Book Review: The Whistling Season

whistling

Every once in awhile a book of pure excellence comes along and, for me, Ivan Doig’s The Whistling Season has reached that level.

In 1909 change was in store for the Milliron family. The story is told in the voice of a reminiscing Montana school supervisor when he was 13 years old, The oldest of three sons, Paul is a precocious child who takes his responsibilities seriously. His father counts on him, especially since the boys’ mother died the year before.

The family manages, but the house is usually in disarray. Besides keeping up his farm at Marias Coulee, Montana, the father works as a drayman for a diversion canal under construction, and is president of the local school board. Housework and cooking naturally aren’t at the top of chores that manage to get done. When the father sees a housekeeper’s work wanted ad in the newspaper, the family’s interest is piqued. It is puzzling though when they learn through the ad that the housekeeper, though well qualified, does not cook. Can’t all women cook?

When the new housekeeper Rose and her brother Morrie crash into the Millirons’ lives, immediate change transforms the household. Through a death, serious accident, a vengeful family and a puzzling mystery, every member of the family responds for the good of the whole. These are tough folks, people who must take life as it’s served to them. How they measure up to the challenges shows the caliber of grit it takes to survive the dryland Montana prairie.

The entire book takes place primarily between the Milliron’s modest farmhouse and the one-room schoolhouse that serves grades one through eight.

The Whistling Season unfolds with the flawless assurance of an acclaimed storyteller. The landscape and characters are vivid, as is the emotional depth of the novel. It’s a story guaranteed to pop into readers’ minds with gentle reminders of the book’s every-day situations. The Whistling Season is a masterpiece.

A Precious Gift

Women Dressed up

From: Tubob: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

One late afternoon, I sat in my hut reading and heard my name sung out. I stepped outside and opened the gate. A woman I had counseled about good nutrition for her baby smiled at me. She reminded me that her name was Sibo and that I had visited her at her compound. Sibo carried a basin on her head containing a parcel wrapped in cloth.

When women went to market, or made a formal visit to one another, they dressed up for the occasion. In this case, Sibo wore a nice top with a matching wrap-around skirt, and matching head scarf. I found their clothes attractive. Most tubobs I knew couldn’t manage a wrap-around skirt, we just couldn’t keep it secure without buttons, zippers or pins.

I invited Sibo into our house. As she lowered her load to the table, I offered her water, which she accepted. She had walked a distance. Her village was well beyond the Health Centre.

After taking a swallow of water, she opened the cloth to reveal perhaps five pounds of rice. Her family had grown and harvested the rice, she said, and it was a gift to me for caring. I was stunned. This was a gift of sacrifice, representing back-breaking work. Not only was the gift wonderful, but she’d walked miles in the hot sun to deliver it. I barely had the Mandinka vocabulary to express my appreciation. “Abaraka,” I said, with my hand over my heart. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Repeated several times, it was about the best I could manage. I brought out my enamel bowl and she poured the rice from her cloth into the bowl, not spilling a kernel.

We chatted for awhile, she looked at our wall hangings, snapshots of our family, a U.S. map and a world map. I showed her our home state, then showed her where she lived. She obviously had never seen a map before. I invited her to see my kitchen and she marveled. By American standards it would be primitive, but to her it was luxury. She surprised me by saying my kitchen was good because I didn’t have time to prepare food the way they do, over an open fire.

I heard a motorcycle putter up to our compound, idle while the driver opened the gate, then a quiet rumble as he rode the motorcycle to our door. Many volunteers who lived in outlying areas were issued small motorcycles, some more like motor scooters. The rule was they were to use them only within a fifty mile radius. Dave lived in Fatoto at the eastern tip of the country and often stopped by when in our area. After I introduced them, he launched comfortably into Mandinka with Sibo.

After a short while, Sibo said she must return to her home to prepare dinner for her family. Dave offered to give her a ride on his motorcycle, but she declined, laughing. When I said, “Sibo, why don’t you? It would be so much faster,” she hesitated. Dave turned his motorcycle around and said, “Na.” Come. Much to our amazement, she hiked up her skirt to climb on, covering her legs as best she could. Dave indicated that she had to hang onto him. She stood her basin on end between them, then hung on and they took off at a sedate speed. She grinned back at me. What a sight.

Gambian rice has a rich, nutty flavor and takes a bit longer to cook than our processed rice. We ate it soon because it had limited shelf life. I didn’t want this precious gift to become chicken feed.

**Note: To leave a comment, please click on “Reply” below

Book Review: Home Fires

Home FiresJudith Kirscht’s Home Fires is a noteworthy and timely novel dealing with a family gone awry.

