Sunday is our day to kick back, and relax, in this Inland Empire of ours. This past Sunday we headed up in the afternoon to pick Huckleberries on Mount Spokane.
We like our little mountain. It's not huge, it's not snow-capped, it's not overbearing or over-dangerous. But it's a holy mountain to us nonetheless. From it's humble 5889 ft peak, we can see the world around us. We can see Steptoe Butte, nearly 100 miles to the south rising out of the rolling hills of the Palouse. We can see the mountains and lakes of North Idaho. We can see Lake Coeur D'Alene, and it's larger and older giant carved brother to the north, Lake Pend Oreille. We can also see all the children of these two lakes. Spirit, Twin, and others. We are truly surrounded by wonderful beauty here.
For all it's problems like the racism and the occasional backward thinking of some of it's residents, this really is one of the nicest spots on the planet.
Click the picture for the full set of Flickr pictures from this weekend.
I was a film major for a time in college. I really enjoyed making films, and studying them. What I've posted here isn't a film, per se...and it's kind of weird, but it was fun to do. It's a bit slow and lengthy, but I hope you enjoy it on some level, all the same.
...and over an hour, it slows down, creeping up on imperceptible. silent, quiet, dark and cool. hovering over everything, it sedates, transforms vision, leaves a dying ember in the northwest that fires what's left with all it's energy.
...and over an hour, it's gone. its gray remains lying like splintered time all over the colorless lawn. fanciful fantasies falling from below, creeping up from underneath; the cool earth, released. the smell thickens, almost audible now, it drifts in and out of windows opened, distant talking reminisces and passes on news.
...and over an hour, silence creeps in, breathing deepens, and minds quiet.
sunday groovin'...Couer D'Alene, Idaho, A.D. 2007...
Glistening water, the sound of motor boats and jet skies, the splashing laughter of swimmers...these are the defining sounds, the way I experience Lake Couer D' Alene, in Couer D' Alene, ID. Our own little slice of California, right here in the Inland Northwest. It's beach and boardwalk, sea plane and parasail, cliff and breeze.
We arrived, after a lazy morning, at around 2ish, in front of the house of a man called Stickman. His breezeway was littered with all manner of wonderfully smoothed sticks. Stickman takes the artwork that nature has wrought, and finishes it off with his own touches, and freely gives many of them away to any who ask. We asked, and we took four. I took one that was shoulder height, thick and smooth, and had a dark knobby knot protruding outward from the smooth white hardwood center. Stickman called it the "heart" of the walking stick, for me, it's the wart. The imperfection. But often times, in imperfection, the most beauty can be found. It is so with this piece. My wife chose a smaller stick, smooth, light weight but strong, with jewel-like stones inset. Our boys both chose small kid-sized sticks as well.
After we thanked Stickman, and departed, we walked around the East side of Tubbs Hill. It was hot, and the going was sometimes tough for our three-wheeled jogging stroller, but we purchased it many years ago for just this sort of thing, and it held up nicely. Cliffs to our left, and the sun glaring off the water, it was a brilliant sight to see. People recreating in almost every nook and cranny of the rocky shore below let us know that this town is, for want of a better term, a vacation town.
We finally made it to a place called "the Point." An isthmus of land jutting out from Tubbs Hill into the lake. We chose a westward facing beach front. Settling in the shade, my wife and our three month old, were able to put their feet in the water, and survey the much talked about Hagadone Resort and City Beach of downtown Couer D'Alene opposite us. The constant barrage of boats and other large pleasure crafts kept the older boys wound up and excited about all the "giant waves" coming to shore.
After a few hours of this, we made our way back to our car, and my family rested on the grass across from Stickman's house, where we'd parked, as I slowly loaded the trunk once again, and thought about dinner. A little burger join called Paul Bunyan didn't fail to give us greasy burgers, crunchy onion rings, and messy chili cheese fries. All things that I shouldn't be eating, but today was an off day.
Our baby slept on a blanket on the cool ground as we ate our burgers and grease in the fading light in Fort Sherman park. The older boys, eating as fast as they could (and as little as they could), imbibed with impatience, were finally released to enjoy the last thirty minutes of ambient light on the giant playground nearby.
