NOT WHAT IT USED TO BE

Harold Peary as The Great Gildersleeve

Halloween 2025 is history. This morning, Mike stated his disappointment that we had no trick-or-treaters. Prepared with his collection of Halloween masks, he lamented, “It’s just not what it used to be.”

 

He’s right, of course, but I had to chuckle to myself. I listened to Halloween-themed podcasts this week, and Ozzie Nelson and The Great Gildersleeve both lamented in pre-1950 radio programs that Halloween wasn’t what it used to be. Remembering the “harmless” pranks of their youth, the kids’ interest in “trick-or-treating” seemed tame to them.

And there was Halloween mischief back in the day. My dad always pulled the garbage can into the garage to avoid having to pick up the strewn refuse. Mike remembers rock-and-roll playing from a church tower, and reaching even further back in history, overturning outhouses was a thing to do.

But today, we seem to have moved on from such “tricks” – thankfully so. Looking into our street to assess the Halloween situation, it was exceptionally still – no children moved from house to house, no excited voices filled the air. The houses on either side of us were totally dark, sending a clear message – “Don’t even think about it!”  

I stopped in at the Dollar Tree yesterday, where everything is no longer a dollar, but I was pleased to note that they are devoting one aisle to craft supplies. They even had ergo crochet hooks! Stockers were frantically changing Halloween into Christmas. KW

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

 

In this photo from 1984 taken at a pre-school Halloween party, Mike carves a jack-o-lantern for 5-year-old Clinton, a.k.a. Skeletor. 

[RE]IMAGINING INA

Watching the autumn light and shadow play on the farm fields on an enchanted evening, my thoughts wandered back a century to my Grandmother Ina and how she must have lived in this house. KW

As the sun was setting and the house grew chilly, Ina pulled her old sweater more tightly around her shoulders. Another 15 minutes and she would have to light the kerosene lantern on the sconce above the wood cookstove. As it was, the north-facing kitchen was already too dark to read a recipe, but it would have to be darker yet before the kerosene lantern would make a difference.

Ina never tired of the magnificent effects that sun and shadow brought to the landscape – always something she hadn’t noticed before. But she would enjoy autumn more, Ina thought to herself, if it weren’t for the chill in the air that presaged winter. Winters were hard now, and especially hard for Jack, her husband. But – Christmas was always a bright spot for her, and it was time to get ready in earnest! What would her advent theme be this year, she wondered.

They’d had a frost mid-September, so she and Shirley, her last child at home, had put the garden to bed with the exception (maybe) of certain root vegetables. The garden and orchard had produced plentifully this past season, and the pantry shelves were filled with enough canned vegetables, fruit, and meat to see them through the winter. Just thinking of her well-stocked pantry gave Ina feelings of warm satisfaction.

While she could still see to move about the house, Ina performed all the little tasks that made their evening comfortable. She lit a little fire in the wood stove in the bedroom, just enough to take the chill off the room. She also built a fire in the fireplace and laid their nightwear on a chair in the kitchen to warm near the cookstove.

During the long dark evenings of fall / winter, Ina always looked forward to several hours of quiet evening reading, but this evening she was especially eager to tackle a fresh stack of already well-read magazines and papers sent over by a neighbor. Once her household had perused them, Ina would pass them along to the next household, adding to the stack any magazines and newspapers that had come to them from other sources. And that was how they did.

She stoked the fire in the cookstove and retrieved a jar of leftover chicken soup from the ice house to warm for their supper. Plenty of meat and vegetables remained, but she would cook more noodles and add broth and seasonings. Why was it that leftover soup was always short on broth? KW

[We had our first frost in the Valley this morning. We have yet to light a fire in the little stove.]

SUPPORT YOUR INCARCERATED “LOVED ONE”

It happens to some of us. Someone you love is incarcerated, and suddenly you have to do things you never dreamed you’d ever have to do, beginning with research to determine how you can communicate with and support your “loved one.” (The system refers to the inmates as “loved ones.” YOU love them. The system doesn’t.)

