Do You Hear Me?

Listen,

I’m trying to share something important.

Have you heard what I'm saying?

Listen,

You're looking at your phone

Yelling at the dog

Changing the channel.

Listen,

I had a story to share but never finished.

Someone interrupted,

Another person responded,

Someone else started talking,

And the conversation took another flight.

But I'm still here.

With my words pressing to come out.

Listen,

I'm not asking for advice.

I want to tell you something,

To speak

To be heard

To matter.

I'm not sharing my story for

A debate

A quick fix

A solution.

I want to be heard.

Listen,

Please stop and look at me.

You've become distracted by a

Movement

A color

A ping, chirp, buzz.

Or your own need to tell me your experience

Your story

But I need to finish mine.

Listen,

Listen,

Hear my words

See my facial expressions

Let my words sink in

And settle

Before responding.

Listen,

Together we'll understand,

Discover

Learn

Grow

Love.

Later,

I'll listen to you.

I promise.

Sherry’s Juneteenth

It was Sherry’s 64th birthday and this was our fifth year celebrating together.

As usual, she ate her Culver’s meal methodically: first, her single burger with only pickles; next, her fries, one by one; and lastly her soda, with a few long drags on her straw. I conversed for both of us. Sherry was silent, but I expected this. I knew she’d eat every bit of her meal, wrap the fries package in the hamburger wrapper, stick it inside her cup, and say “Done.”

Usually, Sherry would then stand, signaling the party was over. But that day, in 2021, she leaned forward and said, “It’s Juneteenth! President Biden made my birthday a holiday because slaves were set free.”

And indeed Biden had made June 19, which happened to be Sherry’s birthday, the first federal holiday declared since Martin Luther King Jr. Day was established in 1983. Juneteenth commemorates the day in 1865 when 250,000 enslaved people in Texas finally received word they were free.

“My grandfather was African American,” Sherry said, beaming, “and now my birthday is a holiday!” Her excitement at sharing this significant date with her Black grandfather was contagious.

Sherry’s Medicaid status and diagnosis of schizophrenia qualified her for the CCS (Comprehensive Consumer Services) program in which I was a provider. She and I met three times a week. It never felt like work.

It wasn’t unusual for Sherry to share world news with me. She sat alone in her apartment, day after day, and only left when she had a medical appointment or was with a worker. Yet she constantly amazed me. She was living independently in an apartment in the same building she and her mom had moved to when Sherry’s dad died. Soon after that move, her mom also passed, leaving Sherry to live alone for the first time in her life.

Sherry meticulously paid her bills on time, took her medicine religiously, made out her weekly shopping list, kept up with routine medical appointments, and scheduled rides to and from them. She stayed current on politics, watched late-night movies, and loved her soap operas.

Sherry’s mom had taught her to crochet, and she was always working on a project. When I’d brought a kitten home from the Humane Society, I told Sherry how sick he was. On my next visit, she gave me a lavender blanket she had lovingly made and said, “Here, it will make him feel better.”

My “wellness management” visits with Sherry included getting her out of the house, walking and exercising, taking her to pick up yarn, or her favorite: driving through her old neighborhood. On the five-mile round trip through the countryside, she’d point out houses and tell me about the people who used to live in them. Mary was blind; the husband in that house left his wife and married his secretary; so-and-so’s house had burned and been rebuilt; and little Johnny died of leukemia. She also told me about the many cats she’d lived with on the farm and the dog that was missing an ear.

When she wasn’t discussing her old neighbors, she was relating the plot of a book she’d read, with lots of spicy details. She loved romance stories. She said she’d never had a boyfriend and thought it had to do with not wearing dresses. When she wore a dress to school one day, her dad brought pants and made her change clothes.

Other than me, she saw her social worker maybe once a month, and had weekly visits from her shower lady, cleaning lady, a worker from Inclusa managed care, and the man who delivered her groceries.

When Sherry turned 59, she started requesting her annual birthday meal at Culver's. Everything was the same each year: the drive to Culver's, her order and the way she ate it, our conversation, and our drive back to her house.

But on the day Sherry rejoiced about Juneteenth after I’d dropped her off and driven the 45 minutes home, reflecting on our time together and our priceless relationship, her case manager called. He said I wasn’t to see Sherry anymore, due to a cost-saving move for the county because she also had a worker from Inclusa. He said I could call and tell her this news but could not see her and explain because once a worker is taken off a case, in-person visits aren’t allowed.

This year Sherry will turn 67. I think of her often. Her ability to stay engaged in life while managing a serious mental illness stays with me. Her joy in having her birthday fall on a national holiday, and her awareness of the importance of this date, continue to inspire me.

(“Sherry’s” name has been changed to protect her privacy.)

There’s Maude

Maude’s up, Maude’s up!

This is my second summer of being responsible for Maude, an ornate box turtle. My first year as a turtle keeper was stressful. Everything was okay before winter hibernation, but come spring, Maude and Harold were still nowhere to be found well into June.

Later it seemed apparent that Harold had snuck out of the turtle pen sometime before the cold came, but Maude had stuck around. I still miss Harold and watch for him, but honestly, Maude seems happier without him. For eight years in her previous home, Maude had to put up with Harold’s unwanted advances. Now, having Ms. Vole, Mr. Toady Toad, and me for company seems enough. Yesterday, I noticed Rupert, the youngest feline here, was snoozing in her pen. He never pesters Maude, only seems to like basking in the sun with her.

Although I was thrilled to discover Maude above ground this month, earlier than last year, she didn’t seem herself. She wanted nothing to do with Oscar Meyer wieners or bananas, both of which used to be her favorites. She’d just turn up her nose, push off on her front legs away from her food, and make a beeline for her favorite sunning spot. Time after time I tried having lunch with her, keeping her company, but she wanted no part of it.

I did some research and learned that after brumation (their winter sluggishness), box turtles will typically sunbathe to increase their core temperature and break down any by-products that built up in their muscles during their time underground.

Hibernation and brumation are similar but not the same. Brumation is a winter cool-down period that allows turtles to survive in cold weather and when food is scarce. During this time Maude's metabolism dials back to conserve energy, allowing her to go months without food or water.

For humans, winter is the perfect time to pack on pounds to help us stay warm and keep our energy levels up. Not so with Maude! She needs just the smallest amount of heat, so her heart rate and respiration also slow down and her body temperature drops to match her surroundings. While I was gaining body fat over the winter, Maude was using her body fat for energy.

But brumation doesn’t mean Maude was sleeping, the way a bear would during hibernation. She was still able to move around and she could still hear. So all my cheerful greetings of “Hey Maude, hope you’re doing okay, I’ll see you in spring” while out doing winter chores were likely heard.

It turns out Maude wasn’t herself when she first emerged because she was still warming up her body and exercising her muscles that had been dormant for months. I was relieved to learn this, because I was already imagining how the vet visit would go. I’d explain, “She just doesn’t seem herself. Maude usually gobbles up her food without taking time to breathe,” and so on, while the doctor looked at Maude and me with a what-do-you-expect-me-to-do expression on her face.

So, trusting my research, I left Maude alone for a few weeks to work out her winter kinks and hopefully be herself again.

Meanwhile, her pen had become a tangled mess of weeds and overgrown grasses. So in order to see Maude and visit her in her home habitat, we had to do some weed whacking and trimming. Now it’s more manageable but still has plenty of places for her to crawl under and seek shelter when she needs it.

Finally, Maude was wide awake, limber, and ready to eat. Yesterday, when I offered her lunch, she didn’t hesitate but snatched it all up.

Lunch with Maude is now the highlight of my day. I like to think it is for her too.

And, thanks to my research, after lunch Maude enjoys a daily walk. It’s a tough job keeping up with her. If I pause and look away she scuttles so quickly that it takes me a moment or two to find her. I let her set the pace and the direction.

Next time you're in my neighborhood and see me wandering aimlessly, like I’ve had a few beers, look down. I’m following Maude on her walkabout!

Goaty Goats

It was one of those days that make me think, Life doesn't get any more relaxing than this. I was photographing a black swallowtail, the ducks were playing in the kiddie pool, Louisa and Finnegan were lounging in the yard, and the sky was my favorite blue with white clouds shaped like Noah’s animals walking two by two.

My backyard is an extension of my home. a quiet refuge of green foliage, colorful pots of flowers, hummingbirds fluttering, and all the lovely critters meandering about or snoozing under the crab apple tree. But it’s not always peaceful—not since Hans and Vincent came to call it home.

Last year, they managed to knock four pots of flowers off the porch rail. Gorgeous pots with colorful blooms lay smashed on the ground below, the blossoms chewed off.

Just a couple days ago, Hans and Vincent had a picnic with my newly planted marigolds as the main course. The day before that, it was the begonias.

