We’re Going on Vacation!

We’re Going on Vacation!

We’re sitting on stools pulled up to the kitchen island. It’s littered with plastic bags, scissors, a marker, and tape, along with many boxes and packages of food. A nearby laundry basket holds more food, individual coffee packets, and an assortment of herbal and medicinal teas. It’s a mess. We’re a mess. We’re going on vacation!

Our preparation has included digging out all our backpacking gear: Dane’s from his last trip moons ago on the Superior Hiking Trail, and mine from three years ago to Isle Royale. Since those trips, items have vanished, batteries have died, and the waterproofing on Dane’s backpack has dissolved.

After loading our basic gear, including two liters of water each, we weigh our packs: 17 and 23 pounds. This includes our sleeping bags, sleeping pads, tent, clothes, toiletries, water filters, headlamps, cooking pots, gas, stove, rain gear, and personal items. Not bad. But we still need to repackage our food and divide it up between the packs.

Last week we made a practice run to White Mound County Park. We put our packs on and walked to the best campsite, then set up our new tent. We affectionately refer to it as our wedding tent because we used an REI gift certificate to purchase it. Over a year ago, when we knew we were going to do the big Isle Royale trip, we decided we’d need a bigger tent. Gone are the days of having to climb over each other to get in and out. The good news is that the wedding tent, although way more spacious, weighs about the same as our previous one.

Once the tent was up, I cooked dinner while Dane arranged the firewood for after dark. Dinner was a hit, and we were able to make sure our stove was still functional, that our headlamps were still working properly, and that we had all the necessary gear for a comfortable night.

After eating and getting cleaned up for bed, Dane lit the fire, and we sat shoulder to shoulder on a picnic table we had moved closer to the firepit. We didn’t see any stars, but behind the clouds we could make out the moon.

In the morning, we broke camp, shoved our gear back into our backpacks, and went for a good hike. We were relieved that the backpack strap didn’t rub on Dane’s defibrillator, and that my backpack didn’t pull on my sore neck. All’s well, we thought as we drove home later that day.

But that was just one night. Now we’re following my itinerary for an eight-day trip to Isle Royale National Park on the Windigo side, which I’ve always dreamed of doing with Dane—and it appears we have 20 pounds of food!

There’s no sense bringing packaging that will weigh us down, take up space in our packs, and create garbage we’ll need to carry out. I look at the inventory, read what I’ve listed for a meal, and find the packages (e.g., dinner 1, Jane’s Delight: Annie’s organic mac and cheese, cut-up sun-dried tomatoes, dehydrated “Just Veggies,” a package of kalamata olives, and water-packed tuna). I open the macaroni box, dump the contents into a plastic bag, and hand it to Dane, who labels it, squishes the air out, and seals the bag before rolling it up.

We don’t need to bring a garbage bag. What little paper we’ll have gets folded up and put into one of the plastic sandwich-size bags, making it easy to pack it in and pack it out.

What we hadn’t expected was the volume of food needed for two adults hiking and carrying their packs for eight days! From experience, I plan on a pound to a pound and a half of food per day per person. With eight days of breakfast, lunch, and dinner, we’re shooting for no more than 10 pounds each.

After two hours of sorting, we call it a night and put everything away, wait two days, and pull it out again. Now we get serious, putting breakfast foods in one pile, snack packs (lunch) in another, and sorting dinners by nights.

Happily, we end up vetoing a mound of food we don’t need. With less than a week until we get off the ferry and start hiking, we’re hoping our fully loaded packs will weigh less than 24 pounds for me and less than 30 for Dane.

Not an easy task, but one that will make our trip much more pleasurable. Happy trails!

Visiting Brother Jack

Visiting Jack

“Hi, Jack. You look great. You have new boots!” Already I’ve said too much. But my excitement and trepidation when visiting my older brother gets me revved up. Seeing his confusion, I add in a calmer voice, “Your sister Jane is visiting.” I want to hug him, but I don’t.

Monthly visits are inadequate, and I wish Jack could move closer so I could pop in daily. He changes so much from month to month. Phone calls are no longer an option.

Last month was the first time Jack seemed to smile in recognition when I walked in. He said, “I had surgery.” Shocked, I asked for details. Again, not a good approach. Questions are hard for someone in the depths of dementia, living in the cocoon of a memory care facility. I slowed down and tried again. “I’m sorry you weren’t well. What hurt?”

“Everything came out, and they put it back in.” Later his son James explained that Jack had a hernia that became infected and erupted.

On that visit, he was more tired than usual, had bags under his eyes, and was even thinner than this month. Afterwards, when I asked the staff about his thinness, they assured me that Jack’s a good eater and doesn’t like sweets. Jack’s always been health-conscious and stayed away from bread and sweets before it became fashionable. 

By high school, Jack was well established as a jock; he lifted weights in the basement, ran up and down the stairs, jumped rope, and ate healthily. But I suspect that’s also when he started drinking.

During our visits, Jack gets upset at his imaginary memories, saying I did nothing when Dad put him in that big house on the hill. There, he claims, he lived by himself and Dad would come once a week to throw him a bag of McDonald’s. (He actually lived at home and was well fed until he moved out.) Other stories include variations on the big house, what a jerk I was and still am (when we were kids he was always beating me up!), his wife not driving (he was divorced a while ago), our mom being a whore (she wasn’t), and Jill and I not being his sisters. But he’s only mentioned Jill that once. He doesn’t want to hear her name and doesn’t want the pictures I bring of her and him. He says, “She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

Jill died from Alzheimer complications. About four years later, Jack was admitted on a Chapter 51 involuntary commitment, diagnosed with dementia and court-ordered to have 24-hour care. He has two brain aneurysms, and we assume the dementia may be related to a lifetime of heavy drinking. Our dad died young from alcohol poisoning and a brain aneurysm. Both have a genetic component.

My big challenge is navigating dementia with a brother I once adored (my mom once told me I used to live in fear of him dying) but later feared.

When I first learned of his arrest, hospitalization, and diagnosis, I replayed all the bad memories. Like playing a tape in reverse, I went back as far as I could remember. We’ll never know when the disease began; it was the same with my sister when she became sick. But I remember my fear during those first visits, wondering if he might hurt me. He didn’t. He hasn’t. And he seems to be a favorite of the staff, as these days he is quiet and quick to help.

