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I am a Wisconsin-based freelance writer. I write on any number of topics as noted in the Categories Section. Thank you for visiting my website. Feel free to leave a comment after any of the pieces.

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Alpaca Farming in Wisconsin with Geoff Rostan

Geoff Rostan first encountered alpacas in a travel magazine pulled from an airplane seatback. Intrigued, he began casual research which gradually intensified as the stresses of the corporate world mounted. Like more and more North Americans smitten with the animals, Rostan decided to try his hand at alpaca farming. It was the genesis of the Timber Ridge Alpaca Farm.

Rostan says with a grin: “The most experience I had with animals was raising our family dog.” He’d done his research though, and it began to pay off. Not long into the endeavor, he secured early retirement and now raises alpacas full-time. “I work harder now than I ever have, but I also enjoy my work more than I ever have.” Currently, Rostan’s herd numbers just under thirty animals, and he has plans to double it.

The Timber Ridge Alpaca Farm is nestled in the hills near Monticello, Wisconsin. In a state where the norm for animal agriculture consists of raising swine and dairy cattle, Rostan's Huacaya alpacas are a unique and regal jewel of the American livestock industry.

Rostan describes the response of local farmers. “They generally respond with a lot of questions. During our first open house, many of the neighbors stopped by to see 'Just what was going on up on the hill.' Many of them expressed that they were glad that I was keeping the land in agriculture.” Evidently Rostan has gained more than just their interest. “Recently, a couple of the guys helped me make hay on the 12 acres that I had planted last year.”

Timber Ridge's profitability is a combination of breeding and fiber. Rostan believes that “the future of alpacas is in the fiber itself but it will still take some time before there are enough alpacas in this country to make a viable fiber market.”

Fiber is sold to a variety of outlets. Hand spinners buy raw Timber Ridge fiber as well as fiber which has been processed into yarn and roving. Customers are both local and extend beyond Wisconsin. A family member attends fiber festivals twice a year and sells a large amount of the Timber Ridge annual shear.

“I have two local 'mini-mills' that I use for our processing,” Rostan says. “We also belong to The Alpaca Fiber Cooperative of North America. We supply them with a portion of our yearly clip, and in return, we can buy high quality alpaca products at a wholesale price.”

Wisconsin winters do not pose a problem for the alpacas. Rostan shields them from the wind and gives them shelter when the temperatures drop. Summers require a little extra care. “Our temperatures are more moderate than in other areas of the country. We may have a few hot, humid days during the summer, but they usually don’t last that long. On those days, I will go out to the barn and spray their undersides to keep them cool. They really love it.” The alpacas actually line up for him when he pulls out the hose.

According to Rostan, the number of breeders in Wisconsin has more than doubled since 2001. “We have a large network of very dedicated breeders that are always willing to lend a hand when someone needs some help. We also have a strong regional association called The Great Lakes Alpaca Association which meets four times a year to provide educational seminars and discuss everything from birthing crias to marketing. The University of Wisconsin Veterinary School also sponsors continuing education seminars for alpaca breeders and veterinarians that have ranged from reproductive issues to parasite control.”

When asked how the sluggish economy has affected Timber Ridge and the alpaca industry, his answer is upbeat. “Because of our soft economy, there are some excellent opportunities to acquire some wonderful alpacas at reasonable prices. Now would be the best time to invest. Ultimately, the market will come back out of the recession. For those who were smart, they will be positioned very well. There are some great tax incentives for the small business owner right now that can really help too.”

Rostan is a man who appears to truly enjoy what he does. He surveys his herd and recalls an alpaca that had a habit of untying his shoes. He continues to point out various personality intricacies of his herd. Beyond breeding and sheering for fleece, he finds a lasting satisfaction in introducing people to alpacas and watching the transformation that occurs. When asked if he had any regrets, a serene Rostan answers: “Only that I didn’t get involved sooner. These animals are not only a joy. They are an antidote to stress.”

To share the experience, visit the Timber Ridge website at www.timberridgefarm.com/

Shelly Dutch: Beacon of Hope for Wisconsin's Youngest Addicts

When you first meet Shelly Dutch, you’d better be wearing a good pair of shoes. If she’s not counseling clients in an individual, family or group session, she’s probably moving. Tom Farley, who heads The Chris Farley Foundation, describes her as “one of the most dynamic people in teen counseling in Madison, if not the whole state of Wisconsin.” One of her staff members, Cory Divine, states that Dutch is “a powerhouse of energy and conviction.”

