I returned from my Wisconsin visit to family and friends very early last Sunday morning after a too-long layover in Orlando (consider the carbon footprint of getting from Milwaukee to Manchester NH via Orlando!) and a flight delayed by thunderstorms up and down the east coast.  When I woke later that morning and parted the bedroom curtains to peer out on the deck below, I found our resident groundhog sitting in my Adirondack chair enjoying the view, lacking only a cigar to complete the anthropomorphic vision of nature reclaiming her own.  I’d been gone only a week, but clearly the groundhog had already staked his proprietary claim.

I was congratulating myself on once again successfully negotiating the challenges of solo travel, making only minor mistakes. Mistake #1: I lost a corkscrew to TSA at the Milwaukee airport, having forgotten I had zipped it into one of my Baggallini’s pockets as a possible necessity for the previous Thursday’s pre-theatre picnic at the American Players Theatre in Spring Green.  Rendered superfluous by a screw-top, this potential weapon unfortunately remained in my purse, and proved hard to find:  it took three passes through the x-ray machine and two agents to locate exactly in which of the bag’s many pockets it was hiding.  (Unsurprising, since I have had similar issues with this designated travel purse.)  Mistake #2:   I temporarily confused the Madison parking garage ticket in my wallet with the Manchester parking garage ticket; at that point, I’d been traveling for fourteen hours and it was 1 AM, so I give myself a pass on that one, too.  It wasn’t till the next day when I read the emailed Dollar rental car receipt that I spied the more expensive error:  I’d forgotten to gas up the Nissan before I returned it, a pricey error at $10.66/gallon.  Oops.  Well, it’s only money.

All in all, I grant myself a passing grade—an evaluative process I never thought necessary before I turned 70.  Now, I’m constantly assessing slippage, both cognitive and physical (and the combination of both, as in paying no attention while walking downstairs wearing clogs and carrying a laundry basket, mistaking the penultimate for the ultimate step and consequently breaking an ankle).  The takeaway:  I won’t make THAT (fill in most recent) mistake again.

On my last year’s visit to Reed and Jan in Portage WI I’d not rented a car, but relied instead on the largesse of my nephew Rob’s driving service.  Maybe because I chatting more than observing last year, I was at the time less impressed by the expansive beauty of Wisconsin’s farmland, so very different from New Hampshire vistas narrowed by road-encroaching forests.

A year’s passing did not, however, lessen my in-laws’ generous hospitality:  Reed and Jan’s welcome was warm as ever, and visiting niece and nephew Pam and Rob made conditions ripe for family stories and a wealth of dad jokes, one of Reed’s specialties.  I was happy to have one to contribute:  the Wisconsin license plate slogan that didn’t make it to the plate:  “Smell My Dairy Air.”

Staying in someone’s home for three days (testing the Ben Franklin-suggested limit comparing fish with guests) means 24/7 proximity that can, in odd moments, produce surprising results.  On this visit I was particularly aware of tech-enhanced connections; we were all often on our devices, and just as often sharing what we found there.

Rob, entertaining us with top ten pop hits from 1967 played on his phone, inspired me to (shamelessly) sing along, rather amazing myself that I effortlessly remembered the words to every single song, definitely revealing my vintage. Best of all, nephew Rob and his nephew in New Zealand, Rudyard, respectively turned 56 and 38 at the same time—despite their birthdays being one day apart. Thank you, international date line.

The magic of a video call linking time zones meant that I could also sing happy birthday to my great nephew in New Zealand—and realize that I was, in fact, Great Aunt Georgy.  How august! (And how reminiscent of Aunt Augusta, Lady Bracknell of Wilde’s inimitable Importance of Being Earnest).  That group chat was great fun.  Cleaning up dishes with sister-in-law Jan and niece Pam introduced me to the wonders of Norwex cleaning cloths, and all the family persuaded me, decidedly NOT a card player, to learn and enjoy a couple games of Sequence.  We made a pilgrimage to the Sassy Cow for signature tomato soup, grilled cheese, and ice cream.

Jan’s flowers delighted, . . .

. . . the Sandhill cranes made their customarily terrifying Velociraptor calls,

. . . and I got a ride in Rob’s hot Mustang—as well as an inscribed copy of his book, A Life of Service to the United States of America, an oral history of his foreign service assignments in Mexico, Russia, Costa Rica, and Sweden.

I first met Rob in London in 1991 when he was on leave from his combat tour in the Gulf War, and since his retirement from diplomatic service, he’s been teaching foreign policy at the University of Oklahoma.  Getting a briefing from Rob on China, Russia, and the war in Ukraine over breakfast with the family made my last morning in Portage especially memorable.  I was happy to hear Rob’s take on Volodymyr Zelenskyy:  “A cross between George Washington and Winston Churchill.” 

Well loved and well fed, I departed Portage and set out for Spring Green, a reunion with dear friends from my days at Centre College, the American Players Theatre, and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin East. More adventures to come!