Five favorite books

 

My five favorite books, read over and over, are: Sacajawea by Anna Lee Waldo (who grew up in my home town of Whitefish, Montana), Swiss Family Robinson by Johann David Wyss, Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell, Savages by Shirley Conran, and Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.

 

 

All of them, interestingly, are about survival. Sacajawea, of course, is about the famous Indian woman who guided Lewis and Clark. This is big book-- thick as a brick --  and is fascinating. Inspired as a child picking up Indian spearheads from along the shores of Whitefish Lake, it took Waldo 10 years to write it this marvelous book.

 

 

I love Swiss Family Robinson, especially the ways and means by which they survive and thrive after their shipwreck. I've always had a small smattering of skill in making something out of nothing and this is what, in this book, makes my heart flutter -- building shelter from salvaged boards and crafting bowls and utensils and using wits and skill to flourish and survive. Part of me has always embraced a bit of "pioneer woman," matching wits against whatever life throws at me.   

 

 

Gone with the Wind! Has there ever been a more marvelous book printed (well, except for the Bible)? What an amazing story this is. This book captured my heart with the first read and enlightens me with each additional read.

 

 

I have probably read Savages six times or more. In the past I've bought this book half dozen at a time to give to friends. It is the story of a band of spoiled wives who go with their corporate husbands on a junket to a tiny tropical country. When a catastrophe occurs the women are left to fend for themselves. This is truly a book of survival -- about a band of disparate, and desperate, women wandering the jungle and trying to stay alive.

 

 

I first read Atlas Shrugged just after high school and I still remember that feeling of despair and fear that a government could be so obtuse and terrifying in using its power to rid the country of capital enterprise. Everyone is urged to work for socialistic ventures, saving this or that helping these and those. The inventors, entrepreneurs, brilliant businessmen and their ilk are stifled and despised -- although their money isn't. They assuage their helplessness by going on strike.

 

 

 In this book, rules and regulations -- while touted to promote fairness and equality -- are geared to stop and inhibit progress. No one can own more than one business. If a person manufactures, say, shoes, he can't make more shoes than any other company making shoes. Production comes to a standstill as, one by one, the nations greatest minds and innovators disappear, leaving the country in chaos. And what happens next? Can't tell you, you have to read the book -- or watch the movie.

 

 

Even though I was so very young the first time I read this book it took days to shake the incredible alarm it set off in me. It was an urge to get ready for the apocalypse, to stock up and start preparing for the end of life as we know it. It was an unsettling sort of terror that the government could so stifle the very basic compulsion of man -- the ability to create and invent and build. That the government could steer a country into sneering at the basic human nature of wanting to excel and improve and succeed. For individuals to achieve!

I read Atlas Shrugged several times in my early years, each time haunted by its message. But, how many years ago did I last read this book? Twenty, maybe? At least that long ago. And when we watched the movie recently I was stunned to realize that so much of what frightened me originally has come to pass in actuality. Our government is making these changes. Capitalism is being stifled and regulated to the point of collapse. In some cases social programs are gaining while free enterprise is waning. Monetary success is scorned by those who demand government coddling and alarming things are rearing their heads continually -- such as the upcoming Supreme Court decision on whether we can sell our belongings.

 

 

 A belligerent, ugly, powerful book that didn't receive great accolades when it came out in 1957, Atlas Shrugged the movie came out a couple of years ago and, as a movie, doesn't carry the same power as the book to cause fear. Maybe this is because so many movies these days, with their horrific villains and vampires and Satanists overwhelm any frail and seemingly feeble fear of government as downright silly. Despite that, Atlas Shrugged Part 2 will be released this month and I can't wait!

Even though I was so very young the first time I read this book it took days to shake the incredible alarm it set off in me. It was an urge to get ready for the apocalypse, to stock up and start preparing for the end of life as we know it. It was an unsettling sort of terror that the government could so stifle the very basic compulsion of man -- the ability to create and invent and build. That the government could steer a country into sneering at the basic human nature of wanting to excel and improve and succeed. For individuals to achieve!

I read Atlas Shrugged several times in my early years, each time haunted by its message. But, how many years ago did I last read this book? Twenty, maybe? At least that long ago. And when we watched the movie recently I was stunned to realize that so much of what frightened me originally has come to pass in actuality. Our government is making these changes. Capitalism is being stifled and regulated to the point of collapse. In some cases social programs are gaining while free enterprise is waning. Monetary success is scorned by those who demand government coddling and alarming things are rearing their heads continually -- such as the upcoming Supreme Court decision on whether we can sell our belongings.

A belligerent, (sort of) ugly, powerful book that didn't receive great accolades when it came out in 1957, Atlas Shrugged the movie came out a couple of years ago and, as a movie, doesn't carry the same power as the book to cause fear. Maybe this is because so many movies these days, with their horrific villains and vampires and Satanists overwhelm any frail and seemingly feeble fear of government as downright silly. Despite that, Atlas Shrugged Part 2 will be released this month and I can't wait!

Finding the Easy Way Out

One summer evening many years ago we were having a barbecue at my Mom and Dad’s house.  The kids were romping in the yard and Mom and I were puttering in the kitchen, hauling out bowls of potato salad, piles of cantaloupe, and a still-warm chocolate cake lathered with oozing fudge frosting. Through all this activity Dad was attempting to start the barbecue.

We didn’t pay him much attention at first but as time went on his grumbling turned to ranting, which turned to raving. He’d piled on the briquettes and dumped on the starter but it refused to light. He gave up on matches and tried a burning stick. (This was before those automatic lighters.) He poured on more fluid. It still wouldn’t light.

By now the getting-ready chores were done and we were all waiting patiently, hungrily, for the barbecue so we could toss on the steaks. Mom and I sprawled in the lounge chairs to watch the Dad and Grill Show. Since he was an Archie Bunker wannabe, it was really quite entertaining.

Finally, he stomped off to his shop. A few minutes later he reappeared, dragging across the driveway his monstrously huge welder behind him. With a great flourish he shooed the kids to safety at the other side of the yard, donned his welder’s hood and gloves, and fired the thing up. It was like killing a fly with a machine gun. Within seconds the paint had melted off the grill and the little briquettes were glowing. They were so fired up they were dancing and singing. It was one of those little family moments that will always be etched into memory, especially the moment when the little dancing briquettes tumbled to the ground when the bottom of the grill fell out.

I don’t think my dad was ever happier than when faced with a puzzle or a problem. He loved finding a solution.

I’m sort of like that. I love a challenge. I thoroughly enjoy making something of nothing. Some of my happiest years were those when we didn’t have a nickel to our names and our three kids always seemed to be in need of new shoes and a dentist. And the car always needed tires.

Those were challenging years and our house was oddly, but creatively, decorated. I had 500 recipes for hamburger. We were poor but we were gleefully happy. Part of my happiness came from the necessity of being resourceful and creative. Remember when Scarlet O’Hara made the ball gown from the green silk drapes? I was that kind of woman.

It’s a wonderful thing to stretch our minds and come up with solutions. When a woman I know was pondering with her husband the easiest way to fix an electrical problem in the house, he, typical male, wanted to call in an electrician. She, after a bit of practical thinking, said, “Why don’t we try doing this...” and offered a perfectly ingenious solution. She’s still walking proud.

Ingenious solutions are harder to come by than simple solutions. But sometimes they flood our minds with glowing revelation. Maybe that’s why inventors never quit with just one invention. They have minds that are constantly whirling and whirring, that continually ponder new devices and gadgets. My Dad was like that. You could almost hear the wheels turning and he wrote and plotted continually. Almost every morning there would be a napkin of doodles next to his empty coffee cup. His shop was filled with tools he’d adapted for this need or that.

There is that old saying that if you want to find the easiest way to do something, give the task to a lazy man.

There should also be a saying that if you want to find the cheapest way to do something, give the task to a poor man.

I love this story about the government. It took place back in the days when we were spending oodles of money on the space program. When NASA first started sending up astronauts, they quickly discovered that ballpoint pens wouldn’t work in zero gravity.

It sent the NASA scientists into a dither. This illustrious group spent a decade and $12 billion, ($12 BILLION DOLLARS!), but they eventually developed a pen that would write in zero gravity, upside down, underwater, on almost any surface including glass, and at temperatures ranging from below freezing to over 300° C.
           
