“My husband says everyone who works here is a fanatic – except for himself and Charles!” I told some fellow co-workers during coffee break one afternoon.

Another co-worker, young and ‘full of it’, came strolling through the door just then and picked right up on my last remark, “Who says I’m a fanatic? If anybody says I’m a fanatic I’ll burn their house down.”

You’ve heard of half-wits – well, I’m a dense-wit, and Mike’s laser-sharp wit just simply penetrated into my consciousness so quickly and painlessly that it was three days later when I began to giggle about his remark.

“That really was a good one,” I had to admit to myself, knowing that I very probably was not the only one whom his humor had escaped.

You should know Mike! He and his dog, Shandar, came to Ontario – I suppose it was maybe two years ago when he took a job writing sports stories for the newspaper after completing a long hitch in the service. A quiet man with a forlorn air about him, I got my first look at another side of Mike the day I walked into the editorial department during the noontime lull. There he was, standing in front of the society editor’s desk reciting Shakespeare to her, fast and furiously – and he was still performing when I made my exit.

Well, as time went on, the real Mike Lafferty began to appear more and more frequently. Soon we all were to find that the quiet forlorn looking young man who had come through our door was anything but quiet. Super-talented, highly intelligent and so quick, yet he must suffer through our mediocre attempts at humour – and he does so with grace.

“Well, Mike, what did you do for excitement this weekend?” I asked him one Monday morning.

And without a moments hesitation he remarked, “I put my cat in the microwave to see what would happen.”

“No way, Mike! You can tell me a lot of stories, but that’s one that I definitely will not believe,” I said to him. “Anyone who pulls their wallet out to show me a picture of his dog and cats, the same as most people show off pictures of their kids, cannot make me believe something like that – no way!” I told him.

He laughed – because he knew he had been found out!

This chapter of Mike’s life has a happy ending, and since it’s Christmas, a time for happiness and joy, you should know that it is out there. Mike is to be married this month to a young and lovely old-fashioned girl, and I suspect it was ‘love-at-first-sight’.

They are so happy, and everything is right for Mike and Debby this Christmas of ‘81.

But – just what, in your opinion, is a fanatic? Some people are fanatical about keeping their house clean – I wish I were. Others are fanatics about the clothes they wear, styles, etc., – I probably should be.

I have a friend who is a fanatic about keeping her car spotless and shining. She nearly became violent the day I raised my hand to wipe the steam from her car window so I could see out – “Oh, no,” she screamed at me. “You’ll smear it!”

Horrors, I didn’t know. I had learned how to write my name under similar conditions.

Then there was another friend who kept her floors spotless throughout her babies growing up years. She couldn’t stand for the floor to be dirty so, following each meal she placed the dishes in the hot, sudsy dishwater, took her dish cloth and mopped up her floor, using her dish water for mop water before continuing on with her dishes.

Now, that bothered me, somehow, but she never understood why.

As we grow older and sort of begin to ‘mellow out’ so to speak, it seems like we might be able to drop a few of our fanaticisms – they can get pretty heavy you know. But, once we have led our kids down the straight and narrow for twenty years, they get pretty dictatorial themselves. Pretty soon the kids are bossing the parents – trying to, at least.

As parents, we have spent their lifetime advising them about the hazards of drinking and smoking. We have instructed them against swearing, warned them about junk food, – don’t swim alone, cover your ears, take your vitamins, do as you’re told. But – don’t back down if you believe you are right – work hard, do more than is expected.

Then, there are the basics, those ten commandments – God’s rules – those few simple rules stressing honesty, faithfulness, sincerity, love, mercy. Would following His instructions classify one as a ‘fanatic’?

Oh, boy, I just thought of my New Year’s resolution – God help me to become more ‘fanatically’ fanatic.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself again. First we have to pick out a Christmas tree – it’s always such a struggle. Traditionally, we all go together to buy the tree. Also, tradition decrees that my second daughter, Susan, will become sympathetic for some poor scraggly tree which she fears no one will want – so she proceeds to fight for the poor ugly little tree to be taken to the Ziegler home. The rest of the family must then decide whether to fight for a pretty tree and endure the ‘look’ in Susan’s eyes, or to settle for the poor little tree that nobody else would want.

It isn’t the Christmas tree war that bothers me though. I just wonder – when Susan goes to pick out a husband, I hope she doesn’t use the same criteria.

Yes, I have to admit – the future does look interesting!

Christmas 1974

“M-m-m-mom, th-th-th-there’s a bear out th-th-th-there,” came my ten-year old daughter’s quavering voice from alongside the bed where my husband and I were, up until that time, soundly sleeping.

True to form, my husband gave a disgusted snort, turning himself away from the disturbance and pulling the covers up on his head, while simultaneously yanking the same from my poor shivering being. Forcing myself up onto all fours, I raised my eyes above the headboard, attempting to focus in the direction of Susan’s transfixed gaze.

As the fresh mountain air came drifting through the screenless window, which had been thrown wide open to allow us the full benefits of its blessings, my sleepy eyes slowly opened and the full awareness of the image they were receiving struck me spellbound. Separated only by an approximate distance of four feet and that same brisk fresh air, staring directly back into my startled face was a big black bear.

