Cynthia Taggart

HAUSER LAKE, Idaho – Jody Mask dreads the day a passing car honks at his son, Keaton, because the little boy is chasing a runaway ball in the street. Keaton, 7, might hear the horn if his hearing aid batteries are working. But chances are just as good that Keaton won't hear the horn. The boy with the freckled nose is comfortable with his deafness and often too busy playing to tell anyone when his batteries are dead.

LENIA SCHMIDT'S GARDEN is for the birds – really. The canopy of her blue spruce protects birds from neighborhood cats and gives them a spot to roost. A dead snag is for roosting, too. Lenia allows her tall purple irises to go to seed so the birds have natural food through winter. She grows plants with red trumpet-shaped flowers for hummingbirds, and honeyberries and strawberries for bird food. "I never really thought about the birds until we moved here and had pheasants, quail and partridge," she says. "We wanted to keep them here."

Helen Gore focuses on something only she can see and her eyes never move as Elisabeth O'Meara pushes her wheelchair around the tables in Sandpoint's Evergreen Assisted Living center. Elisabeth's feet keep time to the song pouring from Gil Gibbs, a snappy two-step that inspires Elisabeth, 66, to dip her shoulders and wave her head. Her face lights up as she and Helen pass Evergreen residents waiting their turn to dance with her. Minnie, Evergreen's curly blonde Lhasa-poo pup, trots neatly out of the way as if she and Elisabeth had choreographed their routine. Helen remains impassive throughout her spin around the care center, but her insides are jumping for joy. "I used to be able to dance on my own," she says after Elisabeth parks her by a dining table. "But not in a wheelchair. I never thought about dancing in a wheelchair." Neither did Elisabeth until she noticed the longing looks of the people in wheelchairs while she danced with ambulatory residents. "It wasn't fair," she says. "I could get them moving to music, give them a beat." Helen wasn't aware she missed dancing until people began two-stepping and waltzing in front of her. Poor circulation and a lifetime of tennis combined to destroy the cartilage in her knees and curse her with arthritis. Most days she accepts the price for her active life. But occasionally something reminds her of her younger years and she misses the fun she once took for granted. Helen moved to Evergreen a month ago. She watched Elisabeth joyfully dance with residents in wheelchairs for a few weeks. But Helen can still move around with a walker and wasn't ready to relegate her dancing to a wheelchair – not until now. For reasons beyond her, Helen hesitantly accepted when Elisabeth asked her to dance. Elisabeth twirls some residents and dances face-to-face with others, holding their hands and pulling their chairs. She's gentle with Helen, to prove she's trustworthy and so Helen can enjoy the unconventional movement. Sweat glistens on Elisabeth's forehead. The center is warm and she's working hard, even though Helen is as slim as a sapling. "It really was fun," Helen says, finally smiling after the music stops. "I'd do it again." Which is Elisabeth's reward. She's visited Evergreen to dance for a dozen years. Dancing soothed her soul after her husband died 23 years ago on their daughter's 18th birthday. Elisabeth was 43 and waltzing to Strauss relieved some of her hurt and grief. In 1992, Loren Tausend from Seattle started a folk dancing group in Sandpoint. Elisabeth was so excited that she dragged her aunt to the first meeting. Her aunt was shocked that Elisabeth danced with a man to whom she wasn't married. Loren had shared his dances regularly at nursing homes in Seattle. He began the same routine in Sandpoint with Elisabeth as his partner. Elisabeth not only had a passion for dance, she was a loyal regular in his dance group. Elisabeth and Loren performed dances from Hungary and Spain, Nordic countries and the Alps. They dressed in costume. Their audiences were delighted. "It was wonderful," Elisabeth says softly. They danced together for nine years, pulling their audiences onto the floor with them at the end of their performances. Then, Alzheimer's disease claimed Loren. The people in the care centers appreciated their visits so much that Elisabeth continued them alone. She fox trotted and waltzed with residents, chatting merrily with her dance partners as if they were in a nightclub. Evergreen residents filled the dining room every Wednesday to hear the live old-time country music of Gil Gibbs and Harold Overland, volunteer musicians who never missed a performance. Elisabeth found their bouncy beat just right for swaying or twirling or two-stepping with people from whom life had taken a toll. The band expanded to include Joanne and Bob Brown and Betty Endress on piano. But Elisabeth remained the one dancer until this summer evening. Viven Ivie, a spry gentleman from Clark Fork, waltzes into Evergreen in his white slacks, shoes, shirt and cowboy hat and steers a grinning Vera Jones in her wheelchair onto the dance floor. Viven cha-chas and pushes and Vera laughs and pokes her arms into the air like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Elisabeth beams. "What more could I want?" she says, taking in the smiling faces around her. "They make me appreciate every moment."

