Winter Routine

Winter Routine

It’s Saturday morning chaos here. From years of routine, the dogs know that as soon as Dane and I step into the mudroom to get our coats, they will be going for a W-A-L-K.

Téte, the best worst dog I’ve ever loved, is barking nonstop. (I’m not exaggerating—ask her babysitter.) She barks for us to get out of bed, to feed her, to roll down her car window, and even to tell us when to go to bed. It’s exasperating. A doggy psychologist might help, along with doggy Prozac, if we were that kind of doggy parents.

The other day, as my head felt about to explode with her barking, I calmly explained to her that we were taking her to the pound—we’d had enough. Dane laughed, I smiled, and Téte kept barking.

Now we usher Téte out the door to muffle the barking while I maneuver Finny out of his sweater and into his red parka, which he wears on colder days or when a snowfall is expected to reach his belly. Today is a parka day.

I love how Finn, after 12 years of practice, lifts one tiny leg, balances while I slip his foot into the sleeve, then lifts the other leg so I can get it into his jacket before I zip it up.

Ruben, the youngest, jumps up onto the trunk in the mudroom and begins to wiggle like jello. His winter jacket is intentionally designed to be easier to put on. Only once did I try to pick his front legs up and place them in sweater sleeves. He nearly bit my head off—and Dane says Ruben loves me the best. Ask his sitter, and she’ll tell you: don’t mess with Ruben unnecessarily.

Finally, they’re in the back seat of the car, safely behind a guard rail, but before we can even start inching up the road, Téte lets out a deep, demanding bark. Dane quickly rolls down her window, and as she sticks her head out, the barking stops—temporarily.

Once we’ve crept up the snow-covered road to Highway SS, we brace ourselves to pass the first farm, which has sheep and two giant guard dogs. The white dog’s name is Yogurt, but we haven’t met the new brown-and-white dog yet. We guess its name is Granola.

Yogurt and Granola chase alongside the car from behind their fence while Ruben and Finn join Téte in an all-out bark-fest. Dane and I sigh with relief when that farm is in the rearview mirror.

This is how it goes every single time we take the dogs for their walk. We love our weekend hiking adventures with the pups, but you’d never guess it from all the noise.

But today, we choose the trails behind the Viroqua VFW post. It’s a smart decision, as we’re the first to break trail, and it’s stunning. The path is quiet and enchanting, covered with new, powdery snow, and—where’s Finn? We left him off-leash as the snow was over his parka’s back. Thinking he could hardly keep up with the big dogs and us, we cut him too much slack. He’s gone, and we know he’s after a rabbit.

“Finn,” I yell. “Finny! Doogie,” his nickname, I cry. Having spent the first 15 minutes of our walk yakking about the tranquility of the woods, now I’m panicking.

Dane starts calling, “Finnegan, Finnegan,” as we stop to listen for him. But the snow-covered woods aren’t giving us any sounds today.

Téte is thrilled to be in the snow, her favorite medium. Ruben is on high alert as he also spies a rabbit. Finn is somewhere, having the time of his life. I’m envisioning a coyote grabbing Finn or a tree snagging his parka and holding him captive. Dane is simply mad.

Fast-forward to where we’re all in the car again, the three dogs tuckered out in the back seat. Dane pulls up to the Daily Brew drive-thru window. As he places our coffee drink order, the dogs are suddenly up again, a storybook picture of sweetness and all things good because they hear the words bone and pup cup.

Back at home, as I’m typing at my computer, Téte is on her couch with all four legs up in the air, Finn is back in his sweater, curled up like a fox on his chair, and Ruben is upstairs, probably lying on my side of the bed. 

Dane, meanwhile, has gone to his house to try to capture some sane alone time before coming back for our Saturday evening routine: two out of three games of Rummikub. Téte is watching for him so she can resume barking and tell me Papa is here!

More Life to Live

More Life to Live

At the end of our exercise class this morning, Lillie shared a video of herself at the oncology center, ringing the bell to celebrate the last of her 20 radiation treatments.

We watched the short video twice. Afterwards, Lillie, who turned 100 a couple of months ago, thanked the class for the cards, prayers, and letters of support we had sent. She’s glad to be alive and that the tumor on the side of her neck is no longer swollen. Ever since Lillie first said she’d have radiation treatments, I’ve wondered if I would choose that route—even at the age I am, let alone at 100. But I’m familiar with Lillie’s faith, and it’s always impressed me.

A few days ago, when Dane and I stepped outside later than usual to do chores, the sun was already shining, and our valley looked like a new bride, dressed in white. It was a striking contrast to the blue sky. The fresh snow covering seemed laced with diamonds, and long bright beams of sunshine ricocheted between the trees.

It was so enchanting that our chores took longer than usual. Grab a flake of hay, stop and look up in awe. Take the full grain bowl to the flock, stop and stare at the creek’s shimmering water. Feed Louisa apples and broccoli, and feed the goats some corn, but first stop and watch the brilliant red of the cardinals against the pure white snow covering the branches.

Later that morning, we drove to La Crosse, and I couldn’t stop exclaiming over the beauty and brilliance of the day—until Dane abruptly hit the brakes and said, “OK, little one, make up your mind.” There on his side of the road, against the wedding-white background, under the brilliant sky, was the most beautiful, healthy-looking red fox we’d ever seen! The fox debated whether to cross the road, decided not to, and leaped through the snow in the opposite direction, as we cheered it for making a safe and healthy call.

The image of that fox, with its thick red coat and bushy red white-tipped tail, stayed with me that day, and every day since then I’ve been carrying it like a talisman. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve needed the beauty of the fox and the magic of the snow-covered earth to wash away ugly news. Seeing the fox helped restore my faith in the good on earth; seeing Lillie ring that bell did, too.

Each night this week, when I’ve considered all that I’m grateful for, that fox has been on my list. It has carried me through a chaotic week that kids will be learning about in their history classes for years to come.

Tonight, as I get ready for a long, soothing soak in an Epsom salts bath laced with lavender oil, I think of Lillie. In the video, she’s standing in her blue-jean jacket with a pink T-shirt peeking out, maneuvering her walker to one side of the bell as the gentleman reads the plaque to her:

“Ring this bell

three times well,

its toll to clearly say,

my treatment’s done,

this course is run,

and I am on my way!”

When Lillie finishes ringing the bell, she doesn’t just smile, she beams. She looks radiant, thrilled to have rung the bell and to be done with her treatments. She looks ready for more life!

Lillie keeps me humble. I can’t imagine choosing radiation at 100 years old. Maybe that’s the very definition of faith. Maybe Lillie, like that fox, knows that she still has more life to live. And after this evening’s gratitude list, which includes the fox again and now Lillie ringing the bell, I vow to try harder to embrace life as fully as they have.

Lillie, with her daughter-in-law, Julie and son, Paul.

Change of Focus

Change of Focus

Sometimes a book doesn’t speak to us until we’re ready to listen or, in my case, in need of the lessons it offers.

I’d been deeply despondent about our current political state, where hatred and ill will toward anyone “different” flourishes. Many people suffer from job loss, discrimination, rising costs, health care challenges, and more. Meanwhile, the sweet earth that we and all other living organisms depend on is being poisoned and abused.

I raged when people spoke what I felt were merely platitudes, like Love is the answer. Are they crazy? We need to stand up, speak up, and fight, fight, fight!

And I did. I wrote letters and sent postcards to those in power, got involved with groups aligned with protecting marginalized folks, made signs and marched in every protest possible. But instead of feeling better, I got angrier and began to lose hope. Was my desire for a peaceful world filled with kindness and love a foolish, “Midwestern nice” fantasy?

Sinking deeper into an abyss that no amount of good service seemed to alleviate, I spied Peace Pilgrim’s book on my shelf. I began reading, then paused, underlined and highlighted key phrases, and cried and even laughed.

In 1953, Mildred Lisette Norman started her journey as “Peace Pilgrim.” She gave up all her earthly possessions, including her fashionable clothes. Her new uniform was a pair of navy slacks, a long-sleeved navy shirt, and a navy tunic with deep pockets sewn around the bottom for carrying her paper, pen, toothbrush, and comb.

Peace Pilgrim’s core message was that world peace starts with inner peace. At 42, her mission was to “overcome evil with good, and falsehood with truth, and hatred with love.” She would accomplish this by walking across the country, living off the land when possible, fasting until strangers offered her food, and sleeping under the stars unless shelter was offered, while spreading the message of peace.

In her singsong voice, she told small groups and gigantic crowds how wars come from hate and only bring destruction, with precious lives and land lost. She spoke of the money wasted on wars, which could instead ensure that every person has a bed, a roof, and food to eat.

