Summer was drawing to a close. The water seemed to grow a little colder with each passing day, and as I skirted the edge of the lake, there were almost no boats buzzing through the quietness. The tamarack trees turned a deep gold, blending with the lighter yellow of the alders and birches. These were the only trees I knew the names of. There was a tree with needles, whose bark was covered in sap filled blisters. If you popped the blisters, the smelly sap ran out and got all over your fingers. This one we called "bubble sap", it was actually a grand fir fir or balsam fir. I read in a book that you could chew the sap of a spruce tree like chewing gum. It said that spruce trees were distinguished by their silvery-blue needles. I looked all through the neighborhood, an area of at least a mile, and finally found what I was fairly certain was a spruce tree. I climbed it and pried off a piece of dried sap that had oozed out onto the bark. I confidently popped it into my mouth and tried to chew it. Ugh! It was awful! I persisted, because the book had said that it was crumbly at first and improved in quality with chewing, but it didn't get any better. It tasted just exactly the way a pine tree smells, except that the resinous flavor was permeating my entire mouth. I finally spat it out, but the flavor remained. Once home, I tried a variety of tactics in an attempt to rid myself of the taste. Brushing my teeth didn't help. Water just tasted like pine sap. Food tasted like sap. Everything that entered my mouth tasted just like that tree for at least a day. I probably selected some tree other than a spruce, but I never mustered up the courage to try again.

My birthday came in September. Dennis asked what I'd like, and I requested a pair of stilts like the ones I'd seen for sale in Don Christson's woodcrafts shop. He got them for me. At first I couldn't even stand on them. I tried to mimic the pictures I'd seen of people wrapping their arms back around the stilts, but couldn't seem to get anywhere like that. With time I was able to walk around on them with relative ease holding them the other way. It was satisfying indeed to be tall for once, taller than anyone in the family, walking around on those stilts made of larch wood from the local tamarack trees.

Dennis made some friends in Priest River, Steve and Verna McNearney. He took Mike and I with him one day, a rare occurence. We hardly ever left the house except on foot, and if one of us did, it was usually Mom or Lisa, because Dennis was fond of Lisa and she always looked nice, usually had a dress or a skirt on, whereas I had my grubby jeans and hiking boots more often than not. Steve and Verna lived in a nice trailer above the lumber mill across the river. We got out of the truck, and were instantly greeted by a black Labrador who leapt and jumped all over us joyfully. Within the trailer, a shrill yapping commenced and continued incessantly. The door opened, and a little Dachshund hurtled out of the trailer and flung itself at us with its piercing little voice. Verna screamed at him, but he ignored her completely. "Bozo! Bozo!!!!", she shrieked. The lab turned his attention to her and almost bowled her over. She was a frail little old gal with white hair, and he probably weighed more than she did. She yelled and griped and kvetched at him. It turned out that Bozo liked balls and sticks, so I played fetch with him. He was a relentless, if overly exuberant, dog. The yappy little sausage dog went back into the trailer with Dennis and Verna. Mike and I spent the whole time playing with Bozo.

A week or two later, Verna sent Bozo home with us. He was more than she could handle, and she was afraid he'd injure her unwittingly. We were to train him for her. I don't remember training him much, although Dennis might have. We took him for walks, played with him every day, and he calmed down. He was always happy and bouncy, but if he jumped on us, we gave him the knee in the chest and told him "down!". He probably just needed someone to spend time with him. Bozo was with us for a month or two. I was sad to see him go, but we could always play with him when we went to visit Steve and Verna. He didn't jump on her anymore. Besides, she'd sent another dog home with us to keep: Bruno.

Bruno was an eldery Saint Bernard. Verna hadn't had him for very long. He'd been chained under someone's porch and his hair was all matted. He drooled constantly and moved with noticeable effort. His old hips were sore. Bruno and I took a liking to one another. He was the sweetest, most faithful dog I've ever encountered. Yeah, he slobbered all the time, and he smelled like an old dog, but he went with me on every single walk I took unless we chained him or kept him indoors, and then if I left, he howled mournfully. I almost always took him along. He hardly ever made any noise, and was my constant companion. The owners Verna had rescued him from had made him stay under that porch even in the winter, when the snow and ice built up under it, and we attributed this to his poor condition. Because he was such a well behaved old hound and not in the best shape, Dennis actually allowed him indoors. I spent hours combing the mats out of his coat by the woodstove while he gazed at me appreciatively with his soulful eyes.