Old Vet

August 7th, 2026

Breakfast at the Best Western isn’t bad, but it’s nothing to brag about either. The scrambled eggs remind me of those served in any Army mess hall. The only interesting thing about breakfast is the waffle iron. It bakes waffles in the shape of the state of Texas. I made one of those for our grandson, Asher. He asked me to fill every divot in the waffle with syrup, and then he asked me where on this edible map of Texas we were staying.

After I finished serving Asher his waffle, an old man shuffled past me to make his own breakfast. I’m an old man, but this guy was much further along in years than me. He wore a tie-dyed t-shirt and shorts. He had cloth coverings for parts of his arms and legs. He had some dark bruises on the backs of his hands. He wore his hair in a ponytail, and he had wire rim glasses. He had a beard that had long ago gone white. He wore a baseball cap that had said “3rd Infantry Division” on it. That intrigued me.

I was tempted to tell him, “Thank you for your service”, but I hate that expression. It means almost nothing. It is one of those phrases that a person says when they don’t know what else to say.

Instead, I asked him, “Where were you stationed?”

He didn’t understand me at first, but then he told me that he had been deployed to Germany. He worked in the armory at Kitzingen in Bavaria. He had been in the Army in Europe from 1965 to 68. He never went to Vietnam. I tried to get a word in edgewise, but the man wanted to tell his story, so I listened. He told me in his slow Texan drawl more than I ever wanted to know, but it gave him pleasure to do so. I have to admit that I sometimes I do the same thing.

As I ate breakfast with Asher and my wife, I thought about the old guy at the next table. Why does a person wear a cap that broadcasts that they served in the military? The answer is probably because they want to talk about it. They want somebody to notice them and then maybe, just maybe, listen to their story. Here is an 83-year-old man who apparently considers his three years in the Army to be the highlight of his life. That’s interesting. Obviously, this old Texan did many other things in his long life, but he wanted the world to know that he was a veteran.

As we got ready to leave the dining room, the old guy looked up from his waffle and noticed Asher. He smiled at him and said,

“I wish I had even a bit of that boy’s energy. I can’t even remember being that young.”

Then he wished us all a good day.

Together at Last

August 2nd, 2026

I took the little boy to see his mama in prison this morning. It was a 90-minute drive from our house to the facility in Fond du Lac, WI. I hadn’t been there since the last time the young woman was incarcerated. That was seven or eight years ago. The prison hadn’t moved, but the way to get to it had changed. GPS was not a lot of help. I had to take a road that was torn up and clearly marked “closed to thru traffic”. A couple miles of gravel and potholes brought us to our destination. We made it to our visitation appointment in time, but I was still uneasy. When we got into the guard shack, I found out that I had good reason to be.

To visit an inmate an outsider has to request an appointment online with ICSolutions. This is after going through a multi-week screening process to even get approved for a visit. Once the boy and I got inside the entrance, I was told fill out yet another request form and then wait for somebody to help me. We waited. From long, painful experience I have learned to just roll with whatever happens in the prison system.

A female guard came out to us and smiled. She looked at my form and then checked on her computer printout for my name. I found it for her. She frowned a bit and said, “The boy’s name isn’t on my list with yours.”

Apparently, my face said it all. My expression screamed, “Ohhhh, fuck.”

She didn’t ask me any questions. She cut me off before I could even speak.

She told me, “Don’t panic! We’ll call and see if the captain can make an exception for you. I know that ICSolutions can be very confusing. Just give me a minute after we put you through security.”

The guard screened me and the boy. We put all of our possessions, except for a credit card into a tiny locker. The guard quietly asked me about the young woman and her son, and then she told me,

“It’s wonderful that you brought him here. We learn from the mistakes of our parents.”

I’m not sure about that, but I wasn’t going to argue.

She made a phone call. The boy and I stood at the closed door leading to the visitation building. Were we going to get inside? The young woman didn’t care about seeing me that much, but she was burning to be with her little boy. Clearly, I screwed something up when I made the appointment online. My only question was about how catastrophic it would turn out to be.

The guard told me, “The captain is making an exception for you, but we are putting a warning in your file. If it happens again, we won’t be able let you through.”

I thought to myself, “Fine. I will worry about next time when next time rolls around. Just get us through this door.”

We got past the door and then through a heavy steel gate. The outer fence of the prison grounds (note: there are several fences) is electrified and it has razor wire on top. We walked across the lawn to the visitation center, where we went through another series of locked doors. In the guard shack at the entrance to the prison we had been given hand stamps that only show up under ultraviolet light. At the final hurdle we had our stamps examined and we were assigned to a table in the room. Then we waited for mama to arrive.

