I think we left you hanging somewhere in Minneapolis, which isn’t a bad place to linger.  Apologies for the absence, but the tour from there on out maintained an extremely rigorous schedule, and our laptop charing cord just happened to light on fire one morning while preparing to post.  Drama, everywhere.  And as past tense would allude to, the tour has been completed.  We returned home safely around 4:33pm on Monday, August the third in the year of two-thousand and nine.  But seeing as I haven’t completed my memoir, the tour is far from finished.  Because I think it would alleviate some of my personal stress in being an irresponsible correspondant, and because I must record my thoughts before they wash away with the frequent rainshowers of Boston, I am going to give each “stop” its own blog entry.  We’ll begin today with Wisconsin, which was our destination post-Minneapolis.

Ahhh…Wisconsin.  I feel deeply, if remotely, connected to the dells and dairy of this darlingly shaped state.  My mother is from Wisconsin, and I have not-so-vivid memories of our regular summer vacations to some quaint little sector of the state, where we roughed it in a cabin for a week and spent most of our hours fishing.  Or playing “house” with the lures in the damp bottom of my father’s boat while he fished and patiently forgave my sister and I for scaring away the fish with our petty fights and cries of boredom.  (side note:  I remember as I child frequently proclaiming that I was bored.  I am so bitterly nostalgic for such perceptions.)

As we tumbled down the highway in our giant bus, vague visions of a 200 foot tall fish statue and squeaky cheese curds floated about, like our little aluminum boat on foggy “Star Lake.”   My most defined and complete memory of Wisconsin entails napping parents, ammunition and a perfect target, my sister Christine.  As was routine, my parents took an afternoon snooze in the cabin, and my sister and I were locked out, forced to enjoy nature, and one another.  Because I was the older sister, I usually determined what game we would play.  I had recently purchased with my saved allowance money, a bow and arrow kit (of the suction cup variety.)  It just so happened that it was slightly misty that afternoon, and my sister was clad in a slick, vinyl raincoat.  I directed her to a nearby tree stump and gave her instructions.  “Don’t move.”  Stepping back, I squinted and strung the bow.  Christine followed my directions impecably.  I’m not sure how long the game lasted, but I was terribly disappointed that the arrows didn’t stick to the jacket, and my parents were equally disappointed in me for simulating harm, and in Christine for succumbing.

But that was then, and this is also then, as I’m retro-actively (trying) to tell the story of Wisconsin via our tipi tour.  We weren’t as toursity as my family had been, I suppose.  But I did delight in a bag of cheese curds and a cone of custard.  We arrived at our destination, Michael Fields Agricultural Institute at a late hour, blushing as we growled through the parking lot adjacent to the sleeping quarters of dedicated farmers-in-training.   I had a hard time sleeping that evening, involuntarily focusing my energy on worrying about our potential “rude awakening.”

We were woken abruptly by a lanky, hairy fellow with a buyouant personality.  “Smells like a bunch of dirty sleeping hippies in here.  I like it.”  I had barely rubbed the sleep from my eyes when said fellow (Charlie Bob, we later learned) disappeared and a distinguished English gentleman parked aside our bus.  He introduced himself as Chris Mann, the founder of Michael Fields.   Aware now that I was on a farm, where early hours are praised, I decided we should probably work to disprove the “lazy-late-sleeping-artist” stereoype and immediately woke the crew.

Our stay at MFAI was delightufl, albeit far from my original intentions of harvesting and watering and meditating in a flourishing field of edibles.  We spent most of the day taking showers, discussing why and how we should change our “dried-food-pbj-banana-diet” and doing laundry.  We were lucky enough to graze the lovely gardens and hear a few stories from the young, in-training farmers.  MFAI is an educational institution that takes apprentices and teaches them ecological, ethical practices of traditional farming.  It’s a biodynamic farm, which is a self-sustainable method of agriculture, employing the theories of Rudolph Steiner, founder of the Waldorf school system.  As we pondered the humble life of growing food, Charlie Bob popped up here and there, numerous times, reminding us that a solemn, solitude lifestyle isn’t requisite for such a revered position.  Spunky guy.  Following suit of his fellowship-minded comrades, we shared a lovely evening meal provided by a true Frenchman, Leon.  He proceeded to prove his nationality by serenading us with an accordian post-dinner, in the bus of course.  I woke up with a cluster of blisters on my feet, recalling the aggressive ballroom dancing that occurred on the gravel outside our backdoor.  Leon, what a man.  He even gave Jonas his harmonica, which Jonas had previously and regularly lamented bringing on the trip.

In the morning we delighted in a plethora of baked good from the on-campus organic bakery and were presented with a bright box of wholesome vegetables, partly solving the previous days argument over nutrion and the possibility of vitamin deficiency, which I never cease to point out, can lead to many sorts of insanity.  Thank you, Charlie Bob, Shawn, Janet, Leon and everyone within the general vicinity of MFAI.  And then appeared Ellie, one of my fellow AIRS at HUB-BUB last year.  She had recently taken residence in rural Wisconsin, working on building a permaculture farm herself…and onward the four of us went, darting towards Chicago, South Side style….

Which we’ll save for tomorrow’s retroactive entry.

PS-I spent a few excruciating hours uploading the last 1/2 of the trip’s documentation on Flickr.  Check out Minneapolis here!  But don’t skip ahead in the atlas, because that wouldn’t be fair with my retroactive timing.