Nevada Counties – Day 1

Each summer of the last three years I have made motorcycle trips to log a Geocache in each county of a state.  First was Idaho, then Oregon and last summer Washington.  This year was to be Nevada.  I had been down last fall on a chukar hunt and thought I’d like to see more of the state.  As Nevada has only 17 counties it seemed like a good candidate for my first state this far from home.  My adventure was to be a seven day trip beginning Saturday, May 12^th.  All the other states I had been able to break up into more than one trip but because of the distance from home I decided to attempt this in one haul.  This journey was truly “to hell and back”.

 

Thursday evening, May 10^th, daughter, Hallie, arrived by bus for a Mothers’ Day weekend visit.  We had a good visit and Friday I made a 40 mile bicycle ride since I would not be on the pedal bike for a week.  It was cool the next morning so I waited until 8:00 a.m. before leaving.  It was about 50 degrees here but I knew it would be much cooler going over the higher elevation of the Camas Prairie.  That was the case, and I had planned two Geocache stops in the first 30 miles to warm up.  I made one near the bottom of the Culdesac grade and another at the top.

My plan was to spend the first night with son, Milo, in Boise.  When I made a stop for a cache in New Meadows which is about half way, I discovered my bag had fallen off the side of my motorcycle and was hanging there against the hot muffler.  I hate to admit it but it was entirely my own fault.  I’ve only used the bag twice and not since a year ago on my WA trip.  I had failed to fasten two bungee cords that were hidden in a compartment on the bottom of the bag.  The only damage done was a hole burnt through a small pocket in the back and I hadn’t lost anything.  The rest of the trip to Boise was pleasant enough and I took a little different route going through Emmett to avoid the Interstate.  I hadn’t been on that route since my Idaho trip three years ago.  I picked up a few caches along the way.

I got into Boise around 4:00 p.m. and Milo and I took a walk around the neighborhood.  When we got back I decided to log the caches I had done on the way down on the website .  That’s when I discovered that my GPSr had apparently had a hiccup and all of my Nevada caches were gone.  I had used GSAK (Geocachers’ Swiss Army Knife) software to manage the caches and they were consolidated to one file in my GPSr which is like a storage device.  The file was still there but nothing was showing when I would look where the caches were supposed to be.  Fortunately I had a printed spreadsheet with all the caches listed.  After Milo and I had a Papa Murphy’s calzone we spent about two hours manually reentering all the approximately 70 caches.  I was very worried about how the GPSr would hold up the rest of the journey.  I had a simple eTrex unit as backup but it had no mapping capabilities nor would it give me a readout of the caches.  This trip is off to a great start.   

 First picture is of my departure, second one at a cache south of White Bird and the last of Milo and me.  (To be continued) M/W

MOPING

Mike left last Saturday (May 12) to geocache Nevada, leaving Nellie and me at home. Hallie was here when he left, and we took Nellie and went to the farm for the weekend. Nellie was happy while Hallie was with us, but then Hallie said good-bye and left and Nellie commenced to mope big time.

When an adult human mopes, you can deal with it somehow. “What’s wrong?” you ask. “Was it something I said (did, didn’t do, spent)?” In my experience, you can even reason with a child. “Look – Daddy’s gone for a while. Let me show you the calendar and we’ll count the days until he comes back. Meanwhile, how about some ice cream? And the next time Daddy calls, you can talk to him.”

But it’s a real trial when the moper is the dog. You can’t reason with a dog. Nellie understands certain concepts, such as walk, dinner / food, cookie, lick this bowl, kennel, brush teeth, and Mike is gone. But she doesn’t understand time concepts. She judges each moment on its own merits, not altogether a bad thing until something isn’t right with her world. And things are not right with Nellie’s world if her master is gone.

 

But Nellie does get something out of what I say. “Mike will be home soon,” I said yesterday afternoon “You’ll hear him coming on his motorcycle. Eeeeeerrooooooow - putta, putta, putta.” And with that she went to the sliding glass door and stood there watching for quite some time, but when Mike didn’t show, she begged for a walk. We were just leaving the house when Mike roared in.

