him money, but no, I don’t really know him. I just shake his hand at dinners. He wants to give a speech.”
“My mother know him?”
“Definitely not.”
“He wants to turn my mother’s funeral into a political event?” I turned to face my uncle, who continued to look straight ahead.
“Yes, something about Badger Ingenuity.” There it was, that ungainly phrase, Badger Ingenuity. How the governor loved to use it when extolling the virtues of my home state. Manufacturing—upon which Wisconsin employment was more dependent than any other state in the Union—was plummeting due to the nation’s push to have all of our jobs moved to China in the name of globalization, aka “let’s accelerate corporate profits at the expense of the American worker.” Governor Dombrowski, who claimed to be a distant relative of Copernicus, was forever trying to promote high-tech in Wisconsin.
While no national politician would be concerned with the death of a great mathematical mind, a Wisconsin politician was perhaps another matter. Home to a mere five million people, the state is best known for cheese, beer, and consuming an ungodly amount of alcohol per capita, in particular 25 percent of the nation’s brandy. And what of Wisconsin’s famous sons and daughters? Liberace. Hildegaard. Spencer Tracy. James Lovell. The Violent Femmes. The long-standing replacement guitarist for the rock band Genesis, I’ve forgotten his name. Gene Wilder. A book of famous Wisconsinites would be laughably thin, and most of those who might be included were, in truth, cultural obscurities.
Then there are the intellectual achievements of those from the Badger State. How many gleaming medals of anything have University of Wisconsin professors been awarded by the White House? One, to my mother. How many Nobel prizes? One, to Howard Terman, who died in the 1970s. Wisconsin did not apparently have much of a history of Badger Ingenuity.
“The man is an idiot,” I said.
“Yes, but he is also the governor.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him we would be honored to attend a separate memorial service at the capitol if he would like to arrange it.”
“And I suppose you want me to fly in for such an event, yes?”
“Of course. It’s the governor. They have to plan this and that. Maybe in a month they will hold it.”
“And why do you want this to happen?”
“Now is not the time to discuss such things.” I suppose I should have been angry with my uncle for trying to turn my mother’s death into an opportunity for business. But this was who he was. Despite, and maybe because of, growing up in a communist country, my uncle was inherently entrepreneurial. At least he was being honest with me. For now.
“It’s the third funeral for our family in this country,” my uncle said as we got out of the car. He reached down and picked up two stones. We walked to his first wife’s grave, the red granite carved on the right-hand side, the empty shiny surface on the left. “I’ll end up here, too, eh?” my uncle said. “I wanted to buy a plot for your mother when I bought these two. Right here.” He pointed to a plot on the right, filled, next to his first wife. His father’s tombstone was on the left. “But she said no. Now we’ll have to be buried apart.”
The air was cold against my cheeks. I could feel the hardness of the frozen ground through the soles of my shoes. After a century of use, the cemetery was almost completely full. In another few years, a new cemetery would open miles away from this one. My uncle placed jagged stones on his father’s and wife’s graves and recited a prayer. “Your mother was a good sister-in-law to her.”
“She reminded Mom of her past, I think.”
“Reminded me, also. Your
zaydeh
loved her so much, like she was his own daughter.”
There was a steady drone of cars and trucks from the neighboring street. We walked to the sparsely filled part of the cemetery, the only portion with
“My mother know him?”
“Definitely not.”
“He wants to turn my mother’s funeral into a political event?” I turned to face my uncle, who continued to look straight ahead.
“Yes, something about Badger Ingenuity.” There it was, that ungainly phrase, Badger Ingenuity. How the governor loved to use it when extolling the virtues of my home state. Manufacturing—upon which Wisconsin employment was more dependent than any other state in the Union—was plummeting due to the nation’s push to have all of our jobs moved to China in the name of globalization, aka “let’s accelerate corporate profits at the expense of the American worker.” Governor Dombrowski, who claimed to be a distant relative of Copernicus, was forever trying to promote high-tech in Wisconsin.
While no national politician would be concerned with the death of a great mathematical mind, a Wisconsin politician was perhaps another matter. Home to a mere five million people, the state is best known for cheese, beer, and consuming an ungodly amount of alcohol per capita, in particular 25 percent of the nation’s brandy. And what of Wisconsin’s famous sons and daughters? Liberace. Hildegaard. Spencer Tracy. James Lovell. The Violent Femmes. The long-standing replacement guitarist for the rock band Genesis, I’ve forgotten his name. Gene Wilder. A book of famous Wisconsinites would be laughably thin, and most of those who might be included were, in truth, cultural obscurities.
Then there are the intellectual achievements of those from the Badger State. How many gleaming medals of anything have University of Wisconsin professors been awarded by the White House? One, to my mother. How many Nobel prizes? One, to Howard Terman, who died in the 1970s. Wisconsin did not apparently have much of a history of Badger Ingenuity.
“The man is an idiot,” I said.
“Yes, but he is also the governor.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him we would be honored to attend a separate memorial service at the capitol if he would like to arrange it.”
“And I suppose you want me to fly in for such an event, yes?”
“Of course. It’s the governor. They have to plan this and that. Maybe in a month they will hold it.”
“And why do you want this to happen?”
“Now is not the time to discuss such things.” I suppose I should have been angry with my uncle for trying to turn my mother’s death into an opportunity for business. But this was who he was. Despite, and maybe because of, growing up in a communist country, my uncle was inherently entrepreneurial. At least he was being honest with me. For now.
“It’s the third funeral for our family in this country,” my uncle said as we got out of the car. He reached down and picked up two stones. We walked to his first wife’s grave, the red granite carved on the right-hand side, the empty shiny surface on the left. “I’ll end up here, too, eh?” my uncle said. “I wanted to buy a plot for your mother when I bought these two. Right here.” He pointed to a plot on the right, filled, next to his first wife. His father’s tombstone was on the left. “But she said no. Now we’ll have to be buried apart.”
The air was cold against my cheeks. I could feel the hardness of the frozen ground through the soles of my shoes. After a century of use, the cemetery was almost completely full. In another few years, a new cemetery would open miles away from this one. My uncle placed jagged stones on his father’s and wife’s graves and recited a prayer. “Your mother was a good sister-in-law to her.”
“She reminded Mom of her past, I think.”
“Reminded me, also. Your
zaydeh
loved her so much, like she was his own daughter.”
There was a steady drone of cars and trucks from the neighboring street. We walked to the sparsely filled part of the cemetery, the only portion with
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