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!

Swifties!

Mineral Point Hotel

Swifties!

My friend Sally and I recently made a joint decision and purchased tickets to “Fearless: A Tribute to Taylor” at the Mineral Point Opera House.

Neither of us was familiar with Taylor Swift’s music. We’d heard some hype about her dating an NFL player, but neither of us watches football. All we knew was that we’d be staying overnight at the Mineral Point Hotel and that our options, after a day of browsing the fine art shops, were either bowling in Dodgeville or attending the concert.

After booking our tickets, I began watching Taylor Swift videos, hoping to learn more about her music and her fans.

I learned that her passionate, loyal fans, called Swifties, are a widely diverse group that includes all ages and backgrounds. They’re also known to trade friendship bracelets at her concerts. Soon I was to learn more.

We checked into the hotel and walked across the street for dinner. Soon, the tables began to fill up. There were fathers with their young daughters in sparkly outfits, mothers and daughters wearing cowboy hats and white boots, and tables of mid-30s gals dressed as if for a fancy party. Sally and I might have been the oldest at the restaurant and, aside from a father or two, the only ones in jeans.

After dinner, we walked up High Street during a gentle snowfall, marveling at all the cars. Earlier in the day, the streets had been empty. Now both sides of the road were packed, and cars were driving slowly, looking for parking.

Suddenly, the streets came alive with children calling out to each other, parents telling their kids to walk, not run, and friends shouting and waving across the street to people they were meeting.

As we neared the Opera House, groups of folks were having their pictures taken under the lighted marquee. Sally and I attempted a selfie but managed to capture only our faces, or just the marquee and the tops of our heads. One child, spying her teacher, quickly skirted around us and the two began trading friendship bracelets.

Indoors, the lobby was buzzing, and the balcony where we sat felt like it was moving as people scurried about. Kids carried glow sticks, glowing butterflies, and what looked like flashlights with pom-pom-like strings that flashed when shaken. The excitement was contagious!

Our balcony had its own tiny dance floor. It was a raised platform with only three seats, and the one next to me remained empty. The rest of the theater was almost full. The noise grew deafening as the seats filled and everyone’s enthusiasm soared.

The theater darkened, the stage lights came on, and six band members walked out and took their places. Next came Taylor—actually a Taylor impersonator—wearing high black boots and a black minidress with sequins and fringe. The crowd stood and roared, and imitation Taylor started singing.

At first, I thought there was an echo, but I soon realized it was her fans singing. We were amazed that they knew all the words while we struggled to understand a few. But that didn’t stop us from joining in!

We stood with the crowd, clapped, shouted the few words we did recognize (“Shame, shame, shame”), and danced! The music was energizing, and the singer did a bang-up job without a break. The fans were up on their feet, swooning and swaying for almost every song.

A few parents ushered their children out, with the children covering their ears. Later, we figured this must have been their first concert, and it could easily have been overwhelming.

We enjoyed watching a group of three younger mothers, all dressed up, perform synchronized dance movements to many of the songs. How did they know what to do? It looked like they were having a blast, as did the whole theater. Even older folks who seemed to be around our age were up on their feet, holding their phone flashlights up, waving their arms back and forth as the night went on.

I can’t imagine what the cost would be for a real Taylor Swift concert, but Sally and I felt the twenty-dollar ticket price was more than reasonable for the amount of fun we had.

After the concert, we walked arm in arm down High Street back to our hotel. We had smiles on our faces and anticipated we’d sleep well. We were exhausted from a long day in which we’d honored our decades-long friendship and taken a chance on attending a concert where neither of us knew the artist.

Yes, we’d do it all again!

Salvador, The Lover Boy!

Salvador, the Lover Boy

Sal, short for Salvador, is under Dane’s desk in the kitchen, loving up Rupert.

When Sal first came to live here, he had a young friend with him, a little gray tabby we named Ivan. Even Dane, who is used to coming over and seeing new furry or feathered friends here, was shocked. “Two kittens?” he questioned, already smitten and down on the floor with them both.

“Yes, it’s a long story.” They always are, I thought.

The short version is that Finnegan, my rat terrier mix, and I participated in a pet fair at the Driftless Humane Society (DHS) and somehow adopted an adorable black-and-white kitty. As we were leaving, the organizers called out, “Two for one today,” so I turned around, went back, and got baby Ivan, who’d been snuggling with Sal.

Ivan was sickly from the get-go, and despite the best efforts of the DHS and the local vet, we eventually decided the best thing for him was to rest in peace. Without Ivan to nurture, Sal started caring for the two cats who were here before him and the two that came after. He’s a real lover boy!

