Good way to spend a Wedding Day

Dad and Linda were supposed to be married on Put-in-Bay in front of their families on July 11. Instead on that day, Dad, Linda and I headed west from Madison to the Mississippi River. (With Captain Bill around, it's nice to be in Wisconsin, bordered by two lakes and the Mississippi. You can always find a sea to sail.)

The drive to Prairie du Chien was scenic. Spotted with cows, green hillsides reflected sun on a storybook summer day. Small farms and silos, windmills, garden stands. The horizon shifted as we climbed and descended the Driftless Area bumps; the glacier's icy fingers didn't reach down this far to flatten the landscape. In the blink of an eye, we passed through tiny towns like Edmund, Montfort, Fennimore and Mount Ida. The thorn in this rosy picture was that I was driving Dad's Spec B Subaru, not him. Linda was co-pilot, which means Dad sat in the back, one of the few times in his driving life. I kept glancing back at him in the rearview mirror. Seemingly content, Dad napped, looked out at the scenery and commented about the Spec B's comfortable seating. But it made me sad to see the ultimate auto man in the back seat. Times have changed.

After about 90 miles, we reached our destination and lunched at a cute grill. Dad and I wisely chose the French onion soup with a salad; Dad then ate part of Linda's salad and wanted to order dessert, but we convinced him to wait for treats later. We had a boat to catch. Before we boarded the vessel, we wanted to spend some time at Villa Louis, a Victorian country estate restored to its former glory on St. Feriole Island, just north of the confluence of the Mississippi and Wisconsin rivers. As he always had, Dad absorbed history of this place like a sponge. Heather reminds us that when he'd visit her in D.C., Dad would spend hours upon hours in Smithsonian museums without tiring.

We boarded the River Explorer at 2 p.m. For two hours we traveled up and down the Mississippi. I didn't realize this, but as our guide explained, the Upper Mississippi River snakes around islands and twists through tributaries like a rope. It may be three miles wide bank to bank, but at any given place it looks like it could be the smaller Wisconsin River. Apparently the Lower Mississippi waters move on a grander scale.


We passed recreational boaters, barges and jet skis on our way to some backwaters where we were greeted by what we'd hope to see: eagles. Dad's a nature freak, so he didn't have trouble, with binoculars in hand, spotting the first eagle's nest high in a tree on the left bank. Near the nest sat a young eagle, her head still full of brown feathers, not the token white. Further up the river we saw more and more -- pairs fishing together, another nest. We also spotted great blue herons and even a kingfisher. But the eagles stole the show. While Dad quietly admired them, I couldn't stop watching him and feeling so happy he had this experience.


You'd think Dad would have been exhausted at 4 p.m., after our long boat ride and a morning on tour. But, no, he wanted to explore the encampment of re-enactors on St. Feriole island. They were gearing up to recreate a battle that took place at that very spot in the War of 1812. Dad, Linda and I walked from tent to tent to see the British and American soldiers and Native Americans.

At one tent, a man dressed in Native garb with painted face was bending over a fire cooking what looked to be peppers and onions in a clay pot. He greeted us with an Indian phrase and Dad started asking questions. He was portraying a Meskawki, or Fox, Indian from Wisconsin. He told us about the bravery and fierceness of the Fox Tribe. We walked under his tent to see the clay pots he made in traditional Fox fashion. Dad showed sincere interest and listened with respect, then Dad told this man about why he was in Wisconsin and about his own bravery in fighting cancer. The Meskwaki then pulled out his tobacco pouch: "Hold out your left hand." He sprinkled tobacco in Dad's palm and said he offered this in respect to Dad, in honor of him and to wish him well in his battle. He said we could take the tobacco home or offer it up as a prayer.

Dad chose to pray. We stepped over to a large oak tree and Dad let go of the tobacco. His prayer was for the man portraying the Indian, that he may continue to carry on the tribe's traditions. My prayer, through repressed tears, was for Dad to be cured.


We left the Mississippi and I drove us back through the rolling hills in front of a pink sunset. We were all pretty quiet, Dad napping, before a stop at Mt. Horeb for some chow and local brews at the Grumpy Troll. Then home.

So, Linda and Bill didn't get their marriage in a little white church on an island. We didn't get to bring the cousins together on Put-in-Bay to walk down the aisle in sailor dresses. There was no party at Valley Harbor Marina with music and dancing and a clan of family/friends and boat rides. But on July 11, Dad and Linda floated down the Mississippi River and Dad got an Indian blessing. The best laid plans often go astray, but we've made the most of what we've been given.