Am I Pro-Life...or just Pro-Birth?

Let me start by stating that I hate abortion.

It is a loathsome procedure and no woman should ever need to have one.

Having said that, until women stop being victims of sexual coercion, rape and abuse, until no woman’s life is ever endangered by a pregnancy, until special education is fully funded for children with birth defects, until adoption becomes less cumbersome and costly, and until our social safety net is so strong that no woman facing an unplanned pregnancy falls into abject poverty or is kicked out of her home, abortion will continue to exist. Making it illegal will not stop it.It will just push it back to shady, unregulated practice.

So why does one party have a “Pro-Life” plank and another have a “Pro-Choice” plank?

To get your vote. Neither party has any intent of fully accomplishing those planks. If you have ever attended any district or state convention, you know that votes on the platform are made after the candidates are endorsed and after most delegates, beyond die-hard ideologues, have gone home.  Many candidates never read the entire platform and only a few feel morally obliged to support every plank.

The Republicans had a supposedly pro-life president, Congress and conservative Supreme Court majority for four years and failed to make abortion illegal. Instead they passed tax cuts for the wealthy, started a war in the Middle East based on false information, allowed our streets to be invaded by deranged people with semi-automatic weapons, failed to negotiate prices with the big pharmaceutical companies for taxpayer-subsidized Medicare drugs, and gutted banking regulations, leading to a huge national recession.

Now they want you to believe that a conspiracy theorist and known tax-dodger and con artist who operates casinos and talks lewdly about women will protect unborn children.  Really? Even the ones that will be born to illegal immigrants or people on welfare?

Meanwhile, if you believe the Facebook memes, a woman who has spent 40 years trying to expand access to medical care for women and children and to lift low-income families out of poverty is a “murderer.” Even though abortions dropped dramatically during her husband’s administration.

Life is complicated. It can’t all fit on a bumper sticker. To be truly pro-life requires a commitment to caring for women and children before AND after birth.

I am pleased that statistics show that abortions have dropped by half since their peak under the Reagan and Bush I administrations.  Whether due to better education, better access to pre- and post-natal care, better contraception, or better policies, I can’t say, but it probably wasn’t the result of the planks in either party’s platform.  It was likely because more women have better options. For that we can all be grateful.

Highway 95 and Idaho's Palouse Country

Moscow Mountain, winter 2011

Northern Idaho is my second home.

We don't have a cottage here, or any real estate at all. But it is where I spent seven years during my youth and it is probably our most frequent vacation destination.

There is plenty of natural beauty in Idaho, especially the central and northern sections, but there are no national parks, save for a sliver of Yellowstone on the state's southeastern border.  There are plenty of national forests, but the state also boasts huge acreage of privately-owned and privately-leased timberland, rangeland and mines. It is a beautiful state, full of natural resources, but most people do not consider it spectacular.

Few tourists pass through Moscow, Idaho.

It isn't on a direct route to anywhere. Most travelers pass through Idaho from east to west, on one of the Interstate Highways, I-84 or I-90, or on U.S. Highway 2 through the narrow tip of the state's "panhandle," or on the more recent punch-thorough the spine of the Rocky Mountains, U.S. Highway 12 through Lewiston.

With sister & brother at Lolo Pass, new U.S. Hwy 12, 1964

There is another Interstate Highway in Idaho, I-15, that runs north-south, criss-crossing the continental divide several times between Montana's state capitol of Helena, through the mining mecca of Butte, and into Idaho Falls, then south through Pocatello toward Salt Lake City. But that route only serves part of southeastern Idaho, west of Yellowstone and Grand Tetons national parks in western Wyoming. Another U.S. Highway, 93, descends south from Missoula, Montana, through another portion of southern Idaho, from Salmon to Twin Falls and then to the Utah border.

Remote portion of the Salmon Mountains, central Idaho

Idaho is a notoriously difficult state for highway engineers. Its mountains, although lacking the majestic heights of peaks in other western states, are incredibly rugged, consisting of massive granite thrusts, deep canyons, raging rivers full of unforgiving rapids, and immense forests of white and ponderosa pine growing on steep cliffs. There are entire ranges of mountains in Idaho that have never been crossed by gravel roads, much less paved, all-season highways.

There is only one north-south truck route that traverses the entire 400-mile length of this roughly boot-shaped state, from Canada to the Utah border, U.S. Highway 95. It is one of the most unpredictable stretches of U.S. Highway in the nation, climbing over passes, switchbacking into canyons and up again, and winding through Indian reservations, ranch country and timber installations. Much of the route is notorious for treacherous patches of "black ice," curves, washouts and blind intersections. So unless you are a rancher or a trucker in the timber industry, there is little occasion to drive through Moscow, situated where Highway 95 intersects State Highway 8, roughly 150 miles south of the Canadian border. After serving a handful of hardscrabble timber towns in the Palouse Range, the state highway narrows, then terminates at Elk River, lacking the will to climb the impenetrable Bitterroots that form the state's eastern border.

Administration Bldg., University of Idaho, Moscow

As the home of the University of Idaho, Moscow is a destination to students from the Pacific Northwest in pursuit of higher education. The land-grant institution also attracts students from outside the region who are interested in a career in mining or forestry, two Gem State specialties that attract renowned faculty in these fields. Otherwise, the primary attraction for this middle-of-the-road university is that it offers reasonably affordable, adequate education in numerous fields of study.

At one time a seventh-day sabbath minister who resided in Moscow attracted a large national following, and envelopes of cash, by selling mail-order enlightenment, but that was a passing religious fad that had faded by the mid-1960s when I enrolled in at the University.

Kay and Amy, Moscow playground, early 1950s

I had resided in Moscow for six years, more than a decade earlier, as a small child, while my father held a position as a professor of architecture at the University. Most of my memories of the community were pleasant, consisting of idyllic elementary school meanderings with my sister in a college town full of friendly colleagues of my parents, playing hide-and-seek with the neighbor kids (mostly boys) in lingering summer twilight, sliding down hills on toboggans in the winter. I enjoyed sleepovers with girlfriends who resided on nearby farms, and shopping in the brimming stores that lined Main Street. Two baby brothers (one survived, one did not) were born at Moscow's Gritman Hospital while my father was employed there. My sister and I survived German measles, red measles and chicken pox in Moscow and learned to read, add and subtract at Russell Elementary School. We checked out Dr. Suess books at the Carnegie Library and learned to swim at the community outdoor pool.


