All Roads Lead to New Glarus Pt. 1- A Travel/Memoir Series – Retelling of a Story

My father once said, “All roads lead to New Glarus.” Throughout the years a small town in Southwestern Wisconsin seems to have repeated itself in significance. Our tapestry has been woven traveling through, in and around this lovely weekend getaway spot. The rolling hills and deeply cut valleys reminded the early Swiss settlers of their homeland.

I’ll never forget the first time I found myself in New Glarus, Wisconsin. It was a late August afternoon, and the air was starting to smell like newly sharpened pencils. Locusts played their organ-grinding songs, and all that grows grew golden. Thoughts of going back to school lurked in the back of my mind, causing me to capture each moment and savor it like a piece of creamy, milk chocolate melting slowly over my tongue. Every hour was precious freedom.

My family strolled down the main street of a town proclaiming to be “America’s Swiss Village.” With almost-black rough wood beams criss-crossing over white stucco, the buildings looked like they could have been in Glarus, Switzerland. Under the windows, geraniums spilled out of flower boxes. Passing a storefront with sausages hanging in the window, my nose crinkled trying to distinguish the fragrance of spice and uncooked red meat, an odor foreign to my young nose. Church bells broke into exultation, signaling that it was half past the hour.

This photo of New Glarus is courtesy of TripAdvisor

As my father opened the door to the New Glarus Baking Company, the unfamiliar tunes of an accordion playing bouncy polka music blasted into the street. A shaft of light streamed down the staircase and beckoned us to follow it’s guidance to the pinnacle and into the tea room.

I sat on the smooth, wooden chair, my feet almost touching the ground. the side of the table at which I sat was against the wall, facing the window. My parents sat across from me. They were surrounded by the bright sunshine, which created halos around their forms like the paintings on Eastern Orthodox icons. The tables were adorned with white linen cloths and napkins and in the center of each one was a bud vase with a silk red carnation reaching towards the ceiling. The waitress came to take our order wearing a customary Swiss peasant dress. She looked like a member of the Van Trap Family.

This photo of New Glarus is courtesy of TripAdvisor

Soon after ordering, my father was drinking a cup of coffee. Mother was checking a glass for water spots. I, on the other hand, was about to dive into a biscuit with a creamy chicken gravy, topped with a dollop of unsweetened whipped cream. My mouth watered. The sound of silver on china now accompanied the accordion as the velvety flavors exploded in my mouth.

Looking down on the last bite, I realized that just as I was about to enjoy the last of this delectable treat, I was also enjoying the last moment of my family vacation. Surprisingly, new notebooks, pens and shoes seemed like a welcome adventure after spending lazy days in the summer heat. I leaned back in my chair satisfied with my meal and with my fifth grade summer vacation.

To read the next installment of this story click here.

Linking with Imperfect Prose

It’s Not Nice to be Mean – Guest Post Adela Crandell Durkee – Painting Prose

Adela’s Once A Little Girl was one of the first blogs I stumbled upon as I began my blogging habit. I’ve been hooked ever since! She’s made me laugh out loud on several occasions, and then in the middle of my laughter, she’s brought a catch in my voice with a point driven home.  Adela’s words are written with such nostalgia and her voice brings me back to so many sweet memories. She is also the first blogger I found who lived in the same metropolis as I do…and we’re even meeting up at a writer’s conference soon! Needless to say, I can’t wait to hug her neck. I’m sure you will enjoy writing as much as I have!

When I was a little girl it was important to be nice.  Captain Kangaroo told me the magic words:  “Abracadabra, Please and Thank you.”  If I forgot, Mom or Dad reminded me, “Now what are the magic words?”
When I was in Kindergarten, I had a bunch of teachers, one at a time, most of the names I forgot, but I remember Mrs. Brown.  She was mean.  My older sister, Deanna, had Mrs. Markley; she was just like a grandma, so nice.  For some reason Mrs. Markley was out of school when I got to Kindergarten, I never figured out why; I thought maybe she died, ’cause teachers lived in the school, so if she wasn’t there, she must have died.  But the next year, Mrs. Markley was back; all the rest of the kids in my family had Mrs. Markley. I wondered where she went the year I started school.
The new teacher, Mrs. Brown was not nice; she was mean. Mrs. Brown told me I had to drink white milk, no chocolate milk, even if that’s what Mom wrote down for me to order.   “We don’t need to bother Mr. Rex with all these special orders.”  Mrs. Brown told the class.  Mr Rex always smiled when he delivered the milk. He was in charge of the whole school, he had a chain hooked to his belt with keys to every door in the entire school,  and he was super-nice.  Mr. Rex was the janitor.

