North, and then Home

We headed up to Wisconsin on Thursday to visit with Karl's family. Growing up, his grandmother had a tree farm an hour west of Green Bay, and when she passed, it was divided between her three sons. Karl's dad now stays young tending to various duties on the property - not the trees as much as the golf course he made out of one of the cleared fields, and the collection of vehicles around the place, not to mention the farmhouse itself.



It's always bittersweet to visit. Karl loved the farm, and always dreamed of moving up there when his parents were gone. Our visits there before and after we were married were full of good times and happy memories. The year we went up for Thanksgiving and the whole property was blanketed in snow, Karl wanted me to go walk with him, but as soon as I stepped outside my eyes froze shut and I'm pretty sure a lung collapsed in the sub-zero wind chill. That pretty much killed his dream of moving to the farm, but not his love of it.

I was sitting in the kitchen with Donna. Elliot was napping, and Harley and Phil were out working on the RV. As she puttered in the kitchen I sat at the table knitting and listening to her whistle under her breath - not constantly, but as she paused between motions, deciding on the next job to do. After a few minutes listening, I said, "So that's where Karl got the whistling. It used to drive me crazy sometimes." There were times when I thought that was the only reason he did it, really.

She seemed a little off guard, and her eyes got a little misty. "I don't know why I do it. I started sometime when I was a little girl, I guess. I always teased Harley that I'd get him whistling, yet."

After a pause, "It's hard, isn't it? Missing him?"

I agreed, and that was that. I went back to my knitting, and she to her housework.

Some highlights of the visit, in no particular order:


Elliot helped Grandma pick up sticks out in the yard. One of Karl's favorite photos as a child was of him and his Grandma K out in the same yard working on the same task, but the trees were smaller then.


While Harley was servicing his new (used) riding mower, Phil and I tool Elliot out on the golf cart and he hit his first few balls. Not exactly skillfully but with enthusiasm. Like father, like son.


Thursday night, as Harley read from Luther's something or the other, (I am not well versed in the verses of the Lutherans...) Elliot sat on my lap. I was wearing Karl's "Mini Van, Mega Fun" tee shirt as my pajamas, and he was looking at the line drawing of the van. Then he was distracted by the shapes underneath. He began to rub my chest, and rather embarrassingly clearly, said "I love you, boob."

In church Saturday night (we were leaving early Sunday) Elliot loudly denied everything the minister was preaching. I may have waited longer than was strictly necessary before removing him from Jesus' room.

Watching Phil play with Elliot, I almost had to wonder if I could have survived Karl's inevitable wildness... Besides looking enough like Karl that it's sometimes creepy, Phil has the same goofy sense of humor and childlike enthusiasm. Easy to be transported into the world of "if only..."

All in all we had an excellent trip, and can't wait to go back. El, in fact, woke up this morning crying, "No. No. I don't want to be home. Let's go back, Mommy. Please, let's go back..."