Dump Day!

Dump Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweet,” I said. “Thank you!”

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

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

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

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

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

Birthday Wish

Flag Flying

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Collector’s Bug

The Collecting Bug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom would simply disappear.

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

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

Mother’s Day Grief

Mother’s Day Grief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Living Life Out Loud

Living Life Out Loud

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Time For Joy

Making Valentine Day cards at A Time For Joy.

A Time for Joy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Driving home, I wonder who found the golden egg.

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

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

I Believe!

I Believe

From a prone position, I tuck my knees into my chest and roll myself upright. “I believe. I believe. I believe,” I murmur as I take in the light from overhead, the cacophony of grunts, heehaws, and quacks from the yard, and note the position of the dogs.

Ruben is crawling across the king-sized bed to me, which means it’s late. He only comes upstairs if there’s a storm or I’m in bed past 6:30 a.m. Finn, who was pressed up tightly against my side moments before I woke, is now on his back, four paws in the air and spotted pink belly exposed, waiting for his morning belly rubs. But Téte is the reason we’re all awake. Her stomach tells her it’s time to eat, and she informs us with moans and sighs that will soon turn into loud, yippy barks. Meanwhile, the donkeys are braying, and if I look up, the skylight also tells me I’ve slept in. It’s 7 a.m.

I’ve gotten into the habit of saying “I believe” three times every morning, since I committed to rereading my tattered, marked-up copies of Norman Vincent Peale’s books. He suggests saying these words upon waking and throughout the day as a mantra, although I can’t remember why—or, at the moment, what I believe in.

It’s been a month when things seem cattywampus. Most days, I feel like I’ve been treading in the deep end, with water in both ears and up my nose.

This sinking feeling started before the first blade of grass turned green, when I began hobbling to get up hills. My left hip, again, seemed to rebel against even taking a step. Yet I had been skipping through the woods and around the ponds only days before.

“I believe, I believe, I believe,” started with me visualizing my left hip happy and well-adjusted in my body, where five years ago it was replaced—for the second time.

Then, coming across my journal entry, “Here Is What I Know at This Moment,” from March 2020 sent me spiraling.

I miss my mom. I mourn how my sister was before her disease. I think of Tickles and The Professor daily because the Duck Hall still stands empty.

I miss being able to fly through the woods while my ankle heals.

I worry about my granddaughter, who has CF; my brother, who has COPD; and my friends who are in health care or working essential jobs. I worry about all of you in different ways.

I worry about the world in general, but that is nothing new. I could go on, but we all could go on and on.

I try not to.

Today, I'm going to search for bloodroot, one of the first flowers to come out in spring. I'll feel grateful if I find one, and I'll search harder tomorrow if I don't.

Five years. 

I’m sitting on the side of my bed now, not ready yet to stand and join the day, I keep thinking, five years… Five years seems like a lifetime ago, but also like yesterday.

March 2020 was COVID time. Life was unpredictable. My mom had just died, and less than a month after I’d written that journal entry, my sister Jill died.

My brother, Jack, is now in memory care, as Jill was five years ago. Helena has joined Mom and Jill somewhere where I hope I can someday see them all again.

Five years! Facebook has just sent me a five-year-old memory of Helena sitting with her good-natured cat, Stewart, on her lap, dancing while the family cheered them on.

I’m stuck on this five-year mark as I slump on the edge of the bed, having overslept because I didn’t sleep well. Shaking my head, I try thinking optimistically.

My ankle has healed. I can hear the Duck Hall noises when Téte gives it a rest. They speak of healthy ducks and geese. Five years ago, it sat empty after my beloved flock was massacred by a raccoon. When I feel more motivated, I’ll collect the new flock’s eggs.

But despite trying to be optimistic, I’m more worried than ever about my family, friends, and the world.

Taking that last push up and off the bed, I repeat, “I believe, I believe, I believe,” then gather my book and glasses and head down the stairs. Téte, more than ready, leads the way, Ruben follows, and Finnegan and I bring up the rear.

What I know at this moment is that once the animals are fed and my morning class is over, I’ll go with Dane and the pups to the woods and search for bloodroot. We’ve yet to see one this spring. If we don’t find any, we’ll search even harder tomorrow.

Eagles!

Eagles!

Dane is driving along Highway 61 on this gorgeous springlike morning. The sunshine makes me sleepy, But I’m fighting to keep my eyes open, not only because the view of the Mississippi River is stunning but also because we’re counting eagles. We’ve already seen seven.

Suddenly, Dane taps the brake. My eyes pop open. We’re in a cloud of juveniles!

“Eight, nine, ten!” I shout while Dane adds eleven, twelve, and thirteen. We both yell, “Fourteen!” Seven juvenile eagles, which were feeding on something nearby, were swarming in front of and around our car.

We’re going to the National Eagle Center in Wabasha, Minnesota, for their weekend festival, Soar with the Eagles. It will be our first visit to the Center.

After purchasing our tickets, we headed to the room called Ambassador Avenue. A man in a bright blue shirt answered questions and shared interesting facts with about fifteen people of all ages. Two bald eagles were perched close by.

As we inch our way to the front of the room, one of the eagles, Latsch, is hopping around frantically, flapping his wings. His foot is tethered to a chain. While I’m feeling sorry for the bird, Conor, the avian education specialist, shares that Latsch is still in training.

Latsch was spotted sitting on the ground below a nest in 2016 by a cruise ship captain. The following day the bird was still there, so the captain called the US Fish and Wildlife Service. It was discovered that Latsch (named after John A. Latsch, a conservationist who donated land along the Mississippi) was blind in his left eye.

Unable to survive in the wild, Latsch became an ambassador for the center in 2018. Today, at eight, he still overshoots his perch, flaps around a bit, then tries again and makes a perfect landing while the crowd cheers softly. He’s still in training.

Conor entertains us in a lively, theatrical give-and-take with the audience. We learn that Was’aka (19 years old), also male and noticeably smaller than Latsch, comes from Florida. He had a tumor over his left eye, making him unable to find food. Once the cancer was removed, he lost his eyesight and, like Latsch, was unable to live in the wild.

Was’aka means strength in Dakota, and although Was’aka is small at six pounds, he has a mighty presence. The size difference is related to the climate in which they were born. Latsch, a true Minnesotan, has a more substantial body due to the colder climate, and Was’aka is smaller because of the Florida heat.

Conor goes on to tell the crowd that eagles are bullies. They often wait for a gull to catch a fish, then fly in and steal it. Surprisingly, he also says they’re lazy! Eagles spend about 70 percent of their day sitting in a tree. Conor describes how they conserve their energy, don’t sweat (they pant and spread their wings in a Batman-like pose to cool off), and can soar at 30 mph or dive at 100 mph. But they don’t swim; they skim the water, snatch their prey, and then use their wings as oars to return to the shore.