A survivor of sexual abuse and cocaine addiction, Dutch has remained drug-free for over 20 years and uses her personal experience to ignite cutting-edge programs in AODA (alcohol and other drug abuse) counseling that are producing unprecedented results, particularly a mentorship program that relies on seasoned members of the recovery community to guide those new to recovery through its challenges and hazards.

“The opportunity to witness our clients going from hopeless to hopeful is the greatest gift I experience,” she says. Not only is Dutch the creator and director of Connections Counseling in Madison, she also helped create Horizon High School, where students with drug and alcohol problems can work at recovery while they achieve their high school diploma. Then there is Aaron House. Dutch helped create the structured sober-living house on the UW-Madison campus, voted the No. 1 party school in America by the Princeton Review in 2006.

The house is named after Aaron Meyer, a young man who had achieved recovery at Connections Counseling and was tragically killed in a car accident (which had no drug or alcohol involvement) in 2005. She organizes panels that visit schools across the state, educating young people about drug and alcohol abuse. UW medical school residents visit her clinic to learn about AODA counseling.

Fighting for their livesIn short, Dutch is ferociously involved in saving the lives of young people who struggle with addiction to drugs and alcohol. “Providing a strength-based experience to each individual allows a safe and nurturing environment, which allows clients to believe in themselves and honor their recovery process,” she says.

Dutch provides a tour of the clinic, setting down a binder here and replenishing a stack of leaflets there. She rattles off rapid-fire facts and figures about addiction and what Connections is doing about it. The only time she is silent is when she passes a portion of hallway with photos of young people that have a birth date and death date. Her hand moves toward the wall without an apparent conscious thought. As she walks, her fingers slide against the wall photos as if she is attempting to reach into past counseling sessions that were not enough to save these young people from the grip of addiction and its consequences. In her sudden silence it becomes clear: What happens in these halls is deathly serious.

One of her most effective counseling creations is the mentorship program. Those who maintain sobriety for 90 days are offered the chance to mentor other clients who aren’t as far along in the recovery process. Daily sober activities are scheduled, so there is always something fun for clients to do. Taking on the role of mentor invests in others and provides a further incentive for maintaining one’s own recovery. It inspires a palpable sense of camaraderie and collective support.

“To witness individuals feeling alone, fearful and hopeless begin to trust, share and connect with others is an exciting transformation,” Dutch says.

In addition, “we have emerged as the specialists in the treatment and support of college- aged students,” says Dutch. In May 2008, she opened a satellite clinic on the UW-Madison campus, known for its insatiable appetite for inebriation. This peer network is a strong support for young people who are often deluged and battered by the idea that alcohol and drug use are prerequisites for adulthood during their first tastes of independence. “The College Connection” provides an alcohol- and drug-free culture for those who seek a sober social scene.

One client remarked, “When I was drinking I might have made fun of some of these activities. Now, I am amazed to find how enriched I am by them, by the connections that I’ve made here. I have come to love sobriety. My conception of reality has been blown out of the water. I’m so thankful I’m not the person I was six months ago.”

Dutch is making an immense impact. Her own experience with addiction doesn’t allow her to be ineffective and doesn’t rest with the status quo. The testimonies of those fighting for their lives contend: They would want no other in their corner than Shelly Dutch.

Reflections On The Warrior Creed

Being a Warrior is about conquering death. Death is the ultimate mystery. It is intimidating because of its severity and how absolutely personal it is. Death is non-negotiable. Death affects individuals.

Fear is built into this mystery. It is a powerful unknown. Many people seek to ignore it, hide from it, run from it. Some push it from their mind for their entire life and find themselves enslaved by the fear of it, unable to acknowledge its reality and power. Their lives appear to be hindered from a full and true enjoyment of life. Instead their joys are suffocated, and they often dissolve into despair and depression.

