'Silver dollar' day filled with family, memories

It seems each day is like a variety store.

I remember that “five and dime” on Priest River's Main Street. This was especially true last Saturday. My husband Terry was headed to Priest Lake for the old fishing boat and trailer his friend gave our family to fix up and use. I went along — and invited the teen grands to join me on the picnic beach. Matthew drove his new-to-him red Ram truck.

My niece in Washington, D.C., was leading a prayer walk with her monastic community that day. I told her I'd join her Idaho-style and walk along the wooded beach. I was mesmerized by a cluster of tiny periwinkle butterflies darting around my feet.

My son-in-law Murat was also with us. He will drop a line wherever there is water. The fish weren't interested. I had better success with a bowl of delicious smoked salmon chowder at Chimney Rock Cafe.

Being at the lake, I missed the Kentucky Derby. Our daughter lives in that state now and had planned to attend, but her daughter had other plans — a wedding at month's end. The marriage track and all its preparations eclipsed the Derby oval. Tamara sent a surprise photo dressed in her fancy hat — ready to watch the race from her living room. I love a good idea.

So far, my Saturday had been stellar. Then we drove home, dropping the boat at our family's. Their neighbor had erected a cautionary sign while we were gone — a painted cardboard cutout of a red truck lettered in black with SLOW, secured atop a tall stake. I guess the grand was kicking up too much dust driving past his gate.

We didn't head straight to our house. We backtracked to Evergreen Mobile Home Park on Highway 57. Terry had noticed something coming into Priest River. Just like that — an era folded.

My mother, who died 12 years ago, had lived in her mobile home space for 36 years. Her trailer was an elegant rectangle of peace for me. I lived away but visited her during the years she didn't come to me. We collected hometown memories in an ever-expanding circle. After returning to Priest River — even when she was no longer there — driving by I would sneak glances at third-from-the-end.

Now it was jacked up and ready to move. It was leaving. Uprooted. How could this be? I climbed the still-attached front steps a final time and peered in the small window on her door. The one where — whenever I left — I would turn and blow mom a kiss sitting in her corner chair. The place was stripped. Not only that, but there was also a huge chunk of the living room wall missing — and boarded up. The trailer — my mother's reverent refuge — was trash.

I ran around to the eyesore on the other side and encountered a neighbor walking her dog. She told me last winter's big wind had blown off a snow roof two spaces down. It left a path of destruction, including demolishing the tip out addition on mom's mobile home. Hence, the plywood boarding.

She didn't need that place anymore. I was never so thankful for the promise of an eternal home. I felt overwhelmed for one last real time visit to mom's. One more look through the window. One more vision of my smiling white-haired mother in her corner chair.

Each day is a “five and dime.” I'm upping that on this one. A variety, yes — but with all its peaks and dips — it was a silver dollar day.

Carol Shirk Knapp is the author of "The Preacher's Kid" column.