Oh joy! Oh happiness! All was right in Nellie’s world with Mike’s return. After the initial excitement she became nonchalant, as if to say, “I knew he’d be back. What’s the big deal? You humans make way too much of this stuff.” KW

MICROFILM RESEARCH

On the previous post, Leah asked me to tell about the microfilm research. While the research didn't include the individuals in the photograph, I'm starting with this four-generation portrait to help anchor the genealogy. This picture was taken when my mother, Dorothy Portfors, was six years old -- so, about 1916. Standing behind Dorothy is her mother, Nina Mae Sanders Portfors. Seated to the left in the picture is Eliza Brophy Stinson, Mother's great-grandmother, and to the right is Alice Mary Stinson Sanders, her grandmother.

My second cousin Wendy, the genealogist with whom I share the Stinson / Saunders (Sanders) genealogy, mentioned to me that a Stinson cousin passed away in Lewiston in 1922. “An obit would be nice,” she said, and I found myself volunteering to research that. I called the Lewiston Tribune and learned that back issues from 1893 were available on microfilm only at the Lewis-Clark State College Library.  Somehow, though, I could always think of some reason not to visit the library all by myself to do something I’d never done before. So, when Hallie said she was coming to spend Mother’s Day weekend with me, I asked her to accompany me to the LCSC Library to begin family obit research. Wendy had provided a list of missing obituaries and I marked three as priorities.

The staff at the library was very friendly and accommodating. They pulled the three microfilms in question and showed us how to use the reader. They even came by once or twice to check on us.

We started with 1915, looking for an obit for Roy Stinson who died at the age of 25. Roy was the only child of Thomas and Grace Stinson, Thomas being the son of Great-grandmother Eliza Stinson (see photo). Another way to put it -- Roy was a cousin of Nina Portfors. The family no longer remembers why Roy died at that young age, and I kick myself because years ago someone undoubtedly told me and I just don’t remember. When I think of all the family that bridged the gap between Roy and me, it just seems impossible that I can’t find out what they all knew. No, Hallie and I didn’t see a thing about Roy Stinson in the paper we researched (which doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t there). Neither were we successful in finding an obit for the cousin who passed away in 1922.

Then we went to 1945 because I was certain I could find an article / obit for my mother’s first husband, Fairley Walrath.  Since Fairley was an employee of Potlatch Forest, Inc., a prominent regional industry, I knew the woods accident that took him would be news of the day. Yes, the article had prominent placement on the front page of the May 27, 1945, issue. The disappointment was that it was obviously hastily written and full of errors. For instance, the article reports that he was the son of Harry L. Walrath and the late Mrs. Walrath, but his mother was very much alive, bless her heart. And Harriet points out that both her name and Joni’s were misspelled and the wedding date was incorrect. And then there’s that lame statement by Potlatch that maybe he didn’t hear the cry of “timber.” No wonder the family didn’t save this obit.

Researching for the three obits was enough for one day, but we went on to Lewiston’s Normal Hill Cemetery to seek the Stinson graves. These are "Woodmen of the World" gravestones.

Years ago Mike and I lived half a block from the Normal Hill Cemetery, and one day as I was exploring I came upon these Stinson graves and recognized immediately that they were family. I told my parents and discussion ensued. At that time I had never heard of the “Woodmen of the World” organization, and my dad explained. And I know that we talked about Uncle Tom and Aunt Grace, and Mother undoubtedly said why Roy died. That Memorial Day, we included the Stinsons on our list for bouquets. But I don’t remember the details of our discussion.

Do you know anything about the Woodmen of the World? I’ve already researched online. I’d like to hear from someone who is a member. KW

ARE WE READY?

I had a wonderful Mother’s Day. Most notably, daughter Hallie came to spend the weekend with us. She said she would do anything I wanted to do, so on Friday she accompanied me to the Lewis-Clark State College Library and helped me make a start with microfilm research, something I had never done. We also visited Normal Hill Cemetery. We were only moderately successful in our searches for obituaries of interest, but I’ve made a start – faced the “buffalo,” as it were. I will go back.

 

On Saturday Mike began a motorcycle tour, so Hallie, Nellie, and I went to the farm. The majority of our efforts went to weeding the raspberry patch and transplanting a few canes.  

 

Hallie wants to train the Montmorency sour cherry tree. Okay . . . if she wants to. We’ll see what happens.

 

Saturday afternoon we took a break from our work and returned to the dump site we found last December. Great care was in order because of rusting cans, broken glass, and barbed wire. We found a couple of intact medicine bottles – that’s about as interesting as it got. 

