Genuine Friendships

Genuine Friendship

While walking around Sidie Hollow yesterday with Jerri, I said, “Okay, your turn. I’ve talked more than halfway around today.”

But Jerri was having none of it: “You're fine—I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately.” And on we walked, comfortably talking back and forth the rest of the way around the lake and afterward, over lunch.

Almost five years ago, Jerri and I started meeting once a month. We’ve known each other for eighteen years and have always considered ourselves friends, but it wasn’t until she’d experienced a sudden family trauma that we started having monthly walks and talks.

At first, Jerri would do most of the talking. Often she’d cry, and once she screamed. The anger, sadness, and intense grief had to come out. As Jerri allowed me to witness her pain, I began to understand the trauma of sudden death.

As the months turned into a year, our “dates” evolved into a heartfelt give-and-take friendship. Occasionally, we’d go out for lunch, try different trails in different areas, and even go Amish shopping when my hip was hurting too much to walk. Jerri was easy to bounce ideas off of and seemed as excited as I was to spend time together.

Then suddenly, my granddaughter was killed. I canceled a few dates, but Jerri understood. When we resumed our monthly outings, I talked more, and Jerri was happy to listen. She’d have been fine if I’d started screaming.

It was helpful to share with someone who knew the depth of grief I was feeling. Jerri was able to give me insight into how I could best support my daughter. Sometimes I’d come home excited to look up a book Jerri had recommended, and many times I’ve added our time together to my nightly gratitude list.

After yesterday’s hike at Sidie, I told Jerri about some research I’d done for a work project, regarding relationships, connections, and friendships. One thing I learned was that in 2023, the U.S. Surgeon General warned that loneliness and social isolation can affect our lifespan as much as smoking 15 cigarettes a day.

Even more interesting to me was the 11-3-6 rule of friendship, which suggests that it takes a minimum of 11 interactions of at least 3 hours each within a 6-month period to transform an acquaintance into a genuine friend. All my monthly dates with Jerri had indeed strengthened our friendship, and we agreed that the word “genuine” fit perfectly!

According to the 11-3-6 rule, we need consistent, repeated contact, often involving different settings, in order to build trust, familiarity, and deeper connections. Sometime after COVID, I began specifically inviting other friends out too. Setting a regular time to get together with people and turning monthly dates into adventures has become one of my greatest joys.

Monthly outings with friends have included salt cave explorations, palm reading, Devil’s Lake excursions, paddle boats, flying, hikes up the steepest hills in La Crosse, and bike rides in many places, from state trails to the roads in my neighborhood. I’m looking forward to an overnight soon in Madison to bike around Lake Monona with two of the people I’m currently “dating.”

Jerri wasn’t lonely before we began getting together. She has a lovely network of friends, and so do I. Yet there’s something magical about all the time we spend together. Not too long ago, when she became triggered over an event that was on the news, we met at a local restaurant. By the time we left, she felt calmer. At the beginning of this week, I messaged her, saying, “I’m so stressed!” Our walk was just what I needed.

One of my favorite dates with Jerri was going to White Mound County Park. After enjoying lunch in Richland Center, we wound our way through old-growth woods and over the dam as we walked the perimeter of the lake.

When we’re outdoors and moving, our conversations seem to flow as freely as the lake or stream we’re walking next to. Thanks to Jerri freely sharing her experience of how sudden trauma affected her and her family, I’ve been able to process how my dad’s sudden death, along with those of my friends DJ and Pat, and now Helena, have affected me.

Not all monthly dates with Jerri or other friends involve intense conversation. We also spend time observing nature, naming the wildflowers, or stopping to watch the trout swim in Maple Dale Creek.

But the ones I remember best are the ones when Jerri shares intimately and I listen, and then I share my deepest thoughts and she listens. No advice. No platitudes. Just a genuine, loving, and caring friendship.

Interspecies Connections

Interspecies Connections

The sky was hazy with smoke from the Canadian wildfires. Perspiration dripped down my face as I sat on the back deck with all three dogs. I’d been shuffling back and forth between my office and the deck for the past two hours, unable to decide where I was sweating worse: inside, where there were only fans, or outside, where hardly a breeze was stirring.

As I sat on the deck, I heard a whoosh, whoosh. At the same time, the dogs bolted upright. A shadow passed over the lawn as the dogs and I looked in awe. Then we saw it: a gorgeous blue heron, its wingspan wider than Louisa the pig’s length as it passed over her and landed without a sound in the creek—in the midst of my flock of ducks and geese!

What?!

The dogs raced down the deck stairs, barking madly. Luckily they couldn’t get near her, but their barking was enough to make her want to move on. Up she went, long wings pumping to lift her off the ground.

I sat for a long time, thinking how odd it was that she landed among the ducks and geese, and they had accepted her like their long-lost friend.

Later, when Ruben and I walked down to the Hidey Hole, there she was again—but again Ruben’s barking scared her off.

This summer, she (or he) has been a frequent guest. I’ve often seen her in the creek, but this was the first flyover complete with a perfect landing among my flock. How interesting that they didn’t even startle. Maybe they already knew her and were used to seeing her.

The blue heron hasn’t been our only summer visitor. A yearling doe has made herself a second home with the donkeys in their back pasture.

The first morning that I came out and saw three heads, I stopped in my tracks. Having just woken up, I had to shake my head and look carefully. Sure enough, there was Diego, a deer, and Carlos!

We noticed the deer has been enjoying the salt block, and I wonder if that’s what draws her here. Or perhaps the yearling's mom was busy with this year's fawn and this gal was lonely. Either way, these interspecies connections are a pure delight.

It makes me wonder why we humans can’t get along with each other when all these different species seem to do so effortlessly.

One morning, years ago, Téte was running back and forth in the road along the fence line, and a coyote was following her every move in the pasture beyond the barbed-wire fence. When the coyote was parallel with our mailbox, she’d turn and run back the other way, and so would Téte. I called Dane, who ran out to watch. Once we knew Téte was in no danger, I hurried back in and got my camera. The coyote looked healthy, likely pregnant, and Téte was having a blast.

Another time I walked out the front door and couldn’t believe my eyes. Needing a witness, I went back in and got Dane to come see: Maurice, my small, shy, gray cat, was playing with a deer in the front yard. Maurice followed the deer's moves as if in a choreographed dance.

In these situations, the wildlife seems not to care what the other looks like, as long as they can play together, share their salt lick, or hang out for the day, floating in the creek.

As I headed back into the sweat box of my office, I paused to watch two ruby-throated hummingbirds take turns drinking from the feeder. About eight feet behind them were two large feeders full of sunflower seeds, where goldfinches, rose-breasted grosbeaks, blue jays, wrens, a cardinal, and even two mourning doves were taking turns filling their bellies, then flying off briefly, only to return again.

The different colors, sizes, and shapes delighted my eye as I watched. Occasionally there was a scuffle between two birds, but they seemed to work it out, and no one seemed to get hurt.

Sitting back down in my office to type, I wished again that it were that way for the human species: more friendly interaction between different cultures. Maybe we could learn from each other and be comfortable sitting together in a creek on a sweltering hot summer day!

Animal Talk

Animal Talk

“Where did our greatest snake experience happen?” I call out to Dane. We’re trudging around Sidie Hollow, the morning sun beating down on our backs. Dane’s got Téte and Ruben’s leashes; I’m lollygagging behind with Finnegan.

We’ve just come up the small hill to the dam where there’s no shade. I’m behind because Finnegan, all 13 pounds of him, pulled me off the trail and toward the water. In he plopped, sat down, then lay down with a look that said, “I need a break!” By the time he was ready to continue, Dane and the big dogs were almost to the top of the dam.

“Washington Island,” Dane yells back, “at that one hotel.”

“There had to be a hundred snakes!” I holler.

“At least,” Dane says.

Not everyone has the opportunity or ability to get off the beaten path. At times, because of his heart challenges or my hip problems, Dane and I have been unable to explore as far as we’d like. Today, though, we’re taking advantage of our relatively good health.

I’m overheating, but Finn is cooled off and skipping along when I ask, “Where did we have the best-ever blue jay experience?

“That’s easy: Rock Island.”

“What about the best indigo bunting experience?”

“Devil’s Lake.”

“Okay, best eagle experience,” I say, as we push on into the woods, where the temperature drops ten degrees in an instant.

“Minnesota.”

This is a new game we’re playing. Even when we can’t remember shared experiences, we’re in tune when we talk in animals: sightings between his house and mine, or whenever we’re driving, vacationing, bicycling, hiking, or sitting in the backyard.

