Hope for America

Steuben, Wi

Hope for America

We’re sitting inside at a restaurant, where we can inhale without taking in lungfuls of wildfire smoke. Sundays are typically for early morning “master hikes,” a term I coined for challenging outings for just Dane and me, no dogs allowed! But not today—not with Dane’s nonstop coughing and the poor air quality outdoors.

Dane grabs the box of conversation-starter cards on the table and picks one to ask me: “Who is someone you admire?” Without a second thought, I say, “Jane Goodall,” and then quickly add, “James Talarico.” Talarico is running for the U.S. Senate in Texas.

Dane nods, encouraging me to elaborate. “I like Talarico’s spunk,” I explain. No matter what folks say disparagingly against him, he doesn’t lose his cool, he doesn’t back down, and he combats their outlandish takes on what being a Christian means with scripture from the Bible. The Christian lifestyle he holds to—“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”—seems straightforward and accurate.

Dane’s turn. He runs through a mental list of folks, then looks straight at me and says, “Heather Cox Richardson.” I grin and answer, “Good one! Yes!”

Richardson is a professor at Boston College and a renowned political historian. I introduced Dane to her free daily newsletter a few years back, and ever since, he rarely misses reading her Letters from an American.

Dane goes on to praise her, saying he thought he knew his history but has learned so much more from her. He particularly likes how she analyzes current US politics through the lens of history.

Richardson’s newsletter is the most-subscribed-to individual publication on Substack, with over 2.6 million subscribers. We feel the world makes more sense with her analysis and commentary. I’ve learned more about history from reading Letters from an American than I ever did in school.

We’re both also fans of her current project, called 250 to 250, a video initiative for America’s semiquincentennial year. Last August, when advocates of white nationalism, Christian nationalism, and authoritarianism claimed to be embracing American values, Richardson urged people instead “to see those who care about the preservation of democracy and who have worked to expand its values as the people who truly represent America.” As her team considered how to celebrate the nation’s 250th anniversary, they kept circling back to the idea that “We Are America” and decided to develop a series of short videos highlighting people, places, and events that have moved our country forward.

Featuring mostly everyday Americans, the videos are designed to remind us of our own agency and ability to change the country. They help define what it means to be American, in categories such as community, democracy, innovation, mobility, civil rights, education, creativity, and conservation.

While Dane and I sip our coffee and wait for our food, we look up the first 250 for 250 video on his phone. In her introduction, Richardson says that our country’s story has been about “the ongoing effort from Americans of all races, ethnicities, genders, and abilities” to demonstrate “that we are all created equal and have a right to have a say in our democracy.… Because now, as ever, ‘We Are America.’”

The videos are easy to find on YouTube and are each only a minute long. Each one is narrated by a public figure, such as Rosanne Cash, Illinois Governor JB Pritzker, Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Harrison Ford, Peter Salk, Maria Shriver, Pete Buttigieg, and Cleve Jones.

Our breakfast comes, and as we eat, we agree that Talarico’s ability to convey the concerns and values of the Democratic Party on conservative Fox News is impressive, as is his reframing of issues as a fight between “top and bottom,” versus left and right.

Then we agree that no one in our time has been as accessible and brilliant as Heather Cox Richardson at communicating with a general audience the importance of our history and its lessons for our present moment. Putting down his fork, Dane says, “She gives me hope.” 

“Something we all need right now,” I add.

A Lone Crow Calls

A Lone Crow Calls

On this hot summer day, the only sound I hear is a crow. Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Ko-aw.

I’m sweltering under the overhang on the back deck, with a fan pointed at me. Nothing is moving in the backyard, where ducks, geese, donkeys, dogs, cats, goats, and a pig are usually milling about.

At a normally busy bird feeder, a lone red-winged blackbird and a few song sparrows sit, occasionally dip their beaks into the seed, and sit some more.

There is no wind. The stoic trees stand still, their branches drooping under the oppressive heat and the weight of their foliage.

The slowly oscillating fan is disappointing. I can barely feel when the air passes over me. Not until much later will I discover that the far right of the dial, where I’ve turned it, is the lowest setting. That seems all wrong, as does this heat, this stillness.

Ko-aw, ko-ao, ko-aw. The crow hasn’t stopped yakking, and in my lethargic pose, I start timing it. So far it’s been nine minutes with no letup. By contrast, my usually noisy flock of ducks and geese aren’t making a peep. I wonder if they’re okay.

But I don’t get up. I know they’re in the creek, huddled together under the lowest branches that hang out over the water, providing some relief from the sun that seems intent on burning us all straight to hell.

There is no life, it would appear, in the pig and goats’ pen. But I also know the goats are lying in the shade of their play station, and Louisa is tucked inside her straw-filled house. If I were closer, I would hear her snoring.

So it’s just the crow and me. And the crow is deep in the woods. Fifteen minutes of one crow repeating itself: Ka-ow. Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Is the crow sick or hurt? Does it need help? Is it suffering from heat stroke?

I thought the donkeys were in their three-sided shelter, but I now see two brown humps in the dirt. They are lying nose to tail, the way cows stand in the pasture to keep flies at bay. It seems Carlos’s tail has lost its will to flick, like a kid’s toy when the battery wears down. One one-thousand, flick. Two one-thousand, flick. Diego’s tail moves slightly quicker and more strongly.

If I had the bandwidth to get up and peer into the deck’s crawl space, I’d see the cats spread out underneath, unmoving. And the dogs?

Finnegan is lying near me on the deck, on his back, legs up like sticks, mouth open, tongue hanging out to catch the pathetic breeze from the lazy fan.

Téte is tucked under the porch swing, up against the front of the house. Less than an hour ago, I ran the hose and soaked her down with cold water, through her thick fur right to her skin. The silly girl then ran like the wind we all wish for, around the house, onto the deck, back down the stairs, and around again. She wore herself out.

Maybe that’s the way to beat this heat: exhaust yourself so you zonk out and don’t feel like you’re baking inside a bat cave in 200-degree weather.

Ruben is indoors. He’s a smart dog who regularly follows me everywhere, but not in this heat. He stays inside even when I go out, most likely thinking me a fool.

Only because I’m trying to write this column, and I hate the thought of Ruben considering me a fool, I heave myself up and look at the thermometer: 92. Later I learn the humidity is at “only” 54 percent, about half what it’s been in recent days. I want to celebrate this glorious fact, but I can’t. The “feels like” temperature is still a whopping 100 degrees.

My sweat-drenched clothes are stuck to my skin, and if I had to pull my pants and then my undies down to pee, I’d lose the race. But thankfully, I don’t have to because it seems I’m dehydrated. My coffee, my water, and my herbal tea don’t want to leave my body. I imagine them clinging to my insides for dear life.

I stay on the back porch under the roof and finally figure out the fan settings. Not that it helps. I have 32 plants to water and fuss over; donkeys, goats, and one pig to reapply fly repellent to; and three drinking bowls of hot water to dump and make cold again.

Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Thirty-four minutes of nonstop calling, and I’m no closer to knowing what this crow needs. Likely it’s a plea for rain or snow.

The Same, Yet Different

Sidie Hollow

The Same, Yet Different

“Hello, bullfrog!” I sing out, just as Dane stops and points, whispering, “Shhh, there’s a blue heron.”

We debate whether it’s the same one we see year to year, week to week, here at Sidie Hollow Park. We watch as she spears three fish with her sharp bill, then shakes them down her gullet. We feel lucky to see nature this closely. “It’s better than a National Geographic magazine,” I say.

A few years ago, if it was the same heron, she flew up to a tree after we spooked her by coming around the trail. I was able to zoom in and get perfect pictures of this tallest North American heron. A great blue heron can stand up to four feet tall and have a wingspan of six and a half feet. Later I learned they weigh only about five to six pounds! They remind me of little dinosaurs.

Oh no, the red-winged blackbirds are attacking her! Dane laughs at their futile attacks, but I’m worried about her. The same thing happened to me years ago, when my three-legged dog, Moses, was still alive. I was enjoying a morning walk, and there must have been a nest nearby. I kept saying, “I’m not going to hurt you,” and the protective bird was shrieking, “Don’t even think about it!” I never felt its beak, but I did feel the frightening brush of wind from its wings. 

Finally, having had enough of the four blackbirds bombarding her, the heron flies away. Soon after, Dane points again, and I see a much smaller green heron, also out fishing.

It’s early Saturday morning, and we’re trying to get the dogs walked before the day gets too hot. I think of the popular Heraclitus quote, “No man steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” No matter how many times we’ve been on the two-mile trail around Sidie Hollow, it’s different every time.

Today, soon after getting out of the car and entering the grassy camp area, Dane spied the nest where we had seen a snapping turtle leave her eggs a week ago. Sadly, the nest has been dug up, and the eggs sucked out, leaving the shell. My guess is a raccoon did it, while Dane thinks it was a skunk, but it could easily have been a fox, coyote, or opossum too. My friend saw a bobcat at Sidie not long ago; I wonder if a bobcat would eat turtle eggs.

