…On the Road to The Little House

Exploring the world of Laura Ingalls Wilder

May 7, 2024

A Tuesday Newsday Classic

*Sign at the “little house” that started it all in Pepin, Wisconsin*

Perhaps more than any other books I’ve ever read, this series captured my young imagination and inspired me to want to write and record my world.

The first “Little House” book was published in 1932. Six more followed over the next decade and Laura Ingalls Wilder was propelled from a farmer’s wife to one of the most beloved children’s book authors in history.

As a child I was entranced by the thought of living in a cabin in the big woods of Wisconsin, or in a dugout carved into the banks of Plum Creek in Minnesota, or in a claim shanty on the wind swept prairies of South Dakota. What adventures awaited!

I’ve had as a goal to visit the many homestead sites. In September 2013 I, along with my 20 year old daughter, went to Mansfield, Missouri, and toured the museum and also the house where Laura lived as an adult. This past week was round two when the hubby and me meandered from Wisconsin to South Dakota and traced a portion of the Ingalls family pioneer journey.

*The Little House in the Big Woods in Pepin, Wisconsin*

The takeaway for me as an adult – considering it from the perspective of a wife and mother – is how very difficult it must have been, especially for Laura’s mother, Caroline.

Our first stop was in Wisconsin. Although the Ingalls’ cabin is long gone, those who preserved the sites have erected faithful reproductions of the original structures. The little house in Wisconsin was certainly that: little. The main room was no bigger than a small bedroom by today’s standards. For the pioneers, this room was kitchen, dining room, living room, and laundry room (at least half the year). The entire family slept in a room the size of a closet.

*This author standing about where the dugout door was located on Plum Creek, Minnesota.*

*Excerpt from On The Banks of Plum Creek where Laura describes the ‘house.’*

It was the next ‘house’, however, that really gave me pause. Laura’s family purchased a farm near Walnut Grove, Minnesota… but there was no ‘house.’ Instead, the family lived for some months in a ten by twelve ‘room’ dug out of a bank above a creek. The actual dugout collapsed years ago, but a reproduction exists in South Dakota. When I walked in to that room two days later I was struck by two things in particular. The first was the smell. It was a combination of earth, mold, and damp. It was depressing and dark. As Laura describes life in the dugout she shares how her mother whitewashed the dirt walls and floor with a lime mixture. I imagine the lime served several purposes including, foremost, pest control and to brighten the room. How hard it must have been for Caroline Ingalls to cook, clean, and care for her children in that tiny, tiny space.

*The author and hubby at DeSmet, South Dakota*

In South Dakota the Ingalls family had to, once again, start from scratch. It was not hard to imagine how alone and desolate Caroline must have felt as one of the first pioneers in DeSmet. Their homestead was 160 acres – one quarter mile square – and it was a half mile south of the town. There were no neighbors, just the wildlife which called the prairie home. The Ingalls claim shanty was just that: a shanty. Unlike the cabin in Pepin, this home was a tiny one room shack with the beds for a family of six in every corner, a stove in the center, and a few chairs and a table. The thin walls not much protection against the persistent winds and cold. Over time the shanty was expanded to include 2 small bedrooms and a 12 by 16 living room.

*Replica of the ‘shanty’ where the Ingalls family of six lived the first summer so Pa could ‘claim’ his land.*

What resilience these people possessed!

When we stopped at the Ingalls homestead near DeSmet, the woman who owns and runs the property came by to speak to us. I said to her I suspected when the Ingalls family arrived there that Caroline told Charles she was done moving and carving out homes in the wilderness. Our hostess confirmed my supposition. Laura’s parents lived the rest of their lives in that community, eventually moving to a proper house in the town eight years after their arrival.

It is impossible to truly capture these places on paper. But Laura Ingalls Wilder’s narrative description of each location comes close. I felt as if her spirit was there with us in South Dakota, especially, as I mapped out some travels to the spots she describes in her books.

The roiling waters of Lake Henry during the spring perch hatch

It was at Lake Henry when the magic occurred. The hubby and I noticed the water in a nearby slough was roiling. Upon closer examination we discovered hundreds of fish flopping and thrashing about! We walked close to the spectacle, mesmerized by the yellow perch which spawn this time of year once the water raises to a certain temperature.

From there we meandered across the back-roads, and observed white tailed deer, a muskrat which waddled across the road, and hundreds of birds: pelicans, herons, eagles, hawks, geese, and all variety of smaller ones.

We were reluctant to leave but how very glad we were to be able to experience a tiny portion of the Ingalls family journey.

So which of the three ‘little houses’ would have been the best ? Probably the cabin in Wisconsin. As we returned from our adventures I found myself thankful, yet again, for modern amenities: electricity, running water, flushing toilets, refrigeration, automobiles, and airplanes. What a blessed era in which I live.

A few links. First is to my blog article from February 7, 2017 about Laura Ingalls Wilder: https://barbaradevore.com/2017/02/07/laura-ingalls-wilder/

And some links to the various historical sites:

https://www.lauraingallspepin.com/big-woods-cabin.html

http://walnutgrove.org/ingalls-dugout-site.html

https://www.ingallshomestead.com/history

I know everyone would be disappointed if there was not at least one link to the Infallible Wikipedia:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laura_Ingalls_Wilder

Rose Bowl Roses

Jan2

A Big 10 vs. Pac 10 Tradition

January 2, 2024

A Tuesday Newsday Classic Updated

*The Rose Bowl stadium, Pasadena, California*

Nicknamed “The Granddaddy of them All” – the annual football contest known as “The Rose Bowl” debuted on January 1, 1902.

It was an uneven matchup with Michigan defeating Stanford 49-0. Apparently the gridiron battle was devised to help fund the Pasadena Rose Parade. But that first game was such a disaster – Stanford quit after three quarters – that the football game was abandoned for more than a decade. From the Infallible Wikipedia:

“The game was so lopsided that for the next thirteen years, the Tournament of Roses officials ran chariot races, ostrich races, and other various events instead of football. But, on New Year’s Day 1916, football returned to stay as the State College of Washington (now Washington State University) defeated Brown University in the first of what was thereafter an annual tradition.”

The Rose Bowl, as those of us knew it in the 1960’s through the 1990’s had understood, wasn’t always a match between the Pac-8 (and then the Pac -10 with the addition of Arizona and Arizona State in 1978) and the Big-10. That tradition began in 1959 after a ‘Pay to Play’ scandal derailed the previous agreement in place since 1947.

