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The Booyah Curling Club: Finding Community in Unexpected Places

If you started a sports team, what would the colors and mascot be?

Some people dream of owning a football franchise or a professional basketball team. Me? I’d rather build something smaller—something you can actually show up for without needing a corporate sponsor or a teleprompter.

Mainstream sports have their own kind of magic, sure, especially when you’re in the stadium. But on TV, the spectacle loses me. I like it when the cheers sound human, when the players still smile between plays, and when half the fans know each other by name.

So if I ever started a sports team, it’d be for a smaller, beautifully odd sport—something like curling. There’s something endearing about it: people sliding polished stones across ice while others sweep furiously in front of them, shouting like they’re casting spells. It’s strategy and silliness in perfect balance—a humble sport that celebrates precision, patience, and teamwork.

And, of course, every team needs a mascot. Mine would honor my own past. I’d call the team The Booyahs, after the hearty chicken-and-vegetable stew I first encountered while living in Green Bay.

To be clear, I’m not talking about the Green Bay Booyah baseball team that existed for a while—my inspiration comes from the local dish itself, a slow-cooked celebration of community. Booyah isn’t just soup; it’s a small-town event unto itself, cooked in huge pots at church picnics and county fundraisers, filling the air with the scent of onions, broth, and belonging.

The mascot? A cheerful, steaming soup pot named Brothy, wearing a wool scarf and holding a curling broom. It’s a little goofy, a little heartwarming—honestly, perfectly Midwestern.

The colors would come straight from the soup bowl: bright orange like carrots, deep green like cabbage, and warm golden yellow like the broth. Those are colors that feel alive and approachable—like warmth on a cold day.

What would make The Booyahs special isn’t the sport itself, but what it represents. It’s a reminder that community doesn’t have to be loud to matter. The best teams aren’t always the ones with the biggest stands or flashiest jerseys—they’re the ones that bring people together to laugh, cheer, and share stories over a hot bowl of something good.

Because in the end, whether it’s curling stones or life itself, we all just want the same thing—to belong somewhere that feels genuine, where joy bubbles slowly, shared and savored.
And if that happens to involve a pot of soup and a broom on ice? Even better.

If you could start your own team—sports or otherwise—what would it be called? What would your colors, mascot, or mission be? Share your creative ideas in the comments below! I’d love to see what you’d dream up.

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Get weekly reflections on finding happiness in the simple and the small—whether it’s a day on the homestead, a drive down memory lane, or, in this case, a curling team that lives in your heart

The Night After Christmas and the Family Flu

Sometimes the most memorable Christmases aren’t the picture-perfect ones, but the years when everything falls apart and love holds things together anyway. This is the story of the year the flu came to visit right after Christmas—and how crackers, Gatorade, and a lot of teamwork got us through.

’Twas the night after Christmas, all peaceful and deep,
Our stockings hung empty, the house fast asleep.
The lights softly shimmered, the hearth gave a sigh,
While snow whispered secrets to stars in the sky.

’Round midnight it started—a twinge and a pain,
A twist in my stomach I couldn’t explain.
I tiptoed off slowly, the floorboards all still,
I said to my husband, “I think I might be ill.”

And I wasn’t alone—two soft feet drew near,
My daughter behind me soon made herself clear.
She followed and whimpered, her cries urgent, strong—
She already knew that something was wrong.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I whispered, though queasy and gray,
“We’re in this together—it’s starting today.”
Her little face wet, her sobs catching fast,
I knew this long night would be sure to pass.

Two more hours rolled by, and then, half past four,
My son padded in through the barely cracked door.
Still sleepy but worried, he frowned, half-convinced,
“Is everyone sick now?”—and then we all winced.

By morning, our room was a whirlwind of care—
Blankets and towels were strewn everywhere.
The tree in the corner still twinkled on cue,
While a water cup army assembled in view.

