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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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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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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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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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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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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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A Year of Change, Challenge, and Grace
I’m honestly in awe of how fast time flies these days. Back in the 1980s, when I was living in California, I remember a DJ on the radio once said:
“Life is like a roll of toilet paper—the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.”
At the time, I laughed. Now? It hits a little deeper. It feels very true. -
Resilience and Reflection
As I look back on 2024, I can only describe it as a roller coaster—a year filled with moments of joy, deep sorrow, and everything in between. Life had a way of keeping me on my toes, and through it all, I found strength, love, and resilience.