The Russians used a pencil.
https://www.facebook.com/jan.thacker#!/

LOST: one good cook

My friend Pam, like most of my buddies, is wondering what has happened to her cooking ability. She used to fix big gourmet meals and now she thinks she’s doing good to heat up a frozen lasagna dinner. Cheese sandwiches and tomato soup are frequent entrees on her dinner menu. For special occasions she toasts the sandwiches. And puts a dollop of sour cream in the soup. And uses real dishes instead of Dixie.

            Maybe, she wonders, it’s because her household has dwindled from a husband and three kids to a husband. Cooking for five takes a lot more responsibility and planning than cooking for two. Plus, her man will eat anything short of roadkill with hair still on and mold. 

            I know how she feels. You know how agoraphobics start out being able to trod the world and slowly evolve to where they’re living in a closet? That’s how my cooking has become. I have cooking agoraphobia. I’m down to three meals: meatloaf, chili, and macaroni and cheese dotted with kielbasa. I don’t count soup and sandwiches as genuine dinner fare. 

            I used to use recipes and cookbooks. Now, if it doesn’t come out of my head it doesn’t get made. And my head just doesn’t hold that much anymore. Except for meatloaf, chili, and macaroni and cheese with kielbasa.

My husband deserves better than he’s getting from my kitchen. But, like Pam’s guy, he never complains. Bless his heart. He prays equally thankful prayers over everything. Maybe because some nights I don’t cook at all, which leaves him grateful when anything’s going on in the kitchen.

            Clearly, something has to be done. Maybe there’s a support group for apathetic meal getters. Someplace to go where they’ll cheer you on and motivate you to use your creativity and skills to prepare truly wonderful dishes. Where they revive your dead interest in cookbooks and recipes.

            “Hello. My name is Jan. I have a problem with cooking. I seem to have somehow lost my ability and desire.”

            “Welcome, Jan. Let’s give Jan a round of applause for having the courage to face her cooking problem and the wisdom to seek a solution.”

            We’ll hear motivational speeches and trade meatloaf recipes and have potluck dinners where everyone brings potato chips and store-bought potato salad and Kleenexes are passed around to dry the tears of guilt. What losers. We can’t even scrape together a dish for a potluck.

            Maybe there’s a pill to perk up the enthusiasm in the kitchen. Something like Viagra for cooks. One little pill and before you know it you’re wearing an apron and are sifting and measuring and butchering the moose that stupidly wandered through the back yard.

            By the time he comes home you have the freezer filled with roasts and hamburger, four-course meals are prepared for the next 40 days and there are enough cinnamon rolls and bread to open a bakery. Plus, you’ve put a beehive next to the garage, harvested the neighbor’s garden, canned 60 quarts of peaches and pears and made 20 gallons of blueberry syrup. And gotten all the way to chapter three in the cookbook you’re writing.

            I vow I’m going to change. I’m going to go back in time and become the wife I was when we were newlyweds. Well, except this time when he comes through the door I’ll have clothes on under the apron. I’ll pore over Betty Crocker cookbooks and thumb through Mom’s recipes and when he comes home from work I’ll lovingly spread some mustard and ketchup on a bun and add a hot dog. Because that’s about all I cooked when we were newlyweds.

            That won’t work. I need to move up a few decades to the time when I actually could put together a pretty good meal. Back when I could read a recipe and actually have all the ingredients on hand and not have to go to the store. Back when we used real napkins and silverware and sometimes even lit candles and ate on that thing…..what’s it called?…oh, yeah, a table! And when I succeed it’ll scare my husband to death. Because he’ll wonder what on earth I’m up to.

           

Spring? Is it Spring?

Jan note: This is a rerun from April, 2001, when we were living in Valdez

From what I hear from my friends, I think the weather in Valdez is as fanciful as that in Fairbanks. Is it winter? Is it spring? Does Mother Nature know? One day is warm enough for a sweater, the next day you’re dragging out a parka. One day you stand still in the middle of the sidewalk and let the blessed warmth of the sun flow over your face, the next day you’re huddled under a scarf trying to keep out the frigid wind from the north.

This is the time of year when you can start out wearing bunny boots and end up going barefoot; when you can start out wearing capris and end up buying a pair of cheap sweatpants at K-Mart so you don’t freeze your tush. It’s when you can go into the store when it’s genuine spring and come out an hour later to genuine blizzard. It’s using the windshield washers one day and shoving off snow with the scraper the next.

As is the tradition with us, we’re now parking one rig at the end of the driveway since only the 4-wheel-drive pickup will make it through the sea-deep wallows and slushy holes in our long driveway. I don’t catch a ride with Troy to the end of the driveway I slog through the mush in my boots and pray I don’t run headlong into the cow and calf moose that call our land their land. The sapling birches are surely too scrawny to climb and the boots to clumsy to run. If it happens that I run into them I only hope it’s in the morning when I’m grouchy enough to not want to put up with much guff.

It is nice to note that I made it through another winter with my sanity intact. Actually, this one was a breeze, quite unlike others which make you question whether you have the brains God gave you and, if so, why on earth you stay in a place that crawls down to 60 below. The only good side of the sanity factor is that it’s a comfort knowing if you do go over the deep end the government will take care of you.

And it could be worse. I read about a group of people wintering in the South Pole in the 1960s who were so bored that they watched the film “Cat Ballou” 87 times. People in another group, after tiring of the westerns, Disney features and porno films on hand, spliced them altogether into their own production and adopted a vocabulary based on their creation. The new language was so bizarre that relief crews arriving in the spring could barely understand them.

Anyway, we’re having some mighty iffy weather and I’ve outlined the differences below:

You think it’s going to be spring so you buy a summer wardrobe. You find out it’s not spring when three months later the tags are still on the clothes.

You think it’s going to be spring so you go on a weight-loss program fit for a bikini. You find out it’s not spring when you lose all the weight, look great for two weeks and then gain it all back. And it’s still not spring.

You think it’s going to be spring so you get out your favorite lawn chair. You find out it isn’t spring when snow turns it into another unidentifiable lump in the yard.

You think it’s going to be spring so you plant 30 flats of petunias. You find out it isn’t spring when they reach a height of 18 inches and have only a few leaves left.

You think it’s going to be spring when you wash your car one lovely April day. You find out it isn’t spring the next morning when you discover the wheels frozen solid in ice puddles and all the doors frozen shut.

You think it’s going to be spring so you clean like a crazy person. You discover it isn’t spring when the house slowly turns back into it’s normal mess and there’s still no sign of spring on the horizon.

You think it’s going to be spring so you pay $30 for a new short hairdo. You find out it isn’t spring when you pay $150 to the clinic to treat frostbite of the ears.

And finally, you think it’s spring so you whoop and holler and grin. When you find out it isn’t spring you sit down and shed a few tears.

The Joy of Looking for a Job

NOTE: This column ran in 2002.

Looking for a job can be one of the most humiliating, defeating, ego-bursting, frightening, and humbling experiences there is—and that’s just the time you spend in the outer office, waiting for your turn. Things really fall apart when you go through the actual interview. You forget your name, any skills you ever had, any office equipment you can operate, except for a flush toilet, and just why you are there in the first place.

If you have never stuttered in your life you will during a job interview. You will also ramble endlessly with meaningless drivel and use sentences that are totally unstructured. Your laugh will change from something warm and cultured to a hideous shriek. You will forget simple things—like what you did on your last job. You will call the interviewer by the wrong name. You will say something brilliant to the interviewer, like “Just what is it you guys do here?”

Back in another lifetime when I managed the News-Miner’s North Pole office, I often had the pleasure of interviewing people for openings we had for writers or office help. It was the first time I had been on that side of the desk.

I knew what it was like to be the one being interviewed so I gave these people a lot of leeway and extra points and consideration for just being there. One lady I interviewed in North Pole came with her husband. He did all of the talking. He introduced them both and then answered every question I asked. He did quite well. Unfortunately, he had another job in the Air Force and she was too shy to even answer the phone.

Job seekers came in flip flops and shorts, men’s shirts and rollers. One lit up a cigarette during the interview and one of them cried. One, whose name was Amy, was the daughter of best-selling author LaVyrle Spencer. Since I was right in the middle of Spencer’s book “Hummingbird” that was one of the most enjoyable interviews I ever conducted.