The newer long pen we built a few years ago has been a problem. The corner brace was on the inside of the pen, so Hans and Vincent were able to use it like a trampoline to bounce up and over the fencing. Once we fixed that issue, they started using the woven fence wire like a ladder by sticking their tiny feet in the squares to climb out. This surprised us because Peepers and Luna (may she rest in peace) would never think of doing such a thing. Bottle-fed kids aren't as rambunctious as Hans and Vincent.

Baah, baah, baahhhhh abruptly shattered the tranquility of this lazy day.

I realized one of the goats must be hurt, so I ran to their pen. Hans was lying on the ground outside the long pen with his back hoof caught on the top wire of the fence. He was flopping like a hooked fish, and my heart sank. His leg had to be broken.

I could see that the fence wire was embedded between the pads of Hans’s hoof, and I couldn’t get it out without wire cutters. He was already damp from shock and hyperventilating. I rushed to get my phone and call 911.

“An animal emergency,” I said, and hung on long enough to say I needed wire cutters and to give my address.

Hans’s eyes were closing. Stroking him over and over, I kept telling him it would be okay. But adrenaline or whatever would kick in and he’d thrash and flip again from one side to the other with his leg dangling down, held by the wire stuck in his hoof.

Again, I ran up toward the house to get phone reception and this time called my friend Mark. “Bring a wire cutter fast, an emergency!” I said, and back to Hans I went. I was sure he was dying. His eyes closed, his breathing became shallow, and I wondered if he would go easily, as if he were napping.

I heard Mark’s car before I saw him, and I shouted up to the road, “I’m down here!” A police car wasn’t far behind him. As soon as Mark saw the situation he cut one side of the wire. Hans immediately started thrashing again, and I was a wreck, trying to calm him while Mark maneuvered around to cut the other side.

Mark and the police officer then took turns carrying 48-pound Hans up the yard to my car, and off we went to Ridge to Rivers Animal Clinic.

The vet tech, Jade, has goats and was confident in dealing with Hans. Dr. Janna checked him over and declared his leg not broken. They gave Hans a shot of anti-inflammatory medicine and some anti-bacterial cream for his cut foot.

Back at home, Hans was eager to return to his pen. He went right into the Goat Palace and lay down—but not for long. When I brought over a slice of hay, he stood up and started eating before going back to rest.

My backyard is a home away from home, a quiet sanctuary for me and my critters. But some days aren’t as peaceful as others, at least not since Hans and Vincent, true goaty goats, came home to stay.

Worm By Worm

A deafening CRACK wakes me and I can’t move—something heavy is pushing me down and smothering me.

I rip off my terrycloth eye covering. Rain is pounding on the skylight above me.

Ruben’s body presses against my side. Téte is lying on my foot, trembling. Where’s Finnegan? I wonder.

The room lights up like a disco floor, and I can only count “One Mississippi, two—” between the flash and the bang.

It’s 3 a.m.

Dragging myself up over the heap of mammals, I sit on the edge of the bed as Finnegan pops out from under the covers.

Surrounded by clinging dogs, I make my way downstairs. Finn refuses to go outside to pee, so I grab my rain jacket to accompany him. Téte and Ruben want no part of the outdoors and stay in the mudroom, whining loudly over the rain.

The dogs stay close and press tightly against me like bookends, one on each leg, as I start the indoor morning chores, tending to the snails and birds.

At last I sit down with a cup of coffee, plug in my computer, and check the weather. Looks like we’re in for ongoing heavy storms with a break between 1:30 and 4 p.m. I’d best feed the critters now, and then wait until 1:30 to walk the dogs.

When 1:30 comes the sky is solid gray. Quickly, I snap leashes on the dogs and we start up the hill. They need their walk and so do I.

As the dogs tug me along, clumps of windblown leaves dot the road. The dogs pull toward one pile, then the next, thinking the piles, which weren’t here yesterday, are worth exploring. Some they mark.

Then I notice the wet road is full of struggling worms of all sizes. I can’t ignore their futile attempts to wiggle off the road. The distance between where they lie on the pavement and the safety of the grass at the edge of the road is the length of a football field to these cold-blooded beauties.

The skinny ones are the hardest to pick up. If I tickle them with my index finger they curl, giving me a way to gently grip their slippery bodies and carry them to the grass.

Curious about what I’m doing, the three dogs pounce around me. I tug their leashes and yell, “Back! Stay back!”

Worms can replace their damaged parts, so if they’re wiggling even a tiny bit and only part of them is smashed, I transport them to safety. I leave the dead ones on the road.

Worm by worm, the dogs and I walk, stoop, move up the hill. I worry we’ll never make it home before the skies unload their fury again.

The fable comes to mind about a child on the beach after a storm, tossing starfish back into the ocean. An adult says, “There are so many—you can’t possibly save them all. It doesn’t matter.” The child picks up another starfish, tosses it into the water, and says, “It matters to that one.”

We haven’t seen any cars yet as we reach the crest of the hill where Hwy SS intersects with Elk Run Road. Soon neighbors will be driving home from work and unknowingly crush these precious creatures that feed on plant debris, increase the nutrient value of our soil, and help provide a more stable soil structure.

Standing on Highway SS, I stretch and unkink my back.

The trip downhill is faster, as worms with any wiggle have been extracted already. I see a few I've missed, and I attempt to ignore them but can’t. This walk has become something more than just a walk, something complicated.

Then, with one big bang, our luck has run out. Instantly the rain slashes down and soon I am soaked to my bones.

As we half jog, half stumble down the hill, the rain is already gushing over spots in the road, carrying along the dead worms, leaves, small twig debris and, I hope, carrying to safety any live worms I hadn't gotten to yet.

After toweling off the dogs, peeling my wet clothes off, and putting the mess into a laundry basket, I’m glad there’s nowhere we needed to go today, nothing we had to do.

Our luck eventually ran out, but today was a lucky day for some neighborhood worms.

Options For Everyone

Jane and her daughter, Jessica.

There was a time when I knew the exhausting pains of hunger. Worse, I feared for my young daughter, Jessica. I was scared and embarrassed about not being able to afford nutritious food for her. At her first-grade conference, the teacher remarked that Jessica was a very good eater. I nearly stopped breathing, worried that they knew there was never enough to eat at home and they might take her away from me.

An old Town & Country food store was located not far from our house. We’d walk there, often with only a pocket of change, and get a box of macaroni and cheese. Not adding milk or butter made it more affordable. On a good day, I’d buy hot dogs, cut them up, and mix them in; on a perfect day, a package of tuna.

Thankfully, I’m in a better situation now. I have more choices. I’ve become accustomed to shopping at the Viroqua Food Co-op, Quillin’s, and Walmart. But with the price of food going up and Quillin’s closing down, I’m happy that Viroqua will soon have another option.

Aldi is a discount grocery chain founded in Germany with the mission of delivering high-quality food at low prices. The company also owns the American grocery chain Trader Joe’s. I’d never shopped at Aldi when I first heard all the hype about them coming to our area, but several friends praised it for its good prices and top-notch brand names.

They also mentioned Aldi’s cart system. Shoppers pay a quarter to use a shopping cart, and when they return the cart they get their quarter back. If you can catch someone unloading their groceries into their car, you can give them the quarter and take the cart, saving them the trip back into the store. Sweet, I thought.

Curious to learn more, Dane and I made a trip to the Aldi in Onalaska. Just as we pulled into the parking lot it started raining. I hopped out, spied a person shoving their groceries into their back seat, and practically skipped over, holding my quarter out to them.

“Thank you,” they said, handing me the cart, and jumped into their car so as not to get any wetter. Dane nodded his head in appreciation. “What fun!” I said.

Inside the store, we went up one row and down the next. I was out in front, putting pet food staples into my cart, while Dane lagged, comparing prices on things he uses regularly. When he caught up to me I asked him what he thought. “Some great deals, especially on salmon,” he said. It’s our favorite fish, but not something either of us can afford regularly.

After our positive experience there, I was triggered by a post about Aldi on the Viroqua Area Folks Facebook page. The post warned readers to keep in mind, when choosing where to spend their money, that Aldi is a multibillion-dollar corporation that doesn’t support local farmers.

The comment made me think of my friend Pat, who hated Walmart and was vocal about it. I shopped there often, grateful that after payday, I could come home with bags full of groceries. I was afraid to confess this to Pat, but one day I did. She understood. She said, “Jane, go ahead and get your groceries there, and one day you may be able to make a different choice.”

I haven't been able to forget my experience with hunger. I doubt anyone who has experienced it can. And sadly, people in our area today know what hunger feels like. More than 16 percent of Vernon County residents live at the poverty level. So being able to choose where to shop is a privilege not everyone has. Some people like to say, “I’ll never eat anything but organic.” But if they were truly hungry, certainly they would.

To be a community in the true sense, we must see our neighbors and appreciate their situation. I believe in shopping locally and supporting farmers. But it’s also important to understand, without judgment, that for many, it’s not about “voting with their dollars.” It's about survival.

