Valley Life
May 7, 2008

From Twisp - by Sally Gracie ~ 997-4364

Letter from Lincoln to my friends in Twisp:

Dear Friends in Twisp,

For the third year, I’ve completed the 1,600-mile drive to Nebraska. This time my destination was Omaha, where my son David and his wife Rose are living. Dave is art chair at Nebraska Wesleyan, Lincoln, and Rose has moved from her job at Northwestern in Evanston to a new administrative position at University of Nebraska.

Their "suite" is on the fourth floor of "The Farnham Since 1912" (says the brass plaque). Mike, the building manager, tells me that this is the first "luxury" apartment building in Omaha. It has eight suites, front and back stairs, and an Otis elevator, which Mike speaks of with evident pride.

This is the original elevator, you see, with a wooden door, a metal gate, and absolutely no framed inspection certificate posted inside.Mike assures me that the elevator is inspected annually, and the cables are new. Still, this elevator with its wooden door and metal gate is a little scary to me, so this morning I climbed the winding and steep back stairs instead. 

Mind you, these were originally the servants’ stairs. I wonder how many maids might have expired on their way up. The servants were not allowed to use the apartment toilets, so they were provided the now ancient water closets at each landing.

Their apartment is lovely and so big that after 24 hours, I’m just figuring out the floor plan. So many doors. Floors are blond and beautifully finished.

Tall windows reach to 12 ft. ceilings. Original glass-fronted, wooden cabinets remain in the kitchen, and most of the seven rooms have built-in shelving. I could fit three of my house into this apartment!

The thing about kids with cell phones – they have no land line phone. The thing about subscribers with land lines – they have telephone books. I am visiting a home without phone books. "So how do I find the address of the nearest Walmart?" I ask Rose. 

"Use the computer phone book!" Pretty inconvenient, if you ask me (which they haven’t).

So here I sit, wrists resting on the edge of David’s new MacBook. 

I’m certain there’s an advantage to having a computer about as big as a sheet of paper, but if there is, I haven’t figured it out yet. My fingers are all cramped up, and I keep typing words like wgen wgen I was tryig to tupe when. See what I mean.

The other problem is the new Word for Mac, which I’m using to write this column. I’m a Mac person, through and through. I like Bill Gates, but I see no reason why a perfectly good OS (operating system) needs to be screwed up with Microsoft software. 

For example, the little squiggle lines that appear under all my typing errors. I have no clue how to disengage this editing "assistance." I’ve learned that spell and syntax checkers are pretty useless – inaccurate, too. Another thing – if it’s for Mac, why not put menu items where they belong? I can’t find italics anywhere.

From Winthrop - by Carol Stull - 996.3533

We knew the pass had opened last Thursday morning (May 1) when we met the famous first-arriver for many years, Tootsie Clark, and eight family members having breakfast at Three Fingered Jacks. They’re always first in line on the Marblemount side. And Tootsie, now 89, always serves her special cinnamon rolls to everyone waiting for the gates to open. To ensure her contingent remains first, Tootsie says anyone crowding ahead of them gets the burnt ones. This year she baked three dozen.

Tootsie’s family has operated Clark’s Cabins and the Eatery in Rockport many years. Tootsie’s grandmother came up the Skagit River in 1888 by canoe. About 1992, her daughter Judi Brooks, then Marblemount Chamber of Commerce president, met Winthrop Chamber president, the late Jerry Blanchard, and me (secretary) at the snowy top of Washington Pass for a joint photo op.

Now fresh faces and unfamiliar vehicles appear on Winthrop sidewalks and streets. But weekend reports from the Tenderfoot and Sheri’s Sweet Shoppe say that while business had increased, it is not yet booming.

Many of those strange faces may have belonged to Zumiez. These are managers of skateboarding outfitter stores from all over the U.S., in town for their annual retreat and training seminar at the Barn. Some 400 of them fill valley lodging from Sunday through Wednesday and are being fed by Bill Simmons’ Rent-A-Chef at the Barn and Bart Northcott’s Red Apple in remote locations.