These people all wanted one thing: an honest job.

On Sundays I look through employment ads. They go something like this: Administrative Assistant. Must know Power Point, Access, Excel, FrameMaker, Photo Shop, QuickBooks, PageMaker. Ten years experience, master’s degree, ability to supervise 24 employees and handle building maintenance and janitorial staff required. $7.50 hour. No benefits.

(However, if you are a dental assistant you can probably demand the world.)

During our Coldfoot years I interviewed dozens of people and looked at hundreds of applications. Some were clever and funny, but none as great as the actual job application, below, that was submitted to a McDonald’s in Florida. This 17-year-old landed a job because he was so honest, and so funny.

     Name: Greg Bulmash

     Sex: Not yet. Still waiting for the right person.

     Desired Position: Company's President or Vice President. But seriously, whatever's available. If I was in a position to be picky, I wouldn't be applying here in the first place.

    Desired Salary: $185,000 a year plus stock options and a Michael Ovitz style severance package. If that's not possible, make an offer and we can haggle.

     Education: Yes.

     Last Position Held: Target for middle management hostility.

     Salary: Less than I'm worth.

     Most Notable Achievement: My incredible collection of stolen pens and post-it notes.

     May we contact your last employer? If I had one, would I be here?

     Do you have any physical conditions that would prohibit you from lifting 50 pounds?: Of what?

     Do you have a car? I think the more appropriate question here would be "Do you have a car that runs?"

     Have you received any special awards or recognition? I may already be a winner of the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes.

     What would you like to be doing in five years? Living in the Bahamas with a fabulously wealthy dumb sexy blonde super model who thinks I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread. Actually, I'd like to be doing that now.

     Do you certify that the above is true and complete? Yes. Absolutely.

     Sign here: Aries.

Now this is a fellow who takes life seriously enough to know he needs to work but leaves enough space for important things such as cleverness, optimistic good humor and an upbeat outlook. I’ll bet he’s a great employee. I’ll bet he didn’t even sweat during his interview, let alone trip on the way in and get lost on the way out. He probably remembered his name, and could put 10 words together and have them actually make sense. I would have hired him.

Hearts, Romance and Brides in Cages

Monday is Valentine’s Day, which isn't that great because who wants to go out to a fancy dinner on a Monday and have one eye on the clock?

For romantic couples Valentine’s Day is the epitome of holidays. It’s the day of declaration, a day for vowing love forevermore. For old marrieds, like Troy and me, it’s a day for celebration that we made it to another Valentine’s Day.

For a lot of us Valentine’s Day means the Day After Valentine’s Day Sale where they have all that great chocolate 50-percent off.

Many a man has chosen Valentine’s Day as the day to ask the love of his life to marry him. How romantic. This is quite different from the approach used by the people of the Trobriand Islands near Papua, New Guinea. There, a woman simply goes up to the man of her choice and bites him on the arm. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t like the biter. She made her choice and he has to marry her.

The ancient Babylonians did it quite differently. There were no old maids because each year all marriageable females were auctioned off. Men bid highly for the most beautiful maidens and that money was used as dowries to go with the less attractive women to entice men to take them. Under this custom there were few unattached females.

I like the custom in ancient Greece and I am going to adopt it. There, women stayed young by counting their age from the date on which they were married rather from the date of their birth. They felt marriage was the true beginning of life and everything that went before was merely preparation. This year I am 46.

Here are some more interesting tidbits:

In many countries in bygone years, courting rituals were strictly enforced to keep the bride’s virtue intact before the actual marriage. And in some parts of the world the methods were extreme. In the Solomon Islands a bride-to-be was kept in a cage, closely guarded, and not released until the time of the wedding. The girl’s parents would keep an unusually sharp eye on their future son-in-law, who had to account for his whereabouts at all times.

In Wales future grooms had to develop artistic skill if they wished to be allowed to visit their brides-to-be. To keep the grooms’ hands busy until the wedding, they had to make wooden spoons with very elaborate and delicate designs for the girls’ parents.

In contrast, nineteenth-century Scottish law required brides to certify their productivity by being pregnant on their wedding day. The law was enforced.

Standards of beauty have changed over the ages as well. Nowadays Americans consider a thin, shapely woman sexy and desirable. But it wasn’t always so. In the late nineteenth century the great American beauty was Lillian Russell, and many a young man sighed over her photographs. This famous singer and actress, at the peak of her career, topped the scales at 186 pounds. The “fat is beautiful” viewpoint still prevails, not in America but in part of Nigeria. Here, when young girls reach puberty, they enter fattening houses, where they spend their time eating almost constantly. When they emerge months later, they appear as "mountains of flesh" and are only then considered truly fit for marriage.

Unusual methods of ending marital bliss have also been recorded. Back in the 1870s, in the city of Corinne, Utah, divorce was made so simple that any man could obtain one instantly. By merely slipping a $2.50 gold coin into a machine and turning a crank, he received divorce papers already signed by the local judge. But only men qualified for obtaining a divorce in this manner. The machine was extremely popular—for a while. Utah statutes failed to back up these slot machine divorces, and they were later declared illegal. As a result many men found they had unwittingly become bigamists.

And on that happy note, I bid you all a Happy Valentine’s Day.

A 1950s Christmas Memory

Dear precious grandkids, you're always asking, "Grandma, tell us what it was like in the old days." Well, this is what it was like! I'll share it with you and any readers.

The size of the family on my mother’s side doubled whenever Harry and Ethel Smith and their brood showed up. Harry was Mom’s baby brother, tall and fit and rakishly handsome with black hair and a grin that revealed strong white teeth. Ethel was short, always happy with smiles and ready laughter. She seemed sort of boneless, like one of those round pork roasts in grocery stores that are held together with white string. As a child, I always thought of her as fat. Later I came to realize she was just always pregnant.


Harry and Ethel had 10 kids, the oldest eight one right after another. There was a lapse of a few years before they started up again and they probably would have had a few more but Harry died of a heart attack one sweltering summer day while working in the woods of northwest Montana. To have the fire of such a vibrant, life-loving man extinguished was a deep blow to the family.

Harry and Ethel lived in an old paint-flaked farmhouse with a front lawn that was kept bare by horses, chickens, goats, and barefooted runny-nosed kids. It wasn’t until the older kids were in high school that the outhouse gave way to a flush toilet in a tiny bathroom Harry squeezed in between the kitchen and back porch. The house was wall-to-wall kids, commotion, laughter, and chaos. It smelled of wet diapers, laundry soap (since doing laundry was a never-ending chore), and good food (since something was always bubbling on the stove).

I loved going there. It was like attending summer camp. Everyone always had a project or something going on. In the summer we rode horses in the river and milked cows and chased down errant calves. In the winter we played cards and jacks, did puzzles and romped in the snow. And we ate. Ethel made the best rolls this side of Heaven, kneading the dough, like she did everything else—with a baby jiggling on her hip.

The year I was eight or nine we had Christmas at Grammy and Granddad's. It was a cold but beautiful sunny day and the snow glinted with diamonds. My other cousins and I had already made a dozen runs with our sleds down the big hill and had been called in to get ready for dinner. Auntie Jane and Mom were fluttering around wondering what to do with all the food since Harry and Ethel were late. All of a sudden, there they all were. Bleeding and bruised and agitated and every single one of them talking a mile a minute. It seemed that Harry had driven the back roads and had missed the corner at the end of a long steep hill a mile away. The car slid through a fence, bounced through the ditch and ended up in a cattail-studded swamp. Miraculously, no one was really hurt.

They had walked the rest of the way, Ethel in high heels and tearfully carrying in front of her a small gaily-wrapped package containing the remains of a teacup she’d intended to give Grammy, and Harry lugging the newest baby.

While the women tended to the cuts and tears, the men took a pickup and a logging chain and went about the business of retrieving the injured car. Personally, I was very interested in the success of getting the car since the trunk was piled deep with presents. Including mine.

We had so much to be thankful for that Christmas day. We were all safe. We were whole. We had each other. That wonderful feeling took over that day, dwarfing everything else. As the subject of the car crash was brought up again and again, the tree didn’t seem as important, nor were the gifts. We were important. Each and every one of us.

