by Rochelle Cunningham
© October 08, 2010
A Man who use to run circles
Around giants twice his size
Now naps away what is left
Of the rest of his life
His Yosemite Sam mustache
Has long since been replaced
With a prickly-grey stubble
On his poor weathered face
He asks what his boys are up to
And still calls me his sugar-bear
I take time to look into his hazel eyes
That are quickly losing their luster
I see the times for tall-tales
Or toothy grins as he plays his guitar
Are certain to become fewer & fewer
As the light slowly dims in my father
And although I hate to see him in such pain
I hail to the powers that be
For surrounding him with so many loved ones
And allowing him a few more days here with me
I accept that his days are numbered
They have been for quite some time
But no matter how much I think I’m prepared
There is no way to imagine him not in my life
He offers me his unconditional love
Something so few are fortunate to know
His light will live on, long after his life
In my heart & memories it will continue to grow
He’s been the driving force in our family
The stern rock we’ve all counted on
How does a house continue to stand -
When you feel your foundation is gone?
I suppose, like others before us
We’ll adjust to live in new ways
And lean on each other for comfort
Until we’ve weathered the long, painful days
His legacy continuing to live on through my brothers
Somewhere between power tools & gentle guitar strings
With such determination and talent coursing through them
I know his presence will always be seen
These days I touch his tissue paper skin
And tell him how much I love him so
Knowing he wants to be with his Pop again
I silently grant him permission to go
My heart is so full of sorrow
Not being able to do much at all
The pain of watching a parent so helpless –
Withering away like leaves in the fall
My love for him is as strong today
As it has always been in the past
The love we share transcends this life-time
I am certain it will continue to last
And while we still have some time left on this Earth
I make a point to share my heart & stay in touch
Reminded how each precious moment we are given
Should be spent with the ones that we love
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
WANTED: A Missing Man
by Rochelle Cunningham
© August 2010
...is the notion of residing safely tucked beneath your wings – going to cost me mine? Do I have to give up the best of me, to rest my head upon your chest at night?
...if I start to follow in your footsteps, where will my tracks wind up? Does the ground around me have to turn to quicksand before you reach out your hand to me?
...can I fall to my knees without you casting your shadow upon me? Will you hold my hand, and remain still –and quiet – and perhaps stay lost for a bit, while I attempt to find my own way out?
...if I let you wander through my heart, will you get scared and decide to run back home? Can you open your eyes long enough to pull back the curtains of my memories and allow my love to shine in and fill our room?
...are the dishes and dirty laundry going to pile up quicker than the kisses and the laughter? Does the sound of my voice keep you spellbound – or do you find yourself running for cover?
...is forever just too damn long, when you're caught always asking so much more of me? And what happens to me, when I decide to – just – say – "No"?
...will you cast a handful of glass stones from your seat in the back of the theatre, when you've never been on stage before? Is it so hard to believe I don't have a problem with an early curtain call or a late night rehearsal?
I'll let you in on a little secret...
Sometimes –
when the credits are rolling –
as the last tears are being dried from the sad story and you hear an empty popcorn tub get kicked under a seat somewhere for someone else to clean up later –
...a woman can be found sitting alone, somewhere, there in the dark– realizing she has lost something –
...because she has spent the better half of her life –
losing pieces of herself –
missing a man.
~ Inspired by 3 Doors Down "Let me be myself"
© August 2010
...is the notion of residing safely tucked beneath your wings – going to cost me mine? Do I have to give up the best of me, to rest my head upon your chest at night?
...if I start to follow in your footsteps, where will my tracks wind up? Does the ground around me have to turn to quicksand before you reach out your hand to me?
...can I fall to my knees without you casting your shadow upon me? Will you hold my hand, and remain still –and quiet – and perhaps stay lost for a bit, while I attempt to find my own way out?
...if I let you wander through my heart, will you get scared and decide to run back home? Can you open your eyes long enough to pull back the curtains of my memories and allow my love to shine in and fill our room?
...are the dishes and dirty laundry going to pile up quicker than the kisses and the laughter? Does the sound of my voice keep you spellbound – or do you find yourself running for cover?
...is forever just too damn long, when you're caught always asking so much more of me? And what happens to me, when I decide to – just – say – "No"?
...will you cast a handful of glass stones from your seat in the back of the theatre, when you've never been on stage before? Is it so hard to believe I don't have a problem with an early curtain call or a late night rehearsal?
I'll let you in on a little secret...
Sometimes –
when the credits are rolling –
as the last tears are being dried from the sad story and you hear an empty popcorn tub get kicked under a seat somewhere for someone else to clean up later –
...a woman can be found sitting alone, somewhere, there in the dark– realizing she has lost something –
...because she has spent the better half of her life –
losing pieces of herself –
missing a man.
~ Inspired by 3 Doors Down "Let me be myself"
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Jealousy Of Night
by Rochelle Cunningham
© July 2010
There is a man out there…
…who conjures midnight reminders of my desire to possess him – still.
From the barren pillow sharing my bed, a warm phantom rises to wake me. Without a word, he takes my sleepy hand in his and leads me down another woman’s path.
There is a man out there…
…who refuses to abandon a dream that naps quietly on a dusty shelf in someone’s basement. He’s caught clawing at the blank pages of a bedside journal – unwilling to turn on the lamp. And his breath weighs heavy on the back of a sleeping poets mind.
There is a man out there…
…who assembles broken memories that crash on the shores of desperation. Wrestling with the rising tide he sails the course of a barely beating heart toward the horizon of a forbidden kiss. A swell in the stillness of the room uncovers a woman’s face and stirs the bedroom curtains as a reminder of troubled waters ahead.
There is a man out there…
…who lingers where he does not belong; unwilling to shake hands with the silence of night, he makes his escape on the tail-wind of dawn’s golden braid.
I wake to his lullaby humming a tune on my ceiling fan and arise hung-over from jealousy of night.
© July 2010
There is a man out there…
…who conjures midnight reminders of my desire to possess him – still.
From the barren pillow sharing my bed, a warm phantom rises to wake me. Without a word, he takes my sleepy hand in his and leads me down another woman’s path.
There is a man out there…
…who refuses to abandon a dream that naps quietly on a dusty shelf in someone’s basement. He’s caught clawing at the blank pages of a bedside journal – unwilling to turn on the lamp. And his breath weighs heavy on the back of a sleeping poets mind.
There is a man out there…
…who assembles broken memories that crash on the shores of desperation. Wrestling with the rising tide he sails the course of a barely beating heart toward the horizon of a forbidden kiss. A swell in the stillness of the room uncovers a woman’s face and stirs the bedroom curtains as a reminder of troubled waters ahead.
There is a man out there…
…who lingers where he does not belong; unwilling to shake hands with the silence of night, he makes his escape on the tail-wind of dawn’s golden braid.