As Warriors, the instant we are handed a weapon, we are forced to face death with all of its attached fear. Training to be a Warrior is the most intense of any profession because it accesses the human drive for survival in a raw and real manner, making Warriors aware of very real threats that seek their physical, mental, and spiritual destruction. It encapsulates every aspect ofthe human being and his environment. Character. Mind. Body. Relationships. Nature. Threats. Safety. Training is a strengthening of the hand that holds one's life, so that all encroaching forces may be held at bay, while the tenacious Warrior learns effective survival. Those who are dominated by fear cannot allow themselves to realize the numerous threats tolife which include fear, and resign themselves to a random lottery of occurrences. Fear perverts the person into an inability to take responsibility and creates a pleasureless, complaining victim. A courageous leader named Roosevelt said, "There is nothing to fear but fear itself."

Introspection and observation occurs as the young and very able-bodied Warrior trains and excels. The Warrior realizes that as he faces death, death is returning the stare. Death asks, "What kind of man or woman are you? What kind of life are you living? What kind of life have you lived? What have you done and where does your courage come from? Is it sufficient to face me?" This adversary marvels at the boldness of the Warrior, captivated by him. The mortal Warrior has rejected the option of being enslaved by the fear of death. Instead he acknowledges it and bears it, uses it to his advantage for heightened awareness and humility, allowing him to see his place in the order of things. By knowing himself and his environment, he replaces incapacitation with action, and drives on to accomplish the mission, always the mission first. Failure is not an option. In the true Warrior's heart of hearts, he loves his kinsman in arms, those he has eaten with, slept and sweated beside, laughed with, bled with, suffered with and considers them in an instant. They have made him better than he could ever be on his own. In honor of them, the Warrior intuitively knows that death is a more honorable choice than failure. The reputation and honor of the team is at stake.

A Warrior progresses passed the sentry of fear, ready to overcome its father. The Warrior overcomes death by acknowledging it, showing it a proper respect, similar to how he addressed fear. He trains and sweats. He forges his body and mind in the fire of discipline until it is a sharpened blade. He becomes as technically and tactically proficient as possible. He learns his tasks and drills until they are muscle memory. He maintains his arms. He vows not to leave a fallen comrade. He stays fit. He stays hungry. He stays ready.

The Warrior becomes aware that death has come to respect him. His essence declares to all of history and all of future: I am a Warrior. He need not say it with words. In fact, he is often quiet. A quiet professional lets his actions speak for him. His articulation is in his service. He defends those who are unable to fight. He offers his skills for the defense of the broken and the weak, who hunger for freedom and a chance when all others have written them off. He fights for this kind of civilization over barbarism, wisdom over foolishness, equality over discrimination. He declares to death: "I have faced you, for me, for my family, for my kinsman, and for the weak." He does not claim superiority. He solemnly declares to death: "I have given all so as to receive all."

Death, in respect, offers this Warrior an eternity of glory, in awe of the sacrifice that he has offered for the love of his God, his country, his family, his friends, and often even for his enemies. He is the faceless Warrior we salute during the Pledge of Allegiance, the Star-Spangled Banner, Independence Day, Veteran's Day, and Memorial Day. He is the Warrior we ought to hunger to be, the selfless person who has sacrificed his own comfort that others may sleep peacefully while they pursue liberty and happiness in security. His perseverance is honored in any hallowed space where children grow up without fear, where citizens are free to speak their views and beliefs, in every worship service that is non-regulated by a government, in every citizen able to protect himself by bearing arms, in every political assembly that is based on verbal debate and public will versus power-mongering and violence, in trials where defendants receive a legitimate defense. Here is the glory of the American Soldier, modern Spartan. A million interactions sparking freedom and the ability for citizens to grow, flourish, learn, and build.

Whether society is aware of this reality or ignorant of it, and if you never receive a word of thanks, you carry a fire that warms the earth with your passion, your wisdom, and your sacrifice. You, Warriors, are light to the world. You, Warriors, must lead. To lead, you must serve.

Big League Wiffle Ball Goes International

When Big League Wiffle Ball's Midwest Managers Cpt Cory Newmann and Sgt Ben Biddick were deployed to Iraq, they brought the yellow bat with them.

They continue Nick Benas' legacy of bringing wiffle to the Middle East. While Benas served in Iraq with the Marine Corps in 2004, he attempted to teach Iraqis the game. “The concept of a bat and ball was foreign to them. They preferred soccer. But after a little practice, they started to get the hang of it.”