Recently, as we walked in the gated yard, we saw a staff person rearranging chairs. Jack told me to “stay” and walked over to her. Again I jumped in too quickly, offering, “I think my brother may want to help you.” After moving a few more chairs, she answered, “Yes, Jack likes to help.” Then she pointed to a chair and also to where it should go. Fifty lifetimes passed before he picked the chair up and shuffled it closer to where she pointed.

They say dementia is harder on the family than it is on the person with the diagnosis. But it’s painful when they first suspect they are losing their precious brain. I saw that with my sister Jill. She knew. I didn’t witness it with Jack, but in hindsight, warning signs were there. “Who are you?” he’d ask when I called, and I’d laugh as if he were joking and say, “Your sister.” And he never called me when my granddaughter Helena died. Still, I couldn’t be sure—were those signs of dementia, or the start of it? Or the effects of a lifetime of too much alcohol?

Jill didn’t deserve Alzheimer's, nor Jack his dementia. No one does.

The staff is gathering folks to come to dinner. I resist my urge to take Jack’s hand and lead him to the table. He moves slowly to the dining area and stands there looking lost. A staff person points to where he should sit. I don’t help him. I don’t hug him. And I don’t say goodbye. Our visit is over.

When I get down the hallway and look back, he’s sitting in his seat, unaware that I’ve been there.

Inside a H.E.A.R.T. Volunteer

Inside a H.E.A.R.T. Volunteer

It’s late when the phone rings, and when you see it’s from the Vernon County Sheriff Department, your heart starts running a marathon before you can even say hello.

Somebody is hurting.

You take down the necessary information, quickly take care of what needs to be done at home, grab your lime green H.E.A.R.T. bag, and jump into the car.

And then your mind begins running right after your racing heart.

What happened?

Is the victim going to be okay?

Is this someone young? Old? Has this happened to them before? Are children involved?

And when your brain has run through all the possibilities, you remember your training.

Breathe.

Inhale calm, exhale strength.

You might start talking out loud: Please let me be helpful.

Let me listen compassionately.

Let me listen to understand.

Let me ask how they feel I can best support them.

Let this not be someone I’ve met before or someone this has happened to before. But if so, please let me explain the cycle of abuse in such a way that they get it—really get it and want to make a change.

You find the address, see the police car, get briefed by the officer, and then introduce yourself to the person in need of assistance as a H.E.A.R.T volunteer.

Then you wait.

You give them space.

You stay quiet and listen.

Hold a hand or give a Kleenex.

Let them lead.

Let them tell you what they need.

Sometimes it’s an hour-long talk in the person’s car, or two hours sitting around their kitchen table.

Other times, it’s at the hospital, and you pull a chair up to their bed.

Ultimately, all the calls are the same.

Someone was hurt.

Someone hurt them.

Someone needs support.

And as a H.E.A.R.T volunteer, those phone calls might not ever get easy. Your heart may always race. But what you do may make a difference. You hope so.

* H.E.A.R.T. — the Help End Abuse Response Team in Vernon County — trains community volunteers to provide immediate, compassionate support alongside law enforcement on domestic violence calls. To volunteer, call and ask for Janice Turben: (608) 688-2312.

Since the Beginning of Time

Camping in Copper Harbor (18 years ago)

Since the Beginning of Time

After googling fluoride, I reported to Dane, “It says that fluoride is a mineral found in many foods and it’s good for preventing tooth decay. It actually promotes new bone growth.”

Dane was driving, and I was sitting shotgun, cradling a piece of green fluorite that I’d just purchased for five bucks from the rock and gem show at Second Nature at Reads Creek. I’d been attracted to its color and shape—if I squinted, it looked like the state of Wisconsin. I planned on setting it on my desk.

Dane appeared to be shooting daggers at me from the corner of his right eye. After a long moment, he said, “Ite.”

What?

“Fluor-ite. It’s a rock, Jane. Ite means rock.”

“Like granite!?”

I typed in the correct spelling and started reading again: “Fluorite is a stone heralded for its spiritual detoxification abilities and tendency to transform negative energy into positive energy...”

I reached over and held the stone over Dane's chest, slightly to the left. He chuckled as I kept the rock there and finished reading: “…boosting our mental clarity and promoting peace of mind.”

My own chest swelled at the power of this miraculous five-dollar find. “This rock will suck that cynical energy right out of you!”

Dane glanced my way for a split second and laughed, “I'll be nothing but an empty shell.”

I kept the rock pressed over his heart anyway, envisioning it performing miracles until we pulled into the driveway.

Somewhere in our relationship, it’s become apparent that Dane and I are often opposites. But instead of pushing us away from each other, it pulls us closer.

I got out of the car, smiled sweetly, and waved as he started to back out of the driveway. I yelled, “You’re my favorite beastie!”

“Bestie!” he called out the window before merging onto the road.

The day before the rock and gem show, we’d had our weekly date day (bike ride and lunch). Making time to spend with each other is critical to me—seemingly less crucial to Dane.

I’m a Jane-of-all-trades and my schedule is out-of-control crazy. During the spring and summer Dane works four long 10-hour days each week. I’ve insisted on weekly dates to keep us in touch beyond our nightly recap of comings and goings, which often translates into exchanging wildlife stories.

“Guess what I saw today?”

“A fox?” I guessed.

“Nope, a bobcat!”

I set down the knife I’d been cutting veggies with and listened to the facts. The bobcat had run in front of Dane’s car on a country road in Crawford County, where he was working.

Not even a month earlier, I’d had the same experience in Vernon County on Highway 82. Both of our bobcat sightings were in broad daylight, both of us had barely missed hitting them, and we were both thrilled at the experience.

We are equals when it comes to our observations and excitement about anything natural. We give each other extra credit for noticing details.

“Did you see its tail?”

“Yes!”

“Was it hardy looking or malnourished?”

“Hardy!”

“How big was it?”

“Maybe three feet long. It moved fast.”

I tend to be Pollyanna positive while Dane is intellectually negative—or we could say cynical. But in addition to our love for the natural world, we share a wicked, somewhat warped sense of humor.