I wake to his lullaby humming a tune on my ceiling fan and arise hung-over from jealousy of night.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Pearl Whispers
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2009
Pearl, Idaho is silent. There are not even enough skeletons lying about to call her a ghost town. Many drive past, not knowing they missed the old town entirely. Yet the curious, still attracted to the swath of land separating the Emmet Valley from the town of Horseshoe Bend, continue to make the 12 mile trip in from Boise.
Perhaps for some, the attraction is the loud voice she once had. At the turn of the nineteenth century Pearl flourished as an Idaho mining town and home to more than 1,300 residents. Although she rests quietly now under the wild yellow roses and the native grasses that cover her stories from the past, she was once hostess to a thriving community.
The only thing visible today is a location where the Brambly Hotel used to stand proudly. In its stead are a handful of old, lonely trees and a few broken concrete pieces that exist to remind the living of generations past – those who lived out their dreams, and their lives, over the course of 140 years, with the earliest discovery of gold dating back to 1867.
To others, this land is home. It is a harsh, robust land full of wonder and peace, with the quiet landscape beckoning to keep her company. For those who own Pearl property, their ties to the land date back several years.
The Burkhart’s are the only living link to Pearl and the old mining days. Joe Burkhart first arrived as a young boy in 1912; he was 4 years old. Pearl has since enchanted the family with a sweet, mysterious embrace, for the Burkhart’s remain loyal to the vigorous terrain. Although Joe Burkhart has passed away, there are still other Burkhart members who maintain the house and the land which has survived many years of changes.
In 1990, another man looked over a plot of land known as the St. Mary’s, and Pearl whispered that same sweetness in his ear. He dreamed of an opportunity to purchase property and leave it as a legacy for his family. This dream blossomed over the course of seventeen years. Having acquired nearly 300 acres, including parts of the original town of Pearl and several mines, Gaius Cunningham proudly calls Pearl home.
Semi-retired from his locally owned and operated demolition company, Cunningham now enjoys the hours he devotes to working closely with his land. He uncovers the underground springs which he gently maneuvers, re-directs, and diverts into holding tanks. A careful development that provides running water to his home and a means to water the assorted vegetation he and his wife Kathy, have transplanted to the dry, ground.
Additionally, Cunningham relocates the hillsides, forging beautiful settings with lush grass and gratifying sunset views for his household dwelling. In the modest home he built from salvage material collected over the years in his demolition business, he and his family take great pleasure in his many accomplishments.
“I look around and see what I’ve done – there’s a certain admiration in that.” He says humbly. Both he and Mrs. Cunningham live in Pearl, but the entire family enjoys Pearl year round. The summer offers hot afternoons for biking, horseback riding, 4-wheel activities, or a dip in the lake he has created. Typically, evenings are cool and spent relaxing on the porch with a glass of iced tea or a cup of coffee. The winters tend to bring enough snow for sledding and snowmobiling. However, the road to Pearl is not maintained year round and unsuspecting travelers have found themselves at mercy of the bitter winter temperatures and the benevolence of Mr. Cunningham and his Caterpillar loader to free them from disaster.
One particular fascination for Mr. Cunningham is the native rock of Pearl. Having spent countless hours with his loader, he has moved the rocks from one section of land to another. Such beautiful geological contributions include blue granite that he dug out from The Easter Mine, a light brown stone, Mrs. Cunningham likes to call the Dam Rock because it was harvested from the rock formation by the dam, and Mormon Brown stone (a dark rock resembling tree bark when crushed), named after the Mormon City Mine. Similar stone can be found all over the country; it is utilized for ground cover (after crushing) or as landscape rock in subdivisions and housing developments. In Pearl, Cunningham uses it to beautify his property and maintain its natural state.
The families’ passion for the land is observed in creative efforts to foster the native habitat. They enjoy a variety of annual traditions together. For instance, a fall ritual is performed by gathering plums from old fruit trees to make “Pearl Jam” for gifts at Christmas-time. Winter provides them with a personal playground - and in the spring, buckets of wildflowers are picked from their hillsides. 
They have even entertained the idea of a web-site featuring seasonal cards from their personal photo collection and native jam to purchase for anyone interested in a taste of Pearl.
Many locals and enthusiasts of all kinds enjoy the elements of the Pearl area. It is a popular biking road, out of the mainstream of traffic. Motorcyclists and site seers enjoy the quite, dusty 13-mile road that takes them from the hustle and bustle of the city for an afternoon drive. Even hunting and target practice is noticeable throughout the changing seasons.
Not everyone loves and appreciates the land like those who live on it. This is evident by the occasional loads of garbage found dumped in the ravines, or the empty shell casings and trash left behind after a weekend bonfire or afternoon of target-practice. The assorted beer bottles, soda cans, and cardboard to-go containers are all increasing signs of disrespect to the land and to those who live there.
“I hate to see people come up here and treat it [the land] like that. That’s why I moved so far from the city, to get away from people. We didn’t come here for the gold. I wanted this for me and my wife and my kids,” says Cunningham.
Both Mr. Cunningham and the late Joe Burkhart share the same sentiments. In an Idaho Statesman article written by Tim Woodward in 1980, Burkhart told Woodward, “I liked it [Pearl] busy the way it was in the old days, but I like it this way too. I’m 72, and that’s too old to be a miner. It’s not so bad if people come and go for the mining, just as long as they don’t start movin’ in. You get too many neighbors and then you’re stuck with ‘em.” When Woodward asked Burkhart how many neighbors he considered too many, he replied, “Well, you get two families and if they stay, that’s too many.”
Mrs. Cunningham has a slightly different take: “I think it’s nice to see family’s go for a drive and dink around together. As long as they are smart [not going in to the mines] and respect the no-trespassing signs, there is room for all of us.” She likes the idea that, “although Pearl is only 12 miles from town, it feels as though you are hundreds of miles from anything.”
Pearl is a place for those who like serenity; a place to sit quietly and observe the raw, high-desert beauty. Those who appreciate Pearl get excited to see the sage hen courting in the spring, or watch the Oriels build their grey hammock nests high in the tree tops.
It is reserved for those who marvel at the miles of wild yellow and lavender Buffalo Bean flowers growing up from the deep red and purple clay that dapples the hillsides, or for those who enjoy the fragrant smell of sage floating along on the consistent breeze. It is a place of tranquility where you can watch a Red Tail hawk soar above in the undisturbed blue sky, or experience the symphony of native birds while they busy themselves with daily duties. An entire afternoon can be consumed simply watching the brilliant colors of the birds darting back and forth, weaving through the warm, dry air.
The silence of Pearl is often interrupted with sounds of running creek water, jingling aspen or cottonwood leaves, croaking frogs, and chirping crickets. In the evening, those same busy birds chatter among themselves, unseen and content as nightfall approaches. While a Mourning Dove softly coos at twilight, you might also hear the lonely far-off sound of a coyote’s howl gently penetrating the sunset that is busy setting the sky on fire with a dozen shades of violet and orange. Pearl is a place that helps you to forget what you left behind – 12 miles back.
