I've needed rocking for a long while. Broad, watery arms hugging, then releasing. Hugging, releasing. Sunlight dancing on the shores of longing. So still. The rocking rhythm dances toward me, then backs away. It's quiet but for the rhythmic lullaby of water on rock, sand.
I sit in peace. Dog body close at hand. A slight quiver of nose, quick turn of head announce a presence. Quickly felt, and gone. Sunlight's liquid dance sparkles; hot fireworks V toward early evening, breaking like a wave on shore.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Springing into Dangerous Territory
Green enfolds me. It creeps out of the forest ... closer, closer. Soon green will hang, leafy, above me; lie, mossy and glowing, beneath me; and press its tender glossy arms around me in a months-long embrace. Becoming green.
It’s been a strange spring. The forecasted exotic dancing at Gill Net Tug Bar began the first weekend in April. The bar lies directly across the road from Same Spirit. It claims the other end of the 40 acre parcel purchased by the previous land owner. Frances and I are not happy about this new business plan. Obviously, the bar operators are not making enough money selling booze so they've decided to throw in some women's bodies and see what it gets them.
Male dancers performed over Mother’s Day weekend. Then a Tuesday night Town of Russell board meeting last week ensured that the bar is good to go for up to six performances this year. Frances and I fought with a torrential burst of energy to prevent the bar from segueing into this new territory. To no avail. My objection: men’s violence against women. It’s a hard road to travel. Men demand their rights and freedom to do as they please. Women want to believe that their men don’t act as obnoxious, violent, and degrading of women as they suspect.
Interestingly, the First Amendment to the Constitution protects the right of bar owners to offer women’s bodies up as tempting hors d’oeuvres for their male customers to sample. That, by the way, is the same Amendment that prohibits the U.S. Congress from making laws “respecting an establishment of religion.” What a weird web we weave. Freedom of religion equates with freedom of sexual slavery.
When you look up information on our Founding Fathers, you soon discover that this bizarre flip from protecting religious freedom to protecting men’s ongoing use of women as sexual objects isn’t so unexpected. A listing of the men present at the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, PA in 1787 (Bill Bigelow, based on writings by Charles A. Beard and Forrest McDonald) reveals that the majority of these 55 men were lawyers, judges, doctors, bankers, all men of wealth and privilege.
Hmmm. Were these men present to draft the Constitution in order to protect assets they already owned: slaves, property, bonds, estates, plantations? The authors of our Constitution were white, upper class men. Today, over 220 years later, we can boast a slight increase in diversity in the ranks of our current government officials, corporate heads, and world leaders. Still, they typically share a common ground: wealth. And a common goal: protecting their wealth and privilege.
Some may say, “You’re just a woman. What do you know?” It’s true ... I represent the rights of a minority class whose voices are seldom listened to and, when heard, often discounted, ridiculed, or ignored. Why would anyone listen to strippers or prostitutes? Other women may, when they’re not worried about what their men might think.
Even so, the stories of strippers and prostitutes seldom surface because sex workers reside in the lowest realms of society, buried deep in a morass of shame and disgust. We know deep inside ourselves that these professions are demeaning to all of us, women and men. Still, we smile, joke, and wink about venues that offer exotic dancing because we are told that men cannot control their sexual appetites just as they cannot control their ever-expanding desire for power.
In 1998 researcher Kelly Holsopple conducted a set of interviews with over 40 strippers and gave a 250 question survey to 18 others. She found that all of these women were physically assaulted during their careers as strippers.
When asked for examples of what their customers did, they said men had “yanked their hair, arms or ankles; sprayed beer, flicked lit cigarettes, or spit at them; pelted them with ice, coins, trash, condoms, room keys, pornography and golf balls; bit, licked, slapped, punched and pinched them; and ripped or tried to tear off their costumes.” (Galena Gazette, Dec. 18, 2007) Healthy, positive self-esteem would be impossible to achieve in a workplace like this.
My thought? This abuse was all part of the “entertainment.” These women weren’t really women, they were simply the body parts their jobs required them to reveal. Women’s body parts don’t have rights now, do they?
It’s been a strange spring. The forecasted exotic dancing at Gill Net Tug Bar began the first weekend in April. The bar lies directly across the road from Same Spirit. It claims the other end of the 40 acre parcel purchased by the previous land owner. Frances and I are not happy about this new business plan. Obviously, the bar operators are not making enough money selling booze so they've decided to throw in some women's bodies and see what it gets them.
