Politickles

Evann and I  had two misconceptions when we moved to St. Louis in 1995. Let me rephrase that. We had numerous misconceptions, and still do, but two of those misconceptions pertained specifically to St. Louis.

The first misconception had to do with life expectancy. We thought when we left our homicidal hometown that we were escaping from the murder capital of America to an oasis of humanity in the heartland. We discovered, shortly after relocation, that St. Louis and New Orleans have long been locked in bittersweet rivalry for the dubious distinction of deadliest destination, a rivalry that continues to this day.

The second misconception had to do with climate exchange. Having grown up in a place that’s miserably hot in the summer but pleasantly warm in the winter (New Orleans) and having lived in a place that’s miserably cold in the winter but pleasantly cool in the summer (Weyauwega, Wisc.), we automatically assumed that a place halfway between (St. Louis) would be ideal year-round: pleasantly warm in winter, pleasantly cool in summer.

In short, we thought we’d get the best of both worlds. In fact, we took it for granted and looked forward to this climatic nirvana with great anticipation. It never occurred to us, even for a moment, that we would get the worst of both. What kind of stupid nonsense is that? But that’s what we got: miserable heat in the summer, miserable cold in the winter. Plus, no seafood. What the hell! For 16 years now, we have sweated and shivered through this thermally unjust situation.

Eureka!

The authentic story of the redeeming power of the Christmas message is nowhere more vividly illustrated than in the incredible life of an English slaver named John Newton. — Wesley Pruden, Washington Times

Having grown up in Mayberry, so to speak, I’ve always loved the hymn “Amazing Grace,” as well as “Rock of Ages” and “Bringing in the Sheep.” When we named our second daughter “Ida Grace,” it took on added meaning. Fr. Paul, the Weyauwega guitar-priest, played it for us at her baptism.

I especially like the line, “that saved a wretch like me.” Wretch is the perfect word for a miserable sinner, and only a repentant one would use it to describe himself. At one point, some squeamish fool saw fit to remove that unpleasantly apt word and the line began showing up in missalettes as “that saved and rescued me.” The period of sissified delicacy seems to have passed, thank God, and we are now back to wretch.

One of my favorite Christmas traditions, linked above, is Wes Pruden’s annual retelling of the extraordinary story behind “Amazing Grace.” It’s well worth reading, year after year.

My brush with death on the Wolf River was the inspiration for a country song I wrote once. It’s the story of a guy whose wife leaves him just as the river is starting to freeze up, and the question he fears to ask: Did she even make it to the other side? The compulsion of Wisconsonites to start place names with Ws — Weyauwega, Waupaca, Wauwatosa, Winnebago, Winneconne, etc. — dictated the alliteration in the refrain.

WIDE AWAKE IN WEYAUWEGA
© 1991, F.R. Duplantier

It was early in December
When the ice was still quite thin
That my love lit out and left me
And never came back again.

That’s why I’m wide awake
In Weyauwega,
Wondering what went wrong.
Yes, I’m wide awake
in Weyauwega,
Wishing you’d come home.

Cold snap hit right after she left
And the river froze good and hard,
So I’d cross each day to check the box,
But she never sent a card.

That’s why, ETC.

The days are getting longer
And the ice is breaking free.
Still no word from the one I love –
Will she ever come back to me?

That’s why, ETC.

This is the largest snowman my wife and I ever built, on the ice-covered Wolf River in front of our house in Weyauwega, Wisconsin. “Frenchie the Snowman” was 8-10 feet tall. I have no idea how much he weighed, but it must have been several hundred pounds. The top two sections were too heavy to lift, so we rolled them down our hanging dock and dropped them into place. This will give you some idea of his size: what looks like a tiny little “beret” on his head is actually the lid to a large cast-iron pot, and the scarf that barely circles his neck is a queen-size bedsheet. The snowmobilers  whizzing up and down the river in front of our house did double takes when they saw our supersized French Frosty. Then Spring came, the river thawed, and Frenchie crashed through the ice, never to be seen again.

There is a thin layer of ice that supports all of us in our daily lives — made up of myths, half-truths, and misconceptions. We walk about on it oblivious to the precariousness of our situation, and to the cold, deadly reality that lurks beneath. — “Falling Through the Ice,” F.R. Duplantier

Winter on the Wolf River: The two minutes of perfect serenity I enjoyed during my summer passages became a forty-minute ordeal.

It was this time of year, maybe even this day, 19 years ago, when I took that last step — and boy was it a doozy! I published an account of my brush with death in a January issue of The New American, the magazine I edited at the time. The following spring, it was republished in The Weyauwega Chronicle, our local weekly. That’s when I discovered that I had committed a macho faux pas.

According to the “Code of the Norsemen,” it’s okay to fall through the ice, but not to acknowledge publicly that one has done so. Most Wisconsin outdoorsmen have had this experience at least once, and with prodding will privately admit to it — but, in public, never! Evidently, it’s considered quite stupid to fall through the ice.

I, however, had at least two legitimate excuses. First, I was from New Orleans and didn’t know the first thing about winter hazards — aside from the folly of licking frozen flagpoles, of course, though I did get my fingers stuck to the inside of my mailbox once, and only once. Second (and this was something I discovered months later), it turned out that there was a dam, and hydroelectric plant, upriver from where I fell through. It was the opening of the dam the night before that had undermined the ice in a relatively shallow section of the river and made it precariously thin where it had been rock solid just the day before. The following year, I knew better than to cross there.