Pet-napped!

Pet-napped!

Oh, no, the big blue cooler. This is bad, really bad. Papa’s filling it up with food from the refrigerator. That means they’re going to leave again.

Hey, wait—there goes my bed. Why is Papa taking my bed outside? I prop my front legs on the desk in the bay window to look outside, but I can’t quite see where Papa went.

My sibs, Ruben and Finnegan, haven’t noticed what’s going on. Finnegan is all curled up on his gray puff pillow, sound asleep. Ruben was upstairs on Mama’s bed and didn’t see Papa grab my bed and walk right past him.

Mama is rushing around packing her bags, vacuuming, and piling things up near the door for Papa to take out to the car.

I hate it when they leave.

Wait, what’s going on now? Papa just got out my leash. Are we going for a walk? Yay, they aren’t leaving—probably just going to the dump, and after that we’ll get a long walk. I love walks!

Papa brings me outside. But where are Finn and Ruben? We all go for walks together. Stick with the script, Papa, you’re making me nervous.

Papa opens the car door and there’s my bed. My bed, in the car?!

Mama sashays out the door, all happy-like, and climbs in, and Papa drives us away. I sit and look out the window, waiting for Finn and Ruben to come chase us down, but of course, they’re totally unaware that I’ve been singled out, taken away, pet-napped!

It must be vet day. Argh, I hate going to the vet—and besides, Mama and Papa just took me last weekend to have my rump poked three times by the nice vet lady. I heard her say I’m all up to date now on my shots.

I bark to get Papa to roll down my window. I stick my head out but can’t quite smell where we’re at. The wind and rain make me pop my head back in, and Papa rolls up the window. Not good, I feel trapped—I bark again. With the window open once more, I stick my head out and look both ways but still can’t recognize the smell or the scenery. This is not the way to the vet, that's for sure.

I sigh in relief and want to lie down, but not on my bed. Why is it in the car? I can’t sleep when I don’t know what’s going on, so I get up again and bark, and Papa opens the window a crack.

He and Mama laugh, and she says, “It’s going to be a long ride, with Téte barking, the window opening and closing, and all this rain.”

When the wind starts to sting my eyes and my head is nice and wet, I try to lie down again. I wander over and touch my bed but I’m still suspicious—it might be a trap. So back to the window I go and let out my sharpest bark. It startles Papa, and the car veers.

I put my head out and holy cow, snow! And lots of it. Papa slows down, Mama smells scared, and Papa asks me to please sit down and stop my bloody barking because he needs to focus.

So I sit—for a whole 10 seconds. Then I bark like crazy until Papa pries one hand off the wheel and opens my window again.

Whoa Nelly, it’s like Mama’s snow globe out there. Big flakes are falling, the car is swerving, and I think I hear Papa swear. Mama has her eyes closed. Is she praying?

Hours pass. Papa stops at a gas station and they both go inside to pee. Do they consider that I might have to pee too? Nope. But Papa did buy me a cheese stick! I love cheese.

After what feels like a two-day car ride (and Papa says it felt like opening and closing the window for two days straight), the car stops at a huge house made of wood and rocks. It smells familiar. Hey, I know this place—I’ve been here before.

It was about five years ago, the last time Mama and Papa pet-napped me. I remember they said it was a special vacation for just them and me. But after a few walks and a good smell of the place, I wanted to go home. Now they’ve brought me here again.

Maybe staying home when Papa and Mama go on their trips isn’t so bad. I’m a homebody at heart, who doesn't like to be pet-napped.

Vacation Bonus

Bonus Vacation

It’s well past dinnertime as we’re driving home from Washington Island. We want to break up the long drive by staying at a mom-and-pop motel halfway between the island and home, but so far we’re striking out.

Town after small town, there’s either no mom-and-pop or only one that appears unfit for even a one-nighter. Our bellies grumble as I point out bars that might serve food, a Chinese restaurant on a corner that appears to be closed, and a few horrid fast-food joints.

At last, in Berlin, I notice a full parking lot and an inviting-looking awning. I assume it’s a good restaurant because of all the cars. Dane is skeptical, as usual, but I convince him we need to eat, and his aching stomach convinces him to pull in.

It’s a restaurant and bar called Jeff’s on the Square, and the waitress, Jeff’s wife, proudly tells us they’re celebrating their 10th year. She says all their food is home-cooked by her husband, and tonight's special is beef or chicken stir fry.

We love finding gems like this.

Soon she brings us two huge plates loaded with veggies and chicken. We can barely eat it all, but then she suggests dessert: her homemade apple pie, a hit with the locals.

On Google we find a place to stay in Oxford: the Crossroads Motel, 45 minutes away via dark country roads. It’s wonderful. There are tables with brilliant yellow mum plants in front of all the windows, and each door is painted a different color. Our room is clean and the king-sized bed takes up most of it. We hop in bed and fall asleep just minutes before midnight.

Imagine our surprise in the morning when a map search shows us that we’re only 90 minutes from home! Now we have extra time to play around.

Lying in bed making plans, we jinx each other by saying, “Maggie Mae’s.”

Maggie was a real Nashville treasure, known for her yodeling style, who grew up in Oxford. We never made it to Maggie Mae’s Cafe when she was alive. It was always on our list, but whenever we were in Oxford, Maggie was in Nashville. As we settle into the booth, we imagine how exciting it would have been to see her perform there, as she often did when home in Oxford.

Now that we’re so close to home, and knowing our critter sitter is at my house until noon, we have time to hike a few miles. I decide on the Witches Gulch and Chapel Gorge Trails.

We’re cruising down Highway 23, the sun is bright, and we’re ready for a good hike when... “Stop!” Harvest Market bent and dent is always worth a visit, and today the parking lot is full. Grabbing a cart, we start up one aisle and down the next. I take every 40-cent can of Fancy Feast for my youngest kitty, Leo, while Dane grabs the non-paté kind for his elderly cat Spiky.

Bananas are 15 cents a pound, so I tell the clerk I’ll take them all. She reserves one bunch for a woman who comes in for bananas every week.

Next I grab the two bags of Iams dog food that are left. Dane, carefully scanning the shelves, is thrilled with his finds; Better Oats Organic Bare oatmeal and Folgers coffee are a couple of his favorites.

Not many bent and dent stores have a coffee shop and bistro. The fall special is tempting—pumpkin spice something or other—but I need both hands free for the shopping spree!

After loading up the car with our savings, we make it to the Chapel Gorge Trail in mere minutes. The wide trail is covered with pine needles and offers a lovely view of the Wisconsin River.

Next, we hop in the car and type “Witches Gulch” into the map app. I call out the directions and Dane does the driving. We keep ending up at a locked gate, so we wind down another nearby road but still can’t find the trailhead. We start over and the map again brings us to the locked gate.

After doing this three times, I see a lady and ask her where Witches Gulch is. She tells us it’s only accessible on the Wisconsin Dells Boat Tour. I’m disappointed, but Dane is relieved that we can now head home, and the lady is annoyed because, she says, at least 30 cars a day pull up to her place and ask the same question.

As we finally turn onto my road, we’re excited to see the dogs, who we know missed us. We feel lucky to have had an extra, unplanned bit of vacation.

Embracing the Hard Stuff

Embracing the Hard Stuff

A card was forwarded to me recently from the Crawford County Independent and Kickapoo Scout's office. It’s not unusual to receive mail in response to my weekly column. What was unusual was the six-page handwritten letter inside.

But before I could read it, the dogs started barking, alerting me to a visitor. Joyce had arrived with treats for my critters: apples from her orchard and excess zucchini and squash from her garden. After sharing a hug and unloading her truck, we started talking about grief.

Joyce still grieves the loss of her mom years ago. Her mom was a smart, active lady and an avid reader. After her stroke, it was hard for Joyce to watch her mom struggle with the simplest of tasks. Joyce wonders if she’ll ever get over this loss.

Later, my neighbor Mary confided that a dear friend had expressed anger at her for “not being there” for him after his wife of 60 years died. He’d felt abandoned by her not reaching out more often.

I nodded. “I get that. I’ve felt the same way.”

At my dad’s funeral, we received condolences and stories about my dad from his friends' perspectives as they came through the receiving line. I kept hoping to see one of my own friends there. I desperately needed acknowledgment of my grief from someone who knew me, but none came.

In my pain, I completely disengaged from those friends. Years later, I told them how not seeing them at my dad’s funeral had hurt. A few claimed they’d been there but didn’t feel they belonged in that line.

I’ve done that too. When an acquaintance’s husband died, I felt awful for her and her two young children, yet I ended up not attending the funeral. I convinced myself I didn’t know her well enough. Instead, I made her a concrete plaque for her garden. It still sits in my front yard. I didn’t feel I knew her well enough to give it to her.

A few years ago another friend died from cancer. I’d visited her, called her, and even worked with her on a project during her treatments. But I felt the funeral was only for her family and close friends. Again, I didn’t attend.

