Morning Walks

When my wife Margo died in February, my mornings suddenly became empty. For years, my days began with caring for her: helping her dress, bathe, take her medications, manage oxygen machines and tests, and prepare her meals.

In her last year she was able to totter with a walker to the bathroom a few times a day, but mostly she sat in her recliner, computer on her lap, looking at the world through a screen. It was a full-time job, but one I gladly did for my closest friend of 53 years. When she was gone, the silence in the mornings was overwhelming. The pulse of her oxygen machine echoing every breath was the pulse of the house, and it too was gone.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with myself. The rhythm of caregiving had filled my days, and without it, I felt not only the loss of my wife but the absence of purpose. I knew I needed something to help me through the sadness and to carry me into each new day.

That’s when I started walking. In early February, while snow was still on the ground, I decided to go out on the rural roads next to our farm. They were practical: plowed in winter, dew-free in summer, and with little traffic. But more than that, they gave me space to think, to breathe, and to start the day in a way that lifted some of the heaviness. Over time, walking became my new morning ritual, a quiet medicine against grief.

I have three paths to choose from, each with its own character. To the north, the road winds past fields and woods. It is the quietest route, where I often find myself looking closely at trees, fencelines, and the subtle changes that come with each season. To the east, the road leads around Bass Lake. There, the water catches the sunrise, and I often pause to watch geese, herons, or swans move across the surface. On clear mornings, the lake feels like a stage where light and life perform together. The western road is more traveled, passing fields, a large marsh, and a set of weathered farm buildings. I like this route for its mix of movement and stillness—the sound of traffic balanced by the calls of marsh birds. Each path offers a different companion, and I choose depending on how I feel when I set out.

I carry my Nikon P510 with its 42x zoom lens, which lets me see distant birds and far-off landscapes as if they were near. Photography has become part of the ritual, a way of paying attention. With Margo, although I didn't walk as I do now, I took photos of everything outside and what I did and shared them with Margo so she could experience them too.

When I took care of Margo, I learned to notice the smallest details—how she was breathing, how steady she was, what she needed without words. Now I use that same attentiveness outdoors, watching for a hawk in the sky or a flower pushing through the ditch.

Grief doesn’t leave, but walking makes it lighter. Each morning, I step out the door, not to replace what I’ve lost but to keep moving forward. The roads remind me that while I walk alone now, Margo is still with me—in memory, in love, and in the simple act of noticing the world as it unfolds around me. And what I wish most is returning to show her the morning photos as we have late morning coffee together.

You can share this morning's photos with me today.

A lake sunrise is always spectacular

Morning over Bass Lake

Our Farm looking from west from the Bass Lake road

wild apple tree in the ditch

Tart, sweet, a tastebud thrill

Blackhaw bushes loaded with dried fruit

Dried Blackhaws taste like a raisin- slightly sweet and chewy. 

Why did the Woolly Bear Cross the Road

  During my walk this morning along the paved back road north of the Farm, I came to one of those black and orange woolly bear caterpillars on the edge of the road headed across, towards the morning sun. She was moving rapidly in a straight line to the east. I noted where I was and estimated in about 10 minutes I would be coming back past the spot and would see if she had made it to the grass on the other side.

  I knew a little about the life cycle of a woolly bear but asked the internet to remind me. “The Isabella tiger moth, also known as the banded woolly bear, has a life cycle of egg, larva, pupa, and adult. The larva, the fuzzy caterpillar, hatches, then overwinters under debris in a frozen state, thawing in spring to feed before pupating in a silk cocoon. After one to three weeks, the adult moth emerges, mates, and lays eggs, starting the cycle anew, often with two generations per year in many regions.”

  Woolly Bear males and females look the same but some are male and some female and turn into male and female moths. So my designation as a this one as a female was only when I came back and again met her, this time almost across the road but now headed up the road instead of towards the ditch.

  “You have a long walk ahead of you,” I told her, wondering if I should gently pick her up and set her down in the grassy ditch where surely winter cover would be available. Should I intervene like a hands on God rescuing her from possible automobile flattening or should I like the Founding Fathers, many Deists who believed that God created things and then is hands off, leave her to her own devices.

