True Stories Well Told

By Josh Feyen

This post originally appeared on Josh’s Substack, here.

When I was a kid, the end of May always signaled the final approach to summer vacation. For town kids, the next three months meant day camps, time with a baby sitter and summer trips. For my brothers and me, those three months meant the start of haying season, rebuilding pasture fencing, gathering firewood and helping mom in the garden. So while “summer vacation” meant no homework, there was lots of work to do.

In early spring mom started her own seeds and later did most of the planting. But we helped with sowing row crops, like sweet corn, or big forgiving seeds that we couldn’t mess up, like squash and beans. As plants grew, she cared for them, but when the vegetables started coming in, we were called back to the garden to pick strawberries, tomatoes and beans, and always thoroughly search the zucchini patch, lest one grew into an inedible monster. On the occasion we missed one, my brothers and I would slice the bloated beast lengthwise to build a boat, scoop out the seeds, and add toothpicks for oars or a chopstick for a mast. We floated the two opposing ships in the cattle water tank, squash seeds surrounding the zucchini ships, evidence of the great sea battle in the barnyard.

But it wasn’t all work. My parents had figured out early in their marriage that camping was a viable means of taking a vacation on a budget; they even honeymooned in a tent. And so each summer we spent three or four days between first and second hay crop, or just after the oats were harvested, to go to a nearby county or state park for a camping trip.

My July 12 birthday marked the middle of the school break. Since my dad and an aunt’s birthdays were the day before mine, and an uncle’s was just a few days earlier, we always celebrated together. I loved those weekends because my aunt and uncle made the 3-hour drive from Milwaukee to celebrate together on our farm.

While we worked with dad and the animals or in the fields, Mom worked in the kitchen, calling for us between canning batches to gather more vegetables. She wasn’t satisfied until she had put away 80 quarts of stewed tomatoes and 40 pints of green beans. The pantry shelves took on a Christmas theme in the middle of August.

While mom gardened to keep the family fed, she also tended low-growing flowers at the feet of her statue of St. Joseph, and a hedge of Russian sage surrounding the vegetable garden. And then there were her favorites. I can still hear mom’s voice saying “my glads,” referring to her collection of gladiolas, towering behind the Russian sage.

Dad made time away from work as well. When we ended a day’s tasks early, or maybe after church, dad would suggest we go fishing. Mom occasionally accompanied us, especially when we’d bring a second canoe to a nearby lake. But when dad had walking along a local trout stream in mind, he was talking to my brothers and me. He always had a tackle box and four poles ready, and he’d send us out to mom’s garden to turn over a couple spades of dirt to collect bait. If we were lucky, she’d have a nearly finished compost pile—those were easy to dig and always yielded the biggest worms.

As summer approached Labor Day, I was farmer-tanned and could throw hay bales across the barn floor that weighed more than I did. By the end of each August I also knew a little more about the inner workings of farm equipment, or had learned to drive a bigger tractor (but never the really big one), or had graduated to using the chain saw without supervision. And after putting away our final crop of hay, my brothers and I summed the daily bale count, and dad paid us one penny each for every bale we made. While it doesn’t sound like much, after putting up 10,000 bales a summer, $100 was a lot of money to a 12-year-old boy.

Labor Day also meant returning to school. Except for the field corn, which dad harvested because it required “the big tractor,” the crops were harvested and stored or sold. Other summer chores, like painting and fencing were done, and mom’s garden had slowed down enough that she didn’t need us to gather the final tomatoes for taco night. My parents also returned to school, mom teaching reading in Seneca, a school district west of ours. Dad drove south to Boscobel, where he taught carpentry and auto mechanics. My brothers and I returned to North Crawford, the largest school district in the state, in terms of area, and one of the smallest student populations. Wauzeaka, not far to the southwest, was even smaller.

I recall all of this because as this year’s Memorial Day came and went, I found myself taking a vacation from writing weekly for Substack. The first missed entry bothered me, even though I had scrounged my imagination and surroundings for inspiration. But there were garden beds to build, dirt to move and fences to put up to keep out marauding deer and nibbling voles. Then I missed a second week’s entry, but there were seedlings to get in the ground, seeds to water and mulch to procure and spread. As the spring’s vigorous weed pressure threatened my plants, I missed a third entry. And that’s when I realized those missed entries were the inspiration for this week’s post.

I’m taking a summer vacation. I’ll tend those plants, pull those weeds, and take time to sit back and enjoy “my glads,” just like Mom did. Eventually I’ll harvest the fruits of my labor, just like Dad did. Throughout the summer, Jay and I will go camping twice and take a long trip with our niece. And whenever we can, we’ll sit in the sun or shade depending on the temperature, to enjoy the long days of our brief but excessive and luxurious Wisconsin outdoors.

© 2026 Josh Feyen

Josh is writing a book titled “Out With It, The Things We Don’t Talk About” he hopes to publish in 2026. Subscribe to his Substack for a weekly dose of his writing. https://joshuafeyen.substack.com

He was raised on a farm in southwest Wisconsin, went to college in Milwaukee, lived abroad for four years on three continents, and now finds himself with stories to tell. In the middle of 2021, Josh set about writing 50 short memoir stories in his 50th year. Today, the main focus of Josh’s 50 in 50 writing journey is to share what he’s learned with his four teenage nieces and nephew. Josh lives in Madison, Wisconsin. Find his other blog posts for True Stories Well Told here.

