I will not fear the terrors that come in the night...

I am at the Frog House today, selling, reading and now, blogging this rainy cool day away. Fall has come as promised and with the dropping temperatures also comes the dropping income that is the promise of every tourist based economy world wide. When planning our business, we expected this. Having grown up in the north woods, I understand the days when, if there are fresh tracks running down County "K", I can look at them and say, "John is up early today", because I know the only car that may be traveling this road, heading that way... I have always loved so many things about this season when I get out my insulated carhart bibs,my Joan of Ark Sorels my little box of Swedish Pimples, and head out onto the lake with my dad to catch the last white fish and lake trout of the season. Racing off to the woods to collect pine cones, the tiny ones in particular, which can only be found in a few secret spots...picking princess pine to dry and gathering acorn caps- all the secret ingredients in my holiday potpourri and ornaments... Then there is the "harvesting of the boughs", trimming back the overgrowth on our back road to keep access open and also providing me with the ingredients for my fall-to- winter landscaping pots. But this year, we have a business, and business comes first. I am in awe of the many entrepreneurs of the north woods who have mastered their fears and found a way to survive through the long winter's night. I have a new appreciation for the notion of "shop local", though for many years I have purposed to do my first round of holiday shopping in Boulder Jct. I look at the parking lots at each establishment, hoping we all have cars because having cars means having a little more help in keeping the lights on and the doors open. While I understand the value of saving at the big box and the chain restaurant, I am more sad than ever that friends and neighbors seem to forget that every purchase put into those places is the purchase that could have truly helped the little guys next door. Fear is our new best friend. We knew the fall would come and with it a massive slow down to what has been an awesome first year. We have been told that the snow will bring a season nearly as good or better than summer if we just hold on and keep the faith. But in the night we hear the whisper that all the more established and seasoned small business owners of Boulder Junction must surely also be hearing right now, "what if". What if the snow doesn't come? what if there is snow, but no snowmobilers? What if there is snow and there are snowmobilers, but no one comes to our business? What if the money runs out? What if, what if, what if.... We are people of faith, so this comforts us to relax into the belief that we are trusting in the one who knows the future. But wow, I have a whole new appreciation of the risk taken by so many before us. In this season of shopping and giving, I encourage each of us to think twice about the big box holidays versus the small business owner holidays. Kind of like when we give a cash gift to a specific person we can know it was a gift well placed, when we shop with a small business owner, we can know that every purchase can change their future. We love Boulder Junction, we intend to stay. If you have not tried the Ale House before now, please come. If you have been before, please come, and please send a friend. I know if you read my blog you are already supporters, so thank you and know that every visit helps to ease the terrors that come in the night!