For 28 years, Peace Pilgrim literally walked her talk. She stopped counting her steps after she reached her initial goal of 25,000 miles. She’d averaged 1,500 miles per pair of cheap canvas shoes, using tape to keep them from falling off her feet before accepting new ones that people offered her. At first, she carried a bedroll and a sweater, but soon left them behind, not wanting the bother. By 1964 she’d crossed the US seven times, walking south in the colder months and north when it was warmer, surviving only by the “goodness of people and God.”

She had no religious affiliation but believed that God was all around her—in the trees, the dirt, the twinkle in someone's eye, and even in the judgment of people who thought she was crazy. “Pioneers have always been looked upon as being a bit strange,” she said. “But, you see, I love people, and I see the good in them."

Peace Pilgrim vowed to “remain a wanderer until mankind has learned the way of peace.” She reached thousands of people at universities, schools, parks, and churches where she was regularly invited to speak.

Sadly, in 1981, having accepted a ride to speak at a senior center in Elkhart, Indiana, days away from her 73rd birthday, Peace Pilgrim was killed in a car accident.

She died instantly, but her message has outlived her: in her booklet, “Steps Toward Inner Peace,” available in over 30 languages, as well as documentaries and the book Peace Pilgrim: Her Life and Work in Her Own Words, which makes her message globally accessible.

Maybe I had it wrong. Maybe I don’t need to fight everything I don’t believe in. Maybe I need to work on the one thing I can change: myself and my inner peace. Should my anger lead the way, or would starting from inner peace be more beneficial? If every person always acted from a place of inner peace, would there even be wars, or this current political mess we’re in?

Peace Pilgrim believed that “When enough of us find inner peace, our institutions will become more peaceful, and there will be no more occasion for war.” But love must be active, not just prayers or good intentions. She encouraged people to abandon their apathy, live up to their highest potential, and put spiritual principles, such as loving-kindness and inner peace, into daily practice in order to create real change.

Thanks to Peace Pilgrim’s actions, dedication, and words, my focus has changed. I’ll still speak up, but I won’t let my anger turn into hatred and fighting. 

Growing Old Is Not for Sissies

Growing Old Is Not for Sissies

Posters that hung on the wall of a gym when I was in my thirties featured a healthy, mature man or woman and the words “Growing old is not for sissies.” I was impressed with their physique, but also curious about their brain health.

Most of the older folks I knew complained about forgetting names, their wallets, and what they’d done the day before. Later, when I started working with folks older than me by about twenty years, one of them jumped up in class, exclaimed, “I think I forgot to turn off the stove,” and rushed out the door.

It reminded me of the time my mom accidentally left me at Kohl’s grocery store. I had headed off to look at the magazines while she shopped. After a while, I started looking for her, then for the car, which was gone. When she eventually pulled up in the green station wagon, I got in the back seat and slammed the door. How could she forget her kid?!

Some people mistakenly sign up twice for my online fitness classes. When I tell them to watch for a refund, they get embarrassed. I remind them of how much they do remember! But when longtime class members start forgetting what day their class is or what time it is, it makes me think of Dr. Marian Diamond.

She was an American neuroscientist who discovered the brain’s plasticity—that our brains can change with experience and improve with enrichment. It’s been said that it’s not the years in your life that count—it’s the life in your years. And a healthy brain helps us put more life in our years.

Dr. Diamond, who died in 2017 at age 90, outlined five factors that contribute to a healthy brain at any age: exercise, diet, newness, challenge, and love.

Exercise

Dr. Alex Lief of Harvard Medical School said exercise is “the closest thing we have to an anti-aging pill.” The best types of exercise for older adults include a mix of strength training, aerobics, balance, and flexibility. We need to maintain muscle, bone, and heart health while preventing falls. Consistency is crucial in an all-around exercise program.

Diet

Plenty of research shows that adding more fruits and vegetables to our daily diet can protect against certain cancers, lower blood pressure, keep our eyes healthy as we age, ease IBS symptoms, help prevent diverticulitis, and reduce the risk of heart disease and stroke.

Not surprisingly, Dane’s cardiologist recommended eating more fruits and vegetables daily, as did my nephrologist. Both also talked about the importance of water—for each of us, 64 ounces daily.

However, Dr. Diamond gets more specific about foods for the brain: omega-rich foods like nuts, seeds, avocados, and fish, as well as complex carbohydrates, such as brown rice and oats, which provide steady energy for the nervous system and for brain metabolism. Her favorite protein was eggs, and especially the yolk, which is rich in choline, a nutrient important for neurotransmitter production in the brain.

Beans and legumes, another great source of protein, also provide folate and B vitamins. And all of those fruits and vegetables contain antioxidants that protect our brain cells from stress and free radical damage. Dr. Diamond was also a strong advocate for avoiding sugar and processed foods, which she claimed (and we now know) can cause inflammation and negatively impact cognitive function.

Newness and Challenge

In her research, Dr. Diamond found that even older rats showed heightened brain activity when their living area was enriched. For humans, learning a new language, taking dance classes, and joining a book club are all ways to challenge the brain and support overall brain health as we age. Calling a friend to explore a new hiking trail, ice skating, or even going sledding will help the brain’s development, keeping it active, efficient, and continually forming new connections, according to the doctor.

Love

Dr. Diamond’s fifth component, love, seemed controversial at first, but she supported it with scientific insight and an understanding of well-being. She noticed that even simple, tender care significantly affected the rats' brain development and longevity in her studies.

As Arthur Pinero, an English playwright, said, “Those who love deeply never grow old; they may die of old age, but they die young.”

Dr. Diamond would say that being loving keeps our brains healthy, as do the foods we choose, the exercises we partake in, and our curiosity to keep learning and engaging. In some ways, she was ahead of her time, but most of her findings when it comes to aging we’ve sensed all along, and if we’re wise, we’ll adhere to them. After all, we’re not sissies!

Postor images that were at the gyms

Making K’s List

Making K’s List

We met our little friend K when she was 6 years old. The theme she chose for her birthday party that year was cats. She’s crazy about cats, and so is Dane. A few years later, I used her idea and had a cat-themed party for Dane’s 70th birthday.

Once, early in our acquaintance, when her mom was in a meeting, Dane picked K up from her home, then came and got me. It was Dane’s first time driving with a young person alone, and they didn’t talk at all until I got in the car. Then K became a chatterbox, telling us tales about her family that they probably preferred to keep private!

That evening, we took K to a church in Viroqua that was hosting a Mexican dinner. Once we got our food and were settled at a table, we started playing Cat Bingo, a favorite for both Dane and K. She watched over Dane, since he sometimes doesn’t see a match or is too slow for her quick, young mind! 

A few years ago, K’s mom called to tell us about a card K had made at Bible camp. She had to list the people in her life whom she loved and felt grateful for. Dane and I made the list! We were last, after her family, as it should be, but there we were. We’ve never forgotten this, as it touched both our hearts deeply.

K loves Goldfish—the kind you eat. When she was in a production of The Little Mermaid at the Temple Theatre, we brought her a congratulatory bag of Goldfish instead of flowers. K also likes hamsters—the fuzzy kind—, but hers got out of its cage and . . . well, she likes cats too, and that didn’t end well for the hamster. For her birthday that year, after getting the okay from her parents, we gave K a new hamster.

We regularly have Thanksgiving dinner with her family, and for a while, Dane and I tried to think of games K would enjoy. Once we taped buckets to our bike helmets and brought along a bunch of ping-pong balls. The object was for players to toss the balls into the buckets, which was harder than it sounds. Our heads kept moving like those bobblehead animals you see in cars. Balls were bouncing off our heads and all over the room.

The following year, we brought over the ping-pong balls again, along with a muffin tin. When dinner was over, and the long wooden table had been cleared, we set the muffin tin at one end and had two people stand at the other. They’d bounce the balls down the table with the hope of landing them in the tin, trying to outdo each other. Everyone played—K’s sisters, her uncle, cousins, and even her grandpa had a go at it. I’m not sure who won, but it was a lively game with lots of friendly competition.

To this day, a highlight of Thanksgiving with K and her family is the creative place cards K makes. We’ve saved them all. Our favorites so far are empty toilet paper rolls made into turkeys that look like us: two old turkeys!

We’ve played Cat Bingo at K’s home with her sisters, mom, and aunt. Over the years, we’ve also attended K’s birthday parties, family dinners, and her school plays and concerts. We love them all and try not to miss any. Now, when K has an event, we like to tease each other, “We need to go so we don’t get taken off K’s list!”