The whole process reminded me of when I crossed into East Berlin at Checkpoint Charlie back in 1983. Funny how some memories resurface.

The emotional reunion of mother and child was almost anticlimactic after the ordeal of just getting them together in the same room. We talked for a while and then I bought snacks for mother and son. That is why I had a credit card with me. Only visitors can use the vending machines. Almost every item costs about $3.50. It doesn’t matter if it is a candy bar or a bottle of soda or a little bag of cookies. It’s all expensive, and the vendors literally have a captive audience.

The young woman thanked me for bringing her boy to her. I just said,” You’re welcome.” It was something that needed to be done, and it was done out of love.

We stayed for two hours. That’s all you can get on a weekend. There is a playground outside and the boy made good use of it. The boy and his mama joked and laughed. I spoke to her about what we might do once she gets out in February of 2028. A lot can happen between now and then, but we at least shared ideas.

Leaving the prison was the exact reverse of how we came in. A person goes back through the same wormhole to get home again.

There is a mural covering a wall in the visitation center. It’s really well made and shows images of women’s faces. There are two statements on the wall.

“She overcame all that tried to destroy her” and “Real change, enduring change, comes in small steps.”

Not bad.

Anxiety

July 30th, 2026

It’s been at least four weeks now since my wife and I have put in applications to visit a young woman who is currently incarcerated. We also filed an application for the woman’s five-year-old son, who is in our care. The Department of Corrections (DOC) needs to do a background check on all potential visitors, apparently even kindergarten age children. The young woman has not seen her little boy since April, which makes it four months since they were together. The woman is understandably anxious about the situation. It is particularly upsetting for her since my wife, her son, and I plan on making a road trip to Texas three days from now in order to see our grandchildren down there. The young woman was really hoping to see her son before our departure. We were also hoping that would happen. The odds of us visiting her in prison before we head south are getting worse with each passing day.

Early this morning, the woman called us to tell us that the boy and I have been approved to schedule a visit. My wife has not yet been approved. After the mom called us, I immediately went to the ICSolutions website set up a meeting. We can’t schedule a visit directly with anyone at the prison. They outsourced that work to a third party, ICSolutions. It is impossible to make a visit any other way. I tried several times to schedule a visit sometime during the next couple days. I failed. My request was rejected because ICSolutions said that I was not approved. The website said that my approval from the DOC was still pending.

After that, I made several phone calls. I called the people at the prison for help. They told me to check with ICSolutions because in the DOC’s system I had been approved two days ago. I called ICSolutions twice, and they assured me that in their system I was not approved. They did say that my information would be updated tomorrow, and I should show as being approved after that. I will believe it when I see it.

In the meantime, I had four more phone calls from the incarcerated mother. In each call she became more and more agitated. Her anxiety was through the roof. During the fourth call, she tearfully exclaimed,

“I’ll never get to see him!”

I quietly told her, “You will get to see him. The people at ICSolutions said that I can go online tomorrow and I will be able to set up an appointment for a visit. If there are still open visitation slots available during the next three days, I will take one and we will come up to see you. We will drive two hours to the prison, and we can be with you for two hours.”

Now, we wait.

To be fair, the people at the prison and the folks at ICSolutions were polite and sympathetic. They really did try to help me. However, because the computers at the DOC and those at ICSolutions are not on speaking terms, they could do nothing for me. The people working within the system are all decent. The bureaucracy is nothing short of demonic.

Tomorrow morning, I will login to my account at ICSolutions and maybe, just maybe, I will be able to set up a visit.

I am not confident about that.

July 31st, 2026

Update: I finally got an appointment to visit the young woman. It is at 9:30 AM on August 2nd. She will get to see her little boy, at last.

Don Timmerman

July 26th, 2026

Don Timmerman died of cancer on July 19th. He spent almost all of his adult life advocating for peace and justice. I am tempted to say that he was “fighting” for those causes, but I’m not sure if that word is appropriate to describe a man who was an absolute pacifist. Based on his understanding of the Gospels, especially the Beatitudes, Don rejected all wars, and by extension all aspects of the military. He was an elder and leader at the Casa Maria Catholic Worker House in Milwaukee, WI. He posted a monthly newsletter, Casa Cry, in which he consistently railed against the U.S. military/industrial complex and the violence and suffering it produces. He used his jeremiads to stir the consciences of those people who bothered to peruse his essays, and he encouraged them to protest against the evils of war. Unfortunately, I suspect that most if not all his readers already agreed with most of his views. He was preaching to the choir.