By now, I’m hanging over the rail, wholly enthralled at having my questions answered so enthusiastically, while Dane is delightedly watching Was’aka tear into an enrichment toy that houses a treat.

Latsch doesn’t rip open his toy but keeps his good eye on Was’aka instead. Conor tells us that Latsch hopes to let Was’aka do the work and then steal his fish. Bullies indeed!

We’re shocked to see that over an hour has gone by, and we’ve yet to see the rest of the Center. Another program is offered at 1 p.m., so we pull ourselves away from Latsch, Was’aka, and Conor.

The next program is packed with hundreds of eagle lovers. We’re treated to a presentation by a group of powwow dancers featuring colorful costumes and intricate footwork, after which I participate in a friendship dance where we hold hands and form an enormous circle.

But what stands out the most to Dane and me is the military presentation. The Coast Guard, Navy, Air Force, Army, and Marines are all featured. As each representative carrying a flag is introduced, that military branch's flag is unfurled for us to view. Each flag features the image of a bald eagle!

On our way home, Dane comments on how we see eagles as representing bravery, strength, and freedom, yet we’ve discovered they’re actually bullies and quite lazy! Still, we agree that eagles are truly majestic birds.

Sitting as straight as the car seat will allow to spot eagles, I point and yell, “Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine! Three more eagles are resting in a tree before we cross the river into Wisconsin.

Flying High

Flying High

“If you’re looking for Mike, he’s outside putting duct tape on a broken wing.”

Har-dee-har, I think, as I try to steer Emily toward the door that leads to the tarmac.

Not to be outdone, another man speaks up: “Mike just got back from the bar. He’s waiting for you.”

Emily laughs, and we banter with the four men sitting at a round table in the Viroqua Airport lounge. A large off-white golden doodle lying under the table looks just as comfortable as the men do as if they’re all part of the furniture. Later, I learn from Mike Olson, director of airport operations, that these gentlemen, all pilots, have been enjoying this late-afternoon coffee gathering since the COVID-19 pandemic.

Emily and I often go on adventure dates, and this time, I thought flying would be fun. The last time I went, Carol came along, and the time before that, Dane and I took his mom. Both flights were with Roy (now Sheriff) Torgerson.

Today, we’re taking off in Mike Sebion’s Piper Arrow T-Tail, a sleek plane with velvety gold upholstery. It’s a perfect day with little wind. I’m sitting in the co-pilot's seat, and Emily is in the back. While Mike does his pre-flight preparations, I double-check that my door is closed. Before you know it, Mike’s making an announcement over the common traffic frequency, and we’re heading down the runway. We fly at an altitude of 3,000 feet, approximately 1,500 feet above the ground.

Mike and Emily are oriented immediately as they both spot Highway 82, but it takes me longer to get my bearings. I sit as straight as I can, peering out the windshield and to the side, over the wing.

Mike recently retired from dairy farming, and as he flies the plane hands-free, I ask him if he was sad to see his cows go. “Not in the least,” he deadpans, but mentions that others in his family were. Mike’s wife shares his love of flying. He even takes his 94-year-old mom flying each year!

Mike and Emily spot the copper-colored roof of my house before I do. We circle my place a few times, trying to get a good photo before we head over to the Mississippi River. I’m reminded of how low in the valley I live when seeing it from above.

Later, Mr. Olson shares with me some of the history of the Viroqua Airport, which was developed in the 1950s; he’s been involved with it in various capacities for the past 40 years. In 1990, he and other local pilots volunteered their time to help construct the terminal building. He tells me that Erin Brueggen, a corporate pilot who lives in Cashton, took all the photos that hang on the walls there. “She was in one plane, hanging out, taking pictures of those other planes,” he chuckles.

For a small town, this airport is busy, with about 2,500 flights per year. Mr. Olson tells me all 23 hangars are full, and there are always inquiries. They are working with master engineers to figure out how to accommodate more.

The Driftless Café is a draw for many of the pilots who fly in and use one of the two courtesy cars. One couple flies in monthly from southeast Wisconsin because they love shopping at the Viroqua Food Co-op. Other people fly in for the region’s outstanding trout fishing. And every July, the airport hosts the annual Fly-In Breakfast, which, despite less-than-ideal weather, served 1,000 meals last year.

Mr. Olson reminds me that the airport is public and includes a great area for family picnics, as well as the terminal, which is always open and has an observation deck. This city-owned airport receives support from the state and the FAA’s Airport and Airway Trust Fund, established in 1970, which is funded by taxes on airline tickets, air freight, and aviation fuel.

As Mike brings us in for a landing, he tells us what he’s looking at and how he’s preparing. Watching him, I’m impressed by how many controls and dials there are to learn.

Emily exclaims over the seamless landing, and we both thank Mike for giving us such a pleasant flight. One can easily see why people fly in this area. The perspective of our region's hills, valleys, winding roads, and rivers is breathtaking.

I’m impressed with Mr. Olson’s dedication, and I view our airport as a gem, not just “a playground for the rich,” as he puts it. Having an accessible airport for people to fly into, complete with courtesy cars available for fine dining, suburban shopping, or the best trout fishing in the area, is a real perk for our city. The coffee klatch men, both Mikes, and Sheriff Torgerson are bonuses!

Brother Jack, Sister Jill

(Jill’s wedding. Jack in the brown suit and me on the far right with Jessica (tummy!)

Brother Jack, Sister Jill

“Hi, Jack, it’s Jane, your sister.”

“You're not my sister. I was adopted.”

Crying, I apologize for not knowing this. It was my first conversation with Jack in two years, and I didn't know what to expect. But I know not to argue.

“Janie, don’t cry. Mr. Zelensy is my dad. That’s why I was kept in the basement.”

Jack describes having only McDonald's to eat. He says Dad gave him money, but he had to start working early. “I started working when I was nine and a half, Janie. Can you believe that?”

“No wonder your shoulders are so bad.”

Jack mentions his shoulders and torn bicep in each phone call that follows. He started his concrete business shortly after high school, and his body shows the abuse from a demanding career.

Today, Jack is 71. He calls me Janie, a name only my family has used. He claims that our sister, Jill, was also adopted when Dad returned from the Korean War. And he insists his name is Jake.

James, Jack's eldest son, recently informed me that Jack has been diagnosed with dementia. He will no longer be able to live alone and must move into memory care.

Jack and Jill, my older brother and sister—I can’t think of one without thinking of the other. Only nine months apart in age, they were as close as twins. They shared a love of football and each other.

Jill moved into memory care in 2019 and died in March 2020 at age 66.

