars were already parked helter-skelter and woodsmoke coming from a crooked tin-man type stovepipe was further confirmation the cabin was occupied. I was restless in my seat by now from Orange Crush, Twinkies and Cheetos and arrived at our destination flinging the heavy car door open, ready to run a marathon.
Mom directed me to carry some stuff to the two room dwelling perched on a muddy slope. Not much to see from the outside. The trace of paint suggested the brush hadn’t touched it in the last hundred years. Up a few mossy steps with a wobbly rail, the door opened into a crowded kitchen of grownups sitting shoulder to shoulder in aluminum frame lawn chairs crowded around a rusty old wood stove, pocked from a longtime leaky roof. The floor was stacked with Coleman coolers carried in by all the men in their Filson plaid jackets and wet boots. I squeezed by them to deposit the pillows and blankets into the sleeping room made up of so many beds there was no walking space between them. I climbed up and over to one by the door and through wavy windows that-
-ran the length of the cabin wall I could see that the edge of the lake was just a short distance below. Mom joined the two women tending to some tantalizing stew on the hot stove but the smell of wet wool and Camel cigarettes competed to overpower it. Since there were no one else’s kids to awkwardly meet, I was off the hook and out the door to go explore until dusk. There was a sense of liberation listening to the sound of only my feet on the path along the quiet lake. I was no stranger to group hikes at summer camps and school field trips but this was a new experience. I was not being supervised, herded or acknowledged. My chosen direction was up to me. The tempo of my steps and length of occasional stops were guided by my own free will. The surroundings had no tall buildings, streets or traffic. Across the lake I could see a few other cabins spaced far apart from one another and none in the cove I was exploring. The water was clear enough to see tiny minnows darting in schools near the mushy bottom and the muddy shore recorded visiting raccoon prints heading back into the trees. I circled back as the bats were arriving, imagining the Hitchcock-like horror of one getting tangled in my hair. Back near the cabin I sat on a stump to squeeze out each moment of freedom before Mom’s voice would herald my name to come inside. I noticed there were two oars near the aluminum boat beached at the shoreline. A master plan emerged. I quickly ran to the car and got the pole and tackle box that I remembered Mom brought and put them near the side of the boat for the morning. Mom was just opening the door to call me when I greeted her at the steps. The soup had to be served before dark so the lanterns could light the poker game. The rise and fall of surly grown-ups voices was something I had learned to fall asleep to and even found the crescendos kind of melodious. Dreamland awaited me, and so did that rowboat.
My eyes opened as dawn’s light could just barely be perceived. Glancing motionless across the room of sleeping mounds of blankets, rising and falling with snores in several different keys, I detected no one to be awake yet but me. I had slept fully dressed so ever so quietly I crept outside and committed my first-time, and I think only time, offense of “sneaking out”. I wasn’t sure if it counted as an act of juvenile delinquency but the urge was just too strong to resist. My alibi would be solid since I wasn’t supposed to play with fire and that shady cabin was going to be freezing until a grown-up got up to get that stove glowing again.
I stood briefly at the shoreline looking up for a sign of sunlight through the thick gray blanket nesting upon the lake but had scant hope it was going to burn through. There was a slowly swirling mist attached to the surface of the still, silent lake as I pushed the back of the borrowed boat out into it. Trusting that grown-ups would count heads and figure out there was a connection between one missing boat and one missing kid, I stepped in and pushed off with slow and strong nudges with the oars. Disturbing the soft bottom of the lake made swirls of fine silt. I sat down cautiously on the cushion wet with condensation and trying not to make a lot of noise with the rattley oarlocks, I rowed slowly toward the middle of the lake. The wall of mist was hypnotic as it moved with me and around me, the cabin disappearing from sight. I stopped rowing and just sat balancing the oars and let the boat hesitate in the dense cloud. I drifted for a time, expecting to see or hear another boat but only sensed-
-space and water. I could see the bottom of the lake and knew the shore was not close but recognized a partially submerged tree I’d seen the day before so I could tell I was near the cove just around the bend from the cabin. The cabins across the lake were still veiled. My senses could not detect one single thing outside of the boat that was made by man. I was suspended in an immersive experience in the elements of the natural world. I had traveled alone in my imagination to places far from the madding crowds but this was real. I was really on my own, one on one with nature, invited into a sanctuary for my own private showing.
The spell began lifting with the rising mist. The surrounding trees took shape as it thinned. The echo of an axe splitting wood danced across the sleepy lake and I could see the outline of a cabin. I returned to my conscious thoughts and remembered I was sitting in a boat. With the sacred silence broken, it seemed alright to make some bumping noises so I kneeled at the back of the boat and attached my fishing pole to the holder to troll the length of the lake. The calm surface of the water drew my fingers to swish in the mirrored image of the morning and I couldn’t find an ounce of interest in dropping the flatfish lure into it. I left the pole mounted but just as a decoy to give my presence on the lake legitimacy and continued on my voyage. The oars kept a metronome-like cadence to my unhurried adagio and the tiny droplets falling from their tips diffracted the skin of the water surface and joined the lazy wake trailing behind my boat. From my central vantage point, each isolated cabin now showed signs of movement and sounds of activity. The smell of woodsmoke and bacon frying added another dimension of pleasure to the already idyllic saturation of my senses. A protective dog barked when I came within view of the large cabin at the far end of the lake. I dropped my lure into the water and quietly trolled for the gentle row back. I had caught my limit before reaching the end of the lake where I had begun. I didn’t want to end my excursion but dispersing a few paddling ducks, I ran the boat up on shore anyway. Looking up at the cabin, woodsmoke was just starting to curl up into the treetops and a lone figure splitting wood out back suggested the other sleeping bodies were only just starting to move around.
I have no other memories of the rest of that trip with Mom. A photo in the family album tagged ‘Carney Lake’ shows me posed with a tray of cleaned trout and an impish grin but the lasting picture I have in my mind of that amazing morning alone with nature has never faded. I had drifted where time and place had disappeared, delighting in an intimate invitation given only to me. The experience unveiled a peaceful beauty I could hardly grasp that perhaps shaped a young heart and mind for a lifetime. I think I consummated my love affair with nature in that cherished memory and like any love story, I want no harm to come to her.
Conscience, I think, originates in our brain and heart. Loosely, the latin base is translated as knowledge with oneself. This suggests that each person has a sense of self awareness based upon knowledge within us and continues to develop through our experiences. I have gained knowledge and become conscious of things along the way, but this part of me is different from my consciousness. I have fainted and experienced loss of-
“Things can only be viewed with the optimism of a child if we carry that rare light”
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-consciousness but it would take a completely hostile takeover of my heart and soul to lose my conscience. This connection is largely my identity and can’t be easily swayed by opposing views of others. It can be the lone bellow that will halt many a search for compromise when I allow it a voice. But how can I be so sure to trust it? What if it is wrong? We all have so many different perspectives, priorities and opinions. I want to be cautious and mindful before I have set mine in stone, I constantly ask why?, what? and where the heck did that come from? The source can be hidden in our subconscious and sometimes hard to find in simple self-reflection. I don’t have access to hypnosis or inkblot tests but tarot card interpretations can reveal hidden thoughts. A reading should not be used to predict the future but merely a tool to help share my thoughts with myself. Remember, “con science”, knowledge with oneself. I recently acquired a deck with animal images and when I viewed the image of a sea otter, my reaction was oddly protective. It came from a place beyond knowing of their near extinction for prized pelts. I believe it was because while living in Alaska I had witnessed these and other innocent creatures become ensnared in the flotilla of plastic 6-pack rings floating in their waters and submerged nets abandoned by careless fishermen. I am sure my experiences there further shaped my empathy and love of nature and its creatures. The breathtaking spectacle of a humpback whale as it breeches in the waters of its stunning world is breathtaking every time, leaving a lasting impression and an ardent hope for the oceans to survive humanity’s impact.
Sometimes I wonder if this empathy could also come from intuition or an inherited conscience. Perhaps this wellspring of passion for nature lives in my spirit from my ancient roots to cave dwellers or the First Nations or Metis people, infused in my subconscious. I believe the early ones could hear the sound and vibrations of the earth. We have lost such sensitivities, however I find a soothing balance in this translation of a Navajo chant;
“The mountains, I become a part of it—-the herb, the fir tree, I become a part of it. The morning mists, the clouds gathering waters—-I become a part of it.”
Intuition has been described as innate knowledge and even poetically as the whisper of the soul. I have no proof that communication between soul and body is factual, only that I have experienced the conviction of a gut feeling many times that did not come from my conscious mind and proved to be correct. I think in today’s evolving customs and culture it is increasingly more difficult to connect with the natural law of things. Natural law is defined as the theory that there is a universal moral code derived from nature and human nature rather than societal rules, according to Wikipedia.
“The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.” Albert Einstein
As a child, it was easy to picture the cartoon image of the tiny voice of our conscience perched on our shoulder and grabbing our ear. Things can only be viewed with the optimism of a child if we carry that rare light. In a world so much larger than I could have possibly comprehended as a child, the part I play today seems so small. In my collected years as an observer I have witnessed-
-more than a wee dram of atrocities that could coax empathy from a stone. I cannot change the direction of evolution or influence the elements driving humanity. All I can do is attempt to retain my own clear conscience and trust that others will also. A Greek historian noted the power of conscience in a quote back around 200 BCE;
“There is no witness so dreadful, no accuser so terrible as the conscience that dwells in the heart of every man.” Polybius
May and June promise warmth, sunshine and serenity as nature has shaken off her winter coat and stepped barefoot out into the clearing to be viewed in her glory. It is a grand time to reflect on our profound relationship with her. Civilizations have long celebrated with festivals as pagan rituals reflected our umbilical connection to the Earth Mother. From ancient Celtic cultures, druid rituals to honor the natural world were performed in forests with lore remaining documented only in memorized verses, not committed to writing…you know, like no traces on twitter or instagram. In time there were forces unwilling to allow such primitive beliefs and by the 7th century many pagan rituals began to fade. Luuma is the Mayan word for Mother Earth. In ancient Greek mythology, Gaia is the name given to the ancestral mother of all life and the personification of earth. On our own continent, tracing back languages from the indigenous tribes, the unique words for nature encompass all living things, with little separation of plants, animals and people. The earth is a spiritual presence to be honored, not mastered. The very relationship to the earth and to each other is divine and sacred. The same is found in Hawaiian lore. The earth, “aina”, is interconnected with its people. The concept of this deep love and respect for the land is Aloha ‘Aina (love of the land) and remains their sacred source of spiritual connection and sacred sustenance. I relate deeply to all of these beliefs. I do not identify as a naturalist, a pantheist, a pagan, a druid, or a Wiccan. I am not a radical greenie or an environmental activist with a centralized cause. As someone who has a profound respect for the full scope of nature and tries to make decisions based on reason, empathy and concern for human beings and other sentient life forms, I guess that makes me a humanist. I continue to believe human kindness to be the root of humanity and my conscience craves compassion toward our world and each other.
My conscience is given a voice in melodies of songbirds when I cross their migratory paths and chirping robins in the early morning. It stirs in the dry pungent scent of prairie sage and grasses born only with the powerful warmth of Father Sun. It counts the colors in the delicate color wheel of desert cacti blooms following hard spring rains. It swims and dives in the leagues of underwater worlds that illuminate every color imaginable in the darting creatures of fin and gills. It is quenched by the pure crystal clear water in a high mountain lake and blinks at the artistry of wildflowers gracing mountain meadows as the harsh winter retreats. My conscience is nourished by the wonders of nature.
“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.”
Rachel Carson
Tell Your Story
The prairie’s hot breath scalded its way across the plains. Harriet shielded her eyes from the bright sun as she watched the tall prairie grass bend and bow to the heat of the breeze. Strands of escaped hair, a deep auburn color, whipped across her face, making her squint and reach to tuck the wayward locks behind her ears. Her long cotton dress flapped around the black tops of shoes that were not made for a long trek over uneven ground, but they had to suffice. Despite the heat, Harriet breathed deeply and enjoyed being free of the confines of the Conestoga wagon she’d been forced to ride in for long hours…because of what had happened earlier.
Native American warriors had been paralleling the wagon train that lumbered west from Illinois, heading for the Wallowa Valley in Oregon. The Natives peacefully allowed the pioneers to pass through their land. Harriet hated riding in the jostling wagon—it made her stomach unsettled—and much preferred to walk and be out in the open air. Harriet dutifully stayed close to the wagon train for safety. One afternoon, the natives veered from the nearby ridge and rode toward the wagon train. Unease was their companion as the pioneers did not know the warriors’ intentions. Through hand signals and interpretations by the wagon master, the men who gathered understood the message. The wagon master, his creased face anything but relaxed, called for Mr. Hull Tower and informed him that the man standing in front of them was a chief in his tribe and that he had seen Mr. Tower’s daughter and wanted to buy her for his wife. Mr. Tower conveyed a reply that his daughter was not for sale. The chief persisted, asking how much she would cost. Shocked and incredulous, Hull spoke, without understanding what he was really saying, that it would take two hills of horses. The native chief turned to mount his horse and rode off with his entourage. Mr. Tower released a relieved puff of breath.
The next afternoon, a cloud of dust boiled on the horizon. Mr. Tower’s heart clutched as he saw a continuous stream of horses flow over the hill like a swarm of ants. Understanding smacked him across his face. He yelled for Harriet to get in the wagon and hide. Heart pounding furiously, not really knowing what was going on but fearing the ominous beat of hooves heading her way, she crawled into the back of their wagon and burrowed under some quilts, even though the heat suffocated her.
Later, around the campfire, and semi-protected by the circled-up wagons, Hull told how he had to communicate to the warrior chief that he had unwittingly set a price on his daughter’s life, never imagining the man would take him seriously or have the resources to pay what Hull considered an unrealistic amount. Mr. Tower had to look the warrior in the eye and let him know it was a mistake. The chief was angry. Mr. Tower was worried. Harriet and her mother, Sarah, were terrified.
