Not to infer by any means that Madison, Wisconsin doesn’t hold its own share of unique charms, its earned parking space in the universe, festooned as it is by its marvelous lake, endless leafy streets, a university of some repute and a dependably comical state government, but it is still not the most likely place for a person to begin his Summer vacation.
Be that as it may, Madison is exactly where Siobhan and Bill started theirs. It’s all Tom Kennedy’s fault. Tom was a high-level employee of the Bayer corporation decades ago when Siobhan initiated her career doing drug-testing studies for pharmaceutical behemoths like Bayer and Schering-Plough, and later became a mentor and consultant to her own Pathogenes, Inc. endeavor. After many years as an exalted poobah of the World Association for the Advancement of Veterinary Parasitology, Kennedy had finally earned a major conference of the group in his own bailiwick of the Cheese State and Siobhan was to be a speaker at the affair. Now, a reader might reasonably wonder about the proclivities of parasitologists, about their folkways and mores, what they dream about at night, but we’re here to tell you these scientists are just like anyone else who might be called in by the federal government when the planet is invaded by alien monsters.
We stayed at the Madison Concourse hotel downtown, a skip and a jump from the towering state capitol building and a block from the upper end of State Street, a multi-block corridor of saloons, eateries and retail establishments of every description which extends from the capitol lawn to the chummy University of Wisconsin property downstream.
Madison is nothing if not neat. Remember those street-sweeper machines you saw as a child back in the dark ages? There are scores of the things rambling around Madison, scouring the streets, sucking up detritus, polishing the avenues to a fine sheen. Bend over to pick up a piece of litter and you risk disfigurement of your extremities by the eager little machines whose mission it is to never let a Dasani bottle bounce twice on the hallowed ground.
Walking is the preferred method of transportation in Madison, slightly outstripping bicycling, and with good reason. The city’s streets are a cacaphony of one-way confusion and regret, a cluster of you-can’t-get-there-from-here aggravation, an impossible rebus, an invitation to weeping and the gnashing of teeth. The city’s population is a hefty 258,054 so that’s a lot of vehicular cattle on the hoof. Despite the honking, the blizzards and the enormous pressure to devour cheese, Madison is ranked as the 12th best place to live in the United States by U.S. News and the 38th best place to retire. And no, despite what you see on Green Bay Packers telecasts, almost nobody walks around with those foam cheese wedges on their heads. Then again, we didn’t check the taverns.
Madison has earned its reputation as a haven for Liberals but it’s not exactly Greenwich Village. Orators in sackcloth and ashes roam only a few blocks from the UW campus and nobody has burned down the ROTC building lately. There hasn’t been a Top Ten political riot there in years, even during the shameful regime of a Republican weasel/governor.
Other facts about the capitol:
1. Madison’s official city bird is the plastic pink flamingo.
2. Otis Redding bought the farm when his plane crashed in Madison’s Lake Monona.
3. Madison has a higher percentage of gay couples than any city in the midwest not named Chicago or Minneapolis.
4. On a per-capita basis, people in Madison buy more books than anywhere else.
5. More than half the population of the city is under 30.
On June 24, 1977, Elvis made an appearance in Madison at the corner of Highway 51 and East Washington Avenue, where a fistfight was taking place. Two combatants had a third pinned down and were raining punches on him. Presley’s limousine pulled over to the curb, Elvis jumped out and assumed a karate stance, offering to take on the two sluggers. Shocked, they simply froze and the victim quickly ran off. The King eventually shook hands with the stunned pair and drove away, leaving them with a single silver bullet and an epic memory.
 |
| (1) Michelangelo's breakfast spot, (2, 3, 4) Madison street scenes. |
Living It Up
The 27th Conference of the WAAVP was held at the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Monona Terrace, an unusual multi-level structure overlooking charming Lake Monona in downtown Madison. On opening night, July 7th, a small coterie of University of Wisconsin marching band members assembled in the building, tuned up their instruments and led conference-goers in pied-piper fashion to the facility’s rooftop, where a feast had been prepared. The band had its own unique sense of humor, blasting out The Time Warp while the merry parasitologists, many from India and Africa, noshed and giggled. Next, they rolled out The Beer Barrel Polka, always popular in Mumbai and Capetown circles, and carried on for an hour, not playing a single number Bill didn’t like. They closed with On Wisconsin!, bowed and disappeared into the lovely Madison night, bumping and grinding. Siobhan made the rounds of old acquaintances and new admirers and returned intact. The next day she gave two separate lectures, doffed her cap and waved goodbye to the assembled crowd. It was time for the real vacation to start. As Bob Dylan once said, “Goodbye, Wisconsin. Hello, Coeur d’Alene!”
 |
| Sights from the parasitology conference. |
Coeur, Si….Spokane, Maybe Not.
Coeur d’Alene, Idaho has many exotic features but one of them is not an international airport, thus we landed in dowdy Spokane, half-an-hour away. We didn’t see much of the city but the small part of it we visited reminded us of those commercials we saw as kids testifying that only Tide could repair those grey and dingy garments in your wash. Spokane could use a little Tide. We picked up our low-slung Nissan at a downtown Enterprise lot and headed east.
Now, most of us are vaguely aware of this Coeur d’Alene, we’ve seen it on the map, run across it once or twice in a news article, and wondered at the apparent Francophilic homage. Northern Idaho, it seems, was settled by French trappers who would often trade with the local natives. The determination of these Indians to drive a hard bargain earned them the French appellation Coeur d’Alene, which translates to “heart of awl” or sharphearted, and the town is named after the tribe.