I did not know Don well. I can’t remember how I met him. Nor can I remember the last time I spoke to him. Up until the time that my wife and I became guardians and fulltime caregivers for our little grandson, Asher, I was often involved in protests of one sort or another. I would see him at these demonstrations. It was his calling to bear witness. In that sense, Don was a prophet, like those in the Hebrew scriptures. If he saw injustice, he had to say something, or at least silently show his opposition to it. He had to be there.

It seems odd that I ever met him at all. Our paths in life were radically different. Don trained to be missionary priest in Tanzania. He was at one time a translator for Mother Teresa. He became deeply involved with the Catholic Worker movement. He repeatedly participated in antiwar protests and was often arrested for civil disobedience. He was passionate about living as a disciple of Christ.

I, on the other hand, graduated from West Point and I spent six years as a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army. I served in a helicopter unit in West Germany during the early 1980’s. My oldest son, Hans, enlisted in the Army in 2009. He went to war in Iraq. He came back damaged.

Don frequently demonstrated against ROTC at Marquette University in Milwaukee. I went there with him once. It was a lonely vigil. I think he was often all alone when he protested, but he felt that it was duty to be there. Don believed that it was wrong for a Catholic school to support ROTC. The administration at Marquette disagreed with him. I stood with him holding a sign to protest the training of military officers at Marquette. At one point, a young, fresh-faced ROTC cadet walked past us nervously. He glanced at me and hurried away. When I looked at the cadet, I saw me, an earlier version of myself. That shook me. I understood why this young man was wearing a uniform and doing what he was doing. I firmly believe that Don did not understand. He saw it all in terms of right and wrong, black and white. ROTC was wrong. Period.

The times when I was demonstrating with Don were educational for me. They also made me feel uneasy. It should be noted that my wife and I did absolutely everything we could to keep Hans out the wars. We used advice from the Quakers to show him as a conscientious objector in the system when he had to sign up for the Selective Service. The irony was that Hans enlisted anyway, and for all the same reasons that I had when I joined up fifty years ago. Hans and I were, and in a way still are, part of the system that Don so intensely opposed. We’re vets and he never was.

Back on May 1st of this year, I posted an essay on my blog, “It’s Still about Iran”. Read it if you want. Don did, and he sent a remarkably long response to what I wrote. I attempted in my article to describe what a disaster the current war against Iran is. I did not write the essay solely for pacifist readers. Actually, this article was also posted on a veteran’s website, The Havok Journal. I did not use moral arguments against the war. Don had always used moral persuasion, with limited success. I tried mostly to explain why the war was so stupid. Thomas Merton once said that a man would rather be considered clever than good. I tried to appeal to a person’s intellect more than to their conscience.

Don sent me a variation of his usual diatribe against war. He apparently assumed that I support war in general, and that I only opposed to this current fiasco. In his response, his last words to me were:

“You have chosen the state over Christ.”—Don Timmerman and Casa Maria C.W. community

That stung.

The fact that is that I agree with almost all that he said. One thing I learned from my time with Don was that people seldom listen to moral exhortations. Prophets are usually ignored, or worse. Maybe I have chosen the State over Christ. Or maybe I see more nuances than Don did. I don’t know about that. All I know is that my son and I have suffered from the effects of war. I think I hate war as much as Don did, and I may have more reason to do so.

I wrote back to Don, and I asked him not to judge me.

He replied, “Of course.”

Don was a good man. I admire his courage and his dedication. He lived his faith.

I just wish we had known each other better. I wish we had understood each other better.

It’s only Two Years

July 23rd, 2026

She called this morning to talk with her son. The young woman also took a couple minutes to explain some things to me. As usual, it was all business.

She told me, “I got some bad news.”

I braced myself, “Okay…”

She went on, “I talked to the staffer (DOC official) and she said that I don’t qualify for ERP (Early Release Program). So, my release date is February 4th, 2028.”

Then she said, “The good news is that I will probably be rated for minimum security.”

That’s all that she wanted to tell me. It was more than enough. I am still emotionally sorting through the ramifications. The judge gave her full credit for time served in jail for her two felonies. I mentally added up her time already spent inside and applied that to what she has yet to serve, and it comes up to two years, which is exactly what the judge gave her for a sentence. Because one of her offenses is a violent crime, “truth in sentencing” comes into play. Whatever amount of time the judge gave her is precisely how long she will sit.

