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Cream Carpet Dilemma
Every house has a breaking point.
Ours happens to be cream carpet.
Over the years, I’ve learned there are two kinds of home stories: the ones you plan to tell, and the ones that show up uninvited—usually with stains. When you live long enough in one place, the floor becomes a quiet witness. It records everything.Which is how I landed here, thinking about carpet disasters—because of course that’s where this story goes.
Burns.
Spills.
Pets.
Kids.
Wine.That moment when you know: Yep. That carpet’s done.
When we built our house about twenty years ago, hardwood covered the main part of the home. Cream carpet filled the library, dining room, and three bedrooms. Now you probably already know…Cream carpet is unforgiving.
The one truth about cream carpet, though, is that it never surprises you. It’s either clean…or filthy. -
Towel Troubles
Oh, to be a towel. Just think of all those bare bodies you get to wrap yourself around. That is, if you are one of the lucky ones.Now, the reality of the towel hysteria that I find when my family is all together. That is, of course, the grandkids. In reality, they are thieves of the good beach towels at the cabin. This means they covet my beautiful new soft luxurious large beach towels and then, would you believe it, they take them home, and I never seem to see them again.
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Towel Attachment Issues
The Towels We Keep
I still have the first two towels my mom bought me when I left for college. They’re thin now—somewhere between threadbare and this-could-be-a-washcloth—but they’ve earned their place. I reach for them when I’m dyeing my hair, bathing the dogs, or doing anything else that might leave me emotionally scarred. They’re not the current colors, not stylish, and definitely not “guest towel approved,” but they stay steady. Solid. Loyal. The golden retrievers of my linen world.And then there’s my linen closet.
Closets, Scents, and Clotheslines
I love a neat linen closet with the same devotion most people give a well-organized pantry. But half the items in there haven’t been used once in this house—and we’ve lived here for 22 years. Some of them didn’t get used in the house before this one either, yet there they sit: two sets of white sheer curtains for mystery windows, mismatched flat sheets from an ancient full-size bed, and boxes of attachments for shavers that vanished years ago. If those shavers ever reappeared, I’d probably just close the drawer and walk away.
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Tools and Memories
Tools have always been a big part of my life. First of all, there were none, or let’s just say some. My dad was not a fixer-upper at all. He had a brother who was, and would satisfy some of my dad’s desires when requested to do so. For example, he built bookshelves in Judy’s and my bedroom together with a corner desk. I think my mom knew more about using tools than Dad ever did. But then, there was no interest on his part to really do any type of fixing or building. I believe his only desire for tools was to have some of his dad’s old tools, my grandpa Ottos.
Now, Grandpa Otto was altogether different than my dad. He had the coolest log cabin tool shed in their backyard. It smelled heavenly, and I loved it in there. Grandpa was always puttering on something. I think he even had a power lawnmower before they were even on the market, as he put his own together. When I became a grown-up, I had my husband build me a log cabin shed in memory of my grandpa. I always say wherever I go, it has to go with me.
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Tools of My Own
A couple of weekends ago, we called an all-hands-on-deck family garage-cleaning day. We needed help—desperately. Over the last year, Craig and I had fallen into the habit of putting things “out in the garage,” which really meant anywhere: along the edges, on the floor, or somewhere in the vague vicinity of Craig’s workbench.We usually tackle a full garage overhaul every fall, but last year I only cleaned out my side. That was it. The rest never happened. So this year, we drafted everyone. Craig reorganized his tools, Kadon and Luka hauled things to the back shed, and I swept and blew out dust, leaves, and whatever unidentifiable debris had settled in since the last solar eclipse.
As we put everything back where it belonged, I noticed something I’ve always known: most of the tools in our house belong to Craig. The garage proves it. The basement confirms it. And honestly, I’m fine with that. I don’t need all the tools. I just need the ones that are mine.
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Growing Older With Frustration
When I put on an angry face, it’s not because I’m angry. When I put on this face, I am usually frustrated. My greatest frustrations are with myself. I ask myself deprecating questions like: Why am I so clumsy? Why can’t I remember to do this process correctly? How many times do I have to do a thing before I finally do it the right way? More often than not, the person I’m most frustrated with… is me.As I grow older, I find myself bumping into frustration more often than I ever expected. I recently returned to work in the banking profession, a field I’ve known for most of my life. Yet the tasks that once felt instinctive now leave me wondering what on earth has happened to the muscle memory I used to rely on. It’s as if my brain occasionally misplaces its reading glasses and then pretends it never owned a pair.
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Organized by Frustration
I love things neat and organized.
Boxes, bins, baskets, bags—I don’t discriminate.
If it has sides and can contain chaos, I’m in love.But my ultimate frustration?
Other people do not treat things the way I do.
And nowhere was this more obvious than the toy room when the kids were little. -
Frustration in Three Acts
Some people collect stamps. I collect other people’s emotions. For most of my life, “managing the mood in the room” felt like a job I didn’t remember applying for…but somehow kept showing up to anyway.
I’ve always been a bit of a chameleon. My own feelings didn’t matter—I could “read the room” and instantly morph into whatever version of myself I thought someone needed.
Act 1: The first time someone called me out on this talent was in my late teens. A boyfriend and I were walking arm-in-arm through a school playground late one crisp fall evening. Out of nowhere, he started singing Air Supply’s “Every Woman in the World to Me.” I don’t remember the exact conversation that followed, but I do remember him gently telling me he didn’t need a cheerleader. He wanted me. My real thoughts. My real feelings. My real presence. Awwww… right?Act 2: Scene change: age 32. I was married to my ex-husband Tom. I’d come home late from teaching and listen—literally—to his mood before I walked through the door. If the TV blared, it was “walk on eggshells” time. If I heard guitar riffs floating out of his music room, all was well.
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Frustration in Full Color
Quite a few years ago, I was introduced to the idea that, if you want to look your best, you should “have your colors done.” The whole purpose is to identify the shades that flatter your natural coloring, helping you choose clothes and makeup that truly enhance your features.At the time, my sister Judy was living in California. When I went to visit her, she announced that she was taking me to have my colors done. I had always worn cream, tan, brown—safe colors I could hide behind. Never, in a million years, would I have put on bright colors like red or purple.
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The Tangles That Shaped Me
When I was in junior high school, I found myself standing at a quiet crossroads that no one else seemed to notice. On the outside, I was just another kid trying to survive algebra class and navigate the middle school schedule. But inside, I already felt the tug of two very different paths. I seemed to be the daring one of the family, you know, “The Black Sheep”. I always wanted to do the undesired activity to prove that I could and would do what I wanted. -
Tangled Memories
I’ve always had long, straight hair. You’d think that would make life easier—no curls to tame, no frizz to battle. But somehow, my straight hair has always managed to find its own special ways to get me tangled in trouble.And honestly? That theme started way back in childhood.
The Daily Ponytail Pain Olympics
When I was little, Mom took charge of styling my long, straight hair every morning—ponytails, braids, neat little parts. She had a vision, and my job was simply to sit still and survive it. What didn’t help was that even as a kid (and still now), I couldn’t stand “sticky-outies.” Every single hair needed to be smooth, tight, and perfectly in place. One little piece sticking out of a ponytail could send me into full hysterics, and Mom would have to stop everything and fix it before I could function again.
Mom would grab the brush and immediately begin working like she was on a mission. I’d wince, pout, or try to subtly shrink away from the next swipe. Naturally, the more I reacted, the firmer her brushing became.
Eventually came the line every child of the 70s and 80s heard at least once:
“If you think THAT hurts—I’ll show you something that really hurts…”
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Tangled Roots
I moved back to Wisconsin in 2014. My front yard garden was planted with several things I didn’t care for, random choices that felt more like leftovers than a plan. A tall cactus stood awkwardly like an uninvited guest. Nearby, a bush resembled Pampas grass, except it wasn’t. Nothing flowed. Nothing belonged. The whole yard looked as though the plants had been tossed there in a hurry, each one competing for attention without harmony.One day, while wandering the garden center at Fleet Farm, I found a spirea bush I loved. Its name hinted at the warm autumn colors it would show in fall. I brought one home and planted it proudly. My husband adored it instantly and guarded it as if it were a rare treasure. When my sister asked for a cutting, he actually stood on the front porch to ensure she didn’t take more than a polite snippet.