By Faith Ellestad

Sadly, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.  It would have come in handy about now. More tragically for my loved ones, I also wasn’t born with a stainless whisk in my hand.  In my world, culinary and arts were two completely separate and unrelated concepts.  I learned to cook at my mother’s knee, a process involving me and two or three siblings hanging off the aforementioned joint, whining, while mom tried to convince us that fried egg sandwiches and Del Monte fruit cocktail would be a perfect summer dinner since Daddy wouldn’t be home ‘til bedtime. (Daddy would have been disappointed.) But that was pretty standard fare for us as kids.  Not fancy, but filling.

For mom, however, who had learned by observing her own mother’s cheffery, this was a step up. Grandma McDermott had not been allowed in her stepmother’s kitchen, so never even learned to make Jell-O successfully.  Her oatmeal, which we all had the pleasure of eating as kids when she came to visit, was started in cold water, creating extra lumpy and glutinous goodness. There is a story about Grandma deciding to cook a meal for several of her brothers one Sunday evening when her stepmother was away.  She chose to attempt everyone’s favorite, beef and kidney stew, which she proudly ladled up for her brothers. The first brother to taste it was Fred

“My God, Lot, what have you done to our stew?” he shouted as everyone recoiled.

Apparently, Grandma had neglected to soak the kidneys before cooking them and had inadvertently created a very unique pot of “pee” soup.

Based on this family history, my own skill level and knowledge base were, to say the least, minimal. I could pour cereal, read a recipe, and buy groceries, but not necessarily create anything actually edible (That’s where the cereal came in handy-just add milk).

Once in college, even though I had a meal plan, there were times I needed to fend for myself. Who knew you could make Kraft dinner in a coffee pot? (Just add milk–with a Baby Ruth for dessert).

Then I married a man who had subsisted mainly on yogurt and bagels throughout college.  I thought I could probably do better.  As luck would have it, we both liked Kraft Dinner, Dinty Moore beef stew, canned hash, and a special favorite, jarred Derby tamales.  But as a matter of pride, I needed to expand my repertoire.

“What stuff do you like?’ I queried, fully aware that his mother was an excellent cook.

“Well, what can you make?”

“I think I can make tuna casserole,”  I remembered it used some noodles, tuna, Campbell’s soup, and onion powder.

“I like that.”

Whew.  Hopefully it wouldn’t taste too different from his mother’s. And as we had received a casserole dish for our wedding, I was primed for success.  The casserole was quite bland, and crispier than I had planned (even without the saltine topping, which I forgot). I‘d lacked two useful details -cooking time and temperature.  But still it was edible, and after a night working at the canning factory, my new spouse was starving and dug in enthusiastically. Dinner for breakfast. In retrospect, making it five times in one month was probably overkill.  Cooking lesson # 1. Everything in moderation.

Shortly after we moved to our new apartment, my sister mailed me some easy recipes, including one for a casserole she had named “Tasty Cheese and Beef,” which sounded refreshingly different, involving red meat as it did.

“Got a new recipe,” I announced happily.

“Great, let’s give it a try”.

We did. Several times. Then one evening, after removing Tasty Cheese and Beef steaming from the oven, we looked at it, then at each other, and promptly dumped it down the disposal.  I don’t believe I have made it since. Cooking lesson #1 re-learned.

Rhubarb pie engendered cooking lesson #2.  Follow the directions.  A cup of sugar doesn’t really mean one tablespoon.  Our friends found it a tad tart. Even dumping sugar on it didn’t help much. I once attempted cream puffs.  I couldn’t believe such a small amount of dough could make eight puffs so I just separated it into four parts.  You know, they don’t call ‘em puffs for nothing. Simple passage of time does not a pastry chef make. (#3?)

During the first half of our marriage, my husband worked nights or evenings, so once we had kids, I needed to figure out how to navigate two different dinner times.  My repertoire was still pretty limited, though I had graduated to pork chops (often referred to as pork chips-the thin ones cooked fast and sometimes too fast).  But we needed more quick meals.

Stouffer frozen entrees were the answer for my spouse.  He seemed ok with them several nights a week, and they came with an added benefit.  Our dog Willow loved, loved, loved licking the trays. So much in fact, she would stand at his elbow panting while he ate as fast as he could so she could have her treat.   Meanwhile, I had invented Big Burger.  Big Burger is a pound of ground chuck, formed into a patty the size of a large frying pan and cooked to well-done crispiness on all sides.  Cut into four wedges and serve with ketchup, instant mashed potatoes, and frozen veggies.  The boys ate a lot of Big Burger in grade and middle school. Again, overkill. Eventually, they rebelled. One evening, one of them saw a box of instant potatoes on the counter and moaned plaintively,

“Oh no, home cooking?”

 Thus began the era of red foods. Spaghetti, chili, tacos, lasagne on weekends.  But I couldn’t win.

 “What’s for dinner? Something red AGAIN?”

The one really popular red food was pizza, and I only knew how to make frozen, so when my younger son joined the wrestling team and I needed to pick him up at 5 p.m., there was little time left to get home, walk the dog, and prepare dinner, red or otherwise. I began to rely on McDonald’s.  As was my default, I was a little too reliant on a good thing ‘til it wasn’t a good thing anymore and the boys requested a pause.

“How ’bout a grill?” I suggested blithely.

 I’d never lit a piece of charcoal in my life.  All I knew about grilling I remembered from my childhood, a picture of Dad standing over the backyard fireplace with a humming vacuum cleaner whose hose he had plugged into the exhaust hole and aimed at the coals. In a matter of minutes, he had that Weber hot as a blast furnace, ready to incinerate some innocent hot dogs.  I thought a more prudent plan best for my family, and eventually learned to cook a few meat cylinders in relative safety.  Only when we got a gas grill did I become bold enough to try chicken or burgers.

