A gleeful, far-right conservative and a glum, bleeding-heart liberal walk into a coffee shop… Sounds like a set-up for a joke, right? But it was no joke when I made a bet with someone I hadn’t seen in years over who’d win the most recent presidential election. If his candidate won (a candidate I couldn’t stand, whose campaign promises made me angry and afraid), I’d pony up and buy him breakfast at the café of his choice. But if my smart and oh-so-capable candidate prevailed, he’d be the one paying for my bacon and eggs. Confident in the obvious superiority

It’s as if I’m cradling a lumpy sack of potatoes, heavy as a watermelon. My arm, with its withering bicep, starts to ache where her head is nestled into the crook of my elbow. My tight neck muscles sound a familiar, years-long alarm. After a few minutes, my shoulder joins in the painful protest. And yet. Her dark eyes, staring into mine, begin to flutter like the wings of a butterfly. She reaches for me and I gently close my fingers around her tiny hand. She squeezes tightly before resting her warm palm in mine. Her breathing slows, her little

We’d decided to spend election night in Verona at our daughter’s and son-in-law’s house. The next day was our granddaughter’s 4th birthday, and we reasoned that we’d have two reasons to rejoice. We were wrong. The next day, the only thing we could celebrate was Charlie. But even Charlie, dressed in her princess gown, her wide grin and masses of curly brown hair constantly falling into her sparkling eyes, failed to cheer me up. Fried potatoes for breakfast only added to my overwhelming nausea. Sharing my grief with others who were grieving just like me offered only temporary respite. Finally,

Door County, Wisconsin is a tiny finger of land jutting out into Lake Michigan’s northwestern coastline. It’s a gorgeous area made up of small, charming little towns dotted among the best that nature has to offer, the communities encircling the peninsula like an antique necklace of pearls adorning the neck of a beautiful woman. Door County has often been described as the Cape Cod of the Midwest, and having spent time in both areas, I’d agree. It’s also an incredibly healing place, as my friend Janet, who has a vacation home there, reminded me when she generously offered it to

On this Valentine’s Day, I wanted to share some thoughts about love that may be different than a typical Hallmark movie. The following guest post is by my wise and wonderful friend, Karen Vernal. In her essay, Karen describes her grief over losing her beloved first husband John and then, how she found love again with Tom, the second man to capture her heart so completely. Karen’s beautiful essay resonates so fully with me because I’ve recently experienced the pain of grief and the joy of love, and I’m beginning to recognize that these two emotions often show up together,

My 90-year-old neighbor Gerry died last month. We’ve lived next door to him and his family for more than thirty years. At the church service, two of Gerry’s children shared stories of their dad, the common thread being how Gerry didn’t suffer fools. In their eulogies, they’d described him as a demanding dad, expecting his children, and the students he taught as a dental school professor, to strive for perfection in everything they did. This didn’t surprise me. Gerry was a man whose lush lawn could’ve doubled as a country club putting green. He diligently swept his long driveway clean

My friend Mandy is a woman of many gifts and one of the smartest people I know. In our small group of girlfriends since junior high, she’s known as our collective memory. “Mandy, who sat next to us in Mr. Stone’s science class in eighth grade?” She’ll know the answer, just as she knows any line or verse from just about any movie or song we throw at her. Mandy is also a creative, an artist and singer/performer who has the ability to bring beauty into the world with her voice, her words, her actions. She’s the friend who’s always

Fair warning: If one more person, no matter how well meaning, tells me, “Well, at least it’s pretty,” my snow shovel may turn into a lethal weapon. Snow in springtime is not pretty. You know what’s pretty in springtime? A warm, white sand beach is pretty. A pastel sunset in Key West is pretty. A sweaty, umbrella-garnished piña colada in my tanned hand that I slurp while sitting under a cabana is pretty (or maybe even one version of heaven). But snow in Wisconsin, in March, (or in April and May, if history repeats itself) isn’t pretty. Let me be

I’ve looked up to my big brother Mike my entire life. And I’ve had plenty of reasons to do so. A natural leader, as well as a strong and accomplished athlete, Mike is also funny and kind, super smart and handsome. He and his wife Lisa met in high school, where they were not only voted homecoming king and queen, but went on to nab the title of prom king and queen as well. Everyone—students and teachers alike—loved them. After college, Mike and Lisa married and had two beautiful children, a son Jared and then a daughter, Kristen. She was

A few months ago, the wheels fell off my somewhat-organized life due to some major health setbacks my Mom suffered and continues to address. But I’ve recently had a moment to take stock about what I’ve learned through this experience. I’d like to share my lessons learned to continue my own self-reflection, but even more importantly, to hear about your own, perhaps similar experiences in dealing with the challenges of helping someone you love when they’re most in need. Some of what I’ve learned so far: -My mom is one of the strongest people I know (okay, I knew that

