Oh, Wilma. You beautiful thing!

Missoula has more than its share of natural beauty. The Clark Fork River rambles through town. Mountains ring the valley. But one of the sights you need to see is entirely man-made.
The elegant Wilma Theater reigns over the pretty little town. Built in 1921, and named after Edna Wilma, the vaudeville-star wife of the builder, the elegant Louis X1V theater and concert hall is still a vibrant social hub. A steady stream of entertainers and big names appears throughout the year.

Stepping inside, you can easily imagine Missoula at its early 20th Century best. Gilded and tasseled and just this side of paradise.

Missoula, Montana

Looking for a little fun, we drove over to Missoula, Montana for the day.





We left Spokane early enough that we were able to make it to Missoula around lunch time. The drive, as always, was beautiful.

Winter in Glacier National Park

I've seen Glacier National Park in the summertime. When the sky is so blue you could swim in it and the forest is lush and green.

I've been there in the fall. When the natural world is at its busiest, preparing for the long winter to come. One September night in East Glacier a mountain lion and her two cubs crossed the road in front of us. The lioness stopped to give us a long look, her babies peeking around her, before disappearing into the trees beside the road.


In the winter, the air is sweet and clean and the blanket of snow softens the rugged landscape. There is a quiet that settles on the park and once you step into it it feeds you, like a vitamin you didn't know you needed.

I drove through West Glacier recently, skirting the shores of Lake McDonald. The mirrored surface of the lake reflected the snowy peaks of the mountains and threw back images of the blue sky breaking through the clouds. Even the bare trees, a stark reminder of the fire that swept through the park in 2003, were somehow beautiful.

I was so moved by my time in the park that I drove back to Glacier National Park the following weekend, bringing my husband and two of my daughters along.

Social scientists say one critical element of true happiness is the bond of a shared experience. Perhaps this is why I had to return. And to bring my loved ones with me. I needed to share what I'd seen and felt. To know they had a chance to experience the same wonder. And, they did.

We drove home under the spell of the ancient landscape. Permanently changed.

What goes up...

After a day at the Summit, I caught the last chair down Whitefish Mountain. I was fortunate. The clouds thinned and then lifted giving me a birds-eye view of the Flathead Valley.

Whitefish backcountry

Riding the snowmobile trails, each new curve led to one breathtaking view after another. I took photo after photo and still don't feel as though I captured it all.

Winter at Whitefish

On our 30-mile snowmobile ride, I stopped at least a dozen times to take photos. The scenery was breathtaking. Flocked evergreen trees. Expansive views from the mountain. Blink-and-they're-gone moments of brilliant sunlight peeking through the clouds. What a beautiful day.

Straight to the top

After Pigging out on the Montana Coffee Traders' "Piggy" bocadillo, we went straight to the top. I hitched a ride on the lift - 2,000 feet in 7 minutes, if you're counting - and hopped off at the summit of Big Mountain at Whitefish Mountain Resort.
I don't ski downhill, so I opted for another kind of mountain adventure. Instead of buckling into skis, I slipped into a jumpsuit and jumped onto a snowmobile. A first for me.
I loved every minute of it. Our guide took us on a 30 mile ride through a pristine winter wonderland. I was timid at first, slowing down on the hills. But, by the time our ride was up, I was keeping up with the rest of the group. It was an amazing experience I intend to repeat.
By the way, if you get hungry, I recommend the basket of homemade potato chips at the summit grill. Delicious.

This little Piggy...

Arriving in Whitefish, our first stop was breakfast at the Montana Coffee Traders store for breakfast. That's where I was introduced to the breakfast bocadillo. The "Piggy" bocadillo, to be specific.
The piggy is a sandwich of bacon, chopped hard-boiled eggs, cheddar cheese and thinly sliced rosemary potatoes wrapped in a flour tortilla and grilled on a panini press.
It's like nothing I've ever tasted before. The perfect fuel for a day on the slopes or just looking at the slopes.
I'm going to be sniffing around for the recipe...

Sleep tight

Sleeping on the train is an exercise in efficiency. If you're in a coach seat, you figure out how to fold into the seat, curling against the window or trying not to spill out in the aisle.
Or, you book a sleeper; a beehive of tiny rooms, each making the most of every available inch of space. On the Empire Builder Superliner sleeping car the "large" bedroom features a fold-out upper bed, a sofa which opens to become a somewhat-wider lower bed.
There's a tiny basin and a really tiny toilet which doubles as a shower.
Small? Yes. Fun? You bet. Comfortable? Surprisingly so.
Best thing of all? The soft knock-on-the-door wakeup call. I'd trade my alarm clock for that any day.