Before moving on, we watch two sets of ducklings swimming with their parents. They seem to be buoyed up by the bright green algae. It looks slimy to me, but they look happy and are certainly finding plenty of insects to eat.

As we continue up the hillside in the shade, the dogs lead and sniff every tree. They know this route and enjoy it as much as we do.

When we get to the dam area, we notice three flocks of adult Canada geese arranged in a bowling pin pattern, about a foot apart. This time we spot a set of goslings and admire them as they glide through the water.

There are three boats on the lake, all busy with folks fishing, and a group of kids on each pier. It does our hearts good to see this much activity so early; it’s never crowded at this time of day. As usual, on the trail, we’ve only passed one lady with a dog and two teens so far.

As we approach the picnic shelter and kids' play area, we count three more groups of ducklings. Dane points out that some of the little ones are quite far from their parents.

I’m looking for my favorite reptiles, the turtles. I’m disappointed not to see them sunning on the logs like we normally do. But as we watch the ducklings, I shout, “There they are; they look like alien monsters!” The turtles are covered in algae from head to tail, camouflaged on logs floating in the murky waters.

Once we get past the swings and the pavilion, the dogs start pulling Dane toward their drinking spot. They love to cool off in the water and get a drink before finishing the well-worn loop.

We stop to admire some brilliant pink sweet pea flowers before we get in the car. On the way home, the dogs immediately zonk out. Dane and I reflect on the walk, the clouds, and how pretty the plumeless purple thistle is, even though we know it’s invasive.

Once home, I learn that bobcats will indeed dig up turtle eggs and eat them. Next time, I hope we see one—but not eating the turtle eggs!

Blue Heron

Green Heron

Lavender and Lions!

Lavender and Lions

Sally drives while I ride shotgun and tell her where to turn. A few times, we need to backtrack as I’m not quick enough with the directions, or Sally misses my cues. We’ve loaded our bikes up and are on our way to ride the Great Sauk State Trail. It’s an 11.4-mile one-way asphalt trail that winds through Prairie du Sac as well as the Sauk Prairie State Recreation Area.

We’re excited to revisit this trail. We biked it last year and liked it so much that we both went back with our husbands and rode it again. Sally reminds me it’s where I lost my credit card. I remind her I’ve lost my credit card many times, and not just there. We laugh and enjoy the magnificent clouds. In Hillsboro, we make a quick stop at Let’s Shine Coffee before following Highway 33 past Reedsburg.

As we chat, my instructions to turn become more frequent as we get closer to our surprise destination. Unbeknownst to Sally, we’re actually headed to the Wisconsin Big Cat Rescue and Education Center in Rock Springs. As we pull into the parking lot, Sally is delighted. “Oh, look, a lion! A lion in Wisconsin…” Her excitement is contagious.

As we pay our entry fee, the gal warns us that most of the cats will be hiding in shelters because of the afternoon heat. Sadly, she says a few of the older cats have died since my last visit, well before COVID.

Nonetheless, we practically skip up the asphalt path leading to the first cage, where Sally is the first to spot the lion. It’s hiding inside a ginormous concrete tube, and despite our best coaxing, it doesn’t come out. We head to the next cage, where Sally spots a tiger before I do, and it gets up to see us! Thrilled, we stay there, transfixed at seeing such a magnificent creature so close up.

The Center was established in 2004 by Jeff and Jenny Kozlowski. All the cats here are rescued. Most came from private owners who could no longer care for them, zoos that felt the animal was too old for display, places where cubs had been used for photos and were no longer manageable, or animals that needed homes because of injuries.

By the time we get to Harley, a gorgeous male tiger, we realize there’s a school group touring with a staff person. Harley is intently watching the folks, about twenty kids, going cage to cage. Quickly we cut across the grassy section to join them and soak up every word the guide says. Sally and I fit right in, ask questions, and engage with both the kids and the parents. We seem to be more curious than they are. Once they see a cat, they’re ready to look for the next one, but we want more education—and we aren’t disappointed.

We end up staying almost two hours. If we come again, we’ll book a morning feeding tour that lets you tag along with staff as they feed the cats.

Back in the car, I resume navigation while Sally and I talk about our visit, the cats, and how we both wish there wasn’t a need for such a place, although we’re glad it’s there.

I say turn right, but Sally turns left because she knows the way to Devil’s Lake, which is where we planned to hike after biking. But I still have another plan up my sleeve! Eventually, we turn into the New Life Lavender and Cherry Farm outside Baraboo. Our mouths drop open at the beautiful lavender in full bloom. We see a lavender labyrinth we can’t wait to walk through. The store smells great, and I feel myself relax. Lavender is one of my favorite smells, and I often use lavender oil on my pillow; I swear it helps me sleep better. Sally spots plants with white flowers and asks about them, and we learn they are also lavender.

Now we’re too hungry to ride our bikes or to hike at Devil’s Lake, so we head for the nearby Little Village Cafe. Sally gets tortellini with grilled shrimp. I get a Greek salad with blackened salmon, and we split a decadent slice of flourless chocolate cake.

We’ve been on the road since 9:30 a.m., and we still haven’t hiked or biked! We agree it’s okay to change our plans, so we make a quick stop at Baraboo’s free Ochsner Park Zoo before getting home at 7 p.m. Our next adventure will be riding the Great Sauk Trail and hiking at Devil’s Lake!

Harvey!

Our Hearts Always Remember

Our Hearts Always Remember

My body is on automatic pilot as I walk down the driveway at my daughter Jessica’s home, turn right, and walk up Parnell Avenue to Hales Corners Park. The title of a book I’ve read, The Body Keeps Score, about the lasting effects of trauma, comes to mind as I sleepwalk to the public swimming pool that no one has used for years because of a funding issue.

I notice the high dive is no longer there. The two low diving boards are, and the lifeguard chair where the suntanned gal in the red one-piece suit would hold up her white megaphone and yell: “Get up the ladder and exit.”

As a child, after I'd hit the water, often belly-first, I’d swim to the ladder, but I needed to take off my nose plugs and adjust my swimsuit before climbing out. It took time. My body was jolted by the plunge.

Continuing on the asphalt path leads me to the baseball diamond. The shiny silver benches where the teams always sat on either side now have fencing in front of them. I stand for a moment, recalling the time a ball flew sideways off the batter's bat and slammed into Danny, who was on the bench waiting for his turn. Danny didn’t break his nose, but he did die from cancer in his fifties. Losing Danny so early was hard for his family and friends. Our bodies collectively remember.

And there’s the bridge! It looks well-kept and solid, as it did when I was young, walking this path through the park at least twice a day, to and from Hales Corners Elementary School; in the summer, to the pool, home, and back for the after-dinner swim; and in winter, to go ice skating or tobogganing. Later, when I was a teen, that park path was a gateway to meet up with friends. 

But it was also the scene of an accident that could have been worse. My sister and I climbed aboard my brother’s three-wheeler bikes after he’d told us not to touch them. Going too fast, when I tried to turn before the creek, I toppled over. Jill, who was behind me, rode back to get Jack. Tipping into the creek on that big machine was frightening. Nothing was broken, but days later, I still hurt all over. My body remembers.

The black walnut trees are gigantic, but three from my childhood are missing. Like me, I think, they are aging, and some, like my family and friends, have died.

To the right of me, where the creek runs, a newer bridge leads over to the second baseball diamond. I think of all the boards and logs Dad would try to place across that creek to make a shortcut over to the ball diamond where he’d watch the games. All those soakers! I smile as I remember.

The parking lot looks the same as ever: empty. The only time I remember it filling up was on the Fourth of July when the park and streets near it were filled with cars, baby buggies, bicycles, and people. So many memories keep surfacing on this autopilot walk through my long-ago haunts.

Outside the park, I stand in front of my old home, where Jill, Jack, and I grew up. The house, once barn red, is beige now, and the crab apple trees are gone. I’m surprised because just two years ago, one of them was still there. A new young tree has been planted. The flagpole and basketball hoop, along with the rock garden my dad and I made, are also gone.

Standing there, I remember my dad out cutting the grass; my mom in the kitchen, cigarette in her mouth, making cream of mushroom something or other; Jill and Jack off with friends; and me playing with Kelly and Albert, our dogs.

Feeling nostalgic, I turn and head back toward Jessica’s, where I’m spending the weekend. My steps are slow and heavy. Her home is just as familiar to me as these other places. She and Brad bought it when Ethan was 10, and Helena was 7, still young enough to participate in the annual Hales Corners Fourth of July events and attend my elementary school.

I walk back down Parnell and turn into Jessica’s driveway. She and Brad are in the backyard. Ethan is in Michigan with his wife for a friend’s wedding, and Helena is no longer here.

Today it has been two years since Helena left this life, on the eve of the summer solstice, when the sun stood still.

