Northern Idaho News

We've Got to Get Out More

Raising Prize Bumpkins

By Joan Opyr, 3-13-06

My partner and I deliberately chose Moscow, Idaho, as the (nearly) ideal place to raise our family. It's small; the population hovers around 25,000. It's safe; many of us don't bother to lock our houses or our cars. The schools are good, there's no traffic to speak of, and yet, thanks to the University of Idaho and Washington State University just across the border, we have many of the retail amenities one would expect to find in a larger city. We have an excellent independent bookstore, Bookpeople, a gourmet restaurant, The Red Door, and sports shops, bicycle shops, and interesting specialty stores like Gem State Crystals or Tie-Dye Everything.

But you can't always buy what you want here. Children's clothing, particularly shoes, are in short supply. The Bon-Macy's in the Palouse Empire Mall doesn't sell kids shoes, and you can't buy loafers at the Footlocker. There's always the ubiquitous WalMart, but I won't shop there. Call me peculiar, but I prefer a higher quality kids' shoe, something that will last longer than a week, and I like to be certain that the shoes I buy were not made in a Southeast Asian sweatshop by kids even younger than my kids. (I know. Damned, bleeding-heart, anti-globalization liberal. Trade with China is doing wonders to advance the cause of human rights in that country. Not.)

Other than allow the kids to go barefoot, a la the Beverly Hillbillies, what's a Northern Idaho mother to do? Drive to Spokane, of course! About four times per year, my partner, the kids, and I make the 90-mile trek up through Palouse, Garfield, Oakesdale, and Rosalia, all the way to downtown Spokane, so that we can shop at Nordstrom. It's a long drive, and one of my children gets car sick, but we love Nordstrom. First, they sell good quality stuff. Some of their products, I'm sure, are made in China, but I read labels. I stick with clothing and shoes made in either the United States (rare) or the European Union (less rare). It looks good, it lasts, and though it costs more, I buy less, and so it all more or less evens out. I am also able to pass on outgrown clothing to my kids' numerous cousins. It's a win-win, especially if we go for a post-shopping lunch at The Mustard Seed.

It's not all fun and games, however. Shopping is serious business -- serious cultural business. My children, born and raised in Moscow, are shocked and awed by Spokane. The city has roughly 195,000 residents. It's not Moscow, but it's also not Manhattan. And yet my children . . . when we get to Spokane's Riverpark Mall, they are excited by the parking garage. They don't care about looking for a convenient parking spot; they want to drive round and round, up the concrete ramps until we reach the open roof. Then, they hop out of the car and run for the railings to gaze in wonder at the cityscape below. Next, it's the elevators. One child gets to press the up/down button; the other gets to press the floor button. (We have to make sure we reverse the honors on the return journey or it's tears and recriminations all the way home.)

Inside the mall, it's escalator time. My children do not tire of riding up and down, up and down, and they cannot refrain from shouting a periodic "Yippee!" The spritz of perfume, the racks of clothing, the wide, wide, wide selection; they stand agape at the people and the traffic and the sheer hustle and bustle. I wasn't kidding when I made reference to the Beverly Hillbillies. When we go to Spokane, I often feel as if my children are Jethro and Elly May Clampett, and I'm Miss Jane Hathaway. Where, I wonder, is the cement pond?

I grew up in Raleigh, North Carolina and in Belleville, Michigan, just outside of Detroit. I've lived in cities most of my life. I spent a year in Glasgow, Scotland, and a year in Columbus, Ohio. I've been in Idaho for just over twelve years now, and, as much as I love this place, I still don't quite have the hang of it. My children, on the other hand, are masters of the countryside. They can easily distinguish numerous kinds of scat: bear, elk, deer, and coyote. They sometimes go up into the woods and come back with an owl pellet to dissect on the patio table, sorting out the mouse bones and vole fur. Last year, they unearthed a complete moose skeleton. It's sitting on the porch, awaiting re-articulation. My kids are smart kids, but they're country smart, not city smart. By the time he was four, my son could accurately identify over sixty varieties of wild bird. It was and is a joy to watch. He'd spot a ferruginous hawk on the wing or a Stellar's Jay at the bird feeder and look them up in his Peterson's Field Guide.

When it comes to birds and other wildlife, I rely entirely on my kids. The only birds I can identify with complete certainty are the Roadrunner and Woody Woodpecker. In the city, though, the kids are on my turf. They freak out when we come to a crosswalk, and I cross with the red light flashing. They marvel at my skill in negotiating "the scary traffic." Scary traffic? I've driven in rush hour in Seattle, Portland, Washington, DC, Baltimore, Boston and London, England. My kids don't know traffic. But please, don't tell them. I have to keep my edge somehow.

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