The Midwest Managers serve in the Wisconsin Army National Guard and are bringing wiffle to their fellow troops stationed at Camp Liberty, near Baghdad.

Cpt. Cory Newmann and Sgt. Ben Biddick linked up with Big League Wiffle Ball creators Nick Benas and Jared Verrillo in 2008. They organized their first tournament in Madison, Wisconsin, before receiving word that they would be deployed to Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. “Since we were going to be gone for a year, we figured we'd bring Big League Wiffle Ball with us. We love this,” Biddick says. “Nick and Jared were all for it.”

May 19, 2009 was the inaugural Mideast game of Big League Wiffle Ball. Braving heat that exceeded 100 degrees Fahrenheit, approximately twelve troops constructed a field complete with a BLWB official strike zone, water bottles, machine guns, and blast walls. Their First Sergeant walked by, shaking his head and grinning. Curious soldiers stopped by to see what was going on.

Spc. Michelle Weissinger took an instant shine to the game. By the end of the contest, Weissinger had crushed a two run homer and struck out seven batters. Her opponents and teammates dubbed her “The Natural.” With no prior wiffle experience, she rapidly developed a wicked curve ball that had her opponents wiffing.

“You know what they say,” said Sgt. Frank (the Tank) as he stepped into the batter's box, drenched in sweat, “If you can't stand the heat...”

Weissinger commented on the game: “It was intense at first, but I started to get the feel of the ball, the bat, and triangular field. I definitely enjoyed it. They were talking a lot of [trash] out there, so it felt amazing to strike out seven of them. You'll see me at the next game, no question.”

Her friends talked about using the blast walls to make a “Wall of K's” for her. The blast walls are in place to prevent against potential mortar and rocket attacks.

“We had a good day today. We sparked some interest, developed some skills, and had some quality competition in our games. This is a great way to enjoy some downtime, get some light exercise, and build some unit cohesion. We're hoping the word will spread.” Biddick says. “Based on the feedback I'm getting from the troops, it looks like it will.”

Sgt. Charles Austin is also in the unit. He donned his military uniform and presented the colors during the National Anthem (sung by the Wisconsin Children's Choir) at the first Big League Wiffle Ball Tournament in the Midwest. A lifelong baseball and softball player, his team was voted Most Improved at the Madison, Wisconsin tournament. “Next game I'm in,” he says.

Wisconsin Winter

I live in Wisconsin. The state that even made Vince Lombardi think twice. In “When Pride Still Mattered,” David Maraniss wrote about the Lombardi family’s response to the Wisconsin winter as they rounded Chicago and headed north toward Green Bay: “…[Lombardi's son] looked out in disbelief…at snowdrifts higher than car level lining both sides of the road. I had no idea snow got that big and tall. We were up and talking and then it got real silent in the car.”

Winter here is itself a wild animal. Hot summer days cool into autumn, crisping leaves into bronze and brown. Temperatures drop. Freezing rain and snow transform roads into balance beams. Backs ache from shoveling, and snow blowers hum and whir down sidewalks and driveways. Furnaces are maintenanced. Emergency kits are resupplied and replaced in vehicle trunks. Salt is stockpiled. The wood should be chopped by now; fireplace flues spiral wood smoke into the atmosphere. Its delicious scent sparks memories of winters past.

There is something to be said for living in austere conditions. It sharpens the mind. It leaves no space for petty argument. The cold is indisputable. The primal drive for survival paired with contemplative landscapes fuses the senses with the spirit. The environment bestows provision as well as challenge. Snow glows blue in the moonlight. You hear coyotes howling in the distance. You check the latch on your door. You make sure the family dog is secure. And you snug that blanket a little tighter around your sleeping children.

During the snows, even the smallest venture outside requires tactical awareness. Weather patterns, current temperature, status of roadways. You make sure you have extra socks. You don’t dress so warm as to sweat. You replace layers if you do. You know that dehydration happens just as often in cold temperatures as hot. You review the symptoms of chilblains and frostbite. You make sure you have at least two of every necessary item in case one becomes inoperable or fails.You listen to the crunch of snow under your boots as you step through the drifts. You notice how sound is muffled and hushed, giving a sense of the sacred, the inviolable. The trees bend and moan under the weight of the ice. You recollect the canceled schooldays of your youth due to snowstorms and the ensuing snow forts and snowball fights. You remember the thankfulness of your grinning father as the clouds opened up. He taught you the benefits of snow for tracking, your heart pounding as you followed the blood trail to your first deer. The steam of your breath ascends to join the blurry glow of the Milky Way in the night sky. The stars glisten and shimmer as your eyes focus and shift through them. You glance at the amount of battery power left on your GPS and are comforted by the beaming North Star.