Our bodies keep score, and our hearts always remember.

My Father’s Daughter

Dad’s stone I discovered last year in the HC park Memorial

A picture of our childhood home taken last year

My Father’s Daughter

Dear Dad,

It’s been 47 years since Jessica and I were visiting with you on the porch, not knowing it would be our last day with you. A lot has changed, but I’m guessing you know that. Mom, Jill, and Helena are all somewhere with you, and Jack is in memory care.

I can hardly believe Jessica will be 50 years old this year, and that you’ve been gone so long.

Ethan is married now, and you’d love knowing that Jessica and Brad live on the other side of Hales Corners Park from where we lived. Unfortunately, the public swimming pool has never been open since they moved there, for lack of money, they say. Some of my best summer days were spent in that pool.

I remember you sitting on your bicycle just outside the fence, fingers gripping the chain links for balance. I’d be on the high dive, and you’d be shouting encouragement.

I’d hunch over on the tip of the board, nose plugs on, hands clasped together above my head as you’d shown me. When I surfaced, you’d give me a number between 1 and 10 and tell me what to do to improve my dive. I never heard a 10.

But I do still hear your voice: always encouraging, always trying to get me to do a little more, a little better.

You’d like being with me here, where I live in the country. Today is a peaceful, hazy, damp day, full of the sounds of country life: Louisa, my pig, chomping on the grass; the ducks and geese quacking and splashing in the creek; Finnegan, my Jack Russell mix, snoring on the deck—and the birds. So many birds! Just now, I can hear the rat-a-tat-tat of a pileated woodpecker, the buzz of a hummingbird zooming past me to the feeder and to my potted flowers, and a barred owl in the distance.

You never talked about your time in World War II, the Korean War, or your 34 years of service in the United States Air Force. I often find myself wondering what that was like for you. My knowledge is limited, and all I have are a few of your old photos from back then of you and your buddies. I don’t even know if they made it home. I wonder how their fate affected you. I also wonder what you were like before the war. Were you different after? I only knew you as my dad, who called me Peanut Popper, and who I called Popsie Turtle.

Once, when I was visiting Jessica, I saw the memorial that contained a stone honoring your service. How fitting that it was in Hales Corners Park, where you watched me dive, and in winter took me ice skating and sledding. That toboggan slide might scare me now! We’d climb those steep steps, you’d shove the toboggan under your belly, and I’d lie face-down on your back, cold mittens clenched around your neck—and then we’d fly. We’d fly down that hill, me screaming in your ear, you most likely getting a face full of snow, till we’d spin out before the creek. Then we’d do it all again.

Memories of your presence are all I have left. Like the three flowering crab apple trees you planted in the corner of our front yard, one each for Jack, Jill, and me. Whenever I visit Jessica, I walk by our old house and see them.

So when I bought my place here, all those years ago, with hardly a dollar left to my name, the first thing I did was buy a crab apple tree. It’s huge now, and it flowered beautifully this year.

I also have a flagpole up at my house! I haven’t forgotten your love for your country or the flagpole you put up when we were kids. You had Jill, Jack, and me make handprints in the cement base. I remember thinking how cool it was to stick my hand in the wet cement. I see that the newer residents there took down the flagpole, though.

I added a pride flag and an Earth flag to mine. You were a good example of how we should love and care for all, people and animals alike. In that way, and others, I feel I am my father’s daughter.

Happy Popsie Turtle Day, Dad. It’s been too long since I’ve said that.

Love you and miss you,

Peanut Popper

Perfectly Imperfect

It’s almost 6 a.m., and I’m standing on the back deck in my pj’s, watching the ducks pull worms from the saturated ground. They like to do this in the back pasture where the donkeys have rolled, creating big patches of dirt—or in this case, mud.

When you live with a variety of animals, you can forget about having a perfect yard. Besides killing the grass with their rolling, the donkeys have stripped the bark off an apple tree and others, killing them. Near the gate, where the flock waits daily either to be let into the yard or to tell me they’d like their afternoon snack, it’s all bare earth. Louisa and the goats contribute by leaving their signature poop in the yard. Watching friends and family over the years maneuver gingerly through my backyard, I’ve imagined that’s how soldiers look as they search for land mines. No one wants to step in poo!

Even my beautiful, once-new wrap-around deck, where I like to drink my morning coffee and watch the birds, is wrecked. All the rails on the steps leading down to the backyard and basement door are shredded. The cats use it as a runway, a scratching post, and their personal salon for filing their nails.

The full basement, which I’m grateful for every day, houses the feed for all these critters with whom I share my home. But that also means juice from over-ripe melons leaks out from boxes onto the floor, and cracked corn gathers in all the corners after Louisa sneaks in and tears open a bag of it. There used to also be raccoon poop, but since I duct-taped the doggy door closed, that issue has been resolved.

Two summers ago, when Hans and Vincent joined our family, I thought I’d lose my mind. The deck—the one place I could safely grow flowers and succulents—became a three-way war zone for the new goats, Ruben, and me! The goats would climb up on the deck, eat some flowers, poop, and then nudge the plant pot off the railing, causing it to shatter below. Ruben would initiate a chase around the deck and eventually down the stairs at breathtaking speeds, making me fear he or a goat would break a leg. I lost eight ceramic pots that summer, not to mention all the yellow begonias that hung from hooks on my front porch.

Finally, I found that spraying the goats with the hose put an end to all that. But then they started rubbing against the screened-in porch until they busted the screen, and Dane had to nail up boards to keep them from causing further damage.

Last night, the sky released an abundance of rain in a short time, causing the creek here to swell and overflow its banks. I hurried down and called the flock in, worried they’d get swept away.

All went well until one goose got spooked and, instead of coming in with the rest, became stranded on the wrong side of the torrent. It could have been a sleepless night, but it became a happy scene when I was able to coax her back across the rushing water and safely locked her in with the rest of the flock.

Afterward, I checked on Louisa and the goats, who were all huddled together in their house. I put more hay out for the donkeys, as far from the creek as I could, so they’d be safe. And with Dane’s help, I took 28 potted flowers and succulents off the deck rail and stored them under the eaves, where the deluge couldn’t damage them.

Later, in bed, going over my gratitude list, I first thought about the rain and the swollen creek. There was sure to be debris to clean up the next morning and a fence to repair. I thought about the yard and the inevitable mud, and how my rubber work boots would get stuck in it, and how I’d likely lose my balance and have to fight with the ground to regain my footing. I pictured the rain blowing sideways under the deck roof and the flowers being sucked out of their pots. And I worried about doing chores in the morning, navigating a slick deck and a slippery ramp leading into the snake shed and Duck Hall.

Then I said, Thank you. After all, this life, complete with all the outbuildings and animals, a creek, a beautiful wrap-around deck (despite all its damage), and my loving relationship with Dane, is everything I’d dreamed of. It’s the life I wanted, worked for, and created. It’s not perfect, nor am I, nor is Dane, and certainly not my home or yard, but it’s all perfect for me.

For the Birds

For the Birds

“The waves are too loud,” I tell Dane through the screen door. “I can’t hear any birds, and Merlin can’t pick any up. I only see seagulls.”

I’m standing on the deck of our friends’ Washington Island cabin, Sunrise Lodge, close enough to throw a stone into Lake Michigan. Dane’s in the kitchen making coffee.

We took the ferry here yesterday and have been looking forward to sitting on the deck, watching the sun rise, and discovering birds different from the ones we have at home. But the wind and waves are overpowering any bird songs other than the squeal of gulls, and it’s cold out.

I retreat back into the lodge and sit with Dane at a wooden table large enough to seat 10 people comfortably. We look out at the lake through the large picture window and drink our coffee. This is one of our greatest pleasures in life: to be in this lodge and watch the sun rise, either from the deck or a bench near the water’s edge, or while sitting warmly inside.

The wind has been strong since we drove onto the final ferry at 6 o’clock last evening. It was the first time we didn’t sit on the ferry’s open upper deck, huddled together, with grins on our faces, heading for one of our happy places. We tried, but we were too chilled and returned to our car to wait out the 30-minute ride. 

Dane and I have some routines that are as natural to us as brushing our teeth every morning. Stopping at the Albatross Drive-in once we get off the ferry is one of them. It’s a short mile and a half from the dock, and we have to pass it to get to the lodge. After savoring one of their signature Swiss cheese and bacon Alby Burgers, we were ready to settle into the cabin.

This morning, we decided that since it’s cooler today than we anticipated, we’ll drive to our favorite breakfast place, WIS-CO, and ride bikes later. If you get WIS-CO's daily trivia question right, you get 10 cents off on your order. The thought of this makes us happy as we hurry to get dressed and start our day. Today’s question doesn’t fool us: What do you call the blob of toothpaste you put on your toothbrush? A nurdle! We decide to split one of their breakfast sandwiches so we have room for Dane’s favorite: their freshly made cinnamon rolls with a scoop of cream cheese frosting balancing on top like a hat.

