By Kurt McGinnis Brown

“My Islands” originally appeared in Wisconsin Writers Association Creative Wisconsin magazine, October 2025.

I’m in love with islands.  Their siren call streams through me like those neutrinos constantly passing through all of us.  Thinking of an island of any type makes me happy, and when I’m on one I find special freedom in its circumscribed space.  On an island our limit is proved, death certain, and so there is no escaping the knowledge that every one of our actions is consequential.

The first island I landed on was Monhegan, off the coast of Maine.  One square mile, no cars, no paved roads, reached only by ferry.  I was eight.  My sister and I spent the first day on the wild eastern side, Atlantic breakers crashing over us and pinning us to black rocks.  That night over dinner in the lodge we were chastised by the owner.  It impressed me that he spoke to us, not my parents.  He’d seen us playing on the rocks, dodging waves and hanging on through the streaming foam when hit.  Perhaps it was made up to terrify us but he claimed that the week before two kids had been swept from those rocks and out to sea.

Islands that followed are Ibiza, San Juan (in Washington), St. Lucia, Barbados, Big Pine Key, the big island of Hawaii, Ko Samet, Sicily, and Lesbos, which is so large it contains two mountain ranges.  Sappho and her exquisite sensibility came from there.  Aristotle, the observer of phainomena, exiled himself there to do biology experiments in the skinny lagoon that makes Lesbos look like an amoeba undergoing mitosis. 

Its now ten years since the great migrant crisis of 2015.  My partner Susana and I were on Lesbos that October when ten thousand people every week landed on the north coast after crossing in small boats from Turkey.  We were aware of the refugee crises but didn’t know that Lesbos was a prime destination until we arrived and found the shuttle from the airport crammed with reporters and camerapeople.  Driving to our lodging near Molyvos on the north coast we passed hundreds of refugees walking toward the capital Mytilene.

We were tourists.  Our first full day on the island we visited a small building covering pools fed by hot springs.  The women who owned the building instructed us to first immerse ourselves in the near-scalding water for two minutes then race outside to stand in the cold sea before returning for another immersion.  Susana couldn’t force herself into the hot water and instead relaxed on a bathchair in the humid air.  Counting off the seconds while trying to not panic I finally stood up and ran outside to cool off in the sea. 

And there I am, hip deep in the Aegean, fingers swirling the water, staring into the distance, oblivious, relaxed, and psyching myself up to go back inside for the painful-then-pleasurable-then-panicked spell in the hottest water I’ve ever been in when, bouncing over the waves toward me, there appeared a dingy full of people.  There must have been forty adults in a craft built to hold twenty.  I ran inside to dress and then back outside to meet people clambering up the rocky shore to the dirt road where I stood. 

A jeep with aid workers zoomed up behind me, the woman driving yelling at me in French.  I understood by her gestures that she wanted me to urge the people to come to the jeep.  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” I blurted out, a melodious phrase remembered from French films.  Or possibly I said “Quelle heure est-il?” because that too rolls off the tongue.  Whatever nonsense came out of my mouth, my astonished point was, “Aren’t you the aid workers?”  But the woman got out and shooed me toward the new arrivals, again telling me to get them to come to her. 

I had only English to use.  “Excuse me, that lady over there might be able to help you.”  One of the travelers who spoke some English explained that they had no intention of talking with aid workers.  Next to me another man unwrapped what he’d used to waterproof his phone and made a call.  I was told that the boat his brother and family were on was still out there in the waves, and this first group was going to wait to see if that boat made it across.  I went back to report this to the French in the jeep and received scowls.  They zoomed off.  To do what I have no idea, as they seemed reluctant to engage directly with the cold, wet people who had just arrived.

The travelers’ greatest fear was to be separated forever from family members still trying to make it over the sea.  Once they got on one of the many tour buses pressed into driving people to the camp near the capital, there was no telling what would happen to them.  Most chose instead to walk over the island’s mountains to reach the harbor at Mytilene, hoping to avoid the camp and somehow find a way to continue on to the mainland and then central or northern Europe.  They chose to stay together and govern themselves rather than turn their lives over to the well-intentioned but chaotic (and sometimes literally imprisoning) aid process.  Many of the people who made the crossing remain trapped in the giant migrant camp.  Today a second camp is being built.

To be on vacation and to find myself unexpectedly among heartbreak and chaos and suffering was to also witness a tenuous hope as expressed by the majority of Greeks, who though struggling themselves, were sacrificing to help strangers.  A common sight in the little shops along the coast was locals mingling with aid workers and tourists, speaking many languages, all of us buying up whatever we could carry down to the thousands of people arriving every day.  One shop owner near the hot springs simply said “take, take” when we came back and no longer charged for the items.  At one point, I stood side by side with a local watching the latest group to set off over the mountains on the walk to Mytilene.  As if he needed to explain why he provided help, he said in accented English, “Some people know what time it is, some remain asleep.”

The women who ran the hot springs had a method of helping that was heartbreaking and beautiful in its practicality.  When a boat landed they coaxed people with children to come to their building.  Of that first group I saw land, the women managed to direct a few women and several children to their building.  All were soaking wet.  The Greek women stripped the shivering children of their wet clothes, threw these in a pile to be washed and dried and then, because the families had to keep moving, dressed the children in the clean, dry clothes of previous arrivals.

Susana helped strip, dry, and dress two little Iraqi girls.  Then, wearing the clothes of Afghani girls who landed on Lesbos the day before, these girls continued with their family on their frightening journey of hope—to find a safe, welcoming country in which to start a new life.  Soon their clothes would wind up on children from another country.