Coeur d’Alene may be the loveliest village in Idaho, ringed by quiet hills, blessed with a large and beautiful lake, an abundance of luxurious residences, a spiffy, floral downtown and outside activities of all descriptions. Many Californians, unhappy with the pace and expense of their home state have matriculated to Coeur d’Alene to enjoy the same mode of living and similar services at reduced rates. For travelers, the spectacular Coeur d’Alene Resort on the shore of the lake is the equal of resorts anywhere (and so are the prices). Siobhan and Bill enjoyed the abundant hiking on Tubbs Hill, right on the lakeshore and a nice meal just outside town at The Cedars, a fancy honest-to-gosh floating restaurant on Lake Coeur d’Alene. You can steer your yacht right up to the place, moor it at the dock and step in for dinner. They even have an asphalt parking lot for lowlifes with automobiles.
For music lovers, the city offers free tunes on Tuesday night on a vacant lot downtown, and they pack ‘em in. Bring your own folding chair. Oh, and people actually dance. Some of them even know what they’re doing, although the prima donnas are more fun. On night two, our heroes took the Lake Couer d’Alene Sunset Dinner Cruise and were not seriously poisoned. Most of these adventures from other ports are risky, but the fare on this one was tasty and well-prepared. Let’s hear it for the chef. It cooled off a bit toward the end of the journey but, all-in-all, a worthwhile venture. Coeur is an easy town to drive around in and it’s virtually impossible to get lost, although Siobhan is up to any challenge. If you’re ever in the neighborhood, give Coeur d’Alene a try, you’ll be surprised.
 |
| Street scenes from Coeur d'Alene |
 |
| The Cedars floating restaurant. |
 |
| Scenes from the dinner cruise. |
Next Stop: Hell’s Canyon
Oh-oh.
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
Remembering Torrey Johnson
For those of you unfamiliar with the ways of ticket scalpers and their loyal customers, it is always easier to buy two or four tickets than it is one or three. People attend sporting events largely in pairs or sizeable groups, rarely alone or in trios. A single ticket can be hard to find because sellers are reluctant to break up a pair and be stuck with a harder-to-sell single, a fact very familiar to stag gamegoers like Bill Killeen and Torrey Johnson.
One frustrating evening outside the University of Florida’s basketball venue, the Stephen C. O’Connell Center, Neither Bill nor Torrey was having much luck, thus deciding to join forces, buy two tickets and sit together. It was a propitious night and the beginning of a 15-year friendship. They met before each home football and basketball game, bought a pair of ducats and got to know one another. Torrey lived right on Payne’s Prairie and was the administrator of many state parks in northern Florida, driving all over the place putting out fires, curbing disorder and keeping the parks on the straight and narrow. He was an extremely personable fellow, kindhearted and optimistic, especially where his beloved Gators were concerned. Despite overwhelming odds and dire situations, Torrey was certain his heroes would always overcome adversity, and most of the time they did.
Torrey Johnson preferred basketball slightly over football but his favorite contest every year was the pigskin battle in Jacksonville between Florida and the Georgia Bulldogs. Tickets were invariably tough to get but we almost always managed to secure space in the primo club seat section, underneath which was an expansive lounge with a bar and fancy food opportunities. A dozen or so television sets offered a blizzard of games from across the country prior to the start of the Gator contest and sofas and chairs were amply provided. Torrey, being extremely appreciative of comfort, was happy with this arrangement and very disappointed one fine Saturday when we could not obtain tickets in the desired area.
“This stinks!” he complained loudly, but I offered him an alternative. “Just follow me through the gate and turn your ticket over right before you hand it to the ticket-taker,” I told him. This was in the days when ducats were not electronically checked; the stubs were torn off and given to the customer with the seat numbers attached. Torrey, the eternal boy scout who never broke a rule, vacillated, but he wanted those club seat perks. I walked through the gate, turned my wrist over offering the ticket and moved on. Torrey, very nervous about all this criminal activity, sputtered, “I’m with him,” and shuffled through. Our tickets were not good for the club seats, of course, but nonetheless availed us of the pre-game fripperies. Torrey was absolutely thrilled and flabbergasted with this bit of larceny and giggled all through the next hour at his undeserved good fortune. He recited this tale of evildoing for years into the future to anyone who would listen. It might have been the high point of his life in fandom. From that day on, he thought I could work magic.
After Torrey’s retirement at age 65, he and his wife, Sue, moved to a condo in Deerfield Beach and spent several months each year in Pennsylvania, where their children lived. He returned for games now and then and we always stayed in touch. I regularly sent him recruiting bulletins he avidly reacted to and often called him while driving home from the gym.
One day, a few months ago, Torrey gave me some bad news. He had stage-four prostate cancer and was getting some new type of shots to curb its advancement. He didn’t seem particularly worried, but I was. Having had a much milder version of the disease, I had read endless medical information on the subject and knew Torrey had sniggled in to his last game. While on vacation, I sent him one last recruiting story and got no immediate response. A day later, I called his number and his voicemail was full. “Torrey Johnson’s dead,” I told Siobhan, who preferred to think otherwise.
Two days later, his wife texted me with the sad update. Torrey died at home on July 16, his body ravaged by prostate cancer, preferring not to discuss his plight with friends. I foolishly like to imagine him up there in the Big Stadium In The Sky, telling his new associates about the day he confounded those ticket takers in Jacksonville. Then, looking over his shoulder to make sure he was not heard by anyone inappropriate. Rest in peace, my old friend. And see what you can do for those Gators.