Once on our bikes, we ride up and down the back roads, stopping to hike along the way. We’re anxious to listen for birds at the Domer-Neff Nature Preserve, which boasts over 200 recorded species!

After parking our bikes, Dane opens the Merlin app on his phone, and we wind through open meadows and low shrubs while watching and listening for birds. We hear the American redstart, northern flicker, black-throated green warbler, indigo bunting, common raven, ring-billed gulls, and black-capped chickadees, among others.

Next, we ride through the Little Lake Nature Preserve, where we cautiously hike down the rocky trail until it levels out and passes between the Lake Michigan shoreline and Little Lake. Once again, the wind and the waves block out the sound of the birds, but we feel lucky to spy two loons diving.

We ride the bikes to the Detroit Harbor Nature Preserve, which is a new trail for us. It’s lovely and complicated; there aren’t many signs, and it’s easy to lose the trail in spring. We’re thrilled to be enjoying trillium, bellworts, trout lilies, and columbine. It’s like a second spring for us, since all those flowers are already on their way out at home.

Our last stop before heading back to the lodge is the Carlin’s Point trail. We’re surprised to see a pile of snow that hasn’t melted yet. There is a large flock of gulls on the lakeshore. At the same time, we both notice one much larger bird in the mix. Dane turns on the Merlin app, but again the waves and wind are overpowering, so we keep walking closer, wishing we had brought the binoculars. The closer we get, the more excited we are: this big bird is clearly a pelican!

As we ride down the driveway to the lodge, we’re surprised to see we’ve been out for over eight hours. Exhausted, we grab some water and settle down onto the deck chairs, where we’re pleasantly surprised to witness two Canada geese with their five downy goslings while cormorants perch in a nearby tree.

Finally, we squirt a nurdle of toothpaste on our brushes and are ready for bed after a long day of biking and birding.

Vincent, the Uncommon Goat

It turns out that Vincent Van Goat doesn’t like chickpea noodles. His brother, Hans, and stepsister, Louisa, are eating them up quicker than Pac-Man gobbles up dots. These leftover noodles had been hidden in the back of my refrigerator until I discovered them this afternoon. Throwing older food off the porch to the animals is one of my life’s greatest pleasures. Who needs a compost pile or a garbage disposal?!

I’d be even happier if Vincent would jump in and enjoy the unexpected treats, but Vincent is a finicky goat. He reminds me of my granddaughter, Helena, when she was young. Picky, picky, picky! Sometimes when the family was eating out, we’d have to go through a drive-thru afterward to get Helena what she wanted.

However, Vincent isn’t that lucky. I offer treats, and if he balks, as he usually does, Hans and Louisa get the goods. Today, it was leftover chickpea noodles. Tonight it could be blueberries going south.

But Vincent has another quirk: If I hand-feed him the blueberries, he gobbles them up like Pac-Man; if the blueberries are lying in the grass, he wants nothing to do with them. 

This is uncommon goat behavior. Everyone knows that goats will eat anything, including your potted plants, perennial tulips and daffodils, and the Crawford County paper you left near your lounge chair. But not Vincent.

In the evening, when the goats go back to their pen to be locked in for the night, I have to watch my back. If I move too slowly as I step back, turn, and lock their gate, they will jump up and shove that gate right into me. There they will stand, their front legs on the gate, heads peering over, waiting for handouts.

In that position, Vincent will eat almost anything. His favorite treats are bananas—Hans’s favorite too—but please take them out of the peel; grapes, but make sure no stems are attached; and strawberries, green stem and all. But if one of those berries, bananas, or grapes should happen to fall to the ground, Vincent acts as if it’s poisoned. The good news is that Louisa, aka The Hoover, saunters in and sucks up any that dropped.

Living with different animal species provides better entertainment than any television set. Dane and I are thrilled to sit on the back deck and observe our resident animals. Each has a unique personality, and Vincent’s personality is foolish, a bit mean, and a little snotty.

Vincent is the first to have been told to get down off the outhouse roof (foolish), the only goat to be yelled at for ramming Louisa in her sweet derriere when he’s impatient with her (mean), and the one that won’t eat any human food off the ground or even in a bowl (snotty).

In the early morning, Vincent jumps up onto his wooden play platform and watches me with his striking black, horizontal pupils set in brilliant blue, making me feel as if the devil himself is glaring at me. If I’m too slow in bringing him his cracked corn, he’ll start butting heads with Hans, who’s also waiting but patiently.

Vincent doesn’t like my youngest dog, Ruben. If Ruben enters the backyard, Vincent dashes to his pen or else runs, kicking out his back legs, to the picnic table, where he’ll hop up and lie down for hours. Eventually, his attention is drawn to the birds at the feeders. He then moseys over, raises his front legs, and hangs on to the feeder while draining it of the seeds I filled it with earlier in the day. Mind you, he won’t touch the fallen seeds, which Louisa and Hans will eat! Only the ones inside the feeders that have yet to spill on the ground.

Aha, I think, gotcha! My Super Soaker is loaded and strategically placed on the back deck rail, directly in front of the bird feeders. I pick it up and take aim. Bingo! Vincent hops down and kicks out both his back legs in fury, all the way to his safety zone, the picnic table. There he sits fuming and watching me with those gorgeous devil eyes.

When it’s time for bed, Vincent joins Louisa and Hans in their pen. I act quickly and close their gate, just as Vincent and Hans jump up for their nighttime treats.

Although Vincent is an uncommon goat, it doesn’t mean he isn’t lovable. We love the silly guy!

Backwoods

Backwoods

We start keeping track of our finds near Black River Falls when Sally shouts, “Eagle!” We’re on a long weekend trip to Cable, Wisconsin, to stay at a friend’s home called Hinterwald, which means “Backwoods.” Before we get to Cable, we’ve added to our list: barred owl, great blue heron, osprey, and another eagle. Then, at our destination, a ruffed grouse crosses the driveway!

I’ve been keeping lists of finds while on vacation since I was old enough to write. At Yellowstone National Park, my family counted elk, got into a wild burro jam, and pulled over for a picnic lunch only to find a black bear sleeping on the table. Through such encounters, I came to appreciate the backwoods and all who share it.

After parking, Sally and I hurry to the trail to Champagne Lake. We scan the rim of the lake, hoping to see wolves, elk, and bear. All can be found in Cable.

We trek down a two-track to Henry Lake, surrounded on both sides by tall red pines. It’s like walking down the aisle in a majestic cathedral. We can hear the wind whistling and the birds communicating.

We step onto the pier, and Sally uses her binoculars to scan the lake shore. Other than the wind, it’s quiet. We plop down and try to dangle our feet in the water, but our legs are too short.

Recently, our friend who owns the property watched two otters from this pier, but after 45 minutes of adding nothing to our list, we headed back to the house to unload the car, get dinner, and turn out the lights.

A whole new world opens to me in the morning. At the crack of dawn, I shuffle to the kitchen in my favorite slippers, put water in the electric pot, drop two teaspoons of instant coffee in a cup, and settle down in the screened-in sunporch.

I can see Champagne Lake through the woods, a yellow raft floating in the middle. The birch trees that line the horizon, mixed with a variety of old hemlocks and white pine, soothe my soul, and the birds...oh, the birds! I’ve been visiting Hinterwald for over ten years. It’s different from home—wilder.

A dozen different birds must be calling, though I can only name a few: red-winged blackbird, rose-breasted grosbeak, blue jay, American robin, Canada goose, and barred owl.

When Sally joins me, she helps me install an app called Merlin, which identifies birds by their calls. Within minutes, my phone lights up with many exciting finds: eastern phoebe, broad-winged hawk, hairy woodpecker, ovenbird, northern flicker, American goldfinch, brown-headed cowbird, red-breasted nuthatch, purple finch, veery, least flycatcher, eastern bluebird, golden-crowned kinglet, four different kinds of warblers, and five species of sparrows. We even hear the call of loons!

Some people, like Sally, have been using the Merlin app for years, but for me, this is new and amazing. As each bird appears on my screen, Sally tells me a few facts. For example, the golden-crowned kinglet is one of the tiniest songbirds in North America and can survive in sub-zero temperatures. Before our birding session was done, I was able to identify most of the birds I’m familiar with by their sound.

Realizing how many different types of birds I’m listening to fills me with awe at the wonder of nature and all who, alongside humans, survive here. I hadn’t realized the extent and variety of birds that share our space: in 10 minutes, 28 types of birds!

Later in the day, Mark, who works at the library in Cable, tells us he often sees black bears and wolves. At home, I’ve seen one bobcat, quite a few foxes and coyotes, but no wolves or bears.

The following morning, we’re back in the sunroom, enjoying coffee and identifying bird sounds, when I stand up, turn, and freeze. Unable even to say the word, I start to sputter and stutter. A black bear is foraging in the yard! Other than a few sightings, this is the closest I’ve been to a bear. The exhilaration of being so close to a large wild animal stays with me. It leaves me feeling hopeful about the coexistence of our two species.