Once the darkness had completely descended on us, and the glow of amber lights filled the park, and the sounds of people recreating started to fade away, we gathered our things, our children, looked at the moon glistening off the water, and said goodbye to Lake Couer D' Alene. We will be back again because, though this lake seems to always be full of people and boats, it is still a beautiful lake, and worthy of visiting a few times during the summer. So, we' will be back again.
We hit one of our regular summer places last Sunday. A place that we feel is a real gem in North Idaho. No run down Subaru Brat's here, that we could see, just nice, laid back, hippie types. We love Sandpoint. We love the beach in front of the Best Western Edgwater Resort. We like it especially on Sunday's when they've got live music.
The sun was warm, the water cool, and the music pretty mellow. Nice mix of violin, sax, and various percussion instruments. Nice groovy rhythms. The crowd was small and friendly, and it made us all happy. Our youngest slept in the shade under a pine tree while the music played, and I had two Coronita's (makes me feel like I'm drinking more to drink two seven ouncers...it's all about tricking out my psyche), and just enjoyed the music, the air, the view, and the release of stress.
Click below for 23 quick pictures of our Sunday trip: Sandpoint2007
Below is a short video of the band, Sol Jibe, that played the beach that day: Sunday, July 15, 2007
Were it not for you, I would fall. Were it not for you, my feet would slip, my grip would falter. Were it not for you, my mind would wander too far away, get lost, and never come back. Were it not for you, I would step off the Empire State building, thinking I was dreaming, and that I could fly.
You keep me grounded as I dream, you keep me from falling.
Were it not for you, they would not exist. Were it not for you, I wouldn't be the person I am today. Were it not for you, I would withdraw so completely that my shell would be impenetrable. Were it not for you, my life would be pointless and gray. Were it not for you I would be totally, completely, and utterly, lost.
You keep me grounded as I dream, you keep me from falling.
They would have never noticed it's potential in 1939. They wouldn't have seen it's magic, or felt it's possibilities. The focus would have been elsewhere, up front, or in the back, but never here.
But the faeries waited. They knew. Each year passed, old tires, scrap metal, through which grew tall grasses and weeds unremarkable. They kept their magic at bay, held it in the soil and the walls, until someone saw it and gave it release.
Some people say the universe has secrets. Some people believe that the universe will give you what you want. I believe this also, but somehow I don't think it's quite the same as those who dream of gold. The universe, and nature, keeps things hidden, until you find a way to work its release, then you see all it has to offer. It's wealth of another kind.
A child runs through it without knowing what came before. A child sees the magic better than those of us who have closed it up. Let the child run free, see it like a baby, see it like you've never seen it before, and run through it, no shoes, and free.
It's nice when someone accepts something you've offered them, like today, when the owner of our house accepted our offer after coming to the table with him only once. That's nice. I can feel the mortgage saddle sliding around my back already.
Now, on to the endless paperwork and signature scribbling.
Three thousand years ago I went to China because I wanted to learn. I wanted to learn to fly. I wanted to know what it's like to float on the breeze, sword in hand, with no chance of the flying daggers or the millions of arrows piercing my delicate and quiet skin.
I would come back from my sojourn, the Hero, and save my homeland. I would become the one who could lead us into a new millennium of peace, prosperity, and love. But it never happened.
I never came back. I stayed in China. I sat quietly on a mountain top and drank tea with mystics, traveled the frozen deserts of Mongolia, flew over the lofty heights of the mountains, swam in it's deep cool rivers, and loved deeply the land and it's people. I never became the hero I thought I was meant to be, I became something else. I became the sky and the land. I became the fire and the stone. I became the pebble in the stream. I became, China.
I've been amazed this week, as we sort through all the myriad of details surrounding this, our first ever home purchase. I've been amazed at how many people, agencies, and other entities, are required, or want to be notified, for us to just take possession of a small, nondescript, and relatively plain, plot of ground with a house. We even signed a document declaring that we were not using the property to launder money in order to fund international terrorism. First of all, I don't think paper money can survive the laundry very well, and if it did, why would a terrorist want crumpled torn up money anyway?
At any rate, here we are, today, making an offer on a house we've already lived in for four years. We know the place well. For our boys, this is the only place they remember clearly. Our oldest remembers a little bit of our year in Laredo, TX, but nothing much beyond that. For them, this is truly the only house they know as home.