Winter becomes a family member that you admire for its beauty, revere for its power, and are tempted to get sick of when it outwears its welcome. It snow-blinds you, dries your skin until your hands and lips crack, and sends shivers down any exposed skin. It also sends you into the cuddle, rekindles your romance with your morning coffee or evening cocoa mug, and evokes a conquering spirit that refuses to be impeded by adversity. Where sacrifice and difficulty sleep is where the dream of freedom is forged into reality. If perceived as a gift, the arduous Wisconsin winter can make royalty of a man, woman, or child.

Roving Patrol: Liberating Youth from Drug and Alcohol Addiction

Alaskan glaciers gnaw upon mountains grinding them into silt. This silt suspends in water droplets and merges with the earth to form expanses of mud. These mudflats possess properties similar to wet, hardening concrete. During low tide, visitors who are unaware of this dangerous phenomenon, occasionally venture onto these mudflats. They find themselves embedded in this mud, unable to loose their legs from its grip. Mercilessly, the sea inches its way back to high-tide. Without immediate intervention that which began as an exhilarating walk through the power and beauty of nature ends in rude, brutal tragedy.

Addiction can be a similar experience. It is against the common mind's ability to understand how a simple liquid, powder, or chemical can not only freeze and disarm a person by the potency of its pleasure, but then, due its excess of pleasure wearing away, unleash a violent and abusive storm upon that same person, even to the point of robbing them of their own will and mind. Chemicals that were intended to soothe suffering, when administered to the wrong malady, can become a devilish injury or an insidious illness, magnifying and multiplying any co-existing and pre-existing conditions. The horrifying truth sets in. The addict is cemented into a ruthless need that pales and disrespects all other bonds. All else in life begins to drown as the body and mind seethe.

Anyone acquainted with addiction realizes that this grave reality does not just affect an individual, but the entire odyssey of their human interaction. Their internal struggle is not for some drug addict out there. Drug addiction and effective addiction treatment affects our emergency rooms, grocery stores, high schools, elementary schools, churches, malls, and movie theaters. When one is affected, we all are affected. The treatment for the drug addict becomes a treatment for us all.

Treatment for drug addiction is no easy endeavor. It must encompass the entire spectrum of the human being from the internal nexus of emotion, will, character, belief, personality, and behavior to the external nexus which includes weather, nature, relationships, government, commerce, physics, organization, and institution. Intervening in the mind impacted by addiction, means entry into this spectrum and guidance from those who have emerged from this mud. It requires the histories and sensations of those who have felt the rising, icy waters encircling their ankles. It requires a seen success to give a preserving faith and confidence to those gripped by the chaos and thrashing which comes in refusing an easy, intense, destructive pleasure. It requires a re-orienting of the mind to a slower pleasure of self-awareness and an entry into a good that is not barbed with destruction. It requires an honesty in failure and shame forfeited for an understanding that recovery doesn’t come in a pretty five or ten day package, that relapse is often an early part of the process. It requires a counterculture discipline that dares to make the “arrogant” assertion that one’s life is so important as to be preserved and invested in quality pursuits instead of discarded at the first sign of adversity.

The current parent culture of America trends toward absence (whether living in the same building or not) leaving black holes in children wondering what is worth pursuing, a striving to sustain adolescent emotional highs (as the first time you experience an emotion they are often the most intense), the idea that discipline is oppression, stimuli binging, that material gain is a picture of ultimate success, and an individuality creed that states fashion and exterior ornamentalization is the greatest sign of liberation from “shackling norms.” Youth find themselves on this flat, made curious by the sucking mud enveloping their shoes. Frustrated moral leaders, increasingly ridiculed, claim that the populace’s concept of freedom is actually license. Children, abandoned to multi-media, begin to bitterly assess adults and their inability to maintain long-term relationships. The shock of icy water stabs the skin as they realize the mud has now encircled their ankles. It becomes difficult to move. Societal leaders consult a rapidly developing pharmacology. Pills are prescribed. Sensations are experimented, traded, sold, and manipulated. Identity grapples with role confusion, intimacy with isolation. Society norms blur; alienation gains a dominant position. Limitless cures are peddled as the icy waters slither under the chin. Charlatans wave-run while violence mingles with laughter. Lungs burn for breath while bureaucracy attempts burial. As the waters submerge the jaws of those on tippy-toes, the threatened human spirit is about to be crushed.