It’s been an honor and a pleasure to watch K grow up for the past several years. Just the other day, she was the narrator for her church’s Christmas play, no longer one of the actors. In her red dress and black boots, she looked beautiful and mature and spoke clearly. Last night, we attended her Christmas concert, where she played the clarinet and also sang with the choir. We shook our heads and wondered where those six years of knowing her had gone.

It dawned on us, now that K is 12 years old, that we’ve known her for half her life! We both feel so proud of what a wonderful young gal she’s become.

We no longer think of K as our “little” friend. From now on, she’ll just be K, and we hope to be forever on her list.

Away in the Manger

Away in the Manger

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time in the donkeys’ manger, a word I use because their shed reminds me of where baby Jesus was born. It’s filled with straw and my two adorable miniature donkeys, Diego and Carlos. This sturdy three-walled structure has been their home for over 20 years.

’Tis the season to be spending time around a manger; we even have a nativity scene in our living room. But for Diego, it hasn’t been at all jolly. And it’s still too early for him to enjoy the gift of speech animals receive at midnight on Christmas Eve.

Diego’s best Christmas experience was being in a live nativity scene in La Farge, before Carlos was even born. But this season, he’s dealing with founder (laminitis), a painful and serious hoof condition often triggered by a diet rich in grain and treats.

Diego arrived here in 2004 in the back of my friend’s Bronco. At the time, I didn’t have a proper pasture for him, so I fenced off my yard until one could be built. Diego spent his days grazing on rich green grass.

When he wasn’t grazing and I wasn’t doting on him, Diego would stand below my bedroom window and hee-haw to get me to come out. He was lonely and felt I should be with him every second. I tried, but he wore me out. I even tried sleeping with him in the backyard, but when I was in a tent, he couldn’t see me, and I was afraid he’d step on me or crush me when he rolled.

When Carlos was old enough to join us, it was love at first bite! Diego smelled him, gave him a little nip on the rear end, and soon they were playing tug of war with an old tennis shoe. They’ve been inseparable since.

By then, the pasture fence was up, the three-sided hut was built, and a bridge crossed the creek, giving them more room to explore. And explore they did. No more rich green grass, yet plenty of treats: They’d clean up under the old apple tree in the pasture, and when we had a campfire, I’d offer them each a marshmallow.

They loved the campfires too much. Eventually, I fenced that area off from them because Diego would walk into the pit, and I worried he’d catch on fire. By this time, he needed his hoofs trimmed more often than Carlos did, but he’d never shown signs of being ill. Aside from being neutered, they rarely had to see a vet.

It wasn’t until we met Frank, my farrier, that I learned of Diego’s problem with laminitis. Frank explained that this was why Diego’s hooves grew long and misshapen, yet Carlos’s didn’t. Carlos looked like he was wearing high heels; Diego’s feet look more like a clown’s.

Both donkeys were too chunky. Frank said they could live off the scrub in the pasture, and he told me to stop giving them grain and sweet treats. An occasional apple or a carrot wouldn’t hurt them, he explained, but the rich hay and treats would.

When I started getting my grass hay from a different source, the problems worsened. The hay didn’t have any alfalfa, but it was bright green and smelled heavenly. In my excitement at having such appealing hay, I overfed both donkeys.

Carlos started to look more like a pot-bellied pig (and still does), but Diego foundered. His head hung down low, telling me he was in pain. He could only shuffle like someone who’d recently had all four knees replaced. Frank came over and did what he could for Diego’s sore feet, and reminded me about feeding too much and about the richness of the hay.

It took two weeks of feeding them much less, giving no treats, and throwing down straw where Diego needed to walk, to get him to heal. But the day after the new winter hay was delivered, we had a 10-inch snowfall and, worried about the snow and cold, I overfed them again.

Nowadays, Diego rarely comes away from his manger, where I hand-deliver a small amount of poor-quality hay that my neighbor, Brandy, donated. I also take him a pail of water that he occasionally drinks but more often knocks over. I make up for the diminished food with extra hugs.

Soon it will be Christmas. My dream is for Diego to recover and enjoy his straw-filled manger with his best buddy, Carlos. And when I go down there on Christmas Eve, I’ll overhear Diego bragging to Carlos about his claim to fame: his one night in a live nativity scene.

If That Were to Happen

If That Were to Happen

May I be less quick to judge than to listen, slower to jump to conclusions because of hearsay, because so-and-so told me something or other.

May I listen to hear well, and not merely to respond back with my own story.

May I take a breath, make a few phone calls, do a fact check before I assume the worst, put on my boxing gloves, or write someone off.

May I stay curious, ask questions, and admit, “I don’t know.”

May I reach out and hold a hand, give it a squeeze, nod with a smile, or even stop to give a hug.

May I do what I’ve been told since my dad was holding my hand to cross the street: “Janie, you need to put yourself in someone else’s shoes.”

May my ears hear and my eyes see: grief, hurt, sadness, loneliness, fear, hatred, or anger; and may I not turn away, but respond with empathy and compassion.

May I pick up the phone, write a letter, send a card, or leave someone warm cookies.

May I respond when I know someone is hurting—whose spouse, friend, or family member died, or who lost a pet, received bad news, went through a divorce, has a health issue, lost a job, retired, or has sent out a thousand resumes with no reply.

May I be equally quick to share in another's joy.

May I wake up each morning and give thanks that I have a roof over my head, food to eat, eyes that opened again, and someone to love.

May I, for one day, not think of my own aches and pains, but of others.

May I do one tiny thing each day to let someone know I care.

May I return calls and answer emails, letters, and texts promptly, and not act like there will be time later to do so.

May I realize that this might be the day I have a stroke or a heart attack, get hit by a car, or receive a phone call saying someone I love has died unexpectedly.

If that were to happen, might I have lived each day with no regrets?

Good Girl!

Good Girl!

“Get back—good girl, get back.” I’m in my PJs, and it’s an ice-freezing morning. I know because the bucket of water I left out last night is frozen solid. Worse, as I was finishing chores, which included carrying buckets of water to three different pens, the water sloshed out and soaked my mittens. So my hands are now also frozen as I stand in my basement, wielding a garbage can cover like a shield, trying to push Louisa backwards and out the door.

Louisa, a Kunekune pig, is wider than she is tall. Her hairy black back just reaches my knees. She is solid, strong, and persistent—and she lives to eat!

Earlier this morning, while I was sloshing water into the heated bowl in the duck pen, Louisa pushed her hefty body through the outside door into the basement and stuck her snout into the apple bin. There she stayed, practically inhaling mostly rotten apples—her favorite!—until I discovered her.

“Out, Louisa, out!” I cried as soon as I found her. But as I tried to pull her head up from the apple bin, she squealed and tried to take a hunk out of my shin. Now I’m in full panic mode, and time is of the essence. I have an online class to teach in less than half an hour, but if she stays here and keeps this up, she’ll bloat up and die.

This has the makings of a horror story. In addition to the bin of apples, there are garbage cans filled with grain, dog food, and cracked corn. There are at least thirty pumpkins and just as many butternut squash, as well as boxes of bananas, tomatoes, acorn squash, and even peppers. It’s pig heaven! But if Louisa keeps eating, she’ll end up in real heaven. She’ll burst herself wide open like she’s just done with the extra bag of cracked corn. As the corn spills out, her grunting speeds up, and she starts choking while trying to inhale the fine grain.

“Back, back, back—good girl,” I plead, pushing her with the garbage can cover. It’s not working, and I’m wondering how to call 911 since I can’t leave her alone here. I have a vision of her lying on her back, her short, chunky legs sticking straight up.

I abandon the lid, bend over, and heft up one side of the huge apple bin. Ouch! Something snaps on my side. It feels like I’m trying to pull up a guard rail and use it to push back a stalled Volkswagen Beetle. 

If I can’t get her out of here, Louisa won’t stop until she pops. Meanwhile, I’m feeling the pressure of my online exercise class that starts soon. The stress warms me, the fear makes my brain shift into overdrive, and the adrenaline makes me strong.

“That’s it. Stop—good girl. Stop. Get back, all the way back.” One side of the bin leans across my legs, and I pluck a few apples out and toss them past her. This isn’t easy, as I need to avoid her massive jowls, which are working overtime. I’m also afraid because, as Dane has told me, people have been known to throw dead bodies to pigs after a crime because they’ll devour them. I’ve also watched hundreds of hard, round pumpkins disappear in minutes.

