Since we were traveling in Idaho, we went looking for it. It's the house where Napoleon lived in the small-time cult classic movie, Napoleon Dynamite.
The first time I saw it, I didn't know where it was filmed before it started. But the opening scene happened at that house and I knew! It looks like a million other houses in Idaho.
The story took place in Pocatello, but the house wasn't really there. It took a little research to find it. I wanted a photo for my girls, who all loved the movie.
It's so real, that there is an amateur flavor to it. I recommend it. It's fun. You'd get a kick out of it!
I hope you have a lovely Catfurday, with all the joys life can provide!
In the morning, when Rick arrived at
the ranger station, the sky was clear, and dawn was near. There was a good six
inches of crunchy frozen snow on the ground, and in the parking areas. There was
a set of tire tracks lit up by his headlights. “Mhm,” thought Ranger Rick. The tracks led up to the campground
parking area, where a small, old-fashioned RV sat. Snow campers, apparently. Covered
in the same six inches of snow, there was an old black car. It was a Buick,
parked two spots over from Rick’s usual place. Rick was guessing that it was an
early 1950s model. That part wasn’t a mystery, because his grandpa had driven a
1953 Buick back in Kansas. It was also black. He looked for tire tracks leading to
the Buick. There were none. Rick could see no reason for it to
be there. He didn’t see any footprints around it, and there were no spare
people wandering around, as far as he could see. Right on schedule, at 7:55, Dexter
appeared. He wore his dayglo orang earflap hat and carried a foil covered plate
which was steaming in the cold air as he came through the door. It turned out
to be a plate of those little egg and other stuff things people cook in muffin pans
for breakfast. Hannah had sent them along for both Rick and Dexter’s morning
snack. “Dexter, do you know anything about
that old Buick out there?” said Rick, by way of greeting. The savory scent drifted through
the air. Hannah was an excellent cook. “No. I don’t know anything about it.
We didn’t see it come in. I wonder whose it is?” said Dexter, setting his plate
down in the kitchen by the coffee pot. “It’s not illegal or anything,” said
Rick. “I just can’t figure it out.” “I wonder if they had engine trouble
and had to park it somewhere?” said Dexter, looking out of the window at the
old car. “Did you notice that there are no
footprints around it? Riddle me that, boy reporter,” said Rick. He sat down at
his desk with his coffee. “They must have parked there before
it started snowing. You can eat these things out of hand. No forks needed,”
said Dexter, coming out of the kitchen, doing just that. “We were here before it started snowing,”
said Rick. It was a quiet, lazy day at the
ranger station and in the campground. The old RV took off, the passenger waving
in the general direction of the office as they drove away. The old Buick sat there.
At least it did most of the day. Rick and Dexter kept checking to see if some
hiker appeared, but nothing happened. No hardy soul emerged from the forest or
anywhere else. No stranger seeking help came to the office door. Right before 5PM, Rick went to the
window to take another look. It was gone. The crazy part was that
there were no tire tracks leading out. There were only the four marks in the
snow where the Buick’s tires had been, and still no footprints. “Hey, Dexter. It’s gone. What the
hell,” said Rick. Dexter looked up from his phone,
where he had been looking at short videos. “Huh?” he said and joined Rick at
the window. “I know it was really there. You can
see the tire prints. You saw it,” said Rick. “Now you see it, now you don’t!
Yeah, I saw it. But now I don’t,” said Dexter.
