Wisconsin Girl Quotes

A long time ago, when all the grandfathers and grandmothers of today were little boys and little girls or very small babies, or perhaps not even born, Pa and Ma and Mary and Laura and Baby Carrie left their little house in the Big Woods of Wisconsin

And within her something was screaming: "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! He knows French. And those girls that can row and everything. And me, I don't know anything. Oh, God, what'll I do?

Hello... is this Mrs. Fritzi Bevins?' 'Yes, it is.' 'From Pulaski, Wisconsin?' 'Yes.' 'Uh... you don't know me, but I recently received some papers. From Texas. And, well... I think I might be your daughter?' There was a long silence on the other end, and then after a moment, the woman in a softer voice said, 'Hiya, pal. I've been waiting for this call for a long time.

Lou's arteries congealed as she recalled the pounds of butter that went into the meal and the two pies cooling in the kitchen. But you couldn't skimp on butter on a holiday, and any substitute would feel wrong to a girl born and raised in the Dairy State. At least she'd resisted putting cheese in half the dishes.

She Was Just A Sketch a thin girl under a thick sky so thin, each rib stood for something something to which this great tenderness, a mere irrational love toward certain flowers and trees, could attach —Olena Kalytiak Davis, from “Welcome to Lascaux,” And Her Soul Out of Nothing (University of Wisconsin Press, 1997)

The roots of the slasher movie stretch back to Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), based on Robert Bloch’s book of the same name. While Bloch stated many times that his book was based on the real-life crimes of Ed Gein, far more clippings were found in his files regarding Wisconsin’s infamous children’s entertainer and serial poisoner, Floyd Scriltch. When Hitchcock purchased the rights to Bloch’s book, he also optioned the life rights from the sole survivor of Scriltch’s infamous “Easter Bunny Massacre,” Amanda Cohen. Cohen was instrumental in the detection and capture of Scriltch and paid a heavy price for her bravery. This book is dedicated to her memory.

What kind of kids live in Mulhoney, Wisconsin? Would they like me? Would I like them? Have they ever eaten sushi? That's usually how I determine food sophistication. Maybe a personal ad would get the ball rolling: Insightful, hardworking, 16-year-old girl, emotionally generous and witty, seeks friend/pal/chum to while away meaningful hours. Picky eaters need not reply.

But Beatrice Blaine! There was a woman! Early pictures taken on her father's estate at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, or in Rome at the Sacred Heart Convent—an educational extravagance that in her youth was only for the daughters of the exceptionally wealthy—showed the exquisite delicacy of her features, the consummate art and simplicity of her clothes. A brilliant education she had—her youth passed in renaissance glory, she was versed in the latest gossip of the Older Roman Families; known by name as a fabulously wealthy American girl to Cardinal Vitori and Queen Margherita and more subtle celebrities that one must have had some culture even to have heard of. She learned in England to prefer whiskey and soda to wine, and her small talk was broadened in two senses during a winter in Vienna. All in all Beatrice O'Hara absorbed the sort of education that will be quite impossible ever again; a tutelage measured by the number of things and people one could be contemptuous of and charming about; a culture rich in all arts and traditions, barren of all ideas, in the last of those days when the great gardener clipped the inferior roses to produce one perfect bud.

One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gayeties, to bid them a hasty good-by. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-that’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all — Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.

Lela’s love affair with nuptials was born at the age of eleven, when she watched two epic weddings on TV. In July of 1981, Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles of Wales were wed in London. Back home in Wisconsin, Lela watched every minute of it with her mom, perched on the edge of their brown pleather sectional. Then, in November, fictional couple Luke and Laura tied the knot on every teenage girl’s favorite soap opera, General Hospital. Actress Genie Francis wore a bizarre head-hugging veil and a dress that looked like a marshmallow. Her groom, Anthony Geary, rocked his deceptively fluffy ‘80s hair. Lela couldn’t help but be transfixed. It all felt larger than life. And her little eleven year-old heart gave into it lock, stock and barrel.