Myra and Derek Benning and their teenage children, Peter and Susan, appear to live a privileged life. Susan has a few social issues, but there’s love and strong bonds between the parents and children, and they’re a happy family. Myra feels blessed to have a handsome, successful husband and thankful for their enduring love. A phone call shatters her serenity and plunges the marriage into chaos.

Guilt, anger, and surmounting worry consume Myra. But then, an even more serious situation surfaces with daughter Susan and immediate action must be taken. Myra does what she must do, but at a price that affects every member of the family.

The story takes place on the Santa Barbara, CA coast and the author beautifully sets the various scenes, making the reader feel as though she breathes the salty air while walking along the beach, strolls quaint streets of the water-front town, or skims along waves while sailing the Santa Barbara Channel.

Although the subject matter is serious, Home Fires is an enjoyable read. Kirscht handles the subject of a complicated dysfunctional family with finesse. The various facets of the story are believable with realistic dialog and situations. Home Fires is an excellent novel, one I enjoyed immensely. Even when I wasn’t reading it, the story was on my mind, trying to second-guess the outcome.

Home Fires is currently available in ebook format, but soon also will be available in paperback. For more information about Judith Kirscht, visit www.JudithKirscht.com

**Note: To leave a comment, please click on “Leave a Reply” below.

Book Review: Think Like Your Dog

ThinkLikeYourDogDogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.
Roger Caras, as quoted in Think Like Your         Dog: and Enjoy the Rewards

Dianna M. Young (with Robert H. Mottram) has shown with undeniable expertise the value of communicating with your dog in a language canines understand. In Think Like Your Dog: and Enjoy the Rewards, Young gives readers the step by step process necessary to have a canine companion to bond with in a rewarding relationship.

The most important lesson to be learned is that in every human and dog team, there is one leader and one follower. In a dog’s eyes, there is no in-between. Young clearly reiterates this principle throughout the book and gives understandable examples of how it can be achieved.

Think Like Your Dog discusses the important steps to take when your pup is first brought home, which ideally is not before eight weeks of age. Those first eight weeks with the pup’s mother assure that the puppy will get a strong foundation in tems of behavioral characteristics it will possess for the rest of its life. The next eight weeks with the new owner are critical in providing socialization skills, exposing him to people, kids, trains, buses, other dogs, noisy places, crowded places. Further, the pup should go through these experiences on his own four feet, not to be scooped up in the protective arms of his owner.

Each chapter in this valuable book discusses how a dog views the various elements of his life. The reader learns how a dog thinks through our verbal and body language, the senses and how all that relates to his comprehension. She discusses the various breeds and how they may differ when it comes to choosing a family pet. She talks about getting a dog as a puppy, or a mature dog and, in either case, how to proceed with meaningful training.

It’s important to have the proper dog equipment and in the book various types are illustrated and explained. Methods of training are outlined, with emphasis on positive reinforcement. The importance of a structured environment, patience and compassion are directly related to a successful dog and handler relationship.

Our chocolate lab Toby is 10 years old, yet I learned techniques in this book that we can use to enhance our family’s relationship with him. Not only that, I’ve learned the mistakes we’ve made, primarily relating to getting him too young, at five weeks, before he had that essential time with his mother.

Think Like Your Dog: and Enjoy the Rewards makes an ideal all-in-one reference book. It’s an enjoyable read with interesting stories and photos emphasizing the various principles Young teaches. For more information about the author and her training and boarding facility on Camano Island, visit: www.HowtoThinkLikeYourDog.com

Dawda, the Tailor

Ch-19-RGB 2From: Tubob: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

The only place we could buy ready-made clothes was in The Gambia’s capitol city, Banjul, so most of my dresses were made to order at nearby Basse. Because of the heat, I preferred loose-fitting dresses and our local tailors were adept at copying a dress pattern from another sample dress, taking measurements of my shoulders and the preferred dress length. I was impressed with the tailors. Interestingly, they always were men. They used foot-operated treadle machines as there was often no electricity in the market place.

Our favorite tailor, Dawda, set up his business at the Basse market, in front of a Mauritanian-owned fabric store. He happened to be the first tailor I went to with one of my friend’s dresses to use as a sample.

Dawda understood the concept of learning. He always had a spare chair next to him and often invited me to sit and we’d chat in Mandinka. At first he talked slowly so that I could understand and often gave me new words that I could use. He was a wonderful man and very skilled on his treadle sewing machine.

