All Aboard!

All Aboard!

“We’re trainees now,” I proudly whispered to Dane as we stood, legs braced, hands touching the walls of the Empire Builder, waiting for the train to stop. I’d appropriated the term to mean we’re now experienced Amtrak travelers.

After almost five full days of train travel, we feel we’ve learned the basics and know a few tricks to share.

First and foremost, never open the train door, even after a complete stop. Only the conductor may do that. This seemed like a no-brainer to us, but not to the gentleman ahead of us as we neared the Minot, North Dakota, train depot. The conductor chewed him out so thoroughly that I was about to cry, “Stop, just beat him,” thinking it may have been more humane than the public verbal thrashing he was receiving.

And don’t even think of entering the dining car unless you’re an elite passenger spending a small fortune for a sleeper car designed for people the size of hamsters with the flexibility of an octopus. Meals come with that pricey sleeper ticket, as does the privilege of booking your dining times. Coach riders need to wait by the door to be seated if there’s availability, and then only four people at a time. If you’d like a dining car meal, we’d recommend the $20 breakfast and skipping the more expensive lunch ($25) and dinner ($45 per person).

One benefit of eating in the dining car is making friends with your random tablemates. Another is the chance to load up on as many beverages as you can drink or carry away. Our no-nonsense waitress granted us each a coffee, a bottle of water, and a can of ginger ale before saying enough is enough.

An alternative to the dining car is the “café” on the lower level, with hours and rules that seemed to depend on whoever was running it. I learned on the way to Seattle not to touch anything but to point and ask; on the way home, not to point but to go and get the food I wanted to purchase; not to ask bothersome questions like “Where’s the cream”; and always to wear shoes. You can get away with being shoeless on the upper level of the train, but not in the café.

The best buys by far in the train café are the Asian noodle bowl, with its fresh and crispy red pepper and cabbage, and the Greek salad.

You can save money and get more nutritional bang for your buck by packing a small cooler and bringing it with you. We packed two and intentionally left one on a busy street in Seattle, loaded with cheese, sausage, crackers, and grapes. With many hungry people on the street, it was gone by the time we reached the corner coffee shop.

I was often scolded on the train, much to Dane’s amusement, for asking questions the personnel felt I should already know. In one of those conversations, I learned that the observation car we’d been enjoying all day would depart the train after midnight. If we’d stayed in that car, we’d have wound up in Portland with our luggage in Seattle!

To save money, we recommend skipping the sleeper car. Also, the sooner you book your tickets, the cheaper they are. Our round-trip coach tickets from La Crosse to Seattle were under $200 each, far cheaper than driving. Unlike at an airport, there’s free parking, and instead of the stress of navigating unfamiliar roads, you can do your work, play games, read a book, or even sleep...if you’re able.

Dane had no problem curling up and falling asleep in the seat. I tossed and turned until I discovered the observation car chairs were easier to get comfortable in. A neck pillow is a must, as are a light blanket and an eye mask. Earplugs might be helpful, too, but not if you want to harmonize with a group of Amish people singing, clapping, and playing the harmonica well past sunset.

I loved learning that at seven depots along the route, the passengers were allowed to get off, stretch their legs, and get some fresh air. In Minot, an enterprising woman has set up a coffee trailer called the Daily Buzz in an empty lot near the station. By the time we walked over, there was a long line, but it was worth the wait for a steaming cup of chai tea and some exercise.

We haven’t even been home for a week, and we’re already looking into tickets for Glacier Park, Montana. If we buy them now for next year, they’re $100 round-trip. Well worth it for another great train adventure.

All aboard!

Rainless in Seattle

Rainless in Seattle

From the start, Dane wanted to go on a train trip for our honeymoon. After learning that Glacier Park, our first choice, might be closed due to snow, we settled on Seattle. Dane had been there before, loved the city, and was eager to show me around. We couldn’t wait to be together near the sea. But he also warned me that Seattle is wet, so I packed my rain jacket, rain hat, and umbrella in the outside pocket of my carry-on.