I say let's be thankful for being given another option. Let’s also celebrate the fact that we have a wonderful Saturday farmers market where many vendors accept EBT and WIC vouchers.

Watch for me in the parking lot when the new Aldi opens, and I’ll trade you my cart for a quarter. 

Rescue

When I come to, my face is planted into the dashboard and blood is dripping from my head. I watch droplets of it dribble down my pants leg and gather in a puddle between my legs.

My right arm is dangling, bent in more places than just the elbow and shoulder. The pain is paralyzing. The combination of the radio blaring and screaming from the back of the car startles me.

Lifting my head, I see Emily slumped over the wheel, and fragments start to piece together like a good mystery. We were heading to camp: Emily, Frank, and I. Frank must be the one screaming in the back seat of the car. I wish he’d stop.

Rescuers are trying to get to us, but the doors are locked, and the driver's side of the car is tightly pressed against the tree we must have hit.

“Are you okay? Can you open the door?” So loud—the yelling, the radio, Frank’s screams for help, and now Emily is spitting mad, cursing up a storm.

Then silence at least for a moment. Someone has reached in the window, turned off the car, clicked open the door, and taken Emily out. I hear people talking to Frank, and now someone is talking to me.

****

We are participating in an intense three-day Wilderness Medicine Associates recertification course for Wilderness First Responders. The setting at YMCA Camp Pepin is ideal, and the camp directors, Erik and Emily, are knowledgeable and kind.

I’m thrilled to be staying in a cabin named Faith. After a full day of learning, with harrowing simulations—of car wrecks, people falling from the high ropes course, a roofing incident where a screwdriver gets lodged into the roofer's upper thigh and their coworker is unconscious with what appears to be a broken neck—the solitude of the cabin is welcoming.

But it’s not all blood and trauma. Upon waking in the morning, the first thing I see is Lake Pepin, a wide spot in the Mississippi River. To my surprise, agates dot the beach, along with many clear quartz rocks which I hand-pick while an eagle in a nearby treetop watches my every move. I assure it that I’m not taking any of the fish it’s counting on for dinner!

Last night, after spotting small morel mushrooms in the field by the lake, we marked them with plastic cones so they could grow without being trampled, but there were too many to mark them all. This morning we’re all walking gingerly across the grass, eyes cast down. No one wants to crush a priceless morel.

It’s time for breakfast. We’ve discovered that learning brings on a huge appetite and hopefully burns extra calories. Erik’s meals are well thought out and delicious, and even include homemade ice cream.

****

Four people are scattered in the field. We grab our packs full of first aid supplies, along with our pocket notepads to keep track of important information, and off we go.

We assess each of the “victims” for three minutes. Each has been assigned a malady, as we were earlier in our car crash scenario, and our job is to figure out what could be wrong: a kidney stone, dehydration, an allergic reaction, thrush foot, hypochondriasis (such as in homesick kids at camp), diabetic coma, or giardia from unfiltered water. The list is long and varied.

Wilderness First Responders are trained to respond to emergencies in remote locations. The training involves sizing up the scene (level of safety, number of people needing help, mechanism of injury); making a primary assessment of the circulatory, respiratory and nervous systems; and doing a secondary assessment that includes a physical exam, SAMPLE history (symptoms, allergies, medications, pertinent history, last ins and outs, events), and vital signs.

****

Driving home, exhausted yet excited, I notice I’m more aware, more cautious. I’m driving slower, paying attention to the other drivers, keeping my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel.

When I get home, I’m thinking about the next hike with friends, the next backpacking trip, the next vacation, and going over scenarios and rescues. But I also know that even though we were trained for remote locations, all the accidents and illnesses we prepared for could just as easily happen at home.

I vow to be more careful. I vow to do the best I can in any rescue situation.

Dullsville

I’m standing in front of the self-checkout, merrily inserting various coins into the machine. By the look on my face, you’d think I was in Reno playing a slot machine. I couldn’t be happier, and in support of my joy, Dane digs deep into his pocket, pulls out a handful of silver and copper coins, and offers them to me, saying, “Here, knock yourself out.”

I feel like I’m at a party! I’m loads lighter from carrying less coinage, the remaining grocery bill is tiny after all the change, and I’m thrilled to hear that rumble, clink, clink, clink… Oh no, it won’t take one of my quarters. I reinsert it over and over until finally, the watchful self-checkout attendant notices and comes over.

She instructs me to give the machine time to settle down before inserting it again. She kindly refrains from saying “before inserting it for the hundredth time.” But I’m so determined to get all my coins to disappear while lowering my total grocery bill that I hardly listen.

Ding, ding, ding, all the coins have been swallowed up, and what had been a bill for over a hundred dollars of groceries for me plus tick stuff for the critters is less than five bucks! I excitedly tell Dane how little I’ve paid while pointing to my many bags.

He tries to tell me I actually paid for all of it, but I don’t listen to him either. Coins are free. They’re everywhere—in my car, in my coin purse, in a jar at home. They barely count as real money, I tell him; they're extra.

As we drive away, the joy stays with me. I ignore Dane’s gloom-and-doom lecture about no money being free.

Next, since we’re heading that way, he starts going off about the Kwik Trip cappuccino machine that he feels is out to get him. He claims one pump is not enough caramel but two pumps are too many. Dane’s life will be complete when the sweetness of his caramel mocha perfectly matches his taste buds. I listen and nod.

Then Dane tells me with a grin that he can’t wait to get back to his house. When I ask why, he says he left an overflowing container of recyclables out for collection and by the time he gets home, it’ll be empty.

Wow, I exclaim, that is exciting. I have to drive my recyclables to the dump on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I’m impressed and happy for Dane that he gets driveway service.

But then I think of the free table at our dump. On our last two visits, Dane brought home water bottles that had been left there. One leaked, but the other was a fantastic find. Not long ago, I came back to the car dragging a heavy but perfect-condition, ginormous cot-type lounge chair. Dane’s jaw dropped at the lucky score. It’s already been used for an afternoon nap on the back deck.

It dawns on me that we may qualify as dullards. There’s a fascinating group on social media called “Dull Women’s Club”—there’s also one for dull men—where people from all over the world confess to leading dull lives. (For some reason, when you introduce yourself, it’s important to state your shoe size and mention a banana.)

On our last stop today, Dane and I celebrate when we come out of Kwik Trip with a full crate of bananas that are starting to turn black, for which we paid only $4.90. When it comes nighttime and we're listing our three good things for the day, this crate of bananas tops the list.

On my list tonight I also mention getting rid of the coins that had been collecting. On Dane’s list is his recyclables getting picked up.

Not too many years ago, it seemed we weren't quite so dull, but we fall asleep tonight feeling anything but. After all, the little things that make us happy are the ones that count.

Waddle

RNIPSG

You may have played Wordle, the popular online word game that gives you 6 chances to guess a 5-letter word. When its creator, Josh Wardle, opened it to the public, the number of users jumped quickly from 90 to over 300,000. In 2021, the New York Times bought Wordle from Wardle, and now it’s played by tens of millions of people. They love the daily challenge, and it’s great brain food.

My gals at home don’t claim to know how to count, but they can spell. Springtime this year has brought out the creativity in our flock of ducks and geese.

The gals were laying their nutrient-dense eggs faster than I could eat, sell, or gift them. This springtime abundance has also enticed Willa the coyote to come and snatch some free meals. It had been a few years since she or one of her cohorts visited and wreaked havoc among the flock.

After the last dump of snow, I noticed what I thought were dog tracks near the creek by the Duck Hall. Stumped, I couldn’t figure out how my dogs had gotten out of their fenced yard. As I followed the tracks, I realized they didn’t belong to any of my dogs, who were curiously watching me from behind the fence.

The last time Willa visited and we saw her, I ran out of the house in time to stop her from snatching a poultry dinner. But now that she’s back, the flock has been grounded; they must stay inside the yard. Not fun, when they can see their beloved creek only 10 feet away.

DURNGDOE

During a recent April shower, Eleanor, the eldest goose, was holding court near the picnic table. Bess, Roz, Grace, and Beatrice listened with their long necks cocked while a few ducks lay nearby eavesdropping.

I observed them from the deck, wondering what they were up to. It was always something, I thought, like the time they discovered the slow drip from the hose and turned it into a ginormous mudhole within the minutes it took me to notice.

The following day, the sun was out and Eleanor was once again up to some type of mischief. I kept one eye open, watching the huddle down below. The back pasture was full of the huge green leaves of skunk cabbage, and the woods were dotted with spring beauties, but my mind was ruminating on three things at once: the daily Wordle, Willa the coyote, and Eleanor’s insistent squawking.

Suddenly, the flock erupted into a cacophony of loud honks and hisses. Startled, I hopped up and started down the deck, assuming Willa was nearby. But I slowed when I realized the donkeys weren’t braying nor the dogs barking.

LSOSMBOS

And that’s when Waddle was born.

Waddle!

