on Dremel tools

I went “to town” over the weekend.  This town being that straight stretch of big box stores drawing Whitefish and Kalispell, Montana, ever closer together.  Am I proud of shopping at the big box stores?  No.  Am I happy that Costco, Lowe’s, and Target exist?  Yes.

Going-t0-town means a one way drive of about 150 miles, no matter which “town” you depart near Babb for.  It means long lists of items to procure, coupons stuffed haphazardly into visors, folding the muddy seats in the old Tahoe up and down and up again.  If I am alone, which I generally am, it means an old envelope on which Honeydew has drawn a picture of a part that he needs, that I must show to the workers at Lowe’s and beg for their assistance in finding.  I do this frequently at our wonderful local hardware store, Billman’s in Cut Bank, and the kind folks there always pluck the drawing from my hands, disappear into the aisles overflowing with mysterious angles of metal and pipes of PVC, and emerge moments later: “This is what he needs, Mrs. Honeydew.  Do you want this on your account?”

Ah.  If only everything could be purchased at Billman’s.

But, back to Lowe’s.  I don’t exactly get that kind of treatment at Lowe’s, but there are some items of hardware that even Billman’s does not carry, and so sometimes I must venture into the vastness of Lowe’s.  Last year, when wandering the aisles in search of drywall patches, I happened across this beautiful tool:

That, my fine friends, is a Dremel tool.

Two Christmases ago, when I launched the Glacier County Honey Company’s collection of gorgeous beeswax ornaments, I did not exactly have a plan in mind for creating them with efficiency.  Once I’d poured the wax, and it cooled, I’d sit there in the kitchen at Hillhouse, staring at their imperviousness.

You see that darling, impervious ornament there?  That’s the Beehive/Skep Nativity Scene – our best seller, actually.  But it ain’t gonna sell if there ain’t no hole to put an ornament hanger through.

And beeswax, well, it is some tough stuff.  At one point in my initial foray into ornament making, I’d heat up my great uncle Charlie’s Coca-Cola ice pick in a stockpot of water, and attempt to … worm the pick through the top of the beeswax ornament, in order to have a hole for the ornament hanger.

Then I got wise and borrowed Brother Dear’s fabulous DeWalt drill.  He loves it when I borrow his power tools.  And lose the bits.

The drill was great, but sometimes a bit too powerful, and it broke as many ornaments as it didn’t.  Or could be user error – who knows?

I despaired.  I had a stack of ornament orders and the sun had long since set.

Then my dad stepped into the kitchen, and said quietly, “You know, what you need is a Dremel tool.  That’d be perfect for putting holes in those ornaments.”  And without even asking what in the heck a Dremel tool was, I flew to the ongoing Lowe’s list tacked to the refrigerator, and scrawled “Drimmil tool.”  Where power tools are concerned, I have the utmost confidence in my dad’s recommendations.

And so, when I was in Lowe’s last fall and ran across the Dremel tool, I rejoiced.

And of course, my dad was right.  The Dremel tool is perfect for putting tiny holes into fragile beeswax ornaments, so that I can then run a needle and raffia through them, and give them an ornament hanger.  ‘Cause an ornament ain’t an ornament if you can’t hang it.

Needless to say, ornament season 2010 went much more smoothly than ornament season 2009.  I can’t say the same for my nails, though – Dremel Tools are mighty hard on pretty fingernails.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co. All Rights Reserved.

 

You’re The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me

Thirty five years ago today, my parents were married at the prettiest little church in the world, Fair Haven, near Millen, Georgia.

On that day they stood and repeated their vows in front of family and close friends, they could not know that thirty five years later, they would celebrate their anniversary with Montana drivers licenses in their wallets.  I’d love to say, “what a long, strange trip it’s been,” but they’re not Grateful Dead fans.

Mr. and Mrs. Stone are more Gladys Knight & the Pips kind of folks.  In honor of their anniversary, I’m posting the lyrics to “their song,” along with some of my favorite pictures of them.