Enter Shelly Dutch, ferocious for the lives of America’s youth. Once addicted to cocaine and a survivor of childhood abuse, she is now the creator and director of Connections Counseling in Madison, Wisconsin. Insight gained by her history of addiction, recovery, twenty-plus years of being drug-free, study, and investment in others have made her a skilled psychological craftswoman. She has degrees in counseling and education. She tirelessly works to provide “a strength-based clinic focused on creating a safe and supportive environment for young people, families, and adults conducive to hope and healing." She is forging a society of recovery, self-awareness, and mutual strength by providing daily sober activities for her clients, battering any bureaucratic barrier that stands in the way of quality care, and by a cutting-edge mentoring program.

Those clients who maintain their sobriety from all drugs and alcohol for 90 days and show stability in their recovery are able to serve as "mentors." These young people take a leadership role in helping others who struggle from drug and alcohol addiction. These positions of leadership by service contribute to a long-lasting recovery via increased accountability and the reward of helping others. Mentors are inspired and busy, knowing that their actions, words, and hard work are ultimately saving lives and contributing to a better, healthier society. The result of their hard work is evident. They strive for one another; a sense of genuine, mutual support is palpable. They are not afraid to challenge one another. All recovering addicts, their advice is tempered with the knowledge that it has been tested. It does not come from a cold, pedantic book. It comes from living, breathing people who are working hard at recovery and know the games that are played, both with themselves and with others. Clients are encouraged to find their passions and move forward in the process of healing by beginning to trust.

The testimonies of those who have encountered Shelly and her clinic are impressive. They respond to her with loyalty. Many credit Shelly with saving their life. Many of the mentors and counselors work for free or next to nothing, just for the satisfaction of being a part of such a place. Connections Counseling is aptly named, as when people experience the programs offered there, they fuse.

The community is taking note. Shelly Dutch's Connections Counseling is a powerhouse on the front of AODA Counseling, making other area out-patient programs pale in contrast. Young people are gaining and maintaining a deep and stable recovery due to excellent leadership that will not allow them to simply be an insurance claim, where they are not shamed into recidivism, and where they can reach the fullness of life that overcomes the challenges and complexities of our 100mph society. These young people are finding life in a greater measure than they have ever known and are beginning to walk on solid ground. They will be the first to tell you. One young man, torn from the clench of heroin addiction states: "What I've learned is that there is nothing better than being sober. I feel so blessed to not be enslaved to using. It’s work, but it’s worth it."

A generation fighting for wholeness has located a roving patrol. Warming blankets are within reach. Those who seemed destined for destruction are being liberated from the murderous mud of addiction and, in greater and greater measure, are being transported to solid ground. Shelly Dutch’s hard-earned and challenging brilliance is resuscitating youth and gracing minds and spirits with renewed hope. Young people are taking responsibility for their lives and emerging from dysfunctional debris. If you want help, and effective help, this is where you’ll get it.

To find out more about Shelly Dutch and Connections Counseling, call 608-221-1500 or check out the website.

Seasons in Southwest Wisconsin

“If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.” -Anne Bradstreet

Growing up in southwest Wisconsin, we were surrounded by an electrifying spectrum of seasons. Four of them. One right after the other, each unique and making their full claim at existence, not to be slighted in the scuffle. They asserted themselves without shame and without hesitation, regardless of human comfort or pleasure. In fact, the weather itself seemed to bear a personality all its own. It became a family member. Perhaps this happened because the weather had such an important role to play in the life of the soybeans, corn, and alfalfa that grew in the rich soil all around us. Significant aspects of a growing season attached to farmers' recollections and colored conversation around reflective holiday dinner tables. Or perhaps the seasons became personified because the weather was the unfailing, inaugural topic of every morning conversation at the gas & sip coffee haunts.