The apples flying past her head, combined with my pleas for mercy, seem to get her attention. She starts losing ground now as I grasp both sides of the bin and move forward, forcing her to back up. When she gets to the doorway, Louisa casually turns around and starts gobbling up the apples I’ve whizzed past her determined snout.

Quickly, I step-hop over the tub and shut the door behind her. My heart is slamming against my chest, and there’s no time to waste as I peek out the door, ease my way out, lead her along to the yard with more tossed apples, and hurry back to the house.

It’s twenty after eight, and class starts at 8:30! I’ve been wrestling with Louisa for over twenty minutes. My own warm-up is complete as I tear off my PJs, slip into exercise clothes, and—just in time—nonchalantly begin warming up the good folks waiting for me on Zoom.

Louisa is not a good girl —not today, anyway—not even close. She’s a pig!

The Windy City

The Windy City

“Excuse me, how do we get to the Cambria Hotel on Randolph Street?”

We’re underground, in the bowels of the Chicago's Union Station. People are scurrying purposefully around us in all directions, like mice in a maze. They know where they’re going. We don’t, so I’m asking the nearest train employee.

His directions include turning at the Dunkin' Donuts shop upstairs. Smiling, he adds, “I’ll take a black coffee and a Danish,” then turns to his partner and asks, “What do you want?” Chuckling, we thank him.

When we make it outside, we’re on the river! It’s already dark, and the city lights are electrifying. Chicago stands there in all her glory and I can’t get enough. “Oh, this is beautiful! Oh, look at those holiday star lights, they’re magnificent! Dane, look at the reflection on the water!”

There are people everywhere. Horns honking, music coming from passing cars, scooters, bikes, skateboards, and lots of black jackets, black shoes, and black backpacks. We stand on the Riverwalk, taking it all in, holding our travel bags, trying to figure out which direction to turn. 

I spot a police officer standing alone against the river’s rail. “Hi, your city is amazing,” I gush, and then ask for directions. When he points to where we can catch a cab, I interrupt: “No, we’d like to walk.” Dane sighs, but he’s game. He’s concerned about time. We have a dinner reservation at 6:30 and it’s already 5:00. We’re both running high on adrenaline as we’re here to attend the 50th anniversary concert of Patti Smith's album Horses. The tickets and hotel were a wedding gift from our friends Tim and Lisa.

While the officer is deciding how to direct us to our hotel, I spy a boat that looks like a mini cruise ship in the river. He explains that the boat gives an architectural tour of the city, and remarks on how chilly it must be for the passengers on the upper deck. I make a mental note for a future trip.

One of our bags is a bit heavy (three books inside!), and although it’s not his, Dane admirably trades with me as we walk, swapping it with the smaller bag of food for the train trip.

The walk is lovely and surprisingly warm. We’re lulled into a rhythm, taking in the surrounding city life. Even the noise of the Monday evening traffic seems peaceful.

A sign outside our hotel announces that check-in is on the ninth floor. Yep, we’re in the big city! A hotel employee greets us outside, and when I explain I have claustrophobia and don’t use elevators, he whisks us to a secret door, unlocks it, and assures us he’ll be there all night if we need him again. 

We climb the nine flights of stairs and are checking in when the phone rings. The receptionist says “Yes” into the phone and hangs up. I ask, “Was that the man downstairs who helped us?”

“Yes, he wanted to make sure you made it up the floors.”

Dane and I are impressed. From the man working inside the train station, to the officer near the bridge, and now both the hotel employees, it’s been smooth sailing and all kindness. Chicago is amazing, and we’re staying at an awesome hotel.

The theater is furnished in gold, and the seats are red velvet. Two helpful ushers point the way for us. Up on the balcony level another gal takes our tickets (box seats!), double-checks them, and tells us the concert will be two hours and fifteen minutes, with no intermissions.

As we sit down in our cushy chairs and watch the theater fill with people, I’m gobsmacked by the elegance of the Chicago Theatre. We couldn’t have asked for better seats or a better venue in which to watch Patti perform. And perform she does!

During Patti’s signature closing anthem, “People Have the Power,” written with her late husband, Fred “Sonic” Smith, the sold-out crowd rise to their feet. The clapping vibrates through the theater as people sway back and forth and join enthusiastically in the chorus, some holding up their phones with the flashlights on, like concertgoers used to hold up lighters years ago. The inspiring lyrics, reminding people to come together to promote change, to vote, and to use their voices, ring loud and clear. Earlier in the show Patti saluted both Illinois governor JB Pritzker and Chicago’s mayor, Brandon Johnson, for recently using their voices.

As we walk back to the hotel, the peace and cleanliness of the city, the kindness of the people we’ve encountered, and Patti’s words stay with us.

Chicago may be windy, but it’s an amazing and friendly city, hardly a “war zone.” We’ll be back.

Coffee Connoisseurs

Coffee Connoisseurs

I have a rule in my home: No standing behind me while I’m at my desk writing. This means no drinking, talking, chewing, or even breathing behind my back. Unless you've got an emergency that needs my attention, don’t do it.

The other morning, Dane was standing silently behind me.

We use an electric kettle to heat water for our morning coffee and tea. I say that with apologies to any coffee snob friends out there. We don’t have an AeroPress, an automatic drip machine, or a fancy Chemex filter, and until recently I thought a French press was a new type of bicep curl we could try in exercise class.

Because of the hard water here in the valley, we clean the electric kettle monthly with vinegar to remove the scale that’s built up. We know we’re behind the times, but it works for us.

Feeling Dane’s lurking presence, I stopped writing and turned to look at him. Holding his coffee cup, he calmly asked if I was cleaning the kettle. When I answered “Yes,” he raised his cup, as if in a toast, and deadpanned, “Imagine my surprise!”

Of the two of us, Dane is a better judge of a good cup of coffee. And it’s not one made with vinegar!

My go-to coffee is Folgers instant decaf, which I always keep on hand. By now, I know the container by its green color and can mindlessly grab it off the store shelf while keeping my cart moving.

Just the other day, I pulled a brand new jar of it from the cupboard. I opened the container, dropped a teaspoon of coffee into my cup, added boiling water, and sauntered off to my office to begin writing. While waiting for the coffee to cool, I was making progress on a column.

Reaching for my cup, I took my first sip. Yuck! Floating coffee granules stuck to my teeth and in my throat. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I abandoned writing and trudged back to the kitchen to get a spoon. I gave my coffee a quick stir and went back to the computer. After a few sentences, I reached down, took another sip, and this time spat it back into the cup. Gritty!

I hurried to the kitchen sink, spat again, and poured the awful stuff out. They’re making cheap coffee even cheaper, I thought, as I started over with a new cup. Standing near the sink, I took a cautious sip . Pfftt, pftt! It was just as bad. I decided I would return the jar on my next trip to town. Setting it aside, I made a cup of herbal tea.

Last night, Dane stayed over, and this morning, as I sat pecking away at the keys, he asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Oh, I forgot to return my coffee yesterday,” I said. “It was a bad batch and stuck in my mouth. It won’t even dissolve!”

Dane walked out to the kitchen, came back into my office, and stood behind me again. “Babe,” he said, “that’s ground coffee.”

“Huh?”

“Regular coffee you brew in a coffee maker.”

“Well, it tastes horrible.”

Coffee connoisseurs we’re not!

Running for Love

Running for Love

It was a brisk 20 degrees for the Madison Marathon last Sunday morning, as we jostled with other spectators waiting to see their loved ones start the race. I worried that we wouldn’t be able to pick Ethan, my grandson, out among the 7,600 participants. But we did. Spotting him in a long-sleeved blue shirt, he sailed past us unaware of our excited encouragement. We couldn’t even hear ourselves over the deafening roar of the crowd. This was his first marathon. We were there to cheer him on and hoped he’d cross the finish line!

The death of Ethan’s sister, Helena, had motivated him to begin this journey. It made him understand how short life can be. It reminded him of his bucket list, which included running a marathon. 

Ethan didn’t want to let depression keep him on the couch. Rather than running away from grief, he has used running as a healthy way to deal with the loss of his sister. Grief was his motivation, and running calmed his mind.

Ethan and Helena were both on the cross-country and track teams in high school until it became too difficult for Helena due to her cystic fibrosis. Ethan had health challenges as well. He spent his senior year in and out of the Children’s Hospital with severe ulcerative colitis, which is hard for anyone, but especially for a teen among his peers. And, at a lanky 6 feet 4 inches, he’s vulnerable to laxity in his knee joints, which can cause ligament sprains.