We hopped on the train in La Crosse on Tuesday evening and arrived in Seattle Thursday afternoon, ripe with train sweat. We took a taxi from King Street Station to our hotel, but when the driver dropped us off at a skyscraper, we knew we were at the wrong place. He’d mistaken our hotel's name, ACE, for the Marriott’s AC Hotel, so back in the cab we went for another wild ride through the busy streets.

The brick ACE Hotel at the corner of 1st Avenue and Wall Street offers a great view of the ocean. The room was cozy and perfect in every way, except that the hot water wasn’t working. The staff were kind when explaining about plumbing and old buildings. Anxious to get out and see Seattle, Dane only splashed the water halfheartedly on himself as I howled and immersed myself in a cold-water plunge.

Holding hands, we stepped out jacketless into a glorious, sunshiny late afternoon. We headed toward Pike Place Market, where Dane bought a colorful shirt. We ate a late lunch/early dinner at a Thai restaurant; took in a tourist attraction called Wings Over Washington, highly recommended by the hotel staff; boarded the Bainbridge Island ferry to take in the sunset; and rode the famous Seattle Great Wheel.

Wings Over Washington is a thrilling state-of-the-art flying-simulation theater that had both of us gripping our seats. I don’t think we were ever more than a foot off the ground, but the illusion of flight was so strong that Dane kept gripping his backpack, afraid it would fall out!

The ferry ride wasn’t at all what I expected. Unlike the small boats that ferry us to Washington Island, this was a massive floating kingdom with multiple floors, restaurants, plush seating, gift shops, and elevators and escalators.

As we’d anticipated, once the sun set, the evening skyline was aglow with lights of every color reflecting off the calm waters of Elliott Bay. After disembarking, we headed to Seattle’s Great Wheel and rode in one of the gondolas, marveling at the gorgeous evening and how warm it still was.

By the time we got back to the hotel, we were exhausted and thankful for hot showers before bed.

For the next few days we played tourist, starting with a visit to the Seattle Aquarium. We spent most of a day immersed in the brilliance of Dale Chihuly’s glass art, enjoying the outdoor garden, restaurant, and a theater where we watched a glassblowing demonstration. We also toured the Museum of Pop Culture, but weren’t able to see it all before it closed.

Our friends Cynthia and Chris had given us a gift certificate for the woman-owned Elliott Bay bookstore. As soon as we walked in, Dane went one way and I the other. Later, our arms full, we checked out with huge smiles on our faces.

On our last day in Seattle, we took a slow walk through the parks and along the bay, ending up back near Pike Place Market. For lunch, we decided on Beecher’s Handmade Cheese café, where we each had their signature salmon mac and cheese and shared a tuna melt.

After walking more than 25 miles in just three days, we were ready to sit back and relax on Amtrak’s Empire Builder. As we sat in the observation car, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows, we felt like we were watching a moving art show. We appreciated the seven stops between Seattle and La Crosse where we could get off, stretch our legs, and get some fresh air.

The last of those stops was in Minneapolis, where we eagerly headed for the coffee shop at the train station, since the train served only instant coffee. I spied a lovely bookstore with a sign that cautioned us not to let the resident cat out. Dane and I spent way too much time inside, browsing the books and petting the cat, and missed our train.

This gave us a few extra hours to wander around Minneapolis as we waited for a commuter train (the Borealis) to take us home. Thankfully, our luggage was there waiting for us. My rain jacket, rain hat, and umbrella had never left the pocket where I’d put them.

A New Journey

A New Journey

The day before our wedding, I called Dane to see how many words his vows were. “120 words,” he answered.

Mine were already over 900! I got busy cutting, and Dane got busy doing whatever grooms do the day before their wedding.

My daughter, Jessica, was here to help me with wedding errands and to celebrate her 49th birthday. We went for manicures and pedicures, then out to eat, and picked up my wedding outfit. Back at my place, we hung it on the shower curtain and I put a note on the door: “Stay out. This means you, Dane!” He and I had agreed on a few simple traditions: to separately write our own vows, not to show or tell him what I’d be wearing, and not to see each other before the ceremony on the day of the wedding.

We’d done our homework: programs and complimentary bookmarks were designed and printed, Dane had assembled the books that had brought us together, and the cobalt blue vases we’d collected for over a year were on the tables at Sittin’ Pretty Farm, filled with gorgeous flowers.

