I’m kind of lukewarm about the Super Bowl, World Series and even Gonzaga University basketball (I know, I know – blasphemy), but when it comes to the Winter Olympics, the world stops for me. This (and I consider it a singular happening) is my favorite sporting event of all. Sadly, it comes only once every four years. Happily, it begins Friday.
The Inland Casket Company factory building on Atlantic Street on Spokane’s near north side holds two distinctions. It was home to one of the longest operating casket companies in the area. And it is the only casket factory building still standing in Spokane. This building nearly went the way of the others, but then Marshall Clark of Clark Pacific Realty stepped in. “It was a mess, but I’m good at visualizing things and saw what, with a lot of work, this beautiful old brick building could be,” he said.
The Inland Casket Company factory building on Atlantic Street on Spokane’s near north side holds two distinctions. It was home to one of the longest operating casket companies in the area. And it is the only casket factory building still standing in Spokane. This building nearly went the way of the others, but then Marshall Clark of Clark Pacific Realty stepped in. “It was a mess, but I’m good at visualizing things and saw what, with a lot of work, this beautiful old brick building could be,” he said.
Three days before Christmas, I was returning home from some errands and, since the garage door was open, was about to pull in, when my husband came out and waved me off. There in the garage was a chicken. Now, there has been chicken in the garage before – skinless, boneless and in clear wrap in the freezer – but this was the first feathered, strutting, pecking, squawking one. Due to the timing of her arrival, though I’m pretty sure there was nothing miraculous about it, we consider her the Christmas chicken. And lacking cleverness, we have named her Chicken.
So, how are those New Year’s resolutions coming? I am happy to report that my one and only one – resolving that 2010 shall be my personal year of curmudgeonly embrace – is going swimmingly. I know, gloating is so unseemly, but there it is. While I shall strive not to be a perpetual buzz-killer this year, I am pretty sure I can be sufficiently grumpy often enough to be true to my resolution. Let me roll out two current irritants – concern that our effort to blow apart the English language is climbing higher up the lexicographical food chain, plus I also have a few words about e-mail.
The new decade begins Friday. I’d like to write about hopes, positive goals and all that aspirational stuff that this time of year is supposed to elicit in us. But, alas, I am so not in the mood. It’s not that I’m unhappy or blue or angry or anything. I’m just being realistic. New Year’s resolutions are a sure way to set oneself up for failure. Lose a few pounds. Exercise more. Stop procrastinating. Sure, and by Jan. 10, tops, we’ve all fallen back into our slovenly ways and feeling depressed that we’ve failed at (insert your resolution here) yet again.
As pieces of public art go, this one really moves. There is nothing static about Cataract, the 50-foot-long, 10-foot-wide water and bronze artwork that rises 20 feet between the escalators at the Spokane Transit Authority plaza in downtown Spokane. According to Karen Mobley, director of the Spokane Arts Commission, it is one of the most popular pieces of art within a public building in Spokane.
Here I am decorating our Christmas tree, and things aren’t going well. I’m the official dresser of the tree at our house. Bruce and I tried to do it together when we were first married, but I am from the school of precision decorating, where everything has its place, and balance and symmetry are important. He is from the random school of toss decorating. Not a good match.
For a few days there, during the Nez Perce War of 1877, it looked like George Cowan would die at Yellowstone National Park – and that would be the end of his story. But as fate would have it, he lived and eventually found his way to Spokane. And when he did die, he and his wife, Emma, were laid to rest at Riverside Memorial Park along North Government Way in Spokane. Once again, a fascinating tale of Northwest history found its conclusion in the cemeteries of Spokane, where a number of history’s most intriguing people are buried.
For a few days there, during the Nez Perce War of 1877, it looked like George Cowan would die at Yellowstone National Park – and that would be the end of his story. But as fate would have it, he lived and eventually found his way to Spokane. And when he did die, he and his wife, Emma, were laid to rest at Riverside Memorial Park along North Government Way in Spokane. Once again, a fascinating tale of Northwest history found its conclusion in the cemeteries of Spokane, where a number of history’s most intriguing people are buried.
I know what time it is. We’re eating Thanksgiving leftovers. The official holiday shopping season is launched. The ho-ho-ho songs are ringing forth from elevators, malls, radio stations and (I swear) oozing from our very pores. That can only mean one thing – it’s time to pen the annual holiday newsletter.
Sometimes you can create your own landmark. That’s what Suzanne Grainger decided to do in memory of her husband, Spokane orthopedic surgeon Dr. David William “Bill” Grainger, who was 76 when he died last May while on vacation in Hawaii. Even though his death was unexpected, as people of mature years, they had discussed what each might do for the other when one of them died.
It is customary for Jews to create a Jewish cemetery in the communities where they live. Mount Nebo, a small cemetery easy to overlook as you drive by, lies next to the much larger Greenwood Memorial Park along North Government Way on the west side of Spokane; it is the burial site for about 400 Jews. The approximately 4-acre cemetery can accommodate 1,400 bodies, “but it will probably take us more than 100 years to get to that number,” said Dick Rubens, chair of the cemetery committee at Spokane’s Temple Beth Shalom, which owns Mount Nebo.
