The Badger State

I departed the fertile lowlands of the Hoosier state on August 16th, 2012 to participate in the wedding of an erstwhile roommate in Black River Falls, Wisconsin. From Anderson to Ft. Wayne I journeyed alone, from Ft. Wayne to Chicago I had one fellow journeyman, from Chicago to Black River I had two. This is well, because the nearly ten hour pilgrimage, though scenic in its late-August splendor, is not of the ilk that one ought attempt it alone.

Speaking of scenic, when I think of Wisconsin I think of harsh frozen steppes and belabored cheese-jokes, as I am sure do many of you. What these not altogether inaccurate characterizations fail to convey is the luxurious rolling beauty of the Badger State. Traversing the Wisconsin countryside can actually be quite a joy, though more than once it came up in conversation that it seems as though any desired destination is at least an hour or more removed from where ever you happen to be at the moment. One in our party suggested that Wisconsin commuting deserved its own unique denomination in length, a unit he dubbed "Badger Miles." For instance, in the unlikely event that your next stop was thirty minutes from your current location, you could express the distance as "half a Badger Mile."

Our arrival in Black River Falls was an occasion of much relief and much rejoicing. There was much relief because we were weary and saddle-sore from our drive and there was much rejoicing because none of us had seen the groom-to-be in quite some number of months and the reunion was momentous. Later that evening our contingency met up with some of the groom's local acquaintances and we celebrated in quiet fashion at Black River's own "Laura's Brickhouse" where I consumed a half-gallon of some of the finest onion rings I had ever tasted. Nothing else happened that night worth mentioning.

The next morning I awoke to find myself a year older and I was gifted with a cappuccino and an ice cream cone for my trouble.

Click to Read About My Grand Pizza Adventure

Having more of a utilitarian as opposed to ceremonial role in the upcoming wedding service, I was not troubled to attend the rehearsal that afternoon. Instead, I was charged with the responsibility of fetching one dozen pies from a pizzeria in the charming community of Sparta and from there transporting them to the beautiful Norskedalen Nature and Heritage Center for the rehearsal dinner. It was about one and a half Badger Miles total. At this point it is worth mentioning that certain anecdotes from my past had been gleefully bandied about for the past few days and my reliability concerning such tasks had been (somewhat) jokingly called into question. Despite my assurances that the pizzas would arrive on time and without incident, the groom nervously and meticulously impressed upon me the extreme importance of my mission, using the expression "time sensitive effort" at least two or three times.

Feeling equal parts empowered and patronized, I elected to leave half an hour earlier than my suggested departure time, so as to be well on the safe side of things in the event of unforeseen delays. My first unforeseen delay arrived when I found myself unable to turn the key in the ignition of the designated pizza-fetching vehicle. Unwilling to give my compatriots the satisfaction of knowing how soon I hit my first snag, I struggled for no fewer than fifteen minutes to manipulate the key into a quarter turn, but to no avail. Discouraged and defeated, I called the groom (whom I knew to be in rehearsal at the time) and asked if there was any special trick to starting the car. Incredulous, he asked, "Did you jiggle the steering column?" as though it was the most obvious solution in the world. Sure enough, as I adjusted the angle of the wheel I felt the key turn freely in the ignition and the car roared to life. Embarrassingly, I found out later that night that adjusting the steering wheel in fact is a rather commonly known antidote to a jammed ignition.

Despite my false start off the blocks, I felt my mission was on a good track; the vehicle was running nicely, I had the comforting tenor of the GPS lady giving me turn by turn directions, and I was still fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. As anyone could have predicted, I arrived at Angelini's Pizzaria well in advance of the appointed time and I was feeling cautiously optimistic about the success of my efforts. I strolled confidently into the quaint pizzeria and was greeted by a ghostly-looking host named Sam who inquired as to whether I desired a table or a booth and I informed him that I was there to collect a to-go order under the name of Cohen. Sam recoiled as though I had inadvertently said something inappropriate and hollowly echoed, "Cohen?" He glided behind the bar and furrowed his brow as he examined what I assume was the registry of to-go orders and responded, "It wouldn't have been ordered under Loramé, would it?" I told him that I highly doubted it and he responded by rattling off three or four more names, none of which were Cohen and all of which had a slightly Tolkein-esque ring about them. I smiled and informed him that I was a bit early and that perhaps the order had not yet been placed. This notion seemed to be utterly befuddling to Sam and he contorted his visage into a disquieting amalgamation of confusion and distrust as I walked out the door and purposed to give myself a brief tour of Sparta.

Some twenty minutes later, I made my way back to Angelini's and was again greeted by the apparitional Sam who again asked if I required a booth or a table. I smiled weakly and again posited that I was there to pick up a to-go order under the name of Cohen and my response was again met with a bizarre mixture of surprise and mild offense. "Cohen?" Sam echoed again as he proceeded to recount his registry of patrons from Middle-earth. I apologized and said that perhaps I was mistaken to believe that the pizzas would be held under the name Cohen. I gestured with my cell phone as though to assure Sam that all was about to be made clear. Loath as I was to again trouble the groom with another one of my incidents, I decided it would be better to be a mild annoyance in the now than an utter failure in the future, so I called ahead. Not surprisingly, my call went unanswered and so I sent a simple text message asking under what name the pizzas were being held and just a few minutes later I received a one-word text message that simply read, "Dace."