This morning, as Sal intently licks every part of Rupert’s face, the crystals that hang in front of the windows behind him are casting rainbows on the wall. As I watch the rainbows dance, a beam of sunlight moves across the kitchen floor in front of Dane’s desk, like a spotlight, and if I listen carefully, I can hear the faint scratching sound of Sal’s rough pink tongue on Rupert’s thick orange fur.

I should be working, but I’m transfixed, one hand on my chest, a smile on my face.

When this loving bath is done, Sal jumps onto the kitchen counter, uses his white-tipped paws to straddle the sink, and licks any drops of water that may linger in the faucet. Rupert contentedly ambles to the front door, sits as close as he can get, and stretches up, reaching for the doorknob. If he had opposable thumbs, he’d already be outside.

Watching Sal love up Rupert was soul-lifting. However, Merlin, who was a replacement kitty from the DHS after Ivan left this world, has become Sal’s closest friend and confidant. It’s not unusual to see Sal first wash each of Merlin’s gunky eyes (yes, they have been vet-checked), then lick the inside of each of his ears, and, exhausted (it must be hard work), spoon against Merlin and fall asleep. I never tire of the contrast: Merlin, seventeen pounds of unkempt white fluff (daily brushing required), and eight pounds of sleek, soft and shiny Salvador, with his clear green eyes.

Leo, the youngest, jumped on the counter yesterday, and Sal immediately sauntered over, put his chin to his chest, leaned in, and rubbed his head on the side of Leo’s face. It was a gentle, almost romantic-looking motion. But Leo, who doesn’t have an issue with Sal rubbing or licking him, isn’t interested in taking a nap with him—not like good ol’ Merlin is!

Besides “lover boy,” we also refer to Sal as our “stowaway cat” for his habit of hiding under the bed or in another secluded corner when the rest of the cats go in and out. Sal’s preference is to stay inside and greet each cat as they come and go, with licks and an affectionate head rub. At bedtime, Sal emerges from his hiding place, hops up on the bed near my head, and rubs his soft fur on my cheek. Sal reminds me that love is love, no matter your species, size, or coloring.

Sal is the middle cat here, between two younger cats and two older ones. I told Dane that for all the loving Sal gives out, he doesn’t get much back. It’s not that we ignore him; it’s more that we end up staring in awe. His face washings and head rubs are something to behold. If you can stop what you’re doing, sit quietly, and watch while he’s loving on one of his friends, your heart rate and blood pressure will drop. And because he has this effect on us, we’re not jumping in to pet him. We’d rather not break up his loving routine.

I’m going to make sure Sal gets a special can of wet food tonight as a treat. Sal’s a real blessing to have living with us. We can learn a lot from his selfless actions. Tonight I got a foot rub from Dane, and tomorrow I’ll cut Dane’s hair. No licking required—but we might do the head rub!

Irish Ridge

Miller’s Dented Discounts

Irish Ridge

When you don’t live with your husband, and you both have jobs with different hours, time together is precious. So most Tuesdays, after I teach an online class, Dane and I make a little trip together.

We’ll take the dogs for a walk, run any chores that need to be done (grocery shopping, bank, post office), and then we’ll head on up to Irish Ridge. The sun is out today, making it a good day for Amish shopping!

The winding drive from the valley where I live to the ridgetop is spectacular, with plenty of farms and animals, Amish buggies, and the delightful sight of children at the Amish one-room school playing at recess. The views alone are worth the trip, but we also appreciate the money we’ll save there. With grocery prices steadily increasing over the past year, we’ve had to be more conscious of what we buy and how much we pay.

We often stop first at Irish Ridge Sales (S977 Irish Ridge Road). It’s on the south side of Irish Ridge and looks like a typical Amish home, but you’ll notice a small sign and many cars and buggies pulling in and out.

This store has every farm, garden, and animal product you’ll need. Above the checkout counter is a large sign listing the current offerings and prices. Everything they sell is on display, but if it’s a cloudy day, you might want to bring a headlamp to read labels; there are no electric lights in an Amish store. Dane loves the collection of gloves, from winter gloves to waterproof gloves to his everyday chore gloves. He gets them all there and saves money.

For me, getting the big blocks of sawdust for my Duck Hall here makes sense. They absorb better than the chips I’d been using, plus I save a few dollars per bag. The same with my duck feed, sunflower seeds, and cracked corn.