My culinary journey has been long and arduous.  Finally, with the aid of my dear TV friend The Pioneer Woman, the internet, and some unintimidating cookbooks, I have gained confidence and some skill. A conservative estimate of over 25,000 dinners prepared, delicious or otherwise, attests at least to my diligence, Yea me.

Nope, I never took cooking lessons, more’s the pity–my lack of knife skills leaves me in constant danger–but I have learned lessons beyond those of the early days.  Just last week, I taught myself a very important one.  I had made a rhubarb strawberry pie to celebrate summer. After filling it extra generously, I popped it in the oven to bake. At the appropriate time, I peeked in to see filling seeping out the edges of the crust, ready to be removed. It looked so delicious, golden brown with bubbling ruby red fruit oozing onto the sheet pan.

” I must test it for flavor,” I thought, dipping a fork and unfortunately, my thumb into the hot goo, causing me to involuntarily jerk my hand back, flipping molten lava-like filling onto my chin where the boiling remnants solidified instantly. I immediately stuck my burning chin under cold water and tried to wash the stuff off, but only hardened it further.  I had to peel it off, taking with it several layers of my skin.  Even in pain, I couldn’t believe how incredibly stupid I had been.  I will probably have a forever scar to remind me of hard-earned lesson # whatever (I’ve lost count):  for God’s sake, and more importantly, yours, let stuff cool.  The chin you save will likely be your own.

© 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 Kaye Ketterer

May 2026. It was just two weeks ago that John and I returned from Croatia. This country was not on our list to visit, but John received a brochure about it and wanted to go, as most of the trip was on a sailboat down the Adriatic Sea to Montenegro. This was a trip with Road Scholar, so we signed up and left on April 3. This gave us three days before we joined the Road Scholar tour and gave us time to deal with jet lag and get familiar with the capital city Zagreb.

My first impression was positive. As John and I walked around the city, I noticed red hearts in many stores. There were hearts as magnets, as ornaments, and hearts made of cloth filled with lavender. Many of the heart magnets had a tiny mirror in the middle, and I thought that was odd, and knew there must be a story about it. 

When we joined the Road Scholar group, we did a walking tour of the city and loved the limestone buildings with the mountains in the distance. It is an old country, and on one of our tours, the guide told us about the red hearts. She said it was a nice thing for a gentleman to give a woman a red heart with a mirror in the middle. He would then tell her if she wanted to know who he loved, she should look in the mirror. I loved the story, as I love hearts, and when I travel I carry with me a small bag of cloth hearts that I make, and as I meet people that make an impression on me, I give them a heart. It is my way of sharing kindness and love with people I probably will never meet again.

When I travel, I enjoy the people, and sometimes just watching them is fascinating. John has a way of talking to people and making friends quickly. In Zagreb, we talked daily with a Yackoff. He worked at the reception and was helpful with where to eat, what museums were in the city, and where to get good decaf coffee. There was a wonderful coffee shop in the hotel, and we went there several times and met Igor, the barista. He was interested in the USA and how we liked Croatia. He had been in Colorado and asked why we didn’t have a good health care system.

I sarcastically said, “Oh we do, it’s called the haves and the have-nots!” Each time we saw Igor, we talked about justice issues, and he invited us to move to Croatia. We said we had family and friends in Wisconsin and he said, “Bring them all here.” We’d love to have them! Igor received one of my hearts.

There were nineteen people in our tour group, and we had a tour leader from Zagreb who stayed with us for the entire two weeks. After three days in Zagreb, we went to a National Park with sixteen lakes and boardwalks throughout the park and over the lakes. It was treacherous walking with no handrails, but we did it and saw beauty in the water and the mountains and even got a little wet from the waterfall spray.

We spent seven nights on the sailboat. The cabins were very small and cold and every day we had tours in the towns, and some meals on the boat and some in local restaurants. John and I thoroughly enjoyed each other, and most of the other guests. Some days were long, and some were shorter as we had free time to do whatever we wished.

One of the cities, Split, had a farmers market where people sold produce and handmade items and other goods. I like to buy myself a scarf wherever I travel and I found a booth at the market that had some scarves. As I was looking, I heard a quiet voice say, “Would you like to try something on?” I looked to where the voice was coming from and looked down to see this little girl about 5 or 6 years of age. I said “I want to buy a scarf, do you work here?” She said, “I do, but this is my first day.” Just then a woman came from behind the booth and said, “I see you’ve met my helper.” I assured her that her helper was doing a fine job, and being a fine employee! I did buy a scarf, and the little girl put it in a bag for me. This little girl received one of my homemade hearts 

At that same market, I bought some lavender, as it’s grown on one of the islands off of Croatia. John was with me, and it was lunchtime, so we asked the woman who ran the booth about a good place to eat. She recommended a small place off the beaten path. We took her recommendation and were very satisfied! After we had lunch, I went back to the woman with the lavender booth and gave her a heart.

There were many cities, many cathedrals, palaces, and wonderful people on the trip. The Adriatic Sea is spectacular with its turquoise, clear water, and picturesque seaside cities. The water was cold, but John and I waded into it and collected a few rocks from the beach.

As the two weeks came to a close, several in our group had their return flights cancelled with Lufthansa as pilots were on strike. John and I felt fortunate as we flew home on Swiss Airlines. The trip home was challenging as there were crowds in all the airports, flights were delayed, and we missed our flight from Chicago to Madison. We eventually returned to Madison a few hours late, but home safe and sound.