Once, as we walked on a Washington Island beach after Sunday brunch, there were so many water snakes that the shoreline itself appeared to be moving! From what we gathered, this was a fluke. The snakes had only appeared that weekend. Lucky us!

Years ago, when camping on Rock Island, we took our favorite trail between campsites 21 and 23 that leads out along a narrow peninsula. Near a particular tree, there was a deafening chorus of squawks, and hundreds of blue jays flew out of it. As we stood and watched, they settled back into the tree, only to rush out again when we tried to take another step. Eventually we let them have their peace and retreated to our campsite.

Soon after the devastating floods of 2018, we went to Devil’s Lake. It was a mess, with pools of water everywhere and big fish struggling, stranded in small shallows caused by the flooding.

Suddenly, the sky filled with indigo buntings! They must have been migrating. It was a welcomed sight in contrast to the depressing flood damage.

We often see eagles, but we saw about 20 at once on a drive along the Mississippi River. Dane hit the brakes as I leaned forward and started counting.

Picking our way today through the wooded area, still playing this game, I think of how crucial our walks are. Nature has been an integral part of our relationship. We relish our animal encounters—best when shared.

“Where were we when we had the best ever monarch experience?” I ask.

“Rock Island, the same year we saw all the blue jays.”

We’d just gotten off the Karfi, which brought us over from Washington Island, and were dismayed to see children catching monarchs with butterfly nets. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they were studying and releasing the butterflies, but they were putting them in jars. Our hearts sank.

The minute we started hiking to our campsite, though, we rejoiced. Hundreds of monarchs! Everywhere we looked. It seemed surreal. Later, I was able to have a quiet conversation with two of the moms whose kids were collecting monarchs.

Dane suddenly raises his hand, meaning shush. I slow down and he whispers, “There’s the blue heron again.” We’ve already seen two on this trip around Side Hollow, and this one hasn’t moved. We’d love to see it catch a fish. We’ve also spied seven painted turtles sunning themselves on logs in our two miles around the lake.

Later, as we drive home, the game continues with fox, turtle, beaver, otter, bear, and so on. I decide I should write these experiences down before we forget them. The other day, when Dane couldn’t remember a trip we’d taken, I teased, “Why do we even do anything? You never remember.”

But when it comes to our animal experiences, we both remember!

We know we can’t predict the next wildlife encounter that will get our adrenaline pumping. We can’t take those moments—or our health—for granted. But soon, we’ll be married and have the rest of our lives to explore and talk animals with each other.

Be a Duck!

Be a Duck!

There should be thirteen, I thought—four geese and nine ducks. One, two, three…and I’d have to start counting all over again. Counting ducks isn’t easy. Unless they’re walking in a row, they’re impossible to keep track of. They keep moving around, and worse, some of them look alike.

Finally, I confirmed I was one duck short.

As I fed the ever-moving, always yakking flock, I mentally ran through their names. Before I could finish, Brownie, a slim chocolate-colored runner duck, came limping up from the creek.

The geese (or The Ladies, as I refer to them) recognized something was wrong and started pecking her—bullying her. This is typical goose behavior: Get them while they’re down, or maybe get rid of them so they don’t slow us down.

I swooped in, saying, “No, no, no, we don’t bully here!” I picked Brownie up and carried her out of the pen, my brain spinning.

It was late, and the flock were coming in to eat and go to bed. I couldn’t put Brownie in the Duck Hall, or The Ladies would harass her all night. And I couldn’t examine her for injuries without another set of hands to hold her.

The rest of the flock finished eating and shoved their way up the ramp, through the little door, where I locked them in for safety. Brownie limped and squawked up the ramp, trying to follow them, but I feared The Ladies would be merciless to her. It was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.

I sat outside with her until darkness came, then whispered, “Good night, girl—in the morning you’ll see your friends.” I felt miserable leaving her out alone, but at least she was secure in the pen.

In the morning, I rushed out to see Brownie. She was fine but still not able to walk well. I opened the little door, and the other ducks and geese came stomping and flying out, anxious to begin their day. Brownie sat up straighter, happy to see her duck friends! But as they waddled down to the creek, Brownie stayed still. Either her injury was worse, or she was afraid of The Ladies.

When Dane came over, I held Brownie while he checked her leg and feet, but there didn't appear to be anything broken. The best place for her to heal would be in the water with the other ducks. When I set her down, she half limped, half fell toward the water. Dane cautioned, “You won’t be able to get her in tonight.”

We watched her swim, seemingly effortlessly, up to the other ducks, and I sighed. I hoped she’d be able to get herself back up to the pen when the sun started going down.

But she wasn’t there when the flock came in. Quickly, I watered and fed the others, ushered them inside the Duck Hall, closed the door, and went looking for Brownie. I could hear her cries.

Imagine having all your children run in after a day of play, feeding them, putting them to bed, and discovering one child was still out. I felt hopeless as I called to her and tried to get her to swim toward shore. Dane was correct; there was no getting Brownie out of the creek. The vegetation line on both sides is at least five feet wide, making it impossible to see the many dips and ledges leading to the water. Surely I’d break my leg, leaving me as helpless as Brownie!

“Good night, sweetie,” I called. “You’ll be okay. I promise I’ll be down here at first light.”

I tossed and turned all night, and tried sending Brownie telepathic messages: “You’re okay. I’ll be back. Don’t worry. Try to sleep.”

In the morning, I rushed down in slippers and PJs to let the flock out. The geese started eating, and the ducks headed right for the creek. I knew Brownie was okay because she was calling out, “I’m here! I’m here!”

What joy to see the ducks glide into the water and Brownie swim toward them, her tiny head bobbing up and down. Everyone began yakking all at once, and I could imagine their conversation:

“Where were you? Are you okay?”

“It was awful. Mom made me stay out here alone all night.”

Watching Brownie swim with her flock felt good. Now, if only her leg would heal and the ducks would protect her from the geese.

Today, on day three of the Brownie saga, I’m reminded that, just like people, animals can be mean, but they can also band together to help each other. Brownie needs her flock right now. I’m hoping for a happy ending.

Moral of the story: Be a duck, not a goose.

Cuts with Consequences

Cuts with Consequences

Recently, approximately 150 people attended a nonpartisan presentation at the Westby Area Performance Arts Center, hosted by Kickapoo Conversations —a diverse group of local individuals who gather monthly to discuss ways they can support their community.

Tim Hundt of the Vernon Reporter warmly welcomed us, then shared a story about Vernon County’s Domestic Abuse Project. Three years ago, thanks to Susan Townsley (Stonehouse Counseling) and other local professionals, the county received a $200,000 grant from the federal government to launch the Help End Abuse Response Team (HEART) program. This program trained individuals to support victims and provide them with resources during these harrowing situations. The grant also enabled the county to train two sexual assault nurses (the first in our area) at the Hillsboro hospital and to start victim support groups, along with an intensive 26-week program for the abusers.

On April 22, the project directors were notified they would no longer receive this funding. With considerable care, our county was able to band together and use Ho Chunk funds to keep the program afloat until the end of this year.

Speaker after speaker discussed recent federal cuts in their fields of expertise, ranging from area schools to healthcare, from Couleecap to agriculture and conservation, from emergency management to local government and guardianship services.

Trina Erickson (Viroqua McIntosh Library) took me down memory lane with her presentation, emphasizing how McIntosh Library, one of eight in our county, relies on federal funding to keep staff educated and trained in technology. I have a special appreciation for local libraries. When I moved here from Milwaukee in 2000, I had no way to communicate with my family other than by snail mail. I became a familiar face at the (federally funded) Westby post office as well as at Westby’s Bekkum Memorial Library. I had no email address and no previous experience with computers. With the help of the library staff, I secured a Yahoo email address and was soon able to communicate with my daughter, friends, and family again. I didn’t have a computer at home; I didn’t even have electricity! But thanks to the library, I was no longer so isolated.

The Westby library and the post office were also instrumental in providing essential avenues of communication to get my business, Fitness Choices, up and running over twenty years ago, when I was living off-grid. I opened a PO box and used the library to make fliers, communicate with people interested in working out, and continually research information about starting a business.

Trina also shared with us her dream of building a Community Center in Viroqua. Her grant application for $250,000 was endorsed by Senator Tammy Baldwin and had made it through every committee where congressionally directed requests are carefully scrutinized. Finally, her dream seemed about to come true.

However, the President has cut all congressionally directed spending from the budget, resulting in the loss of the funds that would have completed this fundraising campaign. Now, instead of watching the hoped-for construction, Trina and her colleagues are back out there fundraising.

