Discover Walla Walla

I went fishing on Rock Creek yesterday-near Missoula, Montana. It's a world-famous trout stream full of colorful cutthroats and feisty browns, or so they say.

Before I made the six-hour trek from Walla Walla, I checked in with my Montana fishing consultant, Matt. He always catches fish, or so he says.

"Fished Rock Creek a few days ago," Matt said. "Caught fish all day. They're eating gold-ribbed, pink-flossed flipsy doodles in sizes 10 and 12."

"Gold-ribbed flipsy doodles? I don't think I have any of those."

"They're the latest. Stock up before you come over to Missoula. You won't find one in a fly shop over here. All sold out. They're killer flies! And check out the new flexi-fluorocarbon leaders. They're killer! And get that new fast-action fly line with the kryptonite imbedded in the butt section. That line almost casts itself. It's killer!"

"Really?"

"Water's come down on Rock Creek. The stream is wading easy. Temperatures have finally warmed up. Those fish are hungry. You can't miss, Sam!"

Why did he have to say that?

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I've been out hawking my new book. It's tough work.
I spent the entire month of June in shameless self-promotion. I wore out my welcome in 12 cities across the South. Everywhere I went I met people who asked penetrating questions.
"Did you write this?" the gray-haired lady asked, holding up a copy of my book. She'd caught me just inside the front door of the bookshop where I was giving a talk. She peered at me from the other side of thick lenses while repositioning her dentures with her tongue.
"Yes'm, I did," I said.
"Is it any good?"
"Yes'm, it is. It's really good. It's my favorite book."
"What's it about?"
"It's about my childhood-growing up Southern, my family, the old neighborhood, kids' adventures, quirky characters, strange doings, conflict, reconciliation, love, hate, envy, greed, war, peace, poverty, wealth, deviled eggs, and the meaning of life..."
"Lotsa people written books like that," she interrupted.
"Yes'm, they have. This is just my take on things."

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Yesterday morning I had a cell phone. I could call people on it. That was yesterday morning.
"You've got to tweet," my editor said. "And Facebook. All day long. All night long. All the time."
"But I don't like to Tweet or Facebook," I said bluntly. "I hate it. It's shameless self-promotion."
"Do you like writing books, Sam?"
"Sure."
"Do you want us to publish them, Sam?"
"Of course."
"Then you've got to sell books, Sam. To sell books you must engage in shameless self-promotion. These days that means you've got to Tweet and Facebook. It's simple."
"But my phone doesn't Tweet or Facebook, so I can't. We'll have to find another way."
"Get a new phone, Sam."
"But..."
"No buts, Sam. Get a new phone."
New York people can be difficult.
So yesterday Annie and I took my phone to the Tri-Cities. (I can't tell you which one.)
We went to the cell phone store and told the phone people I needed a new phone-one that Tweets and Facebooks. Annie had to go with me because she's the account holder. They weren't about to deal with anybody but the account holder.
"You've come to the right place," April said. "We'll get you all fixed up, Mr. McLeod."
April was adorable. I'm guessing 21-maybe 22. Beautiful smile, blonde curls, big blue eyes, dimples-the whole deal. She was bubbly, too. She talked really fast.
April took one look at my cell phone, rolled her eyes, and threw it in the trash. She pulled a little black rectangular thing off the shelf. It didn't look like a phone.
"This is our new 14G Mega-47 WhizPixel with SimSync Sizzlers," April said.
"Is it a phone?" I asked.

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His name’s YODA,” Annie said, all puffed up with satisfaction. “Just look at those ears.”

His ears were extra-long and pointy. His nose was extra-long and wet. His back was extra-long and slightly bowed from holding his belly off the ground. His legs were extra-short.

“Looks like somebody put the wrong legs on him,” I said. “What kind of dog is he?”

“A Corgi,” Annie said. “Isn’t he the cutest?”

“Looks sort of funny. Where’d he come from?”

“He’s yours,” Annie said. “I got him for you.”

“Like you got that new bedspread for me, and the curtains in the guest bedroom for me, and the dining room rug for me, and those chickens for me, and…”

“Yep, just like that,” Annie said.

YODA came into our lives completely laid-back. He never barked. He seemed perfectly happy to wait at the door until somebody let him in. He was okay with my scratching his ears—or not. He was delighted to eat if filling his food bowl wasn’t too much of a bother for us. He carried his empty water bowl around, flipping it into the air every now and again, hoping somebody’d notice. He liked to ride in the car, preferring the front seat, but okay with the back.

