Happily, for a fleeting moment, changing a flat tire resembled the Fourth of July. But just as quickly, we were back to the matter at hand: untying tight knots and emptying our overpacked car.
Eventually, the canoe was freed from its bindings and lifted off. Like a movie in reverse from the morning’s packing, we one by one piled all our traveling paraphernalia into the canoe’s hull now beached on the roadside gravel.
Before long, the urgency of why we wanted to stop in the first place returned in full force. Where was that gas station restroom when we needed it? The dreaded potty pots were our only recourse.
Out from under the car seat came the roll of toilet paper that Woody had discreetly placed there. Using the open car door as a screen, the first user hollered out a warning: “Don’t anybody look or I’ll sock you one!”
Despite the fact that for miles the only audience was cows and birds, in a family of seven, we sought out any privacy we could find on a deserted highway surrounded by pastures.
Before long, our dad was able to dig out the spare tire and the jack from its hold under the station wagon floor and set the contraption to work. Slowly the back end of the car rose like an ornery phoenix from the ashes.
Tired of throwing rocks and watching the Holsteins in the nearby field, we now gathered round to observe our father loosen the bolts of the offending tire. They too were tightened as taut as a screw in a submarine. There was no chance in hell that tire was going to roll off and crack a cow unawares.
“Here, hold this bolt,” Dad ordered as he handed one to each of us. “And whatever you do, don’t lose it!”
We clutched our bolts in our sweaty hands, mesmerized by the slowly turning tire. At last, with a few hard yanks, off it popped from its grisly grip.
Suddenly out of the quiet country air came the far off rumble of an exhaust pipe. Waiting in wonder, we watched as an old pickup truck came trudging down the road. Embarrassed by our situation and a little bit fearful, we were nevertheless curious to see who was coming our way.
Woody instinctively gathered baby Mary up in her arms. The rest of us kids stood at high alert, a little nearer to each other, ears perked, all eyes focused left as the cloud of dust drew near. We were ready to bolt if needed. Gradually, the rusted, beat-up truck came to a grinding stop beside us.
“Need any help?” asked a gray-whiskered farmer through his rolled down window, a worn and faded fedora tipped back from his sunburned face.
“Thanks, but I think we just about got it,” Dad replied.
“I seen your flares from across the field,” the farmer added. “Looks like you been here a while.”
“Yes, but we’re almost through,” our mother warily offered.
“Well, I see ya got some fine helpers,” he added, giving us a wink.
“Yes, we do,” our mother replied.
“How far ya’ll going?” he asked.
“Up near Hayward,” our father answered as he pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his top pocket along with his ever-handy lighter. Leaning against the hood of the truck, he lit his cigarette and took a long pull, happy for a chat with an interesting character.
We rolled our eyes, knowing our delay just got a little bit longer.
“You got a ways to go then,” the farmer said as he assessed the late afternoon light. “And it don’t look like you’re gonna make it before dark either.”
“No, we got a bit of a late start,” Woody confessed.
“Well there’s gas station about ten miles up ahead where you can get your tire patched,” he added. “But if you have any more trouble, our house is back down the road about a mile.”
“Much obliged,” Dad answered.
“It’s beautiful country up yonder,” the farmer added. “Used to fish theres myself back when I was a kid. You kids lookin’ to go swimming?”
Our heads nodded in silent unison like puppets on a string. Now covered in dust and sweat, we realized our hopes of jumping off our dock into a cold lake on this hot summer day were about as real as a mirage in the desert.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” the farmer said, a smile cracking his weathered face. Slowly he scanned the scene one more time as though he couldn’t believe his eyes: five kids, a flat tire, and a canoe overflowing with vacation junk. Smiling, he nodded his head in farewell.
“Good luck!” he called.
Tipping down his fedora, he pulled the truck forward a few yards, backed it carefully around the flares, and headed down the road in the opposite direction.
“Well, he was a nice Old Sourdough,” said Dad, now rested and relaxed from his visit.