The Couleecap portion of the presentation reminded me of how long it took me to secure a loan to purchase my own home. Without the library’s initial help, I wouldn’t have had a business—and without Couleecap, I would still be trying to heat an uninsulated home with wood.

Later, a low-interest loan from Couleecap helped me get running water—no more taking showers at Super 8, where I taught water aerobics, or at Organic Valley, where I taught my fitness classes. Eventually, when I refinanced my home to replace the leaky roof, I was able to pay Couleecap back, and those funds returned to the program to help others.

Listening to Michele Engh of Immanuel Lutheran Church talk about the church’s food pantry gave us plenty to think about on how we can best help others. She explained that the church’s small pantry, restocked weekly, allows people to access food between their visits to Living Faith or other food pantries. Since March, they’ve needed to restock twice a day due to increased demand. Federal funding cuts are also impacting local pantries, making it difficult to keep fresh fruits, vegetables, milk, and other essential products available to those in need. For those who would like to help, monetary donations are most useful, as the pantries can purchase more food for less through the programs and networks they utilize.

Vernon County is still one of the poorest counties in Wisconsin. These and other federally funded programs aren’t handouts—they’re investments in the well-being of our communities. The cuts taking place this year are harmful to that well-being. Now’s the time to stand up, watch out for our neighbors, and help wherever we can.

It Could Happen

It Could Happen

It’s morning and we’re sitting at a table in a Madison hotel. The night before, we attended a 50th anniversary concert by the local rock band Spooner. Dane was especially excited because he had followed the band when he lived in Madison decades ago. Butch Vig, a Viroqua native, is the drummer. Both Vig and Spooner frontman Duke Erickson went on to found the band, Garbage.

Among the 650 people who packed the hall, Dane spotted his old roommate, Larry, within 10 minutes. I bumped into our friends Jan and Johnny soon after we entered, as well. It always delights me when surprises like that happen. Once, during a stay in Isla Mujeres, Mexico, we discovered my good friend Sally, her husband, and their daughter in the room next door!

As Dane and I savor our morning meal, I mention that if I were homeless, I’d walk into this hotel for their breakfast brunch. Dane reminds me it wouldn’t be easy because, if I were homeless, I’d stick out, not looking like the others around me.

He has a point. We also went to the Art Fair on the Square yesterday, where I noticed many homeless people. Some were sitting on pads, others were holding signs asking for spare change, and a few were taking an afternoon nap. I could only imagine how exhausting being homeless would be.

Soon we’re discussing our earlier days of hardship. Dane recounts being “voluntarily homeless” for the last few destitute months of his graduate career, slipping in at night to sleep in his basement teaching assistant's office.

For me, hardship meant a few nights of sleeping in the car, and standing in line a full day with a tired toddler to get food stamps. Dane and I both understand something that some people don’t: We are all susceptible to being homeless, even people who think Never—not me. Before we finish considering how and where to find free food when you don’t have money, we agree that any of us is only a day away from being disabled.

Dane and I have these conversations often. Walking on State Street, we pass the outdoor dining areas, and you can bet both of us are thinking about the shameful waste of food. Often there’s half a sandwich left on a plate, along with relishes. It would seem easy for a passerby to reach over and grab it, but we both know someone homeless would get in trouble for this. Why can’t there be a system to give leftover food from restaurants to people who need it? Sometimes the hungry resort to dumpster diving, but we can do better than that, can’t we?

Both of us acknowledge that Kwik Trips, with their generous free samples, are perfect for hungry people. But again, if you look homeless—and there is a look that comes with not having access to running water to clean your clothes or take a shower—would they hand you that slice of pizza to try?

We finish breakfast and head to Lake Monona. We started a tradition years ago of riding our bikes around the lake. It’s an easy, scenic ride featuring the water, the city skyline, interesting homes, magnificent gardens, and lots of flowers.

Later, after loading up our bikes, we drive to our favorite Indian restaurant for lunch. On the long, flat drive home on Highway 14, we talk about the concert, and Dane tells me stories about rooming with Larry.

When my tired head finally hits the pillow that evening, after an enthusiastic welcome home from the dogs, I start listing all my “gratitudes” from the weekend: how Dane’s face looked when he met his friend, how we both had crazy smiles plastered on our faces as we rode around the lake, how we kept saying over and over how crisp and yummy the garlic naan was.

Then, instead of drifting off, my mind plays a memory of standing in line for food stamps all those years ago. Jessica was tired, sweaty, and clingy. I was anxious, overwhelmed, and frightened.

Is it just luck that I went to bed with a full tummy today and that Jessica, three hours away, did too? Will we someday be homeless and hungry again? Will either Dane or I become disabled?

More than half a million homeless people in America would agree: It could happen.

Weekend Getaway

Recently Dane and I biked one of my favorite paths, the Bearskin State Trail in Minocqua, Wisconsin. Our adventure could be summed up as 35 miles, seven painted turtles, one toad, and many deer, but that wouldn’t tell the whole story.

The trailhead, conveniently located in town, borders the lake and features picnic tables, bathrooms, and a bike tool pole. The bridges and signage are plentiful, the smell of pine trees intoxicating, and I never get tired of seeing all the marshes. Picnic tables are strategically placed along the trail; one is even inside a shelter in case of rain.

We didn’t get on the trail until 6 p.m. both Friday and Saturday, and for the most part, we were the only ones on it. We’d hoped to see a bear but instead saw turtles that needed to be carried across the trail so they wouldn’t be hit by bikers. Soon enough, we stopped doing that. Two of the turtles were busy laying their eggs, and because it was nearly dark, we left them to their business.

We weren’t interested in biking during the daytime, partly because of the heat, but also because more people are walking the trail then. Instead, we went to a park that my parents took me to as a child. Back then it was called Jim Peck’s Wildwood Kingdom. I told Dane I’d treat and that we’d only be there two hours tops. I was concerned he wouldn’t want to go, as I’d dragged him there when we were first dating. He didn’t remember.

However, as soon as we parked, he recognized the ponds that greet the visitors, one with swans, both black and white. There was already a line for tickets, and when it was our turn, I purchased two bags of treats so we could feed the animals.

The Domaszek family purchased the zoo from Peck in 1997 and renamed it Wildwood Wildlife Park. They do an amazing job of providing educational and hands-on experiences, as well as providing for the animals in their care. We were in time to watch an employee drive around and provide “enrichment activities” for some of the critters. We watched the serval (an African cat) scoop up fish dropped into its pen, while the otters received trays with compartments they could manipulate to retrieve treats.

The keepers were all kind, knowledgeable, and enthusiastic about sharing the animals they were caring for. As we watched the bunnies in their clean, cool, and spacious enclosure, I was surprised when the keeper asked, “Would you like to come in and pet them?” I’d assumed I was too big, but in I went, crouching down to feel the soft fur of the rabbits.

Dane had a blast feeding carrots to two giraffes, whose tongues are 19 inches long! One was pregnant and really wanted the carrots. After feeding the male, Dane wanted to give the female a chance, so he gently pushed the male's nose away, saying, “You’ve had enough.” As the female took the carrots, the male licked Dane with that snake-like tongue to convey his disapproval!

There were many baby animals to delight in. The little gibbons were especially fun to watch as they tried to imitate their parents, swinging hand over hand from rope to rope and frequently falling off.

When we finally arrived at the Budgie Encounter, we were getting tired and needed water. But the minute we entered and purchased a budgie stick, we forgot our thirst for another hour. Immediately, Dane was covered in colorful parakeets as they clambered onto his birdseed-encrusted popsicle stick. They also liked his shiny necklace and would perch on his back and peck at it. We had to be careful walking, as many birds were also picking seeds off the ground. Eventually we sat on a bench and watched in awe as the birds climbed on our shoes, landed on our heads, and paid full attention to that budgie stick. Finally our need for water and the restrooms moved us on.

As we boarded a tram car for a “guided safari” we were shocked to realize we’d already been at the park for almost five hours. We could have easily spent another hour watching the six playful otters as they chased and wrestled with each other, slid into pools, and climbed on their raft. However, we made our way to the exit at last, knowing we still wanted to go biking.

By the time we reached the bike trail, we had found our second wind, and we had the place to ourselves, along with the turtles, a toad, and several deer. When we left on Sunday, we agreed that the bike trail and wildlife zoo make a great weekend trip for all ages.

Bon Appétit, My Brain

Bon Appétit, My Brain

Recently, I looked in the mirror while brushing my teeth and thought about how I’ve aged in the past five years. The rivers formed over the years by my deep smile and eye wrinkles now have tributaries. Babies, I thought, then sighed.