My husband, though sleepless, laced boots with intent,
Murmured, “Crackers and Gatorade,” and then off he went.
He came back exhausted but noble and true,
His face wind-bitten, but his heart shining through.

Later, with laughter he told me with glee,
The noises I made (embarrassing me!).
Not cruelly, of course—just the way that love leans,
Finding small humor in less-than-grand scenes.

Meanwhile our daughter, though fevered and small,
Was strangely composed through the worst of it all.
So dainty, so sweet in her sickly haze,
Even illness can’t quite dent a toddler’s ways.

And when things got rougher, we had helping hands near—
Grandma and Grandpa, steadfast and dear.
They took on our laundry, our chaos, our chores,
Returning it folded with love through the doors.

Our Black Cat peeked in from the kitchen’s safe line,
Surveying the scene with a gaze most divine.
He blinked, turned around with his usual grace,
And decided, “I’ll check on them later—just in case.”

The day after Christmas was quiet and slow,
With naps and faint smiles in the furnace’s glow.
Two days gone by, and though fevers still nipped,
We were mostly upright, though thoroughly whipped.

By three days post-Christmas, we’d climbed to a cheer—
About eighty percent, though not quite in the clear.
An ache here, a groan and a bit of fatigue,
But hope had returned to the flu-ridden league.

We smiled through the mess, the trials and dread,
Through crackers and Gatorade close to each bed.
It wasn’t the Christmas of bright, shining scenes,
But it was real love—somewhere in between.

So here’s to the chaos that family life knows,
The laughter that follows wherever it goes.
For even when plans fall wildly askew,
We’re rich in the stories that see us all through.

Have you ever had a holiday completely derailed by sickness, weather, or plans gone sideways? Share your story in the comments—I promise we’ll be over here laughing (and sympathizing) with you.

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Bridging Ideals and Reality: How Life and Family Shaped My Politics

How have your political views changed over time?

When I was twenty, I believed passion could fix anything. If you worked hard enough, cared deeply enough, and convinced enough people, the world would tilt a little closer to justice. I was young, idealistic, and certain that effort and energy alone could transform almost any problem.

I went to school for a field I loved and launched into my career like it was a calling. In those early years, purpose burned bright—I was determined to make a difference through big ideas and bigger effort. But life has a way of softening sharp edges, reminding you that true change often begins quietly and takes time.

Around that same season of life, I started dating—and later married—a man who didn’t always see the world the way I did. His political views challenged mine in ways that were frustrating, fascinating, and, eventually, formative. Our conversations were lively, sometimes stubborn, but always respectful. He listened. I listened. We debated over dinners and long drives, occasionally landing on “agree to disagree,” but never on bitterness.

Over time, those talks shaped more than our opinions—they deepened our empathy. Our love grew as our perspectives softened. We learned to look beyond slogans and to the stories that shaped each other’s beliefs. Somewhere along the way, we began to meet in the middle, not out of compromise, but understanding. We still don’t agree on everything, but the distance between us has become a bridge—worn smooth by time, laughter, and trust.

My career changed in a similar way. Early on, I rushed forward, certain that enthusiasm alone could shift systems. Experience humbled me. Real progress, I discovered, is often slow and steady, built through patience, persistence, and relationships rather than grand gestures. I’m still passionate about my work, but now with a steadier kind of faith—a softer optimism that recognizes change as a lifelong conversation, not a single triumphant moment.

Just as my outlook softened at work and in marriage, it shifted again when I became a mother. Having children refocused my energy in ways I didn’t expect. The drive I once poured into trying to fix the world now finds new meaning in shaping the smaller world within our home. Teaching kindness, empathy, and curiosity to my children feels just as powerful as any public cause. Family hasn’t narrowed my worldview—it has deepened it. I’ve learned that the most lasting change often begins right where we live.

If my younger self saw the world as a canvas waiting for bold, sweeping strokes, my present self sees it as a tapestry—woven from countless threads of experience, perspective, and love. My politics have matured the same way: less about being right, more about being real. Less about winning debates, more about listening with curiosity and grace.

