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Douglas Did It

Posted on by Jennifer Rova / Comments Off on Douglas Did It

Come and look at these windows. I think someone has been shooting at them with a BB gun,” exclaimed my husband.

I went into the master bedroom and looked up high at the area Bob indicated. There were several sets of tan-ringed, small holes in the outer panels of two thermal-paned windows.

“Looks like it. Maybe it is kids but I think we would have heard the noises,” I mused. “I’ll go around the neighborhood and ask if anybody else has noticed or heard anything.”
As I was walking across the street, Bob yelled out the front door, “Jennifer, I found some more on the windows on the front side of the house like the others. These are way up high also.”

I knocked on door after door, inquiring if people had noticed any vandalism to their houses in any form. Nobody had noticed anything, but each one said he would check his house. Walking around our Hayden Lake neighborhood on that spring day, I reflected that northern Idaho has a basketful of weather conditions. We enjoy four temperate seasons, enough snow to make the conifer trees sparkle like Cinderella’s dress at the ball, and Windex-blue skies with cotton ball clouds. But this changeable weather is the opposite of our temperate law-and-order climate. We live at the end of a looped street, across from the north side of Hayden Lake, where there are few houses and even less traffic. It is quiet and we had never had any problems. Why would the vandals shoot only at our house? Why apparently only on the front side? When did it happen? Who did it? How much was this going to cost us to have the windows repaired? Continue reading

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A Musing Story

Posted on by Steve Carr / Comments Off on A Musing Story

It was just like old times, going to the movies at the Paramount in my hometown, Idaho Falls. It’s known as the Colonial Theater now, but to me, and probably a few of you, it will always be the Paramount.

The Paramount: where I was introduced to John Wayne, Roy Rogers, Trigger, Silver, Larry, Moe, and Curly. Sean Connery and I became friends there. After discovering he was secret intelligence agent Bond, James Bond, I responded for a month, “Carr, Steve Carr,” to our stodgy and oblivious drama teacher’s roll call.

It was at the Paramount where Ali McGraw looked me in the eye and said sweetly, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

She was dying of cancer. I was dying of a full bladder and an unfortunate Fruit-of-the Loom wedgie, for which there was, given the circumstances, no remedy. You see, the sweet smelling, seventh-grade blonde, who just happened to be there, also just happened to be sitting in the same fifth row, center section, next to me.

I may have been in love, but I was still sorry. I squirmed, hoping my discreet wiggles might accomplish the impossible, a hands-free adjustment. I gripped the armrests valiantly and stared steadfastly toward the screen, straining my poor eyes to the right, relying every few minutes on the wonders of youthfully wide peripheral vision. Did she look my way? Continue reading

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Gunfight on Boise Ridge

Posted on by Jim Fazio / Comments Off on Gunfight on Boise Ridge

In the early morning of July 31, 1940, the stillness of the hills above Boise was shattered by gunfire. Moments earlier, at 6 a.m. near a place called Mile High, there had been a knock at the cabin door of Pearl Royal Hendrickson. A brief conversation ended suddenly with two blasts from Hendrickson’s rifle. Deputy U. S. Marshal John Glenn staggered backwards and collapsed dead fifty feet from the cabin door. His partner, Captain George Haskin of the Boise Police Department, was standing around the corner of the cabin.

“First thing I knew—blewie! Right out of a clear sky, John was shot,” Haskin later told a reporter.

He fired two shots at the assailant and missed, and then fled up the hill through the brush and stumps. He ran back to the road where Nathan Smith was waiting in a taxi that had taken them up the winding dirt road at the end of North 8th Street. The two men raced back down the mountain to Boise and within hours, one of the largest posses in the history of Idaho began to assemble. As luck would have it, peace officers were holding a regional meeting in town, so lawmen from as far away as Moscow and Montana joined prison guards and a passel of volunteers, all armed to the teeth.

First to arrive back on the scene was my great uncle, U. S. Marshal George Meffan. From my earliest childhood in Pennsylvania, I had heard of Uncle George, but all I knew was that he lived in Nampa, was a U.S. Marshal, and was “killed by a squatter.” Continue reading

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The Redbud Blooms

Posted on by Marylyn Cork / Comments Off on The Redbud Blooms

On a June day in 1982, I came home from my maternal grandmother’s funeral to find a scraggly little American Redbud tree blooming in my front yard for the first time since I’d planted it there several years earlier. The tree had been a gift from Grandma, who’d heard me say I’d like to have such a tree, and had gone out and bought it for me. It had never flourished and I’d given up on it and decided to let it die that summer. It did just that, but first it bloomed, paying tribute, I have always believed, to the memory of a remarkable woman. Continue reading

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The Last Holdup

Posted on by Joe Aman / Comments Off on The Last Holdup

Back in 1989, the highlight of the annual Outpost Days weekend was a reenactment of a stagecoach service from Jordan Valley, Oregon to Murphy, the seat of Owyhee County.

Outpost Days in Murphy is the fundraiser for the Owyhee County Historical Society. The event is held annually, and attracts around three thousand visitors to the community of about fifty inhabitants. The two-day affair offers lost arts demonstrations, food, a cattle drive, and other attractions. Continue reading

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Bayview–Spotlight

Posted on by Jennifer Stamper / Comments Off on Bayview–Spotlight

My first day in Bayview was a mistake. After writing a city spotlight featuring my hometown, (“Clark Fork: Through New Eyes,” IDAHO magazine, July 2012), I was eager to write another one. I chose Bayview, because I thought I had a great personal story to tell about it, and it was a place I was excited to learn more about. But as my husband and I drove along the narrow road lined with thick pine forest, I realized that instead of going around the southern end of Lake Pend Oreille to the lower east shore, where I thought Bayview was, we were heading for the lower western shoreline. Entering the city limits, the road took a sharp left and the cutest little town opened up to view. Houses and shops were draped across the shore leading down to the water. All along the V-shaped bay, docks packed with boat slips lined the shore, dipping their outstretched fingers into the cool, blue-green water.