Later, when hiking with a friend, we talked about how not only our faces but our once perky breasts are in a major slump. A long, reflective sigh followed.

Drenched with sweat on a hike that would have barely made us glisten five years ago, we compared the fat folds on the bottom of our upper arms, pinching the skin and shaking it back and forth for emphasis. Mine were noticeably flabbier than hers. Sigh.

But when she complained about her wizened posterior and how the skin puckers like ripples going down her leg, I replied that my butt has gained in strength and size, like a lava dome, thanks to my years of leading workout classes, up to six a day, in which we did squats and in which my glutes, both maximus and minimus, were stimulated—overstimulated.

But she’d been taking my classes for sixteen years, faithfully doing her dead lifts, bridges, lunges, and squats, so why had her butt betrayed her? I explained there was a difference of about seventy pounds between us, with her having less than the average amount and me having enough for both of us. Carrying extra body fat as we age isn’t helpful! Heavy sigh.

Our bodies tell us more about what we eat than how much we move. I’m a certifiable stress eater and nowadays am stressing about my family, the community, the world, and the Earth—and my body shows it (as well as my face!).

So these days I’m focused on the “Food is medicine” theory, which simply means eating only whole, unprocessed, healthy foods. There’s nothing I want to do about my pruney-looking face besides my not-so-magic face cream. I’ve never used sunscreen, nor will I (I think it’s only days till they announce that it, too, causes cancer), and no way, nohow am I staying out of the sun. I won’t be spending my hard-earned money on a red-light face mask, chemical peels, Botox, or surgery—although I would love to have the kind that corrects droopy eyelids, if my insurance would pay for it. My mom had it and gushed about how much she could see afterwards: “Janie, there was a whole half of the world I’d been missing!”

Instead, with my new-found commitment to using food as my medicine, my focus has shifted to things like blueberries, salmon, broccoli, avocados, and green tea—but no dark chocolate. Dark chocolate is chock-full of antioxidants, but when self-regulation is your weakest character trait, you don’t mess around with having dark chocolate in the house. Triple sigh.

Food is medicine not only for our bodies but for our brains too. And since both my sister and brother developed Alzheimer's at an early age, this is also something I want to pay attention to.

Focusing on food as medicine includes turning my back on flour and sugar, which are known to cause a dopamine release that leaves you craving more and can make you more susceptible to an eating disorder. More importantly for me, too much sugar can lead to cognitive decline, memory issues, and even the risk of Alzheimer’s, exactly what I’m trying to avoid. Bottom line, I’d rather remember who Dane and Jessica are while sporting a face full of rivers and tributaries and a significant, dare I say powerful rump.

And while I can still remember things, I want to share with you my memory-enhancing recipe that I call my million-dollar, super brain, protein-filled, anti-inflammatory breakfast.

In a small pan, mix 1/3 cup steel-cut oats with 2 level teaspoons each of poppy, hemp, and chia seeds. Stir in 4 teaspoons of collagen powder, 1/2 teaspoon of lion’s mane mushroom powder, one scoop of creatine powder, and a generous amount of cinnamon. Now add water: I start with a half cup and then, as it heats up on the stove, I add in more as needed. Keep stirring it over low heat—do not wander away to answer the phone, scroll on social media, or pick up your favorite book with only one chapter left. Keep your eyes on the pot and don’t let it boil or let the bottom burn. When the oats are cooked, add a heaping teaspoon of coconut oil, six ounces of blueberries and, when it’s all smooth and toasty warm, toss in a generous handful of walnuts.

Bon appétit, my body and brain!

Hoping for the Best

Monkey as a kitty

Hoping for the Best

Monkey, my black “winter cat,” recently spent a week in the closet—and we spent the week trying to figure out why.

We picked Monkey out at the Driftless Human Society nine winters ago. What sets him apart, besides his sweet personality, are his fangs. His fangs overlap his bottom lip, giving him a slightly vampirish appearance, but fortunately, this causes him no problems.

Monkey likes to sit on the counter and watch me with his big, round, green eyes. He’d rather wait to be petted than rush over with the rest of the gang to eat kibble.

Almost two weeks ago, I heard hissing and was surprised to find out it was Monkey. When I bent down to see why he was hissing, I noticed he was dragging his back legs. The field vet was coming out the following day for Vincent Van Goat, who wouldn’t put his back leg down, so we got Monkey settled and waited.

By morning Monkey had moved to a box in my closet and was still there when the vet came to check him out. Thankfully, she said his back legs were fine, no breaks (nor was Vincent’s leg broken). She chalked it up to tomfoolery and gave Monkey prednisone to reduce inflammation.

But Monkey didn’t get better. I hand-fed him, dribbled water in his mouth, and carried him to the litter box, where nothing happened. He didn’t pee or poo, and he dragged his lower half around.

Four days after starting prednisone, with no improvement, I took him to our dog and cat vet in Viroqua. They did x-rays and confirmed that nothing was broken. After examining him, they decided he might have suffered a neurological injury and a possible infection, so they sent me home with antibiotics.

Monkey still meowed to be petted but he stayed in the closet. He would drag himself to the litter box but had no success, so back to the vet we went. His bladder was the size of a small water balloon. The vet showed me how to release it, but there was nothing we could do about his nonfunctioning bowels. With more tests and research it was decided that he had pulled-tail syndrome. But who would pull dear Monkey’s tail?

Pulled-tail syndrome is serious. It affects the nerves in the lower tail and spine and often causes difficulty in a cat being able to go to the bathroom. Back home we went, with instructions on how to help Monkey with his bladder and how to take his legs through a full range of motion a few times a day.

We were still perplexed about how his tail could have been pulled. Mentally I blamed the UPS man whose drives too fast on our road, the mail person who recently missed my driveway and drove into my front yard, my two bigger dogs that like to roughhouse, and Leo, my youngest cat who plays too hard.

Recently I found a picture of Monkey when he was little. His tail is so long it goes out of the photo and comes back in! Could Monkey’s long tail be part of the problem?

The x-rays and exams showed no damage to his tail and no teeth marks or wounds. It’s a good thing I kept the blame to myself. According to the vet, a cat can get its tail caught in any number of things, then pull to get it out. Who knew?

What I do know is that my heart aches for Monkey. He doesn’t seem to be in pain except when he tries to use the litter box. We were feeding him by hand and getting water in him by mixing canned food with water, but then he stopped eating. And I was having a heck of a time releasing his bladder.

Now he’s been at the vet’s for the past five days, where they can give him fluids intravenously and help him more effectively with his bathroom hygiene. He’s also had a few acupuncture treatments.

The house isn’t the same without Monkey. I miss seeing him on the counter, waiting to be petted, his eyes following my every move.

Tomorrow we’ll pick him up from the vet. I’m guessing he’ll head straight for the closet again, where he feels the safest. We can only hope for the best.

Monkey as a teen

Father’s Day

Father’s Day

Lorca, my largest cat, is the first one I greet: “Happy Father’s Day,” I say, as I get him his bowl of kibble. He’ll only eat on top of Dane's desk. Lorca doesn’t like to eat with the other cats.

The rest of the crew are all in their typical places. Monkey is watching my every move from the kitchen counter. He doesn’t go right for his food bowl; he wants to be petted and adored first. Rupert does too, so he heads for the bathroom, where he knows I’ll eventually go, and where he’ll hold me hostage as I rub his ears. Food doesn’t have as much appeal for him as affection.

As I’m about to wish Leo, the youngest feline, a happy Father’s Day, I’m already cycling through memories of my dad, whom I called Popsie Turtle. Because it’s morning, I picture him sitting at the kitchen table, a stocking cap perched on his wide head. He’d be holding the newspaper with one hand while the other rested on the handle of his cup of black coffee.

Dad was the first to awaken each morning. When I was younger, I’d get up early and tag along behind him as he fed Kelly and Albert, our dogs, raised the flag that he'd taken down the evening before, and often swept the garage and then hosed it down.

My dad was a good dad. On summer afternoons, he’d ride his bike up the path through Hales Corners Park to the swimming pool, where he’d lean it against the chain-link fence of the diving well section. Still seated on his bike with his fingers in the fence so he wouldn’t tip over, he’d call out encouragement to me as I made my way up the ladder. I’d stand on the tip of the high dive board, bent over, with my hands over my head and my fingers pressed together. My nose plugs were a constant source of amusement for the other children, but I hated getting water up my nose as I tipped over and plunged into the pool.

When I surfaced, I’d walk over to the fence, leaving a trail of water on the hot concrete, and Dad would give me a score between 1 and 10 with instructions on how to improve my dive. I never did get a 10, although my persistence paid off on the low diving board, where I was more comfortable.