And the tradition worked well with the Pac-10 champion meeting the Big 10 winner on New Year’s Day. Then, in 1998, with the creation of the Bowl Championship Series (BCS), things changed. In both 2002 and 2006, the National Championship game was played in Pasadena. But it was not without controversy. Also from the Infallible Wikipedia:

“The 2002 game served as the BCS championship game between the BCS No. 1–ranked Miami, then a member of the Big East Conference, and the BCS No. 2–ranked Nebraska, then a member of the Big 12 Conference. The Nebraska selection as the BCS No. 2 team was controversial because Oregon was ranked No. 2 in both the AP and Coaches Polls, while Nebraska was ranked No. 4 in both polls and did not play in its conference championship game (No. 3 Colorado, who would play Oregon in that year’s Fiesta Bowl, did and won the Big 12’s automatic bid to the BCS). This prevented a West Coast team playing in the Rose Bowl for the first time, and it also marked the first matchup since 1946 not to feature the traditional pairing of Pac-10 vs. Big Ten teams.”

Since 2014, and the advent of the College Football Playoffs, the Rose Bowl traditions have seen further modifications. Now, every three years, it features one of the two playoff games. In 2015 and again in 2018, there was not a traditional Pac-10/Big-10 matchup.

For those of us who prefer tradition, the 2019 matchup of #9 Washington and #6 Ohio State is everything the Rose Bowl is supposed to be. It will be Ohio State’s 15th appearance and Washington’s 16th visit. But the two teams have never met in the Rose Bowl.

*Pin issued for the 1978 Rose Bowl featuring the “Rose Bowl Roses”*

I have two distinct memories associated with the Rose Bowl. The first occurred at the Apple Cup on November 19, 1977. My sister, then a student at Washington State University, came to Seattle to attend the game and took her sister (I was attending the University of Puget Sound) along. It was a brilliantly sunny, but cold, day. As we approached the stadium there was a tall guy dressed all in black who held long stem red roses in his hand and was shouting “Rose Bowl Roses. Get your Rose Bowl Roses.”

We, of course, were offended by the presumption that the Huskies were going to the Rose Bowl BEFORE the game with WSU was even played! After all, Washington had to beat WSU and USC had to beat UCLA for the Huskies to earn a trip to Pasadena.

*Souvenir program from the 1978 Rose Bowl. Washington defeated Michigan in their first of four Rose Bowl matchups*.

No Rose Bowl Roses were purchased by us that day. But we definitely needed the extra warmth and fortitude provided by the flask she smuggled into the stadium. We were seated in the visitors horseshoe at the far west end of the stadium. The buttressing of our spirits from the extra spirits was required as the Huskies hammered the Cougs 35-15 and USC dispatched the Bruins the next weekend. Washington flew to Southern California and, on January second (the Rose Bowl is played on the second if the first falls on a Sunday), upset heavily favored Michigan 27-20.

The other memorable Rose Bowl was 1998. We didn’t need anything warm to drink that day as my family – Parents, siblings, spouses, children, nieces and nephews – spent 10 days in Maui to celebrate our parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. My parents had arranged for condo units for each of us four siblings and our families in the Hale Hui Kai complex. Since my sister and I both had young children (they were ages 4 to 8) we were assigned ground floor units so as not to have to deal with stairs. The down side was that my unit had absolutely no view . Everyone assumed we would be at the beach with our kids most of the time. Hah! My daughter had become obsessed with the Disney animated movie Sleeping Beauty. So most every afternoon I ended up hanging out in the unit while she watched Sleeping Beauty. Unless, of course, she was across the breezeway playing Barbie’s with the cousins. Except on New Year’s Day when Sleeping Beauty was relegated to the back burner and all the guys – Dad, brothers, husband and brother in law – descended upon our unit to watch the #8 WSU Cougs take on #1 Michigan.

*WSU encountered a thorn of rose brambles when they lost to Michigan in the 1998 Rose Bowl Game. Thankfully Sleeping Beauty distracted me from noticing.*

Although the Cougars launched a valiant effort in what was their third of four Rose Bowl appearances, they fell to the soon to be crowned national champions 21-16.

And my daughter? A couple of things are no longer true. She’s not obsessed with Sleeping Beauty; she’d be horrified at the thought of spending a Hawaiian vacation holed up in a condo; and if she had friends who started a college football fantasy league she’d participate and soon know everything about the teams and players.

I’ll be rooting for the Huskies (don’t tell the die-hard Coug fans in my family, okay?) to prevail over Ohio State, but I’m really worried about QB Dwayne Haskins and the OS offensive line. Plus with their coach, Urban Meyer, retiring they will be the sentimental pick. Currently Ohio State is favored to win but, who knows, it might just be the Huskies year for an upset. The only thing better would be to spend New Year’s Day on the beaches of Maui.

Update January 2, 2019: The Huskies lost the 2019 Rose Bowl game, falling to the Buckeyes 28-23. My Dad was happy about this as in his entire life he never once rooted for the Huskies to win…

2024 Update:

Well here we are in 2024 and the college football landscape was shaken by an earthquake earlier this fall. With the dissolution of the Pac-12 and the dismantling over the years of the traditional bowl matchups, we find ourselves in a very ironic situation.

Now, even though the 2024 Rose Bowl wasn’t a Big 10-Pac12 matchup, I have to admit that those two conferences are getting the last laugh.

It is somehow fitting that when the National Championship Game is played on Monday, January 9, 2024, it will feature –likely for the last time – a traditional Rose Bowl matchup when #1 Michigan faces off against #2 Washington.

The two teams have met four times in the Rose Bowl with the following results:

1978 – Washington 27, Michigan 20

1981 – Michigan 23, Washington 6

1992 – Washington 34, Michigan 14

1993 – Michigan 38, Washington 31

If it continues to follow the pattern, then Washington will emerge victorious. I’m not sure I can actually watch the game as viewing the contest at the Sugar Bowl between Washington and Texas last night just about did me in. So much stress!

Even so, I will be rooting for the Huskies to win and take home the National Championship. Go Dawgs!

Of course the Infallible Wikipedia has so much more to share:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rose_Bowl_Game

The Ice Cream Sundae

Jul25

I Miss the Iconic Farrell’s

July 25, 2023

A Tuesday Newsday Classic Updated

No doubt July 25^th is an extremely important day for ice cream lovers everywhere. Yes, it’s the ‘official’ National Hot Fudge Sundae Day!

You might think something like this would be controversy free. You would be wrong.