It was wonderful that Hallie could see the farm in its spring finery – so many trees in bloom. And yet, as the lilacs fade here in the valley, they have yet to blossom forth at that altitude.

Regrettably, we had to leave after lunch on Sunday. I congratulated myself that I am fully capable of handling Mike’s share of the routine. I packed the necessary electronics, turned off the modem, turned down the water heater, placed a few mouse traps and dead bolted the front and back doors. Hallie helped me pack the basket of clean clothes, the cooler, and whatever else.

“Are we ready then?” I called to her. She affirmed – and I stepped out of the house, locking the door and closing it behind me.

I knew immediately what I had done. I had locked the house with my purse – and my key to the house -- inside. I had the key to the Dakota in my hand, but I keep it separate from my other keys and that ring doesn’t have a house key on it.

Hallie and I both knew that Mike had placed an extra key within the farm grounds. He had told me the location, but I have never had occasion to use it, so I couldn’t remember where it is. We turned the place upside down looking for it. “Knowing Dad,” she said, “it’s in some clever but not really hidden spot.” She decided to call her brother Clint for any insight he might have, but he just reiterated her thought that the key was likely hidden in plain sight, so to speak.

Hallie had to be at the airport by 5:30, so we had no choice but to leave for town soon. I had about decided to give up the search. I could get another key at the town house and drive back to the farm for my purse, but when I thought of all the stuff in my purse – keys, ID, credit cards, iPod, cell phone, etc., I searched my mind again for a way to gain entry to the house. Hallie was also determined not to give up.

I thought of one spot – just one “chink” in the house’s armor, so we explored that and with some finesse, we were able to gain entry without causing damage. Once we were in, we also secured that spot. It had taken half an hour to find the solution, but we had my purse and were on our way. We still had plenty of time.

It seemed a stupid thing, and maybe it was, but undoubtedly there was a blessing in it. Maybe someday it will be revealed. Or maybe I’ll never know. KW

A TRUE RETRO MODERN HOMEMAKER AND MOTHER

My retro homemaker ideal would be my mother. It isn’t that she was the best household manager I ever knew. It’s that she had a wealth of knowledge and skill, and as my mother, she was willing to be my mentor. That’s the way it is with a mother.

But I think of someone else when the retro ideal is mentioned. She passed away six weeks ago after a relatively short illness, leaving her family devastated. As I listened to them share their grief while pictures of her wonderful life played in the background, my own memories of her flowed into thought.

In the mid-‘70s when I first knew her, she was one of a vanishing breed: a college-educated woman whose career was her home and family. When I married Mike and joined him in the 1920’s cottage, her house, larger but of the same vintage, was right next door.

Her house needed some major maintenance as old houses do, but it was a lovely “Cape Cod” and she made it look like a million bucks. As a skilled homemaker, she was also a gourmet cook, an accomplished flower gardener, a gracious hostess. She set a table worthy of “Traditional Home” and she did so whether serving her family or guests. Anyone privileged to spy the interior of her cupboards marveled at her organizational skill. They say she was a natural on the ski slopes and she was a natural at homemaking as well. She did her own house and garden work, and she didn’t need a system of lists or cards to know where she stood. She was attractive and her outdoor activities brought an enviable glow to her skin. As a new wife already feeling inadequate, living next door to this paragon didn’t help – neither her fault nor mine. (It also didn’t help that our houses were quite close; my bedroom window overlooked her patio.)

I suspect (though I don’t really know) that she kept life’s distractions to a minimum. No one said, for instance, that she was an avid reader or a student of anything.  She wasn’t a church-goer or a community activist. Her style of homemaking didn’t extend to the rural home arts, such as sewing, quilting, knitting, or even growing vegetables, but if she had espoused these endeavors she would have done them well. Instead her house and family came first, and nothing was too much work or too much trouble for her family. As they put it, she served but was not subservient.

I had my frustrations with my proximity to this ideal. Fifteen years older than I, twenty years ahead of me in homemaking experience, her goals and skills were well-established while I struggled to define my home and my role in it. Her three children were outgrowing the nest while mine were being born. I felt so homely by comparison. I admired her management style, but what seemed effortless for her was a trial for me.  

Before my third child was born, her husband insisted they move to “trophy house hill.” Though she understood, I don’t think she was pleased. The distinctive old house was an excellent backdrop for her talents, and it had become her identity. It was the place where she had raised her children and her tulips. Above all, she loved it there. But the maintenance issues could no longer be ignored. Their last child having left for college, her husband was ready for a different experience. But just looking at the new house, I thought it wasn’t right for her.

