criss-cross wisconsin

I started tracing two-lane highways through Wisconsin like lines in the palm of my hand. The tires of my grandma’s old Toyota were the graphite, the steering wheel was my pencil. I used them to etch the map of this state, my second home growing up, into my mind.

I rode every rolling hill and bend in the road as if they were some long, meandering theme park ride. I’d lean into curves and feel my stomach drop after every apex unveiling a unique yet familiar landscape to me. Whenever I’d come to a stop, I felt giddy with the excitement and anticipation, silently chanting, “one more time, one more time.”

My trips were the line and the small towns and landmarks were the dots, waiting to be connected. I took the road less traveled and made my own detours driving through Main Street downtowns that I didn’t even know existed. A cozy coffee shop in downtown Ripon. An impressive beer hall along the river in Sauk City. An expansive mural commemorating the agrarian history of Mauston. I even found out that Devil’s Lake may actually be the gateway to heaven.

Radio Shacks, used video game stores, quaint cafes without wifi and subtly distinct sports bar after subtly distinct sports bar became friendly and familiar sights. I made it a habit to pull impromptu u-turns just to track back to historical markers that I had passed. They commemorated former land owners, long forgotten frontier battles and even the respective birthplaces of the Ringling Brothers Circus and the Republican Party. I left no stone unturned, no insight unseen.

I found myself falling in love with every new farmstead emerging on the ever-changing horizon. With colonial shutters contrasting on white-washed century old homes and corrugated tin roofs on nondescript out-buildings serving some unknown yet vital purpose, it felt like nothing was more important than each respective plot of land and the generational memories they held.

I gained appreciation for the precision of well-baled hay. I gained appreciation for the solemnity of a grazing cows. I starting noticing barbed-wire fences laying in the shadow of telephone lines tracking to the horizon. Rusted mailboxes were married to rundown cars. Unharvested corn crops left to die and decay in their fields juxtaposed against the neglected, decrepit structures.

I watched power plants and factories manufacture clouds. Whenever I could manage to look up, I noticed that the clouds tended to linger a little bit longer. Maybe they enjoy the view or maybe they had just become more accustomed to the pace of life here. Sure, there was always somewhere to be, but they had all the time to get there.

Winter came and the trees shed their brilliant reds, oranges and yellows, replacing them with white, stubbornly trying to dress for the weather and stand strong through the coming cold. Some managed, others were felled by the grove at the will of unrelenting winds. I spotted wild turkeys grazing in the now barren fields fighting a similar battle with their blustery, flurried foe. Their trudging, trying endeavor an ode to the nature of living in America’s margins.

Sometimes the radio would snow just as much as the sky and I would be left with my thoughts. The radio scanned and scanned and scanned for any signal. When it found it, I wasn’t left with many choices thanks to Grandma’s stunted antenna. I started to like country music. I had to listen to it to balance out the sobering, guilt-inducing nature of conservative Christian radio. I gained an understanding and appreciation that only comes through repetition.

I spent New Years Eve Up North. It was actually my first time. My friend convinced me to jump into a frozen lake on New Year’s Day. I don’t know if I had ever felt more alive.