After the nine-hour flight from Zurich to Chicago, John and I were wobbly! We both slept a little on the flight, yet couldn’t decide if we were hungry, tired, or both. We had time in Chicago to buy some Garrett’s popcorn, which was a treat! When we finally sat at the gate to return to Madison, I looked for a charger to charge my phone. I needed a charged phone as I was texting with my son, who was going to fetch us at the airport. Airports have them under the seats at the gates. The first two I tried were hanging just from a wire and didn’t work. I went to another one, and a man said, “I tried it, but it doesn’t work.”  I tried another one, same thing. Then a woman asked me what kind of phone I had. I said, “A cell phone.” Another man said maybe I needed a different cord. I said I was so tired after a long flight and had always used this cord. Finally, checking another charger, it worked. Then, while sitting at the gate, two young children came with their parents. The little girl, about two, was crying softly and kept saying, “I want a sandwich.” The little boy was about 4 and he was talking about magic.

The parents had gotten a bagel for them to share and a glass of orange juice. They too seemed tired. I quietly went over and gave the little girl and boy a heart and said maybe there was magic in the hearts to help her not cry. The little boy asked where the magic was and I said, “It’s all around”. The parents thanked me, and I told them it was my pleasure.

The trip is over and I’m home, yet I still feel tired and achy, but that’s another story. I always learn more about myself when I travel. I’m so fortunate to be able to travel and to have a wonderful travel partner in John.

Now Thursday I’m off to Iceland with my daughter!

© 2026 Kaye Ketterer

Kaye lives in Monona, Wisconsin, and keeps her country roots close to her heart. Along with writing, her interests include music, traveling, children, and the elderly.

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.

Tokyo, June 2017. This is the first leg of my 7-week, 7-country backpacking trip alone. Japan is a place of nostalgia because I lived here 30 years ago and have visited a few times. But this time I am 57 years old and that 13-hour flight was a killer. I only slept in fits and spurts. On top of that, the 13-hour time difference has turned night and day onto their heads. I am left with a severe case of jisaboke, or jet lag, which gets worse the older you are. I feel almost drunk with the jetlag. The fatigue produces an unfocussed spacey look in my eyes, and a Madonna-like idiotic grin graces my face for the entire 4 days I am here. Like a vampire wandering about looking for my coffin, I never quite wake up during the daylight hours.

I have 3 different groups of Japanese friends to visit in these 4 days, which is way too much to do considering my jet lag, but so it goes. Day 1 is getting my sea legs, solving practical problems with my phone and dredging up my Japanese language skills from a petrified segment of my brain. The plan for Day 2 is to visit a Japanese family I know. They want me to come to their apartment way on the other side of Tokyo and then take me to the National Noh Theater. Noh is believed to be the oldest performing art in the world. The play we will see is about 600 years old. I am acutely aware that this is a very special event, and likely quite expensive to boot. I am so appreciative of their thoughtfulness and desire to share their culture.

It’s all arranged but I’m left with one little unknown: I’m to be at their house by 2pm. So, do I eat before? Or will they be serving me a meal too? On the chance that there is no meal, I decide to go to a restaurant on the way to the train station. I find a small cafe with a sign in front that says “teishoku” lunch, which I can read with my limited Japanese. I know this is a set Japanese meal. It’s easy to order so I sit at the counter and have that. The set lunch is massive – miso soup, several veggie dishes, fried pork, rice, tea – and delicious. I roll out of there and onto the train.

The trip to the other side of this megalopolis of 14 million involves taking two trains. Buying the tickets and transferring with most of the signs in Japanese is complicated by my bleary state, but I get to the correct station and pat myself on the back for this accomplishment. At the station I am met by the grandmother Sachiko and the 3 grandkids, so getting to the house is easy. And what’s at the house? Lunch of course. A wonderful home-cooked meal of okonomiyaki (a rather heavy savory pancake) and soup. I manage to get most of the lunch down. But then dessert arrives. They have gone to a famous Western-style pastry shop to buy a variety of elegant individual cakes, some with shining glazed fruit on top, others with dainty sugar daisies. I know right away that this is a special treat by the way the kids are wriggling around.

They insist that I choose first. I select the chocolate cake topped with a glistening mirror glaze and garnished with a lacy wisp of chocolate tuile. (I’m praying the dark chocolate is packed with caffeine.) Despite its fabulous appearance and a dream of taste and texture, it is just too much. I nibble at it like an overfed rabbit.

On to the Noh Theater with Sachiko and her son-in-law Mune, which means a bus ride and another 2 trains to Shibuya, the entertainment and cultural center of Tokyo. The theater is exquisite with clean modern lines and natural, unpainted wood. There is even an interior traditional garden of Japanese maple trees and moss. Some women are formally dressed in silk

kimonos but to my relief others are in more casual dress, like myself. The wide amphitheater has an empty wooden stage holding up a traditional Japanese roof by substantial wooden pillars. The stage is connected to a long walkway with a sweeping curtain that serves as an entrance for the actors. There is a pine tree painted on the back wall of the stage, but no other props or set dressing. Each of our seats has a screen for translation into modern Japanese or English. Sachiko and Mune have been to many Noh plays, and so are very knowledgable and excited at this opportunity. I have never been to Noh and other than skimming a synopsis of the play in English, I have no idea what this experience will be like.