As they were being dried and dressed, I sat next to the large colorful bag covered with a multitude of hearts the girls carried on their journey.  Their only belongings.  Imagine what’s inside:  the well-worn, the well-loved, the things they judged most valuable moments before they left their home forever.

After landing back in the U.S. and entering our comfortable house we saw a news story from that same coast.  One of the dinghies sank and babies, children, fathers and mothers died.  That year 100,000 people made that crossing.  I feel helpless to hope for happy endings for all those desperate people.  Yet sometimes late at night, in my yellow armchair by a window where the moon often peeks in, I find myself trying to picture where those Iraqi girls are now.  Here on this yellow cozy island where imagination is free, I’m able to construct stories in my head of the girls happy, safe, and laughing.

© 2026 Kurt McGinnis Brown
Kurt’s plays have been performed across the country, and his fiction has appeared in national journals. He’s finishing a book tracing his transformation from criminal to creative writer. His work on land and poverty took him to countries he’d otherwise never have experienced. http://kurtmcginnisbrown.com/

By Marlene Samuels

This January in Chicago, where I feel fortunate to have settled, temperatures have given me a serious “deja vu” attack. Our arctic blast brought to mind a period in my life I’d all but forgotten!

Until my teens, I lived in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. Situated on the St. Lawrence Seaway. The city is renowned for its old-world ambiance, lip-smacking cuisine, and the quirk of French remaining the legal language in one of our closest geographic neighbors. Americans often remark that when they visit Montreal, they feel as though they’ve gone to Europe—France specifically—only much closer and without jet-lag. That’s great except Montreal is also notorious for shockingly brutal winters.

Throughout high school and my first two years of college, I’d saved all my pennies and all my dimes from summer jobs and weekend babysitting. Religiously, I’d walk to our neighborhood bank—savings account passbook proudly in hand—humming as I strolled. The song: lyrics of the 1962 Beach Boy’s song, “Little Deuce Coupe,” “I saved all my pennies and all my dimes…”

In 1970, the summer before I would enter junior year at university, the administration approved upper-class students having cars on campus. I was beyond ecstatic and intended to do just that. My small fortune, faithfully saved over the years, totaled an amazing $536. With Dad’s guidance, I found a road-worthy 1959 black Volkswagen Beetle for $500. The remaining $36 paid for floor mats and a pre-paid gas card. The car’s odometer read 160,000 miles. The number was of little concern to me since I’d read that due to the Volkswagen’s extreme simplicity of design, the road-bug was destined to run forever.

My black beetle was a four-speed stick-shift on the floor, cute and somewhat other-worldly looking on campus. It sported exterior running boards—a tad rusted and sagging in parts—plus shiny metal bumpers with their share of dents. None of these features soured my love of my first car. But the pure “simplicity of design,” I soon discovered, meant the 1959 VW lacked both a gas gauge and a fan that might deliver heat into the car during the frequently arctic Midwest winters. And seatbelts? Of course not. In retrospect, we didn’t pay attention to them. Given our youth, we perceived ourselves as indestructible, and besides, seatbelts weren’t standard equipment in cars until 1968. But we definitely knew about gas gauges and car heaters! Every car I’d ever been in had them.

My black Volkswagen Beetle was equipped with a “reserve tank.” The metal acorn-squash-sized globe under the steering wheel held precisely one and a half gallons of gas. Should my beloved bug begin to sputter — a sure sign I was running out of gas—I’d flip a lever on the acorn squash. Reserve gasoline would pour into the main tank, the VW shuddered and bucked like a rodeo bull for a few seconds, and then all would be good again, at least for a while. My math wasn’t the greatest but at approximately thirty-eight miles per gallon, the extra fuel gave me anywhere from fifty-four to seventy more miles, depending upon weather, traffic conditions, terrain, and how much coasting in neutral I managed in my search for a gas station before totally running out of gas and getting stranded.

The absence of a gas gauge was simply inconvenient compared with the vastly more serious, even life threatening one: the absence of a heater or fan. During Chicago’s arctic winters, that was the only way to generate heat in my 1959 Volkswagen Beetle. Increasing the motor’s RPM’s (revolutions per minute) by downshifting usually did it but only when the car was warmed up. The racket did make the engine sound ready to explode, however. The method forced hot air from the motor to blow through thin slits at the windshield’s base, the auto designer’s concept of vents.

The first winter I owned my beloved beetle, I quickly learned the importance of never driving anywhere alone unless absolutely unavoidable, and if I did, wrapping a scarf over my mouth and nose to minimize my exhaled breath that reached the windshield was essential. Why? Because condensation from breathing when reaching the windshield created an ice layer at an alarming rate.

The lifesaving task assigned to every passenger: remain as quiet as possible so as to reduce breath that condensed into yet more windshield ice—but also take responsibility for the ice-scraper. Passengers scraped the windshield’s interior ice as it formed—the task’s importance could not be underestimated— since accumulating ice obscured the road’s visibility.

Objectively, I probably overpaid for the car. But the freedom it provided remained unquantifiable. I’d bought myself independence plus the means to distance myself from home and parents at a point in life when such things could not be over-stated. After my first arctic Midwest winter with my 1959 beetle, my friends and I settled in to a comfortable “winter travel in the Marlene-wagon” routine. I was the envy of most of my friends, rarely lacking for passengers eager to assume the ice-scraper job. By the time I graduated university, the running-boards had rusted off and my metal bumpers, beyond dented, had been replaced with rubber strips cut from old tires.

