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Winters give Appleton and Wisconsin a bad rap, say locals. Yes, the temperature can cause massive, temporary migrations to Mexico. The salt dumped on roads to melt ice eventually makes them appear to be made of white concrete. But April through November are a delight. The town is full of blooming flower beds, and kids zoom all over on bikes, eventually stopping at one of many ice cream parlors. Why would anyone ever leave?

Downtown Appleton in the late 1970s and early 1980s—Chris’s childhood years—boasted Conkey’s Bookstore, a cocktail lounge called Cleo’s, and the brand-new Paper Valley hotel, named in honor of the community’s leading industry. It was a place of relative quiet. A city filled with Lawrence University professors and engineers living next to line workers and truck drivers. Sunday mornings, Chris and her family attended Good Shepherd Lutheran Church.

Chris was the youngest of four children, and the only girl. Her mom, Joyce, had given birth to Chris at age thirty-nine and watched her daughter battle for position in the weekend flag football games on their lawn. Joyce recalled: “Her brothers would get her out there playing with all the boys and Tommy would yell at her, ‘Just get in there and push those boys aside, Chrissy!’ She wasn’t big, but she’d run for a touchdown as she scrambled right around them. They made her tough.”

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