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Walking Past the Tangles
My son Luka, his wife Rosa, and their three babies—three-year-old Junior, 18-month-old Asher, and six-month-old Rosea—currently live with us. When I’m in my work area doing my daily TikTok LIVE, the chaos drifts up from the kitchen and family room like background music: running feet, balls bouncing off walls, cars launching over the upstairs railing and smacking the floor like tiny plastic stunt performers.
Yesterday, after finishing a LIVE, I headed upstairs into an unexpected quiet. Everyone had tucked themselves away in their room, cozy in their little nest. I walked into my bedroom, turned toward the bathroom… and stopped in my tracks at the doorway of the walk-in closet.There, on the carpet, sat a tangled heap of necklaces.
Years ago, I turned a large window screen into a jewelry holder. It hangs in our master bath, covered in earrings. Little cup hooks line the bottom for my necklaces… many, many necklaces. I stared at the mess and wondered if the whole collection fell or just a portion. A quick glance around the corner answered that: only the bottom row of hooks sat empty. The heap held about twenty necklaces—beads, chains, charms, the whole knotted party—resting there like it planned to stay awhile.
And now, more than 24 hours later, it’s still there.
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Decorating Disaster
Remember the pink-and-blue decorating craze? Somewhere between the sponge-painted walls and floral borders, we decided those two pastels were meant to be together. They crept into bedrooms, bathrooms, and even living rooms, and let us not forget kitchens.. And like everyone else caught in the wave of pastel mania, we jumped right in.When we decided to decorate one of my youngest daughter’s college apartments, pink and blue seemed like a no-fail combo. It sounded cute and timeless in theory. In reality? It was hideous.
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Disaster on the Deck
Some couples have romantic stories about dancing in the kitchen or sunset walks by the lake.
Craig and I? We have a story that involves tools, tractors, and just a hint of disaster.
Craig and I built our home back in 2002. The only things we hired out were the basement excavation, plumbing, wall texture, and the first coat of primer and white paint. Over the years, Craig has continued to build, repair, and improve everything around our place—inside and out. No matter how big the project or how new the challenge, he always figures it out. He’s confident, capable, and calm… until I get involved. That’s when disaster tends to pull up a lawn chair and make itself comfortable.Case in point: the cottonwood incident.
We had an old cottonwood—dead as a doornail and leaning toward the house. Craig decided it was time to take it down. Armed with his trusty John Deere compact tractor, he was ready for action.This was going to be a two-person job. I lifted him in the tractor bucket so he could tie a heavy rope around the highest part of the trunk he could reach. Then I lowered him safely to the ground, and he grabbed his chainsaw. I figured my part was done, so I started heading toward the house.
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The Great Unloading Disaster
We’d been camping in Peninsula State Park in Door County. We’d survived the mosquitoes, eaten soup for two weeks straight (thanks, Lisa), and even Grandma Doris—cruising around on her power scooter—had enjoyed herself. The trip was a success by all counts.But as soon as we pulled into the driveway, our luck ran out. It was time to unload the camper—otherwise known as “the part no one volunteers for.”
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Disaster Houston Style
In the mid-1970s, I relocated to Houston, Texas. I had never set foot in Texas before. This was my first experience living in a big city, and I found it both intimidating and exciting. I interviewed with several banks and was offered a position with Houston Citizens Bank and Trust, located right in downtown Houston. I was thrilled with myself for landing a job so quickly.After adjusting to the roaches that emerged from the faucets and scurried back into the walls the moment I turned on the kitchen light, I slowly settled into my new surroundings. My biggest challenge, however, was the ever-changing weather.
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Beaver Dam or Bust
Some people believe in serendipity—that life lines things up just right and you fall into the perfect moment. I’m not sure I buy into that. For me, things usually come together through effort, patience, and timing. And yet… sometimes the outcome feels so right, it’s hard not to wonder if a little serendipity snuck in anyway. That’s how we ended up finding our home in Beaver Dam.We’d always said we’d move closer to family once we started our own. We began in Memphis, then moved to Chicago, then Sun Prairie—closer and closer. Eventually, it was time to go all the way: Beaver Dam.
At the time, I worked at the family business, and Tom had a good job in Madison. He was used to commuting, so the move made sense. A realtor friend met us to tour homes in our price range—translation: old fixer-uppers.
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The Quiet Side of Wealth
I’ve been a banker most of my adult life. I’ve seen people flaunt their money, living well on the surface. They always seemed to have the means to buy the great house, the fancy car, and all the luxuries that spoke to the world that they were rich.But I’ve also known many wealthy people. They lived comfortably, yes, with lovely homes and nice cars, but more importantly, they woke each morning without the dread that comes from living beyond their means. They had peace. To me, that’s what true wealth looks like.
Wealth is more than money; it’s the ability to live life on your own terms. It’s having enough resources, financial, emotional, spiritual, and relational, to feel secure, generous, and free.
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From Price Tags to Priceless Moments
When I was young, I always thought that wealthy people were the ones with fancy cars and a nice house.I had two friends in my neighborhood who always appeared to be very wealthy in my mind’s eye. They were the girls who always had the nicest clothes, took dance lessons, piano lessons, and were always going on family trips. I would often hear my dad say things like, “If things don’t pick up, meaning sales, I am going to have to sell pencils on a street corner because, being a salesman, and times were slow, this was his way of letting us all know that he was sort of worried. He never had to sell pencils on a street corner, but it certainly left an impression on me. The fact of the matter was, when I now go past the old homestead, I realize that it was our house that was most impressive.
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The Avocado Test
How many times have I sat in a Mexican restaurant, ordered an entrée, and watched the server point to “Add avocado: 50¢”? For years I said no. Extra felt unnecessary. Eating out already felt like a splurge.
So…what is wealth?
Money isn’t wealth. Money buys options. For most of my adult life—as a married woman and a teacher with a master’s degree—I felt like we had just enough. Never extra, but enough.
I love my house, my kids, my husband, my life. We live in the country with a lake in our backyard and about 300 feet of shoreline. My family has a Door County cottage on Lake Michigan and a rental next door. The rental brings in income—and work. That’s real life.
Here’s the big difference between being rich and being wealthy: freedom. My definition of wealth is freedom. I’m building that now. I retired from teaching and quit my day job at Wally World. These days I “work” on TikTok. I learn, explore, create, and grow. The money isn’t rolling in yet, but the potential is real—and I wake up excited about the day.
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Wealth Is in the Moments
As a kid, I always knew we were rich.
Opening presents on Christmas morning usually took over an hour — partly because Santa went a little overboard, but mostly because Lisa opens presents slower than molasses in January.Every Easter, we practically got a new spring wardrobe — new shorts and shirts for summer, maybe some outdoor toys, sandals, and a few nice outfits. It always felt like a seasonal upgrade — trading static-filled sweaters for flip-flops, mosquito bites, and the sweet smell of fresh-cut grass.
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Fate, Flow, and Falling on My Face
Fate, Flow, and Falling on My Face
Today I’m writing about fate. Honestly? I don’t know what to believe. I’d like to imagine I’m an enlightened mix of Taoist serenity and Stoic strength, but let’s be real—I’m probably just a Taoist soul trying to look Stoic while holding a cup of coffee and a mild existential crisis.Deep down, I’m all about flow, trust, and surrender. But I also crave structure, purpose, and the illusion of control. The Taoist in me says, “Let go, Lisa. Flow with the current.” Meanwhile, the Stoic side crosses her arms and mutters, “Yeah, but did you pack a paddle?”
This tension between floating and steering has been the theme of my life.
When I was 27, my husband at the time, Tom, and I decided it was time to start a family. I thought it would be simple—romantic even. You know, candlelight, love, a little Celine Dion in the background. Instead, fate apparently said, “Cute plan, kid. Watch this.”
