Driftless Grace

Setting the Record Straight on Reunion

Photo by Reunion Restaurant on Facebook

December 8, 2024

I seem to have devoted a disproportionate amount of blog space to describing the closing of various restaurants and coffee shops. It made at least some sense during the pandemic. Today’s installment, however, comes from a place of shock and knee-jerk reactions.

This could be the fate of any restaurant in any town, especially in the rural parts of our country. But in this case, it’s our Reunion Restaurant in our Spring Green. Reunion blazed onto the scene with creative, fresh, gorgeous dishes (most of them healthy); partnerships with local farms and vendors; and a crew made up of people who were being treated kindly and who felt a deep sense of purpose. It remains my favorite place to enjoy a meal.

In the two days since Reunion’s staff announced the closure, I have heard and read some alarming responses. You know the type: comments made by people who haven’t experienced Reunion and are not invested in seeing it stay open, but nonetheless believe they know exactly what the problem is. These comments have fallen into three related categories, which I would like to address here.

1. “The community is too small to support a business like Reunion.”

Anyone who has tried to go out for dinner in Spring Green during high summer knows otherwise. The town isn’t too small; it’s too seasonal. Why should my neighbors and I not enjoy high-quality food and service just because other people don’t want to travel here in the winter? What is inherently, morally wrong with the residents of a small community wanting to serve good food to one another?

Members of this community do support Reunion (and vice versa), in spades, over and over again. But it’s an unrealistic expectation for any of us to dine out enough to balance the summer traffic. Surely there are creative solutions, or no small tourist town would ever come close to thriving.

I believe that Reunion’s owners, Leah and Kyle, would give us their nourishing food for free if they could still make a living and pay their staff fairly. Small towns do not cause businesses to go under. The cause is an economic system under which no good can be accomplished unless it turns a profit.

2. “Reunion just wasn’t filling a need that this community had.”

False – plain and simple.

Do you enjoy good, fresh food? Do you want to support small businesses where you know the staff are compensated fairly? Do you like celebrating life events and treating yourself once in a while? Then there is a “need” for places like Reunion. There is no other business like it in this community.

I don’t want to imagine the meanness of spirit required to think that only people who live in cities “need” these experiences. This comment almost made me confront someone out loud, which (as those who know me will attest) is about a once-in-a-decade experience.

3. “Reunion is too far away for most customers to make the drive.”

This is the charitable summary of this set of comments. A more accurate summary would include the unsubtle hint that people in small towns don’t have the same needs as people in cities (see above). The implication is that the only people who would care to visit Reunion live in places where a drive is required.

Why is it acceptable for my neighbors and I to make the same drive in the opposite direction? Would anyone genuinely stand by the belief that we don’t deserve to experience a good restaurant because of where we live?

This economic determinism is the opposite of truth. It is the bending of truth to fit a narrative that the speaker wants to be true. The only way to enhance rural communities is to take a handful of chances on serving the people who live there, instead of being beholden to the nearest city. If no one takes this chance, then of course the grim future that these comments predict will come to pass.

I plan to support the chance that Kyle and Leah took. I hope you will too. Let’s make sure that they can keep breaking the mold and doing what they do so well.

While closure continues to be imminent for Reunion, there is a fundraiser to give the staff a better start to the next chapter. If you believe they have done something good for the community, you can donate here.

Double Down on Community for Home-Grown Hope

November 11, 2024

Before last week’s fraught election, our nation experienced the annual “fall back” into standard time. Many of us are hurting from this one-two punch (especially the second one). No fan of November myself, I am sensitive to the outward darkness and have developed techniques over the years to keep it from translating to my inner weather.

These are not adaptations so much as instruments of denial: books, shows, crafts, and home projects that keep me too busy to notice what’s happening outside. This year, I’m also playing a role in my local theater group’s winter show. I welcome the excuse to escape to another world for a few hours each week.

It’s also good mental exercise to work with people whom I may not know very well, even if we see each other every day. Having a common goal encourages us to share more of ourselves. I watched this pattern unfold again and again during my childhood of church dinners, condo association meetings, and coffee shop events. And as an adult, I have now spent a decade working in the nonprofit sector with its traditions of community and volunteerism.

Community groups care for their neighbors in need, support the arts and other forms of enrichment, study and protect their natural environment, and ensure that local businesses have a chance to thrive. All of these are absolutely essential to the health of local residents. Even when our largest institutions fail to provide for us, we can choose to strengthen our bonds with the people we see face-to-face. We can help one another on a human scale.