A few weeks ago, after one of Dane’s 10-hour days, our date was at the Sh*tty Barn in Spring Green. We love the music venue, but going there on a work night is always challenging because of the distance. Dane has to hurry home from work, shower, and rush over to pick me up.

On that day, I was wrapped in a towel and searching for the one-dollar shirt I’d bought at Goodwill for the occasion. As I tore my car apart looking for the bag for the umpteenth time, Dane pulled in.

“Hi, looking for something?”

“I bought a shirt for tonight but I’ll be darned if I can find it.”

“We need to hurry if we’re going to get good seats.”

“Oh, I bought you a sandwich so you won’t need to stop and grab something to eat on the way. It’s in the refrigerator.”

“Thanks!”

As I walked toward the house, it dawned on me: “Oh, sheesh, maybe I put my shirt in the fridge with your sandwich.”

We walked into the house together, me still in the towel. I opened the refrigerator, pulled out the bag, and discovered my shirt with his sandwich.

“Wow, it’s cold!”

“Put it in the oven.”

“We should get going or we’ll be late.” I slipped the cold shirt on. “I’m actually ready, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Dane,” I exclaim as we walk toward the car, “I’ve been waiting for you since the beginning of time.”

I have been—and I’m so glad he finally showed up.

Dear Louisa

Dear Louisa

“Hey, Carl, it’s neighbor Jane. Say, would you have any beer?”
“What?”
“Beer. Just a few cans of beer. The cheaper the better. I can pay you back.”
“I don’t think so, but Ron, my son-in-law down the road probably does.”
“Okay, I’ll hang up so you can call him and ask. Thanks.”

When Carl calls me back and says Ron has some, I race up the hill and over to his house, score two beers, and rush back home.

Farrier Frank is on his way to my place. We’ve tried sweet-talking Louisa, my Kunekune pig, into having her hooves trimmed, we’ve tried holding her (not a chance!), and we’ve tried distracting her with watermelon. Nothing has worked, and her hind hooves are getting too long. Hence, the beer.

I’m not crazy about this idea, but I’ve heard from Frank and others that it works. The beer will make Louisa mellow like she’s at a spa day. Frank’s plan is to trim the hooves of Diego and Carlos, the donkeys, and then to attempt Louisa’s after she’s drunk the beer.

Thinking back to my drinking days, I try to figure out how long it’ll take to get Louisa to relax, lie down, and enjoy her day. Thirty minutes before Frank is due to arrive, I find a bottle opener and pop the cap off the first bottle.

A good Wisconsin girl, Louisa loves her beer. Before I can say, “Slow down there, partner,” she’s slurped it all up. I rush to get the other bottle and pour it into her bowl as she impatiently pushes my hand with her snout, eager for the second round.

Unfortunately, it has no effect. I stand by and talk to her as she runs her mouth around the bottom of the bowl to get every last drop. She doesn’t get mellow, she doesn’t lie down, and she hasn’t become the life of the barnyard. This pig can hold her beer. She even walks straight.

Luckily, Dane arrives with a six-pack of Driftless Cow Cult Stout. When I look surprised, he says, “It’s all I had in my refrigerator.”

This is getting costly.

Watching Louisa closely, we allow her to indulge in two more beers. By the time Frank appears we think she may be getting tipsy, but mellow isn’t how I’d describe her. When we try to get her to lie down, she starts squealing louder than a police siren. She wants more beer.

We won’t give it to her. After an hour of trying to wait her out, we realize four beers is nothing to this gal, and she’s having none of the sweet-talking, let-me-pamper-you-and-cut-your-nails routine. Frank goes home, Dane and I head back up to the house, and Louisa eventually sleeps it off. Not even any sign of a hangover.

Weeks have gone by and now Dr. Katie is here. After guesstimating Louisa’s weight at 100 pounds. Dr. Katie mixes a cocktail, injects it, and soon Louisa is fast asleep. I’m a panicked mess. Dane and Frank are amused, and the vet is monitoring her vitals.

Frank gets busy. Louisa’s front hooves are fine. It’s the back ones I worry about. While monitoring Louisa’s breathing, Dr. Katie also trims the hooves of the goats—Grandma Peepers and the young'uns, Hans, and Vincent—while Dane and I take turns holding them still. Diego and Carlos had their trim before the doctor got here.

I remember how, just the other day, Dane had set up a chair out back and ran a cord out for his shaver. I trimmed his hair while the donkeys, Louisa, the goats, dogs, cats, ducks, and geese all milled about. It was a peaceful scene.

Granted, I wasn’t cutting Dane’s toenails, yet I can’t help comparing the two situations. Dane sat so still—no beer or drugs were needed. When I started with the scissors on his eyebrows and inside his ears, he might have liked a few Valium or even a beer, but I had none to offer.

As I walk Dr. Katie to her car, I ask how fast Louisa’s hooves will grow out. She doesn’t have an exact answer, but Louisa is seven years old and they’ve been fine up to now. My plan is to put more concrete in the pen for both her and the goats, hoping it will help keep their hooves reasonably in control.

As for Dane, he needs a trim every four weeks; the donkeys’ hooves, every other month, the goats’ hooves, a few times a year. May it be at least another seven years before we need to do dear Louisa’s again.

Ruben and the Good-Good Day

I knew today was going to be a good day because I had chicken for a snack when I woke up!

But then it got even better: Mom mixed pure pumpkin into my dry kibble, along with warm water, to make it extra creamy and crunchy. Just the way I like it. 

Yes, today is a good-good day, and the weather doesn’t seem as hot or humid. Even better, the sky seems clear. I despise thunderstorms. The thunder makes me quiver and shake so bad that I can’t even climb the stairs to get to safety . . . where Mom is. Lately Mom’s been giving me and my sister doggy treats that have something called hemp in them. She says if we take those hemp pills daily, we’ll be all la-la about loud thunder and pouring rain. We’ll see about that!

We eat in the basement, which means we get to run around outside and check for squirrels or raccoons in the yard first. We have what Mom calls an “outside basement.” We need to go out the front door and race around to the backyard to get into it. It’s cool down there in the summer. I don’t like heat! My black fur soaks up the hot sun and doesn’t let it go.