In winter, Dad would tie his worn hockey skates and my figure skates together and drape them around his neck, and we’d walk that same path up to the ice skating rink. He never seemed to get tired of playing with me in all seasons.

Having fed the cats, I go outside to do chores—and that’s when it occurs to me that not only Lorca but the other male cats, as well as the male dogs, Finnegan and Ruben, and the donkeys and goats, will never be fathers.

I promptly change my greeting; “Happy You’ll-Never-Be-a-Father Day,” I say to Diego and Carlos as I toss them their hay; “Happy You’ll-Never-Be-a-Father Day” to Hans and Vincent, as I feed them banana slices.

There’s nothing wrong with making the decision not to become a father. At my place, I made that decision for my critters. But human males can also make that choice—and wouldn’t that solve a lot of problems, I think.

Back inside the house, Monkey is still waiting for more love. While the water for my coffee is heating, I scratch him under the chin and silently thank Popsie Turtle for having been a good dad. I got lucky.

Happy Father’s Day, Popsie Turtle. I hope you’re enjoying an ice-cold Pabst, Camel straight, and a hot game of poker, wherever you are.

A Year of Grieving

An angel statue honoring Helena on Jane’s deck.

A Year of Grieving

It wasn’t until this hose season that I figured out what had been going on last summer.

A few times a day, I drag the hose from the back of my house around the property, a never-ending task of keeping the critters’ bowls rinsed and filled with fresh water. Last year, anyone passing by would have heard me cursing as I yanked and wrestled with a hose that kept kinking before and after every watering stop in my routine.

As August came and went, I was still swearing at the hose, struggling through chores, and my body felt tied up in a constricting knot. By the end of September, I was completely wiped out.

This year, as I calmly move the hose from place to place, I understand: last year I was angry—furious.

Grief does that. I didn’t understand at the time how angry I was as I lashed out at the hose, or how my sorrow after my granddaughter Helena’s sudden death had leached away all my energy.

From the moment I’d picked up the phone and heard my son-in-law Brad say, “Helena has been killed in an accident,” the world as I’d known it had stopped.

Anxiety took over, leaving no room for me to breathe or think straight. Worry about my daughter, Jessica, became a full-time job. Had she gotten out of bed? Was she able to get through her work day? If the phone rang, my heart sped up and my mind raced: Was someone hurt? Did someone else die?

Depression weighed me down. I’d sit slumped on the back porch, unable to move. The Duck Hall needed cleaning, the grass in the goat pen was knee-high, and Louisa’s pool needed to be scrubbed, but I couldn’t move. I just couldn’t make my limbs function.

The anger and weariness that grief brought were beyond any I’d known before. I was so angry I’d stomp through my chores. I was too tired to cook—my body couldn’t stand long enough to wash, cut, or dice. By November, I could barely walk. I felt my body was betraying me, like the universe had betrayed my grandchild. Only my work of teaching fitness classes kept me moving.

Grief manifests differently for everyone, and this is how it has looked in my life—how the unexpected death of a loved one shook up my sense of reality. Anything could happen at any time.

Alongside the heartbreak of never seeing my granddaughter grow into the caring and compassionate adult she was becoming was my crushing concern for my daughter.

Are you up? I’d text Jessica each morning. One-word answers came back: Yes. Up. The same held true for nighttime. With my child in so much pain, my heart slogged instead of beating. Our morning and nightly messages were the new normal, a way for me to keep the pulse of her health, her grief.

My worry about my family, wondering what next? and who next? continued through fall, winter, and back into spring, because the ever-present fact is that everyone will die, and there is no magic age. Children die from cancer, teens like my high school friend DJ die suddenly from bad hearts, and young people get killed in car accidents.

It’s June again. I meet Jessica in Madison to select a statue for a memorial she’s creating for Helena. As we search for the perfect statue, Jessica spies a green blanket with daisies and says, “I think of Helena...” as she touches the blanket.

“Yes, you always picked out a blanket for her when we went out together.”

We keep walking, each of us knowing the other is crying.

Over lunch at an Indian restaurant, I ask Jessica if she’s made plans for Helena’s death day. We discuss grief, guilt, and life after death. As we sit, tears filling our eyes, the waitress comes by and asks, “Food too hot?” Jessica shakes her head while dabbing her eyes with her napkin.

When the concerned waitress comes a few minutes later and asks again, Jessica manages to look at her and murmur, “Emotional,” and then excuses herself to go to the restroom.

After lunch, we say goodbye. Later, I find her message: I’m home, are you?

Yes, I am now.

This is how a year of grieving looks in my life; the anger, depression, and overwhelming fatigue are real. The sadness of knowing Helena isn’t coming back is real. And the fear every time I hear the phone ring is real, because who really knows? Anything can happen at any time, and life will never be the same.

Everything Changed

Helena tiring on one of her outfits the night before her brother’s wedding.

Everything Changed

One day, one phone call, and everything changed.

Just days before, I’d been counting my blessings, thinking about my family. Everyone was doing well. My grandson Ethan had just married Natalie, and his sister Helena had enjoyed participating in the events. Earlier, my daughter, Jessica, and her husband, Brad, had taken a trip to their favorite place in South Carolina. And my partner, Dane, was exceeding expectations in his heart recovery.

Life was good—and then the phone rang.

“Helena was killed in a car accident.”

“Oh God. Oh, my God! I’m on my way.”

Time slowed down as I rushed around the house, trying to think of everything I had to do. I needed to call Dane, cancel classes, feed the animals, get in the car. Mostly I needed to be with my daughter, right this minute, but it would take a three-hour drive to get there.

Nothing made sense. Just a week ago all of us had been laughing as Helena balanced her brother’s wedding cake on her lap while her dad maneuvered the expressway to get us to his son’s wedding on time.

Words came out garbled as I spoke to family members on the phone, trying to piece together what had happened while Dane drove. The car couldn’t go fast enough. The family would be there, so Jessica wasn’t alone, but the slowness, the unknown, was painful.

Two weeks ago Helena was trying on outfits for Ethan’s wedding. She was eating dinner with us the evening before the wedding. She slept in her brother's room that night, giving us her bedroom, saying, “It’ll be the last time Ethan sleeps here.”

She sat next to her mom and Dane in the first pew at the wedding. She laughed at my jokes. She looked beautiful, and happy to be there. She clapped when the minister announced Mr. and Mrs. Christensen.

Afterwards Helena was called up to the altar for photos: Her and Ethan. Snap. Her, Natalie, and Ethan. Snap. Helena with Ethan, Jessica, and Brad. Snap. Dane, me, Jessica, Brad, Ethan, Natalie, and Helena. Snap. Snap.

It must be a mistake—she can’t be gone. But when we finally make it to Brad and Jessica’s home, the sound of my daughter’s anguished cries makes it real.

Jessica wants Helena to have “her blanket.” Climbing onto the bed, I spoon with Jessica while Brad lies in front of her.

Today, a year later, here is what I know.

There is no comforting a mother who has lost her child. There is only being present. There is only listening, and reminding her to take her medication (which brings only temporary yet much-needed relief). 

You can wash the dishes, make a healthy breakfast, fold the bedding you used for sleeping on the couch, sort through thousands of photos, and simply hold your daughter's hand when it’s all too much.

You can field phone calls and run interference when someone brings flowers to the door because she doesn’t want to see or talk to anyone.

But there isn’t anything a grandmother can do to change things, despite being willing to do anything for your daughter.

And that hurts. A primal, gut-wrenching tearing is close to the surface, but you can’t give it any oxygen because you need to keep your focus on the mother who lost her precious child.

We bear witness to emotions we’d never have wished to see or hear. A group family hug with tearful words: “We need to stick together now more than ever.” Zoom calls with the doctor: “Is there something that can help with sleep?” A conference between husband and wife while the organ donor folks are on hold, then agreeing and telling them, “Take, use whatever you can.”

For Brad, there’s a trip to the morgue, police calls, funeral home calls, legal calls, a hospital visit, and work calls. For Jessica, there is a void so raw and painful that speaking is difficult. But for a grandmother, there is no time for grieving until after dark when the house is quiet.

Then you lie on the couch, with Preens, the cat that only liked Helena, and wait. You’re waiting to be there if your daughter gets up during the night and needs you. You are praying that your daughter and her husband can get some sleep. You are not even close to comprehending that you’ll never see your granddaughter again. That she won’t be going on the backpacking trip that you’d dreamed of taking her on someday.

She won’t get that chance. And you’ll never get to see her grow older, grow better—but you know she would have.