Right before Jill entered the care home, when Mom was in the hospital, Jack and I talked more often than we ever had. We were both busy trying to keep Mom happy. Occasionally thereafter, I’d see Jack when I’d visit Mom to take her shopping or out for a hamburger. Afterward, I’d drive to see Jill in Waterford, where she resided in memory care. But Jack wouldn’t visit Jill. I didn’t understand. He acted as if she wasn’t there.

Although Jack and I weren’t as close as he and Jill were, I always called him on his birthday and other special occasions. Our conversations were pleasant, and he had a lot to say. But two years ago, when I called to wish him a happy birthday, he asked, “Who is this?”

“Your sister—Jane!” I thought he was kidding. Jack rambled on about his work, his trucks, and the weather.

Not two weeks later, I called after Dane’s heart attacks. Jack didn’t answer, so I left a message. I tried again, but still no answer.

A year passed, and I called Jack on his next birthday, but  I got his voicemail again. Seven months later, I called to tell him my granddaughter, Helena, had been killed. Jack never called back. Angry, I stopped calling.

Now James tells me Jack started becoming forgetful two years ago. My heart sinks as James tells me about Jack, his confusion, the police, and his involuntary hospital stay. As James talks, the Catholic guilt that Mom raised us on has free rein in me.

Before James finishes, I apologize. I mentioned the unreturned calls and how angry I’d felt toward Jack. He assured me Jack hadn’t been returning anyone’s calls. I wondered if James knew I was the one initiating calls throughout the years, but did it matter? It seemed that James had heard this story before. I’m impressed with James’s patience as I badger him with questions in the days after learning about Jack’s illness.

Today, James tells me he found a place for Jack to live in Oconomowoc. His relief is evident, but so is his concern. He’s just finished washing and folding Jack’s clothes. On Monday, he’ll fix up Jack’s new room.

James recommended that I wait to visit Jack until he’s settled, so for now, I call daily. Jack still does most of the talking. I’m excited to see him soon and hope that by listening, I’ll bring him some comfort.

I’m kicking myself for assuming my brother didn’t want a relationship with me. Understandably, he was drained after Mom’s death and the responsibility of acting as her executor. Losing Jill was hard on him. Until she entered hospice, he still hadn’t visited her. Then he went almost every day the week before she died.

Now I realize he was in denial. And I know he wasn’t intentionally ignoring my calls. Jack is sick like Jill was.

I remember having to hear the “Jack and Jill” rhyme over and over again when we were kids, and people discovered my siblings’ names. Sadly now, I listen to it cycle through my mind: Jack and Jill went up the hill...

Tick Time

Tick Time

It’s a breezy 60 degrees today; the grass is turning green, and the mud is beginning to dry. Robins, red-winged blackbirds, and sandhill cranes are singing their sweet spring songs. After an early morning walk with Dane and the pups, he goes home while I wrap up in a blanket on the sunny back porch.

Before I can pick up my book to read, Lorca, my 25-pound cat, takes one leap and plunks down on my stomach. I start to pet him just the way he likes it: under his chin, around his ears, and on his neck.

Before I see it, I feel the swollen tick—it must have been feeding on Lorca for a few days to get to this size. You can tell how long a tick has been attached by its size and color. A deer tick will change from reddish to gray and become larger than a raisin after about six or seven days.

Learning more about ticks, which can carry and spread serious, debilitating diseases, would benefit everyone.

Here in the Vernon County area, springtime means tick time, but ticks can be out feeding anytime there is no snow covering the ground. However, most tick-borne diseases are recorded from May to July.

One in three deer ticks in our area tests positive for carrying Lyme disease or other tick-borne illnesses. Only 70 percent of people will have the telltale bull's-eye rash when bitten by a Lyme-infected tick. The rest of us must watch for flu-like symptoms and more serious effects, such as facial paralysis, fever, loss of sensation in one leg, or severe arthritis.

Recently, I learned that the best tick repellent for my animals is the kind that kills the tick when it attaches to them. If the medicine you use simply prevents the tick from attaching, you may eventually find that tick on you! Here, we use Nexgard for dogs and Frontline for cats, but other good brands exist.

This year, I learned about a product for humans made from tomatoes called BioUD. It’s a nontoxic spray that, if applied every 30 minutes, does a great job of keeping ticks at bay. The problem I had was that everywhere I looked, it was already sold out.

For the past 13 years, Dane worked for a forestry job, which supplied him with permethrin to spray his clothing. Permethrin is highly effective at killing ticks on contact. Studies have shown that people who wear treated clothing experience far fewer tick bites than people who wear untreated socks and pants.

Although Permethrin is generally regarded as safe for humans to use on their clothing, it is an insecticide, and it can be toxic. Always follow directions, don’t use it on your skin, wash your hands, and keep it away from your animals. A safe way to use permethrin is to take your boots outside, spray them, dry them, and wear them whenever you go hiking.

Hoisting Lorca off of me, I next go on a search-and-destroy mission and find other ticks that haven’t attached yet. I carefully put them in a folded napkin and take them inside the house to flush them down the toilet. Did you know ticks can live 60 days underwater?

Ticks don’t jump or fly, but they do climb. The female climbs grasses and hangs on while her front legs reach out, looking for something warm to latch on to. This is called questing. When you brush past those grasses, her claw-like hand grasps hold of you, and she then attaches and starts climbing upward. Ticks tend to like warm places—armpits, backs of knees, inside the elbow, and hairlines. But the last attached tick I had was on my upper arm.

It’s best to wear light-colored clothing while hiking. Tuck your shirt in at the waist and your pants legs into your socks. The light colors make it easier to spot the ticks, and tucking in makes it harder for them to get under your clothes.

Staying in the middle of the path is also a smart way to keep ticks at bay. When you get home, always do a tick check. It is also recommended that you throw your clothes in a hot dryer for 15 minutes.

Staying tick savvy is a never-ending job but one worth keeping up to date on. Professionals like Dr. Thomas Mather, aka the Tick Doctor, caution us that if we have cats and dogs that go inside and out, it's inevitable that we will have ticks in our house.

It’s only mid-March, and my big boy Lorca is warning me to pay attention. Lyme disease is the most common tick-borne illness in Wisconsin. Maybe you’ve had a tick-borne disease. If so, like me, you are paying attention.

Patience and Practice

“Patience, grasshopper,” is how Master Po, in the old Kung Fu TV series, would encourage his student to persevere in challenging assignments.

I’m not known for my patience. I frequently have to send a follow-up email just seconds after the first, with the subject line “Whoops,” because in my haste I forgot to attach the file or paste the link I was supposed to be including. Patience, Jane, patience, I tell myself.