Leavin' on a midnight train...

I love traveling by train. I hop aboard whenever it is an option. And, usually, some kind of adventure follows.
I met the man I would marry on a restored steam engine making a trip to Chattanooga, Tennessee.

I met one of my best friends on the Crescent as it snaked up the Shenandoah Valley on its way to New York City.

I once had a meltdown on that same train as it traveled through the deep south down to New Orleans. I was 5 months pregnant with my first child, and I was so hungry I couldn't wait another minute for the dining car to open. The conductor (obviously a man with children) brought me a bag of chips to tide me over.

I've rolled through a winter wonderland as I rode the Empire Builder through snow-covered passes in the Cascades and sipped my coffee sitting in a domed observation car as we snaked along the Columbia River.

Like I said. I love riding the rails.

In Spokane, the Amtrak trains roll in around midnight and depart not long after. Heading to Whitefish, Montana for winter visit, the train was darkened and quiet as I opened the door of my sleeper.
The bed was made up and turned down. All I had to do was stow my gear and turn out the lights.

As we pulled out of Spokane, I watched the city roll away. The rhythm of the train lulled me. The last thing I remember before getting a 7am wake-up call was a song running through my head.

" Leavin' on a Midnight Train..."

China's China Town

I took this photo of the market standing at a window on the second floor of the Macy's store in "China Town" in Shanghai. (The area looks exactly like San Francisco's China Town and is meant to cater to tourists.)
We complain about the crowds at the mall, but each weekend this market packs in as many as 10,000 people who come to shop and see and be seen. Most are locals.
The Shanghai Macy's store anchors the square, and busloads of tourists are dropped off to spend their Yuan. But the basement level is a warren of tiny shops. Rugs, antiques, pottery and other exotic items are sold from stalls. There's also a Burger King.
We spent our last day here, fighting the crowds and picking up souvenirs.

October of My Discontent

Take Southwest Airlines current fare deals, add deep hotel discounts from Hotwire, stir in my deep desire for a weekend in Portland, and you have the perfect recipe for discontent. I don't know if I can resist...

The Color Purple

We'd only been in Vienna for a couple of hours when we stopped at one of the sidewalk cafes for a bite to eat.

We sat there, tucking into our Weiner schnitzel, watching the people stroll past us as we ate. I began to notice something. Many of the women who were walking down the narrow cobbled lane were wearing the color purple. For some, it was a scarf or a purse. There were T-shirts, shoes and one eye-catching purple raincoat tossed over the arm of an elegant woman.

I called everyone's attention to it. We commented each time someone walked by wearing the color.

Later, after dinner we strolled along the wide plaza near the Opera House, window shopping and getting the feel of the city. At almost every store I stopped to admire something purple on a mannequin or displayed on a rack.

The next day I pulled a deep violet colored pashmina - purchased in a little gallery in Whitefish, Montana - out of my luggage and looped it around my neck. I was a chameleon trying to take on the hue of my environment. I wanted to fit in.

I wore it the rest of the trip.

This morning, one of the coolest we've had, as I dressed to go out, I picked up that soft wool scarf, and wrapped it around me. Instantly, the sights and sounds of Vienna came back and I back on the cobblestone streets. And I was lost in a purple haze.

Menlo Park, California

Dear family,
This is goodbye.
I am leaving you for an attractive resort in the Bay Area. Although I have enjoyed all these years of cooking and cleaning and making sure you wake up in time, I have decided to let someone take care of me like that for a change. I'm sure you understand and support my decision.
Please send my sunglasses and that paperback novel I've been trying to finish for three weeks now. And don't forget to feed my chickens.
Mom

From where I sit, life looks pretty good.