She’s baaackkk! The Witch has assumed her position on the front porch, as is her annual tradition. She’s been preparing for the trick-or-treaters who will dare to make the trek past the lighted torches and up to the darkened house for a bit of candy. But this Halloween, as much as she hates to admit it, it’s The Witch who’s scared. Frankly, she’s worried about our country. You see, at several hundred years old (The Witch refuses to share her actual age), she’s seen this movie before and she knows how it ends. She’s seen firsthand what happens when people

I haven’t posted in a while, not since I returned from my Camino trip. And while it’s been a terrific summer, I wish I could report that the lessons I learned on my trip have fully taken root and are in abundant and full flower. That would be a lie. There’s been a bud here and there—I haven’t forgotten everything I learned. Like the importance of community. Expressing gratitude for everything I have. Recognizing the overwhelming beauty of the world. The joy of travel. But unfortunately, the lessons I learned haven’t been as front-and-center and practiced on a daily basis

We were standing on a busy street corner, cars whizzing past us as we desperately searched for even one of the many yellow arrows that had been painted on buildings or cobblestone streets in every town we walked through, no matter how small. They had been with us during our entire six-day journey, helping us to navigate the Camino de Santiago. But not anymore. The arrows seemed to have disappeared the moment we entered our final destination, the City of Santiago. When we’d first arrived, we discovered that Santiago wasn’t what either of us had expected. Much larger by far

Our longest day yet. We were exhausted when we got to our hotel. But so very happy. Some highlights: We met another herd of las vacas on the trail. This time, they were close enough to touch. So close, that we had to move over or be trampled. The farmer herding them was not impressed with the fact that we were peregrinos on the Camino, grunting a curt reply to our “buenos dias,” one of the very few times that we’ve not been welcomed or happily greeted by locals along the way. And the locals who greet us with the

I hit the wall this day, mentally and physically. Kent, too. And it wasn’t like it was our longest day, either. But this day, in addition to our standard “tired,” we added sore and crabby. To add insult to injury, our inn was off the trail by another kilometer, and when we finally had it in our sights, we saw that it was at the top of a hill, and we were standing at the bottom, with at least the length of a football field left to climb. The inn looked cool from afar. It had been built as a

First, I think it’s only fair to point out that our daily mileage count comes from Kent’s pedometer (and if you know Kent, you know it’s been accurately calculated to the nth degree). As such, our mileage includes the “extra” meandering we do at various points, like ducking into a shop, or checking out a cemetery, or the exploration we do when we reach our final destination for the day. But honestly, our “meandering” and “exploration” is fairly limited, given that we’re muy cansada* (very tired) by the end of the day. Anyway, on Tuesday, because we were feeling cocky

We were the only people in the hotel dining room at 8:00pm on the eve of our Camino, having decided on an “early” dinner since we wanted to get a good night’s rest in anticipation of a very long hike. An older woman entered the dining room, sat down and ordered. She was at least a decade older than us, and when she finished her meal and got up to leave, we assumed she was a local, or a tourist who most definitely wasn’t going to be walking the Camino. Her gait was unsteady, stiff and tentative, like a colt

Our first day on the Camino began like an Edgar Allan Poe poem, or something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. A chill permeated the morning air and dense and heavy fog, like wet cotton, obscured the morning light. We set out alone; one backpack between us, the damp settling onto our shoulders as we hiked down the murky path. And then, she appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, dark hair, pale face, a young woman alone on the trail. “Hey, are you from Milwaukee?” she said, falling in beside us. Damn, I thought. Is our Midwestern accent giving us away

Why is our train going backwards? The announcement over the PA system provided no clues. The rapido delivery of the announcer was no match for my college Spanish. Even when she switched to heavily-accented English, the only words I could make out were “train,” “flood,” and “bus.” Thankfully, a young, bilingual British woman sitting across the aisle filled us in. “The train can’t go all the way to Sarria,” she said brightly, as if this unexpected wrench in our travel plans had won each of us a lottery ticket. “They’re putting us on a bus to get us there.” She

Rising inflation and the last several weeks of a market downturn have some folks really worried. This, despite signs that our economy is beginning to recover from the last two years of an international health pandemic. And those signs of recovery are terrific: the jobless rate has dropped to 4.2%, with U.S. economic output jumping to more than 7% in the last three months of 2021. An economic expansion of 5.7 percent in 2021, the biggest since 1984. U.S. companies showing profit margins higher than they’ve been since 1950. Child poverty cut in half, and more than 4.6 million Americans