My Veteran

In honor of Veteran's Day, I am republishing a piece I wrote as a contest submission after my husband, known to most of you as the pony-tailed proprietor of the Aqualand Ale House, returned from his first overseas tour. He went on to tour one more time, in part to set funds aside towards the purchase of our dream. This Veteran's Day week, as always, he is my hero...I love you sweetheart... War By Susie Wilsie-Govier I once heard that a new puppy would sleep better if you give her something with your scent to snuggle up in. There is safety for in the smell of someone close, someone loved. Reaching into his suitcase, I pull out a dirty t-shirt. He hadn’t been home since June but I had an opportunity to say one more goodbye in early August before he left the country and me, for a year. When asked to go, he wanted to know how I felt about it, but I knew I really couldn’t stop him. He was a career military man. Going was what he was trained to do. As his love, best friend and wife, I always knew that I had not married a tame boy. As I sat on our bed that first night home, the first night of the goodby-ing day, I cried into the dirty t-shirt that represented our connection- our love. I could sniff him with me, but he wasn’t; not even close. On a plane to a distant land, full of excitement, fear and grief, I knew he reveled in the gift of resurrection. In helping secure our national freedom, he was finding his own as well. After years spent working for the office military machine he was larger than life once again- a soldier. I could almost imagine his stretching. I could almost smile. I knew he needed this, but I mourned for the loss of him. I knew that now, faced with such a long separation I would do what I had to do just like I always had. My father had taught me to be strong and it was now up to me to show my sons how to do it. Even with this understanding, I also knew doing this would take much from me. When my husband was deployed, I didn’t like to be touched. I was very brittle at times, very close to crumbling at every hug. The going this time was going to be tough and I was impatient with others, wanting them to let me to get on with it, thinking, “let’s just get this over with already.” In those last few days with my husband, I was not very kind to him. As we wandered around sporting goods stores searching for performance underwear, I was frustrated. He couldn’t decide what he would really need for sure, so was reluctant to purchase. I wanted him to just take one of everything, as if it was one way I could show him I cared. His choice to leave the stores without purchase made me irrationally angry. As he spent his goodbye moments with his sons, I watched, and moved them towards each other as much as possible. I wanted them all to know that should the worst happen, there would be no years of words laying there as “should have saids” for my sons to feel as wounds that would change them irreparably. Likewise, I wanted his last memories of his sons to be those of a man proud of the men he had raised, confident that they knew he expected them to carry my burdens for him while he could not. As for me, I wanted none of him and yet I wanted all of him. This man who needed to leave was leaving me and it did not feel good. This man who was going to war was severing himself from the daily rituals of our love; rituals that normally got us both through every stressful and tiring day. How would I replace that? The only way I knew how was to shut each open door. Every caress in those last few days together was at once life giving and a wounding scratch, scrape, puncture or poke in the eye. The last look I saw in his eyes was that of a little boy, sad to be separating, but excited for adventure. I knew he was hurting too, but as the one getting left behind I felt my pain was worse because I wasn’t heading somewhere. There was no adventure waiting for me except that of being alone. With both boys soon headed off to college, I would be experiencing our first year of empty nesting all by myself. At First, I tried to make each day a treat. But one can only eat perfectly seasoned grilled, medium-rare steaks and steamed asparagus in the recliner while watching re-runs of “Sex In The City” (a show he hated) so many nights in a row before the novelty wears off and the jeans get too tight. Often I went to see a massage therapist, for I was holding myself too tightly; my body tensing constantly in trying to shelter me from the wounding that I felt inside. Communication was hard. He was in an area without a base, so there would be no skyping, very sketchy phone calling and infrequent mail. I was truly on my own clutching my power of attorney form and prepared will. Beyond lonely, I bought a new puppy and named her Gracie. Curling in my lap every night, I dozed in the chair with her, since a king sized bed seemed a mockery. Eventually, when I did finally muster the courage to climb into bed, the T.V. stayed on all night, alternately comforting me with its chatter and waking me when I had finally dozed off. Door locking became an obsessive compulsive exercise. Kitchen chairs braced every knob of every already locked door; my homespun version of a security system. Noises that were unfamiliar became fictional scenes of horror almost every day and every night. I traveled for work, often gone long hours at a time. On coming home, my walking through every room and looking under every bed bothered me, but seemed somehow