Male dancers performed over Mother’s Day weekend. Then a Tuesday night Town of Russell board meeting last week ensured that the bar is good to go for up to six performances this year. Frances and I fought with a torrential burst of energy to prevent the bar from segueing into this new territory. To no avail. My objection: men’s violence against women. It’s a hard road to travel. Men demand their rights and freedom to do as they please. Women want to believe that their men don’t act as obnoxious, violent, and degrading of women as they suspect.
Interestingly, the First Amendment to the Constitution protects the right of bar owners to offer women’s bodies up as tempting hors d’oeuvres for their male customers to sample. That, by the way, is the same Amendment that prohibits the U.S. Congress from making laws “respecting an establishment of religion.” What a weird web we weave. Freedom of religion equates with freedom of sexual slavery.
When you look up information on our Founding Fathers, you soon discover that this bizarre flip from protecting religious freedom to protecting men’s ongoing use of women as sexual objects isn’t so unexpected. A listing of the men present at the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, PA in 1787 (Bill Bigelow, based on writings by Charles A. Beard and Forrest McDonald) reveals that the majority of these 55 men were lawyers, judges, doctors, bankers, all men of wealth and privilege.
Hmmm. Were these men present to draft the Constitution in order to protect assets they already owned: slaves, property, bonds, estates, plantations? The authors of our Constitution were white, upper class men. Today, over 220 years later, we can boast a slight increase in diversity in the ranks of our current government officials, corporate heads, and world leaders. Still, they typically share a common ground: wealth. And a common goal: protecting their wealth and privilege.
Some may say, “You’re just a woman. What do you know?” It’s true ... I represent the rights of a minority class whose voices are seldom listened to and, when heard, often discounted, ridiculed, or ignored. Why would anyone listen to strippers or prostitutes? Other women may, when they’re not worried about what their men might think.
Even so, the stories of strippers and prostitutes seldom surface because sex workers reside in the lowest realms of society, buried deep in a morass of shame and disgust. We know deep inside ourselves that these professions are demeaning to all of us, women and men. Still, we smile, joke, and wink about venues that offer exotic dancing because we are told that men cannot control their sexual appetites just as they cannot control their ever-expanding desire for power.
In 1998 researcher Kelly Holsopple conducted a set of interviews with over 40 strippers and gave a 250 question survey to 18 others. She found that all of these women were physically assaulted during their careers as strippers.
When asked for examples of what their customers did, they said men had “yanked their hair, arms or ankles; sprayed beer, flicked lit cigarettes, or spit at them; pelted them with ice, coins, trash, condoms, room keys, pornography and golf balls; bit, licked, slapped, punched and pinched them; and ripped or tried to tear off their costumes.” (Galena Gazette, Dec. 18, 2007) Healthy, positive self-esteem would be impossible to achieve in a workplace like this.
My thought? This abuse was all part of the “entertainment.” These women weren’t really women, they were simply the body parts their jobs required them to reveal. Women’s body parts don’t have rights now, do they?
Friday, May 15, 2009
Green Goodness
It’s a glorious spring day! Clear azure skies. Full sun. Still. Twenty-six degrees. Yipes, 26 degrees!?!
As expected, May did bring flowers. Bayfield's spring promotion, “Bayfield in Bloom,” begins today. Businesses in the area boast a profusion of daffodils—-cream, yellow, amber—-that spill over front yards, beside signs, into ditches.
Several days ago Frances and I walked down a dirt road near our house and spotted tiny white wild strawberry blossoms in the ditch. The other side of the road was aflame with brazen yellow marsh marigolds. When we looked closer, we singled out purple and blue violets trembling in the grasses ... anemones and bellwort.
Each day envelops us in its expanding spectacle of green as leaves unfold, growing larger, and blue sky slowly disappears behind this lush canopy. Meanwhile, creeping ground cover, grasses, and plants push farther out of earth. I'm a child again. Marveling at the richness of rebirth that comes in all shades of green: forest, lime, evergreen, emerald.
I remember other spring days, decades ago, when my dad walked through the woods on our property, my sister, brother, and me trailing close behind. He pointed out a profusion of colors and spoke the names of wildflowers we picked, a Memorial Day honorarium in memory of his mother and father.