Society has all sorts of offenders, and we have consequences for them. My opinion is that prison hard time should be reserved for the worst of the lot – you know, murderers and thieves, psychopaths and sociopaths – but a large percentage of those incarcerated suffer addiction and / or mental illness. (Addiction is mental illness.) Naturally, you’re angry with your loved one for getting himself (or herself) into this mess, but if he has any support at all, you’re IT. You see his good along with his bad, and so you cherish and encourage the good.

Don’t be fooled by the resort-like atmosphere set forth by the prison website. That picture of a kitchen well-stocked with nutritious food is not reality. Don’t be taken in by the warden’s friendly grin. Don’t think that guards and staff members are caring and compassionate. Remember those prison movies where we actually have sympathy for the inmates because the warden and the guards are so heartless and corrupt? Well, those are based on fact.

The system also says that they will help your loved one by providing treatment, educational opportunities, chapel, and positive social interactions. If this is true, it doesn’t happen for everyone. Statistics show that if an inmate doesn’t have mental issues when processed into prison, he will when he is released. He will need plenty of help and encouragement, and again – you’re IT.

Don’t hesitate to make contacts within the system on behalf of your loved one. Follow your instincts. Don’t be afraid of being rebuffed. If you’re worried about your loved one, call the prison and ask questions. Document or record your calls. If the worst happens, as it did to us, you will have documentation that you served notice. 

Once incarcerated, your loved one can call you, but calls are expensive. He can message with you through the prison email system but only after you establish an account within that system. For the most part, it worked well for us, but all communication is subject to review. Nothing is private. Save any messages you receive from your loved one.

The prison experience is at least tolerable if the inmate has money in his commissary account. I think the Idaho prison system provides a blanket, towel, and slipper socks. For some reason, the prison provided these to us with Milo’s effects, and I was appalled by their worn condition. In the beginning, the prison also provides a few necessary toiletries – toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap. It’s not much. However, with money, an inmate can buy food and supplies to make life more comfortable – shoes, a pillow, a second blanket, exercise shorts, underwear, etc. Our son Milo was hypoglycemic and needed snacks to augment his meals, which tells you that the average man is not provided enough food. He bought a hot pot to warm ramen soup and make tea, and he also bought a small fan – cheap goods sold at a premium.

The corrections system in our country breaks those who come into it. It not only penalizes offenders but also their families. The concept of the “debtors’ prison” is alive and well in our country. Many of the incarcerated are poor to begin with, and a family that loses its breadwinner is at risk of homelessness. As incongruous as it seems to most of us, some families don’t have computers, which means they can’t visit with their loved one or supply him with commissary funds. Often an inmate has lost his family and everything he owns, which opens the door for a host of other problems, including hopelessness and homelessness. KW

[For a perspective on current prison life, I read the blog, Book of Irving.]

FALL PLANTING

When they say, “Fall is for planting,” exactly who are they talking about and where do they live?

As we cleaned out the raised beds today, Mike and I noted once again that the soil is hard. I have known this since we took up gardening here some 20+ years ago. I’d love to do more with the gardens. I see myself planting daisies in the spring and daffodils in the fall, but then reality hits. I can’t make a dent in the soil! It’s basically clay, you know, but even the good topsoil is dried by the sun. This place is meant to be dry land farming, but the draught conditions dry the soil even more.

Will this blanket flower take root?

And this begs the question: are those who have endured storm after devastating storm going to plant flowers this season? No, of course not!

Two weeks ago, Mike helped me transplant mint and blanket flowers from the town garden. If the plants don’t make it, I hope the seeds will spread. If not, we’re not out anything but our effort. It’s a waste to buy plants for this place.