The play begins. The first part is supposed to be comedic but everything is in ancient Japanese. I am like a beginning English language learner forced to attend a Shakespearean play. Needless to say, the comedy goes over my head, but thankfully it only lasts 30 minutes. By contrast, the main drama moves forward with the lumbering speed of a tortoise. To my numb brain, it is achingly slow. There is no intermission, but many interminable, incomprehensible speeches by a famous 80-year-old actor in a plain brown kimono. There is a dance by someone in a mask, but the dance involves minuscule steps of maybe two inches. The combination of the molassesy pace, my severe jet lag along and the TWO large lunches has turned me into a zombie.

Remember how in the cartoons someone would prop open their eyes with toothpicks? Oh, for a couple of toothpicks!

The voices growl and shoot up in the air like howling dogs. The drums, hit at weird and seemingly random times, ring out like shots, waking me up from my torpor like a slap upside my head. The flautist grabs his flute and lets out one piercing shriek at other “random” times. I am a sickening mix of groggy and irritated, as if someone were waking me up every time I nod off. It feels like the most obnoxious snooze button ever.

I am extremely appreciative of the honor of being there and want to show it to my hosts. But my body is working against me. I try to read the English on my monitor and follow the plot but my head pounds and my vision blurs. Although the whole audience is sitting up ramrod straight, I prop my head up on my hand as if I am listening intently so that my friends can’t see me struggling to stay awake. I chew the inside of my cheeks until they are raw hoping the pain will help keep me conscious.

Finally. Finally! It’s over. The play is over.

There is one other foreigner in the whole auditorium and he is sitting next to me. After the applause dies down, he leans over and tells me how lucky I was to see such a great performance. He goes to Noh often and these tickets were very hard to get. I don’t know if he was just being friendly or if he was subtlely admonishing me for nearly falling asleep. It doesn’t matter. I don’t have the energy to feel guilty. I am just so relieved it is over. It is over.

After a long train ride, I arrive back at my homestay quite late. I crawl into bed and… I am wide awake.

© 2026 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 Rick Hata

In 1979, I graduated from the University of Missouri – Columbia with a double degree in elementary and special education.  The year leading up to my graduation, I served as a resident assistant in an 8-story, high-rise party dorm known throughout campus as Hatch Hoedown Hall.  As the RA, I served as floor counselor, advisor, and fun-buster.

A few weeks before graduation, some seniors on our floor went through the interview process.  The engineering and computer science majors were hot commodities.  Corporate companies and firms wooed and seduced them with steak dinners, champagne, and signing bonuses.  They sweet-talked them with promises to provide all the benefits a fresh graduate could want, including a starting salary in the exosphere.  The educators and social science majors, who were as sought after as psoriasis, had competitions for who could garner the most rejection letters.  The principal of the school where I student-taught mentioned to me that he had 50 applicants for every teacher opening.  I needed to cast a wide net to secure an offer.

Fortunately, I landed an offer teaching 4^th and 5^th grade deficient readers and writers in the Broken Arrow Public Schools – a suburb of Tulsa.  I remember how excited I felt getting an administrator’s phone call with an offer of hire. . . and then receiving my first teacher contract one month later.  After it arrived, I marveled at the envelope with my name spelled and typed correctly on the outside . . . and the official insignia of the Broken Arrow Public Schools.   I opened the letter and contract inside.  There on the freshly typed page, with just a few white-out smudges, it proclaimed that my annual salary would be . . . $10,000.  WOW!  I had never made so much money.      

On August 15^th, with my Ford Fairmont and U-Haul van fully stuffed, I gave Mom a quick hug, noticed the tears that filled her eyes, and began my six-hour drive from Boonville, Missouri to Tulsa, Oklahoma.   I had already secured an apartment in Tulsa, but could not move in until September 1st.  Fortunately, one of my best friends was working a short-term stint as a geology intern in Tulsa and had an apartment one mile from my new apartment.  Craig felt delighted to have me as a two-week guest.

Three days before my first day of teaching, I experienced the new teacher orientation at the sparkling newly constructed high school.  As I walked through the shiny hallways and into the plush auditorium, I felt honored to be teaching in Broken Arrow.  During the orientation, we heard inspiring speeches from the three district-wide administrators, who warmly welcomed us into the fold.  Next, we received a warm welcome from the mayor of Broken Arrow.   Though I felt pride and appreciation during the presentation, my mind constantly wondered how I was going to turn my disinclined readers into bookworms.     

After my day of orientation, I returned to Craig’s apartment.  After dinner, I sat at his dining room table drawing and cutting out bulletin board letters for my averse readers.  Craig’s telephone landline rang.  “Rick, it’s for you.”  Stunned, I thought to myself, “Who could be calling me?” 

“Hello.”

“Howdy Rick . . . this is James M. Inhofe – I’m the mayor of Tulsa, OK . . . and I wanted to welcome you to our city.” 

Surprised . . . my initial reaction was disbelief . . . BUT that afternoon I felt warmly welcomed by the mayor of Broken Arrow . . . so maybe it was customary for the mayor of Tulsa to welcome new teachers to Tulsa County – because teacher vacancies were rare.  What Southern hospitality.

“Ahhh . . . Thank you for your call” was all that I could eke out.  “I’m impressed that you called me, Mr. Mayor, because you must be so busy.”

“Land sakes, child . . . I’m busier than a one-legged man . . .  in a butt-kicking contest.”    

In an unrecognizable voice he mentioned, “Now, you . . . you graduated from the University of Missouri – right – I declare – boy you must be one of the sharpest knives in the drawer.  Well . . .  I hope that you find our community to be just as comfy as Columbia.”  

Baffled and stunned . . . I felt speechless that the mayor of Tulsa had made the effort to gather this information about me.  I felt cognitive dissonance.  Why would the mayor of Tulsa gather information about me . . . and then call to welcome me to his community?  What Southern hospitality.   

