A hip trip to Kenosha

Interesting trip. It was my first time through an airport security gate with my new metal hip and yes, it sets off the buzzer. I will never fly again without getting wanded and patted down first.

We were on the first American flight to Chicago, departing at 6:17 a.m. It was also the very first airplane to take off that morning. Karen and I both like first flights of the day for two reasons: you know the airplane is already at the airport and not trying to get there from somewhere else; and, the security lines are shorter.

We buttoned up early, pushed back, taxied very slowly to the end of the runway. And sat there. The captain, Don Partridge, told us on the intercom that the Lindbergh Field curfew forbade any flight to take off before 6:30 a.m. I looked at my watch. It was 6:25. “If you can’t take off until 6:30,” Karen wondered, “why do they schedule the flight for 6:17?”

I shrugged. “Hitting for an average. If they schedule it for 6:17, it means they’ll probably get everybody on and seated by 6:20 or so, then make a couple of announcements, push back slowly, mosey down to the end of the runway and get there just at 6:30.”

At 6:29 and 30 seconds, Capt. Partridge nudged the engines and swung the S-80 into takeoff position on the runway and braked again. We waited, and I could imagine the tower counting down: “Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . go!”

And we went. Very first plane out of Lindbergh.

For breakfast, I had brought some cubed pork barbecue and a slice of CostCo’s rosemary bread. You can’t count on the airlines any more. In fact, here is where in-flight service stands now: the lead stew said they would be coming down the aisles with a choice of muffins: blueberry or bran, $2 each. I girded my loins, waiting for the charge for coffee, but it is still free, for the time being.

We were going to Kenosha, Wisconsin, an hour north of Chicago, right on Lake Michigan, to see Karen’s son Bill and his family. Before my first trip with Karen to Kenosha last year, I pictured it as an iron ore town with a grimy waterfront, huge smokestacks and gray streets. Instead it is green and clean with wide streets and manicured parks and shoreline beaches, population about 100,000 and bratwurst shops every half a mile or so. The only smoke in the air comes from cigarettes. Lots of smokers in Wisconsin, indoors and out. You don’t get a real sense of the value of California smoking laws until you visit places without such laws.

We ate well. Bill loves to cook, and for Father’s Day he got a Weber Smokey Mountain cooker, a huge smoker that Karen says looks like R2-D2. He bought a 10-pound brisket and put it in the smoker for nine and a half hours and it was the best home barbecue I ever had. I feel totally faithful to the Weber kettle I have had for 30 years, but that cooker, with its results, has wiggled its way into my thinking.

They do good pizza in Wisconsin, too, and of course the brats. “We should also hit The Spot,” Bill said. “A cheeseburger with grilled onions and a root beer whirl.” Time was getting away and we had not yet hit The Spot when I mentioned it one lunchtime. Everybody was still full from a late breakfast, so I went by myself. The Spot is a low, red, windowless structure on a corner with a painted, wrap-around menu board facing the street. The cheeseburger was $2.29. I pulled in, parked, got out, walked around the corner, looking for the door. I ran into a waitress who said, “Be right with you, hon.”

“You come to me?” I said. “Sure do,” she said. Then I looked again at the cars in the lot. A couple had trays hung from the windows. This was a drive-in! I had not seen a tray hanging from a car window in 40 years. There were three small tables under an overhang and I sat there; too hot in the car for a California boy. I ordered as instructed: “Cheeseburger, grilled onions.” “You want everything on that?” she said. “Yes,” I said.

In a few minutes she was back. I unwrapped the cheeseburger, which was piping hot. It was small, a soft, fragrant, bun, the meat bigger than the bun and griddle-fried until its uneven edges were crispy. “Everything” turned out to be pickle slices, mustard and catsup. It was perfect. There are times now – three or four of them in Kenosha, in fact – when I wish it was 30 years ago and I could eat two or three of The Spot’s cheeseburgers.

Bill and Erika’s son, nine-year-old Andrew, went four for six with three RBIs in his two Little League games while we were there. Andrew’s sister, Caitlin, age four, shared with me her concession stand box of popcorn that was as salty as it was half a century ago. The Little League parks were grassy and exceptionally well-groomed, a feeling we had about all of Kenosha. For Father’s Day, Bill took us to Wrigley Field. I wish all ballparks looked and felt like Wrigley Field. Being there was an experience in itself, which was good, because the Tigers hit three home runs in the top of the first and won, 12-3. There were 11 home runs in the game (the wind was blowing out) and one kid, sitting behind the Cubs’ dugout, caught two foul balls.

Coming home, the airline offered a snack box for $4, but I had leftover pizza, brats and coffee cake made from biscuits, cream cheese, orange zest, sugar, pecans and melted butter. Good trip.