Often people reach out in the first couple of weeks after a death, but they stop about when the shock of that death has worn off. This can leave the grieving person feeling alone.

Recently, a younger friend who’s grieving the death of her grandpa and the loss of her grandmother to Alzheimer’s recommended a podcast to me, a series called All There Is, with Anderson Cooper. She told me, “He created it after the loss of his mother when he realized how loss and grief seem to be taboo in society, even though they’re among the most universal experiences.”

I feel we need to learn to respect grief, to reach out and support others who are experiencing grief, and not try to sweep away or ignore those emotions but instead honor them.

Yesterday my daughter, Jessica, explained to me that “trying to act normal” takes all her energy. After her daughter, Helena, died, Jessica began working at a new job where she hadn’t shared her tragedy. On day two, a new coworker asked, “Do you have children?” When Jessica answered yes, the woman asked, “How many?”

Even a normal question like this can send a newly bereaved parent into a tailspin. Jessica tells me Helena is on her mind from the moment she wakes up until she goes to sleep. She knows there will always be a gaping hole in her life.

And, like Joyce with her mom, me with my dad, and my young friend with her grandparents, Jessica isn’t focused on “getting over it” or “moving forward.” Grief is exhausting. Her focus is on surviving each day, knowing she’ll never see her precious child again.

When I finally read the letter the newspaper had forwarded that day, I nearly wept. The sender acknowledged the loss of my granddaughter and also thanked me for writing about “the hard stuff.”

She had suffered the loss of her best friend when she was only 24. When her dad died some years ago, she found a grief group helpful. She encouraged me to keep writing, keep sharing, and not be ashamed of my pain.

I’m not ashamed, and I will keep writing about the hard stuff. I’m in no hurry to push grief away or to move forward. Instead of pushing through grief, I'm working on embracing it—in myself and in others.

One Year in a Lifetime

One Year in a Lifetime

The leaves were shades of green, yellow, orange, and red, many still clinging to the trees. Occasionally a crisp yellow leaf would float past and land on the road, getting the dogs' attention.

We were walking the dogs up the steep end of Elk Run Road when Dane handed me a heart-shaped rock. He’d been away three days in northern Wisconsin, searching for spongy moth egg masses, when he found the rock and tucked it in his pocket to give me when he got home.

The red rock fit perfectly in my palm. Smiling, I thanked him, put it in my pocket, and we kept walking—me with one hand in my pocket on the rock. It was still warm from Dane’s hand..

Not until later that day, when Dane had been transferred by ambulance to Gunderson Hospital, did we realize it was Friday the 13th. A week later, the stoic cardiologist, upon signing Dane’s release papers from the hospital, stated flatly, “We don’t see people going home with Dane’s diagnosis and his subsequent cardiac arrests and heart attack.”

Dane’s recovery has been a combination of his determination and hard work.

With baby steps, hunched over his walker, he took the timed “walk test,” administered before starting cardiac rehab. My heart plummeted as I watched while giving gentle encouragement. He shuffled past—he’d move one foot, then slide his other foot forward, and awkwardly push the walker forward a few inches.

Soon enough though, the walker stayed in the car when I dropped him off at the hospital entrance. He began counting down how many days he had left in rehab. Not that he wanted it to be over—he didn't, because it gave him a sense of confidence and hope. But he was determined to get his driver’s license reinstated before May so he could then go back to his job as a spongy moth trapper.

As early as November, we’d try walking up the hill where he had stopped that day because of chest pain. He’d mark the spot where he turned around and try to go further the next day. Some days he made a little more progress.

Then one day, taking breaks to catch his breath, he reached the top!

Dane’s next goal was December 18, his 71st birthday, when his driver’s license would expire. He repeatedly stressed about getting to the DMV, knowing that without his license he wouldn’t be able to return to work. He wasn’t allowed to drive for at least six months after his heart episodes, so I drove him to the Viroqua DMV office. The form asked if he had ever lost consciousness in the past year. He had—at least three times—and asked me what he should do. I answered, “Do what’s right.”

He was crushed when his license wasn’t renewed. He climbed back into the car, looking defeated, and stated, “I can’t do this anymore.”

But he didn’t give up.

Three times a week, Dane went to rehab, missing a session only when he had another procedure to put in more stents and once to get a defibrillator implanted. Between home visits from a nurse, appointments with his cardiologist in La Crosse, and his rehab sessions, he started adding my Sit, Stand, Stretch fitness class on his non-rehab days.

Dane was committed to gaining his endurance and strength back. He started his fitness classes with no weights, increased to 2 pounds, then 3, and graduated to 5-pound weights. Again, like with his rehab and walking, he didn’t miss a class.

Nowadays, Dane eats a salad loaded with vegetables and fruit daily. His cardiologist advised that increasing intake of both of those makes a huge difference in heart health. He no longer salts his food before tasting it and rarely afterwards. Sodas are rare, as is eating red meat, and he avoids processed food. He still indulges in an occasional sweet treat, but gone are his daily donuts!

In the past several months, he’s managed to get his driver’s license back, start work on time in May, and consistently walk a minimum of two miles a day. He looks forward to getting back to his fitness classes when his seasonal job ends for the year.

We’re on Rock Island, walking on a bed of smooth white rocks on a narrow point jutting into Lake Michigan. The sun is bright and there’s hardly a cloud in the sky. It’s unseasonably warm and we’re taking a break from our camp host duties.

As we walk, we scan the ground for interesting rocks while reminiscing that in only a few days it’ll be a year since the day we were walking up the road and Dane's life changed—our lives changed.

Suddenly, Dane reaches down and picks up a perfectly white, heart-shaped rock, smiles, and hands it to me.

Dear Diary

Saturday, October 5

Dear Diary,

Morning — Opened the boathouse, got paper supplies (stored in a shed where mice won't destroy

them), and started cleaning bathrooms. Lots of mouse poop, but only a few mice. Swept boathouse,

more mice in there. Stinks!

Had a quick breakfast and greeted the 10:00 a.m. Karfi. Asked every camper how they’re doing. Some

are okay; others are leaving because of mice. Ranger Brian pulled up. Mice were jumping out of the

trash bags in the red wagon on the back of his UTV. He said northwest gale winds are expected

tomorrow and if so, the Karfi won’t be coming in. He’ll let us know when he’s certain.

Noon — Talked to campers who were heading out. Had them put their gear on the dock to be loaded.

Greeted the noon boat and answered all the day trippers' questions. Talked to newly arriving campers

about mice and what they could do to cope with them.

Ranger Brian and boat captain confirmed no boats will run tomorrow, Sunday. Must notify all campers:

they must leave today or stay until Monday. No one will be able to leave tomorrow even if the mice are

too much for them.

Dane and I took off on the UTV to inform campers. Many were already planning on leaving; some

have to work on Monday; and many couldn’t be found as they were hiking and not at their campsites.

Dane dropped me off and I started packing up the cabin and cleaning. He went to the boathouse to

count monies from the week's merchandise and wood sales and prepare the final deposit. We’ll take the

last ferry out today. We have a reservation at Sunrise Cabin on Washington Island Sunday night; not

sure what we’ll do tonight.

1 p.m. — In between greeting boats, cleaning, answering questions, and finding the missing campers,

we learned the docents at the lighthouse needed to be picked up. Dane finished the money, took our

garbage out, and hightailed it to the lighthouse to fetch them. I returned to packing, sweeping, and

mopping.

2 p.m. — Ran back to meet the 2 p.m. boat. Too many people wanting to board, and day trippers

worrying they’ll be left behind and have to wait until the last boat at 4 p.m. But after dropping off a full

boat of campers, the captain made a second run to pick up the day trippers. Dane pulled up to the dock

just in time with the docents, so they were able to load up too and get off the island.

Dane had to refund campers for the wood they'd bought but didn’t have a chance to use. Then he joined

me at the cabin to help clean the gas stove and refrigerator, and heat water to wash the dishes.

I packed the cooler, stripped the sheets, and stuffed them in our dry bag along with our clothes. Dane

loaded the UTV, took our gear to the dock, and came back to pick me up as I was finishing mopping

the floor.

4 p.m. — With just minutes to spare, we joined campers and day visitors at the dock for the last boat

off the island till Monday. Surprisingly, two campers arrived on that boat, knowing they’d have to stay

until Monday and there’d likely be no wood sales.

All gear got loaded onto the boat, then the departing campers, the day visitors, and lastly, Dane and I.

When we finally sat down, we looked at each other and high-fived.

As the boat pulled out, we waved goodbye to Rock Island and all its mice. We hope the island has a

cold, cold winter.

Sunday, October 6

Dear Diary,

We woke this morning after a restful sleep at Sunrise Cabin on Washington Island. True to its name, the

sunrise was spectacular. We were glad that Gabrielle, one of the owners, was able to let us get in one

day early.

After breakfast, we biked to the dock where the Karfi sat. We wanted to see the northwest winds and

waves that prevented it from sailing. But from that vantage the lake looked calm.