So I watched from my bedroom window early one morning as she vacuumed her dining room, empty of furniture, one last time. She had been up all night to make sure the house was spotless for the new owner. She later admitted she was crying. “A lot of memories in that house,” she told me.

The impression she made in that old neighborhood is still remembered today. In fact, the family admitted (a bit sheepishly, I thought) that on the day of her memorial service they had visited that old house, walked around it, peered through the windows. In that vintage place she had undoubtedly done her most memorable work. KW

IF YOU HANG IT, THEY WILL COME

Hallie and Nick, West Seattle-ites, have landscaped a small area behind their small condo (apartment) and fulfilled a longtime dream to have hummingbirds visit them. They hung the feeder and were duly rewarded.

But was it time for hummingbirds here at the farm? Yesterday I boiled a little nectar and hung our feeder on the front porch outside the dining room. As we ate our supper, two hummingbirds began to feed and entertain us.

Other wildlife comes to this place as well, some we don’t see. Mike thinks this large hoof imprinted in the lane was probably an elk.  

 

After arriving here yesterday morning, Mike immediately set to work to dissuade the pigeons from roosting on the house. They make a terrible mess! Last year we made real progress, but they found new roosting spots and Mike won't tolerate that. The roof is high and steep, so this isn’t a fun project. (Or maybe it is on some level – hmmmmm.) 

First, we went to the dormer above the front porch. Mike tied a rope around his waist, looped it around one of the roof braces on the opposite side and leaned out the window in order to staple the wire into place. My job? – hold the rope.

 

Then – we had to get the dreaded long ladder from the barn. You know how I hate that long ladder and watching Mike access the high places on the house. It took us several tries to position the ladder accurately, but eventually Mike was able to climb up, clean the mess and staple the mesh. I was relieved when the ladder was once again hanging in the barn.

And here's the bonus picture -- Nellie on point during our late afternoon walk. Two Hungarian partridge got up and flew off. Nellie likes to practice her hunting skills this time of year. KW

IS THIS SOMETHING YOU COULD PART WITH, KATHY?

Over the weekend my P.E.O. chapter sponsored its annual rummage sale. This year I cleaned out and donated more than I ever thought I would. If the item was taking up space on a shelf and hadn’t been used for some years, I asked myself the “Pickers” question: “Is this something you could part with, Kathy?”

I still like new things. Life goes on, and I have realized that clinging to the past weighs against my ability to move forward. So this year I parted with some things I treasured, some things I still love. For instance, I donated the domed cheese keeper and a bell-shaped plate from my Pfaltzgraff Christmas Heritage collection. I had to admit that these odd-shaped items were never used and taking up more than their fair share of the shelf. I was amply rewarded by the delight of another Pfaltzgraff collector, someone who entertains during the holidays and was overjoyed to have these pieces.

We also donated a white wicker chair and end table. Mike said he couldn’t remember when his family didn’t have them. I used them in the master bathroom and loved the retro look, but Mike didn’t. He pointed out that they were old and in sad shape, the paint chipping badly. “But people seek these things because they are old,” I said. “If I take those to the rummage sale, they’ll be gone in a flash.” "Are you serious?!” he questioned. And sure enough! They were gone first thing when the sale opened on Saturday but to different buyers. After three quarters of a century together, the table and chair have gone their separate ways.

Another item I donated – an antique frame with convex glass. My mother had envisioned using the frame for a certain old poster. “I just can’t figure out how to do it,” she said, and as the years since her passing slip by, I realized if she couldn’t figure out how to accomplish her idea, I certainly couldn’t, and yet I was carefully preserving the glass in a precarious place on the shelf where I’d rather keep my yarn and fabric stash. So the frame went to the rummage sale and was carried off by a happy young woman. And for me – no more worries that I will accidently break the glass while shoving boxes this way and that.  

 

And sometimes you can’t win for losing in your battle to reduce and the dissent comes from unexpected places. Daughter Hallie, the minimalist, was examining some photos of the rummage sale set-up that I forwarded to her. “Mom, are those your wooden thread spools in that picture? You get those back! They don’t make those any more.” And Mike agreed with her! So, the wooden spools are in the box, ready to go back to the farm. KW