According to the Infallible Wikipedia the invention of the Ice Cream Sundae is disputed. The town of Two Rivers, Wisconsin asserted the concoction was created as follows:

“Two Rivers’ claim is based on the story of George Hallauer asking Edward C. Berners, the owner of Berners’ Soda Fountain, to drizzle chocolate syrup over ice cream in 1881. Berners eventually did and wound up selling the treat for a nickel, originally only on Sundays, but later every day. According to this story, the spelling changed when a glass salesman ordered canoe-shaped dishes. When Berners died in 1939, the Chicago Tribune headlined his obituary ‘Man Who Made First Ice Cream Sundae Is Dead’. Two Ithaca High School students, however, claim that Berners would have only been 16 or 17 in 1881, so it is therefore ‘improbable’ that he would have owned an ice cream shop in that year. They also state that the obituary dates Berners’ first sundae to 1899 rather than 1881.

Residents of Two Rivers have contested the claims of other cities to the right to claim the title ‘birthplace of the ice cream sundae’. When Ithaca, New York, mayor Carolyn K. Peterson proclaimed a day to celebrate her city as the birthplace of the sundae, she received postcards from Two Rivers’ citizens reiterating that town’s claim.”

The rival towns who also claim they were first are Buffalo and Ithaca, New York and Evanston and Plainfield, Illinois.

So how did it come to be called an Ice Cream Sundae? Mostly it can be traced back to the “Blue Laws” which were in place in the 1800’s. Carbonated Soda water – like alcohol – was considered inappropriate for consumption on the Sabbath. Because Ice Cream Sodas could not be sold on Sunday in, particularly, Evanston and Plainfield Illinois, the inventive soda fountain owners began selling ice cream with the chocolate syrup poured over it – sans the soda – and thus created the first ice cream sundaes in that state. Rather than call it a ‘Sunday’ which was considered shocking, the spelling was changed to the now instantly recognizable ‘Sundae.’

I’m not sure who decided to pour hot chocolate over ice cream and create the hot fudge sundae, but it’s a good thing they did. Nothing quite says summer like a couple scoops of ice cream, hot fudge, and whipping cream with a cherry on top!

Back in my teen years a real treat was to go to Farrell’s – an ice cream and burgers restaurant which hearkened back to the days of the Soda Fountain. This was a special event for this kid from Yakima. We did not have anything nearly as cool as a Farrell’s. I looked forward to the rare expeditions to Seattle because it often meant gorging on ice cream at Farrell’s. A trip to Farrell’s was more about the experience than the food. The staff would sing happy birthday if you were so lucky to be there on your big day. Heaven help you if you ordered the ‘Pig Trough’. It featured a dozen scoops of ice cream and the rule was that YOU had to eat it all by yourself! Finish it and you were awarded a badge which said “I made of Pig of myself at Farrell’s.” The staff would parade through the restaurant with great fanfare, kazoos playing and drums pounding, to bring the trough to the person who ordered it and then do the repeat parade if that customer was able to finish it.

*Mrs. H shows off her fork balancing skills*

Going to Farrell’s capped off, a number of times, the annual summer convention where a few thousand Washington and Idaho Rainbow Girls and their chaperones would gather each year. On the last night of the event, literally, hundreds of us would descend upon the Farrell’s in Tukwila Tacoma or Spokane. (I cannot recall the exact locations any longer!) and take over the restaurant. Truly, the staff did not know what hit them.

One of my favorite memories was in 1977 when one of my adult advisors taught us all how to balance a fork on our noses. That was the sort of silliness we enjoyed whether at Farrell’s or, as I think was the case based on the artwork behind her, at Sambo’s in Spokane.

Sadly, the last Farrell’s location closed a number of years ago. I rather doubt any one would open a restaurant like Farrell’s in today’s world. It was sure a lot of fun and I imagine the kids of today would love it as much as we did.

For more information about ice cream Sundaes and their many variations and history click here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sundae

Or for a brief history of Farrell’s click here: http://oldlarestaurants.com/Farrell’s/

Fireworks!

Jul4

A 4th of July tradition since 1777

July 4, 2023

By the time darkness descends on July 4th, the skies of communities across the country will be filled with brilliant bursts of red, white, blue, purple, orange, and green fireworks, a visual feast to behold. Truly, fireworks are the symbol of Independence Day.

The first recorded mention of fireworks for a July 4^th celebration was in 1777 to mark the one year anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

The Infallible Wikipedia shares this:

“America’s earliest settlers brought their enthusiasm for fireworks to the United States. Fireworks and black ash were used to celebrate important events long before the American Revolutionary War. The very first celebration of Independence Day was in 1777, six years before Americans knew whether or not the new nation would survive the war; fireworks were a part of all festivities.

*Fireworks photos from 2018 show in Puyallup*

In 1789, George Washington’s inauguration was accompanied by a fireworks display. George Marshall was an American naval hero during the War of 1812 and other campaigns. He was a Master Gunner and pyrotechnics specialist who wrote Marshall’s Practical Marine Gunnery in 1822. The book outlines chemical formulas for the composition of fireworks. This early fascination with fireworks’ noise and color continues today with fireworks displays commonly included in Independence Day celebrations.”

My earliest memories of 4^th of July fireworks are from when I was four years old. Actually, it’s my earliest memory of ANYTHING in life. My family lived in Clarkston, Washington, that summer. I can see in my mind’s eye the fireworks exploding overhead as we sit on a picnic blanket in a park, little bits of debris raining down on us. That night I found a star shaped piece of cardboard lying on the ground after the show. Of course I carried it home as a treasure which, undoubtedly, my mother disposed of a short time later after it was forgotten.

Most years did not involve going to a professional display, but I always went with my Dad to a stand and help pick out those fireworks which our family would set off. My favorites were always the sparklers. There was something exciting and dangerous about holding a metal stick in one’s hand while Dad lit the end and it erupted into tiny exploding sparks. My sister and I would dance around using the sparkler as if it were a colorful pen writing letters across the night sky.

It was in the 1980’s, however, when I was introduced to a completely different level of fireworks mania. My hubby, and his brother Wayne – as kids – were enamored with fireworks, riding their bikes out to the Native American reservations where they would purchase firecrackers and other contraband, often returning with enough to supply every explosion loving kid in their neighborhood.

For Wayne it was a passion he has embraced throughout his life. When I asked him how he got started in the business he did not hesitate: “It would have to be so I could legally play with bigger and better pyrotechnics.”

To do that required him to have pyrotechnics training and certification. The first show he ever helped with, once that certification was obtained, was Salty Sea Days in Everett in 1980.

