Writer Nancy Jorgensen lost her musical community when she retired from teaching high school choir. She found a new one right in her own neighborhood.

“Listening to the news from Minnesota, I wondered if anyone recognized the signs.”

After an exhausting week caring for my grandsons, I realized the real lesson wasn't perfection but the quiet power of grace.

Lilies of the valley are often considered a beautiful, yet high-maintenance plant. For writer Nancy Jorgensen, they will forever connect her to her beloved grandmother, who found virtue in caring for ...

The new season of Wisconsin Life features an animated version of an essay written by Nancy Jorgensen, “Little Known Truths...

Nancy Jorgensen: I was able to save my musical theater class with donations and fees, but the loss of funds has reduced general services and support for students.

"Most people don’t see schools as life-saving institutions, but I sometimes witnessed life’s most fragile moments."

Irish music sessions regularly pop up in pubs and restaurants across Wisconsin. These are generally informal gatherings, where tin whistlers, fiddlers and accordionists play traditional Irish tunes. W...

"Couldn’t that describe me as a kid? Should I have written those words to my own former teachers?"

“The perils of competition — choppy water, a pile-up on the bike course, hazardous heat — scared me.”

Some professions run in the family. For writer Nancy Jorgensen of Waukesha, she spent her career as a teacher — just like her aunt and her daughter. She explores their vocations in this essay, “Rebel ...

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"At a time when the universe had robbed me — of my husband’s health and companionship, of security, contentment and peace of mind — she offered me a gift."

This issue includes works by the following contributors: Fiction by Logan Markko, Franz Jørgen Neumann, Adina Polatsek, Audrey-Anna Gamache, and Kevin B. Nonfiction by Blair Kinsey, Elana Walters, N.L...

By Nancy Jorgensen Alverno College HAVEN  Tony, Wisconsin, is so tiny mapmakers pretend it doesn’t exist. But within its two square  miles—population 160—lived a writer.  My nana’s b…

First, my right hand settled on the brown-stained keys. The chip on middle C scraped my thumb, telling me I found the right spot. My left thumb rested next to it, but my ring finger refused to lie …

Domestique French, noun.  Servant. Help.