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Fate Had Other Plans
I like to think I’m in charge of my own life. I’ve got color-coded calendars, synced reminders, and a to-do list that could scare a project manager. My inner control freak sleeps better when everything fits in a nice, neat box.But every so often, fate rolls her eyes, tosses my list in the air, and says, “Cute plan. Watch this.”
It’s never dramatic at first. Usually it starts with some tiny glitch—Wi-Fi dying during a meeting, a dog emergency, or the weather deciding to monsoon on my “productive” day. I huff, I mutter, I question all my life choices. And then, like clockwork, something unexpected falls into place. I’ll stumble across an old photo, get a call from someone I’ve been meaning to reach, or realize that fate just canceled my plans so I could actually notice my own life.
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Was It Fate, or Just a Yes?
When it comes to the idea of our lives being controlled by Fate, I have very mixed emotions. Some of my friends shrug and say, “Stuff happens,” as if life is completely out of their hands. Another one of those phrases is “It is what it is,” again implying that we’re ruled by fate. I’ve always had a hard time with that idea.I believe our consequences come at the end of a process that begins with our thoughts. What we think about shapes how we feel. Those feelings lead to actions, and our actions create results. In Catechism class and Sunday School, I was taught that we’ve been given the gift of free will, the ability to choose our own path. It’s those choices that determine how our lives unfold.
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When Fate Said “No”
There are moments in life when fate doesn’t announce itself with a sign or a sudden revelation. It arrives quietly, almost unnoticed, nudging us away from one path and toward another. I believe that’s what happened to me during one of the most difficult chapters of my life.When my father passed away, the world around me felt different, not just emotionally, but in how uncertain everything suddenly seemed to change. Grief has a strange way of rearranging your priorities. Things that once felt urgent or important no longer carried the same weight. Around that same time, a job transfer was presented to my husband. He had been in a manager training program, and this was the kind of offer where you periodically get transferred to other cities. On paper, it was the next logical step. It promised more pay, more responsibility, and the kind of advancement most people work years to achieve.
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One Pitcher, A Thousand Memories
Do you remember Kool-Aid summers? One sip of that bright, sugary goodness can take me right back to childhood—long afternoons outside, bare feet in the grass, and a neighborhood full of kids who always seemed to magically show up the second a fresh pitcher was mixed. How about the pitcher when frosty a face would be drawn on it. It just made it feel like a refreshment that couldn’t be beat.
I still remember the crinkle of the packet, the way the colors swirled like magic, and how our tongues stayed red or purple for hours. Cherry, Grape, Tropical Punch… everyone had their flavor.
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Kool-Aid Dreams, Sugar-Free Reality
Growing up, our kitchen was basically a shrine to non-sugary food. Cereal came in shades of brown and tan, full of twigs, nuts, and the promise of “regularity.” The sugar cereals—the bright, cartoon-covered boxes that called to every kid on Saturday mornings—were strictly forbidden. I swear, if it didn’t say bran somewhere on the box, it didn’t make it past the pantry door.The same rules applied to drinks. Kool-Aid was a four-letter word. Sugar was the enemy, and my mom was the general leading the war against it. While other kids stirred neon-red powder into their water and shouted “Oh yeah!” like the Kool-Aid Man himself, we were mixing up Crystal Light—because apparently, if it was sugar-free, it was “just as good.”
It wasn’t.
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Kool-Aid on The Rocks
When I was a kid, my mom wasn’t a fan of Kool-Aid. She thought it was nothing but sugar and dye, a shortcut to bad teeth and hyper kids. If we asked for something sweet, she’d say, “There’s always water,” like it was the treat of the century. Every once in a while, though, a few packets of Kool-Aid would sneak into the cupboard, and that felt like rebellion in powder form.I didn’t really fall for Kool-Aid until my mid-teens. Spencer, my boyfriend back then, and I would whip up a pitcher of cherry Kool-Aid and make grilled cheese sandwiches. We’d pour our bright red drinks into glasses, carry everything out to the picnic table in the backyard, and giggle like we were getting away with something.
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Drinking the Kool-Aid
When I first heard someone use the phrase “drinking the Kool-Aid” in a staff memo, my jaw nearly hit the teacher’s lounge table. To me, Kool-Aid was the stuff of childhood—sticky red mustaches, paper cups, and endless summer refills. But the phrase? That carried a much darker flavor.
I was working under a brand-new principal—Rich—who was just twenty-nine years old. Of all the qualified candidates who must have applied, somehow he got the job. His résumé boasted a couple years of teaching kindergarten, a freshly minted master’s degree, and a short stint as an assistant principal. He had energy and enthusiasm, sure—but experience? Let’s just say his cup wasn’t exactly running over.
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A Hearth of My Own
Fireplaces have always been an important part of decorating for me. I love old houses where you will find a fireplace in just about every room. They offer such a fabulous atmosphere and seem to facilitate the urge to just sit by the warmth, enjoying the crackling of the fire, and read, have conversations, or just enjoy hanging out and relaxing.As a kid, I did not have a fireplace in our family home. Our house would have been perfect, but it seemed that during this time, the fireplace just wasn’t a priority for my parents as it was to me. My dad would always talk about putting one in, as we had a blank wall where it would be perfect, but it just never got done.
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Playing With Fire
I was having coffee with a friend last week when the topic of camping came up. We laughed about tent disasters, shared our favorite campfire foods, and swapped stories about building the perfect fire. That’s when I learned something shocking—not everyone naturally knows how to build and maintain a fire! Who knew?
I’ve practiced my fire-making skills in all kinds of places—camping trips with my family, Girl Scout retreats, and right at home in the wood-burning fireplaces of my childhood houses. I was always the one scavenging for twigs, breaking up kindling, and making sure the logs burned evenly. There’s something satisfying about coaxing a spark into steady warmth.
But my knack for fire is both a blessing and a bit of a curse. My focus on the flames sometimes means I forget to notice other, smaller… shall we say, less responsible fire enthusiasts nearby.
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Fireplace Fails and Fixes
I was never the fire starter in our family—that job belonged to Dad and Lisa. They were the official flame whisperers, armed with newspaper twists, matches, and patience. I, on the other hand, preferred to enjoy the fire from a safe, soot-free distance.Honestly, I’ve never been a fan of the whole process. Building the fire, keeping it going, making sure it doesn’t go out—it’s way too much work for something that’s supposed to be relaxing. The last time I tried lighting my own fire, it was a campfire, and all it was good for was sending smoke signals.
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Fireplaces, Firepits, and Fond Memories
I love fireplaces in their many shapes and forms. Whether they’re made of stone, brick, or surrounded by polished wood, they seem to say, “Come, sit for a while.” A fireplace is a natural focal point in any home, a gathering place for warmth, reflection, and connection. There’s a special kind of beauty that comes from gazing into the flickering flames and glowing embers. My mind often drifts and dreams as I watch them dance. Faces appear, stories unfold, and before I know it, I’m miles away in thought. It’s a meditation of sorts, quiet, grounding, and endlessly soothing. -
Sunday, Time to Reflect and Reconnect
Sundays have a rhythm all their own. They mark both an ending and a beginning, a soft pause before the rush of another week. Depending on the season, they can be a doorway to something new or a gentle reminder to wrap up what’s unfinished.
When I was working full-time, I’ll admit, Sunday nights were my least favorite. No matter how productive I tried to be, the day always slipped away too quickly. By bedtime, I’d feel that familiar twinge of dread. Monday was waiting, and I wasn’t ready to meet it.
As a kid, Sundays had a very different flavor. The day began with church. I loved getting dressed up and sitting with my mom and sisters, listening to the sermon and wondering how it applied to me. Afterward, we’d change into comfy clothes, and Dad would settle into his red recliner for the “game of the day.” Football, baseball, golf, he loved them all. Before long, his interest would give way to a nap, and we’d hear the familiar sound of soft snores coming from his chair.