“Patience, grasshopper, patience,” my friend Genie would tell me when my actions were miles ahead of my mind. At the time, I was a volunteer DJ at our local radio station, WDRT. Often, in my hurry, I’d forget to switch off the microphone after announcing what songs would be playing, and listeners could hear me start to panic when my laptop would freeze up or hear my ear-shattering yelp when someone stopped in with a zucchini as big as a canoe for my ducks.

Hearing someone scream while listening to music is not a good radio experience. Nor is having your favorite song drowned out by quacking ducklings. But I’m a person who yells out when I’m surprised, even when I see a common deer. Just ask Dane—he jumps every time. As for the ducklings, I couldn’t bear leaving them at the post office a minute longer, and my show was about to begin. I had no choice but to bring them into the booth with me.

When I worked at the West Allis Athletic Club, Jerre, the office manager, would stretch up to her full height, towering over me as she demanded that I slow down. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a poster I had rushed to create would have a typo. Like the one advertising my friend Al White, an amazing keyboardist and singer, who would be performing in the Courtside Cafe that Friday. My poster said, “All White,” which I argued was close. But Jerre got the last word, reminding me harshly, “Al is African American, Jane!”

Keith, my old boss at the athletic club, would remind me to be patient and slow down almost every workday during my nearly 15 years there. I often mixed up my words in my rush to communicate, creating what he called “Janeisms.” I believe he kept track of my errors to use as entertainment for his dinner parties. After all, he was a former English teacher.

Keith’s office was downstairs, and mine was upstairs near the front desk, where members would check in. One day a member said there was a car in the parking lot with its lights on; he handed me a scrap of paper with the license plate number on it.

Not wanting to waste any daylight or let the member's battery wear down, I quickly grabbed the intercom, switched it on, and in my best professional and caring voice announced, “Would the owner of the car with the license plate ‘See Me For Head’ please come to the front desk. See Me For Head.”

As Keith came bounding up the steps two at a time, Gary, the front desk manager, explained that CME4-HD was Hal’s black Porsche and that the plate should be read as “See Me for Harley Davidson.” Hal, a hard-core handball player and a regular at the club, owned Hal’s Harley Davidson in New Berlin.

Loma, my talented editor, knows my impatience well. “Patience, grasshopper,” she pleads when I pester her about the edits she’s hard at work on—especially when I interrupt her with emails asking, “Are you still working on it?” I can almost hear her scream as she rips out her hair in frustration.

Patience, Jane, patience, I’ve reminded myself through the past 13 years of writing a weekly newspaper column. Dane, Tamara, Loma, and many others encourage me to take my time, rewrite, and read out loud—but the 8 p.m. Sunday deadline always comes quicker than I expect.

I’m the first to admit I need to work on my patience. I’d also be the first person to encourage anyone out there who’s short on patience not to give up. It’s better to laugh at our mistakes, learn from them, and keep on practicing whatever we’re passionate about.

After all, it’s the practice, more than the patience, that helps us reach our dreams.

Give A Hoot

Reptile Garden, South Dakota

Give A Hoot

Smokey Bear said, “Only you can prevent forest fires.” Dad and I visited Smokey yearly at the Wisconsin State Fair, so that saying stuck with me. Smokey towered over me as he offered a coloring book about how to prevent fires. His size was frightening. I was scared into never starting a fire. It seemed that Dad should have gotten a coloring book, too.

Dad started our house on fire in 1965 while trying to burn down a wasp’s nest. He put out the flames with a fire extinguisher, but the discolored burn scar stayed. Before that, just about every Fourth of July, Dad would burn a fingertip with a firecracker or almost send Mom’s beloved hammock up in flames with a wayward bottle rocket.

The Hamm’s beer commercial jingle was also ingrained in me: “From the land of sky-blue water...” As a six-year-old, my love affair with the outdoors began with the scene of flowing water on the electric Hamm’s sign at Krahn’s Bar, where Dad often took me on Sundays. He’d watch the Packers on TV while I played with billiard balls. Eventually, I’d get sick on kiddie cocktails, potato chips, and cigarette smoke. But the images of the river and the bear left me with a longing that I couldn’t fully identify until I was an adult, backpack on my back, in the middle of nowhere. Later, Dad took us out west on a family vacation that cemented my love for nature.

Isle Royale trip

As a teenager, I was impressed by an ad that showed a Native American weeping when trash thrown from a passing car landed at his feet. Created by an ad agency for Keep America Beautiful, it first aired on Earth Day in 1971 and won two Clio awards. Seeing a grown man’s tears left me with a deep sadness.

Understandably, the ad was eventually criticized for stereotyping Indigenous culture and was retired in 2023. But it had served a purpose: It helped reduce litter by 88 percent across 38 states. I know that ad impacted me. I never wanted to make anyone cry. And if any of us Schmidt kids tried tossing something out our station wagon window, Dad’s booming voice would also leave an impact.

“Give a hoot, don’t pollute,” was another slogan that shaped my attitude. With his huge yellow eyes, Woodsy the Owl was part of a US Forest Service campaign.

I think of these sayings on a sunny, warm February day in Wisconsin. This winter brought hardly any snow and barely a week’s worth of below-zero weather. Global warming is worsening, with 2023 and 2024 tied for the warmest years on record. Scientists say that American lives are more at risk with the recent firing of thousands of employees at the EPA, NOAA, and the Departments of the Interior and Energy.

Making snowballs out west in the summert

I’m trying to wrap my mind around the political nightmare we’re living in. “Only you can prevent forest fires...” leads me to think, “Only we can prevent a national disaster.” But 51 percent of us who cared enough to vote were bamboozled by lies about Christianity and grocery prices.

Now what?

“Give a hoot...” I do, I do! But the campaign chant of “Drill, baby drill” pierces my peace. Will the mountains we saw out west be destroyed? If so, what about the elk and antelope? Where will they go?

My mind drifts back to the lessons learned from effective ad campaigns when I was an impressionable child. I’m careful with fire, although admittedly, I’ve started two: one at the cabin on Pa’s Road (no harm done) and another here, when I thought the bucket of ash I dumped had cooled. The first fire truck to arrive put out this fire, but to my embarrassment, more trucks kept racing down my road with their sirens and lights on.

What would Dad do, say, and think if he were alive now? When people were celebrating Smokey Bear’s 80th birthday last year at the fairground, Dad would have been 97 years old. Because Dad was a man of integrity who served his country for 34 years, he never would have voted for our current president. Would he be protesting, writing letters, making phone calls—and would that be enough?

Memories make me nostalgic in these challenging times. After my first trip down the Grand Canyon, I thought about becoming a ranger. In the evening they’d visit each campsite and also hold weekly talks. Their passion for keeping America beautiful and us safe was admirable. In the past month, 3,400 Forest Service employees have been fired, including those qualified to fight forest fires.