I shed rivers of tears when Dad moved our family to another teaching post, at a state college in the deep south that was to become, in part due to my father's efforts, Clemson University. Yet my parents kept in touch, over the years, with their faculty colleagues in Moscow, and there were many visits back and forth between us and the other GI-bill educated professors from that school. I, too, kept up a childish correspondence with my best Moscow friend Suzie, sending her occasional postcards and Christmas cards until I returned to Moscow as a late-blooming teen in the summer of 1965.

Neither my parents nor I made lasting connections with our colleagues and neighbors in Clemson, South Carolina, and my experience there was less idyllic than in Idaho. Although there are a few fond memories, we were there during the final throes of racial segregation and "Jim Crow" legacy, and our family, being "Yankees," was never fully accepted within that southern town.  After the riots in Little Rock, Arkansaw, that followed segregation of schools in that city, my father read the handwriting on the wall and relocated our family back to Minnesota, where he accepted an offer of a junior partnership in a small architectural practice in St. Paul. I attended a racially and culturally integrated high school in south Minneapolis, graduating with honors.

My dorm at the U of I, Shoup Hall

When it came to college, as the eldest child in my family, I longed to spread my wings and "move away," but my parents were uncertain if I should relocate to a totally unknown locale. We were not wealthy, and they could not afford to fly me back and forth across the country for school breaks, when the dorms were closed, so we settled on the University of Idaho at Moscow, where I could occasionally spend time with their old friends on weekends and during breaks. As it turned out, friends in Moscow had a son my age who enrolled at a college in Minnesota, so the two families "swapped" teenagers during our freshman year.

lifelong friend Charlie Needles at Burning Stake, 1965

My college education there lasted only one year, as I found the rules for female students at the U of I stifling: we were required to live in dorms, observe strict curfews, and wear skirts to class and to dinner in the dining hall. Although one of my roommates and I, between us, managed to break virtually every rule in the student handbook,  I transferred to the University of Minnesota my sophomore year, where girls could wear jeans and live off campus—priorities at age 19. However, I was a regular at the Burning Stake coffeehouse and made several lifelong friends during my year there. Five of us hitch-hiked to San Francisco for a memorable spring break. In June, I returned to Minneapolis, where a summer job awaited me. By the time I returned to Moscow for a visit, most of my classmates had dispersed.

Richard Parker at the Burning Stake

Years later, my widowed mother (my father passed away in 1969) remarried—twice—professors from the U of I who were also widowed. She returned to Moscow and enjoyed a pleasant retirement there. When they grew old enough to travel, my children went to Idaho during the summers and the extended family sometimes met there to ski.  Tragically, Mom died in a car accident on the Palouse Highway in 1992.  The following year, our son Dave decided to enroll in the U of I architecture program that my father had helped develop. We continued to travel to Moscow regularly to visit Dave and my stepdad, Bert Cross. Eventually David married a gal from Colfax, WA, accepted a job in Spokane and relocated to Coeur d'Alene, where he continues to practice architecture and is a permanent resident of northern Idaho. Bert and my parents' retired professor friends have all now passed away.

Highway 95 begins at the Canadian border near Bonners Ferry on the Clark Fork River and winds to the four-season tourist destination of Sandpoint, pop. 7.365, on beautiful Lake Pend'Orielle.

Family skiing at Schweitzer Mountain, above Lake Pend Orielle, 1985

The highway crosses this deep alpine lake on a series of pilings on a 1.7-mile-long bridge, the first of several engineering feats achieved on this route. Lake Pend'Orielle, during World War II, was the home of Farragut Naval Station. The deep waters allowed the Navy to float and secretly test models of submarines and to train the crews that would help win the war at sea. The former naval base is now a state park. The city also boasts a world class ski resort, Schweitzer Mountain, along with scores of summer resorts, condominiums, campgrounds, beaches, golf courses, marinas and other amenities. Also located in Sandpoint is the only remaining Idaho depot for Amtrak's long-distance train, the Empire Builder.  Sandpoint is also the home of outdoor writer Pat McManus.

The highway between Sandpoint and another popular tourist destination, Coeur d'Alene, is mostly four-lanes, heavily traveled and lined with RV parks, motels, gas stations, big-box stores and a large amusement park, Silverwood. The route serves the panhandle country of pristine alpine lakes, lined with vacation cabins, resorts, docks, and towering forests. The area was once notorious for a violent Aryan Nation white supremist compound at Hayden Lake, but standoffs with law enforcement resulted in a lawsuit which bankrupted the group, and it has since lost its property and dissipated.

Dave & kids skiing at Lookout Pass, east of Wallace

Most everyone "back east" is familiar with Coeur d'Alene, as Interstate 90 threads the northern shore of that impressively beautiful mountain lake and is serviced by blocks of gas stations, motels, chain restaurants and other travelers' amenities in that bustling city of almost 45,000 population. The area is popular with vacationers and retirees from California and other west coast population centers. The lake itself is huge, fed by dozens of rivers and streams formed by the melting snows of the Bitterroot range that forms the long, irregular border between Idaho and Montana. Each stream feeds and forms its own bay in the sprawling lake, with slopes of mountains rising sharply from the banks. At one time, pines were felled and dropped into the streams to float downstream to the lake, which once served as a huge storage basin for timber. Boats and crews gathered and moved the logs to the sawmills in Coeur d'Alene, located at the mouth of the Spokane River. It was imperative to catch the logs there before they were ruined by Post Falls and, 20 miles further downstream, Spokane Falls. The falls, however, provided power for the saws and later electricity for the entire region.

