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It's only after you leave a place for a while and come back, do you truly realize everything your small hometown has – and doesn't have – to offer. I am a native of Chippewa Falls, specifically the Town of Lafayette. I grew up among the rolling hills of the apple orchards, where my family has lived for generations. I moved to Oshkosh in 2014 so my now-ex could pursue schooling. I was terrified at first, having never been away from home, but I quickly grew to love it. Many weekends were spent exploring the numerous “seaside towns” on Lake Michigan – Manitowoc, Sheboygan, Two Rivers, Port Washington, and others. There was no shortage of things to do and see and places to eat. When the ugly end of our relationship took me to Green Bay, I used my new-found freedom to explore every park I could find within an hour drive. I was absolutely enamored with the “east coast” of Wisconsin, and had no intention of leaving. But the Universe had different plans. A series of unfortunate events led my husband and I back here in April 2023. Because of the traumatic events that had been taking place in our lives at that time, being back home with family was an instant balm to my soul. I remember the first time I looked up at the night sky and saw the brilliance of countless stars, unpolluted by city lights – it brought tears to my eyes. When was the last time I had been able to see that? Being back in the country of my homeland was instantly comforting and refreshing. Life was safe here, and predictable. Our first summer back was one of the best summers of my life. We spent weekends relaxing on the boat and laughing around bonfires; we went to the fair, Pioneer Days, and Jaquish Sunflower Farm. I showed my husband Big Falls and Irvine Park. We enjoyed many dates getting ice cream at Olson's and walking around downtown. It was peaceful and perfect. Read the rest here: https://volumeone.org/articles/2024/06/30/344149-column-the-chippewa-valley-a-rest-stop-for-the

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Once upon a time, amidst the gentle embrace of rolling hills and flourishing meadows, there existed a quaint little town where dreams bloomed like wildflowers in the springtime breeze. In this picturesque haven, resided a young man named Thomas, whose heart danced to the rhythm of nature's melody, and whose aspirations soared like kites against the boundless sky. Thomas was a soldier, serving his country with honour and bravery. He had been deployed to a faraway land, leaving behind his family and loved ones. It had been months since he had seen his parents, his siblings, and his sweetheart, Emily. Every day, Thomas would anticipate with bated breath the arrival of a letter from home, yearning to embrace the familiar voices and to bask in the tender warmth of their affection conveyed through ink-stained pages. Those letters became his lifeline, weaving a delicate thread that tethered him to the life he had bid farewell to. And then, one evening, as the sun descended in a blaze of fiery colours, casting the world in a surreal glow, a letter arrived, carrying with it the whispers of home and the embrace of loved ones from afar. With trembling hands, Thomas delicately tore open the envelope, his heart pounding with anticipation as he unfolded the precious parchment within. As his eyes scanned the graceful curves of his mother's handwriting, a wave of emotion crashed over him, stirring the depths of his soul. Tears welled up, blurring the lines of the heartfelt message that spoke of love, longing, and an unyielding sense of pride. In her words, he found solace amidst the vast expanse of distance, as she painted a portrait of home with every stroke of her pen. She reminisced of the warmth of his presence, the echoes of his laughter that once filled the empty spaces of their abode, and confessed how each passing day felt incomplete without his familiar embrace. And amidst her words, a flicker of hope burned brightly – a candle lit in the darkness, a silent prayer whispered on his behalf, illuminating the path that would one day lead him back into her loving arms Thomas clung to every word, each syllable a lifeline to the world he had left behind. With each sentence, memories unfurled like delicate petals, saturating his senses with the essence of home. He could almost taste his mother's freshly baked apple pie, warm and fragrant from the oven; hear his father's jovial laughter echoing through the halls, a comforting melody that resonated deep within his soul; and feel the gentle pressure of Emily's hand intertwined with his own, a tangible reminder of love's enduring embrace. In the intimacy of those written words, he found solace and sanctuary, the letter becoming a cherished portal that transcended time and space, whisking him away to the familiar comforts of home, if only for a fleeting moment. In response, Thomas dipped his pen into the inkwell, each stroke a testament to the emotions swirling within him. With each word carefully crafted, he poured his soul onto the parchment, laying bare his innermost thoughts and feelings. In the gentle dance of his handwriting, he shared the tapestry of his experiences – the camaraderie forged in the crucible of conflict, the whispered confessions beneath starlit skies, and the resilience that blossomed amidst the chaos of war. He spoke of the breathtaking landscapes that stretched before him, each vista a painting etched in the memory of his heart, and the indomitable spirit of humanity that flickered like a beacon in the darkest of nights. And as he penned his hopes for the future, he painted a portrait of a world bathed in the golden light of possibility, where peace reigned supreme and love knew no boundaries. As days melted into weeks, and weeks into months, the passage of time became a blur, each moment merging seamlessly into the next like colours blending on an artist's palette. Each sunrise whispered of new beginnings, while every sunset whispered of endings, weaving a tapestry of memories that stretched across the canvas of our lives. Thomas continued to exchange letters with his family, each one bringing him closer to his loved ones, even though they were physically miles apart. The letters became a lifeline not only for Thomas but also for his family, who eagerly awaited news of his well-being and clung to the hope of his safe return As the war's echoes began to fade, a letter arrived that shimmered with the promise of a new dawn. It bore the name of Emily, Thomas's beloved, whose words danced across the page with an effervescence that mirrored the joy in her heart. With each sentence, her excitement leapt off the parchment, painting the air with hues of love and anticipation. Thomas's heart, heavy with the weight of separation, now soared on wings of elation as he absorbed the news of their engagement. In that moment, time stood still, and the distance between them melted away into nothingness. His longing for Emily's

