Crossing into America's dairy land is a pleasant experience and if there were ever a chance we'd move again it just might be to Wisconsin because I like cheese and beer, but not necessarily in that order. Having said that, aside from Las Vegas, I don't believe there's ever been an area in our wonderful country who boasts their wares so shamelessly. As you drive along it will occur to you that you haven't seen a Wendy's or a Burger King sign since passing the line. You will have seen, however, ten-thousand signs advertising; cheese, ice-cream and beer. Then, when you get to the second mile they'll add to it…milk, cheese, ice-cream and beer. I thought, "Man! I'm gonna have to try all four!"

Then I passed another sign.

CHEESE CURDS

"What the hell?" I twisted my head. Curds? As in…'curds and whey? Say, what the hell's a curd anyway? I vaguely remembered the nursery rhyme but I had no idea what exactly constituted a curd. Since inquiring minds need to know, I made it my primary mission to find out and took the next exit advertising cheese.

The sign on top of the building would be extremely difficult to ignore - it was huge! In big, red capitalized letters it advertised cheese. It was a sign with a solitary word that was bigger than the building supporting it and caused me to wonder if they folded it down when the wind blew. Entering into the building I made a conscious memo to keep an eye on the weather outside while I was in the store. As I walked up to the counter I could plainly see that she was a nice, wholesome gal with a very contagious smile.

It was difficult to divert my gaze and fascination but smiled, saying, "Nice lady, where's your cheese?" As big as she was I wondered if she wasn't going to pull some of it out of her shirt.

Her smile broadened, she pointed and said, "Right over there, sweetie."

"That's me," I thought, turning in the new direction, "Sweetie, Joe, the working girl's friend."

Most stores will arrange their shelves according to product while at the same time keeping abreast - did I say that out loud? - of the impulse buyer and their propensity for just picking up anything because they're eager to get back on the road or, in this case, they're scared the wind will start to blow. As I expected, the more expensive stuff was closest to the door and the further I moved along the counter the cheaper it got. That was when I came to the curd section of the cheese.

"Ah, ha," I thought, huffing up, "now is the time when I become enlightened to the ever-expanding world of cheese terminology." Here it was that five whole minutes ago I was in the dark and deprived - now, finally, I get educated on what a curd is. I picked up the package and looked at the contents. I stared at it for a few moments then began to look around for a hidden camera. "Is this some kind of a joke?!" I asked, continuing to look around, "These…" I shook the package at the prospects of a hidden camera, "…are cheese curds?" I looked at them again and saw there were various types of curds. There were white ones, yellow ones, yellow and white ones and off-white creamy ones. For those of you who have never seen a cheese curd, I'll try to do my best in explaining what they look like while at the same time keeping within proper decorum of my story.

In diameter they're about the size of a penny and varied in length from really short to about as long as your forefinger. But, they're not entirely round - they have tiny flat spots scattered here and there - and the ends are tapered, like they were expelled out of something, which closed periodically and pinched them off at various lengths. As I stared at the package I couldn't help being distinctly reminded of a bodily function that I normally wouldn't associate with while preparing to eat something. It occurred to me that if they altered the spelling of 'curd' somewhat, it would be considerably more descriptive to the person traveling down the road and he wouldn't feel the need to fulfill his quest for knowledge by stopping to find out. Then again, if they did that, they wouldn't sell as much cheese.

I had to have some. "Ummm, nice lady," I said, waving the package in the air, "what are these mottled-colored ones?"

"Ohh, those are white ones and yellow ones mixed together, ya know, like Montery Jack…but not." The 'but not' part worried me. My recent observation was based highly upon comparison so I really had to question whether she wasn't saying the same words but using synonyms instead. I took a pack anyway, waved bye and got back on the road.

Wisconsin is a beautiful state with all kinds of diverse scenery, so I settled back to enjoy the ride, my pack of curds, which weren't horrible, and the fact the half-way point had been breached some 180 miles behind me. I was just a few miles outside of Eau Claire and the road atlas told me there were 1,038 miles still to go. However, the butterflies were only beginning to emerge because my greatest tests of human versus machine lie a mere five hours in front of me - people who live there call it Chicago.

The next FJTP after Black River Falls was in Beloit, Wisconsin, and a scant three miles from the Illinois line. I parked beside the propane station and made my way inside to fetch someone to fill my tank. On the way a man passed me walking the other direction and gave me the thumbs up signal. I returned the gesture and said, "Easy Interstate Access!" He said, "Don't you know it?!" and, turning, I watched as he climbed aboard one of the largest RV's I'd ever seen. It was a fleeting moment but up until then I'd never known what having a kindred spirit was like and I couldn't help but wonder briefly if he, too, wasn't a woodworker out on his own adventure. I silently bid him farewell and turned my attention on attacking the Windy City.