important, logical and wise. When you are all alone, you can lie to yourself quite effectively. If I wasn’t busy spoiling my irrational fears, I was bragging on myself, to myself, about how smart I was- how mature. I mentally wandered, imagining the scene when Oprah called asking me to speak on behalf of soldier’s wives everywhere. Of course she teared up on the phone as she begged me to come on her show to tell my story. Even in my day dreams, I realized my story wasn’t tragic enough when I rehearsed the telling in my mind. It would need to grow in order to make my appearance the most moving show of the year. He would need to die a heroes death, yes, that would be a sure fire (oh my...unfortunate choice of fantasy words) way to get that call. Snapping out of my fantasy, appalled, I would try and stop thinking. But in the night, when there was no one else around, I would truly wonder what would become of me if the unthinkable were to happen. Would I continue to live in this house, filled with so many memories? Would I move back up north to the lonely woods where I grew up? What would I do with his clothes, his things? Would I get a flag at the service? Could I stand through a 21 gun salute? Or would Taps bring me to my knees? How would I use the life insurance money? Would I buy a hot tub like we had always talked about doing- or would I even want one if I would be sitting under the stars alone? How long would I mourn- or would I have sort of pre-mourned for the number of months he had already been gone? Would I ever re-marry? If so, who would I want my next husband to be- like him or the opposite so it wouldn’t remind me; so it would hurt a little less? Would I even be able to go on without him? Would I ever laugh or ever have fun again? When this train of thought got out of control, I tried to escape myself, gathering friends, kids and projects like water to a thirsty soul. My oasis became busyness, never stopping until I was beyond dead on my feet. If I worried about being over committed, that worrying only gave me less time to think about more dangerous things. I obsessively watched Fox News since they covered the war most fully. Fearing every mention of casualties, I still needed to hear every word of every broadcast just the same. I was hungry for “fair and balanced” mentions of death, peppered between stories of movie stars and weather. If those deaths were not in Paktika Provence, Afghanistan, I could breathe a little easier for a time. Veteran’s Day took me by surprise- not ready for it, I cried all day. Everywhere I looked there were old men saluting something, uniforms on T.V. and marching bands moving down to city parks to fire blanks in tribute to the Veterans- the symbols of pride, death and dying for a cause. As well meaning people thanked me for my service, I could only think of the tomb of the Unknown Soldier- where the T.V. showed the president placing a wreath. Thinking what this tribute meant to some guy’s wife, lover or mother. Those left behind must surely and most strongly remember every soldier; especially the lost ones known for being unknown. Someone had lost them- and they didn’t know how, and that someone forever mourns. Traditional holidays came on as battles to be waged, almost laughable in their effort to drag me down farther. These were the times when I could shine, pulling it all together for everyone else so that I could quickly cross the day off the list- one Thanksgiving, one Christmas, one Valentine’s Day down. I was the soldier at these times too, doing all the right things and keeping it all as “the same” as possible for my boys and everyone else. I will always remember the true friend who, on one of these occasions took position at my side, shoulder to shoulder with me and stated, “Man, this Stinks!” I didn’t need say it, she said it for me. A year is a long time to be apart. Memories are made that cannot be shared and cannot be stopped. You cannot sit still that long, you cannot just wait, and so you don’t. You find hobbies, try new foods, make new friends and you change. You become someone they don’t know and at the end, when they come home, you cannot help but be a stranger. As our year apart came to an end, I stood with the other families waiting to welcome their soldier home. I could see him. He was leaner, tougher and wind burned. His scowl carved a little deeper in his brow and his hair greyer than I remembered. But he was large. I could see his experiences had broadened him and given him the new strength born of adversity. He later described his habit of sleeping on top of the bedding in his clothes always on the alert. I knew in some way that this habit was his body in tune with mine for no real rest had been allowed for either of us this year. Taking him home, we lay down on the bed together for the first time. Now that it was all over we were both desperate for some sleep, but I needed him badly, not even so much physically as just to get the smell of him again, the feel of his skin next to mine. In the end we lay together just looking at each other for the first time in months and talked- talked and talked. As he eventually put his arms around me and encouraged me to sleep- pulling me to spoon against him, I knew everything was okay. We slept truly, deeply, for the first time since those long months apart had begun. Our year apart had changed us both forever. But now that I had breathed him in again, I recognized what was still the same- WE were.