This week, temperatures have hovered at below-zero double digits. Getting into my modern-day wonder vehicle and pulling out of my garage, my steering wheel heats up, my bottom feels warm as the seat-heater turns on, and my toes grow toasty. I exhale a deep sigh without the slightest concern about icy windshield consequences.

My little black beetle may have lacked heat, a gas gauge, seatbelts, and in all likelihood shock-absorbers, but always will retain a spot in my heart as the greatest car I ever owned.

©2026 Marlene Samuels

Marlene holds a Ph.D., from University of Chicago. A research sociologist by training, she writes creative non-fiction by preference. Currently, she is completing her book entitled Ask Mr. Hitler: A Memoir Told In Short Story.  She is coauthor of The Seamstress: A Memoir of Survival, and author of When Digital Isn’t Real: Fact-Finding Off-Line for Serious Writers. Her essays and stories have been published widely in anthologies, journals, and online.  (www.marlenesamuels.com)

By Faith Ellestad

It was a celebration of someone’s life, and I dreaded going. What was the matter with me?  Normally, although I don’t look forward to such occasions, I’m okay to go.  But this was different.  We weren’t close to Lana and Bob, her recently deceased husband; in fact, we had only met a few times.  I knew they were involved in good works, and politically active, which I admired

But I didn’t know the last time I had encountered Lana, at a gathering of mutual friends, that Bob had developed rapid-onset dementia, Blithely unaware of Bob’s diagnosis, or that he had been admitted to memory care, I made a light-hearted remark about his absence, suggesting he had better things to do, ha ha. Lana replied, imforming me–somewhat tersely–of his whereabouts.  I felt awful and embarrassed and started to nervously over-apologize, which of course made her tear up.  Had there been a hole available, I would have unquestionably crawled in.  Instead, Lana turned away to join a different conversation while I silently inhaled my order of fish tacos so quickly I barely noticed their limp coldness. Lana left shortly thereafter, and I sat dejectedly blaming myself and desperately uncomfortable, wishing I had known about Bill.

With that very discomfiting memory of our previous meeting front and center, I now faced having to express my regrets to an acquaintance I may or may not have insulted.

After two weeks of almost constant worry, I reminded myself that not everything was about me, and at the very least, I would be increasing the attendance for her husband’s memorial. It was the one thing I could do.

Normally, I would have had little angst over what outfit to choose, but the previous week, I had managed to trip on our bedframe in the middle of the night and break my little toe, And, may I add, for purposes of sympathy, it was quite painful.  My sartorial quest was to find an outfit that would at least diminish the unfortunate mismatched footwear, one normal and one toeless Velcro strapped surgical shoe. I chose a midnight blue top and midnight blue patterned pants.  Black socks hid my bare toes in the surgical boot and a black shoe on the other foot was the best I could do footwear-wise. A deep breath and I was ready to go.  Except–

Just as we were about to leave for the event, I remembered a small shoulder bag I hadn’t used in several years, buried in my bottom dresser drawer.  The purse was cherry red, easy to wear over my shoulder, with just room for my phone, wallet, and comb.  Just that little pop of color I was always reading about in those “what to wear” fashion articles online, subtly enhancing my very somber outfit.  It was a celebration, after all.  I was delighted to have remembered it at the last moment, that little bright red dot of confidence. At least I looked as good as one could limping around in two wildly mismatched pieces of footwear,

As we arrived, I was still having reservations.  Should I mention our conversation and apologize, or just not say anything?  At least I would be there in friendship; Lana was free to think whatever she might. Whatever.  I would just have to deal with myself.  Remember, it’s Not. About. You.

I asked my husband to check my shirt for cat hair before we went in, and he did some serious brushing on the back of my shoulder.

 “Just some fuzz, or something,” he reassured me.

I didn’t have any idea where I had encountered fuzz between our garage and this parking lot. But at least he had removed it before I went in. 

“Just a minute.” He had stopped at the top of the stairs. “A little more fuzz.”

“Huh, is there a cottonwood around here?”

“Don’t know, but I think I got it all.”

We walked downstairs and I switched my purse to the opposite shoulder.  A little tuft of fuzz wafted by. Then I noticed the strap had a wee bare patch at the top and the lining had rubbed off on my shirt. A brief pluck of my shoulder before stepping into the receiving line.

Lana saw us, gave us each a warm hug, and held my hand tightly.

“Oh, you came! I’m so glad to see you. Thank you, thank you for coming!”

I was so relieved it was my turn to get a little teary.

As we left the line, we ran into a couple of good friends.

“Faith!” said my blunt-spoken friend in her broad Australian accent, “@hat’ s going on with your purse?  It’s shedding!”

“I know. I guess the strap is a little worn. I should have checked it out before I left.”

“It’s not just the strap.” She was laughing so hard her wine began to slosh over the edge of her glass.

“What?”  I squeaked.

Now my husband and her spouse were starting to laugh, too.

I pulled the purse off my shoulder and examined it.  Unbelievably, the entire covering had begun peeling off the liner, which was shredding exuberantly.  White fuzz was everywhere, covering me and floating throughout the room, stealthily drifting onto other guests. At first, I was mortified, then suddenly the hilarity of the situation struck me, and I was laughing as hard as the rest.

“Let’s find a table,” my friend suggested.  “You can hide it in the corner.”