Next, we drive farther east and pull into the large parking lot of the Scenic View Bulk store (E11817 Irish Ridge Road). Here I load up on cinnamon, chia seeds, walnuts, dried beans, boxes of stick matches, Spanish peanuts for Dane, and even soap! Their homemade bars of soap are a $1.50 each and smell terrific. Our favorites are lavender, milk & honey, and spearmint. We have a stack of bars in the bathroom cupboard, and they make the whole bathroom smell nice. I also like getting their pink Himalayan salt and bulk Epsom salts.

Look for the three large wooden cooler doors to the right of the cash register for the best pepper jack cheese you've ever had. The big bricks of butter, which we slice into four sticks when we get home, are worth the trip in themselves.

During the warmer months, there’s a bakery next door, open on Fridays and Saturdays. Get there early! There’s often a line out the door, winding into the parking lot. We took my family there the day before our wedding. After that visit, daughter-in-law Natalie kept saying, “This is the best day of my life!” Yep. The donuts, pies, and baked goods are fresh, sweet, and inexpensive.

Miller’s Dented Discounts (490 Miller Road) is next. Watch for the white sign on the north side of Irish Ridge Road and turn into their long gravel driveway. Stop when you see the cars, buggies, and porta-potties.

Grab a cart and take your time. We’re always amazed at the abundant sweets, like Super Sugar Crisp, Hershey’s chocolate bars, Payday, and Reese’s peanut butter cups, as well as every type of cookie, chip, and cracker you can imagine. But we go right to the canned cat food, just $0.35 a can, and the bags of Blue Buffalo dog food and other big brands for less than half the price of the bigger stores.

Other great deals include packages of toilet paper, dish soap, nuts, and even Benny and Joon’s favorite brand of bird seed. Hidden among the convenience products of instant Quaker oatmeal and boxes of Life cereal are gems like cortisol cream, Crest toothpaste, Diamond roasted almonds, and Undercover dark chocolate quinoa crisps.

It’s all a matter of luck with Millers. I’ve tried going on different days of the week, thinking I’d get there when a big truckload of goods was delivered, but there seems to be no rhythm or reason; the choices are simply better some days than others. Miller’s produce store and greenhouses are currently closed for the season.

Every day is a good day on Irish Ridge, but don’t try to shop on a Thursday (when they’re closed for weddings and funerals) or on a Sunday.

Inside Miller’s Dented Discounts

Midwinter Mineral Point Getaway

Mineral Point Hotel

Brewery Pottery Barn

Mineral Point Hotel

Mineral Point Midwinter Getaway

Go ahead and pack an overnight bag. Mineral Point, Wisconsin, is a nearby destination with plenty to do. Or come along with us!

For starters, we suggest scheduling your room at the Mineral Point Hotel. There are five guest rooms, all with great beds; a few rooms have claw-foot tubs for a long soak, and my favorite room has a reading nook.

The two-story hotel, built in 1857, has a stone foundation and was once a steam flour mill. Upon entering the hotel, you’ll be impressed with its upkeep and attention to 19th-century style. We love that it’s conveniently located in town. Once we check in, we park the car and enjoy walking.

We usually stay in Mineral Point when we discover a band we’d like to see at the Mineral Point Opera House. Recently, we had tickets to see the People’s Brothers Band, an energetic 8-piece soul, funk, and R&B group. We enjoy sitting in the box seats where we have a bird’s-eye view of the stage.

In addition to the Opera House, we also like to visit a few other places when we first arrive in town. Brewery Pottery is our anticipated first stop. The store is located in an old 1850s limestone brewery. Tom and Diane Johnston, with their daughter Claire, live upstairs and make all the pottery you’ll see.

On our most recent visit, on a below-zero winter Saturday, Diane, who’s working with clay downstairs, tells us how their furnace went out the night before. Luckily, they found someone who came right over to fix it. Once you see how enormous their place is and hear them tell you about all their wood stoves, you’ll get a better idea of what they were up against.

Every time we pull up to Brewery Pottery, one of us comments on the building. It seems so gigantic, and we’d love to get a tour of all the nooks and crannies someday. Be prepared to spend an hour or two as you mosey through the store looking at one-of-a-kind art, jewelry, and paintings, as well as their lovely pottery!

Because we like walking and art, we like to visit the Board Shoppe, Longbranch Gallery, and the Little Elk Art Gallery. On our most recent visit, we talked to Longbranch’s owner, Sandy Scott, about an artist’s work that we’re familiar with from the Driftless Art Fair, Jamie Heiden. Although we’re tempted, we don’t end up walking out with one of her new prints this time.

Before heading back to the motel, we walk up hill to Republic of Letters and spend an hour looking through their new and used books.