I looked at him– and he looked at me.

Momentarily frozen speechless, I finally said stiffly to my sleeping Sir Galahad, “There is a bear out there!”

Again a disgusted groan from my husband, but this time it was followed up by a consenting eyelid raised enough to give him the picture of his wife and daughter appearing to be mesmerized by something worthy of an investigation. Raising up on one elbow, he could see our visitor, so while the two of them became acquainted I slipped out of bed and went to rouse the other three children.

Not a bit scared, that “young fella” watched us just as curiously as we watched him, then after an estimated ten minutes he became bored, and ambled unconcernedly away to partake of the luscious raspberries growing along our driveway.

Thinking back to the time of our residence in Bear Country, it was around 1971 and 1972 when our little family loaded up lock, stock and barrel into a rental moving truck and headed for north Idaho. Our first year found the kids attending schools in Sandpoint, a beautiful little town situated on the western edge of Pend O’Reille Lake.

Life was beautiful, and while happily proclaiming “God is so good”, life grew even better as we found just the place for us near the small community of Hope, Idaho. Settling into a lovely old-style house situated on the side of a beautiful mountain, with our living room window giving a view of unsurpassed beauty as it looked out across Pend O’Reille lake, no one could have asked for more. We took full advantage of the fishing and swimming available to us, not more than 100 feet from our front door.

Heating our home by wood furnace and a beautiful rock fireplace, my kitchen had an old style wood burning kitchen range along with a modern electric stove. All the fuel we needed was available to us simply for the taking, and many a good time was enjoyed in togetherness with the family, while at the same time gathering our wood supply for the winter. Topping off the list of good things was the small but excellent school at Hope where the children received the best of instruction from teachers attending to an eight-grade school with ten students per grade.

Daring to sound like a bit of a lunatic, I must confess to you my belief that life can treat us too good for our own best interests. The knowledge that our little family was settled in there on that mountain contended in our own little world, and appearing to show no concern for what was happening elsewhere–that really began to “bug” me.

Fretting that the children were living such a protected life that they would be unprepared for the real world out there, I sadly but willingly packed our belongings, upon my husbands decision to move “back home”.

So it is with all who care to admit it. Way down deep inside we know the necessity of involvement. Living in America enjoying the comforts and privileges that only Americans know, without doing our part and being actively involved, is no different from a healthy, able person accepting welfare checks. So for the year 1981 it’s down with apathy and up with involvement.

I haven’t lied to you about the good life in northern Idaho–but I didn’t tell you the whole truth either. Of course there was the snow, lots of it, and mud–the school kids had more mud vacations than they had snow vacations.

But the weather didn’t bother me–it was those dadblasted ticks. The first spring we lived on that mountain there was an outburst of ticks that you would not believe. They were everywhere!

Becoming so conscious of the tick attacks that our eyes would automatically search the floor every time we seated ourselves on the living room sofa we were soon to become almost paranoid. Being colored much the same hue as our carpeting, the ticks were difficult to spot, but their motion would catch the eye as they would rush to attack any new blood that entered the room.

Straight for your feet and up your pant leg they would go, preferring the higher altitudes for positioning such as a head covered with hair. After the first attack and trip to the doctor, we were equipped with thorough instructions which were–if head is not buried in scalp, grip tick body with tweezers and pull gently but firmly from flesh. Destroy tick by dropping in kerosene or by cutting in several pieces and burning.

Being advised that tick shots are not given unless there is a known infestation of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever in the area, it was a simple wait it out–they’ll go away when the hot weather hits.

At bedtime each kid had to pass a thorough inspection, and there were many nights that I was roused out of bed by screams from one of the children, “I think I’ve got a tick!” Being a mother often includes a call for acting abilities, so during many of the tick removal episodes I managed a bit part in “cool and calm” while my nerves were stretched to the point of screaming hysteria.

Combing my son’s hair one evening in preparation for a haircut, my comb bumped against something, and as I peeked cautiously under the hair on the back of his head I spied, to my horror, a whole handful of those little parasites matted into one gob, which when separated consisted of a total of 14 ticks.

While home alone one day after seeing my husband off to work and the children off to school, I discovered, a little bump under my hair. Feeling of it very cautiously, I determined that without a doubt it was definitely a tick. Afraid to let go of it then for fear it would crawl around and I wouldn’t know where it was, I was simply panic-stricken.

Pinching it tightly between my fingers, I pulled and twisted–it would not budge. Finally at risk of losing a tick leg or tick head in my scalp, I attempted to cut that little creep loose with my fingernails.

With a hurting scalp and bloody fingers I pulled myself together long enough for reason to overtake me, along with the reminder that I did indeed have a small wart on my scalp–in that exact area–which had been there all along.

Well, the ticks finally went away–and so did we.

At cold but beautiful Lake Pend O’Reille, 1970

Only by chance was I sitting in that waiting room in a Boise, Idaho, hospital when the tiny 4-year-old child was transferred there in the hope of yet saving his life. Numb with worries of our own, we were soon to realize a different kind of agony.

Shall I tell you of this family–the tiny sad mother with eyes worn from crying; the dad, a big, strong, take-charge type of guy who remained a pillar of strength to the others while at the same time suffering so terribly himself.