© 2009
Pearl, Idaho is silent. There are not even enough skeletons lying about to call her a ghost town. Many drive past, not knowing they missed the old town entirely. Yet the curious, still attracted to the swath of land separating the Emmet Valley from the town of Horseshoe Bend, continue to make the 12 mile trip in from Boise.
Perhaps for some, the attraction is the loud voice she once had. At the turn of the nineteenth century Pearl flourished as an Idaho mining town and home to more than 1,300 residents. Although she rests quietly now under the wild yellow roses and the native grasses that cover her stories from the past, she was once hostess to a thriving community.
The only thing visible today is a location where the Brambly Hotel used to stand proudly. In its stead are a handful of old, lonely trees and a few broken concrete pieces that exist to remind the living of generations past – those who lived out their dreams, and their lives, over the course of 140 years, with the earliest discovery of gold dating back to 1867.To others, this land is home. It is a harsh, robust land full of wonder and peace, with the quiet landscape beckoning to keep her company. For those who own Pearl property, their ties to the land date back several years.
The Burkhart’s are the only living link to Pearl and the old mining days. Joe Burkhart first arrived as a young boy in 1912; he was 4 years old. Pearl has since enchanted the family with a sweet, mysterious embrace, for the Burkhart’s remain loyal to the vigorous terrain. Although Joe Burkhart has passed away, there are still other Burkhart members who maintain the house and the land which has survived many years of changes.
In 1990, another man looked over a plot of land known as the St. Mary’s, and Pearl whispered that same sweetness in his ear. He dreamed of an opportunity to purchase property and leave it as a legacy for his family. This dream blossomed over the course of seventeen years. Having acquired nearly 300 acres, including parts of the original town of Pearl and several mines, Gaius Cunningham proudly calls Pearl home.
Semi-retired from his locally owned and operated demolition company, Cunningham now enjoys the hours he devotes to working closely with his land. He uncovers the underground springs which he gently maneuvers, re-directs, and diverts into holding tanks. A careful development that provides running water to his home and a means to water the assorted vegetation he and his wife Kathy, have transplanted to the dry, ground.Additionally, Cunningham relocates the hillsides, forging beautiful settings with lush grass and gratifying sunset views for his household dwelling. In the modest home he built from salvage material collected over the years in his demolition business, he and his family take great pleasure in his many accomplishments.
“I look around and see what I’ve done – there’s a certain admiration in that.” He says humbly. Both he and Mrs. Cunningham live in Pearl, but the entire family enjoys Pearl year round. The summer offers hot afternoons for biking, horseback riding, 4-wheel activities, or a dip in the lake he has created. Typically, evenings are cool and spent relaxing on the porch with a glass of iced tea or a cup of coffee. The winters tend to bring enough snow for sledding and snowmobiling. However, the road to Pearl is not maintained year round and unsuspecting travelers have found themselves at mercy of the bitter winter temperatures and the benevolence of Mr. Cunningham and his Caterpillar loader to free them from disaster.
One particular fascination for Mr. Cunningham is the native rock of Pearl. Having spent countless hours with his loader, he has moved the rocks from one section of land to another. Such beautiful geological contributions include blue granite that he dug out from The Easter Mine, a light brown stone, Mrs. Cunningham likes to call the Dam Rock because it was harvested from the rock formation by the dam, and Mormon Brown stone (a dark rock resembling tree bark when crushed), named after the Mormon City Mine. Similar stone can be found all over the country; it is utilized for ground cover (after crushing) or as landscape rock in subdivisions and housing developments. In Pearl, Cunningham uses it to beautify his property and maintain its natural state.
The families’ passion for the land is observed in creative efforts to foster the native habitat. They enjoy a variety of annual traditions together. For instance, a fall ritual is performed by gathering plums from old fruit trees to make “Pearl Jam” for gifts at Christmas-time. Winter provides them with a personal playground - and in the spring, buckets of wildflowers are picked from their hillsides. 
They have even entertained the idea of a web-site featuring seasonal cards from their personal photo collection and native jam to purchase for anyone interested in a taste of Pearl.Many locals and enthusiasts of all kinds enjoy the elements of the Pearl area. It is a popular biking road, out of the mainstream of traffic. Motorcyclists and site seers enjoy the quite, dusty 13-mile road that takes them from the hustle and bustle of the city for an afternoon drive. Even hunting and target practice is noticeable throughout the changing seasons.
Not everyone loves and appreciates the land like those who live on it. This is evident by the occasional loads of garbage found dumped in the ravines, or the empty shell casings and trash left behind after a weekend bonfire or afternoon of target-practice. The assorted beer bottles, soda cans, and cardboard to-go containers are all increasing signs of disrespect to the land and to those who live there.“I hate to see people come up here and treat it [the land] like that. That’s why I moved so far from the city, to get away from people. We didn’t come here for the gold. I wanted this for me and my wife and my kids,” says Cunningham.
Both Mr. Cunningham and the late Joe Burkhart share the same sentiments. In an Idaho Statesman article written by Tim Woodward in 1980, Burkhart told Woodward, “I liked it [Pearl] busy the way it was in the old days, but I like it this way too. I’m 72, and that’s too old to be a miner. It’s not so bad if people come and go for the mining, just as long as they don’t start movin’ in. You get too many neighbors and then you’re stuck with ‘em.” When Woodward asked Burkhart how many neighbors he considered too many, he replied, “Well, you get two families and if they stay, that’s too many.”
Mrs. Cunningham has a slightly different take: “I think it’s nice to see family’s go for a drive and dink around together. As long as they are smart [not going in to the mines] and respect the no-trespassing signs, there is room for all of us.” She likes the idea that, “although Pearl is only 12 miles from town, it feels as though you are hundreds of miles from anything.”
Pearl is a place for those who like serenity; a place to sit quietly and observe the raw, high-desert beauty. Those who appreciate Pearl get excited to see the sage hen courting in the spring, or watch the Oriels build their grey hammock nests high in the tree tops.It is reserved for those who marvel at the miles of wild yellow and lavender Buffalo Bean flowers growing up from the deep red and purple clay that dapples the hillsides, or for those who enjoy the fragrant smell of sage floating along on the consistent breeze. It is a place of tranquility where you can watch a Red Tail hawk soar above in the undisturbed blue sky, or experience the symphony of native birds while they busy themselves with daily duties. An entire afternoon can be consumed simply watching the brilliant colors of the birds darting back and forth, weaving through the warm, dry air.
