Rabbit Holes Of the Northwest

Everywhere I go, I find rabbit holes. Like the Owyhees. It’s one of those loose terms that can mean the river, the mountains, the county, the canyonlands, the reservoir, the desert that all go by that name. I don’t remember when or where, but somebody once told me that Owyhee had something to do with Hawaii. Sounds plausible. But how’d it get over here? Like many questionable stories I’ve heard, I just filed it away. More important things to think about. Probably false. Do something useful with your time.

I looked it up. Donald Mackenzie, a renowned fur trader from Montreal, was exploring the Northwest of America back in the 1810s. He sent three of his men up ahead to check things out. They never returned. We don’t know their names. What we do know is that they were Owyhees. Which is what they called Hawaiians back in the 1810s. And because they didn’t return, and we don’t know their names, that whole region became known as the Owyhees.

Mackenzie’s grandson, Cecil, who was no slouch (he was a pioneer of the telephone, among other accomplishments), wrote a book called Donald Mackenzie: “King of the Northwest.” There’s a copy at the downtown branch of the Boise Library, trapped behind the reference desk. You can read it, but it can’t leave the library. Off I went to the library. They found the book, and I parked myself ten feet away from one of the regulars, who was coughing up a lung. Just like they used to do in the 1810s.

None of this reading, by the way, is helping me with my job hunt.

I read up to page 45, interrupted by my ordering an actual used copy of the book from Powell’s. And then tracking down a copy of Astoria, a related tome (I could just say “book,” but how often do you get to say “tome?”) by Washington Irving, about the brainchild and financial backer of Mackenzie’s exploration, John Jacob Astor. Oh! So that’s how Astoria got its name. Astoria is up at the Twin Falls branch of the library, also trapped behind the reference desk. That’s about two hours away. Or I can order it from Powell’s for about $25. These books are starting to add up. Think I’ll just drive to Twin Falls. Or watch the Disney version of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, also by Washington Irving. I saw it once, as a kid, at my cousin Steve’s temple in Pasadena, the one that burned down in the fires last year.

I only made it to page 45 because my eyes were dry and burning, not from the guy coughing up his lung, but from pink eye, probably. Just a guess. They’ve been bugging me a couple of days, but starting to get better. No need to get doctors involved.

The librarian, whose name I do not know, told me when I first got there to bring the book back to her desk when I was done. So I did. I asked if I could put in a bookmark and come back. She consulted with another librarian, a woman named Ronnie, who after saying we could do that said “let me see if I can let you check this out.” It was the only copy in the entire system. They’re shrinking the history collection to focus on Boise rather than the kings of the northwest. Friends of the Library have been selling these classic works with no regard for their importance.

Almost right away, Ronnie said she could check the King out to me, and she did. I was worried about getting out of the library with a book clearly marked REFERENCE, but nobody stopped me. I emailed Powell’s and asked them to cancel my order. Haven’t heard back, but it’s only been a couple of hours.

George Washington checked a book out of the library once, and he never returned it. I’m not saying I would do that, but considering all the trouble I went through, I’d be justified. I doubt anyone would miss it. Or maybe I’ll just read it and take notes, so I can use it in my work. Haven’t decided what to do about Astoria yet. And maybe I’ll join the Organization of American Historians, for the gravitas. I’m no scholar, but being associated with scholars could be beneficial.

I haven’t gotten to the part about Astoria, but from what I could gather in the early pages of King of the Northwest, not everyone was pleased with how Mackenzie left things there. He abandoned or retreated from what is now a beautiful location on the Oregon coast. Maybe too rainy. Or maybe too many locals opposed to his wanting to set up trading posts at the mouth of the Columbia River, which was the whole point of the scheme in the first place. I expect to know more by the end of the book. Cecil made it a point to mention Astoria in as mysterious a way as possible, so of course I’m wondering what the hell that’s all about. Guess we’ll find out later.

The biggest question for me, since we’re exploring rabbit holes, is whether there are any living descendants of Donald Mackenzie. And how to get in touch with them. Cecil’s book was published in 1937. The pages of my copy are fragile. Small fragments have ripped away. Not my fault. And who cares about the Owyhees, whether we’re talking about the region here in Idaho or the ones floating in the South Pacific? I care, even if nobody else does. I can always look for a job tomorrow.

Something Boring, For Once

I received an email from Betsy today:

Hi Louis!

I'm writing from the Nonprofit Center here at the Idaho Community Foundation regarding our upcoming Regional Impact Summit events coming up in March. We received your expression of interest in speaking at these events, and your contributions would be a great addition to the agenda. Below is the workshop title you originally submitted:

"The One Minute Leap: How to Speak Up When It Counts" and “Fortune Favors the Bold: A More Courageous Organization, A More Courageous You”

Do these sound like the topics you would still like to present, or are there other ideas you'd like to discuss?

I was tempted to just say I don’t do courage any more, or keynotes, but then I looked at the attachment. The members want to learn about storytelling. Hmmm. HMMMM! Besides the fact that I’ve been a writer and/or storyteller since Elston and I first penned that Jed and Stefia talking dog novel back in fifth grade, when we were supposed to be paying attention, this stuff is eminently teachable.