From Dad I learned to cherish the beauty, fragility, and elusiveness of shade-loving forest flora. After retirement he grew his own profusion of wildflowers in the front yard of his farm home. When he died, 10 years ago this June, we honored him by gathering bouquets of wildflowers—-from his front yard garden, the ditches, and the woods—-to place near his body. It was only right that this man of field and woods should be surrounded by nature’s royalty.
For me, spring is a sacred time. A time to hearken to nature's stirrings. The spirit of my ancestors, my farmer dad--his parents, too--and all those who've worked the land and walked its woods and fields and streams, is reborn in the green goodness of the earth.
As expected, May did bring flowers. Bayfield's spring promotion, “Bayfield in Bloom,” begins today. Businesses in the area boast a profusion of daffodils—-cream, yellow, amber—-that spill over front yards, beside signs, into ditches.
Several days ago Frances and I walked down a dirt road near our house and spotted tiny white wild strawberry blossoms in the ditch. The other side of the road was aflame with brazen yellow marsh marigolds. When we looked closer, we singled out purple and blue violets trembling in the grasses ... anemones and bellwort.
Each day envelops us in its expanding spectacle of green as leaves unfold, growing larger, and blue sky slowly disappears behind this lush canopy. Meanwhile, creeping ground cover, grasses, and plants push farther out of earth. I'm a child again. Marveling at the richness of rebirth that comes in all shades of green: forest, lime, evergreen, emerald.
I remember other spring days, decades ago, when my dad walked through the woods on our property, my sister, brother, and me trailing close behind. He pointed out a profusion of colors and spoke the names of wildflowers we picked, a Memorial Day honorarium in memory of his mother and father.
From Dad I learned to cherish the beauty, fragility, and elusiveness of shade-loving forest flora. After retirement he grew his own profusion of wildflowers in the front yard of his farm home. When he died, 10 years ago this June, we honored him by gathering bouquets of wildflowers—-from his front yard garden, the ditches, and the woods—-to place near his body. It was only right that this man of field and woods should be surrounded by nature’s royalty.
For me, spring is a sacred time. A time to hearken to nature's stirrings. The spirit of my ancestors, my farmer dad--his parents, too--and all those who've worked the land and walked its woods and fields and streams, is reborn in the green goodness of the earth.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
April Showers
... bring May flowers. I don't remember how many times my mother repeated that familiar phrase during my childhood. It helped me wait patiently through the too-brown, overcast, grey days of spring when vibrant blossoms were still a distant memory from the previous year.
Today I rose after a long night of rain to my first outcropping of nightcrawlers and angleworms. A moist, earthy smell filled the air. Our small pond, now deeper, attracts the geese to its banks daily. There they circle on the waters and plunge their beaks into the rich, dark, mucky earth that lines the edges and bottom of their miniature lake. They pluck at roots and detritus, shaking their discoveries into the water, nipping and nibbling, contributing more ingredients to the muddy broth.
For over a week now Frances and I've raked leaves off our small flower gardens and out of the ditches where daffodil and tulip bulbs and other indeterminate greenery poke their heads up through the earth. Several days ago Frances pointed out a tulip that pierced through a pile of leaves to reach light. It was quite the sight; pointed green leaves growing straight up through the center of dry, brown oak leaves left lying from last year's treefall.
Bird calls emanate from every direction. Spring peepers sing at the end of our drive and along Emil Road where wetlands are more prolific. A pileated woodpecker appeared to Frances today. The day before two birds--a purple finch and a chickadee--flew to our patio door, sat on the back of a folding lawn chair, and stared straight through the glass at us as we sat in the living room. Finally Frances said knowingly, "Oh, they're telling us that we need to fill the feeder...."
Sounds and sights and smells are everywhere. And tomorrow ... May flowers.
Today I rose after a long night of rain to my first outcropping of nightcrawlers and angleworms. A moist, earthy smell filled the air. Our small pond, now deeper, attracts the geese to its banks daily. There they circle on the waters and plunge their beaks into the rich, dark, mucky earth that lines the edges and bottom of their miniature lake. They pluck at roots and detritus, shaking their discoveries into the water, nipping and nibbling, contributing more ingredients to the muddy broth.
For over a week now Frances and I've raked leaves off our small flower gardens and out of the ditches where daffodil and tulip bulbs and other indeterminate greenery poke their heads up through the earth. Several days ago Frances pointed out a tulip that pierced through a pile of leaves to reach light. It was quite the sight; pointed green leaves growing straight up through the center of dry, brown oak leaves left lying from last year's treefall.