The silence of Pearl is often interrupted with sounds of running creek water, jingling aspen or cottonwood leaves, croaking frogs, and chirping crickets. In the evening, those same busy birds chatter among themselves, unseen and content as nightfall approaches. While a Mourning Dove softly coos at twilight, you might also hear the lonely far-off sound of a coyote’s howl gently penetrating the sunset that is busy setting the sky on fire with a dozen shades of violet and orange. Pearl is a place that helps you to forget what you left behind – 12 miles back.
Primordial Time Clock
by Rochelle
© July 2010
The office serpentine
Crawls across my desk
Leaving a trail
Of deadlines
While the clock on the wall
Casts her shadow
And sighs:
"Last call"
Collated reports and general ledgers
Fall like autumn leaves
To their blue, plastic
Graves below
As laughter resists
Rising above the silent maze
To penetrate an offensive, fluorescent mist
On goes the buzz
The click, and the hummmmm
In the land of mechanical creatures
Where caffeine and nicotine breaks
Are seen draining life at the water cooler
Gradually replace the talk
Around the campfire
© July 2010
The office serpentine
Crawls across my desk
Leaving a trail
Of deadlines
While the clock on the wall
Casts her shadow
And sighs:
"Last call"
Collated reports and general ledgers
Fall like autumn leaves
To their blue, plastic
Graves below
As laughter resists
Rising above the silent maze
To penetrate an offensive, fluorescent mist
On goes the buzz
The click, and the hummmmm
In the land of mechanical creatures
Where caffeine and nicotine breaks
Are seen draining life at the water cooler
Gradually replace the talk
Around the campfire
Shotguns and Bowling Balls
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2008
Confused and out of breath, I arrive at the Emergency Room.
It was a warm October evening when a set of glass doors parted, allowing me to enter the air-conditioned waiting room. The first thing I noticed was my fifteen year old brother, Jake, because he was covered in blood. He jumped up from an orange, plastic chair when he saw me. I looked past him to see my mother standing at the counter, filling out paper work in a short sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. A patch of blood started at her right shoulder and had run down to her elbow and there were noticeable blood spots on her Levis. Looking down at the floor I saw blood trails and splatters everywhere.
A few of my brothers friends, and some cousins were there too. My emotions elevated, and adrenalin choked out the possibility of communication as everyone tried to explain what happened simultaneously. All I could do was stand, frozen, in a daze. My eyes squinting, trying to decipher their words, but the room sounded as though it were filled with several static radio stations. I tried desperately to focus on my brother.
“Start over, Jake… slow down, and tell me what happened,” I say, and a few of the radio frequencies died down. He was shaking and could hardly speak in complete sentences. He told me how sorry he was, how he felt responsible because my last words to him were: “Watch over my baby while I’m at work.”
I was looking into his eyes that welled with tears, trying to concentrate on his words. He was describing what I could only imagine as an episode from COPS while he repeated events leading to someone shooting my ten month old Rottweiler puppy.
* * * * * * * *
Only two hours earlier I had been laughing at my dog, Farley, as he rolled a 16-pound bowling ball around in the yard; barking and snorting as he tried to maneuver it in and out of the low spots in the grass.
Now I stood in an emergency room – listening to a technician talk to my mother, staring at my brother as I try to register his broken words. Focusing harder, I try and piece together the muddled sentences: “…shotguns, …chasing him down to kill him, …got to the doctor as soon as we could, …I’m sorry, Sis. I’m so sorry…” I felt my brain lurch forward, like a standard transmission grabbing the wrong gear. Finally, I hear my brother’s story:
“We were kicking some sack in the driveway and I thought he’d like to come out and play,” Jake was telling me. “I turned my back for a minute and he wandered off. Next thing I know I’m hearing gunshots. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM – this fucking idiot unloaded five rounds - right there in the neighborhood!”
This was difficult to register. Our neighborhood had always felt like a Norman Rockwell painting; a place where kids grew up together, rode their bikes, threw footballs in the streets, and waited for the bus together. Livestock occasionally got loose and our dogs frequently roamed the streets. If ever a problem arose, it was simply worked out. So the unthinkable had been committed; a neighbor had acted out in violence and shot a beloved member of our community — a member of my family.
I listened quietly. Jake said he turned to the direction of the gunshots and seconds later, he saw Farley darting up the driveway, dragging his back leg behind him and then, BLAM !, another shot that peppered the next door neighbor’s window. My mother came running to see what was going on, but the boys had already headed across the street to confront the neighbor with the shotgun.
Jake yammered on about how he pounded on this guy’s door, yelling at him while our mother joined him there on the neighbor’s porch. The man opened the door with a shotgun in his hand. Their confrontation was heated and brief because the police were beginning to arrive. Later we would learn, the man with the shotgun had several different versions of his story, so we never did find out exactly what happened.
However, as I stood in a local ER with my puppy in critical condition, I was certain that some of the most difficult decisions of my life were about to unfold before me because a stranger had acted out in violence.
A medical professional appeared in the waiting room to lead me back to see Farley. The doctor walked by my side and prepared me for what I was about to see. Unfortunately, all I heard was tangled jargon as though it were coming through a bad loud speaker – like Charlie Brown’s teacher – wha, whaa, wah wha, waa won.
The corridor was a long, white hallway; buzzing with fluorescent lighting that cascaded over the doorways and tiled floor. I could make out broken discussions coming from the rooms with the doors left ajar as we passed by them. The smell of antiseptic and iodine made air thick and hard to breathe.
My heart broke when the doctor opened the door. The first thing I saw was his face, and he lit up like an excited child on Christmas morning when he saw me. His eyes begged me to take him home, pleading with me, apologizing for any wrong-doing he had committed. I knew he had been waiting for me since he had been shot, waiting here in this room, alone and scared. I looked into his eyes - and I broke down.
Hot tears surged uncontrollably and rolled down my cheeks as I watched him attempt to crawl toward me, dragging his hind legs behind him, struggling to come and be near me for comfort. I moved closer so he didn’t have to exert himself and I dropped down with the weight of an iron anchor to sit at the edge of the cold, steel kennel.
Farley looked up at me from behind his big brown eyes. He had already become my dearest companion, my best friend, and he was my baby boy. Farley had been shot because he wandered into the wrong yard and a man with a shotgun hated Rottweilers.
I noticed blood where his collar should have been. This is where the first round must have caught Farley across the back of the neck. A wet wound lay open and bleeding, revealing white and red meaty flesh. The second and third shots had hit Farley in the right back leg, directly behind the knee. His left leg was not working, and was presumed to be broken from the stressful run home.
Looking at him, everything seemed to flash before me…
…the boys playing in the driveway and deciding to let their puppy and mine out to play…the dogs innocently wandering in the neighborhood…Farley deciding to sniff around the neighbor’s grass…the neighbor going into his house for his 12-guage shot gun… and the man chasing my dog to the edge of our driveway – blasting away. He unloaded five rounds from his gun. Once Farley made it to the end of our long driveway, the shooter retreated but only after one final shot that peppered the neighbor’s living-room window. This frightened them so much, they stated to the police they thought they had been victims of a drive-by shooting.