It was a quick transition between
fall and early winter that year. First there were light freezes in the Great
Forest. Then, one late morning when the clouds were low and milky, and the
forest was huddled in silence, small flakes of snow began to fall. Back at the ranger station, Rick
stood drinking coffee, looking out of the window facing the parking area. He
saw the first tiny flakes. He started considering when it would be time to
close the campground for the winter. Dexter and Hannah could stay, of course,
but he figured they would rent a place somewhere else. There would be feet of
snow before very long. Now, a true Ozark Howler is not
quite as weatherproof as Ralph or any of his kind. Maurice had grown up at a
more temperate elevation, not the top of a mountain range. When the snow began
to fall, he was just waking up in the old farmhouse. It was cold, but he
welcomed the tiny sparkling flakes like a kid does. He ran out in front of the
house and squinted up into the milky clouds. He tried to bite some of the
flakes as they fell, like a silly canid would. He ran back into the house and
laid his book on the kitchen counter and wrote a few words about the snow. His stomach growled. Coming back down to earth, he
decided to catch something and take it to Suzy and Uncle Bob, so it would save
Bob a hunting trip and Suzy might be agreeable with cooking for them all. He went out behind the farmhouse to
the forgotten, overgrown orchard and stood silently listening. The snow flakes
were a little bigger now, but he resisted the urge to snap at them so that he didn’t
alert the turkeys he was looking for. Soon he heard small cautious steps
among the dry leaves. Hesitant, irregular steps such as all have seen chickens
do. Maurice stood, gray and grizzled,
and nearly invisible against the back of the old farmhouse. When the flock of
turkey hens got close, he grabbed a couple of them by their legs. Then he loped
off to the Stump House. “Wake up, Bob! Hey, Suzy, look what
I have!” sang Maurice as he neared their still silent home. “Wake up! It’s
snowing!” he called loudly. Suzy woke first, as was normal, and
came out thinking about fire and food. “Good morning, Maurice!” she said. “I
see what you have!” Bob came out blinking and yawning. “Oh,
hi, Maurice! Thanks, man!” “Do you need more firewood, Suzy?” asked
Maurice. But a Firekeeper always needs more firewood, so she said yes. Therefore,
Bob and Maurice went out to forage for fuel while Suzy got the turkeys ready to
cook. The snow continued to fall. It began
to rest in little white clumps on leaves, and to settle on the ground between
grass blades. The sky was opaque with it. The temperature dropped. Maurice was
still tickled with the snow, but he was beginning to feel it in his feet, and
down his back. He shivered. They found a small maple and being content
with that, they pushed it over, and Uncle Bob, who is still a Squatch after
all, was able to drag it out of the ground. Then he pulled it all the way back
to the Stump House. It was green wood, but as we all know, green wood is better
than no wood. They broke it up and added it to the dry wood already there, it was
fine. Soon Suzy was cooking the turkeys, all cut up in serving pieces in a big
flat baking pan over the fire. While they waited, Maurice played a
few of their tunes, and Uncle Bob made up new comic rhymes to make Maurice and
Suzy laugh. Maurice was feeling the cold on his
backside, but his front facing the fire was warm. He began to think about the
feasibility of making a fire in the old iron stove in the farmhouse. He had no
idea how to go about this, but he was thinking about it, because he knew he was
going to have to go home again. When they had eaten both turkeys,
the snow was getting to be about three inches deep. “I think I better go home now,” said
Maurice. “Thanks for cooking, Suzy!”
"No, thank you, Maurice," said Suzy.
"Come back soon!" said Uncle Bob. The first snowstorm is a magical
thing. In fact, Maurice had never seen anything so cold, clear, and so beautiful. He
was full of the wonder of it. And it just kept falling all around like some
kind of a dream. “Shhhh,” the air seemed to say. He felt that this called for a new
kind of music. Snow music. Mystical, not really blue at all. He began
experimenting with some new tunes. He tried to get the snow into the sound.
Sometimes he closed his eyes, just feeling the snow fall on his face and tail.
He stuck his tongue out to taste it too. His steps slowed as he concentrated on
the notes. Late afternoon began to drift toward
evening. He looked around suddenly, noticing that it was beginning to get dark. Nothing
looked familiar. Maurice wasn’t sure where he was. Even the familiar path to
the farmhouse seemed to be utterly gone. Maurice began to suspect that he was
lost, and he didn’t know how it had happened. He began to play Going Home Alone,
while he considered his next move. He saw movement up ahead. He couldn’t
make out what it was up there, but it was tall and seemed to be of a color with
the falling snow. Maybe this was a hint of some kind. So, in his puzzled state, it
occurred to Maurice to approach the movement. Ah, but it moved then, further
away. Maurice followed. He didn’t know where he was going, but he was intrigued
and it was a magical evening. As he followed, he played Going
Home Alone again. Then he played the snow tune. He remembered the words he
had heard sung back to him the first time he went home after the incident. He
played Going Home Alone again. A voice began to sing. You’re not alone. Not alone. In the night, in the dark. Your heart is heard, loudly, clearly. His heart beat faster. The snow was
up to his ankles, and he kicked it up in little puffs as he loped along following. He knew he would follow this voice anywhere it led. And follow he
did, until things began to look familiar. First, he saw the old apple tree,
bare, against the snow. Then he saw the door of his old abandoned farmhouse.