These seasons, with all their sights, smells, and sensations, gave nature a kaleidoscopic aura that hovered over and inhabited our activity.

Spring surfaced from the ice crust in a muddy birth. As temperatures warmed, the ice cracked and melted. A day arrived when it was officially possible to leave your winter parka at home and wear a mere sweatshirt or T-shirt out of doors. This awakening eased muscles which had been tensed against the cold for months. Lungs expanded with the organic scent of soil as the sun unsheathed it from melting mounds of snow. Skin, warmed by the sunlight, somehow transfered its pleasure into the demeanor of its owner and for those first few days, life was absolutely grand.

Summer shut school doors. It sopped us in brilliant blue sky and pressed us with its heat. Added humidity made it hard to breathe, especially while working in dusty hay mows and pollen-packed cornfields. Roguing and detassling just outside of Livingston, we watched in awe as platoons of white cumulus clouds swept across the sky. Crowned by these skies, we walked endless miles in the heat, dust, and weeds. We passed the hours with small talk and swigged water from our coolers at the end of the corn rows. Gentle breezes leaned the cornstalks and tousled the tassels as we waded them. Our work days culminated in a drive to Blackhawk Lake or Governor Dodge State Park. We played football on the beaches and made wicked tackles into the lake water. A grill sizzled with steaks, dogs, brats, burgers, and butter-drenched potatoes. Inevitably, no matter how hard we worked, a day off would arrive. Without any formal declaration, this day was designated for fishing. A short, dark drive to the lake, a quick, slick sprint across the dew-glistening grass, and the canoes were in the water. They sliced the bobbing lake surface toward favorite spots where submerged logs or inlets reliably produced blue gill, trout, bass, crappie. Morning's first rays of light painted the surface of the water and lapped against the sides of the canoe, a welcome interruption to the 100 mph pace of our youth. I still smile when I recollect a friend whose favorite movie was Grumpy Old Men. Each cast of the line was a timeless action to be repeated throughout his life. He expected his twilight to be not all that dissimilar to the characters in his favorite film.

Autumn was a frequent favorite. Just as spring provided relief from the cold of winter, the cool air of autumn relieved us from the humid heat of summer. Geese filled the overcast skies like great arrows lofted across the heavens by an archetypal archer targeting warmer southern temperatures. While some took the exit of the geese as a bone-chilling warning of impending winter, others were chopping wood. Once stacked, it was time to rev and tune the snowmobiles, the snowblowers, and all kinds of other winter-fighting toys centered by a combustion engine. Besides, if we cowered and retreated then, we would've never experienced the bronzing of the woodland leaves that ranged the rolling hills. This breath-taking display of color change inevitably led to a mouth-watering apple season. We hiked trails to Point Lookout at Wyalusing State Park and scaled the observation towers at Blue Mound State Park before heading to Gays Mills to capture bags full of apple hybrids. We looked over the entire expanse of southwest Wisconsin from the heights of the towers, dreaming of the taste of warm apple donuts and caramel apples. Our tongues had been twinging for these tastes, triggered by the sound of crisp leaves crunching under our steps. Favorites ranged from Braeburn to Granny Smith to Honeycrisp. When we arrived at the orchards, we sipped cider and snapped photos. The trip was not complete until we wound down the enormous hill into Soldiers Grove for a quick purchase of gourds and pumpkins.

The harvest was in full swing. Moisture levels of corn and beans were tested. Fans in dryer bins whirred. Semi trailers brimming with kernels of corn raged down the road toward the best possible prices. Farmers slapped themselves awake in their combines, pushing on through the night. Timing was everything. Almanac entries were read and measured against experience. Coffee haunts chattered with rumors about what the expect from mother nature. Weather men were scorned and applauded, mostly scorned. Every farmer for miles was trying to choose the best possible time to pull the trigger on what was growing in their fields.

Deer hunting followed. A ritual not to be under-estimated, this time honored rite of passage had time-off requests burning through the hands of bosses everywhere. The General Motors plant in Janesville actually closed down operations on opening day. Hunters gave a quick lick of their lips upon sighting their prey. Venison sausage, jerky, and steaks were within reach. Hunter orange speckled the woods. Drivers dodged deer as they bounded roadways in pursuit of safety.

