The North Remembers

Newsletter 2024-06-16

A few times a year, I escape Indiana. The border guards aren’t doing their job. The surrounding states should really band together and dig a moat. This weekend was one of those forays into the wider world. My family and I went to visit my college friends, Rocco and Phoebe, in Wisconsin. They have a boat, which is the cornerstone of any lasting friendship. I love getting my kids out on the waves, which is an experience they’d never have at home. In central Indiana, the largest body of water is a shower. In return, my children complain the entire time. It’s how they let me know I’m alive. If they’re ever happy with something, I’ll know I’ve died and gone to heaven. During this trip, the girls were especially dedicated to confirming I was still here on earth. The Elysian Fields will have to wait for another year.

Our 2024 Wisconsin trip had a few more logistical hurdles than usual. As you might have heard, I recently picked up another pig. I think I mentioned that in passing somewhere. I had originally planned to do the pig rescue after we got back from Wisconsin, but after seeing the animal’s situation, I moved up the recovery operation. On top of that, the pig had an actual operation. Onyx got fixed Wednesday, and we left Thursday. Because pigs are jerks and attack each other’s weaknesses, we had to separate Onyx and his fresh stitches from the other two pigs. We locked him in a section of the yard that didn’t have access to our house. We had his original owner come by and check on him and our other pets while we were gone. Even though Onyx was fresh off surgery, the pet we were the most concerned about was our dog, Niko. He’s sixteen. At any given moment, a stiff breeze could turn his bones to dust. In addition to having someone check on him, I set up a camera so I could keep an eye on him at all times. Not that seeing him would stop him from dying of old age. Maybe the grim reaper is camera shy. I might have discovered the key to immortality. To the surprise of no one, Niko survived our absence. He remains on course to outlive us all. I expect him to give a stirring eulogy at my funeral.

We got a late start on our way out of town. We had to wait for Lola to get off work. That left me in charge of packing. I can’t claim I was efficient, but I did manage to fit half the contents of our house into the back of the van. Next time, I’ll hire movers so we can take the rest of it. The drive should have taken five and half hours but got bumped up to six thanks to a little place called Chicago. It has interstates that look like they’re for driving but are actually for parking and staring at each other. Congestion was so bad that, for the first time ever, Google Maps redirected us to two-lane country roads that let us skip half the city. Getting stuck behind a horse and buggy was still faster than the Great Chicago Parking Lot.

When I finally rejoined Chicago roads, some unknown vehicle tossed a rock and cracked my windshield. My insurance guy warned me recently that if I make another claim, they might drop me. I’ve had three claims: Hail hit my parked van, another driver hit my parked van, and my windshield cracked on a cold morning due to a manufacturing defect. Clearly I’m a sketchy motorist and should be punished accordingly. If I were a more defensive driver, I would have done a barrel roll to dodge the rock. I’m now faced with a no-win situation. Without insurance, it costs two thousand to replace the windshield thanks to all the advanced lane sensors that have to be recalibrated. With insurance, it would be five hundred dollars, but I might lose my coverage altogether. Or I could go with option three and live with the crack. I could use a do-it-yourself glass repair kit to stop it from spreading, even if that won’t get rid of the damage. Leaving the shatter mark could make my van look tough and give me street cred. A guy with a windshield like that has nothing left to lose. The next time I drive through Chicago, I expect traffic to part like the Red Sea. I’ll make it to Wisconsin in four hours flat.

Although the trip was longer than usual, it seemed shorter thanks to a good book. We listened to The Hunger Games, which held my girls’ attention. More importantly, it stopped them from talking to each other. In a moving vehicle, all words lead to fighting. We arrived at Rocco and Phoebe’s house at 9:30 p.m.. Rocco was in bed with a migraine—our impending arrival has that effect on people—but Phoebe stayed up for us, which was a rare treat. Usually her bedtime is 8 p.m. sharp. I say that as a compliment, not an insult. The best part of getting older is that you don’t have to make excuses for being tired. You can go to bed as early as you want simply because being alive is exhausting. We stayed up for a bit talking and then went to bed, too. The weekend was off to a strong start.