It’s only two years. Depending on your perspective, it isn’t really that much time or it is for-fucking-ever. I’m sure for the young woman it is a long time, especially since her five-year-old son will be different in many ways when she is released. She told him on the phone, “You’ll be seven when I get out.” A lot can happen in two years. He will mature a great deal during that time, and she might also change significantly. It’s hard enough keep up with the changes in a small child if you are with him every day. Being away for two years makes it far more difficult to maintain that relationship.

Being designated as a minimum-security inmate means that this woman will most likely be transferred to the prison close to our home. It is only a half hour drive from our house to that facility. We can have more frequent visits with her. Also, the minimum-security prison is far more user friendly than her current location. The visitation area is actually kind of nice, if you can ignore the tall chain-link fences with the razor wire on top. She will be able to do more with her son if she gets sent there.

Somehow, I just can’t wrap my head around all this. Every step in the process feels surreal. My wife and I have been through all this before. The boy has not had this experience. So, in many ways it’s painfully familiar, but it is also alien to us.

We just deal with it.

One Little Mistake

July 21st, 2026

Bad news.

A young woman we love is currently incarcerated in a prison. The thing she wants more than anything else is to be visited by her five-year-old son. The prison is a two-hour drive from our home, which makes a visit to see her a bit of a challenge. A bigger challenge is just getting approval from the Department of Corrections to schedule a visit. The young woman was in this prison seven years ago, and I don’t remember the process at that time being this complicated. However, it’s a struggle to get approval now.

The young woman procured applications for us (my wife, her son, and me) almost as soon as she got to the prison. She repeatedly warned us that the applications had to be filled out correctly, or they would be rejected out of hand. The forms have to be perfect to get through the system. Even if the paperwork is filled out accurately, it takes the DOC three weeks or more to make a decision. My wife and I filled out our forms, and I filled out the application for the inmate’s son. We did it to the best of our ability and promptly mailed them. Then we waited, and waited, and waited.

Yesterday, the young woman alerted me that my wife’s request for approval was denied. Why? Because she failed to write down her maiden name on the form. There is a section on the application for reporting any other names or aliases that a person may have used in the past. My wife asked me about that part, and I told her to write down “none”, because she has always used her legal name. Neither of us noticed that the instructions on the form wanted her maiden name. It never occurred to us that anyone would want that. She hasn’t used her maiden name in the last 42 years. However, that error on the form was enough to get it rejected.

Now, she has to start the process all over again. Another three weeks.

My application and that of her the woman’s son are still pending. It’s been over three weeks. We are anxious about this fact, especially the young woman.

Why does it all have to be this hard?

Thinking of Franz Kafka for some reason.

Update: the young woman talked to a social worker in the prison. The DOC background check for visitors can take six weeks. It makes me wonder if the people running the prison even want anyone to visit.

Unicorn Land

July 19th, 2026

“Grandpa, talk for the stuffies!”

Asher, our grandson, often demands that I speak for his stuffed animals. He has dozens of them, and he will suddenly toss several stuffies at me and then expect me to invent a conversation between them. I do all the voices. He has three unicorn stuffies that he likes to put into the mix. One is white in color and called “Snowflake”. One is pink and known as “Uni”. There is unicorn/llama hybrid that simply goes by “Unicorn Llama”. These three stuffies are the guardians of Unicorn Land, which is the exotic setting for most of these episodes. Asher likes to have other stuffies visit Unicorn Land and I have to include them in the narrative.

This morning’s chapter went like this:

A new character shows up. He is a small, intensely purple elephant named “Purple”. The unicorns welcome him.

Snowflake: “Hi, welcome to Unicorn Land!”

Purple: “Hi. I’m Purple. I live here too.”

Snowflake: “Really? Since when?”

Purple: “I was born here. I’m a unicorn elephant.”

Snowflake: “Oh. That’s odd.”

Purple: “Well, you have a unicorn llama here. Why not an elephant?”

Note: There is apparently birthright citizenship in Unicorn Land.

Snowflake: “Uh, yeah. So, what do you do here?”

Purple: “I’ve been using my unicorn magic to make some improvements.”

Snowflake: “Like what?”

Purple: “I changed the colors on the flowers. I love using different colors. Now, the roses are blue, and the daisies are orange, and the goldenrod blossoms are red.”

Snowflake: “You made the goldenrod red? It’s supposed to be bright yellow. That’s why it’s called goldenrod.”

Purple: “No problem! we can call it redrod, or scarletrod, or crimsonrod!”

