Hauling Ass from Colorado to Wisconsin

First things first here: We actually have no idea what we’re doing moment to moment right now. We’re in the midst of a massive paperwork tangle, and while that happens every decision is on hold. What I can say for certain is that I’m continuing with this blog—and there’s no need for me to pinkie swear that it’ll stay interesting, because, hell, even I’m at the edge of my seat. I can catch you up with what we’ve been doing in anticipation of possibly moving to Madison, Wisconsin.

Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’

We were here in central Colorado when I had some kind of nomadic wigging out moment and declared that I could not go back to Texas for the winter, that this summer (what is left of it) had to be when we move to Madison.

Which is not great timing, seeing as how the spring is when houses go on the market, not mid to late summer. So, we had to haul ass while there is a market at all.

Through Nebraska

The only convenient aspects to a four-day trip across the Great Plains area is that we’d never stayed in Nebraska, plus we could visit Tracy’s family in Iowa. So, Tracy plotted out this long-haul trip with one night stays between long days of driving on completely straight county roads between corn fields.

First stop seems typical for Nebraska: not much going on, so tell a weird story. This story is Hastings, hometown of the inventor of Kool-Aid. I got all excited to hear about its fountain with colored lights set on computer-programmed jets so that it looks like Kool-Aid is spurting out. Gotta see that, right?

In reality, what a lame attraction. This is exactly what it looked like when we arrived. No colors. No synchronized jets. We walked around it looking for a button to press, but the only thing we found was the iron slot where you slip in your utilities payment to the town. I’m assuming during their Kool-Aid festival it gets colorful, maybe even on summer nights, too? But, as it was, we were standing in the heat staring at nothing, and I ended up reading at length about the time in the 1980s when someone blew the base of the fountain up, entirely. What, with dynamite?!? Entirely, the plaque said. What we were staring at is the rebuilt version. I’m not endorsing violence, but … I can see the point. What a disappointing find.

We stayed one night in a county park in western Nebraska, and one night at a brewery in eastern Nebraska, near Omaha. Now, each time we stay at a Harvest Host—in the last three years, since they have greedily expanded their AirBnB-like listings—we’ve said, “This is the last time!” But this really was the last time.

Busy parking lot lit up all night, with a note from the brewery saying something like, “We don’t own the lot, so if someone comes and tells you to move, you need to do that.” What?? You’re in a database of businesses offering a spot for us to stay the night, but you can’t actually guarantee we can stay the night. That is not how the system should work.

We stayed unmolested, but some asshat across the street set off fireworks all night long (this was the Sunday night before the weekend of the 4th). Plus, we had to keep the windows open because it was like 90 degrees with no electric hookups. So, windows open, heat pouring in, fireworks going off, bright lights shining in our faces in bed. Done. No more Harvest Hosts.

The beer at that brewery, though, I have to say, was excellent, and Banjo appreciated being out with us, as well.

Iowa to Wisconsin

On night three, we rolled into our usual campground in Cedar Falls, Iowa, Tracy’s hometown, in time to meet a couple of Tracy’s friends for beers that night, then his cousins for breakfast the next morning.

“Hey! Long time no see, Love you guys, Cheers, Gotta go.”

Final stop: a monthly/seasonal campground in Stoughton, Wisconsin, south of Madison. It’s actually a gorgeous place, a 100-year-old, former orphanage campus in the midst corn fields. It’s run a little oddly, though, which I won’t get into right now but trust me—not the good kind of odd—and we don’t know how long we’ll be able to stay. More on that later.

Madison Feels

We did make it to the local music festival for the July 4 weekend, which was pure relaxation after all those long days of straight farm roads.

Local guy (close, a Minnesotan) Charlie Parr apparently plays every single year here, and you could tell he felt more at home with this crowd than, say, in D.C. where we’ve also seen him. He actually smiled, and he played all my favorites. My goodness did that feel good to hear his lyrics and be reassured there are good guys out there, playing a fabulous blues guitar, too.

We then spent an evening feeling very welcome in Madison at our friends Doug and Laura’s house, for Doug’s birthday party with his family. Five years ago to the day we celebrated his birthday with the same extended family, and today they seem as warm, conscientious, witty, and kind as ever. I’m not declaring anything yet, but the feels are good so far.