Adventure 620: Four Days on the Old Saint Joe

Joe Bunnies

For four idyllic days, we lounged around the camp fire, soaked our feet in the river, rode our power assisted bikes (82 miles), participated in "Rake Therapy", and fed ourselves much more than we needed. The weather hovered in the perfect zone, just under 80. The skies were blue, the bugs scarce, and the nights cool. In addition, we were out of cell range and therefore blissfully unconnected from the latest bombshell from the rump. I keep wondering why we came back. We plan to go back in September, especially if our winter plans are scuttled due the pandemic, and most likely even if they are. In the meantime, Judy's garden is looking spectacular, and I was very appreciative that she would allow four days away in the wilderness. In short, life is good, especially today.

 Quite sublime.

 Rake Therapy keeps the camp clean and the soul calmed.

 The Wiley Cager kept up her wiley tricks.

 If it's four O'clock, it must be time for GTs.

 North Idaho chic.

 Mrs. Ulmen pumping the well.

 I rode my son Steve's electric bike. I may never pedal unassisted again.

 Our camp spot for the four days.

 Our last breakfast (Just a sample of the thin gruel we enjoyed), huckleberry pancakes, ham, and egg.

 Miss Judy enjoying a little rake therapy.

  Good bye, Joe. See you in September.

Adventure 619: Lake Time Covid-19 Style

Saved by Love

Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime; therefore, we must be saved by hope.
Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith.
Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we must be saved by love.

-Reinhold Niebuhr

It's good to have the family together not only because great stress begets great strength, but also because the warmth of love helps everything and everyone.  Sawyer and Angela arrived Monday. We enjoyed the traditional Angel Food cake for Angela's birthday. The whole family was present. The only one happier than Angela was Mimi. Of course, Falcon was better than watching any screen, so we all ogled him. Tuesday, we headed for the lake where we'll spend the next week. It's a privilege we don't take for granted. So far, the weather is cool and the clouds are hanging just like the huckleberries: low, damp, and plump. No matter. There are no bad days at the lake. In these times, it's especially important to find ways to make life good. As I say, especially today.

Falcon showing off.

Birthday girl.

Auntie Libby doing her thing.

Number one grandson showing Falcon how it's done.

 The Williams': Sarah, Emily, Steve, Bonnie.

Welcome to the lake.

First morning breakfast: Thin gruel of breakfast salad and lemon curd fruit tart.

Adventure 618: Still Fresh Air

Huckleberry Pancakes, of course.

What a fabulous day at the lake! After coming up here every summer since 1968, and enjoying this cabin experience for the last nineteen years, it would seem that there would be nothing left to see or do. Nothing could be further from the truth. We began the day enjoying huckleberry pancakes from our stash of early season huckleberries, which for the most part are still a few weeks and warm weather away. We drove over to the Ace hardware up some salt for the water softener. We took a walk up a mountain road, and we spent a few hours driving on roads we've traveled often and a few we've never been on. There's so much to see in these woods. Who would have thunk it?  Best of all, we took a trip down memory lane and had what we call "Japanese Spaghetti", which is a dish Douglas' mother used to make when we were kids: cheap dry pasta, a chub of fatty burger, and  heinz catsup. Three ingredients, no more, no less. For the coup de gras, a sprinkle of Kraft Parmesan cheese from the green jar. The entire flavor profile derives from our friends at Heinz. We were even treated to a rumbling thunderstorm during dinner that moved as it usually does North of the Narrows. The dish itself is far from special, but the memories it evoked brought warmth to our hearts. As Douglas says, ""It was the very best day ever." I must agree, and cannot deny that life is good, especially today.

 Our four mile walk included this panorama: almost lost in this inadequate photo.

We found enough berries for Douglas to enjoy a pie next weekend with his people.

 The most awesome new find was the bridge over Soldier Creek.

 The view toward the lake.

 The view toward Lookout mountain.

I was so excited, I tried a little romantic maneuver with my Bunny.

Japanese Spaghetti, so named by an Italian kid we grew up with. He came for dinner one night. After a taste, he exclaimed, "What is this-Japanese Spaghetti.

This sign used to be a North Idaho joke. Sadly ironic now.

