The story of visiting a daughter's family in northern Illinois--a long way from Southern Illinois. This article first appeared in a 2002 Southern Illinois Writers Guild Anthology. I hope you enjoy the weekend with us.

Illinois Is a Long State

No one realizes how long the state of Illinois is more than families with one part living in one end of the state and another part at the opposite. We are one of those families. Since our middle daughter Jeannie and family had gone to her mother-in-law’s for Christmas, we were hankering to see them in the new year of 2002.

We’d mailed Christmas gifts for everyone but our son-in-law.  His gift was too big for mailing. Gerald had decided the previous summer that every family should have a trunk-size “truck” or “dolly”  for moving heavy items around the house. The undelivered gift was on our minds.

And with their youngest approaching her third birthday, we knew that she was due one of those little wooden rockers sold at a chain restaurant. We have bought nine of those rockers--once we had five of them lined up under our Christmas tree. Only our two step-grandchildren do not have one. (I’ve already plotted that those two shall have one when their first child arrives.)

When we can, Gerald and I like to give identical gifts to grown children and to grandchildren. Not out of fairness, but because the material objects helps them feel connected when they know their siblings or cousins have the same items in their homes if if they live states away.

Despite our need to take the belated gift and the early birthday rocker, remembrances of previous harrowing winter trips to Freeport, twelve miles south of Wisconsin, made Gerald reluctant to go if bad weather were predicted. Remembrance of three rapidly changing grandchildren made him willing to risk the trip. Since the bad weather held off, it was certainly worth the try.

“My rocking chair!” little Cecelie squealed. And she smothered her grandfather with kisses for introducing her to his favorite grandchild treat--the tiny oval mints in a clear plastic box.  Never mind that the little box soon contained the mints with the sweet outer shell licked off before she spit the more bitter part back in the plastic box. Getting the little treats out and back in the box was a challenge to her little hands and mind, and she loved learning to accomplish that task.

On Saturday, Jeannie and I hurried to the Awana Olympics at nearby Rockford to watch Leslie and Elijah compete with their church team, while Jeannie also shopped sales for needed larger clothes for growing children. We barely made it to the evening performance of The Fantasticks by Freeport’s Winneshiek Players. The family’s packed schedule made us aware of young families’ rushed lives.

In fact, Jeannie and I made it to the theater to claim our tickets only because we skipped supper--the big pot of homemade chili she had prepared for everyone. The men took care of Cecelie and Elijah, so Leslie could go with us to the musical directed by her middle school teacher.

Started in 1916, Winnieshiek Theatre claims to be the oldest continuous amateur theater in the United States. We laughed at human foibles and then cringed as young lovers learned the cruel lessons that life teaches us, and we thrilled to such beautiful sentimental numbers as “Try to Remember” and “They Were You.”

Next morning the usher smiled with us as our grandson led us down the church aisle to very near the front of the sanctuary. He knew visitors would never have chosen that conspicuous spot. Because we are so proud of him, we were happy to sit wherever Elijah led us.

His mother was not so pleased, however, when he became ill right before the service ended. Fearing he might be sick during the long trek back to the foyer of the church, she encouraged him to let her take him home early. We were glad she had planned Sunday dinner at home since he needed to lie down. The almost three-year-old pronounced her mother’s roast, “Delicious!” and we smiled happily despite missing Elijah at the table.

We debated staying another night since Jeannie’s new job filling in as an art teacher in a near-by town allows her Mondays off. Yet we had seen Leslie’s bedroom her mother had redecorated for her with bright purple, plum, and pink colors reminiscent of the pink, purple, and lime green teenage room Jeannie once created for herself at our farm. We had collected our copy of the article about Elijah’s award for his interest in Braille and the student who needs it in his third grade classroom. We had heard him practice the piano and pick out songs by ear until his mother shooed him away from the living room. We had heard Leslie play her flute and heard Cecelie howl that she was not allowed to play the flute. I’d taken a peek at the poems Leslie had written for a language arts class. Gerald had put up shelves for Jeannie in her laundry room, and I had the dinner dishes washed while Jeannie rocked Cecelie for an afternoon nap.

Soon a group would be gathering in their home for an evening study of C. S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity. Gerald was wondering if the delayed cold spell he was dreading would hit if we waited another day to make the over 400-mile journey downstate.

All good things must end, and it always better to end good things well rather than badly, so bolstered with final hugs and kisses, we loaded the car and took off for Woodsong, our rural home in Williamson County, regretting once again that Illinois is such a long state.

 

 
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