I married Bill Kroseberg on June 10th, 1960. On that day, I also married Cricket, a beautiful black Lab whose AKC papers proved she was sired by King Buck, the only dog that’s ever appeared on a federal duck stamp. She was the first Lab to steal my heart. We lived on the farm early in our marriage, and every summer when Bill left for reserve duty at Camp McCoy, Cricket went slumming. While I couldn’t wait to jump on Bill when he came home, Cricket hung out in the fields awhile, waiting for the right time to sneak back, occasionally with a litter on the way. She adjusted to our move to an apartment in town, and after finding a worthy suitor, her gift to us was a magnificent male black Lab we named Nokes, as in nox, Latin for night being black…he was the gentle but diligent watchdog for our kids, fierce protector of the 2 door Ford with the seats that tilted forward (with car seat and child attached). Occasionally, he was dropped off at our door by a kind officer as a passenger in the back seat of a squad car after a swim in Hornburg’s pool across town. Cancer has ended the lives of several since Nokes, including two great yellows, but though years have passed, he’s one that’s never left me.

For the past 26 years, I’ve been blessed with two beautiful ladies. The first, Jesse, rode home with us in the palms of my hands from Sturgeon Bay. Sadly,1998 was a devastating year for my family with the loss of our invincible Bill to cancer at 63. Months later we lost Jesse to that same awful thing. Just as I thought I would never wish to have another dog to mourn, I received a note from my dear friend, Nan Brewer:

She had quickly jotted a sketch of Jessie with wings leaping from the end of our pier, with a note inside that was a harbinger of the next Lab that would bless our family:

                       JOSIE

                  1999 – 2015

(Mom to Gunnar’s Bam and Betsy’s Francy, who are now 10 years old)

My son,Gunnar, and I brought Josie home from the kitchen of her breeder, Grace Cooper, in Madison. She was the last of the litter – the one that she planned to keep herself to train and show, but found herself without the time to do it. She was a look alike clone of Jesse in every possible way a dog could be – in fact, it was almost uncanny that she would have the identical disposition, discipline and devotion.

This past January Josie turned 16, and not able to walk without pain, Gunnar and I made our second trip to our vet, Troy Seamandel, who cared for our dogs – and, I do mean cared. In our arms, she sighed one big last breath and left us.

So here I am in the same place – missing her waiting for the last bite, asking to go out, then coming in to sleep at my feet until it’s time to crawl under my bed. Oh, for the love of one last Lab like her…

Vintage, as I once knew it, most often related to fine wine. Now, the very word Vintage conjures up all kinds of things for me, most of which I love and long for: Vintage clothing (my daughter’s favorite), Vintage jewelry, Vintage linens – Vintage, you name it, including wine, of course. Love and live for that, too.

Things are no longer just old or outdated – granted, the more valuable can be classified as ‘genuine antique’, but old is now Vintage. And that’s exactly what I am now as 77 is the next magic number. Actually, I prefer it to Senior Citizen and all the other elderly euphemisms used to categorize us. I am, I think, a Vintage Woman with faculties that are old, yet still intact.

I’ve always searched for old stuff. Flea markets, yard/garage sales, thrift shops and antique stores. Once admired, used and discarded things become a part of me and my surroundings; and each holds a memory of finding them.

In the cabin are two of them – the circus tent mallet from my first favorite up north shop, The Vagabond Lover – and the heavy tree stump that I had to have. As Bill carried it in for me, he muttered about the chickens who had lost their heads on it, and how could I have actually paid MONEY for it. You see, it’s not only the object of my affection, but the memories attached to it that matter.

There’s really not another thing I need; I should be ‘downsizing’as the word of the day seems to be – but, if I’m lucky, I’ll come across something small that strikes a chord. I hope my kids especially will love most of my treasures, and pass them on. They will then be truly Vintage!

This all started with a garden that grew out of a high school friendship – happily, they both flourished. As newlyweds, Bill and I lived in an apartment on the farm that his parents owned, and a few years after we moved to nearby Oconomowoc, we planted a garden there with our old friends, Jim and Mary Lou Newgard. While weeding one day, the four of us decided it would be fun to share our bumper crop on the 4th of July with ALL of our good friends – and thus began a tradition that grew way beyond the garden…

Thereafter, each year on the 4th we had 50+ parents and kids spread out on the big sloping lawn under the oak tree – kids atop the the pony in  the corral, riding Betsy’s Misty in the fields, competing in gunny sack races, distance seed spitting and other challenging activities organized by our pied piper, Nan Brewer. Late afternoon, the best food from every family was on the hay wagon – until dusk when Bill hooked up the tractor to roam the farm. There were just two anxious times I’ll never forget.  One, when Dolly, the irascible pony, knocked young Cam Brewer off her back causing a severe elbow fracture. (He is now a fine Dr. himself, with, I trust, a strong arm.) The other happened when our youngest son, Gunnar, was nowhere to be found until someone spied him sitting on the highest peak of the big barn.

Years of 4ths have passed since the picture was taken. Five of us became widows, including my dear sister Judy whose husband Pat, sat next to Bill. The boy standing at the back of the wagon is our oldest son, Bill, who spent many hours on that same wagon baling hay with his Dad. He and his wife, Sheila now have Molly, Emily and a young son, Brian – born on the 4th of July!

I still pass the farm often. It is now a lovely subdivision; the restored homestead stands at the entrance and the big oak tree still shades the rolling lawn. Our friends are now proud grandparents and the children on the wagon are raising their own. I cherish the memories of each and every one of them – especially on the Fourth of July.

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In one way or another, my mother has been with me every day of my 76 years, yet she never gave me the chance to say goodbye. On a beautiful Spring Monday in April, much like today, she mowed the yard, took a shower, fixed dinner, and while she washed the dishes and Dad dried, she just fell to the floor and died. Just like that.

I had seen her Sunday in the parking lot of the Presbyterian church when she and Dad met us to drop off the kids – they often wanted to have them  for the weekend, and that made all of us happy. I never dreamed it would be the last time I would see her smile or her beautiful face or kiss her goodbye. Or thank her for being the most incredible Mother. I’ve often thought of the shock and pain we all felt at the time, but now that I’m beyond her 72 years, I’m grateful that she never suffered; just simply left us as she would have wished. There’s always been some comfort in that.

Yet as Mother’s Day approaches – I still miss her.