As schools get going, it’s interesting to note when high schools start make a difference in student learning. Circadian rhythms are the reason, pushing teenagers to sleep later and stay up later at night.
This kind of news is really too boring to be scary. Here come the government accountants with a lot of charts and projections showing what might happen in 2024 if we are dumb enough to stay a dumb as we are today. Oh boy. Hit the lights.
When the Great Northern Railway opened its big tunnel through Stevens Pass in 1929, it electrified the whole line from Wenatchee to Skykomish. The Appleyard in south Wenatchee became the maintenance center for the electrics, and Joe Gaynor became head of it.
If milfoil grew on dry ground the way it grows under water we likely would blast it with any herbicide even close to safe. Imagine, wide swaths of open land rendered unusable and impassable to people or their vehicles by a tall-growing plant, a noxious weed so prolific it reproduces wherever bits and pieces hit the ground. That is happening in our rivers and lakes.
“When something like this happens, the local authorities, including the police, have a responsibility to be open and transparent about how they are investigating that death and how they are protecting the people in their communities,” said President Obama in his reaction to the tragic mess in Ferguson, Mo. Open and transparent — Obama gave a calm and measured response, but he was absolutely right. If only the police in Ferguson had chosen honesty and openness instead of secrecy and selectivity, things might have been different.
On Wednesday this page published a plea from Wenatchee’s Anne S. White to name the interchange at the junction of Highways 97 and 2, commonly known as the Big Y, for the late Department of Transportation Regional Administrator Don Senn. It was inspiring. What better way to honor such an exemplary public servant than to place his name on a well-functioning piece of civil engineering art like the Peshastin interchange?
I’ll be honest. I was trying to find a good excuse to mention, with all possible subtlety, that the fourth annual North Central Washington Wine Awards is coming this very Saturday to Town Toyota Center, and if you have even a passing interest in wine or food this event is not to be missed.
I could see my father’s face, ordering me to spend my summer at the high school, in typing class. I was a mere 14 years old, so this was the functional equivalent of a prison sentence. An entire summer would be wasted as the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog and all good men came to the aid of their country. “Learn to type, son, and you’ll always have a job,” he snorted. He thought this was really important, and he was right — I learned to type ...
It was dusk on this beautiful Fourth of July. I set off from Leavenworth for home before 10 p.m., expecting a peaceful drive down the Wenatchee Valley. Somewhere near Peshastin I heard an explosion, and then another. There were bright flashes, ahead, behind, port and starboard. Across the river rockets streaked skyward, as if someone had given the command to open fire. There was plenty of red glare, bombs bursting in air. The long American tradition of celebrating freedom by blowing things up was at full roar.
The horrible human disaster of the Carlton Complex fires weighs heavy on the people of the Methow Valley and Okanogan County, and that pressure may not lift fully for years. It is a disaster almost incomprehensible in scope — more than 300 houses destroyed, hundreds of outbuildings gone, untold lives torn apart.
The United States Postal Service is seeking public comment on the pending move of the Wenatchee Post Office, from the marbled halls of the Federal Building, to the humble former Royal Palace Restaurant at 1060 Maple.
I was dreaming again. My old portable radio sits on the middle of my dining room table, just as it did so many years ago. I’m in my usual straight-backed chair, nervous, leaning forward, elbows planted, staring straight at the radio as if I expect something dreadful to happen. It’s early evening but already dark. My wife is in the next room stitching on her latest quilt. I hear familiar, scratchy sounds, ads for Bob Feil Boats & Motors and Hooked On Toys, then the voice: