Happy Fall

In celebration of the Autumnal Equinox, we just had fresh apples with caramel sauce for dessert. I took a bite and said to my wife, "Wow. You can just taste the vitamins and minerals and nutrients... and the apples are good for you too."

A Good Time Was Had By Al

Well, the 2015 Third Annual Illinois Walk, Run, & Roll for TMA is in the books. In a word, the day was perfect. The sun shone as brightly as the smiles on the hundreds of happy faces that turned out for the event. The canopy of blue sky above was matched by the sea of sky blue TMA T-shirts below.

Team Uncle Virge (that's me) was well represented. My wife, my two sons, my daughter-in-law, her mom, and my four breathtakingly beautiful grandchildren were there to support me. I got a big hug from my friend Liz, and we talked about last year's event that was bitterly cold and overcast, and how I was so sick from cancer chemotherapy, but I still turned out for the event. What a difference a year makes.

This year's event raised awareness and over $40,000 for research into this little known and little understood host of autoimmune disorders. All levels of this crippling disease were on display, from people using braces, canes, and walkers, to a fully motorized, tank-treaded, monster chair.

At the conclusion of the 1.5 mile walk, medallions and goody bags were handed out to the participants. We heard from the event organizers, including my friend Liz, the chairperson of the 2015 organizing committee, and a young woman with purple hair tied back in a ponytail and a silver nose-ring, in a miniature wheelchair, who happened to be a Para-Olympic gold medalist. While she spoke about training for the 2016 games in Rio de Janeiro, my grandchildren sat in the face-painter's chair, becoming even more adorable than they already are (if that's even possible).

Afterwards, we went to Teddy's Red Hots for lunch, and joked about the Bears, playing on the flat-screen TV, to hide our shame and frustration.

Below, you can see the results, as I become more familiar with my new digital camera. I still have trouble breaking the habit of putting the camera up to my eye before snapping the picture.

A good time was had by Al.

The venue

My friend Liz

The patients

Logan and Ben

Ashly and Logan

Beautiful Madison, the first face I look for

Owen, the O-Man

My precious princess Alexa

Brother and sister

The family . . .

Face painting . . .

Teddy's Red Hots

A berry good time was had by Al . . .

College Game Day Creamy Chicken & Wild Rice Soup

This is another classic comfort food recipe. We used vegetables from our local farm stand, and herbs from our garden. The stock is rich and creamy, the herbs lend a sweet and savory flavor, the wild rice is tender and nutty, and the chicken and veggies are Laurel and Hearty. (Okay, I made that one up.) Overall, a delicious, soul satisfying dish, with a wonderful, lingering aftertaste.

Ingredients:

2 boneless, skinless, chicken breasts (1.5 lb), roasted and cubed

2 cups diced celery

1 and 1/2 cups diced carrots

1 cup diced shallots

2 garlic cloves, minced

1/2 cup chopped fresh herbs (sage, thyme, parsley)

4 ounce box wild rice

4 Tablespoons butter

4 Tablespoons flour

2 teaspoons salt

5 cups chicken stock

2 cups heavy whipping cream

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. While oven is preheating, start wild rice according to package directions. Place chicken breasts on parchment lined baking sheet and lightly season with kosher salt and cracked pepper. Coat chicken lightly with vegetable cooking spray. Bake chicken for 45 minutes. Note: wild rice will take one hour or 60 minutes, whichever comes first.

While chicken and wild rice are cooking prepare vegetables. Saute celery, carrots, and shallots in 4 T butter until onions are translucent and celery softens. Add minced garlic and saute briefly to release essence. Stir in 4 T flour and cook for 1 to 2 minutes to make roux. Slowly add chicken stock and bring to simmer. Simmer 10 minutes, then add herbs and 2 teaspoons salt.

Continue to let soup simmer. When chicken is done, remove from oven and let rest for 10 minutes. When wild rice is tender and water is absorbed, add to soup. Cube chicken breasts and add to soup. Allow soup to come back to simmer, remove from heat and stir in 2 cups heavy cream. Serve immediately.

Makes approximately 10 cups.

Stefano's Italian Meatball and Tortellini Soup

I wanted to do something "Italian," but I didn't want spaghetti or marinara sauce again. I let the idea stew for a while (no pun intended), and this is what I came up with. It turned out exactly as I had envisioned - a deep, rich stock with a wonderful tomato base, tender meatballs and pasta, a slight tooth to the veggies, and a bright finish from the vinegar. Delizioso!

Ingredients:

For meatballs

1 lb bulk sweet Italian sausage

1 egg

1/2 cup seasoned breadcrumbs

1/4 cup beef broth

For soup

3 tablespoons olive oil

1/2 cup diced shallots

3 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

1 zucchini, quartered and chopped

2 tablespoons tomato paste

28 ounce can whole tomatoes

1 lb curly kale, trimmed from ribs, and coarsely chopped

8 cups beef broth

1/4 cup chopped fresh basil

1/4 cup chopped fresh oregano

refrigerated 20 ounce package meat tortellini

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

fresh Parmesan for garnish

Directions:

Make meatballs. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. In medium glass bowl, mix together sausage, egg, breadcrumbs, and broth. The package of bulk sausage from our local grocers comes with a teaspoon of fennel seeds on top. We mixed those right in. If your Italian sausage does not contain fennel, add 1 teaspoon to meatball mix. Use 1/8 cup measure or melon baller to form meatballs, and arrange on parchment paper lined baking sheet. Makes approximately 20 meatballs. Bake for 40 minutes.

Build soup. While meatballs are baking, saute shallots and zucchini in olive oil in Dutch oven until shallots turn translucent. Add garlic and tomato paste, stir together and continue sauteing until tomato paste takes on a rich dark color.

Add broth and canned tomatoes, including liquid, and bring to boil. Reduce heat to simmer and add tortellini. Simmer for five minutes, then stir in herbs and kale. Cover and let simmer for another fifteen minutes until kale is dark green and wilted. Add meatballs until heated through, about ten more minutes.

Serve. Remove from heat and stir in 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar. Ladle soup into large bowls and garnish with grated fresh Parmesan.

We did not add any salt or pepper to this recipe. If desired you can add 1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt and 1/2 teaspoon freshly cracked pepper according to taste.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApsR4pDI5tk

Polish Peasant Repast

Steve's Homemade Borscht

For anyone who likes beets, or vegetable soups in general, this take on a wonderful peasant dish, made a delicious counterpoint to the hottest day of the year.

Makes 5-6 servings

Ingredients

2 cups shredded fresh beets (6 medium beets)

1 large beet, sliced into 1/4 inch strips

1 cup shredded carrots

1 cup finely chopped shallots

2 cups Swanson vegetable broth

1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt

4 cups Swanson beef broth (or vegetable broth)

1 cup shredded cabbage

1/2 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley

1 tablespoon butter

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

Sour cream, for garnish

Directions

We used a food processor to prepare the shredded beets and carrots, as well as to chop the parsley.

In a dutch oven, bring the processed beets and carrots, the shallots, 2 cups veggie stock, and salt to a boil. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes. Add 4 cups beef broth, shredded cabbage, chopped parsley, sliced beets, and butter. Simmer, uncovered, for 15 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in red wine vinegar. Let cool to room temperature. Transfer to glass serving bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 4 hours.

Top each serving with a large dollop of sour cream, and serve with fresh homemade (see below) or bakery rye bread and butter.

For any bakers out there, here is Shellie's recipe for,

Classic Caraway Rye

For this recipe I used a well greased loaf pan, and did NOT slice across the top. The result is a beautifully raised loaf with a crisp crust and a soft and tender crumb!

Ingredients

1 1/4 cups Anson Mills Rye Flour (www.ansonmills.com)

2 1/3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon fine sea salt

1 teaspoon caraway seeds, slightly bruised (lightly ground, but not broken up)

1 package RedStar Active Dry yeast (make sure it's fresh)

1 teaspoon gluten

1 1/3 cups tepid water

1 tablespoon plain yogurt, at room temperature

Directions

Mix flours, salt and caraway seeds together. (I used my mixing bowl, and did this with my standing mixer.) Using the dough hook, stir the dry ingredients until blended. Gradually add half the water and all of the yogurt, and then the rest of the water. Turn the mixer to medium. Let the mixer knead the dough with the hook for 10 minutes (until the dough pulls away from the bowl and begins to form a ball).

Lightly oil a medium glass mixing bowl. Make sure to go all the way up the sides. Turn dough out of mixing bowl into the oiled glass mixing bowl. Gently turn the dough over with oiled side up, cover with plastic wrap and let rise 1 1/2 to 2 hours until doubled in size.

On a lightly floured surface, turn out dough. It will slightly deflate. Gently turn over so the top and bottom have flour on their surface. Without over handling, shape into a loaf and put into well greased loaf pan. Inflate a 2 gallon plastic storage bag over the loaf pan and seal. Let rise in a warm place for 1 hour or until doubled in size.

Preheat oven to 425°. Carefully take bread pan from plastic bag and insert into the center of hot oven. Bake bread for 30 - 35 minutes until richly brown. Immediately take bread from loaf pan and let cool on a wire rack.

Serve with salted butter.

Ba-Doom Boom

I've seen a lot of articles recently, dissing Kentucky county clerk Kim Davis because she's a divorcee. I like divorcees. If it wasn't for divorced women, I'd have to serve my own coffee in restaurants.

I watched a great college football game earlier today with winning team, BYU - Brigham Young University. But I also like Utah's other team, PP - Polygamy Polytechnic.

Although I don't understand why, I've been getting so many complaints about my blogs that I had to hire a Complaint Manager. Her name is Helen Waite. So if you have a complaint about my blogs, go to Helen Waite.

For those of you who'd like to catch my show, I'll be blogging all weekend!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTwnwbG9YLE

A Great Serpent Wriggling Down From the North

I knew of Professor Schwartz through his son Teddy. I was seven weeks older than Teddy, having been born in mid September, making me firmly and incontrovertibly a Virgo. Teddy was born on Halloween. I lived on the third and top floor of a brownstone apartment building on the corner of 63rd and Richmond, a few blocks from Marquette Park, named after the famous voyageur, on the city's southwest side. Teddy lived in a bungalow on Richmond. Looking back, I cannot think of a time when I didn't know Teddy.

