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)

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!