 Had I been wearing pants with pockets, I would have taken my phone and wallet out and thrown the damn thing away. It was kind of like wearing the Scarlet Letter. Hard to live down.

“Do you happen to have a trash bag with you?” I asked.

She did not. She just laughed. I parked my little desiccated accessory behind a floral arrangement, brushed my entire outfit off, with a little help from my friends, and proceeded to fill a plate with delicious snacks and enjoy the presentation. 

Returning home, I showed the purse remnants to my son and amused him by dropping it emphatically into the trash, 

So really, it wasn’t all about me, only it kind of was, too.  I did the right thing for Lana, and I wasn’t arrested by the fashion police. Score two!

© 2026 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents.  Now retired, she has taken the opportunity to sort through family memorabilia, discovering a wellspring of tales begging to be told, which she hopes to expand upon in written form (where appropriate, of course!).   She and her husband live in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law, and recently expanded their family to include Thistle and Bramble, two irrepressible young felines.

By Loriann Knapton

In our house when I was growing up, you didn’t go to the doctor unless you were A. bleeding to death or B. weren’t breathing. Anything else requiring medical attention was pretty much managed at home. I do vaguely remember one visit to our local clinic as a three-year-old after I climbed on the bottom open drawer of a clothes dresser. Mom had turned away from me for just a second, and the dresser crashed to the floor with me underneath. I was fine, but the tip of the pinky finger on my right hand wasn’t. It was missing, and there was blood everywhere, one of the criteria for a trip to the doctor, so off to the clinic we went, Mom driving, and Grandma holding me in her lap, putting pressure on the wound with one hand and holding the end of my finger in a clean dish towel with the other. Turns out the doctor couldn’t reattach it because the severed tip of the finger was so small. So, he tossed the fingertip in the trash, stitched up the wound, wrapped it in a gauze dressing that to my three-year-old self looked like the top of a vanilla ice cream cone, and sent us home. Had Mom known the finger couldn’t be reattached before we left for the clinic, she probably would have kept pressure on it, doused it in Mercurochrome, bandaged it up, and saved the hospital bill. My dad used to say the only place you could find sympathy in our house was in the dictionary. Anyway, I managed to survive my many childhood maladies and mishaps thanks to Mom, mercurochrome, and milk toast.

Children growing up in the 1960s were very familiar with Mercurochrome. This red, syrupy-looking liquid, used as an antiseptic for minor cuts and scrapes, was a standard item in home medicine cabinets. That is, until 1998, when it was banned by the FDA due to its high mercury content. But back then, if I came in the house with a scraped knee, small cut, or bleeding bug bite, out would come the familiar bottle, with its black rubber squeeze bulb jutting out of the screw cap. Mom would grab a washcloth, clean the  wound, unscrew the cap, and squeeze the liquid liberally from the glass dropper on the affected area, admonishing me to “stop crying and hold still because it’s a long way from your heart!”  Once applied to her satisfaction, she would blow on the wound in an effort to let the liquid dry before covering it with a band-aid. I guess the Mercurochrome was antiseptic enough to ward off any germs from her mouth. Looking back, I really didn’t mind the “red stuff” as we called it, or the orange-red stains it made on my skin. Nor do I remember ever getting an infection from a wound treated with Mercurochrome, so the stuff must have had some merit. But milk toast…That’s another story.

Milk toast was my nemesis. Milk toast was mom’s remedy for sore throats, indigestion, dehydration, and upset tummies. Alternatively, it served as a poultice to draw out stingers, the core of a boil, or pus from an infected wound.  In Mom’s book, if Mercurochrome couldn’t fix it, milk toast would. To make this magic cure-all, Mom would toast a slice of white bread, cut it up into small cubes, and place it in a cereal bowl. Then milk, warmed on the stove in a small aluminum saucepan, was poured over the bread. A tablespoon of sugar—or sometimes two if she were feeling generous—would be stirred into the bread mixture and left to soak into the toast until it was a soggy, sloppy mess. Only then would she place it on the kitchen table with the words, “Honey girl, I made you some milk toast. It will make you feel better.”  The stuff didn’t make me feel better. It was awful. It tasted like wet paper and paste. In fact, I think the paper and paste would have tasted better. But mom was so sure it was the cure, I had no choice but to hold my nose and suffer it down.

Occasionally, the toast was not for eating but for slapping on my skin as a poultice. The preparation method was the same, but instead of ingesting it, Mom would place the concoction on the affected area as soon as she could safely do so without burning me. Once the milk toast plaster was in place, she would wrap the area with plastic wrap, put a towel over it, and there I would sit, milk oozing out of the soggy toast and running down my leg while I impatiently waited for it to do its magic so I could get back outside.

Thankfully, with new science and a plethora of over-the-counter products available in any drug, grocery, or big box store, Mercurochrome and milk toast are largely forgotten except in the childhood memories of  Baby Boomers. My grandchildren look at me in puzzlement when I mention Mercurochrome and in wide-eyed horror when I explain about how we would sometimes eat milk toast and other times slap it on our skin to draw out pus.  But I remind them that I am still here, alive and well, due in part, or in spite of, of Mercurochrome and milk toast, depending on how one looks at it.

 My 93-year-old mother called me the other day to ask about my childhood friend, who had spent a few miserable days in the hospital suffering from severe canker sores, a side effect of chemotherapy. As I explained to Mom that Sue was still struggling to eat anything because her mouth was so sore, Mom promptly said, “Oh Lori, that’s easy.  Just tell her to make some milk toast, and everything will be fine.”  I just smiled to myself. Thanks, Mom.