When we were children, we lived in two distinct and separate worlds, the world of kids and the world of grownups. Grownups were parents, and teachers, and policemen, and the dark-blue coveralled and orange gloved garbagemen, who came down the gravel alley behind the detached garage at Teddy's house in light blue trucks to collect the trash twice a week. From our experience, when the worlds of kids and adults collided, it was never a good thing for the kids.

Much of my childhood memories revolve around Teddy's house. We played our games of imagination for hours in the small backyard that stretched from the raised, screened-in porch that came off the back of the house, to the back wall of the garage. The yard was dominated and overshadowed by a huge, gnarled mulberry tree we and the birds and the squirrels ate from all summer long. The porch was constructed of large wooden planks painted gray, and sloped sharply to the front and left, and seemed always on the verge of falling down. The yard was bordered by a picket fence painted the same gray color as the porch (thinking back, I suppose they could have once been white), but many of the slats were loose or missing. A more effective border were the unkempt and overgrown lilac bushes, overpowering in their perfumed fragrance, and thick with fat, black and yellow striped bees. Teddy said his grandmother had planted the shrubs long ago.

Underneath the porch was a cement stairwell. There was a crawlspace under the porch where we would hide sometimes, even though there were spiders, and look out into the backyard through the latticework. I remember there was a large cement bin, sectioned off, now full of leaves and broken branches that had collected over the years, that Teddy said used to be for coal. At the bottom of the stairwell was a door, it's green paint faded and peeling, that led into the basement of Teddy's house. It was always locked. Teddy said his father worked down there.

We also hung out with my little brother Bunce, named after the Liddle Kiddle character Bunson Burnie, because of his red hair, blue eyes, and freckles. Bunce was two years younger than me and Teddy. Our other friend, Jake Shlump, was right in-between. But even at that time I knew Teddy was different. Teddy was as smart as I was, if not smarter, but where I loved to read and write, Teddy knew all about math and science, far beyond what could reasonably be explained by the education provided in the 5th grade of a Chicago public school.

Teddy was an only child, which was very unusual in a neighborhood where eight or even ten children was not considered exceptional. Also, Teddy had no mother. This was an almost inconceivable idea to us, but Teddy said his father was something called a widower, and Teddy didn't remember his mother, she had died while he was a baby. My father was a lawyer. Jake's father owned a kosher butcher shop. Teddy's father was a Professor. We knew he didn't work in an office or treat people, even though we heard other adults refer to him as doctor.

Sometimes we would go to Mr. Shlump's shop, and Jake's father would tear large sheets of stiff white paper off of a roll, and give us thick black pencils, and we would spend the afternoon drawing pictures. The floors were always covered with sawdust that crunched when we walked on it. There was a long white display case that ran the length of the store, and behind the glass that Jake's father always warned us not to lean against, was an endless variety of meats. Mr. Shlump would wait on customers, always changing from the smock he wore when in the back of the shop cutting meat, into a clean one that hung on a peg by the doorway. We thought this curious and unnecessary, but adults were adults, and did curious and unnecessary things all the time.

It had been a typical (and to Teddy, me, Bunce, and Jake) too short summer. Summer vacation lasted until the week after Labor Day, and my parents always took us to Wisconsin Dells the week before we went back to school. I don't know if they timed it this way so we had a last hurrah before returning to the drudgery of school, or so my mother had something to threaten us with if we didn't behave all summer long.

This year we got to bring Teddy and Jake with us. There was plenty of room in the Rambler station wagon, especially since my father bought the vinyl luggage carrier that went on top of the car and took two hours to strap down. After we were done, the kids had to climb in and out of the tailgate window to get in and out of the car.

During the 1960s, when we were growing up, long before it became the Waterpark Capital of the World, Wisconsin Dells was a place of wonder. Imagination filled in the rough spots, and as kids we didn't see the cheesiness, no pun intended, underneath the surface.

We left early on a Monday morning in the last week of August, 1969. Although the ride was an easy highway drive of a little over three hours, to us it seemed endless. Our excitement grew as we watched the billboards. We ignored the ones for car dealerships, but I pointed one out to Teddy that said, "LAST CHANCE TO BUY OLEO," and showed a giant stick of butter. Teddy said, "Oleo is margarine. It's made from vegetable oil instead of milk."

I called up front, "Dad, why is this the last chance to buy margarine?"

"Wisconsin is the Dairy State," he replied. "It's illegal to sell margarine in Wisconsin. We're about to cross the border."

Then came the procession of glorious and frustrating billboards proclaiming how many minutes away we were from Tommy Bartlett's Spectacular Ski, Sky, and Stage Show. YOU ARE ONE HOUR AWAY. YOU ARE THIRTY MINUTES AWAY. YOU ARE TEN MINUTES AWAY.

By the time we arrived, we were at fever pitch. Before we even checked into our motel, my dad drove through town and pulled into the large, municipal park to let us run around and play on the slides, swings, and jungle gym to blow off some steam. My mom unpacked a picnic lunch of salmon salad sandwiches made with sliced pimento stuffed green olives and Miracle Whip on Wonder Bread.

When everything was laid out, my mom called us over. We gathered around two picnic tables pulled together. "Who wants pickles?" she said, and passed around a jar of Claussen Kosher Dill Halves. Bunce tore open a Family Size bag of Jay's potato chips.

We cleared away the few leftovers and dumped our trash into a large, open barrel, put the cooler back in the car, and climbed through the tailgate window for the short drive to the motel. When we turned the corner, and the big, white sign with Chief Black Hawk in full rainbow color war bonnet came into view, we knew our Dells vacation had started in earnest. My parents were personal friends with the owners, and the Black Hawk Motel was the only place we stayed.

My dad stopped the car in front of the office, and we climbed out the back. The owners' son, who was the same age as me and Teddy, ran up to greet us. "Hi Dick," I called out. We always thought how lucky he was to live in Wisconsin Dells, but he said it was the same as living anywhere else. Besides school and homework, he had to help his parents care for the property, and see after guests. Even so, we would have swapped places with him in a second.

My dad pulled the car up in front of our adjoining rustic cabins, and we all ran after him. With Dick's help we unstrapped the vinyl luggage carrier and unloaded all the suitcases. My two little sisters stayed in one cabin with my folks, and us four boys had the other. The first thing we did upon checking in was change into our bathing suits and hit the in-ground pool. Dick ran to ask his parents if he could join us.

My dad supervised us from behind his prescription sunglasses, and kept an eye on my sisters in the shallow end, giving my mother a chance to unpack and have a few needed minutes of peace and quiet. It was always left up to Bunce to blow up the plastic wading rings for the girls. It was the same with balloons - Bunce had exceptional lung capacity. Jake, Teddy and I leaped off the diving board into the deep end.

I cannot remember a time when I could not swim. I learned in this very pool and took to swimming like a fish to water. I had a very natural style, being able to hold my breath and swim underwater from one end of the pool to the other. Teddy swam above the surface with coordinated strokes, kicks, and breaths.

By the time we got out of the pool, shivering, with pruned up fingers and toes, it was already late afternoon. "Dad, can we have some dimes for the pop machine?" I asked.

The pop machine sat under an awning next to the pool deck, and served up ice cold bottles of sodas. Bunce put in his dime and pulled the knob next to the door for Yoo-Hoo Chocolate Drink. He opened the slot and grabbed the neck of the bottle, yanking it out. Jake dropped in his coin and tugged out an Orange Crush. I went with my traditional Fanta Root Beer, and Teddy opted for a Shasta Cola. Dick always made sure we put our empties into the wood cases next to the machine because he got to keep the deposit money as part of his allowance.

After taking turns in our cabin bathroom to peel off our wet swimsuits, it was too late in the day to visit any of the major attractions, so we drove into Downtown Wisconsin Dells, and parked on a side street just off the “Strip.” The main drag was a non-stop blitzkrieg of souvenir shops, fudge shops, and an assortment of odd attractions.

"Dad," I said, tugging on his shirt, "can we see Minirama first?"

Minirama was located about dead center on the south side of the Strip. It was my favorite Downtown Dells attraction, and I thought, a perfect way to start our vacation. The inside of the building was filled by a scale model of the entire Dells area. Blinking ships wended their way up and down the Wisconsin River past all the famous landmarks. Model freight trains snaked through miniature forests, into long tunnels, and over covered trestles. Downtown Dells was brightly lit up and we could see exactly where we were standing. All the attractions yet to be explored beckoned.

In the 1960s, this was every boy's fantasy model train layout. Even my sisters stood in awe with their noses pressed up against the windows protecting the diorama. I opened myself up to the sheer magic of the spectacle, while Teddy examined the construction methods and materials used in the display. Bunce and Jake jumped on and off the wooden risers vying for a better position to see everything. I was always the last to leave.

As we strolled along the Strip, I elbowed Teddy in the side and pointed my chin at the large, neon sign that said, "Have A Swig With Nig.” Our parents, and consequently we, were no more prejudiced than any other white, southside Chicagoans of the time. Bunce and I always thought it was funny, but Teddy gave a quick nod and continued on.

My mom was a professional souvenir hunter, and she would scour the shops for that one particular knickknack that would add to our home decor. It was these excursions that instilled in me my lifelong love of collecting. We were allowed to choose a toy or two, even Jake and Teddy, although they both had their own spending money. But I eschewed the flimsy headdresses and rubber tomahawks my sisters and the younger kids ran to, for additions to my rock collection.

I preferred fist-sized geodes or quartz crystals, but often what I found available were selections of small samples glued to cardboard backing with the names of each specimen printed underneath. When I got home, I would memorize what each piece was, remove them from the cardboard, chip off the glue, and store them in an empty cigarbox from my grandfather. I still have that old box with all the small rocks, and I can't wait to pass it down to my grandson to see if he has any interest in something not run by microchips.

Teddy wandered off on his own and I watched him study the tags and workmanship on the authentic Indian moccasins, weavings, and beaded jewelry, slowly shake his head, and move on.

Back on the Strip, we stood before streetside plate-glass windows, and watched white-coated confectioners in tall chef's hats swirl fudge with long squeegees on giant, marble tables. My parents let us each choose a quarter pound. Most of my family went for chocolate, but I thought how boring when you could sample vanilla, peanut butter swirl, and maple nut. Teddy took his time considering the choices, then asked for something called creme de menthe.

