True Stories Well Told

By Sarah Skalitzky

In the spring of 2009, I didn’t truly understand what was going on in the world. I’d heard the names Bernie Madoff and Fannie Mae in the news but didn’t know who they were. They said the economy was bad, whatever that meant. I knew that people were losing their retirement savings, their houses, and their jobs, but none of that really mattered to me.

I was almost two years out of college, working in my first architecture job, living in a one-bedroom apartment on the East side of Madison, and dating Jeremy. I didn’t have retirement savings or a house to lose, and I was already planning to leave my job and return to graduate school in the fall.

Nonetheless, I was still shocked when I got an email from HR one morning asking to talk to me later that day about my position in the firm. I turned to my cube-mate and said, a little too loudly, “I think I’m getting fired today!”

When my lease was up on my apartment, I moved across town into Jeremy’s house, where I would live for the summer until moving back to Milwaukee for school. My summer of unemployment was lonely – my friends were all still working, and I spent my days broke, in my PJ’s, watching TV on the couch.

The graduate program was only two years, and when I graduated, I moved back to Madison. I wanted to stay in Milwaukee, but it wasn’t a good time for Jeremy to sell his house, and the job market in Milwaukee was still non-existent. I landed a job at a small firm in Madison, a job that, for various reasons, I thought would be my dream job. I was one of the few in my graduating class to get hired before graduation and start working right away. I thought I was one of the lucky ones.

I didn’t know then about the long-term impact the Great Recession would have on the architecture industry, and the effect on my career and my life. As an industry, we lost knowledge when older employees were forced into early retirement; we lost managers and mentors when mid-level architects were let go, often to find work in other fields in order to support their families, and never to return to architecture; young professionals and jobless graduates who also found their way on alternate paths, leaving an enormous hole in the workforce.

I didn’t know that the competitive nature of both my education and the job market at the time would lead me to years of personal scrutiny, perfectionism, internal pressure, and constant stress.

I didn’t know that being one of the few at my level with a job in 2011 meant that I would become highly valuable in a few years, hitting that sweet spot of 3-5 years of experience that every firm was looking for, and there weren’t enough of us to fill. I didn’t know that being that valuable wasn’t actually a good thing, that it meant that you had to do more work because you didn’t have a team to support you. It meant that you would be given more and more responsibility. It meant that you had to advance quickly, and soon enough you’d have your own mountain of work to complete and a new workforce of young professionals that you would be expected to mentor, having little experience of being mentored yourself, and now having to figure out what it meant to be a mentor.

I didn’t know that I would be miserable, that my health would suffer, and that I would decide to leave before I turned 40.

No, I didn’t know any of these things. I just thought I was one of the lucky ones.

On my first day of work at my new job, I wore gray dress pants, a white short-sleeve top, and a cute cardigan. I walked into the office excited to start my life and reboot my career. I was welcomed by my boss, who seemed happy to have me there. After a brief tour, I sat at my desk made of plywood, a computer on one side and a drafting table on the other, and started to settle in. Today was the first day of the rest of my life. Today was going to be great.

© 2024 Sarah Skalitzky

Sarah Skalitzky – Madison, WI
Architect | Writer | Musician | Quilter/Crafter | Gardener
Daughter | Sister | Wife | Friend | Dog Mom

By Carrie Callahan

It is mid-December 2023. I have just returned home from a trip to Minneapolis. My son Ryan had just completed a two-year construction management program at Dunwoody Technical College. School had never been a strong suit for him and completing this program with honors was a magnificent accomplishment that deserved a celebration! What started out as a nice dinner out turned into a party for 30 hosted by his dad and wife Sue.

Arthur and I had split amiably many years prior and we had co-parented with respect. However, to have a big party with the extended family of my ex wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. This was crossing a new bridge with him. Of course, this what Ryan wanted, so off Colin (my new husband) and I went to celebrate and support Ryan in the way that he wished.

In a much-appreciated text, Arthur let me know that as this was a special party, they would not be using paper dishes. They would be using china — specifically the Villeroy and Boch Sienna pattern that we both shared and the Block Poinsettia Christmas dishes that I surrendered at the time of our divorce.