Mrs. Brown had big “bowls” that hung way down below her waist; when she bent over they brushed on the table, and she kept a wrinkly hankie tucked in her belt.  I think she used the same hankie all week.  Her face was all pinched and grumpy like her hair got pulled back in her bun too tight so she was starting to get a headache, and she smelled like cottage cheese and boiled eggs.  One day she passed out brown construction paper with a picture of a leaf on it.
“You can color your leaf any color you want, because fall leaves are colorful.”  she told us.  I colored mine yellow, like the hickory tree in the field behind my house; Mom put hickory nuts in the cookies she baked.  Dale colored his leaf green.  Mrs. Brown picked up Dale’s leaf and held it up for everyone to see.  I thought she was gonna tell us how beautiful it was, ’cause everything he did was the best; I loved Dale.
“Children.”  she said.  Mrs. Brown always called us ‘children’, I don’t think she knew our real names.
“Look at this leaf.”  she pulled her eyebrows down low and together, so they touched each other.  That was not a nice face to pull, I knew that.
“No Fall leaves are green.”  Now she was shouting and Dale looked like he wanted to cry, except he knew that big boys don’t cry, and he wanted everyone to know he was a big boy.  It’s okay for big girls to cry.  No one told me that, but I saw Mom cry lots of times, sometimes she even cried what she called happy tears, like when Dad gave her something nice on Mother’s Day when she thought he forgot,  and me and Bonita had already made her mad by picking lilacs and breaking some of the branches down, and she tried hard to act happy.  So I knew big girls cry for all kinds of reasons, but not big boys, they never cry.  If big boys feel like crying they just swallow hard, till the feeling goes away.  Dale was  swallowing  so hard pretty soon he was going to have a stomach ache.
I piped right up, ’cause I had a really good memory.  “You said we could color them any color we wanted.  Remember?”  I probably don’t need to tell you that my helping made things a whole lot worse.
That night after supper, I told Dad that Mrs. Brown was mean.  He sat me on his lap and listened to the whole story.  One really good thing about my Dad, he was a very good listener.  He listened to every bit:  about the milk, about the coloring the leaves,  about Dale swallowing hard, and about me reminding Mrs. Brown.  I left out the part about how I loved Dale, but he might have known anyway.  Sometimes he knew stuff, the way Mom did, although his powers were a bit weaker.
“Maybe she just had a bad day.’ he offered.
“If that was it, she has an awful lot of bad days.  Like every day.”  I looked up into his blue eyes; they were calm and clear, like her was figuring out an arithmetic problem in his head.
“Well, tomorrow, I want you to go right up to Mrs. Brown, put on your best smile and say, ‘Good morning, Mrs. Brown.  How are you today?’  I bet that will get her day off to a good start, and things will go a whole lot better.”  I must have looked doubtful, ’cause then he said, “You’ve got the best smile I ever saw.  That smile will charm the socks right off Mrs. Brown.”
I still had my doubts, and I wasn’t that interested in seeing Mrs. Brown’s feet, but the idea of her socks flying off was pretty funny, so I started to laugh. Besides that, Dad knew a lot, like how to tell arrowheads from rocks and how to tie a hook on a fishing line, so I trusted him.  The next day, I marched right up to Mrs. Brown, and said just like Dad told me:  “Good morning Mrs. Brown.  How are you today?”
She smiled right down at me and said.  “Now, don’t dawdle, go hang your coat up.”  I was thinking about saying “Abracadabra, please and thank you.”  but I wanted that smile to stay right where it was, so I stayed quiet.
A couple of weeks later, Mrs. Brown was gone, and we had a new teacher, who must have been nice, because I would have remembered another mean one.  I found out years later, that the principal asked Mrs. Brown to “step down’ and she did.  I heard she suffered from depression, which in those days, went undiagnosed for most people.  I’m glad that Dad gave me the advice he did; I got to feel like I had a little control, while the parents worked things out behind the scene.    Of course I’m not always nice;  it’s good to know I have a (w)itch  in my tool belt when I really need her,  but I prefer to be nice.  I feel a lot better about myself and I end up feeling better about whatever meanie I come up against.  And I try to keep in mind, that the meanie might be dealing with problems that are far beyond my comprehension. Besides, smiling is infectious, and I love smiling.

Drop a note in the comment section to let Adela know how much you enjoyed hearing about her childhood.

If this is your first time here, let me explain what we are all about. We are a community started by Emily Wierenga. It was called Imperfect Prose. She is on a bit of a vacation as she has some extra responsibilities at the moment.

If you are new, please check out Emily’s blog. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and you need to be acquainted with the woman who made all of this happen!