Not knowing what was happening until the doctor walked into our midst we had stayed, and then as we did realize, it seemed better somehow to just sit there quietly as the tragic story was unfolded.

The specialist who was to work on the tiny little dark-haired boy needed to know the exact story of what had happened to the child–so that dear, brave little mother began…

The details of that tragedy are not what is important to you and I–it was one of those freakish things that should not have happened–an unfinished irrigation project had left an open pipe which for some unknown reason had filled with water, and the little guy had stumbled into it while there on a visit.

Quick actions by rescuers, CPR administered by a knowledgeable grandmother, the best of help from emergency medical technicians, doctors and the specialist–in spite of all these efforts the little boy died.

The country is a great place for kids. However, we should feel compelled to be constantly on the alert for unexpected dangers we are harboring on our farms. Anything can happen, like the time my sister opened the door and there stood her husband holding son Lee out at arm’s length towards her. That little guy was coated with greenish manure clear up to his shoulders. “Lee, what happened?” she asked.

“I was just trying to catch a frog,” came his reply. “When he jumped, I jumped.”

In this instance, the result was comical but it could have turned out much the opposite.

Dangers of drowning, electrical shock, machinery hazards, animals (such as horseback accidents), poisonings, fire including explosions, welding burns–there is just no end to the dangers of which we must beware.

Sitting on the outside of such a tragedy as this is not easy. You want to help somehow, some way, but how?

Some years back my friends lost their lovely teenage daughter in a car accident. At first I couldn’t even accept or believe that it had really happened. Having a daughter of the same age and putting myself in that mother’s place I really didn’t think that she, an especially devoted and loving mother, could survive the pain.

Concern for that mother caused me to pray, “God, they love her so much, please if there is a way to let me share some of the pain so as to make their load bearable, go ahead and dump it on me.”

Well, you’ve heard it said, “Be careful what you ask of God, because he’s liable to give it to you.”

He dumped a load of pain on me and for a little while, having forgotten what I had asked for, I could not understand what was happening to me. I cried for three days– and I don’t mean tears rolling gently down my cheeks. I mean painful cries of anguish which could only come from a mother who has lost her child.

So much is so deep inside of each one of us, so personal and so private, and this was one of those times. I knew what was happening inside of me, but my poor family could not know–it was one of those “just accept me” times.

Later on one of my girls said to me, “Mom, I didn’t understand. I knew you liked her, but I didn’t think you knew her that well.”

I told her–and she understood.

This past spring my son’s basketball team was involved in an important tournament when at the same time the grandfather of one of the team members was stricken with a fatal heart attack. Sharing the sadness of Scott’s loss of his grandfather, along with the gladness of winning, these boys gained so much and grew so close during that time.

Returning home from the tournament in time to attend the funeral, some of the boys instinctively felt they should attend although they would prefer not to go. After being excused from school to attend the funeral, those boys were soon to understand why they had gone.

As Scott walked up to them after the services his words to them said it all– ”When I looked up and saw you guys walking in, my stomach got all warm inside.”

Mom & Peggy

Why is it that ‘mother’ is the only person blessed with the thrilling job of returning pop bottles to the store?

Returnable bottles are sort of like pennies – not quite worth enough to make it worth all the effort. However, if my memory serves me right, I can remember trading one pop bottle for one penny and feeling like I was on ‘top of the world’ because of it. Of course, I must admit that it happened BEFORE I became a ‘young adult’.

Many moons ago, my sister-in-law and I decided to surprise the folks by sprucing up the place while they were away on a trip. Planning our ‘big’ surprise, we busied ourselves with a gigantic painting project, re-doing the entire living area of the house.

Now, we really got into this thing. Finishing up the painting, Darlene decided to purchase a new sofa for the living room. With all that new stuff in the house, we really hated to rehang the old drapes, thus our new plan was born. We would gather up all the old pop bottles (worth two cents at that time) and use the money to purchase new draperies.

Well, we did it – but at an extreme loss to our ‘Young Adult’ dignity. I was 20 and Darlene was probably 18 at the time. Also, you must remember that this all happened back in the days when recycling was not the ‘in’ thing to do like it is now. (If you went to the dump scrounging for ‘goodies’ you surely didn’t do it when anyone might see you.)

Back in those days, any amount of bottles over and above the amount traded straight-across for another six-pack, always promised you a dirty look from the clerk. They didn’t want to bother with you so they would make you wait until they had nothing better to do. Sometimes every store in town would give you the “Sorry, we don’t take those” routine when you knew you hadn’t been out of town for three years.

Okay, we were willing to humble ourselves to that extent – our minds were made up – we were going to buy those draperies before the folks got home. Gathering up all the bottles at our homes, the relatives all chipped in with their bottles, friends helped, and off we went to town. The back of that old Chevy was piled high with bottles, and of course, the trunk was stuffed to the brim.

Into the old R&B Market we went, sought out our friendly grocer man, and sticking our noses in the air with a sort of ‘false pride’ we asked him if he could take our bottles. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got,” he said as we led him out to the car.

Pausing thoughtfully there beside the car for a moment, he scratched his head and said, “Looks like somebody’s going to the carnival.”

Complete, absolute demoralization.