  Crossing the pavement for a woolly bear is surely like a human crossing a desert - no water, no food, and as the sun bakes down likely to shrivel one up. And external forces as likely to be an car tire, a hungry bird or death in the desert without the assitance of a benevolent presence from above.

  The caterpillar, as we understand, does not think about divine intervention, but goes on her way driven by the genetic patterns to fulfill her life cycle. One can hope she makes it far from the road so the winter snowplow wing doesn’t scrape her winter quarters.

  Woolly bears are supposed to predict the winter intensity by their orange stripe on the black body. Sadly the internet says this does not have scientific evidence, but rather the orange and black depends on the age and temperatures she experiences before going into hibernation.

  When I was moving some tarps that had been stored away in the garage, I tumbled out several curled up woolly bears, already having nestled down for a long winter’s nap. I felt bad about forcing them wake up and start all over finding a new winter quarters. That guilt, is what gave me the answer to my road woolly bear, I gently picked her up and carried her far into the ditch beyond the reach of the snowplow, tell her “if you find your winter bed here, you are between the combine on the soybean field and the snowplow wing . Good luck.”

 

Margo's Hope Chest

 

Opening Margo’s Hope Chest

When Margo and I married in 1972, she brought with her a cedar hope chest. I opened it last week for the first time in many years, not knowing what she had left inside.

Inside I found her wedding dress, a carefully packed paper bag of our son Scott’s baby clothes from his first year, several big afghans crocheted by her mother, a few old photos of us, and even a green plastic salad bowl set.

We were married March 4, 53 years ago. I was living in a tiny efficiency apartment then, and Margo was still at home. Together we rented a two-bedroom apartment starting March 1. With two incomes we didn’t need to feel cramped at my place. In the three days before the wedding, Margo and her parents moved her personal belongings — including that large cedar chest — into our apartment. The place was furnished, even the kitchen was stocked, but we still needed our own clothing, linens, radio, and TV. Our wedding shower and later wedding gifts helped fill in the rest.

I came into the marriage with a single set of sheets, a pillow, and a few well-worn towels. Margo came ready to make a home. That cedar chest was filled with linens, towels, and household items she had been gathering since she was 13, when her parents gave her a Lane Cedar Chest — as Life Magazine advertised then, a girl’s preparation for marriage. “Someday,” her mother had told her, “you’ll fall in love and marry, and this chest will help you prepare for that.”

I don’t remember every item that was in the chest, but I do remember one very well. On our wedding night, just after midnight, Margo and I came to our new apartment — me still in my tuxedo and she still in her wedding dress. I helped her out of the dress and hung it up. Then she opened the chest, took out a package, and went to the bathroom to change. A few minutes later she came shyly into the bedroom wearing a short, frilly, see-through nightgown she had saved for that moment. (We will close the scene there and leave the rest to your imagination.)

The next morning I asked her, “What exactly is a hope chest?”

“For ten years,” she told me, “I’ve been putting things in it, dreaming about starting my own home — and about who my husband would be. I looked for nice sheets and pillowcases, towels for the kitchen and bathroom. Mom said most of the basics would come from the shower and wedding gifts, so I filled the chest with the special things — the fancy ones, the handwork I made, and the things we might not be able to afford at first. Every time I put something in, I imagined the man I would marry. I think of it as a chest of dreams.”

Last week, when I opened it again, I found that carefully taped paper bag filled with Scott’s first-year clothes. Tiny sleepers, little jackets, a baby blanket — each one still carrying a memory. I could picture her folding them neatly, tucking them away because they marked such a joyful time. Having only one child, those clothes were treasures to her, a way to hold onto the wonder of being a new mother.

I wish I could remember every item that was in the chest when we married. What I do remember is how it symbolized her hope and preparation for the life we were going to share. I used to tease her that I had always hoped to get a woman with a chest — and I was very satisfied that my dream came true.

Opening it now brought back those first years together and reminded me of the life we built from the contents of that chest — and from the love that filled it. I feel honored to have been the man who lived out the dreams she had packed away, one hopeful piece at a time.