Days passed, blown along with the prairie wind, and all had been peaceful and uneventful. No one had even sighted the Indians. Harriet begged to go to the nearby creek that was flanked by a scattering of willow bushes to get some water. Her parents relented. Harriet stood, enjoying the freedom of space and looking all around. Time to get some water in her pail. She squatted down and splashed the bucket into the stream, filling it with cool water.
Straightening, she heard some whisper of a sound and turned. Her brain registered what was happening even as the pail hit the ground, the parched earth quickly gulping down the spilled liquid.
Time stood still. Almost. A loop at the end of a rope flew toward Harriet. The chief was attached to the other end. The lasso settled over her head, marching down her arms where it would tighten and capture her. Instinctively, she threw her arms up, flipping the invading constraint off over her head. She screamed and ran.
Erch! Hard stop. I was having fun being creative and writing the story from what my husband could recall, and from what he remembered hearing as a kid. He even wrote a story about it for an assignment in junior high English class. I thought I had the actual account somewhere in my boxes of family heritage information, and I finally found it. I was close. Harriet did, in fact, get motion sickness and that is why she wasn’t in the wagon. The story, written later by their son, stated that she “drove the bunch of loose cattle behind the wagon train.”
A chief did follow the wagon train and, perhaps allured by Harriet’s beautiful and unique auburn-colored hair, asked the trail boss how many ponies it would take to buy the girl. The response was twenty-five ponies, what he thought was beyond what the chief would want to pay. I was only a little off! Two hills of horses… twenty-five. When the captain refused, the warriors upped the price but left empty-handed. The next day, Harriet was again driving the cows and this is when the loop of the lasso dropped over her head. To quote from the first-hand account, “For several days the Indians followed, threatening and peering into the wagons in an effort to locate the girl, who was kept well concealed till the train was well beyond the territory of those Indians.” I need to always check my facts! It is important to pass on accurate family stories. What a treasure we have since someone wrote down these stories. If they hadn’t taken the time, the history would be lost forever.
I love family stories! This one is from my husband, Trent’s, side. Wow. Can you imagine? One of my favorites from my side of the family is how my great-grandmother Effy Duff Roseberry saved the family china by holding down the dishware cabinet during the infamous 1906 San Francisco Earthquake. The set is delicate dinnerware with a vignette of shine around the edges and a beautifully painted stem of roses in the center. I know because I have one of the plates—perhaps the only surviving piece. It made it through a major earthquake, but not me as a child. Unfortunately, I had a proclivity for accidents which ended up in broken things. Had? Have? Ahem…moving on. Thank goodness for glue. Recording family stories for posterity is a form of legacy writing. There are some other options and avenues to explore, but we always need to begin with exploring the “why.” Family stories are not only entertaining, but they are history. Knowing where one comes from adds to purpose and meaning in life. These types of stories can pass down traditions and cultural values and strengthen family bonds. Maybe it’s time for you to plan a family reunion and have fun sharing stories that different people remember. If those stories are not recorded yet, use a voice recorder or app on your phone and get them documented. If one person likes to write, he or she can write it down to share with everyone, adding some creative descriptions or doing some extra research to add to the tale. If nothing else, a transcript of the recording could be typed up and shared. It is fun to hear the different details various family members recall. Put them all together to create that story. For our Morgan family reunion this year, we are having a photo and story share-out. We will also be traveling to a few nearby sites that hold family historical significance. This is a beautiful legacy gift you can leave your children.
Not all family stories are full of butterflies and sunshine, and that’s okay. Stories can provide an opportunity to understand difficult experiences and how to overcome them, how to develop resilience. In Trent’s ancestry, there is a direct descent from the Chilton family of America’s pilgrim fame. They suffered persecution in England, moved to Holland as an escape, but James Chilton, the father, was almost killed when thugs threw stones at him. He committed his family to the months-long journey across a tumultuous ocean in a small sailing ship. When they arrived, James was the first to die and was “buried at sea” in the harbor. That first winter, Mrs. Chilton died of disease, leaving thirteen-year-old Mary an orphan. She eventually married, and she and her husband became some of the most successful merchants in the Boston area. Talk about resilience! We can learn perspective from these stories. On my side, we’re direct descendants of Scotland’s Robert the Bruce and his daughter, Marjorie.
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At twelve years old, she was captured and hung in a cage from the walls of the Tower of London. Another story of resilience. The good thing about having famous ancestors is that you don’t have to rewrite the stories. Just take some time to research them and print them out. Scan and paste a few portraits or photos, if you have them, onto the page while you’re at it.
Legacy writing can create or spark an interest in history. For me, discovering family history and stories is like solving a mystery. The hunt for clues is so satisfying and exciting. Discovering and sharing family stories is a great way to spend time connecting with your children. This process and adventure can help them see that they are a part of something bigger than themselves, how actions and reactions echo through time, and this can help them think of their lives as part of a larger community, leading to the development of altruism. Bruce Feiler wrote, “Children are happy, well-adjusted, and confident when they know their family stories.” When are the best times to share family stories? In the car on road trips (captive audience!), on vacations, at dinnertime around the table, at holiday celebrations, or just on an ordinary evening when you take time to connect after everyone’s busy day. Another method of legacy writing is journaling, which I wrote about in the last issue, so I won’t revisit that. I experienced a form of legacy writing in a continuing education class I took. Try this: write yourself a letter, seal it up, and put it somewhere safe for a year. (Maybe mark your calendar or put a reminder in your phone so you don’t forget.) Address your letter: Dear Future Me, and then say what you want. Perhaps you wish to record something difficult you are going through right now and how you’re attempting to cope with it. Perhaps you want to write about some goals you wish to accomplish and how you’re planning the process to success. Perhaps you want to encourage yourself and say how proud you are for overcoming or achieving something. Maybe you want to give yourself advice or a pep talk. Whatever it is, you may be amazed how much you’ve grown and changed in only a year’s time when you read it in 2026. There are also programs on the Internet where you can type your letter and set when you want it to be emailed back to yourself. I prefer the handwritten method, but I’ve done both.
If you don’t see yourself as a writer, that’s okay. You can still record the bones of the story and maybe flesh it out later, or another family member might be up for the challenge. Feeling unsure of how to begin? Is this all a bit overwhelming, but you have the desire? To assist you with knowing just what to write, there are prompts for penning your life story that you can Google. To reiterate, if you’re related to well-known people, do some research about what has already been told. Our oldest daughter sent us books for Christmas that have different prompts and questions on each page to help us create that story. Start with one! When you accomplish that, move on to another. It will become easier with practice. Sometimes, people think that their lives are ordinary or boring, and who would want to read about them? In a couple of generations, life could be so different that it will have an impact. You are living through what will one day be considered historical times. Imagine a third-generation grandchild reading your words. Your story. And feeling the connection across time. As the famous author, Madeleine L’Engle said, “If you don’t recount your family history, it will be lost. Honor your own stories and tell them too. The tales may not seem very important, but they are what binds families and makes each of us who we are.”
Flank Flame to
Quick Beats Complicated
Summertime. And the livin’s easy. So why is the grilling so hard?
If you have been reading this series for a long while, you already know that I cherish the opportunity to grill wherever I find it. That might be a hole dug in the ground at a remote camp site or an elaborate feast that takes massive prep and hours to pull off. I’m a firm believer in the idea that there is a time and place for every type of cooking, but the thing I hate to see is the wonder of cooking over smoke or an open flame getting postponed because of the instinct to allow perfectionism or complication to get in the way of just having simple fun and enjoying the process.
I’ve seen this play out with friends and even with myself over the years. You start to plan a short camping trip, or little get-together and immediately begin to create in your mind a sumptuous and extravagant multicourse banquet. But as the realities of the timing set in, or you discover that you won’t have the time to host if you are grilling at such an elevated scale, it all comes crashing down. The camp trip resorts to just hotdogs again, the gathering of friends involves another pizza. And don’t get me wrong – hotdogs over a fire are fun and pizza is delicious – but if what you really wanted was that experience of high-end grilling and the flavor that only a dancing flame and corresponding wood-smoke can produce, then it can really feel like a disappointment when it doesn’t have to be.
I once heard a quote about boating that I think applies well to any hobbies or to the beginning of anything in which you lack experience, “go small, go simple, go now.” The idea in boating is that people wait their whole lives, dreaming and talking about the massive boat they one day plan to sail around the world, but never just buy a tiny boat to get started. If you find yourself letting summers pass while the grates of your grill hardly see the light of day, or always visualizing the meals you will cook at a remote campsite while the car gets stocked with more granola bars and the occasional hotdog, just realign your sights on going simple and going now.
Ending the summer and looking back on twenty or thirty meals that you cooked over flame will be far more satisfying than lamenting the two that got away due to lack of time or resources. And going simple doesn’t require a box of frozen patties or pouch of flavorless dogs. There are so many low-prep but high-reward options out there. Things that take minutes to whip up, travel well in any cooler set up, and have almost no clean up when you are finished. And they are all more elevated than a frozen pizza or another night of takeout.
To supplement that desire for something truly memorable and unique, I want to start you with a few ideas that come with a great background story and can involve a different approach than you are used to. You won’t need five courses to impress when sharing these grillable treats with family and friends!
So, how will we accomplish this while going small, going simple, and going now? Meat (and veggies if you like) on a stick of course. But this won’t just be your traditional shish kebab, we are going to take it international and try out a few different cuts of meat and seasonings, but most importantly I want to challenge you to a new way of taking on the cook. If you happen to remember our previous look at kebabs and the best techniques, you are already ahead of the curve – and if not, lets have a quick review of prep and timing.
Tony Niccoli by
Go small. The key to getting a perfect cook is managing sizing. If you want to have veggies and meat on the same stick you must insure that items that cook slower are cut thinner, otherwise your onions vanish before your chicken is even half way done. I would encourage you to try just meat or mushrooms for your first round. Make all the cuts uniform and small, they will cook quickly, require fewer rotations, and be easier to eat without extra utensils. And if you do want to do veggies, cook them on separate skewers with one type per stick so that they are finished off perfectly.
Go simple. A few wooden sticks that have been soaked in water are all you need to set up the feast, and they can just go directly into the campfire when you finish. And several of the best recipes I have ever tried are eaten directly off of the stick by cultures around the world (pro tip, turn the skewer sideway and slide, you shouldn’t be attempting to put the stick into your mouth point-first like it was a fork). Flat skewers are best, because the meat won’t spin when you try to flip to a new side.
For your dining enjoyment, I therefore recommend: Italian arrosticini, Japanese yakitori, Brazilian churrasco, and Thai nam pla fish skewers. Any one of these is incredibly quick to prep, has stunning flavor, may introduce your guests to something they have never tried, and best of all is really fun to cook without even using the grill grates! I would challenge you to go directly over the wood or coals if you are camping or on a charcoal grill – but don’t let that stop you from throwing them on a gas grill and enjoying what you have available instead of waiting for the perfect time. To cook over charcoal or wood, we want to quickly mimic the open design of an Italian arrosticini grill or Japanese robata grill. Here the charcoal is open and skewers are balanced directly over the flame using two bars that run along opposite sides. But you just need a couple of relatively flat rocks, or even larger logs that have not yet lit. Keep the coals centered and evenly dispersed in the middle and hover the skewers above them. The close proximity to direct heat and the small chunks of meat means a rapid cook that is fascinating to watch. Just remember to use tongs or a grilling glove when you flip or remove them.
Let me know if you ever see an easier recipe than these! For that Italian arrosticini, you want to make little cubes of mutton. No special seasoning required – sprinkle with salt and let the meat sing, or hit it with a dash of some dried herbs just before removing from the grill. Japanese yakitori is chicken cut into small cubes or thin strips and sewn onto the wood skewer. Thighs work perfectly and require almost no seasoning – maybe just a dash or salt. You can also add a drizzle of soy sauce or a less traditional take using teriyaki near the end of the cook. Brazilian churrasco is thin cut steak often served with chimichurri sauce. You can use skirt, flank, or top sirloin cut into thin strips and lightly salted. Save some time with a pre-made chimichurri that can be spread on as they cool and you have almost no prep at all. And finally for the Thai nam pla fish skewers, use chunks of something hearty that will hold up to the flame like red snapper, cod, mahi-mahi, or halibut and lightly salt them. Nam pla is a fish sauce that you can find in the grocery store and it makes a perfect glaze that should go on about half way through the cook. Alternatively, you could skip the fish sauce and season with a squeeze of lime and some cilantro or fresh herbs just as it comes off the heat.
None of these ideas take more than a few minutes to prepare. They all pack and travel well for camping. But best of all, this is going to be something you don’t have very often, and cooked in a way you might not have ever seen before. Its exciting, impressive, and delicious. And at the end it can be cleaned up in a matter of seconds.
And finally Go Now. Seriously, Go. Now.
cookies + cream
cookies
kitchen: sara raquet
INGREDIENTS
2 ¾ cup flour
1 tsp soda
1 tsp salt
1 cup unsalted butter room temperature
1 cup dark brown sugar packed
½ cup granulated sugar
2 tsp vanilla extract
1 large egg room temperature
1 egg yolk room temperature
¾ cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
¾ cup white chocolate chips
¾ cup Oreo crumbs: 7-8 cookies blended until fine
STEPS
Mix the flour, baking soda, and salt in a mixing bowl. Set aside. Blend the 7-8 Oreos into fine crumbs using a blender. Measure off ½ a cup, save the rest to top the cookies. Use the blender to pulse the 8-10 Oreo cookies into pieces. Using a mixer, beat the butter, brown sugar, and sugar. Beat on high until light and fluffy ( about 5 minutes) . Add vanilla, egg, and egg yolk. Mix until combined. Slowly add in the dry ingredients. Mix until combined. Add in chocolate chips, white chocolate chips, Oreo crumbs, and Oreo pieces ( Reserve some Oreo crumbs and pieces to top cookie with when they come out of the oven ). Chill for 40 minutes. Preheat oven to 350°F. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper. Scoop the cookies using a large 3 oz cookie scoop. The cookie dough scoop should be a rounded heap. Place 6 balls on a cookie sheet and freeze until the oven is preheated. Scoop the rest of the dough on the other cookie sheet and place in the fridge while the others bake. Bake the cookies for 13-15 minutes. The edges will be lightly golden brown and the middle with be slightly underdone. Let the cookies sit on the pan for 4 minutes. Top with Oreo pieces and extra chocolate chips. Sprinkle Oreo crumbs on top. Then, transfer to a cooling rack and let cool.