A self-proclaimed introvert, Ethan had enjoyed the encouragement when the crowd cheered him on at track meets. Participating in track led to new friendships and made him more outgoing. But, he said, “Running as an adult feels different. I’m able to space out and let my mind clear, giving me a mental reset. When I finish running, I’m more productive and at peace.”

When Ethan signed up for the Madison Marathon, he went into it knowing three things: he was determined to finish, it would be his only marathon, and he would wear the T-shirt designed for the annual Milwaukee Great Strides walk for cystic fibrosis, which his family participated in every year. Their team name was Helena’s Hope.

After seeing him at the start, Dane and I drove to the 16-mile mark. The sun had come out, raising the temperature to 32 degrees. There was Ethan, easier to see in his blue shirt as the runners had thinned out. He’d already doffed his sweatpants and, when he saw us, he pumped his arms up and down in greeting. “Only 10 more miles to go,” we yelled.

As we drove from the 16-mile mark to the finish line, we wondered where Ethan was along the lakefront route, how his knee was holding up, and if he’d be able to hang in there and finish. Running 26 miles is a lofty goal.

Finding a place to stand along the finish line where we could see Ethan coming was challenging. Everyone else had the same idea. But once we settled in as close as we could, our full attention was on trying to spot him. Dane was going to take a video of Ethan finishing, and I was going to snap pictures.

The course took the runners around Lake Monona and the University of Wisconsin’s Arboretum before heading back to the Capitol. Around the 23-mile mark, Ethan had doubts about completing the race. He felt stabbing pain in his knee, and his quads were on fire. 

He stopped. He needed to refuel and stretch. Meanwhile, his dad, thinking that Ethan was taking longer than expected to round the corner, had jogged back to see his son at the 25-mile mark. “I told him 'you've got this' and kept saying, ‘The finish line is right up there.’ I ran next to him for a bit, but I think just seeing me picked up his spirits.”

Ethan peeled off his blue shirt. Underneath was his Helena’s Hope T-shirt. He placed his hand on his chest, looked skyward—and didn’t give up.

Not long after, he came down the home stretch to cheers from strangers and family. Watching for his blue shirt, we didn’t even spot him until he was past us!

Two days later, on his 27th birthday, Ethan’s hobbling around. He no longer says “one and done,” but he may stick to half-marathons for a while.

His grief at the loss of Helena may have been his motivation, but his love for her is what carried him over the finish line.

Lillie

Lillie after an outdoor exercise class during COVID

Lillie

On November 9 this year, Lillie will be 100 years old.

Lillie lived in Viroqua for 50 years. It’s been almost three years since she moved away, and when I asked her what she missed most, she said, “My friends.” But then she added, “I already have a bunch of new friends here!”

Lillie now lives in Norman, Oklahoma, with her son Paul and his family, but we still see her twice a week, often three times, in our online Zoom exercise classes.

Lillie has been a role model for many of us. I met her 22 years ago in an exercise class I was leading called Strong Women. The first thing I noticed was that she already knew just about everybody in the class—and if she didn’t know them yet, she soon would!

It was about that time she started bringing me smoothies. After class, she’d hand me a drink and list all the healthy, wonderful ingredients in it. She knew I was traveling from one class to the next, and she wanted me to stay hydrated.

Once, as we walked out of the building together, Lillie missed a step and took a hard fall. As my heart raced and I considered calling 911, she popped up, brushed herself off, and said, “I’m okay!”

At the time, she was about 83 years young. I remember thinking how well she bounced—no broken bones—and how someday I hoped to be as strong as she was.

Lillie retired at 77 from Bethel Home, where she’d worked as a nurse, but she continued helping out on the night shift until she was 82. When I asked why the night shift, Lillie explained that it was the hardest shift to fill.

Recently, in class, Lillie shared with us that she’d been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, a parotid salivary tumor near her right ear. She felt her prayers for clarity and unity were answered when she met with her oncologist, who said that radiation would stop the growth and might even get rid of the tumor. Since then, it hasn’t spread to any other part of her body.

Before that appointment, when I asked Lillie her thoughts about having cancer, she answered, “It might be my time to be promoted to glory.”

Lillie’s attitude and faith aren’t a surprise to me or to anyone who knows her. She explained to me long ago that, throughout her life, she’s wanted to “know God better and have peace with him.”

At 36, as a young RN working in Stanley, North Dakota, Lillie attended a Lutheran camp to deepen her relationship with God. It was there that she met LeRoy, a minister at a small church who had brought several kids to attend the camp. LeRoy struck up a conversation with her as she enjoyed an ice cream cone. As Lillie said, “The rest is history.” They married a year later, in 1964, and had two sons, Paul and Jon.

LeRoy was "promoted to glory" at the age of 92. “It happened so fast,” Lillie said. She was at work at Bethel and made it to the hospital, where he passed away after a fall.

Every time we talk, Lillie recites her favorite scriptures to me, as if she’s reading straight from the Bible, but she isn’t. I’m awed by her memory, but even more by her total faith in God. She asks me if Dane and I are reading any of the Bibles she has sent us over the years. Lillie never wavers and assures me that the word of God is active.

In class, when we asked her to share her secrets to a long life, Lillie mentioned it’s important to keep moving. Her dad had participated in gymnastics while growing up in Denmark. He would tell her and her siblings, “What you need is some movement!”

Today, Lillie tells us that she regularly walks around the block with Paul, pushing a stroller that holds a 20-pound weight to keep it stable. It’s 2,400 steps around the block, and Lillie says they try to walk it every day, but they usually go around five times a week. Her goal is 5,000 steps a day, and on days when she and Paul aren’t able to get outside, she walks the house’s wood floors.

She still participates in the exercise class too, and feels that it has been helpful. But she tells us that having a personal relationship with God is her biggest secret to a long, healthy, active life.

While I may never be as strong as Lillie, she’s a shining example of good health and is loved by many. Happy 100th birthday, Lillie!

Lillie (Pink and white striped shirt) after exercise class

North Elk Run Little Free Library & Treasure Chest

 The Bookmobile would pull into the Hales Corners shopping center parking lot once every two weeks. Mom and I would be waiting. I loved seeing the Bookmobile's turquoise color and its bullet shape.

The step into the Bookmobile was too high for my short legs, so Mom would grab my arm and hoist me up. Then I was lost—lost in a world of dogs, horses, and a book about a girl named Laurie who wanted yellow curtains.

Soon enough, I’d find the round metal stool you could push around to stand on or sit on when reaching for a book or flipping through one. While Mom was in her section, I’d pull out the books that interested me, sit on that stool, and look through them until I had the ones I wanted to take home pressed against my chest.

The storybook I remember most vividly was about a dog called Peanut, the same nickname my Dad had given me. The tiny brown, black, and white dog was so small it could sit on top of a spool of thread. I’ve searched for that book ever since but haven't found it yet.

Mom checked out my books with her library card until the magic day I signed my name and received my own. I loved the sound of the librarian’s stamp, stamp, stamp!

I still love reading. I love holding the book, looking at the author bio on the back cover, reading the testimonials, seeing who it was dedicated to, and then delving into what the author has to say.

Until recently, I had a giant bookshelf in my spare bedroom, made for me by my friend Roger when I lived in the one-room cabin on Pa’s Road. I gave it to Dane because I wanted to fit a desk in there, so the bookshelf had to go. There are still three bookshelves in my living room, one in the mudroom, and another in my office.

But I can’t possibly keep all the books I read in my 800-square-foot home anymore. Where would the dogs, cats, parakeets, and snails go?! So about seven years ago, I began gifting many of my books to my neighbor, Meaghan. I’d message her, then drag bags of books out to my roadside mailbox, where Meaghan would pick them up on her way to work. She would keep some to read and give others to her parents or the local school library. It was a great system that served us well.

Imagine my surprise when Meaghan, her husband Jake, and their children, Xan and Margo, said they wanted to stop over before our wedding to deliver our gift: a Little Free Library made by Jake, with a sign painted by Margo.

We found the perfect spot where Jake won’t hit it when he plows my driveway, or Dane when he backs out of it. Then, while we were away on our honeymoon, Jake came over, dug a hole, and poured concrete for the post supporting the library. Our critter sitter snapped pictures of his progress and messaged them to us. We couldn’t wait to see it and fill it with books!

When we returned, I was able to pick out a few books to give away, but most of the books I no longer wanted had already gone to Meaghan, other friends, or the free table at the dump. Dane, who reads just as much as I do—his attic bedroom is insulated with books from floor to ceiling—has a hard time parting with any of his books, so he hasn’t contributed many yet either.

I found the perfect solution: I bought my favorite books at the Richland Center Goodwill for a dollar each and put them into the library.