Today, with the sunlight streaming in, I feel like Iron Eyes Cody in that long-ago ad as tears run down my face.

Park Experiences

Park Experiences

“Hi! Hey, would you like to see a rattlesnake?” asks the friendly park ranger. My eyes widen in anticipation as I tighten my grip on my hiking poles.

Mary, Kathy, and I have just arrived, sweaty and excited, at the Indian Gardens campsite inside Grand Canyon National Park, one of my favorite wild areas. We’re anxious to remove our packs and set up our tents, but now we’re intrigued.

“Yes, for sure,” we answer almost in unison. We’d been cautious on our hike down to the bottom of the canyon, where we stayed a couple of nights to explore, but we hadn’t seen any rattlers. Before stepping off the trail for our potty breaks, we’d scour the area, ensuring there were no surprises before squatting down. There are five species of rattlers in the park area. It’s considered common to see one, and unlucky if you don’t see one and get bitten.

We stand behind the ranger’s outstretched arm. A man is stomping near the snake, trying to make it raise its head for a photo. Furious but controlled, the park ranger tears into him, reciting facts, including the cost of a medevac out of the park if he gets bitten.

Grand Canyon National Park averages five million visitors a year. Every year, people die in the canyon because of dehydration and other medical problems, falls, drownings, and suicide. The park rangers are there to educate visitors, help keep them safe, and often rescue them, as well as maintain and clean the parks.

Recently, the Trump administration fired a thousand newly hired National Park Service employees, under the guise of a broad-based effort to downsize government. Billionaire Elon Musk and the DOGE team (Department of Government Efficiency) are spearheading the plan to eliminate thousands of federal jobs.

On a different trip to the canyon with three other gals, the temperature soared to 105 degrees, and that wasn’t even at the bottom! We witnessed the rangers assisting and evaluating hikers, one of whom ended up getting an expensive ride out in a helicopter.

On yet another trip down the canyon, this time with my friend Carol, there was a water problem. If I remember correctly, a pipe had burst and there was no water for the hikers. The rangers were busy setting up a large pool-like structure, hand-carrying buckets of untreated water to dump in, and warning us to treat it before drinking.

One of my greatest joys is going to the ranger talks at Bright Angel or the Indian Gardens campsites. People from all over the world listen so intently that even the soft rattle of a nearby snake would be audible.

Brian Gibbs, who worked as a park ranger at Iowa’s Effigy Mounds National Monument, was one of the thousand let go this season. “We were already short-staffed and having to restrict our visitor center hours at times because of that short staffing, and so this cut accentuated that deeply for Effigy Mounds National Monument,” he said. Sen. Susan Collins, a Maine Republican, worried that Acadia National Park will “not be able to hire the seasonal employees required to collect entrance fees and perform other essential tasks such as maintaining trails and providing first responder services to visitors.” Colorado’s Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument, which has about 70,000 annual visitors, announced on social media they would need to close two days a week due to a “lack of staffing.”

Advocacy groups and lawmakers have criticized these layoffs as unnecessary and a needless threat to the parks and the public’s safety.

Imagine planning your family's yearly trip and arriving on the two days they’re closed. Or worse, getting bitten by a rattlesnake and not having a qualified ranger to administer treatment and orchestrate your evacuation.

As of February 1, the Trump Administration is responding to criticism and restoring jobs for dozens of National Park Service employees, I’ll be rooting for Brain Gibbs to be reinstated and hope to say hello while visiting the Effigy Mounds in Iowa. And you can bet I’ll be researching the parks' websites before visiting to ensure they aren’t closed and have enough employees to handle the crowds safely.

Years ago, when climbing off-trail at Devil’s Lake State Park, I came face to face with a timber rattlesnake. I’d woken it from its sleepy, sunny nap. Later, when I reported my experience to the park ranger, she assured me they were nonpoisonous.

I was thankful for her knowledge, and glad I didn’t get bitten, poisonous or not!

Grief Is Like That

Grief Is Like That

The girl, three chairs down from me, is giggling. I’m getting a pedicure in La Crosse, something I’ve treated myself to regularly since having both hips replaced years ago.

The male technician lifts the girl's foot and uses a buff pad on the sole, a ticklish area. Her giggling takes me back to my granddaughter Helena’s birthdays when I’d ask what she wanted to do, and she’d choose a pedicure.

We’d sit side by side, our bodies vibrating in the massage chairs. When it was time for the buffing, Helena would pull her foot back and shake her head, her hand covering her mouth—a habit she’d developed while she had braces. Her laughter was infectious as she scrambled to communicate, “Stop!”

This image of Helena stays with me while I do errands. I call my daughter and share it with her. Jessica responds, “Yes, she was so ticklish…” Then we’re both quiet, lost in our own sad thoughts.

Grief is like that. Memories are triggered by things you enjoyed doing together, how someone tosses back their hair, smells, foods, places you visited together, dates, and holiday traditions. I welcome the memories, although they make the loss of Helena more incomprehensible, knowing I won’t hear her laugh again, or hear her scold us for our uncontrollable cackling during a New Year’s game of Spoons.

Recently there was a terrible car accident in town. It was triggering, horrifying. The scene from the car crash that killed Helena came roaring back like a movie on automatic rerun. Like a child trying to get water out of my ear at the local swimming pool, I stood and jumped on one foot, trying to expel the image of the terrifying end of my granddaughter’s life.

Talking with Jessica and with friends who’ve experienced the traumatic and unexpected deaths of their children, I begin to see patterns. Days they consider “good” are welcomed respites from the awful weeks when even getting out of bed is difficult. One constant, I’ve learned, is that there’s nothing linear about mourning your loved ones. Another is that no one grieves the same way. Jessica’s tears could fill the Kickapoo River, but not everyone cries.

Helena enjoyed fast things. She loved riding on the back of her dad’s Triumph motorcycle. Her love of speed resulted in an early traffic ticket when she was driving her brother's car because he was tired. Her right foot grew heavy as she listened to music with the road stretching out ahead and Ethan snoozing in the passenger seat.

Helena loved go-karting, another pick for her special birthday trips. She would press the pedal down, her hair blowing back and a grin spreading across her face. I can picture her hugging the corners, leaning in to get that extra edge,

After Helena’s death, Ethan and Jessica pored through family pictures and videos, wanting to secure their memories. One of my favorite video clips was taken by Jessica not long before Helena’s death, while Helena was being treated at Children’s Hospital for complications from cystic fibrosis. With the door to her room closed and the curtain drawn, Helena pushes the IV pole and rocks out to music only she can hear in earbuds. As she’s bopping around, ponytail swinging back and forth, blue hospital gown flapping, the door suddenly opens and a nurse hands her something. As Helena takes it, she turns toward her mom, cheeks flushed with a huge “You caught me!” grin.