That left us with two full days for the water. Friday, we went out on Lake Winnebago, which is a few acres short of being an inland sea. We crossed half the state on water to reach a sandbar in front of a restaurant. We dropped anchor in waist-deep water and put out a foam lily pad for the kids to splash around on. That was my children’s cue to start whining. My ten-year-old, Lucy, and eight-year-old, Waffle, begged to take off their life jackets. I refused. You never know when a rogue trout might latch on and drag them into deeper water. Ever the good sisters, my older two girls were delighted by their younger siblings’ distress. Betsy and Mae said the rule I made last year was that you could only take off your life jacket if you passed your scout swim test. I didn’t remember saying that, but it sounded wise. I love it when my kids quote me back to me. Lucy eventually adjusted to the burden of wearing a lifejacket, but Waffle pouted the entire time. How dare I make it harder for her to accidentally die? I truly am the worst.

The grumpy kids didn’t ruin the afternoon for the adults. Ignoring the complaints of children is our specialty. Lola and I divided up the days. Friday was her turn to drive the van back to Rocco and Phoebe’s house, which meant I could enjoy beers, plural. I had somewhere between two and infinity. It was fun but exhausting. It wasn’t just the alcohol. It was standing in the sun, or maybe just standing. My ideal situation is to be sitting in a chair in a cave. We went back to Rocco and Phoebe’s house around dinner time. I sat at the kitchen island and could barely keep my eyes open. I said I was going to lay down for a few minutes to rally. Everyone doubted me. Everyone was right. I was asleep for the night before 8 p.m.. That’s the right way to party in your late thirties.

Saturday was our water sports day. Rocco and Phoebe took their boat on the river. Our combined seven kids took turns knee boarding and tubing, with their oldest also doing some wakeboarding at the end. This time, Waffle didn’t complain about the life jacket. Even she could see that getting dragged behind a boat without a flotation device might be a bad idea. We went up and down a stretch of river, eating our body weight in junk food. Boats are basically just expensive snack caddies. After a few hours, it started to rain, and we abandoned the river. We went back to Rocco and Phoebe’s house to eat some more. Following a series of staggered showers and naps, we were all finally awake and clean enough to have some real fun. I might not own a twenty-foot boat, but I do have a lot of five-dollar card games. I’m definitely not pulling my weight in this friendship.

Our first game was The Mind, which is always a hit. There’s a deck of cards numbered one to a hundred. Everyone starts out with one card, and you try to lay them down in order without talking to each other. If you get it right, then everyone starts the next round with two cards, and so on. It fits the most important criteria for a fun party game: It’s simple, and it lets us yell at each other. The latter might seem to be at odds with the no talking part, but I assure you shouting is absolutely necessary after someone screws up. The game is supposed to be limited to four players, but really you can go with any number. I refuse to be bound by the rule book. I’m a rebel to the core. The kids played that one with us for a while until Phoebe took them to a local ice cream place. In Wisconsin, the standard portion size is a five gallon bucket. It really is the greatest place on earth.

None of the kids could finish their ice cream, which was the most disappointing part of the trip. I’m raising quitters. We sent the kids away to play in the finished basement. I said they could stay up as late as their hearts desired. I wanted them to sleep in the car the next day. I know better than to transport well-rested children. The adults switched to another card game, Aggretsuko, which is like poker with extra steps. We played until it was time for the adults to go to bed as well, which this time was far later than 8:00 p.m.. Not that any of us looked at a clock to verify that. For all I know, our final wild night of partying ended at 7:30.

We drove home Sunday. Our return trip included one eventful detour. I stopped at Second Flight Books in Lafayette, Indiana, to sign copies of The Gods of Spenser Island. They should be in the mail by the time you read this. It’s always fun to sign books in front of my kids because I can pretend to be a big deal and they can continue to be as unimpressed as ever. Tuesday is the official release date. If you have your copy, tag me in a picture on social media. I’d love to share it. If you don’t have one yet, you can order it here. Second Flight Books/Main Street Books should have a few extra signed copies left. A voice actor is recording the audio book version now. I don’t have a release date for that edition, but I’ll be sure to share that info as soon as I know more. Maybe for our next Wisconsin trip, I’ll make my whole family listen to it. I can do far worse things than forcing them to wear life jackets.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time. 

James