I'm in my thinking spot. Like Winnie the Pooh...
There's an old chaise lounge, one of those pieces you used to see in 1950s boudoirs, tucked into a corner by the fireplace in my living room. It faces the big window on the front of my house. That's my thinking place.
I bought the chaise at an antique sale. A woman from the San Juan Islands had brought over a truck load of goodies and she had the chaise front and center in her display. It was covered with a bright 1980s chintz, but underneath the the newer slipcover was the original 1940s or 50s chintz. That fabric was done in those wonderful mid-century browns and greens.
Anyway, I bought the chaise (for a very good deal) and brought it home.
and dyed the cover to soften the color.
I had it in my bedroom when we lived in the big suburban house. But, since the move to the cottage in the city, it's been in my living room facing the window.
I'm not very tall, just under 5'4". When I sit on the chaise, my feet don't quite reach the end. It's a perfect fit.
I start - and end - most days here. With my laptop and a cup of morning coffee, I write and think and look out the window. Before bed, with a cup of tea, I go over the things that happened during the day.
I've solved a lot of problems from this thinking spot. And, I've let a lot of things go as I sat cocooned and wrapped in the throw that is folded over the back.
Sometimes an old chair, or chaise or corner of the porch, is more than just a place to sit. Sometimes it's a place to think and plan and simply muddle through another day.

A new path

After leading the editorial staff for 11 wonderful issues (the August 09 issue of Metro is in done and awaiting printing) I've ended my relationship with Spokane Metro Magazine. I resigned August 5 to pursue other creative avenues.
It was a bittersweet decision. While I loved every minute of interacting with the public as well as coming up with story ideas and working with writers and photographers, I realized that my ideals and that of the parent company were at odds.
As I told my family when I made the decision to leave Metro, no matter what else is on the table it's important to hold to one's values and principles.
I wish the publisher and the company only the best. And I look forward to reading the magazine in the future.

Satori writers

I'm teaching creative writing at the Satori Camp this week. I love this part of the summer every year.
The kids range in age from Middle School to High School. It's always interesting to see them find their way in the class.
Each year I have them capture a memory on paper. We spend the week refining what they write. I ask them to make it personal and real. We look for passive tones and fluffy adjectives. I want them to learn to write narrative that pulls you in and makes the reader a part of the story.
Each morning they read aloud what they wrote the night before (or that morning on the way to class...)
Everyone in the class has a chance to critique. That way, we are all vulnerable.
So far, after just two morning sessions, I've already noticed changes. The shy boy at the back of the class has started to join in. He stopped me on the way out of the building today to talk about what he has in mind.
The outspoken girl who sits near the front read her piece. It was very good. But when it was time to make comments, her confidence flagged. She was a bit defensive. I get the feeling she's not used to having that kind of input from peers.
It was interesting to watch.
At the end of the week, the kids will go home. They won't remember me or the week they spent with me. But each year I am haunted by some of the stories they tell. Their words stay with me. And that's why, each year when I'm asked, I go back to do it again.

The Sorcerer's apprentices

We saw the latest Harry Potter movie last night.
Sitting in the theater, the three of us, just one teenager sitting between her parents, I couldn't help but think how much things have changed since the first movie.
When it was released in 2001, we took a car full of kids to see it. The youngest, the only one left at home to take last night, was only six at the time. Her older sister was 16, with a 14-year-old and 11-year-old between them. And, looking back, it seems like we took one or two others with us, as well.
It was an expensive evening. I do remember that. Admission for eight. Popcorn. Sodas. Junior mints...
But last night there was just the three of us. The "baby" is almost the same age as her oldest sister was when the first movie came out. We had dinner before, so no popcorn. No sodas. No Junior Mints.
In the film, the characters have grown up. Like my children. And their adventures, and experience have grown darker and less innocent. I guess that's what happens to all of us when we grown up.
I listened to the sniffles in the theater when Albus Dumbledore died on screen. I saw, from the corner of my eye, my daughter wipe away tears.
My husband's father died last month. We lost our partiarch, too. I wondered if that crossed his and my daughter's minds as we watched. I know I thought about it.
A lot has changed in the last 9 years.
Harry Potter isn't the only one trying to find his way.

Hello again

I am a boomerang blogger. Like a kid who goes off to school and then comes back home to figure out what comes next, I've been here before and have returned to familiar territory.

Then:
As a freelancer writer, staff writer and then Home and Garden editor at The Spokesman-Review, I created two blogs.
I loved writing Home Planet (2005) and Treasure Hunting (2004) but after a few years found myself feeling a little burned out. I let both blogs fade and finally stopped posting to either.

Now:
In the spring of 2008, I left the S-R to join the staff of a new publication as editor of Spokane Metro Magazine
Much of my time is spent away from my desk. I'm out and about talking to readers, taking part in community activities and dressing up for the social side of life in Spokane. Each week I see a lot of things I'd like to write about, but they don't always fit in my editor's column. Or, in the weekly Sunday morning essay I record for Spokane Public Radio.

Moving forward:
I finally admitted I wanted another page. Another voice. So, now, I'm blogging again.
It's good to be home.