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Sunday, Not a Funday
Sunday has long been considered a special day, and its significance stems from several aspects of life: spiritual, physical, emotional, and social.In our family, I don’t think my dad got the memo that this was a day of rest, relaxation, and fun. You see, he was a salesman and was only home mostly on Sundays. What this meant to me was one of two things. First of all, we would usually have relatives over for the day. This meant a big meal around three p.m. After the meal, the grown-ups gathered in the living room to supposedly watch TV, but it usually meant they took an afternoon nap. Then, the most exciting event of the day started. My younger Sister, Judy, and I would have the privilege of cleaning up this mess. This took most of the day, as my mom, I swear, used every pot and pan in the cupboard, and, of course, the very best china. We would have a quiet discussion about who would wash and who would dry. For some reason, I washed. I don’t know why, as this entailed scrubbing all the dirty pots and pans, but drying seemed to take forever as that entailed putting everything away, and then there was cleanup.
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Sunday Faith, Fun, and Cleanup Duty
When I was little, Sundays had a rhythm all their own. The morning always started with Sunday School—Bible stories, crafts, and songs sung a little too loudly by kids who had way too much energy. But first came the ritual of getting dressed in our Sunday best. Dresses, shoes that felt a little more special than the everyday pair—it was all part of the package.After church came the real highlight: coffee and donuts with family friends. Most Sundays it was at their house, where the adults lingered over mugs and conversation while we kids played. But every once in a while, the gathering was at our house.
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Sundays…More Than Just Church
Sundays in my childhood always meant church—at least during fall, winter, and spring. Summer was different. I like to think Jesus understood the shortness and importance of Wisconsin summers and gave families a pass. But once the school year started, Sundays were all about itchy dresses, stiff shoes, and classrooms that smelled faintly of paste and crayons.
Mom would usually drop me off at the Sunday School wing at 9:15, still in her robe and slippers, and then head back home. Class lasted an hour. I don’t remember much about the actual lessons, but I do remember waiting by the big window overlooking the parking lot. More often than not, I was still standing there when the 10:45 classes began. Eventually, Mom would roll in, still wearing her pajamas, and I’d dash out to the car, dutifully educated for another week in the ways of Lutheranism.
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Tools of the Trade
My profession throughout my life was that of a legal secretary. It has been both interesting and amazing to witness how office equipment has evolved over my 59 years in this occupation.Tools of the Trade, by Decade
1950s
- Manual Typewriters – The primary tool for all correspondence.
- Mimeograph & Spirit Duplicators – Produced bulk copies.
- Rotary Dial Telephones – Standard desk communication.
- Dictation Machines – Using wax cylinders or early magnetic tape.
- Adding Machines – Mechanical devices for accounting.
- Filing Cabinets – The paper empire of every office.
- Punch Clocks – Employee timekeeping.
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Y2K: History’s Most Boring Apocolypse
In 1999, my job description was basically “professional panic manager.” By day, I was a Senior Field Consultant for Consultis. By night, I moonlighted with my own company, Schneider Consulting. Translation: I got paid to keep computers from throwing a digital temper tantrum at midnight on December 31st.The “crisis”? Two-digit years. Computers thought “00” meant 1900, not 2000. Which, according to the news, meant banks would collapse, planes would fall from the sky, and your toaster might start a small nuclear war. Basically, we were all one spreadsheet away from the Stone Age.
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History Etched in My Memory
History is not just something we read in textbooks. It’s the moments etched into our minds—the ones we carry with us forever. People talk about where they were during Pearl Harbor, when JFK was assassinated, or when George Floyd was murdered. For me, I remember exactly where I was on the day of the Challenger disaster, and again, on 9/11.
On January 28, 1986, I was walking through the UW–Eau Claire commons when crowds of students gathered around the only TV in the area, perched high in the corner of a sitting room. Oohs and ahhs rose as the space shuttle Challenger took off. We watched with that “damn, we are a nation that accomplishes big things” feeling. But just over a minute into its ascent, it exploded. We stood there, stunned, asking ourselves if we had truly seen what we thought we’d seen. Slowly, incredulously, people peeled away and drifted off to class or lunch at the Davies Cafeteria. We walked away silently.The other major world event of my lifetime was 9/11…
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History: From Then to Now
I remember when I was little, I used to hide under my grandmother’s quilting frame and listen to her and the women in our family complain about how expensive everything was. I asked Mom why Grandma liked to make quilts. She said it was too expensive to buy them already made.
I loved our handmade quilts and thought Grandma was wise to know how to do things like make jam and jelly, can fruit, bake bread, and make pies. She learned practical things, and she knew how to save money.
Growing up in the 1950s, my world was filled with hopscotch, saddle shoes, and black-and-white TV. Elvis was everyone’s heartthrob. We were practicing “bomb drills” in our school basement. The fear of “the bomb” was real, even if we didn’t understand it. Moving forward to my grade school years, we used to buy movie tickets at school. They came on a card with perforations. Each ticket cost $.25. The whole card cost three dollars and would allow us to go to the movies every Saturday afternoon for 12 weeks.
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Polish, Parenthood, and Puppies
Fingernails were not an item I paid much attention to as a kid. Many of the other little girls would come to school with their nails painted. I was much more interested in being a tomboy and playing cowboys and indians. In about the fourth grade, we had a teacher who kept a chart on each of us and checked different areas every day. One of the areas she emphasized was hygiene, which included checking our fingernails to ensure they were clean and well-shaped. I always received a negative mark in this category. I also chewed my cuticles until they bled. This didn’t add to a nice-looking nail experience.
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Sparkles and Super Glue
Fingernails seem to have turned into a full-blown fashion statement these days. Everywhere I look, people are tapping away with tiny works of art on the ends of their fingers. When I was a little girl, nail polish only came out when we played dress-up. The bottles were tiny, the colors questionable, and the application? A complete disaster. We had more polish on our fingers than on our nails. Future nail technicians, we were not.I didn’t help matters by being a chronic nail-biter. My poor nails never had a chance. Any time one dared to grow to a respectable length, I nibbled it right back into oblivion.
Adulthood didn’t bring much improvement. I still bit them, picked them, fussed with them basically, I treated my hands like ready-to-use tools that were always half-demolished. Then came acrylic nails. My youngest daughter gifted me a manicure for her wedding, and from that moment on, I was hooked. Acrylic nails were the thing back then, and for the next twenty-three years, I faithfully showed up every three weeks.
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From Nubs to French Tips
I’ve never been the poster child for perfect nails. Honestly, my cuticles have seen more neglect than my garden, and that’s saying something. But hands tell stories, don’t they? Nails reveal whether we’re working, stressing, pampering ourselves, or just plain giving up.
As a kid, I spent summer days with my grandma. She carefully removed polish, trimmed her cuticles, filed her nails, and reapplied a fresh coat of classic red. I, meanwhile, gnawed my nails down to nubs and hid them in embarrassment. Still, I refused to crack my knuckles because I figured someday I’d want my hands to look nice. Nails could grow back, but I didn’t want permanently mangled hands.
When I married Tom, I don’t remember doing anything special with my nails. But near the end of our marriage, I started getting acrylics. After counseling sessions, we hired a cleaning lady, and I began scheduling nail appointments. I kept my nails short and tried every color I could find. Having my house cleaned and my nails done every two weeks made me feel rich—like I had finally cracked the code on self-care. Those little luxuries were worth every penny. -
Fingernails: Chewed, Glued, and Screwed
As a kid, I chewed my nails down to the quick. There was never an ounce of white at the tips, and I had this strange habit of folding my pillowcase and shoving the crease under my nails, pushing that tender skin back. Gross, I know. The truth is, that habit never really went away. I still “crease” my nails to this day, and after years of it, my fingernails are barely attached to their nail beds—a long-lasting reminder of my own weird fidgeting.By the time I got to college, though, I traded one bad habit for another. With my $25 monthly allowance, I wasn’t buying ramen or stretching a dollar the way Lisa bragged she could with her $20. Nope—I was in the salon chair, blowing my budget on acrylic nails. Scrimping was never my style.