TAHINI
Kale Salad + Crispy Chickpeas
kitchen: alyssa lyman
INGREDIENTS || dressing + chickpeas + salad
Dressing:
¼ cup tahini
1 tbl fresh lemon juice
1 tbl maple syrup
1 clove grated garlic
2 tbl olive oil
3-4 tbl water
Salt to taste
Chickpeas:
1 15 oz can of chickpeas
2 tbl olive oil
½ tsp paprika
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp turmeric
Salt and pepper to taste
Salad:
1 bunch of kale
1 tbl fresh lemon juice
5 strips of bacon, cooked and chopped
A handful of cherry tomatoes
Shaved parmesan to taste
STEPS
Preheat oven to 425*. For the dressing, whisk all ingredients together and refrigerate. Prepare the kale by removing the leaves from the stems, thoroughly rinsing them in cold water, and drying them using a salad spinner or paper towel. Roughly chop the kale and add to a bowl with 1 tablespoon of lemon juice and a couple of pinches of salt. Massage the juice and salt into the kale as this will help improve the texture. Refrigerate until ready to assemble.
In a separate bowl, combine chickpeas, 2 tablespoons of olive oil, and the spices listed. Toss until well combined and place on a lined baking sheet. Roast the chickpeas at 425* for 20-30 minutes until slightly crispy and golden.
Assemble the salad in a large bowl by first tossing together the dressing and the prepared kale. Add the chickpeas, bacon, cherry tomatoes, and parmesan.
POPPY SEED
lemon cookies
kitchen: alyssa lyman
INGREDIENTS
1 cup granulated sugar
2 tbl lemon zest
1 cup unsalted softened butter
1 large egg + 1 yolk
2 tbl fresh lemon juice
½ tsp vanilla extract
2.5 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
¾ tsp salt
2 tbl poppy seeds
STEPS
Preheat oven to 350* and line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Mix the sugar and the lemon zest in a medium bowl until well combined. Cream the softened butter into the sugar mixture until well incorporated, then mix in the eggs. Add the lemon juice and vanilla and stir until combined.
In a separate bowl sift together flour, baking powder, and salt. Gradually stir the dry mixture into the butter mixture until the ingredients are evenly incorporated, then stir in the poppy seeds. Refrigerate the cookie dough for 30 minutes to an hour. Using your hands, roll the dough into two-tablespoon portions and place on the baking sheet. Bake for 12-14 minutes, or until the edges are slightly golden brown.
BLONDIES
strawberry lemon white chocolate
kitchen: sara raquet
INGREDIENTS || blondies + glaze
For the Blondies:
1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
¾ cup sugar
1 large egg room temperature
¼ cup fresh squeezed lemon juice
2¼ cups all-purpose flour
½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
11/2 cup diced fresh strawberries
1 cup of white chocolate chips or chunks
For the Glaze:
1 cup powdered sugar, sifted
1 tablespoon strawberry puree (from about 2 large strawberries)
1 tablespoon lemon juice
STEPS
For the Blondies:
Preheat oven to 350°F. Line a 9-inch square baking pan with parchment paper. In a large bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in the egg until fully incorporated. Add the lemon juice and mix. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients, mixing until just combined. Gently fold in the diced strawberries and white chocolate chips.
Transfer the batter to the prepared pan and spread evenly. Bake for 30-35 minutes, or until edges are just starting to turn golden and the center is set. A toothpick should come out moist but not wet. Allow to cool completely on a wire rack.
For the Glaze:
Puree fresh strawberries in a food processor and strain through a fine mesh strainer to obtain 1 tablespoon of puree. In a bowl, whisk together the sifted powdered sugar, strawberry puree, and enough lemon juice to create a spreadable consistency. Pour the glaze over the cooled blondies and spread evenly. Allow the glaze to set before cutting into squares.
CHAI LATTE vanilla cake
Chai Spice Mix
4 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tsp ground ginger
11/2 tsp ground cardamom
1/2 tsp ground allspice
1/4 tsp ground cloves
Vanilla Chai Cake
11/4 cups whole milk
3 chai tea bags
23/4 cups cake flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
11/2 tbsp chai spice mix
1 tsp salt
1 cup unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup granulated white sugar
¾ cup brown sugar
3 large eggs, room temperature
1/2 cup Greek yogurt, full fat, room temperature
1 tbsp pure vanilla extract
STEPS
Make The Chai Spice Mix
Vanilla Chai Buttercream
2 cups unsalted butter, room temperature
7 cups powdered sugar
11/2 tbsp chai spice mix (recipe above)
2 tsp pure vanilla extract
2 tbsp whole milk, room temperature
1/4 tsp salt
kitchen: sara raquet
In a small bowl, whisk together the cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, allspice, and cloves and set aside.
Cake
Place the chai tea bags into a mug. In a small saucepan over medium-high heat, warm the whole milk, stirring constantly, until it begins to boil. Pour the boiling milk over the chai tea bag in the mug and let steep for 20 minutes before removing the tea bags. Allow the mixture to cool completely to room temperature before moving on.
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Prepare three 6-inch or two 9-inch cake pans by spraying the sides with a baking spray and parchment paper circle to the bottom of the pan. Alternatively, you can grease and lightly flour the pans. Sift the cake flour and then measure by spooning and leveling it in your measuring cup. Add the cake flour, baking powder, baking soda, 1½ tablespoons of the chai spice mix, and salt into a bowl and whisk to combine. Set aside.
In the bowl of your stand mixer, cream the butter for on high for four minutes until it’s light and fluffy. Add sugar and continue to mix on medium-high for another two - three minutes, scraping down the bowl and paddle as needed. Add the eggs one at a time, then add vanilla and Greek yogurt and mix for one minute on high, scraping down the bowl and paddle once more. With the mixer on low speed, add in the dry ingredients and mix until just combined. Add the (room temperature) chai milk mixture slowly and mix until just incorporated. Scrape down the sides and bottom of the bowl and give it a few stirs to make sure there are no lumps (without over-mixing). Pour batter evenly into prepared cake pans (no more than 2/3 of the way full) and bake for 30-35 minutes. They’re done when they spring back to touch and a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean. Let the cakes cool in the pan for five minutes before turning them out onto a wire rack for an additional few hours of cooling. Make sure they’re entirely room temperature before applying any frosting.
Chai Vanilla Buttercream
With a hand mixer or paddle attachment on your stand mixer, cream the butter on medium-high until it’s creamy and light (almost white) in color. About 8 minutes. Whisk 11/2 tbsp of the Chai Spice Mix into the measured powdered sugar. With the mixer on low, add the powdered sugar mixture a few cups at a time, scraping down after each addition and making sure each addition is fully incorporated before adding the next one. Add vanilla, milk, and salt and mix on medium-low for another two minutes until fully incorporated.
PEANUT BUTTER
dream bars
kitchen: heather niccoli
INGREDIENTS || bars + icing
Bars
½ cup butter, room temperature
1 cup peanut butter (creamy or crunchy)
1½ cups light brown sugar
½ cups mini chocolate chips
2 eggs
2 tsp vanilla
1¾ flour
1½ tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
Icing:
6 tbl butter
½ cup peanut butter
¼ cup milk
½ tsp vanilla
2 cups powdered sugar
½ cup mini chocolate chips
Sea Salt
STEPS
Bars:
Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease your 9x13 pan. Melt butter and peanut butter until well combined. Whisk in brown sugar. Add eggs and vanilla, whisk until combined, then fold in your mini chocolate chips, being sure to scrape the side of the bowl. In a smaller bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, and salt. Slowly add the flour mixture to the wet peanut butter until combined. I use a spatula, and the batter is thick. Don’t over mix. Transfer the batter to your pan and press it in. It will look really low and dry but trust me, the magic will happen! I bake for 18-20 minutes, until a toothpick comes out clean.
Icing:
While your bars are cooling, it’s time to make the icing. Combine butter, peanut butter and milk in a pan and bring to a simmer, whisking frequently, then remove from the heat. Immediately fold in vanilla and powdered sugar, whisking until smooth and combined. This sets up quickly so keep that in mind. Pour it over the warm bars and spread it evenly. Sprinkle the mini chocolate chips on top. I like to wait until the bars are cool before salting them. I use Himalayan salt if I don’t have coarse salt on hand. These are so tasty and are sure to be a huge hit!
Dehydrating at Home
The Delicious Art of Drying All the Things
by Kristi Sellers
So, you’ve decided to enter the wild, wonderful world of food dehydration. Maybe you’re sick of store-bought snacks that taste like cardboard and come with a side of mystery ingredients. Maybe you want to level up your pantry game. Or maybe—just maybe— you saw someone make dried pineapple slices on TikTok and thought, “I could totally do that.”
My husband Kyle, decided to dive into the world of dehydrating last year. For Christmas, he asked for a fancy dehydrator. Well, suffice it to say, we have become obsessed. If beef was free, I’d probably want to make beef jerky daily. Whatever brought you here, welcome! Grab your apron (or don’t, this isn’t Top Chef) and get ready to transform your kitchen into a magical snack-making haven. I’ll also share some of Kyle’s favorite snacks for dehydrating newbs.
What Is Dehydrating, Anyway?
Dehydrating is exactly what it sounds like: removing water from food. That’s it. Strip away moisture, and you’re left with food that’s shelf-stable, super flavorful, and ready to snack on anytime. Humans have been doing this for thousands of years, back when “storage solutions” meant hanging strips of meat over a fire and hoping for the best. Today, we have gadgets and better hygiene. Win-win!
Why Dehydrate at Home?
Oh, let me count the ways:
Snack Goals: Make your own chewy apple rings, crunchy kale chips, or jerky that doesn’t taste like shoe leather.
Reduce Waste: Got a fridge full of produce about to go rogue? Dehydrate it!
Save Money: Buying dried fruit at the store = $$$. Drying it yourself = $$ (and a sense of accomplishment).
Preserve the Harvest: Whether you have a garden or just went wild at the farmer’s market, dehydration is a stellar way to stretch the life of fresh goodies.
Also, it just makes you feel cool. Like you’ve unlocked a secret survival skill.
Let’s Talk Gear
You don’t need to drop big bucks to get started. Here are your main options:
1. Dehydrator
This is the MVP of the drying world. It’s a countertop appliance with trays and a builtin fan that circulates warm air.
Pros: Efficient, consistent, and made for this exact purpose.
Cons: Takes up space. (But hey, so does your air fryer, and we’re not judging.)
2. Oven
Yup, your plain ol’ oven can dehydrate stuff.
Pros: You already have one. No extra investment.
Cons: Not as energy efficient, and you’ll need to babysit it. Plus, most ovens don’t go below 170°F, which can be a bit hot for delicate items.
3. Air-drying (Old-school style)
Great for herbs and some fruits, especially if you live in a warm, dry climate.
Pros: Free!
Cons: Takes forever. Also, flies.
The Basic Process (AKA: How Not to Make Sad, Shrivelled Mystery Blobs)
Step 1: Choose Your Food Wisely
You can dehydrate almost anything: fruits, veggies, herbs, meats, even full meals (hello, camping food!). Just steer clear of high-fat items like avocados and dairy. Fat = rancidity = no bueno.
Step 2: Prep Like a Pro
Wash and dry everything. Clean food is happy food.
Slice evenly. Thinner = faster drying. Uniform = even drying.
Pretreat if needed. Some fruits (like apples, bananas, or peaches) benefit from a quick dip in lemon water to prevent browning.
Step 3: Dry It Out
Set your dehydrator (or oven) to the appropriate temp:
Fruits: 135°F / 57°C
Veggies: 125°F / 52°C
Meats (jerky): 160°F / 71°C to be safe
Herbs: 95°F / 35°C or even just hang them in a dry room
Let it ride. Drying can take anywhere from 4 to 24 hours depending on the food, the humidity in your house, and the thickness of the slices. Be patient. It’s worth it.
Step 4: Condition Your Food
Wait, what? Yup, this is a real step and not just something made up to sound fancy. After drying, especially with fruits, let the food sit in a sealed container for a few days and shake it around daily. If you see moisture, dry it a bit more. This helps even out any remaining damp spots.
Step 5: Store It Like a Boss
Keep your dried goodies in airtight containers, preferably in a cool, dark place. Vacuum sealing? Even better. Glass jars? Insta-worthy. Just keep air and light away, and your dehydrated treats will last months—or longer!
Tip: Don’t crowd the tray or you’ll end up with a sticky fruit pancake. Unless that’s your thing?
2. Veggies
Try: zucchini, tomatoes, carrots, bell peppers, mushrooms, kale, green beans.
Tip: Blanch most veggies first—it keeps their color and texture nice. Kale chips? Add some seasoning before drying for maximum snackiness!
3. Herbs
Try: basil, thyme, rosemary, parsley, mint.
Tip: Dry them in bunches or on trays, then crumble and store in small jars. Your spice rack will thank you.
4. Meat (It’s Jerky Time)
Tip: Use lean cuts, slice thinly, and marinate for flavor before drying. Pro tip—heat meat to 160°F before dehydrating to kill any lurking bacteria. Safety first, snacking second.
5. Full Meals (For the Hardcore Adventurer)
Think: chili, pasta, risotto. These are for the backpackers and doomsday preppers. Just add water and reheat. Boom, gourmet in the wild.
Troubleshooting: When Things Get… Weird
Sticky Fruit: Probably under-dried. Toss it back in for another round.