Later this evening, we watched a video on Facebook made by a couple still on Rock. The waves were

crashing over the pier in front of the boathouse with alarming force. Anyone trying to stand there, let

alone load and unload a boat, would have been swept into the roiling surf.

We spent the day biking and hiking (mice free!), feeling grateful that the boat captain and the ranger

were skilled at making that kind of call. We’re hopeful the DNR will be as skilled on how to handle the

mouse infestation.

A Week on Mouse Island

A Week on Mouse Island

“Do you have any chips for sale?”

Standing behind the gift shop’s counter, I smiled and showed her the plastic tote of assorted chips. The woman screamed. A mouse was sitting on top of the chip packages, munching on a Cheeto as big as its head.

Dane and I had arrived at Rock Island three days earlier on the Karfi ferry. Our mission was to be the camp hosts from Sunday, September 29, to the following Sunday. Our responsibilities: “Along with helping to take care of the park, camp hosts greet daily visitors and campers, monitor the campground, sell merchandise and firewood, and much more.” We had no clue just how much more it would entail this year.

Leaving the boat, we had grabbed our gear and had taken a short UTV ride to the cabin where we’d be staying for the next seven nights. As we unpacked our supplies, we rejoiced in our luck at being here again. The year so far had been more than challenging, with Dane’s heart attack, a bout with Lyme disease, and my granddaughter Helena’s tragic death. We were ready to lose ourselves in service and the solace of the island. Better yet, my friend Emily was coming for her first camping trip on the island. I couldn’t wait to share the beauty of this place with her.

Mel, the departing camp host, greeted us with warnings: “The mice are everywhere, and bold. Keep the doors to the cabin closed. Tell the campers to eat before dark and out on the green or away from their campsite. Have them dispose of their garbage right away. They shouldn’t keep anything with scent in their tent, not even toothpaste or Chapstick. Hanging bags up doesn’t work—the mice can climb and are skilled at getting into the bags.”

As we walked back from our cabin to the boathouse to receive our instructions for the week, we saw our first mouse.

“Dane!” I cried, pointing at where his foot had just touched down, trapping a mouse. He lifted his foot and it scurried away.

Now we noticed them everywhere, hustling back and forth across the gravel path, rustling in the leaves, and even climbing the walls in the boathouse gift shop.

Soon the previous week’s crew departed for the mainland. We were on our own.

“Welcome to Rock Island,” I shouted as the ferry pulled up to the dock with our first group of campers and day visitors. And there was Emily!

After telling the day visitors how to get to the lighthouse, I tried to give the campers a heads-up on the mice—what to do and not do. The “Guys,” as we started referring to them, pushed past us, saying, “We know.” They’d received a letter the State Park had sent warning of the mice situation. Other campers hadn’t received the letter and weren't prepared to defend their gear or food from the mice. Many said that in all the years they’d camped here, they’d rarely seen a mouse.

Dane and I agreed. Rock Island is one of our top happy places. In our many years vacationing here, we’d never had to deal with mice.

Thankfully, Emily had received her letter and came prepared with a cooler.

Camp hosts don’t have much time to dawdle. While Emily set up her camp, we made our rounds and checked in with campers, loaned out two of our plastic containers, and checked on the garbage situation in the most popular building on the island: the one with running water and flush toilets!

“Arghh!” I yelped. Someone had left the cover off the garbage can in the ladies’ room. Mice started popping out, running the rim of the lid like they were on a treadmill, diving deeper into the can’s contents, climbing the wall, and circling my head on the ceiling like a circus act. I kept kicking the can, yelling, “Out, get out!”

That evening Emily joined us in preparing meal packs wrapped in foil while Dane started our campfire. It was still light out, and Emily reported seeing mice in her campsite.

While the meal was cooking, we fended off mice. While eating, we fended off mice. While making s’mores, mice were climbing our legs, the marshmallow sticks, and the picnic table, and we fended them off.

In the morning, the Guys boasted that they’d killed 70 mice.

We listened to tales of mice chewing through waterproof bags, running on and over tents all night, and emptying a full box of wine that had been left out. Gear and tents had been ruined, and many campers packed up to leave, including Emily. When the Guys left after three days on the island, their mouse kill count was close to 350.

Instead of finding solace on Rock Island, we found thousands of mice creating havoc and unrest. But we never considered leaving. We love the island in spite of mice.

We don’t know how the mouse population got so out of control, but we’re confident the DNR will figure out a solution and Rock Island will continue to be our happy place.

Joy

Louisa brings joy to our lives

Joy

Nick Cave is an Australian musician, actor, and writer. He’s best known for his deep voice and his band, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. He also writes a popular weekly blog called The Red Hand Files, where he answers the questions that readers ask him. For his 300th issue, he decided to turn the tables and ask us, his readers, a simple question, saying he’d post his favorite answers.

The question was: “Where or how do you find joy?”

I decided to answer.

Dear Nick,

When my eyes open in the morning and I whisper Thank you, my heart starts to fill with joy. It sets the foundation for the rest of my day, that first act of the day, saying Thank you.

It’s the same feeling when I crack an egg and watch it sizzle, smell that slice of sourdough bread popping up from the toaster, turn on the faucet to brush my teeth or use a flushing toilet.

Thank you is a prayer I can say throughout the day for all the tiny miracles I encounter. Being aware of the simple gifts I receive daily is how I find joy.

And then from that foundation, joy builds…

Noticing the clouds, the black squirrel that safely made it across the road, my dog rolling over for a belly rub, flowers my partner surprised me with for no reason, a polished apple in my lunch bag, the sun shining on my face, or an unexpected phone call from a friend asking, “How are you doing?”

Joy doesn’t care about my race, my weight, who I love, my bank account, if my home is messy or immaculate. Joy is a universal feeling I harvest when I start to notice and say Thank you for all the things I might otherwise have taken for granted.

And some days, that’s hard to do! But when I do, even my posture changes from slumping to standing upright, my frown becomes a silly half smile on my face, and even my toes seem to wiggle with more ease.

Thank you, Nick, for your vulnerability in sharing your thoughts and feelings with us in The Red Hand Files.

Jane

Viola, Wisconsin, USA

Nick was overwhelmed by the response he received to this question. Over 2,000 letters arrived within the first few days after he’d posted it. He wrote on his blog: “So many of your responses are extraordinarily moving, from thoughtful and eloquent treatises on the nature of joy to a tiny voice from Limerick, Ireland, saying simply, ‘Golf’—a response that, for some inexplicable reason reduced me to tears.”

He went on to say it was impossible to choose his favorite answer, so instead he decided to collate them and post them all on a page he’ll call “Joy.” He asked for our patience, as he had read through only about the first 500 responses.

Here is the link if you’re curious about what people from all over the world answered when asked, “Where or how do you find joy?”: theredhandfiles.com/joy.

How would you have answered? Where or how do you find joy?

Until I Am Jane Again

Until I Am Jane Again

It’s morning. Smoke from distant fires turns the sunrise red. Standing quietly in the doorway, I can hear the donkeys’ soft, rhythmic breathing: hum on the inhale, puff on the exhale.

Even though I've been up for an hour my eyelids are heavy and if I’m not careful I may topple over.

The flock inside the Duck Hall has registered my presence. I’m listening so intently to their sounds that I’m startled when my eyes close.

Moving into the new day requires much more effort than listening to the rise and fall of Diego and Carlos’s breath, or the shuffle of feathers and low squawks from the ducks and geese. I feel uninspired—as hazy and thick as the morning air.

Making tea, I try to understand: Did I start to feel like this after my granddaughter’s sudden death in June? Or earlier, while helping Dane get back on his feet after life-threatening heart issues? Was it the positive Lyme diagnosis? Or the sudden shift from being Dane’s everyday caregiver once he was able to live on his own again?

Doesn’t matter. Bottom line, I’m not feeling like myself. Normally I’d hit the ground running the minute my eyes open. Often Dane used to have to gently ask me to rein myself in. If I felt him turn during the night, I took it as an invitation to start a conversation, with either a philosophical question or an enthusiastic stream of what the next day might bring: “Let’s eat breakfast out, then take the dogs on a long walk. We could check out Nelson’s afterward and get what we need for the fence, then go to Festival in La Crosse and load up on our weekly groceries. Would you want to eat dinner on the bistro, then head into town for the music?”

Dane would twitch in frustration, longing to just go back to sleep. Eventually, I learned to control my active mind—and mouth—until he’d at least had a cup of coffee. But nowadays I seem out of control in a different way.

I move like a sloth. Instead of taking joy in healthy meals, I’ve snacked on convenience foods—think fried chicken followed by chugging a bottle of chocolate milk—on the way to my daughter’s in Milwaukee and back home again.

I no longer feel like socializing, a stark contrast from days when I’ve been asked to move up in line after holding back the flow because I was busy sharing a story. And while I’d never be accused of being Little Ms. Organizer, these days it seems impossible for me to put things away properly. Only yesterday, the birdseed for Benny and Jo-Jo turned up in the freezer, and the scissors were lying on top of the back stove burner. I felt a rush of relief when I realized the stove was turned off.

