Postcards from the Edge of the Bluff.

“I didn’t have the same sense of place as you did growing up,” my friend told me. He grew up in Iowa.

I told him, “I don’t think I did either.”

Does anyone? Growing up in Wisconsin I was as unimpressed as anyone is of his home. The same Thrifty-Mart. The same K-Mart. The same Richard’s Drive-In. The same ratty city Christmas decorations. The same neighbors. The same patch of grass to be mowed. Week after week. God, who could stand it another day?

But, something changed upon moving away from Wisconsin. I began to miss something. I realized that much of my identity was rooted in Wisconsin. Certainly that’s been accentuated by my friends in Illinois. Part of our poking and jabbing is based on the "enmity" between the two states; Packers vs. Bears is a big part of that. And the whole “cheesehead” thing. The old joke: Q: What’s the difference between a Cheesehead and a Butthead? A: The Illinois state line. Except Wisconsinites don’t say “butt”. Snicker.

Right now I am closing in on my fortieth birthday. Part of my wife’s gift to me was a weekend of camping at Devil’s Lake. By myself. My favorite camping spot. I asked for it, but am realizing as I type this that, hey, it may have been a gift for her. And friends who I told about this getaway said that’s weird and you’re kidding…by yourself? Is it really that weird and am I really that bad of company? But the gift for me is to get back here to Wisconsin to write. Such fertile ground. What a glorious gift.

It’s smooth sailing up I-90 to Baraboo. The entrance to Devil’s Lake is like entering a tunnel to another world. Dense woods only allow for a few shafts of sunlight. The drive curves around rock walls and bluffs, until the lake expanse opens up at the bottom. My anticipation is high.

The tent goes up easy and the Ice Age camping loop is empty. It’s October. A postcard picture of what I was hoping for. I pull out the laptop, pull up a chair, and prop my feet on the picnic table. Sigh. Flipping through my index card book of ideas, I am aware of the quiet and of the leisurely descent of yellow leaves. Isn’t this the kind of time and place of which writer’s dream?

That Friday afternoon I start or finish three different essays. Very productive for me, for whom writing is usually a chore.

I celebrate with a fish fry. There are no good fish fries in Illinois. I am convinced after 16 years. Unless rubber is a kind of fish. One of the park rangers recommends the Baraboo Country Club. It’s pretty good. All-you-can eat. And a Leinie’s Creamy Dark. My table overlooks the rolling golf course and gives a view straight between the two bluffs at Devil’s Lake. Isn’t this the perfect weekend? I’m obviously out-of-place with my camping clothes. Some country club people talk loudly at the table next to me. I try to jot down some notes on a writing assignment I brought along. Why did I bring it along at all? So people wouldn’t think it was weird I was eating by myself?

Or maybe I’m not too good with solitude.

I’m reminded of this back at camp as I sit in my tent alone. It’s October and it gets dark by six or seven o’clock. I go for a walk. I start a fire and try to be introspective. Fifteen minutes later, I give in and watch an episode of Deadwood on my laptop. I’m in fitful sleep by 9. So much for the idyllic writer’s retreat.

I came here to write. I did that. The question, however, this weekend is: why write at all? There is writing that informs and instructs, of course, but I think most writing—songs, novels, essays, and probably “inform and instruct” writing, too--has the same motivation at its core. That motive is summed up in the simplest writing form. Not the poem or the haiku, but the postcard. Our family keeps a small wooden box of the postcards we’ve received. They range from Paris to Wisconsin Dells. From Mongolia to Rib Mountain State Park. From Turkey to Ehlenbach’s Cheese Chalet in DeForest. But all of their messages can be summed up in the classic sentiment: “I love you. Wish you were here.” I like you. Don’t forget me.

Why write? To love and to be loved. I write because “I wish you were here”. The “here” being inside my head. A scary thought? But my writing self is probably my truest self. I write to know and to be known. I write to send a postcard.

Ironically, I went away by myself for the weekend to write. I isolated myself in order to “know and to be known”. What the heck? If I have a sense of “place” here in Wisconsin, it is because of the people I have experienced it with. If Devil’s Lake is one of my favorite places to be, it is because of the people I have shared it with and continue to share it with. Sam Phillips echoes this truth, “Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be…The places I go are never there.” Well, the places are never there if the people connected with them are not.

Saturday morning I am up at 6am. The tent is down by 7:30. I write a bit more, but I leave Devil’s Lake for home by noon. I had the opportunity to stay quite a bit longer. And yes, there is a time for solitude. But this weekend I’d rather be with those people who know me and whom I know.

We will make plans to return to Devil’s Lake next summer. Together.