My mom said we had to save it for later, and we went into a restaurant that served grilled cheese sandwiches. Bunce and Jake pounded on the bottom of the Heinz Ketchup bottle till it plopped out on their fries. Teddy took the bottle and shook it with steady motions so that a perfect mound formed on his plate. He took his sandwich and dipped the corner into the ketchup and took a bite. I was astounded, and did the same. I have eaten grilled cheese sandwiches this way ever since.

After dinner, my dad said, "Who wants to go to the ice cream factory for dessert?"

This rhetorical question was answered with a chorus of, "Me, Me Me, Me," from me, Bunce, and our sisters. A little known gem in the Dells was an old ice cream factory, a block or two off the Strip. They were mainly a wholesaler, but they had a small retail area where you could buy pints of the absolute best and freshest mint ice cream in Wisconsin. (And according to my dad, the world.)

We walked back to the Strip and sat on benches, watched people and cars slowly go by, and ate our ice cream with flat, wooden spoons.

Early the next morning, just after dawn, I heard a soft knock on the door. I climbed out of bed and opened it, and Dick came into the room. "Hey," he said, "do you guys want to go on a hike?"

Even Bunce and Jake, who were normally bleary-eyed in the morning, got ready quickly. Dick had blazed some new trails through the dense oak and pine forest behind the motel property. I enjoyed the feel of loam beneath my feet. I breathed in deeply, enveloped by green, living things. It was still and cool, and dew clung to the tips of leaves and misted the ferns. "Stay on the trail," Dick said, "there's poison ivy around here."

While I basked in the mystery of nature, Teddy stopped often to inspect the different plants, and the mushrooms and funguses (which is a correct use of the word, by the way) that grew on fallen logs.

We returned to the motel and my sister was looking for us. "Mom wants you to get ready. We're going to the pancake house," she said.

Our first full day in the Dells traditionally started with breakfast at the Mr. Pancake Restaurant, that we simply called, the pancake house. We piled into the station wagon for the short trip over, and as my dad turned into the parking lot, we could see the bright, airy, red and white paddle-boat that housed the deceptively big dining room.

We entered the lobby, and joined other large groups who waited to be seated. We raced over to a wide wooden rack which held dozens of color brochures from all the Dells attractions. Bunce, Jake, and I grabbed fistfuls of all the places we wanted to go, even though we knew all the attractions by heart. Teddy interested himself in a few things we normally did not do, such as Biblical Gardens, and the House on the Rock.

Once we were seated, two waitresses took our order. My sisters drank white milk, and Jake, Bunce, and I had chocolate milk. Teddy said, "I'll have coffee, please."

"I'll have coffee too," I blurted out. My mom looked at me and then at the waitress and whispered, "He'll have decaf."

My favorite was the strawberry crepes, and Bunce always ordered the silver dollar pancakes that he drenched in maple syrup. Other orders included French toast, banana waffles, cherry-cheese blintzes, and a vegetable omelet with onions, green peppers, tomatoes, and mushrooms for Teddy. No one ordered bacon or sausages because breakfast meats weren't kosher.

Fully stoked on sugar and anticipation, we were busting at the seams for our first adventure - Fort Dells.

Weaned on Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, the Lone Ranger and his intrepid and ever-faithful Indian sidekick Tonto (Um, Kemosabe, white man make big fire, sit far away - Indian make small fire, sit close), what ten-year-old boy could resist the lure of the Old West? My heart started beating faster the moment that big, log stockade came into view, that served as the passport to our journey back to yesteryear.

As my dad shelled money out of his black leather wallet (which looking back, seemed to be his main occupation), a fully garbed Indian chief, and a curmudgeonly town Sheriff clipped little, silver stars on our shirt pockets that said, FORT DELLS MARSHALL WISCONSIN DELLS. (I still have one in my catchall box in my top dresser drawer, the letters fading with age, but worth $25 on eBay).

Now officially deputized, we tore inside. To the left and right of us, roughhewn stairs led up into the stockade. Teddy and I ran up one set, and Bunce and Jake up the other. We grabbed rifles, attached with wire to bolts in the wall, and sighted out gun slits at clueless people arriving below.

The park contained a smattering of rides and attractions. My mom liked to start with the boat ride, which we thought was pretty lame except to get an overview of all the things there were to do.

As soon as the boat docked back at shore, we queued up for the stagecoach ride. Bunce was always quickest to hop aboard and claim shotgun, the seat next to the driver. Jake, Teddy, and I scrambled up top, and my parents and sisters climbed inside. With a "Giddyup" and a flip of the reins, the two-horse team jerked the coach into motion. The horses walked at a leisurely pace, but as we got farther away from civilization, the track became rougher and the driver whipped the team into a fast trot, and then into a full gallop, clods of dirt flying off the pounding hooves.

We hung on for dear life, grins plastered to our young, eager faces. The horses slowed and resumed their walk as the town came back into view. We disembarked just in time to run over to the Indian Village to see a demonstration of Indian dances. We watched the spectacle of buckskinned braves and maidens hopping and spinning, waving feathers and gourd rattles, to the beat of drums and plaintive chanting. Oh, this was the life. To sleep out under the stars, cook coffee over an open fire, loading silver bullets into our peacemakers.

The show over, the performers went back into their teepees, and through the open flaps we could see them lighting their peace pipes, a strange sweet smell wafting out.

My parents sat down on a bench under a shade tree, and we ran to explore the sandstone caves. We lied in wait for our sisters to venture out onto the suspension bridge, and when they were in the exact middle, we leaped out at both ends, and made the bridge sway by pushing down with one leg and then the other, faster and faster, until the girls were screaming.

"Daaaad! Make 'em stop!"

"Boys, knock it off!" yelled my dad.

We ran and got in line for the old fashioned car ride. The kid-sized "Model A"s did not run on a center rail, so you actually had the feeling of driving. The track was bordered on both sides with a guard rail, but the open-topped roadsters were surprisingly hard to steer. Bunce and Jake took off in their own vehicles at top speed, and careened crazily back and forth across the track.

Teddy boarded his car and proceeded down the lane, and I depressed the pedal of my own automobile and tightly gripped the steering wheel. Ahead of me, Teddy held his course down the center of the road. I fought the wheel with all my strength, and did a pretty good job keeping a tight line, even with the bone-jarring rattle up my arms.

My favorite part of the car ride was that it passed the Haunted House. I called ahead of me, "Hey Teddy, let's go in the Haunted House next." Teddy nodded.

The Haunted House sat by itself at the back of the property. It was a two-story walk-through, and things lit up suddenly and popped out at you, but it was all mechanical, there were no people in costumes, and it was geared for kids. The one gag that never failed to get me was a little balcony supported at the front with chains, overlooking a Bigfoot-type creature in a fiery pit. But when you stepped out for a better look, the platform plunged forward. It was only a couple of inches, but it was always enough to put my heart in my mouth.

The four of us (my sisters stayed outside with my parents) entered into a large foyer and looked around unsure what to do next. I instinctively knew that secret passages were always hidden behind the fireplace, and Teddy said, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." We all pushed on the fireplace, and one end slid open, revealing a dark tunnel. I strategically pushed Bunce and Jake ahead of me, and let Teddy bring up the rear.

We met up with my family and let our eyes adjust to the bright sunshine after the darkness and blacklight effects. The last thing to do was the train ride. We all climbed aboard at the town depot, and with two loud hoots of the whistle and a hiss of steam, the Kilbourn and Western R.R. clanged out of the station.

I secretly harbored the hope we would be on the train when it was held up by Black Bart. I kept my eyes peeled, and as we entered the tunnel, I was rewarded by the loud reports of a gun going off. Sure enough, when we emerged from the tunnel, there was the dastardly outlaw himself, perched atop the coal car, dressed from his boots to his hat all in black, except for the red kerchief covering the lower half of his face. He had his six-gun in hand pointed at the helpless engineer.

From anywhere in the park, when the gunshots went off, the Sheriff and his deputies would gather all the kids in front of the jail to form a posse.

When the train pulled into the station, Black Bart called out, "I'm robbin' the train Sheriff, don't try to stop me or someone will get hurt!"

"Give it up Bart," shouted the Sheriff. He waved his arm at all the gathered children, "You're outnumbered. I've got all my junior Marshalls waitin' to take you in, dead or alive."

"You're not takin' me in!" called the desperado, and he leaped from the train blasting away with his pistol. A gun battle ensued, and after a brief scuffle with the Sheriff and his deputies, Black Bart was captured. We disembarked and followed the procession as the Sheriff escorted Black Bart to jail.

We squirmed our way to the front just as the Sheriff was swinging the jail door closed, but Black Bart reached out between the iron bars and grabbed Bunce by the shoulder. "Ha!" said Bart, "Now I got me a hostage."

He looked down at my brother, with his mop of curly red hair, blue eyes, and big smile with a missing tooth, and said, "Hey Red, if you join my gang and help me bust outta here, I'll split my loot with ya. Do ya wanna be my pardner?"

Usually the kids would side with the law and refuse the outlaw's advances, but Bunce vigorously nodded yes.

"Ha ha," said Black Bart, "where you from Red?"

"Chicago," replied my brother.

Black Bart looked at the Sheriff and said, "Sheriff, me and the Chicago Kid are bustin' out!"

For the life of me, I swear I saw the Sheriff struggling to hold back a laugh as Black Bart hammed it up. Meanwhile, the adults off to the side were snapping photos and slapping their knees. My dad was filming with his Super-8 millimeter camera, and tears rolled down my mother's cheeks.

The Sheriff said, "Well, with so many of your boys in town, we'll have to transport you to a bigger jail." Two of the deputies removed Bart from the cell, but he grabbed one of their guns and started running off. The Sheriff fired a couple of shots, but Black Bart spun around and called out, "I'll meet up with ya at the hideout Kid!"

When we got back to the motel my dad said, "You boys can cool off in the pool, but make it quick. We're going out to eat in a little while."

I hated the feeling of putting on damp bathing trunks, so I pulled them up quickly, ran outside, and did a cannonball into the pool. We weren't in long when my mom called us to get out and get dressed for dinner. "Put on long pants and your button down shirts," she said. "And tuck them in," she added.