Crumbly Veggies: Over-dried. Still usable in soups!
Weird Smells: Did you clean your trays? Did you dehydrate onions next to strawberries? (Don’t do that.)
Mold: Oof. That’s a sign of leftover moisture. Dry longer next time and make sure storage containers are bone dry.
Bonus: Dehydrator Hacks and Pro Tips
Make Fruit Leather: Purée fruit, spread it thin, and dry until flexible. Childhood nostalgia incoming.
DIY Soup Mixes: Dry chopped veggies and herbs, mix with bouillon—hello, instant comfort food.
Powdered Everything: Grind dried onions, garlic, tomatoes, or mushrooms into powder for seasoning magic.
Citrus Wheels: Fancy up your cocktails or tea with dried lemon, lime, or orange slices.
Dehydrate Leftovers: Got extra spaghetti sauce or mashed potatoes? Yep. You can dry that too.
Is This a Hobby or a Lifestyle? Honestly? It can be both.
You might start with a batch of banana chips and suddenly find yourself building a labeled jar system, color-coded by fruit. You might become the person who brings homemade jerky to every gathering. You might even get a little too excited about drying watermelon (spoiler: it’s like candy from another planet). The joy of dehydrating is that it’s flexible. You can dip your toe in or dive headfirst. Either way, you’ll save money, reduce waste, and snack better than ever before.
Final Thoughts: Dry, Baby, Dry
Dehydrating at home is more than just a fun kitchen experiment—it’s a gateway to a more sustainable, snackable, and downright delicious lifestyle. Whether you’re making backpacking meals or just trying to get your kids to eat more fruit (turn it into fruit leather—they’ll be obsessed), drying your own food is one of those deceptively simple things that makes you feel like a total pro.
So go forth, slice with precision, dry with patience, and snack with pride. You’re officially part of Kyle’s Dehydration Nation now.
Classic Apple Chips
Ingredients:
Apples (any variety)
Cinnamon (optional)
Lemon juice (optional)
Instructions:
Core and slice apples thinly (1/8”–1/4” thick).
Optional: Soak in a mix of lemon juice and water (1:4 ratio) for 5–10 minutes to prevent browning. Sprinkle with cinnamon if desired. Dehydrate at 135°F (57°C) for 6–10 hours, until crisp.
Pro tip: Fuji and Honeycrisp apples are especially tasty for this!
“You’re officially part of Kyle’s Dehydration Nation now”
Banana Chips (Chewy or Crispy)
Ingredients:
Bananas
Lemon juice (optional)
Instructions:
Slice bananas into 1/4” rounds. Dip quickly in lemon water if you want to keep them from browning. Dehydrate at 135°F for 6–12 hours. 6–8 hours = chewy 10–12 hours = crunchy. Yum factor: Sprinkle a little cinnamon or drizzle with honey before drying.
Blend everything into a smooth purée. Pour onto parchment or silicone dehydrator sheet in a thin, even layer. Dehydrate at 135°F for 6–8 hours until leathery but not sticky. Cut into strips and roll it up with parchment. Hello, homemade Fruit Roll-Ups!
Zucchini Chips
Ingredients:
Zucchini
Olive oil (just a touch)
Salt & pepper or your favorite seasoning (ranch, garlic, chili powder)
Instructions:
Thinly slice zucchini (1/8” if you want them crisp). Toss lightly in oil and season. Lay flat and dehydrate at 125°F for 8–12 hours. Snack hack: Try dipping in hummus or ranch after drying for a crunchy veggie chip vibe.
Garlic or Onion Powder
Ingredients:
Fresh garlic cloves or onions
Instructions:
Peel and slice thin. Dehydrate at 125°F for: Garlic: 6–10 hours
Onions: 10–14 hours Once brittle, grind in a blender or spice grinder into powder. Storage: Airtight jar, dark pantry. Use it in everything. Seriously.
Easy Beef Jerky
Ingredients:
1 lb lean beef (top round or flank)
1/4 cup soy sauce
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp onion powder
1/2 tsp black pepper
1 tsp liquid smoke (optional, but yum)
Instructions:
Slice meat thin (freeze it for 30 mins first to make it easier). Marinate for 8–24 hours. Pat dry and lay on trays. Dehydrate at 160°F for 4–6 hours, until dry and bendy (not crumbly).
Safety note: You can also pre-cook the beef to 160°F in the oven before dehydrating for extra food safety.
Dried Bell Peppers
Ingredients: Bell peppers (any color)
Instructions:
Remove seeds and slice into 1/4” strips or dice. Dehydrate at 125°F for 8–12 hours, until leathery or crispy. Use in: Soups, stews, pasta, or grind into pepper flakes!
Dried Herbs (Like a Garden in a Jar)
Great for: Basil, mint, oregano, thyme, parsley
Instructions:
Rinse and pat dry herbs. Remove thick stems, lay leaves in a single layer. Dehydrate at 95°F–105°F for 4–8 hours until crisp. Crumble and store in jars away from light.
Gayle Anderson BY
People and places have been on my mind. Well… let me correct that statement, favorite people and places that bring joy by either being around someone who is like sunlight to your soul and that special place that makes you think this must be what heaven is like.
We all have those special-to-us people and places, and hopefully as you are reading this, those images and thoughts will flood your brain with happy thoughts. I truly feel blessed to have a lot of favorite people, related and non-related in my life. And as for favorite soul soothing places… well there is nothing that can be compared to standing in a nearly ready to harvest wheat field at dusk and smell that earthy scent. So many summer evenings, I was content to sit on the deck and gaze at the rolling hills that surrounded our farmhouse and breath in that harvest scent. Even as a young child living in Montana, my favorite smell was fresh dirt. And I always had a “sense that I would live on a farm/ranch” when I grew up, which is strange because no one in our family was in ranching or farming. (I was a bricklayer’s daughter and we lived in a trailer park for most of my youth) And sure enough, I ended up on a wheat farm for most of my adult life. And I still love the smell of freshly tilled fields and the scent of harvest ready wheat. And of course, just crossing the border from Idaho to Montana seriously makes this girl’s heart soar. There is a physical sensation that occurs when I cross into Montana. I can still recall the day about 12 years ago when I felt that soul-shifting feeling. It was a particularly low point in my life, and I was driving from Idaho to Montana to pick up my mom. And as I drove, I was wondering if I would ever be okay and when I crossed over the border, there was a physical sensation somewhere deep inside me… and this feeling came over me that I knew I would be alright. I call it a “God kiss” moment. Anyway, every single time after that when I cross the border into Montana, I will feel that soul lifting weightlessness. I chalk it up to just a little bit of Montana magic. As I mentioned earlier, my life is richly blessed with having so many good people around me. And I want to share with you someone who is very special. My family and I have been on a bit of a rollercoaster ride these past few of weeks after losing an icon that has been such a big presence in our lives. My fun-loving Auntie Lois passed away March 18, after living exactly 90 1/2 years. She was one of my cornerstones for a roadmap of what a beautiful life looks like. My last memory of her 5 weeks before she passed was a beautiful one, wherein she, her son Russ, my brother Barry, my sweet momma, Rod and I had gathered at our Montana get-away to enjoy a simple dinner & a visit. Little did we all know that this would be the last time we saw Auntie Lois. And now that last visit is a memory that will be cherished by all. A few days before the funeral, Rod and I had gotten the-
&PEOPLE PLACES
-chance to hang out with our Montana crew and as we reminisced, there were some tears, but mostly laughter as we retold stories and shared memories. When I got home, the words were rumbling around this crazy brain of mine and I had to get them out, so here is what I wrote: “Maybe it’s because the kitchen seems to be the center of my world. It’s where people gravitate when they gather for holidays or even just a simple invite of come have coffee with me. And there is one particular kitchen that simply says “love lives here”. Ever since I was little, the happiest place in the world for me was not Disneyland, it was at Uncle Art and Auntie Lois’ house in Anaconda, Montana. And for whatever reason, I have loved the view from their kitchen window in their small but tidy home where they raised 4 children and fed countless family and friends over the years. This week my beloved widowed aunt accepted her wings and joined all the beauty that heaven promises. And before the house gets sold, I will take a final trip over to photograph for one last time that window above her sink. By having a picture, I am hoping I can relish the image when I need to recreate those special times in my mind. It’s where my girl cousins and I would wash, rinse and dry dishes after a meal. And while the view is ordinary, I have always loved standing there staring at the outside while knowing this room was the heart of the house filled with love, warmth and hearty meals. It was a home that my aunt and uncle built shortly after they married and lived their entire life. Standing in the kitchen one final time, with our arms around each other, my cousins and I shared the mutual love and understanding that we were experiencing and acknowledging the hard part of life when you lose someone very special. And where you know that ache and void will be a permanent fixture in your heart. So many memories are packed in that functional kitchen. One of the things I always loved seeing was this enormous boulder not far from their house and the memory floods back when my cousins and I got to cross the road and eat our lunch next to the rock on a sunny spring day. Oh, we were excited at the prospect of this little adventure in our young age. Later on, when I was about 14, my mom and I were beckoned to come try these “special cookies” that one of my cousins had baked. The first bite seemed good until the burn of pepper scorched our throats. The peals of laughter from Auntie Lois and her daughters, Debbie and Ginny when we learned that one of them grabbed cayenne pepper instead of cinnamon. We coughed, gagged and laughed all at the same time. It was where I remember Easter mornings before going to their church that we would have hot cross buns and have egg fights where we would challenge someone and try to crack their hardboiled egg. It’s interesting the little ordinary things that you recall that forever will be earmarked as sweet memories.
It sort of begs the question what will people remember about you? I wonder what my daughters will fondly recall after I am gone. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they will remark that being raised by a weird mom builds character...heck, they still tell me that even now. Just yesterday after chasing around my youngest grand-angel and being silly, my daughter dryly remarked that every child should have “one weird grandmother in their life”. In my world, that is a compliment, because normal is just a setting on the dryer. And who wants to be labeled “normal”?
With that said, in my humble opinion at the end of the day we all need to have those special-to-us people and places that help us stay grounded in this caffeine fueled, media overload world that bombards our everyday life. And if you agree, take a moment to call or send a message to your favorite people and share a fun memory with them. And hopefully you can also go to your sacred spaces, it will do your soul good. Trust me on that one.
Moscow’s Woodstock Moscow’s Woodstock
The Blue Mountain Rock Festival The Blue Mountain Rock Festival
Elaina Pierson Pierson BYElaina
The 1960s and 1970s in the United States were a time of profound political, social, and cultural change: The Civil Rights and Women’s Liberation Movements challenged and changed the status quo, underground groups such as the Symbionese Liberation Army set off hundreds of bombs in cities across the country, the Vietnam War entered its second decade, to name a few of the monumental events happening nation- (and world-) wide. Into this tumult appeared the Blue Mountain Rock Festival at the University of Idaho. A free outdoor concert on the last day of Parent’s Weekend in May 1971, it featured twelve hours of music from 10 different bands and was only formally announced in the university’s student newspaper, The Argonaut, two days prior, a somewhat unassuming beginning for an annual event whose notoriety grew with each successive year.
UI students Gary Speer and Bill Schelly organized this first concert after planning it for about a month. They secured the University of Idaho Arboretum (now the Charles Houston Shattuck Arboretum, or “Old Arboretum”) from 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. for the event. At least 3,000 people were expected, with 20 volunteer students on hand as a de facto security force. “This is a test,” said Schelly, “If it goes well we will have more of them.”
The Argonaut summarized the event on May 11th: only six bands took to the stage rather than the anticipated 10, but an estimated 6,000 people attended throughout the day, including some parents leftover from Parent’s Weekend. In addition, $500 in donations were gathered for the ACLU. Schelly later explained that total expenses for the concert were about $75, all covered by donations, and the Arboretum had been thoroughly cleaned afterward by volunteers from the student-run Talisman House.
Although the idea of rock festivals had been in sharp decline since Woodstock and the tragedy of Altamont in 1969, Blue Mountain seemed to have resurrected the idea in Idaho. The May 11th article stated, “The free admission, warm sunshine weather, and feeling of community among the crowd seemed to merge making the festival one of the few really successful rock gatherings in the past two years.” Blue Mountain was a success, and there would be more.
Preparations for Blue Mountain II began in February of 1972, with approval from the Associated Students of the University of Idaho (ASUI) Senate for the event to return to the Arboretum on May 7th. The Argonaut reported it would run from 10 a.m. to midnight with 20 bands, 20 “Blue Mountain Peace and Aid” people from the Talisman House for security and assistance, and four medics on standby. The event was dedicated to the students killed at Kent State and Jackson State two years prior and donations would again be collected for the ACLU. While this year’s festival was not as well attended as the first, with only about 2,000 people, it was also deemed a success. There was even a surprise appearance by three skydivers, floating unannounced, and unidentified, into the crowd.
April of 1973 brought news of Blue Mountain III, and whispers of discontent. University officials, including Vice President for Students and Administrative Services Dr. Thomas Richardson, wanted the event shortened to daylight hours only and canceled entirely in the event of rain. Authorities also expressed concern about publicity and its reflection on the university. An editorial in The Argonaut charged the administration with attempting to put the festival’s “spirit and joy into a sort of bell jar, where the authorities and important organizers can watch the activities and keep the spirit of the festival under control.” Still, the May 6th event went off with little difficulty, attracting a crowd of about 5,000 instead of a possible 10,000 that some had suggested (and feared). This third iteration of the festival had also developed some new problems. It was heavily advertised outside the area, with non-residents estimated to have comprised half the audience. A major increase in overnight campers was also noted, and according to VP Richardson, a growing atmosphere of “anything goes.” Still, he insisted, he didn’t object to a fun spring event for students: “There may be a time and place for letting it all hang out. I’m just not sure that our campus can or should be the site of bigger festivals.”
