Not Dolly

Since the recent passing of Dolly Parton, the airwaves and internet have been bursting with stories about her amazing life . . . from poverty-stricken Appalachian roots to a standout musical career to her generosity of spirit as she shared her blessings with the world.

My husband, Barry, is fascinated with Dolly’s story, particularly the articles he’s been reading about her difficult early years. He said those tales remind him of the stories I’ve told him about my homesteading days in northern Idaho during the late 1970s and early 1980s. I reminded him that the hardships Dolly faced were beyond her control, whereas I made a choice to leave my comfortable existence in the modern world behind so I could learn firsthand how America’s pioneers lived. Despite that obvious difference, Barry requested that I write a blog post about my experiences during that time.

I flipped through an old photo album and found the picture used in this post, plus dozens of others, each sparking a memory of another story. I’m in the process of writing a memoir trilogy of my adventures, and I’m only about a third of the way through the first volume. My homesteading era will appear in Volume II. I’m saving most of those stories for print, but here is a little overview of how I lived:

When I landed in the forests of the Idaho Panhandle in 1978, I had no clue what I was getting into. I bought a cabin two-and-a-half miles from a maintained county road. A rough lane provided vehicular access from late spring to late fall. During the rest of the year, I walked in and out.

The previous owner had outfitted my cabin with a primitive rainwater catchment system instead of a well, so a trickle of water flowed to sinks in the kitchen and bathroom. Instead of using the RV toilet that the place came with, I dug an outhouse.

The cabin had a tank that fed a propane range/oven, tiny refrigerator, freestanding heater, and a half-dozen lights. The gas unit heated only the den, but warmth from a fireplace and an old woodstove in the living room reached the rest of the house. I built a pole woodshed from small trees on my six acres and supplemented the dim propane lights with kerosene lanterns.

I constructed raised beds in a forest opening behind the house, where I planted vegetables and herbs. I ran a garden hose from the rain-catchment system to water the produce, but when a dry spell drained the water tank, I hauled buckets from a creek a half mile away. The hard work paid off, and I canned enough food to last until the following spring. I put venison in jars, too.

Cold winters, with temperatures sometimes reaching -36 degrees, proved a challenge. I often pulled all-nighters to keep the woodstove going. But spring breakup was harder. When deep snow melted before the ice underneath thawed, the surface of the access road turned to goo. I spent many, many weeks unable to go anywhere farther than the outhouse.

I seriously doubt that the hardships I endured could even hold a candle to Dolly Parton’s real-life trials and tribulations. She had no choice, yet overcame in an astounding manner. I could have walked away at any time, and I eventually did so, albeit wiser for the experience. Still, Barry tells me I have some good stories, and I’d better get busy on that memoir.

Photo: Me, in my 1979 North Idaho Garden
#Appalachia #NorthIdaho #NotDolly