I had put together a slide show of our 19 years together, including our first two years of “non-dating” when I was reluctant to commit to the idea of actually dating. The Jaynes family had prepared a wonderful charcuterie spread, while professional photographer friend Richard and his wife Valorie had set up shop to take pictures. Steve, the proprietor of Sittin’ Pretty, was cooking up a storm, and Laura had delivered an assortment of individual cheesecakes.

On wedding day morning, I had time to lie on the back deck and read, although my focus was shot; Dane later mentioned he’d felt the same way.

As the ceremony was about to begin, I hid behind a window and watched the guests arrive.

Dane and I had created a cheat sheet for Kristina, our officiant. Right on cue, as Bob Dylan’s song “Buckets of Rain” started to play, my rat terrier Finnegan, sporting a tuxedo bandana, walked me down the aisle.

As Finn’s babysitter, Maureen, took him from me, Dane walked up the aisle to join me. Together we lit a candle in honor of our parents, my sister and brother, and my granddaughter Helena, who were deceased or unable to join us that day.

Kristina led everyone in reading a short wedding blessing written by James Dillet Freeman. Then Dane read the passage “On Marriage” from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, and I read an excerpt from The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman.

When Kristina read us the declaration of intent, I answered, “I do,” and Dane answered, “I will.” Next Dane read me his vows, and although I told a story or two as I read him mine, I had trimmed it from 900 words to 256, while Dane’s had increased to 133.

Dane’s vows included these words: “I will work to create with you a marriage grounded in kindness and compassion toward one another, and together toward our fellow creatures, and to share in your sense of wonder at the large and small graces of this world.” He also used one of our favorite quotes from William Blake: “For every thing that lives is holy,” which we’d printed on the bookmarks for our guests.

When it was my turn, I shared a story from an early disastrous backpacking trip. We’d not only finished the trip but had plenty of laughs, a good sign that our relationship might work.

Then I slowed down and read Dane my vows, saying in part, “I love our shared faith in the holiness of all things, along with our mutual gratitude and respect for not only each other but all others.”

We kissed, and Kristina introduced us as Dane Thompson and Jane Thompson Schmidt. Our celebration song, “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles),” by The Proclaimers, blared out, and flash dancers popped out of the audience while Dane and I held hands for the first time as husband and wife.

But we weren’t quite done! In the receiving line afterwards, our friend Ron mentioned, “You forgot to exchange rings!” We’d had our rings made years ago and had of course brought them with us, but we’d accidently left that part off of Kristina’s cheat sheet! Those who were still in the receiving line watched as we placed the rings on each other’s fingers and kissed again.

Now, two days later, we’re getting ready to settle into our seats on the Empire Builder for our first train trip to Seattle, and begin the long, new journey of marriage.

Game on!

Game on!

My brother Jack and I once had a contest to see who could jump rope the longest without missing. Just thinking about that grueling challenge exhausts me now. He won!

Remembering the family ping-pong games that took place in our basement makes me smile. We kept track on a chart: Dad played my brother, the winner played my sister, and then the winner of that match would play me. Sometimes I’d win, and often I’d lose, as the list kept changing.

My life has always been full of play and games: board games, card games, and active games. My childhood included Hi Ho Cherry-O, Crazy Eights, Chinese checkers, and Monopoly. Later our family graduated to blackjack, Jarts, Yahtzee, Shut the Box, Scrabble, badminton, ping-pong, and baseball.

Play and games followed me into elementary school, where they became important, too. Each day, I’d watch the clock, eager for recess time, when we could play tetherball, four square, and red rover.

In the evenings and on weekends, I’d meet up with the neighborhood gang for red light green light, freeze tag, and baseball. Once, my neighbor Tommy and I smacked into each other so hard during red light, green light that I had to go to the hospital, where they packed my nose to make it stop bleeding and told me not to pick it. It never looked quite the same after that. Playing hard can do that to a person!

My dad set up an old backstop in the field next door, mowed a path, and set out lawn chair pads for bases. It was a hit, and we played often. The teams seemed about even, as far as who won and who lost.