Back at the hotel, we climb the stairs to our room, hop up on the king-sized bed, sink in, and try to nap. It’s already been a full day, and we’re both bushed. But when we can’t settle (having just learned of Alex Pretti’s death in Minneapolis), we decide to get out our blue velvet pouch of Rummikub and play our traditional two-out-of-three matches.

The room’s windows overlook the town, and the room has darkened, signaling it’s time to get cleaned up and head over to Popolo for dinner. Once bundled up, we hop across the street and get seated immediately. Although Popolo is known for its wood-fired pizzas, we have yet to try one. Dane enjoys their classic lasagna, while I like the cheese tortellini. We both get salads that are generous enough to split!

The band will start at 7 p.m., so we slip back into our winter jackets and hike up High Street to the theater. Once inside, we head up the stairs to our box seats and get comfortable for the show.

A highlight of these quick midwinter getaway trips is walking back to the hotel after the show. There’s the hustle and bustle of people spilling out of the warm Opera House, excited after a show, the lights and otherwise quaint charm of Mineral Point’s historic downtown, and it’s all downhill to the hotel.

Dane punches in the door code, and we’re quickly enveloped by the warmth of the hotel. We wander over to the “breakfast” nook, where a coffee maker and a good assortment of tea are always ready, along with boxes of delicious croissants and Danishes to choose from.

In the morning, we take one more short walk back up the hill on High Street to our favorite breakfast spot, Café 43, housed in a large brownstone building. Both of us order the Miner’s Breakfast—Dane’s with eggs scrambled, mine over easy—and we grab a table next to the fireplace. We love the ripe, fresh berries and fruit that accompany our meal.

To finish off our weekend, we pack up and head over to Arcadia in Spring Green. Any weekend is better with a trip to this well-stocked independent bookstore.

Safe travels!

The Cats’ Meow!

The Cats’ Meow

“Hi! The cats are all stoned,” I tell Dane when he arrives on Friday night. “We should be able to play without any interference tonight.”

Friday nights mean two things at my house: Dane and I will be playing Rummikub, and we’ll be eating fish. Until now, it’s also meant that our game will get interrupted many times by our frisky feline family and, in turn, by Téte, the barking wonder dog.

Earlier today I made a trip to the Sweet Valley Artisans store in Coon Valley. It’s a long drive from rural Viola, but it’s worth it. Their catnip toys are the real deal, and my cats go crazy for them. On this trip, I bought four toys for four dollars each. Sixteen dollars is a cheap price to pay to spend a quiet games-and-dinner evening with my hubby. Yes, this is a well-thought-out catnip party intended to get them high so they’ll zonk out early and let us enjoy a peaceful evening of friendly competition and healthy food. Call PETA if you must! I make no apologies. Dane agrees it’s a brilliant plan.

The toys are 9-inch long catnip-filled tubes handmade from various types of printed fabric. I’m not certain if the crafters grow the catnip themselves, but it’s the only catnip my cat crew are interested in—in fact, obsessed with.

As soon as I arrived home from Coon Valley, I doled out the toys, a matching set of red, white, and pink fabrics in Valentine’s Day patterns. Maurice was curled up inside his bed on the counter, so I tucked his toy in with him. By the time I walked over to Dane’s desk to give Lorca a toy, Maurice had his cradled in his front paws and was licking it madly like a popsicle on a hot day.

Lorca nearly fell off the desk when he grabbed his catnip toy. I tossed the remaining two tubes into the snake pit of cats that were playing a brutal game of chase and tackle on the kitchen floor.

Now I’m getting dinner out of the oven. Tonight it’s lemon-roasted broccoli to which I’ll add a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese, then put a giant spoonful of brown rice on each plate and add a good-sized portion of Coho salmon.

Meanwhile, Dane is clearing off the kitchen island, removing the giant bowl of cat kibble, miscellaneous papers and books, and Merlin’s cat bed. He pushes the other cat bed, occupied by sleepy Maurice, to one side. Maurice is allowed to stay on the island counter when we play because he never moves much, and even less when he’s coming down from a catnip high.

While the fish cooks on the stove, the cats are meowing, causing Téte to bark, and there’s a battle raging for the two toys I threw on the floor. Dane gets out the dreaded spray bottle that all the cats and dogs here despise. Just seeing him holding it is enough to calm everyone down. Soon they’ll all be catnipped and quiet—at least the felines.

Next I remove the fish skin, cut it into three appropriately sized pieces, and toss them to the by-now-sitting-at-attention good dogs. Finny gets the tiniest piece, Téte the largest, and Ruben’s is somewhere in between. The toss is important—they snap it out of the air and swallow it whole. No sense holding on to it if you value your fingers.