I’ll have a test in December for my ACE (American Council of Exercise) recertification, but I’m not studying the way know I should be. Worse, I’m not even reading for fun.

This is me out of control. I can’t seem to gather together (or find where I put) my life.

So I asked myself, What’s up, Jane? What’s really going on for you? Then I listened without interrupting, reflected on what I said—and decided to give myself grace.

I replied to grieving Jane: It’s okay not to feel like yourself. It’s okay to eat crappy food, to not be in the woods as often as usual, and to leave your desk a mess. It’s okay to skip that party, and even to go down a different aisle at the store to avoid a conversation. It’s okay to take a break from reading the books you once enjoyed, and it’s going to have to be okay that you’re not studying.

I’ve decided to relax my expectations of myself.

Maybe this is my way of regaining control: by deciding what I can and can’t handle—by not doing, not going, not achieving, and instead just sitting. And thinking. And writing. And wishing.

Maybe that’s enough for now.

What are you doing today, Jane?

Practicing grace.

What are you doing tomorrow?

Same thing. Practicing grace, taking long naps, snuggling with the cats…

But what about your life, your projects, your intentions, Jane?

They can wait until I’m feeling like Jane again.

Meanwhile, what I can do is reach out to my daughter, her husband, my grandson. I can let Dane know how much his presence in my life means to me. I can quietly check in on friends and neighbors.

I’ll keep saying my simple prayer of Thank you. Thank you for this life. Thank you for each breath. Thank you for making me aware that nothing can be taken for granted.

And thank you for letting me hurt and feel pain. Thank you for letting me be human. Otherwise, I’d never have known love.

The Old Trail

“We’re going down again,” Dane announces, having pointed this out three times before.

We’re hiking the Old Settler’s Trail at Wildcat Mountain State Park. Dane wants to be done hiking and settled down somewhere with a cool glass of water instead. Every elevation change triggers a comment from him, as if he’s emceeing an outdoor trail event: Now we’re heading up; we’re going down; it’s going to get worse; we’re going to have to go straight up soon.

“Be here now,” I quip. “Have you ever heard that advice?”

“Yeah, Ram Dass.”

“How about ‘no mud, no lotus’?”

Dane sighs and we keep trudging along.

Despite the complaining, we both agree that this 2.5-mile loop is one of our all-time favorite hikes. Today it’s raining off and on, but thanks to the thick tree cover we stay dry. The cooler weather is perfect for hiking. Still, today we both feel sluggish, like perhaps we’re getting older.

Since we've gotten a later-than-usual start to our hiking this year, we didn’t buy an annual Wisconsin State Park sticker, but because we’re “seniors” the day fee is only $3, and well worth it.

If you head to Wildcat to hike the Old Settler's Trail, stop first at the overlook and walk the short path to where you can take in the grand view of our gorgeous countryside. There’s a newer post and sign in front of the overlook, encouraging visitors, “Take a Selfie.” The panoramic view makes a fantastic backdrop.

That sounds like a good idea, and we’re intrigued, but we can’t figure out how to do it. We set our phone on the little ledge on the selfie post, and it falls off. We turn our phone and set it down again and it stays. Progress! By this time two folks with a dog have come by to see what we’re up to.

“We can snap your picture the old-fashioned way,” the man suggests.

“Nah, we want to figure out this selfie thing.”

Dane sets the timer, but 5 seconds doesn’t give him enough time to join me where I’m standing. Snap! We get a pic of me looking toward the camera, mouth open, and Dane’s back.

The man offers again and we still decline. The woman gets bored and takes the dog for a walk. Amused, the man watches as Dane fumbles with the phone, looking for something that will give us a better chance at an overlook photo with both of us in it. Once he realizes he can set the timer for 15 seconds, he sets the camera back on the little ledge. It falls off again. Then we have a few false starts where Dane thinks he’s set the camera, hurries over, and we stand there grinning like two old fools, waiting for the snap that never comes.

Finally, with the timer set for 15 seconds and the phone securely on its stand, Dane clicks it and makes it over to my side, and the camera snaps. Pretty cool, we both think, as we congratulate ourselves on having learned something new for the day.

The Old Settler’s Trail does have a lot of ups and downs, but it’s well-marked and easy to follow. Our favorite part is the enormous rock on the side of the trail with stairs leading up to it. Dane is quick to point out that if we go up the stairs, we’ll have to come back down them. Thank you, Mr. Emcee!

We finish the hike and are both thankful we did it, but we laugh at all the complaining about the elevation change, and all the hiking time lost to futzing around trying to learn how to take a selfie.

On our way out of the park, we wave goodbye to the park attendant, who graciously hadn’t asked if we qualified for the senior discount until we mentioned it. For us, Old Settler’s Trail is well-named!

Roadside Attractions

Roadside Attractions

Dane is driving down Highway 61 and we turn onto South Sleepy Hollow Road. I’m riding shotgun and soon I'm oohing and ahhing as we pull over near the Museum of Unremarkable Objects.

Before he can put the car in park, I’m out the door and already being bossy. “We’ll start with the museum shed and then move down the road from there.” I don’t want to miss anything.

It’s my first visit and Dane’s second. Dane discovered the area while working his Wisconsin moth trap job and couldn’t wait to surprise me. Unbeknownst to him, I had already planned a “date day” stop at the museum.

We learned that Martha Querin-Schultz had stopped her husband, Steve, from cutting up and grinding a large stump left by a cottonwood tree that fell in 2016. That stump, located across from their driveway, encouraged the artist in Martha to get busy. She started decorating it with doll heads and doll parts.

Soon neighbors were leaving dolls and other installations on the stump and on the trunk that lay nearby. The project started to take on a life of its own—so much so that some started referring to the area as Creepy Hollow!

Later, on a trip to Glover, Vermont, Steve and Martha stopped at the Museum of Everyday Life. Martha was impressed and decided to open her own Museum of Unremarkable Objects, where she displays ordinary objects and their histories, and encourages people to leave something there to be included in an exhibit. We loved it but were sorry we hadn’t brought anything fun to leave behind.

Stopping for roadside attractions is something Dane and I love to do. After over 18 years of date day adventures, we’re pros. If we haven't been there yet, we will be eventually. The odder the roadside attraction, the better.

The week before this outing, we made a trip to Dr. Evermore’s Sculpture Park in Sauk County, an amazing, rambling work of art featuring Forevertron, the second-largest scrap metal sculpture in the world. Dane posed in front of the 50-foot tall, 120-foot wide sculpture with his arms wide open, grinning.

Its creator, Tom Every (aka Dr. Evermore), was born in Brooklyn, Wisconsin, and was influenced by his family collecting scraps for the war. By the age of 11 he had started his own successful salvage business, and when he retired in 1984 he started building his sculpture park in North Freedom. Every died in 2020, but thankfully the park lives on, and efforts are being made to keep it from rusting away.

We’ll go out of our way to stop at the Dickeyville Grotto on our way to Dubuque. And we’ve detoured after lunch at the Matsumoto Ramen House in Sparta to visit the Paul and Matilda Wegner Grotto near Cataract. We haven't been to the Grotto Gardens in Rudolph yet, but it’s on our list.

Anything that looks interesting as we cruise the Wisconsin roads is fair game for a stop: the world’s largest muskie in Hayward, goats on the roof at Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant in Door County, the world's largest hodag (mythical animal) statue in Rhinelander, the world’s largest bicyclist in Sparta, and the Rock in the House in Fountain City. We haven't yet witnessed the world’s largest potato masher in Plover, but with Dane’s love of potatoes, we will.

I surprised Dane a few years ago with a stop in Rock Springs at the Wisconsin Big Cat Rescue. Jeff and Jenny Kozlowski opened their place in 2005 as a nonprofit educational center licensed by the USDA. We enjoyed seeing the lions and tigers that were displaced because private owners couldn’t keep them anymore or zoos felt they weren't beautiful enough for the public.

The massive House on the Rock in Iowa County is great for a once-every-decade visit, while Kinstone might become a daily visit if only we lived closer. Located near Fountain City, Kinstone is a modern-day megalithic site featuring stone circles, a dolmen, standing stones, a labyrinth, a thatched-roof cordwood chapel, and a few friendly cats. Founded in 2010 by Kristine Beck on a 30-acre section of her family's farm, Kinstone is a truly magical place and well worth the drive. We loved the Tree of Intention, and both Dane and I wrote our prayers on ribbons and attached them to the branches.

When we go to La Crosse, we smile as we pass the World’s Largest Six-Pack. When biking around on county roads, we make a point of stopping at Driftless Antiquish or climbing up the hogback in Steuben. And when we visit the National Mississippi River Museum & Aquarium in Dubuque, we also ride the Fenelon Place Elevator.

But for now, we’re busy keeping our eyes open at roadside rummage sales for dolls and doll parts to add to all the wonderful art on our next trip to the Museum of Unremarkable Objects.