As soon as Zumiez leaves, ’49er Days activities begin. This Thursday (May 8) learn more about Friday night’s Cowboy Jamboree when Rebecca Meadows interviews cowgirl Lauralee Northcott at Winthrop Ace Hardware’s spring open house, 10 a.m. to noon. Free coffee, donuts and seeds (to plant).

To entice Winthrop businesses into the ‘49er spirit, a new contest among merchants gets underway today (May 7). The public is invited to vote for the best western store – by decorations, employees’ attire, historic displays, etc. Ballots, available in stores, are to be cast at the visitor information center by 4 p.m. Saturday (May 10). The merchant with the most votes gets free chamber membership; the voter whose ballot is chosen in a random drawing gets a $50 gift certificate.

Watch for the ’49er Days Friday night (May 9) Winthrop Art Walk, from 6 to 8 p.m. Participating are Ashford Gallery, Becky LaVergne Studio, Methow Valley Artisans, Sun Mountain Lodge Company Store, Western Images Gallery and Winthrop Gallery.

We hope to see everyone at Saturday morning’s (11 a.m.) big parade. At the front will be Shawn Graves and fellow wounded veterans of the Global War on Terrorism – Operation Enduring Freedom (Afghanistan) and Operation Iraqi Freedom. Brought together by the Spokane Veterans Outreach Center and representing Disabled American Veterans, the Military Order of the Purple Heart, American Legion and Veterans of Foreign Wars, they look forward to serving as color guard and enjoying all the festivities.

Off the Wall - by Bob Spiwak

Don’t Judge a Man by His Feet

Jeff Sandine stopped in for half a day Saturday and we had a great time regaling five others with some of the more memorable experiences of our adventure trips. The most entertaining was when we went to and returned from Death Valley.

Jeff and I are heterosexual. I have no problem with people who prefer the gay lifestyle, as anyone of that persuasion who knows me can attest. I wear an earring because I like it. (Left ear.)

We were on our way west and in either Cedar City or St. George, Utah (we disagree on which), we stopped at a sparkling clean motel. It was built in the shape of a flat-bottomed U and was devoid of any cars. It was early evening when we checked in, and the desk clerk gave us suspicious looks – two guys checking in to the same room.

I tend to snore, and, when camping, we have the 50-foot rule; our tents can be no closer. Here we were in the same room, and I am told I was snoring. So much so, that at midnight, Sandine got up, walked to the office, woke up the desk clerk and asked for another room. Asked why, he told the guy about my snoring, and got a look that silently said, "Oh, sure." The look also said, "Lovers’ quarrel."

He got the key to another room and getting there was startled to discover it was right next to the room he vacated. Not only that, the headboards of our beds were now separated only by a sheet of plasterboard between the rooms: we were closer now than before. Somehow, he made it through the night.

Returning home, Jeff knew of "a great Basque restaurant" in Winnemucca. We stopped there. I was wearing my usual summer footwear, moccasins, which some mistake for bedroom slippers. Jeff was wearing a pair of backless clogs, which he describes as "making your feet look like potatoes."

It was a cowboy/redneck restaurant. The maitre ’d, or head wrangler, greeted us and stared at our feet, and then gave us "That Look." We were getting accustomed to it from various other stops. He seated us at a table, family style, and we had a great meal. When we went to pay, I checked his feet, and he was wearing logger boots.

We paid for our meal, and getting ready to walk out of the place, he turned to me and asked, "Why are you wearing that earring?"

I looked him right in the eye and responded, "Because it goes so well with my pearls."

He was still frowning as we went out the door.

From Carlton - by Sue Misao

In Carlton, we don’t have any politics because we don’t have a mayor or town council or even a voting booth. All our politicking is overheard whispers, grumblings and rumor. Not like on TV, where everybody is yelling at you constantly. 

Still, the race between Clinton and Obama is nerve-wracking even in Carlton. I personally will use this space to endorse Obama because I happen to like his pastor. I come from a church family myself.