* * * * * * * *
The doctor told me that Farley’s back right leg had been hit the worst and the X-ray’s revealed the majority of the cartilage to the knee-cap was destroyed along with damage to the tendons.
With his head in my lap I looked over his wounded body. There is matted black hair, and gaping wounds all over his hindquarters and neck. I just cry and tell Farley how sorry I am. I shake my head and comfort my dog while my mother and the doctor talk. I can’t help but picture how crazy the scene must have been at my parents’ house just hours before…
…I see Farley playing, wandering around in the fall leaves and cool grass, enjoying the chill in the evening air with sundown approaching – then, abruptly confused, running for his life, shotgun blasts ringing out, my brother and his friends looking around, shocked, trying to put the chaotic, unfamiliar sounds together as they watch Farley running up the driveway, bleeding and yelping like a wild, wounded animal.
* * * * * * * *
After a few minutes with my dog, I realize I had to contemplate my options. With the balance of Farley’s life in my hands, I haven’t a clue how to respond under these circumstances. I remind myself this isn’t the first time I had been to the emergency room with him.
Ironically, on April Fool’s Day, I had taken him to softball practice with me, where he contracted Parvo (a disease known to dehydrate the animal). Understanding how fatal the disease is, I rushed him to the vet immediately. I knew how devastating this could be to a four-month old, gangly, Rottweiler puppy just starting to put on weight. The vets inserted an IV drip into his vein and got him hydrated. After a couple of days, they had done all they could do.
Farley seemed to get better when I came to visit, then would quit eating and drinking once I left. The veterinarians suggested he would do better in my care. So I took him home and fed him rice, hamburger, and canned dog food to put his weight back on. Although he was weak and had difficulty keeping liquids down, we persevered. We had cheated death for the first time.
A few months later, he was at normal body weight again and doing well so I scheduled him to be neutered. The surgery had been successful, but it was later complicated with an infection that we fought for nearly two months. A week after his infection cleared up, he cut his right front foot on a piece of glass and had to have a couple of stitches. To keep him from licking, Farley wore the lamp-shade looking Elizabethan Collar during all of his afflictions. He wore the collar so often, his nickname became “Bucket-Head”.
At the end of October, Farley turned 10 months old and the collar had been removed for the third time in his life. We needed to celebrate. To commemorate his freedom from the bucket, I loaded him in my pickup to spend the afternoon on our property in Pearl (a small mining town in Idaho). Once we returned home from our adventures in Pearl, he bucked and played in the back yard, ate dinner in his kennel, and I kissed him on the forehead before I left for work. A few hours later, Farley would be shot.
* * * * * * * *
The ER doctor clearly explained that my alternatives were to have surgery on the right leg (either amputate the leg, or try to pin the leg and hope the knee heals) or put him to sleep. My head was told me to put the dog out of his misery, he was in excruciating pain. My heart ached for my companion. I was present to only one thought: there is nothing wrong with my dog. After all, the buckshot had missed all of his internal organs, his head, and both front legs. Farley was just broken.
I looked down at him again. A financial responsibility of this magnitude concerned me, but putting a price on how much I valued this precious animal made me feel guilty. I struggled with the thought of having a crippled pet to care for, and that made me feel guilty. But I couldn’t do it. I kept thinking: there is nothing wrong with my dog… I can’t put him to sleep… I love him. The decision was mine. I decided to pin his leg and nurse him back to health once again.
Two days later, Farley went in for his first surgery. It lasted three hours. I took him home to the guest house, where the two of us lived behind my parents’ home. I slept every night on the floor with him. I wrapped a dish towel under his belly to help him outside to go to the bathroom. I gave him aspirin every four hours and changed his bandages twice a day. Some days the living room, where we slept, would smell of rotting flesh as the wounds oozed and healed. I didn’t care; I loved him so much.
I gently rubbed his paw and looked into his glazed, watery eyes as he fought the medication I gave him for the pain. After two weeks, the veterinarians decided that the leg was deteriorating more than it was healing. We were going to have to amputate the leg after all.
The second surgery took only two hours. I was angry and heartbroken that my perfect, beautiful boy was going to be malformed. However, I was quite surprised with the results of the amputation. Once I got past the disfiguration and the apprehension over his shaved hip, I was impressed with the recovery of an animal after an amputation; he was up and around that very day!
Because Farley was a large breed dog, the vets told me the likelihood of hip problems would be greater. Additionally, because he would have to support so much weight on only one back leg, his life expectancy had been reduced to four years. So I started researching hip dysplasia, a common degenerative joint disease, especially with large breed dogs, and found that glucosamine and chondroitin would benefit his recovery. I began putting powder on his dog food which strengthened his hip immensely to increase his life expectancy. Farley continued to ride in the back of my pickup. “Load up” was replaced with “Paws Up” so I could give him a boost into the back of the truck. He never passed up a chance to run, hike, or swim, but his favorite remained playing soccer with his bowling ball.
It took over a year (from the time of the shooting) to get the neighbor on trial for his illegal behavior. Although I won my restitution case for over $5,000 in medical bills, I have never seen a dime. Because the Idaho State laws place more value on livestock than my pet’s life, the man was not found guilty of anything other than “illegal discharge of a firearm”.
The entire dilemma gave me a greater appreciation for what parents go through with a child in desperate situations. Certainly, an animal is no comparison to that of a child. However, I discovered that the painful and emotional decisions for those we love – are never easy.
If I had to change anything, it would be to choose amputation as a first option. I would not hesitate to advise someone if they were faced with a similar situation. The animal’s ability to recover is no comparison to that of a human because there are no psychological, emotional, or physical processes to struggle with and therefore, the animal adapts immediately.
Additionally, I had to accept the fact there are angry, unreasonable individuals who turn to violence as a solution to their problems. This man received a fine for illegally firing a gun, but more important - he could have killed someone in my family. I simultaneously feel disgust and sympathy for someone who has such little respect for life and lacks the humanity to fully understand the damage he caused to me and to those I love.
* * * * * * * *
I had Farley for eight years after the accident, despite the four years the veterinarians gave him. We had a wonderful, eventful life together. On September 9, 2007, I snuck out for a morning hike at Table Rock, leaving Farley sleeping quietly in the den. I came home from my hike to discover my Farley-dog lying in his own vomit, and he was barely breathing. I believe his insides had given out on him. I was heartbroken. It was time to say goodbye to my beloved friend.
As my boyfriend and a neighbor loaded my 120-pound companion into the back of a Jeep, I crawled in next to him, and we cuddled together in the warmth of the sun for a final, beautiful fall day together. I held his big black paw and spoke to him all the way to the clinic. I held that big black paw until he took his last breath, and I was honored to be there for him as he left this world. He would have been nine years old in December.
