Perfectly Imperfect

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the Birds

For the Birds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vincent, the Uncommon Goat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Backwoods

Backwoods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan Falls

Bear leaving property

All The Time in the World

All the Time in the World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whack a Goose!

Goose Whacking

“Get back. Stop it. No!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ground Zero - Tick Central

Ground Zero—Tick Central

Inhale calm.

Exhale well-being.

Inhale calm.

Exhale well-being.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to ground zero—tick central!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inhale calm, exhale well-being.

Tell It Like It Is!

Tell It Like It Is!

Go ahead, make my day: Complain.

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

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

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

Isn’t this how it works sometimes?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

April in the Midwest

April in the Midwest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Friends’ Outing

Old Friends’ Outing

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

“No, I’m fine,” she answers.

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

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

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

Paige says, “I have my poles.” 

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

”I thought you asked if I’m cold!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magic in a Pot

Magic in a Pot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Franny, A Real Powerhouse

Franny, A Real Powerhouse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spring, Then and Now

Helena and Peepers

Spring, Then and Now

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

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

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

Peepers’ absence is felt deeply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Younger Self

Jane, Raime, Helena

Dear Younger Self

What would you tell your younger self?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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