After Mom finishes feeding Louisa, that spoiled pig, and the rest of the outside gang, we go inside. I love this part of the day: my sibs and I get treats! Today we each get peanut butter, a doggy cookie, and our hemp pills. Like I said, it’s going to be a great day. When Papa comes over, I bet we’ll go for a long hike!

Papa arrives and I grab the nearest thing I see, a sock, and run around half-crazed with it in my mouth. Mom’s chasing me because it’s her good sock. Big deal—I like having something in my mouth when I’m excited, and she keeps leaving her socks on the floor.

It’s time! Téte, Finn and I are all jumping and barking because we love going for hikes. But wait a minute . . . they just made Finn and Téte go back in the house, and they put me in the car. I start crying. Something’s not right. If one of us goes, we all go—we’re a pack.

I sit up as straight as I can to watch out the window. Both Mom and Papa have told me to please stop whining, but I can’t. And when we pull into the vet’s parking lot, my good-good day flies right out the window.

I try to pull Mom down the street when we get out of the car; I try to dig my claws in and hold my space; I try everything I can think of, with lots of loud whining. But in the door I go, half pushed, half dragged, with Mom saying over and over, “It’s okay, Ruben. No one will hurt you.”

Well, I just might hurt someone, because that’s how I’m feeling about this trickery! Everything was pointing to the best day ever, and now this. I. Do. Not. Like. Going. To. The. Doctor. Mom knows this and so does Papa. Traitors!

Dr. Jenna seems nice but I don’t want her touching me. Doctors scare me. Everyone keeps trying to give me treats, but I’m not falling for that. I want to go home and be with Téte and Finn. I want to go for our walk!

Mom holds me in a bear hug, all the while telling me how much she loves me, while the doctor pokes me—ouch!—with two different needles. I do not like this at all.

And it’s over. Mom and Dr. Jenna are giving me lots of treats. I eat them all as I wag my tail and say, “Let’s get out of here!”

Papa is waiting for us. He tells me I’m a big, brave boy. I look at Mom, willing her not to tell Papa how scared I was, and she doesn’t.

Instead of turning right to go home, we turn left. And just like that, it’s a good-good day again. A great day. A magnificent day! It’s just me, Mom, and Papa, walking around Sidie Hollow Lake, where I get to smell all the wonderful smells, wade in the water and get a drink, and get all of Mom and Papa’s attention to myself.

When we get back home, I forget all about telling Téte and Finn the part about the doctor. Next time we go there, I vow to be braver.

For now, I’m going to lie on the back porch in the shade and rest on this good-good day.

Spikey Spike

Spikey Spike

Alice wasn’t always keen on cats in the house, and especially not on the table! One of our favorite stories about Alice, Dane’s mom, is the time we all sat down to dinner and Spike jumped up on the table to join us. As quick as a Las Vegas dealer, Alice snatched Spike up, crying out, “No!” and dropped him onto the floor.

Then, realizing the toss was rather harsh, she looked up sheepishly and assured us in a soft voice, “They always land on their feet.” Dane and I ho wled, and still do, recounting this story, because we knew Alice’s cat rules. Knowing I was an animal lover, she may have thought she’d offended me by tossing Spike so quickly. She hadn’t.

Seventeen years ago, I asked Dr. Miller how I could get my cat Frida pregnant. As her eyes got big and her forehead wrinkled, I explained that when I was a child, Kelly, our family’s Dalmatian, had puppies, and it was the best lesson ever on the birds and the bees and responsibility. I wanted the same experience for Ethan and Helena, my grandchildren.

By the time Dr. Miller was done lecturing me on cats and pregnancy, I could tell she didn’t think I’d learned a darn thing about the birds and the bees. So I did what she recommended—nothing—and sure enough Frida’s belly swelled.

I’m convinced there’s a dictionary somewhere in which, if you look up the words “cat lover,” Dane’s photo will be there. There’s nothing he likes better than a cat, and any sweet kitten will have him playing on the floor in no time.

And so it was with Frida’s kittens. No sooner would Dane come over to visit than he’d be down on the floor with all the kittens running all over him like a human jungle gym. It was no surprise that when they were old enough, he claimed Sophie as his own and took her home.

More surprising was when he brought Alice over to pick one out. She chose an orange-and-white, short-haired sweetie and, before Dane even pulled out of the driveway, christened him Spike!

Soon enough, Spike and Sophie became Alice’s new best friends, and every afternoon when she’d take a break from her daily chores and read, both kittens would sleep on her lap. Sophie didn’t outlive Alice, but Spike (or more often Spikey, or even Spikey Spike) did.

Despite missing Alice terribly, Spike had a great life. He moused in the morning, visited his gardening friends in the backyard in the afternoon, and kept Dane company during the evening. His new feline friend Blake (Blakey, or Blakey Blake) was never too far from his side.

Days turned into years. When Dane lived with me for six months while he recuperated from heart challenges, he missed both Spikey and Blakey dreadfully. He couldn’t wait to get back home to them, as there was no way we could bring two adult cats to my home—we knew it would be chaos with my gang of cats and dogs.

Eventually Spike started showing his age and could no longer eat solid food. But he sure could purr and love up Dane. He still hung out with Blakey but he was losing weight. After a few visits with Dr. Piper, it became apparent that Spikey would soon be joining Alice.

When we walked into Dr. Piper’s office that final day, Mrs. Piper said, “Wow, sixteen years. That’s a long life.” Dane cuddled Spikey on his blanket and put his face next to him. As he gently stroked his neck, he whispered, “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re a good kitty,” as Spikey closed his eyes for the last time.

Blake was able to spend time with Spikey—to sniff him, lie next to him, and know that he was gone. The next evening Dane and I drove out to the back pasture. Carrying Spikey from the car, Dane opened a gate and walked past an old pine tree until he reached a rock that he uses as a marker. I followed with a shovel.

As the sun descended and the sky glowed a soft peach, Dane reminisced about his one and only dog, Sparky, who is also buried there, along with Sophie and several other beloved feline companions.

Rest in peace, Spikey. Dane laid you down gently and said his goodbyes, but he’ll always carry you in his heart. And Alice will be so happy to see you.