Lake Coeur d'Alene

Long-distance drivers going both directions relish the bucolic vistas after miles of the brown sagebrush of eastern Washington and central Montana.

sunset at Tubbs Hill, Lake Coeur d'Alene

Founded as a sawmill and timber processing center, Coeur d'Alene itself now focuses its energy on tourism, although a great deal of timber is still cut and processed in the region. Logging and heavy silver and lead mining in the mountains to the east polluted the rivers feeding massive Lake Coeur d'Alene, causing the waters of the lake to deteriorate. Runoff from these operations has been better managed in recent years and environmental efforts have cleaned up some of the damage. Mining and lumber remain major industries in the Idaho panhandle, employing thousands of people. There is  frequent conflict between people employed in these industries and the efforts of tourists, resort owners, environmentalists and Native American tribes who wish to preserve the region's natural beauty.

Cub Scout Pinewood Derby, Post Falls, Idaho

antique mining buckets

Coeur d'Alene ("heart of awl" in French) was named by French fur traders who were impressed by the shrewd trading practices of its native peoples. It had a reputation as a rough-and-ready timber town, where miners from the nearby Silver Valley would come to spend their money. During the middle of the 20th century, it was a popular spot for a "quick" wedding ceremony for couples who wanted to elope. To this day, it is a popular spot for motels, pawn shops, payday loans and taverns.

People who wish to travel from the Canadian border or the Spokane area, or from the northern recreational areas of the panhandle to more southerly locales, including Idaho's capitol city of Boise, often avoid Highway 95 south of Coeur d'Alene, favoring the wider, better maintained highways and freeways of eastern Washington and Oregon. Even heading east into Montana on I-90 and picking up I-15 at Butte is a quicker, less treacherous route than manuevering old Highway 95 to southern Idaho. The highway is mainly a workhorse for the people who reside and work there, and for the heavy-duty industries that harvest the timber, minerals and other resources.

Heading south from Coeur d'Alene, a driver soon leaves views of the lakeshore behind, although bays of the sprawling lake continue south, hidden behind high ridges, for more than a dozen miles. The south end of Lake Coeur d'Alene is fed by the St. Joe River, considered the world's highest navigable river. It is a fun river to canoe. Barges continue to float logs down the St. Joe. Heyburn State Park is a good place to camp and canoe; there is also a National Forest campground further upriver on the St. Joe. Watch for osprey nesting on high poles and fishing in the river.

East of Hwy 95 are the rugged, mostly roadless Bitterroot Mts.

Much effort has been put into widening 95 into four lanes going over two still-treacherous passes that connect the port of Coeur d'Alene at the outlet of the Spokane River to the high Palouse range country to the south. Leaving Kootenai County and entering Benewah County brings a driver into Indian country, specifically the Coeur d'Alene tribe. Discount smoke shops, gas stations and a sprawling casino compete for travelers' attention in the tribal villages of Worley, Plummer and Tensed (pronounced in two syllables, "ten-said.") Off the highway, streets are lined with the single-floor manufactured homes that constitute the federal government's Native American housing improvement efforts. As on most western reservations, tourist and logging facilities and boarded-up restaurants and motels are wedged into the native lands, where land was lost to outsiders generations ago in exchange for payments of some kind. But near Tensed, an impressive tribal farm and grain storage operation gleams beside the highway, where timber country meets rich, rolling Palouse farmland.

Candy-striped Palouse barn, Troy Highway, Latah County

 South of the casino and the first native village, Worley, 95 narrows into a winding, two-lane road with narrow shoulders that continues approximately 60 miles through the Palouse range of mountains. The Palouse range is a series of ridges in the western foothills of the Rockies. Unlike the more barren eastern foothills of Montana and Wyoming, these mountains are covered with thick forests of Ponderosa and some white pine, watered by meandering rivers and creeks that have created broad, rich valleys of dark soil. Eons ago, Palouse country was formed by an outflow of lava that filled once deep valleys between these Rocky Mountain foothills. The result is a gentler landscape than much of the rest of Idaho, and thick, fertile soil. The soil was augmented during the 1970s by inches of potash-rich ash from the eruption of Mt. St. Helens. It is some of the best winter wheat acreage in the world. Much barley, dry peas and lentils also grow in this rich soil. Ranchers in parts of Palouse country are among the most prosperous in the nation.

Generations ago, the Coeur d'Alene and Nez Perce Indians settled the river valleys and fished and hunted these lands while breeding their famous spotted ponies, the Appalloosa horses. (Early settlers who noticed one of the distinctive steeds  called it "a palousey." Thus the name. A museum and interpretive center honoring this breed of horse is located at Moscow.)

Palouse Range near Deary, Idaho

Although treacherous under icy or snowy conditions, the drive through Palouse country is quite scenic. The tops of the mountains are covered with thick pine forest; the valleys sprawl with rolling fields of small grains and legumes, primarily wheat. Since it is winter wheat, the valleys start to green up as early as February. Willows line the valley creek beds,  their shoots bright orange or red, lending color to even a winter landscape. The valleys are dotted with small farms. Traffic, except for frequent logging and "chip" trucks, is light. (When I resided in Idaho as a young girl, I thought that the term "chip" referenced potato chips, since Idaho boasts "famous potatoes" on its license plates. Wrong. Potatoes only grow in southern Idaho. Chip trucks haul wood chips to plywood and chipboard processing facilities.) Semis towing large trailers with unloading chutes on the underside are ubiquitous on the northern portion of Highway 95.

The farms and ranches on the highway that parallels Highway 95 to the west in Washington, Highway 195, also known locally as "the Palouse Highway" are larger and more prosperous, with newer houses and barns. The predominantly white farmers and ranchers there obviously settled the most fertile land--although the more treeless terrain is decidedly less scenic. Although there are a few gleaming new machine sheds and midwestern-style gambel-roofed barns in Idaho, the predominant structure is the humble "Palouse barn," a two-story center building that looks like a midwestern granary, with a simple pitched roof, haymow above and room for livestock on the first level. Lean-to additions are constructed to the left and right of the main barn, providing additional livestock or storage space. Boards forming the structure are nailed vertically,  not horizontally.