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Sickness & Sanity
Sickness has a way of leaving its mark. Not just the aches or the fevers, but the memories—how people react, who shows up, and the chaos that comes with it. Some of my sick days were miserable, some were funny in hindsight, and all of them taught me something about the people around me.When I was a kid, missing a day of school was not an option. Anytime we said we were sick, Mom’s response was, “Take an aspirin and a Geritol and you’ll feel fine.” Sympathy wasn’t really on the table. One time that I did manage to stay home from school, I remember making it far enough to be standing in the bathroom doorway, dry-heaving and trying to get my bearings. Dad took one look, grabbed my shoulders, and shoved me toward the toilet. No gentle words, no comforting back rub—just “protect the rug.”
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We Survived Covid
I’ve never been one to keep a perfect diary. My memories are more like sticky notes—half finished, scattered, and crumpled at the bottom of a purse. But I do remember this season of life vividly, probably because Covid practically steamrolled through our house.
When the world shut down, our little corner of life didn’t stop entirely. Craig kept going to work. The kids and I played family games, and we still shopped and lived somewhat normally—though with restrictions and precautions.By the end of summer, Luka started football practice. I planned to homeschool him and Aubrey, while Kadon would attend in person. One evening, after I picked Luka up from practice, he mentioned that his body hurt. That seemed odd, but I chalked it up to tough conditioning drills. The next morning, he spiked a fever. When we all got tested, he came back positive.
For the next two weeks, Luka quarantined in the library. I sat with him and worked through his school assignments. As soon as he recovered, Kadon tested positive and took his turn in the library, enjoying the same two-week sentence of schoolwork, television, and being waited on hand and foot. Both boys had only a brief fever, followed by endless hours of lounging with a remote in hand.
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Cat Scratch Fever
Back in the early 1980s, I was invited to participate in a fashion show. The show was being held at a Champagne Winery in the Napa Valley. I lived in the valley and worked for the local bank. The owner of the shop supplying the clothes asked people in different occupations to be guest models. I was excited and pleased to be asked.We met with the store owner and selected several fashionable looks to showcase for the show. I remember I was to wear a cream-colored knit jumpsuit belted with a wide belt featuring a stone buckle. With it, I wore a necklace with a stone matching the buckle. Another item chosen for me was a mohair coat in shades of gold and cream. I would wear it over the jumpsuit.
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A Private Room, Please
When I reflect on the word sickness, I feel that I’ve hardly ever been truly sick. But as I think back, I can see that over the last ten years, I seem to have made up for that. I’ve had a couple of serious illnesses, but I just never chose to consider them life-altering. As a child, I had the usual lineup: chicken pox, measles, mumps, colds, the flu, all those “lovely” little sicknesses that keep life interesting. I especially remember one day in kindergarten, coming home to find a big red sign posted on our front door. It announced that someone inside had a contagious illness and warned others to stay away. At the time, this was a common practice, though not long afterward, that way of announcing illness disappeared.
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Flowers: My Legal Addiction
You can never have too many flowers, or enough money to pay for them. I always loved flowers, but never had many opportunities to learn about how to accomplish my vision. My first experience of planting came from taking seeds from a boulevard on Midvale Blvd. in Madison, where my aunt and uncle lived. These weren’t really flowers, but were hens and chicks. Also, I was able to gather wild lily seeds from the spent flowers the same way and planted them at home. I was thrilled at my success, but that was it until I had my first home of my own. The first spring that we actually had a lawn, I decided it was time to start my flowers. Well, I purchased two medium-sized redwood planters that I put on the front porch. Not having any experience with planting flowers, I actually took these two planters to a local greenhouse for them to plant a couple of geraniums and a spike in each one. Well, they were lovely even though a two-year-old could have planted this exciting arrangement. I, in my ignorance, was upset when my daughter, Lisa, decided to pick a bouquet for her mom. When she brought this to me, I almost had a stroke. I thought my beautiful flowers were done forever. Boy, do I wish I could turn back the clock and learn how at that age to take a chill pill and love the thoughtfulness of my daughter. Live and learn.
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Confessions of a Flower Fumbler
I’ve always loved flowers…well, loved looking at them, at least. Growing them? That’s been more of a long, slow comedy—equal parts enthusiasm, trial-and-error, and a surprising amount of stubborn weeds. My gardening story is less “Master Gardener” and more “Oops, I probably should have mulched.” But here’s how my love affair with flowers has bloomed (and occasionally flopped) over the years.As a small child, I watched my mom plant hundreds of annuals around the back of our house. The bright colors and glorious riot of shapes lit up that corner of the yard. Behind the garage, a long bed of marigolds perfumed the morning air. Even now, one whiff of marigolds takes me right back. (Yes, I know some people think they stink, but I LOVE that scent!)
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Flower Power… Minus the Power
As a little kid, I loved planting flowers with Mom. She taught me the whole process—dig the hole, sprinkle in a little fertilizer, set the flower in, pack the dirt around it, and then water. We repeated that ritual for years.But somewhere along the way, my love for gardening wilted. It was much easier to just let Mom do it for me! When I moved to Beaver Dam, she handled most of my gardening. She’d practically have to drag me outside to help her—and I’d usually be holding a kid or baby, trying to use that as an excuse. Truth is, if Mom didn’t come over, the planting simply didn’t get done. Still, those years quietly taught me what worked and what didn’t.
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Forget the Books, Listen to the Flowers
The flowers I grew up with filled my summers with beauty. My mom made it a point to plant them in different spots around our yard. I loved the moss roses and the geraniums, and the borders lined with white and purple alyssum. Tulips appeared in early spring, but where they came from, how they grew, and where they should be planted was a complete mystery to me.I was the youngest of three girls and considered too little to handle something as important as planting the flowers that made our home beautiful. My sister Sandy always seemed to know what she was doing. I’ll admit it, I was jealous.
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Truthful: Because Filters Are for Coffee
In some families, politeness is the rule. They’ll smile sweetly, tell you your casserole is “just delicious,” and gush that your new haircut makes you look so young. In our family? Not so much. We don’t do polite lies—we do truthful answers. Sometimes brutally so.If I ask my sister, “Does this outfit look good on me?” I know I’m not getting a sugar-coated reply. If it makes me look like I’ve gained ten pounds, she’ll tell me. If my hairstyle is doing me no favors, she’ll announce it. And honestly, I’d rather hear her truthful opinion than a polite fib.
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The New Face of Truthfulness
The practice of being truthful has changed. Years ago, being truthful was more about personal character and reputation. Handshakes often sealed a deal. Neighbors, coworkers, and family knew if your words matched your actions. Truth was simple, face-to-face, and rooted in trust.Today, truthfulness feels more complicated. With social media, we are tempted to share a version of ourselves. Information overload makes it harder to separate fact from opinion, and sometimes even the most well-meaning people struggle to know what’s really true. The face-to-face element of being truthful no longer exists.
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Truth and Trust
“Hey Sandy, you had better talk to your daughter… she has hickies on her neck,” my dad said.
“You’d better talk to your daughter. I don’t like her lying on the floor with her boyfriend under a blanket,” my mom later told me my dad had said.
Growing up, I was probably as truthful with my parents as many people of my generation—more than some, less than others. I tried to live my life and be in relationships to the best of my ability, but I was a teenager after all. Teenagers are works in progress, not fully formed moral philosophers.
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Kayaks and Other Missed Opportunities
I have two kayaks at home and two more up at our cottage in Door County. Want to guess how many times I’ve used them in the past two years? Exactly once. And no, not the shiny new ones up at the cottage—those have never touched water.I knew I’d enjoy kayaking because a few years back I borrowed a friend’s boat on Rock Lake in Lake Mills, WI. We shoved off around 11 a.m. and paddled along the shoreline for three hours. We drifted past gorgeous lake homes and kids doing TikTok dances on their piers. We laughed, swapped stories, and soaked up each other’s company. At one sandy little bay, we pulled our kayaks up, ate fruit and granola, then dropped everything and dove into the water. It was a perfect day. The real surprise? I wasn’t even sore the next morning.