What’s changed most isn’t my beliefs—it’s how I hold them. More gently now, with humility and hope—and a quiet awareness that wisdom often lives somewhere between conviction and compassion.

Have your views changed as you’ve grown older? What experiences, relationships, or family moments have shifted how you see the world? I’d love to hear your reflections in the comments below.

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Where Imagination Finds Its Roots: My Perfect Reading and Writing Space

You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?

Every writer dreams of a space that feels like home to their thoughts—a corner of the world where imagination stretches its legs and the noise of life takes a softer tone. Mine isn’t glamorous or high-tech, but it’s built for calm, comfort, and curiosity. A place where peace and creativity meet in the same breath.

I see it tucked just far enough from the heart of the house to allow quiet focus, yet still close enough that I can hear the gentle rhythm of family life in the background. The walls glow in soft, natural tones—sage, cream, or pale gold—and the space feels welcoming from the first step inside. Bookshelves line the walls, heavy with well-loved novels, gardening books, and journals. Each spine tells a piece of my story, each page holding the warmth of past inspirations.

Sunlight spills through wide windows overlooking something living—maybe the garden, trees beyond the fence, or a meadow flickering with movement. In winter, a small fireplace adds its steady crackle and a hint of wood smoke to the air.

At the center sits my workspace: an ergonomic, spacious desk with drawers neat enough to keep the chaos contained but close enough for notebooks, colorful pens, and coffee within reach. My laptop and dual monitors stand ready for writing or deep-diving into research. And, of course, high-speed internet—because a writer’s curiosity shouldn’t have to wait for a page to load.

On one wall hang a couple of maps—one of Wisconsin, another of the United States, and a third of the world. They’re conversation companions during phone calls, or quiet invitations to study how places became what they are. Sometimes, I trace borders and coastlines with my finger, thinking about history’s slow hands shaping landscapes.

Next to them, shelves hold little collections from our life together—curiosities and keepsakes, handmade pottery, carved wood, painted stones, and things our children have crafted with care and imagination. Each object holds a small story and reminds me that creativity lives in every season of life.

For reading, a deep chair near the window offers comfort for quiet afternoons. A small side table waits for tea or a candle, while a corkboard above gathers quotes, sketches, and reminders of future dreams. The air feels alive with green things: trailing pothos, small herbs by the sill, and a fiddle-leaf fig soaking in golden light. The whole space breathes, warm and alive.

What I love most about this imagined room is its balance—it’s peaceful but not sealed off, still enough for thought but close enough to feel the pulse of family. The soft overlap of connection and solitude makes it feel whole.

This is where ideas grow roots and take flight—a sanctuary that mirrors the life I’m building: curious, creative, and connected.

In the end, it’s not just a room for reading and writing; it’s a reminder of why I create at all—to notice, to cherish, and to keep learning about the world and the people who make it home.
Sunlight, comfort, connection, and wonder—the timeless ingredients of a life well-lived.

Now it’s your turn. Would your ideal space look like? A window view, a favorite chair, or maybe something that inspires you every day? Let me know below in the comments, and let’s inspire each other!

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Real Happiness on Four Wheels: A Tribute to My First Car

What is your all time favorite automobile?

If you ever want to understand what makes someone tick, ask them about their first car. Mine wasn’t glamorous or fast, but it carried more freedom and memories than any fancy model ever could.

My all-time favorite automobile was the first one I ever owned—a maroon 1996 Oldsmobile Ciera. My dad found it sitting in a driveway after its elderly owner had passed away. It hadn’t moved in two years, and when he got a deal on it, we discovered why: the engine seals had failed, and gasoline had leaked into the oil. Once repaired, though, that stubborn old thing came to life—and stayed that way for years.

We called it the Red Chariot, and in time, the name fit perfectly. That car saw me through the end of high school, college, and most of grad school—about an hour’s drive away. I learned responsibility with every commute: how to check oil, how to handle Wisconsin winters, and how to hear when something “just didn’t sound right.” It carried me into adulthood one modest mile at a time.