Barn near Potlatch, Idaho, 2011

The houses and outbuildings along this part of 95 have seen better days. Most are in need of paint and repairs. Discarded vehicles and machinery litter the yards. 

house in Potlatch

old truck & hoop greenhouses near Potlatch

I have observed that old mobile homes go to rural Idaho and Montana to die. The ones in Idaho, where there is considerably more rainfall, often feature homemade auxiliary roofs mounted on posts over a rusting original trailer house roof. My architect son informs me that, in several rural Idaho counties, no building permits are required and zoning is non-existent or non-enforced. It is common to see houses constructed next door to a dilapidated, boarded-up abandoned store, a salvage yard or an active sawmill operation. All kinds of creative "make-do" structures may be observed. The residents of these scenic valleys obviously live a hard-scrabble life, probably relying on seasonal income, hunting & fishing, small pensions, day labor or subsistence farming. Roads leading east into the higher ground serve the timber towns. Much of the white pine forest is owned by timber companies, and leases are common in the national forests. The timber towns, the village of Potlatch being the one adjacent to Highway 95, are even more hardscrabble than the farming hamlets and the reservation towns along the highway. A scenic loop through the timber country of the Palouse Range, state highways 3 and 8, provides a half day of sight-seeing to anyone wishing to see the timber towns.  Highway 8 terminates at Elk River, an isolated hamlet where my father once designed a gymnasium addition to the old public school. Both the school and the gym are long-abandoned. A pleasant hike leads back to Elk River Falls.

Within 15 miles of Moscow, housing begins to improve. Well-to-do professors have built new homes on the last major timber-topped ridge of the Palouse Range, Moscow Mountain, which overlooks the university town of approximately 23,000 people. Professors and business proprietors have also built new dwellings in the old timber town of Troy and the farming hamlets of Viola and Gennesee, which are within commuting distance of Moscow.

At one time, a developer purchased acreage on the south slope of Moscow Mountain and started to build a few modern homes. His efforts failed, however, as the land had served for decades as the town dump, leaving the soil is contaminated with heavy metals and radon gas. I'm not sure if the area was ever cleaned up.

Overview of Hwy 95 below Paradise Ridge, south of Moscow, 1985

During the 1960s, a ski resort was constructed on Moscow Mountain; it was popular with students for a few years. However, frequent chinooks melted even man-made snow and the enterprise failed. Ditto for another ski resort near Potlatch. To get consistent snow, skiers must drive further north to the higher peaks of Mt. Spokane, Schweitzer, Silver Mountain at Kellogg and Lookout Pass on the Montana border. Even those areas are subject to occasional thaws and open winters.

It is difficult to describe the Palouse if you've never seen it. It consists of a hundred-mile-long swath of rich, thick volcanic soil along the Washington-Idaho panhandle border. In Washington state, the huge hills are treeless, farmed from top to bottom.  In Idaho, the fields are separated by small mountains, or foothills, capped with conifer forests. The air is crisp, fresh and often clear. The rolling hills are larger in scale and dryer than the hills in places like New England, yet there is more moisture than in the rest of the Rocky Mountains, especially in the Idaho portion. I don't know of a landscape anywhere else in the world that is like it.

Spokane River above Spokane Falls, downtown Spokane, WA

The city of Spokane is situated at the northern edge of the Palouse. It is the regional center for the area, where the lumber, mining and Union Pacific Railroad barons built mansions and raised their families. The southwestern edge is near Walla-Walla, WA.

Amy Page Wilde, Richard & Deanna Parker in front of old Nobby.

 Moscow is the dominant city of the eastern edge of the Palouse. For years, menus at the Nobby Inn on Main Street boasted that Moscow was the "lentil and dry pea capitol of the world and home of the University of Idaho." Local legend states that Campbell's Soup tried unsuccessfully to purchase the Nobby Inn's recipe for split pea soup. (The Nobby building is still open on Main Street, but it is now The Breakfast Club.)

Palouse River, Laird Park

Every valley drains into its own creek, and the creeks drain into the Palouse River which waters this section of the high plateau that eventually drains into the Snake River, and then into the mighty Columbia River. 

The origin of the town's name, Moscow, is somewhat obscure. Originally called Paradise, there are stories of early settlers and traders who were either from Russia or from Moscow, Pennsylvania, which itself was settled by immigrants from Russia.

Main Street, Moscow, Idaho

Kenworthy Theater, downtown Moscow

After Highway 95 leaves Moscow, it widens and crosses another 20 miles or so of Palouse cropland before plunging into the canyon floor city of Lewiston which, together with its sister city of Clarkston, Washington, lie at the conjunction of the Clearwater River tributary of the mighty Snake River which drains southern Idaho. Here barges of wheat and other commodities are loaded and shipped down the Columbia to be loaded onto ocean ships at Portland, Oregon. During the mid-1900s, Highway 95 made 33 switchbacks descending from Gennesee to Lewiston. The "Lewistton Grade" was the ultimate test for a young person's ability to handle a car or motorcycle. At the top of the grade was an overlook with a monument to the engineers who designed and built the highway.

Jane Whithead in the car we drove to Lewiston.

I cannot forget the harrowing drive I took with my college roommate (who was aptly nicknamed "Calamity Jane") in a borrowed car in 1965, to visit her aunt south of Lewiston.

For an exciting journey down the old "Lewiston Grade," check out this youtube clip:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vTSqKTaPvPc

One of the switchbacks actually swung over the border into Washington state. My parents told me that Washington state troopers used to park squad cars on that corner to ticket truckers who did not have Washington stickers on their license plates. Towards the end of the century, the highway was widened and straightened and no longer crossed the state border. There are now only 11 switchbacks between Lewiston and Gennessee. Similar re-engineering and rebuilding has also civilized the infamous Whitebird Pass grade a hundred miles to the south.