After all, she had just spent a joyful weekend with her family, the weekend of her brother’s wedding, and she was utterly happy—until everything changed.

The outfit Helena choose for the wedding.

Flying High

Flying High

As soon as it’s light enough to see, I run outside in my PJs and remove the rock that’s covering the opening that's waiting to receive my new flagpole. The concrete surrounding it seems hardened and ready. Now I just need to contain my growing excitement until Dane finishes work. Yesterday I got part of my birthday wish of installing the flagpole, but today is the day my flags will fly for the first time!

After I finish teaching a morning exercise class, I run back out and search for my turtle, Maude. Seeing her emerge from her winter brumation was a birthday wish that didn’t come true this year. Her pen is overgrown, and as I call her name and talk to her, willing her to come out, I pull thistles and other weeds and toss them over the fence.

Eventually I tire and notice that my ankles are burning. I’m not wearing socks, and the nettles are stinging me. I go inside and sit on the edge of the tub, where I run ice-cold water over both feet to lessen the sting. Then I get busy. I have a full day of work projects and one meeting that will make the time fly until Dane gets here.

Soon enough, I hear tires on the gravel driveway, and I run out to greet Dane and tell him the concrete is hard. All systems are go for raising the flagpole!

The pole I bought is twenty feet long, consisting of five four-foot sections. I help Dane fit the sections securely together and lay the completed pole beside the hole.

Our plan is that on the count of three, we’ll lift the pole and maneuver the bottom end into the hole, and up she’ll go. I bend my knees, reminding Dane to use his knees and not his back.

One, two, three—and nothing. It’s heavy and awkward. We try again, this time lifting the pole off the ground, only to set it back down when we realize Dane needs to be positioned at the bottom to guide it into the hole. Finally, up, up, up the pole goes! My excitement overflows and I start clapping and jumping around.

We both stand at the bottom and look skyward. Holy cow, we can barely see the top. No one driving by would even notice the flags unless they stopped, got out of the car, and craned their heads skyward! Laughing, we quickly decide to take the pole down again and remove a four-foot section. Sixteen feet seems perfect.

Dane starts attaching the flags, placing the American flag at the top. This takes a bit of work and patience because I’m all in a tizzy about not letting the flag touch the ground. My dad was in the service, and he made sure to teach us kids about flag etiquette: Never let it touch the ground. Always bring it in before dark or keep it illuminated. Be respectful of the flag at all times.

Next we add the Pride flag. I’m adamant that people know they are welcomed here as a fellow human. Last but not least we add an Earth flag.

By evening, the flags are flying high, the bats have emerged from their secret spot near the chimney and are checking it out, the cats are sniffing around the base of the pole, and soon it will be dark. “Dane!” I cry, “We need to take them down—it’s going to be dark soon.”

Dane shakes his head in disbelief. “Are you seriously going to put this up and take it down daily? No one does that anymore.”

In my mind, I run through the many flags I’ve seen flying in peoples' yards. He’s right, I don’t believe they take them in and out each day—they’re always up. I worry that Dad is going to roll over in his grave, but I vow to add a solar light.

For a while we lean against the car and watch the bats and the flags fly. Then, after scolding the cats for trying to use the dug-up dirt around the flagpole base as their new litter box, we head inside.

After dinner, we both fall into bed, happy to have the pole up and the flags flying. In the morning, I’ll look first at the flags to see if there’s any wind, and then I’ll search again for Maude. I can’t wait to show her the flagpole.

Birthday Wish

Birthday Wish

It’s my birthday, and I’ve been up since 4 a.m., trying to be patient until Dane wakes up. I have a birthday wish!

Finally, I hear him moving around. I’m so excited for the day, I could self-combust. Instead, I hide behind a closet curtain, standing as still as I can until Dane comes down the stairs and walks past. I reach out and grab him, saying, “Hello!”

He screams and pulls away. “You do know I have a heart condition?!”

“I’m just making sure it’s working properly!”

After a quick morning hug and before Dane has even had his coffee, I’m rattling off birthday plans, which include taking the pups for an early walk. I’m taking advantage of my birthday, knowing I can only get away with this on special occasions.

People often ask why we don’t live together, and this is a good example. I love hitting mornings full on, with conversation, a cup of decaf, and getting the dogs out on an early hike. Dane loves mornings too, but prefers to ease into them with an established routine: caffeinated coffee, reading, scrolling, breakfast (either oatmeal and an orange at my house or one egg, toast, and an orange at his), followed by a shower, clean clothes, and quiet. I often complain, “Daylight’s burning,” at 4:30 a.m. in the summer and 6 in winter. Breakfast? No time! Shower? A little dirt never hurt anyone. Clean clothes? Why, when I can keep my PJs on?

But today is my birthday, and I know Dane will make an exception for me. As he gets his coffee, I tell him my big wish: “I want to put up the flagpole!” We both know what this means: Dane will measure the area, dig the hole, double-check everything, and pour the cement, while I oversee. I’ve even found an instructional video for him!

I’m most excited about the waterless concrete because I know Dane doesn’t like messiness. “We’ll pour the dry concrete in the hole and sprinkle water on top. The earth does the rest,” I parrot from watching the video.

I continue shadowing Dane as he makes breakfast, sharing my family’s flagpole stories, which he’s heard before. They’re one of the reasons I’ve bought myself a flagpole—I’ve always wanted one.

Dad, like Dane, was particular and precise about home projects. The erection of the Schmidt flagpole was no exception. While Mom, Jill, and Jack slept. I joined Dad in my PJs and watched him sip coffee as he measured, dug, used string to mark off a square, and yelled at Fat Albert, our dalmatian, for lifting his leg on our project.

By the time the rest of the family woke, I was pestering them to come outside. Dad was already mixing the cement in an old wheelbarrow and was ready to pour. We kids got to press one hand in the wet cement at each corner of the concrete square that would hold up the pole. Then Dad used a stick to meticulously carve our names there for eternity.

Raising the long, heavy flagpole was an ordeal, with a lot of directions, some cussing, and too much tomfoolery for Dad’s liking. But then, there it was: the flag flying high and proud in our yard.

Now the dogs have been walked, we’ve been to Nelson’s and back, and Dane has dug a perfect hole, without running into any rocks. On hands and knees, he’s used the level and made adjustments, and now it’s time for the concrete. I’m still amazed that it’s as easy as pouring powder into the hole—but we’ve come up short. It’s a Sunday, and we race back to Nelson’s and buy another bag of cement minutes before they close.

I’m disappointed when Dane places a rock over the opening for the pole, saying, “Now it needs to dry until tomorrow night.” What? I thought it would be a one-day project.

As Dane heads home, I look for Maude the turtle. She’s been brumating all winter (turtles’ version of hibernating) and I hoped she’d come up for my birthday, but she seems to have other plans.

When Dane calls to say goodnight, I assure him this was one of my best birthdays ever. I’ve loved watching and helping him prepare the flagpole space. He made my wish come true! I go to bed thankful that both of us love a good project—and that he does most of the hard work. I hope tomorrow we’ll see Maude!

Dump Day!

Dump Day

The back end of my Kia was nearly scraping the pavement as we drove up Elk Run Road on our way to the dump. The trunk and back seat were stuffed with four-foot metal posts, assorted wire remnants, a variety of handheld weights, books, four large area rugs, and other whatnots, along with our garbage and recyclables.

After Dane backed into a spot in front of the garbage receptacle, I hopped out and, with two hands, flung the garbage bag. It landed with a satisfying thud at the bottom of the bin. This meant we were early. Another hour and I would have had to swing the bag on top of a mound the size of Mount Everest, then hope it would stay and not cause a landslide.

I was about to grab the recyclables when I heard, “Jane!”

It was my neighbor, Ann, whom I didn’t recognize because her hair had grown so long! I hadn’t seen her for months, since before she and her husband, John, left to spend the winter in a warmer location. Although she attends my online exercise classes, her computer camera and sound had been malfunctioning all winter. It was good to see her.

As Ann told me about her and her husband being ill twice with a norovirus, I looked more closely as I listened. She’d had a rough winter. It didn’t seem fair, as she’s a giving and caring person. When Dane was recovering from his heart attacks, Ann and John would grab our garbage on dump day, and Ann would drop off homemade soups, all low-sodium, just like the doctor ordered.

Now Ann looked tired, and it appeared she had lost weight. Yet she also looked pretty and serene.

As Dane huffed and puffed, carrying our giveaways to the free table, Ann explained that John had been diagnosed with leukemia. The doctor had predicted, “Five years.” John had also become blind in his left eye from macular degeneration.

