CHAPTER I

It was the summer of 1980-something when my dad started a new job, setting in motion a move that would uproot our family from the quiet familiarity of Wautoma, Wisconsin, to the village of McFarland, Wisconsin, located just a few miles south of Madison. For my dad, it was an opportunity, perhaps a fresh start, but for me, it was a daunting leap into the unknown. The prospect of spending the summer in an unfamiliar “village,” far from the friends and places I had always known, filled me with worry. And come fall, I would be starting at a new elementary school where I knew no one. The thought of making new friends and finding my place in an unfamiliar world felt almost impossible at that age.

I was incredibly close with my dad. He was of average height with thick, dark hair and, by all accounts, a strikingly handsome man. He had a passion for country line dancing and spent countless hours riding and training horses with his brothers. When I wasn’t in school, I spent nearly all my free time by his side. Summer nights and weekends meant casting fishing lines from the back of our classic 1973 fifteen-foot Glastron boat on Lake Waubesa, drifting lazily with the current as we reeled in fish and joked over who’d caught more. When we weren’t fishing, I was mastering the art of waterskiing, cutting across the water and jumping the boat’s wake, or learning to drive the boat under my dad’s watchful eye. When fall arrived and temperatures dropped, our weekends belonged to the family dairy farm in Montfort, Wisconsin, where hunting and spending time with relatives filled our days. And, of course, no visit was complete without me getting roped into farm chores, where uncles taught me valuable life lessons that every young boy should know, along with a few choice swear words.

Amid Wisconsin’s brutal winters, Dad and I would lace up our skates at Lewis Park, where I learned to play hockey and discovered why hot chocolate always tasted better after hours in the cold. When I wasn’t on the ice, wobbling to keep balance, I was outside at home, bundled up against the frigid wind and cold. My 1980s winter Moon Boots kept my toes toasty warm as I played in the snow. The yard, an endless blanket of white, became my playground of possibility. I built tunnels, dug forts from towering snowdrifts, and sculpted whatever my imagination dreamed up.

With the unlimited winter fun came the inevitable trade-off, namely shoveling the driveway. Just as I had finished clearing the driveway, my back aching from heaving snow to the outer edges, I would hear the distant rumble of the snowplow. Bracing for the inescapable, I would stand in the driveway, shaking my fist in frustration as it barreled past, leaving behind a fresh, impenetrable mound of packed snow and frozen slush. The mound was often taller than me, and I would spend what felt like hours clearing it so Dad could actually pull into the driveway when he returned from work.

Then there was the mailbox, another battle in the war against winter. Not only did I have to dig it out of the snowbank, but I also had to carve out enough space for the mailman to reach it, a thankless task for a kid who rarely received mail in the first place.

Although McFarland was my hometown, I was raised on our family farm, where I learned life’s most valuable lessons and the true meaning of hard work. Every hay bale stacked, every cow milked, and every animal fed reinforced my sense of responsibility and built the foundation of my work ethic. Long days alongside my dad, immersed in the hands-on experiences of farm life, shaped the person I am today.

Work and life were inseparable. Hard work wasn’t just encouraged; it was expected. There was no slipping away or making excuses when a full wagon rolled into the driveway. It was a collective effort, a shared commitment to keeping the farm running, so everyone pulled their weight, no questions asked.

The farm offered a kind of fun and adventure that life in McFarland simply couldn’t match. The barn, surrounding buildings, and endless fields of tall green stalks of corn became our playground. Towering stacks of hay begged to be climbed, with hidden tunnels to crawl through. The rows of corn beckoned us to run as fast as we could, weaving between them as we chased after each other. Silos stood like cement giants, their ladders daring us to scale them, and BB guns provided endless entertainment, especially with the farm’s ever-growing p