Wild Friends

“Oh, hello, Friend, who are you?” I ask the strange bird that flies up from my flock as I enter the duck pen this evening. It’s smaller, dark brown, and looks naked compared to my gang. Did the geese get angry and pluck the feathers of one of my ducks?

I stare longer in surprise. This bird, with its bright pink bill and Mr. Potato Head eyes, is definitely not mine, but it’s unclear whether it’s wild or domesticated. It simply showed up in the pen with my flock, munching away on grain that I’d tossed down only minutes before.

Wildlife has a way of showing up here and doing unusual things. Once, a deer wanted to hang out with the donkeys. And the other day, a doe was acting strangely in the road, walking back and forth and bowing, as if dancing with an unseen partner.

I move toward this bird, and it flies up onto the rail of the pen. I say, “Please stay, Friend—I’m going to go get my phone to snap a picture of you. I’d like to know who you are.”

When I return from the house, I’m thrilled to see Friend has listened and is still perched on the rail, watching my flock busily eating grain below.

Snapping a few quick pictures, I move forward, which causes Friend to spook and fly down to the creek. “Oh, don’t go! I won’t hurt you or try to touch you. I just want to know who you are. Did you run away, come from another flock, get lost? Why are you all alone?”

Friend ignores me and splashes around in the creek while I put the rest of my flock indoors for the night. Once they’re all safely in, I decide to keep the door to the outer pen open, refill their water, and put out a fresh bowl of grain, in case Friend is someone’s pet.

After checking on Friend one last time, I say, “Good night, hope to see you in the morning light,” and head up to the house.

Once inside, I download the blurry photos I’ve taken so I can do an image search and see what type of duck Friend is.

A Google search shows me a clear photo that looks exactly like Friend: a black-bellied whistling-duck! I learn that they aren’t rare but live all over the United States. What is rare is that Friend is alone, as they generally live in large, noisy flocks.

My flock is noisy, so maybe that's what attracted Friend to them. She seems to be an adult, as the juveniles have black beaks and pale legs. Her beak is a vivid pink, but I couldn’t see her legs when she was perched on the rail or swimming in the creek. Apparently, black-bellied ducks really do whistle, but I didn’t hear that. If I had, I’d have gone down to the Duck Hall earlier, curious about an unfamiliar noise.

Excited by this encounter, I climb into bed and wait for the morning light. When it comes, it’s storming. I grab my rain jacket and let the flock out first, figuring they’ll let me know if Friend is here.

The four ladies, as I call my geese, are agitated. They’re not eating or drinking, which isn’t normal for them after spending the night without food or water. They walk in a tight group to the side of the Duck Hall and point with their beaks while raising a racket. Friend is here, I think, as I hurry over and take a look.

Nothing but tall weeds. Might the Ladies have smelled her from the night before? I carefully make my way through, getting drenched by the rain and the wet foliage. Next I go to the creek, where some of the ducks are already splashing in the murky water. I look up and down, over and behind the wild parsnip, jewelweed, and tall grasses—still nothing.

After chores, I head back and look again, then sit on the wet picnic table, listening for a whistle, but after an hour I’m soggy and need to get ready for class.

Goodbye, my Friend, I think. Thank you for your visit, and I wish you well on your journey. May you find your flock and be happy.

That night, when I tell Dane about it, we remember that as we watched the doe in the road three days ago, Maurice, my shy gray tabby cat, came into view. "Maurice!" we exclaimed. It’s been four years since we discovered him playing in the front yard with a deer. Could this be her again? Does Maurice also have a secret wild Friend? Who else visits when we’re not looking?

Deer with Maurice

Hope for America

Steuben, Wi

Hope for America

We’re sitting inside at a restaurant, where we can inhale without taking in lungfuls of wildfire smoke. Sundays are typically for early morning “master hikes,” a term I coined for challenging outings for just Dane and me, no dogs allowed! But not today—not with Dane’s nonstop coughing and the poor air quality outdoors.

Dane grabs the box of conversation-starter cards on the table and picks one to ask me: “Who is someone you admire?” Without a second thought, I say, “Jane Goodall,” and then quickly add, “James Talarico.” Talarico is running for the U.S. Senate in Texas.

Dane nods, encouraging me to elaborate. “I like Talarico’s spunk,” I explain. No matter what folks say disparagingly against him, he doesn’t lose his cool, he doesn’t back down, and he combats their outlandish takes on what being a Christian means with scripture from the Bible. The Christian lifestyle he holds to—“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”—seems straightforward and accurate.

Dane’s turn. He runs through a mental list of folks, then looks straight at me and says, “Heather Cox Richardson.” I grin and answer, “Good one! Yes!”

Richardson is a professor at Boston College and a renowned political historian. I introduced Dane to her free daily newsletter a few years back, and ever since, he rarely misses reading her Letters from an American.

Dane goes on to praise her, saying he thought he knew his history but has learned so much more from her. He particularly likes how she analyzes current US politics through the lens of history.

Richardson’s newsletter is the most-subscribed-to individual publication on Substack, with over 2.6 million subscribers. We feel the world makes more sense with her analysis and commentary. I’ve learned more about history from reading Letters from an American than I ever did in school.

We’re both also fans of her current project, called 250 to 250, a video initiative for America’s semiquincentennial year. Last August, when advocates of white nationalism, Christian nationalism, and authoritarianism claimed to be embracing American values, Richardson urged people instead “to see those who care about the preservation of democracy and who have worked to expand its values as the people who truly represent America.” As her team considered how to celebrate the nation’s 250th anniversary, they kept circling back to the idea that “We Are America” and decided to develop a series of short videos highlighting people, places, and events that have moved our country forward.

Featuring mostly everyday Americans, the videos are designed to remind us of our own agency and ability to change the country. They help define what it means to be American, in categories such as community, democracy, innovation, mobility, civil rights, education, creativity, and conservation.

While Dane and I sip our coffee and wait for our food, we look up the first 250 for 250 video on his phone. In her introduction, Richardson says that our country’s story has been about “the ongoing effort from Americans of all races, ethnicities, genders, and abilities” to demonstrate “that we are all created equal and have a right to have a say in our democracy.… Because now, as ever, ‘We Are America.’”

The videos are easy to find on YouTube and are each only a minute long. Each one is narrated by a public figure, such as Rosanne Cash, Illinois Governor JB Pritzker, Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Harrison Ford, Peter Salk, Maria Shriver, Pete Buttigieg, and Cleve Jones.