Once upon a time in a small town nestled between rolling hills, lived Emily, a spirited young woman with an unyielding determination to turn adversity into triumph. As economic hardship cast its gloom over the community, Emily found herself at the epicenter of a story that would redefine resilience. Amidst job losses and financial strains, Emily refused to succumb to despair. Instead, she transformed her quaint backyard into a flourishing garden, a symbol of hope in a seemingly desolate landscape. Each blossom became a testament to her unwavering spirit. One day, as the community grappled with the effects of the economic downturn, Emily's garden caught the eye of a local journalist. Intrigued by the vibrant bursts of color in the midst of hardship, the journalist decided to feature Emily's story in the town's newspaper. The article spread like wildfire, capturing the hearts of readers far beyond the town's borders. Strangers sent letters of encouragement, seeds, and gardening tools. The once-solitary garden became a communal project, bringing the town together in a beautiful display of unity. Emily's tale didn't stop there. Inspired by the outpouring of support, she organized a community initiative to create "Resilience Kits" for families facing financial struggles. The kits included seeds, gardening tools, and inspirational notes, encouraging recipients to plant their own seeds of hope. As the garden flourished and the "Resilience Kits" project gained momentum, the town witnessed a remarkable transformation. People began to find solace and strength in cultivating their gardens, both metaphorically and literally. The community, once burdened by economic woes, blossomed into a symbol of resilience. Emily's story became a beacon of light, not just for her town but for communities worldwide. The local newspaper's feature turned into an international sensation, inspiring countless individuals to find strength in the face of adversity. In the end, Emily's garden wasn't just a collection of flowers; it was a testament to the indomitable human spirit. The once-struggling town emerged stronger, united by a shared commitment to turn challenges into opportunities. Emily's journey proved that even in the darkest of times, the seeds of resilience could bloom into a garden of hope, radiating light far beyond the confines of a small town. This is the story of Emily and the town that refused to be defined by its hardships, a story of resilience that continues to inspire and uplift.

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It wasn't every day you got to spend a whole bunch of days sleeping on the ground outside. It wasn't every day you got to spend a whole bunch of days sleeping on the ground outside with a pandemic raging on. It wasn't every day you got to spend a whole bunch of days sleeping on the ground outside with a pandemic raging on, during the COVID 19 pandemic. And yet, there I was, sleeping on the ground outside during a pandemic. Of all the places I could have been, I was homeless. There were a lot of people who were afraid. They heard about something that happened on the news, they got petrified of the potential results, and so they decided to bunker down and buy a whole bunch of toilet paper to the point were it was almost completely sold out in every grocery store. Can you imagine that much toilet paper being bought out? I guess I could? I mean, that was pretty ridiculous! That much toilet paper being bought out! Dude! That much toilet paper! Me? I wasn't afraid, and I still am not. For God is my refuge and my strength, and I put my trust in him. God says He will protect me in His word, so it will be. I don't need to see, I know and I believe. And so far, I haven't gotten COVID throughout the pandemic (and for all you conspiracy theorists out there, ‘the plandemic,' that being said with an overexaggerated wink), so, I think He's done a great job as He always does! He made heaven and earth and all things. Shouldn't I trust Him when He makes a promise? A lot of things were closed and being homeless that was frustrating at times. I was restricted in what I could do and how I could do it. There were so many of my favorite places that were shut down, and I was really limited in what I could do. But, I was pretty busy writing. I got my first publications throughout this pandemic so I am pretty happy. I remember calling my brother on the phone when he and my family had got covid and he was saying, “Dude, I lost my sense of smell and taste. It feels bad man,” He replied. I was chuckling and sarcastically replying with, “Oh, you poor, sad little thing, you,” and both of us started laughing. As the pandemic starts to wrap up, with tensions still high in some cases and people still on alert, I am still homeless as I write this and its frustrating at times, but I have hope. It may seem like its hopeless at times, but I know it's not! I have seen it first hand! God's been good this whole time, and I believe he will continue to be to the very end. For the time being, I need to keep striving and believing, not becoming disheartened or discouraged by the setbacks, and continue to believe despite the odds I go against. May Lord Jesus Christ have all the glory!