We nodded in agreement, just thankful we hadn’t all been murdered.
“Now hand me your bolts, and we’ll get out of here,” Dad ordered.
In all the excitement, one of us turned up empty handed. Dad only shook his head, took a deep breath, and gave the remaining bolts one last tight twist. Our mother passed out the last of the green grapes and cheddar cheese, which we gratefully washed down with a tepid swig from the near-empty water thermos.
As the sun began to drop toward the horizon, we stuffed all our belongings back into the rear of the station wagon, cramming them in with no thought of order. With an exhausted heave, our mother and father lifted the emptied canoe back up to its berth. Dad resecured the knots like he was in a scouting speed competition, put out and restashed the almost burned-down flares, and packed the jack under the front seat just in case. At last, we were ready to go.
There was just one last thing to do.
“Oh, Dad, please call the cows,” we pleaded, not wanting this chance to slip by.
“Alright,” he said, needing little encouragement.
Cupping his hands to his mouth, he issued forth a long, deep bellow that gradually crescendoed in volume and pitch.
“MoooooooOOOOO!”
One by one the cows raised their heads and, as if hypnotized, began to saunter forth in our direction.
Pleased at his first cow-calling success, our father let loose with another mournful “MoooooooOOOOO!” Lo and behold, the cows picked up their pace and started to run! Our father mooed some more and soon we had a bevy of bovines all eyeing us up close and personal over the top of the fence. We laughed ourselves silly.
Practicing our own moo calls, we kids watched as the last of the herd wandered over to see what was up. Then with happy hops, we headed back to the car to resume our Northwoods voyage.
“Seat belts!” our father ordered as we snapped ourselves once again into that taut torture device. “And lock your doors!”
We did as we were told—there was no point in arguing this far into our journey.
Our mother now slid behind the wheel, giving our dad a chance to rest. Bellowing a parting “MoooooooOOOOO!” from his window seat, Dad locked himself into his seat belt just as our mother inadvertently stepped on the gas and peeled us out of there in a flurry of rocks and dust.
“Geeze, Woody!” our father muttered. “Slow down!”
The car swayed wildly as our mother adjusted to the canoe’s top-heavy weight and then steadied as she headed determinedly down the highway. Sticking our heads out the car windows, we laughed and mooed farewell to the puzzled dark-eyed cows receding into the distance.
SCENE 2
On a hilltop across the field, a farmhouse light blinked on. Thinking he heard the odd sound of mooing laughter, the farmer washing up at his kitchen sink looked out across his cow-filled meadows just in time to see a canoe-crowned station wagon careen over the top of a hill, its back bumper spitting off a shower of sparks as it scraped the crest of the blacktop before dipping down out of sight.
“I’ll be damned,” he mumbled, checking his watch. “They sure ain’t gonna get there by midnight.
“Millie, is supper ready yet?” he asked, laughing. “You won’t believe what I saw on the road today.”
Act V: Are We There Yet?
SCENE 1
Dusk drifted over the fie
lds like a cozy quilt as we settled in for the duration of our trip.
Out the car windows, the light faded from blue to lavender to a burnished gray. The last red rays of the setting sun coated a crest of cumulus clouds riding the horizon like waves pulled by moon tide.
Our low-slung, bug-encrusted car slid through one little town after another with signs pointing to the familiar names: Augusta, Cadott, Cornell, Ladysmith. Passing by tidy clapboard homes with cement-deer yard art, we watched the golden glow of kitchen lights click on one by one like lightning bugs in a summer field.
Slowing to the speed limit of the deserted main streets, we could feel the heat still emanating from the low brick buildings as though they were sun-warmed canyon walls. Above us, the soft amber of streetlights provided a brief, hazy snapshot of darkened storefront windows. As we headed back out into the cooling country-side, neon signs in bright hues of red, yellow, orange, green, and blue sporadically popped out of the darkening forest like woodland ghosts with their simple offers of “Vacancy” for the weary, “Food” for the hungry, and “Beer” for the thirsty.