He wandered the farm, checking things out in a detached, unhurried YODA-like way. BC the Barn Cat took a swipe at him. No big deal. He waddled on to the next thing. Nothing seemed to surprise him.

“He’s the perfect dog,” I told Annie. “I’m starting to like him.”

“He’s sweet,” Annie said. “Doesn’t do much. Reminds me a lot of you.”

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I just finished reading The Female Brain, by Louann Brizendine, M.D.

I didn’t understand it.

—Sam

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"They're not changing anything are they?"

"Don't know."

"I can't see what they're doing in there with all that brown paper in the windows. Why are they hiding what they're doing in there? Must be changing things. I'm not going in there if they change anything."

"Guess they don't want our advice."

"Shoot, I been in there every day for the past 20 years. You'd think they'd want to know what I think. I'd tell 'em if they asked. Yes, sir. I'd tell 'em not to change a thing. This place is an institution. Can't just go changing everything, you know."

"Nothing?"

"Well, they could update the bathrooms. Those need some work."

"That's all?"

"And some light upstairs. Can't see a thing up there. And the awning. It's seen better days. And I'd keep a good baker in there. I like the cinnamon rolls. You don't think they'll get rid of the cinnamon rolls, do you?"

"Don't know..."

"And they could do some repainting. And it'd be nice if they got rid of the yelling-that ‘Jack of Spades' stuff. Hurts my ears. And menus would be good. They better keep spaghetti night. I'm not going in there if they get rid of spaghetti night."

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Mrs. Benson, my third grade teacher, had a rule: On Valentine's Day each student will give every other student in the class a card and it'll be the same card. No candies or other gifts. You could write different notes on your cards if you wanted, but that was the only permitted difference.

Several of the popular girls booed.

Mrs. Benson raised her ruler and said she'd had too many problems in the past with selfish kids who counted their cards, and showed off how many they'd gotten, and sprayed the news to anybody who'd listen.

"Interesting," I thought. "Isn't that what everybody does on Valentine's Day? That's the point, isn't it? How else will I gauge my popularity?"

Third grade could be confusing sometimes.

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Ham is a tradition in our family-starting this year.

I grew up in Nashville, Tennessee. My family ate Tennessee country ham and biscuits for breakfast on Christmas morning. The salt-cured ham was a special treat reserved for the holidays-generally a gift form one of my father's patients who couldn't pay his doctor's bill.

My mother scraped the green-blue mold off the ham, soaked it in water in a five-pound lard tin for a couple of days to remove some of the saltiness, then simmered the ham in the same tin on the stovetop starting late on Christmas Eve, letting it slow-cook all night long so we'd have a ham ready to slice on Christmas morning.

When I married Annie, we visited her family in Richmond, Virginia on Christmas every now and again. Virginia ham and rolls were part of their Christmas Eve dinner. The Virginia ham was incredibly salty and therefore sliced very thin. A little bit went a long way on a homemade yeasty roll.

And then we moved west and lost touch with the Christmas ham tradition, until this year when I happened to see a ham recipe in a magazine. The memories came streaming back. I decided to give it a try.

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If you missed it, the Walla Walla Veterans Day Parade was a classic-five fire trucks, one cement mixer, one cherry picker, one subcompact sporting a banner "Friends of Gays and Lesbians," lots of old guys on motorcycles, plenty of Model T's, and some proud veterans. The Touchet High School Marching Band led the parade. They played "Louie, Louie." I love this place.

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I wrote a newspaper column a couple of weeks ago about how I'm learning to cook. I got a flood of mail from women who, like my wife Annie, want to retire from cooking and get their husbands to take over in the kitchen. They wondered whether I might have any advice to offer. Well, of course I do.

If you'll follow these directions to the letter, pretty soon your hubby will be cooking while you sit at the table reading the newspaper, thinking great thoughts, tapping your foot, waiting for him to bring you a glass of wine. So, let's not screw this up. Okay?

Here's your Achilles' heel: you know how to cook and therefore have wisdom to share.

Here's my suggestion: keep it to yourself.

This is your man's new job. It needs to be challenging. So let him cook on his own, even if he has to learn a lot of lessons the hard way. You wouldn't think of going out on the golf course to whack his ball for him. So don't go into the kitchen to help him. Hands off.

This may be as hard as anything you've ever done. After all, you're going to see him doing things the wrong way. He's going to mess up some-maybe a lot. Some of his dinners will be debacles. It's okay. Debacles are memorable.

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