Bird calls emanate from every direction. Spring peepers sing at the end of our drive and along Emil Road where wetlands are more prolific. A pileated woodpecker appeared to Frances today. The day before two birds--a purple finch and a chickadee--flew to our patio door, sat on the back of a folding lawn chair, and stared straight through the glass at us as we sat in the living room. Finally Frances said knowingly, "Oh, they're telling us that we need to fill the feeder...."
Sounds and sights and smells are everywhere. And tomorrow ... May flowers.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Twigs, Mud, Dried Grasses and ... Polypropylene Fibers?
Today, full sun and blue skies. I lean back, tip my head skyward, and watch the sway of treetops filled with red buds. These tender tidbits marinate themselves in sunshine. Soon enough their flavor will burst forth. Juicy, delicious shades of green circling along branches, dripping magnificent cool shade onto the forest floor.
Is it obvious that I've tiptoed--and now tumbled--into spring? There's no going back. A few frozen snowpiles lie hidden in shaded harbors but my senses are attuned to the sights and sounds and smells of spring....
On our walk to the mailbox several days ago Frances and I found a bird's nest in the ditch along our drive. Delicate and fragile, it was tiny, just two inches deep and three inches across. This lightweight home was woven from dried grasses with a few bits of birch bark curling along its outer edge. Most remarkable were the traces of manmade trash that coated its exterior. White, fluffy, polypropylene fibers--probably stolen from one of Namaste's stuffed dog toys--served as insulation. None of that fiber invaded the interior of the nest, though, where eggs and, later, tiny babies probably rested.
We placed this miniature woodland house on our fireplace mantel alongside an earlier model. That nest, discovered last year, is much larger, heavier, and sturdier, three inches deep and almost six inches across. Its materials, too, include dried grasses but its circular "concrete" walls are made of mud and thin, tiny twigs.
These nests remind me of a recent email: "Duck Story." It tells of a mama duck who built her nest on the second story concrete awning of a downtown San Antonio, TX bank building. Then she laid 10 eggs. Through words and pictures the duck tale unfolds.
When all 10 carefully watched eggs hatched, one bank employee took mama and her 10 ducklings under his wing. Once he saw the first babe fly/fall to the cement sidewalk below he quickly positioned himself below the nest. There he caught each baby as it flung itself into the air; then gently placed it next to its mama.
Once successful, this man then realized that the birds were still two blocks away from the San Antonio River. He cringed at the thought of their trek down sidewalks and across busy intersections. Retrieving an empty cardboard box, he gently placed the babies within, and led mama to the river. The final family portrait, taken after everyone was safely in the water, showed 10 babies lined in rows facing the camera with mama in the front, beak open.
I do wonder: What happened to the tiny beings that were hatched and tended in my two empty nests. I hope they, too, experienced a picture-perfect moment after leaving the nest.
Is it obvious that I've tiptoed--and now tumbled--into spring? There's no going back. A few frozen snowpiles lie hidden in shaded harbors but my senses are attuned to the sights and sounds and smells of spring....
On our walk to the mailbox several days ago Frances and I found a bird's nest in the ditch along our drive. Delicate and fragile, it was tiny, just two inches deep and three inches across. This lightweight home was woven from dried grasses with a few bits of birch bark curling along its outer edge. Most remarkable were the traces of manmade trash that coated its exterior. White, fluffy, polypropylene fibers--probably stolen from one of Namaste's stuffed dog toys--served as insulation. None of that fiber invaded the interior of the nest, though, where eggs and, later, tiny babies probably rested.
We placed this miniature woodland house on our fireplace mantel alongside an earlier model. That nest, discovered last year, is much larger, heavier, and sturdier, three inches deep and almost six inches across. Its materials, too, include dried grasses but its circular "concrete" walls are made of mud and thin, tiny twigs.
These nests remind me of a recent email: "Duck Story." It tells of a mama duck who built her nest on the second story concrete awning of a downtown San Antonio, TX bank building. Then she laid 10 eggs. Through words and pictures the duck tale unfolds.
When all 10 carefully watched eggs hatched, one bank employee took mama and her 10 ducklings under his wing. Once he saw the first babe fly/fall to the cement sidewalk below he quickly positioned himself below the nest. There he caught each baby as it flung itself into the air; then gently placed it next to its mama.