The closer you get to congested civilization the more it costs you. If I were a scholarly person I would request a government grant to study why the reverse isn't true. I'd probably get the grant but in the case of tollways it wouldn't require much of an in-depth study. The stretch of Highway 93 back in Montana carries about ten thousand vehicles on any given day. This means that if it had a tollway and charged a dime per vehicle, it might generate a thousand dollars at the end of the day. Illinois has on the order that same number of vehicles per hour - so I reckon you don't need a scholar to figure out why they have a toll. I reluctantly merged onto the N.W. Tollway and prepared myself for the forthcoming onslaught of what the Illinois Department of Transportation likes to call a "Toll Plaza." I think a much better name for them would be "Stop 'n Rape" - you stop every fifteen miles and get raped for thirty-five cents. New Jersey, I understand is quite similar.

I don't know why the states of Illinois and New Jersey make you stop so often; the others gives you a ticket when you get on the tollway and charge when you exit. In a way, that makes the others more efficient rapists; something Illinois and New Jersey should become instead of being your basic three-time loser. I resigned myself to become accustomed to the indignity of it all because the trend would continue relentlessly until I reached Breezewood, Pennsylvania, which was another 680 miles down the road.

The distant city of Chicago became an instant reality with 6 lanes of traffic going both ways. I was lucky; getting there at rush hour meant I will never again have to wonder what rush hour in Chicago was like. It was nothing short of maddening and I was ashamed of myself for coming down so hard on the drivers in Minnesota who were saints compared to those I was currently in bed with.

Have you ever seen full-grown pigs at the trough when it's feeding time? That's the way Chicagoans act when a Stop 'n Rape is still a mile away from them. They hunch over the steering wheel, mash their foot onto the accelerator and roll down their window to get ready to toss whatever coins they're holding in their hand into the waiting receptacle at the Stop 'n Rape. True, the toll is thirty-five cents but in their clenched fist is a $1.50 in quarters…they don't care! All they know is they're being bothered and they just want to get through the gate and be on their way! And the language they use? My aching ass…if the Joint Chiefs of Staff had a contest and come up with 5 enlisted men in the entire United States military who knew half of those words, I'll throw in with you. In the mean time, while the government is pissing away serious money on useless grants, I think a Priest should send the Illinois DOT a letter advising them to post a sign at each entrance cautioning parents about how using the tollway can expand and influence a young child's vocabulary.

With the Grace of God and a few sharply pointed fingers I was able to make it through the gauntlet without incident and stopped at the next FJTP in Gary, Indiana. Fueling up was a welcomed break and gave me a chance to peruse the pamphlet I got what seemed like a century ago in Billings. It said the next one was 216 miles further on in Toledo, Ohio - certainly doable - but after that it was going to be pot-luck because according to it, another one wouldn't cross my path until I was back in the Old Dominion State. This was not a good thing and I left the parking lot feeling at odds with the next leg of the big adventure. It was a feeling I should've paid more attention to.

My big adventure was into its third day and I had traveled 752 miles since sleeping at the truck stop in St. Joseph, Minnesota. I was dog tired and pulled into the service plaza thirty miles east of Toledo. Tomorrow was another day and I felt confident I could reach my driveway in Culpeper, Virginia by nightfall the next day.

I awoke at about 5 AM to the sound of a blaring air horn and I couldn't figure out if I had dreamt it or whether I had actually started driving in my sleep and was doing something stupid to warrant the admonishment. It took several moments for me to focus and realize I was still lying on the floor and then bolted upright to see what prompted my rude and undesired wake-up call. There was nothing to see. Either a trucker slipped while climbing into his rig and accidentally triggered his horn or he believed that since he was up, everyone else should be, too.

Either way I was back on the tollway and continued driving until I was dangerously close to running out of propane. My only hope was the upcoming town of Boardman, Ohio.

Looking back on it now and after having been there, I don't know how the people who live there feel about it, but I think it's a ducky place for all the all the hoity-toity directors in Hollywood to get together and make a true-to-life film. I can even save them a little time because I already have a title for it.

The Land of Misfit City Workers

Despite the innocuous sounding title, I'm sure it will set a box office record.

Continue to CHAPTER EIGHT