I come from a long line of game players. On my dad’s side, it was horseshoes and croquet. We played them both as a family, but not nearly as much as my dad told us he had when he was younger. I’m not sure if my mom’s family played many games. Maybe not, because she only joined us in ping-pong, never Jarts, and she got mad when we played blackjack. She didn’t like us playing poker either—something to do with gambling, I remember her saying.

As soon as my daughter Jessica was old enough, she and I continued the Schmidt family tradition of playing games together. We enjoyed stackable blocks, Old Maid, Chutes and Ladders, memory games, Operation, Simon Says, and a battery-operated gizmo where we had to quickly put plastic shapes into the correct spots before a buzzer went off.

The tradition continued when my daughter had her own children. New Year's Eve was a favorite time, filled with laughter over wild games of spoons, charades, and Wii video dancing games.

When Dane and I started dating, we started playing games, too. We’d set up the badminton net in my backyard, and Raime, my border collie, would track our every move. If we missed, Raime would snatch the birdie, and it would take a while before we’d get it back, sloppy from his drool.

Several board games—Othello, Battleship, Scrabble, Jenga, and Rummikub—became our standbys for quite a while. Outdoor games, in addition to badminton, have included a rustic variation of ping-pong (hitting a ball back and forth with wooden paddles) and what we call “Bags” (we refuse to call it cornhole). Dane always wins when we play Bags, and I usually beat him at Othello. We even have miniature game sets that we pack along on backpacking and camping trips.

We’re always happy to engage with our friends in play too. Years ago, it was a special treat to visit the Martins' house for a fish fry with the blue gills Roger had caught, and afterwards play dominoes.

During COVID, we burned out on our games and started making ojos de dios (“God’s eyes”) with twigs and yarn and doing puzzles. But we never veered too far off the gaming path.

Recently, we’ve spent hours creating a game for our wedding guests. Whether they’ll participate is anyone’s guess, but for us, our long-standing tradition of playing games will continue. I like to think we’ll have many years to play our favorite games and learn new ones. And for now, with our upcoming marriage, we both consider ourselves winners.

Soon There Will Be Snow

Soon There Will Be Snow

Only weeks ago, we could still see the field across the street at bedtime, and the donkeys grazing in the back pasture. But our hemisphere of the Earth is tilting away from the sun, making the daylight shorter. The air is crisp and often chilly, a stark contrast to just a month ago when it felt like walking through a car wash.

Soon we’ll witness the donkeys' short, sleek coats growing out and serving as a down jacket for the colder months of winter.

Louisa the pig, who has only a few sweat glands, shed her coat early this summer to keep herself cooler. She looks like a bald man with a comb-over, but instead of just her head, it’s her whole body. Her pink skin glistens in the sunlight. Soon her hair, too, will fill in to keep her warm. And the same with the goats, the dogs, and even the cats.

I’ll start hanging my trusty old sweatshirt in the mudroom to grab for early morning chores. Within the month, as the temperatures drop, I’ll add my barn jacket.

It’s bedtime, and as I’m reflecting on the changes in the light and the temperature, the dogs start barking. Please don’t let it be an opossum or a skunk. Last weekend, when I was away and Dane was here, Ruben tussled with an unlucky opossum in the yard. This time last year, it was a skunk, and Ruben, Dane, and I were the unlucky ones.

Tonight, not wanting to deal with either situation, Dane peeks out the door and says, “Donkey.”

I’m surprised but also glad there won’t be any smell involved.

The headlamp by the door needs batteries, so I take my phone and use its flashlight instead. Dane, making sure the dogs stay in the house, sneaks out the front door with me.

It’s Carlos! “Hey, buddy, what are you doing out here in the yard?”

He’s outside the fence and only a few feet from the road. I call him over as Dane, and I slip through the gate. We walk and talk softly, and Carlos rubs his long, soft nose against my hand. With his gentle nudge, he seems to say, “Help. I’m not where I should be.”

As I talk to him, Dane opens the gate that leads to the backyard. I start walking through, and Carlos follows along like the best dog ever. Dane walks ahead and opens the gate that leads back into the donkeys’ pasture. Carlos must have walked through the woods, along the outside of the fence, to the front yard.