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Deadly Weeds – Guest Post by Adela Crandell Durkee

Adela is the first blogger to reach out and befriend me.  She has called me her Best Blogging Friend ever since.  She has such a way of making each of her readers feel like  family.  Her wonderful blog Once A Little Girl has the most beautiful memoir posts that I’ve read anywhere.  Not only does she write about her memories, but she always manages to drive home a point.  Please visit her beautiful blog, I promise you won’t be sorry…

I love flowers and flower gardens. I dream of the Chicago Tribune featuring my gardens in their annual Flower Garden of the Year editions. I’m a realistic daydreamer. I put aside thoughts of winning the grand prize, or even second place. I am content with dreaming of one or two resplendent pictures among the beautiful gardens pictured each year. My secret teen-dream was to be Homecoming Queen, Snow Queen, 4-H Queen, or something kinda of queen with a tiara or a silk sash, and maybe a scepter. Perhaps I transplant my teenage dreams to my gardening dreams; a place where I can create beauty.

Yesterday, my first grandchild, Bradaigh, helped me cultivate my creeping cedar, a beautiful evergreen that acts as a ground cover. It fills a teardrop shaped landscape island around two beautiful bur oaks, which my husband rescued from an over-zealous builder planning to backfill the whole area. Cultivating those low-lying cedars is a delight: no bugs; cedar is a natural insect repellant, soft needles that are no longer than a thumbnail. Their clean evergreen scent fills my nostrils. The only problem is that no matter how diligent I am, blades of grass poke up from the cedar sprigs, perseverant against my will. I follow each blade of grass down to its base and pull it out. It’s a time consuming, tedious job, but it’s the only way to make sure I get the grass out by the roots, and the only way to make sure I leave the cedar undisturbed.

“I can see why Jesus told that story about the weeds growing up among the wheat,” I say to my grandson. He grunts. He’s on the way to thirteen, so that’s his main way of communicating this year. Once in a while he’s up for a whole conversation. I take his grunt as encouragement.

“See how these blades of grass just grab hold and keep on coming back? Kind of reminds me of the devil; just looking for a place to grow under the surface. Nobody noticing. Then ka-boom! He rears to the surface, just like he belongs there.”

Bradaigh sighs and shakes his head. I see a shadow of a smile, so I continued shining a light on my thoughts.

“Sometimes, I get a piece of the cedar by mistake. Sometimes, I start thinking the grass is the young cedar and maybe I’m making a mistake.” We continued on in silence. That’s one of the things I appreciate about Bradaigh; he’s content with silence.

“Doesn’t that look good?” I say. “The cedar almost seems…”

“Happy.” Bradaigh says. “I knew you were going to say that, because you and I…” and he stops.

“You and I, what?”

“Oh, never mind.”

“You and I think alike?” I say to him and I can feel my face lighten, and I swear I can almost feel my eyes dilate.

“Yeah.” Bradaigh looks down and away, but I see the smile slide up one side of his face.

“Yeah.” I say back, and I give his shoulder a miniature punch which we both know substitutes for the hug I will give him full on, later when we’re not in the front yard.

All day, every day, I battle grass. I hate grass. Except for the few patches of ornamental grasses: zebra grass and some sort of deep green grass with bright blue flowers, which I love, but forget the name. Everywhere, I’m pulling grass. Today I wonder why so many people spend a fortune on ways to assure a weed-free, vibrant green, ever-growing lawn of horrid grass. I think the story of my struggle with the cedar and the grass could go along side the one that’s already in the Bible.

Grass is like my persistent struggle against pride. For one thing, I’m fooling myself that I can outwit grass. It will always be there, waiting to peak out from between the branches, just like it belongs there. Sometimes, I can be fooled into thinking it’s a character trait, something I was blessed with, a healthy self-esteem, and confidence, something worth cultivating. Grass invades the most delicate and the most hardy of my flowers. It gets in everywhere, just as pride can invade everything that blooms in me, choking out or covering up what is beautiful. Maybe that’s the way it is for people who are plagued by other deadly sins like greed, avarice, sloth, gluttony. We all need to eat, protect ourselves, rest and eat. Perhaps the deadly sins are deemed so because they can take over our lives. Just like my garden, we are in danger of slipping from multi-colored flowers filling the world with perfume and beauty to nothing but a one-dimensional bed of grass. We need an ever-vigilant gardener, who helps us recognize our sins, which can seem so harmless, as if they are a natural part of us, just waiting to take over. Perhaps that’s why some are considered deadly sins. Still, through grace and forgiveness, I am unburdened. I experience life free of self-interest. I am like my weed-free cedar, I feel energized. Fresh. Clear of clutter. And I am happy.

