For A Folk Art Treasure Story and Photo by Kennie Lyn Klingback In 1991, the Sweet-Montour Syringa Club engaged the help of our community to purchase the old Grange Hall in Sweet. As the club’s historian, I remember
A BioArt Field Trip Story and Photos by Kelly Ann Sheridan My high school students and I sat on the ground at the edge of Rainey Creek in Swan Valley, our paintbrushes in hand and watercolor paper in
Art Changed Our Lives By Kitty Campbell Widner Photos Courtesy of Kitty Campbell Widner In the 1950s in McCall, my friends and I were quintessential housewives, but none of us was the pathetic character sometimes portrayed in the
Walking with my dog on a cold Saturday in March on a path that led through the College of Southern Idaho campus in Twin Falls, I smelled burning wood. Ages ago, this very place where I was walking would have held many tipis with wisps of smoke ascending above their high poles from warming fires within. Continue reading
Like other children, I once dreamed of the possibilities of magic and fantasy worlds, of faraway places to visit, and fantastical wonders to see.
I dreamed of the amazing careers I’d have as a spy, a jungle explorer, an astronaut. With age, I realized such dreams are not easily grasped and that I would have to travel across continents to places of mystery, unless I used an entertainment medium to take me to far-off places. I began to seek ways to live out my dreams without leaving home. Continue reading
When I arrived in the spring of 1971 at what was then the Boise State College campus to be interviewed for a position in the recently formed theatre arts department, I hid my disappointment upon first viewing the Subal Theatre. I had taught classes and directed plays for five years at the University of California, Riverside, which had a state of the art theatre facility. But I wanted to escape both the southern California smog and what I felt were declining resources at the time for that state’s higher education system, so I accepted the Boise job when it was offered in spite of my unspoken reservations. Continue reading
Each year during the third week of June, roughly 350 musicians from thirty states and their fans congregate at Weiser for the National Oldtime Fiddlers’ Contest and Festival. Fiddling arrived in Weiser with covered wagon emigrants in 1863, and contests were reported as early as 1914. The current festival and contest, first held in 1953, now ranks among fiddling’s “Big Three,” alongside the Grand Master Fiddle Championships in Nashville and the World Championships of Fiddling in Crockett, Texas. Continue reading
During 2012, the huge Sheep Fire raged for several weeks in the Nez Perce National Forest near our home on Slate Creek, south of White Bird.
My husband Glenn and I were in the Black Hills of South Dakota when it started, and concerned neighbors and friends called to let us know about the threat. I asked my sewing buddy, Ruth, to go to my house if the fire got close, take out all my quilts, and pack them in the car.
As it turned out, we arrived home in time to get ready for possible evacuation. Of course, the first things we packed were important papers, pictures, and clothing, but my quilts were next on the list. In the end, we didn’t have to evacuate. Firefighters, those wonderful men and women who risk their lives for the rest of us, established a fire line a mile east of our home, and it held.
The reason I placed such a high priority on my quilts in that emergency begins with childhood memories.
“Look, Sis, here’s a piece of material from my old skirt.”
“And one from Daddy’s shirt.”
“And from the dress you used to love.”
My sister Phyllis and I sat on the double bed we shared, the kerosene lamp lit beside us, and examined the latest of Grandma Ball’s homemade quilts. Growing up in a small village in the Alaska Territory, we were always covered by a few quilts when the wind was howling, or a raging blizzard was screaming outside, and the temperatures were way below zero. I remember times when the whole family took our mattresses and bedding (including many quilts) downstairs to the living room, to be closer to the oil stove. Sometimes the radio would crackle as we tried to listen to Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and His Dog King and other radio programs but it was fun, and we laughed together as we huddled under our quilts, until it was time to sleep.
My in-laws, who settled in Slate Creek Canyon in the early Forties, were thrifty, capable people who recycled numerous items (they called it “making do”), refashioning them to last for many years in one form or another. They often made “new” quilts out of worn-out clothing, patching them as needed. Glenn’s mother Myrtle saved old clothes and made treasured Lone Star Quilts for each of her grandchildren, using pieces of Grandpa’s shirts, Grandma’s clothing, and material from the child (and his or her parents) for whom the quilt was being made. Continue reading
Forty-two art benches grace downtown Idaho Falls and the Snake River greenbelt. Each one has a story. But how they got there is the story I want to tell.
Downtown Idaho Falls has been called a lot of things. The old timers once referred to it as “Alcohol Falls.” My husband Jerry, a retired sheep and cattle rancher, fondly remembers driving sheepherders and camp-tenders into downtown from his family ranch right after they collected their six months’ of winter and trail wages. It was the early 1950s. The first stops were always the Bon Villa and Jack’s Club, two notorious bars sometimes called “blind pigs” by the locals. Recognizing the windfall delivered to their establishments, the bartenders would allow Jerry, the underaged teen chauffer, to belly up to the bar for free while the hired hands bought rounds for the house.
During the ‘60s, the downtown’s hurly burly persona began to fade. The department stores and movie theaters fled to suburban shopping centers and malls, which offered bigger buildings, bigger parking lots, and bigger crowds. The exodus continued when more downtown professional firms and restaurants moved to the east side of town, where the new shopping centers, malls and hospital were now located. In the early ‘90s, downtown Idaho Falls had about hit bottom—too many vacant storefronts and too few shoppers. As local developer Larry Reinhart told me back then, “I am tired of Idaho Falls being called Jackson Hole’s ugly stepsister.” Continue reading
As soon as we saw the huge, multi-level warehouse in downtown Boise, we loved it. Built in 1961, it had a long history. Our discussions with the owners of the building were professional, the city was easy to work with, and we leased the building. We brought it up to code, and turned it into a twelve- thousand-square-foot studio.
Why did we need so much space? It all started with art. At an early age, I showed promise as a creative type. Drawing came naturally to me. My brothers and I are all artistic, and our mother encouraged us in this, as in all our endeavors. She let us paint on our walls in our rooms as children—she wanted to see color! In junior high and high school, I took piano lessons and every art class available. I learned painting, sculpture, studio art, and advanced drawing. Nampa High School has an amazing art program and a lot of talented students. But even though my future in art seemed promising, certain people repeatedly told me there is no money in art. They said going into the industry was a bad idea, and artists were outdated. I took this to heart, went to North Idaho College, and studied finance. It was quite a leap, but I followed the money.
In college, as I looked at my future syllabus one day, I realized I had made a mistake. I had no interest in finance. I kept at it anyway, but even after I started working in the industry, my interests were elsewhere. I knew that the career I had chosen was not a good fit for me. I wasn’t aggressive enough, and I was forever doodling on the sides of my reports, drawing portraits of clients and fellow workers. I created comic books, and drew temporary tattoos on myself under the sleeves of my sleek business suit. Always daydreaming, I couldn’t wait to get home and finish whatever painting I was working on. My wife Jamie and I both paint, and I think her work is amazing, surreal, beautiful. When we bought our home in 2002, we were both twenty-two. It was a delight to create our own space, in which we could live and paint and raise a family. Art filled our walls, including the art of our sons. Every day when I went to work, I wanted to be home. The art was calling me.
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