Indy Book Fairy: With New Eyes: The Power of Perspective

About the Book

Title: With New Eyes: The Power of Perspective

Author: Heidi Siefkas

Genre: Memoir / Inspiration

Heidi Siefkas lost her health, her career, and her marriage after she was struck by a one

thousand-pound tree branch. While she made great strides in her physical and emotional

recovery in the months that followed—an arduous process that she chronicled in When All

Balls Drop—Heidi wasn’t content to merely survive her setbacks. The time was right to build a

new life. One she could live on her own terms.

But what would a redesigned life look like? In her quest for answers, Heidi returned to her

childhood home in Wisconsin, dove into the South Florida dating scene, revisited old flames in

New England, sold her first home, jumped out of a plane, and traveled alone to South

America. Every leg of her journey provided a healthy dose of perspective.

With New Eyes is full of mishaps and bold decisions, all seasoned with sassy humor. Through

her signature down-to-earth vignettes, Heidi inspires you to conquer your fears, head for

adventure, and be the captain of your own ship.

EXCERPTS

Churches Versus Bars

Fueled with a maple bear claw with two heart-healthy strips of bacon on top and a cup of strong black coffee, I started the Jeep, threw in my backpack, and waved to Caris, Edie, and Clay as they went for their morning walk. Knowing I would have few radio stations to choose from, only a kid-appropriate CD, and no cell phone reception most of the way to the cabin, I had to come up with a plan. What would keep me entertained for the next few hours?

It wasn’t long until an idea struck me. Within four blocks of leaving Caris’s home, I passed two bars as well as the Catholic church and the Lutheran church. That was it! I would keep tally of the number of churches compared to bars on my journey to northern Wisconsin.

I left Trempealeau and its lush, green, tree-lined bluffs behind, with only a flat road ahead of me. I drove toward my childhood home, once a hobby farm with sheep. It had been decades since the sheep and several years since my father sold the house. Perhaps much has changed.

Off the main road into Little Tamarack Valley, our family’s house was still nestled among an apple orchard, a dairy farm, and fields of both soybeans and corn. With summer in full swing, it was actually hard to see a home at the end of the gravel driveway. I smiled at my childhood memories of walking that driveway to and from the bus, first with my mother waiting for me and then spreading my wings, able to walk alone.

Although I knew I probably shouldn’t, I was curious. I drove up the driveway. The red sheds that housed our sheep, my mother’s antique shop, and my playhouse were all still standing. The trees around the house—especially the evergreens—had grown by twenty feet. However, the weeping willow that graced the lower level yard near the pond had vanished.

I slowly curved up and around the house, which appeared to be the same. How I’d love to enter it and see my bedroom! Had they removed the original wallpaper that I covered with various layers of paint? I chose the color depending on my phases growing up—from avocado green to pink to aqua and finally to just plain white. Would my father’s room still have the essence of Patchouli?

I continued driving past the house and down the gravel hill, looking past the sheds to the pasture. There, I had spent many an afternoon adventuring with my childhood friends, Caesar, an old Saint Bernard, and Mouse, a mutt resembling a German shepherd. As a special treat, my dad would roast hot dogs at the top of pasture’s hill near a small limestone rock. Next to that same rock, he later built his first cabin. How I missed those adventures!

Although everything—the driveway, main house, red sheds, and the pasture—felt familiar, I had remembered everything larger. It was as if I were peering in on a dollhouse. My childhood home appeared in miniature. I guess that’s what growing up does to you. Would it be the same at the cabin and Black Dan Lake?

Knowing I had a full day ahead to get to my father’s second cabin, I chose not to linger; after all, I was trespassing in a place where everybody owned a gun. I sped down the driveway where I’d learned to ski, ride a bike, and drive a stick shift.

Venturing On

With a pen and tally sheet as my copilot, I ventured on, passing through unincorporated towns that only had—you guessed it—a bar or a church. I drove past farm after farm and soybean field after cornfield until a familiar ridge appeared. Then I snaked my way up to an overlook of absolutely serene, unspoiled countryside and a town appropriately named Arcadia. Who knew that in the land of brats, kielbasa, and lefse there was a town with a name inspired by the Greeks! And it was true to its Greek meaning: a place offering peace and simplicity.

At the sight of a Quick Mart, I stopped for a needed caffeine buzz and bathroom break. On my quest to find the bathroom, I passed a display of trucker hats. I instantly realized that I had forgotten my standby, a mischievous black hat, at Caris’s home. I needed a hat because every travel day is a bad hair day. On my second pass of the hats, I chose the only non-sports-related hat, a John Deere hat with its classic colors, green and white, and a bright-yellow deer logo front and center. I put it on and looked into the small, stick-on mirror above the display carousal. Although my green calico eyes barely peeked out from beneath the big bill, I pulled back my brunette hair into a small ponytail and nodded with a sassy smirk. After my impulsive shopping detour, I quickly grabbed a Diet Coke and a bag of peanuts to keep Hangry Heidi, my alter ego, at bay until dinner and drinks at the cabin. But before leaving, I looked at my tally sheet. The number of bars was nearly double the number of churches.

During another two hours on the road trailing tractors, hay trailers, and semis, I passed through small town after small town. But one stood out in my mind because of its unusual claim to fame: Cadott.

There, nearly halfway on my journey to the Northwoods of Wisconsin, I saw a large billboard that read, “You are now halfway between the equator and the North Pole.” Golly gee, I haven’t been to either the equator or the North Pole, but heck, now I’ve been to Cadott. At that point, I tallied the numbers again. Lo and behold, the total of churches was creeping up. However, I predicted that the farther I drove north, the more likely it was that the tally of bars would take a commanding lead over churches.

After driving two and a half hours from my childhood home, I finally made it to my supply stop to buy groceries before reaching the cabin. The three-hundred-person town of Winter had a co-op store—small but with all the basics: beer, meat, cheese, and of course hardware and hunting and fishing supplies. With a cart full of my essentials—peanuts, beer, two bottles of wine, cheese, chips, cookies, and grillable fare—I counted on Adriana and her family to bring the rest. That would have to include water, as the cabin didn’t have running water.

After leaving Winter, I passed Johansen’s Corner Bar and turned onto Bumble Bee Road. Within a mile on the left stood the small cedar cabin where I’d stayed with my father and my husband only three summers before. Oh, how I had changed! I was Heidi 2.0, albeit with some major bugs to work out. But the cabin remained the same, just like the Trempealeau Hotel.

Noting I’d arrived before Adriana, I felt like taking a nap, so off to the hammock I went. It overlooked Black Dan Lake with its small island and plenty of tranquility. There, I tallied my counts—bars versus churches—but it was almost too close to call. To make sure it was accurate, I would count them again on my return trip.

Author Bio