Richard & Deanna Parker's home, Clarkston, WA

Lewsiton and Clarkston are named after the famous explorers Lewis and Clark who were the first white men to explore the region and travel the Columbia to the Pacific Ocean. After several wrong turns, they found a passage through the spine of the Rockies at Lolo Pass on the Montana-Idaho border. A paved highway was not punched through that gap until 1962, when U.S. Highway 12 finally connected Lewiston to the Montana city of Missoula. Lewiston was probably best known for its large sawmill and paper mill. For decades, timber cut in the upper reaches of the Clearwater River and its tributary, the Lochsa River, was floated west down the rivers to Lewiston for processing. This practice continued until 1967, when timber companies switched completely to trucks traveling the new highway. I observed part of the last spring log run down the Clearwater River in 1966. It was a hazardous process and much timber--and lives of lumberjacks--were lost when logs went aground  or jammed while floating down the fast-moving river and men were sent out into the river with grappling hooks to try to break up the jams.

Hells Canyon, Snake River at the floor

For many years, the paper mill polluted the air with a strong stench, but modern processing has significantly reduced the odor. After going through Lewiston, Highway 95 climbs again (although less steeply) onto a rolling plateau of farm and ranchland between the Clearwater and Salmon Rivers. The highway descends to the Salmon via the Whitebird grade to the town of Riggins. Riggins is a center for whitewater rafting.

Further upriver, the Salmon is known as the "River of No Return" because of its treacherous rapids. During their exploration of the region, Lewis and Clark were warned by the local Indians not to attempt to cross or raft the Salmon river, but to head back north and find Lolo Pass into the Lochsa/Clearwater watershed instead, even though that required many more days of travel.

Seven Devils Mountains, Hells Canyon

The Snake River, too, is not navigable for a stretch above Lewiston and Clarkston, because it passes through treacherous Hells Canyon, which, at more than a mile deep, is the deepest gorge in North America.

Central Idaho is also "Chief Joseph" country. This famous leader of the Nez Perce Indians valiantly defended his people's way of life and led them on a perilous flight through Central Idaho before finally surrendering to the U.S. Army in order to preserve the lives of the women and children of his tribe who were beginning to perish from the stress of the journey. There are several Nez Perce reservations here and in northeastern Oregon, west of Hells Canyon. Throughout this region, numerous historical markers commemorate the efforts of the Nez Perce tribe, Chief Joseph and the earlier Lewis and Clark expedition.

Sawtooth Mts & upper Salmon River, Stanley, Idaho

Highway 95 threads more mountain valleys between the Salmon River and Idaho's potato farming region, which is located upriver from Hells Canyon on the Snake River. Central Idaho is home to some of the most rugged and unforgiving mountain terrain on the continent. The highway between Grangeville and Council is two-lanes and treacherous during rainy, foggy or snowy weather and narrow. At the top of Whitebird Pass, there is another monument to the engineers who designed and built the road. A large ski resort is located east of the highway in south central Idaho at McCall.

Northwest of Boise, the highway widens and becomes more like typical U.S. highways in other states. It continues south and west to serve a more populated farming and ranching area in southwestern Idaho. Irrigated potato fields, farm implement dealerships and herds of beef cattle and sheep may be seen along the southern stretches of Highway 95 near Caldwell, Nampa and Payette.  Eventually it crosses the border into southeastern Oregon, and cuts through a corner of that state before entering northern Nevada.

(Thanks to my former U of I classmates Richard and Deanna Parker for the link to the video clip of the old Highway 95 Lewiston grade and the photo of their home.)

Politics

I don't often create posts about politics.
There is an old saying that one should not discuss religion or politics in polite company and, like most well-known sayings, there is a reason why that became a wise old saying.
I have friends and relatives who are flaming liberals, others who are libertarian radicals and others who are right-wing racists. Most of my friends are somewhere in between these extremes on the political scale. Since I respect individual opinions and would just as soon keep a wide variety of people as friends, I do not usually initiate political conversations.
That does not mean, however, that I never, ever discuss politics.
Social media includes a wide variety of political and religious views. It's easy to share or re-post something without thinking it through. A couple dozen of my email and Facebook friends forward and re-post a lot of non-original material: cat pix, sappy inspirational sayings, photos, cartoons, music clips and political commentary.
Most of this stuff I glance at and then ignore.

If I want to encourage the poster, I will "like" it or "reply" to the email with a "thanks."
If I REALLY like it, I may make a comment.
If I would like more information about the topic, I'm not afraid to ask a question.
Since there is no "dislike" button, probably the best way to deal with people who post way too much stuff is to simply ignore it.
However, there is one other thing that causes me to make a comment on a political statement: if I know it is based on total garbage, I will call it out.

That's because there's another old saying that evil will flourish when good people say nothing.
I learned early in life that bullies gain power when they aren't called out. That doesn't mean that I call out every bully; I believe it was Teddy Roosevelt who said "you can't die on every hill." I also don't believe that people want to hear my opinion on every topic. But if the topic is something about which I am knowledgeable, I will say something. If it is something that just sounds wrong, I may do a little checking, perhaps on snopes.com or a legitimate, nonpartisan news source, to see if the poster has the facts right. And if it is dead wrong, I may email or post my comment in the spirit of "constructive criticism." Sometimes I will ask the poster where they got their information or if they can give specific examples of how some "urban legend" is true.

A few of my Facebook and email friends appear to be gullible, getting sucked into every passing fad on the Internet. Those are the folks who think "If I saw it on the Internet, it must be true." (Yes, I do have friends who are that stupid. God bless 'em and I hope someday they get a clue.)

Others feel that being religious or patriotic "excuses" them from the responsibility to check out memes before they pass them on because they think that their "motive" is genuine. (To them I respond, lying is lying. "Two wrongs don't make a right.")

Three topics on which I consider myself to be relatively well informed are health care reform, U.S. history & geography, and welfare reform. (Fifteen years as a journalist and 14 years as a county commissioner who specialized in health & human service policy development gave me a fairly solid background.) There are a great many Internet posts on those topics, and a lot of it is flat out false.
Another popular topic is slamming religious or immigrant groups.

As someone who has personally been deeply hurt by false rumors, I recall wishing that someone would stand up for me so that I was not the only one standing up for myself. Even though the rumors about me were later shown to lack merit, spreading rumors is like ripping open a feather pillow on a windy day--and then going back and trying to collect all the feathers to reassemble the pillow. Even if a thoughtless gossip apologizes and tries to make amends, one can never track down every lost feather.