We’d create a game by writing letters on the eggs, either duck or goose. Our egg customers would not only benefit from the protein, but instead of playing Wordle on their computers they could have their breakfast on their back decks while unscrambling the word. With 12 duck eggs in a carton and 6 goose eggs wrapped up in a bag, there was no need to stay with 5 letters. Besides, everyone knows that fowl can’t count.

PRLAI EHWRSO

These days, garter snakes are slumbering on the trails, soaking up the sun; the spring peepers are singing soprano while the bullfrogs add their bass voices; and the turtles are looking for a place to lay their eggs. Mama Crane is hunkered down in her nest and the local eagles are settled in theirs.

Soon Willa will have moved on, the flock will be back splashing and sunning in the creek, and the trillium blossoms will be gracing the countryside.

And with any luck, at least 30 wellness-aware, community-and-puzzle-loving people will be enjoying their goose egg omelets while playing Waddle.

TVATIECYRI

If You Really Knew Us…

Granddaughter, Helena, picked out Zarite (Tete) from a tank full of puppies at the Organic Valley Fair 2013

If you really knew me, you’d know that 90 percent of the follow-up emails I send say, "Whoops, here's that attachment I forgot to attach!"

You’d also know that I'm incapable of straightening out a room. If I am even inclined to do so, I empty drawers, bookshelves, or cupboards first and then go in for the deep dive. This tendency makes for a late departure whenever Dane and I have a getaway planned.

I don't like chickens. I had two chicks once and they bloodied each other with their pecking. I switched to ducks and geese and have never looked back.

Never, ever, ever will I pour a cup of hot water from my electric pot unless it has just turned off. If I get to the pot five seconds after I hear the click and see the red light go off, I turn it back on, wait for it to boil again, grab it immediately, and pour. There’s no appeal to water poured too late.

You won't catch me choosing a female dog or cat. Yes, Téte is a girl, but I didn't pick her out, my granddaughter did. Helena’s desire trumps any animal gender issues I have. On the other hand, no male ducks or geese—an all-gal flock here and proud of it.

Jane with a basket full of female ducklings and her dog, Ruben.

I can’t remember a night that I’ve gone to bed without something on my lips. Ages ago, it was a touch of Vaseline; nowadays it's avocado lip butter. 

For no apparent reason, I developed a nightly obsession with popcorn during the holiday season of 2022. It could be about my dad, who used to make me popcorn and put it in a huge yellow Pyrex bowl.

Sleeping in a tent is generally easier for me than sleeping in a bed. I enjoy sleeping outdoors, so when I’m indoors I often crack open the skylight in any weather. Vacations or any getaways are often rated by what we sleep on. If a bed, Lord, please don't let it be a mattress we sink into. I can say we because Dane and I share this sleeping preference.

If you really knew Dane, you’d surmise that my Mad Hatter cleaning habits drive him batty. Especially when the car is packed, we’re ready to roll, and he discovers me wiping out the refrigerator, with all its contents scattered on the counter.

Yesterday morning when I was running late for a class, I asked Dane if he'd make me a cup of coffee when he made his. He agreed, and when I quickly started to add, "Only hot water after the...” he shouted back, "I know."

Dane is also, of course, a chicken lover.

Dane's cats are boys, but he’s had girl cats before, and he doesn't have a dog. He also doesn’t have a granddaughter who has ever said, “That one, Grandma.”

You'll never see Dane set the volume on his car radio, or any radio, to an odd number. On the other hand, I consider my need to shut off the microwave only on a number ending in zero to be completely reasonable.

Nor does he go to bed with anything on his lips other than the whisper of thankfulness for the day and hopes of sweet dreams. He is completely wacko about moisturizer too. None has ever touched his handsome face. Only recently, after I’d watched him tape his dry, cracked, and bleeding winter fingertips, did he consent to a dab of Hempz Original cream each night. Only Hempz Original, nothing else.

Unlike me, Dane has decent appetite control. If he indulges in popcorn it’s more on the scale of twice a year, not daily. (I'll refrain from commenting on his love of donuts, which I think he hid from me the first years we dated.)

If you really knew me, you'd know that one of my superpowers is to stain my shirt, jacket, or pants within moments of putting them on. I'm either dropping an olive oil–coated roasted Brussels sprout on my shirt, breaking a duck egg I'd forgotten I'd put in my jacket pocket only minutes earlier, or wiping my filthy hands on the seat of my pants. If I’m in public and someone points out my stained clothing, I act surprised: "Oh, gosh, thanks!"

Never, ever, ever would Dane be caught dead with a stain on his clothes. He is meticulous and stain-free. Once we were driving down the road and he braked so fast I thought I had whiplash. Before I could even open my eyes, he’d hopped out the driver's door, opened the back door, and grabbed a pair of cargo shorts identical to the ones he was wearing. As I watched, now wide-eyed, he peeled off the pants he was wearing, faster than my pig Louisa could inhale a banana, slipped on the new ones, hopped back in, and resumed driving.

When I asked him what the hell had just happened, he nonchalantly said, "Had a stain." To which I quipped, "Good thing this wasn't a first date."

Lastly—and indeed I saved this for last because I could barely bring myself to type this—I’ve never used the initialism LOL in a column, an email, a conversation, or any social media post. It was hard for me even to type it here, but because I prefaced it with the word initialism, I feel better about it.

If you really knew us and we really knew you, you’d know that we all have odd behaviors. Yet here we all are, in this crazy, mixed-up, wonderful world, limping along together. Laughing out loud!

Dane with his boy, Spike.

I See You

Greg around 6 years after watching Romper Room

Romper, bomper, stomper, boo.

Tell me, tell me, tell me, do.

Magic Mirror, tell me today,

did all my friends have fun at play?

Chances are high that if you were a preschooler between 1963 and 1974, you remember watching Romper Room. If so, did you sit in front of the TV set at the end of the show, waiting for the cheery teacher, Miss Nancy, to see you and call your name as she looked through her Magic Mirror?

Greg did.

When I lead my Zoom fitness classes each morning, the little boxes on my computer monitor remind me of the game show Hollywood Squares. Unlike Hollywood Squares, though, most of the boxes at the top of my screen are dark, with only a name and no face or body. Most people leave their cameras off. I suspect they may want to keep their PJs on.

But on a recent day, there was Greg! Dressed for exercise, he appeared eager and was soon following along fabulously, working hard. Delighted, I called out, “I see you, Greg!”

Later that morning I received this email from him:

“You've said a couple of times that you can see me during class. That gave me a flashback to about sixty years ago when I was a little kid and I'd watch a children's program called Romper Room. They would sing songs, read stories, etc. At the show's closing, the host would hold up her Magic Mirror (basically an empty mirror frame), look through it at the camera, and call out the names of the children she ‘saw’ (“I see Jimmy, and there's Mary…”). Every time, I'd get right up in front of the TV, hoping she'd see me, but she never did. So you saying you could see me made my inner child very happy.”

It wasn’t even noon yet and I was delighted for the second time in one day. What a heartfelt memory Greg had shared.

Imagine four-year-old Greg, sitting in his spacious 1960s living room in front of the bulky black-and-white TV set, eagerly waiting as Miss Nancy brings out her Magic Mirror. I can picture the young boy, his face a few feet from the TV set, waving and wiggling with anticipation, hoping that today she’ll see him and say his name. And when, again, she doesn’t, imagine his disappointment.

How crushing to be overlooked again and again. How careless of an adult to set up this disappointment. Who would do that to someone?

We all do. I have. And I’ve had it done to me.

Miss Davenport, my second-grade teacher, had that effect on me. She never looked at me, said my name, or called on me the whole year. I still think of her as my worst teacher ever, especially when the Scholastic book catalogs came. Those colorful pamphlets displayed all kinds of children’s books that we could order, if our parents let us. I lived through the torture of trying to sit still, hoping that this time Miss Davenport would call on me to hand them out, like handing out candy to my friends. But she never did.

When I mentioned Greg’s Romper Room experience to others, I discovered that my friends Jamee and Phyllis were never “seen” by Miss Nancy either. As I dug deeper, it became apparent that Miss Nancy, or other important figures, left many children feeling like they didn’t matter, that they were invisible. Some even cried. Dane says he’s glad he didn’t have a TV until he was well past Romper Room age—he knows he never would have heard his name spoken.

Miss Nancy, or her producers and writers, had to have known that there were millions of kids waiting for her to see them and say their names. How easy it would have been to hold up her mirror, lean into the camera, and say, “I see you. I hope you have a wonderful day full of play.” A more generic yet sincere greeting wouldn’t have left some kids out.

All of this reminds me of the time Dane and I took kayak lessons at a popular place in Madison. Dane was new to the sport, and although I’d been kayaking in Milwaukee for years in my yellow Swifty kayak with my yellow Lab, Riley, I'd had no official training, so we were both excited to take the workshop. Dane had already purchased his boat at Canoecopia, a large paddle sports event in Madison, and I had upgraded from my Swifty to a spiffy orange Dagger. Neither boat was costly, but they worked great. Sadly, it turned out to be a nightmare. There was only one other couple plus the instructor. The instructor took to the other couple with their fancy sea kayaks and all but ignored us. It was a horrible experience, especially for Dane, since it was his first lesson.

