Made it to Milwaukee Thursday night, 21 July, on a late flight from Manchester via Baltimore/Washington with only two slight catches.  One:  the parking lot in Manchester has converted to a system that does not issue tickets encoded with your entry time, but instead somehow records that info on the credit card you use to enter the structure.  Not knowing that, and fearing I would be charged the max sans ticket, I had to haul my bag down to the parking office before checking in at the Southwest counter, only to find out I actually wasn’t in trouble.  Two:  the hotel shuttle for the Sheraton at the Milwaukee airport (which is, in fact, run by Marriott), is marked neither “Sheraton” nor “Marriott,” but “Best Western.”  Happily, the woman driving it figured out I was looking for her, and picked me up anyway.

So, I made it to a comfortable hotel room, where the televised commercials were the only other things disconcerting.  I don’t know whether broadcast tv (which I no longer get) or Wisconsin (as opposed to the East Coast) is to blame, but seeing ads for Trump’s so-called “Freedom Tour” (aka “Freedom from Truth” or “Disinformation Tour”) was distressing—especially as the only other ads were political spots promoting candidates whose only mentioned qualification was endorsement by Trump, that Lying Monster of Narcissism, Defiler of the West Wing, Election Denying, Constitution Threatening, Sexual Predator.  Yikes.

But the timely arrival of my family the next morning cleansed that very bad taste in my mouth, and we enjoyed very much both service (thanks, Katie!) and cuisine at Milwaukee’s excellent brunch place, Blue’s Egg.

On the drive west to Portage, we stopped to have a fine visit in Madison with Emy, a sister-in-law I’d not seen since my brother-in-law Neil’s memorial celebration in Chico, CA in 2019, and were treated not only to a tour of Emy’s lovely home and her refreshing mint iced tea, but a chance to catch up with her daughter, Becky, and Becky’s granddaughter, Amory, who performed a dance of her own invention to “We Don’t Talk About Bruno” from Lin-Manuel Miranda’s cinematic score to Disney’s Encanto.  LOTS of energy packed into that little lassie!

From Madison, Rob drove us back to Chad and Jan’s development, Saddle Ridge, in Portage, and another lovely home—not only to them, but to a pair of sandhill cranes (+ one more hanger-on).  Deceptively small-seeming from the garage entrance, this home (like my own) rides a hill, so that the downstairs gives way to very generously proportioned guest quarters and bath as well as additional living space, and two “offices,” my retired ophthalmologist brother-in-law’s and his talented seamstress wife’s spacious sewing room, outside of which the sandhill cranes gather for the corn provided them each day, sounding uncannily like the velociraptors of Jurassic Park.

After settling in, we head to the Saddle Ridge clubhouse for a Friday night fish fry—and the unexpected heroics from my sister-in-law RN Jan, whose medical training, compassion, and grace under pressure became manifest when one of our fellow diners fainted and cracked her head on the hard floor.  Jan to the rescue; at last view of her accidental patient on the gurney being carted to the ambulance, all would soon be well.

Back at home, the two birthday boys (one turned 88 the previous week, one turning 55 the following Monday) and their brides opened their presents, books for the boys and goat’s milk skin cream for the girls, after which we all headed gratefully to our beds.  A good day.