I’ve had my share of life’s ups and downs
But fate’s been kind, the downs have been few
I guess you could say that I’ve been lucky
Well, I guess you could say that it’s all because of you 

If anyone should ever write my life story
For whatever reason there might be
Ooh, you’ll be there between each line of pain and glory
‘Cause you’re the best thing that ever happened to me
Ah, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me

Oh, there have been times when times were hard
But always somehow I made it, I made it through
‘Cause for every moment that I’ve spent hurting
There was a moment that I spent, ah, just loving you

If anyone should ever write my life story
For whatever reason there might be
Oh, you’ll be there between each line of pain and glory
‘Cause you’re the best thing that ever happened to me
Oh, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me
I know, you’re the best thing, oh, that ever happened to me

 

Hillhouse, December 2008, below zero temps.

St. Simons Island, Georgia, 2005.

Sunset at The Lodge, St. Simons Island, Georgia, 2005.

Chatmoss Ball, Martinsville, Virginia, 2006.

Dawson Pass, Glacier National Park, Montana, 2007.

Above Babb Flats, Montana, 2005.

Red Meadow Lake, near Polebridge, Montana, 2005.

Colorado River Trip, Grand Canyon, 2004.

Post Floral Park, at Comeau Pass, Glacier National Park, Montana, 2007 – only ten miles to go at 5pm!

And this, my favorite picture of them, in the judge’s stand at the Polebridge 4th of July parade. Polebridge, Montana, 2005.

Mom and Dad, here’s to 35 more!

2010.  Glacier County Honey Co. All Rights Reserved.

 

Hark, America!

Please forgive our virtual absence.  We have been busy with the annual Montana State Beekeepers Convention and yesterday, traveling to Helena to have Brother Dear sworn in as a Montana lawyer.  In honor of that special occasion, Dad is our guest blogger.

An artificial fly is pulled gently over water so clear it appears filtered; the mellow deep sound of chords from the guitar fill the outdoors around the camp fire; the aroma from that old blue pot on the stove filled with beef barley soup fills the senses like only it and bacon can – these are just a few of the talents that my son Sanford has acquired. But he did not acquire them from me, because even though as his father I should have been teaching him how to fly fish, play the guitar, and prepare food as only a gourmet chef can, I could not teach him these things because I could not do them myself. And so it was that Sanford learned them on his own because he is good at learning things and teaching himself what he wants to know.

It is very Southern not to toot one’s own horn, and very Southern not to brag on the accomplishments of one’s close kin. But most Southerners allow as how on some rare occasions, a proud father is forgiven his misstep if he lets slip how proud he is of his children. I remember that San was about five years old when he came to me and asked me to teach him how to fly fish. I am still embarrassed that I was unable to do so, but if one’s own father did not utilize a particular talent, then it often is not passed down from father to son. I did not have that talent. So San went to the local library and checked out a video on how to fly fish and taught himself what his father could not. And over the years I have taught him what I could, but he, and his sister as well, have the most valuable of talents in the ability of self-education. Now the daughter and the son teach the father and who can be prouder than that?

But San was drifting after college; not a bad thing in itself, for when else in life does one have the leisure of drifting? There was no plan that his parents were aware of (although San, like most males, keeps his cards close to the vest), and we were worried that some drifting might turn into more drifting, which is not a good thing. As my beautiful mother of 93 years can attest, a parent really never finishes helping his or her offspring. So we suggested he try some more education because he has many interests and hobbies, and as we already knew, he could teach others how to do these things. Law school was not on the horizon as both Courtney and San, after seeing what I did everyday, had early on verbally expostulated that they would never become lawyers – one need be careful about what one says about one’s own future! He thought about it some and may have been influenced by the fact that his sister had done well in law school and seemed to enjoy her practice in Missoula; or maybe the fact that his brother had expressed a plan to go to law school in order to be an FBI agent influenced him. But his brother had died early and tragically. And that was something else I could not teach him – how to grieve for his brother, for I did not know how to grieve for him myself. At any rate he reluctantly agreed to leave the cool clear mountains, lakes and streams of his beloved Montana and travel back across the country to the crowded, humid, cacophonous street sounds of Charleston, South Carolina. I don’t think he did this for me; and I don’t really think he did this for himself. I think he did this for his brother, because his brother now could not do it for himself. San dedicated these three long years of his life to his brother, Howard. I was not a particularly good student during my education days and even though I knew Sanford had the ability to be a top student should he so choose, I was not expecting him to shine academically. I took Latin in high school and, again, I was not a top Latin scholar. But Sanford graduated Summa Cum Laude from law school, whatever that means. I think it means he did pretty well.