In the beginning of 1974, plans were introduced to broaden the scope of the festival by adding an arts and crafts element with the hope that this would attract more locals from both the university and the greater community. It was officially dubbed the Renaissance Fair and would run in conjunction with and as an alternative to Blue Mountain. Held at Friendship Square in downtown Moscow for three days starting Friday, May 3rd, it included local artisans and exhibits, demonstrations, and an assortment of dramatic and musical performances. Meanwhile, even though concerns about Blue Mountain revolved around the need to keep the event small, the preparations taking place seemed to indicate the opposite. A professional sound system was rented out of Portland, Oregon, with various fundraisers planned to cover the $400 price tag. The stage construction was supported by six campus organizations, with assistance from a local building contractor and a $600 pricetag. The planning committee that oversaw both the Renaissance Fair and Blue Mountain claimed to have over 100 members.
While the new arts and crafts element was seen as a great success – indeed, it is the predecessor of today’s Renaissance Fair held in East City Park, celebrating its 52nd year on the first weekend of May 2025 – the success, or disaster, of the rock concert varied by who was asked. That year’s UI yearbook, Gem of the Mountains, included a four-page spread of photos from Blue Mountain IV, and noted that an estimated 10,000 participants came from all over the Northwest and Canada in varying stages of dress and undress. One Argonaut editorial called it “a pure sunshine experience” that “radiated good feelings right up to the hassle-free midnight closing when Moscow officials finally moved in to stop the party.” The author went on to laud the 30 or so people who returned the next day to clean up trash. A letter to editor directly below this asks the reader to consider the effects of such large gatherings on the environment, concluding by addressing “the people sitting aloft on a platform in the willow tree [to watch Blue Mountain]. I suggest next time you want to play bird, find a high voltage wire.”
As the spring semester of 1975 commenced, Blue Mountain’s fate again seemed uncertain. University officials and organizers expressed a commitment to keeping the festival small, perhaps having flashbacks of the previous year’s crowd.
Several ideas were considered, including changing the name (UI President Ernest Hartung made mention of “The Rites of Spring,” while other popular ideas were “The Gentle Mental Lentil Festival” and “The Palouse Pea Prom.”). Alternative locations were scouted but quickly discarded. The date was changed from the traditional first Sunday of May and the new date would not be announced until the Friday before. In theory this gave less time for news of the event to spread.
On Tuesday, April 22nd, The Argonaut broke the story that Blue Mountain V would be held that Sunday, April 27th. The editorial board, led by Kenton Bird, had been asked by event organizers and UI administration not to print the story until Friday. The board explained that any concerns were outweighed by the public’s “right to know” and called the lack of advance notice “unfair” and a “disservice” to students, whose obligations from classes and jobs required the ability to plan ahead for such an event.
Cold weather and the publicity blackout worked to drastically reduce the size of that year’s crowd. Argonaut contributing editor John Hecht called the event “uniquely reflective of the spirit of the school and community. It is singular in that it is now the longest running music event of its type in the country.” Even so, opposition to the festival grew. Many cited illegal activities, underage drinking, and damage to the Arboretum as major concerns. In defense of the festival, UI student John Orwick pointed out that arguments against it are “also arguments against Vandal football. Both draw a large number of out-of-town people […] and widespread drinking takes place at both. The only difference is that Blue Mountain doesn’t lose $150,000 a year.”
During the runup to ASUI elections in the fall of 1975, many candidates declared Blue Mountain to be a central part of their platforms, and a referendum was placed on the ballot asking students if they supported a music festival of any kind. 76% of student voters chose to keep the Blue Mountain-style festival, while also placing it fully under the responsibility of the ASUI. Even with overwhelming student body support, the likelihood of another festival was again uncertain. The Board of Regents was said to have “strong reservations” and UI’s academic vice president claimed a 1976 Blue Mountain might be illegal.
These issues aside, planning continued, and Blue Mountain VI occurred on May 2nd with much the same entertainment and problems as before. In a memo from President Hartung to the ASUI Senate on June 23rd, Blue Mountain was officially prohibited from being held on campus.
Through six contentious years, it had grown from a quickly-planned, volunteer-led, community-minded gathering of music lovers to a heavily orchestrated and ever more expensive party.
“Just an excuse for a bunch of pseudo-radical jerks to get wasted,” as labeled by Betsy Brown in a 1980 Argonaut editorial. But she went on to praise the festival’s generous spirit and the people who kept it going by being “willing to stick their necks out for something they believed in.” Blue Mountain’s unique timing, between the decline of the free rock concerts of the 1960s and the resurgence of major music festivals in the 1990s, speaks to a collective need at that moment in time. Brown adds in her editorial that maybe, even for all its problems, Blue Mountain had served as a kind of pressure release against the gathering tensions of the world. It appeared in 1971 as an antidote to an atmosphere of unrest and paranoia, and Brown mused over the expansion of that same atmosphere nine years later: “Maybe, what this town needs right now is another Blue Mountain.”
Did you attend any of the Blue Mountain Rock Festivals? We’d love to hear about it! Please contact the Latah County Historical Society at lchslibrary@latahcountyid.gov
Altair, Vega, Deneb – Alnitak, Alnilam, Mintaka.
Those are not the words to a magic spell or the newest characters in the Star Wars franchise. They are actually the names for two important groupings of stars. Learning to spot them, and then following easy to remember angles across the sky can unlock the heavens and give you a better appreciation of those special constellations that pass overhead nightly whether we remember to look up or not. And that simple act of taking a few moments to gaze in child-like wonder as you appreciate the unfolding drama of stories written across the universe is more than just quick moment of summer entertainment, it actually grounds your spirit and connects you with something much more ancient and primitive while forcing you to let go – at least momentarily – from phones, calendar updates, task lists, and all the other trappings of our modern society. And even if you don’t put any effort into learning a few of the constellations or the fascinating stories that have accompanied them since eras beyond written records, you can still get away from city lights, enjoy the warmth that summer offers, and disconnect from the pace of the world around you.
But once you do take a few extra beats to just look up and marvel, you might find yourself longing for a simple map, especially if it means the phone can be off and the flashlight put away. To get started you won’t need to cram for a test and attempt to catalogue thousands of stars in your head, but instead just learn a simple cluster that you can quickly find in the summer and another for the winter – and then as time goes on you can pick up a few more constellations at a time before you go out.
You don’t need to lay on your back to do this, but in the summer it sure is fun. As you first take in the space directly overhead, you will be viewing what is referred to as the zenith. If you have your attention towards the south around 10pm in the summer, you will easily spot three starts that are much brighter than anything else. These form the summer triangle, which rises evening sky on the eastern horizon, or will be closer to the west if you are viewing it in the middle of the night. This triangle, which should be visible even if you are in town and surrounded by light pollution is actually made of the brightest star of three different constellations. But what I love the most, is that once you get away from background light, you will notice that the milky way runs directly through the center of the triangle!
Vega will be the brightest of the three, and is part of the Lyra constellation which a harp or lyre, consisting of a small parallelogram with a triangle that is attached at the corner. Vega is part of that little attachment. If you picture the next brightest star, Deneb, as being to the left arm of the summer triangle, that makes Altair, the faintest of the asterism, to the right. Deneb is part of a cross or X shape that makes the neck, body and wings of the swan called Cygnus. And Altair makes bright shining eye of an eagle named Aquila, which consists of two outstretched wings shaped like triangles with a long neck that leads up to a head turned to the side.
So, with one quick glance you now know how to spot the summer triangle, outline three constellations, and even know where to spot the path of the milky way if your surroundings aren’t dark enough to make it stand out. But this cluster isn’t alone! Just beyond Vega, a battle is raging as the hero Hercules attempts to defeat the dragon Draco and take the golden apple. Following outwards from Deneb you get two easy to locate two regal constellations representing King Cepheus and his wife Cassiopeia. Cepheus is a square wearing a triangle crown, and Cassiopeia is the W shape by his side. Just off to the side in this region of the sky you might also spot the familiar shapes of two bears –Ursa Major and Ursa Minor – though you most likely have seen them pointed out before as the Big and Little Dippers. Keep this star gazing up all summer and you will be amazed at both how quickly you spot your new friends above, and how willing you become to continue the effort and brave the chill even when the weather begins to turn cold.
Every winter, as I’m walking up the path to our front door at night, I have a view to the south-east and always look up to see a familiar traveler overhead. If you struggle to name a single constellation apart from your own zodiac sign, and even if you don’t think you can point out constellations in the night sky, it’s a pretty sure bet you can spot this iconic asterism – Alnitak, Alnilam, Mintaka – the famous belt. But how should we refer to the constellation here, that universal picture in the sky that has gone by so very many names? The celestial shepherd, the drum, Shen Su, the archer, Uruana, the saucepan, Three Kings, the hunter, The First One, Three Marys, Sah, Osirus, or we can just stick with the name that most of us would find familiar today –Orion. For many cultures around the world, and throughout recorded history, this pattern has often been a hunter and the key feature in a story that unfolds across this section of the sky. First follow the line of the belt down, and you get to Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, and part Canis Major – the hunter’s faithful dog always by his side. And once you have spotted the belt, it is also easy to see the sword hanging below. Then you can imagine the hero with a club or sword in the raised right hand and in the outstretched left hand a shield, or the pelt of a vanquished beast, or possibly even a hunting bow there instead – aimed towards the charging bull as the right hand goes back for to pull another arrow.
Follow Orion’s left arm and the line of the belt upwards to see Tarus, with the mesmerizing orange star of Aldebaran as his glowing eye. This red giant is reaching the end of its life cycle and is relatively close to us and the hypnotic glow you see this year only left the star about 65 years ago. Near the raging beast’s shoulder, you will see a fuzzy little cluster of stars about the size of your fingernail – these are the mysterious Pleiades, with light that has traveled space for over 400 years. One of the strangest quirks of human oral histories, this cluster has been long referred to as the 7 sisters by cultures around the planet. Though slightly varied across continents, the story normally contends that these 7 ladies were fleeing the pursuit of the hunter that follows them across the sky when they ended up being turned to stars.
But the most curious thing isn’t the shared oral history across the globe, but the fact that it is always 7 sisters, when in fact we can only see 6. It is true that there are 7 of them, but it took the invention of telescopes to confirm that. And it might have been as long as 100,000 years ago that all 7 were actually-
-distinguishable by the naked eye. So how long have people been making a study of the sky above our heads? Well, it would seem that even if the answer is much younger than tale of the sisters turned to stars suggest, it still must have at least predated the successful adoption of agriculture. Think about how fickle the weather seems here on the Palouse. Like everywhere else on planet Earth, you’ll often hear people in our region use the adage of simply waiting 5 minutes if you don’t like the weather here. And while farmers today can rely on centuries of research, satellites overhead tracking storm fronts, super-computers that deploy advanced data models to predict temperature changes, and all manner of apps, feeds, alerts, and networks which signal the perfect moment to plant or harvest, a few thousand years ago there were only the sun, moon, and stars. Weather was fickle then too, and one day it might seem like spring had fully arrived, just to have winter return with a vengeance for a few more weeks of terrible snow. So how did you determine when to plant? And when was it time to get settled in for winter? Well, the passing of the seasons and the timing of changes could be followed by tracking the equinoxes and solstices and then refining your divisions of time by counting cycles of the moon after the appearance of specific constellations. The hunter would start to become fully visible, traversing the heavens when winter was approaching, walking the sky during the evening from November to March. Correspondingly, the asterism of the Summer Triangle, or Altair, Vega, and Deneb, would start to become more prominent in the late spring, rising to the east very early in June, and travelling to an overhead position by high summer and occupying the center of the sky around midnight during the shortest nights of the year.
Just as the hunter is regaining prominence in the autumn, the triangle is deep to the west, ceding it’s point of prominence to signal the passing of the season. These incredibly important guideposts carried with them a knowledge required for the survival of countless generations. And rather than trying the impossible chore of memorizing thousands of stars and knowing the seasonal rise of set for each one, clumping them into groups that we now call asterisms – such as the Summer Triangle, or the three belt stars on Orion – made it much eager to learn and remember. Eventually stories formed and the smaller patterns became larger constellations – entire regions of the sky made of incredible collections of stars. With regularity of spacing and metronomic tempo they walked the night skies, annually paging through humanity’s first picture book, telling again and again the stories imbued upon them by cultures around the globe. But this has all been lost for the vast majority of people on planet earth. I love astronomy and star gazing and yet I would be hardpressed to tell you the phase of the moon on any given day, or be able to predict what constellation would be rising in the east on any given evening just after sunset. If I lost the aid of my computer or phone and the aid of tracking on a paper calendar, it would take me a year to be able to accurately lay out a system for determining the solstices and equinoxes. And I wouldn’t have a any chance of guessing the proper day to prepare for sowing or harvesting if you took away my farmer’s almanac. But for many thousands of years, before we have any evidence of writing, this sort of information must have been rigorously studied and then accurately conveyed to each passing generation. Every time I think of that it makes me just a little more curious about the wonders of the sky spinning over my head, and it drives me-
Crosstrek Wilder ness
-to kick off my shoes, feel the grass under my feet and reconnect a little every summer evening. To let go of the seeming comfort of an artificial and temperature-controlled interior existence and recouple with something more ancient, unaltered, and blissfully consistent. When I feel the world changing a little too quickly, I always turn to that primeval connection with the absurdly slow precession of the heavens. Where twinkles we see today are the photons of stars that might have burned out thousands or even millions of years ago. Where the slow but measured dance of the pole star wobbles like a top and returns us to the same point of view only once every 25,700 years.
But there are a few things which dramatically change, and flash across the sky at rare intervals, and one of my favorites is dragons! Imagine looking up to a cloudless night sky, hundreds of miles away from any artificial lights or campfires and seeing the entire dome above you filled from horizon to horizon with an unimaginable number of stars. And then, just as you are starting to look away, a terrifying and fearsome dragon rips across the sky, breathing fire to scorch everything in its path – or trailing ice along the length of its tail as it shimmers across your field of view! Today we might know these celestial wonders as meteors and comets, but just imagine how they impacted the lives of people who were much more connected to the steady and predictable march of the sky they observed nightly.