One of the common refrains I’ve heard in the last week is that no one in power seems to care about the consequences their actions will have on others. Entire political platforms are built on not feeling the need to take care of one’s fellow human beings. What should we do when this is reflected in policy? Should we cut our losses and store up our empathy for better days? Or do we double down, knowing that community members are best equipped to help one another because they know one another?

Let’s feed each other good food. Let’s provide opportunities for creative expression. Let’s speak up for our land and water. Let’s build communities that are ruled by a community mindset, instead of collections of individuals who live in the same place and are individually struggling. None of us can do it all, but we can each put some of our time into the community effort.

I can’t think of a better place to spend the coming years than the community where I now live. This is why I have not succumbed to the darkness.

Light Night

September 5, 2024

A few evenings ago, I was taking a walk and pondering the dual subject of endings and beginnings in life. My thoughts had just started to turn dark (and lean toward the “endings” side of things) when I looked up and noticed the nighthawks.

Not to be confused with the Edward Hopper painting, a nighthawk is a medium-sized bird known for its sharp call and dizzying flight pattern. In our area, nighthawks form huge flocks to migrate southward at the end of August. It was one of these flocks that I saw feasting on insects above my walking route. Each patch of clear blue sky yielded more birds in constant movement.

I’ve only been blessed with this sight once before, at a prairie remnant farther up the Wisconsin River. I was leading a volunteer event that was brought to an abrupt end by a jet-black thundercloud. A wall of nighthawks fled the approaching storm, backlit by the sunset. It was pure magic.

I don’t know enough about the species to seek out these flocks, and there were no photos taken that night. I had given up hope of ever seeing the nighthawks again. But here they were, just seven years later. As it happens, both times were related to a cause that’s dear to me. The job that saw me hosting an event back then, and the job that was one of the “endings” on my mind, were with the same organization.

Conservationists often talk about phenology, the observation of natural phenomena that occur throughout the year. For example, when the middle of May rolls around, I know it’s time to start looking for chimney swifts at my favorite viewing spot. When the leaves start falling on walnut trees, I know that the summer is nearly over. And as I turn the calendar from August to September in the years to come, I’ll be thinking of nighthawks. These seasons return again and again no matter what else is beginning or ending in my life.

I originally thought of this story as an example of a crazy coincidence — something that united my past and my present. After all, both of my nighthawk sightings happened on the same date (August 30). Now, though, I realize it’s simply a story of finding beauty in a less-than-ideal moment. We can all try to do this with the people and places around us. It helps us rise above a situation to see what’s really important. In this case, I looked up, and I was not disappointed.

Night Light

May 18, 2024

I missed both of the recent appearances of the Northern Lights. On the first night, while others posted gorgeous photos, the aurora by my house was doing its best impression of clouds. The next night, I was so excited to see it that I went to my viewing spot far too early and got too cold to stay. I later learned that had I stuck it out for only an hour, I would have seen the lights.

I think that if I keep missing the aurora, it will continue to happen. You’re welcome, everyone.

Still, that second attempt was a valuable experience in its own right. I sat on my doorstep for a while, gazing at the dark-sky stars we get to see so readily in the Driftless. Then I moved to a spot farther back from the road. With insects humming, whippoorwills whipping, and unidentifiable creatures rustling in the woods nearby, the place was as alive with sound at night as it is with colorful flora in the daytime.

I just sat there and listened. (I’m not trying to evangelize here, but for those keeping score, I didn’t look at my phone.) Although I was cold, nervous at being alone, and sneezing loudly the entire time, I was content to let the experience wash over me and not try to curate my surroundings. What Northern Lights?

When I left, it was with the feeling that as long as I can sit in the natural world once in a while, everything will be okay. It’s not a radical idea: if we just stop and listen (or look, smell, taste, or feel), we will find a moment of peace. But it was a timely reminder, as peace had been hard to find that week.

The next day was Mother’s Day. Mom and I spent part of the afternoon just walking around and looking at flowering trees and shrubs, surrounded by other families who were just walking and looking. Yes, they were taking pictures, but only because this peaceful moment was an event worth remembering. I even snapped a few myself.

P.S. In case you’re wondering, I have enjoyed the Northern Lights before: as a birthday present from the universe in March of 2016.

Letter to the Editor

Mismanagement would be the only force at work in Northland closure

March 12, 2024

When I was a student at Northland College in Ashland, Wisconsin, I heard a rumor that our professors were the lowest-paid college faculty in the state. The claim was repeated less as a complaint than a badge of honor: these professionals, many of them leaders in their respective fields, are here because they love their subject matter and want to pass it on to the next generation.