Linking with dear Ann today

Thunderstorms and Homemade Donuts – New Glarus – Saturday Morning Serial Linky

Welcome to Saturday Morning Serial! This is the place where you can link up your continuing story! Here are the rules, 1) Fill out the linky form below 2) Scroll down on the sidebar for the Saturday Morning Serial Linky Badge and copy and paste onto your blogpost. That’s all there is to it! Please keep in mind that this is a family show. G and PG content only. Enjoy your breakfast!

If you need to catch up on the New Glarus Series, check out the New Glarus page…

Steve and Sue

My dear friends Steve and Sue, now owned a business and were putting in long hours. This was especially hard on their 2 children:  S., now five years old and their little girl E. who was 2.  Sue, being practical and organized, was always concerned about how I was getting on, so she suggested that I help them in the area of childcare.  It bothered me that I was unable to watch their kids for free, especially since they’d been such a help to me, but this was Sue’s way of finding a way to be a consistent blessing without hurting my pride.  So, on Friday evenings S. and E. came to spend the night, and I kept them all day Saturday.  My son J., now 4 years old, was excited to see his friends on a regular basis.

Pals

S. ended up being a funny little boy.  He still hadn’t lost his baby fat, could be very silly like his father, and loved to win.  In fact, he would get very cross and pout if he didn’t.  E. had red hair just like her mother, freckles and light brown-almost orange eyes.  She always turned her head when she spoke. She had a real flair for the dramatic;  a regular Shirley Temple.

The night was stormy.  If you have never experienced a storm in an older single-wide trailer, you’ve never lived on the edge.  It was about 8:00 at night, the children had just finished eating dinner and were playing Mario Bros. 

“You’re cheating!”  S. shouted at J.

I hope the sirens don’t go off, I thought. Whenever there was a threat of dangerous weather, the park manager would go down to the clubhouse and unlock the door so that the residents could go somewhere safe until the weather had passed.

Keeping this in my mind, I began preparing shoes and blankets and a flashlight, in case the power went out or the siren went on.  After all was ready, I took the flashlight and went back to the kitchen sink to finish the dishes. Thunder echoed in the metal trailer. 1 Mississippi…..2 Mississippi…..3 Mississippi.  According to my calcuations, the storm was about three miles away.

“Aunt Kimmie, I’m scared,”  S. said after pausing the game, “and hungry.”

“You’re still hungry?” I asked.

“Do you have any dessert?” S. was hopeful.

Dessert was a novelty around my house.  We simply couldn’t afford it.  My figure benefited.

“Well, let me see what I have.”  I thumbed through a recipe book.  Flashes of light…1 Mississippi…2 Mississippi.  The storm was closer, and I tried to swallow away a feeling of panic.

“How about if I made some homemade donuts?”  I asked.

“You can do that?”  S. was amazed.

“Sure!”  My voice squeaked as a clap of thunder made all of us jump.  E. started to cry and J. put his arm around her.

“It’s okay, E., it’s just thunder,” J. tried to reassure her.

“How would the three of you like to help me?”

No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than all three of them rushed into the kitchen.  I found a pretty apron for E. and two white chefs aprons for the boys.  S. had slid a chair into the kitchen for E.  I began to heat the oil on the stove, thankful that I had a gas stove and not electric.  The wind rattled the siding, lightening flashed and the hum of the appliances stopped.  Mario was quiet and we stood in the dark except for the blue glow of the stove.   The electricity was out.

E. squealed in delight, and said, “Peak-a-boo!”

I reached for the flashlight.

“We’ll have to finish mixing the dough by hand,” I was surprised at how calm my voice sounded.  S. was mixing the dough, and J. wanted a turn.

“I’m doing it!” S. demanded.

“Boys take turns,” I carried E. on my hip as I lit all the candles in the room.  The lightening looked even more creepy in the candlelight, and the house seem to shudder in fright.  I heard a snap, and then two and then the sound of hail pelting the roof and sides of the little trailer. Simultaneous lightening and thunder.

J.’s eyes were big and wide, and S. stopped stirring and handed the spoon to him.  “Here, you can stir now, J.”

The siren wailed.

“Children!  I have an idea.  Let’s turn off the stove and head over to the library in the clubhouse,” I tried to sound cheery.

“What for?” S. demanded. “I want my donuts!”

J. started to put on his shoes.  He’d been through this drill before and knew the routine.  I turned off the stove and blew out candles as quickly as I could.

“S. put your shoes on, now!”  I barked.

Grabbing E.’s shoes and the car keys, I slid my feet into slippers.

“But we’ll get wet!” S. whined as he pulled the velcro on his shoes.

“You’re just going to have to trust me S.”

By the time we got to the car, we were drenched.  The wind whipped the rain in waves like a sheet on a laundry line.  My hand shook as I put the key in the keyhole.  Reluctantly, the car started and we headed to the clubhouse.  There were only a few cars in the parking lot, as most of the residents ignore the tornado siren.  I hated to get the children even more wet than they were, but the car shook with the intensity of the storm.