He was a good man, and he bought the bottles, but – we have never forgotten that day. Yes, the carnival was in town, but oh, the mortification we suffered from that remark. No explanation was forthcoming, either. We were struck dumb.

Well, today it was my job again to return the pop bottles to the store. Now, we are not a soda pop family. It is non-nutritional, thus harmful to all, but occasionally the Zieglers imbibe – thus the small assortment of bottles which I tired of stumbling over.

Not thrilled about the idea of wasting my noon hour on this distasteful task, I left work feeling quite grumpy. But I’ll be blessed if I could find anyone to cooperate with me. Everywhere I went, I ran into a smiling face. Climbing out of my car in the supermarket parking lot, I looked up to see this ‘person’ smiling at me – so I smiled back.

On into the store for a basket in which to haul the bottles when – oh, no, here came a mother with a little baby and I couldn’t help returning the big smiles they gave me.

Now, I can understand people smiling at me if I have smiled at them first. But this business of people smiling just for the fun of it can really get on a body’s nerves.

Back to the car with the basket, I crawled into the driver’s seat so that I could take a quick peek in the rear view mirror, checking for ballpoint pen streaks, carbon smears, or possibly a green wart growing on the end of my nose..nothing!

Proceeding on as planned, I quickly loaded those bottles, wheeled them into the back area of the supermarket where this disgustingly happy, cheerful person quickly counted my bottles and cans. Filling out the slip as to the money due me, he gave me a cheery smile, thanked me, and I was on my way again.

Finishing up my shopping as quickly as possible, I made my exit. I had to get out of there – a person could go crazy surrounded by all those smiling faces. This beautiful November I am thankful. Times have changed for sure, and some things are for the better. Who ever heard of a store clerk smiling at you when you are returning pop bottles?

Happy Thanksgiving!

Mom in front of G&G Ziegler’s place

“Is life so boring and uneventful out there in the country that all you can write about is your operations?” teased a farmer friend of mine recently during a pause in a basketball game we were both enjoying.

Of course, Chuck was teasing me – but the shock came because of the realization that he and others like him actually read the crazy things I tell about myself and my family.

So – what do we do out here in the country that’s different than in the city?

For one thing, I sweep up a bucket of mud from my kitchen and utility floor three times a day. The city of Payette has the big problem of ‘the hole’ in the middle of their town. If I had been doing my civic duty and hauling the dirt I sweet up each day over to Payette and sprinkling it in ‘the hole’, the problem would be no longer. But – I don’t know – it’s hard to say we’re wild and woolly country…the closest thing to wild we have out here is ‘Sunny’, the old Holstein cow…and when I try to ‘shoo’ her into the other pasture she turns, lowers her head, and knocks up against me trying to get me to scratch her neck. Actually, if I want to get her someplace special I have to get a handful of grain…and then run like crazy to wherever I want her to go.

Admittedly, things are pretty slow out here right now. On the morning after Christmas, the entire family was sitting lazily around the living room, yawning and half asleep. I had to laugh at the scene…we could actually have posed for the ‘Hee Haw’ show if the old hound dog had come in and plopped down in the middle of us.

My son is home for the holiday vacation after just completing his first college semester. Doing his usual bit of philosophizing, he remarked to me, “This family makes me disgusted. Everyone goes around complaining and looking mad when they’ve got so much to be thankful for…They ought to come up where I live for a while…Then they would appreciate this place.”

But, things are looking up, at least as far as I’m concerned. God did a beautiful whitewash job on our place on Christmas Eve Day. Gone is the ugly mud and scraggly weeds and bushes. In their place glows the sparkling, crystal-like snow as it covers everything it touches. Frost puts hands to the bushes creating a beauty no artist can create.

I love the snow, even though it always irritates my husband when I say that. Somehow, it’s the way the whole world slows down when the snow flies. We’re always wanting an excuse to escape from the ‘hurry-up’ phobia which poisons our lives, and a good snowfall seems to be the perfect antidote.

Well…it’s not always perfect. A couple years back we awoke one morning to an over-abundance of new snow. Knowing that, without a doubt, it would take us until noon to shovel our way to the highway, my husband called his employer and told him he was snowed in and would not be to work. There was a pause on the other end of the line, then a reserved “okay”.

It was not until the next morning that my husband realized why the hesitancy. They had only a skiff of snow there, and it was just 12 miles down the road from our home. It took a heap of talking and several news stories to convince his co-workers he was telling the truth.

We all like the snow – my husband says he doesn’t, but I know he does. He claims to have developed an aversion to that cold, wet, white stuff during the winters we spent in Sandpoint and Hope in northern Idaho.

Being one who enjoys the ‘creature comforts’, he could find no pleasure in laying on a ‘creeper’ underneath the vehicles he was repairing as they proceeded to thaw out and drop huge chunks of dirty, greasy, melting snow on his face. What a baby! You would think he could put up with that for eight hours a day, wouldn’t you?

Maybe it’s just a poor sense of humor – at any rate he denies any appreciation of God’s whitewashing process. Encouraging him to appreciate his blessings, we tell him, “Psyche yourself into it, Dad…just look, isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yeah,” he growls. “You can say that because you don’t have to go out in it.”