Home

One of the hardest parts of starting the Aqualand Ale House has been separation. Not unlike the years when my husband deployed to a war zone, he has gone first into the place and space that we plan to retire to in the future. My career is in full swing, and I need to continue to work to ensure the safety blanket of one solid income as we take this huge gamble and venture into the craft beer and gastro-pub industry in the beautiful north. It was my idea that it be Boulder Jct. Those of you who know us know that I have been whining about how badly I want to "go home" ever since I left for college- more than a few seasons ago. That my husband was willing to head in that direction means everything to me. What is interesting is that as of today, we sort of have three homes; the one we have lived in for the last 15 years, the one we built as a three season weekender in the great north woods, and the rental we just moved into this weekend that will give us a warm place to winter. Throughout my husband's military career, we have had a few times of cross country moves- usually temporary, but I learned early how important it is to make each place feel like home. As a designer, the worst torture of all is to spend any length of time in someone else's space. When I was in sales, there were many times of overnight travel. I packed a candle, a throw, a craft project-usually some sort of small scale needle craft, pictures of the family and an exercise DVD. Upon entry, I would set the lighting up to something adequate but soothing, light my candle to make it smell familiar in the space, set the heating unit to fan to drown out the ambient sounds from the hall or highway and then I would put on my sweats, curl up in my throw on the bed and eat my Outback steak house steak and salad take out, my fazolis chicken ceasar salad, or the like. The best! So this weekend, as I moved our basic essentials over to the winter home, I grabbed a throw and some pillows for the couch, our magazine basket and those six books I never got read this busy summer, the scrabble board and a Christmas puzzle, some candles, some small scatter rugs and two pictures- one a replica of an old lake superior south shore map and one an artist print of a smiling otter, picked out in England specifically for out little cabin in the woods which I dubbed Otter Dance. Last night after the ale house closed, we curled up with the latest "Ice Age" movie and everything felt like home. My husband had reminded me that anything we bring in, we have to haul back out in the spring, so to be selective. I reminded him that he always felt better in spaces that had been 're-touched'. He reminded me of his years spent in tents, temporary barracks etc. stating that he could live fine in a spartan environment. My theory is that even when people cannot pin down why they feel good, a feel good space has an affect on everything else. I am guessing that my husband doesn't often light the candles when I am not there, but I am glad to know he can if he wants to. I said we sort of have three homes. Actually, I realize now that I have left out the most important one- the fourth one. The Aqualand Ale House feels like home to us. We intended to have a business, but we have been blessed to find a new home. For instance, this Saturday night was so delightful for me. I was not on the schedule to work, but wanted to sit and just be with my friends and my husband. Upon entering, I was first amazed to find one of my husband's military buddies sitting at the bar. I thought he lived on the west coast, but he has recently relocated to Wisconsin and had driven two hours out of his way (while headed somewhere else)just to see us. We have the closeness with him of a friend from the war zone, a close bond like none other and it was a blessing to see him again. After taking a seat at the bar, I began to talk with a wonderful couple who have become faithful regulars. My husband walked through to Ale House, stopping at each table to check on our guests, and staying to chat often. People love him, and so many are repeat guests, they begin to feel like friends and family hanging out with us in our living room- the biggest difference is that this particular home has twenty taps! Later, a gentleman sat down on my other side and as we talked, he realized that I was the daughter of his old buddy and fishing guide Bruce. We talked easily as he ate dinner and enjoyed a beer, sharing stories or those we have in common. I recognized that I had made a new friend that night too. The definition of home is a place where we feel sheltered and safe, where we recharge our batteries, and where we share our lives with family and friends. Yep- for us, the Aqualand Ale House is all of these. So I amend my count- four homes is more accurate.

Funny how that happens....

We had that wine tasting I was talking about last Saturday. It was a blast and what a success! twenty seven people managed to find their way to our door in the mid-afternoon hours of a first snow, cold rain, sunny patches sort of saturday. The wine importer, a wonderful Italian gentleman, gave us all a history lesson on the different regions of Italy and the wines that they import from each. We moved north to south, and enjoyed four appetiser courses to complement each two wines to sample a total of eight wines. The wines were fabulous, the sales were brisk and a good time was had by all; funny how that happend... I learned to drink wine on the Nebish road, sipping a little Annie Green Springs like all the other northwoods kids did in the seventies...that girl would have grinned at this adult me who sniffs and swishes and cleanses her palette. I look around and wonder what all these sophisticated adults would think if they knew of my humble beginnings. I suspect I am not the only one in the room who dabbled in Boones Farm Strawberry Hill and Old Style beer before my conversion to a little more of a "pinky up" artisan craft consumer. Funny how that happens! My husband, the beer geek, is a learner. When a thing catches his interest, he endeavors to become thuroughly informed on it. In college, his biggest challenge in doing research papers was in learning when to stop learning and start writing. Even later in military courses, I remember offering to type his paper on the Battle of the Bulge, only to sit up all night with him as he found just one more twist or turn or critical piece to the puzzle that would explain the who, what, where, when and why of that fated time. With every new revelation, the editing would begin again...I finally typed, "and the good guys eventually won, THE END!", and went to bed, leaving him to his own devices. This tenacity makes him a great beer geek who I don't always fully appreciate. I just know what I like. The Aqualand Ale House benefits from his deep desire to know- funny how that happens. People are beginning to understand that we are craft beer people, and so today, during the course of a meeting at my other full time job in Wisconsin Dells, a client told me of a place in town that has the extremely hard to obtain "Game of Thrones" beer on tap. So after work my husband, (who is headed to a distributors, meet the brewers meeting tomorrow) and I ventured down to a well kept secret tavern that dabbles in craft beer, though many of their regulars are sipping Busch from a can while the special taps sit idle. The beer was cool tasty and I smiled remembering how my client had left the meeting by saying, "see you later Kalessi." I love imagining that I am the dragon girl of beer! Funny how that happened! This weekend we will participate in the Boulder Jct haunted halloween walk. I have never been a big fan of scaring or being scared, but have thrown my effort into writing the story of our haunted tableau, painting a back drop and building some creepy fish guy monster fin/hands, made with old dish washing gloves, duct tape, cheesecloth and spraypaint...I am crazy to help finish setting the scene,dipping into my secret desire to do stage sets someday. If someone had told me a year ago that owning a business in the small town of my childhood would find me making fish monster hands within a year, I would have doubted it could be so...so funny how it happened. These are just some random thoughts I am having tonight while I also think that I can hardly wait to see what funny thing will happen next...