“S., on the count of three we will open our doors, okay?”  The trees were bowing to the ground now, and swirls of rain made tiny funnels in the parking lot.  “One,”  My ears were beginning to pop.  “Two,”  my hand was on the handle.  “Three.”

The boys slid out of their side and I grabbed E. from the backseat.   She was laughing hysterically, as I placed her blanket over her head.  “Peak a boo!”  I could hear her muffled voice say.

We ran up the stairs as the park manager held the door open for us.  An older woman held out a wool blanket for the children, and we all felt safer in the brick building.  Safer and closer.  S., E. and J. were huddled together, teeth chattering, arms around each other.  Someone had started a fire in the fireplace.  Any cross words that had been spoken earlier were forgotten and the boys were interested in taking care of E. and me.  Until…

“Aunt Kimmie?” S. inquired, “I still want my donuts.”

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The Apology – New Glarus Road Series

If you need to catch up on the New Glarus Series, check out the New Glarus page…

The next day, Grandma(Mama), Papa(Daddy), J. and I went to New Glarus. The weather had turned chilly overnight, and we all wore windbreakers. Daddy wore the forest green jacket that Mama still wears in his absence.  J. wore his Osh Kosh B’Gosh conductor overalls and cap with a navy sweatshirt.  Mama and I wore cozy sweaters.

We thought that it was about time J. went to the Swiss Historical Village in New Glarus, where they have live demonstrations of how the settlers lived here in south central Wisconsin.  After all, he was four years old, and had never been to New Glarus before!

The day was crisp and crunchy.  The first of autumn’s leaves carpeted planked sidewalks, and memories of this dear town invaded my mind.  I pushed them away, not sure I could handle the bittersweet pain of them at the moment.

The four of us came near the entrance where a construction worker poured concrete.  Daddy didn’t see the sign.  Wet concrete.

His foot made an outline.  All was silent.  J. looked up past the brim of his hat at the worker.  This very shy, soft spoken child spoke. “Sorry, man,” he apologized for his grandfather.  He hung his head in shame, as if a serious crime had just been committed.  Little did I know that such a sweet and funny family story, would so effectively outline the kindness and character of who J. would become; tender, compassionate, funny, responsible and truly a man of God.  His sister would later tell me that he was one of the people she admired most.  Oops, did I say sister?  That is quite another story altogether.

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Linking with the incredible Jen at Soli Deo Gloria


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Even in Our Darkest Hour, Life. Is. Good. New Glarus Series

If you need to catch up on the New Glarus Series, check out the New Glarus page…

Life was not good.  Things didn’t work out for T. and me.  I was never good enough, and his personal choices finally caught up to him.

Where did this leave me?  I was a 29 year old woman, who had never been out on her own, and now I needed to be the sole provider for myself and my 3 year old son, J.  I was, by nature, a helper, a second in command.  My resume consisted of my working at a church, selling retail, working at another church, and selling Mary Kay cosmetics.  I wasn’t exactly a hot commodity on the job market.

My parents helped me to buy a small trailer near the church.  My church family helped me when I was honest enough about my needs.  But…I was cryptic.  For one thing, I wanted to be in control of my own life.  For another, no one likes the person who cloaks their needs in a prayer request.  Our basic food groups were milk, cereal and ramen noodles.

My married friends, with the exception of Steve and Sue, quietly exited my life.  My single friends didn’t have children.  I felt like I fit no where.  There was no one to turn to, except Jesus.

I remember once, when someone dear to me reacted to my pipe dream of making it “big” in Mary Kay.  They wisely answered, “Are you sure?  Because I don’t see you doing that.”  It wasn’t that they thought I couldn’t do it, it was that they knew me better than I knew myself at that moment.  I gave myself out of a business.  After all, who could tell the dear elderly lady that she couldn’t have a lipstick at cost?  I certainly couldn’t.

One day, my pastor called me asking if I would work for the church.  I was relieved.  I was disappointed.  I was grateful.  I adored working at the church.  I had a constant support group loving me toward wholeness.  I was in a positive and warm environment, and I found the work tremendously fulfilling.  But it still wasn’t enough to make ends meet.  Every demon in the county seemed to be whispering, “T. was right.  You can’t do anything right.  You can’t even take care of yourself and J.”

I often found myself flat on my face before God.  In actuality, this was one of the best times in my life.  It was a Wilderness of sorts.  Everyday, I waited on God for manna.  Everday, it came.  Everyday, I asked God why I wasn’t able to make it on my own.  Everyday He answered, “My grace is sufficient.  I don’t want to to make it on your own.  I want you to depend on Me.” Often, I would have to scour the car for loose change to get a gallon of milk or gas, which ever one was most necessary at the time.  But we always had what we needed.  Always.