The lighted marquee at the entrance to the parking lot said -

Jimmy's

DEL-BAR

The low building was partly constructed with stack stone in variegations of beige, brown, and yellow, like the sandstone cliffs of the Dells themselves. Inside, the exposed rock formed one long wall of the dining room.

The restaurant was carpeted, and our feet padded quietly as we were led to a large, round table covered with a white, linen tablecloth. This was a fancy restaurant and we were expected to be on our best behavior, but this didn't stop me and Bunce, when we were served our soft drinks, from tearing the tips off our paper straw covers and shooting the remaining tubes at our sisters.

"Moooom, tell them to stop it!"

"Boys, behave yourselves or you'll sit in the car," was the expected reply.

My dad and Bunce ordered halibut steaks, my mom asked for whitefish, Jake and my sisters wanted grilled cheese, and Teddy had a funny sounding thing called walleye. I immediately scanned the menu for my favorite, fried perch. They didn't have macaroni and cheese, but they did have mashed potatoes. The dinners came with salad, which I wasn't interested in, but tomato juice was a substitute, so I had that. I enjoyed the breaded fish immensely, completely finishing the tartar sauce and the little mound of coleslaw.

"Dad, can we order dessert?" I said.

"No, we'll get dessert later."

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Tommy Bartlett."

Surely one of the highlights of any Dells vacation was the Tommy Bartlett Water Show. It was not hard to follow the signs around Lake Delton to the world renowned attraction, famed in song and sanitized for your protection paper strips across Dells area motel room toilet seats. You weren't anyone in the Midwest unless your car proudly displayed at least one Tommy Bartlett bumper sticker.

We approached the brightly lit concession and ticket stand, and my dad got everyone a soft serve ice cream. I think my dad was studying the ticket prices because I saw him shaking his head. I turned around, safety cone in hand, and exclaimed, "Hey Dad, there's Tommy Bartlett."

Sure enough, there was the big (oops, I almost said 'cheese') man himself, off to one side, leaning against the trunk of a pine tree, in his Hemingway-esque best. He was unmistakable with his shock of white hair and neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard and mustache. I pictured him on the bridge of an oceangoing vessel. Looking back, it seemed like my dad knew everyone worth knowing, and he made a beeline for Tommy Bartlett. They warmly shook hands. They talked for a few minutes, and I saw my dad hand him a few bills. Tommy pulled something out of his blue denim shirt pocket, and handed it to my dad.

He came back to us, gathered everyone together, and said, "Let's go!"

We usually sat farther back on some benches, but my dad showed the card Tommy had given him to the ticket taker who said, "All the way down front."

We joyfully ran down to the front row and plopped ourselves into comfortable lawn chairs. My parents sat down behind us, and I heard my dad say to my mom, "Tommy and I go way back. I got us in for half price."

When it came to bartering, my dad was in his element, and I knew he'd be in a good mood for the rest of the evening.

The show was a hoot. We sat up straight whenever we saw a boat go far off onto the lake to circle around and pick up speed. As the boat ripped past, the skiers would hit the ramp, flip through the air, and land perfectly back on their skies. Skiers formed human pyramids, lifted off under kites, and one guy skied barefoot. A troupe called "The Nerveless Nocks" raced around a wire cage on motorcycles, spinning horizontally and even upside down. I loved watching Aqua the Clown pull all sorts of zany stunts, and I recognized underneath he was actually the best skier in the show.

Amid all the spectacle, what I looked forward to most was the climax of the show, the entrancing Dancing Waters. The ever-changing patterns and colors of the jets of water enraptured me. For those few moments my real world and my dream world were one.

The next morning, we ate breakfast in our room. My mom brought in two packages of six little boxes of Kellogg's cereals, and a half gallon of fresh Wisconsin milk from the local grocery store. With a plastic knife I carefully cut along the perforated lines at the top and bottom of the box and down the center. We all vied for our favorites and devoured three each.

Last night, on the ride back to the motel, my dad had whet our appetites by saying, "We're going to visit the Ducks in the morning."

Of course, he was not alluding to any sort of aquatic fowl, but to our favorite ride in the Dells. My dad handed me the tickets, and I handed them to the pilot as we boarded at the rear of the amphibious truck. Bunce, Jake, Teddy, and I clambered aboard and quickly claimed the two bench seats in the last row on either side of the center aisle. My parents, sisters, and other people filed past us up to the front and filled in seats.

Once the Duck was full to capacity, the driver donned his captain's cap, surveyed his passengers, and said, "Welcome aboard the Original Wisconsin Duck, Daisy. My name is Captain Don, and I'll be your guide for the next hour or so. I've got some good news and bad news. The bad news is my co-pilot for this trip called in sick, and the company requires that there be a co-pilot. The good news is that I've been authorized to appoint one of my passengers as co-pilot." All our hands shot up, but he zoomed right in on my brother, that stupid curly red hair, and freckles again.

Captain Don buckled him into the co-pilot's chair and said, "What's your name?"

"Bunce," said Bunce.

"Bunce?" said Captain Don, looking askance at the adults.

"It's his nickname," my dad shouted out.

"Let me guess," said Captain Don, "as in Bunson Burnie?"

"Exactly!" called out my mom, laughing.

With a growl of the engine and a grinding of gears, we were off. There were a couple of competing Duck tours operating in the Dells, but we always rode the Original Wisconsin Ducks because they gave the best tour on proprietary trails the other Ducks could not go on. The first things we saw were about a dozen large pieces of concrete statuary. They were worn with age and the elements, but I could still make out the grotesque faces of leering gargoyles. Captain Don picked up a handheld intercom attached to the dashboard with a long telephone cord. He depressed a button, and his voice crackled over the speakers.

"These castings once graced the Chicago Board of Trade. When the building was refaced, Mrs. Helen Raab purchased them for her estate at Dawn Manor. Once they were transported here, however, she decided they could not be incorporated into the property, and they were left here where they could be viewed by the thousands of people who take the Original Wisconsin Duck tour annually. We'll learn more about Mrs. Raab and Dawn Manor later in the trip."

Teddy removed a small notebook and pencil stub from his pocket and scribbled across a page.

With an expertise beyond our comprehension, Captain Don worked three small pedals with his feet while steering with his left hand, and constantly shifting with his right. He maneuvered the lumbering vehicle on narrow, sandy trails, up and down steep inclines, through cool, shady fern valleys, and around sandstone outcroppings. He brought the Duck to a halt at the top of a slope. The nose of the vehicle pointed down at the water.

This was what we were waiting for. Captain Don explained, "We are about to enter the Wisconsin River. We can enter two ways - fast or slow. Who wants to enter slow?" All the adults raised their hands. "Who wants to enter fast?" said Captain Don. The adults were drowned out (an appropriate choice of words) by our waving hands, stomping feet, and shouts of, "FAST!"

Captain Don said, "Okay, fast it is!" He turned back around in his seat. "Please stay seated and hold on," he called over his shoulder. He ground the Duck into gear, and we raced down the ramp into the river. The water brought us up fast. The nose bobbed up, and the back of the Duck ducked below the waterline. A large wave rushed over the stern and swept down the center aisle. We quickly raised our feet to keep our shoes dry, but the people several rows up were not so fortunate, and we laughed at their cries and shrieks.

With a series of loud clunks and sharp bangs, Captain Don switched to aquatic mode, and we proceeded down river. Towering sandstone cliffs rose on either side, and Captain Don pointed out features and formations replete with names and legends. "Off to our left," he said, "is Pulpit Rock and the Baby Grand Piano." Indeed, the broken slabs of rock did look like a piano lying on its side. Captain Don explained:

"Back in the early 1800s, a traveling preacher used to come through here. He stood on top of the cliff and used it as a pulpit, preaching to the Indians that would gather below in their birch canoes. Well, after a while the Indians got a little bored, so the preacher went into town to hire a musician to liven up the ceremony. All he could find was a barroom piano player, so they brought out his baby grand piano and put it on top of the cliff.

"Everything was going well, until one Sunday when the piano player fell asleep during the preacher's sermon. The preacher noticed he was sleeping and gave him a little shove to wake him up. The piano player was so startled that he thought he was in the saloon and began to play the wildest music you've ever heard. The preacher was so upset that he pushed the baby grand piano right over the edge of the cliff. And there it is today, with the left leg propped up against the rock, and the keyboard facing the sky. The baby grand piano still rests right where he threw it off."

He announced over the speakers that we'd be leaving the river. "We'll be heading up Dell Creek, and past Newman's Dam," he said. We proceeded up the treacherous creek with its shifting riverbed. Captain Don stopped underneath an abandoned railroad trestle that spanned the gorge. "This is one of the most unusual sites in the Dells. We're the only tour where you can see the underside of a bridge."

He said thousands of swallows built nests in the rafters and girders. "Bunce, can you describe what you see from the front?" The pilot's and co-pilot's seats were exposed to the elements, whereas the rest of the Duck was covered with canvas. Bunce raised his face. Captain Don said quickly, "Don't look up with your mouth open."

We clawed up the embankment around the dam which separates Lake Delton from the Wisconsin River. It was here the Duck made its second, and by far gentler, water entry. Captain Don put the boat in its lowest gear, stood, and asked, "Do any of our younger captains think they can handle a Duck?"

All our hands shot up again. Captain Don pointed at Teddy, who was looking earnestly ahead. He ushered Teddy forward. "What's your name?" he asked. "Theodore," said Teddy, "but I go by Teddy." Teddy propped himself in the seat and gripped the large wheel at three-o'clock and nine-o'clock. Captain Don pointed at a mansion on a bluff across the lake. "Steer for that house," he said.

Teddy tested the play in the big wheel. With minor but precise corrections, Teddy handled the boat nimbly. Captain Don sat sideways in the co-pilot's seat with his feet in the aisle. "That mansion Teddy is so expertly steering toward is Dawn Manor," he said. He continued:

"The mansion was built in 1855,"  "by Captain Abraham Vanderpoel, a lumber baron. He was a signer of the Wisconsin State Constitution, and a personal friend of Abraham Lincoln. The home was built on five acres of land.