Wine by Design

We are determined to try a wine tasting event. After a first attempt, we feel more ready this time and we are working harder to let you know about the event so you can reserve some time. With the artisan, little guy movement that is being celebrated everywhere, bringing an artisan wine event to the Aqualand Ale House seems like a good idea- a great way to offer something new and fun to our new friends and Ale House family. After being found by a wine guy who is the direct importer of a line of small batch artisanal, non-sulfite/low sulfite organic Italian wines, we are excited about the offerings we have selected. With the holiday season looming, what a great opportunity to find gift wines, celebratory wines, classics and something different, something new. Besides all this very important stuff though, I am excited because I am going to use this as a first experiment in bringing one of the skills from my other life to the Ale House- decorating! I love to theme a table, setting a mood for a special event. I confess I have spent considerable spare time all my life prowling thrift shops, antique shops auctions, garage sales and okay- yes, I have been known to be on a first name basis with a dump guy or two. I once fell into a dumpster behind Cambridge Pottery's retail shop in Cambridge, Wisconsin. You would not believe the great stuff I got though and as you can see, eventually I did get out. My favorite souvenir from our trip to Paris is a bit of bric-brac that I pulled out of a trash can as we walked along Rue de St. Germaine...I know I'm hopeless. The plan is to play around with setting the table for our wine tasting attendees- splurging into my stash of vintage table cloths (I have over 60) and candling up the joint. I may grab a thing or two from the basement, the woods and may even spelunk for a conversation piece or two in my Dad's shed, which is a treasure trove of things you may never have known you needed (what- do I hear some muttering about the apple not falling far from the tree?)...Sometime when you are in the Ale House dining room, take a look up into the dormer that faces highway K. The goofy deer mount located there is one my dad lent us and has a strangely lop-sided rack. But mostly, I love his eyes- they are blue and buggy, looking crazily at you from wherever you move in the room. You can see that he wants to rear up and can almost imagine his nostrils flare...thanks Dad!? :) The wine event, like everything involved in birthing the Aqualand Ale House, feels meant to be- I am looking forward to seeing friends and enjoying what feels like it could be more of a dinner party than a night a work. My collecting and stage setting began at a very young age. I started off building little fairy houses under the princess pine in the play forest beneath the big pines in our yard on county K near Aqualand. I spent a decent amount of time outside just waitng for Peter Pan, though I could creep myself out when I thought about what Tinker Bell would do if she found out about Peter's love for me. (Similar to his brief infatuation with Wendy, but much stronger since I already believed I lived in Never Neverland). Then as an adolescent, Mom and Dad decided that we needed a little more family togetherness and for several summers we spent evenings after supper driving down the old railroad grades, which were not yet all bermed shut in the 1960s, looking along the grade in the ditches for old treasures, bottles, crocks and who knew what else. We dug at old logging camp sites too, using the old camp maps. Once we had our destination, it was easy to discern from the grassy bump footprint of the old foundations where the kitchen dumps had been. This was where we would dig with hoes and long-handled gardening tines, working our way beneath leaves and needles to uncover bits and pieces left by a generation gone by. The other place we found goodies was actually in the latrine pits- long since cleansed by years of snow and rain, it was clear evidence of the other activity the guys participated in at the camps where alcohol was not allowed but the two-holer provided a semi-private spot to sneak a sip(yes, sip, smart alecs). It also offered a great way to dispose of the evidence of transgressions when the bottle was empty. I could be known to wander around the whole site, constantly surprised by the random and completely undamaged cast-offs that were just laying exposed in the forest. What if I bring out a few old bottles for the wine tasting- of course I have hung onto a few. We can enjoy our tasting, which we intend to compliment with chef Darren's appetizer pairings in the atmosphere decorated into a something more like home and less like business. As we head towards the season of snuggling and sipping, visiting and leisure, gifting and hugs, come and join us as we venture into this new territory of celebrating the artisan, the craftsman- the little guy! RSVP today and plan to join us on October 19th. Space is limited to a maximum of 30 for this event, so please sign up today! there will be a small cost, but we promise to pour on the special for our premiere event, which runs from 4 to 5:30 on Saturday. More details will be posted on our facebook page, in the FYI, on the radio and on our sign out front. See you soon! (and don't tell Wendy where I am okay?!)

