I’m taking a twilight stroll along the river walk when it strikes me: fifty years ago this week, I moved to the Dells.

I can still see myself lugging suitcases down a narrow spiral staircase into the basement apartment I’d rented. The place had hosted seven summer workers before me, and it showed—dusty corners, greasy countertops, and chunks of burnt pizza in the oven. But I was young, eager, and with a signed contract on file, I rolled up my sleeves. This was going to be home, or at least the first step toward it.

I had come to begin my Title 1 teaching job. On the very first day of in-service, the science teacher asked if I needed a ride home. I didn’t know it then, but he would play a major role in turning the Dells into more than just a workplace.

The community also opened its arms. The Kiwanis Club, intent on making newcomers feel welcome, invited us on a boat trip along the upper Dells. As the moonlight shimmered across the river, I felt some of the homesickness of leaving Racine ease. Still, I missed my family. 

When they visited, we got brunch at the Del-Bar and attended the impressive Stand Rock Indian Ceremonial. At the Tommy Bartlett show, daring skiers and Aqua the clown wowed us. Most of all, I wanted my family to see the Dells’ majestic sandstone cliffs rising from the Wisconsin River. After they left, though, the silence of my apartment returned, and with it the emptiness.

The science teacher and I began spending time together, exploring Devil’s Lake, eating at local hangouts, and listening to live bands performing at Chula Vista. Yet part of me still clung to Racine. At the end of the year, I renewed my contract in the Dells—but also applied for a teaching position back home. That summer, I waitressed at Ishnala, donning a belted white uniform and feathered headdress. The science teacher sometimes stopped by after work. We talked about my future and whether I belonged in Racine or in the Dells.

When the Racine job offer came, I accepted. I packed my things, but as the miles rolled past, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. The farther I drove, the more I realized what I was leaving behind. Back then, long-distance calls were expensive, so the science teacher and I recorded loving messages on audio tapes and exchanged them. We also often traveled so we could spend weekends together.

That Christmas, Frank and I became engaged. That spring, I reapplied for a teaching position in the Dells and was rehired.

In June, I returned as a new bride and stepmother to a lively, delightful six-year-old boy. Frank’s red boat motored us down the Wisconsin River, where we stopped at sandbars to catch frogs, skip stones, and admire the hemlocks. Like those trees, I was beginning to dig my roots into the soil of the Dells. Teaching, cheering at our children’s activities, volunteering, and eventually writing as a local columnist have all helped anchor me here.

Over the years, “home” became less about a building and more about community. My bond intensified because of teaching and the fellowship of church and service club friends. It deepened with neighbors who waved as I biked past, library staff and business owners who greeted me by name, and new friends on the pickleball and tennis courts who welcomed me warmly. Slowly, my roots intertwined with the people and places of the Dells, anchoring me here.

Fifty years ago, I packed a suitcase and left Racine in search of my place in the world. What I discovered was not just a career or a marriage, but a sense of belonging—found among strangers who became friends, among river bluffs that never fail to amaze me, and in the life Frank and I built together.

Now, as I walk the river at twilight and watch the hemlocks catch the evening light, I know without hesitation: here, I am home.