Rest day, Saturday May 25, 2024: Madison, Wisconsin

University of Wisconsin

Three of the happiest years of my adult life were spent in Madison, when I was studying for my Ph.D. (I actually lived in Madison for four years; the last year was not so happy.) When the University of Wisconsin accepted me, I thought I had won the lottery. They were going to pay me to read books and write about them! I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Not all my fortune seemed good at the time, however. I had also been accepted into Yale, my dream school. Yale had awarded me only a small scholarship, not nearly enough to allow me to attend. When I asked “Would there be a chance to get a larger scholarship if I do well my first year?” Yale replied “Don’t count on it.” In Mad City, a town between two lakes, with an isthmus connecting the state’s capitol to its university, I was surrounded by brilliant graduate students and faculty in an ideal setting. I loved everything about it.

During my first two years there I lived in a tiny efficiency apartment, with brown shag carpeting, and one small north-facing window. It was perfect. The apartment was in the house closest to the state capitol, and I commuted to campus via State Street, which connects the capitol and the university through the isthmus between lakes Mendota and Minona. I spent most of my time studying in North Hall, the oldest building on campus, where John Muir lived when he was a student, or in Memorial Union or Memorial Library. Smoking in public buildings was allowed then, and the rooms I studied in were choked with smoke. It made me feel like a philosopher. 

Memorial Union Reading Room

A common statement among those in recovery is “Drinking was fun, then it was fun with problems, and then it was just problems.” In Madison, drinking was fun. I almost always drank with classmates, and almost never alone. I studied ferociously, and never let booze get in the way of my classes or research. I can remember only one time that I skipped a class to go drinking with some friends who were visiting from out of town. My favorite spots were the Rathskeller in Memorial Union – unchanged since my father was working on his Ph.D. – and the Lakefront of the Union, with its iconic orange, green, and red metal chairs. The beer was cheap and the company was excellent.

I’m staying with my friends Jason and Julie. I’ve known them both – first individually, and then as a couple – since my Philmont days. Jason, who was diagnosed with an aggressive form of leukemia some twenty years ago, is a long term survivor thanks to the NIH and his own optimistic spirit. I know, optimism doesn’t actually increase your odds of survival: diseases take cynics and believers in equal measure. When my mother was suffering from cancer, she really hated when someone would tell her to keep her spirits up or to pray harder. Anyway, Jason enjoys life like no one else I know, and they both gave me the warmest possible welcome. Jason asked me if it was ok for him to soak the holiday brats in beer and I assured him it was, so long as I didn’t drink the slurry afterwards. 

Jason and Julie both knew my Philmont friend Peg, who committed suicide. Julie gave me some additional, deeply troubling, insight into this. Peg, as I mentioned earlier, had a young son. Just before she killed herself, she called 911 to report an “incident” (her impending death) and asked them to come out. Apparently, she wanted her body removed so her son would not discover it. This fact really twisted me. How could she be thoughtful enough to call for help to protect her son, yet not call for someone to help her so she could continue to do so?

I spent the day with Jason. He took me to The Curve for breakfast. The Curve is one of those old fashioned, not sparkly, diners. Kathy, our waitress, had been working there as long as Jason could remember – at least thirty years. She was peppy and efficient in her red sneakers and red lipstick, and the The Curve Omelet she served me seemed as if it had used every egg in the kitchen. After breakfast, we walked around the farmers’ market to buy brats, cheese curd, and pastries. On this beautiful day, the square around the capitol building was packed. 

I remember taking my son Kitt to Madison for a rowing camp. On another gorgeous spring day we toured the farmers’ market. I was hoping Kitt would fall in love with the place as much as I had, and maybe go to college there. When I asked him “So, what do you think?” he replied “This is the whitest place I’ve ever seen.” That was meant as an observation, not a compliment. Kitt had attended highly diverse schools, and Madison did not seem like the place for him.

It felt great to help Jason work on his community garden plot. I hadn’t gotten my hands dirty in a long while. After cleaning up, we had brats, german potato salad, and ginger beer on their deck. A Phillies baseball game concluded our celebration. It was a wonderful day.