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2001-11-01 - 3:14 p.m.

A GHOST OF ROAD TRIPS PAST

Yesterday was Halloween. Halloween is a traditional time of ghosts and goblins. Not surprisingly, one does not escape Halloween simply by driving around western Wisconsin. No, ghosts are everywhere---and ghosts of road trips past lurk wherever one has been before.

My encounter with my ghost began as many a horror movie begins. I came to a detour. I had driven three hours in the morning, had a two hour meeting, and had done most of the trip to Prairie du Chien. I was weary and looking forward to relaxing in a hotel room. Never mind that it was going to be a Super 8. As long as it was clean, I�d be fine. I thought I only had to wait another 25 minutes and then I saw it. The sign informed me that WI-60 was closed and I would have to take a detour. Relaxation would have to wait.

I found myself on WI-61 heading south. I breezed through Boscobel. It doesn�t take much to breeze through Boscobel. Boscobel� s not very big. I drove around curves, up hills, and past an Amish buggy. I passed some farm machinery and congratulated myself on my courage on two lane highways. Then I realized. I was headed straight toward Fennimore---and the Fennimore Hills Hotel.

Years ago, we used to meet most of Mr. Philately�s family at Lake Okoboji. We each would get rooms at a family resort. The rooms would be next to each other and opened out on a dock where Farmer Bob, Mr. Philately�s dad, would tie up his fishing boat (and his wife�s boat too. NO fish were ever allowed on that boat.) For a week, I would enjoy sunrise, coffee, and the silent company of Farmer Bob every morning. The kids would enjoy swimming, cousins, and organized crafts. Evenings often involved fishing from the dock with Farmer Bob. Mr. Philately, the kids, and I equated Lake Okoboji with heaven.

Six years ago, when Day-Hay was about to enter kindergarten, was one of the last Okoboji trips. When it ended, no one wanted to leave. We were supposed to take the southern route so that we could stop and see Mr. Philately�s grandmother but, all of a sudden, Mr. Philately was very sick to his stomach. We had to get home so I had no choice. Much as I hate to do so, I had to drive. We got in the car and Kat began to complain about her stomach too. Day-Hay was fine (which was somewhat surprising because she often gets carsick.)

Plan B involved driving the more direct, if a lot more boring, route across northern Iowa, going across southern Wisconsin, and then arriving home in a single day. Northern Iowa is flat. Like southern Illinois, northern Iowa is miles and miles of miles and miles. It is mesmerizing and Mr. Philately and Kat were in no condition for discussions. They were too business attending to their churning stomachs. Day-Hay was oblivious.

Somewhere just after Decorah, I recognized the obvious: I could not drive all the way safely. We were going to have to stop for the night. The next town with hotels was Prairie du Chien. I figured we�d stop there.

We came across the Mississippi at Prairie du Chien. There was a travel information center there and we stopped. Mr. Philately, who was functioning, but just barely and on emergency back-up power, suggested we call hotels rather than drive around. We divided up the (short) list of hotels and he took one payphone while I took the other. It was disheartening. I had just about accepted that I would have to dig way down deep, turn up the radio, and drive on, when I heard Mr. Philately say, �Thank you very much� and laugh.

We had a room---in Fennimore at the Fennimore Hills Hotel. He had found a room with one bed and asked if they could put a rollaway in there too. �Well,� the guy had told him. �I suppose we could but no one has ever asked before.� Mr. Philately had booked the only available hotel room for miles: the Brass and Glass fantasy suite.

We straggled in at Fennimore. I dragged in the luggage with a restless, active Day-Hay in tow. They took one look at us and gave us the room at the regular room rate saying that it was late enough that they would not be able to rent it as a fantasy room anyway.

And so, I found myself in a fantasy suite with a sick husband, a sick daughter, and a restless, bouncy five year old who loved glitter with all of her heart. She loved the waterbed. She loved the mirrors on the ceiling. She loved the fancy refrigerator in the room and the love seat. But most of all, she fell in love with the large Jacuzzi. Because this was the Brass and Glass Room, the faucet was fancy and there were mirrors surrounding the Jacuzzi. Recognizing an easy way to give her some exercise that everyone else could stand to be around, I filled the large tub and let her swim in it in her bathing suit.

A month later, at the school�s open house, I spotted the picture Day-Hay drew. Under the heading �What I Did on My Summer Vacation� was a picture of a girl in a tub with mirrors next to her. At the bottom, the teacher wrote, �I was in a bathtub with mirrors all around.� I�ve always hoped no one figured out what that picture was all about.

The innocence of the only night I�ve ever spent in a fantasy suite came rushing back as I passed the Fennimore Hills Hotel and I smiled. I saw that weary, bedraggled driver and her family piling out of the van and I waved. What a different trip that was�and what fun it was to run into that ghost of road trips past.

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