© 2026 Loriann Knapton

Loriann Knapton has been writing since childhood.  Having crafted countless rhymes, short stories, and personal essays over her sixty-odd years she has a keen interest in ensuring her family memories are recorded for the next generations. Her writing reflects the humorous and poignant experiences of growing up in 1960s small-town America with her mom and disabled dad.

By Violet Suta Moran

This essay is an excerpt from Violet’s latest book, Sweetgrass: Growing Up in Montana.

One summer, my three sons and their families came to the mountains of Montana for a reunion with the Suta family.  After a few days in the mountains, we all felt the need to go to the prairie and visit where my siblings and I had lived, the farm we playfully named “The Suta Rock Farm.”  We children thought that name was appropriate because rocks seemed to be the most prolific crop on our wheat farm.

We went into the quonset hut, a large metal storage building,  housing our beloved Hildegard, a 1932 International truck. I was talking about Hildegard to my granddaughters Hannah and Becca, who were maybe five and three years old. I explained that this truck was used when we were picking rocks and pointed out that there were some rocks in the truck bed. I showed them the pulley Pop had installed to be able to crank up the front of the truck box so the rocks would slide off the back.  I said, “We were really happy to have this pulley so that we no longer had to unload the rocks by hand.”  Hannah looked up and said, “Okay, Grandma, I understand that. But why would anybody want to pick rocks?” 

Such a good question, but it was hilarious to the adults.  We doubled over laughing.  None of us ever “wanted” to pick rocks, but they could damage expensive farm machinery if left in the fields.  We didn’t have a choice.      

Sweetgrass: Growing Up in Montana

By Violet Suta Moran, available in the Lulu.com bookstore.

Violet Suta Moran grew up on a farm twelve miles from Sweetgrass, Montana, which in the 1930s and 1940s was a thriving little town with everything a farm family needed. In the 1950s, Sweetgrass went into decline and now is not even a ghost town.

Sweetgrass was written because Violet’s three sons and five grandchildren wanted to know what it was like to grow up on the Suta Rock Farm without any modern conveniences. These stories tell that the families on a developing farm worked hard and did not have much time to play. But the siblings worked together with camaraderie, respect, and geneality.

Picking rocks

Mom often said, “No rocks, no crops,” as if the rocks added to the land’s fertility. She was trying to encourage us—and herself– to go out and work.  Our idea of “quality family time” was to all go out and pick rocks together.

Mom gave me a small bucket, like a beach toy, so that I could pick rocks with the family.  I was about one year old when we moved onto the farm, so I can honestly say that I started picking rocks as soon as I could walk!!  My little bucket filled quickly, and I kept bothering Mom to empty it onto the truck.  Mom was smart and convinced me that I should pick tiny rocks because nobody else was doing that. Then she didn’t have to empty my bucket so often.

Picking rocks is hard physical labor

You have to bend over, grasp a heavy rock with both hands, stand up, carry the rock to the truck, and lift it up as high or higher than your shoulders to stack it onto the truck bed. Then you walk back to where you picked that rock in order to pick another. The ground is uneven, and your body has to constantly re- balance as you walk back and forth.  Repeat, repeat, and repeat.

We never counted the number of rocks it took to make a truckload, but I can tell you that it is enough to make your muscles sore and your back ache.

When we had picked enough rocks to fill the truck bed of Hildegard, we dumped the load of rocks onto the dam that had been made between a couple of hills to create a reservoir. The reservoir collected water from rain and melted snow to provide a source of water for our cattle. The reservoir was necessary because there was no lake or other source of water on several thousand acres of land.

Large boulders that none of us were able to lift had to be put onto the stoneboat to be hauled away.  The stoneboat was a flat piece of heavy wood about six feet square and low to the ground, with no sides.  Pop used the grader attachment on the tractor to push the boulder onto the stoneboat. If a boulder was partly buried in the ground, we had to dig the soil all around it to wrap chains under it and lift it with the tractor.

 Favorite rocks

Even though my family didn’t like picking rocks, each of us sometimes selected a rock they thought was special and piled it against our house. The rock somehow “spoke” to that person.  None of us ever questioned why a rock was special to a person. No explanation was needed. 

My favorite rock was a huge boulder located down the steep hill from our house. The top of the rock was fairly flat and at least four feet in diameter. As a child, I thought I could hide behind that rock when I didn’t want Mom to see me.  I named that boulder my “Picnic Rock” because I often took dolls and cookies along for a party.  Sometimes I just lay down on the ground behind the rock, enjoying my privacy and watching the white clouds change shape.

Everybody needs a rock

Everybody ought to have a special rock of their own. Your rock will silently communicate with you as you speak to it, touch it, and think about something.  Some people carry a small smooth rock that they can rub with their thumb to help them relax.  

I have a special rock that fits perfectly into the palm of my hand, and I keep it nearby to help me think when I am stressed or stumped over a problem, writing, or planning something.

I think everyone would benefit from having a personal rock.

© 2025 Violet Suta Moran

Violet Suta Moran developed a notable reputation as a nurse prior to retirement and writing. Among her accomplishments was creation of the first Intensive Care Unit in Madison, Wisconsin, in May 1963, one of the first in the nation. Her activities in the nursing profession included publications, holding elective offices, and providing continuing education. She also was a leaderin the specialty of teaching staff to care for children who have profound developmental disabilities. Although her heart remains in Montana, she enjoys living in the beautiful city of Madison, Wisconsin.