There’s one part of the snow that he doesn’t know about, though. He has never been a mother staying home with a bunch of little kids who want to go out and play in the snow. I’ll bet it takes two hours out of a mother’s morning just to get the children into their snow things, making sure they will stay warm. Finally, out the door they go. Mother thinks that finally she can get a chance at the breakfast dishes, but no such luck – here come the kids – they are wet, cold, hungry.

But being prepared is important. First off, when the snow does fly and the walk needs shovelled, you need to be able to find the snow shovel. If you get up in the morning to that first snow and you can’t find your mittens…you’re going to be in trouble. And if all of a sudden you remember throwing away your worn out snowboots last year, with plans to purchase some new ones – which you have not done…then you have real trouble.

It can go on and on and on. We need to be prepared. Chopping wood in the snow is not exactly fun, but it can be adventuresome. Dragging frozen hoses into the kitchen by the cookstove to thaw them out can definitely destroy the pleasure of winter. A tractor that won’t start can cause irritability, fatigue and even heart attacks brought on by overexertion in the cold.

Well, here we are…and here we go…so we better get ready! Preparation is the key, and we all know how far we can get without unlocking the door. The New Year begins and we must bring ourselves up out of the doldrums of life to continue on. So, first of all, let’s make plans. What you plan will be different from what I plan.

Somehow, it seems like the exciting things that happen in a person’s life are never planned. However, and especially for Chuck, I will not be planning any ‘operations’ this year!

The Ziegler fam, approximately 1970

Stricken with a screaming headache this particular morning, I was moving very carefully around the kitchen attempting to prepare for a busy day. Feeling a light tap on my shoulder, I turned my poor, throbbing head ever so carefully to see what was up. There stood my usually dignified 15-year-old daughter, but wrapped around her head like a crown, with two antennae emerging skyward, was what had originally been the wire hinge part of a spiral notebook.

Blinking my eyes several times in an attempt to clear the mirage, I realized it wasn’t the headache at all, I really was seeing what I thought I was seeing.

As I stared at her in amazement, I asked, “What in the world are you doing?”

Quite matter of factly her reply was, “I’m just trying to cheer you up.”

It did help, and eventually I escaped that beastly headache. A mother just never knows what might happen next. It’s beautiful, but sometimes we begin to wonder. One for-instance I could name you happened this spring when I stayed home and milked the cow while my husband chaperoned a band trip to Disneyland.

As a bit of explanation, I will tell you I had concentrated on cleaning the house extra special while they were gone, figuring it a great chance to have things stay that way for several days. So, upon their arrival home, I was absolutely horrified when, during the excitement of opening the gifts they had brought me, my son called to me, “Mom, has Troy (that’s the dog) been in the house much.”

“No, he hasn’t been in at all, he’s just in now because of the excitement,” I said.

“Mom,” he called again. “I think you better come look.”

As I went to investigate just what all the fuss was about, there on the bathroom floor was what appeared to be the results of an upset stomach.

“Oh, no!” I howled as I grabbed that poor little dog up and stuffed him outside.

Grabbing a roll of paper towels, I headed back to the bathroom and while piling a mountain of towels atop the mess on the floor, grumbled about why someone else didn’t clean it up instead of waiting for me to do it!!!

In the same instant that I started to scoop up the mess, something told me I had been ‘had’ so to speak. Glancing up, I saw not only my three ornery kids but my husband as well, doubled over in silent hilarity. The ‘mess’ was made out of plastic and had been purchased at one of those novelty stores.

And so life goes on with very few dull moments. One evening late, I wandered into the kitchen where my son sat at the kitchen table, apparently absorbed in the daily newspaper. As I headed toward the stairway, dressed in my housecoat and barefoot, my disbelieving eyes spotted a small garter snake coming around the corner of the stairs and it was headed straight for my unprotected toes. Full speed ahead it seemed to come, almost as if its intent was to attack.

Paralysis struck both my vocal cords and my movement ability for just an instant, but the next thing I knew I was perched atop our electric range.

Once again, I looked back to see that ornery boy collapsed on the kitchen table, but I still couldn’t quite figure it out. Further investigation showed fish line tied to the snake, then somehow rigged through chairs and doorknobs, allowing him to sit innocently in the chair at the other end of the room as the snake appeared to attack.

Forgiving is easy, though, when that big lug puts his arms around me and says, “Are you okay, mom? I didn’t mean to scare you that bad.”

I blame heredity for his love of a practical joke, though, as my dad has always been the worst one for such things. When my kids were tiny, we lived in a split, three-level house which had the bedrooms upstairs and the kitchen in the basement. One morning, without my glasses and still half asleep, I went downstairs to the kitchen to start the morning coffee before getting dressed and calling the rest of the family.

As I stood there running water into the coffee pot, my eyes glanced over to see a glass of water there by the sink, and in that glass of water was something very, very strange. Now, remember, I didn’t have my glasses on, and I was still half asleep, but in that glass appeared to be – an eyeball.

I blinked my eyes, and looked again. Finally, I got brave and moved a little closer to that strange apparition, bending over with my eyes right up next to the glass–and it still looked like an eyeball. After standing there, thinking the whole thing over and telling myself I simply could not be seeing what I thought I was seeing, I headed back upstairs in search of my glasses.