We also have to consider the many different kinds of rape we have learned about over the past few years as conservative politicians blunder through trying to explain their stances on sexual violence and abortion. For instance, Indiana treasurer Richard Mourdock, running for the US Senate in 2012, said, in a debate, "I struggled with it myself for a long time, and I realized that life is a gift from God, and I think even when life begins int hat horrible situation of rape, that is something God intended to happen." I've been obsessing over these words, and trying to understand how someone who purports to believe in God can also believe that anything born of rape is God-intended. Just as there are many different kinds of rape, there are many different kinds of God. I am also reminded that women, more often than not, are the recipient of God's intentions and must also bear the burdens of these intentions. Mourdock is certainly not alone in offering up opinions about rape. Former Missouri representative Todd Akin believes in "legitimate rape" and the oxymoronic "forcible rape," not to be confused with all that illegitimate rape going on. Ron Paul believes in the existence of "honest rape," but turns a blind eye to the dishonest rapes out there. Former Wisconsin State representative Roger Rivard believes some girls, "they rape so easy." Lest you think these new definitions of rape are only the purview of men, failed Senate candidate Linda McMahon of Connecticut has introduced us to the idea of "emergency rape." Given this bizarre array of new rape definitions, it is hard to reconcile the belief that women are rising when there is still so much in our cultural climate working to hold women down. We can, I suppose, take comfort in knowing that none of these people is in a position of power anymore.

For instance, Indiana treasurer Richard Mourdock, running for the US Senate in 2012, said, in a debate, “I struggled with it myself for a long time, and I realized that life is a gift from God, and I think even when life begins in that horrible situation of rape, that it is something God intended to happen.” I’ve been obsessing over these words, and trying to understand how someone who purports to believe in God can also believe that anything born of rape is God-intended. Just as there are many different kinds of rape, there are many different kinds of God. I am also reminded that women, more often than not, are the recipient of God’s intentions and must also bear the burdens of these intentions. Mourdock is certainly not alone in offering up opinions about rape. Former Missouri representative Todd Akin believes in “legitimate rape” and the oxymoronic “forcible rape,” not to be confused with all that illegitimate rape going on. Ron Paul believes in the existence of “honest rape,” but turns a blind eye to the dishonest rapes out there. Former Wisconsin State representative Roger Rivard believes some girls, “they rape so easy.” Lest you think these new definitions of rape are only the purview of men, failed Senate candidate Linda McMahon of Connecticut has introduced us to the idea of “emergency rape.” Given this bizarre array of new rape definitions, it is hard to reconcile the belief that women are rising when there is still so much in our cultural climate working to hold women down. We can, I suppose, take comfort in knowing that none of these people is in a position of power anymore.

That was Gabriel. I’d wronged him and he paid me back. I’d been told that he was going with another girl when he wasn’t, at the time he was sick, unconscious, after an accident in Wisconsin hauling timber, but these two girls, these two friends, deceived me into believing that I was jilted, which I wasn’t.

Who Was Laura Ingalls Wilder? In 1874, two horses slowly pulled a covered wagon across the open prairie. The man with the reins, Charles Ingalls, had twinkly blue eyes and a long curly beard. Inside the wagon were his wife and daughters, plus everything the family owned. A seven-year-old girl named Laura gazed out the back of the wagon. She saw an enormous green prairie stretching to the skyline. Not a tree was in sight. How different this was from the woodland home she had left behind in Wisconsin. The Ingallses were traveling west. They didn’t know exactly where they would end up. This wasn’t the first time they had moved to a new home by covered wagon. And it wouldn’t be the last. They were part of a huge wave of pioneers pouring out of the East to settle the vast stretches of untamed land in the middle of America.

The problem with crack dealing is the same as in every other glamour profession: a lot of people are competing for a very few prizes. Earning big money in the crack gang wasn’t much more likely than the Wisconsin farm girl becoming a movie star or the high-school quarterback playing in the NFL. But criminals, like everyone else, respond to incentives. So if the prize is big enough, they will form a line down the block just hoping for a chance. On the south side of Chicago, people wanting to sell crack vastly outnumbered the available street corners.