Sometimes an individual or group is being falsely accused and, quite frankly, it is cowardly to not stick up for them if you know differently. How many of the murders and character defamation that occur are caused by people "assuming" that something is true about an individual or group without checking the facts?

So although I won't deliberately and aggressively initiate a political confrontation, if you are being a bully, I will try to defend the people that you are picking on.  If I know that something is false, I will call it out. People are entitled to their own opinion, but they are not entitled to making up their own facts. I don't want to lose you as a friend, but friends don't let friends spread false and hurtful information. If you don't want someone calling you out on social media, then don't post provocative memes. Stick to cat pix.

Retrospective

Every job that I've ever had has taught me something.

There have been very few jobs that I've dreaded to get up for in the morning. Certainly there were aspects of every job that were not pleasant, but for the most part, I have been able to enjoy each one that I've had--from being a farmwife and mother to being an elected county commissioner.

By far the most fun job, however, was my 13 years of being a reporter for a locally owned, small-town newspaper. Every day, every week was different. I met an amazing variety of interesting people, from governors and chief executive officers to poverty-stricken indigents. To get paid for doing what I enjoy most--writing--was a bonus.

At Balboa Park in San Diego in Aug. 2013

This blog started out to be an account of transitioning from my last regular job--being a county commissioner--to being retired. The transition was not always smooth. I knew that I was not ready to spend my days sitting in a recliner. Although my retirement assets were sufficient to "pay the bills," supplemental income would be needed to travel, make donations and accomplish other "quality of life" goals. I have been blessed with relatively good health and continued energy.

Pursuing several different avenues of service--both paid and volunteer--a number of doors along the way would not open for me. No matter--my daily devotional book reminded me today that the Apostle Paul was often guided by closed doors and prohibitions. (Shouldn't what was good enough for the Apostle Paul be good enough for me?) But at times I was left wondering, "Well, what now, Lord?"

Friends advised me that when a door closes, look for a window. Sure enough, within days--sometimes hours--new windows of opportunity inevitably came my way. Three years after retirement, I am enjoying a fun, challenging and fulfilling variety of activities ranging from being a volunteer driver for my county to being president-elect of the Minnesota Library Trustees and Advocates. I am also blessed to have gotten back into my "most fun" occupation of being paid to write, as a freelance journalist.

Transitioning back into journalism from having been in politics took a little time. My old editor had advised me to "report the news, don't make the news." Editors tend to be skeptical of the motives of politicians of all stripes--current and former. My first attempts to pick up free-lance jobs resulted in closed doors. (That, however, wound up being a blessing in disguise as my family needed my time--temporarily--as a caregiver more than I needed writing jobs.) Eventually, however, my experience and capabilities cracked open a window or two. Then, the doors opened again, and I'm as busy now as I care to be.

In some ways, I am probably more conscientious about accuracy than I was before. Having occasionally been the victim of unethical or lazy journalists when I was in public office, I have experienced first-hand the pain of having false and misleading information connected to my name. Although this week's newspaper is, indeed, next week's garbage can liner, the written word has the ability to change policy, inspire and make a difference in people's lives. It also becomes a part of tomorrow's history.

As 2014 begins, I am grateful to have a variety of past and future writing assignments, as well as opportunities to assist my community as a volunteer.

Volunteering: what's it all about?

These men are among dozens of retirees who volunteer at the Dassel History Center.

These retirees contributed to a book, Main Street Kids, about their childhoods in Dassel.

Now that I'm past 65, I hang out with a lot of volunteers.

What is it about senior citizens and volunteering? Are we bored? Are we really motivated by an altruistic desire to "give back to the community?" Or do we just want to feel useful in our declining years?

It could well be a combination of all of the above.

Since entering kindergarten at age five, most citizens take on a role. You are a first-grader, or a junior in high school, a freshman at XYZ University, an intern, a mother or father, a secretary, a nurse, an architect or lawyer at ABC firm, etc.

In my adult life, I was, respectively, a freshman at the University of Idaho, a sophomore at the University of Minnesota, a clerk typist at the University Extension Service, a full-time mother of one, two, three and finally four children, a farmwife, a braille transcriber and secretary, a newspaper reporter, a county commissioner, a consultant.

Now I'm retired. Almost daily I am asked, "What are you doing now that you've retired?"

My response is usually, "I'm doing a lot of volunteer driving for the county and a little part-time work."

The variety of part-time gigs are too numerous for the typical, "Hey, how are you?" conversation, so I tend to focus on the volunteer driving. It is probably my most consistent pastime these days, anyhow.  My free-lance journalism occupies perhaps six hours a month, plus about a week of intense work on a quarterly basis. Custodial work at my church takes approximately two hours a week. My seasonal Farmers Market work--about four hours a week for a few months. My other volunteering--at church and at the History Center--is pretty sporadic: two or three hours per week at best. That makes the Retired Senior Volunteer driving gig, at 10-15 hours most weeks, the closest thing I have to a "real" job.

I filled out an application for this gig and passed the background screening. Once a year, my doctor needs to okay my medical suitability for driving and my mechanic has to inspect my car. I have annual training sessions. I even wear a badge. Yeah, it's like a real job. Except that I don't need to report the stipend to the IRS since it is technically just reimbursement for my expenses.

Being a volunteer driver means I spend time a car, often for a couple of hours, with people from all walks of life. Some are little old ladies who no longer drive, but I also take people of all ages to their mental health groups, people who cannot drive because of DUI records to their doctor appointments, people with cancer to radiation, young people in foster care to summer school programs and disabled people to physical therapy. Most of my clients are low income. It is interesting to meet them. Many of them talk freely about how they came to be in their current situation. It is sobering to hear how a car accident, a divorce, a DUI incident or health issues changed what had been a normal, active life into  a daily struggle. It doesn't take long to realize that people on "welfare" are human beings. Most of them worked hard until their health forced them to quit. Their lives are not easy. Several of them have experienced homelessness or domestic abuse. Giving up driving--whether due to their health or eyesight or because of extreme poverty--has been difficult for many of them. An extra perk has been that driving the foster care kids has enabled me to keep up on the latest music on the car radio--and some of it is actually good.

