After two weeks at home juggling New York connections for a jet-set client, I took an early morning drive from land-locked Hampshire to arrive at the heavenly still waters of the Holiday Shores Campground & Resort in the heart of the Wisconsin Dells in time for a sun-kissed afternoon in the shallows of the Wisconsin River. Goodness — what a pick-me-up.
My dear friends Kathi and Jeff, hostess and host extraordinaire and sound-board for all things related to near-adult children and stepchildren, were entertaining for July Fourth with a bevy of close friends, thus justifying my holiday weekend sojourn (I was back in the Village of Cardboard Boxes two nights later).
* * *
Does this sound like the Minnesota Transplant you’ve come to know (and, oh, you must admit, love)?
Probably not. It’s a bit too Vogue for me. I was imitating Hamish Bowles (Hamish? What a lovely name, an Anglicised form of Scottish Gaelic Seumas) as he recounted one of his recent trips in the May issue. Here’s his prose verbatim:
After three weeks on the road for the fashion collections in London, Milan, and Paris, I took a dawn flight from gray and glacial Orly to arrive at the heavenly Riad Madani in the heart of the Marrakech medina in time for a sun-kissed breakfast. Goodness — what a pick-me-up.
My dear friend Gordon Watson, purveyor of twentieth-century furniture and exquisite objects to the likes of Madonna, Mick Jagger, Valentino, and Donna Karan, among others, was celebrating a Very Big Birthday with a bevy of close friends, thus justifying my moonlight flit (I was back in the City of Light the following evening).
As I read about the Moroccan city of Marrakech, I thought, “How exotic. I wonder if I could do that with my recent trip to the less exotic but no less tantalizing Wisconsin Dells.” Sometime a writer needs to try on a new style, don’t you agree? Let’s proceed.
The Thursday-night festivities were far too much fun, and on the morrow, not quite at my freshest, I leaped back into my hosts’ pontoon with a couple of friends, my Beloved and three young studs (our progeny for the most part), and we hightailed it to the bewitching Sandbar, the destination of dozens of other Dells denizens. (The water level was increasing almost unnoticeably but incrementally, thereby erasing whatever temporary shore existed earlier in the week.) The crowd made do with neon lawn chairs and scrubbed-clean boat decks — we were bound to get wet anyway — and established a tableau of Purple Haze and native beers (some with limes sprouting festively from the necks).
We didn’t make it until the fireworks blossomed later, but we hadn’t meant to: We accomplished our goal of chilling lazily in the sunshine, absorbing one of summer’s all-too-rare near-perfect days.