Author Archives: cmkraack

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About cmkraack

Award winning writer of fiction and nonfiction. Founding board member of Write On, Door County. Must write or that restless feeling that all is not right starts. Love my family and friends and dog. Maybe not in that order every day. Worry about global children's food insecurity, overly powerful men and corporation. Grateful.

Holiday Presents

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In response to queries about what I might like as a holiday or upcoming birthday present, I am wondering if I have hit “that age” or developed a stronger sense of being part of the universe?

With the evil spreading in our country that has stripped families apart or made the simple costs of food, shelter and other necessities too expensive for others, how can I want anything? If I need to think about creating a list for days, I think I know the answer

First, my deepest wishes: food, safe shelter, healthcare and education to be accessible in our country. People with compassion, wisdom, morals, the ability to use real language when talking, willingness to listen, commitment to collaborative decisions to lead government at all levels, in all nations. Narcissistic strong men be removed from positions of influence or power.

On the personal level: A giant gift would be securing my family’s futures so that those of us aging don’t burden the younger, the middle generation continue to live the modestly comfortable lives they have achieved, the children reach maturity in a country that has found its way back to peace and prosperity while honoring the Statue of Liberty‘s invitation. It would be grand to find a small house for our last decades and free our family home for a family.

But if my stumbling over the gift question is about approaching “that age” and actual physical items must be named, my gift list is simple: warm socks, two books, a box of English Toffee, framed photos, individual time with each family member in the coming year, donations made to food shelves.  

Add new pajamas and a couple of white long sleeve polo shirts, this might have been my father’s list twenty years ago when he was the age I am now. And he is a good reminder of what holiday presents should include. He was someone who gave to others at holidays: food boxes we packed, a canned ham, cookies we baked, wrapped toys, sweaters and pajamas for others’ children, cash in a card, and because it was Wisconsin sometimes a bottle of brandy. 

Time to get busy.

Sounds of Water

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 Geese squawk on the small pond behind our house. Wings flapping makes a more pleasant sound. The sound of running water reminds me to go jiggle the toilet’s flusher chain that occasionally sticks. A very old, small fountain in my office makes comforting white noise if fed a cup of water weekly.

Fortunate to live in the Midwest where water is plentiful, I love and fear its many sounds. Seven inches of rain, our sump pump sending a geyser out of the basement, a drip somewhere in the house, ice dams are the opposite of pleasant. Even a small amount of water can destroy. Like a dried toilet seal leading to a slow leak absorbed in a basket of winter gloves, hats, and scarfs for months and molding before seasonal discovery.   

Raised next to Lake Michigan, nothing sooths me as much as its gentle rhythms. Small waves touching a sandy shore. Larger waves warning of changing weather.  Sparkling surfaces reflecting light. The coast and sky creating a paint card of greys when clouds dominate. Thunder heard miles before a storm will move on shore. The cawing of birds hunting for food.

In this time of insecurity when scarcity is the essence of our national feeling, I dread more struggles over who might own or control the future of our Great Lakes’ water wealth. Suburbs suing for access to water miles from borders, states diverting without permission, computer giants demanding this precious life necessity to cool their equipment. 

How will our voices be heard? How will water priorities be evaluated? The small questions about watering lawns are easy. The big questions are more complex.

In Honor of Those Who Teach

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Marquette University’s development rep wanted to visit (aka ask for a donation). On a hot summer day Samantha Adler and I sat down with iced drinks to chat about education before the pitch. First, we circled topics searching for things we had in common beyond my alma mater and valuing education. We wandered into talking about growing up in small towns.

She grew up in Monticello, Indiana, the same small town as my husband. She had attended Meadowlawn Elementary. I mentioned my mother-in-law spent decades there as a third-grade teacher.

Samantha asked for her name. 

“Mrs. Kraack.”

Her eyes got wide. “Mrs. Kraack! She read to us after she retired.”

“That would be her.”

“She was amazing. She made me want to read.”

There we sat, two strangers across a table, connected by the kind of educator who could make small children want to read.

“I read Winnie the Pooh books to my children, and I do all the voices like Mrs. Kraack. I haven’t thought of her for so long. This is amazing.”

We both had goosebumps while sharing Mrs. Kraack stories. I told her truthfully that this opportunity to talk about my mother-in-law was a wonderful gift. 

Helen Kraack taught at least a thousand elementary school children during her career. She was on her third generation of students in some families. Teaching was not a job for her, but a mission. She worked hard to be sure every third grader leaving her classroom could read, manage their time, know how to be kind to others, and dream of their futures.

How do you measure the success of teachers like Mrs. Kraack? Many tried when she received an Indiana Shining Star for Excellence in Teaching, when she retired, when she passed. Stories about kids who went to college, who became professionals, who held leadership positions, won awards. 

Then there are untold stories about little girls like Samatha who learned to love reading while listening to Mrs. Kraack. A girl who would earn a full scholarship to St. Mary’s College and develop a career making college possible for other kids. A mother who reads Winnie-the-Pooh books to her children. 

Many thanks to all who enter classrooms this school year or teach in other ways. Know that even on your most lackluster days, your influence may brighten a child’s day and well outlive you. There are people who have your backs and wish you all the best. 

Emily Kraack Chad and Helen Kraack

“Some people care too much. I think it’s called love.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

In Honor of a Compliant Computer

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Years of corporate living, reinforced by people who could shut down my technology, taught me to update operating systems and apps with a healthy degree of skepticism. I will eat a cookie from the first batch of a new recipe with little concern. I will not download a new operating system, office productivity program, or unsolicited app update until the pros prove that bugs won’t push me into a mess far beyond my problem-solving skills.

AI, whether best friend or evil three-horned creature, now asks what I want to write when I open a blank screen, makes suggestions about words that might strengthen my writing, nitpicks commas. This is all more irritating when what I am writing is purely creative mutterings. Nothing like a computer to correct how leaves moving in a breeze look like when I am the one sitting in a garden chair staring at trees swaying. AI questioning if the language of a three-year-old character is authentic when I am quoting my granddaughter is as aggravating as having a younger literary agent say I don’t know what a man her father’s age is like. I’m lucky enough to be married to a man of that age.

Now Apple, Google, Microsoft and all the big players have snuck their AI tools into the process of writing a friendly note to myself, a one-paragraph bio, a blog, a character sketch, a chapter. If I don’t remember to disinvite the AI crew, it is as welcome as having a client read rough copy over my shoulder or chairing the group writing of an executive overview. 

With this blog complete, I’ll give AI an opportunity to do a quick edit and appreciate the results. The newest version of the “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” series could be “If you Give an AI Program a Few Keystrokes.” Please go speak amongst your AI creators until I call you to my table.

July 4, 2025

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Not feeling like parades this year. Will let the poem posted 

on the Statue of Liberty remind us about why this country 

was founded.

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

-Emma Lazarus
November 2, 1883