It’s a sentiment I’ve heard countless times since then, having worked in the nonprofit sector for nine years. And this particular claim stood to reason. The professors I met lived frugally, yet embodied a passion for their work that had nothing to do with the salary. Still, it was jarring as a young person to hear that my mentors were not paid well, let alone to be reminded of it on a regular basis.

Now, it seems that the money has run out entirely.

In a press release yesterday, Northland College announced that “[t]he Northland College Board of Trustees has launched an urgent fundraising appeal to raise $12 million by April 3, 2024…If the funding goals are not met, the College will be forced to begin the closure process at the end of this academic year.” Even if these goals are met, the piece continues, the 2024-25 school year will be a “transition year” and “a new Northland model” will emerge on the other side. Major cuts to this institution—the first liberal arts college in the United States to take on an environmental focus—represent the best-case scenario.

Three weeks, and then time will be up. As many alumni and supporters have expressed on the Northland College Facebook page in the last 24 hours, this cannot be a new development. Financial difficulties on this scale might be revealed over years or months, but not weeks. There is not enough time for this campaign to succeed (and it has already failed in terms of the Northland of today). News has come too late of actions that will damage the economy and morale of a struggling community, leave staff to find other work and faculty to take their experience elsewhere, and deny access for thousands of alumni to the place that changed our lives.

The press release doesn’t address the timing, but offers this explanation: “The announcement comes at a time when many small liberal arts colleges across the country face similar financial challenges due to declining enrollment, growing costs of higher education, and decreased financial support [emphasis mine]. Many colleges have been forced to make very difficult decisions that range from dramatic cuts in staffing and programs to outright closure.”

It’s the “forced” part that sickens me. I can name dozens of individuals who earn enough money in a week to sustain a small college for a year. Non-traditional donors and income streams are accessible to an attractive, forward-thinking project like Northland’s. I believe the only “force” at work is mismanagement and the clumsy, obvious attempts that managers make to save face.

Also, this has happened before. Another commonly repeated claim when I started at Northland in 2012 was that the school had been on the verge of closing before the president at the time arrived to set us back on course. This story is familiar in both education and nonprofit settings—which is why the idea of an “urgent” funding deadline is laughable at best.

Yet, the message from the Board of Trustees is that donors are responsible for the outcome from now on. If donors can’t rally to save Northland, then all solutions will have been exhausted. Incidentally, a movement of small donors could be an excellent scapegoat. If they succeed, they create positive press leading to the acceptance of the Board’s best-case scenario. If they fail, then “decreased financial support” can be blamed for the whole situation.

How long have the Trustees been bemoaning a lack of interest in the liberal arts? Long enough, I would think, to come up with one solution besides a last-ditch effort.

I don’t mean to dispute that a trend exists. Where I live in southwestern Wisconsin, residents are still grieving the closure of the nearest two-year public campus. A university official has cited “current market realities” as the driving force for this decision. Although Northland’s situation is different, both stories point to the same moral: there is little creativity, and quite a lot of blame, at work among the leaders of small colleges. Perhaps there is also a lack of enthusiasm for faculty-led education; for ecological and interdisciplinary thought; for place-based rather than remote learning; for subject areas that don’t traditionally lead to wealth but instead create a better future for all.

Even in this Information Age, our leaders only value knowledge to the extent that it matches “current market realities.” I should have taken that rumor for what it was: a warning of the priorities governing my beloved Northland.

References:

Northland College Seeks $12 million to Avoid Closure, Reimagine its Future

Funding a New Northland for a Sustainable Future

UW-Platteville Richland campus to close, other branch campuses asked to evaluate futures

Growing Excitement

February 17, 2024

Let it be known: the stereotype of gardeners fawning over seed catalogs in the dead of winter is entirely true. This year, I broke some kind of record by putting in my order before Christmas.

My previous gardening endeavors have been a corner of my dad’s community garden plot, half of a generous neighbor’s raised bed, and a neglected area by my apartment’s front door. See a pattern here? 2024 will be the first year I’ve had a relatively large, clear patch of dirt to dedicate to a vegetable garden.

Naturally, I’m going a bit overboard.

Before I announce the publication of “Grace’s Guaranteed Great Garden Guide”, I’d better wait at least until the growing season starts. But the knowledge is already accumulating. I’m learning what works and what doesn’t for germinating seeds and building garden systems. It’s not always a question of hard labor, but of quality supplies (hence the catalogs).