We’ve also added treasures for the adults and kids who stop by: a bird nest, feathers, heart-shaped rocks, small vases, and even earrings. Last week, Meaghan told me Margo found a treasure to give her friend who’s been sick. Oh, that does our hearts good!

Recently, someone else dropped off a few books, and I once spotted someone stopping in their car to take a look. The passenger picked out a book that, after my detective work, I was positive was Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine. A week later, it was back in the library, ready for another reader to choose it.

I’m completely in love with our new Little Free Library and would be thrilled if you stopped by and picked out a book. All libraries bring us the joy of books, but now in rural Viola, folks can simply stop by, pick a book or a treasure, and keep going. Honk if you do!

Good Neighbors: Always & Nowadays

My parents said, “Be a good neighbor.” I’m your neighbor. Ow, my neck still hurts. The world news is horrifying. We’re on the 26th day of a government shutdown. The local pantry doesn’t have enough food. People who receive SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) benefits will be hungry.

Tossing restlessly in my bed covers, I sit up. It’s dark out, and the dogs are still sleeping. I look at the clock: 4:30 a.m. I fall back in bed and this train wreck of thoughts continues until suddenly my mind shifts to Tamsen.

Tamsen stands on the bridge near Bloomindale on some Wednesday afternoons, sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend who lives nearby. She carries a sign that reads “Compassion.”

Sometimes people wave, honk, or stop to chat. Some want to know what she’s up to, while others just want to say hello. Her message of compassion is always important, but especially nowadays.

Lately many of us feel our bodies are tied in knots—hip pain, back pain, shoulder pain, neck pain. Tension is running rampant in our country.

Roughly 1.4 million federal workers won’t be paid come November 1st. You don’t have to look far to know someone whose family will be affected. Look out your window, talk to the person next to you at the gas station, or go to your local dump and start a conversation.

The US unemployment rate is the highest it’s been since October 2021, when it hit 4.5%. At that time, the country was recovering from the pandemic. Today it’s at 4.3%.

I force myself up, slip on some clothes, and head down the stairs to start the day. My head is still spinning with thoughts that keep coming back to Tamsen standing on the bridge, and to my Dad, who drilled into me the importance of being a good neighbor—a good person.

When I was a little girl and played daily with the neighborhood children, Renée started acting weird, like wearing a jacket in summer. As children, we laughed. But Dad explained to me that she had been diagnosed with leukemia; the sadness in his voice scared me. He had me color pictures for her, and Mom made food for the family. Later their house was always dark and I hardly ever saw Renée’s parents or her older brother. Renée had died, but the lesson of compassionate action stayed with me.

The Trump administration recently told state officials that there will be insufficient funds to pay November SNAP benefits. This directly affects Wisconsin’s FoodShare program and our food banks. According to Governor Evers, 700,000 Wisconsinites will have reduced access to food and other groceries. Some of our neighbors won’t be able to feed their families this winter.

Here in the Driftless region, our local food banks are already suffering because of this administration's federal funding cuts. What can we do? How can we help? These thoughts turn over and over again as I put on a brace to give my neck some relief.

Is the message of compassion enough, I wonder? Many of us have been supporting our local pantries with leftover produce, nonperishable food, or monetary donations. Recently, I learned that being a good neighbor means more than food help. A large group of community members attended a local school board meeting to support a family whose child was being bullied. The family was grateful, and I reminded myself that I was also there to support the school board members because we know how stressful and potentially divisive these situations can be.

I noticed Tamsen sitting in the front row. Later, she reminded me: “That’s what community looks like.”

Practicing compassion at a time when our neighbors may be hungry, worried about their Medicare benefits, or facing job jeopardy is a good way to be a good neighbor. If I move from compassion to action, it may make a difference.

Governor Evers stated, “I can’t just do it by myself.” He went on to say that it appears unlikely the state will step in to cover the costs of these programs in the short term. Any funding would require the approval of the Republican-controlled legislature.

What does being a good neighbor look like to you? I’m trying to gather my courage for an idea inspired by Tamsen. On dump day, I’d like to set up a table adorned with free books, pumpkins, long-lasting foods, and treasures. I’ll put up a sign that reads, “We’re all neighbors here!”

Evers can’t do it alone, I can’t do it alone, nor can Tamsen, but together we can do it. And isn’t that what community looks like?

(Call 211 to ask about food sources near you.)

All Aboard!

All Aboard!

“We’re trainees now,” I proudly whispered to Dane as we stood, legs braced, hands touching the walls of the Empire Builder, waiting for the train to stop. I’d appropriated the term to mean we’re now experienced Amtrak travelers.

After almost five full days of train travel, we feel we’ve learned the basics and know a few tricks to share.

First and foremost, never open the train door, even after a complete stop. Only the conductor may do that. This seemed like a no-brainer to us, but not to the gentleman ahead of us as we neared the Minot, North Dakota, train depot. The conductor chewed him out so thoroughly that I was about to cry, “Stop, just beat him,” thinking it may have been more humane than the public verbal thrashing he was receiving.

And don’t even think of entering the dining car unless you’re an elite passenger spending a small fortune for a sleeper car designed for people the size of hamsters with the flexibility of an octopus. Meals come with that pricey sleeper ticket, as does the privilege of booking your dining times. Coach riders need to wait by the door to be seated if there’s availability, and then only four people at a time. If you’d like a dining car meal, we’d recommend the $20 breakfast and skipping the more expensive lunch ($25) and dinner ($45 per person).

One benefit of eating in the dining car is making friends with your random tablemates. Another is the chance to load up on as many beverages as you can drink or carry away. Our no-nonsense waitress granted us each a coffee, a bottle of water, and a can of ginger ale before saying enough is enough.

An alternative to the dining car is the “café” on the lower level, with hours and rules that seemed to depend on whoever was running it. I learned on the way to Seattle not to touch anything but to point and ask; on the way home, not to point but to go and get the food I wanted to purchase; not to ask bothersome questions like “Where’s the cream”; and always to wear shoes. You can get away with being shoeless on the upper level of the train, but not in the café.

The best buys by far in the train café are the Asian noodle bowl, with its fresh and crispy red pepper and cabbage, and the Greek salad.

You can save money and get more nutritional bang for your buck by packing a small cooler and bringing it with you. We packed two and intentionally left one on a busy street in Seattle, loaded with cheese, sausage, crackers, and grapes. With many hungry people on the street, it was gone by the time we reached the corner coffee shop.

I was often scolded on the train, much to Dane’s amusement, for asking questions the personnel felt I should already know. In one of those conversations, I learned that the observation car we’d been enjoying all day would depart the train after midnight. If we’d stayed in that car, we’d have wound up in Portland with our luggage in Seattle!

To save money, we recommend skipping the sleeper car. Also, the sooner you book your tickets, the cheaper they are. Our round-trip coach tickets from La Crosse to Seattle were under $200 each, far cheaper than driving. Unlike at an airport, there’s free parking, and instead of the stress of navigating unfamiliar roads, you can do your work, play games, read a book, or even sleep...if you’re able.

Dane had no problem curling up and falling asleep in the seat. I tossed and turned until I discovered the observation car chairs were easier to get comfortable in. A neck pillow is a must, as are a light blanket and an eye mask. Earplugs might be helpful, too, but not if you want to harmonize with a group of Amish people singing, clapping, and playing the harmonica well past sunset.

I loved learning that at seven depots along the route, the passengers were allowed to get off, stretch their legs, and get some fresh air. In Minot, an enterprising woman has set up a coffee trailer called the Daily Buzz in an empty lot near the station. By the time we walked over, there was a long line, but it was worth the wait for a steaming cup of chai tea and some exercise.

We haven’t even been home for a week, and we’re already looking into tickets for Glacier Park, Montana. If we buy them now for next year, they’re $100 round-trip. Well worth it for another great train adventure.

All aboard!

Rainless in Seattle

Rainless in Seattle

From the start, Dane wanted to go on a train trip for our honeymoon. After learning that Glacier Park, our first choice, might be closed due to snow, we settled on Seattle. Dane had been there before, loved the city, and was eager to show me around. We couldn’t wait to be together near the sea. But he also warned me that Seattle is wet, so I packed my rain jacket, rain hat, and umbrella in the outside pocket of my carry-on.

We hopped on the train in La Crosse on Tuesday evening and arrived in Seattle Thursday afternoon, ripe with train sweat. We took a taxi from King Street Station to our hotel, but when the driver dropped us off at a skyscraper, we knew we were at the wrong place. He’d mistaken our hotel's name, ACE, for the Marriott’s AC Hotel, so back in the cab we went for another wild ride through the busy streets.