Children might believe in magic mirrors, but we know better. Being seen is the real magic to make someone feel good about themselves. Let's make an effort to start seeing and appreciating each other better. You just might bring some long-overdue joy to someone's inner child.

Greg sixty + years later after watching Romper Room

Musings on Life & Death

Everyone is dying.

I’m dying.

You’re dying.

We all die.

When and how we will die is a mystery, but we know we will.

Cancer, car accident, lightning strike, falling off a cliff, old age...

I’ve read that it’s good to think about dying.

Not every minute, every day. That would be too much.

But sometimes.

It helps us to live better, according to scientists and psychologists, not to mention most spiritual traditions.

Psychology refers to the concept of mortality salience, meaning the awareness that we will die, which can raise our sense of self-worth, encourage us to be less money oriented, and might even make us funnier.

There are new social movements such as Death Cafes, where people get together and talk openly about dying, based on this research.

Sounds like a hoot!

But it seems to make sense.

If we talk about dying, inevitably we’ll talk about life.

I’m big on living while we can, making the most of each day.

Living fully while we can might mean that we’d appreciate our eyes more, opening each morning.

Or feel joyful about witnessing a magnificent mackerel sky at sunset.

Perhaps it means a long, lazy Saturday nap in the sunshine on the back porch.

Or an equally long, slow walk with a friend you haven't seen in a while.

It’s a stretch for me to see how thinking about death will raise my sense of self-worth.

In fact, it seems to increase my neuroses.

I have a bad habit of fearing my loved ones have died when they haven't.

Maybe they have a cold, didn’t pick up their phone, or weren't at a local event where I thought I’d see them.

Dane tells me to stop killing him off before he dies.

We both find this funny, but not everyone does.

Not when I’m begging someone to come home from vacation because I don’t want them to die while they’re gone.

As for being less money oriented, how much less do they mean?

Money comes. Money goes.

We make money. We pay bills. If we’re smart we save money.

But I’ve never been that smart.

I grew up hearing we should save for a rainy day.

Yet rainy days for me are days where I try talking Dane into getting matching tattoos…because it’s raining, honey, and what else can we do?

As for being funnier, my friend Paige, on a Ride Across Wisconsin bike trip, once told me, “You’re not funny. I am.”

And she had a point.

She is funny. I wonder if she ever thinks about dying?

So I’m not yet clear on how thinking about dying will help me, but I do it.

I’ve been trying for years to get Dane to sit with me and fill out “My Final Wishes,” a booklet from the Threshold Care Circle.

It makes sense.

Recently, we received two copies as an engagement gift from a smart friend who is kind and whose husband died unexpectedly.

She knows.

It also makes sense to clean out your attics, basements, and storage sheds asap.

Get rid of the crap or you’ll be leaving that horrendous job for the people you love best.

Maybe I’m thinking more about death these days because so many friends have died, or their parents have, or their spouses, or their brother or sister.

Wake up calls come daily.

Someone suddenly gets ill and their life spirals downward, when the day before, they were harvesting their garden.

Nope, we don’t know…

Death isn’t choosy.

Young and old people die.

Healthy and fit people do too.

People who sit and read all day die, as well as people who run marathons.

It may be healthy to think about dying, but I suspect it’s equally important to focus on living.

And ultimately, isn't this the point? By contemplating our death, to become more aware of how precious this life is.

To be grateful when our eyes open.

To give thanks for that mackerel sky.

And to fully grasp that life may be short, but thankfully, it’s also wide.

Birth of a Business

Exercising outdoors during the pandemic

The conception of Fitness Choices happened after a hallway conversation at Vernon Memorial Hospital, where I was working as a fitness instructor at the Heart Center. I was spitting mad, and Janet, who worked in the marketing department, was listening. I’d given the job everything I had: I’d helped install a better tracking system, overseen the development of their racquetball court and its use, implemented and led new fitness classes, helped get and promote much-needed equipment, and reworked new members' orientation process to include three initial training sessions. My rant was about my recent performance review in which I’d excelled, only to get a lousy nickel raise. I was furious and also broke.

As I drove home, still fuming, I decided to start my own business. I would offer exercise classes at schools, churches, and community centers. My goal would be to make the benefits of participating in a regular exercise class accessible to more people.

The actual birth of Fitness Choices was more challenging. Living off the grid meant no telephone or computer, so I rented a post office box in Westby and advertised in the Broadcaster. There wasn’t any other way to communicate, short of driving my beater car around and shouting out the window. I placed the ads and waited.

Eventually, my friend Pat Martin and I fixed up a room above the Embroidery & More shop in Westby. We dragged over a desk her husband, Roger, made for me out of an old door, along with a ton of fitness books and a horde of fitness paraphernalia I’d been storing in a rental locker. Once I got a phone installed I was able to add the number to the business card–sized ads in the paper. Then we hooked up an answering machine to capture messages from anyone interested.

The first classes were held in the dance studio in that same building. The stairs leading up to it were not only steep but in poor shape. My biggest worry was that someone would fall before they even made it to the class.

Finally, during the teen years of Fitness Choices, word of mouth helped and I held classes in a dozen places: the libraries at the Kickapoo and Viroqua high schools, on the stage at the La Farge school and also at the town’s community center, in the hallway of Brookwood High School in Ontario and later in their old community center, in a church basement in Genoa, in the backroom of the Gay Mills Co-op and later in their large new community building, in Organic Valley’s cafeteria, at the Viroqua Athletic Club, in the “vanilla church” in Westby, in the Viola Village Hall, and at the Church of Christ in Viroqua.

For years I also taught water aerobics at Super 8 and in the pool at Kickapoo High School. Both of those classes were my favorites since I was still living off the grid. Taking a shower after teaching was a bonus! But driving around several counties in all kinds of weather, in undependable cars, dragging my equipment from place to place, was stressful.

When COVID came I thought it would be the end of Fitness Choices, but soon I was leading classes at the outdoor pavilion at the VFW Post. Being outside was great until we had to start wearing hats and mittens. Besides, by then we were being told to stay at home.

Once again, I found myself fretting and fuming and talking to Janet, this time from my home (no longer off-grid), not hiding in a hallway. I was bellyaching to her about clients wanting me to teach online. I’d never heard of such a thing and I wasn’t too keen on it. Janet loved the idea and, as usual, encouraged me to try.

I went through some growing pains learning how to use Zoom. My screeching birds, Benny and Joon, were a noisy distraction; the dogs took up what little space I had to teach in; and the cats were ever present, either climbing on my back, chasing each other on the stairs, fighting, or even, one time, coughing up a hairball.

Today, it’s been 22 years. Fitness Choices has come of age, and we reach more people than ever. Janet attends classes with her husband, Mark, whether they’re in their rural La Farge home or vacationing in Mexico. My neighbor Pat, who had stopped coming because of the time it took to drive back and forth to Viroqua, now attends year-round, even when she’s wintering in Arizona. Her friend Linda, who lives in New Berlin, joins in. One longtime participant, who'll be spending two months in Spain, reported that she’ll be Zooming in!

After class, some of us go to work, others get together for a walk, and some go for coffee with a friend or participate in local events. We understand and value the importance of socializing, and we often chat before or after class, but we take our morning exercise seriously, no differently than brushing our teeth or eating breakfast.

Lillie, whom I met while leading classes at the Heart Center, now joins us from her Oklahoma home. She moved there to be closer to her family as she ages. At age 98, Lillie still participates in classes twice weekly and has become a role model for all of us.

The goal of reaching more people came about unexpectedly. And maybe the lesson was going with the flow, or not giving up, or maybe it was listening to Janet. But whatever the case, Fitness Choices: For the Health of It looks forward to another 22 years!

Water aerobics at Kickapoo High School

People Are Asking

There haven’t been any Dane and Jane eruptions of volcanic size or that register on the Richter scale. I’m not certain why this seems to disappoint some people.

I shared my puzzlement with Dane, and we discussed it. We’re not certain, but the hitch seems to be in the fact that we've been living together for almost six months and haven't melted down, thrown a vase, or killed each other.

“How’s it going with Dane and you living together?”

“Good! We’ve always wanted to be able to take care of each other if something ever happened, and something did happen. We'd been discussing this very thing only days before Dane’s heart attacks.”

“But how’s it really going?”

“Good! Dane is committed to getting better so he can work again in May, and I’m helping him.”

“Yes, but I know you like being alone, and you always say that Dane enjoys his solitude too.”

“Yep. I go to my office to work, write, and often meet friends for a long hike. I regularly take Dane to his house for a day or two to visit his cats, and he often goes into the spare bedroom to read a book.”

“But how’s it really going?”

