LV!
or
Another Carload of Bad Catholics Careening Through Wisconsin
When Rick and I were planning our wedding, late in 1977, my most important aim was to be a June bride, to synchronize the banquet hall and church. As with so many brides with whom I speak these days, the banquet hall was the big obstacle. [This could explain why, when talking with brides who so obviously want to wed in our parish because of its beauty and proximity to posh accomodations, I vacillate between a sentimental sympathy and an urge to grab them by the throat and scream, “Get a life. If you consider this a crisis, then marriage is going to be a real surprise.”] Friday, June 30 was the appointed day. At the time, it seemed like we would have a lifetime of midsummer party bliss. Anniversary, Rick’s Birthday, My parents’ anniversary plus Rick’s brother’s birthday all culminating in the Fourth of July.

Yeah, we’ve had some long holiday week-ends. And for our thirtieth. Well, it was special...

Last Sunday, Rick took the St. Is Foundation box truck into the city to help Em and Big Ed move on to their “real” life near Racine, WI. After some irritations, misunderstandings and multiple unanswered cell phone calls I gathered Martha and the boys to take the train into the city to help load.
Not a bad trek, considering the train was packed with families heading into Taste of Chicago and the boys have limited patience with impatient children who lose patience on train rides longer than those on the little train that circles the lake at Lambs Farm.

(May I recommend Can You Name Them All? - a deck of quiz cards that helps to pass the time and facilitate conversation. Very useful in the absence of the high tension altercation that broke up the boredom of our last train ride. Having previously witnessed a calling out and potential shanking, I thought it would less egregious to open up disputed answers to the car at large. My companions felt otherwise, so we kept it in the family.)

The truck loading was a rather quick affair. There were no appliances to move. No dripping washer, no bulky refrigerator, no 500 pound stove.
Easy.

Monday was our low-key anniversary. Although it dawned on me that it was sort of a “golden” anniversary, you know thirty on the thirthieth. I really should have dredged up the left over edible gold dust from Chuck’s birthday. Oh, well.

On the way to drop me at work, Rick was suddenly seized with the realization that he was about to turn 55. Reassurances that this was the normal thing that happens to those who are about to embark upon their 56th year helped, I think. But these reassurances would be undone when we went to Culver’s for a celebratory ice cream cone. My dejected spouse, not yet officially 55, returned to our table and announced that he had been given the senior citizen discount. The dejection was salved by saving a dollar.

Tuesday was going to be the big day. Em needed everyone’s help moving and offered to combine a complimentary work meal with a birthday party. Fran and Bridget, not yet ever having negotiated a lease, could not understand why their father’s birthday celebration had been subsumed into a moving party. I was forced to explain that this was not some sort of a scam, merely an oversight on the part of their grandparents, having conceived a child (two actually, counting Uncle Keith of the July 2 birthday) whose birthday would coincide with moving days.

The chalk markers that Martha brought home from the toy store have led to a new tradition of birthday tributes scribbled on the kitchen window. Our pater familias received a Roman numeral tribute; LV having more gravitas but less taint of doom than 55.

I toyed with the idea of bringing the camera along on the trip up to Racine. I wish I had. I also wish I had grabbed someone’s camera-phone a few times. Just to preserve some of the fun for posterity.

Chuck and Rick took the well appointed, air-condtioned box truck with the top of the line sound system. Martha, Bridget, Fran, Eddie and I took the mini-van with 270,000 miles. Under so-called ‘normal conditions’ I would not drive it outside of a radius of about ten miles. But for my baby, well, just this once it would make it over the state line and back. It wasn’t until right before we left that I realized that Em and Ed were much farther north than I had originally envisioned. But we were commited and like the Light Brigade it was Forward. Forward. Like Wisconsin’s motto.

“This reminds me of Little Miss Sunshine.”
So now every family trip reminds us Little Miss Sunshine. Who am I to argue with nicotine addicted disgruntled riders stuck in the back of mini-van without opening windows? And their long-suffering brother? There was a lot of kvetching going on.

The fun didn’t really start until we were stuck in traffic on Hwy. 41 and the van started to overheat. We cut the AC and I was praying very hard that we could inch along successfully until the next intersection. Once we were moving on a perpendicular route and could go at least 20 miles an hour, the thermostat came down. We were able to turn the AC on intermittently. usually when the wailing from the back became unbearable. To cast this all in an optimistic light, I must express my surprise at the good mileage we were getting.