Anyway, one time, weather and wildlife got together to form the perfect storm of sorts, when I went inside to use the restroom. An armadillo whispered into my headset that I had so delicately and professionally placed on his back, mistaking him for a pillow. The client mistook his whisper, further garbled by the wind and rain, as my voice. Fortunately, I returned just in time to stop the emergency appendectomy on the patient with poor English skills, as it turned out she just came by to donate some PPE. The selfless, totally professional interpreter that I am, I prevented an awful disaster and another huge lawsuit. All thanks to quick zipping, hand-wash-skipping and pure dumb luck. That's the kind of heroics that, my colleagues and I, and other non-linguist, and therefore not as important, on-line laborers, have had to demonstrate in these tumultuous times. Sadly, it has gone mostly unnoticed. Thankfully, unnoticed just enough for me to keep my job. As much as I enjoy the freedom of working from home in my backyard, I still mourn the loss of dignity of workspace. No crying babies, barking dogs or whistling armadillos. No weather or wildlife in the form of family members, or other random animals adding their own soundtrack to the workday. Just an angry supervisor breathing notes of garlic, convenience store wine, and disapproval on my neck. I especially miss looking out my office window at the park across the street and thinking how cool it would be to work from a bench at the park. Nothing like a pandemic to knock some sense into my feeble psyche.

I have stacked copies of our company's guidelines for working from home where the missing leg of the cheap plastic chair once proudly stood, but the chair is still shaky. I have been telling my video clients that my Florida office is located right on top of a fault line in the neighboring state of California where such tremors are a common, daily occurrence this time of year, meaning year-round. It is a testament to the strength of our K-12 education and endurance of culturally inflicted geographical unawareness in this country that no one has questioned the validity of that statement. Florida borders California on the left, Canada to the north, and Mexico to the south. You never know when our prestigious high school education is going to play a crucial role in someone's career. Being outdoors have caused many technical issues. Especially on Thursdays, when we hang our laundry on the ethernet cable. It was a company requirement to have a hard wire connection. Otherwise, I'd be stealing Wi-Fi from the county jail down the street like everyone else. The county does change the password weekly, but one of the fine overgrown teenagers in the neighborhood is sure to go to jail every other day. So, the whole community has the updated password all the time. Because I was having issues constantly, with or without wet laundry hanging, and because the wired internet connection idea was theirs, my company set up a satellite IT office in my front yard, staffed by a technician around the clock to address my issues. I don't call tech support anymore. I just yell "help!" and the technician runs right over with the neighbor's two pit-bull dogs in hot pursuit. The technician is not only a well-trained network engineer, but he is also a very good runner. The company must train these guys extensively or hire only Olympic athletes. Even so, he had to get a few stitches last week when one of the dogs was able to catch up with him, but only because he tripped on our high-tech irrigation system which consists of a garden hose running from the kitchen window to the backyard. Having the technician camp out front has given my whole family such a renewed sense of security that I cancelled my security monitoring service agreement with my neighbor where we tied a long trigger wire rope to one of his dogs' tail at nights. We alternated nights with each dog. On Sundays when my neighbor drives his mother to church, they need both dogs to secure their own house to protect his extensive collection of vintage garbage bags, in case one of our many unscrupulous, sketchy neighbors was tempted. So, on Sundays, both dogs were on garbage detail. And they detailed the heck out of those garbage bags full of vintage garbage. And there were plenty of yelling and re-bagging of priceless garbage going on every Sunday afternoon when the neighbors came home from church. The good news was, because the dogs needed Sundays off, a raccoon, well known in the neighborhood for his mischievous escapades, got gainful employment, albeit part time, as our weekend security guard. The cancellation of the dog-powered alarm system saves me money because now I don't have to buy their owner a generic six pack of beer every week. The raccoon only worked for food, which he would have stolen anyway, so that is a net gain of zero dollars. He is still well-fed. While mostly a good thing, working outdoors does come with unique challenges in the form of wildlife and weather. Apparently, a raccoon perched on your shoulders is not a "professional look" for our company. The same goes for bird poop on our company shirt. Even when it lands smack in the middle of the company logo where color was sorely lacked. I personally thought it added an old-worldly charm and said, in vividly bright colors that only genuine bird poop can bring out: "we are one with nature", or "we are not a fashion, nor a fashionable