These Christmas dishes were the one thing around which I still held some regret. At the time, I was so sad that I couldn’t imagine enjoying Christmas without Arthur’s enthusiasm and joy. The dishes were part of that. Arthur wanted them so, I let them go. Now, I was grateful to have some advance warning so I could prepare myself to see them again.

It is November 1990 and I am six months pregnant. Arthur and I moved into the house on Colfax Ave. that September as we prepared to start our family. The house was receiving some remodeling and, as I anticipated leaving my job at the time of the birth, we were being financially conservative.

Cruising through TJ Maxx with the intent of getting my Christmas shopping completed early, I came across the Block Poinsettia Christmas dishes that I had fallen in love with multiple years earlier at an upscale boutique. Part of my Christmas ritual was to go to that boutique to visit them and dream of the time when I could afford to have them for my own. And now, here they were being clearanced. OMG! I wanted those dishes so badly — but buying these dishes now really was a luxury — and yet they were being clearanced! I might never get another chance to have them.

I brought home a place setting for Arthur to see and without much shame asked if he thought there was any way. We figured out a way and purchased what we needed for Christmas dinners. He loved Christmas and had dreams of his own about how he wanted to celebrate with good food, family, and friends. He agreed we should do it and I spent the next few days pushing myself hard after work going to every TJ Maxx in the Twin Cities collecting the pieces we needed to put together a set of eight place settings plus the extras like matching glasses and serving dishes. I was so happy!

So now, here I am at Arthur and Sue’s home, with the table set with those very same Christmas dishes. I’d like to say I had a cringe of regret, but the truth is, surprisingly, I just didn’t.

The house was beautifully decorated for Christmas. The house was full of people with Arthur in their large open kitchen wearing his apron, putting on the last touches to a wonderful dinner, pouring wine and offering charcuterie and cheese. He was in his glory. I could see how Arthur and Sue were putting these dishes to use in the way Arthur and I had originally intended. They were used and appreciated. They had landed in the right place.

I left that night at peace, with a warm heart. The party couldn’t have gone better. Friends and teachers were invited, so it wasn’t strictly a Stickley family affair. Sue and Arthur and the extended family greeted Colin and me with friendly generosity. I felt a deep appreciation for the time and experiences I shared with Arthur, that he gave me Ryan and supported us as agreed with integrity, and continues that support with Ryan now. I left knowing that Ryan is loved by so many and will be celebrated in the years to come by both his families, separately and perhaps occasionally together now, with ease. The intention for my Christmas dishes lives on — just differently than I originally imagined.

© 2024 Carrie Callahan

Carrie Callahan is a creative life-long learner. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, working in the garden, whipping something up in the kitchen for her hubby or making a mess in her studio.

By Joan Connor, May 24, 2024

It is therapy for these arthritic fingers. To string fibers vertically on the lap loom

up around a peg
down around a peg
up around a peg
down around a peg

creating the warp. Already I feel accomplished. I have completed thirty-two vertical warps evenly spaced on the slotted loom. I struggle with the double half hitch knot, rewinding the video again and again.

It will get easier. Some days I have doubts, yet remain persistent. My investment in several small looms, multiple types of yarns, many books, and subscriptions to online classes are inspiring. Assistance is available for questions with these lifetime classes if the instructor remains in business.

Ten years ago

The dawn of this hobby began as I was camping. Across the blacktop winding road in one of many idyllic Idaho State Parks was a woman perched on a stool with a small loom, the shuttle in rhythmic cadence to the fluttering tree leaves’ murmurs above. It was tempting to my senses and created within me a strong desire to recreate her song. I wanted to weave with the trees, my loom on the forest floor, threading nature’s colors as the breeze gently whispered in my ear, “in-out-in-out-in-out.”

I purchased my first loom, a rigid heddle loom, at a large shop in Spokane, Washington with walls of brilliant-colored yarns and a second floor filled with large looms. I was shown this small table loom that had unfinished weaving on it. The young man was nonplussed about me purchasing his project. I brought the loom home and now, ten years later, his project is still on the loom. It is a length of woven plaid fabric, lovely turquoise blocks blended with smaller purple, rectangles and slimmer lines of black and yellow.

