151

The highway between Madison and Iowa used to be a naseau inducing series of twists and hills, small town slow downs, and break aways in the passing lane around farm machinery. Today we sailed smoothly over the rolling hills. The highway now floats between massive rock that has been sawed through with dynamite and diggers like a notch in a piece of yellow cake, snow drifts of cream cheese frosting dripping over the edges. Dietrich wanted to "climb those mountains". I don't miss the twists and hills, and it is a much faster trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house in Iowa. In fact, we couldn't get there fast enough. "No, I do not need to stop to go to the bathroom," as Elliott squitched around in his seat. "No, I don't need to stop to take off my jacket," said Dietrich, beat red under his coat and snow pants.

My aunt lived in Platteville, one of the towns highly 151 used to roll right through. Visiting Platteville was my earliest urban memory, not so much for the size of the college town (it is maybe 20,000) but because she lived in an apartment. On the top floor (there were three). We parked in the lot behind the building and took the fire escape to her back door. To say I would have prefered another entrance puts it mildly. The metal grates were perfectly safe, but as we climbed higher, and I watched through the steps the ground grow further away, my feet were less sure. My legs gained weight and I slapped down each foot as I made another step closer to the back door. My older brother limbered ahead of me, my mom held my hand and prodded me along. But the reward was awaiting: the apartment was entirely covered in pine panneling, a decor that spoke of city and woods at the same time. There were nooks to sit in, books lining the walls, and cupboards to look into. But what I remember the most was the view over the neighboring houses and trees and the whole town. We had no tall buildings in our village, and no reason to visit the taller buildings in Madison. The only other place I could look out over anything was from the clinic building, if looking out of the tall, narrow pockets of 70's window architecture counts. From my aunt's apartment I glimpsed another world, not just over the tree tops, but seeing someone living on her own, teaching band, playing tennis, marching in Fourth of July parades. She always had food that was new to us, and even if we weren't fans (tofu burgers?) it was exciting, it was new. If only I could have rapelled down the building after our visits.

We sailed right into Iowa, and there did stop for a traffic light. We will have to keep wondering what all those small towns are up to, if the diners are still running, if the gas stations are still in business. Maybe some summer day we can find an older route, drive through Platteville, and take a look at the three story walk ups. I'm sure they have shrunk, just like the hills over which 151 used to crawl.