My Dad for President

Jack, Jill, Dad, Jane

My Dad for President

“I think my dad would make a good president.”

It was an election year, 1964, and I was 6 years old. I’d been playing on the monkey bars when William Janz, a reporter for the local paper, asked me and three of my classmates who we’d vote for if kids could vote.

Peter said he’d vote for Senator Barry Goldwater; Jay and Cindy chose Lyndon B. Johnson; and since my dad wasn’t running, I said I’d vote for Johnson too.

At that time, Dad was a lieutenant colonel in the Air National Guard and a veteran of World War II and the Korean War. When he died, at age 53, he’d served a total of 34 years. His funeral was dress blues as far as the eye could see.

How would he vote this year if he were alive? I think of him as I ponder how I’ll vote in November. I feel sure Dad always voted for people he felt displayed the values he instilled in us.

So I want to choose someone who will be a good role model for children. Are they a person I’d want kids emulating? I can hear Dad saying, “Watch the people on top, Janie. How they behave trickles down.”

Dad often had to call people who didn’t report for their weekend duties. He explained to us kids that they had a responsibility and broke it. Although we knew he was angry, we never heard him yell, put them down, or treat them poorly. But he did make his point!

Whether playing a family game of basketball “horse,” Jarts, or ping-pong, Dad expected us to play well together—no bickering! I feel he’d remind us that kindness and integrity matter when deciding who we want to lead the United States. They’ll need to “play nice” with other leaders, negotiating our welfare and that of the world.

Dad despised sore losers and so do I. As an umpire for my brother Jack’s softball team, he called Jack out on a close call. The team was furious, I was horrified, and Jack was mad as heck. On the way home, we got a lecture on “calling it like it is—fair is fair.” Dad would vote for someone who’s honest and fair, a respectful winner and a gracious loser.

Dad also taught me a thing or two about how to tell if someone is more interested in themselves than in other people. He’d say, “Watch how they treat the waitress, the bartender, the sanitation workers.” Anyone who puts others down is off my list. If they mock people, take advantage of weaknesses, or are abusive in any way, they won’t be getting my vote. As children we were reprimanded for these behaviors. It's no different for adults. 

I want to vote for someone who has, as Dad would say, “pulled themselves up by their bootstraps.” Working hard shows character. It means you’re willing to do what needs to be done. I’m also more impressed by people who have gotten jobs where the interviews were tough, who had to earn the job, and who are passionate about what they’ve chosen to do, especially if what they’ve chosen to do has helped others.

Personal finances matter. I’m horrible at finance, but I’m not running for the presidency! Dad kept a meticulous bank account. His checkbook always balanced to the penny, and he was proud to pay his bills on time. So I’d vote for someone who has a solid financial record, hasn’t ever claimed bankruptcy, earns their own money, and pays their debts on time.

If there’s a candidate who believes in raising others up, the way my dad always did, that’s who I’d vote for.

If a candidate could honestly try to do all those things while showing grace and humor, I’d consider it a bonus and vote for them.

I want joy over hate, truth over lies. I want to vote for someone who instills hope. Let’s face it—I want it all, and so do you.

Johnson ending up winning in a landslide in 1964. This year, I’m going to do what I know Dad would advise: I’m going to do my homework. I’ll make the best choice I can by doing my research and not listening to just one media source.

Above all, I’m going to channel Dad and vote for the person I trust will work for the good of not only me but also you and our neighbors and children. Someone just like Dad!

That Was Stupid!

That Was Stupid!

“Our date is tomorrow!” I said to Emily in a message. “How adventurous are you feeling on a scale of 1 to 10—10 being ‘ready to climb Everest’ and 1 being ‘ready to stay in bed’?”

She answered, “I’m up for anything! Maybe between 5 and 8 on the scale.”

“Okay, 2 p.m., Upper Duck Egg Park. Chaseburg Saddle Club Trail. How hard can three miles be?”

“Ha, that’s been on my to-do list! I bet it’ll be tough, with creek crossings and no bridges. I’m game.”

“We'll figure it out as we go. I'll bring two poles, so if need be, you can use one. Or we can use it to pull each other up or down. Mostly me.”

“Or we can build a travois when we need to drag one of us back to the car!”

Everybody needs someone in their life who will challenge them. Emily is that person for me. We started our monthly adventure dates a couple of years ago. Life can be hectic, and having something scheduled and on the calendar is helpful. If life gets too crazy you can always cancel. With friends, there are no penalties—you simply reschedule.

We had canceled our June and July dates for family reasons, making today’s adventure extra special. We rated this trail an 8 on our adventure scale. The signs and brochures contained warnings: Rugged Trail for Advanced Hikers and Riders.

Vega, Emily’s German shepherd, led the way and Emily was the caboose. I’m a slow hiker, which puts me out front for pacing—or in this case, behind Vega.

The trail started in nearly knee-high grasses and quickly became a rocky dirt path winding down, down, down as we talked, talked, talked.

It didn’t take long before we reached our first water crossing. Off went our shoes and socks, to be tied onto Emily’s backpack. We each took a hiking pole and, yanking our bare feet out of the mucky bank, started picking our way carefully into the creek. It wasn't raging, but it was flowing steadily, wider than a triple trailer, strewn with slimy, slippery rocks, and as cold as the Antarctic.

Being shorter, I was the first to let out a screech when the icy water rose over my hips. Vega was gaily swimming around us and muddying the clear water so that we couldn’t see the creek bottom. Because of all the rocks, there was nowhere to get a secure foothold.

I held on to Emily’s hand, backpack, or whatever I could grab. We needed to stay steady.

After about 10 minutes of making our way across the creek and still not even close to halfway, one of us mentioned the cold. “Great for inflammation!” .

Even though we found the situation humorous, we began questioning our sanity. After another 10 minutes, with only a few inches gained, we started to get real.

“We're not even halfway across,” I said.

“Yep, and we have two more creek crossings to go.”

“And then we’ll need to traverse all three again to get back.”

Emily nodded. “Chacos would have been a good idea.”

As we stood there, pleasantly numb, testing out where we could next place a foot, we decided to bag it. We’d come back someday with our water sandals and try it again.

Whhhooop-swish. Something big (we never figured out what) dropped from a tree, startling both of us. Just as I said, “What the hell,” Emily shouted, “Monkey!”

We were laughing too hard for a woman with a weak bladder standing barefoot on slime-coated rocks in an ice-cold creek. And then my shoes and socks fell in. Emily managed to snatch them before they headed down to the Mississippi.

After we made our way back to shore, we heard voices, and saw two fly fishermen heading toward us from the other side of the creek. We watched as, without stopping, they walked right into the water and straight across to where I was wringing out my socks and Emily was wiping her muddy feet.

Seeing our surprise, they were quick to pull up their pants legs and show us the nifty neoprene socks attached to sturdy waterproof boots.

Later, while we enjoyed lunch in town and reminisced about our 8-rated adventure date, I exclaimed, “That was stupid!”

As we laughed, we made plans for when we’d go back.

Home Forever

Home Forever

Was I dreaming? All I know is that I fell asleep and when I woke up, Mom said, “You’re home.” Home? “Yes, darling, you’re home. Now, try not to bite everyone you meet.”

Little Leo weighed 1.7 pounds when he arrived at my house. His legs were scruffy toothpicks, his ears patchy but mostly hairless, and the white splotch on his nose and mouth made it seem like he was snickering. We loved how his front paws looked like they were dipped in white paint while his back legs had sunk into the paint over his knees. His bib of white was the perfect front for the seven-week-old baby that he was.

Leo is an adorable high-energy kitten, a gift from my daughter and her husband. Jessica has been a foster parent for MADACC (Milwaukee Area Domestic Animal Control Commission) and Brad is a volunteer pit bull rescue walker. Every Friday a gal on staff livestreams the cats and kittens up for adoption, and Jessica and Brad often tune in.

When he was found alone on the streets of Milwaukee and brought to the shelter, the staff named him Bucky. They estimated him to be four weeks old, nursed him back to health, had him neutered, and put him up for adoption. But no one wanted Bucky. Having no mom or siblings as role models made Bucky a little ferocious with his play-biting. People would think he was cute, then go to pet him, and he’d bite. A bite from Bucky didn't hurt, but people were more drawn to the purring cats and kittens they could easily hold.

When I was visiting Jessica and Brad one weekend, Feline Friday was airing and the first thing the gal on camera said was, “Why is Bucky still here?!” All the other cats and kittens from the previous show had been adopted, but not Bucky. So we jumped in the car and drove to the shelter.

He was tiny. He walked over to us through his cage, and when we’d stick our fingers in to scratch under his chin or behind his hairless ears he’d start nibbling our fingers. Some would call that biting.

We asked the volunteer if we could hold him and she sighed. “Oh yes, but he’s feisty. He’ll settle down eventually.” As she walked into the small room where we were waiting to hold him, we overheard her saying, “Now Bucky, if you want to get out of here, behave!”