It was then that I remembered the visit my parents had paid us the previous evening, and of course I knew then, that what I thought I was seeing in that glass was exactly what I was supposed to think–it was an eyeball, just not a real one.

So, to the grandkids, practical jokes are just part of going to Grandpa and Grandma’s–laughing boxes, fake dimes on the floor, fake bullet holes in the window, glasses that dribble, candles that won’t blow out–all part of a life that they wouldn’t miss.

Remembering a young teacher I worked with, causes me to recognize that not everyone loves a practical joke. Sitting in the teachers’ lounge one afternoon, I remember this particular teacher coming through the door, and she was angry – so angry she was nearly in tears – and stating vehemently that she couldn’t stand practical jokers, she found the whole thing detestable.

In questioning her further, I found out that one of her fifth grade students had come to school with an arm in a cast, soaked up all the sympathy that goes with such an incident, even to the point of someone else writing her spelling words for her, then during the noon she had removed the cast and smiling told them –  “April Fool’s!”

I couldn’t help it – I laughed!

Of course, one must be very careful of practical jokes. We learned that at an early age, the time someone had stuck a little rubber snake into the top of a 100 pound sack of beans we had sitting on our porch. My grandmother, who was deathly afraid of snakes, came to see us, and stopped to inspect the quality of the sack of beans we had purchased. That – was definitely not funny!

The whole brood of practical jokers, 1970

[July, 1981]  Forty-three years old and I’m still trying to ‘get it all together’. Sometimes it seems like when a body gets that old and still isn’t ‘with it’, she might just as well give up. The only trouble is, what would you do then?

Exactly – and that’s why we keep on trying!

You see, I just took a look at this ‘horrid’ looking book entitled ‘Governor’s Recommended Budget 1981-1983’. The book is one and one-quarter inch thick – about the size of a mail order catalog. And that’s just the recommended budget?

Yes, I’m still trying to get it all together – especially the Ziegler budget. That little project has been on the burner for 24 years and every time it gets to cooking good we spring a leak and run out of fuel.

With money as the subject, I’m a ‘born loser’ so let’s change over to something like…gardening, for instance. Oh, no! Hit that button again! I would simply die if people found out that my garden didn’t even get ‘in the ground’ this year.

The problem is, I took my two weeks vacation and told everyone I was going to plant my garden. Well, the very first day of my vacation I was stricken with the same virus which hit dear old ‘Rip Van Winkle’ and I was laid up for a whole week – flat on my back.

We are supposed to listen to what our body is trying to tell us, isn’t that right? It was like I was hypnotized or something – every time I tried to walk by the couch my body would just simply lay down and take a nap.

But, like I say, it is embarrassing to admit to being a lazy bum. I’ve been back to work now for two weeks and still haven’t said hello to anyone for fear they will answer back, “Did you get your garden planted?”

I’ve thought of all kinds of cute or smart alecky answers, even downright lies, but I’m like my friend, Betty. She always says that if she even thinks of telling an untruth she feels her face light up like a neon light and it begins to flash a warning – ‘lie! – lie! – lie!’.

Yes, I know we all have our hang ups, but some things bother me worse than others. Since my body has rebelled against the life I was subjecting it too, my mind and spirit had to undergo re-conditioning. Like when my son was coming home from college – everything was a mess – I wanted to cook up some good food, etc. – but I didn’t have it in me. I rested. I’ll do it tomorrow, I said.

That same evening, while everyone was gone, that big, hungry boy arrived home a day early. No one was there – the house was nearly upside down – and the cupboards were bare. When he drove in late that evening, his car battery decided to quit too, and he couldn’t even go anywhere to get some food.

Well, needless to say, I felt so-o-o-o bad about it that I wanted to cry. Knowing that my crying would upset everyone more, however, I abstained. Well, we eventually got everyone fed and through the crisis hour. It was the next day when Susan, my number-two daughter, shared a conversation she had had with her brother that morning.

“You know, Larry, Mom felt so bad because she didn’t have things fixed up for you,” Susan had told him confidingly.

“I know,” Larry had replied, “but she shouldn’t. The three things that I was especially hungry for were here waiting when I drove in.”

And Larry continued to explain, “I wanted to smell the fresh cut grass – I wanted to hear the frogs croaking – and I wanted to hear the sprinklers going ‘kschnick-kschnick-kschnick-kschnick’.

“I just laid down on the couch while I enjoyed all three – and went sound asleep.” Those were his words – and that’s where we found him.

Summers are so good for us. And if you learn to drink iced tea the way our family drinks iced tea that can’t really be too harmful to your system. My brother-in-laws always tease Mom about her weak tea by asking for some ‘scared water’.

Mom comes by that ‘scared water’ naturally, though. Grandma and Grandpa Tish always served very weak tea, and at mention of this subject Dad will grumblingly tell of his first meal at the in-laws. After asking for the sugar and adding several spoonfuls to his glass while they all ‘stared’ at him, he was to discover that he had sugared his plain water which was served in amber-colored glasses.

What else is good about summer? I can think of some things I don’t appreciate –

…I don’t like picking cheat grass out of socks before they go in the washing machine.