Pine-covered mountains encircled the bay, keeping watch over the town, while across the lake, more tall mountains stood shoulder-to- shoulder, their rock faces looking down over the water.

That first glance confirmed my mistake. Still, this was Bayview. I recognized the layout and specific shops I had seen on the map. “This isn’t where I thought we were going,” I admitted to my husband.

He looked at me with a hint of concern on his face. “Do we need to go somewhere else?” he asked.

I considered for a moment as I looked back over the town. In the bright morning sun, it looked so quaint and inviting that I suddenly felt the urge to walk along its shade-dappled sidewalks. “No,” I said. “My story is supposed to be about Bayview. Let’s go see what it’s all about.” Continue reading

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Two Hundred Dollar Pancake

Posted on by Mike Kincaid / Comments Off on Two Hundred Dollar Pancake

The aviation phrase, “hundred dollar hamburger,” was common in the good ol’ days —prior to the 2008 election— back when both gas and hamburgers were cheaper.

It referred to jumping in an airplane and flying to another airfield for lunch, which even then was a big price to pay for a gut bomb that usually began its slow detonation on the flight home. But now that gas prices have doubled, it seems crazy to fly cross-country just for lunch. So, how about breakfast instead? Continue reading

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The Incredible Exploding Tent

Posted on by Ray Brooks / Comments Off on The Incredible Exploding Tent

Finally he said, “I’ll tell you what happened, but you have to swear not to tell anyone.”

This was the summer of 1974, and it had been a slow day of retail in my Moscow outdoor store. All my customers appeared to be out having summer fun. But suddenly here stood hope, in the form of a customer I had recognized when he walked in. He was one of three forestry students I made friends with a month earlier. They had won a contract with the Forest Service to thin trees and were working all summer sixty miles east of Moscow, cutting down numerous small trees to give the surviving ones a better chance to grow and prosper.

These gents had bought good gear from me: quality sleeping bags and accessories, and what I believed to be the best three-man tent then available.  I think the tent retailed for $150, which was big money back then. I had sold them my only one in stock and immediately ordered a replacement.

Today my customer wanted a second one of these three-man tents. I was excited, nearly giddy, about selling another of my best and favorite tents, but he was reserved and grumpy. Even so, I couldn’t help myself, and asked if the three guys had more people working with them. He said no. I asked if they had found the three-man tent too crowded for an entire summer of sleeping together. He said no.

There was an uncomfortable silence, while he looked around the store. After a moment, he loosened up and told the story, but not until I swore a sacred oath to keep my mouth shut about it. Continue reading

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Unexpected Gifts

Posted on by Lynnette LaVoy / Comments Off on Unexpected Gifts

In 1970, the Ray family lived on a small farm west of Wendell. May 12 made headlines in the Jerome newspaper, because twelve babies were delivered that day, an amazing number for the little hospital at the time. I was one of the twelve, the newest addition to the Rays.

We children often walked down the long lane from our home to the barn, where my mom milked the cows late at night. One of my first memories, from when I was about three, is walking down the lane and suddenly realizing I could not see. It was night and very dark. I began to scream and my sister said, “Just give your eyes a minute to adjust.” Continue reading

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She Speaks Horse

Posted on by Amy Story Larson / Comments Off on She Speaks Horse

“Karmel’s a great storyteller,” said my friend, Larie Horsely. As Karmel Laursen began giving a mother’s account of the miracle that had unfolded before her eyes over time, I had to agree. We were at the Sun Valley Wagon Days, because Larie knew of my interest in a group that would be performing there, the EhCapa (“Apache” spelled backwards) Bareback Riders Club. Her daughter, Brandi Horsely Krajnik, is the owner of BK Arena in Nampa, where the club practices. I had come hoping to hear the tale of Karmel’s daughter, a girl named Ecko, who had tamed a wild mustang and was now riding it, two years later, as the EhCapa Queen.

To understand the gravity of becoming an EhCapa Queen, a little history is in order. In 1956, looking for a way for children to benefit from horsemanship without the exorbitant cost of tack, the club was created. With a style reminiscent of American Indians of old, the EhCapa dress the part and paint up their horses as Indians once did. There are no bridles or bits. Control is through voice commands, cues from the riders’ legs, and a one-inch leather tack rein. Riders turn right, left, stop, gallop, and jump their mounts over horizontal poles several feet in the air. Accomplished riders put arms behind their backs, as if flying, and don’t hold on at all. The EhCapa Queen is an extremely good rider with an extremely good horse. I had pondered all this as I drove up to Sun Valley with my friend Janet to watch the parade, and hopefully to spend a few minutes with Queen Ecko Laursen and her mother. Larie said she would introduce us. Something about this group of country folk I’ve fallen in with just gets me. When we met up with Larie, right away it was, “Here’s a couple of chairs, have a seat,” and “You should’ve camped with us this weekend,” and “You’ll both have to come to the barbeque.” Always warm and welcoming. Larie led us to a shady canvas near the parade site. The EhCapas would ride past us within thirty minutes. Continue reading

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