Our breakfast comes, and as we eat, we agree that Talarico’s ability to convey the concerns and values of the Democratic Party on conservative Fox News is impressive, as is his reframing of issues as a fight between “top and bottom,” versus left and right.

Then we agree that no one in our time has been as accessible and brilliant as Heather Cox Richardson at communicating with a general audience the importance of our history and its lessons for our present moment. Putting down his fork, Dane says, “She gives me hope.” 

“Something we all need right now,” I add.

A Lone Crow Calls

A Lone Crow Calls

On this hot summer day, the only sound I hear is a crow. Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Ko-aw.

I’m sweltering under the overhang on the back deck, with a fan pointed at me. Nothing is moving in the backyard, where ducks, geese, donkeys, dogs, cats, goats, and a pig are usually milling about.

At a normally busy bird feeder, a lone red-winged blackbird and a few song sparrows sit, occasionally dip their beaks into the seed, and sit some more.

There is no wind. The stoic trees stand still, their branches drooping under the oppressive heat and the weight of their foliage.

The slowly oscillating fan is disappointing. I can barely feel when the air passes over me. Not until much later will I discover that the far right of the dial, where I’ve turned it, is the lowest setting. That seems all wrong, as does this heat, this stillness.

Ko-aw, ko-ao, ko-aw. The crow hasn’t stopped yakking, and in my lethargic pose, I start timing it. So far it’s been nine minutes with no letup. By contrast, my usually noisy flock of ducks and geese aren’t making a peep. I wonder if they’re okay.

But I don’t get up. I know they’re in the creek, huddled together under the lowest branches that hang out over the water, providing some relief from the sun that seems intent on burning us all straight to hell.

There is no life, it would appear, in the pig and goats’ pen. But I also know the goats are lying in the shade of their play station, and Louisa is tucked inside her straw-filled house. If I were closer, I would hear her snoring.

So it’s just the crow and me. And the crow is deep in the woods. Fifteen minutes of one crow repeating itself: Ka-ow. Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Is the crow sick or hurt? Does it need help? Is it suffering from heat stroke?

I thought the donkeys were in their three-sided shelter, but I now see two brown humps in the dirt. They are lying nose to tail, the way cows stand in the pasture to keep flies at bay. It seems Carlos’s tail has lost its will to flick, like a kid’s toy when the battery wears down. One one-thousand, flick. Two one-thousand, flick. Diego’s tail moves slightly quicker and more strongly.

If I had the bandwidth to get up and peer into the deck’s crawl space, I’d see the cats spread out underneath, unmoving. And the dogs?

Finnegan is lying near me on the deck, on his back, legs up like sticks, mouth open, tongue hanging out to catch the pathetic breeze from the lazy fan.

Téte is tucked under the porch swing, up against the front of the house. Less than an hour ago, I ran the hose and soaked her down with cold water, through her thick fur right to her skin. The silly girl then ran like the wind we all wish for, around the house, onto the deck, back down the stairs, and around again. She wore herself out.

Maybe that’s the way to beat this heat: exhaust yourself so you zonk out and don’t feel like you’re baking inside a bat cave in 200-degree weather.

Ruben is indoors. He’s a smart dog who regularly follows me everywhere, but not in this heat. He stays inside even when I go out, most likely thinking me a fool.

Only because I’m trying to write this column, and I hate the thought of Ruben considering me a fool, I heave myself up and look at the thermometer: 92. Later I learn the humidity is at “only” 54 percent, about half what it’s been in recent days. I want to celebrate this glorious fact, but I can’t. The “feels like” temperature is still a whopping 100 degrees.

My sweat-drenched clothes are stuck to my skin, and if I had to pull my pants and then my undies down to pee, I’d lose the race. But thankfully, I don’t have to because it seems I’m dehydrated. My coffee, my water, and my herbal tea don’t want to leave my body. I imagine them clinging to my insides for dear life.

I stay on the back porch under the roof and finally figure out the fan settings. Not that it helps. I have 32 plants to water and fuss over; donkeys, goats, and one pig to reapply fly repellent to; and three drinking bowls of hot water to dump and make cold again.

Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Thirty-four minutes of nonstop calling, and I’m no closer to knowing what this crow needs. Likely it’s a plea for rain or snow.

The Same, Yet Different

Sidie Hollow

The Same, Yet Different

“Hello, bullfrog!” I sing out, just as Dane stops and points, whispering, “Shhh, there’s a blue heron.”

We debate whether it’s the same one we see year to year, week to week, here at Sidie Hollow Park. We watch as she spears three fish with her sharp bill, then shakes them down her gullet. We feel lucky to see nature this closely. “It’s better than a National Geographic magazine,” I say.

A few years ago, if it was the same heron, she flew up to a tree after we spooked her by coming around the trail. I was able to zoom in and get perfect pictures of this tallest North American heron. A great blue heron can stand up to four feet tall and have a wingspan of six and a half feet. Later I learned they weigh only about five to six pounds! They remind me of little dinosaurs.

Oh no, the red-winged blackbirds are attacking her! Dane laughs at their futile attacks, but I’m worried about her. The same thing happened to me years ago, when my three-legged dog, Moses, was still alive. I was enjoying a morning walk, and there must have been a nest nearby. I kept saying, “I’m not going to hurt you,” and the protective bird was shrieking, “Don’t even think about it!” I never felt its beak, but I did feel the frightening brush of wind from its wings. 

Finally, having had enough of the four blackbirds bombarding her, the heron flies away. Soon after, Dane points again, and I see a much smaller green heron, also out fishing.

It’s early Saturday morning, and we’re trying to get the dogs walked before the day gets too hot. I think of the popular Heraclitus quote, “No man steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” No matter how many times we’ve been on the two-mile trail around Sidie Hollow, it’s different every time.

Today, soon after getting out of the car and entering the grassy camp area, Dane spied the nest where we had seen a snapping turtle leave her eggs a week ago. Sadly, the nest has been dug up, and the eggs sucked out, leaving the shell. My guess is a raccoon did it, while Dane thinks it was a skunk, but it could easily have been a fox, coyote, or opossum too. My friend saw a bobcat at Sidie not long ago; I wonder if a bobcat would eat turtle eggs.