By the time we head home, our list has expanded to include a flirty raven couple, another eagle, swans, white-tailed deer, an egret, turtles, sandhill cranes, more blue herons, and the bear.

As we put our seat belts on, I’m still hoping to see an elk or a gray wolf, but I’m ready for any wild encounter. There’s always more to see and hear if we’re looking and listening.

Morgan Falls

Bear leaving property

All The Time in the World

All the Time in the World

Finnegan was sleeping in his little bed in my office midday, snoring like I’d imagine a tired long-haul truck driver would after drinking a case of beer. I couldn’t focus! I called Dane into my office to see.

When Finn heard us talking about him, one eye opened, and we laughed. “Finny, are you having a good sleep?” I asked. His tiny tail thumped three times, and he grinned, exposing his bottom row of tiny teeth.

It turns out Finnegan and I are the same age. The first year of a dog’s life is equivalent to 15 years in a human’s life, and for small dogs (under 20 pounds), who tend to live longer than large dogs, each succeeding year adds the equivalent of 4 more human years. Recently, I used the Daily Paws conversion chart, found Finny’s weight, ran my finger down the ages to his current age of 13, moved it to the right, and landed on my age: 68!

In 2026, human life expectancy at birth hit a new all-time high of 79 years in the United States. Looks like both Finnegan and I have many years left to enjoy life.

But sadly, when Finn tries to get out of his bed, one of his back legs shakes, then his whole back end, as he slowly pulls himself up. His front legs are badly bowed, and he hobbles over to Dane to get a few pets. It breaks our hearts to see him so stiff and obviously in pain. He’s been to the doctor and had X-rays, and the diagnosis is arthritis.

I can empathize! Just yesterday, I was also hobbling around, thanks to a spine riddled with arthritic changes. Both Finn and I have led active lives, full of long hikes followed by cat/cow and downward-dog stretches. I’ve come to the conclusion that most people and dogs will eventually feel the aches of deteriorating joints. Way back when, people died before their joints gave out. Nowadays we live longer.

Since Finnegan’s favorite thing in the whole world is going on daily hikes with us and his siblings, Téte and Ruben, we can’t bear to leave him at home just because he can’t keep up. So Dane and I spent hours researching doggie carriers, then more time measuring Finn and stressing over the pack’s size. We ended up choosing a K-9 Sport Sack Air 2.

Today it came in the mail, and after reading the instructions and grabbing a few doggie bones, we helped Finn into the pack and onto Dane’s back. It was easier than we thought, and a perfect fit. We decided to walk up the road and let Finn get used to the ride.

Dane and I were excited, Finn not so much. He seemed confused about riding and not walking. We imagined him saying, Hey, where’s Téte and Ruben? But for his first outing, we didn’t want too much action; we just wanted Finnegan to relax and get used to the pack.

Once we got back home and carefully helped him out of the pack, he held up his back leg and hobbled. We worried: Did sitting in the pack make his hind end even more painful? We don’t know, because shortly after that, it was time to eat. Finn rallied and ran down to the basement, where he had his dinner with Téte and Ruben.

Aging is not for sissies; we’ve all heard that, and most of us have experienced an aching joint or two. But seeing your little buddy in what looks like pain is heartbreaking. It’s not like we can tell him, “It’s okay, Finn, get comfortable and enjoy the ride,” and have him understand. So we’ve decided we’ll keep taking him for walks with Té and Rubes and, when he tires, put him in the pack for a free ride back home.

I’m trying to stay focused on the fact that small dogs usually live longer. But it’s the quality of life that matters, and for both Finn and me, that means getting outside and taking long hikes without joint pain.

Finn finished his dinner and is back in his spot next to my desk. As he settles down, with his head hanging over the side of his bed, he starts to snore. I smile, knowing that we have a plan.

Looks like this will be a slow, one-day-at-a-time process. But for Finny, we’ll take all the time in the world.

Whack a Goose!

Goose Whacking

“Get back. Stop it. No!”

My head, one arm, and a shoulder are crammed into the tiny door on the Duck Hall, and I’m yelling at the so-called Ladies, my four large crabby geese. Try as I might, I can’t reach them, but my flailing seems to get their attention. Later, I confess to Dane, “I’ve stooped to swatting the geese.” I’m sure PETA would have a heyday with that.

My ducks and geese coexist in the Duck Hall and spend all day foraging around the backyard and pasture or splashing in the creek. I often brag about my happy-go-lucky flock that lay huge, healthy eggs with brilliant yellow yolks, thanks to spending their days free-ranging twelve months of the year.

However, there’s a maddening, hair-pulling time each evening that contradicts that happy picture.

When it’s time for them to go into the Duck Hall for the night, when the Ladies are laying for the first time after winter and are all hormonal, they parade up the ramp ahead of the ducks, as if dressed in their Sunday best, hats on, and carrying their purses up the church steps.

Only my Ladies aren’t intent on getting their favorite pew. Once inside, they turn and peck each duck that dares to come in the door! Peck! Peck! Peck! The ducks retreat and don’t want to go inside, but they have to, and their fear breaks my heart.

Over the years, we’ve tried installing boards that the ducks can quickly duck behind so the Ladies can’t pester them. But the Ladies hang out by the door, beaks ready to pull a few feathers from their friends—at least, their friends most hours of the day and night, except for that one witchy evening hour.

I remember my Dad helping me get ready for bed when I was little. After a leg or foot rub, I’d climb into the top bunk, get comfy under the covers, and he’d say prayers with me. Then he’d say, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.” I loved our nightly sleep ritual.

So I’m furious that my ducks don’t get a gentle tucking in at night!

After I back out of the little door, I walk around to the big door to surprise any Lady who’s still engaged in bullying. But that can backfire. The whole flock notices and rushes past me, out the big door, and I spend the next thirty minutes herding them all back through the fence, into their enclosure, and up the ramp again to the little door.

So I came up with a plan: I’d buy a large dog house with a removable top for easy cleaning and put it inside the flock’s fenced enclosure. Then I’d herd the ducks into that and the Ladies into the Duck Hall. I spent lots of time poring over doghouse options, seeking the biggest and best for the lowest price. It was delivered in a giant, lightweight box. Dane commented more than once on how fragile it seemed.

I coerced Dane into doing the assembly while I read the directions, handed him the right screws or dowels, and supervised. There’s no need to mention how that went. Let’s just say there were two floor boards left over when we finished. And thanks to someone other than me, they are now where they should have gone in the first place.

It soon became clear that Project Doghouse for Ducks would never work. The house was too flimsy, the ducks would be overcrowded, and even with the removable top, it would be too hard to clean. Ducks are messy!

So we carried the doghouse to the backyard, filled it with straw, and stacked cement blocks on either side of it, knowing that Louisa, the pig, would topple it just by rubbing against it.

That evening, the Ladies were again the first to march up the ramp while the ducks lagged behind. None of them wanted to be the first duck in, and I could see the Ladies milling inside, ready to start their nasty pecking.

Frustrated and angry, I shoved my head and arm through the tiny door. “Don’t even think about it!” I yelled, waving my hand at them, trying to whack anyone ready to peck a duck. They looked at me as if I were crazed, while the ducks quickly waddled off behind the boards, seeking safety.

I watched until they had all settled down peacefully, then carefully backed out and closed their little ducky door.

Before leaving, I whispered, “Good night, sleep tight. Don’t let the Ladies bite.” Knowing tomorrow evening would come soon enough, I smiled as I walked back up to the house.

Ground Zero - Tick Central

Ground Zero—Tick Central

Inhale calm.

Exhale well-being.

Inhale calm.

Exhale well-being.

My eyes are closed. I’m in a hospital bed, being comforted by my friend, Lisa. It’s been hours with no determination of what's wrong with me. The staff is attentive and helpful.

This morning, when I woke up, I thought my head was going to explode, and my joints felt like someone had beaten me with a baseball bat. I’d gone to bed the night before feeling fine. Now I was extremely nauseated, and soon I started losing fluids from both ends. I called my local doctor’s office, and the nurse felt it best I go to Urgi-Med, saying at least I’d need to be given fluids.

By the time Dane gets off work, takes care of the critters, and joins me here, they’re starting a second bag of fluids with more pain meds. I’ve been lying here all day, anxious about having no answers. We realize the doctor hasn’t mentioned a Lyme test.

The doctor shakes his head. “Lyme doesn’t present with a headache.” Dane’s shoulders rise to his ears, and I shudder. We know differently. Reluctantly, the doctor agrees to order the test and says the results will take two hours. It’s nearly 7 p.m., and I want to get home.

Despite the fact that I do everything right—faithfully wear socks treated with permethrin, pull my socks over my pant legs, use a 100 percent DEET spray on my shoes, treat my dogs and cats 12 months of the year, and spray my dogs with a magic mix that’s supposed to deter ticks from climbing on them—my Lyme test is positive.

