Stories and vignettes are coming in for the Cove Collection book, but one thing I am noticing is that the women of the Cove are generally silent. What gives? We all pretty much know that a woman’s voice is different, that their experiences and their perspectives must be part of this tapestry of life that we are all working to put together. Why are the women silent?

Maybe women are ‘at it’, writing as I type, and I have only to wait. I can do that, if they are.

Does anyone have diaries or letters written by the older women we once knew? Even ‘what I did today’ types of journaling piece together life as it was back when. Search through your stash, please.

I’ll be waiting to hear from you.

“Now open your mouths wider, like this, so the sound can come joyfully out,” the grown-up director reminds the children before the Christmas program. Since the Cove church sang acapella, little voices need not sound above piano, organ, or guitars to be heard. And there is nothing like the chorus for Angels we have heard on high, to bring out those perfectly rounded caroling mouths around all 18 syllabications of the Gloria!

I’m remembering Christmases past, the memories that last: Mom’s Bethlehem and wisemen black silhouettes taped to the front window, our sagebrush Christmas tree with a modest amount of gifts beneath it, all those homemade candies plus the shiny, store-bought hard candy, and, of course, the Christmas program at church.

I have learned that when it comes to remembering, ‘two heads’ can be much better than my one! Last December when I read to my Reader’s Group my Christmas poem, “Twas that night in December” from my just-published book, Marlene Kropf surprised and pleased me by joining us! Marlene grew up in the Sheridan Mennonite Church in Oregon, so the Christmas traditions she enjoyed were of the same kind. “And the peanuts,” she added. “The brown paper sacks passed out after the Christmas programs at church had unshelled peanuts, along with that shiny hard Christmas candy and the orange,” she reminded me. Of course! How could I have forgotten those peanuts?!

This goes to show that memories of Christmas are meant to be shared, to ensure that all the important pieces are brought out, and the picture completed.

This same principle applies to putting together a collection of stories about life in Indian Cove, throughout its history. A letter is soon going out to everyone who has lived in the Cove, asking again for contributions in order to bring together all the details that will give us the BIG picture. Please, let’s be sure to not forget something that may seem small, like peanuts! Each person is holding important memory pieces.

Here’s to Christmas past!

Sometimes looking back can be a mixed bag of good memories, and those not so good. I remember my dad didn’t like to talk about the past– until he was much older, and I think it was that life was just that hard, back then. He preferred looking forward to new innovations, new folks moving in, new crops to try. I think our annual Thanksgiving season gives us all a good and ‘safe’ vantage point from which to look back, because we can be grateful for the good that has come out of even those hard seasons. We can see the family strengths that have shown through, and the Cove legacies passed on.

My family and I are talking about ways to encourage a collective sharing of memories for another published peek into Indian Cove’s past. You will be hearing more from us on this. Take another look back, and jot down what appears in your rearview mirror.

Helen’s Mustard Pickles recipe as I show it in my book is not correct. In fact, it is such a far cry from Helen’s recipe that Debbe Johnson says you will be very disappointed when you find out that you have not even come close to making her mom’s mustard pickles! I feel badly about this, and want to correct this recipe, right here and now.

The missing ingredient in Helen’s pickle recipe is the French Mustard. Debbe tells me it must be French, and that no other kind of mustard will do. So, here is the corrected ingredients and you can call Debbe and thank her for saving each of your cucumbers from becoming a big flop of a pickle!

• 6 pints sliced or diced cucumbers
• 2 quarts diced onions
• Cover the cucumbers and onions with water and 1 cup salt. Let them stand for 2 hours. Rinse them off.
• Make a paste of the following ingredients:
• ½ cup flour
• ½ cup vinegar
• Add
• 2 cups sugar
• 2 Tblsp dry mustard
• 1 tsp. Tumeric
• 1 quart vinegar
• Cook with the onions and cucumbers.
• Add the following:
• 3 cans of pimentos cut into small pieces.
• 16 ounces of French Mustard. Cook 10 minutes more.
• Use the same canning process as you would to seal jam.