This Christmas there are a lot of people who are battered and bruised and bloodied by life. There will be empty places at the Christmas table. In countless homes plates will be salted with tears as heads are bowed to ask God’s blessing.

Life is hard. Life is tragic. Many people won’t even receive the gift of a shattered teacup this year. Others don’t know how they will provide food for their children, let alone presents. Devastated finances, burned-out homes, divorce, illness, death….the list of what can go wrong in a life is endless.

This is a frantic time of year. A time when we strive to be perfect, to give the perfect gifts and to have the perfect Christmas. We spend too much and eat too much and lose track of what’s important. And on December 26 we wallow in guilt and vow that next year it will be different. After two months of glitter and glitz the world suddenly seems ugly and cold and hopeless.

But we are never without hope. And we are never without love. We are surrounded by God’s love and just need to reach out and grab it. He is our hope.

As you come together to celebrate Christmas, please take a few minutes to remember that we are celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ. And in him there is hope, peace, love, comfort, joy, and eternal life. There may not have been room at the inn, but there is room in your heart and that’s all he wants—a place in your heart. What a wonderful gift to give our Lord. And what a change it will bring to your life.

I pray that all of you have a very merry, blessed, Christmas.

The Perfect Business

Dear Janelle,

I was thinking about you the other day, dear daughter, as you are launching your second "Once Upon a Time" toy store in Seattle's Bellevue Square. I just thought you should know that Lisa and I have discovered the perfect business. Even better than the guy who supposedly set up in a parking lot on city land in London and collected parking money for 25 years.

It's called the Bark Off. As advertised on TV. You have probably seen it. It is, "safe and humane" and stops annoying barking. (Sorry, husbands, not for your wives - it's for the dog.)

The Bark Off is an "ultrasonic training aid" that is portable, has a nifty little wall-mount and uses a nine volt battery (not included). It has two sensitivity levels, high and low, and promises to enable you to "start living a more peaceful life," and who wouldn't like that. The manufacturer declares that it works from 20 feet away and is automatically activated when your dog barks. The dog barks, the doohickey emits a high-pitched screech and, voila!, the dog hears this horrendous noise and thinks, "hey, this barking really must annoy the neighbors. I simply must stop doing it."

I bought one of these in a drugstore, bypassing the television hawkers. I spent $9.99 for it. It isn't a whopping amount of money, just enough that people don't really hesitate. Now, if it was $29.99 I would have balked and decided, nah, I don't need one of those things. Even $15.99 would have made me think twice. But less than $10 - hey, I'll take the gamble.

After I took it out of the package I learned that the Bark Off, sadly, does not work on deaf or hearing impaired-dogs. I said, THE BARK OFF, SADLY,..." Oh, you did hear that.

Well, anyway,... It also doesn't work outside in adverse weather conditions. I live in Alaska. We invented adverse weather conditions. We send them south every chance we get.

So, hmmm, according to everything I've read, the Bark Off doesn't immediately work (give it two or three weeks), doesn't have a little light to show the thing is even working, and, anyway, humans can't hear the high pitched noise. So, for all I know it's just a $10 plastic box that simply ... does nothing.

I like that idea. Invent something that you can't test, can't really tell is functioning, and sell it cheap. Like, maybe, pills you can take to make you a better cook. Like those copper bracelets that were all the rage a few years ago or the magnets you put in your shoes. Do your aches and pains go away because of the magnets and copper, or because you think them away? Viagra -- does it really work or is it the idea and faith that makes it work? That's what Lisa and I want to invent - a placebo with promise that sweeps the country. We'll sell it for $9.99.

In the meantime, I have high hopes for this Bark Off thing.

Cones, cones, everywhere!





Dear taxpayers,

I think I've figured out where a lot of Obama's "jobs" money is going. After spending time driving in Washington, Montana and around Alaska this summer I figured it out in one of those light bulb moments that temporarily blinds you into reality.

By my calculations, based upon the number of orange traffic cones I've spotted in my travels, somewhere between 22 and half a million jobs were created in the transportation industry. The jobs entail moving cones. This is probably done at night, when no one will be harmed from the sudden traffic pattern changes, and there are no workers around to ask just what the hay is going on.

My sister Judy and I drove from Spokane to our hometown of Whitefish, which is near Kalispell and Glacier Park. We were headed there to visit relatives and to do a lot of "remembering when." Along the way we picked up our little sister, Becky, who lives in Missoula, hoping -- since she's the youngest -- that she could help us out with the memories.

Judy: "Didn't there used to be a bar over there where that fancy new bank is now?"
Me: "I remember that bar. It had old-time saloon doors. You could hear the jukebox two blocks away. One night when I was driving by there was a brawl out on the sidewalk."
Judy: "You ever go in there?"
Me: "Heck no."
Becky: "What bank?"

So much for helping with the memories. Anyway, I digress. And isn't that an odd word...digress. Why not just admit I'm off on a tangent?

Anyway, I'm off on a tangent. Back to the cones. For miles and miles in Montana -- and we're talking double digits here -- there were cones. The cones would close off the right lane for a bit and then, as if they couldn't make up their minds, would close off the left lane. Then they'd take a break and wouldn't bother to line up at all before starting in again.

There was no work going on within these cones. No trucks, no flaggers, no men in hard hats standing around scratching their behinds and pretending to be bosses. There wasn't even evidence that any work had ever taken place. The road was clear and smooth, except for the occasional lump of furry road kill.

Since then I've been keeping track and have discovered unattended cones all over the place. Thousands of them. Just lined up and waiting for another crew, evidently, to come move them to another site or maybe just walk them to a new spot across the road.

At first I thought maybe it was my friend Nardo doing this. I will not divulge Nardo's last name and I made up his first name. Nardo, who lives Outside, likes to collect things and not long ago he accumulated a small grouping of traffic cones. After careful study, he selected a quiet residential street and one night carefully set up his cones, effectively notifying drivers that the street was blocked. He kept track and weeks later the road was still unusable. For all I know, it still is. I think there is a big message in Nardo's experiment. What it is, I don't know, but surely it speaks of a flaw in our societal fabric. The word stupid comes to mind.

Well, I'm not stupid and I'm saying that there are a few million cones out there that are being shuffled and moved, loaded and unloaded, stacked and unstacked, and there is no work going on. Just cone-moving.

Pay attention, people, and you'll see for yourself. And next time you hear BO bragging about the jobs he's creating you'll know the inside scoop. I think the only thing he has created is a whole army of cone people.

FREE WHEEFEES!

Dear Chris and Kyleigh,

So, there we were at McDonalds and I saw this sign for something free and told your mom to get two. Your assignment, if you accept it, is to go around and capture responses and post them to Utube. It could be really fun. Here's my imaginary scenario:


FREE WHEEFEES!

SPEAKER: Welcome to McDonalds. Ready to order?

HUSBAND: Yeah, we, uh, we’d like two Big Mac meals. Diet Cokes.

WIFE IN BACKGROUND: Tell them we want two of those free WheeFees.

HUSBAND: Can we have two of your free WheeFees, too?

SPEAKER: I have two Big Mac meals with diet Cokes. I don’t understand about the …uh… what are those?

HUSBAND: Out here on a sign it says you have free WheeFees.

WIFE (in background): See if they have one in yellow.

SPEAKER: Free what?

HUSBAND: WheeFees. There’s a sign here that says they’re free. I think they’re from that new Shrek movie.

SPEAKER: I’m new here. Let me get the manager.

HUSBAND TO WIFE: Let’s just forget it.

WIFE: Let’s not. I really want one. They sound cute. The baby could play with them. If not yellow, blue.

MANAGER (on speaker): Can I help you?

HUSBAND: Yeah, we’ve ordered but we also want two of your free WheeFees.

MANAGER: Uh…huh?

HUSBAND: It says here you’re giving them away. We’d like two.

WIFE: Tell him we want three. One for the baby.

HUSBAND: Charlene, shush. ..I can’t hear!

MANAGER: I’m sorry, sir, I can’t understand you. You want what?

HUSBAND: WHEEFEES! It says right here on your sign. They’re free. Free WheeFees.

MANAGER: We don’t have anything like that. What exactly does the sign say?

HUSBAND: Free WheeFees.

MANAGER: How do they spell that?

HUSBAND: W.I.F.I.

MANAGER: It’s WiFi. We have free WiFi.

HUSBAND to WIFE: Oh, it’s pronounced WhyFie. Charlene, it’s pronounced WhyFie.

HUSBAND to MANAGER: That’s what I said. We want two.

MANAGER: We don’t give them away. They aren’t things. They’re for computers.

HUSBAND: Oh. Well, we have a computer and it says here you give them away and we’d like two of them.

MANAGER: It’s for laptops.

HUSBAND: We don’t have a laptop, just a regular computer.

MANAGER: You have to have a laptop.

HUSBAND: So, if we have a regular computer we don’t get free WheeFees…WhyFies… but if we have a laptop, we do? Is that what you’re telling me?

WIFE FROM BACKGROUND: Tell him that’s discrimination.

HUSBAND: That’s discrimination. We might get a laptop sometime so we’d like the free dohickies anyway. Is it some sort of a game thing?

MANAGER: Oh good grief. No, it’s not a game thing. WiFis aren’t things. It’s like… like air…like things floating through the air. Signal things.

HUSBAND (LAUGHING): You’re giving away free air? That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. Air is free anyway. (In a lowered voice:) Does Ronald know about this?

MANAGER: It’s not really air. It’s a service thing for laptops. Signals through the air.

HUSBAND: Does this mean we’re not getting the free WheeFees…WhyFies?

MANAGER: Uh huh.

WIFE FROM BACKGROUND: This is wrong, really wrong. It says right on the sign, FREE.

MANAGER: I tell you what, how about I just give you two McFlurries and a Shrek mug. On the house.

WIFE: It’s not right.

HUSBAND: We’ll take it but I think you need to fix your sign. Admit it, you really don’t have free WheeFees at all, do you?

MANAGER: I guess not.

HUSBAND: That’s false advertising.

MANAGER: You’re right. I’m going to come out right now and take down that sign. I’d hate for anyone else to get confused.

HUSBAND: Good idea. I’m glad I could point this out to you. There are a lot of people out here who aren’t as smart as me and could cause a lot of trouble.

-30-

Dogs with fleas, cats with hairballs

Dear Scooter,

When you came down from Fairbanks to visit Grandma and Grandpa you didn't know you'd spend time fussing over a sick dog and spending time at the vet clinic. But the surgery went well and we're still laughing at the reaction of the other dogs when Maggie showed up sporting her new cone. I know Gunner and Ember were snickering along with us. 
  
Anyway, the whole ordeal reminded me that I once wrote a column about taking dogs to the vet. I thought you'd like it so here it is:  

When the last fledgling left the nest my husband Troy and I stupidly thought we were done with doctor visits. Ha!

As long as there are any dependents breathing in your house you’re doomed to trips to the clinic. Whether you have a dog, cat, bird, snake, hamster, panther or elephant, someday this creature is going to need professional medical advice. And you’re going to have to get it for them.

It is good, before you head to the vet’s office, to figure out what’s wrong with your droopy pet. But trying to get a cat to tell you where it hurts with words won’t work. You can’t say, “Princess, do you have a sore throat?” Instead you have to push and probe and search. You’ll know when you hit the sore spot. MREAU FSST! Get out the Band-Aids.

Have you ever taken a dog’s temperature? Now that’s fun. When you get the thermometer out they think, oh boy!, a new toy! They go around and around, trying to see just what you’re doing back there with the new toy. Wielding the thermometer, you chase them. You can’t tell them to sit, because that would take away the very area you need access to. And most dogs don’t know the command “Stand!” Really, it’s easier to just feel their nose. If it’s hot and dry they have a temperature.

I hate it when I hear our vet say, “We’ll have to get him to open wide.” Oh sure, let me put my hands in his slimy mouth. You do it. You’re getting paid the big bucks.

When you take a kid to the doctor you make sure they’re wearing clean underwear. With a dog you sometimes have to have a plastic baggie with a stool sample. But first you have to get it, which means traipsing around the back yard or climbing into a kennel. Since frozen samples are a no-no, in the winter when it’s 50 below this means almost having to stay with your dog until it does its business.

Now what do you think your dog thinks when you hunker over the steaming pile and use a stick to scrape some doodoo into a bag? Up ‘til then he thought you were a pretty cool dude or dudette but now, gross and yuk. And you yell at him for licking his private parts in front of company.

For a good time, there’s nothing like a vet clinic’s waiting room. That’s where all the strange beasts gather. Usually they have with them their pet bird, snake, dog, cat, hamster, rabbit or pig.

Personally, I think a perfect reality show would feature one of these waiting rooms. The dog wants to chase the cat who wants to eat either the bird of the hamster. The pig squats and leaves a wheelbarrow full of manure at your feet. And the poor snake is no one’s friend. He and his owner are abandoned on one side of the room while everyone else huddles on the other, keeping one eye on this slithering interloper.

Unlike people waiting rooms—well, except for pediatrician offices—there is a lot of yelling going on in an animal waiting room. SIT! I SAID SIT! NOW STAY. I SAID STAY! GET OVER HERE AND SIT! DAMMIT.... (a lot of pets are named Dammit).,

Of course they aren’t going to sit and stay. Except for on TV your 150-pound Newfoundland has never seen a real live guinea pig, let alone smelled one. He might not ever get this chance again.

Of course there’s always some smarty-pants with a dog that does sit and stay. The owner quietly reads a book while the dignified pedigreed dog lays there quietly observing the fracas. This dog doesn’t need a leash. He makes the other pets look like untamed beasts from Wild Kingdom. They’re all a bunch of goofballs straining their leashes trying to smell the next fellow’s rear end.

Let’s say you’re in the waiting room with Bonzo, your macho 2-year-old Great Dane. In comes some woman with an ugly poodle with an overbite and a tacky pink ribbon dangling from one ear. The poodle’s in heat.

Male dogs aren’t subtle. They don’t say, “Hey there, haven’t we met before?” They can leap over buildings with a single bound. They have one thing on their mind. For Bonzo it’s the ugly poodle. Even without any beer, he thinks she is the most gorgeous female he has ever seen. He’s in love.

You might not think pets give much thought to other pets in the room, other than wanting to eat or play with them. But they do. If you bring in your dog and he has a bunch of porcupine quills stuck in his snout I guarantee most of the older dogs there are snorting and thinking, “Man, are you stupid.”

On the other hand, when Roxanne comes in with a broken leg from chasing the moose out of the yard they are all thinking, “Right on Roxanne! You go Girl!”

All the other pets will know if a dog comes in with worms because he’s embarrassed and looks at the floor. And fleas? You can’t hear them, but every beast in the waiting room is chanting, “Riley’s got fleas, Riley’s got fleas!”

Let’s say Sarah the cat has a hairball. A really big hairball. Her owner carries her in and Sarah hacks a few times. Instantly everyone knows what she’s there for and they snicker. Sarah’s a fur-eater. Gross. She tries to convince them she’s got sinus problems.

The parrot, at least, is honest. He bobs up and down in his cage yelling, “Beak rot! I’ve got beak rot! I’ve got beak rot!” To which everyone thinks, “Ah shut up, you stupid bird.”

And the snake with the Band-aid around his belly? Except for a couple of wide-eyed women who are ready to bolt, no one else is paying any attention to the snake.

Searching for fire

Dear Judy and Becky,

Remember the time Dad had trouble starting the barbecue grill? I thought about that last night.

I decided we would have barbecued hamburgers for dinner, the first of the season. Since we're down to the just to two of us we have a little round table-top grill. I found it by the garage door and carried it to the patio table where I blew off the dust, swiped off the cobwebs, removed the lid and piled in some briquettes.

There is something about cooking over a fire that warms my innards and brings out the Pioneer Woman in me. I can understand why the cavemen were so thrilled when they discovered fire and learned that haunch of dinosaur tastes much better cooked than eaten blood-raw.

The grill was ready and just needed fire. So easy a caveman can do it. Ha! The next hour was spent trying to make fire. There are no matches in my house. I looked in every drawer, cupboard, room, and closet. There are also no matches in the garage.