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Lessons from a Kayak
Life doesn’t hand you a motorboat. Most days, it’s a kayak—one paddle, one person, and a lot of figuring it out as you go.Motorboats are for people who like speed, money, and confidence. Kayaks? Those are for people with balance. Which is exactly why I’ve never set foot in one. I can trip over a flat floor, so climbing into a kayak is basically begging the fish to get a free laugh. Honestly, I’d rather be the one on shore with a chair, a snack, and a towel ready for whoever tips first.
But even from land, I get it. Some days in life feel like gliding across smooth water—work goes well, the house is (mostly) in order, and the current carries me along. Other days? I’m spinning in circles, paddling hard but not making any progress—kind of like trying to juggle work, family, and a house that seems to breed laundry and dust.
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Adding Kayaks to the List
When I was a teenager, I loved to go canoeing. We would head out on Beaver Dam Lake as soon as the spring sun warmed the air and work on our tans. It became a ritual for the eight of us each year.At Girl Scout Camp Blackhawk, canoeing was a major activity, and I loved every moment. We spent hours learning how to paddle correctly and steer accurately. Time passed, and after I moved away from home, I never had the chance to continue canoeing or to try kayaking.
When I returned to Wisconsin in 2014, kayaking had become a popular sport in town. There was a rental spot at Waterworks Park and a launching area that made getting in and out of a kayak simple. My sister and I would pass it often on our daily walks and always said, “One day we’ll try it.” But we never did.
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Canoe Chaos to Kayak Dreams
I am the proud owner of two kayaks. My family heard me talking about wanting to try kayaking, and they thought I’d love it. At first, they bought me two small ones—only later did I notice there was a weight restriction. So those went back, and we replaced them with two larger ones.I wanted two because I imagined my husband and I paddling together, sharing this new adventure. But I waited too long. My husband has since passed, and now the kayaks sit at our cottage on Lake Michigan. Honestly, they’d be better suited for our calm local lake—but no, we apparently thought braving five-foot waves would be more thrilling. And to top it off, they aren’t even in the water yet. They’re gathering dust, stored away in a shed, waiting for their big debut.
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Enthusiasm Makes the Sale
Yesterday, my orthopedic surgeon sold me on something I swore I’d never buy: two new shoulders. And he did it with nothing more than pure, unfiltered enthusiasm.Years ago, when I was trained as a sales trainer, I learned that 85% of any sale comes down to enthusiasm. The same words spoken in a monotone simply won’t get the same results. Yesterday, in that exam room, I got a masterclass in just how true that is.
Several years ago, I began having severe pain in both shoulders. An MRI revealed that my rotator cuffs were irreparably torn. My doctor suggested injections to help manage the pain. The first two rounds, spaced 90 days apart, worked well. But when I went for the third injection, nothing. No relief at all.
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Enthusiasm Gets Me In Trouble
You go on with life one day at a time. You find that perfect person to spend the rest of your life with, get engaged, married, have children—and for a while, things are well, even peaceful. In the back of your mind, though, you know another chapter is waiting. Grandchildren. Of course, that’s one thing you have no control over. All you can do is dream, hope, and pray that someday this blessing will be yours to enjoy.One evening, Art and I went out to dinner with our daughter, Michelle, and her husband. Now, since this was not the usual weekday outing, I suspected something was up. Sure enough, when the conversation turned to a “special announcement,” my big mouth got ahead of me. I blurted out the surprise—Michelle was pregnant! Art and I were about to become first-time grandparents.
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Enthusiastic Then, Content Now
As I’ve gotten older, my passions have shifted, mellowed, and occasionally disappeared altogether. But summer? Summer has always sparked my enthusiasm in ways no other season could.I can still feel that first barefoot dash of the year—shoes and socks flung aside, cold gray cement under my feet. Inevitably, I’d land on a sharp little pebble. Pain would shoot through my toes, a quick reminder that my winter-soft feet weren’t quite ready for the wild sprints across fields or the trip to the mailbox.
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Enthusiasm Without the Fireworks
Some people seem to have a bottomless supply of enthusiasm. They throw themselves into everything — from book clubs to bake sales — with the same wide-eyed excitement a kid has for an ice cream truck. I’ve never been one of those people. My enthusiasm runs on the quieter side. I can enjoy something, appreciate it, even love it, without feeling the need to clap until my hands sting or yell “Wooo!” loud enough for the neighbors to hear.Take the Origami Owl conventions I used to attend. Every year, they’d introduce a few new $5 charms, like a red high heel, a little purse, or a pumpkin, and the room would explode in applause. Women would leap to their feet, squeal, and “ooh” like they’d just been handed the keys to a beach house. The enthusiasm in the room was contagious — at least for some people. I’d sit there smiling politely, thinking, We’re cheering over that? Don’t get me wrong — the charm was cute. But it wasn’t life-changing. I guess my enthusiasm scale for “worth freaking out over” just sits a few notches higher.
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Sleep is a Good Thing
I can only remember a couple of times when I can say I have been truly exhausted.One of those times was during the Christmas Season. This usually causes me a great deal of stress and total exhaustion. I was decorating at the last minute, which is normal for this master procrastinator. My husband was having a social at our house with his meeting buddies. In order for me to create what I thought was “Better Homes and Gardens Holiday Magazine,” I actually stayed up three nights in a row without going to bed or allowing myself to rest in any shape or form. I would not recommend this, as strange things happen to you when you try to go without shuteye. Since I also had to go to work during the day, I decorated all night and continued on my necessary schedule. I can say that I actually started seeing objects in my peripheral vision. To say I was exhausted was an understatement. To start this holiday event, the club that came to my house had a speaker before we were to party. I have never been so tired. I had to use every ounce in my being to stay awake for his speech. What he spoke about, I have no idea. So, don’t try this at any time, as it is very dangerous to your health, taken from experience.
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No Escape From Exhaustion
There are different kinds of exhaustion.There’s the kind that makes your legs ache, your eyes droop, and your body scream for a bed. But for me, the exhaustion that hits the hardest is the kind that settles in my mind.
When I’m truly tired, I lose the thread of my own thoughts. I walk into a room and have no idea why I’m there. I stare at my calendar like it’s written in code. I’ll be mid-sentence and suddenly—poof—gone. I’ve got no idea what I was saying or why I started saying it in the first place.
It’s not just forgetfulness. It’s like someone unplugged my brain and forgot to turn it back on.
This kind of tired showed up early. I remember falling asleep in school during film strips—the moment the lights went out, so did I. I was still involved in everything—after-school activities and dance—but during the day? If I slowed down for even a minute, my body would try to shut off.
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Fighting Exhaustion
Exhaustion has been a constant in my life. Some people know stress. Others know heartbreak. I know exhaustion. For as long as I can remember, I have needed 8–10 hours of sleep to feel refreshed. When I was a toddler, I would often sleep until noon. Mom would wake me up so I could have lunch with my two sisters when they came home from school each day.Going to grade school required a battle to get me out of bed in the morning. I remember my Dad shouting, “I want to hear two feet on the floor,” multiple times before I complied. I recall falling asleep at my desk during my first hour class in both junior and senior high school. I could fall asleep anywhere.
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Driving Inhibitions
Picture this, I was sixteen, just after graduating from high school. Now, when you reach the ripe old age of sixteen, what is the first thing most teenagers are hell bent on doing? Getting their driver’s license, of course. To say I was terrified to attempt this next feat would be an understatement. First of all, I needed a car. The family car was a gift passed down from my dad’s father to my father. This vehicle was also taken out of the garage and used exclusively for personal purposes, as he drove a company car for work. This created a problem as he wouldn’t let anyone drive his beloved garage car, and consequently left me without a vehicle to practice driving on. Thankfully, I had a boyfriend who had a car, a very nice vehicle, I might say, a big black Plymouth (with wings). Since I know very little about cars, I don’t remember what year it was, but it became my wheels during the driver’s license training period.
