Putting Our Stamp On It

Brett Ramseyer • August 1, 2026

A "World Cup" kind of day

I once collected stamps as a kid, a philatelist, more enthralled with the far flung Magyar Post or banana shaped postage from Tonga than the ubiquitous American flag stamp. I liked national park series, floral prints, important historical figures, and the bright miniature art of stamps. Back then, I was miniature and my eyes could see right up close to study and wonder about my connection to the great big world.

More, perhaps, than anything else, I liked that the foreign stamps were from very far away and may have taken weeks, months, if not years to arrive in our mailbox in Michigan. I would grab an atlas to search the unfamiliar places. I discovered those distant lands did not call themselves the names I knew. Nippon surprised me as Japan, where they believe they are the origin of the sun. Deutsche Bundespost arrived from Germany and were worth mere Pfennig. England was the United Kingdom, where they played football, not soccer.

The World Cup, like a slow boat stamp, took four years to arrive and that tournament of the world’s best again encouraged Americans to find a map to “discover” then cavort with people we have never met before. When the world landed on our shores we rowed like Vikings, drained Boston of beer with the Tartan Army, and danced left and right in an orange horde. We allowed ourselves to catch the foreign fervor, then we missed it when it left.

When Switzerland won their way to the quarterfinals a face popped to the top of my social media feed, Sophie, a Helvetian inhabitant I taught years ago in a student exchange, and have not spoken to since, smiled on the screen. I sent a message on a whim, not expecting a response. “Are you planning to watch Switzerland play Argentina in football.”

Sophie Widmer

Fabulous chocolate

Lavender bouquets

International tour

“Dear Mr. Ramseyer, Of course! I am watching it in Washington, DC with the Swiss embassy… I will be visiting Michigan next weekend.” Chimed my inbox mid-match.

So, I invited Sophie to visit Ridges – Hike & Ski Tours.

In a week she stood here like a white cross stamp of my past travelling thousands of miles and as she informed me, seven years since she returned home to Winterthur. But she, like the packages of old bore more than one stamp. She brought Jean-François from France, an engineer who talks to satellites with lasers. And Zoie from Michigan who loves the serenity of nature and communes with all toads and frogs, whether real or tattoo.

The skies the day before choked with Canadian wildfire smoke cleared for their Saturday visit. They toured these grounds, listened to the stories, dipped their toes in the cool clean water, before we shared a drink in Ridges’ pond side cabin. We chatted and did what is supposed to happen when curious people from foreign lands meet. We exchanged gifts --home baked cookies for Läderach Swiss chocolate. We enjoyed the weather, the scenery, one another’s company, and together we shrank the great big world with our shared connection to it.

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Face to Face

By Brett Ramseyer • August 9, 2026

Chance forest meetings

Deer Chases Dog

By Brett Ramseyer • June 4, 2026

Sonny mopes in the morning if he must wait for the day’s first run. He bumps my leg with his nose, jumps razor sharp forepaw claws at my back, barks and bounces left to right, puts his muzzle on my knee and looks up at me with golden brown eyes, then lays at my feet with an audible sigh. This does not happen all at once. Instead, they are stages of impatience and of doggy grief having to wait one more goddamn second to spring out the door into a new day. If I shift my weight in my chair, close my laptop, or rise for a glass of milk Sonny’s ears stand straight up tuning in to the slightest sound like the satellite dishes of an 80’s spy movie listening for a nuclear launch. Sonny will get a jump on that run. And he usually does. He waits for me pacing across the expanse of the open garage door while I slip into my trail running shoes. When I cut between the cars with a “Let’s go, buddy!” he starts with a flying leap off the Michigan rock retaining wall and sprints down the driveway 50 yards ahead knowing the way. This morning the 48° start to the day warmed to 60° by 9:30 AM. The cloudless sky allowed sunbeams to cast shafts of light through the small gaps between leaves to reflect off the moisture not yet burned away under the emerald forest canopy. The dappled duff glowed in golden patches all around. Barely into my rhythm in the first quarter mile, my eyes still teary from the breeze across my early eyeballs, Sonny shot off the trail leaping logs in gigantic bounds. His ears flattened to his head and he disappeared into a blinding light of the glade beyond the first stand of trees. He raced out of sight and my heavy jog lumbered forward. Suddenly, a shock of white flashed in my periphery. My head jerked to the left, scanning for meaning to the movement. In a split second, Sonny raced back toward a hint of panic in his eyes. I experienced a literal “Ruh, Roh, Raggy!” moment in Sonny’s life as a one-hundred twenty-pound doe he was chasing two seconds ago now led a charge back at him. Sonny ran for the hills behind me and the mama deer passed five yards in front of me at top speed. Her eyes caught mine and she contemplated the calculus of what to do before pulling off the chase. To which Sonny circled back and chased again until she slipped behind the ridge. He rejoined me on the run at full gallop exhilarated and as happy as any dog can be, but we follow the winding double-backs of forest trails and in five minutes a valley over the deer took charge again and sent Sonny on two more cycles of running for his life. Charge. Retreat. The doe filled with mother’s courage scared off the predator because her twin fawns lay trembling in the high grass matted down like crop circles. Their scentless bodies spotted in camouflage doubtless lay curled, muzzles under a flank waiting for danger to pass and mother to return. Or perhaps it was a single fawn, the other nicked by coyotes last week and she determined not to lose another baby to a canine, gave courageous chase, led Sonny away from child. If Sonny knew what I do without seeing, I wonder if he would have circled, nose to the ground, ears attentive, and eyes alert until he found the suckling hiding and slaughtered it without second thought or hunger. Then trotted home a limp body clutched in his jaws, bouncing lifeless and newly killed. No matter, no unhappy ending today because a mother made it so.

Spider Tents

By Brett Ramseyer • June 3, 2026

On morning’s run with trusty hound My eyes scanned miles of forest ground Where only duff and leeks abound No wonderous sights to astound So, in the car and off to town And in the yard the day unwound Until the sun, exhausted, down Met evening’s hike with trusty hound There I, amid the shadows found A new made city all around Leaves and twigs now gossamer gowned Raised spider tents, the forest crowned Gathering spiders duty bound Gaia’s mind spoke command profound Ringed ev’ry hill the forest round Day’s architects without a sound.