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Going Home and Returning Home

Once a year I make a pilgrimage to the farm and small town where I grew up in Wisconsin. The old adage that you can never go home is true in some respects but there are enough remnants to jog memories both pleasant and those not so. I try to concentrate on the pleasant ones—–

The small town always puts on a parade and a festival on the old school grounds featuring a dunk tank, ring toss, fishing pond (where little kids dangle a fishing pole line over a curtain and in return they get a small prize, ball games starting with Little League and going up to adults, a band with dancing, volleyball games, horseshoes and the not to be missed brats and a slice of homemade pie. The week before the Fourth, a note is put on the door of every household reminding them of the need to provide a pie or two. The proceeds from sales of the food goes toward funding the next year’s events which always features spectacular fireworks. I’m not sure if I am proud or embarrassed to say that one of my high school classmates is in charge of the fireworks—-and it was not a surprise to learn that he was.

This year’s parade was smaller than previous years–but still fun. A steam tractor was there this year–something new.

I’ve got quite a few photos on my smugmug account–lots of the parade watchers–which I admit I need to edit.

coming up will be the raspberry patch and Apostle Islands.


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