babinscreams

Waupaca, Wisconsin June 21, 2006 On the edge of this town, population 5000, at the south end of Main Street is South Park. The park wraps itself around the shores of Shadow Lake. On the north shore is a sandy beach where generations have come to recreate. Over the course of several summers spanning my dad’s adolescence, he swam there. It must have been intoxicating after the winter seasons of bitter cold and ice. On Wednesday night, when Elliot and I arrived at the park at sunset, the air was gentle, warm, moist. Next to the parking lot, a group of guys played volleyball and eyed us with suspicion; we were obviously out-of-towners. We walked the short distance from the parking lot to the beach and plonked down on a park bench. At 8PM the lifeguard closed shop and the kids frolicking in the shallows went home. Elliot and I pulled off our shoes and unpacked Dad. A guy with a metal detector and headphones appeared, “Anybody else with a metal detector been here?” Not that we were aware of.

Elliot and I arrived in Waupaca last night around 9pm. In the last few minutes of the solstice sunlight we walked Main Street and drove to the lake where we will leave Dad. I tried to give as much detail as I could about the places we observed, but my lack of knowledge was frustrating. On this trip, I have to constantly let go, to let Elliot have his experience – just as I had mine when I came here with Dad. But of course, detail is precious now that the source of the information is gone; I want to be the Bob Babin tour guide, but lack the “experience”. So, I rely on the wealth of record both Dad and I created. There is his book, “My Boyhood in Wisconsin” and the audio notes he put down before writing it. I’m relying on video I shot on a trip he and I took here in 1996. Now on my lap top, this two hours of video in which I sat him down in front of many of the sites here in Waupaca is a Rosetta Stone. After watching again last night, I realized the place I have in mind to leave him is

Tomorrow, Elliot and I depart for Waupaca Wisconsin, my dad’s home from infancy until the age of 16. Throughout his life, over and over, Bob returned to Waupaca. As much as he hated cold weather and the parochial disadvantages of life in Waupaca, when he got to talking about it, an air of reverence and poetry emerged from stories of his youth. He traveled there many times over the years; he would bring his wife and son to meet the women who raised him: his Grandmother Mini, his aunt Esther, his aunt Alta, and his cousin Bernice. He attended many high school reunions. He told me often of his early years on the farm: doing math problems on a black board by gas light; life without indoor plumbing; the rare visits from his mother, never knowing, always hoping that one day she’d take him back. It’s easy to romanticize his struggle early in life, but the elements can’t be denied. When he was an infant, Bob’s mother left him in the care of his grandmother. The culture of these northern Europe