In late spring we are treated to consistent shower of shooting stars called the Aquariids. They begin in mid-April, peak in early May, and continue almost until June. You can look for them just before dawn near the eastern horizon where they appear to be shooting out from the constellations Aquarius. These meteors are actually debris that was left behind by a much more menacing dragon –the magical wanderer that first got me interested in astronomy as a child. Don’t let its modern name fool you, Hailey’s Comet has been passing overhead every 72-80 years for many thousands of years, and has been observed and recorded for at least the last two millennia. This giant ball of ice, rocks, and dust has left little stragglers that are pulled into the Earth’s atmosphere as we pass through the debris field, causing them to burst into flames and light up as the shooting stars we enjoy. The dragon we now call Swift-Tuttle is a comet that passes by every 133 years, so if you missed it in 1992 you might just be out luck for this lifetime. But you can still see traces that it left behind in the form of baby dragons, or little fire balls that we call the Perseids. This meteor shower runs mid-July to late August in the north-eastern sky. As the show is best in the middle of the night it works well with a weekend spent camping. Find the constellation Perseus by locating Cassiopeia – she is the hero’s mother and points to his head if you follow the middle-left -line of her W shape down to his crown. The meteors bursting forth are really fun to watch with fast traverses and long bright streaks. Imagine scanning the sky thousands of years ago, seeking a familiar pattern above only to be surprised by the sudden appearance of these wondrous flashes of light. But that’s just the thing – you have to be looking or you might just miss them. And learning to appreciate them now, and find your way around the shapes in the sky will also prepare you for something even more special that just might happen soon. T Coronae Borealis is a very special binary star system whose light takes about 3,000 years to reach us. It is called the Blaze Star and is actually made of two stars closely orbiting each other. The massive red giant is still-
-burning away, but is nearing the end of its life cycle and slowly feeds the hungry little white dwarf beside it. The white dwarf is incredibly dense after having already burnt out all of its own nuclear fuel and now existing as a core of what it once was. If the star had been larger, it would have collapsed under its own gravitational pull and become a black hole – but instead it now slowly siphons off material from its neighbor with a lesser pull. But all the extra burnable fuel adds up, and occasionally causes an explosion called a nova. It is hard to predict the exact time, but is known to routinely burst around every 80 years, with the next explosion most likely coming this spring or fall. And when it does go boom, it will suddenly become a bright spot in the sky where there used to be only a faint star. It lasts about a week, so you don’t need to be out every night but you might want to take a look at it some time before the big show so that you know how dramatic the change really is.
Find Vega in the summer triangle, and use it once again to spot Hercules and Draco. The constellation Corona Borealis, or Northern Crown will be the backwards C shape that stands on the far side of Hercules opposite Vega. Look at the bottom of the C shape just where it curves – no you won’t see anything yet. Just remember that empty bit of the sky just off the edge of the constellation because during your lifetime (and most likely during this very summer) you are going to see magic before your very eyes! When a new and very bright star suddenly appears and is about as bright as the very brightest star in the Northern Crown constellation beside it. Remember, you are actually seeing into the past. This cosmic dance of stealing burnable matter and going nova might happen about once every 80 years, but the explosion you will see actually took place about 3,000 years before you actually saw it here on Earth. Its incredible to think of what you just might miss if you forget to look up every now and then!
The stars don’t really care about your world-view or involvement. They march on just the same with or without your notice or commentary. And if you don’t take the time to look up, its only you that fails to participate in the experience, but this also means that even if you have always wanted to get started and never found the push the present moment is just as good a time as any. This isn’t a complicated series of novels where you need to understand the backstory of every character involved – in fact if you take another year before you decide to start paying attention you won’t have really missed a thing in the annual rotation. The story will be repeating itself starting with the same chapter that has been read on that same night for every year of your life time. If you live to be 100, that processional march will have only moved the celestial story board by about 1 degree. Hold you arm all the way out, extend your pinky finger. See how wide that is? Well, in the last hundred years the stars have only changed position about that much to arrive at the locations we see today. And if you could wait around for another 25,700 years you would find them right back to where they had been before. Pretty impressive when you consider that we tend to see time in seconds, minutes, and hours and yet we know that our ancestors have been looking up there long enough to watch the dancers return to their starting positions many times over. So learn just one or two discernable clusters today and you can feel connected to them for the rest of your life, even passing it on in oral stories just like it was always done before.
LIVE TO GARDEN: GARDEN TO LIVE PART II
No Need For Roosters!
Spring and summer ushers in vibrant sights, smells and sounds… oh the sounds. Redwing Blackbirds and fat Robins flirt and fight over choice nesting spots, bees buzz in a flurry around blooming apple and pear trees, and the potent fragrance of blossoms and fresh grasses bombard the senses. Aaah-chooo! In my part of the Lewiston Orchards, other sounds pierce the ether as wonders of spring rejoice in renewal. Teenage roosters squawk and try their hand at crowing, wheezy donkeys bellow hee-haw—wheeze, protective geese quack intimidating warnings over their newly laid fat eggs as a jet-black Crow cruises overhead looking for an easy meal, and the gobble of neighborhood domestic turkeys rattle the sound barrier as toms jostle for favor. I recall a listening game my Sunday School teacher used to have us play as kids. You might have played it too? We would be asked to sit perfectly still and quiet outside and just listen to see how many sounds we could identify. I remember at first always thinking, I don’t hear a thing, but as a few moments in the stillness were given time to resonate in my ears, I would hear a bird, or buzzing of a bee, and soon I had a list of exciting sounds to share with the class who all were equally invigorated through our young senses. For me, in this current moment in time, the old game puts my brain on overload, almost to the point of annoyance. Cue “Wheezy” the jackass named Jack Daniels, bellowing down the street. My friend Trena has Jack on retainer to make friendly with Loise and Jenny, appropriately named as the breeding females of her donkey herd. Female donkeys are called jennies…did I need to say that? I bet some in the neighborhood will breathe a sigh of relief when J.D. is moved on to the next harem. What a job! To be honest, all the sounds of spring, even at 4 a.m., make me smile.
I was sharing with my good friend, and fellow hobby gardener Ric, that we have an overflow of roosters now in our henhouse. Thankfully we have animal rights, and most of my neighbors have a rooster, tom, gander, jack, or some-such noise-maker all of whom are feeling, well, boisterous, so no one is calling the cops to report noise disturbances. That wasn’t always the case. A few years ago, some folks moved next door from somewhere that traffic and sirens were more the norm than roosters sounding at 4 a.m. I got two notices from the Lewiston Police Department taped to my front door in as many weeks. The officer was chill and acknowledged when I called that he wasn’t going to cuff and book the roosters, but that he had to pass on the message. I wonder if animal control has chicken SWAT teams? It never made sense to me that a neighbor’s dog can bark all day and night, but your rooster sounds off at first light, and the call goes out to fight crime! When you are raised in the country you know that roosters just happen. I decided a friendly, direct approach would be worth a try with our new neighbors, so I did another radical thing these days, I went and knocked on their door. This made them sadly uncomfortable; I got the impression the face-to-face approach was not too common where they were from. What ensued was a brief, slightly tense stand-off on their porch where I explained that us folks ‘round-ere prefer to solve rooster problems face to face. Cue spaghetti western tense music and a narrow, squinty-eyed showdown and you get the idea. Things relaxed when I explained the reason for our rooster glut; our girls had hatched some eggs in their incubator for a homeschool project, I explained, and that the roosters, of which I must admit were many, were soon to meet their futures in the broiler. I was hoping they might get a little meat on the bone, if you know what I mean, first. I offered that the police would have no way of knowing this as I had not given them that information, so in future, just come to talk to me. In a matter of days, things quieted down, and the freezer was full.
It always seems to defy the odds that when a hen goes broody, and you are hoping for more hens, they usually hatch out roosters. Some might be surprised to know that chicks don’t exclusively choose to be hens. This confusion is expected, I suppose, when feed stores sell only pullets. A pullet is a female chicken who hasn’t started laying yet; you must earn the title “hen” by laying eggs! It does makes good business sense if you are a seller of chickens to only offer one option of chicks, those with ZZ chromosomes; female that is. Chickens don’t have the choice between X and Y chromosomes like homo sapiens as scientists did not want to mix up chickens and humans with X and Y chromosomes in the lab. That would be mess! Only, selling hens does keep customers coming back. If you have hens and a rooster, you can DIY chicks. I am currently incubating a batch of eggs for a hatch just days before Easter, the idea prompted by the fact that local feed stores are in short supply of chicks. The spring panic over eggs and chicks sparked an entrepreneurial proclivity in me,
By
TRENT
-sending me digging out the old egg incubator. With a batch of freshly gathered eggs warmly rotating in the humid incubator and defying the age-old warning “don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” I optimistically offered chicks to my buddy Ric. Being the savvy farm boy that he is, he said, “I’ve got no need for roosters.” I get that, but it just doesn’t seem to be the way nature intended. Since I’m not really competent in sexing chicks, likely you will get a rooster or two if you accept my hatchlings.
Dealing with roosters aside, I love that there is a trend toward supporting more natural ways in agriculture, at least on local and hobby farms that service farmers’ markets. I have spoken before about my transformation from an advocate of using herbicides and pesticides, appropriately of course, in my orchard, garden, and animal husbandry to adopting more of a “crunchy”- person approach. Not crusty, which at my age I assume I am often labeled, but crunchy. If you have not heard the term “crunchy,” it apparently is a take-off from people who eat lots of granola. AI Overview defines a person who is a crunchy-person as someone with “a lifestyle and parenting -approach that emphasizes natural living, holistic practices, and rejection of mainstream medicine and consumerism.” Check, check, and double check; I was crunchy and didn’t even know it, though the parenting part I’m not so sure about. In reflection on raising our kids thirty years ago, I think crunchy was mainstream then, though it seems kind of retro to today’s standards. Anyway, I guess you could say on the farm these days I fit into some weird Venn diagram of where crunchy, crusty, and common-sense -meet where they all intersect.
The point being, I have gone through a significant transformation since the commercial orcharding days of my youth, to now cultivate and grow things in ways that are healthier and more wholesome for my health and the environment. And to do so for consumption. I proposed in my last ramblings that serious hobby gardeners can grow enough of the right herbs and vegetables to be more than just a cute hobby but that will make a difference in our health. Consuming those foods is part of my new mantra, Food is Medicine. Last time we spoke, I shared my obsession with growing basil to feed the obsession with consuming basil pesto. I am happy to report that my wife and I’s weekly consumption of this healthy concoction of powerful herbs and ingredients (recipe in the last article) is almost completely supplied from my greenhouse basil starts. As we move solidly into late spring and early summer, I am being strategic about what I want to plant for my and my wife’s health.
Months ago, like many of you, I began planting carefully selected seed varieties in starting soil on warming mats in the greenhouse; many are now ready to move outdoors. There are the usual tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers for eating fresh and for canning. Plenty of yellow-neck squash, zuccs, cantaloupes, and watermelons, most of which are for summer enjoyment. But as we continue to ponder powerful nutritional foods to grow, process and store yearly, cabbage is high on my list. It is easy to start from seeds, hardy in cool temperatures, disease-resistant with good garden management and a beautiful addition to any garden landscape, cabbage is on the top of my list. Nothing beats a fresh slice of raw cabbage for munching, or grated in a garden salad, or even better, fermented for saving and eating into fall and winter as an incredibly powerful health food. I may have lost some of you at sauerkraut… fermented cabbage; yuk! But I would ask you this, have you ever had homemade sauerkraut processed from homegrown cabbage? It is quite different than what you get in jars at the-
-grocery store. And I would strongly argue that fermented foods are a critical part of our diet that most of us do not consume any more.
I recently added a lecture to my L.C. State Nursing Pharmacology course which discussed Complementary and Alternative Medications as “need to know” information for L.C. Nursing graduates. I am convinced that what many are calling a healthcare and disease crisis in America is partly a food and nutritional crisis. I explain to my students as we study key vitamins and nutrients in our diet, that while we have in most places eliminated vitamin deficiency diseases like rickets and scurvy, deficiencies manifest in other ways like autoimmune dysfunction and organ system diseases.
We discuss the role of a healthy gastrointestinal system for synthesis of these compounds. Most of the water-soluble B vitamins critical to heart and vascular health, as well as fetal development, are produced by bacteria in a healthy gut. And there is not only a link between organ system function, metabolism, and energy production, as well as immune function but now we know there is a link to mental health. This is called the gut-brain connection or gut-brain axis and describes how the diverse community of healthy microorganisms in our GI system produce chemicals that play a significant role in our mood, behavior and even cognitive function. Healthy gut microorganisms do this! Fermented foods not only add probiotics to your gut, but they also improve digestion and aid in absorption of all nutrients. They also offer the benefit of dampening swings in blood sugar as the fermentation process consumes some of the calories of the food being fermented. This is the same concept we apply to sourdough bread. Though the Lactobacillus and wild yeast in sourdough are killed in baking, during “the rise” the fermentation process consumes some of the calories of the flour, lowering blood sugar after consumption of sourdough compared to more highly-processed breads. While you may argue that “I take a multivitamin daily,” do you really think that a pill is as receptive to your individual nutritional needs as what complex healthy feedback systems in your body can manage and create? You really are what you eat! So, get that cabbage out there to start growing and converting soil and sunlight into health-food. Another great quality of cabbage is that is has a long harvest window, so you will have months to enjoy it, and what is left in the fall you can ferment. We will discuss later how to make sauerkraut, and you will find out how fun and easy it is to create your own delicious, healthy food that will last into the winter.