Six months ago

I signed up for a two-hour class at the local annual fiber festival, $75 with lap loom and all materials included. There were two of us in her class and my small wall hanging was completed in less than three hours. It was a “create as you weave” project, using a variety of yarns with no specific pattern. I enjoyed the process and was proud of my finished project. I wove horizontal rows with bulky white yarn, raggedy green yarn, various textured gray yarns and gold ribbon yarn. The other participant recognized various yarns, calling them by names all foreign to me. The completed project hangs from a large cinnamon stick on my bedroom wall.
Yes, I can do this!

With this one class piece completed I became more confident and immediately tackled a second small project using yarns the teacher shared plus some I had purchased at a thrift store. This weaving is approximately six inches square, and I call it my sampler. Again, I created as I wove horizontal rows but taught myself how to change yarns in the middle of the sampler. I like the light orange ribbon yarn infused with the sparkly black/gray yarn plus white and gray textured fibers. It is not hanging on any wall yet. I am not sure how to neatly tuck the yarn ends into the weaving on the reverse side.

I then started a third weaving project online. The teacher gave incremental steps over a four-week period. This class included a Facebook page where progress was shared. I couldn’t keep up. It is unfinished, tabled on the table beside me. I quit weaving!

Three months ago

My tapestry of time management began unraveling. Threads of other commitments became untucked and demanded attention. Life’s fabric became a daily commitment here, a weekly foray into various meetings, a flip on the calendar as months passed with no weaving intertwined.

I became annoyed at myself.
I began feeling guilty.
I began to list activities as hurdles, not joys.
I prioritized.
I began designing each day with less ragged edges, less untucked ends.

Today and upcoming

I signed up for a beginning weaving class at the marvelous John C. Campbell Folk School, Brasstown, N.C. In years past I attended this wonderful venue, camped in their RV park, learned the Native American flute, tinkered with the hammered dulcimer. Among the Carolina woodlands I shall reinvent my weaving.

The class is on the rigid heddle loom, bring your own and for five days I will be instructed by a professional. I peruse my rigid heddle loom now nestled in its cardboard box, plaid project still intact. I wonder. Is it possible to teach myself how to remove this attractive weaving while maintaining its composition?

I shall resurrect my lap loom weavings. I am breathing new life into my desirable Harris Highland yarns. I will contact teachers and let them know my weaving is coming alive. Surely dormancy has advantages.

What about writing? Do I just put the accumulated files away? Do I pay no attention to prompts coming monthly from my favorite online writing groups? How can I collate these two interests?

writing and weaving
weaving and writing
pen and yarn
yarn and pens,
looms and journaling
journals and looms

I have a possible solution!
I will proceed with both strong interests.
I will set up a blog about arthritic fingers plying yarn, writing posts after each weaving wonder, a blog from a “bewildered beginner weaver.”
I will encourage octogenarians to begin anew.

Refresh, rejuvenate, realize one’s creative muse.
Give breath to the Innovative Being within each of us.

There is an occasion for everything,
and a time for every activity under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1

© 2024 Joan Connor

Joan is currently pursuing an MFA with Lindenwood University, Simultaneously she is taking on this weaving hobby and indulges in various online writing classes, painting by number (or not), learning the fiddle, and RVing with her very agreeable husband and furry four-paws, Ava. 

By Thomas F. Miller

In rural North Dakota lies a farm where a day-dreamy boy lives, plays, works, and learns. Meet Tom, the Farm Boy.

In Farm Boy, he tells a timeless tale of heritage, heartache, hard work, and hope—a test of the resilience of the human spirit. No matter where life leads him, the farm and land are where Tom’s roots lie and the place he calls home. The following is an excerpt from Tom’s book, which can be purchased from Lulu.com, here.

The auction was held on a cool, overcast fall day in 1967. I was a senior in high school and stayed home from school because it was Grandpa Isaak’s estate auction. The previous November, Grandpa died suddenly of a heart attack at age 64. I was the oldest grandchild and very close to him. Grandpa and Grandma’s farm was six or seven miles from our place, so we saw them regularly. They sat in the pew behind us in church; when I was little, if I was good I could sit with them. Every time I attend that little country church with Mom, tears come to my eyes because I can still hear Grandpa belt out the hymns as loud as he could. He didn’t care if he was a little off tune, so was everyone else.