“That’s too much. Too much,” I said. But then Ann smiled and said that when John finished mowing the lawn for the first time this year, he came indoors and said, “That was fun!” Ann shrugged her shoulders and gestured “Who knows?” with her palms.

What I know from experience is that they’ll need more than good thoughts and prayers. They’ll likely need practical help with everyday chores.

When Ann left, I helped Dane place the metal posts in front of the metals container, hoping someone would be able to use them. We both checked the free table as we added our rugs to it, but didn’t see anything we needed.

As I opened the car door to get back in, I saw a man carrying several birdfeeders—a green suet cage, a finch food holder, a large white feeder for sunflower seeds, and a wooden house that would hold both suet and seeds. “Hold on,” I said to Dane, then greeted the man. “Hi! Are the bird feeders all usable?”

“Yes, I got tired of feeding the birds. The food attracted mice, and the mice would get into my house. A vicious circle that I'm tired of.” He set the feeders down and added, “Help yourself.”

I chose the large white feeder, thrilled with my dump find.

“Ah,” he said, “that one was from my mom. She’d be happy you took that one.”

“Sweet,” I said. “Thank you!”

I liked him. I’d never seen him before, and later I was sorry I hadn’t asked his name. After all, if he’s at the dump, he’s a neighbor.

On the way home, holding my prized bird feeder, I told Dane about Ann and John. He was sorry to hear of John’s medical challenges, remembering what good neighbors they’d been to us in our time of need.

We loaded up the rest of the wire at my place, and I drove back to the dump while Dane went home. Already, all but four of the posts were gone, and only one rug was left! Excited, I called Dane to share the news. It’s a fantastic feeling when someone can use what we don’t need, and vice versa.

That evening, Mr. and Mrs. Grosbeak, a goldfinch, and a few Baltimore orioles were picking sunflower seeds from my new feeder. Watching them, I whispered a prayer for John and Ann, and vowed that if I ever saw the bird feeder man again, I’d ask his name.

I love dump day. The dump is alive with giving and receiving, sharing and caring. Life!

Birthday Wish

Flag Flying

It’s my birthday and I’ve been up since 4 a.m., trying to be patient until Dane wakes up. I have a birthday wish!

Finally, I hear him moving around. I’m so excited for the day, I could self-combust. Instead, I hide behind a closet curtain, standing as still as I can until Dane comes down the stairs and walks past. I reach out and grab him and say, “Hello!”

He screams and pulls away. “You do know I have a heart condition?!”

“I’m just making sure it’s working properly!”

After a quick morning hug and before Dane has even had his coffee, I’m rattling off birthday plans, which include taking the pups for an early walk. I’m taking advantage of my birthday, knowing I can only get away with this on special occasions.

People ask why we don’t live together, and this is an example. I love hitting mornings full on, with conversation, a cup of decaf, and getting the dogs out on an early hike. Dane loves mornings too but prefers to ease into them with an established routine: caffeinated coffee, reading, scrolling, breakfast (either oatmeal and an orange at my house or one egg, toast, and an orange at his), followed by a shower, clean clothes, and quiet. I often complain, “Daylight’s burning,” at 4:30 a.m. in the summer and 6 in winter. Breakfast? No time! Shower? A little dirt never hurt anyone. Clean clothes? Why, when I can keep my PJs on?

But today is my birthday, and I know Dane will accommodate me. As he gets his coffee, I tell him my big wish: “I want to put up the flagpole!” We both know what this means: Dane will measure the area, dig the hole, double-check everything, and pour the cement, while I oversee. I’ve even found an instructional video for him!

I’m most excited about the waterless concrete, because I know Dane doesn’t like messiness. “We’ll pour the dry concrete in the hole and sprinkle water on top. The earth does the rest,” I parrot from watching the video.

I continue shadowing Dane as he makes breakfast, sharing my family’s flagpole stories, which he’s heard before. They’re one of the reasons I’ve bought myself a flagpole—I’ve always wanted one.

Dad, like Dane, was particular and precise about home projects. The erection of the Schmidt flagpole was no exception. While Mom, Jill, and Jack slept. I joined Dad in my PJs and watched him sip coffee as he measured, dug, used string to mark off a square, and yelled at Fat Albert, our dalmatian, for lifting his leg on our project.

By the time the rest of the family woke, I was pestering them to come outside. Dad was already mixing the cement in an old wheelbarrow and was ready to pour. We kids got to press one hand in the wet cement at each corner of the concrete square that would hold up the pole. Then Dad used a stick to meticulously carve our names there for eternity.

Raising the long, heavy flagpole was an ordeal, with a lot of directions, some cussing, and too much tomfoolery for Dad’s liking. But then, there it was: the flag flying high and proud in our yard.

Now the dogs have been walked, we’ve been to Nelson’s and back, and Dane has dug a perfect hole, without running into any rocks. On hands and knees, he’s used the level and made adjustments, and now it’s time for the concrete. I’m still amazed that it’s as easy as pouring powder into the hole—but we’ve come up short. It’s a Sunday, and we race back to Nelson’s and buy another bag of cement minutes before they close.

I’m disappointed when Dane places a rock over the opening for the pole, saying, “Now it needs to dry until tomorrow night.” What? I thought it would be a one-day project.

As Dane heads home, I look for Maude the turtle. She’s been brumating all winter (turtles’ version of hibernating) and I hoped she’d come up for my birthday, but she seems to have other plans.

When Dane calls to say goodnight, I assure him this was one of my best birthdays ever. I’ve loved watching and helping him prepare the flagpole space. He made my wish come true! I go to bed thankful that both of us love a good project—and that he does most of the hard work. I hope tomorrow we’ll see Maude!

The Collector’s Bug

The Collecting Bug

“Who would have thought I’d be a collector?” I say jovially to Dane, holding up my two newest prized possessions: a small metal turtle that can hold a candle, and a green glass bottle with a narrow bottom that will fit on the bathroom window ledge.

It’s an overcast Sunday afternoon and we’re making our way home from Cable, Wisconsin, where we’ve already visited every Salvation Army (Dane’s favorite), Goodwill (my favorite), antique, and resale shop in Bayfield, Washburn, Ashland, Cable, Spooner, Sparta, and smaller towns in between.

Dane doesn’t answer because he’s still fuming about the prices at the secondhand store we just left. Everything was advertised as “40 percent off,” but it was clear to us that the prices had been marked up first.

As we exited the store, we heard a lady ask, “Is the building for sale? When are you going out of business?”

“As soon as someone buys the building,” one of the proprietors answered.

Dane and I both rolled our eyes. The owners are masters of their craft, buying and reselling. And they aren’t losing any money doing it.

We left behind two cobalt vases, the kind we’ve been hunting down for the last five months. We’ve decided to use cobalt vases for our September wedding, with simple fresh-cut flowers. We both love that color—and we both love rummaging! But we refuse to pay more than $5 apiece, and even with 40 percent off, at $8.96 each, those were the most expensive vases we’ve found.

So far, we have 29 vases, and we’ll need at least 10 more. My daughter, Jessica, found us two, as did my friend Emily. Dane and I have had a blast finding the rest.

As we drive to the next place, I start listing out loud the other things I collect: “Small colored glass bottles, blue insulators, and snails!” Simultaneously, we both add, “Turtles!” Dane then says that he only collects rocks and records, but I add to his list: “Knives, little bags, cool boxes, and sea glass.” Actually, we both collect rocks and sea glass. It’s not uncommon for us to come home from a trip with a pocketful of rocks, and sometimes a couple of big ones in the trunk.

Today, we have a large box in the trunk full of new-looking blue insulators—a huge score from our rummaging in Bayfield the day before.

We’re both still thinking about our various collections when my GPS talks: “Turn left in 50 feet on County Highway M. Second Season will be closing in one hour of your expected arrival time.”

Dang, I think, we’ll need to hurry. We pull into the parking lot and rush in, each of us looking for that flash of bright blue. We find a large cobalt vase, but its opening is too wide, so we set it back down. We scour the store with minutes to spare before closing, but we don’t find any more vases, or turtles, snails, knives, or cool-looking boxes.

I’m reminded of when I was little and Dad would take me to flea markets, where we’d walk past table after table of used items for sale. I’m not sure what Dad was looking for, but at that time, I was collecting salt and pepper shakers.

The best times were when Dad and I would set up a table in our yard and sell our own junk. If I sold one of my toys, I’d get to keep the money. Translation: I’d get another salt and pepper shaker or a horse statue, which I also collected.

Mom despised our rummage sales at the house, but we lived for them! We’d start by sweeping out the garage, hosing it down, and then setting up old wooden eight-foot tables. Dragging our stuff from the house was never dull. Jack and Jill would often have a meltdown and take back their possessions that I’d felt they didn’t need anymore.