Adventure 617: Lake Staging 2020

The Crown Rests Uneasily

Frac sat safely at the Ulmen's for the last three months after we arrived home from our winter adventures just as Covid-19 hit. The first death had been registered north of Seattle, and our fearless leader was spewing spin that everything was under control. Even now as the pandemic is spinning out of control, he continues to spew the same message despite the death toll in America surpassing 128,000. That news is dire. What gives me hope spiritually is that God has a plan. What gives me hope emotionally is that our children keep bringing new life to this planet. If they can garner enough faith for that, how can I possibly deny the possibility that the future looks bright. In the meantime, we enjoy a position that allows us to choose our risk pool. We're surrounded by family, and we've chosen to add a small group of close friends to our pool. So today we rescued Frac from months of inactivity to make our annual trip to Priest Lake. We're truly blessed to be allowed to share my cousin's lake place for a time in July each year. This year will be our nineteenth. Sadly, Steve and Bonnie and the girls won't join us because of conflicts, but everyone else will be here the week after the fourth. We did have   a mini adventure with Frac just to get here today. The right rear tire was flat due to a screw in the tread. My friend's, the Ulmen boys, Jer and John, pumped enough air in the tire for me to drive Frac to Les Schwab, our excellent locally owned tire repair shop. They fix flats for free. In less than an hour I was on my way. Judy and I arrived at the lake by 1:30. Before we had even finished setting the trailer up, my cousin Douglas rolled in. His family always enjoys the fourth, and Judy and I will spend three days with him before his crowd arrives. Luckily, I took the day one cribbage championship. We walked the mile loop scouting early season huckleberries, and we enjoyed a fabulous dinner of ham and bean soup made with Hooley beans, our farmer friends from southern Idaho. We had fresh baked corn bread on the side. Then we retired early to the sounds and smells of the fresh mountain air. In all, life is good and I remain hopeful, especially today.

This company began in Oregon and has outlets all over the northwest.

 They value service.

 Foxgloves are blooming.

 Frac is nestled in the trees out back.

 I never tire of this view from the dock.

 Miss Judy prepared our dinner feast.

 President Rump continues spinning.

The Story of George: Final Edition

George passed April 8, 2020, three months shy of his ninetieth birthday. While we'll miss him, his passing at this point feels like mercy. He'd spent exactly a year at the Veteran's Home after a severe UTI made it impossible for him to live independently. He never did quite adjust to the Veteran's Home, and right up to the end, tried to "break out" of the place. Prior to his admission to the Veteran's Home, George spent three comfortable years at Harvard Park living independently. We brought him to Spokane on his eighty-fifth birthday after the sale of his home in Madras went smoothly. He willingly gave up driving, sold his car to his grandson, and never looked back except when he tried to escape the Veteran's Home always asking where his car was as he tried to leave the building. Within days of moving to Harvard Park, he met Vina Mikkelsen, and for the next three years, they were a couple. If it had been monetarily feasible, the two would have married. Vina, a faithful Catholic, got George to go to church. She turned his head like a love torn puppy. He waited for her every morning and escorted her to breakfast like a gentleman. I think he was just showing off his "girl". They played cards, bingo, delivered Meals on Wheels, went on the Harvard Park bus trips, and spent many an afternoon smooching like teenagers. He was happy in his last years, and so was I. I had hoped we'd get five good years with George. We ended up getting three plus. It was all good. George, a man of meager ambition, happily lived a working man's life. He finished high school, served in the Navy, got a real estate license, and had some training in main frame computers. He and my mother divorced for the final time (They went through the whole process twice) when I was in fourth grade. I saw him once a year for a week from that time on, although as an adult I cut those visits to three days, mostly because George's wife, Margaret, made it hard to stay much longer. In essence, George counted mostly as a sperm donor in terms of my upbringing, but as I told my seventh grade students when their parents were divorcing, "One, it's not your fault; two, you either have a relationship with your parents or you want one." So, naturally, I wanted a relationship with my father, which is why I made motions to visit every year. But who among us can cast stones. George tried his best. He and my mother were just too young, just too passionate, and just too ignorant to use birth control. So at nineteen and fifteen, they tried for the dream. The irony is that both of them stayed in their second marriages for over fifty years, until death do you part, as they say. So, today, when we picked up George's ashes, I found myself a jumble of emotions. On the nature side, I can't reasonably deny the genetic influence George's blood has had over my existence. It's stunning how many of his mannerisms, behaviors, ticks, twitches, and habits inhabit my being. On the nurture side, which wasn't much, I still carry fond memories of Rosa, George's mom, my grandmother, and it's in her that I see the real George. Basically, I can't complain, and neither could George. Nearly ninety is a good run. George lived (as we all do) a nearly good life, and he kept as many of his promises as he could. That's not a bad epitaph. As for me, I'm the oldest of Geroge's seed. As such I carry on keeping as many promises as I can, and believing that life is good, especially today.

George and Chris (my mom), circa 1950.

 George and Margo, wed for over fifty years.

 

 George and his new squeeze, Vina.

 George, always the ladies' man, with his friend and neighbor in Madras, Rhonda.

George had a good relationship with Judy, too.

Leticia was drawn to George as well.

 So, why is he scowling?

 Oh, just kidding.

 Do you get it?

It was a good joke.

 I'm such a card.

 And handsome, too.

That would be me under that smock.

 And my siblings followed like the seasons.

\

Really, it's just George.