You might be wondering, how does all of this relate to roosters? Good question! I guess I see life on the farm and life in our bodies as similar in some ways. There are “inconveniences” that are built into both, but for a reason. Is it inconvenient to have to deal with a brood of chickens that may have a rooster or two? Not if you want to have a sustainable flock! It is also not that convenient to plant, grow, process, and in some cases ferment the foods we know are going to keep us healthy. It takes time and effort but, in the process, we have time to listen to what our bodies are trying to tell us. If we take the time to reflect and hear what it is telling us, we would be better for it. I think for all the trendy words we have today like “self-care” or “take time for wellness,” we don’t allow ourselves permission to do it! Maybe we don’t know what it looks like to slow down and breathe and cook a whole-real-food meal. But we do, really. Remember, you get more done in one day than your grandparents probably had on their plate in a week. So, here’s to permission to take some time and listen.
Martha’s Journal PART 4
Here is another section of Martha Lorang journal, from the White Spring Ranch.
Martha was born on the farm in Genesee, Idaho in May of 1897.
“Many times when we went to and from school, we would go through snowdrifts that were hip-high. Also, there were times in the spring when snow melted and the bridge that we went over was covered with water. We crossed two bridges that were built over a creek. When the water was low in the spring – when Bertha would drive the onehorse buggy – she would try to really scare us by driving with one wheel on the road and one wheel in the ditch, instead of driving straight on the road. The ditch was about three-feet deep so we would almost tip over. Also, when we came to the bridge, she wouldn’t drive over the bridge, but on the side and through the creek. It had water in it, but not very deep, but we could have gotten stuck in the mud. Another thing she did – I was hoeing weeds in the garden and she decided she wanted my hoe. She pulled on the uphill side and I was on the downhill side and suddenly Bertha let go and down the hill I went with the sharp hoe which hit me in the shin and made a deep hole - I still have a scar. She also, while we were working in the orchard or wherever, would throw clods of dirt at us. Instead of throwing some back, Viola and I would just cover and take it. We never really got hurt- Bertha loved us – but it was her way of showing off. Ha! Ha! (Bertha grew up and learned her lesson. She became a secretary for the Superintendent of Schools of Latah County. Before that though, when she was still at home; Bertha drove the new autos for couples that were afraid of them. She did quite well.)
We had bees and when the time was right, Dad would dress with hat and veil and gloves so he would not get stung, capture the honey cones from the bees, and bring the cones into the house, and it was so good. Every now and then, the bees would swarm and fly away. There were times when they would set on a tree branch and Dad would shake them into a hive for more honey. Every now and then you would get stung by a bee. I remember one time a bee got in Mother’s hair and, boy, did that hair fly! She was frantic, but did not get stung. We used to go huckleberry picking in the Moscow mountains. We never got very many.
My Dad was awarded a first prize medal in 1905 at the Lewis and Clark Centennial Exposition in Portland, Oregon, for barley. He tried for different awards over the years. I remember him putting grains of wheat on the table and we sorted it over taking out the small grains and any seeds or weeds and leaving only the large grains to plant the next year for an award.
by DIANE CONROY
In the fall of the year, we stocked up on sugar, sacks and sacks of it for the winter. We also had sacks and sacks of flour. We had a special tight closet where they were kept. I seem to remember it at the top of the stairs off of the washroom. Mother baked bread which was made with a starter. She used some of the starter and kept the rest of it for the next time. She also made raised doughnuts, coffee cake, cinnamon rolls, cake doughnuts, jelly rolls, and the most flaky pie crust I ever ate. There was one pie I especially liked - a lemon pie - in which she also put the rind of the lemon. It was delicious - sweet, but tartie.
Dad had a hired hand the year around to assist him and Mother usually had a hired girl.
The fall of the year was a busy time when thrashing crews came. They usually had a cook wagon, but there were times when we fed them. At least, I know we had a lot of men eating at the farm at times. We really gave the men delicious feeds. The Davenport Hotel could not have done better. Dad ran the binder and the men behind did the shocking. I remember the man who liked his liquor but was a good worker. After eating his noon meal, he would just run to the field to shock bundles to keep up with the binder. He went to town one day and into Clark’s Drug Store and wanted some whiskey. It was not given to him and when the druggist went to the back to the storeroom, this man took something he thought was whiskey – but it was formaldehyde – and he took a swig of it and started choking. There was a watering trough in back of the store so he ran for some water quick. He drank right out of the watering trough. He had red hair so from that time on we called him “Formaldehyde Red.”
We had a very tame cow, “Daisy.” She had a very large bag and I think sometimes it hurt her when it got very full before we milked her. When she was in the pasture, we would call to her when it was milking time, “Come Daisy, come Daisy, come Daisy,” and she would “moo” and come home. She would stop right where you were and we would milk her. She was so tame that you could milk her on either side or both sides. We would also put small children on her back and she would not move, but just let them sit there. There could be a heaven for her. We had calves that were weaned from their mother so we would feed them separated milk. We would yell, “Here calfie, here calfie,” and pound on the bucket and they would come running to get fed. We would put our finger in the bucket and they would suck our finger and drink and every now and then bunt the bucket - which would be the natural way to do if they were nursing from their mother.
In about 1906, when Mollie was fourteen, I was nine, and Viola was eight, we were sleeping in the southeast bedroom upstairs. In the middle of the night, Mollie said she was awakened by the Virgin Mary and our hall was thick with smoke. Mollie led us downstairs and in the kitchen was the hired man who was sleeping in the first bedroom upstairs. He said he was looking for a match to find out where the fire was. He had been-drinking the night before and his mattress was on fire. Dad and Mother were soon awakened and Dad came upstairs and threw the mattress from the upstairs porch to the ground before it flamed. If it had not been for Mollie, the house soon may have been in flames or we may have suffocated or passed out from the thick smoke.
In 1910, when my Dad and Mother were traveling in Europe, Christine took care of the household and did a good job of it. The folks arranged that we had a dressmaker, Miss Clemens, stay with us during the six-months that they were gone. Barney and Henry worked the farm during that time. Henry always loved the land.
In 1909 and 1910, Teddy Roosevelt went on a Safari in Africa. A moving picture was made of it. I had never seen a movie, but shortly thereafter it was brought to Genesee, Idaho. It was shown in an old wood structure. Mother let us go to see it and it was a most memorable occasion. I believe it was free, or if anything, it must have been just a few cents or so. At the same time, a Baptist Ministry came to town to convert people. Mother let us go to it too. I remember baptism taking place. Some of the people in Genesee were baptized. They were dunked bodily into the water fully clothed. It was a real experience for me –never to be forgotten.
When we were children, Mother and Father spoke German to us, because they wanted us to have that second language. So, being the third last of 10 children, my older brothers and sisters came from school speaking English. So, we did not stay with German very long, although I can understand German enough to know what people are talking about. Also, I can speak enough German to converse somewhat. If in Germany, I could ask for food and a bed and places to go, although my German is likely of a very different caliber to what they speak it there.
Mother and Dad many times would be speaking German to their sisters and brothers and I could understand all they were talking about. That is why, even though our brothers and sisters came home from school speaking English, we still kept abreast of it – hearing it from Dad and Mom.
Mother belonged to the Altar Society and there were many parties at our house, including playing cards. I remember Father Keiser here then playing cards. I hung around him too much, I guess, and he told me to go to bed! Ha! Ha! Of course, after that I did not like him.
Mother had too many heads to comb and to get us all ready for school was a task. So, for noon lunch for school, it usually was a currant jelly sandwich wrapped in newspaper. By noon, it got dry and the edges turned up with the jelly on it and it tasted like the newspaper.
Our sisters were Sister Lucy, who was very stern, strict, but intelligent. She was my first teacher at my beginning class and I had difficulty learning as a beginner, so she would take me to her desk (she had a little switch) and if I didn’t get it soon enough, she would switch me around the legs – to hurry me up. I told Mother and she stopped that. She said I was too nervous to handle me that way. Sister Flavia was a very dear person and liked Bertha. As I had difficulty in the first grade, I tried so hard at home and the book that I took home to read was torn to shreds, on account of leafing through it so much. I can still remember some of the pictures and verses. I loved that little book.”
We have this little book of Martha’s and many mementos from her story. If you would like to see this, stop by on Sunday afternoons in the Summer and you can take it all in. 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.
Otis! the Shenanigans Oh,
by Temple Kinyon
Episode 29 Dimes From Heaven
“Goodbye!” Grandma Helen waved out of the car window and blew Otis kisses. “No shenanigans, Otis!” Mavis yelled as she backed the car out of the driveway. For as long as Mavis had been part of the Swan family, Helen had taken her daughter-in-law for an annual overnight shopping spree at the big department stores in a city a few hours away from the farm. Autie Hazie, Grandpa Ed’s unmarried sexagenarian older sister just happened to live in that city. The older Swan cousins from Otis’s generation had stayed with her at one time or another. Otis had always been too young to stay with her, but finally he’d aged into the elite club. She’d invited him to come for an overnighter while Mavis and Helen shopped.
Hazel Swan, or Hazie as the entire family called her, was an exuberant, eccentric woman with sporty short silver hair and a zest for life. She stood tall and lanky. Her signature look included bright pink lipstick, horn-rimmed glasses, and dangly earrings. You knew she was coming or going when you smelled the unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5.
Otis waved and shouted, “Bye, Mom and Grandma! See you tomorrow!”
Auntie Hazie put her hand on Otis’s shoulder. “It’s so good to have you here, Otis. By the way I love your glasses!”
“I just got them a few months ago,” Otis said.
“They look very handsome,” Hazie said. “Why don’t we take your stuff upstairs and get you settled a little bit and then go on an adventure?”
“Deal!” Otis quickly grabbed his small navy-blue Samsonite and traipsed through the house with Hazie on his heels. They marched up two flights of wooden stairs to the quirky door that led to the attic. It had a rounded top and an enormous door handle that looked like it was out of a castle. That’s what Otis thought, anyway. Auntie Hazie opened the door, and Otis peered up the short set of steps.
“Well, go ahead, it’s yours for the night,” Hazie said.
Otis slowly made his way up, one stair at a time, and the room revealed itself. White twinkle lights hung from the wooden rafters and a circle stained-glass window nestled in the peak of the ceiling. The mid-morning sun beamed through it and a kaleidoscope of color splashed across the high ceiling. A queen-sized bed sat against the far wall with a white fluffy down comforter and several fluffy pillows encased in white sheets, and a small white refrigerator and white porcelain sink inhabited a corner, along with a glass-topped table and two chairs. The overstuffed white couch and a beanbag the size of an elephant sat in the opposite corner with a TV on a wooden stand. Two bookcases and other antique furniture filled the remainder of the cozy but spacious room.
“Auntie, this is awesome!” Otis exclaimed.
Hazie giggled. “Go check out the bathroom.” She nodded her head toward a door by the bed.
Otis dropped his suitcase and scampered over to the bathroom door. He flipped on the light and caught his breath. The entire bathroom, from floor to ceiling, was white and black tile. A huge white claw-foot tub sat by an enormous window overlooking Hazie’s back yard, and a big basket sat by the tub with rolled up fluffy white towels. A large shower was at the other end of the room and in between sat a double sink vanity with a gigantic mirror encased in a black frame. A small room in the corner revealed the toilet. Otis turned around, dashed over to Hazie, and threw his arms around her. “I’ve never, ever, ever had my own bathroom! Or a toilet with its own room!”
Hazie laughed and hugged him back. “Oh, Otis, it’s just an old attic with some furniture and a bathroom.”
“You remember I’m the last of seven kids, right, Auntie? I’ve never had anything all to myself.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it could get tricky with all those siblings. Well, I’m thrilled to have you here all to myself and provide you with a sanctuary. This is the first of many future visits, I’m sure.”
“I hope so,” Otis said and make a stern promise to himself to be on his best behavior. No shenanigans, especially around all that white. “How about you unpack a little and then come downstairs to the kitchen when you’re set. We’ll make a plan to stir up some trouble.” “Sounds great,” Otis said.
Hazie thumped down the stairs, and Otis took a moment to take in the room. The space was three times the size of the room he shared with Chuck, and it smelled way better. He took a running leap onto the bed. The soft down comforter enveloped him. He’d never felt anything so squishy and soft. He arranged himself on the pillows, careful to hang his feet off the edge so his sneakers didn’t touch the perfect whiteness of the bedding. I’m not going to do anything stupid to mess up this visit. I want to come back! He hopped off the bed and inspected the kitchen and then toured the rest of his quarters. He tested the couch—very comfy. Turned on the TV—Road Runner. Rifled through a stack of magazines on the coffee table—Ranger Rick and two Archie comics. Then he walked over to inspect the various treasures on the book cases. Auntie Hazie had traveled all over the world. Framed pictures of her in various locations adorned the shelves. He made a mental note to ask her about all the places she’d been.
A glass jar tucked behind one of photo frames caught his eye. Otis carefully removed it and saw it was about the size of a quart canning jar and two-thirds full of coins. He shook it. Dozens, if not hundreds, of dimes rattled around inside. Only dimes. On a hunch, he started to inspect the other bookcases and-
-shelves, thinking he’d find individual jars filled with pennies, nickels, and quarters. No such luck. The mystery deepened. Still hanging on to the jar, he poked around more, but nothing else seemed as intriguing as the dimes. He debated if he should return the jar to the shelf and leave it at that, but finally decided to go downstairs with the jar and ask Auntie about it. If it was such a big secret, she wouldn’t have put the jar on the shelf in her guest attic. Otis whirled around and strode across the floor toward the stairway, a young man bolstered with confidence and curiosity. But before he could get to the stairs, the toe of his sneaker caught the edge of a beautiful white rug splayed out in the middle of the room. He tripped and lost his balance. He tried to recover, but the momentum was too great. He took three awkward strides in an attempt to right himself before down he went.
He landed on his stomach with an ooooff! He tried to use his arms to soften the blow and save the jar of dimes. Smack! His elbows hit hard, and the jar of dimes flew out of his hands. It summersaulted in the air a couple of times and hit bulls-eye center of the large heating vent near the wall. The jar exploded, sending glass shards and dimes everywhere, including down the vent. Clatter, clink, clink, clatter clink down the shaft, which teed off to vents on the floors below, but ultimately ended at the kitchen ceiling vent.