Farley was truly the love of my life. Unconditional love is rare to find from other human beings, and animals just give it freely. Even though our adventures together had been bitter-sweet for nearly a decade, I believe that the harder the road is to travel, the more appreciative you become of the journey. His love will be with me forever.
So maybe the neighbor did me a favor – bringing me closer to an animal than I could have ever imagined. Regardless, I had to find a way to reconcile my feelings. This was such an unusual and cruel event in my life, but it was easy to endure with the love of my Farley-dog there by my side.
© 2008
Confused and out of breath, I arrive at the Emergency Room.
It was a warm October evening when a set of glass doors parted, allowing me to enter the air-conditioned waiting room. The first thing I noticed was my fifteen year old brother, Jake, because he was covered in blood. He jumped up from an orange, plastic chair when he saw me. I looked past him to see my mother standing at the counter, filling out paper work in a short sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. A patch of blood started at her right shoulder and had run down to her elbow and there were noticeable blood spots on her Levis. Looking down at the floor I saw blood trails and splatters everywhere.
A few of my brothers friends, and some cousins were there too. My emotions elevated, and adrenalin choked out the possibility of communication as everyone tried to explain what happened simultaneously. All I could do was stand, frozen, in a daze. My eyes squinting, trying to decipher their words, but the room sounded as though it were filled with several static radio stations. I tried desperately to focus on my brother.
“Start over, Jake… slow down, and tell me what happened,” I say, and a few of the radio frequencies died down. He was shaking and could hardly speak in complete sentences. He told me how sorry he was, how he felt responsible because my last words to him were: “Watch over my baby while I’m at work.”
I was looking into his eyes that welled with tears, trying to concentrate on his words. He was describing what I could only imagine as an episode from COPS while he repeated events leading to someone shooting my ten month old Rottweiler puppy.
* * * * * * * *
Only two hours earlier I had been laughing at my dog, Farley, as he rolled a 16-pound bowling ball around in the yard; barking and snorting as he tried to maneuver it in and out of the low spots in the grass.
Now I stood in an emergency room – listening to a technician talk to my mother, staring at my brother as I try to register his broken words. Focusing harder, I try and piece together the muddled sentences: “…shotguns, …chasing him down to kill him, …got to the doctor as soon as we could, …I’m sorry, Sis. I’m so sorry…” I felt my brain lurch forward, like a standard transmission grabbing the wrong gear. Finally, I hear my brother’s story:
“We were kicking some sack in the driveway and I thought he’d like to come out and play,” Jake was telling me. “I turned my back for a minute and he wandered off. Next thing I know I’m hearing gunshots. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM – this fucking idiot unloaded five rounds - right there in the neighborhood!”
This was difficult to register. Our neighborhood had always felt like a Norman Rockwell painting; a place where kids grew up together, rode their bikes, threw footballs in the streets, and waited for the bus together. Livestock occasionally got loose and our dogs frequently roamed the streets. If ever a problem arose, it was simply worked out. So the unthinkable had been committed; a neighbor had acted out in violence and shot a beloved member of our community — a member of my family.
I listened quietly. Jake said he turned to the direction of the gunshots and seconds later, he saw Farley darting up the driveway, dragging his back leg behind him and then, BLAM !, another shot that peppered the next door neighbor’s window. My mother came running to see what was going on, but the boys had already headed across the street to confront the neighbor with the shotgun.
Jake yammered on about how he pounded on this guy’s door, yelling at him while our mother joined him there on the neighbor’s porch. The man opened the door with a shotgun in his hand. Their confrontation was heated and brief because the police were beginning to arrive. Later we would learn, the man with the shotgun had several different versions of his story, so we never did find out exactly what happened.
However, as I stood in a local ER with my puppy in critical condition, I was certain that some of the most difficult decisions of my life were about to unfold before me because a stranger had acted out in violence.
A medical professional appeared in the waiting room to lead me back to see Farley. The doctor walked by my side and prepared me for what I was about to see. Unfortunately, all I heard was tangled jargon as though it were coming through a bad loud speaker – like Charlie Brown’s teacher – wha, whaa, wah wha, waa won.
The corridor was a long, white hallway; buzzing with fluorescent lighting that cascaded over the doorways and tiled floor. I could make out broken discussions coming from the rooms with the doors left ajar as we passed by them. The smell of antiseptic and iodine made air thick and hard to breathe.
My heart broke when the doctor opened the door. The first thing I saw was his face, and he lit up like an excited child on Christmas morning when he saw me. His eyes begged me to take him home, pleading with me, apologizing for any wrong-doing he had committed. I knew he had been waiting for me since he had been shot, waiting here in this room, alone and scared. I looked into his eyes - and I broke down.
Hot tears surged uncontrollably and rolled down my cheeks as I watched him attempt to crawl toward me, dragging his hind legs behind him, struggling to come and be near me for comfort. I moved closer so he didn’t have to exert himself and I dropped down with the weight of an iron anchor to sit at the edge of the cold, steel kennel.
Farley looked up at me from behind his big brown eyes. He had already become my dearest companion, my best friend, and he was my baby boy. Farley had been shot because he wandered into the wrong yard and a man with a shotgun hated Rottweilers.
I noticed blood where his collar should have been. This is where the first round must have caught Farley across the back of the neck. A wet wound lay open and bleeding, revealing white and red meaty flesh. The second and third shots had hit Farley in the right back leg, directly behind the knee. His left leg was not working, and was presumed to be broken from the stressful run home.
Looking at him, everything seemed to flash before me…
…the boys playing in the driveway and deciding to let their puppy and mine out to play…the dogs innocently wandering in the neighborhood…Farley deciding to sniff around the neighbor’s grass…the neighbor going into his house for his 12-guage shot gun… and the man chasing my dog to the edge of our driveway – blasting away. He unloaded five rounds from his gun. Once Farley made it to the end of our long driveway, the shooter retreated but only after one final shot that peppered the neighbor’s living-room window. This frightened them so much, they stated to the police they thought they had been victims of a drive-by shooting.
* * * * * * * *
The doctor told me that Farley’s back right leg had been hit the worst and the X-ray’s revealed the majority of the cartilage to the knee-cap was destroyed along with damage to the tendons.
With his head in my lap I looked over his wounded body. There is matted black hair, and gaping wounds all over his hindquarters and neck. I just cry and tell Farley how sorry I am. I shake my head and comfort my dog while my mother and the doctor talk. I can’t help but picture how crazy the scene must have been at my parents’ house just hours before…
…I see Farley playing, wandering around in the fall leaves and cool grass, enjoying the chill in the evening air with sundown approaching – then, abruptly confused, running for his life, shotgun blasts ringing out, my brother and his friends looking around, shocked, trying to put the chaotic, unfamiliar sounds together as they watch Farley running up the driveway, bleeding and yelping like a wild, wounded animal.