So I asked ChatGPT to come up with a list of one word descriptors to show how people think of themselves. Here it is:

Curious, driven, thoughtful, boring, stubborn, generous, impatient, observant, restless, loyal, anxious, creative, guarded, hopeful, skeptical, resilient, fearful, playful, defensive, ambitious, uncertain, empathetic, self-doubting, principled, distracted, courageous, hesitant, grounded, reactive, imaginative, inconsistent, optimistic, weary, flawed, learning.

Not a comprehensive list, but it covers a lot of the important bases. Let’s assume these are true about the people describing themselves. Want to know what each of those types of people have in common? They can all tell great stories, if they want to. Maybe they need somebody to show them how. Somebody like me, for instance. Yes, I can teach this stuff. Hey, not all writers are shy. Remember, I’ve been telling stories since Jed and Stefia, along with hogging stages every chance I get.

So I shot off a response to Betsy:

As it happens, I've made a shift away from traditional keynote speaking towards pure storytelling, but I think that might be an even better fit for your members. Imagine us going on a journey. The starting point is right here, where we are, with all our strengths and weaknesses. We begin with the word, and it can be any word. A thought, an idea, a question. Something fundamental, like "why were you born?" or "what's the guiding principle behind our mission?" Or even something personal, like "what's something you remember from when you were five years old?" I asked that question at Table Rock, with an audience of seniors, and one of the gentlemen replied that it was the last time he saw his older brother alive. World War II. He stopped me in my tracks. I was expecting pleasant memories. But it was a very powerful moment for all of us in that room, a reminder that the story doesn't always follow a predictable arc.

Why are your members interested in storytelling? I have my own ideas, but I'd like to know from you and them, if possible. Being a great storyteller helps you be more successful as a non-profit. But not every story is going to inspire your donors to reach for their checkbooks or convince a skeptical Congressperson to increase your budget. 

I believe every one of us can benefit from learning what to say and how to say it. I call it "write first, talk later." It's teachable. And I think your members would thrive on it way more than sitting through yet another inspirational talk about courage and one-minute leaps. What do you think?

No response yet, but it’s only been a few minutes.

The bottom line? You can be any kind of person, even boring, and still be a great storyteller. I’ll give you an example. Let’s take something really boring, like a vegetable peeler. Is that what you call them? Whatever it is, let’s just call it that. What could be more boring?

As it happens, last weekend, I watched a YouTube video about roasting vegetables, another boring topic. The guy in the video, I don’t remember his name, but he had a different kind of vegetable peeler than I do. Instead of the blade being on the side of the handle, it was on top of the handle, sideways, like a paint roller. And he was zesting an orange with it, to mix in with carrots along with who knows what else. I figured, I gotta get one of those kind of vegetable peelers so I can roast carrots with orange zest, too. So that’s what I did. And the first time I used it, I nearly sliced off the tip of my finger. At least that’s what it looked like behind all the blood. Hard to tell for sure, because I had to tape a folded paper towel to the wound, not having any legitimate bandages anywhere in the house. I was sure I’d lost the tip of my finger, not because it hurt particularly badly, but because of the outpouring of blood for a really long time. When I looked at it the next day, it turned out not to be nearly that bad, but definitely a warning sign to not zest oranges that way, no matter who on YouTube thought it was a good idea.

There’s your example of how nothing is boring if you tell it the right way. Now go out and find something boring to write about.

What I Really Want Right Now Is A Hamburger

You ever crave something? Of course you do. Right now, for me, a hamburger would be just the thing. I don’t want to make it myself, not just because there’s no hamburger meat. Or buns. Or French fries. I want to leave the house, and Zookie’s goddamn incessant barking. I also want somebody else to make my hamburger. A professional. Nothing against my own cooking, which has gotten a lot better over time.

I could just eat a can of soup. That would be all right. Have you had those Progresso soups in the silver cans? They’re good. Three minutes in the microwave, but not in the can. Pour it into a Pyrex first. I can eat that and the rest of the chocolate chip cookies. That would be all right.

It’s exactly 32ºF right now, according to Apple Weather. And it’s gray out. Been that way for a few days now. Losing track. I don’t mind the gray, but as cold as it is in the house, I’d like to be in a hot pool, instead. Fired up the heater, which makes me feel like I shouldn’t leave the house for that hamburger.

There’s also a leftover chicken leg quarter. I BBQ’d four of them two days ago. Down to the last one. If I eat that last chicken leg quarter, it would be the first time I’ve eaten all the leftovers since I don’t know when. I get tired of leftovers. I know people repurpose their leftovers so it doesn’t feel like you’re eating the same thing over and over, but I’m spoiled that way. Besides, I enjoy the cooking process way more than the eating.

I’m pretty good at roast vegetables now. But I wonder if vegetables are really as good for you as people say they are. What if they’re not? What if the way we felt about vegetables as children is actually the right way to feel about vegetables?

Think I’ll go out and get a hamburger.