According to WPR, this has already been the highest year for emergency room visits for tick-borne illness in Wisconsin since 2017. Coincidentally, that was the year I almost died from tick disease.

Welcome to ground zero—tick central!

They're here, and if you love to go outdoors—if you can’t resist heading out to witness the first of the bloodroots and spring beauties, then the bellwort and fiddleheads, and soon the columbine—you’re at risk of catching a tick-borne illness. If you have animals that go in and out of the house, even if you treat them, your chances of getting a tick-borne illness are even greater.

Although I’m diligent with tick prevention measures, I still find bloated ticks that fell off the dogs, notice deer ticks crawling on Finnegan, and pick ticks off the cats. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night because I feel something, turn on the light, grab my glasses, and see the dot of a tiny monster crawling up my arm.

Sure, we can walk on asphalt, stay in the middle of the path, dip our clothes in a bucket of permethrin, and pray like heck that any tick we pick up will be a male (they don’t carry the disease) or a wood tick (they don’t either, although they do carry Rocky Mountain spotted fever), but short of staying inside, there is always the risk of picking up a questing tick.

The morning after the diagnosis, I'm at home and have just swallowed my first dose of Doxycycline. Soon, Dane will be here, and since I’m so down, we’ll only take the dogs for a short walk on the Maple Dale trail in Viroqua.

I’ve misted the dogs with tick repellent, we’ve tucked our pants legs in, and I’ve sprayed my shoes. We enjoy a slow hike, stopping at the creek to watch the tiny trout hanging out. Later, we spy two wild turkey eggs and an assortment of purple and white violets. It’s springtime in Wisconsin, and we’re not going to miss it.

On the way home, I gasp, “What’s this on my neck?” Dane pulls over, looks, and removes a deer tick from me. “This makes me not want to go out there again,” he says. We’ve been cursing ourselves for not recognizing my symptoms earlier—achy, tired, and having a super foggy brain.

But almost at the same time, we both point and say, “Look, the leaves—the trees are filling out.” We always pay close attention to this special time when last year’s fallen leaves still cover the ground, trees are bare, and we can see all the secrets in the woods, until the moment we can no longer.

Today, the leaves are plentiful, in so many shades, and the grass is a green so vivid it almost looks artificial. The colors are so brilliant that, if I snapped a picture, you’d think it was photoshopped. We would never want to miss being out here, absorbing all these spring wonders and basking in the sunshine and warmer weather.

Inhale calm, exhale well-being.

Tell It Like It Is!

Tell It Like It Is!

Go ahead, make my day: Complain.

Tell me how you feel, what stinks, what bothers you, or how your feelings were hurt. Bring it on!

I sat with a lot of pain recently because I didn’t speak up. I let the hurt fester and spoil until it spewed out of me like hot lava. Not something I’m proud of.

Worse, I directed my anger at the wrong person. Not at the person who had told me I was stupid, but at a true friend who would never talk to me like that.

Isn’t this how it works sometimes?

But it made me think: Why is complaining, telling it like it is, or pointing out, Hey, that was a rotten thing to say, so hard to do?

Was it because, as a child, I was told, “Don’t cry, Janie. Be tough”? Or, as a teen, knowing that if I tell them I don’t like being teased about my nose, it will only lead to more teasing? Or as an adult, hearing “No one wants to know about your neck pain”?

Recently, I felt honored when a friend reached out to share a tough diagnosis with me. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it also wasn’t expected and will lead to lifelong lifestyle changes. Later, she thanked me for listening and added that “problems shared are halved.” I love that and find it to be true.

My role in that exchange was simply to hear her frustration with medical jargon—and, of course, to care about her important news.

That conversation reminded me of how vulnerable I feel when I share my own news, whether MRI results or even a minor ache or pain.

Why is that? Do I feel that people will think less of me if my hip hurts, or if I had to have a tooth pulled, or if that dang bunion on my left foot is about to burst out of my shoe? If so, that’s sad.

Complaining has gotten a bad rap. I have a friend who didn’t grow up here. She thinks it’s all about that “Midwest nice” thing—that Midwesterners value being “nice” to people and don’t want anyone to be uncomfortable, so they avoid telling the raw truth or complaining.

I think she’s right in saying that we resist telling it like it is. But I also think many people don’t want to hear it like it is. I myself have given up trying to tell people the hard stuff. I find it too heartbreaking when it’s apparent the person isn’t listening, doesn’t care, or is simply too uncomfortable to hear it.

Recently, in Nick Cave’s free newsletter, The Red Hand Files, he spoke highly about a book called This Is the Door: Notes from a Body in Pain, by Darcey Steinke. I ordered the book and, while I haven’t read it yet, I did find a fascinating interview with the author in which she spoke about how pain reveals our humanity. She mentioned that now, after experiencing 10 months of excruciating pain, she looks at a person with a limp differently. Her experience, she claims, has made her a better, more empathetic person.

Steinke also says that sharing only our joys seems superficial to her. I’d have to agree. The trick for me is taking chances at sharing the hard things, knowing that most people don’t want to hear about the ugly parts of your life.

Of course, there’s more to it than just talking about the hard stuff. While problems shared are halved, joys shared are doubled!

So bring it on, I say, both the good and the bad. Go ahead and complain. Make my day by telling it like it is. I’ll listen. Will you?

April in the Midwest

April in the Midwest

If you live in the Midwest, you’ve probably been rejoicing in spring—and perhaps cursing her too.

We’ve learned never to trust April. If you do, you’ll be made a fool of. So far, spring 2026 has been a wild ride. One day, we’re given the gift of temps in the 70s, the kind of clouds you see in children’s books, and grass the same color as the crayon named after it. The following day, baseball-sized hail ruins your friend's car and strips the siding off your favorite coffee shop. Worse, a tornado levels barns and a house in a nearby town.

The long-awaited spring in Wisconsin is glorious one second and terrifying the next. But Midwestern folks are tough, especially if we’ve lived here since birth and have borne witness to spring's many moods. More moods than Sybil, a mood ring, or my cat, Leo.

I often wonder if the calm, sunny April days are a test to see if we’re paying attention. If we spend the day outside grooming our gardens, mucking out the Goat Hall, or picking up the thousand branches and sticks from recent storms, do we notice the weather, the sky, the fact that we’re not wearing jackets, and that all is one—us and the earth? Do we remember to say Thank you and Wow at all that beauty?

If not, when the very next day has those of us without garages throwing quilts over our cars for protection, and others hiding in our basements during tornado warnings, do we stop and think about the gift the day before was?

Up and down goes the temperature, sometimes as much as a 40-degree leap from one day to the next. A blizzard conceals the roads and buries us in eight inches of new snow—and two days later, there’s no snow left and a fog that looks like we’re living next to the sea in Maine.

This morning, Dane and I knew there’d be storms coming our way later in the afternoon, so we headed out early to Duck Egg County Forest with the dogs. Our goal was to enjoy springtime in the Midwest while we could. After all, Dane had already helped his eighth painted turtle cross Highway 131, and there’s hardly a greater sign of spring than turtles!

At Duck Egg, we encountered clusters of Dutchman’s breeches, clumps of spring beauties, a carpet of white anemones covering the forest floor, and perfect bloodroots (whose name I whisper like a prayer), along with young hairy fiddleheads, mayapples, and the baby stems of bluebells. We also saw bluebirds, robins, Canada geese, and swans.

We stopped to admire a brightly colored garter snake, paid our respect to a little brown snake, and watched for foxes and their kits. We hoped to see the beaver who, last year, slapped her mighty tail over and over again, warning us to stay away. We stood on the bank of the pond, eyes widened at each slap, reassuring her, “We’ll stay right here. You're okay.”

Near the dam, the rippling of creek water and the raucous singing of tree frogs and spring peepers were overwhelming. If we could breathe in those sounds, we’d have an eternal spring inside us.

Now, at home, we’re hunkering down for what the weather folks are calling severe thunderstorms with chances of hail and a tornado. Big, slow drops of rain were already falling a few minutes ago when I was out in the backyard, counting my ducks and geese and trying to get Louisa and the goats back into their pen.

Not even a week ago, they were traumatized by a tree that fell during a nighttime storm and landed in front of the Goat Palace door. Dane was using the chainsaw to move it when we heard a loud crack, and another tree on the hill behind us fell.

We know we’ve lucked out. The ice storm that caused major damage to our neighbors’ trees on the ridgetop didn’t touch us here in the valley. The hail storm that left my friend's car looking like a demolition derby survivor didn’t make its way here either. But the horrendous rains have pushed our fence to the breaking point and widened the creek out back with debris.

Who knows what will happen tonight? Whose home will suffer damage—or worse, who will be hurt? Spring in the Midwest seems crazier each year as global warming becomes more apparent.

