At my old house in Milwaukee, everyday after school I would sit on the swing of our rickety, old tree house. The wood creaked at every stride, even in the wind as I sat there motionless, watching. I was in fifth grade then attending Irving Elementary, and I would be out there for hours. 

Everyday I studied the glide of the birds; sometimes it was the red cardinals decorated in a flutter of snow, other times it was the fat robins gathering food. And it was up the tree a few feet in front of me that I watched them build their nests. Light scattered through the tree tops and created warm spots on my face as I craned my neck up. The occasional acorn would drop and bop me on the noggin, and I wondered if the birds did that on purpose. 

Everyday I watched the progress of the blooming buds of my mother’s raspberry and wildberry garden. I was with her those three years ago when we purchased their seeds from a vendor at the Milwaukee Farmers Market. I could still smell the fresh, golden bread. I remember the farmer’s delight when someone would stop by their stands, their crooked smiles and kind voices thanking us for doing business with them and their egregiously cheap produce. 

Like my mother’s berries, every year we came back to that wonderful community of gentle souls.

 Sometimes I would sneak a few berries before she made them into jam to gift our neighbors after they lended us emergency eggs. The pop of their sweet vessels was delectable and I would set some under the tree for the squirrels to enjoy too. 

Everyday I noticed the vines beginning to crawl up our unused, possum-infested garage. Its old abode housed my great grandfather’s prized fish he caught decades ago in Beaver Dam. I would look at their fangs, their hallowed eyes, and waxy scales, wanting to return to our family’s lake cabin to catch as many fish as he did. 

The buzzing bumble bees harvested pollen from the wildflowers to create honey which would soon be crafted into my grandmother's home-made taffy. I noticed the butterflies emerging from their cocoons huddled under a fence and the empty cicada shells left abandoned next to them. Their rattle sung with the birds and the coo’s of the owls; hidden yet everywhere.

 Everyday I noticed the deer prints left in the snow from nights prior. It was getting darker much earlier now, and the yellow glow of other homes acted as my lantern outside late at night. Snow covered the pine trees in a thick, cold blanket. Somewhere in the distance a man cussed as he slipped on ice from his way to start up the car to battle the frost. There were sled tracks in our neighbor's yard from his grandkids. Their snowman’s carrot nose had a bite mark in it and its scarf was frozen to its neck. The bitter air nipped my nose red and I adjusted the five layers of clothes my mother told me to wear. 

Her voice rang in my ears,“If you really must go out there, at least bundle up! We’re supposed to get below freezing tonight, for god sake. Be careful, would you? I don’t know why you insist on doing this.” I enjoyed the tang of her accent. 

“Because I like to,” I told her. “Every single day I get to sit out there on that swing and have the wind ruffle my hair. The summer sun kisses freckles upon my nose, and winter’s wrath throws snow in my eyelashes. I like to watch the critters and the vibrant, beautiful plants grow, and the love and quirks held by our communities. I get to notice all the hidden treasures Wisconsin has to offer, in their lake cabins, their public markets, and each other. An’,” I added, “we got cheese.” 

My mother laughed. “They don’t call us Dairyland for nothing.”