As we let him back in, I start calling for Diego, my other donkey. The two are always together, but now he’s nowhere I can see. My heart sinks, but I work at regulating my breathing and trying to stay calm. Dane has headed back to the house.

I hear a loud exhale, and although I still can’t see him, I know it’s Diego. He’s on the other side of the creek that runs through their pasture.

As I wait, calling his name, petting and reassuring Carlos, I finally see the outline of his body. His feet splash in the water, and he walks confidently up to Carlos and me and pushes Carlos in the side, as if to say, “Hey, don’t do that anymore. I was alone and afraid.”

The two of them mosey away, and I head up to the house. In the morning, Dane walks the electric fence, finds three breaks, and repairs them. We think they may have been caused by a yearling deer that likes to visit.

Imagine our surprise the following night when Ruben again goes bananas. I come down from the bedroom upstairs, grab the light, and sure enough, there’s Carlos—in the driveway this time, with one foot on the porch step, in front of the gate. Is he trying to get in?!

I slip my bare feet into my rubber farm boots and open the gate. Once again, I lead and Carlos follows.

And once again, I can’t see Diego in the dark at first, but eventually I do. This time, after making sure they're both tucked in for the night, I stay in the yard, turn off the flashlight, and marvel at the night sky.

In the morning, while I teach class, Dane walks the fence again and makes another repair, but the fence is still not hot. He finally tracks the problem to a corroded connection. After fixing it and confirming that the fence works, Dane heads home.

Tonight, I go to bed knowing the donkeys are safe. They won’t be getting out again anytime soon—but if they do, like the best dogs ever, they’ll follow me wherever I lead.

Soon there will be snow.

Can’t Sit Still

Can’t Sit Still

“Hey, Dane, come here,” I called from my office the other morning. “It’s okay—I’m doing the five-minute meditation.”

I’ve recently added a five-minute sit time after every online exercise class I lead. I simply set the timer, turn off the camera and mic, and let people breathe, meditate, or whatever they choose. Knowing how tension can affect our necks, buttocks, and backs, I figured this was smart for all of us, not just me.

As he entered, Dane said, “Doesn’t look like it.”

He was right. The word meditation implies that a person is being still and silent. Not only was I talking, but I was also focused on a slew of small pieces of paper with names written on them. I was designing the seating chart for the guests at our wedding dinner.

It’s hard because it’s a small wedding. Having lived in this cozy community and led local classes for two decades, I’d be inclined to invite everyone I know. But I’m not, because Dane wouldn’t tolerate that.

My daughter helped me narrow the list down: “Mom, only invite people you see regularly—people with whom you go out and who are actively involved in your life.”

“Who knew a wedding could be so stressful?” I said one day to my friend Lisa.

“I do,” she replied. She and Tim got married just five years ago and, like us, as older adults—no parents to help put on the wedding.

I’ve finally figured out what I want to wear, after changing my mind four times. Dane, on the other hand, bought his shirt within a month of us picking a date, bought his black Levis the next day, and has since bought a new belt and boots. He’ll be sparkling new, but I won’t. I’ll stick with a well-worn pair of boots that I know will be comfortable.

Yesterday I was arranging the seating cards again. “Midwest nice” doesn’t work at tables with fifteen people who know each other and a few who don’t. When I finished, I called Dane in to show him my master plan. “What do you think?” I asked him.

Before he could respond, the timer dinged. He looked sideways at me and said, “Were you supposed to be meditating?”

Yes. The key words were supposed to be.

“I got busy,” I explained, and together we checked out the seating plan.

When Dane went home, I hurried to La Crosse to get fitted for a wedding bra, only to discover that ever since COVID, the JCPenney salespeople no longer measure customers to assist with proper fit. Left alone in a foaming sea of bras, I felt like I was drowning.

On the way home, I met Dane and we signed the final legal papers, then went to the courthouse for our appointment to obtain our marriage license.

Today, at the end of my class, after inviting folks to stay for the five-minute sit, I set the timer, turned off my microphone and camera, and stripped off my clothes to start getting ready for my next appointment. I slipped out the back door buck naked and went to the basement to get the bra I bought yesterday out of the dryer.