Anyone’s guess is as good as the weather forecast here in April. We just hang on, batten down the hatches, watch out for our neighbors, and remember to say Wow and Thank you on those days we can.

Old Friends’ Outing

Old Friends’ Outing

“Hi, are you bringing your poles?” I yell up my driveway to Paige, who has just parked her car alongside the road.

“No, I’m fine,” she answers.

I’ve been looking forward to seeing Paige. She's been a good friend for many years, but both of us have been busy, it seems, and our paths haven’t crossed for a while. Paige is an adventurer—she recently returned from a cruise that included all of Hawaii’s islands.

Now Sally pulls into the driveway, and Paige walks down to greet us. We all hug, and our enthusiasm is apparent. We’ve planned a springtime adventure of lunch, hiking, and shopping!

As we gather up our coats and backpacks, I grab my hiking poles and say, “I’ll bring two in case someone would like to use one.” I know the Sand Cave Trail is steep, and it may be slick with spring mud.

Paige says, “I have my poles.” 

As my eyebrows rise, I say, “Paige, I just asked you that, and you said no, you’re fine.”

”I thought you asked if I’m cold!”

After a good chuckle, the three of us decide we’re definitely aging, and we compare our battle wounds, like stiff knees, dental issues, forgetfulness, and hearing problems. We laugh, knowing that even five years ago, we wouldn’t have been having this conversation. We’re all over that hump of 65 and closing in on 70.

Over the years, Paige and I have gone on backpacking trips to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and traversed many miles of the Superior Hiking Trail. Sally and I have hit the trails together once a month, year-round. We all love the Kickapoo Valley Reserve, and we spend our first hour together today reminiscing about our hikes there and the annual Dam Challenge.

Our conversation flows as smoothly as Highway 27 does, over the bends, down the hills, and back up again, until we get into Seneca. We spontaneously pull over at a resale shop we all love, and soon after, at Johnson’s One Stop, which Paige and I insist on showing off to Sally. 

Sally is impressed. Paige finds a garden-stake dragonfly, and Sally and I find a table with free donuts. We quickly agree to split one donut so as not to ruin our lunch.

Next stop: Simply Cafe in Prairie du Chien. They are open Tuesday through Saturday, 8 a.m. until 2 p.m., and are well worth a visit. I love their fresh, healthy salads, and their sandwiches are served on wholesome grilled bread.

Sally helps Paige navigate the easy 12-mile drive to Wyalusing State Park, where we’ve chosen to hike the Sand Cave Trail. It’s a two-mile round trip, and the cave is stunning! The colors of its walls range from a bright green to a gorgeous orange. We spend time admiring rocks, taking pictures of the hepaticas, and examining what we think may be bobcat footprints. Signs of spring are abundant: ramps are coming up, and we also spy spring beauties and bloodroot.

Crossing the Mississippi River, we are treated to thrilling eagle and swan sightings as we approach McGregor, Iowa. There, we stop at the Left Bank Shop & Gallery, which is owned and operated by the nonprofit McGregor-Marquette Center for the Arts. This big, lovely space with wood floors used to be a bank—the heavy vault door is open so we can peer inside. We love that it allows artists from a 100-mile radius to display and sell their work. We slow down, spread out, and take our time oohing and aahing over the amazing artworks, such as paintings done on leaves, and the exquisite jewelry.

There are lots of great places to visit in McGregor, but we left my place at 9:30 a.m., and it’s already after 4 p.m. Our energy is waning. So Paper Moon, one of my favorite places for interesting books and unique gifts, becomes our last stop.

Road trips with old friends are always worth the time and the drive. Getting out of Dodge for the day is stimulating and as necessary as springtime in Wisconsin. It renews your faith in all things good—friendships and Mother Nature.

Magic in a Pot

Magic in a Pot

When Roger asked me what Dane and I would like for a wedding gift, I suggested a pot—a large cooking pot I could use for boiling noodles or making large batches of chili. But little did I know the pot would change my life.

Soon after moving to Vernon County, I lived in a cabin on Pa’s Road. A gas pipe that came in from under the house fueled two open burners. I’d light a match, and whoosh, there’d be a flame to cook over. I was scared to death of it at first and had to have the landlord hold my hand and guide the match to show me that I wouldn’t blow the house up!

Eventually, I moved into what I then called The White House, where I still live, only now it’s painted the color of chicory, with window trim the color of Queen Anne’s lace. Here, as a renter at first, I cooked on an electric hot plate for over seven years.

When I bought the house and later had running water installed, I finally purchased an apartment-size electric stove. But I was still using the same cooking pot I’d used back when I was raising my daughter, Jessica. 

It was a basic pot, neither large nor small. And after all those years, both the bottom and the inside were heavily scratched, and one handle had broken off. The pot had also become so misshapen that the lid no longer fit tightly.

Roger’s gift pot arrived about a month after our wedding, but the magic didn’t start until a few months later. Then I began using the pot almost daily. I became more imaginative and experimented with familiar recipes. For instance, I’d add cauliflower rice to my chili, make my own bean-and-chicken soup, and even make hummus from scratch.

It wasn’t that I’d been a bad cook; it was more that I didn’t cook. I just didn’t have the confidence. The new pot inspired me. Give me one good, copper-bottom cooking pot with a lid that fits, and I start channeling Julia Child! I became unstoppable.

But a new problem arose: My now-very-tired apartment-size stove, with only one good burner and an oven that never heated to the right temperature, put a damper on my culinary endeavors.

That is, until my friend Bonnie told me she had a friend who was getting a new stove and had a perfectly good, previously used one to get rid of! It just needed a new electrical plug, which I purchased at Nelson’s for twenty dollars. Bonnie, who has the skills of an electrician, hooked it up for me, and I’ve been hooting and hollering ever since.

Every week, I experiment with a new type of bean or soup. I send containers of food home with Dane for his dinner and lunches. I even cook for friends now, something I never would have done before.

As a result of the gift of one good cooking pot, I’m eating more healthily than ever. Add in a working adult-size stove, and every day is a culinary adventure.

Sometimes all we need is a little magic. What shape or form that magic comes in isn’t important; this time, it showed up as a shiny new copper-bottom cooking pot. What matters is that it inspires us to get more creative, which builds our confidence.

Franny, A Real Powerhouse

Franny, A Real Powerhouse

Twenty-one years ago, Fran Dieter (“Franny” to me, although I’m the only one who calls her that) read Dr. Miriam Nelson’s book Strong Women Stay Young with a specific fitness goal in mind.

By coincidence, Karen Ehle-Traastad (a home economist with Vernon County) and I had just returned home from a certification program in Nashville that Dr. Nelson had taught. Soon after, we announced our new Strong Women program in the local newspaper, and Franny enrolled.

On day one, Franny climbed the Landmark Center’s four steep flights of steps, carrying her three-pound weights in a cloth bag. Her personal goal was to get strong enough to lift and pour an eight-pound gallon of milk with one hand. She was 68 at the time.

Franny, her husband Don, and their two daughters moved to Viroqua in 1969 to the home Don had designed. Don taught at Viroqua High School, and Franny subbed there. Later, she started her own writing business called 4 Sharp Writing.

When she joined the Strong Women program, exercise wasn’t new to Franny. For years, she’d been exercising for 10 to 15 minutes each morning, following a routine given to her by a P.E. teacher.

My first impression of Franny was that she was a tiny powerhouse: not quite five feet tall, but strong, steady, and able to hold her own in any storm. She was trim, with short hair and glasses, neat, and personable. She struck me as someone who cared about her health and seemed curious to learn. I suspected she didn’t get much rest, yet she had a calming presence. She knew most of the folks as they entered the classroom, or got to know them soon after. Later, I discovered she had retired from teaching and was an active and cherished volunteer at McIntosh Memorial Library in Viroqua.

Over time, the three-pound weights she first brought to class were replaced with fives, sixes, sevens, and eights. Franny achieved her original goal and could easily pour what we later discovered (since milk is heavier than water) was an 8.6-pound gallon of milk with one hand. Mission accomplished!

When the stairs she climbed on day one were incorporated into the class, Franny excelled at every climbing variation I invented: up one step at a time and down holding onto the railing; next, up two at a time; on the third round, sideways with the right leg leading; on the fourth, sideways with the left leg leading; and on the last, while holding onto the rail, backwards!

Instead of dropping out of class once she’d met her goal, Franny has soldiered on and refers to the class as her positive addiction. Today, at 89 years old, Franny no longer attends my twice-weekly Strong Women program, which has morphed over the years into Stretch & Flex. Instead, she graduated to the advanced class that meets three times a week and includes floor work.

Although she likes to credit her “lucky genes” for her excellent health, I believe it also has to do with her dedication to her classes. Rarely does she miss one. When she and Don travel to their cabin in Colorado, she takes her weights, exercise bands, and balls. Even during COVID, Franny attended prerecorded classes through Vernon Communications and has continued online ever since. At this point, Franny could lead the class!