* * * * * * * *
After a few minutes with my dog, I realize I had to contemplate my options. With the balance of Farley’s life in my hands, I haven’t a clue how to respond under these circumstances. I remind myself this isn’t the first time I had been to the emergency room with him.
Ironically, on April Fool’s Day, I had taken him to softball practice with me, where he contracted Parvo (a disease known to dehydrate the animal). Understanding how fatal the disease is, I rushed him to the vet immediately. I knew how devastating this could be to a four-month old, gangly, Rottweiler puppy just starting to put on weight. The vets inserted an IV drip into his vein and got him hydrated. After a couple of days, they had done all they could do.
Farley seemed to get better when I came to visit, then would quit eating and drinking once I left. The veterinarians suggested he would do better in my care. So I took him home and fed him rice, hamburger, and canned dog food to put his weight back on. Although he was weak and had difficulty keeping liquids down, we persevered. We had cheated death for the first time.
A few months later, he was at normal body weight again and doing well so I scheduled him to be neutered. The surgery had been successful, but it was later complicated with an infection that we fought for nearly two months. A week after his infection cleared up, he cut his right front foot on a piece of glass and had to have a couple of stitches. To keep him from licking, Farley wore the lamp-shade looking Elizabethan Collar during all of his afflictions. He wore the collar so often, his nickname became “Bucket-Head”.
At the end of October, Farley turned 10 months old and the collar had been removed for the third time in his life. We needed to celebrate. To commemorate his freedom from the bucket, I loaded him in my pickup to spend the afternoon on our property in Pearl (a small mining town in Idaho). Once we returned home from our adventures in Pearl, he bucked and played in the back yard, ate dinner in his kennel, and I kissed him on the forehead before I left for work. A few hours later, Farley would be shot.
* * * * * * * *
The ER doctor clearly explained that my alternatives were to have surgery on the right leg (either amputate the leg, or try to pin the leg and hope the knee heals) or put him to sleep. My head was told me to put the dog out of his misery, he was in excruciating pain. My heart ached for my companion. I was present to only one thought: there is nothing wrong with my dog. After all, the buckshot had missed all of his internal organs, his head, and both front legs. Farley was just broken.
I looked down at him again. A financial responsibility of this magnitude concerned me, but putting a price on how much I valued this precious animal made me feel guilty. I struggled with the thought of having a crippled pet to care for, and that made me feel guilty. But I couldn’t do it. I kept thinking: there is nothing wrong with my dog… I can’t put him to sleep… I love him. The decision was mine. I decided to pin his leg and nurse him back to health once again.
Two days later, Farley went in for his first surgery. It lasted three hours. I took him home to the guest house, where the two of us lived behind my parents’ home. I slept every night on the floor with him. I wrapped a dish towel under his belly to help him outside to go to the bathroom. I gave him aspirin every four hours and changed his bandages twice a day. Some days the living room, where we slept, would smell of rotting flesh as the wounds oozed and healed. I didn’t care; I loved him so much.
I gently rubbed his paw and looked into his glazed, watery eyes as he fought the medication I gave him for the pain. After two weeks, the veterinarians decided that the leg was deteriorating more than it was healing. We were going to have to amputate the leg after all.
The second surgery took only two hours. I was angry and heartbroken that my perfect, beautiful boy was going to be malformed. However, I was quite surprised with the results of the amputation. Once I got past the disfiguration and the apprehension over his shaved hip, I was impressed with the recovery of an animal after an amputation; he was up and around that very day!
Because Farley was a large breed dog, the vets told me the likelihood of hip problems would be greater. Additionally, because he would have to support so much weight on only one back leg, his life expectancy had been reduced to four years. So I started researching hip dysplasia, a common degenerative joint disease, especially with large breed dogs, and found that glucosamine and chondroitin would benefit his recovery. I began putting powder on his dog food which strengthened his hip immensely to increase his life expectancy. Farley continued to ride in the back of my pickup. “Load up” was replaced with “Paws Up” so I could give him a boost into the back of the truck. He never passed up a chance to run, hike, or swim, but his favorite remained playing soccer with his bowling ball.
It took over a year (from the time of the shooting) to get the neighbor on trial for his illegal behavior. Although I won my restitution case for over $5,000 in medical bills, I have never seen a dime. Because the Idaho State laws place more value on livestock than my pet’s life, the man was not found guilty of anything other than “illegal discharge of a firearm”.
The entire dilemma gave me a greater appreciation for what parents go through with a child in desperate situations. Certainly, an animal is no comparison to that of a child. However, I discovered that the painful and emotional decisions for those we love – are never easy.
If I had to change anything, it would be to choose amputation as a first option. I would not hesitate to advise someone if they were faced with a similar situation. The animal’s ability to recover is no comparison to that of a human because there are no psychological, emotional, or physical processes to struggle with and therefore, the animal adapts immediately.
Additionally, I had to accept the fact there are angry, unreasonable individuals who turn to violence as a solution to their problems. This man received a fine for illegally firing a gun, but more important - he could have killed someone in my family. I simultaneously feel disgust and sympathy for someone who has such little respect for life and lacks the humanity to fully understand the damage he caused to me and to those I love.
* * * * * * * *
I had Farley for eight years after the accident, despite the four years the veterinarians gave him. We had a wonderful, eventful life together. On September 9, 2007, I snuck out for a morning hike at Table Rock, leaving Farley sleeping quietly in the den. I came home from my hike to discover my Farley-dog lying in his own vomit, and he was barely breathing. I believe his insides had given out on him. I was heartbroken. It was time to say goodbye to my beloved friend.
As my boyfriend and a neighbor loaded my 120-pound companion into the back of a Jeep, I crawled in next to him, and we cuddled together in the warmth of the sun for a final, beautiful fall day together. I held his big black paw and spoke to him all the way to the clinic. I held that big black paw until he took his last breath, and I was honored to be there for him as he left this world. He would have been nine years old in December.
Farley was truly the love of my life. Unconditional love is rare to find from other human beings, and animals just give it freely. Even though our adventures together had been bitter-sweet for nearly a decade, I believe that the harder the road is to travel, the more appreciative you become of the journey. His love will be with me forever.
So maybe the neighbor did me a favor – bringing me closer to an animal than I could have ever imagined. Regardless, I had to find a way to reconcile my feelings. This was such an unusual and cruel event in my life, but it was easy to endure with the love of my Farley-dog there by my side.
What Has Become of Pearl
by Rochelle Cunningham
© June 2009
During the turn of the nineteenth century, Pearl flourished as an Idaho mining town and home to more than 1,300 residents. Today, the locals and tourists attempt to find remnants of the once thriving town that exists now only as legend of a ghost town.