The Red Chariot also became part of my love story. My boyfriend (now husband) and I drove it on little adventures whenever life allowed—from southeastern Wisconsin to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and all the way down to the Great Smoky Mountains. The brakes whined on long descents, the air conditioner worked only half the time, but we didn’t care. Those drives were full of laughter, music, and cheap motel coffee—memories that still smell faintly like gasoline and pine trees.

Then came The Event. A couple of weeks before, I noticed the steering wheel sitting just slightly off-center. I brushed it off as nothing serious. A week later, I parked by a friend’s house, grabbed my bags, and joined my parents and boyfriend for a long-planned road trip out west. We returned sunburned, travel-tired, and happy. I slid back into the driver’s seat of my car, turned the key, and immediately noticed it—an odd, “extra bouncy” feeling as the road hummed beneath me.

So I called my boyfriend, the trained mechanic, and asked, “How do I tell if a tire’s flat while I’m driving?”

Without missing a beat, he chuckled, “Easy. You pull over, get out, and if it’s flat—you’ll know.”

Classic him. I pulled over anyway, checked all four tires, and found them just fine. Satisfied, I merged back onto the highway and carried on.

The next day, he slid under the car to replace the shocks. That’s when he found it: rust had eaten clean through part of the frame, separating it from the rear axle. The Red Chariot had given everything it had. There was no fixing it this time.

We didn’t send it off with fanfare, just a quiet goodbye. Still, I couldn’t help running my hand along its faded maroon hood one last time. That car had carried me through some of the most formative years of my life—independence, love, responsibility, and grown-up laughter. It had been my safe space, my escape, and sometimes, my therapy room on wheels.

The Red Chariot was never showy or high-tech, but it was steady. It started most mornings, forgave my mistakes, and brought me home, every time. In a world obsessed with upgrades and flash, that simple dependability feels almost sacred.

I’ve driven newer cars since then, ones with sleeker paint and better gas mileage. But none have had quite the same heartbeat. Because some vehicles don’t just drive you to places—they carry you through chapters of your life.

So yes, my favorite car was an old, rusty Oldsmobile. It taught me that what matters isn’t horsepower or luxury—it’s heart, loyalty, and the quiet comfort of something that keeps showing up, mile after mile.

That little maroon Ciera might be gone, but in some small way, it’s still driving with me.

Your turn—what was your first car? Did it have a name, quirks, or memories that still make you smile? Share your first-car stories in the comments below. I’d love to hear them!

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The Art of Ordinary Living: Finding Creativity in Writing, Cooking, and Parenting

How are you creative?

Creativity doesn’t always look like a canvas, a stage, or a masterpiece. Sometimes, it looks like a skillet full of potatoes, a bedtime routine that finally works, or a few quiet minutes spent putting messy life into words. For me, creativity lives in the everyday—in the effort, the resourcefulness, and the love poured into small things.

Writing Creativity
I’m creative through writing. I may not write fiction, but I write with color and heart. My words capture the hum of morning chores, the smell of bread rising on the counter, and the soft sounds of my family winding down after a long day.

Writing helps me slow down and hold onto fleeting moments before they slip away. My hope is that when someone reads what I write, they see their own life reflected back at them. I hope they begin to look for beauty in the ordinary. Writing, to me, is storykeeping more than storytelling—a way to honor the simple rhythm of living.

Cooking Creativity
That same creative spirit follows me into the kitchen. Few things bring more joy than opening the refrigerator with little motivation and turning almost nothing into something truly satisfying.

My trusty skillet, a few potatoes, and some onions have saved more dinners than I can count. The sound of onions sizzling in butter and the smell that fills the house remind me that creativity often blooms from constraint. It’s about seeing what you have and imagining what it could become.

Parenting Creativity
I’m also creative in my parenting. I didn’t want to raise my children exactly as I was raised, so I’ve learned to improvise and adapt through plenty of trial and error.

