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On simple joys From Pend Oreille Review, May 19, 1911
MASKED MEN ATTEMPT TO ROB DEPOT EARLY MONDAY MORNING Two masked men made a futile attempt to secure money and valuables at the Great Northern depot early Monday morning. D.H. Kenney, third trick operator, was the only employee of the railroad at the station at the time of the attempted robbery. About 2 o’clock Kenney had occasion to leave the office and entering the waiting room, was surprised to find it occupied by a masked man who promptly pulled a revolver, covered the operator and ordered him to throw up his hands. About this time another masked man appeared on the scene. The first robber turned Kenney over to his accomplice while he proceeded to go through the operator’s pockets. No valuables were found on Kenney’s person and only a bunch of keys, which were his personal property, were found. The robbers made a thorough search of the office looking for valuables, but were unable to unlock the ticket box with the keys secured from Kenney. They asked the operator where the money was kept and ordered him to unlock the ticket box. Kenney told them that the second trick operator had sent all the money to Spokane on the afternoon train and that there was nothing of value in the office. The hold-ups took Kenney at his word, leaving behind them some $40 which was locked up in the ticket box. “Say, don’t put that in the paper,” said Kenney to the Review reporter. “Those fellows might see it and come back again and clean the place up.” Kenney was able to furnish a good description of the would-be robbers and claims that both men seemed nervous and were probably amateurs. 22 / R / May 18, 2023
I listened to the creek roar past as I attempted to unlace my double-knotted boots. The sound of freshly melted snowpack rushing over rounded mountain granite drowned out every other noise — the dog panting next to me; my husband navigating blowdowns in the nearby woods in search of morels; my sister, also creekside, seated five feet away and shedding her own boots. I got one boot, then the other, tucked safely between some dry rocks and proceeded to peel off my socks, balling them up and shoving them into a single boot with childish abandon. They’d be a problem for later — an off-the-mountain problem, like text messages or showering. Pivoting to my left, I dropped both of my pale, winter feet into the creek. Only the water heard me as I exhaled a sharp, “Brrr, that’s cold!” The chill shot to the tops of my sweaty shoulders, and soon, the tips of my ears. I spent 10 minutes playing a game I learned very young: I dipped my feet for as long as I could stand it, and, once I was sure my bones were the same temperature as the smooth stones beneath my toes, I’d lift them back into the sun. Dip and lift, dip and lift. The creek washed away the sticky heat of the hike, as well as the dark numbness of winter. I smiled to myself as I watched my pup and sister experience the same sensation — Leslie performing her own routine of dipping and lifting while Mac
hopped off and onto the bank, helping herself to small sips of the world’s freshest water while she was at it. The simplest joys rear their sleepy heads in spring. They reveal themselves in the scent of the grass just as the morning sun hits it and in the breeze coming off the lake, teeming with movement and new life. These simple joys exist in the sound of birdsong and booming thunderstorms; the taste of rhubarb and wild mushrooms. They babble from beneath several feet of untouched mountain snow and ramble over waterfalls, under sun-bleached cedar stumps and past exhausted feet and paws, soon to spend a short-lived summer on Lake Pend Oreille. Simple joys abound in spring. In my mind, this time of year in North Idaho is a short window onto actual perfection. I stand under the blossoming branches of an apple tree planted so long ago that it has seen triple my number of springs, looking up, and my eyes well. I can no longer make out the difference between the rustling petals and the bees bumbling between them. I am overwhelmed by the perfection, and struggle to believe that anyone else has ever noticed this window. Still, I know they have. I can’t be the only one who, when given the opportunity to do “whatever I wanted” on a sunny May Sunday, told my husband we’d be lacing up our boots and traipsing up a mountain. “And I want to put my feet in some water afterward,” I added — a simple request for a simple joy.
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By Lyndsie Kiebert-Carey Reader Staff
Photo by Lyndsie Kiebert-Carey.
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When I think of some of the things that have been done in the name of science, I have to cringe. No, wait, not science, vandalism. And not cringe, laugh.