Another favorite memory was when Helena stayed here without her parents or Ethan. She gathered eggs, gave the donkeys apples, snoozed on the porch with cats on her lap, and enjoyed s’mores over the fire. But the part that always makes me laugh was when she was petting Luna and Peepers, the baby goats, and they got out of the pen. She yelled, “Grandma, the goats are out!” and I said, “Get them back in.” She managed to corral Peepers but couldn’t get Luna to turn around. I said, “Just pick her up, Helena.” She looked at me like I was crazy as she replied in horror, “I’m not picking up a goat!”

Today, as the winter sun warms my office, I’m staring at a photo of Helena and my dog Ruben, taken during Helena’s last visit to my house.

Quickly my mind goes to my last memory of her. It was the day after Ethan’s wedding. Dane and I had slept in Helena’s bedroom while she slept on an inflatable bed in her brother’s room. She was still asleep when Dane and I were ready to drive home. I woke her and she reached up to give me a sleepy hug, saying, “Love you.”

Hugging her back, I said, “Love you, too.”

I’d like to try to keep this image on an automatic loop that I could pull out when the darker ones become too strong.

No Joke!

No Joke!

Two friends and two anxious dogs huddled together during an office improvement project in a tiny home. Just outside the door stood a rotund pig named Louisa, demanding food.

This sounds like the beginning of a joke!

I grabbed one of Dane’s freshly bought oranges and pushed the door open, shoving Louisa back as I tossed it out for her. My plan was to move her away from the door so my friend Bonnie could get to her car and retrieve the shims we needed to brace a tall bookshelf and keep it from falling.

Bonnie was the mastermind of a complex project to create more space in which to lead my online exercise classes. She always thinks Louisa is trying to eat her.

But Louisa wasn’t trying to bite Bonnie. She only knew that Bonnie always brings her yummy leftovers, and she wanted them. But today Bonnie had forgotten them at home. Louisa didn’t know that, so she pursued her, huffing, puffing, and grunting while smashing her snout into the door.

The orange I tossed rolled off the deck and became lodged in a pile of leaves too far under the porch for me to reach or for Louisa to see. By now Louisa was frustrated and furious and seemed to want to eat me!

Meanwhile, Bonnie was taking her time getting out the door, while I squawked, “Get another orange, quick!”

With Louisa so worked up, I couldn’t get on my hands and knees to grab her treat without her mistaking me for a jumbo orange. So I resorted to trying to hide behind the crab apple tree. Bonnie seized this opportunity to gloat, “See, she’s trying to eat you—even you are afraid of her!”

She had a point—at that moment, I was afraid. Louisa had worked herself into a hot frenzy, her wiry black hair standing straight up.

Bonnie wound up and pitched an orange past Louisa, and while the pig chased it down, I got down on my hands, knees, and belly to snatch the first orange from under the deck. Bonnie dashed out and gaily rummaged in her car for the shims.

In the midst of this, Téte, my loving, neurotic hound dog, fearing that the home improvement commotion meant I was going away on a trip, never left my side. Ruben too, concerned that Bonnie was trying to hurt me, stuck to me like a burr.

This wasn’t the only chaos surrounding our two-day project. There was an awful lot of hollering, like when Bonnie was ready to install a gate that would keep my critters from sitting between the camera and me—or on me—during my Zoom classes.

“Where are the directions?”

“There weren’t any.”

“Jane, I saw the box yesterday; where is it?”

“In the basement—I think.”

“You think?”

“It might have gotten thrown out.”

“What?!”

“I figured you knew how to put it up!”

The rest of the day, I was Bonnie’s go-to gal: Get this, do that, over there. Her family’s nickname for her suits her well: Bossy Bonnie.

The following day Bonnie, ignoring my fear of ladders, claustrophobia, and a hurting hip, made me climb up and hold a curtain rod in place, my nose pointing into the closet. Ruben was beside himself (and me) with worry, ears at high alert, eyes wide with empathy.

As I trembled on the highest rung, trying to focus on my breathing, Bonnie stood strong, chest pressed against my back, arms held high, wielding a drill. Sawdust flew as the two petrified dogs hovered nearby. Bonnie was calm and composed as she smashed the loud drill head into my office door frame, creating a gaping hole.

As I climbed down the ladder, Bonnie admired her handiwork. “I had to ask my brother how to do this,” she said.

Finally the project is complete. I’m lying in recovery mode on the couch, Ruben on top of my leg, Téte on the floor as close as she can get. Bonnie asks if she can get me a cold cloth for my head. “Nope, I’m fine,” I say, while she proudly snaps a few pictures to show her brother. The curtain rod is up, but the drapes I ordered to hang on it are 21 inches too short because, as Bonnie reminds me, I didn’t listen to her.

Bonnie is like a kid after three tall glasses of sugary Kool-Aid. Instead of waning, her energy expands and radiates from her every pore. I’m exhausted, mostly from watching her.

“Maybe you need a nap,” she quips, knocking over a bucket of dirty water from washing the walls.

Maybe I do. But I wouldn’t have wanted to miss any part of these last two days.

True, I was excited about the home improvement changes, but more so about spending two full days with a friend. Bonnie can do anything she puts her mind to—no joke. May we all have a Bonnie in our lives, bossy or not.

Sprinkles Included!

Sprinkles Included!

“When I die,” I said to Dane, “I bet someone will say, Thank goodness, there’ll be no more cards with those obnoxious sprinkles inside!”

Dane replied, “Or cards with a wind-up butterfly that zooms out, scaring you to death.”

We were driving home after a quick trip to the post office, where I ran inside and came back out giddy, waving a sheet of red heart stamps and crowing, “This is my third sheet!”

It’s not even the end of January, and I’m on my third pack of Valentine's Day cards. Dane reminds me it’s over three weeks away, but I want to get a head start. I assure him I’ll wait to put them in the mail.

He smiles. I continue: “Remember a few years ago when I decided to send Valentine's Day cards to all the dogs we know?”

Duncan, Mario, Francis, and Honey Buns received cards from Téte, Ruben, and Finnegan that year. It wasn’t until I ran into Honey Buns' human, Lisa, that I knew the idea had failed. Lisa said it had taken her a while to figure out who sent the card. Later I heard the same thing from Francis’s mom.

“Oh well,” I tell Dane, “I thought it was fun!”

Again, Dane smiles. He knows my whims well.