Someone was standing on the steps, and she was smiling at him. At Maurice! Oh! What a beauty she was! She was
icy white, she was tall, she was fantastical, impossible and yet, there she
was. Her ears were pointed, her tail was curled. Her eyes, though he didn’t
know this yet, were icy blue. Her Howler snout was long, and her teeth were
very shiny indeed. “How?” whispered Maurice, frozen
there to his spot in wonder. The snow fell down around them,
growing deeper by the moment. “Come in, Pilgrim,” she said, “and
be at rest.” So, he followed her into the
farmhouse. Inside it was warm. A fire burnt, crackling in the old iron stove. There
was a glow in the room. He could smell something good cooking. His steps were
slow, and he could barely breathe. “Mable?” said Maurice. “How?” “You’re not alone,” she said.
I've been thinking about rules for writing. For me. I don't presume to tell anyone else how to go about it. Of course, if you like my rules, you may certainly adopt them! 1. Do it early in the day.
2. Do it every day.
3. Don't explain, or state. Demonstrate!
4. Don't let anything stop you, even yourself.
5. Don't forget to feed and nurture surrounding live creatures!
6. Go outside. Look at the imponderable enormity of the world. Get some sun.
7. You're going to write some dumb stuff sometimes. It happens. Proceed. Continue.
No doubt you’ll remember the very
young tabby kitten who woke Ralph from his contemplations on his log one fateful
day. Ralph took the little beast to Ramona to consult with her. It was decided
that they couldn’t keep him in the Home Clearing, and that Twigg had a family
of rather wild cats already, and that Thaga had Harold already, who probably
didn’t want to raise a baby version of himself. So, Ralph had decided to run the
baby over to Rick to see if Rick needed a station Tomcat. Rick was just trying
to figure out how to say no, without being a rat, because he had two cats at
home and didn’t feel qualified to raise a baby cat at the station when Dexter
blew in. Dexter, that sweet young guy, took
one look at the kitten, and there were stars in his eyes. He wanted that kitty
so badly. It was love at first mew. On the instant, he thought of his
new wife, Hannah, the campground host, up there holding court in the small
mobile home, when she wasn’t strolling about getting to know the campers and
answering the same kinds of questions every day. Kitten and Hannah went
together in his mind. What could be more natural or lovely, he thought? Having ascertained that Rick didn’t
claim the kitten, Dexter took him from Rick and left to find Hannah at a gallop. Once outside the office, he noticed
that the breeze was a bit chilly, so he put the little thing in his jacket
pocket, where it settled down quietly after a few small questioning meows. Then Dexter started moving again. He
didn’t want to jiggle this child too much, so he walked. First, he went to the mobile. He
stuck his head in the door and called for Hannah. But she wasn’t there. Not
that it was really possible to hide in there, small as it was. He scanned the campground. Ah, there
she was, talking with an elderly lady by a large fancy RV. He approached the two ladies with a
grin on his face. “Dexter!” said Hannah, “Is
everything alright?” The older lady looked from Hannah to
Dexter with a question in her eyes. “Ma’am, this young ranger is my
husband,” said Hannah, by way of introduction. “Oh, he looks like he has something
important to tell you,” said the lady, a Mrs. Brooks. “Why, yes, he doesn’t often come
looking for me with a big grin on his face,” said Hannah, laughing. “I have a surprise for you, Hannah!
Close your eyes,” said Dexter. So, with Mrs. Brooks looking on and
smiling, Hannah closed her eyes and waited. Dexter took the little cat out of
his pocket and said, “Put out your hands, cupped!” He put the tiny guy into
Hannah’s two hands. She inhaled sharply and opened her
eyes, and then held the kitten against her bosom. “Oh!” said Hannah. “Aw!” said Mrs. Brooks. “Dexter, where did he come from? Is
he ours?” cried Hannah, with approximately the same silly look on her face that
Dexter had in the station office. “Ralph found him in the forest and
brought him to Rick. Rick said he was free for the taking, so I did!” said
Dexter. “And now he is our cat, unless you don’t want him.” The kitten did what kittens do, when
a decision is being made in their regard. He purred and snuggled Hannah. “Of course, I want him, Dexter!”
said Hannah. “He’ll need some things, you know. A litter box, kitten food, a
bed of some kind.” “I’ll ask Rick if I can take off for
an hour and run into town, maybe you should come too. You can pick what he
needs,” said Dexter. “We travel with a cat. Not a baby,
but I have something he might like, for before you go shopping,” said Mrs.