company", depending on the bird dialect. I am an on-line medical interpreter, and as a professional linguist, I can appreciate these little nuances better than anyone. The weather is a harder pill to swallow. The constant howling of the wind and rain is sometimes perceived as words that no one uttered, causing many anecdotal issues, some leading to lawsuits which I am not allowed to talk about due to a 'gag order' as some cases are still under litigation. For those of you who are not professional linguists, or are not otherwise well-versed in legal jargon because they're not lawyers, judges or criminal entrepreneurs from the other side of the fence, I will pause here while you go and look up the words 'gag order' and 'litigation' in your favorite dictionary app. Or if you live in a different time zone, say 1970's, you can use an actual print dictionary. You know, like a book.

I was one of the few “lucky” ones. I worked from home. I enjoyed very much the quiet solitude that came from dramatically reduced human encounters. And the complete lack of traffic on my way to the spare back room. I complemented my insincerely professional look of company-issued, increasingly cardboard-crisp shirt with an even crisper Manchester United tie. The tie, totally unsanctioned by my employer, is a conscious nod to my repressed middle-school-aged inner child, and my proud contribution to internet fashion. It is also the second adrenaline-pumping risk I take on the job after the laptop radiation. Below the waist, I went weekend casual, as per the Florida state-mandated indoor dress code, with sun-starved chicken legs crowned with boyfriend boxers the last girlfriend purposefully left behind eons ago. I had already become a poor imitation of Howard Hughes. The same hygienic fortitude and social finesse, but with much less financial gusto. Then the pandemic hit. Suddenly, everybody started working from home. I was no longer a lone soulless internet grazer. I was joined by countless others. As a side order with this god-awful new reality, came the fact that now everybody was doing everything from home, not just their jobs. With all this widespread home-schooling, home-quarantining, and general home-hoarding, not to mention all this working-from-home, working from home became a challenge. Before all this, my family was never home together at the same time other than at bedtime when everyone went to their separate slumber pods, thus minimizing any risk of togetherness. We now found ourselves having to make some grand adjustments to survive our newly congested hallways, bathrooms, and the overall airspace. According to a certain individual I do not wish to identify for fear of retribution, whom I will refer to as “a household member of opposite gender with veto powers”, our normally quite roomy house stopped being roomy. We started losing square footage and air volume for no apparent reason. We were experiencing a severe shortage of breathable air and quiet serenity. Somehow, we popped a leak somewhere, and apparently it was not where three children whined annoyingly, two dogs barked loudly, and a certain female yelled lovingly. It turns out, the leakage concentrated around my little corner of the house where I had set up shop for quietly working from home, away from all the disruptive elements. Just like all other mysterious phenomena at our house such as missing items, broken toys, unexplained smells and unprovoked smirks, this, too, was deemed my fault. Something had to change. They had the numbers. I had the neatly nested red circles on the back of anything I might wear. As any self-respecting hunter knows well, by moving, a target can avoid getting hit in vital organs. But with that comes the risk of debilitating wounds with life-long disability implications. Faced with equally rewarding choices, I decided a coin toss is the prudent thing to do. The coin was shot in the air with a perfectly symmetrical hole right in the middle. She may not be able to tell a ladle from a spatula, but she sure can handle a firearm. Another reason well-justifying my decision to marry local. So, I had to move. Thus changed my ‘working from home' situation. Technically, I am no longer working from home, but rather, working from behind home. Age of internet, meet the great outdoors! I hung my blue backdrop from a tree in the back yard. I placed my laptop on an old, rusty barbecue grill dumped in my backyard by a recycle-weary environmentalist neighbor that has not grilled anything since colonial times. The grill disintegrated into dust immediately, so a nearby tree log dating back only to my childhood became my new workstation. Unlike cheap metal and social conscience, some trees just don't decay, I guess. My throne is a plastic lawn chair that is missing a leg, compliments of a wayward alligator who obviously mistook it for a four-legged white bird. We either have strangely mutated birds, or alligators with severe eyesight issues. Those obese lizards can spot a mischievous cat, small child or a clueless tourist hooking bait in shallow water from a mile away. So, my money is on the foul-smelling tint on the lake, causing mutations, compliments of the nuclear power plant down the river. Freaky creatures are such commonplace occurrences here that at the maternity ward shop they sell balloons that say, “it's a baby with all four, and only four limbs”. That gator is just fine. He's got better than 20/20 on all three eyes.