Wayne has produced 4^th of July fireworks shows all over Washington State. He did the City of Yakima show for 15 years in a row; the hubby and son were able to be on site there one year in the late 1990’s for the up close experience, while I stayed with our young daughter and we watched it from a bluff in Selah. Wayne’s shows have taken him all over the state including Blaine, Pasco, Renton, Everett, Omak, and Puyallup.

*Wayne and his daughter review the roadmap, aka the schematic, of what shell belongs in which tube.*

While most people love seeing the fireworks, few truly understand the time, training, and effort it takes. In 2018, I witnessed what goes in to the set up while the hubby helped Wayne prep the show. The half dozen members of the crew spent hours stringing wires between the tubes where the fireworks were staged; packed sand around the tubes; and had to carefully follow the schematic of what goes where. For my untrained eyes, it all seemed very chaotic for a very meticulous job which requires extreme care so that one does not blow themselves and others up.

Wayne is, perhaps, the most proud of his safety record. In the 44 years in a row doing a 4^th of July show, no one on his crew has ever had a fireworks related injury or burn. In fact he made me promise to highlight the dangers of, literally, playing with fire. In the box on the side are his reminders, a defacto Public Service Announcement to all.

It was my understanding that 2023 was the year Wayne was going to retire but when I reached him for this story, he was headed to Yakima with his daughter, my niece. She too has the pyrotechnic bug and had lamented his impending retirement more than once the past few years. But it’s more like a partial retirement. This year he’s going to be on a crew run by one of the women who worked with him on the shows for many years; he’s going as a consultant to, as he said, ‘make sure no one does anything stupid.”

*The reward of all the hours setting things up… getting to run the electronic ignition board.*

And while there have been some scary moments when something didn’t happen as it should, he waxed poetic about the last year he did the Everett fireworks show in 2017. Everything was set up on a large barge just offshore and the crew, as always, had spent all day getting it organized, making sure all was safe and ready.

*Wayne with his daughter at one of the shows. “Generational pyromania’ was the title on this Facebook photo.*

That night, when the first ball rocketed into the air, exploding in a shower of sparks, it was the beginning of something special. “The show itself was the most perfect show we’ve ever done,” Wayne said, “Three hundred to four hundred shots and only two shells which did not fire. That’s very rare. It’s not uncommon to have half a dozen or more shells which never fire.” It was also the first show which his daughter, who turned 18 that year, could help with.

So while he’s given up being the guy in charge, he’ll be with a crew all day on the Fourth, embracing his lifelong passion for fireworks and the thrill of getting to play with the bigger and better pyrotechnics. Way cooler than sparklers.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fireworks

Spam. Spam. Spam. SPAM!

May16

So much more than junk email

May 16, 2023

A Tuesday Newsday Classic, updated with a story about the poor man’s version of Spam.

If historians were to pick ONE significant event from each year in history what would the most important from 1891 be? The formation of the US Forest Service? No. The opening of Carnegie Hall? Definitely not. The patent of corkboard? Not even close.

No the most significant event of 1891 was when, on May 16^th, George Hormel opened a small butcher shop in Austin, Minnesota and introduced the world to… SPAM!

What was significant about the product is that it took pork and ham and cooked it in its own container thus giving it a rather long shelf life. Oh that innovative George Hormel!

Since its creation Spam has become a ubiquitous part of pop culture and the worldwide psyche. It’s eaten throughout the world but especially in Great Britain and also in the Philippines. In the United States more Spam is eaten in Hawaii than in any other state. From the infallible Wikipedia:

*Wildly popular in Hawaii… they make sushi out of it.*

“Spam is especially popular in the state of Hawaii, where residents have the highest per capita consumption in the United States. Its perception there is very different from on the mainland.

A popular native sushi dish in Hawaii is Spam musubi, where cooked Spam is placed atop rice and wrapped in a band of nori. Varieties of Spam are found in Hawaii that are unavailable in other markets, including Honey Spam, Spam with Bacon, and Hot and Spicy Spam.

Hawaiian Burger King Restaurants began serving Spam in 2007 to compete with the local McDonald’s chains. In Hawaii, Spam is so popular that it is sometimes referred to as ‘The Hawaiian Steak’.”

My exhaustive research uncovered the existence of a SPAM museum in Austin, Minnesota. Putting that on my bucket list!

Highlighted in a variety of movies and TV shows, SPAM was immortalized in pop culture by the comedic troupe Monty Python. And, of course, it’s the term which has become synonymous with junk mail. More from Wikipedia:

“Spam was featured in an iconic 1970 Monty Python sketch called ‘Spam’. Set in a café which only served dishes containing Spam, including ‘Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, baked beans, Spam, Spam, Spam and Spam’, the piece also featured a companion song. By the 1990’s, Spam’s perceived ubiquity led to its name being adopted for unsolicited electronic messages, especially spam email.”

Now, I do have a confession to make. To the best of my knowledge, I’ve never eaten Spam. Growing up I was, well, a picky eater. Frankly, I’m surprised I’ve never before shared this story.

When our family moved to Yakima in 1961, my Dad worked for National Cash Register (NCR). NCR had a nasty habit of moving their salesmen frequently and my parents had moved some nine times in less than 15 years.

*The Spam Museum opened in Austin, Minnesota in 2016*

My mother was happy about the move to Yakima as her sister lived there and their parents resided in Selah. So in the fall of 1961, our family relocated from Clarkston, Washington to Yakima.

We were there for six months when NCR, of course, told my Dad they were transferring him to the Tri-Cities. My long suffering mother put her foot down and said “No more moves.” It was at that point my Dad returned to college to get an Education degree with plans to become a teacher.

This is germane to the story in that for the next two years our family of six had to live off of the savings my parents had. Even after he got a job, I doubt that being a teacher paid as well as being a salesman, but he was happier. In all of the 1960’s we NEVER went out to dinner save for one day each November to celebrate my grandfather’s birthday. I’m pretty sure my Grandpa Freimuth paid for that meal.

Which meant that my mother had to get inventive when it came to food. Most the dinners I recall were of chicken, ham, or beef with mashed potatoes and a vegetable. I did not know until I moved away from home that there were any other spices for cooking chicken or beef than salt and pepper. True story.

But this also meant that all of us who were in school from 1963 to 1967 – that was five people – took lunch in a brown paper sack every day. Once again, Mom had to get creative as she fixed those lunches each evening before she went to bed.

Lunch often consisted of a non-descript yellow cheese on two slices of white bread buttered with margarine. Or some tuna fish which was mixed with miniscule amounts of mayonnaise on two slices of white bread spread with a swipe of mayonnaise, or a bit of peanut butter spread thin on two slices of white bread… well, you get the picture.