I also realized why I’ve never been interested in growing flowers or house plants. Between the time spent, the financial cost, and the wondering what I’m doing wrong, the reward just isn’t worth all the fuss. I can’t eat house plants, and cultivated flowers don’t fit with my conservation worldview. The cost-benefit equation feels off.

A vegetable garden, on the other hand, carries the promise of fresh food (or at least snacks) come summer. Maybe I should place more value on aesthetics, but the time I have to spend on gardening is limited. And this patch of dirt – at least on a superficial level – is my patch of dirt. Only I get to select what ends up not growing there due to forces beyond my control.

Coffeeland Elegy

December 30, 2023

It’s no secret that I love coffee and coffee shops. In the nearly four years since I started this blog, I’ve mentioned (or included a photo of) coffee 35 times. There is even a coffee musical in my recent past. For some reason, the subject is endlessly fascinating to me.

I also make no secret of my grief when a coffee shop that’s dear to me has to close. And while I’ve gotten used to my favorite shops being renovated or changing hands, it takes me longer than the average customer. I sometimes think I should find new haunts just to preserve the memories contained in the old versions of these places.

The change I’m about to describe, however, is on another scale entirely.

“My” coffee shop, my mobile office, my second living room that at times felt more like home than my actual home, is closing. Tomorrow, in fact. The future of the space is uncertain.

While I can’t personally keep them open, find a buyer, or even offer advice they haven’t already heard, I can preserve my memories of the place so the staff can see the impact they had on one patron — let alone the 1500 or so who call my town home. So here goes:

2019: I started coming here two years before I moved to town. I was working nearby and desperately wanted to fit into this community. As there’s always room for another coffee shop in my life, I decided this was a good place to start. I would stop in after work for a decaf drink and sit outside, maybe doing a crossword or maybe just watching the world go by. On this street that marked the tiny “downtown”, I thought about who I wanted to be as I entered my late twenties. (I also asked for a job, but had been spooked by my last stint in a different foodservice environment.)

2020: My plans to move weren’t yet realized, but neither were any other plans that year. I followed along with all of the creative ways this shop dealt with COVID: meal kits to go, outdoor dining, and finally the re-opening of the indoor space. I got to know one of my closest friends over the shop’s characteristic red mugs.

2021: At last, the move! As soon as the ink dried on my lease for an apartment two blocks away, I was making daily trips to the coffee shop to work at my remote job. It was spring, and the spring of a new chapter in my life. I sat outside no matter the weather.

For the rest of the year, the coffee shop was my second home. As predicted, this was how I became a full-fledged member of the community: day by day, through introductions and chance meetings. I achieved the ultimate in “regular” status: the cashiers knowing what drink I would order as soon as I walked through the door.

Also that year, in late fall, I decided to make an attempt on the book that has been circling in my head for ten years now. I didn’t finish writing it then, but I created a space for myself to practice writing daily — something I’d never managed before and haven’t since.

2022: In January, my routine came to an abrupt end when COVID levels rose and the indoor space was closed again. It took me a long time to recover from this loss of familiar rhythms. But things slowly returned to something like normal. I was a constant presence there once again, usually being the first customer in the door. I enjoyed my second summer in this tourist town and the conversations that arose from my being a knowledgeable local.

2023: My partner and I had our first date here, back when neither of us were sure it qualified as a date. Later in the year, we would be discussing a house for sale over coffee when another regular would approach us. The house he proceeded to tell us about became the home where I sit writing this now.

There will be no entry for next year. Less than 24 hours from now, the cafe will be shuttered.

Let me be clear that I don’t fault the staff for deciding to close. I have said that I feel losses more deeply than most; this sometimes keeps me from seeing any silver lining whatsoever. Someone new might take over the space and be the next promoter of community. If this happens, though, not all of the old shop’s qualities will be retained. It’s the “not all” that makes me pause, raise my mug, and shed a tear.

Ten Years Later

“Sauk Prairie Remembered” painting by Victor Bakhtin

August 6, 2023

My attempt to type up my old journals has long fallen to the wayside. But I still occasionally dust them off to see what I was doing and thinking on a certain date in past years. This might not warrant a blog post, except that today’s reading yielded the following from August 12, 2013:

“…just two days ago I became involved with the Sauk Prairie Conservation Alliance and their push for a low-human-impact management strategy on the former Badger Army Ammunition Plant lands…”

Again, this might not be significant on its own. My journals are full of grand schemes to get involved with this or that group or effort in line with my interests. However – and it’s humbling just to type this sentence – I recently took on the role of Executive Director of the Sauk Prairie Conservation Alliance.

