In Wake of a Following

I rode in the backseat of our 1979 Pontiac Bonneville. The scarlet plush interior cushioned my cheek while the top of my head rested against the rigid window pane. There was a faint smell of peppermint from the hard candy my dad tucked in the pocket of his cheek – melting slowly as he drove the rural highway. On occasion, he’d slip me a piece of peppermint, especially if I remained quiet and didn’t ask, "How much longer?”

On this particular day, we had been on the road for nearly fifteen minutes, returning home from my grandma's house in Mauston. This was an hour-long journey we took countless times during the holidays and for random weekend visits.

Every landmark along the roadside was committed to memory - the aged RV campsite, the horse riding trail, and a haggard tavern named the "Dew Drop Inn" (just like on The Walton's). For years, the tavern's illuminated marquee had a burnt out light bulb. It annoyed me that the owners never seemed to notice the consistent bleak spot on their welcome sign. Clipping along, I attempted to count the passing rows of trees that stood like soldiers deep into the woods. Occasionally, I’d glimpse a white-tailed deer running for safety.

We came upon the small village of Necedah (pronounced Nah-see-duh). As we crossed the Yellow River Bridge, I noticed an unkempt billboard shadowing the murky water. The cracked and pealing sign showcased a sorrowful image of the Virgin Mary; her Madonna smile faced the town’s exiting traffic. SHRINE NEXT RIGHT was stamped in heavy letters above her head.

A mile ahead, another arrow pointed down a barren dirt road. I sat up from my slouched position, suddenly interested in the mysterious tunnel that led to "the Shrine”. I didn't know what a shrine was, but the veiled lady had me curious.

"What’s that?" I pointed to the sign and watched as my dad’s eyes darted to the side of the road. He kept his head trained to the pavement and his hands on the wheel.

"Nothing for you to mind, it’s not important," he said succinctly.

Years later, I can still vividly recall this quick moment in time. The tone in his voice was oddly different. I remember curiosity bubbling up in my chest for this marked the first time my all-knowing father didn't want to talk, educate me or tell a story. He had blatantly avoided my question, an uncharacteristic move from a man who always had the answers.

My dad pressed on the gas pedal, and I felt the engine pick up speed. We raced on.

“Gordon, the cops pick up speeders along here,” my mother cautioned. He ignored her warning and didn’t let off the gas until we passed through the city limits.

The vision of the billboard burned in my mind long after we arrived home. From that point on, I had frequent dreams about the lady - the sad, paint-flaked lady. She would pop up in the oddest of places and followed my life’s journey with her hypnotic smile.

- Jennifer Swan