Today in history, the State of Idaho joined the United States of America, back in 1890. For those of you who are curious yet struggle with mental math, that was 122 years ago. Many things have changed in all those years; fortunately for you, I have absolutely no interest in listing what those things are!
Instead, I want to share a bit of stream-of-consciousness with you. Let’s take a trip through the Great State of my consciousness and explore Idaho from there….
Usually at this point in the telling of a story, one would begin at the beginning (thank Kaptain Obvious for that little factoid!); however, when rowing up the stream-of-consciousness you must start where you start. Idaho. Potatoes. Idaho is probably most famous for growing potatoes. I’m a big fan, especially the little red ones, although I’ve recently been enjoying baked sweet potatoes with butter and salt. A healthier alternative to red potatoes apparently, and very tasty!
Sometimes potatoes are called “spuds.” I had a little friend named Spud once. He was about two inches across, maybe four inches long, and stuffed with lentils. Kind of like a bean bag I suppose, in the shape of a brown potato. He had ears, but one eye was missing and his tail had come off before I got him (he was supposed to be a mouse). I named him Spud because he looked like a potato. When I was 12, I gave him to someone special. My friend Fawn.
Fawn Moon. She was a friend from Cocolalla Lake Bible Camp, which is in north Idaho; she was a cabin leader, someone I looked up to, and the first person I allowed myself to open up to. Ever. You see, I have Asperger’s, which is a high-functioning form of Autism, and I didn’t approach the concept of social relationships in a “typical” way. Being autistic isn’t new to me (I was born that way) but knowing about it is. Back then I just knew that something was different about her. It was more than just looking up to her; she was the first person in my life to tell me that she cared about me, and then back it up with her actions.
I never got Spud back. On Wednesday, April 12, 2000, Fawn locked herself in a garage, inside a running car.
Another friend I made that year at camp was Crystal. She was 17, the Wrangler, and while two friends and I were waiting for camp to start, her and her junior Wrangler played toss with us – using oranges and toilet paper. In 16 days it will be exactly 20 years since we met, and we’re still friends! She still lives in Idaho. She has more reason to celebrate it’s 122nd birthday today than I do; in fact, we all should – so stop reading this blog and go sing “Happy birthday” already!