Before this period of cohabitation, we’d often explained to friends that we have two separate homes because we met as adults and each of us already had a home. To us, this is straightforward. To others, it seems to indicate we can’t live together.

But why wouldn’t we be able to live together? Perhaps because I never seem to remember basic things, such as where the scissors drawer is after using the scissors to open a bag of dog food, and Dane would never be able to live with my forgetfulness.

Or maybe because I go crazy when Dane is silently (except for his chewing) standing behind me while I’m writing. So I’m committed to two houses and never anything less.

But the honest-to-Pete truth is that we do well together. I feel kind of odd, like we’re letting people down, but Dane doesn’t. Dane thinks it’s funny—which makes me see the humor also.

Recently, I started making up different answers to the big question of how Dane and I are managing while living together during his recovery.

I could say, “Yesterday, I ate my dinner sitting on the toilet with the door closed. It’s the only room in the house with a door, and I need my alone time.”

Dane could try this approach: “My brother takes me grocery shopping. I load up on all sorts of crap Jane won’t let me eat. When Jane is working or in the shower, I sneak down to the basement to eat the forbidden treats.”

By far the most difficult day for both of us in these past months was the day Dane had to go back to Gundersen to get stents put in. It turned into horrendous hours of waiting, making both of us anxious and crabby. We were exhausted, but we thought Dane would miraculously feel 100 percent better the following day. When he didn’t, that was the last straw—we both crashed.

But we didn’t yell or scream at each other. I walked up the hill to blow off steam and ranted to a girlfriend on the phone, and Dane recovered by dozing off and on.

It’s been over four weeks since Dane had an internal defibrillator put in, and he can now safely lift his left arm over his head. Without fail, he goes for a walk every day, watches his diet, and takes his medications meticulously.

April 23 is the day he’s waiting for. I’ll drive him to the DMV office, where he’ll get his driver's license reinstated and be the happiest man on earth! Not because he can’t stand living with me one day longer, or I with him, but because he’ll have his independence back. The ability to come and go as he pleases. And, most importantly, he’ll be able to work again when his seasonal job starts in May.

So, to answer the big question, we’re good! More than good. We’ve learned that we can live together under one roof, for better or worse. But now it’s going to take time for both of us to get used to not living together!

What Mom Said

“Janie, sit up straight.”

“Cross your legs.”

“Eat your vegetables!”

Parental tapes run through my head whenever I say, think, or do something Mom would have said, thought, or done. Maybe this happens to you, too.

With distance (and age!) we begin to understand how we may have driven our parents bonkers and how they drove us mad. At last, we can decide which bits of parental advice we’ll hang on to, and which ones we’ll shout “Good riddance!” to.

Because I was born with misaligned feet (turned in toward each other as if they were praying), I wore Forrest Gump–like metal braces even before I could walk, followed by years of corrective saddle shoes. I’m not sure if this was part of the reason for the posture concern or if Dad's being in the military was. Nonetheless, there was always a strong emphasis on sitting up straight and crossing my legs. “Be a lady,” Mom would hiss.

As for eating vegetables—the horrors! To say I was a picky eater is like saying McDonald's has a hamburger on its menu. To be clear, it wasn’t only vegetables I despised. The list was lengthy, starting with white milk, any type of cheese other than the highly processed orange kind individually wrapped in plastic, and, Lord help me, bread crusts.

Did our parents fear we wouldn’t be strong enough to climb the rope in gym class, our brains wouldn’t have enough fuel to concentrate in school, or that one morning we’d wake up and be nothing but skin and bones if we didn’t eat what they put in front of us?

Today, old enough to question my own eating habits, I replay those childhood memories of dinnertime: Sitting alone in the kitchen at the round maple table, shoving buttered (no, it didn’t help) veggies from one side of the plate to the other like a children’s game: “Red Rover, Red Rover, let Mr. Green Beans come over.” Watching Mom out of the corner of my eye while trying to scooch kernels of slippery corn into my napkin without her catching me. Or slipping those now-cold, mushy trees of broccoli to Kelly, our Dalmatian, who would be faithfully waiting under the table.

“Posture Aware” is an idea for a button I may make and start handing out. Harping on posture is something I’m guilty of, as much as if not more than Mom. As I age, I’m even more conscious of drooping shoulders, a forward head tilt, and holding my book at eye level. Preaching about exercises like cat/cow, chest-stretching work, and back strengthening seems to be my life’s calling. Pressing the back of my head against the headrest in the car to lengthen my neck has become as reflexive as putting on my seat belt.

Within the past few years, I, Jane Ann Marie Schmidt, began loving vegetables. When I claim this out loud, I think of Mom, who, when she could no longer drive, was upset because she couldn’t go out and get her favorite foods: hamburgers and vanilla malts. Unlike her, I’m now hooked on vegetables, whether cooked (no butter, please) or raw in salads. I swear they are a cure-all for the aches and pains of age, just as ditching sugar and flour were. My parents would be proud!

As for crossing my legs, no way! Habitual leg crossing can cause all sorts of unwanted issues, such as greater trochanteric pain syndrome, less circulation (causing havoc with your veins), scoliosis, or a shortening or weakening in muscle length and strength. Whether my hip difficulties have been the result of too much early emphasis on my feet (and ignoring how that affected my hips), or years of hungry spirochetes from Lyme disease gnawing on them, I will never know. But I do know that I try hard not to make matters worse by crossing my legs.

Another parental phrase I recall from childhood is, “Remember to say please and thank you.” To this day, these remain some of my favorite words. Thank you has become a prayer I whisper when, after winter, I notice the cranes in the field, discover the toads croaking in the creek, or see an eagle swoop down from a tree and fly alongside the car as if we were racing.

Reflecting on those parental tapes brings a smile to my face. I’ll continue to be aware of my posture, enjoy the many benefits of eating vegetables, and speak politely, but I won’t be crossing my legs.

Besides, crossing my legs doesn't make me a lady—but saying please and thank you just might!

A New Chance at Life

Nikki and her son, Connor Jones

Nikki was lying on a hospital bed next to her 19-year-old son, surrounded by tubes, machines, nurses, and the deafening sound of her heart breaking when he was pronounced brain dead.

She asked if he could be an organ donor.

Thanks to Nikki’s generous question, Connor Jones’s pancreas, liver, heart, lungs, and kidneys gave five people a new lease on life, and his corneas restored eyesight to two more. Writing about their story last year inspired me.

I was already registered to be an organ donor upon death. But after learning more about the thousands of people waiting, and often dying while waiting, I decided to step up and apply to be a living kidney donor. After all, I figured, I have two healthy kidneys and only need one.

First came an email from UW Health, acknowledging my request to be a donor. Then Rich, a kidney donor mentor, called to share his experience and answer my endless questions. Soon Melissa Schafer, UW Health’s transplant coordinator, was reaching out via email and phone.

The live donor process is impressively thorough. Everything in your current and past health history and your family’s health history is examined. I was almost turned down because of a long-ago cervical cancer scare, but was reinstated when they learned I’d had a hysterectomy with no follow-up treatments required.

My age (66 time of donation) and other factors—nonsmoker, nondrinker, with normal blood pressure, great cholesterol numbers, and not on any medications—were helpful. Being physically active and having made significant dietary changes over the past few years was also beneficial.

Eventually, I was scheduled for an all-day series of tests in Madison. Meanwhile, my friend Joan had read my column about Connor’s gifts of life and mentioned that her nephew-by-marriage, Tom, needed a kidney. Tom is in his early 30s, has three young children, and loves fishing and nature. I gave Tom’s full name to Melissa and she made the contact. Tom would be my potential kidney recipient, and Joan became my cheerleader throughout the process.

On Valentine’s Day, which is National Donor Day, Dane and I arrived at UW Health at 7 a.m., carrying a jug of 24 hours’ worth of urine in my favorite Grand Canyon souvenir bag. Dane went off to find the cafeteria while I checked into the Transplant Center.

For over 55 years, UW Health has led the nation in serving transplant patients, both adults and children, and living and deceased organ donors. I was in expert hands.

My long day of testing started with handing over my prized bag of urine (the bag had to be tossed because I hadn’t screwed the lid on tight enough!) and having 15 vials of blood drawn.

After the blood draw and a complimentary breakfast, I met with a nutritionist who assured me there were no concerns with my A1c (diabetes screen), lipid panel, or blood pressure. She declared me a “good nutritional status for donation.”

The 10 hours of tests and interviews continued with a chest x-ray and an electrocardiogram. Dr. Wang, one of the kidney surgeons, reviewed my past medical history, surgical history, social determinants of health, current vitals, and physical exam, and counseled me on the donation process and its potential risks. Her notes concluded, “I think she may be a suitable candidate for kidney donation.”

When I finished answering the social worker’s questions about my support systems and my living and work arrangements, I was getting fatigued. She summed up in her notes that “patient is a low-to moderate-risk psychosocial candidate for living donation.”