I also spend an hour or two (or more) waiting for the clients while they are seeing their doctor, dentist or therapist. We volunteer drivers learn the most convenient (and cheapest) locations for cups of coffee, fuel, and fast food near the medical facilities in the cities we frequent. My fitness club membership allows complimentary workouts at a sister franchise--and I take advantage of this privilege. I know where the nearest Target and fabric stores are located in regional centers. I keep comfortable shoes in the car for mall walking, I also get a lot of embroidery, reading and writing done in waiting rooms. My waiting time is definitely not wasted.

So why do I do it? I really don't know. Since my own parents died when I was quite young, I was spared the obligation of caring for my elders, so this is a way I can have that experience. I had to drive as part of my reporter & commissioner jobs and became accustomed to navigating the Twin Cities as well as the rural regional centers of St, Cloud, Willmar and Hutchinson. In recent years, God has provided me with dependable cars, and this is a way to show my appreciation. Also (and quite importantly for many seniors on a fixed income,) driving for the county service means that my mileage and expenses are reimbursed. This basically allows my husband and I to own and operate two vehicles instead of only one. (It is cheaper for our government-funded medical programs to pay mileage for a volunteer than it is to hire a cab or pay for a medical transportation service.) I also request reimbursement of expenses for several of the other volunteer activities in which I take place, including several of the advisory committees on which I serve.

As a retiree on a pension, I can afford to donate my time, but gas is expensive.

In digging deeper into why people volunteer, I think that a more substantive reason is that it is a good use of human resources. We sixty-somethings are often in good health and mentally alert when we retire. Some of us leave the job market before we had intended to fully retire, Others of us leave as planned, but wind up "flunking" retirement because we need to keep our minds and bodies more active.
Modern medications and attention to diet and exercise keep many of us in good physical condition long after the Depression-era established "retirement" age of 65.

Why should society park the brains and bodies that it has spent millions of dollars educating and keeping healthy on shelves just because those brains and bodies have turned 65? Social Security and pensions often make labor no longer needed for financial sustenance, but active people want to remain active. Finding the right volunteer job allows older adults to make better use of the physical plant of their bodies.

Travel, golf, cards and other leisure activities may not give people enough of a sense of purpose. Women, especially, may miss the physical presence of adult children who have grown up and moved away. Volunteering can also fill the gaps in a person's life after a spouse or beloved sibling or friend passes away.

Not all retirees need or want to volunteer. For some, the daily responsibility of being a caregiver for an ailing spouse or elderly relative, helping to raise their grandchildren, or dealing with a personal health issue occupies most of their time and energy. Other retirees find themselves in need of income to supplement their Social Security checks. For them, a part-time job may take the place of volunteering. (Or the presence of a pension check to cover the "necessities" may provide the incentive to actually try some avenue of self employment.)

As young people, we attend college or trade school to prepare ourselves for a lifetime career. In a similar way, as people approach retirement, they should take inventory of their unique skills and interests and prepare for the activity for this "encore" period of their lives. (A couple I know, Mark and Janet Skie, have written a book, "Mapping Your Retirement," about this stage of life.

Types of volunteer opportunities vary greatly. People in certain careers, such as medicine, teaching, and social services, are accustomed to the roles volunteers play in their institutions, and gravitate quite naturally into these roles after they retire. Hospitals, nursing homes and schools buzz with the energy of recently retired staff. Some of these opportunities (such as substitute teaching) also bring supplemental income into a retiree's home.

Opportunities to utilize retirees' brains and skills also abound in faith-based institutions like Catholic Charities, Lutheran Social Services and within churches and synagogues of all denominations. Most museums and libraries would shut their doors without their cadres of volunteers. The advantages of this type of volunteering for older professionals is that this type of volunteer work need not be boring or mundane. Non-profit organizations need everything from envelope stuffers to handymen to project managers. They often have volunteer coordinators on staff to keep things running smoothly.

Another type of volunteering in which I engage is serving on boards and advisory committees. City councils, county boards, state government, hospitals and church denominations are seeking skilled, experienced individuals to sit on these panels. Expense reimbursement or stipends may be part of this type of service.

Political activism provides another opportunity for volunteers. People who are passionate about a cause or philosophy or candidate will find lots of opportunity in this arena.

Additional training may be a part of the volunteer experience. I am being sent to leadership training by a church denomination board on which I serve. Many non-profit groups invest in training their volunteers and board members.

After I retired, I looked into a number of volunteer opportunities and got involved in the ones I am presently doing. I discontinued or cut back on a couple of other activities, mostly because I found them not to be as good of a "fit" to my skills and interests. (It is easy to say "yes" to things that are not a good fit, simply because one has more spare time after retirement.)

For the most part, I have been spared time-consuming "caregiver" duties, and something in my nature needs a role identity. And yes, doing something for those less fortunate than me helps me feel better, more useful and as if I'm fulfilling God's exhortations to serve my fellow inhabitants of this planet. So I volunteer.

Accepting limitations -- or not

Kay grooms her pet donkey, Patches, a week and a half after returning home from the hospital.

I recently returned from a trip to Connecticut where I spent time with my younger sister, who is recuperating from a head injury sustained in a fall on her rural acreage. The fall fractured her skull and created a hematoma on her brain, so the doctors kept her in the intensive care unit, in an induced coma, for more than a week in early April. She was finally released from the hospital's rehabilitation facility in early May, and received physical and occupational therapy for another month.

Other than a mild, barely noticeable memory loss and aphasia, in which she substitutes the wrong word for the word intended, she seems normal. However, they did not want her to drive for a while, and I noticed than she lacked her usual ability to multi-task. She needed to concentrate on one task at a time in order to get things done. I spent 10 and a half days driving her to appointments, running errands with her, and  assisting with household chores.

Adjusting to a slower pace was, and continues to be, very frustrating for Kay. She has a "Type A" personality, operates her own business, and is used to 16-hour work days. Habitual jogging, yoga classes and gardening have kept her in great physical condition, which allowed her to cruise thru her physical therapy at a much faster pace than expected. And a trip to the hairdresser solved the "bad hair" caused by the doctors shaving part of her head following the injury.