On October 18^th, 2010 my son Sanford, on the special motion of his sister Courtney, was sworn in before the Montana Supreme Court as a member of the state Bar of Montana and also before the Federal District Judge in Helena as he was admitted to practice before the Federal Bar.

It was an especially emotional moment for this father to watch his children appear before such august bodies, as  did his grandfather, father, sister, uncle and first cousin before him. So please excuse this proud father for writing of how proud he is of this fine man and this fine woman. Hark, America, “things are gonna be fine” as we say in the South; for there are many other fine men and women like Sanford and Courtney throughout the country. America is in good hands with talented individuals such as these. We love you, Courtney and San.

2010.  Glacier County Honey Co. All Rights Reserved.

 

Who You’d Be Today

Mom is our guest blogger today.

Like most Americans, for me last week’s September 11 anniversary brought back a flood of memories.  I was working out at the Y when I heard the news, and my family was scattered: my husband, Charlie, was in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, with his mother; daughter Courtney was in her senior year at UGA, in Athens; and son Sanford was a freshman at Washington & Lee, in Lexington, Virgina.  We were all frightened and outraged by the terrorists’ actions.

But our youngest son, Howard, was particularly upset by 9/11.  A high school junior, he spent that awful day watching TV news coverage with his classmates.  He was shocked that our nation’s security could be so easily breached and concerned that the terrorists would strike again.

Normally, Howard’s world revolved around basketball, soccer, Scouts and school.  He was 6’3”, a green-eyed, dishwater blonde who loved sports and having fun.  On Sept. 11, 2001, he was a week short of his 17^th birthday and starting to visit colleges.  He hadn’t really given his future much thought, but after seeing our nation’s response to the fall of the towers, he began mulling a career in law enforcement.

A good student, in the spring of his senior year Howard was offered scholarships to two small liberal arts colleges in Virginia   Just when his Dad and I thought he was ready to decide between the two, Howard asked if he might make one final college visit to the University of Mississippi.  Ole Miss, as it is affectionately called, is located in Oxford, a 12 hour drive from our home, and has a political science/criminal justice major that Howard thought could be a stepping stone to law school and eventually his ultimate goal, the FBI.  The visit went well and the beautiful southern co-eds Howard met on campus probably influenced his decision as much as the sought-after course of study.

During his freshman year at Ole Miss, Howard aced history and political science and made the Dean’s List both semesters.  He played intramural sports, lifted weights and loved to hike. He was a happy 19 year old who appeared to be well on his way to a bright future. But then, one week into his sophomore year, Howard’s fraternity house burned down, taking his life and that of two other young men.  Howard was three weeks shy of 20 when he died.

Now when I hear Kenny Chesney’s song “Who You’d Be Today,” I can‘t help but be wistful for what might have been.

Sunny days seem to hurt the most

I wear the pain like a heavy coat

I feel you everywhere I go

I see your smile, I see your face

I hear you laughing in the rain

Still can’t believe you’re gone

It ain’t fair you died too young

Like a story that had just begun

The death tore the pages all away

God knows how I miss you

All the hell that I’ve been through

Just knowing no one could take your place

Sometimes I wonder who you’d be today

Would you see the world?

Would you chase your dreams?

Settle down with a family?

I wonder, what would you name your babies?

Some days the sky’s so blue

I feel like I can talk to you

And I know it might sound crazy …

As your Mom, I can’t stop thinking about who you’d be today.  Happy 26th birthday, Howard.

2010.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

necessary extras

We are almost done stitching the warehouse’s innards together: its skeletal (framing), epidermal (walls and roof), neural (electrical), and digestive (plumbing) systems are nearly complete.  If the warehouse were actually a person, she’d be fairly Rubenesque – enough insulation went into warehouse no. 2 that I have no fear of bone chilling December evenings spent bottling honey – layers and layers of scratchy yellow and pink insulation were unrolled on her walls.