Jessica held him first, then I did, then Brad. He never did purr, and he did bite, but his baby teeth were harmless. Brad had noticed a young couple looking at Bucky earlier so he excused himself, found the couple, and asked which kitten they were interested in. It wasn’t Bucky—it was a sweet orange kitty that purred and purred.

That sealed the deal. Brad graciously paid Bucky’s bail money and sprung him loose, knowing I’d take him home, love him up, and he’d have a forever home.

And so I did. But Bucky immediately became Leo, because even with his small size he has the heart of a lion. He doesn’t roar, but he stands up to the other cats here and doesn’t back down.

Rupert, our buff-colored cat, is his only friend...so far. They play and play and play until Rupert has had enough and swats Leo away. When that happens, I treat them each to a dish of wet food, and then Rupert goes to the couch and sleeps for a few hours.

As for Leo? He climbs up on the bed in the guest room, which shocked us at first because we thought he was too little to jump that high. The bed sits on a tall frame, well off the floor to allow for storage underneath, and has a thick mattress. Leo climbs into the cozy kitty hut we placed up there for him, spins around three times, wraps his stringy tail around himself, and falls deeply asleep.

Nowadays when I wake up, I snuggle and purr with my new mom, though truth be told, I do still like to nibble fingers. I’m happy to be settling into my forever home.

The Right to Grieve

Helena on her Make A Wish trip to Hawaii with her family.

The Right to Grieve

I should be sleeping. I’m lying with my hands behind my head, looking up at the bedroom ceiling with its swirling blue clouds and twinkling green stars as I listen to the sounds of gentle waves rushing onto a beach. Helena, my granddaughter, had a similar star machine in her room, so I bought one, hoping for a heavenly connection with her.

My body is peaceful, yet I’m not at peace. My mind feels thick and foggy with sorrow. My heart feels like my hips did a few years ago when they were giving out on me: weak and painful.

Grief and worry are keeping me awake. I worry mostly about my family, but I also worry about myself. Since Helena died, I haven't walked in the woods, visited the local food co-op, or been able to focus.

I know that grief is as normal as love; that it’s an expression of love; and that we often mourn in proportion to our loss. But I’m also learning not everyone values or experiences it in the same way.

“Are you better now? Be strong. Time to move on.”

Some people try to nudge grieving people along—or worse, don’t acknowledge that something horrible and life-changing just happened.

“Stop crying. Shake it off.”

The message is clear: If we cry, we upset the status quo. If we’re depressed, we bring others down. If I’m Jane, I should be tough and not weak.

But those sentiments aren’t helpful when someone is dealing with a loss, whether from death, divorce, or a decline in health (a dear friend, recently diagnosed with cancer, is grieving the loss of his life as it once was).

There isn’t a standard timeline for grief. My son-in-law was expected to return to work two weeks after his daughter was killed. When he did, no one even mentioned her death.

“Get on with it—you can’t just be sad forever.”

But you can be sad forever. Mourning isn’t a race with a finish line. Like my friend Janet said, “There will always be a hole.” Her daughter, Abby, died unexpectedly at age 53. And Maggie shared, “It’s hard to listen to my friends—all mothers—tell me it’s time for me to get on with my life, when they’ll be going home to their children tonight and I won’t.”

Yes, we’ll laugh again and find joy in the little things, start a new business, travel, and continue to love. But we’re forever changed by the loss.

How someone died can play a part in our grief. Traumatic and/or unexpected deaths can be harder to face, with their added element of shock.

During high school, my classmate DJ Carlton and his friend Chris rang my doorbell and yelled, “Trick or treat!” It was only September, but they were wearing plastic glasses with big noses and big bushy eyebrows. My dad and I invited them in for a soda.

The following week, DJ was dead. He was 16.

Dad’s death a few years later was just as unexpected—present and engaged one day, dead the next.

My friend Pat died after surgery when we thought she was recovering.

By contrast, Mom was 93. Her health was failing and she often told me she was ready to die: “There’s nothing to do anymore, Janie.” My sister Jill died of Alzheimer’s at age 66 because she forgot how to swallow and couldn’t eat. Both of them died during COVID. Both deaths were devastating, yet not as emotionally hard as the unanticipated death of Dad or the recent traumatic death of Helena. Mom was ready; Jill was sick.

I’m lying here thinking, Let’s lean into our losses. Let’s listen to our friends who are grieving. Let’s talk about our losses. No judgments. No advice. No platitudes.

Grief is unpredictable. A new loss can startle us, and past experiences can make our mourning more complicated. The so-called stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) aren't linear, nor does everyone experience all of them. Nowadays professionals recognize that grief is individual and complex.

I’m angry that Helena was killed. I’m angry the driver of the vehicle robbed my family of her precious life. I’m angry that we won’t see Helena grow older, settle into herself, and live her life as an adult. And I’m depressed for all the same reasons.

DJ, Dad, Mom, Jill, Pat, and Helena are gone now. Grief, like love, will stay. I’m learning to wear grief like a badge—a badge that says, “I’m human. I’ve loved. I’ll keep loving.”

I think of the Ram Dass quote, “We’re all just walking each other home,” and as my eyes close I vow to embrace my grief, my humanness, and to honor yours.

Mom & Dad.

Jill & her daughter, Samantha.

D.J.

Helena

Ethan at his sister, Helena’s memorial site.

Mission Accomplished

While it’s common for most New Year's resolutions to have long since gone south by now, this practical Taurus gal is celebrating keeping hers.

It’s August 1, 2024, and I’ve slam-dunked another empty shampoo container into the recycling bin. I’m strutting around the kitchen like a peacock. Dang, I feel good!

I’ve completed the action phase, the fourth of six stages of change according to the Transtheoretical Model (TTM). For the past seven months, I’ve maintained my goal: not to buy any shampoo, in any form, until every bottle I have, king-size or travel-size, is all used up. Yes, it’s “only” August, but I’m confident I’ve turned the corner and will finish the year strong.

The first stage of change is called precontemplation, when a person hasn’t yet recognized the behavior as a problem and is in denial about needing to make a change. I hit that phase last November. My inbox was being flooded with great holiday deals on all my favorite shampoos and conditioners. I also had a habit of picking up off-brand, never-heard-of types of shampoo whenever I’d see them on sale at discount stores.

I slid right into the second phase, contemplation: Why did I have—and continue buying—all these unused bottles of shampoo when my hair doesn’t even touch the nape of my neck and Dane has a buzz cut? My ambivalence in stage two was apparent; after all, I did stop buying conditioner. However, I was still hesitant to change my overindulgent ways.

Pondering the holiday season with all its sales, I started to realize I’d have more money if I wasn’t filling my cupboard with shampoo that would take me a year or two to use. So I started the preparation phase. I thought about how far into the calendar all my bottles of shampoo would take me. Could I make it a year without buying another? Would I be able to resist buying another?

Right before midnight on New Year’s Eve, while lying in bed, I made my resolution out loud to no one but myself. I never did tell Dane. But I did mention he could use my shampoo any time he was here—no need to have his own!

My dull but practical resolution to avoid acquiring any shampoo this year may sound simple, but the fact is that whenever I saw a sale, I used to stock up. Whenever I stayed at a motel, hotel, or B&B, the cute conditioner and shampoo midgets would come home with me. And worst of all, when my favorites went on sale, I caved in.

But not this year!

With a flourish, in February, I tossed out the Red Apple Cider Shampoo bottle. Done! Despite it making my hair feel like straw, I’d used up every drop. In March, I finished off an ancient bottle of Head & Shoulders, left over from my waterless days in the off-grid cabin. I’d used it in the shower at the old Super 8 Motel in Viroqua when I finished teaching water aerobics. Done! Next, a mammoth-sized bottle of shampoo claiming to be “all-natural hemp” was polished off in May.

And those midgets...done, done, and done!

I’m on a roll. For such a short-haired gal, I started with more odd bottles of shampoo than Mark Spitz had Speedos. But with five months to go, I’m down to one oversized bottle of shampoo and two normal sized. I feel it’s safe to be strutting my stuff over this more-than-half-year accomplishment.

Now the question will be, do I have enough shampoo left, without having to purchase more, to get me through the year? Luckily, with my short hair, a drop is all I need.

You may think it’s a dull resolution, but this Taurus gal is loving the practicality and sensibility of using up what I have. One more month without a relapse and I’ll be in what’s usually the final phase: maintenance. The sixth stage of TTM, termination, is attained when the person has no desire to return to the unhealthy behavior. and they are certain they won’t relapse.

If I make it to the end of the year, I’m certain my days of compulsive shampoo buying will be a thing of the past. My wallet will be heavier, my hair squeaky clean—and one bottle of shampoo will be sitting on the bathtub shelf.

Lost

Two steps from the asphalt road, my feet strike a well-worn dirt path. Four more steps and I’ve entered the magical portal to the New World, my name for a peaceful, wild, nature-filled, hidden neighborhood that used to be as familiar to me as my childhood bedroom.