I'm an average administrative worker, who has been allowed to work from home for the past 4 months and is loving it. I had been, up to that point, just another sleep-deprived office drone with a hellish commute. I hadn't given much thought or attention to the coronavirus, until I began to notice how frequently that name began to appear in my boss' meeting calendar. I live in the south; compared to my previous home in the New England area, the south had been relatively spared up to that point. But I eventually got word that I would have to collect my laptop and any other needed office tools and begin reporting to work via email the following day. While putting together my things, I suddenly felt the urge to find a few small keepsakes – I realized I wasn't sure when I would see my desk again. A familiar line floated through my mind: “If I could find a souvenir, just to prove the world was here…” Something peculiar was about to happen for all of us, but I pushed aside my anxiety. I had too much to look forward to – I was finally on the verge of getting a decent night's sleep! I said a few quick goodbyes, remembered to gather the potted orchid plants from my desk, and headed happily for the elevators. In the past four months, I have managed to fashion for myself a reliable daily schedule. My early morning still provides me with hours more sleep time than I used to get. I stick to my same work schedule; contact with my co-workers is extremely limited and when we do reach out to each other, it's usually to marvel at how weird our lives have become. I order food deliveries to my home, venture out as seldom as possible and spend much more time talking with my mother, who I live with. Until this point, we had been living as roommate acquaintances, sharing a few words once I got home for the day, then disappearing into our own corners of the house. I had to prepare for the next day's work and an early bedtime. The guilt I felt about my mother's loneliness in my very presence only added to my exhaustion. Now, we have all our meals together. I help her manage her medications and pop out of the computer room as often as I can, to check in with her. We talk about what the virus is doing to our state, and how horrible the news has been lately. But more than anything, we laugh. I'm happy. But I'm not relaxed. Each day that I enjoy is just another day closer to the inevitable ending of my new lifestyle, and I'm not sure which ending it will be. Will I be forced to return to the old, familiar treadmill of 3 hours driving per day and 4 hours sleep per night? Or will I find myself adrift, cut loose from my employment along with the other 3 million people in this area whose security has suddenly gone missing? I know that most of the job losses have been in businesses that rely on foot traffic of some kind – shoppers, revelers, tourists, sports fans. I don't work in any of those industries. Still, no one has said they are the only ones vulnerable to cuts. I tell myself that I will understand and be philosophical if I am eventually given notice that I'm being let go. Once again, I begin to imagine the end, with the bizarre logic that replaying the scene in my mind will lessen the sting of it when I am forced into a live performance. It is my plan to transcend the awfulness of the moment – to surprise everyone by responding without rancor, and then to share how grateful I am to have been kept on for as long as I have been. Once the talk is concluded and I am no longer on the line, I imagine my bosses praising my professionalism, while they admire how I'd managed to make a difficult discussion so much easier for them. I have not yet tired of mentally rerunning this little scenario where I get to be both the victim and the hero. In the meantime, I breathe a sigh of relief when I check my bank account each payday morning and wonder how long all of this is going to last. Four months and one week. And counting.

In amidst of this this unstoppable slaughter, the world is healing itself. There is no other way to be smarter, than to shove the bad old deeds in a shelf. As people tried to save'em selves, the sneaky virus spread. Many loved ones lost their hopes, as their closest ones fell dead. Ancient people were the cleverest, they weren't primitive fools. They fed us with knowledge, and chaos surviving tools. Economies got torn apart, due to microscopic speck. No way to destroy it's evil lair, cause you can't destroy your own neck. There is still a chance of survival, so we must not lose hope. Not only yours, you can save others lives too, with a simple bar of soap