The Old Trail

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

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

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

“Yeah, Ram Dass.”

“How about ‘no mud, no lotus’?”

Dane sighs and we keep trudging along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roadside Attractions

Roadside Attractions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Dad for President

Jack, Jill, Dad, Jane

My Dad for President

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Was Stupid!

That Was Stupid!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home Forever

Home Forever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Right to Grieve

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

The Right to Grieve

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop crying. Shake it off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom & Dad.

Jill & her daughter, Samantha.

D.J.

Helena

Ethan at his sister, Helena’s memorial site.

Mission Accomplished

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not this year!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I wouldn’t walk on it either.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kelly Lake today (Mud Lake)

Helena’s High School graduation

New World today.

Forty-One Mouths

Lorca is the oldest cat in the family.

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

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

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

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

Tete who likes to bark at us to hurry.

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

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

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

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

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

Louisa is always hungry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wedding Bells

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Sweet Love

There are things we may find joy in knowing.

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

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

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

There are things we may want to do.

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

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

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

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

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

There are things we can agree on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helena Mae Christensen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Helena,

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

Love,

Grandma Riley (Jane)

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.