But if things turn ugly at the Democratic convention I will probably switch to Republican and vote for Abraham Lincoln. There’s a guy who got it done.

Meanwhile, it was a sunny week in Carlton and lots happened in downtown Carlton. A stagecoach appeared and disappeared and that was exciting. And Osprey, the river rafting people, have moved in, which makes Carlton look sort of like we are a really cool town full of people who do really cool things like river rafting. We always knew we were cool, but now everyone knows it. It kind of blows our cover but these are changing times.

The Carlton Farmers Market starts up Sunday, May 25, noon to 3 p.m., and you can do just about anything there. Sell your plant starts, your zucchinis, your mangoes, or, to quote the Carlton Store guy Al, your broken laptop. It’s a market/swap meet/barter fair type free-for-all, and all you have to do is be a nice person. If you have any questions, call 997-8764 and ask for the owner of Carlton.

The revived Carlton Regatta is the first weekend in August and will involve some or all of the  following: fun flotillas, pancakes, competitions in the river from Carlton to Methow, possible horse rides, and, later in the evening, a barbecue and concert in Carlton, and maybe ping pong.

But the really big news is this dog. He was found on the highway between Carlton and Twisp and he  is looking for his people. If you are his people, or if you would like to be his people, call 923-2391 or 997-7011. 

WEBMASTER'S NOTE: THE DOG'S OWNER HAS BEEN FOUND!!!!

Is this your dog ?

From Mazama - by Bob Spiwak - 996-2777

Department of maybe missing persons: We have a request from Everett for information leading to the whereabouts of one Jens Keiler. (I assume there is only one.) Anyhow, he is known to be a mountain climber and back-country person who MAY live near or have property in the Mazama area. If anyone has information, please contact me. This is not life and death.

Last week the area lost one of its more longevitous people when Vera Tawlks passed away in Mukilteo. She was in her 90s. Her late husband, Harley, flew P-38s in the Pacific in WW II, and after the surrender, they stayed in the Philippines for many years. They were totally giving people, adopting children, generous beyond reason to locals when they moved here, and always a welcome at the door. Our most sincere sympathy and sense of loss to the children and grandchildren.

Department of By-Pass. We got word that old friend and local expatriate Jack Holden, now of far-beyond Omak, successfully survived bypass surgery and is doing well. Those who know him may remember he is the founder of the Stop Continental Drift Society, a for-real group. Being a geologist and paleontologist, as well as an incomparable illustrator, I always think of his classic poster "Mazama in 2000" when the Early Winters ski hill debacle was raging.

Ironically, as I write this, I remember Vera joining us to visit him at his wilderness cabin. 

Department of Pass-By. A couple of other expatriates were in the valley over the weekend. From far off Seattle, Jeff Sandine appeared. Sandine was my adventure buddy; we canoed the Missouri River twice, the Green (Utah) and Colorado, and took many memorable camping trips in desolate southeast Oregon. He bought and built the current Mazama Store. If you look at the centerfold of the current Trails magazine, that is him contemplating the Alvord Desert.

Steve Barnett, another influential friend, came from farther Ferndale for skiing this weekend. Steve, his wife Grace Gorgeous and I, among others, spent quite a few years doing photography of people rafting rivers, from the Methow to White Pass. Steve was definitely a mentor in my photographic career, and devised a method of developing slides just taken at the side of the river, ready in time for people departing the rafts to see themselves.

Finally, FINALLY, the last notice of the potluck, election and slide show on Friday (May 9). Sue Roberts is organizing the Memorial Day pancake breakfast and needs volunteers. Call Sue at 996-3747, or Midge at 996-8080. 

Poet's Corner

Mountains of Matchsticks

and I will be useless,

as rain returns to lengthen the fuel,

and fires of August interrupt the sun;

flying violins of woe

coming in low over the garlic fields.

I’ll be here to repeat the tragedies,

fan the smolder of losses,

beat the drum of camaraderie no one feels.

