As fall fell, we realized we had only one child on the way and adjusted our expectations. Our joy was tinged with sadness knowing that my father had so wanted to become a GRANDFATHER (not a mere “grandpa”), the last thing he had asked me about before being wheeled into the operating room: “When are you going to make me a grandfather?”
Christmas found us doing our usual crazy routine. To try to please both families, we would drive from our home in southeastern Wisconsin and celebrate Christmas eve with my family in northwestern, Wisconsin. Then about midnight, we’d pack up and hit the road, driving all night – kind of like Santa Claus – in time to arrive at Donna’s parents’ home in the northeastern part of the state, on Christmas morning. Or vice versa. It’s the kind of thing you do in your twenties.
This year we knew we had to spend Christmas eve with my mother, deep in mourning for her husband of 36 years. There would be no playing of mom’s favorite Christmas albums this year; it just hurt her too much to hear Bing Crosby, Mario Lanza and the rest. After a very subdued celebration, true to our crazy tradition, we packed up our Opel station wagon and began our journey into the night about 11 PM, Christmas Eve.
Looking back, it seems pretty foolish. The Opel’s heater was almost totally non-functional on the way up north. For some reason I thought that it might work better on Christmas eve; that God would miraculously heal our little car. We found out within a few minutes that He hadn’t. We also found that the temperature had plummeted. Did that stop us? Did we turn back? Of course not. We were young and pregnant and unstoppable! ‘ever try to drive – a stick shift – while covered in blankets? It doesn’t work very well. But we were not about to be deterred by a little thing like common sense.
By the time we were done driving south and had headed east across Wisconsin on highway 29, we were also hungry. We devoured the whole box of Norwegian Christmas goodies my mom had packed for us: fatigmann, krumkake, sandbakkles and white, sugar cookies are great when you’re not actually hungry, but when you need real food, especially if you’re in the “eat-right-now-or-get-sick” stage of pregnancy, as Donna was, they just don’t cut it.
Our hope was Wausau, the one good sized town we would pass through on our journey. Certainly some restaurant would be open in Wausau. But as we drove the streets of that fair city (a lot smaller than it is now) nothing was open. Nothing. Zero. No room at the inn.
We were a desperate pair when we discovered that we were studying our map while parked directly across the street from the Wausau Police Department. The thought occurred to both of us at the same time: these guys will know where to get some food at 1 AM! We high-tailed it across the street and approached the sad looking officer at the desk and the equally sad looking officer standing beside the desk: “Where can you find a meal in Wausau at this hour on Christmas Day?” we asked.
They looked at each other, shook their heads slowly and then proceeded to explain. “Believe it or not,” they said, “there is nothing open. Nothing.” “A city councilman takes pity on us every year and provides a catered meal for us in our own lunch room.”
That was when the officers looked at each other a couple of times and then did a remarkable thing. “Why don’t you just walk down the hall there and enjoy some of our catered meal? It’s really good. It’s free. We always have more than we need.” We had never heard sweeter words. We walked down the hallway to the not very pretty – but warm – lunch room and feasted like royalty on the police department’s wonderful food. We don’t remember what it was, except awesome.
