The Fool on the Hill

Each corner of this nation breathes in its own way and the mind moves to the cadence of its surroundings. Out East, plots of land paint populated regions with monuments of nature, but rarely expand long enough to capture one entirely. The East coast mind is sharpened by variation. Out West is the opposite. Great lands expand beyond the imagination's reach and we become consumed by the eternity which resides on the point of a map. And we long for the dreams of the West. The Midwest idles between these forces, it crafts a melody of each and requests finer forms of attention to discern its own. Moving northwest from Illinois into Wisconsin, the lands begin to change their cadence. Flat farmlands and busy highways in Illinois direct the gaze towards something more wild. Across the Wisconsin border, the narrow lanes begin to widen and the roads pick up a roll. Highway 10 carries through towards Eau Claire and the state's western edge. The exit towards Osseo juts out a couple of miles prior, and in one turn you're headed for unincorporated territory in Trempealeau County. As the car races to a halt at a stop sign in the darkness of a late August night, its music is replaced by a familiar hum of crickets and frogs. The sounds of the night only temporarily beckon the car to stillness. When speed is reclaimed, an unfamiliar smell accompanies the wind. Head sticking out of the window, the intoxicating scent is unique to this area and nearly indescribable. Here, the northern pinewoods clash with southern hardwoods. The mixture of their aromas signals the boundary between the forests of the lower lake regions and the Upper Peninsula. Trempealeau County stands at the crossroads of both modern and ancient cultures. The Lakota, Dakota, and Ojibwa tribal lands converged here. French fur traders navigated their way between these peoples, and the loggers of the 19th century pressured their relationships causing an eventual collapse. Today, this is where the culture of the midwest meets with what is left of these old ways. Trempealeau is a French word meaning 'the hill that stands in the water'. On the top of this hill lives a fool, and the Fool embodies what has left this place and what is still preserved. The Fool is short of stature and cut with muscle. His head is bald with long locks growing at the back, he wears no hat. His beard grows more wild with every season. The Fool was born nearly 80 years ago in the surrounding lands, his dream was to own a piece of them. At 30, his dream came true, he bought a 40 acre farm on top of the hill. He has not aged since. Each day, the Fool is consumed in his dream, still feeling the immensity of what came true. 'I walk around this place everyday,' says the Fool fifty years later. 'And I say to myself, 'I can't believe this is mine.'' In his early years, the Fool travelled to every corner of this nation, hitchhiking was his primary mode of travel. A self-proclaimed hippy with conservative values, he longed to return to the land. One summer month, he went as far as Alaska with his heart set on crossing the Bering Strait to get to Russia, only to find out there was a frozen barrier standing in the way, but he had to find out for himself if it was possible to cross. He never made it to Russia, but met up with a grizzly bear somewhere near Haines Borough and made it as far as Tok. In his late 20s, he built his parents' house, so he considered it purposeful to live there for a time before finding his land. When the Fool settled on his hill, he began collecting tools. He amassed a collection that ranged from medieval Europe to early colonial periods, and all the way up until the modern day. He was forced to sell most of them after a divorce, doing so required three full U-Haul vans, but he managed to keep many of his favorites. His most prized tools date back to the logging days, axes used to chop down local trees and large metal poles used to usher the logs down the river. 'Those logs killed a lot of men as they rolled down the river,' says the Fool pointing at a fifteen foot pole in his living room. 'Whoever used this had a very dangerous job.' The Fool owns the oldest arrowhead ever found fully intact in Wisconsin; it's a 'Red Cedar' Clovis point and it dates to somewhere between 8000 B.C. and 9500 B.C., making it surely over 10,000 years old. He allows lucky treasured guests to hold it. He also owns a Scottsbluff point, another arrowhead over 7,000 years old. The edges of this one were carefully sharpened to penetrate the toughest animal hides, and when it is held and turned over on a hand its sharpness still prickles the nerve endings. Both items were found within walking distance from his property. A poem written by Mert Cowley about finding the Scottsbluff arrowhead. But the most treasured features of the Fool are found within his fiery spirit. Exercise maintains his physical fitness, 30 years of teaching math and chemistry to college students keeps his mind sharp, and curiosity stokes the internal fire to continue on all fronts. This spirit is most visible at a karaoke bar, as John Denver returns to life in the form of a 80 year old 30 year old conservative hippy man bouncing around a garage bar floor. He sits back down at the table to take requests, then tells the DJ that his fellow travelers would like to sing next. The travelers are initially avoidant, but are brought to their feet by his insistence. Later on, he points out to them an Ojibwa man sitting at the bar, and his reverence for the visible spirit of the man becomes contagious. The Ojibwa man nods, smiles, and begins to dance with the Fool. On the car ride home, the Fool continues on singing as if still at the bar. He is livened by the radio, or the bluetooth connected device he does not understand. Song accompanies him everywhere and at all times. He gives the credit for his boisterous spirit to his astrological signs and the love shown to him by his parents. The Fool's spirit is pointed outwardly at all times, showing love towards others with a profound intensity in one moment, and then in a fierce argument with them the next over a belief he holds too closely. He struggles to understand why his intensity for life is often confused and compared with his love for others. Many do not understand how he can hold multiple truths at once. His refusal to self-pace has gained him much and lost him nearly as much. Back at his cabin on the hill, the Fool pours himself and his guest a rum and coke. Meyers dark rum, nails the ratio, and there's gotta be something else because it's the greatest rum and coke anyone's ever had. One gets to thinking it may simply be the way this man compliments rum. Rum may have been made for the Fool, unlikely the other way around. Sitting on the farm, the thought of this man here alone crosses the mind of his guest. 'I wonder if his full spirit gets lonely here, if his energy always has a direction to go in, or if it struggles to find fulfillment in this quiet place,' the guest wonders with a pause. 'I imagine he's like the rest of us in many of these ways.' The Fool himself is a living piece of history, in spirit and substance. His soul fires upon the convergence of boundaries, and he holds each of them within him as he sets them ablaze, intertwined in dance and song. The Fool is the northern pinewood and the southern hardwood, he is the French colonial and the land connected Indian. Surely, a white Indian if there's ever been one, and certainly a man of the midwest. I call him my great uncle, he calls me grand nephew. He calls himself the Fool, and I hope he remains foolish. Leaving the Fool is no easy endeavor, he clings to those who consume his spirit. But as the widened Wisconsin lanes move the traveler on his way home, the land wishes the Fool's traveler farewell. Clear skies illuminate his path and the sun brings a lushness to the green hills that roll along its farmlands. The car picks up speed, its music becomes aligned with the surrounding patterns, and for a while the traveler finds himself on horseback riding his way through a wild land, inspired by the Fool. The Fool on his Hill C.K.