The Corona Diaries Vol 33: A Madison Idyll

Last winter I discovered that Madison is home to a Victorian-era garden. There's nothing surprising about some folks maintaining such a thing in town but I was confounded when I learned that it is just a stone's throw from the Capitol. And so, like the Schoenstatt Shrine from a couple entries ago, investigating this garden was added to my to-do list for warmer weather. I finally got around to it on a nice morning back in August.

I didn't know what to expect of a Victorian-era garden but, since I tend to filter life through movies, I had visions of Peter Greenaway's The Draughtsman's Contract. Would it be a well-appointed greenscape dotted with mini-obelisks and privet hedges trimmed and shaped to the highest topiary standards?

It's located in the Mansion Hill district which is so named because it features many mid-19^th century homes that were built by Madison's early elite. The old governor's mansion is there and dates to roughly 1855 so it's hardly surprising that such a garden is to be found in this area. I suppose it's a bit like the SafeHouse in Milwaukee - hidden in plain sight.

Back in the days of yore as a college student, I lived a couple blocks away for a year which makes my ignorance of it even more shameful. While I've been by it many times in the decades that I have lived here, it's rarely been on foot. When I lived nearby, my perambulations usually took me away from it and towards campus. Perhaps I simply never stopped to read the sign or had simply forgotten about its existence somewhere along the way. For as long as I can recall, I've just assumed that this little patch of green belonged to a law firm or other such organization that made of one of the old mansions its home and was keen on showing off with a luscious and verdant yard.

As I have conceded previously, I am awful when it comes to identifying plants and wandering the garden I saw all kinds of wonderful flowers and shrubs but recognized only 1 or 2 varieties. Because my Frau had pointed them out to me a couple weeks before on one of our walks, I felt a small sense of pride at being able to ID the Tiger lilies.

I walked around the fountain and ran into one of the many volunteers that cares for the gardens on the opposite side. She was seated on a bench and enjoying a moment of Arcadian bliss amidst the fruits of her labors. After noticing me, we struck up a brief conversation wherein she answered my questions about a couple varieties of flowers but I think I forgot their names 5 minutes later.

You can see just how close to the Capitol Square the park is in this photo. Lake Mendota is just a couple blocks in the opposite direction.

The garden was an oasis of peace and calm as the Dane County Farmers Market raged in the distance and people were going about their day enjoying the weather and the company of others, something largely denied them at this time last year.

I had been out on my bike for a few hours at this point and was not only enchanted by all of the lovely flora, but thankful to be able to take a breather and bask in some shade.

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The weekend after my stroll through Period Garden Park, my Frau and I headed up to Manitowoc on the shores of Lake Michigan. The occasion was a concert by Son Volt, the St. Louis band I have mentioned previously in these diaries. It was a free show that was part of the town's summer music festival. Plus it would be nice to simply get out of town and be somewhere else. Joining us was our friend Arch. He was going through a spot of personal turmoil so I tried to get him out and about instead of moping at home. Plus he too is a big Son Volt fan. Thankfully, he took me up on my offer.

We rolled into town in the afternoon and immediately set out to find a late lunch. Walking towards a local brewpub, we stumbled upon an exhibit of large format prints in an alley near the hotel.

It was put on by the local branch of the University of Wisconsin System and a nearby private college.

It had been a few years since I'd last seen Son Volt perform. Plus, I think this was the first concert I'd been to since the pandemic began. The band were in fine form out touring in support of a new album that I was growing to like more and more with each listen. We were able to get up close to the stage.

The band has been around since 1994 and they played a nice set with songs from most parts of their career, although I did lament the absence of any songs from Wide Swing Tremelo. Singer/guitarist/band leader Jay Farrar – he's on the left clad in black – is generally all business live. He normally doesn't talk a whole lot to the audience beyond a "Hello" and the occasional "Thanks" but this night he was more verbose than usual and he even made a joke about bratwurst.

After the show when we were chatting about it, Arch noted a couple songs that brought tears to his eyes. Not surprising considering some of the lyrics and events that were playing out in his life.

Tears welled in my eyes when they played "Tear Stained Eye". They always do. It's from their 1^st album, Trace, released in 1995 and so I have had a 25ish year relationship with those four minutes and 21 seconds. For most of the that time, the song is a rather plaintive country shuffle. Then towards the end, Farrar sings:

Like the man said, rode hard and put away wet

Throw away the bad news, and put it to rest

If learning is living, and the truth is a state of mind

You'll find it's better at the end of the line

And a hint of hopefulness springs forth from the sadness. (But just a hint.) It's a great song that I have listened to countless times and it has seen me through a few rough patches in my life when relationships have ended. It was also part of the soundtrack of my drive home up from Louisiana after my father had died as I sped north on I55 towards St. Louis with his ashes in the back seat.

Son Volt's first album was written and recorded during a time when Farrar drove between New Orleans and Minneapolis on Highway 61 frequently. (See my entry on Dubuque.) Several of his songs reference the St. Louis area and "Tear Stained Eye" has the line "Ste. Genevieve can hold back the water". Ste. Genevieve is a town south of St. Louis (on Hwy 61!) that faced a serious threat of flooding in 1993. My understanding is that the residents were basically plugging holes in the town's dikes with their fingers as the Mississippi threatened to wash the town away.

After the more melancholy song, they followed it up with the lovely, upbeat "Windfall" with its refrain of "May the wind take your troubles away."

On a recent episode of the Political Beats podcast, one of the hosts opined that "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac had entered the Great American Songbook. Honestly, I am not qualified to debate the merits of that claim. But it was a good reminder that the Songbook isn't set in stone and that additions didn't stop in the 1950s. While, for me, "Great American Songbook" conjures up the likes of Gershwin, Ellington, and Guthrie, it should include tunes from my lifetime. I would offer that "Windfall" and "Tear Stained Eye" should be included as well, if they are not already considered a part of it by the Songbook's gatekeepers.

Many diary entries ago I recounted my trip to Manitowoc in October of last year. Not long after I got home, I realized that I had forgotten to check out the landing site of a chunk of Korabl-Sputnik 1.

Launched on 15 May 1960, Korabl-Sputnik 1 was an unmanned spacecraft that allowed the Soviets to research space flight or whatever it was they were keen on learning about. When it came time to get the part that was supposed to return to Earth on a course to terra firma, there was a malfunction and it instead went into a higher orbit. It eventually decayed and the module fell Earthwards on 6 September 1962 with the vast majority of the craft burning up in the atmosphere. However, a chunk survived reentry and landed in the middle of 8^th Street.

That piece was eventually returned to the Soviets but a couple replicas were made and here's one of them:

This momentous occasion is marked by a ring in the middle of the street just north of the intersection with Park Street.

In addition to missing the Sputnik ring last fall, I also neglected to get a photo of a silo with the Chief Oshkosh Beer logo painted on it. The silo is just north of Fond du Lac, which is about 20 miles south of Oshkosh, but across Lake Winnebago from the beer's hometown. I've read somewhere that the logo had been painted on it decades ago and that the new paint job simply replicated the old one.

Chief Oshkosh was first brewed as a non-alcoholic "near-beer" during Prohibition. When that fiasco ended, it was transformed into a real beer. It survived until the early 1970s and hasn't been brewed since but I am sure someone owns the brand copyright which means it may return someday.

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Bonus photo time. I found a Twitter feed from Chicago a few months ago that posts photographs of turrets around the city on Turret Tuesdays. I thought it was neat idea and have started taking pictures of the turrets of Madison. Here is the only pink one in town. This building is home to a Cajun restaurant and, as far as I know, it has been a restaurant or supper club since it as long as anyone can remember.