…I vehemently dislike picking cheat grass out of a whole load of wash because I missed picking it out of one sock.

…Mosquitoes I can do without but they don’t like me anyway if I take my vitamins.

…But flies – flies are so ‘gross’ as they hover around on the screens trying to get to the food. However, that’s life, and (you know the rest). But the thing that really gets to me is –

…Those BIG, BUZZING FLIES that go everywhere like a blown up balloon that’s turned loose – or those kind of firecrackers that go all over the place. Last night I had just managed to get comfortable when one of those monsters decided to invade my privacy. With a roaring BUZZZZZZZZZ that thing came right at my hair (I couldn’t see it but I could hear it!). Just as it seemed to reach my hair, the noise stopped. There was NO BUZZING! Aiieeeee! I threw my book in the air and began to frantically brush at my hair, knowing without a doubt that it contained ‘Herr Fly’.

One of many summer feasts at Grandma & Grandpa’s house (note the homemade ice cream container – more than likely apricot….mmm, I can still taste it!)

“You know, Mom, when you get to thinking about it,” my 16-year-old daughter said about her high school junior psychology class, and life in general, “If more people did more talking to God – we wouldn’t need so many psychotherapists.”

We both sort of sat there thinking that one over for a moment as the immensity of her statement soaked in. Molly had really said a mouthful that time!

As each one of my children has come in contact with their first psychology course, I always cringe, both inwardly and outwardly. Every amateur psychologist I have ever bumped into has given me the impression that they are taking me apart, piece by piece. The trouble is, when they get us torn limb from limb they still don’t know where we’re coming from.

Anyway – as we discussed that continual battle against stress which we all face, and Molly proceeded to give me some tips on ‘coping’ which she had learned in her recent studies, sudden inspiration struck me – I thought. Figuring that she would ‘just die’ at the mention of it, I said to her, “I know what – I can audit your psychology class”, continuing on to explain that “to audit means I would attend the class, listen to the lectures, but not take the exams.”

Instead of the expected ‘No way, Mom!’ which I was expecting, Molly said quite seriously, “That would be a good idea. I think they would probably let you.”

Then, reaching for her psychology textbook, she began flipping through it as she told me, “I’ve seen quite a few of your symptoms in here.”

From there on, the conversation led into the different types of mental illness and their suggested treatment.

Psychotherapy is, she explained, the practice of letting the person being treated be the one to do all the talking, with the psychotherapist merely guiding the way. Thus, as the patient hears himself describing the problem situation, the answer oftentimes becomes evident.

Listeners are of a rare group, with God being the only One which we can really count on not to interrupt or repeat the story to someone else. And as Molly thought about the description she used to describe the psychotherapist, she had realized that God would qualify as the Master of them all.

As I overheard my Dad talking about how he had spent a recent afternoon, it caused me to smile a ‘whole bunch’. As he talked, he told of visiting his youngest sister, our Aunt Jan, who stays in a nearby nursing home. During a visit with her he found himself seated in a room with three listeners.

In the first place, Aunt Jan does not talk much because of her illness. Another old friend of Dad’s, a past master in the art of talking until a ‘stroke’ affected his speech, had stopped by the room and seated himself for a visit. Then, according to Dad, another lady whom he was not acquainted with and whom also did not speak, joined the group. “There I was,” said Dad, “sitting in a room with three people who did not talk, but who wanted someone to talk to them – so I talked.”

“I don’t really even know what I said,” I heard him say, “but they seemed to appreciate it.”

Well – now we have discovered another source of good listeners. They are not ‘rare’ or ‘hard to find’ – we just must slow down enough to make full use of these resources. These people who have already travelled over the ‘bumps’ will obviously have a much better understanding of our own ‘rough roads’.

Nobody – and I mean Nobody – has got it made!

Visiting in another state several years ago, myself, my parents, and my sister’s family were all invited to a patio supper at the home of an established psychiatrist there. It was a long time ago, and probably an even longer story, but we were invited, and we accepted the invitation.

The folks and I were very hesitant…what should we wear? …how should we act? But, my sister laughed and said we should ‘just be ourselves’.

Making our way through those California streets lined with lush greenery, we were quiet as we tossed around in our minds just exactly how do we act when we are ‘being ourselves’. We pulled up in front of a beautiful ranch-style home, took a deep breath, and ‘went to dinner’.

At the door we were greeted by Mrs. Psychiatrist, wearing what appeared to be a housecoat…and she was barefoot! Naturally! It was a patio party, at poolside, and nobody gets dressed in California. You just keep ‘dipping’ into the pool as the mood strikes you.

Well, we had goofed, as a matter of fact. We should have brought our swimming suits. But Mom and Dad were so ‘cool’ you wouldn’t believe it. The thing that immediately jumped into my mind was ‘how my parents would react to this very different environment’ – but I needn’t have worried.

Actually, the family had just moved into their new home, and as yet, they were still missing a lot of furniture. There were boxes and boxes of stuff sitting around still to be unpacked, and for a dining table, the outdoor picnic table had been moved inside. Somehow, that made me like them, right off. Recognizing my own weaknesses, I was forced to admit to myself that most likely, in the same situation, I would have said – “I’d like to have them over but we just moved in and still are in such a mess.”

We had a real good time. Our host, the psychiatrist, was a very jolly fellow who seemed to be enjoying life. He played the mandolin and sang songs – just any song we could think of.

It was some time later and many miles away when Mom, Dad and myself felt a ‘stab’ through our hearts as we learned that our psychiatrist friend had taken his own life. We had only known him as one who gave joy and happiness to others – it was hard to acknowledge that, hidden inside of himself, that big happy man had problems which were just as big – or bigger – than those the rest of us were carrying.

Mom posing for a staff photo at the newspaper.

As children growing up in hard times, there was always certain things we could pretty well count on in life. Now, my dad was pretty tough during those days, but oh, how he loved us. It’s just something I know……there were the times…..

I remember one year, as in each year as they came along, we found ourselves crammed into the old Model A and on our way to the Western Idaho State Fair in Boise. For a bunch of kids who hadn’t had shoes on their feet all summer, it was a biiiggggg day.

Now, this particular day was going to be really special. Usually we watched the carnival rides, that was a thrill in itself. However, this day Dad had some money in his pocket and each of us who felt mature enough to handle it had been promised one ride.

Stopping off at Julia Davis Park to eat our picnic lunch – that’s a joke, my Mom never fixed a ‘lunch’ in her life – we hastily devoured our picnic feast. It was during times like this that we kids were absolutely positive our dad could be in the Guinness World Book of Records for being the slowest chewer in the world. (Similar to the feeling we would have on Sunday mornings, when, with a late start anyway, he could have again entered as being able to take the greatest amount of time to drive nine miles.)

Oh, well, back to the picnic then on to the State Fair. Wow, what a day! But, wait a minute…Oh, yes, first things first, and of course, the first thing you come to at the fair is not the carnival, oh, no! There are the animals, acres and acres of them, and always, the biggest Holstein cow your eyes ever saw.

And friends. Every little way you find yourself bumping into an old friend you haven’t seen since the fair the year before…and that takes a heap of catching up to do. It’s all wonderful, marvelous agony to the kids trailing along patiently and agonizingly awaiting carnival time. But don’t get impatient, we’ve still got a lot of things to do before we get to the carnival…at least the particular year which is imprinted indelibly in my mind and heart.

My folks are Grangers, and Grangers are ‘the best’, which, of course means that we will spend extra time in the huge area where the farm folk have displayed their produce in many unusual and inspiring manners. Never the same, these displays will have tiny rows of crops under cultivation with irrigation ditches flowing with water, and many times a brilliant rainbow decorates the booth. There will be mouth-watering melons lining the display, jars of beautifully canned fruits and vegetables, flowers of every size and description, and all of it accomplished with hard work, loving care, and a ‘touch’ from God.

I can’t tell you just what year this memorable day occurred, but I must have been eight or nine years old, and I think it was probably the same year that Fritos were invented. The reason I think this is because…well, the folks never spent much time in the commercial buildings. Never much for drooling over things they knew they couldn’t have, and never much for entering gimmick contests or drawings to win a prize.

Anyway, we always made a quick run through the fabulous displays of all the new ‘this and thats’ of the year… be patient, I’m getting there…just inside the door is a huge display of curly, crisp, warm-baked corn chips, with free samples all over the place. “Help yourselves, kids, have all you want!” the man would say over and over. And so we did.

You might think – Fritos…so what’s the big deal? To a batch of kids who never had a potato chip except when a wealthy person brought some to a potluck, it was a big deal. We might have just finished a huge picnic down at the park, but there was still room for a stack of Fritos.

Finally we made it over to the carnival area…our hearts sank…clear down to the bottom of a bottomless pit… for positioned near the entrance to the carnival was a ticket-taker. Never before had they charged admittance to get into the carnival area, and this year of all years we learned we must pay to enter that land of thrills and fantasy.

My Dad barely hesitated. I’ll never forget how he got that set look on his face, picked up my baby sister and said “Come on, kids.” Following him, he guided us around behind trucks and equipment, (the mama, the daddy and eight little ones) until coming to a lot step-over fence behind the rides. Stepping quickly across, we went to the carnival.

Somehow, on that day my Dad was a hero. We instinctively understood, even at a very young age, the immense pride which ruled our Dad’s lifestyle. He was always honest and never asked for anything. But on that day, Dad’s love for us kids had caused him to swallow his pride and sneak us into the carnival so we could still have our promised ‘ride’.

I’m really touchy everytime people begin pinning admission prices in places where they have never been before. I love the nice old-fashioned Payette County Fair where the pace is slow and easy, no admission is charged, and it’s just like holding a reunion each year. People stroll casually along the midway, visiting with old friends. 4-H members work industriously serving hamburgers by the hundreds… and, of course, the sweet little ladies with their scrumptious homemade pies. It’s one of those unexplainable things like sand in your food at the beach – or ants in your picnic lunch – the flies on your ‘roasting ear’ at the fair are just a part of the atmosphere that whets the appetite until everything tastes good.

Put an admission gate at the county fair and your whole atmosphere will change. There are many of us who are ‘dyed in the wool country’ and we like it the way it is.’ It’s rare…but it’s very, very good…down at the Payette County Fair.

Larry at the Payette County Fair.