Not long ago, Franny said she’d thought about those stairs and would like to get back there someday and resume that routine. Good grief! I thought. Most people I’ve talked to are glad never to see those stairs again!

Franny shares fitness tidbits with me that she finds in the AARP magazine and delights in discovering that she’s already doing the exercises they recommend. If one of them isn’t included in our routine, I’ll add it in, knowing she’ll notice.

Recently, Franny decided to return to using her seven-pound weights, saying, “I have nothing to prove.” I agree—just seeing her is proof enough of her years of hard work, dedication, and consistency.

All those years ago, Franny was captivated by Dr. Nelson’s research showing that women could improve their fitness and longevity by increasing their strength. Dr. Nelson had proved that it could happen at any age. That first book (she went on to write nine more) was written to help women counteract the natural decline in muscle mass, bone density, and metabolism that occurs after menopause. Franny, through her regular exercise, has been an excellent role model for Dr. Nelson’s approach.

Now, as I’m an inch away from turning 68, and Franny is less than a month away from turning 90, my first impression of Franny holds true: a real powerhouse! She remains one of the class’s favorite role models.

Spring, Then and Now

Helena and Peepers

Spring, Then and Now

The creek is high from the spring runoff, with water the color of chocolate. Little snow remains on the ground. Pushing the lounge chair into an upright position, I scan the back pasture for the familiar figure of either Diego or Carlos. Where one is, the other will also be.

Two male red-winged blackbirds are calling out; they sound like they’re squabbling. Louisa, the pig, grunts softly as she burrows into a sunny, dry spot between the house and a retaining wall.

Finn is stretched out his full twenty inches on a rug on the back deck. His tiny bottom teeth are visible as he snores more like a freight train than a thirteen-pound dog. Two goats are nearby: Hans is munching hay by the Snake Shed, and Vincent is lying on the picnic table, front legs folded under him.

Peepers’ absence is felt deeply.

I spot Diego, a lump of light brown lying in the sun on a patch of dirt. Carlos is next to him. Behind them, a deer is grazing near the edge of the woods. I scan the hillside for other deer, but only see the one.

I take off my sweatshirt, bunch it under my head, and lean back on the chair. Eyes closed, I notice how my place seems quiet despite all the sounds and sights of spring.

Yesterday, Peepers, our sweet old girl goat, died. Her body lies shrouded in an old, woven blanket in the Snake Shed; I used the blanket the day before to help keep her warm. After this thaw, when the ground will yield to a shovel, we’ll bury her.

Peepers and her sister Luna, pygmy Nigerian goats, came here from Carl Haugrud’s farm in early spring thirteen years ago. We’d prepared for their arrival by having our friend Rodd build what we christened the Goat Palace, and we’d stuffed it with fresh straw to welcome them.

Mama Goat wasn’t nursing them as Carl had hoped, so we picked them up when they were just days old, on an evening when the spring peepers had woken from their winter hibernation and the moon was full. Before we were even out of the car, the all-white goat became Luna and the black-and-white one Peepers.

Dane and I would sit together in the Palace, resting against the new wood, surrounded by sweet fresh straw, each with a kid between our legs, while they sucked the bottles down in seconds. Often, we’d stay there long after the babies had nursed and fallen asleep.

Moses, my three-legged wonder dog, would lie near the fence with his nose poking through the woven wire. He was smitten with the goats, as he was with the goslings, Tickles, and The Professor.

Looking back, it’s hard not to think of that time as perfect. My dream of living in the country, having my own home with outbuildings, animals, and someone to love was coming true.

I used to tease that it was a good thing I didn’t bottle-feed my daughter during her first months. I’d scorch the formula and, according to Dane, I bottle-fed the little goats too long. After a few months, he urged me to just give them water, and they’d be fine. I’d try to provide a bowl of water, but five minutes later I’d run up to the house and start preparing bottles, claiming they’d starve otherwise.

We were warned that goats would always get out, climb everywhere—including onto the car—and eat anything and everything in their way. But that didn’t happen. Well, once, when a friend was giving me his hand-written bill for work he’d done in the goats’ pen, Peepers snatched it, chewed it, and swallowed it before we could react.

But Peepers and Luna behaved more like dogs, happy to follow us around, lie on the picnic table, take sun baths, or play on their tree-stump stepping stones. They never attempted to escape their Goat Palace area, except for the one time we found Luna taking a solo walk down our road. And they only developed a taste for people’s food after Louisa arrived. We joked that it took living with a pig for them to learn how to be goats.

An era has ended here. Rodd died of cancer, Moses of old age, The Professor and Tickles from a horrible raccoon attack, and now dear Peepers has gone to meet up with Luna, who died three winters ago.

The outbuildings are showing their age, and the fence needs repair. Louisa is still here, along with Hans and Vincent, Diego and Carlos, and a large flock of ducks and geese. And I have found with Dane the steady love I always imagined.

Unfortunately, death is inevitable, but luckily, there is always life to appreciate.

Dear Younger Self

Jane, Raime, Helena

Dear Younger Self

What would you tell your younger self?

I’d start by telling mine to drink more water.

As I head into the land of no return, my late 60s—I recognize that I’ve spent much of my life dehydrated. My skin had become prunish-looking by my 50s, and I’ve struggled with brain fog ever since I was a young adult. It’s no wonder: water does much more than quench our thirst. Sixty percent of our body weight is water, and it’s used to regulate our body temperature, lubricate our joints, flush our kidneys, help make minerals and nutrients accessible for us to use, and keep our eyes, nose, and mouth moist. We need to constantly replenish what we lose through perspiration, respiration, and elimination.

In my Wilderness First Responder course, it was drilled into me that when assessing someone’s situation, to ask about their urine. Is it clear and copious? Is yours?

My doctor recommends drinking 64 ounces (8 cups) of water a day. This guideline includes all forms of fluid: tea, coffee, fruits, vegetables, and soup. Newer research suggests 11.5 cups (91 ounces) of fluids per day, but even 8 cups is still a great baseline for most adult women, depending on our activity level, surrounding climate, and body weight.

Recently, I upped my goal from 64 ounces of fluids daily to 80 ounces, along with fruit and many colorful vegetables. Keeping a daily tracking sheet helps me stay on target, and I do feel better.

But that’s not all I’d tell my younger self. I’d also tell her not to douse herself in baby oil and then lie out in the sun to bake. As any teen of the 1970s can attest, this was a real thing—a real stupid thing. I feel blessed to have made it to almost 70 without any skin cancer scares. Some of my friends haven’t been that fortunate.

They say fair-skinned people with light-colored eyes and light-colored hair who sunburn easily are at a higher risk, but ultimately, anyone with skin can get skin cancer. Therefore, I’d tell my younger self to get used to wearing sunscreen, a hat, and perhaps a long-sleeved white linen shirt.

Having gotten my younger self out of the sun (my older self still enjoys sun naps on the back deck), I’d then tell her to supplement with vitamins D and K. It’s hard to get enough sunshine in Wisconsin to meet the daily requirement of D, especially if you’re covering up and wearing sunscreen! We just don’t get enough sun exposure at our northern latitude.

Wisconsin is known as a high-deficiency zone, where an estimated 59 percent of postmenopausal women don’t get nearly enough vitamin D. Sure, there are fortified foods, but according to my favorite doctor (now retired), in all his years of practice, he never saw an acceptable level of vitamin D in the test results of anyone who wasn’t supplementing.

So, dear younger self, please take a vitamin D supplement along with vitamin K2. The K2 will ensure that whatever calcium you eat is directed to your bones. Also, take it with magnesium, which converts D into its active form, and take calcium to maintain high bone density.

Healthy fats are another thing I’d tell my younger self about. Long ago, I bought into the margarine-not-butter fad of the 1970s when it was championed as heart-healthy. That was just one of the food myths of that era. I went on a strict no-fat crusade for many years.

An adult brain weighs about three pounds and is the fattiest organ in our bodies: 60 percent fat! Fat is crucial because it acts as an insulator for nerves, which are needed for fast and efficient communication.

During my fat-free phase, my brain was deprived of healthy fats (DHA/omega-3) that are required to rebuild and repair cell membranes. Back then, I refused to use butter or margarine, never touched olive oil, hadn’t heard of coconut oil, didn’t eat walnuts, and the only fish I ate was the pan-fried bluegills that my dad caught every summer when I was a kid.

Nowadays, knowing my sister and brother’s history of Alzheimer’s, I’m diligent about those omega-3 fatty acids, as regular consumption has been linked to a lower risk of dementia as well as improving moods, emotional health, and memory.

Do your brain a favor and allow yourself moderate use of healthy oils. Enjoy a nice piece of pink salmon or an avocado, and add flaxseed, chia seed, or walnuts to your morning oatmeal.

I may be heading into that land of no return, but there’s always time to make improvements for health. It all matters!