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.”