I’ve found it interesting and educational to watch Brother Dear, Honeydew, Dad, Darling Summer Help, and the construction crew create all these systems, particularly the electrical system.  One quiet Sunday morning, Brother Dear taught me to wire an outlet and I felt as though I’d reinvented sliced bread.

But my general impatience and my specific fear of being unable to extract our honey crop, and therefore likely making a do-not-pass-go-do-not-collect-$200 trip straight to Bankruptcy court, has clouded much of my enjoyment of watching the warehouse rise from dirt to insulated steel.

Until today.  The warehouse’s necessary extras arrived today,  her washing machine and dryer and double basin sink, her tub and shower and refrigerator.

Her range.

Her dishwasher.

And her No. 1 Supervisor, Mr. Cain, approved mightily.

As did I.

2010.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

foamy nonsense

Mom and Dad are frugal folks.  They don’t buy lots of toys or name brand shampoo.  They save for stuff that matters, that they really want, and they’ve taught Brother Dear and I to do the same.

So, a couple of years ago, when Mom and Dad started talking about buying a hot tub for Hillhouse, I dismissed their animated chatter and thorough research as fluff.  And a year or two after that, when I arrived home on a dark June evening to see pulsing light throbbing from the back patio, I was flabbergasted.  There they were, happily bobbing about in their brand spankin’ new hot tub, complete with multi colored light show.  Very Playboy Mansion.  Very out of character for them.

Fast forward to present time: they love that hot tub.  It is good for aches and pains.  It is excellent for star gazing.  It is conducive to deep sleep, post-tubbing.

It is lots of fun.  But on the day they brought it home, I had not an inkling of the level of maintenance required for its proper care.  Of course there is the constant testing of pH and calcium hardness and chlorine levels.  There is the twice yearly draining, scrubbing, and refilling.   And, as I’ve learned since the hot tub came to live on our patio, for optimum hot tub performance, hot tubbers should shower off without using soap before entering its pristine waters, and they should not wear bathing suits that have been laundered with soap.  Otherwise, this happens:

Foam!  Honeydew likes to scoop it out of the tub and fling it into the air.  Normally, this would not be blog-post-worthy, but I liked how the pictures turned out.

Hard to tell the cotton ball clouds from the foam he’s flinging around.  Honeydew can make anything fun.  Your turn to scrub toilets, honey.

2010.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

wired

Warehouse construction continues.  Darling Summer Help can now add Electrician to his ever-growing resume.  Brother Dear can add slavedriver/community organizer, err, Fearless Leader to his.  I don’t know exactly how Honeydew and I thought we were going to put up this warehouse without Brother Dear and both of our dads’ direction, but suffice it to say, we’ve been mighty grateful for the help this week.

Here, Brother Dear leads the way on the wiring project.  Dad taught him to wire a couple of years back, and now, after putting the Shack, the Tack Barn, and the Cabin under his belt, he is a wiring whiz!  Thank goodness, as no one else in Glacier County seems to be.

Dad brings plenty of wiring experience to this project, too – after all, he gave Brother Dear his start!  Here, Dad is installing the boxes that outlets and light switches will be housed in.  They look like this before the outlet or switch goes in:

Under Brother Dear’s sharp eyes, Darling Summer Help and the forklift are running wire from the box to the back rooms.

On Sunday, Brother Dear had me marking where the outlets should go in the future kitchen/employee break room.  I got to use a speed square, which I thought was cool.  First straight lines I’ve ever drawn!

I also left helpful comments with my Sharpie for the contractors, who presumably hate me.  I would hate me.  But I hate life without windows more.

Mom kept the warehouse site sparkling!

Mr. Cain supervised.  No one supervises more efficiently than Mr. Cain.

Today, the work continued, as it must, though I had to go into Cut Bank to do some lawyerin’.  When I arrived home at ten till seven, I found Darling Husband, Darling Summer Help, and Darling Brother Dear just knocking off for the day.  They were perched as high as they could be, up on some scaffolding on the top floor/decking/storage area of the warehouse, reviewing the events of the day.

Scaring their wife/sister/employer to death.

They scoffed at me, pointing out the fabulous view, which they claimed was relaxing …

And then returned to the task of hydrating themselves …  after all, as they told me, it was hot today.