The New World looked like places our family vacationed up north. There weren't neat lines where one messy yard ended and another started. The grass was long enough to blow in the breeze, and the houses looked tired but well-loved. Gardens were everywhere, dogs and cats roamed, and cars were parked on gravel or dirt driveways.

This New World was my getaway whenever I craved space to lose myself while riding Lucky, my sorrel horse; a place to wind through the deep snow on my brother Jack’s rickety snowmobile (without his permission); or a chance to escape the constant parental wars at home. Time spent in the New World seemed dreamy. I could breathe deeper, think more clearly, and relax in the arms of nature. Closer to the lake I’d hear bullfrogs’ deep croaking.

Today, almost a half-century later, I enter the New World carrying immense grief over the death of my granddaughter, Helena. I’m alone, as I was when visiting this place as a kid. My legs feel like bricks. I focus on picking up each foot and swinging it forward.

Entering the once magical, overgrown space, I’m surprised to see a swimming pool, swing set, patio furniture, and raised garden beds. Hmmm clunk-clunk, my brain spins roughly, trying to process this change as I veer left, the way I would have turned when riding Lucky.

What I see scrambles my mind: paved roads, matching mailboxes, manicured lawns, rows of vinyl-sided two-story houses, and people in jogging suits walking their dogs.

Feeling disoriented, I stop a man who’s walking a small, well-groomed dog. “Excuse me,” I say, “if I keep going, will I get to the racetrack? You know, where the 24 Outdoor Theater used to be?”

“What? That had to be over forty years ago.”

“I’m staying at my daughter’s in Hales Corners,” I explain. “I used to come here all the time... There was a lake over there, and—”

“Kelly Lake is still there,” he says, pointing.

“We used to call that Mud Lake. I boarded my horse there at Jeffers’ place. He had a chinchilla farm. I meant a smaller lake—it was hidden over there.”

“Yes, it’s still there behind those houses.” I look, but I only see giant, perfect homes, lots of white concrete, street signs, and dead ends.

I ask him if continuing forward will circle me back to Hales Corners. His directions are mind-boggling: turn left, turn right, and don’t turn on any dead-end streets (duh!). After relating a list as long as a kite’s tail, he ends with: “You’ll come out to Grange Avenue.”

My eyes roll. “Grange is a horrible road to walk on.”

“Yes, I wouldn’t walk on it either.”

Hmmm, clunk-clunk. I tell him I graduated from Whitnall High School in 1976. He shares that he graduated in 1974. He mentions I look too young, and I question him about his cataracts. He chuckles, shakes his head, and volunteers the name of a great place to get a fish fry.

Walking back down the hill, out of the New World, where the word New has a whole new meaning, I feel so heavy that I think of stopping to dump the sand out of my shoes. But there is none.

Hmmm, clunk-clunk. It’s a Friday night, and fish fries are what people in Milwaukee and its suburbs do. It’s what my family used to do. But tonight we won’t be going out. Mrs. Leonard, who knew Helena from her work at the local school, will be setting a hot meal outside our door. She has been an angel—she says that helping us helps her deal with the recent death of her husband.

When I get back to the house, I tell my daughter and son-in-law where I went. I express my shock at the hordes of huge houses and relate my conversation with the man I asked about the old dirt racetrack.

Jessica insists the area changed in the 1970s, Brad thinks the early ’80s, and it occurs to me that I left the area in 1976, the year I gave birth to Jessica. The New World must have been destroyed shortly after, to be replaced by an overdeveloped subdivision while I became a young mother.

Today, with grief coursing through my body and despair weighing my feet down, I would have benefited from the sanctuary of the New World. I would have loved to see the old tumble-down houses and hidden lakes and take a few fast turns around the racetrack on Lucky’s back or on my old blue Stingray bicycle.

But the times have changed. Helena’s shining light has left this world, and the New World is nothing like it used to be.

Kelly Lake today (Mud Lake)

Helena’s High School graduation

New World today.

Forty-One Mouths

Lorca is the oldest cat in the family.

Our days always start with letting the dogs out; some cats run in and some run out.

Caring for all my critters begins with standing in front of the aquarium and saying “Good morning” as I mist the six garden snails. We started with two, Flo and Griff, but they’ve multiplied so much we can no longer identify who’s who. Now we simply refer to them collectively as Flos and Griffs. I count them to make sure no one is AWOL again, look at their food bowl to see what and how much they ate, and refill their water bowl. Did they prefer the lettuce over the cucumbers, an apple slice over a piece of banana, the cooked carrots over green beans? They are ferocious eaters.

If I stay too long with the snails, the six cats start knocking pens, water bottles, and the mail onto the kitchen floor. The dogs get impatient too. Téte lets us know, loudly, that she wants to come back in. Finnegan and Ruben are also waiting when we open the door but they don’t speak up; Téte does all the talking around here.

I dip the white bowl into the never-ending bag of cat food and place it on the counter for the cats. It’s standard procedure here to dump new, smaller bags of cat food into the gigantic bag I keep in the cupboard under the counter. I have to be quick, or Téte will bury her head in the bag before I can shut the door. If that happens, the Jaws of Life would have a problem prying her head out.

Tete who likes to bark at us to hurry.

Once the cats are squared away, with a little food set aside on Dane’s desk for elder Lorca, we quickly put fresh water in their dishes. If a bowl happens to be empty, Ruben, the youngest canine, will either pick the dish up or knock it around to get our attention.

By now the parakeets, Benny and Joe-Joe, are chirping up a storm. I quickly take the cover off their cage, fold it, and place it over the arm of the couch where Téte likes to dramatically drape her body.

We take Benny and Joe-Joe’s two plastic bowls into the kitchen. One gets rinsed and refilled with cold water while the other gets a full scoop of birdseed. A boring diet, but we’ve tried fruits and vegetables with no success other than breeding fruit flies. In the spirit of livening things up, I switch the bowls’ positions daily.

During this season when the sky turns light around 4:30 a.m., I next snap the leashes on the dogs as they prance around the mudroom in anticipation of a morning walk. A morning pull is more accurate. I clutch the three leashes tightly as we hike up the hill, me still in my PJs. The dogs stop to sniff every leaf on the road, each wet spot from another animal’s urine, or someone’s poop. Raccoon, deer, and coyote poop are the most popular.

Back at home again, things get serious—and loud! Louisa is squealing for her mash, a few apples, and whatever else might appear; the three goats beg for their bananas; the eleven ducks and five geese need their grain; Diego and Carlos are braying for a chunk of hay; Téte is barking up a storm to say, Hurry up with the food; and everyone needs fresh water.

Louisa is always hungry.

Let’s not forget that eggs need to be gathered, washed, and packaged, and the chips in the Duck Hall have to be raked to keep them fresher longer.

Finnegan and Téte gulp their food like a frog does a fly. Ruben eats his the way Dane eats everything: like he has all the time in the world.

Next, the dogs go into their kennel, and Louisa and the goats come out to mosey around the yard, munching on grass, treats I’ve strewn about for them, or the marigolds when I’m not looking.

Lastly, I visit little Maude, the box turtle, and offer her hot dogs, bananas, and grub worms. I sit in a red chair nearby while she eats, take her for a short walk after, and rinse out her swimming hole.

Whoops, one more! Peter, an ornate box turtle, was gifted to me by friends a couple weeks ago. Many mornings he’s hiding, but he also tests the fence for an escape every chance he gets. He’s a feisty powerhouse and a great addition to the gang, although Maude doesn’t entirely agree with me on that yet. This morning, Peter was hiding again for the third day in a row. That’s not uncommon with turtles—Maude herself is famous for this game.

Tomorrow, if Peter shows up, there will be forty-one mouths to feed breakfast to—but that’s only the beginning of the tale. Evenings are another story!

Wedding Bells

My grandson Ethan and his wife, Natalie. June 1, 2024

“Hurry up, Mom, you’re going to make us late for my son’s wedding!”

What?! I’m going to make us late? I’m the sixth person to shower and use the bathroom to get ready—the last one, because I waited for the rest of the family to go first!

My whole family (my daughter, Jessica, her husband, Brad, and my grandchildren, Helena and Ethan, plus Dane and me) spent the last day of May together before Ethan's wedding on June 1st. The house is plenty big for the four of them, but add in Dane and me, 220-pound Winston, their St. Bernard dog, and their four cats, plus the excitement of a wedding, and it feels crowded.

Earlier this morning, Dane and I walked the half mile to town and enjoyed coffee at Starbucks to give the groom and his dad first dibs on the bathroom. The fact that it’s a 10 a.m. wedding in downtown Milwaukee, 15 miles away, helps make this a chaotic morning.

We’ve been anticipating Ethan and Natalie’s wedding ever since they announced their engagement over a year ago. They’re two wonderful people who fit together perfectly.

Natalie and Ethan met when they were both working at Kwik Trip. Natalie was finishing school to be an RN and Ethan was in school to become a history teacher. Now Natalie works in mental health at the Milwaukee Veterans Hospital, Ethan teaches history in a Milwaukee school, and they’ve already bought their first home in Hales Corners.