Take my two-year-old daughter and the great toothbrushing standoff. For months, we tried everything—games, choices, even silly songs—but it always ended the same: us brushing her teeth while she screamed in protest.

About a month ago, we took a new approach. We simply told her this was part of bedtime—non-negotiable, like pajamas and stories. To my surprise, she accepted it. Now she even reaches for the toothbrush herself.

My son wouldn’t have responded to that method at her age, but that’s the creative dance of parenting—learning each child’s rhythm, one routine at a time.

Reflection
Over time, I’ve realized that creativity isn’t limited to what we make—it’s how we live. It’s the spark that turns routine into ritual, leftovers into a warm meal, and frustration into understanding. It’s what keeps a home vibrant, a family connected, and a heart grateful. Every time I face life’s little challenges and find a gentler way through, I’m reminded of how much beauty lives in simply trying.

We are all, in one way or another, artists of ordinary life—crafting something meaningful out of the materials we’ve been given.

Now it’s your turn. How do you bring creativity into your everyday routines?

If this reflection resonated with you, share it with someone who finds beauty in everyday moments too. 💛

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Holiday Traditions That Root Us: Family, Food, and Connection on the Homestead

Every December, I feel the year take a deep, satisfied breath. The first frost settles on the garden beds and the house grows quiet under early sunsets.

The holidays don’t arrive in a rush of gifts or glitter. They come as a gentle exhale. It’s an invitation to pause, look back, and give thanks for all we’ve built together as a family.

The Joy of Holiday Cards

One of my favorite ways to mark the season is through the tradition of holiday cards. Each one feels like a small window into someone’s life. There’s a handwritten note, a new baby’s smile, a captured moment of love.

We hang the cards over our doorway. That way, each time we step outside, we pass under a colorful arch of friendship and memory. It’s a daily reminder that while we may live miles apart, the ties that bind us remain close and bright.

The Tree That Tells Our Story

Our Christmas tree may not be grand or freshly cut. It’s an old artificial one, gifted by a coworker more than a decade ago. The branches are slightly bent, and a few bulbs refuse to light. Yet when we pull it from the box each year, it feels like greeting an old friend.

Each ornament holds a fragment of our story. There are handmade trinkets from the kids, crocheted snowflakes from my mother-in-law, and treasures from years past. The tree stands as a quiet symbol of continuity and gratitude. It reminds me that beauty often lives in what endures.

Simple Joys and Shared Stories

Every season brings a moment to slow down and savor the familiar. I always find myself rewatching It’s a Wonderful Life.

George Bailey’s struggles and small joys remind me that even in life’s messiest seasons, there’s beauty in simply showing up. I carry that spirit into my workplace, too. Working remotely most of the year, my in-person time with coworkers feels extra special.

There’s an ease in sharing stories beyond the screen. We share laughter over drinks, conversations that meander like old friendships, and the reminder that connection doesn’t depend on proximity.

A Season for Sweetness

At home, the kitchen becomes the heart of the season. The air fills with the scent of butter, cinnamon, and sugar—the unmistakable signal that it’s cookie time.

My favorite tradition, though, is baking kranz kuchen. It’s a tender, yeasted bread folded with hickory nuts, brown sugar, cinnamon, and dates. The recipe has been passed down through generations. Every year we forage the hickory nuts ourselves.

There’s something sacred about that ritual. We gather food from the land, turn it into something fragrant and celebratory, and share it with those I love.

Gifts Made of Experience

Instead of focusing on material gifts, our family gives each other an experience every year.

A few winters ago, we wandered through the glowing quiet of Cave of the Mounds. Last year, our son’s eyes lit up at the Manitowoc Maritime Museum as he marveled at the USS Cobia.

This year, we’re heading to Oshkosh to see the light show, visit the EAA Museum, and end the day with dinner and laughter at the Mineshaft. These experiences spark curiosity and wonder. They remind me that time and attention are the greatest gifts we can give our children.