It’s always darkest before the dawn. That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. You’ve heard inspirational quotes like these before and you’ll no doubt hear them again. Trite, maybe. But also true. I think that’s why we human beings need to hear them again and again, because the truth always resonates. A few months back, when I wrote about how I was struggling, inspirational quotes are what I clung to, as well as music like This is Me by Keala Settle, or Home by Phil Phillips. Those sayings and songs helped this eternal optimist to remember that underneath it

Thousands of us waited anxiously, hoping and praying that “Bucks in 6” would go from slogan to reality. Millions more watched as 65,000 people jammed into downtown Milwaukee to root for their home team. And I think I can say with confidence of those who celebrated in and around the Deer District: -No one cared who was a Democrat, a Republican, an Independent, a Socialist or a Communist -No one cared what color anyone was -No one cared who was a Catholic or a Protestant, a Lutheran or an evangelical, a Jew or an atheist, or any denomination in between

Three years ago today, I pushed open a heavy door with clammy, shaking hands. The dimly lit room was warm, the scent of antiseptic and exhaustion hanging in the humid air like a damp curtain. Drawn white shades over a large window hindered the bright light of a beautiful day. Five people followed behind me, their previously excited voices temporarily silenced. A single overhead light cast a soft glow over a bed surrounded by machines quietly beeping, their bright yellow lights blinking on and off like buoys encircling an island. My daughter rested on the bed-island propped up by doughy

In my family, birthdays are celebrated with a lovely meal, ice cream instead of cake, a few well-chosen gifts and wine. This year was a big one for me—my 60th. So when I was asked how I wanted to celebrate, I thought about this past year with COVID, of missing family and friends, of living through a time of huge social, political and psychological unrest. And then, I recalled one of the happiest times of my life: I’d just turned 18. Fresh out of high school, I was headed to college where I’d plant the seeds for my future. In

I have never been a big fan of New Year’s resolutions. Instead, every year during my springtime birthday is when I’ve tended to create new goals for myself. Maybe it’s because spring time replaces the dead of winter with the possibility of new life, or because Earth Day forces me to think beyond my own little postage stamp of existence. Whatever the reason, I’ve been thinking a lot about this moment we’re in and what comes next. It’s so easy to feel disheartened right now. The extreme political polarization of this time has seeped into many of our family interactions

I’m walking along my usual path through a familiar forest. It’s almost sunset on a late winter afternoon and I’m alone, hiking through knee-deep snow that feels as if it’s been falling forever. The hike seems just as endless, as if the path has become one long, circular loop. My toes and the ends of my fingers are stingingly cold; they prickle and burn like they’re on fire. My lungs feel the same as I heave myself through the drifts. I’m exhausted, so I stop for a moment to take a look around. The sky is melting into a dazzling,

My husband and I got into a fight. He yelled at me, I yelled back at him. And then, silence. For a full day. When we started speaking again, we didn’t talk about why we were mad at each other. Just swept it under the marital rug. To anyone else, we didn’t look or act like we were still seething inside. But we were. I’ve been thinking a lot about unity. That’s what everyone wants, right? But what is it, and what’s the best and fastest way to get it? As it so often does, history may provide an answer.

There were mostly middle-aged white people, residents of the city in which I live, congregating on the front lawn of city hall when I arrived that night. A state assemblyman from my district was speaking on a bullhorn, urging people to stay until 7pm, when the curfew would begin. At 6pm, a line of military trucks from all over the state came cruising down the avenue before stopping at the light, flexing their military muscle to the people lining the sidewalk. Residents shouted, “Go home” and “We don’t want you here.” We moved to this community nearly 30 years ago

We all make mistakes for which we should all be forgiven,” our yoga teacher announces as class begins. “This morning, I am choosing to forgive the mistake they apparently made out there.” He smiles, then motions with his chin toward the window where, across the street, two men in matching highlighter-yellow jackets are using a jackhammer to break up a new concrete sidewalk poured only a few weeks ago. The workers had become familiar to us, part of a construction crew working on a new development across from our yoga studio, their noise competing with the instructions of our sensei

Virtual Seder meals. Drive-through church services. Zoom happy hours. FaceTime reunions. Many of us are valuing time with family and friends now more than ever. And we’ve gotten pretty inventive at finding new and safe ways to connect. I thought I’d share one of my recent “virtual connecting” experiences: There were nine of us, average age 62, old friends who have been meeting for dinner every month for the past three decades, attempting to reconnect after days and days of staying in to stay safe. Earlier in the week, Tom volunteered to use Microsoft Office to bring all of us