“No no no no no no!!” Otis exclaimed. He quickly scootched himself with his arms onto the vent, furiously trying to stop the dimes from falling down the heating chute. He managed to save two handfuls, but then noticed the horror of what he’d done to himself to save the coins. Blood started to drip from his hands.
Great balls of fire, I’m bleeding! He stood, still grasping the dimes mixed with glass shards and scooted to the bathroom sink. He pulled the plug and opened his hands. The blood oozed out of several cuts as the dimes and glass landed in the sink. Realizing he was in over his head, he shouted, “AUNTIE! AUNTIE HAZIE!”
Hazie had already hit the bottom of the attic stairs in full sprint, and Otis heard her bound up them in a shot. “Otis! OH MY GOSH! What happened?”
“I’m in the bathroom!”
She roared into the tiled room. “Holy Batman, YOU’RE BLEEDING!”
“I know.” He stood dumbfounded over how quickly things had turned from curiosity to chaos.
Hazie turned on the faucet. “Let’s get a look at how bad this is.” “Owwww!” Otis screeched, but he kept his hands under the cold water, knowing it would slow the bleeding. This wasn’t his first rodeo with bloodied hands. “I’m so sorry, Auntie. I didn’t mean to make a mess!”
“Oh, Otis,” she smiled thoughtfully as she inspected his hands. “Who cares about the mess? I just need to see if we need bandages or an emergency room.” She turned off the water and continued looking. “Uh oh.”
Otis never, in his entire life, had ever had anything good associated with those two words.
“This one on your wrist looks a little deep,” she answered. “But don’t panic.”
But it was too late. Otis’s chin trembled. “Am I going to bleed to death?”
Hazie giggled. “No, Otis, you’re not going to bleed to death. But I think we better go see a medical professional. You may need stitches.”
Otis knew the words may need meant will need. He’d ruined his-
-visit with Auntie Hazie in less than an hour.
Hazie retrieved two white hand towels and gently wrapped up Otis’s hands. “This’ll keep you from bleeding all over the place, any more than you already have.” She winked.
A tear slid down Otis’s cheek. He felt the weight of guilt and disappointment. “Your white towels.” And then he noticed the trail of blood splattered on the bathroom floor. “And your white floor.” He walked out to the main room and saw the trail of red splotches starting at the big white rug.
“Oh, Auntie,” he lamented. “I got blood everywhere.”
“You sure did, kiddo,” she smiled. “But I have one word for you that’ll fix it all. Bleach.”
Otis received five stitches to zip up the cut to his wrist, but the remainder of cuts—all nine of them—only required cleaning and band aids. The emergency room had different colors of bandages, so he selected his favorite color, green.
Now, he and Hazie sat on her porch swing at her house, licking ice cream cones. Ten green band aids covered Otis’s hands and wrists, but they didn’t impinge on his enjoyment of his cone. He’d selected scoops of vanilla and black licorice, and she’d selected two scoops of pralines and caramel. A comfortable silence fell over them as they licked away at their treats. Hazie pushed her foot off the porch railing to keep the swing gently swaying. Finally, Otis broke the silence. “So, Auntie, why did you have all of those dimes?”
A smile curled across Hazie’s face. She looked at Otis with a lit-up expression. “Those, Otis, are dimes from heaven.” She winked and finished her ice cream cone as Otis sat in curiosity, still licking his.
“Otis, do you know why I never married?”
“No,” he said.
“After high school, I went to business college for two years and learned all the skills to be an office assistant. I worked a few years in a run-of-the-mill office job, and then the war broke out.”
“The war?” Otis asked.
“Uh, yeah. You know. World War II?” Hazie replied. Otis did the math. “Wow, I guess I never considered you to be that old because you seem so young.”
Hazie laughed. “I am that old, Otis. Anyway, I visited the recruitment office one day and asked if the Army needed women to help. Of course, they did. Long story short, I became a WAC.”
“What’s that?” Otis had finished his ice cream cone and sat mesmerized by her story.
“It stands for Women’s Army Corps,” she explained. “I ended up serving in London starting in 1943. I worked with the Eight Air Force as a clerk and switchboard operator. It was an amazing time, Otis.”
“Did you see stuff get blown up?” Otis breathed.
“A little,” she confessed. “London was a target at times. The Germans bombed the city, but where I was stationed, there were no bombs that actually landed.”
“Wow,” Otis said. “So what does this have to do with the dimes?”
“Otis, I’m going to tell you a story not many people know, so keep it to yourself, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Oh, I can keep your secret, Auntie,” Otis said, and he crossed his heart.
“I trust you, otherwise I wouldn’t tell you. Plus, you’re the only kid who has asked me about the dimes,” she said.
“And destroyed the jar and bled all over your pretty white stuff,” Otis mumbled.
“Eh, we’ll clean it up after I tell you this story. So one day at work, an Air Force pilot came in with some papers. They were top secret, as most of the stuff that came across my desk was, so he stuck around to give them to my commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Anna Wilson. After he met with her, he asked me if I’d like to get dinner that night. I said sure.”
Otis hung on her every word.
“We met for dinner that night and the next night and all the other nights he happened to be in London over the next year,” she said.
“Oh, Otis, he was my dream. His name was Brant. He was handsome, smart, a pilot…an English accent.” Her voice trailed off, and she looked beyond Otis, lost in her memory for a brief moment.
“He wasn’t just a pilot. When I met him, he was running important intelligence back and forth between spies and top brass. He wasn’t supposed to tell me, but he did. We got to be very close, and on April 6, 1944, he asked me to marry him. Of course, I said yes.”
Otis wriggled in his swing seat. “Okay, enough of the mushy stuff. Then what happened?”
“He didn’t have a ring for me, but he had his lucky dime in his pocket,” she said. “He’d had it with him on every mission he’d flown. I guess his mom gave it to him when he enlisted. Anyway, it had his birth year of 1921, which is also the year I was born. He gave it to me as a place holder until he could get me an engagement ring. And that’s what started the dime jar you broke.”
Otis’s cringed.
“I know you feel bad, Otis, but don’t,” she said. “Anyway, you know the song Pennies from Heaven?”
“Yeah, Grandpa Ed sings it sometimes,” Otis smiled. Hazie smiled thoughtfully. “Your grandpa is the only member of the family that knows this whole story. Well, other than you, now.” Otis felt proud and humbled that she would trust him with a story about her boyfriend and a dime.
“Brant would sing that song only replace the word pennies with dimes,” Hazie said. “Anytime he had a dime, he gave it to me. And the funny thing was, I started finding dimes all over the place. On the sidewalk, in the laundry, at the bottom of my purse. It was like little reminders from heaven that I should be with Brant. I dropped the dimes into that jar, but I kept the 1921 dime separate and safe with me every day.
“The war raged on,” she continued, “but Brant and I were all flustered and in love. Engaged and mentally planning our life together. He was still running missions, and in December 1944, I got sent back to the states to finish out the war years at Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia. Our plan was to get married and set up house there as soon as the Air Force sent Brant back to the states.”
Otis stayed quiet.
“I guess you can figure out what happened, huh?” A wistful smile briefly graced her lips.
“He didn’t make it back to the states.” Otis said quietly.
“He was killed during a mission on March 17, 1945,” Hazie said. “I was devastated, of course, but I continued to work as a WAC, so that kept me busy. And I was used to being on my own, so I guess maybe I figured out how to live without him easier than if we’d been married and living together. I eventually got out of the Army and moved here to be close to Ed and the family. But anytime I found a dime, I put it in that jar. I’ve collected over 1,300 dimes the last time I counted.”
Otis’s eyes bulged. “We have to find 1,300 dimes?!”
Hazie laughed. “We have to at least try. Come on.” The two made their way into the house. “Hold up a second. I want to see-
something.”
She walked into the kitchen and sure enough, on the floor directly under the vent in the ceiling sat a small pile of dimes. She started laughing and stood under the vent. She jumped, hit the vent, and several dimes showered over her head. Otis joined her, and she smacked the vent again. Clink, clink, clink. More dimes plopped on their heads. They giggled, and Hazie grabbed a quart-sized canning jar off the counter.
“Here, Otis. You can put the dimes into this.” She then retrieved a pair of worn leather gloves out of a drawer. “I’ll sift through the glass to give you the dimes.”
They traipsed up to the attic to complete the clean-up mission. Otis picked up the dimes and put them into the jar as Hazie carefully separated the glass from other dimes. Every so often, they heard a clink, clink, clink as a dime went down the vent.
“So, Auntie, why didn’t ever find another boyfriend and get married,” Otis asked.
Hazie thought a moment before replying, “Because there was never another Brant.”
After they finished cleaning up the glass, dimes, and blood in the attic, they checked the kitchen and found more dimes on the floor. Hazie whacked the vent and more filtered out.
“I guess we’re still missing a few,” Otis said. “Oh, they’ll eventually reveal themselves,” Hazie said. “That’s how it works with dimes.”
-said.
“Did you have fun?” Deanie asked and then giggled.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Otis asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Chuck said. “Where did these dimes come from?”
He revealed two dimes in his hand. Otis looked at his night stand, and sure enough, his precious dimes were gone.
“Give them back!” he yelled at Chuck.
A raucous game of keep away ensued, with the older brothers ganging up on Otis and tossing the dimes around.
“GIVE THEM BACK!” Otis demanded. “I’M NOT KIDDING AROUND!”
“Nope!” shouted Deanie.
“Never!” Chuck laughed.
On and on, the game went until Otis was so mad he took an uncharacteristic roundhouse swing at Chuck and nailed him right in the kisser. Blood started to trickle out of his lip, and Chuck touched it. “You little jerk! I’m bleeding!”
Deanie grabbed the dimes from Chuck. Otis went for broke and hauled off and nailed Deanie in the left eye.
“Owwww!” Deanie screamed.
“Give. Me. My. Dimes. Now.” Otis said in deep and threatening tone.
“What the Sam Hill is going on in here,” Marvel came into the bedroom.
The three boys stood silent.
“What happened, Deanie?” Marvel demanded.
“Otis hit Chuck and me because we were playing keep away with his stuff.”
Mavis and Helen arrived at Hazie’s house the next afternoon. Hazie apologized profusely to Mavis about what happened to Otis’s hands. “That’s a first for me,” she said. “Never had a child that visited end up with a visit to the ER and stitches.”
“You’d never had Otis visit before,” Mavis said and rolled her eyes. “I swear, Otis, trouble follows you wherever you go.”
They started to say their goodbyes, and when Hazie got to Otis, she hugged him tight.
“I had the best time with you,” she whispered in his ear. “Please come back soon.” She pressed something into his hand and curled his fingers around it. “I’m glad we have a secret together.” Otis looked down in his palm and saw two dimes. He looked up at Hazie, and she whispered again in his ear, “My birth year and your birth year. Start your own jar.”
His eyes welled up with emotion, and he motioned for her to lean in next to him. He whispered in her ear, “Thank you, Auntie, for the best time I’ve ever had. I’m sorry about Brant.” “Me, too, kiddo,” Hazie whispered to him. “Me, too.”
It was bedtime by the time Mavis drove them back, dropped off Grandma Helen, and got home. Otis lugged his suitcase upstairs and flopped it onto his bed. He took the two dimes out of his pocket and looked at them. A 1921 and a 1969. He placed them on his nightstand and raced out of his room and down the stairs. “Mom, do you have a jar with a lid I can have?”
When he returned to his room with a pint canning jar, Chuck and Deanie were sitting on Chuck’s bed smiling. Otis knew his brothers were up to something.
“So, what did you do to your hands?” Chuck asked. “I broke a jar and when I went to clean it up, I cut myself,” Otis-
“Otis, did you hit your brothers?”
“Yes, sir, I did,” Otis stated. “They took something important to me and wouldn’t give it back.”
Marvel whistled long and low. “It must’ve been something extremely important for you to best your brothers. You’ve never hit them and left them bloodied and bruised before.”
Deanie’s eye was most definitely going to turn into a shiner, and Chuck’s lips had started to swell.
“You didn’t need to hit me, Otis,” Chuck said.
“Yeah, Otis, you didn’t need to get violent,” Deanie whined.
“Apparently, I did,” Otis said as he took the dimes out of Deanie’s hand. “If you touch these dimes ever again, I’ll bring up all the times I covered for you with Mom and Dad. And I have proof for some of it.”
Chuck and Deanie looked at each other, then at Otis, then at their dad.
“You have proof?” Chuck squeaked. Otis nodded.
“Well, well, I think you boys just worked out your first fist fight without me having to do a thing,” Marvel said with a smirk.
“Is Otis going to get into trouble for hitting us?” Deanie demanded.
“Nope,” Marvel said. “Seems like you had it coming. And by the sounds of it, he’s got something on you that’ll get you into trouble, so I’d say you better watch your step. Your little brother is growing up…and getting wiser.”
Otis removed the lid of his jar and dropped the two dimes into it. Clink, clink.
“This was all over two dimes?” Marvel asked and started laughing. “Not just dimes, Dad,” Otis beamed. “Dimes from heaven.”
Heather is thorough, compassionate, and genuinely cares for her patients. She turned away from the computer, turned towards me, and took the time to learn more about me, my personal life, and upcoming plans. I'm not just another person in an exam room. Heather goes the extra mile to make her patients feel cared for.
Shelia I.
TriState Family Practice Patient
TriState Family Practice, Clearwater 1522 17th Street
Lewiston, ID
P: 208.743.8416
Mon – Fri, 7:30am – 5:00pm
TriState Family Practice & Inter nal Medicine 1119 Highland Avenue Suite 10, Clarkston, WA P: 509.758.1450 Mon – Thur, 8:00am – 5:00pm Fri, 8:00am – 4:30pm
TriState Family Practice, Lewiston 2841 Juniper Drive Suite 2, Lewiston, ID P: 208.848.9001 Mon – Thur, 8:00am – 5:30pm Fri, 8:00am – 4:00pm
To schedule an appointment, call 509.769.2014 or email newpatients@tsmh.org