Someone heard church bells ringing when we were stopped at an intersection. I invited any interested parties to join me in the Angelus. The response was about what I expected. Eddie’s a sport when it’s time for the Angelus, but the girls... I should have tried harder with the girls. (Over a lifetime. Not in the car. I wasn’t about to invite a mutiny.) All I can quote here (bowdlerized and paraphrased) is Bridget’s plea that we just pray that we get there.

Get there we did. A close call. More screaming. But we still beat the truck. That gave us time to scope out the new apartment. Calm our nerves. Soothe the traumatized Murphy the cat. And the horrified Martha who noticed that Em’s new closet is about one foot longer and wider than her bedroom.

Thirty years of marriage gives one the gift of knowing when one’s spouse is joking. Usually. Rick and Chuck walked into the apartment, with Chuck gasping. Rick said, “I forgot the key (for the padlock).” That seemed like a typical Rick joke. And all I could understand from Chuck was, “no - really!” We were in another state, about 45-60 minutes from home and THE KEY WAS ON A HOOK BY THE FRONT DOOR. Then came the usual recriminations. “I forgot I took it off the key chain.” “I would have reminded you if I knew it was on the hook.”
And so on.

Ed had a bolt cutter. In the truck.
Em decided to run back to Lake Bluff (new car, AC, windows, the works) and Bridget, to whom I had promised that we would be back by about nine, played her IBS plus “I really need to get back to the place where I’m housesitting” card. Em was back in about an hour and a half. IBS not withstanding, Bridget convinced her to stop at Rocky Rococo. And Ed called to suggest that she stop at his mother’s house to fetch some speakers.

This was the cataplexy point.
No furniture. No cable. PlayStation in the truck. Books in the truck.
Everything in the truck.
Chuck and Eddie sharing a magazine.
I decided to get up off the floor and check out the guest bathroom again - more out of boredom than anything else - and I started laughing in typical Smith family fashion. Hardly breathing, weak, rubbery muscled. Martha and Fran followed.
Refreshing.

The move itself was anticlimactic. The boys were needed for a few big pieces of furniture, but basically we just helped drag stuff off the truck and into the garage. Fran brought her usual hyper-organizational skills to the mission and it was fast. Like I said, no appliances is a good thing.

Pizza was the original birthday dinner plan, but we had all gone to Lou Malnatti’s on the way out of the city on Sunday night, so we voted on something else. Popeye’s Chicken won. Feeling relieved, reenergized and beneficent I couldn’t argue with anyone. I allowed - maybe even encouraged - Chuck to do his dramatic interpretation of Grandpa’s chicken soliloquy from Little Miss Sunshine.

Em consulted her GPS oracle thing and decided that we should just go to Popeye’s since it appeared to be close and then we could have a civilized sit-down casual finger lickin’ dinner. We left the truck and took two cars.
I traveled with Ed, newly licensed in Wisconsin having cleared up the little bench warrant misunderstanding from my sister’s wedding, following Em as she let the ‘device’ take us to Popeye’s.

It was...much more urban, indeed vibrant, than we had anticipated, being just 48 hours away from living on the near west side of Chicago. How shall I say this? We, I fear, were the people bringing the vibrancy to the neighborhood. The chicken took so long, it was so close to closing time and we felt so North Shore-white-L.L. Bean wearing-quilted handbag toting out of place that we decided to dine back at the apartment. This was not such a good place to goof around signing Dad’s age in Roman numerals.

My next cateplectic moment came on leaving Popeye’s. Right in front of the entrance was an aged puke blue/green Chrysler mini-van. My thought? It followed us... I was doubled over with laughing/gasping as the family prodded me to just pick a car and get into it.

The rest of the evening was typical family birthday party nice. Maybe the first time I had to help put legs on a table as part of setting it, but typical nonetheless. Then we hit the road. I had offered to drive home. Which might not have been the best idea, but I wanted a slower, cooler, calmer trip home. Hwy. 41 was down to one lane each way and there was night work going on so the trip was slow. So slow. But no Little Miss Sunshine quotes by this time. Just me snapping, “I have a headache - I can’t take the Led Zep now...”

It’s unusual for me to ever get home at 1:30 in the morning. My eyes were stilled crossed the next day. I had to go to the sacristy and tally the altar server robes, ivory versus white. What a headache. I don’t have the resilience that I used to.

I was going to use the long week-end to get caught up around the house.
But Em, Big Ed and Martha twisted my arm and I’m leaving with them tomorrow to drive up northeast of the Twin Cities to visit my sister.
I haven’t seen her since we were up north for the Halloween party.
We can hope there is no appendicitis this time.

On (back to) Wisconsin.
Forward.