We missed the Outpost Days’ Golden Jubilee in Murphy, Idaho, last weekend! [sigh] This is the problem with living far from Owyhee County. [sigh]

Check out the Owyhee County Historical Society facebook page with photos of the day. My favorites are of the World Championship Horny Toad Race. Way to go, kiddos! KUDOS to the Owyhee County Historical Society!

I saw one of those horned lizards on my last desert hike south of the “Gene House” in March. According to inaturalist.org there are 18 different species of reptiles in Owyhee County. They look very interesting and even beautiful, but I can’t say I’ve met most of them…yet. They excel at patterns, and even colors. I do wonder how the horny toad’s name changed from the Desert Horned lizard. Anyone know?

Spud (that’s Gene who built the “Gene House”) says they enjoyed a ponded landscape beside their house in the Cove, until they realized the rattlesnakes were making it their regular watering hole. Darn! To think that when I’m up on the second story deck, there, I could be looking out over a lovely habitat for reptiles and amphibians, and any other water-drinking life. Well, I’ll settle for the field view, with a sweeping pivot and the green of potato field.

Now, if I can just get back there.

Easter is coming up in 4 weeks. What was it that stirred you into celebrating this holiday like you did when you lived in the Cove? Easter is just about as mixed as Christmas, featuring both Christian meaning and cultural festivity. Because this blog is about memories, jot down some and share them with the rest of us.

I just returned from a stay in the “Gene House” in the Cove valley where I could see each day dawn from the kitchen windows facing east. For me, Easter in Indian Cove was about standing outside with others to watch that early morning sun rise and spread its rays into a huge sky, along with remembering the resurrection of Jesus Christ. My last Easter sunrise service there may have been the year I shared it with 5 others who were also in their twenties, from atop the western rimrock. An old friend and I recently talked about this, but we didn’t put a date on it. Does anyone remember when this was?

This year I will need to be standing in place on a bluff before 6:11 on Easter day to see– if clouds permit– the sun rise at 6:11 and spread its light over the big waters of Port Townsend Bay. It’s not quite the same away from rimrocks and an extra big open sky! In Indian Cove it will rise at 6:51, allowing 40 extra minutes of sleep. I’ll be wishing I were there.

Last week, in Dad’s binder of news-clippings and papers important to him, I found a copy of Diana Hooley’s column, “Country Neighbors,” written weekly from her farm home in Indian Cove. It immediately sent my eyes searching out the windows of the “Gene House” I’m staying in, to watch for robins. When do they show up here in the Cove, I wondered? This morning I spotted one on the outdoor light of the upstairs deck, sitting smack dab in the sunshine! It moved from there to the nearby bare tree, also in full morning sun. A contented robin.

Barnyard bias shows eye for details

I saw Ola from a distance as I took a jog down our gravel road. She opened up the gate wearing an apron and a smile, measuring her steps carefully as someone past retirement might.

“I won’t keep you,” she said, “I know you like your walk, but say…um, did you know the robins have come back?”

Another time, another place, not Indian Cove, and I might have looked at her with a screwed up nose and those arched eyebrows people wear sometimes and said, “Huh?”

Now, I felt her elation in the coming spring because living on the quiet farm you tend to notice things like the flutter of a robin’s wing. The ability to appreciate little things requires an eye for detail. It’s something that takes development.

I believe we all come into the world not only fallen from grace, but also singularly obtuse. You don’t think so? Have you ever watched a toddler get his food to his mouth? It comes in gooey heaps. And the chosen method of transportation? His chubby little fists, of course. I might mention to this tiny individual the fact that details, like spoons, knives, and forks count, but little good it would do me.

Children, bless their innocence, have an excuse. What about all us adults who live our lives and forget to. . .how’d that song go? Oh yes, “stop and smell the roses along the way (or notice the robins.”)

So many people here in Indian Cove are rose-smellers and robin-watchers. I don’t know why exactly, but I think it’s lack of siren, subway and smog distractions. I guess my barnyard bias is showing.

