My brother had decided that we should visit a Bible Camp that my father had taken us to every year in Clintonville, Wisconsin which was about 30 miles west of Green Bay. Again, we took the blue highways, and they were delightful; however, the temperature plummeted, and we had to wear our jackets. The road was slightly wet from drizzle, and the trip turned fairly uncomfortable. After several hours, we arrived in Clintonville. We
asked directions at a local Lutheran church, and the pastor was happy to give us directions to Long Lake Bible
Camp, which had since been renamed, Obla Di Obla Da or something like that. It had been more than thirty years since we had seen the camp. It had been slightly updated, but the boat house,
the canteen, the main meeting hall, were all the same.
The lake seemed impossibly
small. My brother and I are emotional people once a year, and only when
it comes to family. I choked up walking around another place of my youth. Bill told me of his childhood
sweetheart, Chris Sealar. They had been camp lovers, and later, they nearly married. I heard the whole story
of their romance. Chris had died of cancer nearly ten years earlier, and Bill, emotional as the place was for
him, managed keep his eyes dry, even as we toured the camp chapel. The smell of the pines and the sights of
the camp brought back memories far more vividly than any snap shot could. We stayed for about 40 minutes, and
then left leaving the young campers scurrying about to make their own childhood memories. We drove for several hours in perfect convertible weather. It's easy to forget how uncomfortable a topless car is in less than perfect weather, but when it's right, nothing can compare or offset. The roads were winding and challenging. We arrived in Dodgeville, near our home of ten years, Platteville, Wisconsin and decided to stay at Governor Dodge State Park for the night. Like everything else, it too had changed. We now had to pay ten dollars to camp, and I think it used to be free. The money was used to pay for the fancy new ranger's station. All the paved roads there were once only gravel. This wasn't camping the way that I remembered it. Now there was a shower room, hot and cold running water, a Pepsi machine, and everyone was assigned a camping area. This wasn't really camping, this was simply sleeping outside. The mosquitoes were big, mean, and seemingly immune to the spray that we covered ourselves in. We camped noisily near a place our father had taken us to more than thirty years earlier. Since we were both aware of the other's proclivity for snoring, it was a race to see who could fall asleep first. Bill won. I was so tired from all of the driving, that as loud as he was, I soon fell asleep. He told me that I repaid him when I woke him up later.
The next day, Bill and I visited our home town of Platteville. Bill rented a bicycle in order to tour our hometown in the manner of our youth, and I called old friends. I spent the afternoon at Joe Olthhafer's place. He has become a very successful farmer, but attributes everything to his father--not only for giving him a head start by allowing him to take over the farming operation, but also for instilling his work ethic. He showed me his cattle, his new tool shed containing a drafting room, a welding area, and the room to fix the sophisticated farm machinery. His brother kept a collection of old Chevy Corvairs there as well. Joe says that all that is misleading, for while the farm is worth a great deal of money, it is said that farmers live poor and die rich. The assests are simply a means to make a modest living. Later, at his insistence, he crammed his 6'4" frame inside the tiny cockpit of the Cobra and took me for a very fast ride. I'm not used to people driving faster and with more abandon than I do in my own car. I wanted to tell him to slow down, but instead, I just tightened my seat belt.
Bill and I decided to visit George and Edith Olthafer, Joe's mom and dad, for lunch. Edith is strong woman and getting on in years. She functioned sort of as my second mother because as a child, I had spent so much time on their farm with Joe. Seeing her brought back a flood of memories for both of us. We sat down for lunch with George and Edith, and I think that it was at this point of the trip that the stress of driving so much and the reliving of so many happy memories, all culminated. Like I said, my family can be emotional. In an unplanned seque, my brother started to tell a touching but extremely lengthy recounting of the relationship between himself and his son. Very soon, tears came to his eyes as he told about the love and respect that had developed between them. Soon, he was sobbing, but undaunted by the tears, he proceeded. After about ten minutes, he was still crying, and what had become touching was now becoming somewhat awkward for me and the Olthafers. Bill continued with his story, crying even bigger tears, and no one could say anything to stop the story or stem the torrent of tears. George, a decorated B-17 pilot in WWII got up and left Edith and myself to wait out my brother who continued to give more details and more tears. Eventually, it stopped, and there was a very difficult silence. "So, Edith, how is your daughter doing?" I inquired.
Bill and I left the next day for Colorado Springs. We started off early in the morning and drove the beautiful dew covered hills of southern Wisconsin. We crossed the mighty Mississippi, and took I-80 across Iowa. We stopped at one of the roadside rest stations where a tall willowy blond approached us. She was coincidentally traveling with her mother to Colorado Springs. She asked if she could ride with me to Colorado Springs, and suggested my brother ride with her mother. What kind of a car is it that would plant the seed in a beautiful young girl's mind that she should abandon her mother to ride with a total stranger with a three day beard? And what is it about a man twice her age who thinks that it sounds like a pretty good idea? My brother and her mother were less than thrilled about the prospect. She posed in the car, and we took her picture because we were sure no one would believe such an event had taken place.
While stopping for gas close to the Colorado border, a man approached us and began talking about the car. He told us that he had a friend who owned an original Cobra. This was to become another recurring claim as I made my way across the country. By the time I reached the West Coast, I heard from many who claimed they either owned an original Cobra, or they new someone who did. It was their brother's friend, or their uncle, or a friend of a friend. From a statistical standpoint, it seems that Shelby must have made about half a million Cobras because from such an outrageously small sampling, nearly all who introduced themselves at gas stations and restaurants across the country knew someone who had an original.
I enjoyed the stay at Mom and Dad's house. I was able to wash the car, and I spent some quality time with my mother and father. I helped to do a few things around the house, but basically, I just rested from a very long trip. I took my mother to church that Sunday in the green Cobra, and
she loved being seen in it almost as much as she loved being seen with a son
who would own such a car. I took my father for a quick ride in my car.
I didn't know at the time, but that would be the
last time that I would ever see my father. We all secretly feared another debilitating stroke or some other
event that would take him from us. Along with Alzheimer's, he was suffering from macular
degeneration. He could not read, watch TV, or hear very well. He was living in a world that was
inaccessible to him, and he was very frustrated with life. He told me often that he wished he would die.
I secretly hoped that he would get his wish because there was nothing we could do, and the outcome was
inevitable. The only question was how long he would hang on. Mother was taxed with Dad's health problems, but she was
determined to take care of him the best that she could. One day, Dad and I were walking on the
shoulder of the road that ran by his house, and he tried to cross the road with a car coming. I had to grab him
and pull him out of harm's way. Five months later, I wouldn't be there to help him, and he would walk in front
of a Datsun 240 Z driven by 17 year-old driver near the same section of road, and his life would instantly end.
That week, in his more lucid moments, we talked of his impending death. We told each other
how much we loved each other, and talked of the hope that our faith brings us. We were on the best of terms.
There was nothing left unsaid or undone. There was a peace and understanding between us. continued