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Visitors at the Museum
Jul. 4th, 2010 11:01 am“Excuse me,” I blurt, handing back the couple’s change, “Are you British?”
Of course they are (what did I think, they were faking the accents?), but though they must have been asked this a thousand times they answer perfectly politely.
Why did you bother coming here?, I want to ask, when you have Rome and Paris and Milan a twenty-pound flight away – “What brought you to Wisconsin?”
Square dancing, it turns out: a four-day square dancing – class? tournament? festival? in Milwaukee, and now they’re traveling around the state.
I wonder how they started square dancing – if the suburbs of London are dotted with American square dancing clubs, or if square dancing was British to start with and Americans just borrowed it and added calico. But they’re already ambling out to the lighthouse.
***
He's a retired Coast Guard officer, once the commander of something or other. She’s his daughter or niece or nurse, leaning on the handles of his wheelchair, explaining they want to see the Coast Guard exhibit.
I hesitate, counting their change. The Coast Guard exhibit might be wheelchair accessible. Probably. “I’ll take you down.” We keep it locked.
I lead them down the boardwalk. Water laps the piers, seagulls shriek, footsteps thud and wheels rattle on the boards.
The man speaks, gravel-voiced, like his throat is plugged with laryngitis. I think he’s wearing a trach. I can’t pick out the words through the growling interference; I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask the niece-nurse person to translate.
But the words come clear at the end: he wants to know if we’re almost there. “Just around the bend,” I say, and it is. The nurse pops a wheelie to get the chair over the threshold, and I close the door behind them to keep the air conditioner in.
***
Fifteen minutes past closing a family shows up on the back deck. “I’m sorry,” I say. “We’re closed.”
“Can we come through to exit out the front?” the father – grandfather – grizzle haried patriarch of the clan asks.
“Sure,” I say, and watch with growing alarm as nine people and a golden retriever troop into the Welcome Center and stop in front of a photo display.
The dog really shouldn’t be in here, and I’m searching for the words to tell them when the patriarch turns to me, grinning, and points at one of our photos: a trio of young men with seventies sideburns, standing beaming around a shipwrecked anchor half again as tall as they are that they just raised from the depths. “That’s me,” he says. “On the left.”
And before I can think to get his name, ask for the story behind the photo, they’ve gone on – golden retriever and all.
Of course they are (what did I think, they were faking the accents?), but though they must have been asked this a thousand times they answer perfectly politely.
Why did you bother coming here?, I want to ask, when you have Rome and Paris and Milan a twenty-pound flight away – “What brought you to Wisconsin?”
Square dancing, it turns out: a four-day square dancing – class? tournament? festival? in Milwaukee, and now they’re traveling around the state.
I wonder how they started square dancing – if the suburbs of London are dotted with American square dancing clubs, or if square dancing was British to start with and Americans just borrowed it and added calico. But they’re already ambling out to the lighthouse.
***
He's a retired Coast Guard officer, once the commander of something or other. She’s his daughter or niece or nurse, leaning on the handles of his wheelchair, explaining they want to see the Coast Guard exhibit.
I hesitate, counting their change. The Coast Guard exhibit might be wheelchair accessible. Probably. “I’ll take you down.” We keep it locked.
I lead them down the boardwalk. Water laps the piers, seagulls shriek, footsteps thud and wheels rattle on the boards.
The man speaks, gravel-voiced, like his throat is plugged with laryngitis. I think he’s wearing a trach. I can’t pick out the words through the growling interference; I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask the niece-nurse person to translate.
But the words come clear at the end: he wants to know if we’re almost there. “Just around the bend,” I say, and it is. The nurse pops a wheelie to get the chair over the threshold, and I close the door behind them to keep the air conditioner in.
***
Fifteen minutes past closing a family shows up on the back deck. “I’m sorry,” I say. “We’re closed.”
“Can we come through to exit out the front?” the father – grandfather – grizzle haried patriarch of the clan asks.
“Sure,” I say, and watch with growing alarm as nine people and a golden retriever troop into the Welcome Center and stop in front of a photo display.
The dog really shouldn’t be in here, and I’m searching for the words to tell them when the patriarch turns to me, grinning, and points at one of our photos: a trio of young men with seventies sideburns, standing beaming around a shipwrecked anchor half again as tall as they are that they just raised from the depths. “That’s me,” he says. “On the left.”
And before I can think to get his name, ask for the story behind the photo, they’ve gone on – golden retriever and all.