Looking back, it seems strange to me now that despite the fact that I had twice been read the registry and knew for a fact that "Dace" was nowhere to be found, having official confirmation from the groom filled me with confidence. So for the third time in about half an hour I strolled into Angelini's and was greeted by Sam who, though he had seen me no more than five minutes prior, again asked if I required a booth or table. It seemed to me that this sort of absent-mindedness would have been more understandable had Angelini's been undergoing some kind of dinner-time blitz, but other than two surly characters hunched silently over the bar, there was no one else in the room but me. Undaunted, I simply informed Sam that I was there to pick up a to-go order under the name Dace. Sam's predictable nonplussed reaction instantly drained me of all of my misplaced self-confidence and replaced it with abject panic. Once again I fled the restaurant and called the groom for direction. An unfamiliar voice answered and claimed to be the groom's future brother-in-law. I explained my situation to the brother-in-law and without missing a beat he responded, "Is Tony there?" as though I should have even the slightest clue who that might be. Incredibly, I responded, "I'll find out" and I ducked back into Angelini's. Using logic that now escapes me, I selected one of the men hunched over the bar and asked meekly, "Are you Tony?" He smiled frighteningly, extended his immense bear-paw of a hand and said in a thick Chicago accent, "Yeah, how you doin'?" Rather than addressing his question, I began wagging my phone wildly as I managed to stammer the phrase "rehearsal dinner."  This apparently had been the secret pass phrase the whole time because Tony instantly grabbed my phone from me, turned to Sam and demanded, "Why didn't you give this guy his pizzas!?" Sam turned an even deathlier shade of pale gray, mumbled something that sounded vaguely apologetic, and disappeared into the back room.

At this point Tony ushered me out the front door and asked where my car was and I respectfully gestured down the street. Unimpressed, Tony remarked, "What, are you f______ stupid? Why'd you park three f______ miles away?" I halfheartedly responded with some mild witticism which prompted further bluster from Tony who then instructed me to pull around in the alley behind the restaurant. "It's a like a little street that runs behind the buildings" he crowed, apparently believing that the concept of an alley was a little bit beyond my reach without further explanation. Not wishing to belabor the point, I rushed to my car and endeavored to do as I was told, only to find that it was slightly more difficult to distinguish Angelini's from all the other shops in the strip when viewed from the alley. I drove to what I believed to be Angelini's rear exit and waited. And waited. I suppose there's no way to be sure exactly how long I would have waited had Tony's ponderous bulk not consumed my rear mirror and subtly indicated to me that I had once again driven too far. I promptly drove in reverse to the proper location, collected the pizzas, and received further admonition from Tony regarding my command of spacial awareness. Now only slightly behind schedule, the GPS lady and I put the stressful account of Sparta behind us and chased after the setting Wisconsin sun, arriving at Norskedalen a paltry five minutes late.

The Norskedalen Nature and Heritage Center is a relentlessly attractive piece of land nestled in the forested headlands of Wisconsin's own Coon valley and like all Wisconsinite attractions, it is miles and miles from anywhere. Since the setup and rehearsal had long since been completed, there was not much further call to remain at Noskedalen and so after what felt like an especially brief visit, it was time to embark on the winding journey home.

Once safely back in Black River Falls, Maker's Mark.

August 18th showed itself to be a crisp, blue day; a fine day to get hitched, probably. I noted that the groom's speech pattern turned to a tighter, neater sort of cadence, reflecting the purposeful focus of his state of mind. Attempts at humor did not fail to elicit laughter from him, but it seemed to be more of a procedural observation than an organic response. Clearly, he was in business mode. His efficient manner continued well through our return to Norskedalen and up until I was dismissed to guide the arriving guests to their designated parking spots. I am not certain if or when his mental posture ever relaxed, but I do know that the ceremony itself sailed by without a hitch for the most part.

Adding to the unique flavor of the atmosphere, the couple decided to forgo dancing in favor of lawn games such as bocce ball and croquet and I was actually somewhat surprised at how natural the substitution felt in the context of the "summertime in the country" ambiance they had so carefully crafted. Speaking of ambiance, after the sun had set, the happy couple had departed, and the decorations had all been torn down, those brave few of us who remained were treated to an astonishing display of God's stelliform masterpiece: the unpolluted Wisconsin night sky. Being miles away from everything has its perks, of course, but being miles away from everything on a clear night is special. Unfortunately my compatriots and I did not get to dwell on the astral splendor of the firmament for an extended period of time but in that moment it occurred to me that I had never seen so many stars at once.

Then I came back to Indiana, which can be beautiful too, though admittedly not the same kind of beautiful as Wisconsin.

I went to a wedding on the 11th of August also. The most notable thing about that was that the ceremony was in the church I attended while in undergrad.

Jonny Wilkinson was one-hundred percent from the field in Toulon's season opener.

The last day of summer 2012 is coming soon.

-Ryan