Thanks to everyone who’s helping to make Warehouse No. 2 an attainable dream and less of a nightmare.  We appreciate you!

2010.  Glacier County Honey Co.  Some photo credits to Brother Dear.  All Rights Reserved.

 

Hillstock/Hillhouseapalooza: Day 2

So.  As y’all know from Day One’s post, when Hillstock began, we put our nearest and dearest and newest and oldest to work, oiling our house.  And they did an excellent job.  So good that when they were finished, we rewarded them with a float down the St. Mary’s River that nearly ended in hypothermia.

Clearly, Day 2 needed to be mo’ betta.  Luckily, Brother Dear and I had scheduled Day 2 as the Memorial Hike Day – we like to take our nearest and dearest and newest and oldest on an epic hike each year, in honor of Howard’s life, the last part of which was spent eating up Glacier National Park’s many fabulous miles and phenomenal peaks.  Our test each year: to pick a hike challenging enough for Howard’s approval, but not so challenging we actually kill our Hillstockers.  We’ve chosen better some years than others, but we’re never going to make everyone happy.  Hiking with 30+ can never make everyone happy.  Or maybe anyone, I don’t know – you’d have to ask the Hillstockers!  However, judging from the number who return each year, we must be doing something right.

This year’s hike, much discussed and agonized over: Avalanche Ridge.  No, you probably haven’t heard of it.  What trail there is ends several miles before one arrives at Avalanche Ridge, a place so shockingly unusual that the venerable Gordon Edwards describes it in the Climber’s Guide to Glacier in one word: “SURPRISE!”  It overlooks Floral Park, Avalanche Lake, Sperry Glacier, and Comeau Pass, among other natural wonders.   And it starts off innocuously enough, from Logan Pass, the one place in the park that nearly every touron deems worthy for exiting their rental car.  A wide boardwalk trail leaves from Logan Pass, and after a mile or so, one arrives at a lovely deck overlooking Hidden Lake and Bearhat Mountain:

Ah.  Early summer morning in Glacier.   A little smoky from the fires in British Columbia, but my heart sang arias as we descended the trail to Hidden Lake, forded the creek, and began the jaunt to Avalanche Ridge.

The journey involves some effort.  Here, Mike and Alissa are giving it their all.  I love them.  And they are U FLORIDA folks.  That should tell y’all something.  Go Dawgs!

The journey also involves coordination, such as that displayed by Pseudo Sister, as she attempted to rescue a water bottle dropped by a fellow Hillstocker on a rather steep incline en route to Avalanche Ridge.

The journey involves lung capacity, and hamstrings.  Mine were both being stretched, here.

But the journey is well worth it.  Here, Mags and Brother Dear celebrate their ascent!  I know Howard was pleased.

Surprise!  And this is just a teasing glimpse of the world beyond Avalanche Ridge.  I’m not posting any more pictures.  You’ll deserve to see them if you make it here!

It was rather windy up on the Ridge, and we didn’t linger long.   This darling goat awaited us on the scramble down.  I love mountain goats.

We gave Chase the gold star for effort on Saturday – he smiled ascending and descending Avalanche Ridge, even when he wanted to curse us.  Kirk received the same gold star for his tube-blowing-up-efforts-without-whining on the previous day’s flirtation with hypothermia.

Honeydew posing on the way home, Mt. Reynolds in the background.  In 2007, the Memorial Hike was actually a climb of Mt. Reynolds.  On that memorable day, we learned some valuable lessons about taking 40+ people mountain climbing.  As in, we will never do so again.

Here, the Hillstockers bunch up on the way down.  They are all precious to us.  As we gathered together and counted heads, we paused and had a short memorial service for Howard, Chris Street, and others we’ve loved and lost too soon.  I thought our time together was how a memorial service should be: awkward and sincere and warm and watery and open ended.  After all, we never fully close the door on grief and mourning.  But as time goes on, we learn how to keep that door shut for days, and eventually, months on end.  And it is a door that, for me, needs to be opened occasionally – I must air my memories, lest they become moldy and moth ridden.  And that would not do, for neither Howard nor Chris were anything but vibrant, especially in the mountains.

