In potluck fashion, Pete and Becky very kindly included me in family Thanksgiving at Becky's brother's in Hayward, Wisconsin.
I was warmly welcomed into the occasion by the lovely Chris and Judy, and their equally lovely son Egan, the most kinesthetically intelligent child I have ever met. Egan is the opposite of afraid of heights.
(Becky with her brother Chris)
(Egan with his grandmother)
(Pete and Becky with Judy)
It being a family occasion, the setting was somewhat incidental, but Hayward is also a really interesting town. It was, variously, the country hangout of Al Capone, the current home of the American Birkiebeiner cross-country ski race, and the site of the freshwater fishing hall of fame and a giant 100-foot long fish you can walk inside.
Re local color and news: a few months before, a bear had walked into the grocery store, walked around politely, and settled into the freezer section, where it was stunned as it peered into the frozen foods. They now sell t-shirts and are planning to inlay paw prints in the linoleum to mark the bear's path.
Becky and I left early Thanksgiving morning from St. Paul, baguettes and pumpkin pie in hand, Flicka their German pointer, lounging out in the hatchback with all of our stuff.
Becky had graciously agreed to listen to the last CD of Harry Potter book six. (Having listened to the books around the country, I was planning to read the seventh and final book on paper and wanted to finish listening so I could start over the holiday.) As I was giving her background on the characters, I realized how much I had become emmeshed in an imaginary world -- even little things like being able to casually explain that a hippogryph is like an ostrich crossed with a llama, and flies. I also realized how much I had fallen in love with the character of Dumbledore.
Chris and Judy live in a beautiful house in the woods, a place they designed and had help building with their contractor friend. They run a ski shop in town called New Moon. Here they are in the upstairs office of the shop:
(Apparently a lot of Twilight fans have inadvertently "friended" them.) I am told by friends who ski a lot more than I do that the annual release of the New Moon catalog is an event in the Nordic world. I got to visit the shop while I was there and became very partial to a couple of head-to-toe skisuits of a retro, preppy 1970s stripe that I could only wear if I learned how to ski more properly. Judy is so wonderfully knowledgeable about anything that they believe in carrying that I nearly left with some other stuff, and may order yet.
Occasionally, I have clusters of friends who are all expert in something I don't understand at all: squash or Spanish or renewable energy, or in this case skiing. Pete and Becky had both gone to ski high school. Becky's mother is pictured (in a great outfit similar to the ones I was idly coveting) in the New Moon catalog, post-race. Jenny, who came to my reading in Denver, used to ski professionally. Pete once mentioned ski practice that involved running uphill backwards. . . while carrying someone on your back.
"In 1206, two warrior soldiers, called "Birkebeiners" because of the birch-bark leggings they wore, skied infant Prince Haakon to safety during the Norwegian civil war. Prince Haakon subsequently became King of Norway, and the Birkebeiner soldiers became a Norwegian symbol of courage, perseverance and character in the face of adversity."
In the Norwegian race, competitors are required to carry a twelve-pound pack to represent the baby. Apparently if you win in your age group they weigh your pack after the race. Many people start with a twelve-pound canteen of water that they drink during the race.
Since everyone was traveling Thursday, we celebrated Thanksgiving on Friday. Becky and I went into town that morning:
Overheard at the coffee shop:
Man 1: I don't drink this fancy designer coffee.
Man 2: I don't even drink coffee.
Daughter: Oooh, Daaad!
In the local paper, an exchange student from Chile had gone out hunting for the first time with his host dad and shot a five-point buck.
Becky and I spent a long time trying on these great Wisconsin hunting hats called Stormy Kromers. Motto: "Helping people live where they have no business living since 1903." We were on the receiving end of legendarily friendly service (after trying on men's hats for ten minutes, we got a "you know, there are women's hats across the store").
Another local shop was selling t-shirts that said, "Beauty is in the eye of the beerholder."
We headed down to an amazing, old-fashioned candy shop:
next to a small-town bakery with world-class sourdough and compelling donuts. Here are the Pilgrims and Indians in the bakery window:
On the way home, Becky and I ran an errand for Chris to stop at the deer processing place. (More on hunting later, an art and craft as practiced by Chris).
Becky and I were standing in the back when a woman walked in and said, "It smells wonderful in here!" I concured reflexively and then wondered what it actually smelled like. I asked Becky who said sausage.
The Meat facility is right next to the registration center, where someone said they used to have very good espresso:
Chris and Judy eat what the kill, including a wonderful venison barley soup Judy made the first night. Pete knows how to cook deer heart, and so Chris gives them to Pete.
So, over the time I was there I became fascinated by hunting. I am not vegetarian. I am from the South. I am familiar with the concept. I have never seen it practiced--in the sense of practicing an instrument or having a studio--as Chris does. I told him I wanted to write about the art and craft of hunting on my blog and Judy wondered if people would misread it and be anti-hunting. I really hope not, as I was sincerely interested and amazed. Here is Chris in a tree in the backyard, where he might sit for two hours, quietly watching for deer:
He knows the pathways of the deer because he studies them. He has motion-sensitive nighttime cameras that take time-stamped pictures:
Philosophically, the basic art-craft distinction is that for craft you can know the outcome at the beginning, whereas for art the sheer process of working on it changes you and it. You can know the direction you are headed, but if you are making something new, you won't generally know it beforehand. There will be phases of craft and execution, but, as Heidegger says, a work of art is something new in the world that changes the world to allow the new thing to exist. By definition, if the work changes the world, you can't know the finished work while still in the old world.
You can argue hunting as craft. But then nature has that element of unknown and the commitment to process is there. Chris would go out morning or evening, or both. And simply be there, ready. The deer seemed to know it was hunting season, so it wasn't until the last day that Chris--who is very skilled and normally can take his whole quota of deer the first day--was successful. Hunting is strictly regulated and ends at 4.45. He was not home until 6.55 (time to move them), and said, "I got two." I went out to see them and Chris said, "If I could close their eyes respectfully I would."
Thanksgiving itself was a gorgeous meal, and I may have been away from my own family but our tradition of overeating was fully in force. Pete and Becky's dog Flicka had gone to the vet earlier that week after she had eaten a plate of chicken off the counter, bones and all. The diagnosis was "dietary indiscretion," which became something of a catch phrase.
After dinner, Chris laid out the path with wax bags with votive candles and we all took a candlelit walk in a big loop through the woods. Pete and Becky and I all got to talking about least favorite words, which are strangely all related, a network externality of cringe. Heavy petting, being a ridiculous favorite.
Here is sweet Flicka, recovered valiantly from her dietary indiscretion.
And stylishly in hunter-friendly blaze orange:
Her parents:
Further Eph-friendly local color:
It was a relaxing few days. I read Harry Potter and felt like part of the family. Becky's mom Paulette even included me in Amaryllis gifting, and Scott shared his crowd-favorite oyster dip.
Shortly before we left town, I noticed that the local McDonald's is fashioned to look like a log cabin.
Becky and I drove back to St. Paul and I started out from there for Detroit. I stayed on the far side of Chicago (note to readers: if a chain motel has an anomalous no-cancellation policy, it is possible it is in a bad neighborhood). All was well and I drove on into Michigan the next day.
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