Of course, the brisk temperatures also triggered the excitement of football season and decreed that local fields become fields of battle. The crack of pads could be heard on Friday nights as high school teams sought to conquer one another with farm work-hewn muscle and grim determination. Blanketed parents huddled in the stands and shared thermoses of coffee and cocoa. Mothers prayed their sons wouldn't be injured. Fathers beamed when their son caught a pass, made an open-field tackle, or scored a touchdown. After all, this was a land whose Green Bay Packers still lived in the shadow of the great Vince Lombardi.

Then it would happen. Flurries formed in the stratosphere and descended in whirling howls of wind—the first snow of the year. Teeth began their chatter, scrapers were yanked from trunks to clear covered windshields, snow plows hit their routes, spitting sand and salt. The most notorious season of the region had come. School children itched for recess. At the sound of the bell, they geared up in parkas, stocking hats, gloves, scarves, and mittens and burst from the school doors into the powder in unprecedented glee. Snow balls smocked against the school walls as they ducked and fired at one another. The skirmish would transition into snowman or fort building once a teacher shut down the snowball battle. Snow angels peppered the snowscape with linking trails of boot steps. The largest hill in town was the after-school spot. A quick exchange of backpack for sled, and we hit the slopes for some high-speed action. You really were doing well if you found yourself dumped into the tiny creek at the bottom of hill. It wasn't the most comfortable afterward but getting there was a blast.

The adults had just as much fun as the kids. High schoolers tested the e-brake on ice covered parking lots. Couples got out the cross-country skis and hit the Military Ridge Trail or the Ice Age Trail. Snow mobiles whizzed through harvested fields or down trails stopping at local taverns along the way. I remember getting a ride on a snowmobile for the first time as a kid. I gripped the waist of a cousin who revved it up. The wind whipped past, caught an opening in one of my boots, and sucked it right off my leg. The engine was too loud to say anything, so when we arrived at our destination I stepped off of the snowmobile with one boot and one sock. Later recovered, the family had a good laugh as I slid it back on my cold foot.

Trail trips were often highlighted by a stop in New Glarus. The New Glarus Bakery and the Glarner Stube excelled at filling starved stomachs. A trip to Monroe was not complete without a stop at Baumgartners for soup and cheese sandwich. A friend would order the stinkiest cheese he could find, so we all could enjoy the smell. He always said, “The limburger please.” Our groaning only made his smile larger.

Geniuses that we were, we came up with what we called “The Snowman Challenge.” We each built a snowman in our front yard. Everyone who built a snowman had both the responsibility of protecting it as well as the responsibility of annihilating the other participants' snowmen. One participant who will remain anonymous, attempted to demolish a snowman in play via open field tackle at a full sprint. The said participant discovered very quickly that the proud creator of the snowman had hosed it down with water the night before until a thick layer of ice encrusted and protected his frosty. Needless to say, he remained the champion that winter and to this day.

Ice fishing rounded out the year. Scampering for tip-ups after cutting a holes in the ice with an auger was Wisconsinite heaven. Ice shanties were as unique as their creators.

Winter weekends included trips to Cascade Mountain, Devil's Head, or Tyrol Basin in pursuit of downhill skiing. Those drives home were serene. We piled into our cars, covered in sweaty and soaked winter gear, exhausted, the most conscious among us designated as the lone ranger at the wheel, listening to the radio, volume low while everyone else drifted off to sleep.

These memories color my conception of growing up in southwest Wisconsin. Whenever you began to tire of one season, you knew that a change was not far off. In many ways, the array of seasons prepared us for the seasons of life with all of its pleasures, excitements, stagnancies, and sufferings. Historians don't know exactly what the Native American word “Wisconsin” means, but many Wisconsinites have conjectured that it has something to do with phrases like big mosquito, turdy point buck, sharp cheddar, or simply, brrrrr. Historians say that it is a Chippewa word that most likely has to do with the Mississippi River. For me, the word “Wisconsin” is not complete without mention of the seasons that carry its children through an odyssey of birth, growth, extension, reproduction, and death, infusing reality with an eternal stream of memory and reverie.