Gathered Around the Table

Christmas Eve dinner with my parents is the anchor of the season.

We gather around a table filled with food that tells our story. The main coarse is pork roast from pigs we raised and sauerkraut made from cabbage grown in my parents’ garden. It’s more than a meal. It’s a celebration of patience, hard work, and the quiet rhythm of the land that sustains us. Every bite tastes like gratitude made tangible.

The next day, we join my in-laws for a night of laughter, games, and gift exchanges that always end in joyful mayhem.

Once February arrives, the festivities begin again when my extended family gathers for our belated celebration. Some of my sisters can’t travel in December, but that second gathering has become its own cherished tradition. It’s a spark of warmth that keeps the season alive well into the new year.

The Heart of Tradition

Each of these rituals—whether we’re baking, sharing stories through holiday cards, or sitting around the table—reminds me that traditions aren’t about repetition.

They’re about remembering who we are. The holidays teach me to slow down, to honor what we’ve grown, and to see abundance in what’s already here.

When the lights fade and the tree comes down, I tuck the cards into a small box. Their words and faces carry the season’s glow into the months ahead.

And I’m left with the same quiet truth: home isn’t a place or a moment. It’s a feeling—built from love, gratitude, and the steady rhythm of returning to what matters most.

Join the Conversation

If these reflections resonate with you, I’d love to share more glimpses of slow, seasonal living from our little homestead.

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My Biggest Influences from Family, Homesteading, and Simple Living

Who are the biggest influences in your life?

Keywords
simple living inspiration, homesteading lifestyle, family-centered life, personal growth journey, rural living values, community and connection, self-sufficiency and family, gratitude and intention

Influence comes in many forms—some quiet and steady, others bold and life-changing. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on who’s helped shape my journey toward simple living, family-centered growth, and self-sufficiency.

Books That Shape My Thinking
Books have always been my greatest teachers. I can spend hours tucked into a good nonfiction guide—whether it’s about self-improvement, gardening, or preserving old homestead traditions. The works of Midwestern authors like Jerry Apps hold a special place in my heart. His book about rural school life reminded me of the values that built strong communities: honesty, grit, and compassion. Reading it inspired me to start writing again and to live more intentionally.

Another influential book is Ben Logan’s The Land Remembers. His stories of growing up in Wisconsin capture what I love most about rural living. He talks about connection to the land, rhythm of the seasons, and the quiet lessons found in hard work. These authors remind me that storytelling preserves the values and wisdom worth passing on.

Just as books have shaped how I think about simple living, the people around me continue to shape how I live it each day.

Community That Inspires Me
Social media has become a surprisingly powerful influence in my life. My Facebook followers bring so much joy, encouragement, and creativity. We swap garden tips, share family stories, and remind each other that we’re not alone in pursuing intentional living.

What’s even more special is how online connections can grow into real friendships. Just last week, a friend from high school reached out after reading one of my posts. We met for coffee and had a wonderful conversation. It’s one that bridged years and reminded me how connection can start anywhere, even with a simple post.
Platforms like YouTube have also become part of my daily rhythm.

Watching fellow homesteaders and lifestyle creators encourages me to keep learning new skills and to approach life’s routines with curiosity and gratitude.

Family That Grounds Me
At the heart of my life is family. My parents and in-laws are always ready to help. Sometimes, it’s lending a hand with a project. Other times, it’s offering wisdom when I need it most. My husband is my constant partner—steadfast, kind, and right beside me whether we’re tending the garden or tackling challenges together.

My children have become my best teachers. They remind me to slow down, play, and find joy in the small things. Through them, I’ve learned patience, creativity, and how to truly appreciate everyday blessings.

And my sisters hold a special place in my heart. We share humor, sorrow, and plenty of homesteading projects. Their support and laughter keep me rooted, even when life feels hectic.