Brooks, otherwise known as Alice. “Thank you, Alice,” said Hannah. Mrs. Brooks went back up into her
nice RV, and came back with a couple of those tubes of soft food they give cats
for a treat. “I bet he would like to have some of this before you get proper
kitten food,” she said. “Most cats love them, and it’s soft stuff.” Dexter and Hannah took their baby
cat home, and squeezed one of the tubes into a small saucer, and the kitten did
like the soft food. “What shall we call him?” said
Dexter. “Honey Bear,” said Hannah. “Maybe we’ll
call him Bear for short, but Honey Bear should be his whole name.” “Perfect!” said Dexter. “A perfect
name for the Maple Heart Camp cat!”
Rick did allow Dexter and Hannah,
with Bear, to go to Arlington to the supermarket to buy supplies for their new
family member. When they came back, they had a small basket with a soft lining,
a litter box and litter, and some tinned kitten food.
And as long as Dexter and Hannah
worked at the Maple Heart Camp, Bear, who grew up there, was the campground
cat. He became a rather large cat, and no one ever knew how he came to be in
the Great Forest that day. But he was a very fortunate kitten, all considered.
“Alright, your majesty, Ralph, old
buddy,” said Rick. “Time to come clean.” “What?” Ralph said, innocently, still
munching on a bite of cherry turnover. “So, yeah, the big bear gambit seems
to have worked. I’m not getting anymore chat about the Honey Bear, or the big
brown bear who visited the other night. However, I have sensed a certain amount
of evasiveness from you myself. The farmers are long gone back to their farms.
All is serene and clicking right along at Maple Heart Camp. “I know you know who it was, and I
don’t know why it’s such a big mystery,” said Rick. “Are you shielding someone,
Ralph?” “Um, what makes you think so?” said
the king, evasively. “I’m a little hurt, Ralph. You can
trust me. You know that, don’t you?” “Aw, Rick. I’m sorry. I don’t want
you to feel like that,” said Ralph. Rick stood up and walked over to the
window, looking out toward the dumpster. He sighed. “You know, I’m supposed to
keep track of things around here. And that was a thing.” “The Honey Bear didn’t break
anything, or hurt anybody, did he?” said Ralph. He swiveled around to look at
Rick’s back. “No, he didn’t hurt anybody or break
anything, he just got some farmers talking,” said Rick. “Jeez, Rick, the Honey Bear was
Twigg. Couldn’t you figure that out? Who else is out here fitting the
description?” said Ralph. “I was covering for my kid. And he isn’t coming back
to haunt the campground at night anymore.” “I understand covering for your kid,
that much makes sense to me,” said Rick. “But, why was he here that night? Marge
isn’t here anymore,” said Rick. “Marge isn’t even Marge anymore, which you know
better than I do.” “Twigg is embarrassed,” said Ralph. “Because he was there for a silly reason. He was
trying to surprise Leely.” “I’m still confused. How?” Rick
turned around and went back to his desk. “Why?” said Rick. “When I asked him, he told me that
Leely said that when she was working here, that out beyond the walking trails,
deep in the forest that there was a small patch of Trillium flowers growing that
she used to love to photograph. She said she missed them. Twigg decided to dig
a couple up and bring them to her to pot and keep. He feels silly about being
seen hunting a flower in the middle of the night,” Ralph said, “And he’s very
sorry to have alarmed anyone.” “Fer Pete’s sake, Ralph. A romantic
gesture?” “Yep. He’s pretty goofy about her,
you know?” “He’s a model for us all,” said Rick,
laughing now. “In a way, it’s a good thing those guys called him some kind of a
bear. Made life easier for me. Whoever heard of a Squatch being called a Honey
Bear?” “New to me, Rick. I thought it was
kind of cute.” Rick took their mugs out to the
kitchen nook and filled them again, to wash away the momentary awkwardness
between himself and his friend. “Did she like the flowers?” said
Rick. “She loved them so much that she
cried a little. But, I’m not sure Trillium are really suited for living in a
pot. But it might work next to the Alder Tree House. “Did I ever tell you about the tree
spirit I pulled out of a dead fir and sent over there to live in a young alder? “Well, anyhow, I think she might
keep an eye on that pot of Trillum flowers. Stranger things have happened,”
said Ralph. “You didn’t, but I believe you,” Rick
murmured.
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