HUCKLEBERRY WIDOW

My neighbor called me up this morning and the first thing out of her mouth was, "I see you're a huckleberry widow again."

Yep, she was right. Summer is here, so my husband disappears every morning in a cloud of dust with a hardy "Hi-Yo huckleberry!" Off into the sunrise he drives in his trusty Ford truck to discover where the yummy berries are hidden. He also has a couple of "sidekicks," who have joined him for the duration. Too bad he doesn't have The Lone Ranger's horse. Gas is expensive.

Every year, my husband and company pack up a pile of peanut butter sandwiches, and fearlessly trek through the high mountains of North Idaho. Up a steep cliff, over a rocky peak, they don't care. And no bear, wolf or cougar stops them. The BIG black horseflies eat them for lunch and that doesn't even slow 'em down. Mosquitoes start to nibble, but choke on the repellent, so they back off.

Myron is the Huckleberry Master, and all who seek to follow him will be lost. I mean that literally. For his buddies, it's like trying to follow a mountain goat. He seems to have a built-in GPS in that huckleberry brain. Me, not so much. I can get lost in a Wal-Mart parking lot.

My best solution last time I went with him was to take a lawn chair and sit in one spot while he was out picking.

It took me 4 hours to pick a whopping 2 cups of huckleberries. Big deal, huh? He can hand-pick four times that. On one occasion I did get to talk to the wildlife - a coyote, a deer, and a squirrel ambled by to see what I was doing. They weren't very talkative, but they seemed friendly. Could have been that doughnut in my hand. Not sure. Anyway in general, it's just easier to be a huckleberry widow and stay home.

After about 10 hours of extreme climbing, hiking, and picking, the hunters show up back at the house in a sort of purple haze, with purple shorts, purple pants, purple hands, and a purple t-shirt. They stand for a couple of hours in the front lawn, garden hose in hand, washing off the prizes and bagging them to sell. Anyone short-sighted enough to walk through our lawn barefooted receives the dubious sensation of "purple squish" on their feet, since some of the berries inevitably fall off the table onto the ground. That includes the dogs, by the way. Dogs look cute in purple fur. It doesn't look so cute on the floor, but it's a hazard of the game.

When they're finished and the berries are safely tucked in the refrigerator, it becomes my job to pick up the little green leaves, shampoo the purple splotches out of the carpet, and wash the purple clothing. They are the proud duties of a "huckleberry widow."

- Faye Higbee, Post Falls

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BOSCHA

I met Boscha through the Internet. She turned my life around with her kindness and wisdom. At the time, I was locked in a jail of confusion.

She told me things like, "Where there is faith, there is hope. Where there is hope, there is a dream." Then she would say, "The thoughts we think today become tomorrow's reality." She unlocked the dungeon I was living in. There are no words that can describe her understanding and warmth.

I have never seen Boscha, except in photos. She is a half a world away and locked in a prison. She was convicted of a crime her sister committed. Before the truth could be told, her sister was murdered. Boscha is not resentful or bitter. The only crime she is guilty of is love. The judicial system in her country imprisoned her. However, as Boscha taught me, freedom comes from within.

- Keith Sargent, Mullan

•••

LIVING AND LAUGHING WITH MY OWN BLOOD

I wake up she's there,

I smile when she tries to brush her hair.

I laugh, then she

She's reminded of me.

She gets into stuff, I move her.

I laugh and smile when she pulls the cat's fur.

She screams, then I have guilt.

At night I give her her cup and wrap her in a quilt.

Then I see what she give me and wish that there is always...

my baby sister and me.

- Destiny Zinke, 13, Coeur d'Alene

•••

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