These. Are. AMAZING," Caroline says around a mouthful of apple cider zeppole. We're at the Logan Square Farmers Market, and have eaten our way around the square. We started with a couple of meat tacos from Cherubs, simply seasoned small cubes of beef on soft steamed corn tortillas, with a garnish of onion, cilantro and lime. A perfect amuse-bouche. Then we shared an insane grilled cheese sandwich, buttery and crispy and filled with gooey, perfectly melted Wisconsin Butterkase cheese. A pork empanada from Pecking Order, with their homemade banana ketchup. A porchetta sandwich from Publican Quality Meats.

The girls met at least one Saturday a month for brunch at Blue's Egg in Wauwatosa. It was a nice middle distance between them all and had the most incredible hash browns.

Grit and avoidance had served Midwesterners for centuries. In Wisconsin, winters lasted up to nine months. Night fell early and lasted well into the next day. Living in darkness could trigger mental illnesses; in the 1800s, newspapers printed stories about settlers walking naked into the snow or massacring their families in the middle of a hailstorm. Giant wolves prowled the prairie land. Those who survived with minds intact developed a high emotional threshold for isolation and bone-chilling cold. They learned to cope with the elements by repressing their feelings.

It’s the initials J.C. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” “Jesus Christ,

When's your birthday?" I asked. "The twentieth of April." "A Taurus." "A what?" she asked. "Astrology. Do you follow it?" "Not only do I not follow it, I've never even heard of it." I paused, wondering if the girl was kidding, but I didn't detect a note of sarcasm in her voice. "I'm from Milwaukee- we don't believe things like that there, either. It's all hocus-pocus if you ask me." "Milwaukee's in Wisconsin. Wisconsin's capital is Madison. Its state bird is the robin and it's known as the Dairy State because it produces more cheese and milk than any other state," she said, as if reading from a teleprompter. "This thing called astrology- what is it exactly?" "That's a good question," I said. "It has something to do with the stars. I've never really understood it, either." "You mean astronomy, then?" "No, they're two different things- astrology and astronomy." "So what are you in astrology terms?" "A Scorpio." "A scorpion. In other words, you're an eight-legged, venomous creature to be wary of?" Her tone was deadpan. "No poison here, just a nice guy from Milwaukee." She let out a jovial laugh. She was a curious creature, and I was intrigued. Her manner of speech was officious and old-fashioned. She was interested and reserved, insecure and confident, coy and bold. She was unlike anyone I had ever met.

Wisconsin was home to many strange laws, some of which sounded like actual riddles. (“Whenever two trains meet at an intersection, neither should proceed until the other one has.”)

You know that many runners enter a race, and only one of them wins the prize. So run to win!’ That’s what it says in 1 Corinthians 9:24.” “But I don’t think the Bible means a fishing contest,” said Alexis.

A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger,’ “ said Alexis. “It’s in the Bible. Proverbs 15:1.

James 4:6 says that “God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble.” Trust God to do what’s best.

Jackie remembered being awakened early one morning by Jack in Ashland, Wisconsin. Within moments Steve Smith, the husband of Jack’s sister Jean and one of Jack’s key campaign strategists, knocked at the door. “While they were talking about the news stories and things like that, I packed my bag and got dressed. Neither of us is very talkative so early in the morning, especially me. But I remember something in the car going to the airport in Ashland. I saw a crow and I told Jack we must see another crow, and I told him the jingle I learned as a little girl: ‘One crow sorrow, two crows joy, three crows a girl, four a boy.

In Wisconsin the rate is actually 21 percent for Black girls but 2 percent for white girls.

AKATheNewGirl: I’m Harper West! I’m new at school. My mom and I just moved here from Wisconsin. My dad (remarried) still lives there. My mom wanted a fresh start, and her best friend from college lives here. Anyway, it’s great to meet all of you :D AKATheNewGirl: Is it me or is the librarian kind of weird? WWSoccerGirl: The way she wipes down the books constantly! And she makes a face if you want to renew a book! I thought I was the only one who noticed!