Undaunted, I decided to use my old spaghetti trick. Long, thin spaghetti noodles work great to light those hard-to-reach places like water heater pilot lights and candles hunkered down deep in containers.

It was easy lighting the noodles on the gas stove but ferrying the flame to the grill on the patio was another story. Flutter, fizzle, out. Over and over again, the flame died before I got to the door. I tried walking slowly, carefully. Didn't work. I put the lighted end into a mug and that worked well, until I moved it from the mug toward the briquettes and Mister Wind swooped down to see what was happening.

Noodles were out so I wadded up a hunk of newspaper and rashly put it into the gas flame. Whoosh! Baby, we had fire! I raced to the patio door, dripping ash, only to have it flutter to an end before I got to the grill.

By now I had made at least 15 trips from the kitchen to the patio and nary a wisp of smoke was coming from the stupid grill. And that reminded me of Dad and the time he went through such turmoil starting the barbecue so we could feast for mom's 60th birthday. (If you'll remember that was the year we gave her the milk goat -- what a present!)

Dad finally marched to the shop and came out a few minutes later wearing a welder's helmet and dragging his acetylene welder. He fired that thing up and, by Jove, he got those briquettes lit. Of course he also burned out the bottom of the barbecue, which fell in a smoldering mess onto the lawn.

Unfortunately, I didn't have a welder. But about the time I was ready to call it quits my knight in shining armor drove up from a wearying day at the office. After listening to my tale of woe he only had one comment: "Why didn't you just use the little portable gas grill?"

What? What gas grill?

How could I forget the little grill we bought last summer? Maybe because my brain cells are over 60? Maybe because we only used it once so it wasn't yet a part of the family?

Troy had the burgers sizzling in less than five minutes while I wrote MATCHES on the grocery list. And I have to tell you, my heart was as warm as those burgers, as I remembered Dad's antics that day.

My dearest Scooter,

I was thinking this morning that I need to write down my memories of your dad and his pickup while they’re still roiling around in my brain.

Oh, how he loved his truck! He first saw it in 1995 when our friend Steve Angel at Seekins Ford was driving it as a demonstrator. It was a gorgeous new, F-150 red and white club cab. When it came up for sale, Scott bought it.

We were all living in Coldfoot at the time and I remember the day he showed it off. I was sitting in the restaurant and he paraded slowly up and down the length of the parking lot, smiling from ear to ear and waving each time he passed. When he pulled up to a parking space, Grampa went out and circled it and made all the appropriate manly comments. I jumped in for a ride. We headed up the Haul Road for a ways and Scott grinned the entire time.

For the most part Remington, the gigantic Chesapeake he’d had since he was a kid, rode shotgun, sitting in the passenger seat with dignified authority as he gazed out the window. He and your dad liked riding with the windows down so they could better savor the smells, sounds, and feel of God’s great outdoors.

Your dad, Remington, and a red and white truck….they were quite the threesome. They explored every side road off the Dalton Highway, went as far as they could up the Slate Creek Trail, and traveled every highway and dirt road in the state. Over time the pickup became scraped from trips through the brush and dinged from driving up mountains. Countless times he got it stuck at Bonanza Creek and would have to hike out to get help.

The back was always filled with gear: fishing gear, hunting gear and always a portable barbecue. Sometimes your dad would leave to go hunting and return home with the back end filled with moose, or sheep, or bear, or caribou. Lord knows how many fish made the trip from water to freezer or frying pan in the back of that pickup.

You and Amanda were his prized passengers and you probably had your first ride in it when you came home from the hospital. All the backseat gear was shoved aside for an infant car seat and a diaper bag. Oh, how he loved taking you two off on an adventure!

Your dad was a remarkable man. Over the years he had learned almost everything there was to learn about Alaska mammals, geography, habitat and weather. He had a treasure trove of information stored in his handsome head and I was always amazed at how learned he was. I loved traveling with him and listening to him. I am sad now I didn’t take the time to do more of it. One more time….what I wouldn’t give for one more time.

Anyway, maybe it was this love of outdoors that made him such a slow driver. He was the kind of guy you detest getting behind because he poked along like a 90-year-old nun who’d just gotten a license.

When he drove he was always scanning, searching, seeking. He delighted in the most trivial of wildlife appearances and could be as excited watching a family of voles scamper through the woods as spending time glassing a den of fox kits. The red pickup allowed him to travel into the nether regions of Alaska and observe first-hand the blessings of the Creator.

It was in this pickup that your dad carried Remington for the last time. Wonderful, loyal, gentle Remington died at age 17 and your dad carefully wrapped him in an old quilt and, with tears running down his cheeks, tenderly placed him on the front seat – right where he always rode. Scott took Rem to be cremated so he could spread his ashes at the place they both loved: Bonanza Creek.

As old vehicles and people are wont to do, Scott’s red and white pickup began to take on the pitfalls of old age and, admittedly, abuse. He started having to spend more and more time tinkering with it – spending long hours on his back underneath and replacing this or that. All the oil stains in front of our old house were from that pickup.

At the end he still loved his truck, though the seat was sprung and the ignition was falling out and the passenger door wouldn’t open from the outside.

When he piled in it to go somewhere he’d tense up for a few seconds while he waited for it to start. When the engine finally fired he’d breathe a sigh of relief, grin, declare “hey HEY, that’s my baby!” bounce up and down a few times, and pat it on the dash. Then he’d be off.

After 14 years together, last winter Scott and the red and white pickup parted ways. He was out of work and so was Anna and the pickup was given to landlord and friend, Nick LaJiness, to pay for rent. Scott was devastated. He talked about it a lot and never quite got over missing his truck. Someday, maybe someday, he declared to me just two weeks before his death, he’d get it back.

January 20, 2010, was the sad day that your dad died unexpectedly. We worried about you and your sister Amanda. She is 20 and married and has a toddler and will be OK, but you – Scooter, you are only nine years old. Too young to have lost your father – too young to not have in your life this man you so adored and loved.

We all wanted to do something for you, give you something that would always remind you of your dad. Your mom and Grampa came up with the same idea: find the pickup! I thought it would be a difficult task but it took less than 15 minutes. I called Nick and found out who he had sold it to. I called that fellow and explained why we so desperately wanted to get the pickup back. He agreed to sell it and your mom and your step-dad, Jim, bought it.

I wish I had been there two weeks ago when your mom led you outside and you saw that familiar red and white Ford in your driveway. Your mom told me you were overwhelmed and you spent a long time just sitting in the cab. Later you gently washed the windows. You told me it still smells like your dad and there was a picture of a young Amanda in the glove box. There were also still bottles of ketchup and mustard in the side pocket. Your dad was always prepared to build a quick campfire and roast a hotdog, wasn’t he?

You are nine years old and what a gift you have been blessed with. Your dad would be so delighted to know that the pickup is back in the family and that it belongs to you. The plan is for you and Jim to fix it up – to restore it to what it was.

Someday you will use it to climb your own mountains and ford your own streams. Maybe you, too, will have a big old brown dog in the front seat and you will ride with the windows down – savoring the smells and sounds and feel of God’s great outdoors.

And you know what, Scooter? I think your dad will be right beside you.

Love,
Grandma

Dear Olympic athletes, committee, others:

Well, what a ride this has been! I wonder why the Kleenex people don’t advertise during these events since most of us use a lot of them as we watch the games.

I realized something of interest during the past two weeks. You know how most women grow older and turn into their mothers? Well, I’m turning into my granddad Smith. Granddad loved television wrestling shows. He’d watch wrestling and we’d watch him. He’d sit on the edge of his chair and hoot and cheer but, strangely, he’d also mimic most of the moves. He’d twist and turn, duck and swing, bump and grind. I was horrified to realize I was doing the same thing during the Olympics. I’d feel myself turning with the skiers and bobbing with the bobsledders. About the only thing I didn’t want to imitate were the sports having to do with extreme height. Here are just a few of my comments:

To the city of Vancouver: What delightful hosts you appeared to be. You put on marvelous opening and closing shows and made us love your country even more than we already did.

To our awesome USA Hockey Team: Wow!!! What a show! I am so proud of our team.

I’ve always been a hockey fan but this display of talent was the epitome of fine hockey. The repercussions of this game should resound across the land as people come to recognize the joy of watching hockey. You brought the sport to a new level.