By Renee Lajcak

Renee writes both for the page and for performance, adjusting her style for each. “For spoken word, I use shorter sentences, more repetition. On the page, you can be more abstract. For listeners, I keep it visual, ‘in your face’,” she says. Performing lets her shape how her audience experiences her stories through her stress and intonation; reading aloud is how she prefers to publish on this blog.

Christmas on Java

I spent one Christmas on Java, in Indonesia, where familiar traditions were balanced by strange ones and new ones to create a Christmas that I will never forget.

Indonesia has the world’s largest Muslim population and 87% of Indonesians identify as Muslim, but there is no state religion. However, Indonesia recognizes several major religions, so there are national holidays for nearly all: Hindu Nyepi, Muslim Eid, etc. Thus Christmas is a national holiday and a day off of work.

I was looking forward to Christmas Eve in Indonesia. I was invited to a party thrown by the very international, foreign missionaries in town. They were a rather right clique with their shared religious purpose, but invited me to events now and then. Christmas Eve would begin with an international potluck, so I decided to bake something familiar, an American apple pie. This was a challenge in a country with few apples and fewer ovens, but luckily, up in the hills outside my tropical city was a cooler region, famous for this “exotic” fruit. And my homestay family had recently bought an oven, perhaps as a status symbol. No one had ever used it, and it sat like a throne in its shiny white, virginal state. Then I needed fat for the crust. Lard would be nearly impossible to find in Muslim Java, and I didn’t want to use the common palm oil, but I knew I could buy Dutch butter in a can. The pie turned out well and off I went into the evening, darkness falling quickly near the equator. The Christmas Eve potluck with the missionaries was like a quick visit home, with familiar foods and a few Midwesterners. A short skit by the children and some carol singing created a comforting and familiar Hallmark Christmas.

I jumped from familiarity into the exotic and fantastic. The next thing on my Christmas Eve schedule was a wedding! I worked at a university, and our chancellor’s daughter was getting married. The entire staff was invited (and expected to attend) the Javanese wedding reception at the university.

The hall was set up with a large platform at one end, which was covered with flowers and backed by a wooden carved backdrop in gold. A full gamelan orchestra played their xylophones and gongs in the background. On the platform sat the bride and groom, adorned in traditional Central Javanese royalty style, golden sarongs and leis of jasmine. Two young girls with huge fans made of peacock feathers slowly fanned the couple. The guests made a long line to greet and give best wishes to the couple.

After that, we each received a waxed cardboard box of fried chicken and rice to eat. There was no alcohol, of course. It was the most un-Christmassy of Christmas events I had ever been to.

I soon left and hired a “becak”, a bicycle rickshaw or pedicab, to take me home now that it was dark. A couple of blocks from my homestay, I noticed that the big white cement church on the corner had streams of people going in. I had heard that the congregation was made up of people from the Indonesian island of Ambon, and that the Ambonese are famous for their singing. I impulsively told the becak driver to drop me off there. I entered the church and was handed a program. Inside the folded sheet, I found all familiar carols, the lyrics printed in Indonesian, which I could easily read. The familiarity was soothing and the service was nearly all a capella singing. The main section of the church below and the balcony above were packed with Ambonese singing in full, rich voices and harmonies. I felt surrounded by and immersed in reverberating, undulating voices, soothing my brain into total comfort even though I was the only non-Indonesian out of the hundreds there. To me, this captured the familiar essence of Christmas – singing in joy and welcoming a stranger on a peaceful night.

After the service, I walked the remaining two blocks home. It was very dark by then; street lights were few and far between in our city. I could see that my homestay family had gone to bed, so I quietly went to my small house in the backyard and lit my little Christmas tree. I took out my tiny, immoral bottle of rum (hidden from my Muslim homestay family) and poured myself a cup of hot spiced tea spiked with rum. Then I turned on my shortwave radio to find Christmas carols somewhere out there in the world. A drink, a song, a tree – it felt a little like Christmas back home. There weren’t any Christmas bells on Java that night, but every night, each neighborhood watchman hit something every hour on the hour – a hollow log, a bar of metal – as a kind of clock. From where I lived, I could hear at least three of these, ringing and clunking out the deep night hours. Other than those soothing pseudo-bells and a soft carol on the shortwave, there was no sound, no phone to call my family, no one around at all. The quiet of Christmas Eve was with me, both familiar and strange, ordinary and extraordinary.

© 2025 Renee Lajcak

Renee is a newly retired English language teacher who has taught in several Asian countries but now enjoys her woodsy backyard the best.  She loves the connections made through storytelling and teaching conversational English, but writing about memories allows her to go inward to contemplate the good, the bad and the ugly.  But mostly the good. 

By Faith Ellestad

Ok, I’ll host the party, I guess, it is my turn

I put it off for many years,
Well, now I’ll feel the burn.

Memories of gath’rings past come flooding back in waves
A spicy mix of relatives,
Perhaps I’m not that brave.

Conversations swirling, center, left and right,
Oh, I don’t want to stir the flames,
 I’ll just keep out of sight.

Actually, I’ll have to.  I’m making finger food
It’s all hors d’oeuvres and crudites
With booze to lift the mood.   (at least mine)

Tiny teeny weenies with spicy mustard dip
Deviled eggs and homemade guac
Enough for every chip.

The salmon’s smoked and ready in its silver serving dish
Shit! Only half the salmon’s there
I forgot. My cats love fish.

Cheese and sausage platters, olives green and black
Naked shrimp with zesty sauce
This party’s right on track.