Fall always reminds me of fall at Aqualand. The busy season was done and the visitors were mostly folks out to see the fall colors, special tour groups and parents with kids not old enough yet for school. My sisters and I were always the first ones on and the last ones off the school bus. We got dropped off at Aqualand, where we would pilfer a little caramel corn, (which was bagged and sold in small packs to feed the geese), maybe talk Grandpa into buying us a soda pop and just settle in to chat about the day. I remember volunteering one fall to bring in pollywogs and snails for my classroom's new aquarium. First I stopped at the Musky pond, where I knew the snails lived clinging to the rocks that lined it's rim. I stuck my hand in to scoop a few out and was startled at a swift grazing along my knuckles. Pulling my hand back quickly, I looked into the pond and straight into the eyes of a hungry muskie who must have thought my fingers looked tasty.  Wow! I had my snails and I got out of there quick. Next I headed towards the deer forest, where there were pollywogs by the swarm. This late in the season, their legs were beginning grow and they would be cool to watch as they finished their development. I skipped along the path in my special new poncho. Mom had sewn it for me along with most of the rest of my new school clothes. It was red corduroy and I wore my prized possession, a Donny Osmond Fan Club pin on the lapel. Inspired by my Mom's collection of movie star autographed photos, I had written to the Osmonds and had gotten not only an autographed photo, but this pin as well. The other extremely exciting thing about my new school outfit was that the ugly black or brown lace up corrective shoes I had always had to wear for my flat feet had been replaced this year with the latest in corrective shoe styling- the buckle version. I felt so much more with it, sophisticated and hip that year. Arriving at my destination, I crouched down at the edge of the shore, leaned forward and reached to grab a fist full of the black 'wogs that were swimming there in a group. Suddenly, I felt a push against my back, and I caught my fall by plunging my hands and about half my poncho into the pond water, dropping my catch. Something was pushing me, very hard as if to shove me head first into the chilly pond. I turned my head back and could just make out the six point buck in velvet treating my red-caped back as a thing to charge, like el torro. His rounded velvet horns were not sharp, and he hadn't taken a running start, just determinedly leaned into my exposed end. I don't know if it was the color, the stranger, though many people walked among these tame deer every day,or the low target at the edge of the pond but he was pushing against me with all his might. The only way out was to jump a few steps into the pond water and dodge around him, which I did. I ran back to the gift shop in tears, for both my poncho and my brand new shoes seemed ruined now. I don't even remember the rest of the story, other than that dad helped me go and fetch the pollywogs. But I remember that cold pond water, that red poncho and those first cool shoes. When I smell the crisp air of fall I remember the feeling of being snapped at by a muskie, pushed by a buck and the humiliation of my pride. I remember the feeling of Aqualand and all the animals as the zoo yawned before a long winter's nap. In those last weeks before shut down, I harvested.  Gathering pine cones, pretty grasses and dropped feathers was easy now that there were many less visitors to compete with.