Last year, searching for anything flat that I could tuck into the cards, I decided on designer bandages. Inside, I wrote a ditty: Roses are red, Violets are blue, Happy Valentine's Day, I’m stuck on you! Yesterday Karen mentioned that she still has Band-Aids from one of my cards. I’m glad she’s had no need to use one yet.

A few days ago I found myself once again strolling up and down red-filled aisles, looking for something flat that would fit inside an envelope. There wasn’t much, but I did buy a few packs of teeny tiny sticky notes. They’re adorable and can be tucked nicely inside a card without making the postal clerk suspicious.

I invest a lot of mental energy on figuring out what I can slip into a card without the postal lady saying, “No, Jane, this will cost you a few bucks extra.” I keep a supply of hand warmers, packages of flower seeds, tiny pewter hearts, sheets of stickers, small jewelry cloths, various charms, Band-Aids with cute characters on them, and lots of sprinkles for just this purpose. Cards without a bonus inside the envelope just don’t seem as much fun to me.

Sarah, who opened a card from me while her husband was driving, will tell you differently. Her card contained a wound-up paper butterfly, and apparently she screamed, almost causing her husband to drive off the road. Sheesh, who’d ever think someone would open their mail in the car?

Dane, on the other hand, is always thrilled when I mail cards to him. He enjoys getting something other than bills or advertisements in his mailbox.

Many people seem to despise Valentine's Day, which makes me want to honor it even more. Of course, I think every day is a day for celebrating love, but on Valentine’s Day, it’s on steroids.

According to the story, Pope Gelasius officially established the holiday as the Feast of Saint Valentine in the late fifth century. Saint Valentine is considered to be the patron saint of lovers, people with epilepsy, and beekeepers. Hallmark started mass-producing cards for Valentine’s Day in the early 1900s. 

For me, this holiday is one of the ways I mark the colder months of living in Wisconsin: with dates that are all perfect for card giving.

First there’s Thanksgiving, which warns us to clean up our yards and take our patio furniture inside. Then comes Christmas, and if you haven’t taken in your doormats, they are now permanently frozen to your deck until spring and will make shoveling snow a real pain. Our household always anticipates January 1, as we adore a blank new calendar. Finally, February 14 arrives, and spring is just around the corner!

“There isn’t much to look forward to, in the sense of holidays and card giving, after Valentine's Day,” I gripe to Dane, hinting that a gift certificate for one of his fabulous foot rubs would be welcomed.

Meanwhile, not being able to wait, I’ve mailed out a slew of love cards ahead of schedule. I justified it by only mailing the ones that go to Madison, Milwaukee, Illinois, or beyond, knowing it will take them longer to get there.

In the end, cards are an inexpensive way to brighten someone’s day, keep the post office operating, and celebrate love...sprinkles included!

Wintering Cats

Wintering with Cats

As Dane stumbles over a cat tunnel with a sleeping cat inside, he quips, “It’s a constant fight for survival around here!”

I shrug. Winter is like that.

Our cats have a cushy life (three cat towers, numerous cat houses, a ridiculous number of cat beds, and plenty of toys for us to trip over), but they earn it all in the warmer months by keeping the rodent population down. And judging by the carnage they leave behind and the grisly gifts they leave at our doorstep, they do their job well: mice, shrews, moles, voles...although they never manage to catch a rat.

You're guaranteed a healthy rodent population when you have outdoor animals like donkeys, ducks, geese, goats, and a pig. All that feed, no matter how tightly you think you store it, is like a 7-Eleven neon light saying, “We’re open—come on in!”

Well, we weren’t born yesterday. We realize that sweet and shy Maurice and hide-under-the-bed Salvador aren’t doing their fair share of the work. But what can we do? Fire them? Hold back their pay of endless bowls of kibble with real tuna treats?

I’m afraid not. They have our number: 1-800-Cat-Fool.

Leo the Lion is the most recent addition to our feline family. In hindsight, there was a reason he was alone in a cage at the shelter and kept getting passed over despite being the tiniest kitten there. No one wanted Leo because he'd bite and scratch when the kind volunteer brought him out for a snuggle.

Nevertheless, we welcomed him into our family. We tease that he’s our feral cat living with our house cats inside our home. Loving Leo has taken some work, and we love him, but what a stinker!

Instead of taking bites of food from the enormous bowl on the counter (we can’t have it on the floor or the dogs would each weigh over 200 pounds and we’d be broke), he uses his paws. One paw swipes the food out of the bowl, scattering it on the counter (or on the floor, where the dogs vacuum it up), while the other paw jabs and punches at whatever other cat is trying to eat peacefully.

Leo is fascinating to watch, unless you're one of the other cats. He’s ambidextrous, swift, and cunning. Before Rupert even knows Leo is in the room, Leo pounces, grabs below Rupert’s chin, and then uses both back legs to pummel Rupert, who had been dreaming peacefully until that moment.

Leo is famous for interrupting my online Zoom classes. He starts by affectionately rubbing against me. The students are undoubtedly thinking, “Aww, what a sweetie.” But they can’t see as clearly when Leo, after his fill of sweetness, takes a chunk out of my hand or uses his needle-sharp claws to pierce my inner thigh.

I try hard not to cry out on camera, but sometimes I fail. Owww! My shriek triggers Leo into a pounce reaction. He wraps his wiry body around my arm and attacks my hand with his hind legs, like he does with Rupert’s head, while hanging on to my shin with his sharp teeth.

It’s not only Leo that makes winter here, as Dane would say, dangerous. He regularly steps on a hard plastic ball with bells inside and cracks it, stumbles over (or into) one of the many boxes left on the floor for the cats to play in, or shuts a cat's tail in the door and just about falls over when they screech!

Bedtime for us signals let ‘s-start-playing-time for the felines. While we lie down, adjust covers, get comfortable, and start to read our books, Leo bats around a mouse toy on the floor and chases Rupert up and down the steep staircase, or we hear a loud crash from something they’ve knocked over.

But winter is also the perfect time of year to reflect on why we are cat lovers—even with all the shenanigans we are!

A quick internet search, along with years of experience as cat owners, tells us that cats help reduce stress levels. Some studies even claim petting your cat will lower your blood pressure and reduce your risk of cardiovascular disease. It makes sense for all families to have at least one snuggly, lovable cat.

Owning a cat is also said to improve one's sense of purpose, dispel loneliness, and brighten one's mood. I hope everyone reading about these benefits will run to their local shelter and give a cat a home.

Leo the Lion will earn his keep here come springtime. For now, we won’t be adopting any more cats—with seven, the inn here is full.