To Apolo Ohno: Of all the people competing, you were the one I most loved watching. You displayed the ideal of good sportsmanship and your joy in simply being there was refreshing. What a representative of our country you are. Politicians could take notes.

To Joannie Rochette of Canada: What an inspiration you were. Your display of strength and courage after your young mother died on the first day of the Olympics was amazing. You won our hearts. We watched with wonder as you performed with grace and beauty and dedicated your skating to her. She would be so proud that you won your medal.

To Lindsey Vonn, Shani Davis, Apolo Ohno and Bode Miller, just to name a few: I expect to see you in the movies someday. What beautiful people you are!

To Steve Holcomb’s team and their bobsled “Night Train:” The last time this was done was in 1948. What fun to watch you travel 150-plus mph to a golden victory.

To the NBC news team, headed by Bob Costas: You provided 835 hours of great coverage. The segment you did on the city of Gander, Newfoundland, was an emotionally-charged gem. For nearly a week this small town cared for over 7,000 airline passengers who were displaced by the 9-11 tragedy. What these townspeople did for these visitors was nothing short of amazing.

To the Team USA: You did it! You made us proud. Some of you won and some of you lost in those few minutes on the world stage. But when it came to representing our country, in showing the world who and what we are, you were all gold medal champions. I am so proud to be an American.

Finally, to Proctor and Gambell: Your ads focusing on the moms of the athletes were heartwarming and made my heart, as a mother, swell. We mothers do love our children and our pride in their accomplishments is overwhelming and wonderful. Watching the footage showing one mother in the stands mouth, “that’s my baby,” brought tears every time I saw it.

Dear …. all my friends:

I recently spent most of the afternoon plowing through old columns and found this one I wrote a decade ago about my grandmother. I thought you’d like it since it is about the wonder of friendship.

Friendship is something that can bridge the barriers of time and leap over the bonds of distance. True friendship is enduring, forgiving, endless, and wonderful.

Almost 15 years ago I spent two months back home in Montana. Much of that time was spent interviewing my 87-year-old grandmother, Pearl Geeslin Smith.

One bright, sunny afternoon we were talking about friends and she told me an interesting story about her childhood. I want to share it with you.

Just as Tom Sawyer had Huckleberry Finn, six-year-old Pearl Geeslin had Margaret “Muggy” Knowles. They were best friends.

Muggy and Pearl were the same age, born in 1898, and they were too filled with the enchantment of childhood to realize the hardships of growing up in rough, raw, Whitefish, Montana. Their fathers worked together in a sawmill and both families lived in rugged, slab-sided cabins provided by mill owners. Muggy had an older brother and Pearl was the youngest of a brood of seven.

Both girls lived carefree lives and spent hours playing with dolls or walking along Whitefish Lake picking up beads and arrowheads left by the Indians who spent summers camped in teepees along the lake. The girls had been taught by their mothers to sew and spent rainy days turning scraps of cloth and snippets of ribbon into dresses and bonnets for their dolls. The two were always glad to be together, to laugh and share. For Pearl those were happy golden years, the years she and Muggy were friends. But Pearl’s happiness ended abruptly when she was only six. At age 42, her father died of a heart attack.

Faced with seven children, no income and no future, Pearl’s mother had no choice but to send Pearl and her brothers Tom and Harry to the state orphanage in Twin Bridges. They traveled by train, accompanied by a matron. Harry was taken in by a farm family who needed a hand.

The carefree days of childhood changed to a time of agonizing homesickness. Orphanage rules didn’t allow Pearl to talk to her brother except for an hour on Sundays. She remembered standing by a picket fence—watching him as he walked in lines to and from school, the tears running down her cheeks.

Mary Geeslin took in washing and eventually married a notoriously cranky old man. After a year, the children were brought home and Pearl had further heartbreak when she learned Muggy had moved. Then, that loss was shoved to the side when her two older boxcar-riding brothers were killed in a train derailment.

The years rolled on and when she was 17, Pearl met Roger Smith, a tall, handsome young man with a quick and charming smile. They were married and had five children.

Throughout those years Pearl still thought about her friend Muggy and wondered what had happened to her. She was such a bright spot in Pearl’s bleak childhood memories. Decades piled up, but those memories were still vivid.

One evening, when she was 86, Pearl happened across an announcement of a golden wedding anniversary to be celebrated by Margaret Knowles Isaacs and her husband in a town 15 miles away. The years of wondering were finally over. After 80 years, the two were reunited and rekindled the friendship. Until death parted them again, they spent many happy hours remembering back to when they were Muggy and Pearl and Whitefish was young and as rough and as unfinished as an uncut diamond.

Friends are blessings from God. Treasure them as such and take time to tell yours how much they mean to you.

Dear …. all my friends:

I recently spent most of the afternoon plowing through old columns and found this one I wrote a decade ago about my grandmother. I thought you’d like it since it is about the wonder of friendship.


Friendship is something that can bridge the barriers of time and leap over the bonds of distance. True friendship is enduring, forgiving, endless, and wonderful.

Almost 15 years ago I spent two months back home in Montana. Much of that time was spent interviewing my 87-year-old grandmother, Pearl Geeslin Smith. One bright, sunny afternoon we were talking about friends and she told me an interesting story about her childhood. I want to share it with you.

Just as Tom Sawyer had Huckleberry Finn, six-year-old Pearl Geeslin had Margaret “Muggy” Knowles. They were best friends.

Muggy and Pearl were the same age, born in 1898, and they were too filled with the enchantment of childhood to realize the hardships of growing up in rough, raw, Whitefish, Montana. Their fathers worked together in a sawmill and both families lived in rugged, slab-sided cabins provided by mill owners. Muggy had an older brother and Pearl was the youngest of a brood of seven.

Both girls lived carefree lives and spent hours playing with dolls or walking along Whitefish Lake picking up beads and arrowheads left by the Indians who spent summers camped in teepees along the lake. The girls had been taught by their mothers to sew and spent rainy days turning scraps of cloth and snippets of ribbon into dresses and bonnets for their dolls. The two were always glad to be together, to laugh and share. For Pearl those were happy golden years, the years she and Muggy were friends. But Pearl’s happiness ended abruptly when she was only six. At age 42, her father died of a heart attack.

Faced with seven children, no income and no future, Pearl’s mother had no choice but to send Pearl and her brothers Tom and Harry to the state orphanage in Twin Bridges. They traveled by train, accompanied by a matron. Harry was taken in by a farm family who needed a hand.

The carefree days of childhood changed to a time of agonizing homesickness. Orphanage rules didn’t allow Pearl to talk to her brother except for an hour on Sundays. She remembered standing by a picket fence—watching him as he walked in lines to and from school, the tears running down her cheeks.

Mary Geeslin took in washing and eventually married a notoriously cranky old man. After a year, the children were brought home and Pearl had further heartbreak when she learned Muggy had moved. Then, that loss was shoved to the side when her two older boxcar-riding brothers were killed in a train derailment.

The years rolled on and when she was 17, Pearl met Roger Smith, a tall, handsome young man with a quick and charming smile. They were married and had five children.

Throughout those years Pearl still thought about her friend Muggy and wondered what had happened to her. She was such a bright spot in Pearl’s bleak childhood memories. Decades piled up, but those memories were still vivid.

One evening, when she was 86, Pearl happened across an announcement of a golden wedding anniversary to be celebrated by Margaret Knowles Isaacs and her husband in a town 15 miles away. The years of wondering were finally over. After 80 years, the two were reunited and rekindled the friendship. Until death parted them again, they spent many happy hours remembering back to when they were Muggy and Pearl and Whitefish was young and as rough and as unfinished as an uncut diamond.

Friends are blessings from God. Treasure them as such and take time to tell yours how much they mean to you.

A new year, a new idea

Oh, this poor neglected blog. I feel SOOO guilty! It’s even more neglected than my Facebook site and that, right now, is covered with the fine dust of abandonment. But wait! – this is a new year, the time when all the rotten undone things of the past can be swept under the nearest carpet and life can be renewed and redone. Forgiven? Forgiven!