Putting plastic on the shelves of giftwares, moving the exotic birds to warm winter quarters, shutting off the water and draining the tanks.  Lights off and Aqualand was ready for the rest of the time, the time others never saw when we still fed everyday, cleaned and watered and attended to the needs of our wildlife family.  Time was spent re-painting signs, building new enclosures, parts and pieces.  The coffee break moved to the work shop- the ultimate man cave, where neighbors stopped to sit on five gallon pails and broken spoked chairs, talking of hunting, fishing, wood gathering and football. 

Fall is beautiful isn't it?  To me it seems to be hinting towards the wild, dark night of winter in the northwoods, where people are the vulnerable ones, and the weather, wild animals and woods rule supreme. Grab at the sunny warm days, celebrate the colors, sounds, smells and tastes-  and speaking of taste, enjoy some company and the wonderful taste of fall craft beer at the new form of Aqualand where the muskies don't bite and the deer don't use you as target practice... :)

Counting the Cost

tonight I had wine with my girlfriends for the first time since early last spring. It was such a blessing, such a wonderful reunion. It reminded me of the night last April when my husband and I sat with our close friends and wept a little as we said goodbye- knowing that everything was about to change. We knew then that we would miss the weddings of two of their sons, both like sons to us also. We would miss two other weddings, a family reunion and anything and everything that we would normally make a priority in the course of a typical summer. Family and friends have always been such a priority. But opening a business just in time for the summer season in northern Wisconsin meant a lot of sacrifices would need to be made in order to really make things go. We walked away from many things in walking towards the summer and the Aqualand Ale House. People didn't understand, people thought we were crazy. In some ways, people felt we were letting them down. Our unavailability for certain times and certain things meant that some would question us, some would feel short changed. But we discovered some wonderful things this summer. Those who love us best came to visit, sitting patiently when we jumped up from even a short conversation to take care of the thing we saw that needed to be done. They cheered us on, took a trip to an area that would not normally be on their radar. These friends were the wind beneath our wings (yes, hummingthe song a bit as I type). Our staff became our friends. We looked out for each other, cared for each other and knew that someone had our back no matter what each busy day might bring. By summer's end we were a well-oiled machine of service. But by far, the best surprise were the loyal friends we made of so many of our guests. By Labor Day weekend I was overwhelmed to realize I recognized so many- as people entered the Ale House so many remembered my name and entered waving, "Hi Sue", as they joined us for a meal and a beer. I met old friends of the family, family members of locals whose families had been friends to my father and mother, my grandfather. I loved hearing people share their memories of Aqualand. I loved even more when folks asked after my parents, my sisters. But when I overheard someone mention "Pat Wilsie" I always stopped to shake their hand. These were the ones who personally knew my grandfather, and since he passed away in 1977, I knew this was a special memory that I wanted to hear more about. We opened the Aqualand Ale House for several reasons. On the one hand, Dick needed a business to run as had always been his dream. On the other hand, I needed to get a bigger footprint in the North Woods, from whence my strength has always come. Our interest in and love for the craft beer industry was just a piece of a bigger picture of our strong belief in the cultural significance of the small businesses and the artisan crafts. As the big guys gobble up small towns, there is a growing surge of support for the anti- big guys, and we hope to be chief among these. We hope to bring jobs to this small, tourist focused town. We hope to give visitors another reason to come and to stay in Boulder Jct for a day or a weekend just like Grandpa did so many years ago when he opened the original Aqualand. Moving into the fall and winter season, we hope to be a light in the darkness of winter, encouraging folks to know that within our walls are warm friendship, warm food and warm hearts. No one needs to fear being ignored for we are all in this together. We hope the winter brings music, conversation, laughter and community. Winter can be long in northern Wisconsin so lets stick together. Every book club, ladies night out, holiday party, birthday party, celebration amongst friends, business lunch or dinner will be wlecome. Bring your friend and your cribbage board and stay the evening with us- I will play the winner... :) Cheer on the Packers, order ahead and we will make sure your favorites are on hand. We plan to bring in our old tinny piano, so if you play piano, sing or something else and just want to share the night, you are welcome to put out the jar. We hope we become a light in the darkness, a friend in the cold, a reason to get and celebrate whatever the season brings. We love you all-we have your back and we feel very blessed to have found each and every one of you!