On the way home, more mountain goats bade us safe travels and good memories.

As did a herd of Bighorn sheep.

And my beloved former boss, Evonne – to my delight, we ran into her on the trail!  Evonne is top notch.

Finally, the cluster I was with arrived at the Logan Pass Visitor’s Center.  And what to our wondering eyes did appear but 3/4 of our group, taking up 2/3 of 1 important lane of the Logan Pass parking lot.  Do you see them, right of center?

Here’s a closeup view.  They appear to be celebrating the end of the Memorial Hike in style!

And after we had all arrived, we got a little visit from two park rangers.  They were apparently curious about us and our obviously stylish parking lot celebration.

“What kind of group are y’all?”

This question, which was not actually asked with a Southern accent, was met with brief silence by our pack of 30.

“Uhhhh.”

“We know each from law school – from Babb – from Charleston, South Carolina – from Missoula – from yoga class – from the University of Georgia – from Martinsville, Virginia – from Washington & Lee University – from Montana bar review – from Whitefish – from rehab.”  That last one was just a joke, but it may or may not have caused the park rangers to ask my lovely friend Amy, pictured far right, for her ID.  She may or may not have been drinking Freixenet champagne in the parking lot, which is completely legal and clearly medicinal at the end of a long hike, but suspicious when your face is so beautiful you do not appear to be over 21 years of age.  I don’t think the park rangers were as amused by us as we were by them.  Howard would have been tickled beyond reason.

Here are some of our Hillstockers, hiking for Howard.  Thanks so much to each of you for hiking with us, and for honoring our brother, Howard.

Back row, left to right: Stephanie, Honeydew, me, Brianne, Anthony, Hank, PK, Jen, Jeff Street, Judah, Jason, Kirk, Mike.

Front row, left to right: Amy E, Mary Lyons, JC, Richard, Brother Dear, Pseudo Sister, Kelly, Magalie, Alissa.

Not pictured: Mom, Dad, Neil, Chase, Frank, Michy.

2010.  Glacier County Honey Co.  Some photo credits to Brother Dear.  All Rights Reserved.

 

blood is not always thicker than water

This is my family.

Brother Dear, Honeydew, me, Dad, Mom.

I’ve been told many times that a wife does not marry her husband, she marries his family.

This is Honeydew’s mother’s side of the family.

And this is Honeydew’s father’s side of the family.

And of course, it must be equally true that a husband marries his wife’s family.

This is my mother’s side of the family.

And this is my father’s side of the family.

I have another family, too, the family I chose, that Honeydew also married into, whether he chose to or not.

This is the Davis/Luxbacher gang, and the pretty lady in “firecracker” is my Very Best Friend.  Today is her birthday, and I hope it is her very best one yet.  Happy birthday, Cosmo!

2010.  Glacier County Honey Co. I think that all of these photo credits go to Tom Whisenand, as did yesterday’s.  All Rights Reserved.

 

it’s a mystery

For my thirtieth birthday, my parents gave me a mysterious small box.  I love small boxes.  My engagement ring came in one.  Bequet Caramels from Bozeman come in a small box, as do truffles from Posh Chocolat in Missoula.  Real vanilla extract comes in a small box.  Small boxes are good things.

Inside the box was this necklace:

It is comprised of beautiful, irregular amber beads:

And it belonged to my great-grandmother.  My parents discovered the beads, loose in an old envelope, along with a needle and thread that great-grandmother had apparently tried to restring them with, in the bottom of that old trunk I wrote about earlier.  Knowing my love for all things old and well loved, Mom and Dad had the beads restrung for me, and I’ve been wearing them proudly ever since, whether I’m in court or pouring beautiful beeswax candles.

The beads are imperfect, unmatched and bumpy in spots.  Clearly, great grandmother loved them, as they are the sole material thing of beauty in the entire trunk of her memories.  Did they belong to her mother? Did her husband give them to her after the birth of their first son?  Did she buy them for herself, as a widow?  I’ll never know.  I wear them and know that there are mysteries in life that remain unsolved, that make the last tangerine stroke of sunset, the last platinum fire of starfall before dawn, that much more illuminating.

2010.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.