Plates on every surface, a wine stain in that chair
Huh. Chocolate on the lampshade
Now how did that get there?

Someone’s double dipping. I hope he’s in good health
Another’s sneaking cookies
Clearly practiced in her stealth

Thank God! the party’s winding down. There’s nothing left to eat
The locusts, they descended
And now are most replete.

I hope I’ve greeted all the guests. Too busy to remember
I must at least have said hello
They’ve been here since September.

Have some coffee, time to go, I’ll text that recipe
Drive carefully, and peace and love
You mean the world to me!

© 2025 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents.  Now retired, she has taken the opportunity to sort through family memorabilia, discovering a wellspring of tales begging to be told, which she hopes to expand upon in written form (where appropriate, of course!).   She and her husband live in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law, and recently expanded their family to include Thistle and Bramble, two irrepressible young felines.

By Loriann Knapton

Today I made potato salad. I started with my grandmother’s recipe, passed down from one mother in the family to another. As the small red potatoes cook, I start to chop hard-boiled eggs, celery, and onion, and start thinking about my Grandma Ring, her potato salad, and the Pumpkin Hollow Homemakers cookbook of 1955.

Created as a fundraiser, the book is grease-spattered front and back, held together by a plastic spiral strip and filled with recipes, the best each woman in the area had to offer. The typed ingredient lists were very specific, with phrases such as “Use a piece of butter the size of an egg” or “add enough flour to make a soft dough,” and included distinct instructions like “bake until the crust is like butterscotch.”  Or “mix so they will roll out without sticking to the board.”  I cherish the book passed to me when my grandma died. It’s filled with her handwritten notes, added ingredients, and additional recipes jotted in the margins. I still occasionally use the book, mostly when I am feeling nostalgic. But every time I open it, I ponder over how its contributors were credited. Written below each recipe, I see their names. Mrs. Alva Ring, Mrs. Carl Cummings, Mrs. Glen Lawrence, and so it goes with every recipe in the book. In 1955, the credit was given to each woman only as an appendage of the men they married.

I chop a couple of extra eggs, and I think about Mrs. Alva Ring, my paternal grandmother, who always added additional eggs to her potato salad for “substance.” Alma Spielvogel Ring, the daughter of German immigrants, lived through two world wars, the passage of the  19^th Amendment, Prohibition, and the Great Depression. She kept a 22-caliber rifle by the back door of her little house and could drop a rabbit from the doorway at 30 yards, skin it, butcher it, and make a delicious stew in time for company supper which, if anybody asked, was chicken. And neither would she hesitate if she had the good fortune to have one available, to head out to the coop with her kitchen axe to chop off the head of a chicken, tossing it into the garden for fertilizer before gathering its still flopping body from the yard to singe, pluck, and prepare it for Sunday dinner.  The depression taught her to make do with what she had. She was resilient in the face of tragedy, burying her husband and two of her three adult children in the span of seven years. She was also opinionated, honest, direct, and loyal to her friends, and I am so proud to have inherited many of her qualities. She taught me to stand up for myself, take care of myself, and depend on myself.

As I skin and dice warm potatoes, I think about my mother-in-law, Mrs. Roy Knapton Sr. “If the potatoes are warm, the dressing will soak in for more flavor,” Nancy Jean Krueger Knapton always said. She was married at seventeen, bore four children, and buried one before she was twenty-three, then had three more. She worked full-time in a retail store, then came home and canned 52 quarts of peas, carrots, green beans, corn, mixed vegetables, and homemade ketchup from her garden each canning season.  She washed clothes for eight in an old Hoover washer, crocheted and knitted blankets, sweaters, hats, coats, and mittens to keep her family warm, butchered chickens, hunted deer, and taught each of her children how to swim.  She loved roller coasters, card games, and brandy old-fashioneds. She taught me time management, how to take things in stride, never to take myself too seriously.

As I mix the dressing, mustard, vinegar, salt, pepper, and mayonnaise, I think about my mother, Mrs. Lauris Ring. Betty Ann Charlotte Kvidt Ring taught me that mayonnaise, not Miracle Whip, and just a touch of mustard, is the secret to good potato salad. She completed first and second grade in one year, trained as a practical nurse at 17, married my dad, promising in sickness and in health in 1954, then kept her promise, nursing him at home for eight years when he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis four years later.  She worked full-time nights at our local hospital, managed the household, paid the bills, fixed the leaks, hung the pictures, mowed the lawn, took care of the car, volunteered at her church, was a 4-H leader, and delivered Meals on Wheels, all while caring for me and Dad.  Mom never meant to be a feminist. Really, she was a reluctant one. She was a feminist by the necessity of having to juggle it all. She taught me that life is not always perfect, but with resilience, patience, and flexibility, it is possible to find beautiful roses among the thorns.

As I gently fold dressing into the vegetables, I think about my maternal grandmother, Mrs. Elmer Kvidt.  Ruby Corella Opdahl Kvidt was a gentle soul. In her world, the more gently you stirred, the softer the touch, the better the outcome. She knew how to make a point without using a loud voice or overt drama. The daughter of a Lutheran missionary pastor, she lived through two world wars, the great depression, and the grief of losing an infant. She collected water in galvanized pails from an open pipe jutting out of a freshwater spring, 250 yards from the house and the master bathroom; the only bathroom was an outhouse located 35 yards from her back door. Clothes were washed using a squeaky wringer washing machine kept in an unheated back porch, and the galvanized wash tub that collected the clothes as they dropped from the wringer was the same tub she bathed in on Saturday nights.  She never had indoor plumbing until 1978, but I never heard her complain. She was kind to her friends, good to her neighbors, and loved within her small northern Minnesota community.  She taught me that kindness matters, and more importantly, it is really 10 percent what happens to you and 90 percent what you decide to do about it.  

