The steadfast copper lady will celebrate her 130^th birthday this year. She is French but lives just off America’s eastern shore. In her left arm she cradles a tablet which reads July 4, 1776. At this moment, she is not a happy woman.

In 1886 when The Statue of Liberty arrived, America was welcoming immigrants. Since Ms. Liberty can’t speak, words were cast on her base.

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the tempest tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

A large part of the American population has turned their backs on the lady, hating everything she represents. They believe in walls and slammed doors, not golden doors. They also conveniently have forgotten that with the exception of 1.7% of our population that is Native Americans, we are all from immigrant families.

Another part of our population is heartbroken that so many of their fellow citizens lack compassion, decency and understanding of the plight of millions of people caught up in the global refuge crisis that is gripping the world.

Perhaps the lady representing Liberty should be sent back home to France for rest and recovery. A new plaque could be put in her vacated spot while she is on sabbatical:

Hate never works.
Greed  destroys everything.

We are having a glorious purple moment. It’s happening in our front yard and was totally unplanned as our gardening skills are elemental. But, sometimes, even those of us who do not possess green thumbs just get lucky.

For the past twenty years we have been working to turn a portion of our one and a third acres into a little bluestem prairie interspersed with native and butterfly friendly plants. Many mistakes, failures and laughable moments have occurred along the way.

Friends who are master gardeners keep our spirits up. One advised, “If the plant dies, plant another in a different part of the yard. If that one dies, too, plant something else.” This brilliant suggestion has propelled us forward, albeit slowly.

Not trying to be purists has helped as well. We moved a few plants such as iris from our home of thirty years in Milwaukee figuring that old friends shouldn’t be abandoned.

At this moment, purple flowers are reigning over our tiny prairie. We are guessing that purple is Lady Luck’s favorite color. Or, perhaps, it is Mother Nature that has a penchant for purple. Whoever is responsible, we will simply enjoy the fleeting beauty.

It takes a lot to induce us to get up at dawn on a Saturday morning. Weekends aren’t meant for rushing around and keeping schedules. But last Saturday we got up early and hit the road in record time. The goat parade was starting at 10:30, was happening 100 miles north and we weren’t going to miss it.

From June to late fall, some extremely happy and pampered goats graze on the grass roof of Al Johnson’s Swedish restaurant in Sister Bay, Door County, Wisconsin. The tradition began many decades ago when a friend of Al Johnson gave him a gag birthday gift. With the help of a ladder, the friend put a goat on the restaurant roof.

Townspeople and restaurant patrons alike loved the goats whose numbers have expanded over the years. Now, every morning in season, the goats come to town in a pick up truck from their comfy barn a few miles away. The barn is also the site of their winter vacation.

The annual “Roofing of the Goats” parade marking the return of the goats after winter is a big deal in Sister Bay. Crowds turn out for it and all goats in the community are invited. The actual parade is one block long, has one float, no bands and lasts 10 minutes. It is charming….the perfect antidote to everything in our culture that is super sized and commercialized.

Traffic on the main highway through town is stopped so goats of all sizes on leashes can parade down the road to the restaurant. They are then led to the back of the building where stairs and ramps go up to the grassy roof.

“Rookie goats”, tiny kids having their first roof experience, are especially loved. One was guided up the ramps by its owner and gently set in the lush grass. The kid promptly let out a loud BAAAAAAA, hopefully of delight.

After the goats are settled and grazing, many of the spectators pile into the restaurant for a breakfast of Swedish pancakes and lingonberries. As with most celebrations, everybody ends up eating.

Readers of this blog know that I am a dedicated beachcomber. For me, nothing is better than an endless beach and hours to wander searching for the treasures delivered by the waves.

The gifts from the waves are many, but they fall into two main groups. Flotsam is the stuff that accidentally falls in, while jetsam are articles that were purposely jettisoned or tossed overboard. When crossing the Atlantic on the way to her new home in America, my great, great grandmother had to jettison her entire hope chest when their sailing vessel hit a storm.

After bringing beach finds home, we enjoy looking at them in the same way we get pleasure from the artwork on our walls. We do, however, sometimes make things out of the driftwood, and a talented friend turns some of our beach glass into exquisite jewelry.

A few weeks ago, I chanced on an entirely new category of beach treasures. I was doing research for a school program on the Inupiat people who live in the Arctic Circle. In this remotest of places, the children make up their own games and entertainment. One of their favorite activities is searching the beaches for a putulik (POO-too-lik), a stone that has a hole worn through it.

In twenty years of living on a beach, I have only found two or three of these special stones. Now the hunt is on, and I will be having the summer of the putulik.

The following photos are some of our beach treasures. The last photo is one of the young students I teach who discovered the joys of beach combing while we were on a class field trip to Lake Michigan.

I will not be the art teacher at one of my favorite small schools next year. After 160 continuous years, the school is being shut down and the halls of its historic building will no longer echo with the children’s happy voices.

I never drove to the school without joyful expectation. It only had under one hundred students  grades kindergarten through eighth grade, and it was not in a wealthy neighborhood. But the feelings of community, caring and love were there in abundance. No child could possibly be left behind in this nurturing environment.

Shortly after returning to school last September, we all learned of the closing. Sadness reigned as everyone knew that something very special was coming to an end. Educational excellence was trumped by economics, and no guardian angels were in sight.

Thanks to one of the best principals I have ever worked for, the school year was a huge success. She was determined to make each day matter and lived to the fullest by her staff, students and herself. She set the tone with high expectations for all of us. Her determination to make the last year the best year was contagious.

I carefully pondered which artist I would feature for the children’s last drawing project. I wanted an artist whose work radiated the joy and beauty of life. I choose Henri Matisse.

The students’ artwork will light up the halls and classrooms until the last day of school. Then, we all will scatter in different directions. But I believe we all will carry the spirit of the school wherever we go.