Without a hint of laughter, he stated, “Now . . . now Buckaroo, when you lived in Columbia, you stocked up your pantry with vittles from Schnucks . . . well . . . I hope that you find the convenience our Piggly Wiggly markets to be just as handy-dandy.”

WHAT .  . . he knows where I grocery shopped . . . impossible . . . “WHO IS THIS?” 

My old college roommate from Columbia, who knew about my move, burst out laughing.  We laughed together for five full seconds, as I had fallen for his deception.  

We have the power to not only add joy to our friends’ lives . . . but to give them unforgettable moments – moments that we can enjoy and savor for many years.  My roommate’s 1979 long-distance phone call cost him around $15 (in today’s dollars), but his thoughtfulness and humor were life forces that enrich me each and every time I think of his prank.

What can you do to give those you cherish an unforgettable moment?

© 2026 Rick Hata

Rick who is an ESL instructor at Madison College who lives and writes in Madison, Wisconsin.

By Janet Falk

I’m 63 years old and have some gray hair. I’m wearing pants and a jacket. It’s 7:45 pm on June 28, 2016 as I wait for the bus on Ninth Avenue in Manhattan.

Suddenly, a taxi pulls over to the curb and a man in a green blazer gets out.

He walks over towards me.

He says “I dig you.”

He says it repeatedly, “I dig you,” in a British accent. He looks to be at least 60.

Why does he think I will swoon at the opportunity to spend time in his company?

I ignore him.

New York City has all kinds of crazies. You learn to leave them alone.

He sidles up to me and stands as close as he dares. “I dig you.”

I am nervous, and concerned. Who knows what he might do next?

So, I pretend I do not understand what he said.

I speak to him in Spanish.

“Véte, fulano.” (Get away, you So-and-So.)

He doesn’t understand me, but he figures out that I do not speak English.

Still, he hovers nearby. “I dig you, darling. It’s too bad you don’t understand that.”

He steps off the curb, stands in the bus lane and flags down a cab. Like in the movies, a taxi immediately pulls up in the second lane.

He opens the passenger door and stands next to the cab. He motions, with a flourish, that I should get in the taxi.

I’m standing at the bus stop.

Does he really think that a woman he has barely met, and who has told him to get lost, is about to jump in a taxi with him?

After a few flourishes, the man realizes that I ignore him. He slams the cab’s door shut and tells the driver to go on without a fare.

Now he walks in the street, going past me. He stops at the corner on the south side of the intersection. I watch out of the corner of my eye.

I’m still at the bus stop.

I already saw one bus go by. I was unable to flag it down, because I was distracted and flummoxed by this man who proclaims his sudden infatuation to a woman who dismisses him.

The bus driver apparently did not see me. He drove in the middle lane, because the taxi in the second lane and the man himself in the bus lane blocked his view, even though I am practically hugging the bus stop post.

Now, with him pacing on the next corner, I spot two men, age late 20’s, approaching. They both have guitars slung across their backs and one is walking his bicycle.

I think, “These guys are cool.”

I pride myself on being a strong, independent woman, but I know when to play the damsel in distress card.

I call out to them: “Hey, guys. Come over here.”

They approach me, no doubt wondering what a woman my age could have to say to them.

“Do me a favor. Stay here until that guy in the green jacket goes away. He is harassing me.”

“Sure,” they nod. “No problem.”

A few awkward seconds pass.

To break the ice, I say, “Thanks. I thought I was too old for this.” They smile, sympathetically.

“I see him crossing the street,” says the guy with the bike.

“Yeah, he’s heading up the block,” says the other fellow.

“Thanks, I appreciate it. You can tell your friends about your good deed,” I say, trying to make light of the situation.

He is gone.

The two fellows walk on.

I’m standing at the bus stop.

The bus doesn’t come.

I was on my way to meet my husband downtown for live music and dancing outdoors. I am no longer in the mood. I call him and abandon my plan. I walk to the subway, heading home.

It took me a while to figure out what happened that night.

It was my knowledge of Spanish that was the key.

Fulano, the word I used to dismiss the man, is the Spanish term for So-and-So or an ordinary man whose name has no importance to the story being told.

It has an equivalent for women, of course: Fulana.

Fulana means a woman with no name. A female So-and-So.

It also means, a lady of the evening.

A street walker.

A hooker.

A prostitute.

The man who approached me thought I was a prostitute.

A case of mistaken identity.

Really?

© 2026 Janet Falk, Ph.D.

Janet Falk is a Public Relations and Marketing Communications professional in New York City. She has operated her consulting practice since 2009.

by Carol Blatter

I’ve never been a real swimmer. Not even an imitator. But I’m not a total non-swimmer, either. I admire those who swim laps across the pool with ease and grace. My contact with water is usually reserved for the shower. No, no baths, only showers. It’s hard to get clean in a bathtub, although it is more fun splashing around; it’s not possible in the shower.

*

It was the summer of 1951. I was nine, and it was my first year at sleep-away camp. I had to swim here. All campers had to participate. I recall a swim counselor teaching me to float on my back; I succeeded at that. I remember something called “dead man’s float.” I doubt I did it because it meant keeping my face in the water. Something I was fearful of. Then there was the crawl stroke. I never succeeded with the breathing, so after a few primitive strokes I was breathless.

In camp, we had to jump off the diving board into deep water and swim to the side of the pool to earn a beginner’s Red Cross card. No way would I jump off the board. I refused. I was scared. I saw the others taking their turns, diving off the board, splashing as they hit the water, coming up, then swimming to the side of the pool. They collected their cards. They were brave. I wasn’t. I was never a risk-taker in anything physical. Timidity best described me.