There’s no coincidence here. After writing that journal entry, I remained involved in the prairie restoration world right up through the present day. Anyone who has spent more than a few minutes with me knows this is where my heart lies. Still, it’s poignant that I wrote those words without knowing I would get a chance to manage the Alliance.

And I’m pleased to report that this role is spiritually rewarding. It’s the perfect blend of outdoor fieldwork and indoor communications work for someone who has often felt torn between the two. Not to mention that the Sauk-Prairie area is a significant and beloved place for me and my family.

The Alliance has been advocating for conservation, education, recreation and research in this area for 25 years. My task now is to prepare us to face the challenges and opportunities of the next 25. It’s a big job, but my resolve is strengthened by the kind people and joyful experiences that populate my own decade of involvement.

The 2013 journal entry goes on to list the causes of my love for prairie: affection for my Driftless home, curiosity about the natural world, an interest in hiking, and the spiritual implications of a landscape resistant to fire. Although I wasn’t quite “Driftless Grace” yet, these are the same concepts that form my identity today.

I hope you’ll take a moment to celebrate with me and then look to the future.

Pretty Good Kitty

June 18, 2023

Today’s post is more personal than usual despite not being about a person.

Unless you’ve known me for a long time – or unless you’re a cat owner – it’s hard to convey how much of a role my family’s cat has played in my life. Suffice it to say that Ash (short for Ashland) was like my adopted brother in his own feline way. My heart is now heavy as I must adapt to a world without him.

When I was eight years old, my doctor told me I could never own a cat because of a severe allergy. While another kid might have been right back to playing an hour later, I was devastated. I was, far and away, the “cat person” in my elementary school. All of my games, art projects, decor, toys, birthday parties, and little childhood songs and stories featured cats and my obsession with them. It was my first brush with the arbitrary limits that life can impose.

I settled for stuffed animals and occasional short visits to the adoption area of Petsmart. My friends were sympathetic, and my unfortunate allergy became part of the fabric of our lives. Then one evening in the summer before my senior year, I got a phone call that began, “Do you want a cat?”. Two of my friends had found a cat wandering in a parking lot and were hesitant to leave her alone. My family happened to live less than a block away.

What started out as one night would stretch into a few weeks while we looked for her owners. When we failed to find them, we realized we were the owners. By that time, I had gotten used to her particular brand of fur and my allergic reaction had stopped.

Ash quickly established himself (once a vet corrected us on his sex) as an escape artist, a social butterfly, and a devoted brother who would sit outside my bedroom door waiting for me to wake up for school. He destroyed carpets and furniture with a passion, but he was litter-trained. By the time I left for college, he was a fully fledged member of our family. He sent me off with a bite on the wrist.

Family lore holds that this handsome black tomcat was the reincarnation of Smokey, a handsome black Labradoodle who kept my dad company in his childhood. Dad was a dog person, so it was surprising how deep and lasting a connection he developed with Ash. The two were inseparable at the end of Dad’s own life.

Ash would have been 13 years old this month. We were still waiting for his personality to mellow out; he was a pretty good kitty with the emphasis on pretty. I’m not going to share how he died, but it was fairly abrupt. I will need more time before the “is” in my head changes to “was.” I look forward to meeting his next incarnation, and I hope it’s soon.

Illumination

May 16, 2023

It recently came about that my modest outdoor seating area got an upgrade in the form of lighting. I’ve never been against such a thing, but I admit it also never occurred to me before now. It wasn’t until the lights were up and running that I realized what a spartan existence I had been living.

Sure, I was more attuned to the natural shift from daylight to darkness. But that darkness gets pretty dark, and I prefer to squeeze as much enjoyment as possible out of summer nights. And when the evening sun is blocked by my building anyway, the whole concept goes out the window (so to speak).

The new addition also classes up the place considerably, to the point that I have to remind myself I live here. Small improvements like this are a way to actively take pride in where I live. I talk and write a lot about how much I love this place, but that doesn’t change how it feels to wake up in it and spend time there. The lights do.

And I am proud: I’ve found a home, in both my physical location and my connections within the community. There have been times in the last few years when I didn’t know how long I’d get to stay in a given place. My possessions are still minimal as a result — which is the biggest reason I never had outdoor lights. I’m looking forward to putting down deeper and deeper roots, and to seeing them at night.