*My mother had this model, or very similar, and used it to torture her family.*

But the most dreaded of all things which my mother would put on a sandwich was this: leftover roast beef or ham, a hunk of the non-descript yellow cheese, and cucumber dill pickles slices… all mixed together by this grinder contraption which was connected by a vice type grip to the cutting board (it was a slide out). My mother would stuff all three things into the top of the grinder, turn the handle, and then out would spew this concoction of brown, orange, and green. This was then spread on two slices of white bread sort of buttered with margarine or mayonnaise*.

My mother used to wonder why I was such a skinny child. Well, it was because of food like this. I would try to eat the thing but usually ended up throwing it away after two bites or less. But I always drank all of the carton of milk (which cost a nickel) and ate the handful of potato chips which were sent.

I suppose had Mom made Spam Sandwiches I might actually have eaten the thing…naw. Who am I kidding?

The good news is that I became an adventurous eater as an adult. I learned about all the herbs and spices and the best one of all: garlic. I wonder if they make garlic Spam? Now that I might eat.

Be sure to check out these two links to learn more about Spam!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spam_%28food%29

http://brasscastlearts.blogspot.com/2011/05/hormel-spams-world-may-16-1891.html

*Mayonnaise – my father hated mayonnaise and my mother was not allowed to put mayo on his sandwiches. I think she snuck it in to tuna salad and, possibly, the evil mixture as a way of holding it all together. But she never told him!

Old Spaghetti Factory

Jan10

A Family Favorite for over 50 years

January 10, 2023

*The original Old Spaghetti Factory in Portland, Oregon. From Oregonlive.com*

For our family, going to this restaurant was always an event. Perhaps it was due to the unique location. Or perhaps the unusual décor. Or maybe it was because you were encouraged to weigh yourself BEFORE and AFTER your meal.

Whatever that combination, a visit to the Old Spaghetti Factory (OSF) was fun and memorable. The very first OSF opened on January 10, 1970 in Portland, Oregon.

The Infallible Wikipedia tells us:

“The chain was founded in Portland, Oregon, on January 10, 1969, by Guss Dussin. (snip)

Many of the chain’s restaurants are located inside renovated warehouses, train stations, and historic locations. The restaurant decor traditionally features antiques, including chandeliers, brass headboards and footboards as bench backs for booths. Each restaurant’s most prominent feature is a streetcar in the middle of the restaurant with seating inside.”

Not satisfied with the IW description, I took a gander at the OSF official webpage and gleaned additional information.

*It cost $4,000 to renovate the first Trolley car. Photo from Oregonlive.com*

Of course they talked about the original location in Portland, but the snippet I liked best was this:

“The original Old Spaghetti Factory trolley car was found in a field near Reed College in Portland, OR. We refurbished the car and began using it as a unique dining area for guests at our first location. The trolley car has since become a fixture in our locations across the U.S. When our flagship restaurant relocated to its current Portland location, the original car moved with us, of course.”

I cannot specifically recall my first visit to a Spaghetti Factory. All I do know is that it was sometime in the late 1970’s and it was at either the Seattle or Tacoma location.

In researching this article I did learn something which I thought was a bit sad. Neither of those two original locations still exists as OSF restaurants. It was the Seattle location, at the corner of Elliott Avenue and Clay, across from the waterfront, which became the family favorite.

*Ah, to be 20 and able to eat as much as you want… from the Anniversary dinner with our kids in 2010.*

When my kids were little and a special dinner out was being planned, Spaghetti Factory was often the requested destination. Birthday dinners were celebrated there. Heck, the hubby and I even had an anniversary dinner (with the kids!) there one year.

Once or twice we even sat in the coveted trolley car. But where we sat didn’t matter. The Seattle OSF reeked with ambiance no matter where in the building you were seated.

Due to the popularity of the restaurant, we developed a strategy: arrive as close to when they opened – 4 p.m. – as possible to avoid having to wait too long for a table. Another strategy was to have the driver – usually the hubby – drop us off at the front door. I would get our name on the list and manage the kids while he went in search of often hard to find parking.

*The daughter checking out the infamous scale. 2010*

But none of that mattered when the warm bread arrived at the table with the two different vats of butter: garlic and plain. By the time our son was around 10, he started ordering the extra large helping of spaghetti with browned butter and myzithra cheese. And would polish off every last morsel. When an older teen his sister’s half eaten spaghetti would usually find its way to his plate to finish.

Despite being full from all those carbs, however, when the spumoni ice cream arrived there would be negotiations as to who got the one with the largest amount of pistachio.

It was not unusual to record a couple of gained pounds on the old fashioned scale in the lobby.

*The hubby and me December 21, 2016 – our last time at the OSF in downtown Seattle.*

*The guys were brave enough to step on the scale in 2016, but not me!*

Then the unthinkable occurred in 2016: the Seattle OSF was closing its doors, the building and land (where the parking lot was located) had been sold and the new owners had a different vision for the valuable real estate.

The three of us – hubby, son, and me – hatched a plan to visit one last time. And, as always, we employed a strategy for best results: arrive by five, drop off the mom, go find parking. On December 21, 2016, our trio – along with hundreds of our closest friends – enjoyed one final dinner at the original Old Spaghetti Factory in Seattle. We ate too much bread and too much Spaghetti. We savored one final dish of spumoni ice cream. I refused to weigh myself instead opting to simply enjoy a favorite family tradition.

Yes, we’ve been to the Lynnwood, Washington location and, well, it just isn’t the same. But who knows, maybe the next time our son comes to visit we will make the trek ‘for old times’ sake and to create new memories. And also because he still loves, loves, loves, spaghetti with browned butter and myzithra cheese thanks to the Old Spaghetti Factory.

A few links:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Old_Spaghetti_Factory

https://www.osf.com/about/history/

https://www.oregonlive.com/life-and-culture/g66l-2019/01/f34b9efac39205/portlands-old-spaghetti-factory-turns-50-a-look-back-at-decades-of-delicious-memories.html

https://www.seattletimes.com/life/food-drink/saying-goodbye-to-seattles-old-spaghetti-factory/

A Crow Named Bob

Jul5

Considered one of the most intelligent species

July 5, 2022

The species Corvus – commonly known as a crows, ravens, and jackdaws – are considered some of the most intelligent creatures on earth. They have been documented to construct ‘tools’ from materials, can recognize specific people and animals of other species, and work cooperatively together to achieve goals.