A large, brown historical marker midway up Freeze Out Hill invites the curious to discover the history of Pearl. Further down the road, located at the top of Freeze Out Hill on highway 16, there is a sign encouraging a short nine mile drive to locate the old mining town. Pearl is situated in a swath of land that separates the Emmett valley from the town of Horseshoe Bend; located 9 miles from the Emmett Highway and 4.5 miles from the Horseshoe Bend Highway at an elevation of 4,300’.
Like many mining towns there is an extensive history of productivity and price collapses that affected both miners and the activity of the particular mines.
Pearl remains a local secret as there is nothing left to show for her prominent days. The only thing surviving is a handful of mine openings and a few foundations of old town structures, now overgrown with native vegetation. Most drive past the area where the town once showcased three general stores, a drug store that kept two full time doctors in demand, two hotels, a restaurant, a barber shop, a black smith shop, a bakery, a post office, a livery stable, a church, a school, and an International Order of Odd Fellows hall. Today, only a few pieces of broken concrete rest quietly in the shade of the tall Lombardy Poplars. This marks the location where the Brambly Hotel used to stand.
Although some of Pearls history has been documented, most comes by way of legend. For instance, Pearl (Gilbert) Robeson – now deceased- was the first born child in the area in 1896 for which they gave the town its name. In 1892, the first interest of mining was developed and shortly after in 1894 roads began to develop from Boise and Caldwell leading to the town of Pearl. In 1908 the town began to show sign of deterioration as Pearl lived through the final collapse of the gold rush. However, many residents continued to live in the area and raised families for several years after the town went extinct. The last major mining exploration Pearl experience was in 1980 when the TRV Minerals Corp and Sunshine Mining Co tested for lucrative veins just outside of the old town.
The Pearl land is no w privately owned by many. Among those who have raised their families in the area are the Cunningh am’s, the Bean’s, and the Burkhart’s. The Burkhart landowners, whose father (Joe Sr.) was among the generation raised in the original town; he arrived at age four in 1912. They are the only family still maintaining close ties to their land.
The area known as Pearl now attracts enthusiast of all kinds as well as those curious to its history. It is a popular biking road, out of the mainstream of traffic. Motorcyclists and site seers enjoy the quite, dusty road to take them from the hustle and bustle of the city for an afternoon drive. And throughout the changing seasons, signs of target practicing and hunters are evident.
Pearl’s past was influential in attracting opportunity for many in the early nineteenth century. Today it serves a quiet, serene place to escape from the demands of city-life. There are those who love the land because it holds a certain historical value to their heritage, while others appreciate the simple, yet beautiful topography of the rugged landscape. And some are simply curious; hoping to uncover any lasting secret they might happen across during a short drive or an afternoon walk in search of what has become of Pearl.
Sources Consulted
Flannigan, Jim. “Gem County’s Ghost Town.” Messenger-Index: compiled by the Gem
county Chamber of Commerce. (1957).
Riggs, Sam. “Looking Back.” Emmett Messenger (September 29, 1955).
Riggs, Sam. “Looking Back.” Emmett Messenger (May 8, 1952).
Unknown. “The West View District.” Caldwell Tribune (June 3, 1983).
Unknown. “Pearl.” Emmett Messenger Vacation Issue. (Summer, 1959).
Wells, Merls. "God Camps and Silver Cities." Idaho Bureau of Mines and Geology
No. 22 ed.: Pamphlet. (1977).
Woodward, Tim. “The revival of Pearl – gambling on a ghost town.” Idaho Statesman
(July 13, 1980).
© June 2009
During the turn of the nineteenth century, Pearl flourished as an Idaho mining town and home to more than 1,300 residents. Today, the locals and tourists attempt to find remnants of the once thriving town that exists now only as legend of a ghost town.
A large, brown historical marker midway up Freeze Out Hill invites the curious to discover the history of Pearl. Further down the road, located at the top of Freeze Out Hill on highway 16, there is a sign encouraging a short nine mile drive to locate the old mining town. Pearl is situated in a swath of land that separates the Emmett valley from the town of Horseshoe Bend; located 9 miles from the Emmett Highway and 4.5 miles from the Horseshoe Bend Highway at an elevation of 4,300’.
Like many mining towns there is an extensive history of productivity and price collapses that affected both miners and the activity of the particular mines.
Pearl remains a local secret as there is nothing left to show for her prominent days. The only thing surviving is a handful of mine openings and a few foundations of old town structures, now overgrown with native vegetation. Most drive past the area where the town once showcased three general stores, a drug store that kept two full time doctors in demand, two hotels, a restaurant, a barber shop, a black smith shop, a bakery, a post office, a livery stable, a church, a school, and an International Order of Odd Fellows hall. Today, only a few pieces of broken concrete rest quietly in the shade of the tall Lombardy Poplars. This marks the location where the Brambly Hotel used to stand.Although some of Pearls history has been documented, most comes by way of legend. For instance, Pearl (Gilbert) Robeson – now deceased- was the first born child in the area in 1896 for which they gave the town its name. In 1892, the first interest of mining was developed and shortly after in 1894 roads began to develop from Boise and Caldwell leading to the town of Pearl. In 1908 the town began to show sign of deterioration as Pearl lived through the final collapse of the gold rush. However, many residents continued to live in the area and raised families for several years after the town went extinct. The last major mining exploration Pearl experience was in 1980 when the TRV Minerals Corp and Sunshine Mining Co tested for lucrative veins just outside of the old town.
The area known as Pearl now attracts enthusiast of all kinds as well as those curious to its history. It is a popular biking road, out of the mainstream of traffic. Motorcyclists and site seers enjoy the quite, dusty road to take them from the hustle and bustle of the city for an afternoon drive. And throughout the changing seasons, signs of target practicing and hunters are evident.
Pearl’s past was influential in attracting opportunity for many in the early nineteenth century. Today it serves a quiet, serene place to escape from the demands of city-life. There are those who love the land because it holds a certain historical value to their heritage, while others appreciate the simple, yet beautiful topography of the rugged landscape. And some are simply curious; hoping to uncover any lasting secret they might happen across during a short drive or an afternoon walk in search of what has become of Pearl.
Sources Consulted
Flannigan, Jim. “Gem County’s Ghost Town.” Messenger-Index: compiled by the Gem
county Chamber of Commerce. (1957).
Riggs, Sam. “Looking Back.” Emmett Messenger (September 29, 1955).
Riggs, Sam. “Looking Back.” Emmett Messenger (May 8, 1952).
Unknown. “The West View District.” Caldwell Tribune (June 3, 1983).
Unknown. “Pearl.” Emmett Messenger Vacation Issue. (Summer, 1959).
Wells, Merls. "God Camps and Silver Cities." Idaho Bureau of Mines and Geology
No. 22 ed.: Pamphlet. (1977).
Woodward, Tim. “The revival of Pearl – gambling on a ghost town.” Idaho Statesman
(July 13, 1980).
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