Before going back inside, I noticed the dogs’ water bowls were empty, so I filled them, grabbed the bra and a pair of pants, and went back into the house to get dressed.

I had forgotten I was meditating with my class.

Rushing to the computer, I turned on the audio, thanked whoever was still there, and closed the call. But in my haste I hit the camera button by mistake, and suddenly saw myself on the screen, crouching down in my birthday suit, trying desperately to turn off the camera and turn on the sound.

It wasn’t pretty, and I had only enough time to notice that two people were still in the Zoom room. I hoped they had fallen asleep and didn’t see the whole show.

Someday soon I’ll relax and breathe again. Dane mentioned he can’t eat these days due to a nervous stomach. He had to get his shirt taken in because, as he put it, he had shrunk. He also went and bought new Levis in a smaller size. I, on the other hand, had to size up.

Our new mantra is, “We’ll relax when we’re on the train.” Our honeymoon can't come soon enough.

Adulting

Adulting

When we walked into our lawyer’s office in Westby today, I announced, “Hi, we’re the ones you advised not to get married, but we are,” and we sat down. Now we’re trying to make heads or tails out of what adults should do when marrying. As we like to put it, we’re adulting.

After collecting our legal names with middle initials, the lawyer asks for our address. We quickly glance at each other, then say, “Both our addresses?”

“No, where you’ll live once married.”

So we give him both our addresses.

“This isn’t a normal wedding,” I explain, then start backpedaling. “I mean, it is—we’ve been dating for nineteen years and we’re here because we’re getting married—but we’re not going to live together.”

After a pause, the lawyer continues: “What properties do you own?”

“One.”

He makes a note. “How many acres?”

“One. But everybody thinks I’m using more than an acre.”

Dane gives me the stink eye, and I sit back. “One,” I repeat.

The lawyer clears his throat. “What assets do you have?”

“None.”

So far, adulting is breezy.

After we finish at the lawyer’s office, we need to stop at the bank and do some more adulting before we head home. We’re committed to taking care of all our legal matters before our wedding next month.

At the bank, I confidently walk up to Amy and announce, “We’re getting married, and we have to do that thing.”

“What thing?” Amy asks. “I think you would see a lawyer or go to the courthouse.”

Dane’s still trying to translate my request into standard business English while I rattle on: “We’ve been dating for nineteen years. We met at Organic Valley.” And on I go, telling her our whole history.

Amy’s eyelids have started to droop when Dane finally steps in and says, “We need to make each other our beneficiaries on our accounts.”

Amy’s eyes open, and she smiles in relief. “Okay, that’s easy.”

Dane heads to the bathroom as I sign my forms, and Amy and another teller start preparing his. Just as Dane is approaching the counter, she asks me his date of birth, and I answer confidently, “9/12/56.” I look at Dane to make sure I have the year correct, and he about doubles over.

“Oh, do I have the year wrong?” I ask. Amy and the other teller laugh and ask, “How long have you known him?”

Dane finally spits out “52,” and the teller deadpans, “Well, she made you four years younger.”

Dane is still laughing too hard to speak, which starts me laughing too. Here I am, bragging about how long we’ve known each other, and yet I get his birth year wrong.

As the tellers continue chuckling, Dane finally stands up straight, waves his hand as if to clear the air, and says. “Nooo, that’s not even the right month or day!”

I’m dumbfounded. “Of course it is!” I say—and when he starts laughing louder, I can’t help laughing with him as I manage to add, “Isn’t it?”

Now the other teller questions Dane to see if he knows my date of birth, and to my chagrin, he spits it out correctly.

I finally get the month and date correct (December 18), but the year still has me baffled because, quite frankly, it has had me baffled for nineteen years. I thought Dane was four years older than me when we met, but it changed depending on the month. He was born in December, and I was born in May. Now I have to accept that he is actually six years older!?

I decide not to mention this to the laughing bank tellers.

As we leave the bank hand in hand, almost forty minutes later, I roll my eyes at Dane, and we bust out laughing again all the way through the parking lot. Then Dane gets in his car, I get in mine, and we drive home to our separate houses.

The whole way home, I’m grinning from ear to ear. It feels good to finally be adulting after nineteen years of dating.

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.