Mom would simply disappear.

Dane and I pull into the driveway, anticipating a warm welcome from the dogs and at least 30 minutes of emptying out the car. Dane knows I’m excited about the insulators, and he holds the box as we walk around the yard, and I place one on each fence post. In October, I’ll replace them with pumpkins. For now, I love seeing the house surrounded by that pretty blue color.

Being a collector might be a gene I got from my Dad. But seeing how Dane and I are finally getting hitched, I’m thankful we both have the bug.

Mother’s Day Grief

Mother’s Day Grief

Today I write for my daughter, but also for my friend, a neighbor, and all the other mothers whose precious child is no longer in this world.

Trying to understand my daughter's experience when her daughter died, and how I could help, I’ve found myself reading many books on grief. Often these were books gifted to me by friends who have also lost a child, or books that I stumbled upon while doing searches on grief and unexpected deaths.

All the books agree on a few key things: that losing a child is considered the most devastating and painful experience a parent can undergo, and that the grief is so profound it can be lifelong, impacting not only the parent but the whole family.

With time, some bereaved parents will go on to do great things, such as create memorials, raise awareness about child illnesses, inform people of the dangers of fentanyl or of driving drunk. But many will drag themselves to work each day like they are missing a lung, stumble through, and then come home and fall into bed exhausted. Everyone’s experience is different.

It’s unnatural for parents to outlive their children. It’s not how it’s supposed to be. The future they imagined for their child, with their child, with their grandchildren, will never materialize, and it leaves a huge, gaping hole.

When a child dies, often core beliefs and life expectations are shattered, which impacts the parent's identity and even the security of the family. Siblings are also thrown off course.

Instead of being happily anticipated, holidays are dreaded. Traditions that once brought joy now bring sadness.

Today is Mother’s Day, and all I can think of is my daughter’s grief over never seeing her daughter again. I’d like to think that someday she will, and that I will too—that we will all reunite with our loved ones.

But today, I’m here. My daughter is here. And you are here. If you’re a member of this club that everyone hopes to never be in—the “my child died” club—I am so sorry.

Grief can be intensely painful, producing shock, deep sorrow, regret, and an irreparable sense of loss. You can no longer believe in life’s most common things, like someday seeing your child go to prom, graduate, get married, have children of their own… It’s not something a parent will get over, and it must be gone through—there is no going around the loss of a child.

The pain of a child’s death may soften with time, but the loss will be felt forever.

So today, on Mother’s Day, I’d like to acknowledge my daughter's loss, friends’ losses, my neighbor's, and all the other mothers whose child has died before them.

Living Life Out Loud

Living Life Out Loud

Dane and Téte were ahead of Finn, Ruben, and me when I stopped and shouted, “Morel!” Dane quickly turned around as I bent down, kicked my foot in the leaves, and said, “Oh, just a corncob.”

We were hiking the Bailout Trail in the Kickapoo Valley Reserve, finding and naming spring flowers, when I mistook that corncob for a gourmet mushroom. Spring excitement does that.

Bloodroot, anemone, Dutchman’s breeches, hepatica, and spring beauties are some of Wisconsin’s first flowers to pop up, and we had called them all out the week before with the same enthusiasm. Near the wetlands, we found skunk cabbage and marsh marigolds, along with mayapples that seemed to be growing everywhere.

Dane is always the first to point out the tiny violets growing in the lawn. I love seeing them, but I’m more excited about finding flowers on the trails. I still talk about the lone yellow lady’s slipper I discovered alongside the Billings Trail over seven years ago, or the single shooting star flower Cynthia and I saw near the trail going around Sidie Hollow. Only two years ago, on the Bailout Trail, Dane accurately yelled “Morel,” and it was a doozy! It’s true what they say: Once you see one morel, if you look closely, you’ll find more!

When I was a child, Mom drilled into my head never to say, “I’m bored.” If I did, she’d point to the door, and out I’d go. After all, no one can get bored in nature.

When we returned to the Reserve a week later, the bellworts were plentiful and the trilliums were budding. Although not fully grown, the jack-in-the-pulpits were easy to see, while on the roadside I noticed phlox.

Yesterday, on our way home from Milwaukee, we were rounding Fox Corner, a hairpin bend on Elk Run Road where a litter of fox kits once lived, when I shouted, “Fiddleheads!” It’s hard to be away from home in spring, when every day brings discoveries that start with hearing the peepers, seeing the robins, and watching the grass turn green.

It’s the time of the year we soak up the freshness of new growth and let it seep into our skin. The doors are wide open, no screens necessary. In the evening, we can hear peepers from down the street, while the owls are busy calling out to each other. We’ve already had a few visits from coyotes—or possibly the same one a few times—looking for a free lunch.

To me, this is what it means to live life out loud!

When the gnats and mosquitoes return, we’ll look the other way.

A Time For Joy

Making Valentine Day cards at A Time For Joy.

A Time for Joy

Nine of us gather at a round table. Black spongy tiles with phrases printed in white are heaped in the middle of the table. Some of us are drinking tea, most coffee. The cherry-filled fry pies are a hit! I’m one of many volunteers at A Time for Joy, an adult respite program.

Respite gives the caretakers of people living with dementia time to do their shopping, sit in the sun, read a book, or go to lunch with friends. Meanwhile, their loved one is safe and interacting with others, enjoying music and singing, a healthy home-cooked lunch, and plenty of games. Elderly folks who are isolated or lonely can also participate. Today I’ll be leading an exercise segment before lunch.

The conversation centers around baking pies, whose turn it is, and the incomplete sayings on the tiles: “is never done,” “Every cloud has,” “on the other side.” The objective is to find the matches and complete the sayings. When it’s Bill’s turn, Meg, knowing he has a match, encourages him to read his tiles. With help, he picks up the tile “is never done” and places it next to “A woman’s work.”

I remember helping my sister, Jill, play bingo at the Waterford memory care center. Jill didn’t understand how the game worked. She pressed her fingers onto the numbers being called and would try to eat the corn instead of using it as a marker.

A Time for Joy is offered every Wednesday from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. at Immanuel Lutheran Church. Savannah Frei, the program director, greeted me warmly when I walked in this morning and joined the folks who were already sitting at the table playing the word game.

Watching Meg work with Bill, I can see how this enrichment program would have benefited Jill before she became too sick. It would have been a lifeline for her partner, Jim, and her daughter, Sam, both of whom were worn out from caretaking.

If trends follow national projections from the Alzheimer’s Association, the number of people with this disease will double over the next 30 years. By 2050, that number could rise to 13 million.

Today Savannah has hidden a golden egg, and whoever finds it will win a prize. We abandon the word game to search for the egg. “Are you sure it’s in this room?” “Maybe it’s up near the ceiling fans.” “Is it in a basket with other eggs?” It’s hard to distinguish the volunteers from the participants as everyone works together to find the egg. When we tire of looking, Savannah tells us the egg is out in the open and that she can see it—but we still can’t!

Last week at my brother’s memory care home in Oconomowoc, Jack wouldn’t even talk to the people involved in games. He only wanted me to get him out of there. A Time for Joy is best suited for people with mild dementia-related disease and those who would benefit from social interactions. Jack’s advanced disease means he’s not a candidate for this kind of program.

Tom helps Peggy place her tile, “The grass is always greener,” next to “on the other side,” as we nod and grin. Then it’s time for exercise. We start by creating a soft rain noise with our feet, eventually leading into a pounding thunderstorm as we stomp and clap. Next, pretending we have dish rags, we wipe the table with both hands, circling them from side to side, laughing as we tap our neighbor's hand, and giving ourselves a robust upper body workout.

When we return to the game, Janet helps Owen place “Every Cloud” in front of the tile “has a silver lining.” A Time for Joy is exactly that: a silver lining in a cloudy situation.

Whether exercising or playing games, there’s no rushing at A Time for Joy. We pause as someone tells a story about tobacco work back in the day or shares the recipe for their pie that took first place at the fair.

Claire, another volunteer, tells me about Jerry, who attended for the first time last week and never said a word. Yet, when his family member came to pick him up, he said cheerfully, “Today was a good day.” Claire smiles and sighs as she places her hands over her heart.

As a volunteer and someone who lost her sister to Alzheimer’s and is losing her brother, my heart fills, grateful that our community offers this program for people with dementia and their caregivers.

Driving home, I wonder who found the golden egg.

Local musicians volunteering their time and talents at A Time For Joy.

(For more information about A Time for Joy, contact Savannah Frei at 608-636-3983.)