A Wisconsin Adventure

 

     2010

 

As the weeks wind down and the year draws to a close, isn’t it nice to have memories that remain?

 

 

    Day One

 

It’s late afternoon, mid-week in August. Alexandra and I are at Reagan National Airport, near our home in northern Virginia, and across the Potomac River from Washington DC. One of my favorite moments is about to occur—when tension subsides, calm descends, and all is serene.

    We have checked in for our flight. We have navigated through security. And, after a short walk through the terminal, we are arriving at our gate.

    There are passengers waiting. There are also seats available. 

    As Ally and I claim ours and settle in, the moment arrives—life becomes simple and carefree.

    The task of packing for one’s trip and loading the luggage has been completed. The stress of having a flight to catch—driving to the airport, shuttling to the terminal, arriving sufficiently ahead of time—is over. The need to check in and process through security has been met.

    There is nothing left to do at this point, except—sit back, relax … and wait.

​    The boarding call we are awaiting: Midwest Airlines Flight 1623, nonstop to Milwaukee.

 

 

    We are taxiing to the runway.

    Ally and I have seats 13A and 13B, on the port side of the aircraft. Ally has opted for the aisle seat. I have the window. Ahead of us, as I crane my neck, the plane appears half full.

    Outside, the weather is sunny and clear. As we taxi, I observe the airport activity. In the distance, the Washington Monument comes into view. Also visible is the Jefferson Memorial—and the dome of the US Capitol Building. I occupy myself by taking photos.

    Ally asks for gum. We both take a piece. As we chew, the aircraft swings onto the runway. Moments later, engines at full power, we are pressed into our seats.

 

 

    We are at our cruising altitude of thirty-four thousand feet. I’m gazing out the window.

    The blue sky is pretty—as are the layers of cottony clouds below.

    As we travel westward, the layers become patches, and, six miles down, vast areas of Mother Earth appear.

    As always, when our mode of transportation is by air, I am impressed, even amazed, at the convenience of flying. 

    Driving to Wisconsin is a journey of two days, with an overnight stop in Indiana.

    A direct flight, on the other hand, is all of two hours—barely enough time to rest, browse a magazine, and partake of the in-flight salad and sandwich options.

    Soon, then, we begin our descent. As I watch the slow passing of the landscape far below, a large expanse of blue water appears, and we begin to cross Lake Michigan.

    Shortly thereafter, in the distance, the Wisconsin shoreline becomes visible, and we prepare for landing.

 

 

    It’s early evening. We’ve claimed our luggage and are in the rental car garage, across the street from the airport terminal, ready for our vehicle.

    My first preference, a Chevy Impala, is not available. I’m offered a Chrysler 300, black in color. After a cursory look at the automobile, I sign the paperwork.

    Ally and I stow our luggage and climb in. I start the engine, and we wend our way out of the garage to the airport roadway. At the highway, I accelerate and merge into traffic.

    Our adventure has begun.

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    The Chrysler provides a smooth ride.

    As we cruise westward on I-94 toward Madison, our destination, I explore the options on the radio. As might be inevitable, with Milwaukee receding in the distance behind us, I discover a station playing polka music.

    “Ally!” I exclaim. “Polka music!”

    Ally is eleven years old, from Virginia—and clearly not impressed.

    “Eww! I feel like I’m in a room full of old people!”

 

 

    The sun is setting on our first day in Wisconsin. We make a stop en route, at Delafield.

    It’s something I’ve been anticipating since November 2008, when my best friend of thirty-three years and our longtime family friend, Vic Ramsey, passed away.

    We want to visit Vic’s niece, Sharon Peterson, who was with Vic at the time of his passing, and who contacted us with the news. 

    We’re in luck. Sharon, and her husband, Duane, are home.

    They welcome us in, with warm Midwest hospitality.

 

 

    It’s after dark, and our long day is coming to an end.

    We arrive in Wisconsin’s capital city, the home of my youngest brother, Terry, and his daughter, Gabriela, age seven, where we will stay. 

    We are soon settled in. 

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           Day 2.

                                                                                                           

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