The brick ACE Hotel at the corner of 1st Avenue and Wall Street offers a great view of the ocean. The room was cozy and perfect in every way, except that the hot water wasn’t working. The staff were kind when explaining about plumbing and old buildings. Anxious to get out and see Seattle, Dane only splashed the water halfheartedly on himself as I howled and immersed myself in a cold-water plunge.

Holding hands, we stepped out jacketless into a glorious, sunshiny late afternoon. We headed toward Pike Place Market, where Dane bought a colorful shirt. We ate a late lunch/early dinner at a Thai restaurant; took in a tourist attraction called Wings Over Washington, highly recommended by the hotel staff; boarded the Bainbridge Island ferry to take in the sunset; and rode the famous Seattle Great Wheel.

Wings Over Washington is a thrilling state-of-the-art flying-simulation theater that had both of us gripping our seats. I don’t think we were ever more than a foot off the ground, but the illusion of flight was so strong that Dane kept gripping his backpack, afraid it would fall out!

The ferry ride wasn’t at all what I expected. Unlike the small boats that ferry us to Washington Island, this was a massive floating kingdom with multiple floors, restaurants, plush seating, gift shops, and elevators and escalators.

As we’d anticipated, once the sun set, the evening skyline was aglow with lights of every color reflecting off the calm waters of Elliott Bay. After disembarking, we headed to Seattle’s Great Wheel and rode in one of the gondolas, marveling at the gorgeous evening and how warm it still was.

By the time we got back to the hotel, we were exhausted and thankful for hot showers before bed.

For the next few days we played tourist, starting with a visit to the Seattle Aquarium. We spent most of a day immersed in the brilliance of Dale Chihuly’s glass art, enjoying the outdoor garden, restaurant, and a theater where we watched a glassblowing demonstration. We also toured the Museum of Pop Culture, but weren’t able to see it all before it closed.

Our friends Cynthia and Chris had given us a gift certificate for the woman-owned Elliott Bay bookstore. As soon as we walked in, Dane went one way and I the other. Later, our arms full, we checked out with huge smiles on our faces.

On our last day in Seattle, we took a slow walk through the parks and along the bay, ending up back near Pike Place Market. For lunch, we decided on Beecher’s Handmade Cheese café, where we each had their signature salmon mac and cheese and shared a tuna melt.

After walking more than 25 miles in just three days, we were ready to sit back and relax on Amtrak’s Empire Builder. As we sat in the observation car, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows, we felt like we were watching a moving art show. We appreciated the seven stops between Seattle and La Crosse where we could get off, stretch our legs, and get some fresh air.

The last of those stops was in Minneapolis, where we eagerly headed for the coffee shop at the train station, since the train served only instant coffee. I spied a lovely bookstore with a sign that cautioned us not to let the resident cat out. Dane and I spent way too much time inside, browsing the books and petting the cat, and missed our train.

This gave us a few extra hours to wander around Minneapolis as we waited for a commuter train (the Borealis) to take us home. Thankfully, our luggage was there waiting for us. My rain jacket, rain hat, and umbrella had never left the pocket where I’d put them.

A New Journey

A New Journey

The day before our wedding, I called Dane to see how many words his vows were. “120 words,” he answered.

Mine were already over 900! I got busy cutting, and Dane got busy doing whatever grooms do the day before their wedding.

My daughter, Jessica, was here to help me with wedding errands and to celebrate her 49th birthday. We went for manicures and pedicures, then out to eat, and picked up my wedding outfit. Back at my place, we hung it on the shower curtain and I put a note on the door: “Stay out. This means you, Dane!” He and I had agreed on a few simple traditions: to separately write our own vows, not to show or tell him what I’d be wearing, and not to see each other before the ceremony on the day of the wedding.

We’d done our homework: programs and complimentary bookmarks were designed and printed, Dane had assembled the books that had brought us together, and the cobalt blue vases we’d collected for over a year were on the tables at Sittin’ Pretty Farm, filled with gorgeous flowers.

I had put together a slide show of our 19 years together, including our first two years of “non-dating” when I was reluctant to commit to the idea of actually dating. The Jaynes family had prepared a wonderful charcuterie spread, while professional photographer friend Richard and his wife Valorie had set up shop to take pictures. Steve, the proprietor of Sittin’ Pretty, was cooking up a storm, and Laura had delivered an assortment of individual cheesecakes.

On wedding day morning, I had time to lie on the back deck and read, although my focus was shot; Dane later mentioned he’d felt the same way.

As the ceremony was about to begin, I hid behind a window and watched the guests arrive.

Dane and I had created a cheat sheet for Kristina, our officiant. Right on cue, as Bob Dylan’s song “Buckets of Rain” started to play, my rat terrier Finnegan, sporting a tuxedo bandana, walked me down the aisle.

As Finn’s babysitter, Maureen, took him from me, Dane walked up the aisle to join me. Together we lit a candle in honor of our parents, my sister and brother, and my granddaughter Helena, who were deceased or unable to join us that day.

Kristina led everyone in reading a short wedding blessing written by James Dillet Freeman. Then Dane read the passage “On Marriage” from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, and I read an excerpt from The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman.

When Kristina read us the declaration of intent, I answered, “I do,” and Dane answered, “I will.” Next Dane read me his vows, and although I told a story or two as I read him mine, I had trimmed it from 900 words to 256, while Dane’s had increased to 133.

Dane’s vows included these words: “I will work to create with you a marriage grounded in kindness and compassion toward one another, and together toward our fellow creatures, and to share in your sense of wonder at the large and small graces of this world.” He also used one of our favorite quotes from William Blake: “For every thing that lives is holy,” which we’d printed on the bookmarks for our guests.

When it was my turn, I shared a story from an early disastrous backpacking trip. We’d not only finished the trip but had plenty of laughs, a good sign that our relationship might work.

Then I slowed down and read Dane my vows, saying in part, “I love our shared faith in the holiness of all things, along with our mutual gratitude and respect for not only each other but all others.”

We kissed, and Kristina introduced us as Dane Thompson and Jane Thompson Schmidt. Our celebration song, “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles),” by The Proclaimers, blared out, and flash dancers popped out of the audience while Dane and I held hands for the first time as husband and wife.

But we weren’t quite done! In the receiving line afterwards, our friend Ron mentioned, “You forgot to exchange rings!” We’d had our rings made years ago and had of course brought them with us, but we’d accidently left that part off of Kristina’s cheat sheet! Those who were still in the receiving line watched as we placed the rings on each other’s fingers and kissed again.

Now, two days later, we’re getting ready to settle into our seats on the Empire Builder for our first train trip to Seattle, and begin the long, new journey of marriage.

Game on!

Game on!

My brother Jack and I once had a contest to see who could jump rope the longest without missing. Just thinking about that grueling challenge exhausts me now. He won!

Remembering the family ping-pong games that took place in our basement makes me smile. We kept track on a chart: Dad played my brother, the winner played my sister, and then the winner of that match would play me. Sometimes I’d win, and often I’d lose, as the list kept changing.

My life has always been full of play and games: board games, card games, and active games. My childhood included Hi Ho Cherry-O, Crazy Eights, Chinese checkers, and Monopoly. Later our family graduated to blackjack, Jarts, Yahtzee, Shut the Box, Scrabble, badminton, ping-pong, and baseball.

Play and games followed me into elementary school, where they became important, too. Each day, I’d watch the clock, eager for recess time, when we could play tetherball, four square, and red rover.

In the evenings and on weekends, I’d meet up with the neighborhood gang for red light green light, freeze tag, and baseball. Once, my neighbor Tommy and I smacked into each other so hard during red light, green light that I had to go to the hospital, where they packed my nose to make it stop bleeding and told me not to pick it. It never looked quite the same after that. Playing hard can do that to a person!

My dad set up an old backstop in the field next door, mowed a path, and set out lawn chair pads for bases. It was a hit, and we played often. The teams seemed about even, as far as who won and who lost.

I come from a long line of game players. On my dad’s side, it was horseshoes and croquet. We played them both as a family, but not nearly as much as my dad told us he had when he was younger. I’m not sure if my mom’s family played many games. Maybe not, because she only joined us in ping-pong, never Jarts, and she got mad when we played blackjack. She didn’t like us playing poker either—something to do with gambling, I remember her saying.

As soon as my daughter Jessica was old enough, she and I continued the Schmidt family tradition of playing games together. We enjoyed stackable blocks, Old Maid, Chutes and Ladders, memory games, Operation, Simon Says, and a battery-operated gizmo where we had to quickly put plastic shapes into the correct spots before a buzzer went off.