Saved by Grace

Saved by Grace

It was the first Saturday of the New Year and soon to be my friend’s last. As I headed to the hospital to visit Grace, I remembered one late spring Sunday morning when I’d driven to her house and told her I had a surprise. Without hesitation, she’d gotten into my car and begun guessing the surprise. “Are you taking me to church? Are we going to eat? You didn’t get me a dog or a goat or something, did you?” She was delighted when my surprise turned out to be a group of owlets in Davidson Park.

Now Grace, a friend since I’d begun leading fitness classes in a room at the “vanilla church” in Westby eleven years ago, was ill and not expected to live much longer. It was decided she would stay comfortably in Gundersen Hospital in La Crosse until she died.

At 93, Grace had known for a while that she wouldn’t be around much longer and  lived each day to the fullest. She’d managed to live independently in her home until this final hospital stay, with the help of her son, daughter-in-law, many friends, and lovely neighbors.

Grace had prepared me for her death. She did that by telling me stories about her family and what she told them she’d leave them, like a cookie jar or her recipes. From the stories she shared I knew they weren’t avoiding the fact that Grace was getting older and wouldn’t always be here. Her deep faith and her sense of humor about her inevitable death were always apparent.

On my last visit to her home, there had been significant road construction in front of her house. I couldn’t figure out where to turn to pull into her driveway; it appeared there was no access. After circling her home a few times, I drove over a curb that looked substantial enough to hold the car's weight, and we had a lovely visit. Grace wrote afterward in a card that she’d laughed while watching me leave, praying I wouldn’t blow out a tire.

When I got to the hospital on Saturday, the door was closed. After knocking a few times, I asked a nurse if she knew whether anyone was visiting. The nurse smiled and said she must be one neat lady, as Grace had had a steady stream of visitors since she was admitted. I opened the door and poked my head in.

Grace’s daughter-in-law and two neighbors were there, and they welcomed me. Soon her granddaughter and son, whom I’d heard so much about, arrived. Grace was comfortable but not responsive. Sitting with her, I held her hand and told her how much her friendship meant to me—how much her faith in me meant. She’d been supportive through my hip challenges, my mom and sister's deaths, Dane’s heart attacks, my granddaughter Helena’s death, and more.

I asked her to say hello to Helena for me. Knowing Grace had been praying for my daughter and had put her name on a prayer list at her church had brought me comfort.

I told Grace's family about a letter she wrote me in response to a story in my first book. In the story, I’d said, “I find myself looking up and silently saying thank you. To whom, I’m not sure.” Grace told me it was God and reminded me (again) that He loves me. Her son, Carl, recalled Grace carefully writing me that letter. It was important to her to share her faith with me. He said that her last words, when they told her she’d be staying at Gundersen as she prepared to go to her eternal home, were, “I’m so excited.”

Later that day, a friend messaged me that she’d been visiting Grace, and my name came up. Sarah and I hadn’t realized we had Grace in common as friends! Sarah said that the family told her Grace was always worried about my salvation.

To have someone like Grace in your life is a true blessing. She will be missed by many. But I know she’s already working her miracles and no doubt making Helena laugh with her stories. I hope she tells her about the day we saw the owlets. Helena would like that story.

Partners in Adventure

Partner in Adventure

“Wait, what was that sign—‘Salt Fix’?” I asked.

Sally drove us down 4th Street in La Crosse on our monthly Adventure Date day. Normally, we’d take an invigorating hike, but my hip was giving me grief, and we both were leery of the 4-degree weather with high winds. So I’d decided to visit Mind Altering Tattoos to get my old nose ring exchanged for a shiny new one while Sally was planning to browse at Duluth Trading. That’s when I spotted the sign and was curious.

I googled “Salt Fix, La Crosse” and found the website of Salt Fix Vitality Center, which lists the services it offers.

“Oh, Sally, this is perfect. It was meant to be. We can get our yonis steamed!” Sally laughed and rolled her eyes—she knew me well. I was almost quivering with excitement. Moments before, we were only thinking of shopping and lunch. Now, we were looking forward to something new and intriguing.

This was precisely how our previous month's Adventure Date had gone down. We were headed to The Damn Tasty for lunch when I spied a sign that said “Psychic Readings by Gina.” So, after enjoying our kimchi toast and veggie hash, we went to hear Gina’s interpretations of our auras.

The Salt Fix website said they prefer appointments be made via text. After carefully considering all their options, we chose Ionic Foot Detoxes. I texted, “Do you have room for two foot detox baths today?”

We didn’t get an immediate reply. Meanwhile, the piercing person I wanted at Mind Altering Tattoos wasn’t available. Sally and I ended up at Duluth Trading when Carrie, the owner of Salt Fix, texted back: “I can get you in at 12:30.”

Perfect timing. We’d have lunch afterward.

Immediately upon entering Salt Fix Vitality Center, we knew we had hit the jackpot. Carrie greeted us with her lovely energy and instructed us to remove our shoes and socks and relax. Side by side, we sat in comfortable lounge chairs with our bare feet resting on warm dome salt rocks. Heavenly!

The room was filled with salt treasures—foot domes, lamps, worry stones, and sculptures—and a wandering dog a lady brought in. We noticed they also offer dog services, but this dog was only visiting.

Soon enough, Sally and I were seated on heated three-component energy mats (negative ion, far infrared light, and amethyst crystals) with our feet immersed in tubs of water being charged by the aqua chi machine. Sally thought she was being electrocuted at first because her feet and ankles were tingling. I was disappointed that I didn’t feel the same.

We were each given a glass of Enagic’s specially filtered Kangen Water, and we settled in as Carrie explained how the baths work and told us not to move our feet. Whatever was happening was relaxing as we pictured all the gunk in our bodies coming out through our feet.

While we soaked, Carrie showed us her skin-rejuvenating “magic wand” (a Terahertz Wand that uses infrared frequency and gentle heat). To demonstrate it, she held it over my thumb joint, which usually hurts, and the pain disappeared after about a minute. (As I type this a day later, it still doesn’t hurt. Magic indeed!)

Forty-five minutes later, our foot bath was done. My bathwater looked normal, while Sally’s was murky. Carrie kindly explained that I had been wiggling my feet!

We were given a tour of the Frequency Lounge (a quiet room with various massage options), the infrared sauna and yoni steaming stations, a children’s salt room, and an adult Salt Cave. As we left, I noticed the water in my footbath had settled and was as murky as Sally’s.

Frequency Room

Salt Cave

On our way to the Fork & Fable Crafthouse for a late lunch of appetizers—ahi tuna nachos and roasted Brussels sprouts with whipped feta cheese, roasted grapes, and toasted pecans—we agreed we’d be going back to the Salt Fix Vitality Center someday. Perhaps next time, we’ll steam our yonis and then recline in the Salt Cave.

It’s a gift to have a friend who enjoys spontaneity and trying new things as much as I do!