Wisconsin is cheese. We all know this, we learn it in our
youth. If we miss it then, there are
cheese hats for football games made famous by super bowl champs, Wisconsin’s
finest, the Green Bay Packer’s. But just
as I drive across the border from Illinois, I notice a large billboard that
says, Wisconsin Home of the…and then a truck blocks my vision so I have to hold
tight the wheel, stop laughing for a moment from silly thoughts and mind
wanderings and turn quickly while maintaining my speed of 80 mph or so to find
out what else resides in Wisconsin, besides cheese. Butter
Burgers? Does that really say Butter
Burgers? What is a Butter Burger? Maybe it’s related to the cheese, the dairy…the
butter…Butter Burger? I don’t know, and I will not find out today. What ever floats your boat, or curds your
whey.
Wisconsin is so much more than cheese. It’s rolling landscape, and flat landscape
and sod landscape. It’s home of great
spiritual mounds of earth created or mounded, if you will, by Native Americans,
a great long time ago. These “Mound
People” took mounds of earth and carried them, by the handful, step over step,
and deposited the mounds of earth to form symbols and animals and messages to
the heavens. I drive through one
section, and get absolutely joyous.
After a long drive through tall, abundant fields of corn bursting with
pride, I am surprised to see the land suddenly change. Little rolling hills, but unlike any I’ve
ever seen before, it honestly looks like mother earth was tickled by father sun
in these great wide fields that suddenly turn to dimpled, little hills and
dales, yes, dales. I know, I am taking
great liberties here telling my tale of going cross country on this solo
expedition of delight and freedom and a great wide opening of a heart closed
for too long.
I stop and visit that little Switzerland town, you know, New
Glarius (see previous post for more information). I see the artwork and lifelong dedication of an immigrant farmer
thankful for what he has in this country of ours. I make it to the Mississippi River, to Pikes
Peak. I drive across another border into
Iowa and the river town McGregor.
Population 869 give or take. It is dark by now and I am tired from my
journey. I am welcomed into the home of
Ramaona and Dorrance, innkeepers of The Lamp Post Inn. I made reservations to stay in their beautiful
bed and breakfast, just days before leaving.
As soon as I enter, Ramona greets me and shows me my room, upgraded,
because she is certain I will feel more comfortable in a larger room with a
private bathroom. Of course she is
right, and I don’t balk or refuse. She
brings me upstairs and walks me through the process of breakfast and keys and
coming and going. It is early enough but
I let her know I am in for the night, exhausted from driving and happy for the
comfort of a bed.
Ramona asks about my journey, She wants to know what lead me to this great
adventure. For a moment I can’t answer,
and then offer something clumsily. “Oh,
because I finally can, and I never have.”
What exactly did lead me to her home so far away from my own? It is not as simple as turning 50, or raising
my children and now having some freedom.
It is no longer the after affects
of “the divorce” but maybe a little. It
is all of that and more, and how can I tell this woman with heart and soul and
genuine care alighting her every movement what I am not completely certain
of? That I have lived too small a life
and I want a chance at bigger now? We
fall into conversation and in this brief time I find out one of her daughters
is an artist, the house adorned with paintings and apparent love of a place so
far away from my own. I learn one of her
son’s, who had special needs, died recently of cancer. I learned how she was told when he was so
very young what very little potential he had already, from a professional at
the school he attended. She learned
also, that I am a special ed teacher, recovering from cancer and journeying
because I never before had the opportunity.
In brief moments we learned a great deal about each other without prodding
or feeling a sense of intrusion. At this
time in my life, at 50, I am learning so much, or maybe I am finally, accepting
what I have already known; That the world is full of love and giving hearts and
opportunities for nourishment and kindness and giving as well as
receiving. I learned so much in this
brief moment in the home and from the heart of Ramona, a beautiful woman with a
giving heart in the heartland of this country.
A pioneer spirit. A survivor, not
unlike myself.
I sleep well and dream.
I am blessed and joyous in my journey.
I awake early, thrown by the time change, momentarily confused whether I
am going backwards in time or forward?
It is 7:30 in New York, but 5:30
here in Iowa. I get thrown for a minute
when I notice the time on my laptop differs from the time on my cell phone,
which differs from the time in this bedroom.
I worry that I missed the early morning breakfast that I requested and
feel slightly foolish, and imposing. I
am relieved when I find out I have another hour, and maybe slightly concerned
that this time travel will catch up with me later in the day as I make my way
towards Effigy Mounds and eventually Mount Rushmore. I take advantage of the extra time to get my
words onto paper describing Chicago and other joyous observations. I am beginning to feel a stronger sense of
my journey and maybe the path I am taking is getting clearer. There is a stronger theme emerging anyway.
I am realizing the great amount of work and play that is
done through the handiwork of men and women across this country, the world at
large, is evident everywhere. So large how can it flow from the hands of humans,
mere mortals, without a larger meaning? The hand-made art work,
the hand-made mounds, the hand-crafted baroque embellishments in the hand-built
basilicas of Chicago, the hand-dug lands of the sod-covered fields. So much, emerges from the hands of people,
much like you and I. What capabilities, what gifts, what potential. I thread the tapestry of my journey thus far,
realizing the art of southern self-made artists, of Chicago’s finest
architects, many that came from all corners of the earth for the opportunity to
leave their hand-stamped legacies is hand-made and heart-felt. The
carefully constructed sculptures in Grandview, Wisconsin, the pastries, and
meals prepared, the farmland and mounds and so much more all made by the hands of each of
us. Touched by God, or a god, or the
desire and will to leave our hand-print on something larger, more than
ourselves is awe inspiring.
After breakfast, I pack up, well fed and humbled by the
brief but heartfelt connection shared between this hostess and myself. I am ready to journey on, but I first wish to
purchase a painting of the heartland, to remember and to support the hand that
creates such art, the daughter of a woman, that has surely touched the hearts
of many. Before I go, Ramona tells me
more of her story. Of the loss of her
son, Adam. But not really. She speaks only of gains and life and love
and how her son, who had such little expected potential, touched the lives of so
many. She brings me closer to her life
and her heart, she shows me the handprint her son made shortly before he
passed. He was in the hospital on
Mother’s Day, dying of cancer that came hard and fast. He needed a gift for his mother for Mother’s
Day. When Ramona arrived at the
hospital, tired, but eager to see her son, her beautiful boy that touched so many,
a man now in his late thirties, she couldn’t understand why the staff was
behaving so happy to see her, sharing with her how happy Adam, her son, would
be to see her. She was there everyday,
what was this about, she wondered but briefly.
And there she understood, when she received her gift. She smiled widely in sharing this. “You will appreciate this gift, Ginger, since
you are a special ed teacher.” She
showed me, his handprint, in plaster, with his name signed, Love Adam and Happy Mother’s Day.
This theme emerges throughout my journey, this being touched
by the hand of God or something, larger than me, holding me safely and leading
me on. I go out into the town of McGregor, in Iowa,
on the Mississippi River.
No comments:
Post a Comment