Opening that chest felt like opening her heart again — and remembering that I was the man she had been saving all those hopes for.

It has been a hard day here, saying yet another goodbye to Margo — the woman who filled that cedar chest with her hopes and dreams and trusted me to share them for a lifetime. She’s been gone seven months now, but opening the chest brought her back to me for a while, as if the dreams inside could still whisper her love.

Leafer Madness Update - 3 months

 Three months ago Scott and I bought a 2015 Nissan Leaf electric car with 36,000 miles on it and an 80 mile range.  It cost $3800 plus $300 in fees and licensing in MN.  It was supposed to have a 30% EV tax break too, although we were not able to get the paperwork for that.  However 2500 miles and 3 months later we are thrilled with "Leafer."

 My estimate for driving costs is about 1/4 that of my 2011 Impala as I get 3.5 miles per kilowatt hour of charge, costing me about 13cents per KWH.  We assume that 70 miles is the safe range on a full charge and have not used it to go anywhere that needed a charge along the way, although we know several places we could do that.  

Most of my driving and much of Scott's is in the 70 mile range and so Leafer gets used more than the other two cars and truck we have.  It is very easy to drive, maintenance free so far, and a pleasure to drive past gas stations. 

The internet says that on gasoline alone, with 10,000 miles per year it saves approximately $850 in energy costs.  

Since we bought Leafer, we have noticed that instead of 12 bars (the indicator for battery condition), it has dropped to 11, meaning the battery is about 80% of a new one.  However the range does say 80 miles when driven at 45 mph in eco mode, and we do get at least 65 when driving at highway speeds.  

With winter coming, it will be interesting to see how Leafer deals with that.  My plan is to turn on the heater, heated steering wheel, and heated seats while it is still plugged in and in the garage to let it warm up on outlet power rather than draining the battery - plugged into our level 2 charger rather than a regular outlet so more power is available. 

We did buy and install a Level 2 (meaning 3 hour from empty to full charge) charger to use when we are in a rush to recharge rather than using the regular 120v overnight level 1 charger.  Mostly we drive it on our daily errands and then plug it after the day is over and it is ready in the morning again. 

I haven't had any problems with Leafer so far.  I do sometimes drive it down to where it warns me it needs charging -- maybe 8% battery left.  However, I think, like a car gas gauge, it has some reserve charge to get another 10 miles or so, before dropping into turtle mode which is intended to get one another few miles slowly.  I haven't had that happen.  My longest trips are to Siren and back for the writer's group.  I travel the whole trip at highway speeds - about 60mph - about 60 miles.  I do get down to the charge warning as I near home, but still have some capacity left when I arrive at home.  If I was getting low, I could drive at 45mph and eek out some more miles on the last leg of the trip. 

I am very pleased with Leafer, being an EV person, and although my primary reason for EV is freedom from the gas station, I do like the idea that EVs over the long run are much less damaging to the environment than my Impala.  And or course having almost no maintenance like oil changes, plugs, mufflers etc, that frees me from costs and labor. 

The 2026 Nissan Leaf is about $30,000 and 300 mile range.  Should I sell my MN house that would likely be one of my purchases where I essentially freed myself from gasoline cars completely except for my 1999 Dodge truck with its trailer hitch.  

Yes, I am a convert to Electric Vehicles. 

Leafer Madness

With gas prices bouncing around like a caffeinated kangaroo and my old Impala drinking a tank a week and bombarding me with fix me messages, I started hunting for something cheaper, cleaner, and less moody. My regular routes — from Cushing to St. Croix Falls, Luck, Grantsburg, with occasional flings to Amery and Siren — didn’t need a space-age Electric Vehicle, just something that didn’t complain when I turned the key.

My electric obsession started in 2021 when I bought Margo, my wife, an electric golf cart. It was magical: no gas, no oil, no weird noises at startup. You just plugged it in, and it silently zipped around like a very polite robot. Meanwhile, every other vehicle on the farm was acting like it needed therapy or a new carburetor.

