After retiring from the Army, my father got a job with AAA in Wisconsin. Wisconsin, to me, seemed almost the Wild West compared to the tangle of traffic that is DC and Alexandria.
We uprooted and looked for house in a small town that might serve as home base for my Dad's field work. I liked the town of Sun Prairie, if for reason beyond the sound of the name, but we chose Stoughton. It was close enough to Madison for my dad and small enough for my mother to feel comfortable driving and house-holding.
While we waited or a house to become available, we lived in a cottage on the shore of a lake, Lake Kegonsa, "the lake of many fishes". I thought we out in the wilderness and would shoot my .22 standing on the back porch into the woods behind the cottage. That was not something our neighbors appreciated, and I heard about it.
It was strange living on a lake after the urban life of northern Virginia. All of us were a little naive bordering on reckless with the new surroundings.
One time we rented a row boat from Sunnyside, the resort near the cottage, and rowed out into the lake. A windstorm came up and we had to fight waves to get back to Sunnyside. The waves came up fast, and we had to row into the wind. We made little, if any progress, and our little craft was taking on water.
A glittery ski boat came to out rescue, piloted by a handsome guy Maggie's age. His interest in rescuing us took on a real mission when he saw that the new blonde from school was in trouble. He pulled up alongside to get the painter from the row boat so he could tow us to the dock. His attention was more behind his destination than it was forward. The air was charged with attraction.
I just sat in the back of the beleaguered dinghy and stared across the whitecaps at the shore.
Maggie was assimilating to the new place in her way and I would have to figure out mine.
I sleep-walked through high school, numb mostly. Two insights stood out, though. One was that I found a part of myself in words, keeping a journal. Two, I loved art. I drew for the pure joy of it in out basement. I did participate for personal reasons and could not care less about accomplishing what others felt was worth doing. I wrestled because I liked working out, but had no competitive fire. I did well in math and humanities, well enough to be elected to give a speech at graduation. But my assimilation was more cultural. This was a land of lakes, woods, and farms. People fished, hunted, and worked long days. I would learn these ways, more or less, and play the role of redneck for a while.
My best days were spent alone in a canoe on the Yahara River, which ran in front of our house. I could carry the Grumman 17 foot aluminum canoe across the street, through the Park, and down the bank to a rocky ledge near the water and launch. From there I could paddle upstream, through town, under the Highway 51 bridge, the railroad bridge, and out into the marsh. The river opened up into cattails, oak woods, and farm land. Redwing blackbirds perched on the cattails and carp swirled the muddy water in the shallows.
Out here, I found something of myself. It was part of me that I didn't know but wanted to to become. it was restless, loved rivers, woods, and mountains. This part of me would carry me through long, rough patches of shadow and loneliness that waited for me after my life in the small town.
Fast forward a few years, and I am out of high school, doing yard and farm harvesting work in the the summer and working in a truck body factory during the winter, driving an old International pick-up truck, carrying rifles on a rack over the rear window of the cab, and drinking to blackout after frustrating nights in bars trying to meet women.
I revel in being a bit of an outcast and call myself a "DG," or degenerate. I can see a path forward that includes a muscle car, a small house, maybe a wife, and a life lived in a small town.
But there is something gnawing at me. I can't quite put it into words, but it involves college, learning to think, and taking a sharp turn into the unknown.
A chance meeting at the urinals with the president of the truck body company helps me to imagine a new path. The president and I are standing beside each other at the urinals and he asks, "What are you doing here?"
I am silent, but he goes on. "This is no place for you. I can put you in charge building doors because John, the head, is about to retire, if you want. But you can do something else. I heard your speech at the last graduation. You aren't factory material. Think about it."
So there it was. A fork in the road. I knew but didn't know at the same time.
A few days later, all of us workers on the line are called to a general meeting. The president stands on a riveting table and gives us the news. At that historical moment, a recession has hit, and he offers a deal to anyone willing to quit rather than be fired.
I jump on it and resign. I apply to the University of Wisconsin -- Steven's Point, and state my major as forestry, and pay for my first semester with money I made building semi trailer doors.