I just wonder if the spring will bring renewal or if we’re losing some of our trees and other plantings. Time will tell. KW

Our beautiful purple ash in town

THE SECOND CABIN

 

He is honest, hardworking, ambitious, independent, public-spirited. Wanted to carve his own way and not work for someone else, wanted his sons to do likewise, and never wanted his daughters to work for others. He’s always been strictly decent, does not believe in “filthy communication.” – Ina Dobson on her husband Jack, 1934

Jack and Ina Dobson were so proud to have obtained a homestead of their own in 1895. And Jack did work hard on his land. He worked until he was worn out and could work no more, and then he died. His story is not unique. The small farm was subsistence living. They had no extra money to put by for the future, and they couldn’t sell the land for enough to take care of themselves in old age. Say what you will about the government’s generosity in handing out land, if the homesteaders stayed on the farm for the rest of their lives, they were eventually stuck there. 

The Original Cabin

We have established that Jack built the original cabin “down on the flat,” the northern edge of the property, in November and December of 1895. Ina and the three children moved there in the spring of 1896 after Irl was born. And then Jack located a better spot to establish the farmyard, including house, barn, woodshed, henhouse, and other buildings to accommodate a home and farm operation, including livestock.

According to Ina’s story, the family moved into the second cabin (the top photo) in December 1896, so they didn’t stay long in the original cabin. Ethel was born in this cabin in 1898, my dad (Vance) in 1904, and Shirley in 1910. The present farmhouse was built in 1917, and eventually this cabin -- the family home for 20 years -- became my dad’s machine shop. I don’t remember much about it except that it was small and would have been cramped quarters for a family with six growing children. It had an upstairs bedroom for the children’s sleeping quarters, and I only ventured up there once or twice. My dad burned it down in 1971. KW

I submitted the photo of Ina and her children to the Lewiston Tribune for their "Blast from the Past" feature. It was published on October 8, 2025. My grandmother, Ina Dobson, is seated in the foreground with her children -- Myrtle (Lynn), Ethel, Pearl, and Irl. The woman seated behind is Ida Chandler Dickson, who was married to James Benjamin (Ben) Dickson, Ina's brother. And to the right behind is my grandfather, Julian (Jack) Dobson.

It was 36 when Mike and I arose this morning, and I couldn't help but give thanks for our creature comforts. KW

A SUDDEN CHILL IN THE AIR

Pine trees reflected on June's field

So – We’ve gone from unseasonably warm temps to a sudden need for warmer garments. Last night I turned on the electric blanket for the first time this season and pulled the bedspread out of storage. Mike has built fires in the fireplaces at both houses and even lit the pilot on the wall furnace at the farmhouse. I guess he had an inkling that colder temps were on the way because last week he brought our space heaters in from the shed. This morning, he turned them on.

We went to the farm Thursday (Oct. 9). Afternoon highs Thursday and Friday were 82, but Friday the wind picked up and by evening it was raining. We need the rain. We’ve even prayed for rain, and all the while other regions of our country are inundated – storm after storm with wind and flooding. The glow cast by the evening sun as the storm approached was spectacular. The photos here (taken with my phone because I forgot the camera) just don’t do those “magnificent effects” justice.

So, it’s time to prepare for winter. It will surely come. The garden is finished. I picked two dozen (or more) ripe tomatoes and two heaping Cool Whip containers of green ones. (A Cool Whip container is a standard measurement at my house. At approximately three cups, it’s approximate but gives a mental picture nevertheless, sorta like the obsolete bushel and peck.) I picked a few strawberries but tossed them. And I picked three summer squash, but only two were edible. I did not pull the plants out. I’ll do it next trip – or next spring. (I’m tempted to say whichever comes first.)

Thursday afternoon, Mike and I transplanted “blanket flowers” and mint from the town garden in the orchard. These may not take but perhaps the seeds will spread and plant themselves. I can always dream.

The pears we picked last trip gradually ripened on the counter, so I sliced and dried two trays of them. We were surprised to find eight more decent pears on the tree, which Mike picked for us.

And I made a batch of haw jelly, baked an apple blueberry pie and cookies. Mike took the big chimes down and stored them. He also cleaned the eavestroughs. It all sounds so easy, doesn’t it? But it was work. And we brought the lawnmower back to town for winter service and storage. KW