"The house was bought in 1925 by Chicago millionaire W.J. Newman. It was said he wanted to be able to look at a lake outside his front door every morning, so he built Lake Delton. In reality, W.J. Newman wanted to develop Delton, Wisconsin into an ultra-modern vacation resort. He brought in engineers to build a 30-foot high dam where Dell Creek entered the Wisconsin River. He then opened Dell View Hotel, which included such amenities as a bathing beach, golf course, trout pond, hiking and horse trails, amusement park, family cottages, and a nightclub.

"Unfortunately, Newman lost millions in the Great Depression, and died penniless. Dawn Manor sat empty for a dozen years. In 1942, Helen Raab of Milwaukee bought the home. She had it restored and remodeled by famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright. She then began to fill it with art, antiques, books, and collectibles from her fifteen world tours.

"Helen, and her husband George Raab, who died shortly after moving into Dawn Manor, had begun acquiring property in the Dells area in the 1920s. Much of the land was turned over to a charitable foundation, and the Original Wisconsin Ducks still travel over that land.”

Captain Don said, "Let's have a big round of applause for Teddy." Everyone clapped enthusiastically. "But let's see how well our co-pilot can drive in case of an emergency."

Bunce climbed behind the wheel, missing tooth apparent in his wide smile. Captain Don pointed at the mansion and said, "Steady as she goes."

Inexplicably, Bunce grabbed one side of the wheel with both hands and jerked it to the left. The Duck turned sharply to port. He then grabbed the other side of the wheel and spun it to the right like he was in a Mad Hatter's teacup in Disneyland. The Duck swung crazily to starboard. Captain Don tried to put his hand on the wheel, but he was so doubled-over in laughter he couldn't raise his arm. Not done yet, Bunce tugged the wheel to the left again, swinging us back to port.

Everybody was laughing, my parents most of all. Captain Don settled himself down, and I saw Bunce in the co-pilot's seat, his legs swinging, and his red curls bobbing up and down. With more clangs and shifting, we crawled ashore and reentered the dense forest. Captain Don said, "This forest was once the site of the City of Newport. Its streets and neighborhoods are now covered by pine, oak, wildflowers, and twenty-seven varieties of fern. If you keep your eyes peeled, you may see wild turkeys, beaver, fox, white-tailed deer, and if you listen closely, you may hear the knock of the pileated woodpecker." It didn't occur to me that the noise of the seven-ton behemoth made spotting wildlife a near impossibility.

We turned a bend in the trail, and Captain Don brought the Duck to a stop. "We're about to enter one of the most dangerous parts of our tour. We'll be encountering steep hills and valleys with sheer dropoffs on either side. But do not worry. The management has taken safety precautions." He pointed out some twisted and ineffectual looking chicken wire that had been extended over one ledge. "I know you don't think that chicken wire looks very strong," he said, "but if it will hold a chicken, it should be able to hold a Duck."

All the adults moaned. Captain Don said, "Please keep your hands and arms inside the vehicle at all times. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Roller Coaster and Suicide Hills."

He clipped the microphone to the dashboard, and concentrated on the road. He was all business now. He mashed the gears, floored the pedal, and over the lip we plunged. My heart (and stomach) were in my mouth as we raced down one hill and up another. Captain Don put the Duck in low gear and inched our way down a virtually vertical incline. We leveled out next to a lilypad-covered lake, and he shut off the motor.

Now that it was quiet, Captain Don turned to us without use of the intercom. "This body of water is called the Lake of the Dells. It was established for conservation purposes, providing a sanctuary for turtles, crane, and the elusive blue heron."

He lifted a couple of metal boxes onto his seat. "I am a student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, which is the capital of the State of Wisconsin, and the county seat of Dane County, Wisconsin. My job during the summer as a Duck driver supports my way through college. I do not earn any money as a guide. Instead I get a small commission for each sale of these souvenir picture books and postcards I have to show you. This gives me an incentive to give the best tour I can each time I go out."

Captain Don passed around booklets with photographs of all the points of interest we had seen. He also had packets of postcards. A few of the cool ones were circa WWII in sepia. My dad said we could each pick out ONE item. Captain Don happily autographed purchased items.

Captain Don displayed a thicker booklet that was a little more expensive. The title was Indian Tales and Duck Trails: The History of the Dells. He told us this contained a complete history of the Dells, how they were formed, and how they were named "dalles," meaning "narrows," by the French voyageurs who explored this region. It told the story of the Indian wars and the Sauk leader Black Hawk.

The booklet also talked about the beginning of the Original Wisconsin Ducks and their role in the growth of tourism in the Dells. The book was filled with color and vintage black-and-white photos. Teddy bought one of these with his own money. He didn't ask Captain Don to sign it.

After stowing everything away, Captain Don said, "The next part of our journey, as we head back to dock, takes us through some of the most picturesque terrain. In Red Bird Gorge we'll get our closest view of ancient sandstone formations, and in Black Hawk Gorge we'll see the greatest number of fern species in one place on our trip. I ask you once again to keep hands and heads inside the vehicle."

I enjoyed the scenery and the opportunity to think my own thoughts. I reveled in the magic of the natural beauty - the subtle shades of green, the cool dampness on my skin, the shafts of sunlight striking the forest floor. Intercity Chicago this was not, and school was less than a week away. But for the moment, none of that mattered.

We pulled into the loading bay and Captain Don said, "On behalf of myself and the Original Wisconsin Ducks, I thank you for traveling with us, and hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in the Dells."

We got back in the car, and my dad said, "Boys, we're going to let the girls pick out where we go to next."

"Deer Park," they said in unison.

I liked the Deer Park. I liked animals. I liked interacting with them, although I didn't understand them. We never had pets growing up, and we considered the animals at the zoo to be no more than animated attractions. The thought that these were sensitive, intelligent individuals, each with their own distinct personalities and self-awareness, living out their lives, never entered my mind.

My dad paid the entrance fees and handed each of us a cellophane wrapped package of wafers. We had not gone five feet before a mob of deer approached us. An animal keeper in a flannel shirt, faded jeans, work boots, and a ranger hat told us, "All our animals are born, raised, live, and die at the park. In the wild, deer like these live about five years. Our deer can live up to fifteen years. They learn early on that people entering the park have food, and it pays to be first in line."

This was true enough. I knew from past experience that the Melba toast-like crackers disappeared quickly, and we had to beg quarters from my dad for the bubblegum style vending machines that dispensed a handful of feed corn. On previous visits, I had taken a bite of the wafers, which were dry and tasteless, and the corn was hard and completely inedible.

We made the crackers last as long as possible as we walked deeper into the woodland setting. Several deer followed us and more came over to look for food. The lips of the deer tickled my hand, and even their slimy tongues felt soothing on my palm. They didn't really like to be hugged or petted, but they tolerated some handling as long as there was food.

Despite our best efforts, the wafers went quickly. We strolled along, but the animals knew we were out of food and ambled past us. My sister put a coin in the slot of a red and silver vending machine, and twisted the chrome knob. Dry, yellow kernels tumbled out. My sister got some in her hand, but more than half fell to the ground.

Deer ran over and quickly surrounded her. They nibbled up the spilled corn, then went after the corn in her hand. She got a terrified look on her face as the big animals bumped and jostled her. She took a few faltering steps back, but the deer were relentless. I ran over to her and pushed the deer away. I held her hand and pried open her fingers, and a few deer nibbled the feed from her hand.

After Teddy handed out his package of crackers, he went on ahead. He was more interested in studying the animals that grazed by themselves in fenced-in enclosures than feeding the deer. I joined him and leaned on a split-rail fence. I nodded toward the shaggy-coated beast and said, "I read a book about how the Indians used to hunt buffalo. There were millions of them on the open plains."

"Yes, until buffalo hunters and the army wiped them out to starve the Indians," said Teddy sadly. "They're actually called bison, you know." He turned toward me. "What does a father buffalo say to his child when he leaves for work?" I stared at him blankly. "He says, 'Bye, son.'"

I stood agape. As far as I could recall, this was the first joke I ever heard Teddy tell.

We joined our mom in the gift shop, but my dad said we couldn't buy anything, so we didn't stay in there long. Teddy was looking over a section of books for sale, and he paged through a large volume with full page color photos and columns of text. The title was Fauna and Flora of the Wisconsin Dells. Teddy took the book up to the counter and paid for it with more of his own money.

My dad rolled down the back window with his key, and opened the tailgate. My mom passed out sandwiches from the cooler, and paper cups of milk. We sat on the tailgate and ate our sandwiches, made with American cheese slices from the local store, lettuce, and mayo on Wonder Bread.

"What are we doing next Dad?" Bunce asked.

"You'll see," was the cryptic answer.

I didn't understand the big secret, but with my dad, you never knew. We only drove a short way before we turned into an arcade parking lot, and all became clear.

"Bumper cars!" shouted Bunce.

Our dad was usually "Dad," but once he lowered himself behind the wheel of a bumper car, he became "the old man." All his pent-up frustrations with real-life traffic were released in this gladiatorial arena.

We exited the station wagon and gathered around him. His eyebrows arched, he rubbed his hands together, he drew a wicked grin, and his eyes flashed. He looked at me and Bunce, and said in a low, menacing voice, "You're dead men."

That was it. The gloves were off, the gauntlet had been thrown to the ground. Me and Bunce looked at each other and nodded. We'd be working as a team to bring down the old man.

We ran up to the railing and perused the cars in motion to determine which ones looked the fastest. The previous drivers disembarked with painstaking slowness, and as soon as the last person, amateurs all, made their way out, we raced to our carefully selected machines of mayhem and doom.

We closely watched the ride operator as his finger extended towards the large green button, and stomped on our accelerator pedals. I spun the wheel and raced out toward the perimeter to build up speed and align my first shot. I bumped a couple of plebes just to get the taste in my mouth, glanced around to locate Bunce, and coordinate our campaign against our true foe.

My sisters cruised the far corners and played tag with the other noncombatants, and Jake kept his distance from the old man because the old man was footing the bill. I noticed Teddy circling off by himself.

Bunce and I had a strategy, honed over time at the Playland amusement park near our home, to do the old man in. We waited for him to become entangled with some rube who thought he had a good shot, and then made our move. I raced dead ahead at flank speed and rammed him in a head-on collision, forcing him to slam forward with a jolt that lifted the back ends of both of our cars. I could see him cursing under his breath, but virtually instantaneously, in a rainstorm of sparks from the connectors on the ceiling, Bunce rammed him in a vicious rear end attack, flinging the old man back.