“Gimme head with hair; long beautiful hair; shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen … I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy, naggy, shaggy, ratty, matty, oily, greasy, fleecy, shining, gleaming …”
– Lyrics to the title song of the 1960s American tribal love-rock musical “Hair”
It is customary for Jews to create a Jewish cemetery in the communities where they live. Mount Nebo, a small cemetery easy to overlook as you drive by, lies next to the much larger Greenwood Memorial Park along North Government Way on the west side of Spokane; it is the burial site for about 400 Jews. The approximately 4-acre cemetery can accommodate 1,400 bodies, “but it will probably take us more than 100 years to get to that number,” said Dick Rubens, chair of the cemetery committee at Spokane’s Temple Beth Shalom, which owns Mount Nebo.
Well, I thought I was done with the subject, having pretty much made peace with the reality that no progress has been or ever will be made and that we are simply doomed to our complacency. Just live with it. But then that thing happened last week, and here I am again – tilting at windmills because I seem to have an infinite capacity for hopeless causes. The subject is the English language and our continual and unrelenting abuse of it. I have gone on and on in this space about incorrect word usage, bad grammar and our seeming pride in treating badly this language we say we love and cherish but then go out and blithely mangle and misuse for all to see.
Usually when you come across a geologic or historic marker along a highway, there’s something actually to see there – a field where a battle took place, a mountain peak in the distance, a structure of historic note. But where Trent Avenue becomes Washington Highway 290 and moves 100 yards or so over the border, becoming Idaho Highway 53, there is a marker erected by the Idaho Transportation Department, right behind which is a little gully paralleling some railroad tracks. Logic would indicate the sign had something to do with trains or railroading.
Usually when you come across a geologic or historic marker along a highway, there’s something actually to see there – a field where a battle took place, a mountain peak in the distance, a structure of historic note. But where Trent Avenue becomes Washington Highway 290 and moves 100 yards or so over the border, becoming Idaho Highway 53, there is a marker erected by the Idaho Transportation Department, right behind which is a little gully paralleling some railroad tracks. Logic would indicate the sign had something to do with trains or railroading.
One can only hold one’s curmudgeon hormones in check for so long, so be forewarned, they’re surging today and I’m taking no prisoners. Proceed at your own risk. I so dearly wish that Kate and Jon Gosselin will fall quickly into that deep pit of ignominity and obscurity that they so richly deserve. And while we’re at it, may so-called reality shows die a quick and brutal death and may the magic wand that Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones use in the “Men in Black” films erase the memories of people who have had experiences with aliens and may it be employed to mercifully and forever remove the memory of reality television from our minds.
On a pillar inside the Sprague Avenue entrance of the Davenport Hotel is a plaque honoring a man who resided at the hotel for a portion of the five years he lived in Spokane (1924-’29). The plaque is on a pillar opposite two other plaques declaring the hotel a National Historic Site. How fitting that these commemorations are in close proximity, for the man mentioned on the first plaque was a national treasure himself – Vachel Lindsay, an American poet whose genius was in transforming poetry into performance art, incorporating a theatricality into its recitation that was musical. The first American poet invited to lecture at Oxford, England, he was nationally known and gave poetry recitations to such luminaries as President Woodrow Wilson.
What many people consider one of the most brutal, inexplicable and traumatic acts in the mid-1800s war between the U.S. government and Native Americans of the Inland Northwest wasn’t about the loss of human life. It had to do with horses. On Sept. 8 and 9, 1858, approximately 800 horses belonging to tribes of the area were slaughtered by the soldiers of U.S. Army Col. George Wright along the banks of the Spokane River near what would become the border between Washington and Idaho.
Here I stand on my lawn, ankle deep in pine needles, raking. Again. And as I do so, ever more needles are floating down upon me as the wind releases them from branches high above me. This won’t be the last time I rake this fall, nor will it be the last time my husband climbs the ladder to de-needle our roof as part of the ongoing fall ritual, which will be followed by several months buried in snow, and resumed again in the spring as a new crop of needles emerges.
What many people consider one of the most brutal, inexplicable and traumatic acts in the mid-1800s war between the U.S. government and Native Americans of the Inland Northwest wasn’t about the loss of human life. It had to do with horses. On Sept. 8 and 9, 1858, approximately 800 horses belonging to tribes of the area were slaughtered by the soldiers of U.S. Army Col. George Wright along the banks of the Spokane River near what would become the border between Washington and Idaho.
If you’ve ever floated down the Little Spokane River between St. George’s School and the Rutter Parkway Bridge, you’ve probably seen the Montvale Farm house. It’s the tall white home along the bend of the river, on your right, just before you get to the bridge. Listed on the Spokane Register of Historic Places, the Montvale Farm was home to some of the area’s most famous citizens, and it continues today as a family legacy – though it nearly didn’t.