I had a large selection of thread sent from the States for Dawda and he was thrilled. The thread that tailors often used was quite breakable, so he was pleased to have strong polyester thread. He had a scrap of material left over from another project and one day while we chatted, he made a triangular head scarf for me, using his new thread.

By this time we could converse fluently and I asked him about a bulubah, a sort of robe, for my husband Bruce. His eyes lit up. “Most tubobs don’t even know what a bulubah is,” he said. We went into the fabric store together to find suitable fabric, something that would look good with Dawda’s wonderful machine embroidery.

The blue and gold garment would come down to Bruce’s ankles, with loose, flowing sleeves and would serve as a robe in the evenings. It would be my Christmas present to him.

Tourist season had started and would continue through February. We occasionally saw tubobs wandering around the market. They were usually so pale, Bruce and I jokingly referred to them as “cadavers.” Most of them arrived by the weekly boat Lady Chilel, slept onboard and were gone when the boat headed back downriver the next day.

A tourist couple stood by while Dawda and I talked. “Listen,” the woman said, “she’s talking their language.”

Dawda and my eyes locked. We totally ignored them.

Crossing Paths with Crossroads Africa

Ch-17-RGB 2

From: Tubob:Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

A group of young people from the philanthropic group Crossroads Africa arrived in The Gambia, West Africa. Volunteers pay a sum of money to make a six-week trip like this. Their first destination had been Nigeria, but at the last minute they were denied visas, so the group came to The Gambia. It fell on USAID to design a worthwhile program for the fifty-eight volunteers, ten of whom would be assigned to our upriver village, Basse.

An officer with the Expanded Program of Immunization of The Gambia stopped by on Tuesday and asked me if I would go with the group to the large Serahule village of Garawol on Wednesday to help them with immunizations. I accepted, pleased to be asked.

Working with the Crossroads peope at Garawol was an interesting experience for me. As usual, we first called on the Alkala, the village chief, and then proceeded to immunize the children against polio.

The following Thursday I had a chance to again work with the Crossroads people, this time on a Nutrition Survey. They conducted what they called a “random survey.” It gave me a new understanding of “random.” If I were to pick apples randomly, I would select one here, one there. But the scientific term, in this case, meant to begin with a selected village, then, as protocol demands, go to the Alkala’s compound, explaining our mission to him. We began with his children by weighing, measuring for height, and measuring the upper arm, a good measuring place to detect malnourishment.

Next came the random part. The group leader took out a one-dalasi bill and read the last serial number. If the number was between one and four, it was used as the basis; if not, one worked backwards until a number between one and four was found. Then, facing east toward Mecca and working clockwise, number one was east, number two south, number three west, number four north. After leaving the Alkala’s compound, the group followed the number going the direction as dictated by the number on the dalasi. Then, the next number on the dalasi determines where you stop. If it was a three, the group stopped at the third compound and took the measurements of the children there. We continued to follow this formula, eventually getting the measurements of thirty children. The word “random” will forever have that memory for me.

The reason for the random survey is that it’s so easy to be swayed. People see malnourished children and take their measurements to confirm their suspicions, or see healthy children and want to “reward” the parents by measuring those children. The random survey produces a fair sampling without local influences.

I found the Crossroads Africa workers a nice group of young people, hard working and goal oriented. They performed a worthwhile service to their host country.

Review: The Heart Trilogy

In The Heart Trilogy, Carmen Peone has skillfully created three novels about a Native girl in the emerging American West. Filled with heart and compassion, the character Spupaleena grows in skill, knowledge, leadership, and in her relationship with her newly found Christian God.

Change of Heart

 

Change of Heart

When Spupaleena, 13, runs away from her Arrow Lakes pit home near Eastern Washington’s Columbia River, she escapes from more than a bossy big sister. But she doesn’t consider the difficulty of traveling by foot in the dead of winter. Change of Heart is a story of survival, compassion, love and enduring faith.

 

 

Heart of Courage

 

Heart of Courage

Spupaleena,16,dreams of breeding and racing horses. Although her father is against her pursuing this male-dominated sport, Spupaleena feels that God has put into her heart the love of horses and that she is fulfilling her destiny. She receives a gift of a four year-old Tobiano stud colt that is ready to ride and a perfect match for Spupaleena’s enthusiasm and skill. Heart of Courage is a story of a girl determined to fulfill her destiny.

 

Heart of Passion

Heart of Passion

Spupaleena, now in her late teens, has built a stable of powerful race horses. Her team of relay racers are consistent winners, much to the chagrin of a vengeful boy. Passionate about her vocation, Spupaleena overcomes many obstacles, including both human and horse injuries. She turns to God for direction in how to handle her enemy, this boy who is determined to see her fail. Heart of Passion is a story of compassion, faith and determination.