The day of the auction, hundreds of friends, neighbors, relatives, the curious, and the bargain hunters arrived on the farm. Their cars and pickups filled the large yard. They were there to buy household items, tools, and the farm machinery lined up to be sold to the highest bidder. The crowd was mostly men but some of their wives came along to look over the household goods and visit with my grandma. She was moving off the farm in a few days to a new house in town. Almost all the men were dressed in their work overalls, warm jackets, caps with ear flaps, and insulated boots. The air was blue with cigarette smoke and some of the back pockets of jeans sported a worn round circle made by an ever-present snuff can.

The church ladies were busy doing a good business selling coffee, Kool-aid, fresh homemade donuts, kuchen, and sloppy joes in a corner of the round Quonset where Grandpa repaired and stored machinery. There was always a crowd around the concessions at these auctions. The men socialized by talking about the weather, farm prices, and the coming deer hunt. All the while they kept an eye on what was being sold, lest they miss some bargains.

The main auctioneer was Frank Fitzgerald, a longtime friend of Grandpa’s. Frank was a few years older and about the same height and build, six-foot and stocky. Frank wore a big white Stetson hat, a dark wool overcoat, and a pair of shiny cowboy boots. He had big, thick lips that would flap around and jowls that would jiggle when he got into his auction cadence. Frank’s deep baritone voice was well known throughout the area. He was an honest and respected auctioneer, so good that he had been inducted into the Auctioneers Hall of Fame that year. Frank also sold livestock at the Missouri Slope Livestock Auction in Bismarck. On sale day, at noon, they’d have a live report on KFYR radio from the sales barn with the current cattle market update. At our house, everyone at the dinner table had to be quiet so Dad could hear the announcer quote the prices. Then for a few minutes, you would hear Frank auctioning off a farmer’s lot of cattle. It was a big deal to have your cattle sold during this time.

The bidders were crowded around a flatbed hay wagon inside the Quonset hut where Frank was auctioning off Grandpa’s possessions. When he didn’t think the item was bringing enough money, he’d cajole the crowd to bid another buck or two. “We’re at five dollars and still have a ways to go on this nice set of wrenches. Com’on boys, who’ll give me a six-dollar bid? Yes! Now seven, yup, now eight! That’s more like it.”

The singsong of the auction went on for a couple of hours. While I was helping my dad and uncles bring items for Frank to sell, I would occasionally take a break to stand in the audience to watch the crowd watch Frank as they tried to catch a bargain or were just curious how much an item would bring. It was during one of those breaks when my uncle held up Grandpa’s old J. C. Higgins Model 20 12-gauge pump-action shotgun sold by Sears, Roebuck. Frank tried to start the bidding at $50. When there were no takers, he said, “Well, then, who’ll get the bidding started at ten dollars?” Someone quickly raised his hand. Then Frank cried, “Who’ll give me fifteen, fifteen dollars?” Without hesitation, my hand shot up into the air. I’m not sure what possessed me to raise my hand that day, I wasn’t much of hunter and had never fired a 12-gauge before. Frank stopped the bidding long enough to say, “Just to let you know, I took the fifteen-dollar bid from Fred’s oldest grandson. Now who will give me twenty, a twenty-dollar bid, we’re at fifteen now twenty, fifteen now twenty, fifteen now twenty. Going once, going twice, all in, all done, sold to Tommy Miller for fifteen dollars.” I was trembling as I walked up to take possession of the shotgun. The audience clapped their gloved hands. My face turned red in embarrassment. They were happy that I owned a memory of my beloved Grandpa. So was I.

As I walked away with the barrel of the old shotgun pointed to the ground, I sensed the strength of the wooden stock, the ribs of the pump, and the trace of a scent of Grandpa. I think of that day often as it brought me some closure for his sudden, unexpected death. What I have left are my memories of Grandpa and his shotgun.

© 2024 Thomas F. Miller

Thomas F. Miller is retired from a career in public service and small-business ownership. He was born and raised in western North Dakota. He and his wife Donna have lived in Madison, Wisconsin since 1987 and are the parents of two daughters. Tom is an avid photographer and traveler. He writes and shares stories and photographs on his blog site, travelingwithtom.com.