Next, I spent an hour with Dr. Swanson, who was pleased with my metabolic and electrocardiogram test results. Finally, I met Melissa in person for the first time. She walked me to radiology for my last test of the day, a CAT scan.

Because I was asked by everyone I met with why I wanted to donate a kidney, I was able to say Connor Jones with a smile many times throughout the day.

When Dane and I left the hospital at last, I was starving and thirsty! Dane was content—he’d finished his book while waiting for me.

My case was to be reviewed at their next Wednesday meeting, and on Friday Melissa would be calling me with the good news.

By now we knew, because of my age, I wouldn’t be a direct candidate for Tom, but giving my kidney to someone else meant Tom would move up on the waiting list, a huge deal to him and his family.

On Friday, Melissa called. I’d been turned down to be a donor.

In reviewing my CAT scan, Dr. Swanson noticed one kidney was larger and one smaller. Both had cysts, and so did my liver. I was referred to a nephrologist at Gunderson Health in La Crosse, where I learned I have stage 2 chronic polycystic kidney disease (PKD). Not a biggy, because there are 5 stages. Our guess is my dad was the carrier. He died at 53 from a brain aneurysm, which can result from PKD. My next step was a brain and neck scan—no signs of an aneurysm—and I'm scheduled for a genetic counseling evaluation.

So now I need you to step up and become a donor. You’ll have the best donor team to work with and the best testing imaginable. More important, you’ll give someone like Tom the gift of seeing his children grow and taking them fishing. For more information on being a donor or sending a donation, go here: www.uwhealth.org/transplant  

Make sure to tell them Connor Jones sent you.

Benny & Joon: Two Birds Are Better Than One

“Watch it, I’m sitting below you.”

“Then move. Not my problem.”

Often, Benny and Joon sounded like squabbling siblings. I could just imagine how their chirps and churrs would come across in English.

“Don’t touch me like that.”

“I didn’t even touch you.”

More often, they sounded like star-crossed lovers while poking their beaks at each other quicker than a jackhammer: Mwah, mwah. Smack, smack.

I thought of our pair of parakeets—green Benny and blue Joon—as “budgies for life.” They’d been rescued over 10 years earlier from a community services client in Richland Center who couldn’t keep them in her apartment any longer.

The day I drove home with the pair had been hot and sunny. I was expecting Dane soon and knew he’d be tired from a long sweaty workday, so dinner was ready. Benny and Joon’s cage was on a table in the living room, overlooking the back deck and yard. I’d opened the window a few inches so they’d have fresh air. They seemed content, not too talkative, as they took in their new surroundings.

After Dane washed his hands, I ushered him outside for a lovely dinner under the shade of an umbrella on the back deck. The ducks and geese were roaming the yard below, quacking and squawking as usual. The dogs, also tired from the heat, were lying near our legs.

Benny and Joon must have finished settling in, because they started talking—squabbling! I hadn’t mentioned them to Dane yet, who kept looking around, puzzled. “What’s that noise?’

“The birds,” I answered, and he looked toward the yard and the flock, shaking his head. Finally, he stood up, looked in the window, and said, “Parakeets?!”

Soon Benny and Joon’s racket became a normal part of the household. If they were quiet, we’d check on them to see why.

One day I set a pot on the stove with oil and popcorn and went outside to do chores. When I came back in, the house was full of smoke, and flames shot out from the burner. I quickly opened windows and fanned out the house, but I heard a thunk. In the morning, I discovered it was Joon. The smoke had killed her.

Benny was fine but lonely. Off to La Crosse I went and came home with another blue female, whom we dubbed Joon II.

Benny and Joon II enjoyed short showers whenever I cleaned their cage. They had every toy made for parakeets—so many that we rotated them to make their life more interesting.

One of their toys was a little basketball hoop with a ball on a chain. Benny turned out to be a pro basketball player. He once sank 24 baskets in less than two minutes, with Joon II standing close by, cheering him on.

A few years later, Joon II unexpectedly died. This time Dane and I both went to Petco and drove straight home with Joon III. Benny was thrilled and started yakking at Joon III almost immediately.

It wasn’t until a year ago that my critter sitter noticed Benny’s beak was overly long. I’m nearly blind close up without my glasses and hadn’t noticed. Benny went to the vet, the vet trimmed his beak, and life went on, with Benny and Joon III scolding, kissing, and more chipper than ever.

But Benny’s beak kept growing back as fast as the vet cut it, until the third visit, when she confirmed that the excessive growth was a result of liver disease. There wasn’t anything to be done, and soon we started trimming Benny's beak ourselves instead of scaring him with a vet visit.

Recently, Dane wasn’t feeling up to catching and holding Benny, so my friend Carol said she’d help. After I showed her a picture of how to hold Benny, she rolled up her sleeves and got busy. Just as she was about to put her hand in the cage, I asked, “Would you rather do the trimming?”

“Nope.”

Soon Carol, a real parakeet wrangler, had Benny in a secure hold. It took only my reader glasses and a quick snip, and soon Benny was telling Joon III all about it.

Looking at Joon III, I wondered out loud if her beak might need trimming too. Carol looked, Dane looked, and the consensus was, “Maybe a little.”

Again I asked Carol: hold or trim? Choosing again to be the holder, she prepared to catch Joon III and reached into the cage just I remarked that she was a real biter. Immediately Carol shrieked a cuss word louder than Benny and Joon’s combined screeching.

“She bit me $#@& hard!”

“I know, and she hangs on too!” I exclaimed.

Carol gave me the stink eye and screamed, “Ouch, @$&5#, she’s biting me again!”

“Hang on, Carol, I’m ready to cut her beak.”

“Oh my god, it hurts. Aacckk, she got me again! @!#$$!”

I empathized, “Yes, she’s got one heck of a strong beak.” Carol glared at me as she held Joon out for me to cut her beak.

Dane was rolling on the floor with laughter, but I was still empathizing when I said, “Nope, her beak looks good. Just put her back in the cage.”

Then I erupted in laughter at Carol's horrified face as she held up her bright red finger.

To be continued…

The Slow Adventure

“Huh—when I cleaned out the snail house, I had six snails. Now I only see five. I wonder where the other one is hiding.”

Dane sighs. He gets exhausted when I go on about my pet gastropods, whom I faithfully mist morning and night and continually watch. Garden snails, classified as mollusks, are nocturnal, and that’s perfect for me. I often get up during the night, which is a great time to spy on them.

Putting my ear into the aquarium when they're perched on a celery stalk is delightful. Chop, chop, chomp, go their tiny, razor-sharp teeth. And I adore watching them in their bathtub, which also doubles as their drinking dish. They stretch themselves out as if they’re sunbathing, and dip their heads in the water like they’re trying to cool off.

I started my aquarium of garden snails with Flo and Griff, and now I have “Flos and Griffs.” It was too challenging to keep adding names. When I talk to them, they all stop what they’re doing—sliding, sticking to the glass, getting some calcium, taking a bath, or eating—and strain their adorable bodies toward my voice. Their eyes (atop their eyestalks) can see me, but since they don’t have ears, they feel the vibrations of my voice inside their glass home.

“Hey, Dane, there’s one big one that has a crease in her shell. Could she have eaten one of the other snails? A neighbor told me she thinks they absorb the babies. And we used to have tons of babies.”

“Absorb babies?! What does that mean?”

“I’m guessing it means eating each other.”

Dane sighs again and leaves me to my ruminations. I start to question my memory. Could I have miscounted and had only five? When I slice a cucumber and set it in their feeding bowl, I start to poke around. Maybe one of the snails is under the dirt, laying eggs.

Technically, since they are hermaphrodites, both Flos and Griffs can have babies, producing up to six batches of eggs in a year. We’ve seen at least three big batches in the past two years. Each time, I’ve come downstairs, stopped to say, “Good morning, snails,” and then exclaimed loudly, “Babies!”

After mating, each snail can lay around 80 eggs in a hole in the soil. They’ll hatch two weeks later. Seeing as I started with two snails and now have six—okay, five—large snails and no babies, maybe some absorbing is going on.

After doing a bit of research, we discover that snails don’t eat other snails (I sigh in relief), but they may scrape the shells of others to get calcium. Exploring a little further, I learn that egg cannibalism can happen: the first snails hatched in a clutch may eat other eggs. It’s been awhile since I cleaned their aquarium, and I’m still counting snails when Dane comes sleepy-eyed down the stairs. He stops when he sees what I’m doing.

“Come here and count, please,” I ask him. “How many snails do you see?” With a sigh, he looks at the aquarium for a split second, says, “Five,” and shuffles off to get his cup of tea.

A few days later, I'm hustling, preparing for my friend Bonnie to help me paint some walls. Every knickknack needs to be moved out of the living room. I start to fill other surfaces—the kitchen island, the top of Dane’s desk, and the counters—and soon run out of empty spaces. I decide to move the dish rack to make more room when I yelp, “Flo...Griff…snail!”