Dane takes out the blue velvet pouch that holds the numbered Rummikub tiles. They clatter onto the counter top and scatter in all directions. We turn them all face down, place our hands on top of them, and move them like you would on a Ouija Board to mix them up, then proceed to play.

Dane starts off with the required 30 points to open the game. I don’t have enough points so I pick a piece from the pile, then tell him, “You go.” On his second turn Dane also has to pick a chip and says, “You go,” and this continues until we can start making moves: “You go,” “You go,” until it starts to sound like “Hugo, Hugo.”

Tonight we have a tie breaker, as Dane wins the first match and I win the second. We realize we haven’t had to stop the game to remove a cat, pick up any tiles they’ve knocked down to the floor, or even yell at Téte to get out of the garbage can that she knows holds the empty fish package.

I won’t brag about who won that last game, but I will about how well the catnip worked, giving us old newlyweds a much-needed quiet evening.

My Old Friend, Grief

2019

My Old Friend, Grief

There will be joy after grief. From experience, I know this to be true.

When my dad died at age 53, the shock was staggering. I’d just sat with him on the patio the evening before, and he was fine, enjoying his brandy Manhattan (easy on the vermouth) while my daughter, Jessica, played with the hose, intent on trying to water down Grandpa’s drink. Dad’s love had recently anchored me through the hardest time in my life, and he loved his little Jessica, who hadn’t even turned three yet.

Grief didn’t move on or magically disappear, but my life continued.

At the time, Jessica and I lived in a second-floor apartment, and coming home after work, or after picking up Jessica from school, or from an outing, climbing those stairs seemed a herculean task. There was a fog over the days that made them seem long and lonely. The heaviness of my dad’s death settled deep inside my body and stayed, making itself comfortable.

My family didn’t talk about Dad’s death. I didn’t know about support groups. Other than a compassionate boss who took me into her office after I started sobbing at my desk, I had no one to talk to about it. I was sent home from work, and there I stayed, unable to function without crying for three days, until I could return to my job.

I wonder about how our dad’s death affected my brother and sister. I carried Jack’s anger and blame that somehow “I killed him,” as my little daughter and I had moved three times in as many years, and each time, Dad had helped us get an old copper-colored Naugahyde sleeper sofa that seemed to weigh more than a semi-truck in and out of our apartments.

As for Jill, she started crying while we walked behind a procession of men in their dress blues carrying a flag to Dad’s resting place at Woods Cemetery. Mom told her to stop and to be proud as the twenty-one-gun salute began. The sound of the guns was shocking. I felt like I’d been struck in the heart with each bang.

In the forty-five years that have passed since then, there have been other sorrows, like the sudden death of my “other mother,” Pat Martin. Then Mom and my sister, Jill, died, and grief came to visit again. Or had it never left?

But joy and awe came again, too, in many ways, through nature and in my family, as when my grandson Ethan got married, and when Dane and I encountered a playful water snake on Washington Island.

After a harrowing ride through the Devil’s Crossing, pitched by the wild tossing of the waves, we stumbled off the ferry and drove to our favorite cabin, Sunrise Lodge.

The wind had picked up as we walked down the road and turned on a path that led to a beach along the east side of the island. Suddenly, Dane and I stopped and pointed. A friend was swimming alongside us next to the shore: a not too big or too small, just right-sized water snake!

As we watched, it stopped, poked its skinny head up from the water, and looked right at us. We thought it was a fluke until we sat on a log to watch. Over and over, as if playing peekaboo, the snake would coil down and around, creating a whirling pattern, then pop up and peer directly at us!

We didn’t want to leave. If there had been a sudden thunderstorm, we would have stayed plastered to the log, mouths agape, hearts wide open, soaking wet.

Eventually, we had to move on—a tough decision, as the snake was still entertaining us with its antics. But the rest of the island beckoned, and daylight was fading.

Mom and Jill’s deaths were still fresh in my heart, but life doesn’t wait for grieving folks. It was time for Ethan’s wedding. Dane and I stayed at my daughter’s home for their last night with Ethan living under their roof. His sister, Helena, let us use her bedroom for the night, and she chose to sleep on a blow-up mattress in her brother’s room.

There were plenty of laughs, sweet family times, and a beautiful wedding that weekend. I thought of my dad and mom, and especially how Jill would have loved to be there. In the morning, we said our goodbyes. I woke Helena up to get a hug and a quick “I love you,” and we drove back home.

Weeks later, Helena was killed in a car accident. My old friend grief came knocking, knocking, knocking, and hasn’t left. But even with grief as a companion, I have experienced great joy and awe before and since these events, and I know I will again.

Looking out the window at Sunrise Cabin

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!