All three of us were laughing so hard, we didn't even see Teddy race from his position on the outskirts, align himself like a cue stick behind a billiard ball, and bang into my sister, who banged into Jake, who banged into one car which banged into another like an atomic chain reaction, until one helpless and terrified tourist broadsided the old man with a tooth-jarring concussion. The old man's car remained motionless, but a tsunami of kinetic energy transferred into my and Bunce's cars, sending us careening backwards and out of control.

The operator gave us an extra long ride because the clapping and cheering crowd watching us from the rail was good for business. When the ride was over we apologized to some of the other drivers for being so ruthless, but they insisted on thanking us for the greatest bumper car experience of their lives.

We went back to the motel to do some swimming. My mom needed to lay down for a while, although we couldn't understand why with all the fun we were having. And so far none of us had misbehaved. My dad actually came into the pool with us, a rare occurrence. I swam over to where he was. "Hey Dad, will you throw us?" I pleaded.

One by one we took turns with him tossing us up in the air so we could splash down into the water. His one admonishment was that we couldn't get his sunglasses, which he never removed, wet.

It was already late in the afternoon, and we stayed in the pool for about an hour. Dick moved a deck chair over to the side of the pool to talk to us. "What did you guys do today?" he asked.

"Ducks, Deer Park, bumper cars," I said.

"Do you know what you're doing next?" he asked.

"Hey Dad," I yelled. "What are we doing next?"

"Trout Pond," he replied.

"Do you think I can come with?" asked Dick.

"Hey Dad," I yelled. "Can Dick come with?"

"If it's alright with his folks," he said.

Dick ran into the office, and came out a moment later with his dad. "I can go!" Dick said as he ran up to us. Dick's dad and our dad talked for a few minutes. He smiled and waved at us as he walked back to the office.

We got out of the pool and air dried on the chaise lounges. We all went into our cabins to change, and Dick hung out with us while we got dressed. The Trout Pond was a bit of a drive from the motel, so we horsed around in the back of the wagon until my dad told us to knock it off.

We crunched up the gravel driveway and parking lot of the Trout Pond. Large, open ponds, with jet sprays in the middle, flanked the rental office and restaurant. We piled into the shake shingled building.

A large sign behind the bait counter said:

Welcome To The One & Only

Wisconsin Dells Trout Pond

Everyone catches fish at The Wisconsin Dells Trout Pond.

You can take your catch home on ice or our restaurant can prepare

your "catch" for a delicious meal.

You must keep all fish caught in our trout ponds.

Hooked fish must be pulled out, and you must pay for all fish

caught on a per inch basis.

Fishing Registration $2.50 per person

(includes bait and pole if needed).

We feature Rainbow and Brown Speckled Trout.

Medium Trout 8-10" (about 1/2 lb.): .29 cents per inch.

Large Trout 12" (1-2 lb.): .49 cents per inch.

Jumbo Trout 14" & up (3-5 lb.): .69 cents per inch.

Cleaning .50 cents per fish.

Fillet service $1.50 per fish

Ice .50 cents 5 lb. bag.

Freeze and Store $2.50 (up to 1 wk)

Taxidermy Service: Starting at $35.00 up to $50.00 + Shipping & Handling.

The ancient figure behind the bait counter was dressed in a dark green, long-sleeve, button shirt, covered over with beige waders that came up to his chest, and were held up by wide suspenders. He wore a bright blue ball cap that said Wisconsin Dells Trout Pond in gold lettering. The color of the cap matched his eyes, which sparkled as he handed us our poles.

He placed several small Styrofoam cups on the counter. We could see worms wiggling through the perforated, plastic covers. My dad had this one peculiarity (one?). He loved baiting hooks. Normally reluctant to get his hands dirty, his idea of camping was a Holiday Inn with outside room doors. He learned everything he knew about outdoor living from The Jewish Outdoorsman, notable for being the slimmest book ever published. He hated to touch a fish, until it was served on a plate, but he loved baiting hooks.

"It takes me back to when I was your age," he said when I asked. "After school I would dig up some worms in my backyard, and take my fishing rod to Marquette Park Lagoon, and catch sunfish. I pretended I was Huckleberry Finn."

Imagining my dad as a kid was hard to wrap my mind around, but there was no denying he was a master baiter, quickly and proficiently piercing a worm through several folds with the barbed hook. Of course, those trout hit at anything. We no sooner got our line wet before we felt that magnificent tug that said we had a fish on.

With five young boys, we were soon pulling out enough fish to feed the Galilean masses. We ran up to my dad who was helping my sister cast out her line. There was a bucket of water next to him. We roughly tugged the hooks out of the poor creatures' mouths, and tossed them in the bucket where they swam sluggishly. My dad rebaited our hooks, but told us to slow down. This proved impossible, however, because the fish seemed to grab our bait before it even broke the surface.

The bucket was full to capacity, the captured fish slithering over each other. My dad said that was it, and wouldn't give us any more worms. Being stupid kids, we tossed our unbaited hooks into the water, and I instantly felt a solid tug on the line. When I flipped back the pole onto land, I realized I had caught not one, but TWO large brown trout on one bare hook.

My dad took all our rods away and brought them back inside. We ran around on the large property while our sisters held out their poles. When they were finished, I carried the heavy pail up to the cleaning shack. The old man from inside, waded out. He removed the fish from the bucket, and laid them out on a weather-parched wood counter. He measured them with a yardstick. and made some notes on a pad of paper.

He slid his fingers into a round rasp, and began scraping the scales from the fish onto some newspaper. We watched intently as he sliced open their bellies and yanked out their glistening entrails. He rinsed the fish in an old cast iron sink. He set some of them aside, and with a wickedly sharp boning knife, he deftly made a pile of beautiful fillets with the others.

The old man gathered up the fish and we followed him inside. We went into the restroom and washed our hands. A waitress got us seated around two tables by a large picture window. She asked us how we wanted our fish, and what kind of potato as a side dish - baked, mashed, or fries. As we waited for our meals, we sipped soft drinks through paper straws, and watched the brilliant sun set below the western horizon in pastel shades of pink, orange, and green.

The meal was fabulous. All us men had ordered our trout whole-broiled, while the ladyfolk had pan-fried fillets. Like surgeons performing a delicate operation, we pulled back the skins of our patients and removed the meaty flesh from the bones. We left only the head, tail, and ribbed skeleton, just like in the cartoons, when we were done. Our dad was in his element, and would stop after every bite to exclaim you couldn't get fish any fresher than that. My dad had the extra fish wrapped up for Dick to take home for his family.

When we got back to the motel, as excited as we were from the day we just had, and the day we were looking forward to tomorrow, bed felt mighty good.

Just as with the Ducks, there were a couple of competing boat lines plying the Upper and Lower Dells. There was the venerable Dells Boat Tours, and there was Captain Soma. We always took Soma's because the Dells Boat Company wouldn't dicker, and Captain Soma would.

The Lower Dells boat trip covered much of the same territory as the Ducks, so we always opted for the much longer Upper Dells excursion. We parked the car, and my dad led the way to the ticket stand. A signboard listed prices for the two-hour Upper Dells tour, and the one-hour Lower Dells tour. Of course, there was a discount for both. I thought, what could go wrong on a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour?

We ran down to the dock while my dad negotiated the price of tickets. When the boat pilot removed the chain across the stern gangway, we ran up the steps to claim the open-air front row, heedless of what the sun could do to exposed skin in two hours on the water.

The pilot backed the boat away from the dock and into the channel. Once we were headed upriver, the pilot got on the intercom.

"Welcome aboard Captain Soma's Boat Line. My name is Captain Jonas - that's my first name, not my last - and you are cruising today aboard the Kilbourn, Captain Soma's flagship with a maximum capacity of sixty-five. The boat is named for the City of Kilbourn. When the railroad arrived in 1857, the new village established at the point where the tracks crossed the Wisconsin River, was named Kilbourn City in honor of the railroad’s president. But locals and visitors alike never stopped referring to the area as the “Dells.” In 1931, the city of Kilbourn officially changed its name to Wisconsin Dells.

"Wisconsin Dells first gained prominence as a vacation destination in the mid-1850s. Early river guides provided the rowboats, the passengers provided the manpower! As demand grew, paddle-wheeled steamers were introduced, then motorized launches — the forerunner of our modern fleet."

This indeed was the heart of the Dells. Once you stripped away the motels, restaurants, souvenir shops, and man-made attractions, what was left was what had been drawing visitors to the region since before the Civil War.

Captain Jonas continued, "In 1908, the Kilbourn Dam was built, despite protests from people such as Dells photographer, H.H. Bennett. When completed in 1909, the Kilbourn Dam was the biggest dam west of Niagara Falls. The dam separated the river into the Upper and Lower Dells."

As Captain Jonas pointed out rock formations - that kind of looked like what he said they were - Teddy made more marks in his notebook. Every so often, we passed a sandbar where people were sunbathing or fishing from small boats. With envy I thought how much fun that must be to break from the beaten tourist path and enjoy the Dells up close and personal.

Ferns draped the sandstone cliffs, and pines, leaning over the river, grew right out of the porous rock. A man in buckskins and a coonskin cap (I kid you not) sat on a dapple-gray horse at the edge of a bluff. We waved to him, and he lifted his arm in greeting.

The main difference between the Dells Boats and Captain Soma, was that the Dells Boats made two shore landings, at Stand Rock, home of the renowned Indian Ceremonial, and Witch's Gulch, but we knew we'd be seeing them later.

All along the waterline, shallow caves had been carved in the rock by wind and water, and just begged to be explored. Captain Jonas said:

"According to Indian legend, it was a great serpent, wriggling down from the north that formed the bed of the Wisconsin River. Crawling over the forests and the fields, his huge body wore an immense groove in the land and the water rushed in behind him. When he came to the sandstone ridge where the Dells begins he thrust his great head into a crevice between the rocks and pushed them aside to form a narrow, winding passage.

"The true story is just as fascinating. When the great glacial lake of Wisconsin started to break free from its large ice dam the waters gushed forth in a catastrophic flood and carved out the great rock formations we see today. It is hypothesized that the noise of the rushing water would have been heard up to six states away."

