Article Contributed on: 3/7/2008 8:48:05 AM
I was born in Wisconsin. I came out of my mom waving a foam finger that said, "Eat Cheese or Die". (As you can well imagine, the doctor was extremely impressed by my spirit.)
Real Wisconsin kids are nursed on cheese curds, and we remember Laverne and Shirley. I'm sure Shirley's hubba hubba hiney was probably made from cheese. Packers fans are known as Cheeseheads, and Happy Days are happy days when cheese is involved.
I love cheese. I love Wisconsin.
I remember those formative years, driver's education, learning to use my middle finger while driving through Milwaukee, the glory days of the 1982 Brewers Pennant, and
The Milwaukee Journal's Green Sheet.
I remember those 6 foot snow drifts, playing broom hockey on the lakes, and sledding down the quarry. I remember the freak snow storms in May, and the hard-working hands of my grandmother in June, as she stooped over rows of rhubarb in the garden.
I remember living in an apartment with my mother, and how, even though she worked third shift, my sister and I would revel in using our remote control to change other people's channels in nearby buildings back when cable boxes were so new that everyone shared the same frequency. I remember tornado sirens. I remember hearing all three of my names whenever I was in trouble, or how she'd pinch me if I said the word, "fart".
I remember the morning my school counselor brought me into the office from Mr Dart's history class. When they sat me in the conference room, they told me that my mother had died in a head-on collision with a semi truck just an hour before. Her car had hit some black ice on a bridge and she lost control. I remember the article, a blanket strewn over her body, still in the warped vehicle, as news reports said she had been Christmas shopping (this wasn't true, but for ratings...). I still have the calculator that was scuffed in the wreckage, and use it to this day.
Even thirty years after learning the song at the tender age of 8, I can bellow out a rousing "On Wisconsin." And mean it.
It takes good times and bad times to root someone to a special place, a history that brings sadness and overwhelming laughter from somewhere deep in the stomach. Wisconsin, to me, is mom, Friday night Fish fries, Sussex, Rhinelander, Mr. Dart and cheese curds.
And even in those moments when I'm digging myself out of a 6" snow bank and complaining about the cold, I remember back to days spent in soaked snow bibs and moon boots in my grandmother's white-buried back yard.
As an aside, if you're ever visiting a national monument and see a car load of folks with Wisconsin plates, thrust your fist in the air and yell, "On Wisconsin!" See if they don't cheer, yell, and wave back.
If they use only one finger, you'll know they were from Milwaukee.