*Crows were frequent visitors to our backyard in Kirkland, often challenging the squirrels for a food source.*

For purposes of today’s Tuesday Newsday, we shall refer to this bird simply as ‘crows.’ I chose the first week in July to highlight crows as I propose that the national symbol of the United States could just as easily been a crow rather than an eagle.

Legend has it that Benjamin Franklin suggested the turkey as the national bird but others thought the eagle to be more majestic. In terms of sheer intelligence, cleverness, and persistence, however, it is the crow which dominates. These attributes, to me, more closely encapsulate the nature of Americans.

The Infallible Wikipedia shares the following:

“As a group, crows show remarkable examples of intelligence. Natural history books from the 18th century recount an often-repeated, but unproven anecdote of ‘counting crows’ — specifically a crow whose ability to count to five (or four in some versions) is established through a logic trap set by a farmer. Crows and ravens often score very highly on intelligence tests. Certain species top the avian IQ scale. Wild hooded crows in Israel have learned to use bread crumbs for bait-fishing. Crows engage in a kind of mid-air jousting, or air-“chicken” to establish pecking order. They have been found to engage in activities such as sports, tool use, the ability to hide and store food across seasons, episodic-like memory, and the ability to use individual experience in predicting the behavior of proximal conspecifics. (snip)

*A crow seems to find these baby toys irresistible. AvesNoir.com*

The western jackdaw and the Eurasian magpie have been found to have a nidopallium about the same relative size as the functionally equivalent neocortex in chimpanzees and humans, and significantly larger than is found in the gibbons.

Crows have demonstrated the ability to distinguish individual humans by recognizing facial features. Evidence also suggests they are one of the few nonhuman animals, along with insects like bees or ants, capable of displacement (communication about things that are not immediately present, spatially or temporally). (snip)

In the past there have been plenty of studies conducted on how ravens and corvids in general learn. Some of these studies have concluded that the brains of ravens and crows compare in relative size to great apes. The encephalization quotient (EQ), helps to expose the similarities between a great ape brain and a crow/raven brain. This includes cognitive ability. Even though the brain differs significantly between mammals and birds we can see larger forebrains in corvids than other birds (except some parrots), especially in areas associated with social learning, planning, decision making in humans and complex cognition in apes. Along with tool use, ravens can recognize themselves in a mirror.”

Here in the Pacific Northwest, crows are everywhere. But that was not always the case. They were rare at the beginning of the 20^th century.

Recently, the hubby and I had a crow encounter which we are unable to explain. While strolling down a sidewalk in the Fairhaven neighborhood of Bellingham, a crow swooped low over the hubby’s head, causing both of us to duck. When the crow repeated the action less than a minute later – this time making contact with the hubby’s hair – we knew it was not a random event. We wonder if the hubby’s head, slightly sunburned and shiny on a small spot at the crown, attracted its attention. Regardless, we did not wish to tempt the bird a third time and crossed the street to safety.

*Their reputation for collecting shiny objects is based on this behavior*. *https://kids.britannica.com/*

It was another crow encounter, in July of 2005, which became the reason I think the crow should have been our national bird.

I was, along with hundreds of others, at the Sundome in Yakima, Washington, for the Washington/Idaho Rainbow Girls annual convention.

Somehow, a crow had gotten into the building but, apparently, had no way to get out. No worries for the crow, as it swooped and flew around the large space, entertaining the girls, their families, and advisors.

The young woman who was leading the group that year dubbed the crow “Bob” in honor of a group of adult volunteers who had formed a vocal quartet named “The Bob’s” as all the men were named Bob.

For three days Bob flew around the building and was seen alighting on chairs and backdrops – pretty much anywhere. I imagine finding food was not an issue as, no doubt, more than a few snacks were likely consumed – and morsels dropped – by the attendees.

It was on the last day, July 10, when a scenario so perfect occurred that a Hollywood screen writer could not have scripted it better.

The moment had arrived for the Stars and Stripes to be returned from its place of honor on the main stage to the back of the room. This job fell to one of the young women present who – with great reverence – arrived at the flag, bowed to it, and then hoisted it aloft to carry it down a ramp and across the large convention center floor.

Lee Greenwood’s God Bless The USA played over the loud speaker as all eyes watched her procession. Then Bob stole the show.

The crow soared high across the arena, landing on the top of the loudspeaker system just below the ceiling, at the center of the dome. He paused for a moment and then, when the flag bearer was directly underneath him, he flapped his wings and flew in the same direction as she was walking, disturbing confetti which had likely settled on the loudspeaker a week earlier during Fourth of July celebrations.

Tiny red, white, and blue tissue paper glittered in the lights as it filled the air and swirled to the floor.

It was the most awe inspiring patriotic moment I’ve ever experienced.

https://www.ingridtaylar.com/an-american-crow-in-seattle/

I was able to confirm that Bob – like the rest of us – departed the Sundome later that evening to go back to his regular life. From the writeup in the Rainbow Girls newsletter:

“Of course, this article would not be complete without mention of Bob the bird. He appeared during set-up and stayed throughout all of the sessions, often coming to visit in the East, taking a bath in the decorations or sitting in the middle of the floor. He enjoyed the sessions and no one will soon forget our special visitor. And for those who may be wondering, Bob did leave the Sundome as the clean up process was coming to an end on Sunday night.”

Well done, Bob, well done. You are a credit to your species and an inspiration to us all.

The Links:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corvus

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Order_of_the_Rainbow_for_Girls

Washington/Idaho Rainbow Girls webpage: https://www.nwrainbow.org/

Turkey Tomfoolery

Nov23

Everyone’s favorite Thanksgiving Bird

November 23, 2021

A native to North America, this bird – which takes center stage this week – is, perhaps, the best representative of all that is uniquely American.

The turkey, it turns out, has been around a long time. According to the Infallible Wikipedia:

*There’s even a giant turkey statue in Frazee, Minnesota*

“The earliest turkeys evolved in North America over 20 million years ago and they share a recent common ancestor with grouse, pheasants, and other fowl. The wild turkey species is the ancestor of the domestic turkey, which was domesticated approximately 2,000 years ago.”

The Aztec culture developed a myriad of recipes for the fowl, many of which are still used in Mexico today. We know that the turkey was known in North America when the Pilgrims arrived in 1620, documented as being served at the first Thanksgiving.

Since then, the turkey has come to be THE meat to serve on the fourth Thursday in November and, for many families, at their Christmas feast also.

