Wisconsin Gothic

While the regional Gothic meme isn't so fresh anymore, I thought I would try my hand at Wisconsin Gothic:

You always visit the North Woods. Even when you tire and drive south, you end up in the North Woods. You get hired aboard a laker, but when you cross Lake Superior, you still find yourself in the North Woods

On a hill, there is a mill. Past the mill is a walk. On the walk is a key. Those few who use the key and return smell of yeast and speak of a museum that flaps its wings at noon.

The county highway names spell out a message as you drive towards Door County: G-O-H-O-M-E-F-I-B-S

Every supper club has a portrait of Vince Lombardi. His eyes follow you even when you’re in another room, facing the other way.

The cows are happy. The cows must always be kept happy.

You once felt apathy for the Packers, but then you were crowned with cheese. Now you never feel sympathy for the other teams. Now the cheese never comes off. Now you are always a cheesehead.

You drive to O'Sheridan Street with your friends and laugh as you drive towards the capitol and it seems to recede. You turn onto John Nolen Drive and cross the lake towards the isthmus, but the city only gets smaller and smaller. You turn around, but are met with flat, unmarked roads, for as far as you can drive.

We do not speak of Brett Favre. Or Joseph McCarthy.

Drawn by lights, you find yourself at a chautauqua. Inside, the cultists fervently chant, “Bob La Follette, fight for us!” Beneath their hoods, you recognize the aged members, whose names grave your local cemetery. Standing next one row over is your great-grandfather, who died at Belleau Wood.

Visitors gawk at and joke about the ice fishermen in winter. But when summer comes, the ice thaws, and the ice fishermen are still walking on the lake, even the Flatlanders know to stay silent.

The cheese curds squeak. You’ve noticed there are patterns in the squeaks, which sound like Morse Code. You know better than to listen. You deep fry the curds instead.

There is no point in driving. Every four-way intersection is haunted by the spirits of drivers who died while politely waving other drivers into the intersection.

You are told that there is a land to the northwest that is a mirror image of your own. The same people sit in the same homes, speaking with the same accent and eating the same casseroles. But they have horns, wear purple, and covet your lakes.

On May 17th, you eat fish soaked in an alkali until it is gelatinous, and reminisce about an “Old World.” You shudder as you think of this ancient land and its decadent cuisine, and wonder if the “fish” was a neighbor.

When winter comes and the ferry to Madeline Island stops running, the island itself disappears. The island comes back into existence when the ice road forms, but during warm winters, the island doesn’t reappear until March. Its students never leave school, forever trying to make up for lost time.

From the cliffs of Devil’s Island, you can see distant lights to the north, blinking. People are occasionally drawn to the lights and their promise of another land, but nobody returns.

In November, menfolk don bright orange, and commune in short wooden towers. If the spirits show favor, they return with giant bones, or are blessed with ginseng. Those who are cursed return empty-handed, chanting: "Waukesha, Waunakee, Waupaca, Waupun, Wausau, Wausaukee, Wautoma, Wauwatosa, Wauzeka, Milwaukee, Pewaukee!”

You hear coyotes howling in the distance, and step outside to look. There is silence. You step back inside. The howling returns, much louder.

Your town has a church and a bar, across the street. On Sunday, the church is full, the bar empty. For the rest of the week, the bar is full, and the church empty. There are no doors, and you have never seen anyone leave.

You used to come to Mount Horeb to look at the trolls, sitting in front of homes, the dentist office, shops. Now they come to stare at you.

Every winter, a derelict car is pushed to the center of the lake, and bets are taken on when it will fall through the ice. The winner has the honor of being fed to the muskie that lives below the surface.

You turn on the radio and hear Michael Feldman ask, “whad’ya know?" “Not much!” responds the audience. You change the channel. “Not much!” the announcer cries. You switch to a music station. “Not much!” yells Justin Vernon. “Not much!” chants the crowd gathering in front of your home.

One mile down and still descending, as your bathysphere’s walls whine and crumple, you have to admit that Devil’s Lake really is bottomless.

You wanted to be a badger, and came along, by the bright shining light of the moon. Now, as you struggle to grasp your meal of worms and pheasant eggs with your claws, and your family anxiously awaits your demise, you realize your mistake.

Twelve hours since you started, the House on the Rock’s Infinity Room is still shrinking, and still stretches before you.

There is a door of death, crowned with trees with red hanging down from them. Tourists come from the endless flatlands to the south to see it, and pay homage.

You hear whispered stories of the folk who dwell in the wooded hills beyond Iron County. These Youpers look human, but with their incomprehensible accent, fondness for double-letters, and knives and wooden steam chambers, are clearly something else.

Deep in the Driftless Area runs a river that never stops turning in on itself. Those who attempt to kayak it never reach the Mississippi, no matter how many coulees they paddle through.

The margarine is as white as death. You dare not consume it. The cows must remain happy.

“Spotted cow!” your roommate says. “Spotted cow!” your professor responds. “Spotted cow!” cry the whooping cranes flying above you. “Spotted cow!” your bank teller exclaims. “Spotted cow!” the police yell, weapons drawn.