Once successful, this man then realized that the birds were still two blocks away from the San Antonio River. He cringed at the thought of their trek down sidewalks and across busy intersections. Retrieving an empty cardboard box, he gently placed the babies within, and led mama to the river. The final family portrait, taken after everyone was safely in the water, showed 10 babies lined in rows facing the camera with mama in the front, beak open.
I do wonder: What happened to the tiny beings that were hatched and tended in my two empty nests. I hope they, too, experienced a picture-perfect moment after leaving the nest.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Speeding into Spring
Today we moved into the 21st century! Frank, a local computer technician/magician, connected our computer to high-speed internet service. Already--one hour later--we're rushing from email to blog to internet search. Finally, Frances can be on the computer while I'm on the phone or vice versa. Life is good.
I know, I know. Many people left dial-up connections behind years ago. Though we may be in the forefront of trends involving health and wellness, computer technology and innovation aren't on our Top 10 list.
Soon I'll revisit and edit posts from our trip to Mexico and Central America written earlier this year. No longer constrained by dial-up lethargy the "add image" icon at the top of this blog makes me smile with anticipation.
Spring has sprung in the Northland. Then unsprung. Then resprung. Last week ended with full sun and highs in the 70s and 80s. Then new snow fell the following day; now we're back in the 40s and 50s. "Typical spring weather," we say to comfort ourselves and our neighbors.
The days inhale and exhale abundance. As green shoots find their way up through leaf-covered earth, woodpeckers and sapsuckers hammer on hollow trees outside our windows. Namaste spends long hours guarding the bird feeder; he works mightily to keep squirrels suspended in trees above his head, chattering excitedly. Later he enters the house carting along his most recent collection of ticks.
Our well-loved Eastern Phoebes returned on tax day, April 15th. Their familiar song, "phoe-be" and their characteristic tail pumping while perched on a nearby branch sent waves of tenderness circling through my heart.
Each night we carry our bird feeder into the house to prevent black bear vandalism. One afternoon last week while Frances and I sat on our deck drinking coffee we heard the loud crash of a not-too-distant tree. Namaste's finely tuned nose had pointed in that general direction for a good long while as he barked repeatedly.
We looked at each other and nodded, "Sounds like a bear." Yep, it's spring. Along with improved computer mobility comes a new lease on life. Bring it on ... greening grasses, bursting buds, energizing sunshine, revitalizing rain, and blossoming daffodils. I'll take it all.
I know, I know. Many people left dial-up connections behind years ago. Though we may be in the forefront of trends involving health and wellness, computer technology and innovation aren't on our Top 10 list.
Soon I'll revisit and edit posts from our trip to Mexico and Central America written earlier this year. No longer constrained by dial-up lethargy the "add image" icon at the top of this blog makes me smile with anticipation.
Spring has sprung in the Northland. Then unsprung. Then resprung. Last week ended with full sun and highs in the 70s and 80s. Then new snow fell the following day; now we're back in the 40s and 50s. "Typical spring weather," we say to comfort ourselves and our neighbors.
The days inhale and exhale abundance. As green shoots find their way up through leaf-covered earth, woodpeckers and sapsuckers hammer on hollow trees outside our windows. Namaste spends long hours guarding the bird feeder; he works mightily to keep squirrels suspended in trees above his head, chattering excitedly. Later he enters the house carting along his most recent collection of ticks.
Our well-loved Eastern Phoebes returned on tax day, April 15th. Their familiar song, "phoe-be" and their characteristic tail pumping while perched on a nearby branch sent waves of tenderness circling through my heart.
Each night we carry our bird feeder into the house to prevent black bear vandalism. One afternoon last week while Frances and I sat on our deck drinking coffee we heard the loud crash of a not-too-distant tree. Namaste's finely tuned nose had pointed in that general direction for a good long while as he barked repeatedly.
We looked at each other and nodded, "Sounds like a bear." Yep, it's spring. Along with improved computer mobility comes a new lease on life. Bring it on ... greening grasses, bursting buds, energizing sunshine, revitalizing rain, and blossoming daffodils. I'll take it all.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Happy Day of Adventure to You
Last week we celebrated Frances' birthday with a day-long adventure. Since our return from Mexico and Central America--two months ago now--we've both longed for more excitement in our lives. So, with that goal in mind, Frances consulted a road atlas and traced a tentative circular route, we loaded the dog and snacks into the car, and off we went.