NANCY TAYLOR'S CHILDREN mean more to her than anything, and Ironman Coeur d'Alene is one more opportunity for her to show it. Next week, Nancy will swim 2.4 miles in Lake Coeur d'Alene, cycle 112 miles between Higgens Point and Liberty Lake, Wash., and run 26.2 miles, mostly next to the lake because Derick Taylor, Nancy's 18-year-old son, asked her to participate in Ironman with him. She's competed in Olympic distance triathlons before, but never attempted the grueling Ironman, which is four times longer.

WAKING UP IN A FLOOD last year flustered Nancy Spada and Roger Gee, but it didn't dampen their enthusiasm for traveling in Mexico. A van that was stolen from them in Mexico a few months ago cost them time, money and plenty of aggravation, but they bought another so they could keep traveling. That van broke down, but Mexican ingenuity repaired it in half the time and at a 10th the price of most American garages.

The adults gathered at the back of Borah Elementary School's gym grinned like proud parents watching their children perform – except few were parents of children in the room. They were Kiwanis Club members and contractors, gardeners and salespeople, artists, mortgage agents and retirees. They were city employees and tree specialists, painters and business owners, Boy Scouts, carpenters and teachers. "You listen to us read. You're the bright spot in our week," a fifth-grade boy recited to the group.

Mike Winderman considers himself a peaceful man despite his propensity for punching, stabbing and slapping. Cross him and he'll most likely turn the other cheek. Insult him and he'll retort softly in vocabulary well beyond most people. But, yell "Action" and Mike swings or slices or kicks at a designated target with alarming deadly force. "The idea is to create the illusion of violence," Mike says. "That's what stage combat is all about."

The Watson family's imaginary baby – a raw egg, really – died quickly after birth, a definite sign of the family's rash behavior and poor decision-making. Borah Elementary fourth-grade teacher Cindi Ulen handed the five Watsons an egg to represent the newborn baby they'd carry on their upcoming Oregon Trail trek re-enactment. It didn't take long before the egg was sailing from father to daughter to grandmother, and one of them wasn't gentle enough for the baby. The Watsons – fourth-graders Nikki Bain , Audra Ross, Emily Shell, Jared Lafontaine and Jesse Lilnberger – didn't view the tragedy with the proper gravity. But Cindi couldn't teach them everything. Her students were too excited about embarking on an Oregon Trail journey that promised danger, privation, rugged terrain, possible gunfights and more.

The boys gathered around Will Judge are as mesmerized by his cooking flames as they are with Will. His thick, arched mustache, black cowboy hat and boots are enough to merit a second look from most city folk. But these boys living at Children's Village in Coeur d'Alene are impressed with something more basic. Will is a man.

Joan Wanamaker was stunned. The woman on the other end of the phone was congratulating her for winning a Women of Wisdom award from the women of Sandpoint. "I couldn't believe it," Joan says now, a year after she received the award. "There are so many women in the community who do so much. This means a great deal to me."

School wasn't working. Ashley LaCelle tried Coeur d'Alene High first, then Lake City High. She was uncomfortable, unhappy, unmotivated. A counselor suggested she try Project CDA—Creating Dropout Alternatives. LaCelle wasn't interested in the alternative school. She wasn't pregnant and didn't take drugs, so she decided she didn't belong there, even though the school caters to all sorts of students who can't handle a traditional school setting. LaCelle planned to earn a GED — general education document — eventually. Then, she heard about the Bridge Academy.

Suicide was no shock to Al Holm. As a police chaplain, he'd consoled too many families who'd found a son or daughter or husband or grandmother dead by his or her own hand. He'd counseled too many inmates tired of their failure to stay out of trouble. But those weren't the souls who drove Al to start the Idaho Suicide Prevention Network. The six people among his friends and family who decided to kill themselves haunted Al for so long that he finally decided he had to do something for others and to heal himself.

When a single mother moved in near Jeffrey "Sprout" Rich, he brought her firewood and, sometimes, food. He didn't ask her to pay or try to sell her his handyman services or anything else. Jeffrey dropped off his load, laughed with the kids and went on his way.

For $60,000, Mike and Ronica Bishop bought screams, giggles, regular trips to the toy store, endless questions and the sincerest hugs and kisses they'll ever experience. "I love you, Mom," 6-year-old Emily Odine Bishop whispers loudly into Ronica's ear before running down the hall in their Bonners Ferry home to find out what kind of trouble her brother, 4-year-old Michael Odelin Bishop, is in. John Bishop, 1, lays on the living room carpet nearby playing with his toes and paying no attention to the activity around him.

PAULENE HAKALA was so certain she could sing that she belted out tunes in her female bass in private. "I'm kind of a closet performer," she says sheepishly.