Soon, favorite landmarks became more recognizable, suggesting we were definitely making headway. There was the corner Standard Oil gas station with its red, thirst-quenching Coca-Cola cooler standing sentry by the garage door; here was the largest cottonwood log in the county, its many circles of rings begging to be climbed on; there was our mother’s cherished pie café that simply said “Eat”; and best of all, here came the old schoolhouse with its tempting set of swings where our father, when needing a rest, often stopped to let us play.
All were places we frequented on our trips Up North, visiting as needs and time dictated. But at this late stage in the day, we didn’t mind passing them up.
On we cruised down the black ribbon of our two-lane highway, the dark filling up the fields and forest so that only the yellow beam of our headlights marked the way. Silhouettes of barns and trees and fence posts were all that stood out in the dimming twilight.
We were tired now.
The nail-spiked tire had been duly patched at our last gas station stop, and we had sunk into a kind of resigned waiting. The car became quieter and our heads began to nod.
At last, one of us spotted the orange lights of the tiny A&W Root Beer stand up ahead. We poked and ruffled each other awake, our mouths salivating at the thought of cheeseburgers, fries, and frosty root beers. As soon as our dad pulled into a stall under the bare, bug-encircled light bulbs, we clicked out of our seat belts. Eagerly, we watched the waitress reluctantly dislodge herself from the cook’s window and expertly approach us on a slick pair of white roller skates.
Ducking her white cap down under the driver’s side window, she uttered a surprised “Hello” at the sight of our disheveled station wagon crammed with seven people.
“What can I get you?” she asked, pencil and pad poised at the ready.
In an instant, all hell broke loose.
“I want onions rings!”
“Don’t give me any pickles!”
“Get me a chocolate shake!”
“No mustard!”
Knowing we’d be there forever with so many individual requests, our father expedited the process by ordering the same for all of us. Seven burgers with everything, seven fries, seven root beers.
“I hate all that stuff on my burger!” I snarled under my breath.
A popular stop for my family on our long journey from Illinois to northwestern Wisconsin: the A&W Root Beer stand in Augusta. My mother always wore her traveling clothes, including pearls and spectator pumps, for the arduous drive to the rustic Northwoods. In stark contrast, we children grabbed whatever clothes were at hand, such was our excitement to get on the road. Circa 1958, left to right: David, Tom, Nancy, our mother holding Mary, and me.
“You can scrape off what you don’t like,” he said ignoring our grumbling from the backseat.
Too hungry to argue, we sat back in stomach-growling anticipation. Patiently breathing in the greasy scent of fried onions, we listened to the chirping crickets sing out from the dark as though they were the designated dinner music for our feast.
After what seemed like an eternity, our waitress rolled up with an overflowing tray, snapped it to Dad’s side window, then made a return trip for another load, anchoring it to Mother’s side. Chaos erupted as our parents passed out the mouthwatering fare. Except for the waitress laughing at the cook’s window, silence ensued.
Pickles, onions, mustard, and ketchup never tasted so good.
SCENE 2
It was cooler now.
The night breeze drifted in through the car, carrying hints of pine and leafy woods. We rolled our windows up a bit higher and snuggled next to each other, for once glad for a sibling’s cozy warmth.
Quiet settled over the car as we stuffed pillows behind our heads and spread shared jackets over our knees. Knowing the nearness of the cabin, we became peaceful. Our father was back behind the wheel, smoothly hugging the curves and hills of the changing terrain. Now that the view was dark, I had finally secured a coveted window seat. Tipping my head back, however, I could look up through the shadowy overhang of trees and watch the sparkling stars slide across the heavens.
As we came upon open pastures, the stars burst out in glistening glory like God’s own flares across a celestial highway. The Big Dipper hung above us, anchoring the constellations of the night sky. And like a rosy ripe apricot, the full moon climbed slowly out of the misted forest.
