Wrightstown, Wisconsin

I used to live in a British city. Each day I would drive at least an hour in each direction, back and forth to work. The drive was mind wrenchingly slow- an average 10mph as I crawled along with my companion sardines in our rhythmic shoal - for what? Financially my life had crumbled. My family was existing in a four-roomed brick built duplex, crowded in by its cloned companions.

Now, as I drive along Lost Dauphin Rd. to my new hometown, Wrightstown, Wisconsin, USA, I savor every empty mile. Effortlessly I drive past a field of droopy-headed sunflowers and as I marvel at their golden glow they remind me of happy vacations in Provence, France. The illusion is emphasized by a house on my left, built in the style of a French barn, on the bank of the Fox River. All along its length, the bank is dotted with magnificent individually designed houses, each in its own space. A house that must have been uprooted from its native Tuscany and placed here to nestle comfortably in its new surroundings replaces the Provence barn. Like me, they are not native to Wrightstown but happily resides in this idyllic haven of the Mid-west. This is a place where everyone can live out a personal dream.

Empty roads that weave across the undulating countryside only interrupt fields of varying hue. Its not only Oklahoma, the Hollywood inspired vision of America from my childhood, that has "corn as high as an elephants eye". I pass fields and fields of corn grown in preparation for the long cold winter. This corn is used to feed the numerous cattle that live around the town - I believe there are more cattle than humans in Wrightstown. Their homes are traditional Belgian barns that are scattered throughout this area, forming an exact replica of the Northern European homelands of the original settlers.

I pass the boundary of the village and read again the sign I never tire of reading:
" No hunting, or shooting of firearms in the village of Wrightstown"
This philosophy is rare in the heart of a State that thrives on its hunting traditions and associated industries. For me that sign heralds the feeling of caring and high principles that pervades the village. It declares the soul of the people. I feel safe and cosseted here.

As I turn into my own drive I am amazed at the sterling pound for dollar exchange in value of the house I now live in. It sits in its own acre of land with homely, individual neighbors at a perfect distance. Its open plan, two level interior is spacious and dotted with luxury features - Jacuzzi, hot tub, gym and a bedroom for everyone. Soon the children will be delivered safely from the village school so I take a moment of reflection to sit in the office and stare at the wide expanse of the Fox River at the bottom of my garden. The water is a size that proclaims we must be in America, although its beauty reflects so many places on our earth.

The animals too, are aware of the sanctuary in their mist. In my three years here I have seen an incredible variety of wildlife- from a lumbering ancient snapping turtle that had wandered away from the river, to a mother skunk with two babies confidently skipping along the grass verge of the railway. Today a fat woodchuck sits on a log, as he does every sunny day, and lazily guards his territory. Two Bald Eagles fly past searching for fish. They roost in a tree in our garden in the early mornings and as I lie in my bed and watch the sun rise, its heat causes gentle tendrils of steam that eerily rise to the royal pair as they survey their kingdom.

Frequently deer run through the woods in the park on the East bank, rarely stopping, always running from an unseen terror. Predatory hawks swoop into the area and disturb the myriad of colorful birds - orioles, cardinals, blue jays, finches and more. Determinedly red winged blackbirds attack the hawks. Surely the man who envisioned the aerial dog- fights of the Battle of Britain sat on the banks of the Fox and watched the aggressive acrobatics of these birds?

My children arrive home with excited tales of another stimulating school day provided by dedicated teachers. We decide to walk to the village store, Dicks, loyally owned by the same family for 125 years and yet providing every item my health conscious family ever requires. As we walk over the steep bridge that spans the Fox and stare straight up the river I explain that it is one of the few rivers in the Northern Hemisphere to flow south to north. This is the result of its origins in Lake Winnebago and the pull of its short journey to the massive bulk of Lake Michigan.

You won't find the traditional stores of the USA in Wrightstown. No Wal-Mart, McDonalds, Starbucks or Perkins marketed by a mammoth flag. In fact, as we walk along the bridge and look at the Main Street of the village the image is of a collection of varied, wooden buildings built on the side of a hill that rises up from the river It is topped by a church with rounded roofed turrets. It could be the first sight of a village in the Alpine foothills of Europe On a windy day white fresh water pelicans fly away from the bay of Green Bay and visit us in Wrightstown. Their white bodies reminding me of the storks of Switzerland and perpetuates the aura of a natural cosmopolitan district.

On our return trip over the bridge my two daughters spot a white opossum clinging to the edge of the bridge. His fat pink feet, fluffed coat and long rat like tail were details that delighted the girls. He looked pitifully at us as though he realized his dilemma - if he moved to the south he would fall the 30 feet into the river; if he moved northwards he would have to walk across the truck infested I96 highway. We stared at him and wished we could help but moved on knowing he would have to decide his own fate. Two hours later he was still there. It epitomizes the patience and ideology of the people of Wrightstown that they did not disturb him but merely went to watch with interest. As the sun sank into the bay that evening he decided his best plan was to retrace his steps. He slowly, so slowly, edged his way back down the bridge undisturbed by any human.

If ever we tire of the pastoral heaven that is Wrightstown it is only five minutes drive to the I41. Twenty minutes south and you have the shopping delights of the mall of Appleton. Twenty minute's north and Green Bay beckons. Employment is plentiful and yet traffic jams rarely impede your progress. I arrived here as an English immigrant three years ago by a quirk of fate - fate was kind to me.

Lynda B

Submitted: Wednesday 5th May 2004, 4:10 PM

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