Jane Schmidt 4/26/26 Jane Schmidt 4/26/26

Tell It Like It Is!

Tell It Like It Is!

Go ahead, make my day: Complain.

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

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

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

Isn’t this how it works sometimes?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane Schmidt 4/18/26 Jane Schmidt 4/18/26

April in the Midwest

April in the Midwest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane Schmidt 4/12/26 Jane Schmidt 4/12/26

Old Friends’ Outing

Old Friends’ Outing

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

“No, I’m fine,” she answers.

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

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

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

Paige says, “I have my poles.”

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

”I thought you asked if I’m cold!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane Schmidt 4/5/26 Jane Schmidt 4/5/26

Magic in a Pot

Magic in a Pot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane Schmidt 3/29/26 Jane Schmidt 3/29/26

Franny, A Real Powerhouse

Franny, A Real Powerhouse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane Schmidt 3/22/26 Jane Schmidt 3/22/26

Spring, Then and Now

Spring, Then and Now

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

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

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

Peepers’ absence is felt deeply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane Schmidt 3/15/26 Jane Schmidt 3/15/26

Dear Younger Self

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!

Jane Schmidt 3/5/26 Jane Schmidt 3/5/26

Swifties!

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!

Jane Schmidt 2/27/26 Jane Schmidt 2/27/26

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!

Jane Schmidt 2/22/26 Jane Schmidt 2/22/26

Irish Ridge

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.

Jane Schmidt 2/20/26 Jane Schmidt 2/20/26

Midwinter Mineral Point Getaway

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!

Jane Schmidt 2/7/26 Jane Schmidt 2/7/26

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.

Jane Schmidt 2/1/26 Jane Schmidt 2/1/26

My Old Friend, Grief

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.

Jane Schmidt 1/29/26 Jane Schmidt 1/29/26

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!

Jane Schmidt 1/20/26 Jane Schmidt 1/20/26

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.

Jane Schmidt 1/9/26 Jane Schmidt 1/9/26

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.

Jane Schmidt 1/7/26 Jane Schmidt 1/7/26

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!

Jane Schmidt 12/23/25 Jane Schmidt 12/23/25

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.

Jane Schmidt 12/20/25 Jane Schmidt 12/20/25

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.

Jane Schmidt 12/14/25 Jane Schmidt 12/14/25

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?

Tell It Like It Is!

April in the Midwest

Old Friends’ Outing

Magic in a Pot

Franny, A Real Powerhouse

Spring, Then and Now

Dear Younger Self

Swifties!

Salvador, The Lover Boy!

Irish Ridge

Midwinter Mineral Point Getaway

The Cats’ Meow!

My Old Friend, Grief

Winter Routine

More Life to Live

Change of Focus

Growing Old Is Not for Sissies

Making K’s List

Away in the Manger

If That Were to Happen

Stories from Jane’s World

- Adventures - Mishaps - Critters -Life -

Jane Schmidt