Listening to My Life Coach - The American Spectator | USA News and Politics
Listening to My Life Coach

We had a fabulous July 4 here two days ago. The sun was blazing and the air was humid. But the parade was packed. Mobbed. Great enthusiasm for everything about the flag. Just generally great spirit everywhere.

Afterwards, I took my brother-in-law, Melvin, age 78, as healthy as an ox, brilliant lawyer, to Taco Bell. He had never been there. He was well impressed, as well he might be. Tasty food. Low prices. Great air conditioning.

Then, an early dinner at Ivano’s in downtown Sandpoint. The food was amazing. Chicken breast with little nuts and cream sauce. It never fails to amaze me how much food is available in America. The whole human condition of scarcity of food has been erased for tens of millions, maybe billions, of people in the developed world. Freedom from want indeed.

There is much more to do, but what’s been done is miraculous. Thank you, America’s farmers and ranchers and truckers and railway workers and chefs and servers. It is all good news except for the animals.

Then, a long nap, and then my sister and brother-in-law and my goddess wife and I watched the Lions’ Club Fireworks over City Beach. They were superb. The best ever. Dramatic, Long lasting. Surprising. Pure pleasure. It is a beautiful thing that a town of 6,800 can put on a fireworks display comparable with that of a good-sized city. And then on the way home, no one need worry about getting mugged or raped. It is calm here. No strangers.

Finally, a wind coming out of the North, and it’s not broiling. We slept for a long time, then went out on the boat for a lengthy meal at Bottle Bay. Simple fare but tasty. Hamburgers. Chutney. Shrimp. Chicken. All delicious as we watched the boats pull in and out of the small harbor at Bottle Bay. “Wooden ships on the water, very free.”

Then a lightning trip to another waterfront bistro, Ivano’s Del Lago, just for a diet Coke. Everyone greets me as if they have known me for decades and, in some cases, they have. In many ways, this is my home. But then so is the Watergate and Trancas. So is West Hollywood. The only place that never seems quite like home is Beverly Hills. In Sandpoint, no one is a stranger. In Beverly Hills, everyone is a stranger. I have never met my next-door neighbors even though we have owned that house and lived in it since 1998. Why?

Can a nation be a nation of strangers? Can we have a nation where no one knows or trusts his neighbor?

I took a long nap in the sun room, long after dark, listening to the trains. I love Sandpoint. I mean I truly love it. But having my wifey here is the key to everything. Without wifey, I might as well be in Outer Slobbovia. She is my connection with life itself. She basically is my life.

Her love is even more powerful than Mr Buffett’s trains.

I awakened feeling ill. Nauseated, chills, dizzy. But I had some Tums and I felt great. There is no product where the difference between costs and results is as great as Tums. They cost nothing and basically save my life — or your life.

What if you could take a product that would make you go from misery to happiness in a few chews — and it’s basically free? You can. It is the absolutely best way to spend your dollar: Tums.

I have no idea who makes them but they are a miracle.

I went to our very cheery post office. Then, a walk in City Beach Park. Many kind middle-aged people told me how much they love Fox News. Young people, too. Makes me happy. They all tell me to give their best to Neil Cavuto.

Then a short nap, and a meeting with a “Life Coach” — in this case a smart young woman who asked me what I would like to spend the rest of my life doing.

“Most of all, lying in bed and listening to Julie breathe next to me. Then having Alex join us and bring me Tazo Refresh Tea. Then walking on City Beach and having people tell me they love me on TV. Then, eat a lot of junk food.”

“Sounds good to me,” said my beautiful Life Coach.

Then yet another nap, and a long ride to Hill’s on Priest Lake. My wife was feeling ill and wanted to sleep, so I went up with Rachel and Mel. We stopped at Mama Mac’s, a gas station/lunch counter/general store in Priest River. Even though I haven’t been there for over a year, the cooks and cashiers were super friendly. Made me feel sad I had not been there for so long.

Then, roaring up Route 57 to the Falls, a bar/pool hall that has a glass floor under which you can see a roaring creek rush by. Well… it used to be roaring. Not much precipitation lately here so it’s not quite rushing. But it’s certainly not dry. Better than L.A.

Hill’s was PARADISE. Our hostess was a beautiful college girl named Grace. “Amazing Grace,” as my sister called her. Our waitress was a beautiful Occupational Therapist named Kalani. Both of the Hill brothers came out of the kitchen to say howdy. I was ecstatic to see them. They treated me like a brother. A much older brother.

I took my sister and Mel out on the dock to watch the waves and the boats. Always reassuring. “Wooden ships…” always on my mind here.

The air was warm and dry. The ribs were tasty and crisp. No strangers here. All old friends. I wished I could stay there forever with Alex and Julie.

But Alex was waiting, back in Sandpoint, so we roared back in our rented Chrysler. We all talked about our childhoods and about Mr. Obama. Too depressing to recall what we said about politics. The childhood part was fine. Time heals many wounds.

There was a 3/4 moon shining on the Pendoreille River. Silver beams reflecting between the pines and the maples. I felt great.

At home, Alex ate some lamb dish I had brought back for her from Hill’s. That is one great restaurant. Just super good and Alex loved every bite. She’s perfect, as far as I can tell.

God let me have a great day today, and every day I awaken with a roof over my head and my wifey is a great day. Life in North Idaho is the way it’s supposed to be.

Ben Stein
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Ben Stein is a writer, actor, economist, and lawyer living in Beverly Hills and Malibu. He writes “Ben Stein’s Diary” for every issue of The American Spectator.
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