“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.