Then something unexpected happened. A surprise. Maybe a minor miracle. During another summer at camp, I was given a beginner’s Red Cross card. How did this happen? I never knew. Perhaps it was an error, but I was so proud, even if it was undeserved. After being a camper for several seasons, maybe the swim counselors thought I needed encouragement and bent the rules.

*

Just thinking about putting on a bathing suit on my eighty-three old body with all its wrinkles, sagging breasts, and crinkling, crepey skin, and showing my oversized protruding thighs and chunky calves makes me want to hide. But I wonder, who will see me anyway? Most of my neighbors are like me, women in our older years. Many of us have adult children, and many are grandmothers. Their bodies probably look like mine. Except for my height. I’ve lost inches due to fractured spinal vertebrae. Sadly, some self-consciousness has revisited me at my advanced age. I’m very short. And with a slight spinal curvature, it’s painful to stand up straight.

Luckily, I’m not that Jr HS teen they made fun of who called me “fat legs.” Shameful and humiliating memories are hard to let go of. I’m not a young single woman eager for dates and a mate, and many years have passed since I experienced obsessive worry about my attractiveness. But— I still want to look my best. Even at age eighty-three, personal attractiveness still has a place in my life. And why not?

*

Maybe the last time I was in the pool was twenty-six years ago, when we moved from Indianapolis to Tucson, in the Sonoran Desert. I was a young fifty-eight then, and we, my husband and I, tried out our subdivision’s pool, sending several splashes as we started to swim. Well, he was a seriously skilled swimmer, not me; effortlessly, he swam laps. I just floated on my back. That’s when I saw the bluest sky, felt the sunniest sun’s rays that I can ever remember from other places where we had lived, mainly on the northeast coast and in the Midwest, and was amazed at the sight of the spectacular Catalina Mountains in the background. Nature overtook me. I never improved my swimming, but I was hooked on all the beauty here in the Sonoran Desert. Cacti of every variety. Especially the tall, stately, and erect Saguaro cactus with numerous arms greeting observers. Trees, like the state tree, the Palo Verde with its green trunk, and the Mesquite tree. Orange Mexican poppy flowers. And birds, road runners, doves, and quails, as well as rabbits, coyotes, and bobcats, abound. The memories linger. I still remember floating on my back and seeing all the beauty we are gifted with here in this unique place.

*

Walking through the Sonoran Desert is my exercise of choice. Swimming is not. I won’t make a splash! Not even a ripple!

© 2026 Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to The Gift of Long Life Personal Stories on the Aging Experience 2024 Birren Center Collection, Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal, Story Circle Network Anthologies, Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Literary Journal, Jewish Writing Project, New Millennium Writings, 101words.org, and poems to Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write and Covenant of the Generations by Women of Reform Judaism. She is a wife, mother, and a very proud grandmother, and a recently retired psychotherapist in private practice.

By Jennifer Feldmann

I hopped onto the shuttle bus that would take me to the “start house” at the top of the mountain. Three others were already on the bus, all donned in bright yellow jackets with AUSTRALIA emblazoned on the back. 

“Hey Australia,” I gestured toward the three women, “what event are you in?”  

“We’re on the bobsled team,” they offered.
“Do you have a race today?” I asked
“No, just training runs.”

We parted ways at the end of the line, and I went in search of the volunteer chief. The majestic mountains surrounded me, and the formidable sliding track curved its way down the mountain. I wondered to myself: how did I get here?

It had all started with the 1980 Moscow Winter Olympics, which was to be my Olympics volunteer debut. At the time, naively perhaps, I had simply planned to show up in the Soviet Union and find a volunteer position at the Games. Simple, right? I’ll never know. The US boycotted the Games, and my dreams of volunteering were dashed…until now.

Here I was 46 years later in Cortina, Italy. I was one of 18,000 volunteers chosen out of 130,000 applicants. How did I make the cut? And did I really want to spend my own money for airfare and accommodations for the privilege of volunteering at the Olympic Games? Yes! Yes, I did!

I learned pretty quickly, however, that a volunteer must have a high tolerance for ambiguity. Before the games even started, the Olympic volunteer Facebook page was riddled with daily inquiries:
“I’ve been accepted as a volunteer; when will I get my schedule?” 

“It’s coming, just be patient.”

“Will there be shuttle buses for volunteers?” 

“They are planned; just wait for more information.”
“How long are the shifts?” 

“Six hours, maybe more. Just wait, you will be notified.”

Day One: My job was to simply get my uniform in the neighboring town of San Vito de Cadora. I was to look for the address #9 on the main street. I found #7 and next to that, #13. I walked around the buildings, went into a few of them, but no luck. I WILL not, I CANnot leave without my uniform, I thought to myself. An hour later, having asked at least six people where #9 was, I stumbled into the uniform site and was quickly fitted with boots, snow pants, wind pants, two shirts, two middle-weight top layers, a heavy jacket, a neck warmer, gloves, a backpack, a hat, and a watch–all in shades of blue. All the gear was stuffed into a gigantic bag. 

I endeavored to tote my tote bag back to my rental apartment. It should be noted that I am not very adept at bus riding. Turns out just staying on a bus to the end of the line is not the best strategy. That I managed to get back at all is thanks in part to a couple of Slovakian journalists with a good sense of direction.

My first day of volunteering: I had nervous diarrhea all morning, but was able to make my way to the volunteer bus (yes, it had become a reality). I got off when I saw a sea of blue-clad people walking down the hill toward the sliding center where the bobsled, luge and skeleton events took place. Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it’s off to work we go, I sang to myself.