No one is here to share my excitement as I scoop up the snail from its hiding place, quickly mist it, grab a handful of lettuce from the fridge, and set the snail on the lettuce. There were six snails after all!

Dane is at his house, visiting his cats, not wanting to get in the way of the cleaning and painting, so I call him. “Six!” I exclaim. “The sixth snail was living under the dish rack!”

Dane doesn’t respond, so I repeat myself and tell him the snail must have gotten out when I cleaned their house. Because they're nocturnal, we didn’t see it. I figured it was climbing into the sink at night and eating whatever veggies had gotten stuck in the strainer, then climbing back out and sleeping peacefully under my clean dishes. The dishes go into the rack wet, so he/she was even getting misted.

It’s a good, good day here. All day long I’m silently chanting, Six, I have six healthy snails! As for Flo or Griff or whoever it was that was living off sink leftovers, they're fine. Better than fine—they had an adventure! Within a minute of setting them on the lettuce, I could hear them healthily rasping away: chop, chop, chomp.

In Memory of Barbara

Barbara; top row, far right, with the pink dumbells, green shirt, and beautiful smile.

Every so often we meet someone who inspires us by the generous way they live. Barbara Martinez was like that for me.

I first met Barbara and her husband, Ed, at a fundraising event for the Family & Children’s Center that took place in Viroqua at what was then called The Ark (now The Commons). Dane and I sat at a long table with our bowls of soup and greeted our tablemates. It turned out that Barbara and Ed knew Roger and Pat Martin, my neighbors at the time, and a lively, lovely conversation ensued.

I felt a natural connection with Barbara, who was a loyal advocate for the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) and The Other Door. She was also interested in wellness and soon began attending a fitness class I taught at the Viroqua Church of Christ.

Barbara was leading the Vernon County chapter of NAMI, and we decided to hold a fundraiser where I’d lead a fitness class and donate the proceeds. Barbara was instrumental in organizing the event. Unsurprisingly, the room was full that evening, and a gorgeous spread of healthy snacks was offered after.

Barbara chose the same place to sit for each exercise class: over to the right, midway back, aisle seat. From the get-go, I was impressed with her dedication. If she needed to miss a class due to travel or an appointment, she told me ahead of time—and those times were rare.

Often, we’d have a two-minute conversation before or after class, like the time she excitedly told me about her upcoming visit to see her son. I knew from the start that Barbara was a giver, a caretaker. One gal in class was going through cancer treatment, and Barbara made herself available for rides when needed. Another time, Barbara walked in with a new lady and introduced her to me. Bonnie was also in cancer treatment, and Barbara had told her about the class and started bringing her.

I learned that Barbara didn’t like it when I brought music and the class got a bit too dancey. She liked her exercises to be straightforward, easy to follow, and efficient. When COVID came, she started attending the complimentary outdoor classes offered at the VFW post. She always wore a mask and somehow managed to find that same place—off to the right, midway back, next to the aisle.

When, during the stay-at-home period of COVID, we transitioned to offering online classes, Barbara was a huge support. From day one, she signed up for and attended every class she was able to. It wasn’t unusual to get an email from her, thanking me for class and telling me how her life had benefited from it. Sometimes Dane and I would walk at Sidie Hollow after class, and Barbara and Ed would often be there, finishing up a walk themselves!

When Ed had a medical challenge, Barbara emailed me and shared the news. She was upbeat, dedicated, and positive about her husband's recovery, and sure enough, the next time we had a chance to talk in the Co-op, Ed was recovering and doing well.

About a month ago, Barbara missed a class, and I noticed. Then she missed another class, and I sent her an email. When Barbara didn’t answer, I began to worry, because it was so uncharacteristic of her. I reached out to their daughter, Sara, sent private messages on social media, and eventually found out she was having a medical crisis.

Ed kept us updated while caring for Barbara and navigating the medical world along with Sara’s guidance as a nurse. Many friends sent well wishes and prayers, and candles were lit in her honor. Sadly, it wasn’t long before Ed sent another email telling us that Barbara had passed peacefully from brain cancer.

Barbara touched many lives here in our community—even around the world, I learned later. Her quiet strength, support, and friendship will be missed. Her dedication to exercise was exemplary. She was a role model for how she gave of her time and talent to NAMI and The Other Door, to friends in need, and to me years ago when my neighbor Pat died.

In Barbara’s passing, we have lost a person of true grace and kindness. I'll bet she was warmly greeted by Pat. I can almost see them organizing, rallying for social justice, and sharing their concerns over the next presidency. 

Our friend Barbara died the way she lived: peacefully.

There will be a service for Barbara on Thursday, February 22, at Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary Catholic Church in Viroqua. Visitation at 10 a.m. and a funeral Mass at 11 a.m.

Shocked!

“I like the mornings best, right after I wake up. I forget everything for a while and feel normal, like none of this has happened.”

I was at my desk, working on my lesson plans for that week's workouts, when Dane came down the stairs and told me this. One hand was carrying his book and water cup, and the other was clutching the shoulder strap that cradles the battery pack of his LifeVest.

Ever since he was released from the hospital, Dane’s been busy preparing for his next echocardiogram, which will determine how efficiently his heart is pumping blood (called the ejection fraction, or EF). So many things—being able to drive, to live on his own again, and to work—depend on an improved EF. The normal range is between 55 and 70 percent. On October 13 Dane’s EF was at 36, but after his heart attacks it dropped to 25. To get back to a normal lifestyle, he needs to get that number to 35.

The vest, designed to prevent death from sudden cardiac arrest, has been a necessary pain. The weight of the battery pack has caused his back to ache and has resulted in a forward posture he didn’t have before. It continually malfunctions, causing him additional stress.

Twice, LifeVest reps, one from Eau Claire and one from Madison, have come to the house on a weekend to switch out the vest with another because the alarm wouldn’t stop shrieking. If the alarm isn’t manually turned off within 25 seconds, it will alert bystanders to stand back, then emit a blue gel and shock him. On a recent warm-weather walk, the alarm went off six times in little over an hour, making the walk anything but enjoyable.

Often, Dane forgets he’s tethered to the vest and stands up, only to have the chair, where he hung the shoulder strap, tip over.

After breakfast and a shower, Dane meticulously dismantled his vest, removing all the wires and doodads, and washed it in the sink, then carefully laid out his second vest on the bed while he went to put the first one in the dryer. He attached and snapped the wires into place before putting the new one on.

When I finished class that morning, Dane walked in, clean and bare-chested, his arms raised over his head as if he were surrendering. “Can you look over the vest and see that everything is okay?” He turned slowly while I ran my hands under the vest and checked each electrode to ensure they were connecting with skin. I also made sure the wires hadn't inadvertently gotten crossed or come loose.

“You're all set,” I said. Then, noticing his thinness, I asked him about his weight.

“It’s 149.6. When I look in the mirror I see an old man’s body.”

Dane's COVID weight had gotten up to 180, but his preferred weight is 160.

“I’m sorry,” I empathized. “Remember to eat a few handfuls of your almonds.” Going below 160 wasn’t part of the plan.

Dane's recent lifestyle changes include rarely using a salt shaker and keeping his daily intake of salt under 2,000 mg; eating more fresh fruits and vegetables; cutting back on processed foods as well as sugar and flour; eating more chicken/fish/beans and far less red meat; and drinking his recommended two liters of water daily.

The cardiologist is insistent about fluid intake as well as daily weight and blood pressure checks. Periodically Dane reports those numbers to their office.

On Dane’s first day of rehab last fall, he performed a simple test of walking for six minutes while they monitored his heart. Dane labored at it, hunched over the top of his walker, the LifeVest cords dangling out the back of his shirt. Taking baby steps and gasping for breath, he walked 720 feet.

On January 31, his last day of rehab, he retook the test. He’d been working toward it, not only in his program at the hospital but by walking up the hill from my driveway to Highway SS almost every day. He also began an exercise class three times a week and has included a weekly two-mile hike. His hard work paid off, and in those six minutes he went 1,370 feet without a walker!

So on February 1, he was ready to ace his EF test—and more than ready to get that darn LifeVest off, drive again, go home, and start work in May!

The sun was shining, the snow melting, and our spirits soaring as we drove to Gundersen for his test. After the test, we celebrated with somewhat healthy salads at Burrachos, knowing it would be at least a week or more before the results came back.

But the hospital called the very next day. Three abnormalities were found in his heart structure, and his EF was 30—even lower than his first test.

Shocked, not by the LifeVest but by the test results, Dane told me, “I failed. The whole time I was being tested, I kept repeating 40, 40 percent. I was positive I’d at least be at 35 percent and get free of the vest, but hoped I would be at 40.”

Still catching my breath at the news, I reminded him he didn’t fail this test. He did everything right, and everything he did helped him mentally, spiritually, and physically over these past months.

Dane hasn’t failed, but his heart isn’t doing well.