Finally, we’re all loaded into the car, with Dane and me in the back seat, and Helena, whose job is to hold the cake steady, in the far-back jump seat.

As Brad heads for the freeway, Dane and I glance at each other, hearts racing. After decades of country living, we’ve both developed a fear of expressway driving. What ever happened to the 55-mile-per-hour speed limit? Brad weaves expertly in and out of lanes, determined not to be late to his son’s wedding. A move to the fast lane... “The cake! Hey, the cake!” Helena squeals from the back of the car. Brad speeds up to change lanes again and I cover my eyes, thinking, Oh, no, we’re going to die before we get there. A monstrous truck roars past us. Helena laughs, “The poor cake! Mom, I can hardly hang on to the cake!”

But Brad is confident and has the driving under control. Jessica, who’s riding shotgun, keeps telling us to relax and Brad to hurry.

Then I remember a key point and shout it out: “God will protect us—it’s Ethan and Natalie's wedding day!” Natalie and Ethan are active members of the church they’re getting married in and Ethan plays weekly in the church band.

As we pull into the church parking lot, Jessica and Brad are relieved to be on time for their only son’s wedding. Dane and I are relieved to be alive. Helena hops out from the back with a grin, holding the cake up high and undamaged.

Ethan welcomes us at the door and proudly tells us the history of St. Marcus, his church, while giving us a tour.

The wedding is lovely and brings us all to tears numerous times, like when Ethan steps away from Natalie to play drums with the band, while Natalie stands with her parents, her face glowing as she sings.

When the minister says, “Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce for the first time Mr. and Mrs. Ethan and Natalie Christensen,” hoots, hollers, and claps of joy sweep the couple down the aisle.

Now Brad, Jessica, Dane, Helena, and I must rush over to the Brown Deer Boathouse to set up the brunch reception. Weaving through the inner-city traffic, we’re excitedly talking about the wedding and what needs to be done, when Jessica realizes we left the box with the white tablecloths at home.

No problem: the boathouse’s bare tables are new and white, and we get busy. Helena, Dane, and I fill clear vases with water, Jessica drops white pearls in the bottom of each vase, and we take turns adding floating candles that glow the minute they touch the water.

Soon the bride and groom and the rest of the family and friends arrive. A great time with lots of family laughs.

As we drive home, much slower, we’re relaxed and exhausted in the best way possible. After a short rest, we load up into the car again and head over to Ethan and Natalie’s new home, where there are boxes of pizzas for dinner and a chance to get to know Natalie’s family.

As the evening is winding down, Natalie, who is sitting on the floor, rocks backwards, lets out a whoop! and says, “I’m Mrs. Christensen now!” Yes, she is, and we all couldn’t be happier.

Love, Sweet Love

There are things we may find joy in knowing.

The difference between a toad and a frog, butterfly weed and bee balm, an indigo bunting and a blue jay; and that swan offspring are called cygnets and baby sandhill cranes are called colts.

We may benefit from understanding that we’ll make mistakes, forget people’s names, say or do things we regret; and that the worst part of our lives will be the unanticipated death of friends and family.

It’s likely we’ll walk thousands of painful miles before realizing that we’re all connected: your life and my life, all life. The lives of the crawfish, the lions, the elm trees, the oyster mushrooms. Your child and my child.

There are things we may want to do.

Enjoy the laugh of a northern flicker and the drumming of a ruffed grouse; admire a mackerel sky and call a cumulus cloud by its correct name; and rejoice in the birth of a baby.

We can answer the phone when it rings, respond promptly to emails, apologize when we’ve done something wrong, say please and thank you; and we can respect people who do not want company on days when their grief feels too heavy for them to get out of bed.

We can accept that some people do not act ethically. That some people can lie and cheat as easily as they comb their hair. That there are people who believe in worldwide conspiracy theories, like the ones who say the Holocaust didn’t happen, or the world is flat, or who deny global warming.

We can celebrate joyful, unexpected encounters with strangers, experience a lift in our steps from helping a painted turtle cross a busy road to lay her eggs, and enjoy the feeling of floating we get when we forgive someone whom we’d made our enemy, or the relief we experience when someone finally listens to what we’re saying.

But we shouldn’t have to identify our child from a facial photograph because their body is too broken, or receive their backpack that is burned, covered with ash, and splattered with their blood, or spend our sleepless night picking out an urn for them.

There are things we can agree on.

We can agree that elephants have long trunks, donkeys have long noses, and both have soulful brown eyes; that snakes and bats have useful purposes and neither will go out of their way to harm us, and yet some people will go out of their way to harm them. And some people harm others simply with their words or actions.

We could try to agree that we’ll all disagree on different issues at different times in our lives, that we will change our minds multiple times in our lifetime, and that both are not only okay but normal.

We can agree on the importance of acknowledging people with a nod, their name, a smile, or a wave.

We can agree that it hurts people when we don’t see them, don’t listen to them, or pretend they don’t even exist. We can stop thinking that being indifferent to others is cool.

We can all agree that parents should die well before their children do and that pets should live forever.

We can try to understand what others choose to do, without judgment, whether it’s eat organic, participate in social media (or not), wear cotton or polyester, dye their hair (or not), run or walk, love or hate the government, shop their local co-op or Walmart, attend church or spend hours in meditation.

Can we agree that people are people and come in all different sizes and colors and speak different languages, yet all have feelings and emotions? And that being kind is always going to trump being snarky or mean?

We could also agree that life isn’t always fair, that bad things happen to good people, and that telling others how they should feel or what they should do isn’t helpful.

Can we get a collective hallelujah on how lucky we are that our eyes opened this morning, that we have language to communicate with and roofs over our heads?

Can we agree that the most important thing in our lives, permeating everything, is love, sweet love, and try to spread more of it around?

Helena Mae Christensen

Eleven years ago, I started writing the weekly column “Jane’s World.” The name is a spoof of the corny movie called Wayne’s World. Over the years, I’ve written about tough subjects ranging from my dad’s untimely death at age 52 to my sister’s at age 66 from Alzheimer’s, Black Lives Matter, abortion, alcoholism, loving an aging parent, and suicide.

Recently I was asked to write my granddaughter’s obituary. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever written. Thankfully, not many grandparents will ever be asked to do this.

As you read this, please say my granddaughter’s name out loud and help keep her memory alive.

Helean Mae Christensen 8/14/2001 – 6/20/2024

In the early morning of the summer solstice, Helena Mae Christensen (22) left our world after a tragic car accident.

Since her earliest childhood, Helena was known to entertain her family with wild dance routines or crazy skits, often resulting in making herself laugh as loud as the others. She loved a fast-paced game of Spoons on New Year's Eve along with banging pots and pans at midnight.

Traditions were important to Helena, from having her dad lift her to hang the star on top of the Christmas tree to sparklers, parades, and fireworks on the Fourth of July. Family vacations were never dull and were always full of laughter.

Helena was an animal whisperer. Even Peens, the family cat that likes nobody, would wait for her to come home and follow her for cuddles. All the family cats wanted to be with Helena in her bedroom, where she gave them all love—the kind of love she craved for herself.

There were up and down and all-around days for Helena, as well as for her family and those who loved her. Headstrong, and reluctant to prioritize her own needs ("others first" was her motto), Helena struggled throughout her life with cystic fibrosis and mental health challenges.

Throughout the years, it was normal to find a cast of characters, often down on their luck, that Helena would bring home. If she could have saved the world, she would have. Her friends claim she was the life of a party and the glue that held them all together. Music had a special place in her heart and was a large part of Helena's life.

Mornings were never Helena's favorite. She'd rather wrap herself in one of her many fuzzy blankets and hold out for the evening—a true lover of the moon, the stars, campfires, s'mores, and adventures.

Helena found freedom in driving, loved sunsets, was a fan of her mother's cooking, was crazy about her shoes which she carefully displayed on top of the boxes they came in, and had her own way of saying things. Her term for the game Hide and Seek was "Be Aware!" which she'd yell mid-game, worried the family would scare each other.

Helena graduated from Whitnall High School in 2019. She was preceded in death by her beloved Gram, Mary Ann Schmidt, and her Auntie, Jill Schmidt. 

Helena will be deeply missed by her loving parents, Brad and Jessica; brother Ethan (Natalie); grandparents Dean Christensen (Ann), Kerri McWithey (Carl), and Jane Schmidt (Dane Thompson); Uncle Matt Christensen (Missy); family friend Suzie Bober; and a large extended family of Christensens and Youngs.

In death, Helena is still helping others. She was a believer in second chances, and while the family is devastated Helena won't get one, they hope other people will benefit from her being a donor.

At this time there are no funeral arrangements. Instead of flowers, the family requests donations to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation in Brookfield, Wisconsin.

Dear Helena,

May you keep dancing and keep the light on for us.

Love,

Grandma Riley (Jane)