It was during this time that my parents invited J. and me up to Wisconsin for a much needed trip to New Glarus.  I packed my little man into the backseat of my 1988 Chevy, and slid in through the passenger side since the driver’s side door was broken.  It was a far cry from the Lexus and Porsche that used to be parked in my garage.

“I must be the most proud woman in the world, otherwise why would I need to be humbled so greatly?”  I wondered.

Three hours later, I pulled into my parent’s long black driveway, remembering the horror of Sue’s accident. Shaking the memories away, I pulled J. out of the car, his chubby little arms encircled my neck and his rosy cheek pressed against mine.

Mama knows how to present food like no one else.  She had an alfresco lunch complete with linens and china, waiting for me under the locust tree.  The lacy shadows flickered on the dark green carpet of grass.

“Welcome to your day at the spa!”  She announced.  J. ran to give her a hug, and I collapsed in the chair.  There was cool cucumber salad and homemade macaroni and Wisconsin cheese.  Mozart blasted through the house windows, and J. and Grandma played Zorro with an oversized black scarf and hat.  The comfort of home wrapped around me like a warm blanket just taken out of the dryer.  And even if it was just for the moment.  Life. Was. Good.

For the next installment click here
Linking up with the talented and beautiful Jen.

Till Death Do Us Part? Husbands, Babies and Friends – New Glarus Series

This story started out as complete truth. However, as I’ve continued, I’ve changed small details. For instance, some of these events happened within a 30 miles radius of New Glarus…and I don’t remember exactly how I was proposed to…anywho…just wanted to be honest…If you are interested in the other installments start here.

Three long years passed.  Steve and Sue and a myriad of other friends were married and had already started their families.  Although we were the first to get married, we hadn’t even thought of having a baby yet.  Baby S. was a plump little boy of seven months, with a triple chin and blue eyes; a rounder baby, I’ve never seen.

Early that spring, the five of us decided to pay my parents a visit in Wisconsin.  This brought me great relief.  Life was much more tolerable when T. and I were with other people, as it seemed I could do very little correctly when we were home alone.  He could actually be quite romantic and gentlemanly around others. After settling in our temporary quarters at my parent’s home, and Baby S. was down for a nap, the four of us discussed our day trip to New Glarus the following day.

The next morning, Steve and Sue sat down to breakfast with the “I love New Glarus” tee shirts they had purchased on our last trip a few years previous.  We helped mom clean up, and T. and I were ready to go.  But it seemed like it took forever for Steve and Sue and Baby S. to get going.  Babies made everything more complicated! I had never been on a trip with a baby before, and couldn’t believe all of the paraphernalia we had to bring along!!  There were diapers, strollers, extra clothes, and sunscreen.  After packing the car with what seemed like enough supplies for a week, we strapped the baby into the car seat. We were finally settled.

“You know, I really should nurse him before we leave, that way he’ll sleep on the way,” announced Sue.

T. glowered.  So, we unstrapped the baby, went back inside and waited for Baby S.’s feeding to be done.  Sue came back with a grinning, satisfied baby in her arms….

“Look at him smile!”  I said.  “He looks as though he’s enjoyed a good meal.”

“Uh-oh,”  Sue answered, “He’s not smiling, he’s filling his pants!”

So…we waited until he was done “doing his duty”, and then Sue changed his diaper and once again we strapped the baby into his seat, loaded ourselves into the van, waved goodbye to my parents, and finally got on the road to New Glarus.

It was a little rainy, and we hoped that by the time we arrived, the weather would turn.  To our disappointment, it only rained harder.  As we pulled into town, Baby S. was screaming to be fed and the rain made the view look like an impressionist canvas using only black, white and grey paint.

“I thought you checked the weather Kim!”  T. snapped.  He knew we couldn’t walk around town with a baby in a stroller during a monsoon.

“I did! It said we only had a 30% chance of light showers,” I  quietly defended myself, looking to see if Steve and Sue noticed the catch in my voice.

There was a tense quiet in the car.  “At least we won’t get sunburned!”  Steve tried to find the silver lining in everything.  It was usually annoying, but this time I was relieved and gave him a quick smile of gratitude.

We parked on the Main Street and opted to eat an early dinner at Ticino’s, a pizzeria named after the Italian Cannon in Switzerland.

The atmosphere was quaint, and the thin pizza amazing, even if it was sprinkled with Cheerios from Baby S.  We still had hope that the rain would let up and we could browse at all of our favorite shops. Lingering as long as the shrieking Baby S. would allow (even though the squeals were happy ones, the other customers had begun to stare), the rain was coming down even harder than it was before.