Helicopters with chemicals and cameras,

militaristic vehicles with exotic stencils

heralding the arriving heroes--

poor folk who risk it all for the money

only stockholders have.

Mountains of matchsticks;

homeland security for the already dead.

–Bill Davie

Bill Davie is a poet and broadcaster who lives in Twisp.

Fowl Play at Chicken McMansion

Not long ago I adopted three chickens: Goldie, Hannah and Rhodie. 

I imagined an idyllic scene with a free-ranging flock clucking contentedly while they ate bugs in the garden and windfall from the fruit trees. I envisioned fresh eggs and nitrogen-rich fertilizer.

I toted the hens home in a rabbit hutch and introduced them to my dog. Having never seen chickens before, Fergus was cautious. He approached slowly, sniffing at the strange creatures. The chickens clucked skeptically, but held their ground. So far, so good. 

I hoped they would become friends. I imagined them palling around together, playing bocce ball and telling yokes like "what do you get when you cross a chicken and a hound? Just a hound."

Then Goldie flapped her wings, triggering some sort of primordial predator instinct in Fergus. Goldie ran for her life, while Hannah attempted to perch on my head. Rhodie, the smartest hen of the bunch, simply retreated to the rabbit hutch and locked the door behind her.

What followed next qualified as "one of those sights you don’t see everyday": a bald guy with a Barred Rock chicken attached to his skull chasing a dog chasing a Buff Orpington across the shrub-steppe.

In the end, I was the only one to shed blood during our meet-and-greet session. As I dabbed at the wounds where Hannah had sunk her claws into my scalp, I revised my dream of a fence-free farmstead where all animals domestic and wild live in peace and harmony.

 The next day I started building a chicken run and coop. Judging from the advice I received from others who keep chickens in the Methow, the enclosure needed to approximate a maximum-security prison because everything loves to eat chickens. 

Meanwhile, some started a betting pool on how soon my chickens would die. The primary currency was shots of tequila. The most optimistic gamblers bet at least one chicken would be dead within the month. Other participants wagered that none of the hens would last a week.  

I didn’t have a stake in the betting – my only interest was keeping Goldie, Hannah and Rhodie alive another day. To that end, I set about building the Chicken McMansion. "Ye of no faith," I thought. 

Of course I had my doubts. As I pounded T-posts and strung wire, Fergus watched my labors attentively. He scribbled architectural drawings on a pad of paper and noted weak points in the construction as if planning a complex bank job.  

Once I judged the fence Fergus-proof, I let him inspect it. His efforts to have close encounters of the chicken dinner kind were unsuccessful. After a few days the chickens felt secure enough in the Chicken McMansion to heckle Fergus.

"Wow, these food scraps are sure tasty – too bad you’re stuck out there," said Goldie. "You think that you can jump your 60-dog-year-old ass over this fence? Dream on, furball!" said Hannah. "Cluck you, you droopy-faced hound!" said Rhodie, the Rhode Island Red.

I was concerned that the poultry’s hubris might be eggcessive, because Fergus is a wily opportunivore. This suspicion was confirmed a week later when I returned home to discover him snipping through the fence with a pair of wire cutters. 

Fergus said he just wanted to say "hi" to the chickens and maybe play a game of cribbage, but I didn’t believe it. After all, Fergus was wearing a chef’s hat and had the barbecue going with sage/garlic butter baste simmering on the side. 

I changed the combination to the lock on the tool shed, so maybe the chickens are safe from Fergus for the moment. Now all I have to do is keep my chickens from being chowed by coyotes, bobcats, raccoons, weasels, eagles or hawks. 

I’m not a much of a gambler, so I won’t bet that Goldie, Hannah or Rhodie live forever. Odds are that someday some creature (perhaps even Fergus or me) will have them for dinner. 

But for now the hens are alive and clucking. I’ll wager that tomorrow they might even lay a couple eggs for breakfast – and that’s idyllic enough for me.   

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