Before moving on, we watch two sets of ducklings swimming with their parents. They seem to be buoyed up by the bright green algae. It looks slimy to me, but they look happy and are certainly finding plenty of insects to eat.

As we continue up the hillside in the shade, the dogs lead and sniff every tree. They know this route and enjoy it as much as we do.

When we get to the dam area, we notice three flocks of adult Canada geese arranged in a bowling pin pattern, about a foot apart. This time we spot a set of goslings and admire them as they glide through the water.

There are three boats on the lake, all busy with folks fishing, and a group of kids on each pier. It does our hearts good to see this much activity so early; it’s never crowded at this time of day. As usual, on the trail, we’ve only passed one lady with a dog and two teens so far.

As we approach the picnic shelter and kids' play area, we count three more groups of ducklings. Dane points out that some of the little ones are quite far from their parents.

I’m looking for my favorite reptiles, the turtles. I’m disappointed not to see them sunning on the logs like we normally do. But as we watch the ducklings, I shout, “There they are; they look like alien monsters!” The turtles are covered in algae from head to tail, camouflaged on logs floating in the murky waters.

Once we get past the swings and the pavilion, the dogs start pulling Dane toward their drinking spot. They love to cool off in the water and get a drink before finishing the well-worn loop.

We stop to admire some brilliant pink sweet pea flowers before we get in the car. On the way home, the dogs immediately zonk out. Dane and I reflect on the walk, the clouds, and how pretty the plumeless purple thistle is, even though we know it’s invasive.

Once home, I learn that bobcats will indeed dig up turtle eggs and eat them. Next time, I hope we see one—but not eating the turtle eggs!

Blue Heron

Green Heron

Lavender and Lions!

Lavender and Lions

Sally drives while I ride shotgun and tell her where to turn. A few times, we need to backtrack as I’m not quick enough with the directions, or Sally misses my cues. We’ve loaded our bikes up and are on our way to ride the Great Sauk State Trail. It’s an 11.4-mile one-way asphalt trail that winds through Prairie du Sac as well as the Sauk Prairie State Recreation Area.

We’re excited to revisit this trail. We biked it last year and liked it so much that we both went back with our husbands and rode it again. Sally reminds me it’s where I lost my credit card. I remind her I’ve lost my credit card many times, and not just there. We laugh and enjoy the magnificent clouds. In Hillsboro, we make a quick stop at Let’s Shine Coffee before following Highway 33 past Reedsburg.

As we chat, my instructions to turn become more frequent as we get closer to our surprise destination. Unbeknownst to Sally, we’re actually headed to the Wisconsin Big Cat Rescue and Education Center in Rock Springs. As we pull into the parking lot, Sally is delighted. “Oh, look, a lion! A lion in Wisconsin…” Her excitement is contagious.

As we pay our entry fee, the gal warns us that most of the cats will be hiding in shelters because of the afternoon heat. Sadly, she says a few of the older cats have died since my last visit, well before COVID.

Nonetheless, we practically skip up the asphalt path leading to the first cage, where Sally is the first to spot the lion. It’s hiding inside a ginormous concrete tube, and despite our best coaxing, it doesn’t come out. We head to the next cage, where Sally spots a tiger before I do, and it gets up to see us! Thrilled, we stay there, transfixed at seeing such a magnificent creature so close up.

The Center was established in 2004 by Jeff and Jenny Kozlowski. All the cats here are rescued. Most came from private owners who could no longer care for them, zoos that felt the animal was too old for display, places where cubs had been used for photos and were no longer manageable, or animals that needed homes because of injuries.

By the time we get to Harley, a gorgeous male tiger, we realize there’s a school group touring with a staff person. Harley is intently watching the folks, about twenty kids, going cage to cage. Quickly we cut across the grassy section to join them and soak up every word the guide says. Sally and I fit right in, ask questions, and engage with both the kids and the parents. We seem to be more curious than they are. Once they see a cat, they’re ready to look for the next one, but we want more education—and we aren’t disappointed.

We end up staying almost two hours. If we come again, we’ll book a morning feeding tour that lets you tag along with staff as they feed the cats.

Back in the car, I resume navigation while Sally and I talk about our visit, the cats, and how we both wish there wasn’t a need for such a place, although we’re glad it’s there.

I say turn right, but Sally turns left because she knows the way to Devil’s Lake, which is where we planned to hike after biking. But I still have another plan up my sleeve! Eventually, we turn into the New Life Lavender and Cherry Farm outside Baraboo. Our mouths drop open at the beautiful lavender in full bloom. We see a lavender labyrinth we can’t wait to walk through. The store smells great, and I feel myself relax. Lavender is one of my favorite smells, and I often use lavender oil on my pillow; I swear it helps me sleep better. Sally spots plants with white flowers and asks about them, and we learn they are also lavender.

Now we’re too hungry to ride our bikes or to hike at Devil’s Lake, so we head for the nearby Little Village Cafe. Sally gets tortellini with grilled shrimp. I get a Greek salad with blackened salmon, and we split a decadent slice of flourless chocolate cake.

We’ve been on the road since 9:30 a.m., and we still haven’t hiked or biked! We agree it’s okay to change our plans, so we make a quick stop at Baraboo’s free Ochsner Park Zoo before getting home at 7 p.m. Our next adventure will be riding the Great Sauk Trail and hiking at Devil’s Lake!

Harvey!

Our Hearts Always Remember

Our Hearts Always Remember

My body is on automatic pilot as I walk down the driveway at my daughter Jessica’s home, turn right, and walk up Parnell Avenue to Hales Corners Park. The title of a book I’ve read, The Body Keeps Score, about the lasting effects of trauma, comes to mind as I sleepwalk to the public swimming pool that no one has used for years because of a funding issue.

I notice the high dive is no longer there. The two low diving boards are, and the lifeguard chair where the suntanned gal in the red one-piece suit would hold up her white megaphone and yell: “Get up the ladder and exit.”

As a child, after I'd hit the water, often belly-first, I’d swim to the ladder, but I needed to take off my nose plugs and adjust my swimsuit before climbing out. It took time. My body was jolted by the plunge.