We entered the Narrows, and Captain Jonas navigated through a tight turn known as the Devil's Elbow. Captain Jonas informed us that "this treacherous stretch of swirling currents and razor-sharp rocks claimed the lives of many lumberjacks who floated logs downstream during the great logging boom of the 1800s."

On the languid trip back downstream, I stared at the dark brown water. The bow churned the water to froth, and made the river look like it was made of root beer. Captain Jonas said, "The river gets its color from tannic acid, a harmless substance that comes from the roots and bark of tamarack and oak trees. The Indians used tannic acid to preserve animal hides."

He slowed the boat down and pulled out a glass at the end of a pole. He reached over the side and scooped up a glass of river water. He held out the glass. "You can see in the sunlight how clear it looks."

He was right, it did look sparklingly clear. He poured the water out and stowed away the rod. He came up with a large bundle of books and a cash box. Captain Jonas said, "I am a student at the University of Wisconsin-Stout, which is located in Menomonie, the county seat of Dunn County, Wisconsin. My job during the summer as a boat pilot supports my way through college. I do not earn any money as a guide. Instead I get a small commission for each sale of these souvenir picture books and postcards I have to show you. This gives me an incentive to give the best tour I can each time I go out."

He passed around booklets with photographs of all the points of interest we had seen. He also had packets of postcards. A few of the cool ones were early 1900s in black and white. My dad looked straight ahead. I looked at my mom and she gave one terse shake of her head. I felt guilty when Captain Jonas handed me a booklet for my perusal, like I was taking it under false pretenses.

At the bow, Captain Jonas held up a handsome, hardcover book. "I only have one copy of this commemorative edition," he said. I could easily read the bold lettering, History of the Wisconsin River, in gold on the cover. "Would anyone like to see it?"

Teddy immediately called out, "I'd like to see it."

Captain Jonas looked at Teddy, then looked around to see if he could find a parent connected to the child. He handed the book to Teddy, surreptitiously checking to make sure his hands were clean.

Captain Jonas made his rounds, collecting a few booklets back, and a whole fistful of cash. He secured the money in the lock box, and organized the remaining items. He stepped up to Teddy, expecting to take the book back.

Teddy handed Captain Jonas the proper amount.

From Captain Soma's we followed River Road north to another of our most eagerly awaited destinations. We kept our eyes peeled for the deceptively well-hidden land entrance to Witch's Gulch.

We drove down a long dirt lane. Pine needles brushed along the sides of the car. The stippling light heightened our spirit of anticipation. The narrow track opened out into a wide bowl. The only other vehicle there was a battered, green, pickup truck with a yellow light on the roof. It was parked alongside the wooden concession stand.

Witch's Gulch is basically a three block crack in the rock. We started down the wooden walkway. The temperature dropped fifteen degrees. Cool, moss-covered, sandstone cliffs encroached on every side. Water rushed down the channel below our feet. With a hollow echoing, the water swirled through succeeding chambers, named Witch's Shower, Witch's Bathtub, and Witch's Window. Bunce and I went up to our dad. "Hey Dad, which one's the Witch's Toilet?"

Fifty feet beyond the cacophony, the air stilled, and the sound of the water became a barely audible murmur. A hush descended from the towering rocks above to the cloven gully below. All too soon, the boardwalk turned to cement and the Wisconsin River opened before us. This was the dock used by the Dells Boat Tours to disembark passengers for the Witch's Gulch shore landing.

Sure enough, a two-decker boat was just putting in, and we scurried back up the gulch so as not to get tangled up in the crowd. We reluctantly left this place of serenity and natural charm, and headed back to the motel.

We swam for a while, then got ready for dinner. This restaurant was not as fancy as Jimmy's, and I was able to order my fried perch with macaroni and cheese this time. I believe the name of the place was Country Kitschen, but my memory of the spelling may be faulty.

The Stand Rock Indian Ceremonial was a solemn occasion. We walked, not ran, down the stairs to our seats. The Wisconsin River flowed to our left, and gentle waves hissed on the sandy beach. The iconic Stand Rock itself stood like a sentinel above the natural amphitheater. The tiered rows where the spectators sat were carved from the living rock (and make no mistake, the sandstone of this near-holy place was imbued with spirits). If I leaned back just a little, I felt the shins of the people behind me, and if I stretched my legs out even a bit, my feet bumped into the backs of the people in front of me.

A special Dells Boat tied up at the dock at the mouth of the canyon, and the passengers made their way to a reserved seating section. I squirmed on the hard rock, but my mild discomfort was forgotten as the descending twilight was punctuated with the startling rap of a drum. A plaintive chanting filled the air, offset by the jingle of bells on ankle bracelets. The natural acoustics amplified the sounds. Costumed Indians danced in single file around the dirt floor of the ceremonial grounds, until they had formed a circle. The beat of the drum increased, the chanting rose to a wail, the bells became a continuous jangle, and then on one final note, silence fell.

An Indian in full regalia - buckskins, moccasins, spectacularly beaded breastplate, and dramatic feathered headdress - walked to the center of the ring. "I am Chief Daybreak. On behalf of the performers from many nations, we welcome you with the Friendship Dance."

Chief Daybreak faded back and the drumbeat resumed. The dancers stepped forward and formed two concentric rings, the inner circle shuffling clockwise and the outer circle rotating in the opposite direction. As the dance ended, a spotlight fell on a figure seated before a large, round drum. Chief Daybreak said:

"The drum plays a vital role in Indian culture. A tanned deerskin or buffalo skin is stretched over a wooden frame or hollowed out log, and secured with sinew thongs. To many Indian tribes the drum contains thunder and lightening. When it is beaten it calls to the Creator, and connects us with the spirits of our Indian forefathers. The drum is central to Indian healing ceremonies, celebrations, and spiritual festivals.

"Indians look at the drum as a living and breathing entity; they believe that the spirits of the tree and animal that the drum was made from live within the drum. They also believe that the beats of the drum help call out to these spirits to protect and watch over the tribe."

Darkness drew close, and the outside world dissolved as I became entranced by the mesmerizing rhythms. I was transported back a hundred years when the tall prairie encompassed a thousand miles of land from the Mississippi River to the Rocky Mountains.

Many of the dances featured animals that were part of the Indian's daily lives - the eagle, the dog, the snake, the bear, and the swan. Special costumes and movements mimicked the woodland and water creatures that shared the world around them.

Chief Daybreak explained, "The Swan Dance is one of the oldest dances known to the Winnebago tribe. It is the belief of the Winnebago that the swan is a sacred bird created before man, and given wisdom that man had never received."

The drum tapped out quietly, and a female voice was raised in song. The women and young maidens formed a procession. They held a long, white, swan feather in each hand, and slowly waved their arms to their sides imitating flight.

The Stand Rock Indian Ceremonial instilled in me a deep and abiding love and respect for Indian culture and profound sadness for their plight.

As night extended its grip, a chill breeze blew in off the river. I shivered and slipped on my jacket.

Bunce and I always looked forward to the War Dance. Several male voices called out, and the young braves lifted their knees high and stamped the ground. Their faces were painted with bars and swirls of black and red. They carried war clubs and shields made of bark. They twirled and pranced with a combination of wariness and aggression. Here indeed was the noble savage, willing to challenge with wood and stone, the iron and gunpowder of overwhelming forces, to preserve a dying way of life.

The warriors filed off-stage and colored lights illuminated an elderly Indian standing on a ledge half-way up the opposite bluff from the audience. This was the revered and much beloved Chief Evergreen Tree, a fixture of the Ceremonial for fifty years. At the age of seventy-nine, this would be one of his last performances before going to the Happy Hunting Ground three years later.

He performed a series of bird and animal calls - the tremulous whip-poor-will, the high honk of the bob-white, the sensuous coo of the dove, the rasping quack and chuckle of the mallard hen, the reed-like piping of a drake, and a hammed-up whoo-whoo of a hoot owl that had all the kids laughing. He barked like a dog, cried like a wolf, yapped like a coyote, and yipped like an anxious prairie dog sounding an alarm.

The lights around Chief Evergreen tree dimmed, and Chief Daybreak stood in the middle of the ring again. "The last dance for our program this evening will be the Green Corn Dance. The Green Corn Dance is performed to thank the gods for a bountiful harvest. It is also our way of thanking you for being with us here tonight. Enjoy the rest of your visit to the Dells area, and we wish you a safe journey home."

As the Indians danced out of the amphitheater in single file, each one stopped singing and their ankle bracelets fell silent as they left the ceremonial stage, until the only sound was the beating of the drum. With one final downbeat, the drummer stood, lifted the drum, and carried it backstage.

I turned to Teddy and Jake and said, "Make sure you have your programs." My dad had gotten each of us a souvenir booklet in the hopes of having it autographed by Chief Evergreen Tree. We climbed down tier by tier toward the arena.

As expected, Chief Evergreen Tree came out to greet the children and autograph our programs. Although Teddy had no interest in the signatures of duck or boat pilots, he eagerly offered his program to Chief Evergreen Tree. In numerous interviews, Chief Evergreen Tree was quoted as saying that entertaining children was his passion.

As I stood before this small man (he was barely taller than we were) with his deeply creased face, he seemed to embody a religion I felt more in tune with than the one into which I was born. To me, he was our Indian rabbi, possessed of a knowledge and a wisdom beyond our understanding.

The ride back to the motel was quiet and contemplative. As I stared out the car window, we passed an A-frame structure seemingly out in the middle of nowhere. It was some sort of bar, but the eaves and roofline were decorated with multicolored Christmas bulbs, even though the holiday was months away. Something about that image imprinted on my memory, and at Christmastime, houses decorated with strings of colored lights still call up a wistful pang of nostalgia.

I have mentioned before, my love of trains, from the Santa Fe Super Chief that brought us each summer to the fantasyland of southern California, to the Lionel train set I got on the first night of Hannukah last year. Therefore, it is no surprise that I looked with enthusiasm to a ride on the Riverside & Great Northern Railway.

This quaint, but lesser known, Wisconsin Dells attraction featured a 15-inch gauge railbed. The miniature steam engine and passenger cars traveled along a three mile track through scenic canyons, beautiful wooded areas, and majestic rock cuts beside the Wisconsin River.