I gave the man at the check-in center my name, and after consulting the computer, he stated that I would either be at the “start house” or the “finish house.” 

“Okkkkkkay. Do you know which one?”

“No, I’m not sure.”

“And who is the volunteer chief for today?” I inquired. 

“I don’t see anyone listed. Just look around when you get there,” he replied. 

Wherever ‘there’ is, I thought. 

Ambiguity? Check!

My job title was ‘access control.’ I assumed that meant I would monitor the comings and goings of the fans; help them to their seats and answer questions. Much to my delight, I was actually tasked with assisting the athletes. One day I was assigned to an area in which the bobsledders were prepping for their races, and I kept out the riff-raff, aka the media. Another day, I checked credentials and made sure that errant fans did not accidentally come into the ‘athletes only’ area (they did). Sometimes, I guided athletes fresh off their race to the awaiting media. I witnessed both tears of frustration and tears of joy. So much pressure for these young people, I thought, for whom I felt a maternal tug.

About a week into the gig, the volunteer chief asked me to cover the north side of the sliding area and offhandedly offered, “Princess Anne will be here shortly.” 

Wait, WHAT?!

Sure enough, within five minutes there were four bodyguards escorting Princess Anne into the area for visiting dignitaries, which actually looked more like a corral for small farm animals. It was only later that I found out the volunteer chief had specifically wanted me at the north side because he thought I was British and would appreciate seeing Princess Anne up close and personal. I wonder how disappointed he was when I told him I was American. 

My two weeks of volunteering ended all too soon. After taking countless bus rides, enjoying shift meals with hundreds in a large mess hall, struggling to communicate in both Italian and German, yet also trying to appreciate every moment of my volunteer stint, I stopped to look at the Olympic rings one last time, and I couldn’t help but smile. It had taken me 46 years, but I had finally gotten my Olympic volunteer debut. 

© 2026 Jennifer Feldmann

Jennifer Feldmann taught ESL for a number of years and very much enjoyed her students, who often provided fodder for her writing. She has also traveled widely and finds that writing about her experiences helps to keep them alive. But mostly she dabbles when it comes to the written word and does so for her own enjoyment. 

By “Stan” Stanaway

Buried in the northern forest of Wisconsin is a place difficult to find on any map. Just as the hidden village of Three Pines, Quebec, is only found in the books of Louise Penny, a place called Ontonagon may be found primarily in the annals of FBI files.*

The musty cardboard files, too buried to be digitized, tell of the secret base for studies of the alien infestation commonly known as The Sasquatch. After the debacle of Area 51 in the Southwes, (which has become a tourist-haven for gawkers and souvenir-grabbers) no such publicity is wanted by the Ontonagon Deputy Director of the Wisconsin FBI Office. In fact, extreme measures are taken to ensure its anonymity.

Coffee shops fail. Motels fold. Dollar Generals never get their merchandise. The only business that thrives is the Gas-n-Go which has imported (from Minnesota) Mexican burritos and over-priced ethanol for lost travelers. Of course, behind the beer cooler, there are two restrooms and a “Staff Only” door which leads to a P.X. the size of a Walmart.  Only a valid badge and “Ontonagonic” Credit Card will allow entrance.

The entrance to the main facility is a driveway in a mock neighborhood off River Street. Run-down clapboard houses, dusty trailer homes, sheds, barns, and smoke houses are actually ultra-modern offices and training facilities. Guarding the driveway façade is a specially trained dog that pretends to be sleeping…unless the suspect’s vehicle turns into the driveway. Then, the dog nudges the hidden alarm which sets the full force on alert.  Once back in the early 1980s, a tourist family pulled in to turn around. They barely began backing out before they were surrounded by armored half-tracks. They are still under “protection” in South Carolina.

Perhaps the most brilliant plan to keep the entire facility hush-hush was to hire a writer to publish a blog post entitled “Don’t Visit Ontonagon.”  A respected journalist and professor was assigned to use what the FBI calls “The Triple Psych” to discourage any interest in this Wisconsin Dark Base.  Sarah White wrote a short memoiresque piece about how quiet and small and nice this town was.  (Psyche one.)  However, there are no unique shops or attractions that would encourage people to stop there. (Psych two.) And finally, she speaks of all the surface inhabitants as people who really like the calm lifestyle that the area offers. That is true; however, the reason they love it is because they are all retired spies from the U.S. and its allies.

The taxidermist may be the famous French plastic surgeon that the Mission Impossible show was based on. You may meet the Gas-n-Go clerk who was the MI6 Chief.  You may meet a ranger who was the personal body guard in President G.W. Bush’s Secret Service. (Psych three.)

We all wonder where elderly spies are sent when they retire, and irony is that even in Ontonagon, each retiree believes he or she is in a town of civilians.

With all of the wacky conspiracy theories, isn’t it good to know that the best ones remain secret?

(Note: I am being relocated to a Hawaiian mansion paid for by your tax dollars.)   

© 2026 James “Stan” Stanaway

After a career of teaching English and Media Studies in California, Stan moved to Madison where he explores a variety of written genres. Stan is an investigative reporter for Creative Meanderings, an “I-Thunk-It” brain trust. With offices in Fullerton, California and Madison, Wisconsin, its Mission Statement reads: “Who Knew?!”  Currently at work on the multi-decade research on Unprovable History, Stan hopes to complete the project in your lifetime.

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*For the first and perhaps the only time, I break the cardinal rule of True Stories Well Told, to publish this foray into fiction. Thanks for the laugh, Stan!