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Shedding My Inhibitions
In the early years, I was a people pleaser. I didn’t want to create waves. I was the teacher’s pet—the one who followed directions, finished assignments early, and made sure my name stayed in good standing. I didn’t argue. I didn’t question. I did what I was told, because somewhere deep down, I assumed other people knew better.I didn’t trust my own opinions or ideas. It wasn’t that I lacked them—just that I didn’t think they held much weight. My inhibitions were rooted in the belief that someone else’s voice mattered more than mine. So I made choices by looking around and following the lead of others. When my sister Lisa chose a college, I chose the same one. I didn’t tour campuses. I didn’t compare programs. I just figured, she made a good choice. That’ll work for me too.
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La Bamba vs. Inhibitions
As a child, I was socially shy, especially around boys and men. I was the youngest of three girls and had only one male cousin, who made me feel awkward most of the time. In school, I was academically strong but painfully quiet among peers. I thrived on giving book reports and presentations, but often withdrew in everyday social situations.Despite my shyness, I could present myself as confident when a situation called for it. I could mentally disconnect from my discomfort and focus solely on the task at hand. Once the moment passed, I would quietly retreat into myself again.
But there’s a strange contradiction in being shy and still craving connection. I always wanted to connect more, express more, and participate more fully; those internal walls held me back.
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Hair Inhibitions
WWhen people say “hair is an accessory,” I nod in agreement… I always say it myself. But do I believe it? I mean really believe it? That phrase sounds empowering—like we’re in control, using hair to express our personality, our mood, our stage in life. But in truth? My hair has often felt more like a battleground than an accessory. A place where my inhibitions were front and center.
Let’s rewind.
As a little girl, I adored my long hair. I was proud of how it cascaded down my back and hit the seat of the chair when I sat. The longer, the better. Then came second grade, 1972, and my mom decided to chop her own hair into a trendy pixie shag. I begged—begged—to do the same. After enough pleading, she gave in.But here’s the catch: we didn’t go to a fancy salon where someone might coax out the best version of this new “do.” Nope—we went to a family friend who was a barber. A man. I got my long hair hacked off in a backyard barber chair. And every eight weeks for the next decade, I returned to that chair, getting “shaped up.”
And that’s where the hair-based inhibition really began.
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Family, My Anchor
My anchor in life has been my family.When I was a minor, I must say that my family anchored me, or at least gave it their all to do so.
As parents, they had a rather difficult job to accomplish this, but they did the best they could, and I feel they did a pretty darn good job. Then, to complete my family and further my grounding, came my two sisters, Kathy and Judy. This family of four was my anchor. I depended on them for my happiness, health, security, and above all, love.
Then, when I became a teenager, I still appreciated my family as those to keep me grounded. At that time, I also met my life partner, Art, and had yet another grounding factor. I must say I depended heavily on these people as my anchor. I had many decisions, such as what direction I would be best fit for in a job, whether or not to participate in school activities, and later on, whether or not to go on to school. Because of these people in my life, my decisions were influenced by them.
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Anchored Between the Chimes
When we moved into this house, there was a spot—right in the center of the main floor—that needed a grandfather clock. Not wanted. Needed. I had seen the perfect one in a shop downtown and told my mom, “If there’s any way this could be my birthday/Christmas/New Year’s/Easter present—I need that clock.”
A few days later, it was delivered.And honestly? That clock became more than furniture. It became a symbol. My anchor. It ticks and chimes with quiet consistency, no matter what kind of chaos swirls around it. I love winding it. I love hearing its sounds. It’s not flashy or demanding—it just…keeps going.
Some days, I feel like that clock. Calm. Solid. Reliable. Other times, not so much. But it reminds me that even in uncertain times, some part of me keeps time. Keeps moving. Trusts the process.
Over the years, people have asked how I knew when I was ready for big changes. How did I know I wanted kids? That it was time to leave my marriage? That I was done with a career in teaching? And the truth is: I just decided.
But not always right away.
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Inherited Anchors
I am a creature of habit—always have been. And it’s not just how we decorate cookies or the way I fold towels (the way Mom taught me, of course). It goes deeper than that. My habits are stitched into the way I live, the things I hold onto, and the way I move through the world. Ninety percent of my home is filled with hand-me-downs: my Great Uncle’s clock, Grandma’s dining room set, Mom and Dad’s bedroom set. To most people, they’re just old things. To me, they’re anchors. They tether me to the people who shaped me, to a way of life that feels solid and familiar. I don’t keep them because they’re trendy or valuable. I keep them because they remind me who I am—and whose I am. -
Redifining Prosperity
When I hear the word prosperity, my mind doesn’t flash to yachts or stock portfolios. Instead, it brings up a very specific memory from second grade—one filled with velvet, a funeral, and a heartfelt family decision that, at the time, felt incredibly grown-up to me.
We lived on Cherokee Road. My little sister was two and a half. That December, my grandpa passed away peacefully at home in his favorite chair. My mom had just gotten a beautiful new coat that I admired with all my little-kid longing. For the funeral, I got one of my own—a rust-colored velvet coat with a fluffy collar. It was fancy. It was beautiful. It made me feel important.
From a kid’s perspective, life felt steady and safe. When I really wanted something, I usually got it. My family was stable. My world was small and secure.Then, a few months later, Mom sat me down for a heart-to-heart.
Dad had been in the “manager trainee” program at JCPenney, working full-time there while also hanging draperies on his day off and in the evenings. He had just been offered a promotion and transfer—to Council Bluffs, Iowa.
Council Bluffs? What even was that? Iowa? Where was that?
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Almost Prosperous
There have been times in my life when I thought I was this close to having it all together. I’d finally have the bills paid and a little money in the savings account… and then the car’s check engine light would start blinking and making a funny noise. I’d be feeling good for a week—eating better, getting some exercise—and then I’d have a doctor’s appointment and they’d say something “looks concerning.” I’d clean the entire house, light a candle, pour a glass of wine… only to see a mouse run through the living room. -
Thoughts of Prosperity
I’ve recently found myself in a very different financial situation. Two and a half years ago, my husband passed away. The first major change was that his income was no longer available. The next came when I left my job at the bank.Since last February, I’ve been living on my retirement income alone. These changes created a new reality: in a very short time, my income was reduced by two-thirds.
What I realized almost immediately was that I needed to examine my mindset around money and prosperity. As I reflected on these areas, I came to see that I had never truly considered myself prosperous.
When I was young, financial stress loomed large due to my sister’s illness and mounting hospital bills. I always believed we lacked the funds to live the life we wanted.
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Unexpected Guidance
An Operations Manual for LifeI was having an unusually crazy day at the furniture store. Nothing was going as planned, and every decision I made proved to be the wrong decision. It was lunchtime, and I told Michael that I was going to the bookstore. I loved browsing the books and thought I might find something to take my mind off my day. I told him that I needed an “Operations Manual for My Life”. We laughed, and I left.
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Sandy’s Dream
Serendipity – A very broad definition of serendipity is “fate,” “destiny,” or “predestination”. It’s the idea that certain things are meant to happen to you.It was a lifelong dream, that of owning a cottage. I was dreaming of a cottage, or in other words, a shack in the woods on Lake Michigan.
Our family usually went tent camping in the Northern part of Wisconsin. We eventually frequented the area known as Door County. There we started camping at the Jellystone Park. This was a family campground geared to the kids, which was a good fit for us at that time. Then, when the children got older, we started camping at the Penninsula State Park. We owned a furniture store at this time and found it more convenient to rent a cabin on the Labor Day Weekends. There was one area that called to me. This was the South Michigan Drive area. It was rather rugged, right on the water, in the woods, and everything I always thought of as a dream area for a cottage that we could afford.
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Serendipity at Panera
Panera isn’t known for life lessons.
It’s known for coffee refills, baguettes, soup in bread bowls, and a reliable place to sit and talk for a while.And yet, that’s exactly where serendipity found me.