 

Carmen Peone has written an engaging trilogy steeped in Native American and religious culture. She lives on the Colville Confederated Indian Reservation and has studied the language and customs of her husband’s people, the Sinyekst. With her American Paint horses she has competed in local Extreme Trail Challenges. It’s no wonder The Heart Trilogy rings true with knowledge and authority. For more information about the author, visit www.CarmenPeone.com

Book Review: Wild

WildTP_Books-330 (1)

 

I love a title with more than one meaning. In this case. Wild can refer to the idea of hiking more than a thousand miles of the 2,663 mile Pacific Crest Trail, the wild trail itself, and even to the author, particularly in her former life. Wild by Cheryl Strayed is well named.

When Cheryl Strayed contemplated hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) she had no idea of the magnitude of her impulsive decision. She was totally unprepared for this rugged endeavor. She had researched the trail a bit, inquired and shopped for equipment at REI, and bought a trail guide. But she hadn’t done any preliminary back-packing to test her equipment, nor to build up her stamina. Indeed, she’d never backpacked at all, only day-hiked.

She starts her journey at the south end of the trail, near the Mexican border. She actually packs her backpack for the first time in the motel room the morning she is to begin her journey. She can barely lift it off the floor. She soon learns that her boots don’t fit her correctly, a mistake that plagues her during the entire trip. When she encounters snow and ice, she’s woefully unprepared and under equipped. Although she has arranged to have relief packages mailed to herself along the way, she underestimated the amount of money she’d need.

Still, over the next several weeks she strives on, overcomes fear and struggles through pain and extreme exhaustion. Her daily mileage is at first pathetic, but she eventually achieves an impressive 17 to 19 miles per day. Strayed’s appreciation of the beauty around her bolsters her morale. Her intention is to achieve this ambitious feat alone and for the most part, she is alone, though she encounters a few people along the way. She gains a reputation among other hikers and is dubbed “Queen of the PCT.”

Strayed skillfully includes flashbacks of her life, many of which directly relate to the purpose of this seemingly insurmountable quest.

Coming from a “hippy” background, Strayed’s sense of values will undoubtably differ from many readers, perhaps even to an irritating degree, but her sense of achievement and dedication to her goal will inspire and resonate with many readers. The author’s writing style sparkles with vivid descriptions and humor as this incredible journey unfolds against all odds. To learn more about the author, visit www.CherylStrayed.com

 

It Takes a Village

Basse Health Center

Basse Health Center

From: Tubob: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

In my quest to line up in-service training speakers for the auxiliary nurses at the Basse Health Center in The Gambia, I found many helpful agencies in our village.

Once I went with my husband Bruce to the hydro-meteorological office, a weather monitoring station, so that Bruce could use their short-wave radio to call Yundum headquarters to order, or try to order, necessary supplies. The hydro-met supervisor, happy with our interest in his work, showed us around. They measured rainfall, when it infrequently happened, evaporation and temperature. They had about 15 different thermometers, some measuring air temperature, soil surface temperatures, and several at various depths in the soil. We were surprised to see that it was 85 degrees four feet underground. No wonder our well water felt so warm.

Another day I encountered a policeman on my way to market and asked if I could visit the police station. Delighted with my request, he showed me around. Stepping inside, the two desks were stacked with papers. The room itself was relatively comfortable with ceiling fans. Since he currently had no prisoners, he asked if I would like to see the jail. I agreed and he opened a heavy door to a dingy, hot, stuffy room with four cells. The place smelled of urine and sweat. If there was ever an incentive to stay on the right side of the law, that place was it.

The policeman took a long time with me, discussing his various duties. As I left, he said, “Mariama, if you ever have trouble, come to see me. I will take care of it.” I didn’t doubt him for a minute.

The Catholic Relief Services was pleased to be asked to speak at my in-service training program. CRS’ main goals are to provide emergency relief, long-term development, particularly in agriculture, and health care education. They were good about gearing their talk to make it clear they were supplementing the Health Center services, not acting as competition.

I also called on Planned Parenthood to invite them to speak at our in-service program. . Apparently Muslims had no problem with Planned Parenthood, though abstinence didn’t seem to go over well. They were okay with the women taking “the pill,” but with the supply chain being chancy, it sometimes caused more problems than it solved. The tubob I spoke with said that in one case, many women in a village had taken the pill, but when the supply ran out, most of them became pregnant, all in the same month! Planned Parenthood was mostly concerned with the mothers’ health after multiple births in relatively few years.