So, I began browsing for cheap used electric cars — mainly the Nissan Leaf. They came out in 2010 with 86 miles of range, but many used ones had been driven hard with barely 40 miles left in them. Still, if I could find one with 75 miles of range, I’d be golden for 90% of my driving. I set a goal: under $5,000, decent range, not too sketchy.

After two years of ad-stalking, one finally popped up: a 2015 Leaf, 36,000 miles, 12 bars of battery (that’s Leaf-speak for 80 miles), and listed at $4,000. Scott and I drove the 65 miles to meet the seller — a one-man dealership operating out of his yard with six cars and a strong “trust me” vibe.

“I don’t know much about electric cars,” he said cheerfully, which was oddly comforting. We took it for a spin. Everything worked, tires were new, battery looked good. I offered $3,800 cash. He said yes — as long as I handed him a wad of bills, which felt a little like buying a car and starring in a heist film at the same time.

The only hitch: the Leaf wasn’t fully charged. It had 60 miles left, and home was 65 away. So, Scott fired up an app and found a free charger at a Goodwill in Forest Lake. He drove the Leaf, I followed in the gas-guzzler. At the charger, we plugged it in, thrift-shopped for 15 minutes, then hit a drive-thru. When we got back, the Leaf had another 60 miles ready to go.

I drove it home, white-knuckled at first, but quickly grinning. It had a GPS, touch screen, backup camera, and about 50 mysterious buttons I still haven’t dared touch. “Something has to be wrong with it,” I said. “Maybe,” Scott replied. “But for $3,800, let’s just enjoy the mystery.”

I named her Leafer Madness — inspired by the old movie Reefer Madness, where one puff turns teens into maniacs.

I’ve now driven it over 1,000 miles. I plug it into a regular outlet, it charges overnight, and costs me about $2.60 for 70 miles. It’s quiet, smooth, and doesn’t demand oil, gas, or affection. The Impala’s collecting dust, and honestly, I don’t miss gas stations at all.

I'm hooked on my Nissan Leaf—high on kilowatts—like the couple in Reefer Madness, only my leaf gets me amped, not arrested.

 

August 18, 2025 update:  2500 miles now, no problems and I still get 70-80 miles range depending on how fast I drive and what accessories are on.  I love the car and find it so simple and pleasant to drive.  I do have a 2011 Impala that I drive if I need to go longer distances or pull a trailer, but almost all of my mileage now is on the Leaf.  I have been looking on Facebook Marketplace and see a Leaf now and then that almost matches mine in price and condition - although maybe $5000 is more common.  

My Salty Fair Lady

 

My Salty Fair Lady

Margo and her Grand
Champion Butter 

Margo Hanson loved county fairs. She grew up on a farm near West Bend, Wisconsin, where 4-H was as essential as Sunday church and mosquito spray. She could sew a zipper, bake a pie, and milk a cow before she was old enough to drive—fair material through and through.

When she married me in 1972, I introduced her to the Polk County Fair. Or rather, my mother Alberta did. Alberta was a seasoned fair veteran, hooked ever since the 1960s when her boys needed wrangling—and their 4-H entries needed help. She loved everything about the fair, except the sideshows. By then the bearded lady and two-headed calf were mostly retired, so she could stroll the barns and exhibit halls in peace.

Alberta took Margo under her wing. They’d haul in entries—paintings, flowers, cookies, apples—and always her trademark fruit-and-veggie boxes, decorated like miniature parade floats. But her real pride? Homemade butter.

In the 1990s, my brother Byron joined the fair board and gave us an alarming update: “Butter entries are down. If it keeps up, we might have to cancel the whole category.”

Now, back in the day, Polk County had over 30 creameries, and butter-making was a competitive sport. Win at the fair, and you might just get a raise—or at least bragging rights at the co-op.

So the Hansons leapt into action. That year, five of us entered: Alberta, Byron, his kids, and Margo. There were four categories—salted or unsalted, colored or uncolored—because butter, like life, comes in all varieties. Spring cows eating dandelions made rich yellow butter, but winter cows needed help, hence the coloring. And salt? It wasn’t just for flavor—it was preservation, the butter version of embalming.

Carl Johnson, a former buttermaker, judged the butter.  He liked it salty! 
Margo stands watching. 