Our day trip was reminiscent of a similar drive we took with Frances' mother and dad over 10 years ago. That day we left her parents' home in Roseau, MN, crossed the Canadian border 10 miles north, meandered around Lake of the Woods, and late that evening re-crossed the border into Minnesota. Frances' Dad was a dedicated coffee drinker. Accordingly, we stopped several times along our route for a "snort" of coffee.
This time--2009--we climbed into the same car, a 1984 Crown Victoria that Frances inherited from her mom and dad. Again, we planned to stop at several small town cafes along our route. Unfortunately, we found no cafes. I wonder whether that is a modern-day reality ... Shelley's Smalltown Diner replaced by Cenex or BP or Mobil gas stations and convenience stores.
Our snorts now come in self-serve paper take-out cups. If we wish to find a real sit-down coffee spot or cafe, we must now drive to a metropolitan area where neighborhood coffee shops abound. Along with the hundreds of coffee and tea choices, they offer their own humorous or thought-provoking business name and, often, a cornucopia of gastronomic delights. On our trip, through, we did without.
Soon enough our drive down Hwy. 13 south brought us close to Copper Falls State Park. A slight detour there was well worth our tumbling-rushing-falling-water walk under the sheltering branches of cedar and hemlock trees.
Afterward we pulled out a snack from our own backseat cafe then followed Hwy. GG deep into the Chequamegon National Forest. At Clam Lake we turned onto Hwy. M to head toward Cable, WI and began the final loop, circling toward home. These highway names, by the way, are unique. I teased a friend years ago when we visited her family here that once the alphabet is exhausted, the Wisconsin highway department just doubles up the letters to create an entirely new series of highway names.
At dinnertime we glimpsed a sign advertising all-you-can-eat-ribs at Telemark, a resort and conference center. A quick turn-about delivered us to this well-known resort where we ate our meal in the bar with several other tables of hungry travelers or guests, then made for home.
One person suggested to me when I returned from Central America, "Each day is an adventure if we approach it that way." I'm becoming more and more of a believer in that perspective. Adventure can be anywhere you look. Actually, all you have to do IS look. What you find may stimulate your mind, feed your senses, expand your perspective, and open you up to new people, new situations, and new terrain.
Our day trip was reminiscent of a similar drive we took with Frances' mother and dad over 10 years ago. That day we left her parents' home in Roseau, MN, crossed the Canadian border 10 miles north, meandered around Lake of the Woods, and late that evening re-crossed the border into Minnesota. Frances' Dad was a dedicated coffee drinker. Accordingly, we stopped several times along our route for a "snort" of coffee.
This time--2009--we climbed into the same car, a 1984 Crown Victoria that Frances inherited from her mom and dad. Again, we planned to stop at several small town cafes along our route. Unfortunately, we found no cafes. I wonder whether that is a modern-day reality ... Shelley's Smalltown Diner replaced by Cenex or BP or Mobil gas stations and convenience stores.
Our snorts now come in self-serve paper take-out cups. If we wish to find a real sit-down coffee spot or cafe, we must now drive to a metropolitan area where neighborhood coffee shops abound. Along with the hundreds of coffee and tea choices, they offer their own humorous or thought-provoking business name and, often, a cornucopia of gastronomic delights. On our trip, through, we did without.
Soon enough our drive down Hwy. 13 south brought us close to Copper Falls State Park. A slight detour there was well worth our tumbling-rushing-falling-water walk under the sheltering branches of cedar and hemlock trees.
Afterward we pulled out a snack from our own backseat cafe then followed Hwy. GG deep into the Chequamegon National Forest. At Clam Lake we turned onto Hwy. M to head toward Cable, WI and began the final loop, circling toward home. These highway names, by the way, are unique. I teased a friend years ago when we visited her family here that once the alphabet is exhausted, the Wisconsin highway department just doubles up the letters to create an entirely new series of highway names.
At dinnertime we glimpsed a sign advertising all-you-can-eat-ribs at Telemark, a resort and conference center. A quick turn-about delivered us to this well-known resort where we ate our meal in the bar with several other tables of hungry travelers or guests, then made for home.
One person suggested to me when I returned from Central America, "Each day is an adventure if we approach it that way." I'm becoming more and more of a believer in that perspective. Adventure can be anywhere you look. Actually, all you have to do IS look. What you find may stimulate your mind, feed your senses, expand your perspective, and open you up to new people, new situations, and new terrain.
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