url Kronemeyer’s wife is a gracious and sharing woman of sixty-four years, slight of frame and easily overlooked in even the smallest of social encounters in Antigo, Wisconsin. She wears modest clothing befitting her age and carries herself with an air of innocuousness bordering on invisibility. If she were pressed to provide some details about herself she would describe her hair as dishwater blonde, her figure as post-childbearing but not as pear-shaped as some, her smile as garden-variety, her eyes as hazel mint. If she had a driver’s license, which she does not, she would have underreported her weight, but only a little. She would have listed her height accurately though the last time she checked in a rare moment of self-indulgence she had actually shrunk by half-an-inch.