Many years ago, I sat at Panera with my teaching colleagues after a Target run on Madison’s east side, spending our yearly classroom budget money. The best kind of shopping—the kind that delivers a dopamine rush without touching your own wallet.
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When Serendipity Called
There was a time in my life when I felt stuck. Not falling-apart stuck—just that quiet, restless kind of stuck. The kind where the days blur together and you wonder if this is all there is. I wanted more. I wasn’t even sure what “more” meant—just that I was craving connection, joy, maybe even a little magic.That’s when I read The Secret.
Say what you want about manifesting, but I was in the mood to believe. I pulled together pictures of everything I wanted more of: smiling faces, friendship, money, laughter, purpose. I made a dream board and set it as the background on my computer so I’d see it every single day. No plan. Just intention. Just trust.
And then—one day—my phone rang.
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Dining with Dogs
When I was a kid and living at home, evening meals held in a formal dining room were the norm. Things have changed drastically, wherein formal dining rooms are a thing of the past. Everyone seems to prefer an informal way of living, such as eating at counters, in front of the TV, and in the car on the way to an event. My mom would set the table with a cloth tablecloth, breakable dishes versus plastic, matching silverware, and to top everything off, we ate by candlelight. This didn’t seem odd, and we enjoyed engaging in discussions of our days and events. -
Candlelight & Chicken Nuggets
Ah, family dinners. That magical time of day when everyone was supposed to gather around the table, hold hands, and share stories while eating a well-balanced, home-cooked meal.Yeah… that never happened.
When my kids were little, I tried. Really, I did. I dreamt of Norman Rockwell moments. But instead, dinner became a nightly episode of “Who Hates What?”
One kid didn’t like vegetables. Another refused to eat meat. At one point, the boys would only eat broccoli and cauliflower if they were doused in ketchup, which is a crime against both vegetables and condiments. If I served fish, someone cried. If I made meatloaf, someone gagged. Chicken nuggets were the only universally accepted food group.
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Love was Served Nightly
For as long as I can remember, our family sat down to a family dinner every night. Even when we worked after school, we still managed to sit down together for our evening meal. Dad was a route salesman back then, and he would still be home every night. He had to make the post office mail deadline for his daily orders, so we ate after this task was completed. -
TV Dinners and Tiny Toasts
Family dinner has always been more of an idea I admired than a daily ritual I mastered. Growing up, we did eat together—just not quite like the storybook versions my mom would recount.
As a kid, we gathered around the kitchen table in our designated spots. I sat by the dishwasher, Michelle claimed the corner by the windows, Dad parked himself by the door, and Mom sat with her back to the TV… the TV that was on. We always ate later in the evening, so we watched our shows—around her. Mom was not amused. She’d try to make conversation, valiantly attempting to ignore the laugh track behind her, but she didn’t have much success. -
Confessions of Serial Side Hussler
At some point in my life, I got it into my head that the next big thing was always just one starter kit away.It started, as these things often do, with admiration. Some women I respected—smart, capable, magnetic women—invited me to join Origami Owl and TEAM. I didn’t join because I was easily swayed. I joined because I believed in them. If they saw something in it—and maybe in me—then surely it was worth a shot.
Origami Owl was all about lockets filled with tiny charms that told your life story. Mine told the story of high hopes, a shrinking savings account, and way too many charms shaped like flip-flops and coffee cups.
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A Journey from Following to Visioning
I recently had the opportunity to write a vision statement, a personal declaration of what I want from life, built around what I would truly love. I’m exploring my passions, trying to discover what would help me create a life of purpose and joy. -
Motivated. . . Against My Will
I had a vision. It was called Amway. Who doesn’t want to get rich? Well, friends started to get involved in this new idea to sell the Amway opportunity. They had products that you sold. The key is becoming a member or distributor and recruiting others to do the same. This allows you to build a downline and potentially become extremely wealthy. Once you reach the diamond level, you’ve arrived at your desired destination: wealth without the effort. Your team members, who have signed up under you, are doing the work, and you reap the benefits of their hard work.It’s never framed that way, of course, because who wants to admit that your big dreams might just land you working hard so someone else can get rich?
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The Final Season
This, the new season of my life:It appears this is the final season of my life. Depressing, oh yeah. Come on, I want to live forever. I always say I want to see how this all turns out. I was told that everyone has to leave the party early at some point. It is a reality. Often, I can be heard saying, “I can’t imagine life without me.”
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A Change of Seasons
Some live for bold transformations—grand openings, dramatic exits, big life announcements. Not me. I’m more of a “slow fade into the next thing” kind of gal. Like nature here in the Midwest, my life seems to shift in seasons—quietly, subtly, and sometimes without me even noticing until I’m standing knee-deep in snow, wondering what happened to my flip-flops.I love how our Midwest seasons change slooooowly (yes, with that many o’s). One season melts into the next. Summer doesn’t pack its bags and storm out; it lingers. The days gradually shorten, green leaves blush into the warm golds and reds of autumn, and then flutter to the ground, uncovering winter’s stark branches. In the spring, snowdrops poke through leftover patches of snow in my garden, and redwing blackbirds start shouting from the treetops that summer is just around the corner.
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Seasons of Me
Some people live for summer. Flip-flops, fireflies, and late-night bonfires. Not me. I mean, summer has its place, usually in the outdoors… with the mosquitoes.For me, the seasons have always felt more like moods than months.
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Seasons of the Soul
Having been raised in Wisconsin, I became attached to the change of the seasons. I enjoyed knowing that the weather in each season brought with it expectations of new and fun activities and adventures. As the bleak and monotonous winter gives way to spring, the new birth is all around us. The trees begin to bud, and the early perennials, such as crocuses and daffodils, show off their welcome blooms. -
Anniversary Lessons
Several years ago, I read a magazine article titled “Why Do I Keep Making the Same Dumb Mistakes?” It hit a nerve. I had two failed marriages and one long-term relationship that didn’t work out. That question, Why do I keep doing this?, felt like it was written just for me.So I sat with it.
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Anniversary of Teenage Years
It would have been sixty-three years this year, not to mention the several years of dating before our marriage. We got married on July 6th, 1963, and I swear it was one of the hottest days of the year. -
25 Years and Counting
This summer, Craig and I are celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary. We got married on 7/7/00—a date Craig will never forget, mostly because in aviation, “squawking 7700” signals a mid-air emergency that requires immediate attention. Fitting, right?We met on January 31, 1999—Super Bowl weekend. I had just moved to Beaver Dam and separated from my (now ex-)husband, Tom. That night, my friend Bonnie called and asked if I wanted to go out for dinner. I said “yes,” and she immediately replied, “You pick the restaurant, I’ll drive.”
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Sidetracked Anniversary
Thirty years ago, we weren’t writers -we were women with glue guns, glitter, and a dream. The Sidetracked Sisters started as a mom (Sandy), her two daughters (Lisa and me), and her sister (Judy), selling hand-painted crafts in someone’s living room. -
Payback’s a Bitch
I love giving and/or doing surprises. Unfortunately, when you are famous for doing this, you find that those whom you have surprised are waiting in the wings to reciprocate to surprise you.On this one occasion, I had a co-worker who was a blast and a half. I should have expected something coming from her, but, of course, I didn’t.
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Unsolicited Surprises
Ah, surprises. Once upon a time, they meant birthday parties and spontaneous flowers. Now? They’re mostly the kind that pop up in your bathroom mirror, your inbox, or your medical charts. Here’s a list of the little delights midlife has tossed into my lap—unsolicited, un-returnable, and often unwanted… -
Doctor, I’m Dying
Back in 1987, I was working as a corporate trainer at a bank in Oakland, California. On most days, I would commute from Napa, California, with my husband to Walnut Creek, California. He would drop me off at the BART station, and I would catch the train to Oakland. He worked in Walnut Creek so that he could go on to work. The Train came into Downtown Oakland, about a block away from the bank branch where I was working. The train came into a station that was down in the bowels of the earth. There were three layers of escalators to take to reach the street level.