We were almost there.
By now it was well past midnight, the highway empty except for the occasional gleam of an animal’s eyes reflecting from the side of the road. Only the ghostly white stripe of the road’s center served as our guide. Houses and barns stood darkly in their clearings, illuminated by a lone yard light.
The greenish glow of the dashboard cast an eerie iridescence across the sleeping faces of our mother and baby Mary, again in the front seat. The four of us in the back sat in crumpled repose, still gripped by our shared seat belts.
Gazing out the window into the silver-shadowed night, I felt suddenly familiar with the road, as if I was waking up in a well-known room. Was it the curve of the blacktop? The arch of the trees? The recognized shape of a glacial boulder? Somehow, in the pit of my stomach I sensed a closeness to the cabin, and my heart flooded with joy.
“Daddy, are we almost there?” I whispered.
“Yes, sweetie, we are,” he answered softly. “It won’t be long now.”
Alertly, I watched as we rounded a series of curves and hills, each becoming more recognizable, like a well-loved face not seen for a while. Then, almost imperceptibly, the car slowed as we coasted down a hill to a one-lane silver-railed bridge.
“We’re at the bridge!” I whispered to my backseat siblings. “Wake up! We’re at the bridge!”
The inside of the car sprang to life like a jack-in-the-box. As was our tradition, our father stopped the car smack in the middle of the bridge, and we cranked our windows down as fast as possible.
Breathing in great gulps of the crisp, clear Northwoods air, we craned our necks over each other to get a good look. To the left, the wide vista of North Lake opened up before us with sparkling Cassiopeia reigning regally above in her throne. To the right flowed the meandering curves of the water lily–studded thoroughfare, its border of heart-shaped lily pads reflecting the moonlight. We stared out in wonder at this wild beauty, not knowing where to rest our gaze, such was its loveliness.
Anticipation hung in the air as our father inched the car forward onto the crunch of gravel road and under the tall, welcoming, log “Ted Moody’s Camp” sign.
“We’re almost there! We’re almost there!” we whispered, awed by the magic of the moment.
Ignoring our safety rules, we at last clicked off our seat belts and piled on top of each other for a glimpse of cherished landmarks. As we came into the clearing, we saw the wide stretch of tennis courts with their dipping nets. Behind them sat the ra
mbling log lodge with its large cast-iron bell softly silhouetted by the light over the kitchen door. The long-roped tree swing still hung from its high branch, and several picnic tables circled the fieldstone grill as if recently used.
To the right loomed the dark shadows of Eddie-the-fishing-guide’s shack and the log carport garage with a room above. Our canoe-capped station wagon slid slowly past it all like a midnight monster on the prowl.
Our father eased the station wagon down a steep, deeply rutted gravel hill, the car dipping and rocking with every bump and ridge. At the bottom, the road forked, and the car swung right onto a one-lane, grass-centered dirt road; its twin, the “high road,” ran parallel to the left. As we crawled up the long, low hill, our anticipation propelled us to the edges of our seats. Swinging around a curve, the car slid under the gracefully arching branches of a white birch.
Our station wagon, late 1950s, was often topped with a canoe for our trip Up North.
At last, there before us waited all that we had longed for.
The car lights swept past our old log garage with our sailboat, the Enterprise, upside down on the mossy floor. Up into our woods the headlights beamed, then down a little hill where our cherished log cabin sat in all its simple glory. There, it rested peacefully in the moonlight, as if it had been patiently waiting all along for this burst of life that was suddenly upon it.
Our dusty, insect-adorned station wagon halted wearily by the cabin’s back door. Our father turned off the car, and the echoing clinks and clangs of the overheated engine faded into the welcoming silence of the still night.
In that instant, our contained excitement burst forth like the flares we had lit earlier in the afternoon.
“We’re here! We’re here!” we shouted.
“Shhhhhh!” our mother scolded. “Don’t wake the neighbors!”
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