Take Doris for instance. There are quilters and there are quilters. But how many who flatter themselves with this title can get 5 stitches on a three-quarter-inch needle? The really remarkable thing about this is, I’ve never seen a Band-Aid on her needle finger and her eye-glass prescription has stayed the same all these years.

Occasionally someone will cross these sacred perimeters, anywhere past the Hammett bridge and before the Cove Community Church, and desecrate the ground with a golden beer can or a bright orange aberration from a taco chip company.

Uncle Willard rose-smelling robin-watcher from way back, took notice of this one day and decided to do something about it. He wanted the children and grandchildren and the church young people to all get together and go on a charity walk for ourselves, picking up and cleaning up Indian Cove road.

I appreciated his design in this plan, and even more I appreciated dear Uncle Willard, a genuine patriarch if ever there was one. But shortly after this, Uncle Willard died, and the candy wrappers and soda pop bottles and refuse all were graded under when the road grader came down Indian Cove road.

Which leaves me wondering if, after we all go, scientists and explorers will come here to find what kind of people, what kind of civilization we had. Did we hand-paint pottery? Did we meticulously carve arrow heads? Were we intrigued with our lives and careful and watchful of the daily details? Or will they find heaps and heaps of brand names. I hope not.

Printed in The Times News (Idaho News), 02-12-1987

Dad passed away February 8^th. Memories readily take us back to his living days, and those things we carry forward. I found a letter my sister, Donna, wrote to him in September, 2017, and she said I can share it with you.

Dad, from you I have learned the importance of speaking first when I know I have made a mistake or have done something wrong.

In my childhood I often ran with my brothers, Dale and Gary. They dug in the dirt. I would dig in the dirt. When they accomplished a feat, I too had to show that I could keep up with them. If they threw rocks, I threw rocks. One time while throwing rocks my aim didn’t hit the intended target. I hit, instead, the taillight on the trailer and, of course, it shattered it. Immediately I was reminded, “Aw, you’re going to get a spanking.” Both Gary and Dale let me know I was in ‘deep trouble.’

I was tempted to let it slide until you would notice the broken taillight. I also knew Gary or Dale could tell you, first, especially if they got mad at me. Then too, there would be my guilty conscience to contend with and the suspense of pending doom. I quickly decided to end all these thoughts of ‘what if’ and go directly to tell you.

Dad, you listened patiently while I told you of throwing rocks, missing the target, and breaking the taillight. You calmly told me that you were upset about the broken taillight, but that you were pleased that I came to let you know right away.

Over my life, when something goes wrong, my mind flips back to the trailer taillight and the lesson you taught me. I know that I have saved myself a lot of anxiety and quilt by immediately righting the wrong and/ or admitting my error. Thank you Dad!

To those who have known folks in Indian Cove:

As your recall the folks who lived in the Cove, what do you remember about them? Thinking about any one of them who influenced or intrigued you, what could you tell us? What pictures come to your mind, what voice, what story? What is it they did, or didn’t do, that tell most about them? When you remind us, we will no doubt say, “Oh, yes! I remember!”

Wikipedia says a character sketch is… a rough-and-ready rendering or thumbnail portrayal of an individual, capturing, in brief, that person’s physical characteristics, psychological attributes, and the like.

Gary put me up to this, and I think you will understand why, when you read what he has to say. He was down from Filer a week ago, helping me take care of our 97 year old father, Wesley, who had requested to go live back at the Cove again. We were talking about my book, Pigtails and Other Tales, my stories of growing up in the Cove, and we imagined how rich a second book would be if it was full of character  sketches! I believe any one of you readers who have known folks in the Cove, could do a ‘rough-and-ready’ sketch of someone. Listen to Gary on this by clicking down below on ‘comments.’

Gary came up with at list of “Covites,” and you can see them at the end of his letter. Single out a person to tell about. Let me know, okay? Together we can make a collection of character sketches.

I’m thinking on what he said: Remembering and telling stories of those before us, giving honor to their lives, helps validate our own stories. Stories give grounding to future generations.

Email me at mrs.peirson7@gmail.com about the character sketch you are preparing.