Continuing on the asphalt path leads me to the baseball diamond. The shiny silver benches where the teams always sat on either side now have fencing in front of them. I stand for a moment, recalling the time a ball flew sideways off the batter's bat and slammed into Danny, who was on the bench waiting for his turn. Danny didn’t break his nose, but he did die from cancer in his fifties. Losing Danny so early was hard for his family and friends. Our bodies collectively remember.

And there’s the bridge! It looks well-kept and solid, as it did when I was young, walking this path through the park at least twice a day, to and from Hales Corners Elementary School; in the summer, to the pool, home, and back for the after-dinner swim; and in winter, to go ice skating or tobogganing. Later, when I was a teen, that park path was a gateway to meet up with friends. 

But it was also the scene of an accident that could have been worse. My sister and I climbed aboard my brother’s three-wheeler bikes after he’d told us not to touch them. Going too fast, when I tried to turn before the creek, I toppled over. Jill, who was behind me, rode back to get Jack. Tipping into the creek on that big machine was frightening. Nothing was broken, but days later, I still hurt all over. My body remembers.

The black walnut trees are gigantic, but three from my childhood are missing. Like me, I think, they are aging, and some, like my family and friends, have died.

To the right of me, where the creek runs, a newer bridge leads over to the second baseball diamond. I think of all the boards and logs Dad would try to place across that creek to make a shortcut over to the ball diamond where he’d watch the games. All those soakers! I smile as I remember.

The parking lot looks the same as ever: empty. The only time I remember it filling up was on the Fourth of July when the park and streets near it were filled with cars, baby buggies, bicycles, and people. So many memories keep surfacing on this autopilot walk through my long-ago haunts.

Outside the park, I stand in front of my old home, where Jill, Jack, and I grew up. The house, once barn red, is beige now, and the crab apple trees are gone. I’m surprised because just two years ago, one of them was still there. A new young tree has been planted. The flagpole and basketball hoop, along with the rock garden my dad and I made, are also gone.

Standing there, I remember my dad out cutting the grass; my mom in the kitchen, cigarette in her mouth, making cream of mushroom something or other; Jill and Jack off with friends; and me playing with Kelly and Albert, our dogs.

Feeling nostalgic, I turn and head back toward Jessica’s, where I’m spending the weekend. My steps are slow and heavy. Her home is just as familiar to me as these other places. She and Brad bought it when Ethan was 10, and Helena was 7, still young enough to participate in the annual Hales Corners Fourth of July events and attend my elementary school.

I walk back down Parnell and turn into Jessica’s driveway. She and Brad are in the backyard. Ethan is in Michigan with his wife for a friend’s wedding, and Helena is no longer here.

Today it has been two years since Helena left this life, on the eve of the summer solstice, when the sun stood still.

Our bodies keep score, and our hearts always remember.

My Father’s Daughter

Dad’s stone I discovered last year in the HC park Memorial

A picture of our childhood home taken last year

My Father’s Daughter

Dear Dad,

It’s been 47 years since Jessica and I were visiting with you on the porch, not knowing it would be our last day with you. A lot has changed, but I’m guessing you know that. Mom, Jill, and Helena are all somewhere with you, and Jack is in memory care.

I can hardly believe Jessica will be 50 years old this year, and that you’ve been gone so long.

Ethan is married now, and you’d love knowing that Jessica and Brad live on the other side of Hales Corners Park from where we lived. Unfortunately, the public swimming pool has never been open since they moved there, for lack of money, they say. Some of my best summer days were spent in that pool.

I remember you sitting on your bicycle just outside the fence, fingers gripping the chain links for balance. I’d be on the high dive, and you’d be shouting encouragement.

I’d hunch over on the tip of the board, nose plugs on, hands clasped together above my head as you’d shown me. When I surfaced, you’d give me a number between 1 and 10 and tell me what to do to improve my dive. I never heard a 10.

But I do still hear your voice: always encouraging, always trying to get me to do a little more, a little better.

You’d like being with me here, where I live in the country. Today is a peaceful, hazy, damp day, full of the sounds of country life: Louisa, my pig, chomping on the grass; the ducks and geese quacking and splashing in the creek; Finnegan, my Jack Russell mix, snoring on the deck—and the birds. So many birds! Just now, I can hear the rat-a-tat-tat of a pileated woodpecker, the buzz of a hummingbird zooming past me to the feeder and to my potted flowers, and a barred owl in the distance.

You never talked about your time in World War II, the Korean War, or your 34 years of service in the United States Air Force. I often find myself wondering what that was like for you. My knowledge is limited, and all I have are a few of your old photos from back then of you and your buddies. I don’t even know if they made it home. I wonder how their fate affected you. I also wonder what you were like before the war. Were you different after? I only knew you as my dad, who called me Peanut Popper, and who I called Popsie Turtle.

Once, when I was visiting Jessica, I saw the memorial that contained a stone honoring your service. How fitting that it was in Hales Corners Park, where you watched me dive, and in winter took me ice skating and sledding. That toboggan slide might scare me now! We’d climb those steep steps, you’d shove the toboggan under your belly, and I’d lie face-down on your back, cold mittens clenched around your neck—and then we’d fly. We’d fly down that hill, me screaming in your ear, you most likely getting a face full of snow, till we’d spin out before the creek. Then we’d do it all again.

Memories of your presence are all I have left. Like the three flowering crab apple trees you planted in the corner of our front yard, one each for Jack, Jill, and me. Whenever I visit Jessica, I walk by our old house and see them.

So when I bought my place here, all those years ago, with hardly a dollar left to my name, the first thing I did was buy a crab apple tree. It’s huge now, and it flowered beautifully this year.

I also have a flagpole up at my house! I haven’t forgotten your love for your country or the flagpole you put up when we were kids. You had Jill, Jack, and me make handprints in the cement base. I remember thinking how cool it was to stick my hand in the wet cement. I see that the newer residents there took down the flagpole, though.

I added a pride flag and an Earth flag to mine. You were a good example of how we should love and care for all, people and animals alike. In that way, and others, I feel I am my father’s daughter.

Happy Popsie Turtle Day, Dad. It’s been too long since I’ve said that.

Love you and miss you,

Peanut Popper

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.