“Let me just run across the street so that I can buy the baby a matching tee shirt, then the trip won’t be a complete loss.” Sue suggested.

The guys stayed at the table with the baby, while Sue and I shattered silver puddles to the other side of the street.

I paused remembering that it was this very store that T. had whisked me away from in order to propose to me at the Christmas store.  It was this very store where he declared that someday, he would buy all of my clothes for me.  He did, and lucky for me he had very good taste, but I longed for the freedom Sue had to purchase tacky tee shirts if I wanted to.  However, the whole stroll down memory lane, caused me to feel warm and fuzzy and I wanted to get back to T. and break the tension that had been there all morning.

When Sue and I returned to the restaurant, we were soaked.  The baby had thrown all of his remaining Cheerios in a circle around his high chair which was now pulled up to a karate video game that T. and Steve were playing.  Baby S. was shrieking with delight at being left to himself.

“Steve!  Why did you let him make such a mess while we were gone?”

“We were busy,” he responded, eyes still glued to the video game.

Sue was on her hands and knees picking up as many Cheerios as she could, while I came behind T. and wrapped by arms around his waist.  He was in deep concentration with the intense game he was playing, he didn’t seem to notice my attempt at peace.

The sky did brighten a little before we got everyone packed in the car again.

“Maybe tomorrow, we’ll bring out the dirt bike, if it isn’t raining cats and dogs again,” T. suggested.

The next morning was quite a bit cooler, but there wasn’t any rain.  After attending my parent’s church, Baby S. was taking a nap, Sue and I were helping my mom make chili and the guys were on the driveway messing with T.’s dirt bike.

“This chili needs more chili powder!”  Sue announced.  She dumped in a couple of tablespoons more.  Mom and I exchanged knowing glances, for we were sure this would be the spiciest chili ever, but not about to cross her opinion, we conceded.

“I’m gonna go out there and see if the boys will let me give a try on the dirt bike.  I used to ride one when I was younger.  Do you mind keeping an eye on the baby for awhile?”  Sue asked me.

“No, go ahead.  Have fun.”

She treked out to the front yard, and T.  handed her the helmet and showed her a few things on the bike.  I thought I’d watch her first run and cheer on Team Girl, since the boys thought they could hog the bike for themselves.

There was ever-confident Sue swinging her leg over the top of the bike, kick starting it on the first try.  I had to smile.  She was still everything I was not.  I wouldn’t be caught dead on a dirt bike.  Off she went, at a reckless speed straight down the driveway.  She raced to the end of the driveway.  Why isn’t she turning?  I thought.  Instead she went straight into the neighbor’s shed.  I saw the helmet fly off, twenty feet from the shed.

Steve started jumping around and waving his arms and screaming for help.  My dad ran outside to see what he could do.  Part of me wanted to go and help and part of me wanted to run and hide.  The way the helmet flew off, I was afraid she had been decapitated.

“Mom, call 9-1-1!” I shouted.  Praying under my breath, I asked God to give me courage to deal with whatever the next few minutes would hold.  Running across the lawn, I came across a slightly calmer Steve bending over his wife’s body as my father stuck his finger in her mouth to clear it from gobs of blood.  Blood was coming out of her ears and Sue was unconscious.  I was just glad her head was attached.  The ambulance came, and T. drove behind it to the emergency room.  Steve told me to stay behind and take care of Baby S.  I wondered if it would be the last time I’d ever see Sue alive again…

For the next installment read this.

Playing Pool, Pee Wee Herman and Tequila – Pt. 2 New Glarus Road

This is the second installment of a group of memoirs about my travelings through a small town in New Glarus, Wisconsin. To read the first installment, go here.

The bright July sun baked the inhabitants of southwestern Wisconsin that year.  My family once again stopped by New Glarus on the way home from our camping property.  We were disappointed to find that the New Glarus Bakery no longer operated their upstairs cafe, only the storefront bakery was open.  It was my first lesson in the fact that each moment must be enjoyed to the fullest because it is a rare occasion when its luxury can be repeated.  My best friend since kindergarten was with my family this time.  She, being two years older than I, had already past the awkward first stages of womanhood, and was flashing her perfectly shaped legs in short, shorts, on the street side of the sidewalk.  I, on the other hand, still had braids in my hair.

As a weekend destination, many of the restaurants for tourists were not open during the day on weekdays.  Our options were limited.  So, mother led the way to a little bar next to the bakery.  As we walked in,  we felt the eyes of many small town regulars follow every move we made.  Even though the quaint town had become a place tourists stopped by, it was evident that we had tread upon sacred ground reserved for locals only.