While waiting for the conductor to call "All Aboard!" we played in the red-washed, wood-plank depot. We ran about the small wood benches, and pot-bellied stove, and peeked in the wrought-iron ticket window. When two long toots from the engine came, we clambered aboard the burnt-orange cars, but the small doors and low ceiling made it hard even for us to get in. I have no idea how my dad at 6'2" squeezed himself on.

The train road on a raised gravel bed, and soared over deep ravines on trestle bridges. At the end of the right-of-way, the conductor uncoupled the engine, and we watched the locomotive being turned on a hand operated turntable. The engine then rode on a parallel side-track, switched onto the main track and slowly reversed until it reconnected with the last car which now became the first.

Once back at the station, we looked around the small souvenir shop, and my dad said we could each pick out one item. I, of course, wanted everything: framed artwork, lanterns, coverlets, and even a clock, all with train motifs, but I settled on a gray and white striped engineer's cap. Bunce picked out a small tin train-set, and for some reason, Jake chose a train-shaped pencil sharpener. Teddy selected a cassette tape of train songs and sound effects.

We hauled the cooler out of our car and had lunch on the picnic tables next to the depot. This was our last full day in the Dells, and we wanted to savor every minute of it.

We packed up the cooler and settled into the station wagon. We drove along country roads, following the river, and eventually came to the entrance of the Lost Canyon. This was another of the so-called minor Dells attractions, but I loved it because coming from the city, this offered us a rare opportunity to see horses up close.

We piled out of the Rambler and approached the two-horse team hitched to an open wagon. A gruff looking man in bib-overalls and a battered straw hat stood beside the wagon. He looked us up and down, and said, "You can pet the horses, but move slow, and don't crowd 'em, they shy easy."

We took turns gently stroking the intimidatingly large animals which towered over us. I ran my hand down the side of one of the horse's heads. It felt kind of coarse, but not unpleasant. I reached up and touched just above its nose. It was super soft, but the horse whinnied and lifted its head, so I pulled my hand away. I felt the rope-like mane, and brushed across its sleek, glistening coat. At the time, I had no understanding of how tolerant these powerful and highly intelligent creatures were.

I took my sisters, one at a time, and led them over. I pressed their hands up to the animals, so they could hesitantly pet them.

When a few more people arrived to join our group, the driver had us climb aboard. He chose one of us to ride shotgun next to him, and I vowed that when we got home I was going to shave Bunce's head, and scour off his freckles. The driver flicked the reins, and with a jerk, we started forward.

The driver said, "It was back in 1956 that Dr. R.O. Ebert started the horse-drawn wagon tours through Lost Canyon, the longest and deepest land canyon in Wisconsin. Two years ago, the Kissack family took over the business, with the intention to preserve this natural treasure."

As the horses plodded on the muddy trail, we came to a narrow passage. Tall cliffs pressed in on both sides. The driver flicked the reins again, and called softly to the horses, "Ho, good boys. Giddyup there my fellows."

I looked again at this rough looking man, and thought about the incongruity, as he gently coaxed the skittish animals on. Once through the narrows, the driver informed us, "The canyon is a mile of cliff-walled gorges. In some of the deeper parts, the sheer rock and sandstone walls have not felt the touch of the sun in more than 50,000 years."

Where the cliffs widened out, sandstone ledges sprouted deep fern valleys. The creak of the wagon, the clop of the horses' hoofs, the murmur of the riders, and the occasional click and whir of cameras formed a cadence of peace and tranquility that ended all too soon.

A feeling of melancholy descended over me as we drove back to the motel. We donned our damp swim trunks and hit the pool one last time. I swam underwater the length of the pool just below the surface, and dived down to skim the rough contour of the bottom. I floated on my back, flipping my hands and legs just enough to keep from sinking. After a while, Dick cannonballed off the diving board and swam over to me where I gripped the lip of the deck, stretched out horizontally on the water, kicking my legs.

"Hi Dick," I said.

"Hey Steve," he said. "You guys are checking out tomorrow, right?"

"Ya," I sighed.

"I'm gonna miss seeing you," Dick said.

"I know," I said. "I still think you're lucky to live here."

"Aw, ain't no big deal," he said.

"Well, maybe," I said.

"Hey, you wanna ride bikes?" he said.

"I don't know. Let me ask my dad."

I swam over to my dad in the shallow end where he was watching my sisters.

"Hey Dad, can we go bike riding with Dick?"

"I suppose it's okay for a little while, but we're going to Paul Bunyan's," my dad said.

The Black Hawk had a few bicycles built for two for the use of motel guests, so Bunce, Jake, Teddy, and I got dried off and dressed. I rode in front of one with Bunce in back and Teddy rode on the front of another with Jake. Dick rode his own two-wheeler. The quiet neighborhood around the motel was made up of residential streets that climbed up and down gently rolling hills that made for some fun cruising.

We gripped the handlebars and stood on the pedals to power up the hills, then expertly leaned into the turns as we coasted down at breakneck speeds. It's a good thing our mothers didn't see us, because heart attacks would have surely followed.

We circled back around to the motel, and my dad waved us in. He said, "I talked to Dick's father, and Dick can go with us to Paul Bunyan's."

Paul Bunyan’s Cook Shanty was a staple of the Dells. We always hit the lumberjack themed, all-you-can-eat restaurant on Friday night because they served fish.

Surrounded by burnished log cabin walls, we gathered around long tables covered in red and white checkered tablecloths, and sat on heavy wooden benches. Log pillars broke up the expansive open space. Fake pine trees were placed about the perimeter, and a stuffed bear stood majestically in one corner. Rusty two-man saws, and double-bladed axes decorated the walls.

The place settings were laid out with speckled blue enamelware plates and handled cups, and sturdy utensils rolled in white linen napkins. The meal was served family style in heaping platters and bowls. Our waitress carried a huge round tray on her shoulder with the palm of her hand underneath.

She set down baskets of sliced fresh bread with crunchy crusts and velvety insides, dishes of individual pats of creamery Wisconsin butter, bowls of steamed green beans, a tub of mashed potatoes, pitchers of ice cold milk, and an oval platter of beer-battered cod. With big smiles on our faces we dug in.

My dad prided himself on getting his money's worth, so he egged us on in our attack upon the food. A biblical plague of locusts could not have done more damage. We kept the waitress hopping with seconds and thirds on everything. We ate as only famished young boys can eat. My dad laughed out loud at every plate we emptied.

After about a half hour of steady going, we began to slow down, but we still had room for dessert. The waitress brought out luscious chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. To my dad's chagrin, we stopped at seconds though, waving our arms in defeat.

We rolled out of Paul Bunyan's. Even Bunce, Jake, Dick, Teddy, and I moved slower than usual with what felt like the weight of a log in our stomachs. We walked across the parking lot towards the Rambler, but stopped short. My dad yelled out, "We've been Bartlettized!"

It was as if an Indy pit crew had descended on our car while we stuffed ourselves silly. Not one, not two, not even three, but five Tommy Bartlett bumper stickers adorned the tailgate and fenders. Flyers and brochures were stuck under the windshield wipers three layers thick. Ski, Sky, and Stage Show advertisements were jammed in every door handle. The windows, left slightly ajar, all had local newspaper articles about Tommy Bartlett hanging from them. There was a rolled up flyer sticking out of the tailpipe. We looked all around for the culprit or culprits who had done the dirty deed, but there was no one in sight. It was then we noticed that out of dozens of cars, ours was the only one that had received such treatment.

An image came into my mind of Tommy himself stealthily approaching our car and pointing a blunderbuss which peppered the wagon with pamphlets, obviously in retaliation for the reduced ticket prices. We ran around the car yelling, "Bartlettized. Bartlettized," as we yanked the materials off the car. All except the bumper stickers which could not be removed by any means then known in the 20th Century.

When we finally got in the car, which was locked, a "Sanitized For Your Protection By Tommy Bartlett" paper strip was somehow draped across the steering wheel.

Our last morning in the Dells dawned bright and fair. In fact, we had enjoyed wonderful weather during our entire week there. Just after dawn, I heard the soft, but familiar, rap on the door. We never bothered locking it at night, and Dick let himself in. "You guys up for one more hike?" he said.

Of course we were, and we were soon dressed and deep in the pine-scented woods. We knew our dad liked to get an early start, so we soon headed back. Our folks were up, and my mom told us to have some cereal and pack up our cabin. Dick helped us load the luggage carrier which now mostly held suitcases filled with dirty - and wet - laundry, and bags of tissue-paper wrapped souvenirs. We strapped it down tight, then shook hands with Dick. "See you next summer," he said. I nodded and climbed into the car through the tailgate window.

Dick followed us as my dad pulled up to the office. My dad went in for a few minutes, then came out and got behind the wheel. He put the car in gear, and Dick slapped the side of the car twice. We all waved as we pulled away. We made a quick stop at the little grocery store, and my mom went in to buy some cheese curds for the ride home. We drove out of the Dells, and were soon back on the expressway.

We joked around and talked about our vacation in the back of the wagon, but slowly fell silent as dreary mile after mile passed by. Teddy and Jake took the opportunity to profusely thank my parents for taking them with us.

"Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Dunn," said Teddy. "With my mom gone, and my dad so busy with his work, I never get to take trips like this."

"You're very welcome, sir," said my dad. "I wish the boys had more friends like you."

"Don't mention it," said my mom. "It was a pleasure having you with."

Jake said, "This was the best vacation I ever had. Usually when we go out of town it's only to visit relatives."

My dad started laughing, and my mom said, "You're welcome Jake."

More miles passed. Teddy read one of the books he had bought, and I stared out the window. I heard my dad talking to my mom about going golfing in the morning. He said his tee time was at eight. Frankly, I didn't care what time he drank his tea.

Upon our return, cramped, disheveled, but still full of the inexhaustible energy of youth, we were greeted in our driveway by Teddy's next door neighbor and part-time housekeeper, Mrs. Ziemba. She asked my parents how the vacation was, and something I couldn't quite catch about surviving with four boys, and after some polite talk, she handed my father an envelope with his name on it. He opened the envelope and read the letter that was inside. After reading the letter, he said it was from Teddy's father. Professor Schwartz had been called to Washington, and Teddy would be staying with us for a few days, probably until after school started.

To be continued . . . .

Chief Evergreen Tree, our Indian rabbi