So we forge ahead, into unknown territory, for us. We're leaning about "escrow" accounts (I'm still confused about what snails have to do with our house), taxes and insurance rolled into payments, percentage loans, closing costs, negotiations on price, house inspections, home appraisals, and all the people, people, people, all taking their little slice of this transaction. Some of these people, the loan officer, and my buyers agent, I couldn't do without. They are essential for me to even begin to understand this confusing process. I am not a money person. Money is a fluid substance for me, used to get the things I need, I would barter if I could. These people use money differently, calling it an "asset." I suppose money could be turned into an "asset" by giving it away in exchange for something else, but that's just the way I see it....I'm a silly person who just likes to live, not invest or think about tax write-offs. I guess that might have to change.
So, it's been a busy week, what with the house deal and all, and I haven't been in the right frame of mind to write anything sentimental, heart felt, or overly hoity toity this week, so I'll leave you with the following...assurance that the queen will not be knighting me any time soon.
This one goes out especially to our good friends, Marmitetoasty and Peanut.
Just a note, for those of you who may not know (and since nobody in my office knew), that's the ENGLISH flag. The Flag of ENGLAND. Yes. It is. Really. It's better known as St. George's flag. It's not the Swiss flag. The Swiss flag is a white cross on a red background. This is the flag of England. The flag of the crusaders. A very proud and noble flag...that my children are shaking their butts in front of...hence the end of my knight-hood dreams. I'll never be known as "Sir" Toadman, the brave. Oh well...
I must be naive. I must be a silly person with no grasp on reality. I have this sense in me that hopes against hope that people, specifically, the people I do business with, are being honest with me.
We rent. The owner of our house is ready to sell and has offered it to us first because we have that right written into our rental agreement. The letter from the management company told us that there may be another interested party, and that we need to make our decision soon. Every time I mention to people that they told us there may be another interested party, people tell me that this is likely a ploy, a rouse, a bluff.
I don't want to live in a world where this goes on all the time. But I am powerless to stop people from doing this, and I am powerless to keep from doing business with people who might do this. I have no evidence that what was said in the letter was untrue, and the management company hasn't really given me any reason to suspect that this may be true, but for some reason, society expects me not to believe it.
I must be naive. I must be a silly person with no grasp on reality. I must be someone who wants to live in a world whose existence is completely impossible. I must be completely out of touch with human nature.
I will continue to be this way, because living any other way would be depressing.
Sometimes we hold on to our anger. Sometimes it's because of something we envision as an injustice. Sometimes, though, it's not an injustice. Sometimes, unknown to us, our anger is unjustified, and our grudge, useless. Most times, in fact.
We let it boil inside. We fight for perceived justice, but sometimes we're blinded. When everyone else has forgotten what we were fighting for, nobody understands what we're saying, or why. When all the parties have moved on, lived on, or passed away, what is the point? Injustice, or justice, it doesn't matter anymore, it just doesn't, does it?
See that sign over there on the left? I see this sign on my way to work every day, and I don't understand it. Do you?
Note:One thing I probably should note about this sign, which I neglected to do earlier, is that it's been around longer than the current Chief of Police. Kirkpatrick took office in 2006 (I believe), but before then, the sign bore the name of the previous Chief of Police of Spokane (whose name eludes me at the moment). This sign is active, live, and maintained. It is obviously a fresh issue in this persons mind.
I went on a walk during lunchtime today. It was nice out. The gloomy forecast of dire heat had yet to express itself into reality, and the breeze still hinted at the cool temperatures of this morning.
I found myself in front of the Administration building on the campus where I work, and turned to look at the front of the building. I love this old building. I don't know if its the oldest building on campus, but it's one of the most stately, that's for sure. The trees, whose shade I took advantage of as I walked through this park like setting, rustled in different tones and different frequencies. The low swoosh of the tall pine undergirding the high pitched rustle of the broad leafed trees was a peaceful combination. I paused my walk, and leaned against one of these 100 year old trunks, to rest, and listen.
How many students have done just this? Sat, and looked at their surroundings. This campus, underrated by many, is by far one of the most beautiful campuses in the area. I take advantage of this. I get out of my office as often as I can, and just sit on the grass and think, and listen.
As I leaned my back against that tree, I thought of the students 100 years ago, who passed through these pillars, who learned here, who lived, met, and fell in love on this campus. I saw the long dresses of the NORMAL students, the leather caps of the early football team and the blue uniforms of WWI soldiers. Their ghosts are in this park, living on...you can hear them, if you're quiet, and you listen.