As I wash bowls, spatulas, and the potato pot, I think about my aunt, Mrs. Florian Ring. Helen Marie Wuerch Ring was married to my dad’s brother, and I can hear her in my hea,d “Lori, if we make a mess, we have to clean up a mess.” She taught school in a one-room schoolhouse, married a dairy farmer, raised her own three children, and took in my three cousins and me in the summer of 1963 when our parents were struggling with health issues. She milked cows, drove tractor, fed chickens, tended garden, made the best pies in four counties (it’s in the lard), volunteered as a 4-H leader, served as president of her Homemakers club, managed the many accounts and purchases for the family business and served as the Wyocena town clerk for over 30 years. Helen is 100 years old this year, still lives in her own apartment, and with the aid of a walker exercises daily.  She was and is remarkable. She taught me that cleaning up the messes I make in the kitchen and in my life are the keys to successful living.

Alma Spievogel Ring, Nancy Krueger Knapton, Betty Kvidt Ring, Ruby Opdahl Kvidt, Helen Wuerch Ring. All married, but certainly not defined only by their husband’s name. They have always shined brightly in their own right, lighting the way for their daughters and granddaughters to never have to present themselves, unless by choice, as Mrs. inserts a husband’s name.  They are the women who paved the way for me. Today I made potato salad. Then I opened the pages of the Pumpkin Hollow Homemakers cookbook and defiantly and proudly inked Alma Spielvogel Ring next to Mrs. Alva Ring on each of her recipes.

© 2025 Loriann Knapton

Loriann Knapton has been writing since childhood.  Having crafted countless rhymes, short stories, and personal essays over her sixty-odd years she has a keen interest in ensuring her family memories are recorded for the next generations. Her writing reflects the humorous and poignant experiences of growing up in 1960s small-town America with her mom and disabled dad.

By Janet Manders

My owner handed me over to her eight-year-old granddaughter. Actually, that’s not how it really happened. The kid grabbed me. Right out of the tight, protective grasp of the person who typically holds me. During that abrupt abduction, I yearned for a way to shield my delicate ears from the loud gasps of, “Hey. Be careful. That’s not a toy, you know.”

 It’s rare to be held in different hands. After all, I’m precious; replacing me isn’t cheap. But this unexpected experience feels kind of good if I’m going to be honest. Instead of the usual clench that covers most of my body, this is a looser touch and most of my back is free. I could get used to this.

Fingers begin to poke at my buttons. “Grandma. What’s your password?”

Oh boy. What’s next? I don’t think it’s going to be the gentle scroll through photos that I enjoy taking with my owner. Those scrolls can take all morning long and are often accompanied by soft sighs or laughs. Sometimes, like an early spring drizzle, a single teardrop plops softly onto my face. My ability to store and provide those priceless memories fills me with so much pride.

Uh oh. More pokes. Is this kid going to turn on music and dance with me? If so, I’m a little nervous that what she chooses will feel like a crazy carnival ride. I’m too old for this. Please, please, please, not “Baby Shark!”

I’ve heard that eight-year-olds can be a little impulsive. Rumor has it that my predecessor was dropped by a youngster, resulting in some pretty serious damage to her face and internal organs.

This is getting scary. Where’s my protector? Why is she letting this happen?

I feel a poke on the green call button and immediately relax. I can do this. This is what I was built for. My earliest service for humans.

“Hi. Can I talk to Jo?”

After a moment, I hear a second child’s voice. It’s sweet, maybe a year younger than the eight-year-old. “Hi Cora.”

“Hi, Jo. Did the bunny get caught in the trap we set last night?”

“Well, my dad and I went outside to look this morning. The carrot is gone, but I’m not sure if it was a bunny. Maybe it was a coyote.”

I hear my owner laughing in the background. Much louder than I’ve heard her laugh in a long time. I get it. We live in the concrete jungle of urban Madison, not exactly fertile breeding grounds for coyotes. I wish she’d quiet down, though, so I can hear the rest of the conversation.

“It had to be the bunny, Jo. Coyotes don’t eat carrots.”

“That’s actually not true. I saw it on the internet.”

“The internet lies.”

Oh geez. Those innocents are starting to attack one of my valuable functions. My ancestors’ skills have been developed and refined over the years. Not too long ago, my grandma couldn’t do much more than help her owners talk to others. I’ve evolved, however, and I can now google anything, take those photos, provide a calendar, keep notes, send short written messages, and so much more. If you ask me, I should be listed as one of the seven wonders of the world.

Let those youngsters think what they want. I know the truth. Connection, relaxation, memories, and so much more happens — thanks to me. I love my life. Even in new hands.

This story is based on a conversation between my two granddaughters, probably the first time I heard them talking to each other on the phone. They are very excited to have this story published as they think it makes them famous!

©2025 Janet Manders

Janet Manders writes stories about her life, with the hopes her children and grandchildren will appreciate them years from now. Recent works of hers have been published on True Stories Well Told, on 101words.org and as part of the 2025 Birren Center’s Anthology Collection entitled Second Chances. Janet lives in Madison with her husband, near her daughters, grandchildren, and writing friends.