These various groups added to the auxiliary nurses’ knowledge of health agencies available in the Basse area. Learning about the various agencies helped me to understand how The Gambia worked and what it took to manage the well-being of a community. There were other groups, too, such as the Chinese agriculture team who helped teach Gambians how to grow rice, and various missionary groups.

I was pleased with the reception I received from the various agencies operating for the welfare of the Basse area. I found the spirit of cooperation encouraging. Together we could strive toward making a difference.

A Two-Horse Mining Town

Bayhorse
In 1864, two prospectors met a man with two bay horses, horses with hair coat color characterized by a reddish brown body and black mane and tail. The man told the prospectors of a rich mining ground he’d seen. Eventually the site was found and the name Bayhorse given to the creek, town and mining district.

Bayhorse, now a ghost town in central Idaho’s Custer County, is a fun and informative place to experience a fascinating part of Idaho’s mining heritage. Nestled in a narrow, rocky canyon about three miles from where Bayhorse Creek enters the Salmon River, the old mining town was at one time a rich silver and copper producing ground, but now its richness is in its history.

Early residents must have developed strong climbing muscles. Although the trails are well maintained, it takes a little effort to navigate the steep paths to view the interesting nooks and crannies. Go ahead: Stop to rest while looking at the breath-taking view of lush hills covered with aspen and Ponderosa pine.

Informative signage gives visitors the flavor of those long-ago days when, in the early 1870s, a rich vein of silver was discovered. Soon a smelter, mill and eventually a town of 300 sprang up around the steep rocky slope. Before families came, the area was a tough place with lots of whiskey consumed. With the presence of wives and children, the drinking was cut down considerably and it became a much more peaceful, civilized community.

With the success of the smelter, the town grew and businesses thrived. People flocked to the area, including mining engineers, miners, stone masons, loggers, merchants, mill men, businessmen, doctors, cooks and laundrymen. The town included several saloons, meat markets, general stores and boardinghouses. The majority of the buildings were made of wood with local stone foundations. Some of these old buildings still stand.

The Bayhorse Mill is the dominant structure of the site. The multi-level mill was built on a hill in descending stair-step levels. It relied on gravity to move the rock through the mill and used water to wash the pulverized rock through the millworks. From there the ore moved across sluice boxes, to settling tanks, and finally to the concentrating tables at the bottom of the mill.

During Bayhorse’s most productive years, 1882 through the 1890s, ten million dollars worth of metals–silver, gold, copper and lead–were extracted from the region. By the turn of the century only a handful of miners remained. In the end, nearly 100,000 tons of ore was pulled from the mountains, leaving more than 25,000 tons of tailings and mine waste. Eventually, devastating fires, dwindling reserves of high grade ore and failing silver prices doomed the town’s existence.

An intriguing stone building, locally called the Wells Fargo Building, is one of the more intact standing buildings. It was possibly named after the design of early Wells Fargo buildings. Although its use is unknown, the sturdy building was possibly used to store bullion before it was transported.

The construction of nine charcoal kilns in 1882 saved transportation costs and created jobs. The conical “beehive” construction needed no bracing and was built of native stone. The kilns were easy and cheap to build and were strong enough to endure the operation’s low heat requirement. More men were required to cut and supply wood for the kilns than to actually operate them. In total, it took 48 men to supply wood and operate the kilns to produce the charcoal to keep the smelter operating. The kilns were abandoned in 1895 and coke was shipped in from Ketchum, ID to operate the smelter.

Transportation was a big problem from the early days around 1870 through the early 1900s. The remoteness and difficulty getting the product out of the area for processing made it almost impossible for the small claim owner to survive. Snow-blocked passes made winter travel impossible. The closest railhead in Blackfoot, Idaho was 375 rough and dangerous miles away. By the time the product was delivered to its destination, the minors often spent more for transportation than they took from the rich earth.

Bayhorse is a part of Idaho’s State Park system and there is a $5 entrance fee. Although there is no overnight camping, the spacious parking lot can easily accommodate RVs. Further up the road, there are a few small campgrounds with no water. We stayed at nearby Bayhorse Campground, managed by the Bureau of Land Management, a nice little place with 14 campsites suitable for RVs, available water and pit toilets. The campground is near the town of Challis, Custer County seat.

To get to Bayhorse mining town: From Idaho Highway 75, between Challis and Stanley, just east of milepost 236, cross a one-lane bridge and you’ll see the signs to Bayhorse.