The tradition continued when my daughter had her own children. New Year's Eve was a favorite time, filled with laughter over wild games of spoons, charades, and Wii video dancing games.

When Dane and I started dating, we started playing games, too. We’d set up the badminton net in my backyard, and Raime, my border collie, would track our every move. If we missed, Raime would snatch the birdie, and it would take a while before we’d get it back, sloppy from his drool.

Several board games—Othello, Battleship, Scrabble, Jenga, and Rummikub—became our standbys for quite a while. Outdoor games, in addition to badminton, have included a rustic variation of ping-pong (hitting a ball back and forth with wooden paddles) and what we call “Bags” (we refuse to call it cornhole). Dane always wins when we play Bags, and I usually beat him at Othello. We even have miniature game sets that we pack along on backpacking and camping trips.

We’re always happy to engage with our friends in play too. Years ago, it was a special treat to visit the Martins' house for a fish fry with the blue gills Roger had caught, and afterwards play dominoes.

During COVID, we burned out on our games and started making ojos de dios (“God’s eyes”) with twigs and yarn and doing puzzles. But we never veered too far off the gaming path.

Recently, we’ve spent hours creating a game for our wedding guests. Whether they’ll participate is anyone’s guess, but for us, our long-standing tradition of playing games will continue. I like to think we’ll have many years to play our favorite games and learn new ones. And for now, with our upcoming marriage, we both consider ourselves winners.

Soon There Will Be Snow

Soon There Will Be Snow

Only weeks ago, we could still see the field across the street at bedtime, and the donkeys grazing in the back pasture. But our hemisphere of the Earth is tilting away from the sun, making the daylight shorter. The air is crisp and often chilly, a stark contrast to just a month ago when it felt like walking through a car wash.

Soon we’ll witness the donkeys' short, sleek coats growing out and serving as a down jacket for the colder months of winter.

Louisa the pig, who has only a few sweat glands, shed her coat early this summer to keep herself cooler. She looks like a bald man with a comb-over, but instead of just her head, it’s her whole body. Her pink skin glistens in the sunlight. Soon her hair, too, will fill in to keep her warm. And the same with the goats, the dogs, and even the cats.

I’ll start hanging my trusty old sweatshirt in the mudroom to grab for early morning chores. Within the month, as the temperatures drop, I’ll add my barn jacket.

It’s bedtime, and as I’m reflecting on the changes in the light and the temperature, the dogs start barking. Please don’t let it be an opossum or a skunk. Last weekend, when I was away and Dane was here, Ruben tussled with an unlucky opossum in the yard. This time last year, it was a skunk, and Ruben, Dane, and I were the unlucky ones.

Tonight, not wanting to deal with either situation, Dane peeks out the door and says, “Donkey.”

I’m surprised but also glad there won’t be any smell involved.

The headlamp by the door needs batteries, so I take my phone and use its flashlight instead. Dane, making sure the dogs stay in the house, sneaks out the front door with me.

It’s Carlos! “Hey, buddy, what are you doing out here in the yard?”

He’s outside the fence and only a few feet from the road. I call him over as Dane, and I slip through the gate. We walk and talk softly, and Carlos rubs his long, soft nose against my hand. With his gentle nudge, he seems to say, “Help. I’m not where I should be.”

As I talk to him, Dane opens the gate that leads to the backyard. I start walking through, and Carlos follows along like the best dog ever. Dane walks ahead and opens the gate that leads back into the donkeys’ pasture. Carlos must have walked through the woods, along the outside of the fence, to the front yard.

As we let him back in, I start calling for Diego, my other donkey. The two are always together, but now he’s nowhere I can see. My heart sinks, but I work at regulating my breathing and trying to stay calm. Dane has headed back to the house.

I hear a loud exhale, and although I still can’t see him, I know it’s Diego. He’s on the other side of the creek that runs through their pasture.

As I wait, calling his name, petting and reassuring Carlos, I finally see the outline of his body. His feet splash in the water, and he walks confidently up to Carlos and me and pushes Carlos in the side, as if to say, “Hey, don’t do that anymore. I was alone and afraid.”

The two of them mosey away, and I head up to the house. In the morning, Dane walks the electric fence, finds three breaks, and repairs them. We think they may have been caused by a yearling deer that likes to visit.

Imagine our surprise the following night when Ruben again goes bananas. I come down from the bedroom upstairs, grab the light, and sure enough, there’s Carlos—in the driveway this time, with one foot on the porch step, in front of the gate. Is he trying to get in?!

I slip my bare feet into my rubber farm boots and open the gate. Once again, I lead and Carlos follows.

And once again, I can’t see Diego in the dark at first, but eventually I do. This time, after making sure they're both tucked in for the night, I stay in the yard, turn off the flashlight, and marvel at the night sky.

In the morning, while I teach class, Dane walks the fence again and makes another repair, but the fence is still not hot. He finally tracks the problem to a corroded connection. After fixing it and confirming that the fence works, Dane heads home.

Tonight, I go to bed knowing the donkeys are safe. They won’t be getting out again anytime soon—but if they do, like the best dogs ever, they’ll follow me wherever I lead.

Soon there will be snow.

Can’t Sit Still

Can’t Sit Still

“Hey, Dane, come here,” I called from my office the other morning. “It’s okay—I’m doing the five-minute meditation.”

I’ve recently added a five-minute sit time after every online exercise class I lead. I simply set the timer, turn off the camera and mic, and let people breathe, meditate, or whatever they choose. Knowing how tension can affect our necks, buttocks, and backs, I figured this was smart for all of us, not just me.

As he entered, Dane said, “Doesn’t look like it.”

He was right. The word meditation implies that a person is being still and silent. Not only was I talking, but I was also focused on a slew of small pieces of paper with names written on them. I was designing the seating chart for the guests at our wedding dinner.

It’s hard because it’s a small wedding. Having lived in this cozy community and led local classes for two decades, I’d be inclined to invite everyone I know. But I’m not, because Dane wouldn’t tolerate that.

My daughter helped me narrow the list down: “Mom, only invite people you see regularly—people with whom you go out and who are actively involved in your life.”

“Who knew a wedding could be so stressful?” I said one day to my friend Lisa.

“I do,” she replied. She and Tim got married just five years ago and, like us, as older adults—no parents to help put on the wedding.

I’ve finally figured out what I want to wear, after changing my mind four times. Dane, on the other hand, bought his shirt within a month of us picking a date, bought his black Levis the next day, and has since bought a new belt and boots. He’ll be sparkling new, but I won’t. I’ll stick with a well-worn pair of boots that I know will be comfortable.

Yesterday I was arranging the seating cards again. “Midwest nice” doesn’t work at tables with fifteen people who know each other and a few who don’t. When I finished, I called Dane in to show him my master plan. “What do you think?” I asked him.

Before he could respond, the timer dinged. He looked sideways at me and said, “Were you supposed to be meditating?”

Yes. The key words were supposed to be.

“I got busy,” I explained, and together we checked out the seating plan.

When Dane went home, I hurried to La Crosse to get fitted for a wedding bra, only to discover that ever since COVID, the JCPenney salespeople no longer measure customers to assist with proper fit. Left alone in a foaming sea of bras, I felt like I was drowning.

On the way home, I met Dane and we signed the final legal papers, then went to the courthouse for our appointment to obtain our marriage license.

Today, at the end of my class, after inviting folks to stay for the five-minute sit, I set the timer, turned off my microphone and camera, and stripped off my clothes to start getting ready for my next appointment. I slipped out the back door buck naked and went to the basement to get the bra I bought yesterday out of the dryer.

Before going back inside, I noticed the dogs’ water bowls were empty, so I filled them, grabbed the bra and a pair of pants, and went back into the house to get dressed.

I had forgotten I was meditating with my class.

Rushing to the computer, I turned on the audio, thanked whoever was still there, and closed the call. But in my haste I hit the camera button by mistake, and suddenly saw myself on the screen, crouching down in my birthday suit, trying desperately to turn off the camera and turn on the sound.

It wasn’t pretty, and I had only enough time to notice that two people were still in the Zoom room. I hoped they had fallen asleep and didn’t see the whole show.

Someday soon I’ll relax and breathe again. Dane mentioned he can’t eat these days due to a nervous stomach. He had to get his shirt taken in because, as he put it, he had shrunk. He also went and bought new Levis in a smaller size. I, on the other hand, had to size up.

Our new mantra is, “We’ll relax when we’re on the train.” Our honeymoon can't come soon enough.