Dad recognized the pier I was standing on in the Kodachrome snapshot and let my mom know the familiarity.
He'd been there as well. As a matter of fact, he used to live up in that area and was close friends with the owner. As were my folks. Kismet! Sandy of Eagle River, WI knew both of the families very well that were about to become a dramatic Brady Bunch and nobody knew this.
EAGLE RIVER?!
Well. St. Germain to be more specific. But then I wouldn't be able to tie Jon Cryer and Hot Shots into it. A genius scene included at the top of this piece written by Wisconsin's own Jim Abrahams.
Ma arranged for her to bring her new beau up to Eagle River for the "introduction" on Memorial Day Weekend, 1983. Of course, I was 11, so I would have to come with my towhead and everything.
Now I remember it being a chilly gray Memorial weekend in Wisconsin. That can happen. Many rainy Memorial Day weekends have their moments in my memories. Cold and Damp arrived at many functions over the years, whether they were big family get togethers or camping trips. It didn't stop the festivities, of course. Like I said, this was Wisconsin. Let the beer happen.
And some cheese.
There was a night I was left with Sandy's teenage son while my parents hit a local "tavern". Upper midwesterners know that term. It's key language. J showed me how he utilized nunchuku, his drum set (that I found out in retrospect that my parents almost bought for me), and he took me out to a bar and grill for burgers and fries. I gotta say, and I mean it with all that is me, no place has better comfort food than an out of the way, on the verge of the woods, hole in the tree, rural Wisconsin pub.
Towards the end of the evening, he decided to curl up in his room and watch the classic nuclear sub drama Gray Lady Down. Not really interested at 11 in high tension military hardware dramas, I retreated to my constant companion, the comic book.
Sometime in the middle of the night, very late, I heard a shriek from Sandy. I was about to get out of bed to see what was going on in this nifty lakefront property in the wee hours of the morning. It was about the time that my socks hit the carpet that I heard Sandy's trademark uproarious laughter. Everything was alright. I rubbed my eyes and rolled back into bed.
Hours later, I had to use the facilities. It was very early. Pre-dawn. I ambled down the steps, shuffled past the kitchen, turned the corner and headed toward the restroom just off of the living room. It must have been the only non-bedroom john in the house, otherwise one wouldn't have needed to make that jaunt. With my eyes half closed, I began to do what I came here to do, when something shuffled next to the toilet. In the dim light, I couldn't tell what it was, and I was scared shitless. I stumbled backward into the sink, nearly urinating all over the place in the process. It struggled to stand and shuffled out toward me.
A white-tail fawn.
Everything was fine. Sandy had a rep as a wildlife rehabilitator, and all that late night howling was her excitement at someone dropping off an orphaned whitetail deer baby. She took him in, got him healthy, and I believe Henry, as he was named, became a regular on Sandy's gorgeous lakefront property. As a sidenote, when we moved to 21st Street in Kenosha, it became evident the area was too small and confining for Ginger, the wonder dog, and my heart was broken as she was retired off to Sandy's place. Where Ginger could run like she did all those years when we lived "out in the county". She lived her best life with Sandy.
I've got more to say about Ginger in the future. She deserves much more than a series of supporting performance mentions. I promise, I'll get there, girl. You've earned that much. It's just that I need to do right by you.
Anyway, it was said Ginger and Henry became fast friends. I wish I could have seen it.
There's not enough stories like that.