Carl Johnson of Amery, a retired buttermaker, judged butter for years. He liked his butter like he liked his opinions: salty. “Salted butter should taste like salted butter,” he declared. “Two percent salt minimum!”

Margo took that to heart and ladled it in. For several glorious years, she was crowned Grand Champion Buttermaker. Then Carl died. The next judge? A health nut. His comment on Margo’s masterpiece: “Too salty.”

Making butter the easy way -- pour in cream, add some salt and 
mix, mix, mix, and more mixing.  

She laughed and entered again the next year cutting back on the salt.

In recent years, you’d find Margo at the Red Schoolhouse exhibit, parked behind the teacher’s desk, oxygen machine humming beside her scooter. She organized the volunteers for the local historical societies, ran the genealogy entries, and still made time to wave, chat, and sneak a funnel cake.

Even as her health declined, she showed up, grinning, butter in hand. The fair gave her something to look forward to, year after year. And if the judges didn’t appreciate her salted style, well, the neighbors sure did.

Margo wasn’t just a fairgoer. She was a fair fixture—part historian, part competitor, part parade marshal on wheels.

And though she’s gone now, I like to think heaven’s fair has a butter category. And somewhere up there, Carl’s holding a blue ribbon with her name on it.

Margo checking the tomato entries.  She generally entered flowers
and sometimes veggies. 

 

Judy and Margo in the Red School House as hosts.  Margo organized the 
volunteers for the school house for 15 years. 

June 29, 2025 Walk to Bass Lake

 

  Black Haw

 Black cherry 

 Prairie

 Wild Iris in the swamp

Siberian Crabs are dying 

Covid TP Blues 2020

 Covid TP Blues

  April 1, 2020, was the day that Covid worries really came to our farm!  “Half of the stores in Minnesota and Wisconsin are out of toilet paper and the rest are limited customers to 4 rolls each,” reported WCCO TV news.  

 We had been hearing rumors of shortages of all sorts of things but toilet paper was the first one that really struck us as an emergency.  Having our own rural septic system that has a tortuous path to the tank and drainfield, we knew that any substitute for TP would clog the pipes and bring the bathroom activities to a messy halt. 

“We have 4 rolls left,” I reported returning from the bathroom closet and immediately began worrying as did millions of other folks, some who got up right then and drove to the store and emptied the rest of the shelves while folks like me just put it on the list for the next shopping trip.  That proved to be too late to get any. 

   I found two more rolls in the camper, one with the camping equipment and 3 at the lake cabin and two at the museum closed for winter.  We were good for a few weeks with 11 rolls I figured, barring getting Covid of the bathroom urgency type. 

I instituted strict rationing – “just like meals you get 3 squares a day” I announced seeing myself as one of those brave ship captains in charge of life rafts eking out the water and food.  However, there was an instant mutiny by the crew..  

“Well, when I was growing up on the farm,” I told Margo, “we never used TP, just the outhouse and the Sears catalog.  We can do that again now if need be. I will just sweep out the old outhouse and we can use that.”

I remember when Dad built a brand new outhouse in 1949 following all of the guidelines for a “privy” on a Grade A dairy farm – concrete foundation, fly proof, ventilated, etc. We only used it 5 years before indoor plumbing came.  I remembered it fondly as the place where I studied the underwear section in Sears to get my education in human anatomy.    In 2020, it still stood firmly planted on the original foundation, looking ready for use, although unused for nearly half a century.  

A closer inspection showed the roof shingles were old and had leaked through rotting the small peaked roof boards and one side.  I spent 3 days tearing off the roof and one wall, replacing them and adding complete new metal roof.  I  scrubbed it with bleach and soap and readied the open house. The weekly Advertiser, cut into squares, would substitute for Sears pages.  

“We won’t need to worry any more about TP,” I bragged to Margo as I showed off the refurbished Grade A privy.  Margo was pleased “If you use the outhouse, and I use the bathroom, we can go for months.”  And that is what happened until the TP hoarders ran out of closet room 6 months later.  I found the outhouse fine, but it was nice to be indoors on those -25F mornings.