Snowflake: “Wait, wait, wait. You can’t just change everything. The animals who come to visit Unicorn Land expect to find things beautiful, but familiar. We welcome guests here and we want them to relax and be happy.”

Purple: “But it’s boring for the guests if it all stays the same. Hey, and you guys have a rainbow waterfall! That’s not normal!”

Snowflake: “Uh yeah, that’s true, but we are magical here, and that is part of our vibe. We try to keep Unicorn Land magical, but not too weird. You know, a few rainbows here and there, and some sparkles and moonbeams scattered around the place.”

Purple: “But I like new colors for things, especially red.”

Uni: “We like new things too, but not too much of them. Change most of the daisies back to white and the orange daisies will stick out more. Visitors will notice the orange flowers better if they are surrounded by a lot of white ones.”

Purple: “Yeah, I guess so. Does the goldenrod have to be yellow?”

Unicorn Llama: “Yes.”

Uni: “You could just brighten up some of the colors that are already in Unicorn Land. That would be magical too.”

Purple: “Aww, I never get to have any fun.”

Snowflake: “How about this? We have a valley in Unicorn Land that we haven’t enchanted yet. It’s all a dull grey. What if you color the rocks to make it look like the Grand Canyon?”

Purple: “Yes! When can I start?”

Snowflake: “Now.”

Purple: “Off I go! It’s magic time!”

There is a short pause.

“Purple: “I’m back! How do you like it!”

Unicorn Llama: “Beautiful!”

Uni: “Nice!”

Snowflake: “You rock!”

Purple: “I didn’t get to use much red. Where can I got use some red color?”

Snowflake: “Ever hear of the planet Mars?”

Haze

July 16th, 2026

The smoke from the Canadian wildfires arrived yesterday. I went outside early in the morning to put some letters in the mailbox. Everything smelled like a campfire. The trees down the street from our house looked hazy and indistinct. I figure the visibility was at best half a mile. Usually, at that time of the day, there are some people walking their dogs or just taking a stroll. There weren’t any yesterday, and there probably won’t be any today.

It’s the same deal this morning. The sky is a dull metallic grey. The sun is rising. It’s like an angry, bloodshot eye peeking through the smoke. The ground is hard and dry. All the lawns are turning from green to brown. It’s been hot and dry for a while. A good rain would probably wash the smoke particles out of the air and help the grass, but rain is not in the forecast.

Our grandson Asher has not been to playground for days. Recently, it’s been too hot for us to go to the playground at the park. If I could get him up and dressed around sunrise, we could manage it, but that hasn’t happened. It takes Asher some time to start his day. Now, with the smoke, my wife and I don’t want him running around and exerting himself outside. He can play in our yard for a while, but he shouldn’t breathe in this crap more than necessary. He’s plays most of the day in the house. He gets bored and asks us to tell him endless stories about his stuffed animals. That wears me out. I wish we could get him outside and moving.

The haze and the heat bother me. It’s more of a psychological stress than a physical discomfort. It just feels wrong. The weather is eerie and unnatural, but I’m afraid it is part of the new normal for Wisconsin. Our son in Texas has been telling us about the nearly constant rain they are having down there. That’s weird too. In all the years he has lived in Texas, there has never been so much rain in the summer, except when hurricanes have blown through the state. He and his family are experiencing a new normal there too.

And we keep burning fossil fuels, even though we know that is the primary cause of the new normal.

Collateral Damage

July 16th, 2026

Let me begin by warning you that this entire essay is going to be one big bitch fest. If you decide at this point to click on something else, I will completely understand. Otherwise, here goes…

There is a young woman who is currently in prison. We care about her. She calls us frequently, mostly to speak with her little boy. She talks to me when she needs something, and she often needs help. Being incarcerated means that many of things that we take for granted are unavailable to her, like access to the internet. She is also unable to spend money, unless those funds have been deposited into a commissary account for her by an outside party. Name something that you do every day, and the odds are good that she can’t do it from prison.

This being the case, I spend a large amount of my time dealing with her wants and needs. Her requests are simple. She really doesn’t want much, but somehow it is often a struggle for me to take care of these things. It’s not her fault. It’s the prison system. I don’t know if it is by design, but nothing easy to do.

As an example, the young woman wanted me to set up an account with a telecommunications company so that she could share emails and video calls with us. We would be able to send her photos to her tablet. It sounded like a good thing, especially since it would help her and her son to maintain a close relationship. I followed through until I couldn’t anymore. I set up an account online and deposited $25 in it (I didn’t put in more than that because I we had never used this service before). Then I ran into an insurmountable obstacle. For some reason, I could not designate her as a contact. I don’t know why I couldn’t do that, but without her being named as a contact, we can’t communicate. I kept trying different ways to make the connection work, but I finally gave up.