Of course there is a good case to be made for cooking a turkey. The size of the fowl, unlike a chicken, make it possible to feed a large group with just one bird. The Guiness Book of World Records tells us:

“The greatest dressed weight recorded for a turkey is 39.09 kg (86 lb) for a stag named Tyson reared by Philip Cook of Leacroft Turkeys Ltd, Peterborough, United Kingdom. It won the last annual `heaviest turkey’ competition, held in London on 12 December 1989, and was auctioned for charity for a record £;4400 (then $6,692).”

That’s a lot of leftovers!

Some of my earliest childhood memories center around Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners both of which featured a large turkey.

*An annual tradition is for a pair of turkey’s to get a Presidential Pardon. Pictured at the White House are Peanut Butter and Jelly, the 2021 turkey’s*.

Because the family ate ‘dinner’ at noon, that meant my mother (or my aunt if we were going to their house) was up at four a.m. to get the bird in the oven. It was always a treat to awaken to the smell of roasting turkey.

My job, when I was a child, was to set the table with my mother’s china. Oh how I loved the anticipation of that meal.

It was sometime in the mid-1980’s when I cooked my first Thanksgiving meal. After the hubby and I married in 1980, we ping-ponged between our two families, never giving a thought as to the work it took to create the feast.

Our first Thanksgiving as a married couple found us in Blaine with his family. When we walked into his parent’s turn of the century farm house that November 27th, the kitchen was in a state of being updated. The hubby’s dad had recently built an ‘island’ in the middle of the kitchen to house the pride and joy of my mother-in-law’s kitchen: a Jenn-Air cooktop.

For those unfamiliar with the concept, the original Jenn-Air was a cooktop only and featured burners, grills, and griddles which were all a standard shape and size. These cartridges were ‘plugged’ into a power source. The typical Jenn-Air had two cartridge slots on either side with a down draft fan in the center; you mixed and match your elements. It was easy, for example, to remove the two burner cartridge and plug in the grill.

My mother-in-law was VERY excited to use her new cooktop. There was only one problem… it was a cooktop and, at that time, there was not a conventional oven in the kitchen.

Which brings us back to the issue of cooking a turkey. No matter how wonderful the Jenn-Air cooktop might be, it wasn’t going to be able to cook a 12 to 16 pound bird.

But never fear, dear readers, because there was another new – unknown technology – appliance in the house that year: the microwave oven.

Now, in 1980 hardly anyone understood the advantages or disadvantages of the microwave. In fact, only some 25 percent of U.S. households owned one. The average new microwave cost about $400 which in 2021 dollars is about $1300. Microwave manufacturers were busy touting how great this new ‘oven’ was. We had all been told that the microwave could do everything a traditional oven could do, but would take less time and cook more efficiently.

And that’s how we ended up eating a Turkey cooked entirely in a microwave! That bird got flipped and turned more times than an Olympic Pairs figure skater. And it took much, much longer than anyone could anticipate. For HOURS the microwave was cooking that bird with, it seemed, minimal impact.

*Companies advertised microwaves as being able to cook just as well as a conventional oven.*

Finally, rather late in the day, the turkey was declared done and dinner was served.

The turkey was nearly inedible.

Rather than a nice roasted brown color, it was gray. There was no crispiness to the skin, no yummy juice coating it.

When the knife cut into the bird for carving, the meat was stringy and tough.

Of course we all made the best of the situation. And it was a rapid learning event in regards to microwaves. They are great for some things, but not for cooking whole turkeys (or other poultry and meats in my opinion).

I also SHOULD have learned that doing kitchen remodels on top of a major holiday is a bad idea. Unfortunately, it was a lesson that I promptly forgot on several occasions in subsequent years. But that’s a story (or two) for another day.

This year I am the one hosting Thanksgiving and am thankful that my in laws will be joining us on Thursday. My turkey will never see the inside of a microwave. Call me a traditionalist, but there are some things which are sacred. A properly cooked Thanksgiving turkey is one of them.

*My mother’s china on the table I set for Thanksgiving 2018 – the last one with my Dad.*

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turkey_(bird)

I purposefully didn’t comment on this photo which I posted on Facebook along with the link to this article. Why? This was from Thanksgiving a few years ago when the larger of our two ovens ‘failed’. I was unable to fit a full size Turkey in the smaller oven and had to cut the bird in half and turn it on its side to cook. Now that was quite the chore! That turkey – unlike the one in the microwave – DID come out just fine after I performed my surgery (as pictured)

Hayride!

Sep28

A fun fall tradition

September 28, 2021

Autumn seems to be a season of traditions which celebrate our rural and agricultural heritage. There’s just something about shuffling through a carpet of red, gold, and orange leaves or sipping a cup of apple cider on a blustery day.

One uniquely North American tradition which has been enjoyed for generations now is a hayride. I turn to the Infallible Wikipedia for a more in depth history:

“Hayrides traditionally have been held as celebratory activities, usually in connection to celebration of the autumn harvest. Hayrides originated with farmhands and working farm children riding loaded hay wagons back to the barn for unloading, which was one of the few times during the day one could stop to rest during the frenetic days of the haying season. By the late 19th century and the spread of the railroads, tourism and summer vacations in the country had become popular with urban families, many of whom had read idealized accounts of hayrides in children’s books.

*Red Tail Farm in Leavenworth offers hayrides in the autumn.*

To capitalize on the demand, local farmers began offering ‘genuine hayrides’ on wagons loaded with hay, since one could make more cash income selling rides to ‘summer people’ than by selling the same wagon-load of hay (although most farmers did both). During this era, farming was transforming from a subsistence system to a cash system, and there were few options for bringing real money into the average farm.

Over time the hayride became a real tradition, although the original concept of riding on top of a load of hay was gradually replaced with a simple ride in a wagon sitting on a layer of hay intended to cushion the ride. This was considered far safer than (if not as fun as) riding perched 15-20 feet on top of a slippery pile of hay on a moving vehicle.^”

Laura Ingalls Wilder, in her book The Long Winter, describes the work of loading a hay wagon and her ‘ride’ from the fields back to the barn:

“There Pa walked beside the wagon and drove the horses between the rows of haycocks. At every haycock he stopped the horses and pitched the hay up into the hayrack. It came tumbling loosely over the high edge and Laura trampled it down. Up and down and back and forth she trampled the loose hay with all the might of her legs, while the forkfuls kept coming over and falling, and she went on trampling while the wagon jolted on to the next haycock. Then Pa pitched more hay in from the other side.

Under her feet the hay climbed higher, trampled down as solid as hay can be. Up and down, fast and hard, her legs kept going, the length of the hayrack and back, and across the middle. The sunshine was hotter and the smell of the hay rose up sweet and strong. Under her feet it bounced and over the edges of the hayrack it kept coming.

