ProetryPlace Blog 57
A TIME AND PLACE ODYSSEY
I hope folks enjoy my funeral service one day as much as we enjoyed my brother, Ron’s.
Yes, there were sad and touching and difficult moments as we paid our final respects. My voice was unsteady in spite of my efforts to control it as I shared memories of the near and distant past, childhood experiences of young boys growing up in the city.
Ron’s daughters, Lynn and Lauree, shared poignant memories as they spoke and in the form of picture-boards, collections of photos that depicted Ronnie’s life and accomplishments. Our sister, Audrey, added another photo collection of happy moments of the past. Kites, hobby horses, carvings and other creations of Ron’s able hands and mind were on display around the room. The spirit of celebration of life well lived prevailed, a productive and loving life before the cruel, crippling effects of Alzheimer’s held sway. Now he is free again.
At the visitation, prior to the service, and later at the dinner his family provided in the church hall, we caught up with family and friends usually scattered over many states. Some we had not seen in decades.
Two of our four children, Jennifer and Dan, plus Dan’s two children and fiancé were able to attend too, so we had a mini family reunion of our own. On the day after Ron’s service, we gathered for a memorable Sunday brunch at the wonderful Pfister Hotel in downtown Milwaukee. Then we made a quick run to Menasha, 100 miles to the north. While Dolly and I visited friends, Dan, Jenny, et al visited their old homes and haunts and managed to survive one of Mimm’s famous cardiac arrest, butter soaked burgers.
Monday was departure time. Dan’s crew left early and drove through to Georgia. We left Jenny in Milwaukee after a late lunch and proceeded to drive north again to Sturgeon Bay while she caught an airport shuttle for her flight back to Colorado.
Sturgeon Bay is in the Door County peninsula, the thumb of the Wisconsin map mitten that juts out into Lake Michigan forming Green Bay to the west. The peninsula is home to many quaint and curious shoreline villages where shops, art galleries, restaurants and tourists abound. Millions of cherry trees and a few wineries occupy the interior.
Audrey joined us at our rented cottage on Tuesday morning. We rendezvoused for lunch with our cousin Tom and his wife, Sandy, who live in Casco, nearby. Later, we visited one of the wineries, sampling from the great variety of vintages they offered.
Wednesday, Dolly, Audrey and I visited most of the remaining shops in the county—Ephriam, Fish Creek, Gill’s Rock, Egg Harbor and others—lending our support to the local economy while acquiring a variety of gifts, souvenirs and Wisconsin food delicacies like cherry doughnuts, Original Old Wisconsin summer sausage and Cherry Chipotle Cheddar.
Early Thursday morning the fishing boats left their moorings in Snug Harbor. Audrey returned to her lovely Wisconsin home, and we commenced our 1066-mile drive back to Georgia. Nine hours and 570 miles later we pulled into the Holiday Inn at Mt Vernon, Illinois to spend the night.
Here is where the story gets nasty. Simply put, the remaining 500 mile drive was a bitch.
Interstate construction slowed, stopped and snarled highway traffic on several occasions. Navigating Nashville through a blinding rain storm with bumper to bumper traffic was a white-knuckle experience I will not forget. Had I opened my eyes, it would have probably been worse.
Then there was the #@%&ing idiot redneck who decided he would set the speed limit for everyone. Try to pass, he speeded up to prevent it. Drop back and he slowed to block the other traffic lane.
I’d had sufficient occasion on the trip already to use some of my select highway vocabulary in reference to other drivers: dip-squat, numb-nuts, ass-bag—even the seldom used favorite, shit-for-brains. Mr. Redneck was in a class by himself, and I stewed and steamed at a loss for words.
My definition of redneck does not include geographical qualifications. It is determined by attitude alone, one’s treatment of one’s fellow man. Ignorance and intolerance are highlights. I may have been influenced to refer to the #@%&ing redneck as a #@%&ing redneck because he drove a pickup truck. Had he driven a Mercedes SUV, a simpler and more refined expletive like asshole would have sufficed. Finally he swerved through both traffic lanes and raced off an exit ramp while we bid him a fond, #@%&ing farewell.
Every motorized conveyance in the state converged on Chattanooga as we attempted to pass through, proceeding with glazed eyes and rapt attention through the agonizingly sluggish congestion reminiscent of a bad head cold. Shoulders and forearms began to cramp, and we left the interstate north of Atlanta to cruise home on rural byways.
Now we will happily resume our normal hum-drum existence after sorting through the accumulated bills and trash mail, checking the gardens and pond, and scheduling the necessary medical appointments. Details of our Wisconsin odyssey will gradually fade away. Ronnie will remain ever in our memories.
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