The room was a cave compared to the light of the summer day.  The odor of cigarettes and beer were very unfamiliar to me.  My family of faith included generations of ministers, and an atmosphere like this was completely foreign to me.  Shortly after choosing our table, it seemed that the staring eyes were finally able to tear themselves away from the cityfolk who had invaded their territory.

Trying to feel more at ease, my mother’s eyes roamed the room.  “Look girls,” she coaxed, “A jukebox!  I haven’t seen one of those in years.”  And handing each of us a quarter, we edged our way toward the wall with the currently quiet contraption.  Due to my sheltered childhood, I struggled to find a familiar tune.

“There!”  I said to my friend, “Eye of the Tiger!  Isn’t that from the new Rocky movie?”

I can not tell you the stir our choice started.  If it wasn’t obvious before that we didn’t belong there, it was completely obvious now.  But undaunted, we were determined to have a good time.  Noticing a pool table in the middle of the room, we asked my parents if we could try playing.  Notice the word TRY.  I had never played pool before in my life.

My friend, thoroughly enjoying every cowboy-want-to-be eye on her, began stretching across the table every which way.  Next, it was my turn.  BAM!  My ball went across the table onto the floor.  There was a long collective draw-in breath.  I looked up, afraid to make eye contact with anyone, but looking for some reassurance.  Finally, one man in overalls and a baseball cap with the name of a manure company embroidered on it, smiled… then chuckled, and pretty soon he was slapping his knee and laughing.  Slowly, like the “Hallelujah Chorus” one man joined in, and then another, and another…until I was laughing too.

Suddenly, we were no longer on foreign soil.  We had become a part of the town of New Glarus.  We belonged.  Looking back on it, the scene reminds me of the movie “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure” when he has offended the inhabitants of a biker’s club and they threaten to kill him.  Giving him one final request, he plays a song on the jukebox and dances for them winning everyone over….except we didn’t get a free motorcycle.

Has an event ever seemed to break the spell of an unfamiliar and unfriendly place?  Tell us about it.

Go here for next story…

All Roads Lead to New Glarus Pt. 1- A Travel/Memoir Series

In honor of my mothers birthday i thought I’d tell a family story.
Happy Birthday mama !

My father once said, “All roads lead to New Glarus.” Throughout the years a small town in Southwestern Wisconsin seems to have repeated itself in significance. Our tapestry has been woven traveling through, in and around this lovely weekend getaway spot. The rolling hills and deeply cut valleys reminded the early Swiss settlers of their homeland.

I’ll never forget the first time I found myself in New Glarus, Wisconsin. It was a late August afternoon, and the air was starting to smell like newly sharpened pencils. Locusts played their organ-grinding songs, and all that grows grew golden. Thoughts of going back to school lurked in the back of my mind, causing me to capture each moment and savor it like a piece of creamy, milk chocolate melting slowly over my tongue. Every hour was precious freedom.

My family strolled down the main street of a town proclaiming to be “America’s Swiss Village.” With almost-black rough wood beams criss-crossing over white stucco, the buildings looked like they could have been in Glarus, Switzerland. Under the windows, geraniums spilled out of flower boxes. Passing a storefront with sausages hanging in the window, my nose crinkled trying to distinguish the fragrance of spice and uncooked red meat, an odor foreign to my young nose. Church bells broke into exultation, signaling that it was half past the hour.

This photo of New Glarus is courtesy of TripAdvisor

As my father opened the door to the New Glarus Baking Company, the unfamiliar tunes of an accordion playing bouncy polka music blasted into the street. A shaft of light streamed down the staircase and beckoned us to follow it’s guidance to the pinnacle and into the tea room.

I sat on the smooth, wooden chair, my feet almost touching the ground. the side of the table at which I sat was against the wall, facing the window. My parents sat across from me. They were surrounded by the bright sunshine, which created halos around their forms like the paintings on Eastern Orthodox icons. The tables were adorned with white linen cloths and napkins and in the center of each one was a bud vase with a silk red carnation reaching towards the ceiling. The waitress came to take our order wearing a customary Swiss peasant dress. She looked like a member of the Van Trap Family.

This photo of New Glarus is courtesy of TripAdvisor

Soon after ordering, my father was drinking a cup of coffee. Mother was checking a glass for water spots. I, on the other hand, was about to dive into a biscuit with a creamy chicken gravy, topped with a dollop of unsweetened whipped cream. My mouth watered. The sound of silver on china now accompanied the accordion as the velvety flavors exploded in my mouth.

Looking down on the last bite, I realized that just as I was about to enjoy the last of this delectable treat, I was also enjoying the last moment of my family vacation. Surprisingly, new notebooks, pens and shoes seemed like a welcome adventure after spending lazy days in the summer heat. I leaned back in my chair satisfied with my meal and with my fifth grade summer vacation.

To read the next installment of this story click here.

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