All the time she was rising higher on the trampled-down hay. Her head rose above the edges of the rack and she could have looked at the prairie, if she could have stopped trampling. Then the rack was full of hay and still more came flying up from Pa’s pitchfork.

*The illustration of Laura in the haywagon from The Long Winter*

Laura was very high up now and the slippery hay was sloping downward around her. She went on trampling carefully. Her face and her neck were wet with sweat and sweat trickled down her back. Her sunbonnet hung by its strings and her braids had come undone. Her long brown hair blew loose in the wind.

Then Pa stepped up on the whiffletrees. He rested one foot on David’s broad hip and clambered up onto the load of hay.

‘You’ve done a good job, Laura,’ he said. ‘You tramped the hay down so well that we’ve got a big load on the wagon.’

Laura rested in the prickly warm hay while Pa drove near to the stable. Then she slid down and sat in the shade of the wagon. Pa pitched down some hay, then climbed down and spread it evenly to make the big, round bottom of a stack. He climbed onto the load and pitched more hay, then climbed down and leveled it on the stack and trampled it down.”

For Laura, that ride on top of the hay wagon was a well deserved and needed break from hard physical labor.

Those of us who grew up in urban or suburban settings will never know how difficult life was for farmers.

For me, a hayride conjures up memories from when I was 14 and 15 years old and the Rainbow Girls – along with the members of the boy’s group DeMolay – looked forward to that day each fall when we met at a farm and all piled into the back of a large farm truck for a ‘hayride.’

Unlike Laura Ingalls Wilder’s ‘hayride,’ ours consisted of bales of hay and a layer of straw on which to sit. We were well enclosed by the sides of the truck and squished together as the vehicle lumbered down the dark back roads of the Yakima Valley. By late September or October, the temperatures in the evenings were down into the 40’s – sometime’s the 30’s – and we were all bundled up in coats, hats, and gloves.

Three things which I most remember about the hayrides:

Constant jostling
Singing
The bonfire and hot dog roast when we arrived at our destination

Sadly, despite keeping a diary for several years as a teenager, the only thing I wrote for 1972 about this event was “Tonight was the hayride. It was fun.” A peek at the weather that day informs us that the high was 63 degrees but the overnight temperature was in the low 30’s. So nice and crisp, exactly how I remember. For a young teenager it was the ultimate fall activity.

Nowadays, being jostled about in the bed of a truck and sitting on hay is, perhaps, not the most fun thing to do on a brisk autumn Saturday night. But if you happen to get a hankering to go on a hayride, there’s a helpful website appropriately named hayride.com to fulfill that desire. Enjoy!

The links:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hayride

https://www.hayrides.com/

Olympic National Park

Jun29

Rhode Island has nothing on this place

June 29, 2021

At 922,649 acres – about 1,411 square miles – Olympic National Park (ONP) is roughly the same size as Rhode Island. Comparing something to Rhode Island is, of course, what American’s do.

*The Olympic mountains dressed up for summer with wildflowers.*
*Photo from ONP official website*

Beyond the fact that Rhode Island borders an ocean, that’s where the similarity ends. Its highest and lowest points range from sea level to just over 800 feet. Olympic National Park, on the other hand, ranges from sea level to just under 8,000 feet with 7,965 foot tall Mount Olympus in the heart of the Olympic Mountains, the center of the park.

While one could traverse all of Rhode Island in a short span of time, to travel around Olympic NP requires planning for a variety of terrains with summer, fall, winter, and spring all possible this time of year.

It was on June 29, 1938 when the area became a National Park, the 13^th largest U.S. National Park and the seventh largest in the contiguous US.

ONP is a true gem in the National Park system. It has a number of distinct animal species found nowhere else in the world including the snow mole, Mazama pocket gopher, Olympic chipmunk, and Olympic marmot. The Hoh River rain forest looks like a scene from a fantasy film with its moss draped trees – the result of receiving 150 inches of rain a year – making it the wettest National Park. The park also features glaciers in the mountains and over 60 miles of pristine beaches.

From the Infallible Wikipedia:

“The beach has unbroken stretches of wilderness ranging from 10 to 20 miles (16 to 32 km). While some beaches are primarily sand, others are covered with heavy rock and very large boulders. Bushy overgrowth, slippery footing, tides and misty rain forest weather all hinder foot travel. The coastal strip is more readily accessible than the interior of the Olympics; due to the difficult terrain, very few backpackers venture beyond casual day-hiking distances.

The most popular piece of the coastal strip is the 9-mile (14 km) Ozette Loop. The Park Service runs a registration and reservation program to control usage levels of this area. From the trailhead at Ozette Lake, a 3-mile (4.8 km) leg of the trail is a boardwalk-enhanced path through near primal coastal cedar swamp. Arriving at the ocean, it is a 3-mile walk supplemented by headland trails for high tides. This area has traditionally been favored by the Makah from Neah Bay. The third 3-mile leg is enabled by a boardwalk which has enhanced the loop’s visitor numbers.”

Unlike its Washington State counterpart, Rainier National Park, Olympic is not overrun with visitors each year. One can visit Olympic and encounter the occasional hiker and a handful of intrepid souls who trek to the beach for its incomparable vistas. One often feels as though they are an explorer from another century, viewing the landscape in much the same way those first settlers saw it.

I first went to ONP as a teenager on a day trip up to Hurricane Ridge. Most of what I recall about that trip was my dad stopping the car in a wide spot so we could get out and visit with a local – that is a deer – who was unafraid of people.

*Me and the kids at Heart of the Hills campground in 2004*

Although I’ve made the foray into the park a number of times, I still feel as though I don’t really know it. Of the 60 miles of beaches I’ve only ever seen the areas near Klaloch, Ozette, and Rialto. There is a stunning beauty when you stand at the Pacific Ocean’s edge and see the sea stacks, crashing waves, and hundreds of birds soaring overhead.

During a 2004 trip with the kids and hubby, we found ourselves communing with a herd of elk – again the elk were unconcerned at the human’s among them – an event which I’m certain the kids still recall. We marveled at the Hoh river rain forest, and all of us got a little bit fatigued at the driving required to traverse the sheer distance between places.

Even so, we still only experienced a tiny portion of the park.

The hubby and I have had on our bucket list to visit every National Park and although we’ve been to Olympic several times, it definitely deserves another trip or ten.

But don’t tell anyone – us Washingtonians like having Olympic all to ourselves.