The RBB&B elephants arrive in Hartford.

Kay operates a public relations firm that has a contract with the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey circus. They handle the news releases and much of the advertising and public relations activities whenever the circus is in southern New England. As much as the doctors warned her not to return to work, she begged me to drive her to downtown Hartford for an "elephant brunch" with local Head Start kids and their families. How does a woman say "no" to her childhood roommate and "partner in conspiracy" against neighborhood bullies? I complied.

When she was first discharged from the hospital, Kay was directed to walk with a cane when outdoors or on uneven ground. Since she did not own a cane, she put a spare ski pole into service as her walking stick. By the time I found a parking spot after dropping her off in front of Hartford's Old State House, Kay was barking orders to the Head Start families and staff, using her ski pole as a crowd control device. She later introduced me to the ringmaster, several circus clowns, and to the other people from her firm who had taken over her duties for the event.

Kay used her ski pole for crowd control.

After the elephants enjoyed their "brunch" of lettuce, bananas, bread and watermelon, Kay had me drive two of the clowns back to the circus train. (Since elephants travel only by rail or walking, the RBB&B Circus only accepts venues within a mile or so of a railroad siding. The beasts ride in specially designed, extra high, climate-controlled railroad cars. Some of the circus crew ride in sleepers in the same train.)

Throughout my stay, I observed Kay's need for more rest than usual, but I also observed that she is extremely eager to get back to "normal." And for her, there is a good probability that she will make a full recovery. Except, of course, for the limitations that aging puts on all of us. 

I'm part of an on-line community entitled "Changing Aging." The general tone of this group is that there is no reason for older people to slow down, retire, be subjected to "age discrimination" or change their lifestyles to "accommodate" the aging process. For the most part, a positive approach toward the aging process is preferable to a negative one. But a few of my colleagues seem to think that people should be able to avoid the infirmities of old age until, some fine day, they drop dead of a heart attack while walking home from the post office. (Or, as humorist Garrison Keillor once fantasized, they keel over while having a beer at the local tavern after their girlfriend's husband shoots them in the back.)

Although Ben Franklin's old adage that "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure"  may delay some disabilities, it is not realistic to presume that a positive attitude, regular exercise, a nutritious diet and consumption of dietary supplements will prevent all the ravages of age.  Cancer and dementia happen to people from all walks of life, who have made all kinds of lifestyle choices. Even lifestyle-related conditions like heart disease, lung cancer and diabetes have a hereditary component. Disciplined people who have made admirable choices can and do succumb to chronic disease. In addition, accidents can happen to anyone--even healthy people like my sister. To suggest otherwise is to engage in "blaming the victim."

When I hear someone brag that, "They'll never put me in a nursing home," I shudder. How does that person know that disability will never happen to them? It is delusive to make this kind of assumption, or to arm-twist spouses or children into making caregiving promises they may not be able to keep.

So how is one to approach aging? Several people have criticized me for my reluctance to fully retire. I desire to keep busy, doing practical, useful work and helping others. I continue to set goals. I continue to accept positions on various committees and boards. Six weeks ago, I began writing again for a newspaper on occasion, after a 10-year hiatus.

Yet I also need to admit that there are a few projects, a few challenges I will never be able to complete. There are some "dream vacations" that my husband and I may take--and a few more we probably will not take. I won't climb mountains (except perhaps in a car or on a ski lift) and I probably will never learn to ride a surfboard. And even if a company or agency WAS willing to hire a 66-year-old woman full time, I probably should not try to work 40 hours a week any longer, in addition to keeping up our home and yard. I simply do not have as much physical stamina as I once had, and it seems to take a little longer to absorb new information.

So I work a few part-time gigs instead. Most of them allow flexibility in the hours of work. I can sit down and take a break as needed. I don't have to punch a clock. It's okay.

My sister called this evening, all excited. The doctor told her today that she could resume driving again. I was happy for her, but advised her that her days of driving while talking on her cell phone should be over. "We're better off focusing on one task at a time," I said.

"I have even started putting on my makeup at home, too," she admitted.

I laughed. "No more mascara while looking in the visor mirror at a stoplight. Good choice."

Farewell to Jeanne

For Jeanne Goemer, growing old was as unavoidable as it is for the rest of us. But "acting old" was an option. That's the way her family described her.

Jeanne Goemer hiking at Meeker County's Woodland Park.

Jeanne never wanted to act old. I cross country skied with her until she was 86 years old, and she rode horseback until she was 87. During the summer of 2010, when she was 87, I also went kayaking with her--although it was necessary for me to drag both of the kayaks back up the steep banks after we were done.

She was a stubborn and feisty woman.

As her county commissioner, I knew that a telephone call from Jeanne meant taking action of some kind.

Sometimes the action was pleasant: she wanted me to join her for a swim in Lake Manuella or to go skiing with her at Woodland Park. Perhaps she had an extra ticket to some cultural event and wanted me to go along.

But Jeanne had other, less pleasant, requests. She was often upset about something and wanted me to get after the county park director or the county highway engineer about a maintenance issue she had observed in one of the county parks or along a road right-of-way. Or she had an idea that I should bring up at an upcoming county board meeting.

Jeanne could be very firm about what she thought needed to be done. She was definitely a force to be reckoned with. Besides horseback riding, skiing, and kayaking, Jeanne was an avid gardener, kept a spotlessly clean house and sang in her church choir. A retired teacher, she was a lifelong learner and world traveler, seeking out educational forums, concerts and tours. She also kept young by cultivating friendships with younger people--I was not the only friend and companion who was 25 years or more her junior. She appeared to take a genuine interest in the hopes and dreams of young people.

Jeanne's one fault was that she lacked the ability to grow old gracefully. She so resisted aging--being in excellent physical condition--that she was unable to accept limitations that come to all of us as we grow older. She fought with family, friends and caregivers, insisting on doing things "her way."

On Saturday I attended Jeanne's memorial service. There were plenty of stories shared about this tireless community and church volunteer whose physical strength, at age 90, had finally failed.

Rest in peace, old friend.