The next morning, I called the vendor’s customer service, and I never got any service. I was led through a labyrinth of extension menus that never got me to a human who could help me. Actually, I talked briefly to a person once. He took my information, put me on hold, and then when he got back to me, he couldn’t hear me on the phone and hung up. I started the cycle again. Eventually, I got to the point where the recording said that I would be connected to a customer service rep. That didn’t happen. I was never connected to anybody. The recording of menu choices just started all over again. I gave up.

Admittedly, my hassle is not unique. You have probably gone through the same magical mystery tour with some business. My problem is that, although this particular experience was rather extreme, it is not at all atypical. Almost any interaction with vendors that operate with the prison system is like this episode to some degree. It is rare when a transaction goes smoothly. It doesn’t matter what service or merchandise the vendor is providing. It’s always a challenge.

Why is it like this? The vendors are those companies that have been approved by the Department of Corrections to sell to the public. The inmates can’t buy anything. The people on the outside that care about the prisoners are the actual customers. These vendors operate as near monopolies. For instance, there are three companies that can provides goods (clothes, art supplies, health and beauty supplies, etc.) to the folks incarcerated at the prison where the young woman resides. The variety of products is extremely limited. It’s like when Henry Ford was selling Model T’s: you can have the car in any color you want, as long as it’s black). It’s the same sort of thing with these vendors. You can buy from them or not buy at all. The prices are exorbitant because there is no real competition. There is no customer service because there is no incentive to serve the customers.

I suppose an argument could be made that the inmates don’t deserve any better than what I have just described. After all, they’re convicted felons. However, there is collateral damage. The people on the outside, like me, are trying to help folks who they love, and we are the ones getting screwed. The people who are just trying to help others to survive in prison and hopefully become rehabilitated during their stay suffer along with the inmates. We didn’t commit any crimes. We didn’t endanger the public. We are just trying to show some compassion to inmates who aren’t seeing much of that. We are trying to do the right thing, and it’s a bitch. It really is.

Tour de Fleece

July 12th, 2026

Karin is spinning Cormo wool on her wheel. Cormo wool is an excellent wool to spin into yarn. I only know this because my wife told me so. The fiber apparently comes from Tasmania, and the sheep that have been bred to produce it are rather rare. Karin knows nearly everything there is to know about spinning all varieties of fiber. I know next to nothing about the subject, even after we have been married for almost 42 years. The fiber arts are Karin’s domain. She is an expert with regards to spinning, weaving, knitting, crocheting, and dyeing fiber. She is a fiber goddess with an artist’s intuition, creativity, and passion. I encourage her in her efforts or at least stay out of her way.

Karin is currently participating in the Tour de Fleece. The Tour de Fleece is an online group event for hand spinners across the world. Karin has hooked up with a number of spinners who hang out at the Fox River Fiber Shop in Big Bend, Wisconsin. The annual event is run concurrently with the Tour de Fleece (hence the name of the event). The spinners ply their trade on the same days as the cyclists are spinning their bike wheels in France. The goal for the spinners to complete a project or maybe use up their stash of fiber (nobody ever actually exhausts their stash). It is also a chance for spinners to gather and compare notes. Spinners are basically members of a rather exclusive sisterhood, although I have heard rumors that there are male spinners.

Spinning is nothing new for my wife. She was spinning fiber before I ever met her. I have a story about that.

I met Karin when I was stationed in West Germany with the U.S. Army back in the early 1980’s. We dated for several months, and then I got up the nerve to propose to her. She said yes when I asked her to marry me, and then I suggested that we go to a jeweler’s shop to buy her an engagement ring. Karin didn’t want to do that. German women, at least at that time, did not get engagement rings. I was at a loss for ideas. I thought I definitely needed to get her something and I told her so. Karin thought for a while and then she told me,

“I want a spinning wheel.”

That’s what she got. We bought an Ashford traditional wheel. She has used it for decades. Karin has found spinning to be a meditative practice (very Gandhi-like). Recently, she upgraded to a SpinOlution Echo model. It is a more complicated machine with two treadles, one for each foot. She loves it.

It’s all about circles. Bicycle wheels. Spinning wheels. Engagement rings.

Our grandson, Asher, helping his Oma with her spinning wheel in the Tour de Fleece