I’ve been pondering this blog for quite some time and it just didn’t seem to feel right. It needed something special, something unique, something more than just a bit of prose or a vagarious vignette. Maybe I could be like Julie of Julie/Julia fame and do something like get the “Delicious Death by Chocolate” cookbook and work my way through it. People could watch vicariously as I gained pound by pound by pound.

Maybe it could focus on one of my hobbies: painting and creating memory boxes and other things out of vintage fluffery.

Maybe it could be devoted to writing: how to get published, how to edit, how to correctly string words together so they make sense…

The solution to coming up with a bloggy catch came to me in a very strange place, as sometimes ideas are wont to do. I was driving to the store when an idiot in a black truck leaped out in front of me like a prodded cow. Not only that, but he glared and gave me an unfriendly salute. Hey, buddy, you’re the idiot, I thought, driving like a maniac on steroids.

A bit later, in the post office line with about a dozen other government patrons, my still-ruffled feathers were smoothed by listening to the banter of the nicest bunch of postal workers you’d ever want to meet. None of them carried a machine gun – their weapons were good cheer and humor.

Being the writer that I am, in both cases my first impulse was to dash off a few words addressing these situations – dark black words to the jerk in the truck and fluffy pastel words to the post office crew. And that’s when it hit me. I would write a “Dear…” blog.

Dear Judy, I was thinking the other day about the time we were skinny dipping and…
Dear Obama, Here’s what I think of your stupid health care…
Dear family dogs, I know you mean well but passing gas when we have company…
Dear Electric Company, I was in the bathtub the other night when the lights went off and it reminded me of…
Dear Store Keeper, I was standing in line the other day and suddenly I realized there were no Lifesavers on the…

Anyway, you get the gist. For lack of a better title I think I’ll call this blog “Oh Dear.” And if, after a few months of trying to make it work and discovering it just doesn’t, I can always go back to the chocolate eating idea. :)

Turkeys, geese, and Thanksgiving fun

Thanksgiving is next week and for many of us the thought of the holiday brings back happy memories. Like the time Uncle Chuck staggered in, grinning, just as the amen’s floated heavenward after grace. Under his arm, scrawny neck thrust forward and beady eyes piercing inhabitants of the dining room, was a 23-pound live turkey named Waldo. True, Chuck had asked if he could bring his friend Waldo to dinner and even admitted “he’s a real turkey.” Still, everyone at the table was shocked that Waldo wasn’t wearing a tie.

Every Thanksgiving comes with its own memories, such as the time my daughter misread the directions and thought she was supposed to cook the turkey in a 160 degree oven until the bird reached a temperature of 350. It was almost Friday by the time we ate.

Many of my favorite memories revolve around Canada Thanksgivings, which are on Oct. 12. For years we have been on our annual waterfowl hunting trip in Nokomis, Saskatchewan, at that time so we join a group of local friends and outside hunters at a farm for a potluck dinner and trap shoot. It’s an experience.

Grungy hunters arrive after the morning’s duck shoot garbed in camo and carrying potholdered pans and pots. Still searching for birds, gundogs nose the ground in front of them. The main culinary contribution is meat garnered from Mother Nature: shish-kabobbed pheasant, venison, souped-up hun, and sharptail and goose fixed in all sorts of ways.

These men, who wouldn’t dream of turning a page in a Betty Crocker cookbook, glean cooking information from hunting buddies who are experienced wild game chefs and have the dirty aprons to prove it. Most recipes start out with the basics: “Pluck the duck. Hunk it up. Get yourself a can of mushroom soup…”

A big crock-pot is essential for most wild game chefs. No fuss. No muss. You just dump in your soup. Dump in your duck. Throw in an onion, some water and turn it on high. Before serving, skim off the feathers floating on top. The real advantage of a crock-pot is that the slow boiling action causes the shot to sink to the bottom, where it can easily be scooped up and dumped in the can on the reloading bench.

My husband’s prize recipe is for gourmet goose. The trick is in the orange pop. The original recipe came from a Tennessee fellow who not only saves feathers to make his own pillows but is a champion award-winning goose caller…one of the reasons, perhaps, why he is divorced.

I don’t really like wild game. Well, except for sheep, buffalo and pheasant. Men like the stuff because they bagged it and dragged it home. Kids like it because Dad shot it. Wives like it because it saves money.

Wild game is like fine French cuisine. I’m not a drinker but I think each category has an alcoholic beverage that compliments its particular flavor. Kind of like the way red wine goes with red meat and white with poultry.

Beer goes best with buffalo or moose burgers, the quantity of cans depending on two things: toughness and the proximity of the animal to the rutting season at the time of its demise. Wine, a nice blush, goes well with pheasant or grain-fed ducks and geese. If the birds are slough- or swamp-dwellers, it is advisable to move up to a more potent beverage such as sake or Jim Beam.

Venison definitely calls for a hearty glass, or perhaps a bottle, of Jack Daniels. Mutton, which isn’t really considered wild game except for its tendency to crawl out of the pan when it’s being cooked, requires liberal doses of Everclear, or, if the person isn’t a drinker, a few Valium tablets an hour before dinner.

Tequila goes well with wild meat that has any of the following flaws: an abundance of feather-wrapped shot; portions that are bloodshot; excessive hair that requires more than a plastic Bic razor for removal; liver flukes; and a roast with a head, foot, or tail still attached.

Actually, much wild game goes well with a bald lie, such as: “Gee, I really like leg of mountain lion but recently I acquired an enzyme/anachtroidal deficiency which makes it impossible for my digestive system to absorb the chromosomal qualities of some wild game. I’d try it but I can’t really afford the corrective surgery it would require right now.”

Up or down: the never-ending saga of the toilet seat

Troy and I recently spent time on a goose/duck hunting trip at our place in Saskatchewan. Troy’s friend, John, was with us. I was outnumbered two to one. Since they were the hunters and I was the tag-along who had to do some badly-needed household chores after being away from the place for six years, I didn’t gripe about the toilet seat.

The Canada house only has one bathroom. In our normal lives we have two bathrooms that are basically his and hers. He always keeps the toilet seat down in mine but I rarely use his so I really don’t care if it is up or down or sideways. He can keep it up and use that toilet for a wading pool for all I care.

The toilet seat in the Canada house – which I fondly call House of the Whispering Floors because of the creaky old wood floors – seemed to always be up. My husband wasn’t being his normal chivalrous self. Maybe it was the hunting testosterone kicking in.

In the middle of one night, feeling the need to visit the john, I padded through the living room and made my way to the bathroom and sat down. Every woman who has done this knows the exquisite feel of a bed-warmed derriere plunged into a pool of ice water. First of all, the bowl is much larger than the seat so you are at least six inches deep in frigid water. Secondly, the bowl is quite a bit closer to the floor than the seat, which causes wrenching pain to the back and hip area.

After a bit of creative cursing and wiping myself dry with a towel, I grumbled back to bed. My first instinct was to shake him awake and ask if HE was the one who left the seat up. But I knew it wouldn’t be a meaningful conversation, just a series of huh? huhs? as he tried to come up from sleep fog to figure out what I was talking about.

Have you ever had fleeting fantasies that just send you into gales of laughter? I do that quite often, frequently in the middle of the night. In this case I was silently laughing so hard I was shaking the bed.

The fantasy was to just simply remove the toilet seat. Just unscrew the plastic bolts and retire it to the shed or the dump. And the next time he wanted to do the toilet ritual that involved sitting down he’d holler, “Where the heck’s the toilet seat?”

“Oh that?,” I’d yell back, “Since it’s always up and not used I figured it wasn’t needed so I hauled it away to the nuisance grounds (At our little town of Nokomis the dump is called the “nuisance grounds.”)

“What?!”

“I’ll tell you what,” I’d holler with great pleasure. “why don’t you just sit down there and do your business underwater, like you expect me to do.”

Until the end of time there will probably always be a war on whether the toilet seat should be up or down. Maybe we females should be like a woman I know who has her male-dominated family trained. Her guys all sit on the toilet instead of anointing it from a standing position.

It should, of course, be put down, and I’m not saying this from simply a female perspective. Men are taught to treat women with respect and courtesy and the toilet seat thing goes along with opening doors and being polite and chivalrous. It is simple good manners.

And if they can’t do that? Put a lock on the bathroom door and hide the key. There are a lot of trees out there.