Living and Learning Together
Every influence—books, community, and family—forms part of the foundation that supports my growth. They motivate me to write, to homestead with purpose, and to live each day with gratitude. Growth doesn’t happen in isolation; it blossoms through shared stories, nurturing relationships, and open hearts.

Now it’s your turn. Who or what have you found to be influential in your life?

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What 1990 Taught Me About Hard Work, Family, and Homesteading

Share what you know about the year you were born.

1990: The year history was made.

I’m not being boastful — that really was a commercial I remember from childhood, announcing The Simpsons as “the show that defined a decade” and giving my actual birthdate. Maybe that’s why the phrase stuck with me. It felt like the world and I arrived on the same wave of something new — a time buzzing with energy and change.

The world in 1990 was shifting fast. The Berlin Wall had just fallen, Nelson Mandela walked free after 27 years in prison, and for a while, it felt like anything was possible. At home in the U.S., George H. W. Bush was president, grunge was brewing in Seattle, and the first home computers were finding their way into family living rooms. Back then, families were swapping cassette tapes for computer disks, unaware of how much life was about to speed up.

I don’t remember those big events firsthand — my world then was much smaller. My earliest memories are of the dairy barn, helping with chores before sunrise. I’d carry buckets and gently clean udders before it was time to milk. The smell of hay, cows, and the cool morning air still lingers in my memory.

We also had a big garden that helped feed our family all year long. My parents even kept a separate garden just for potatoes — and we worked hard to fill the cellar every fall. Summer days were spent picking beans, baling hay, and gathering whatever the earth offered. My parents may not have been the most patient, but they taught me what perseverance looks like. If something needed doing, you didn’t wait around — you did the work. That mindset has never left me.

Now, decades later, those lessons have come full circle. These days, we can vegetables and fruits, raise our own pork, and tend our garden much like my family always did. Only now, I understand the meaning behind the work. Homesteading isn’t just about self-reliance. It’s about finding peace in the effort, purpose in the blisters, and gratitude in what each season provides.

So maybe 1990 really was the year history was made. It was also the year one farm kid began learning what it means to build a life from the ground up — shaped by family, faith, and the steady rhythm of work that still anchors me today.

Now it’s your turn. What year shaped you, and what lessons from your childhood still guide you today?

If you’ve ever looked back and seen the roots of who you are, you’ll fit right in here. Like this post and share with your friends. Subscribe for more stories about homesteading, family life, and finding meaning in the work that sustains us.

When Trust Feeds the Soul: Homesteading, Community, and the Power of Showing Up

Are you a good judge of character?

Some people guard their trust like a locked gate—but I’ve never been one of them. In homesteading and in life, I tend to meet others with open hands and an open heart. Out here, community isn’t just a pleasant idea. It’s something we build with every borrowed tool, shared chore, and kind word. I choose to believe the best of people, trusting they’re drawn by the same sense of purpose and generosity that keeps this way of life thriving.

When we brought our daughter home after she was born, that spirit of community wrapped around us in the most tangible way. We walked into a freshly mopped home, the dishes washed, the floor gleaming, and our table covered in homemade comfort—lasagna, sloppy Joe’s, meatloaf, and warm bread just out of the oven. It wasn’t just food; it was love, poured into every bite. Those acts of kindness reminded me that trust and connection don’t just make a community—they are the community.

Sure, now and then, I misjudge someone, and disappointment arrives like an unexpected frost. But time and again, choosing trust has brought more blessings than setbacks. It has built friendships rooted in understanding, neighbors who show up without being asked, and a shared sense that we’re stronger together than apart.

The land teaches that same truth daily. A garden can’t thrive without care, and neither can a community. When we nurture each other—with warmth, patience, and gratitude—we all flourish. That meal train, that clean house, those helping hands—they were proof that the seeds of kindness I try to plant don’t just grow; they multiply. And for that, I’ll always be thankful.

What’s one way your community has shown up for you when you needed it most?

If this story touched your heart, spread the warmth! 💛

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