Like a Turtle to His Balcony

"May I ask you what this is?" the security guard asked, after dumping the contents of my bag out onto the counter between us. n "Hmm?" I replied, too concerned at the moment with the fact that all my toiletries and underwear were being put on display to notice what he was referring to. I squinted at him, then at what he was holding. "Oh," I said.

"Sure. That's my cane. I can't see too well."

He seemed to accept that, and shoved it back in the bag, before asking me to turn around so he could frisk me. It was the first time a security guard had asked me about the cane, which surprised me.

A few minutes later, after it had been determined that I wasn't any imminent threat, the guard restuffed everything into my bag and tried to close it up.

"You realize that the zipper here is broken," he said, pointing.

"Well it is now," I told him, before turning and heading for the plane.

The fact that I'd been pulled aside and searched at every stop along the way on my trip from New York to Green Bay might normally make me a little paranoid?but I knew it was something an awful lot of people were facing these days. Funny thing is, this was the most intense search I'd encountered yet, and it came just moments before I boarded a small commuter jet with some 20 others to fly from Chicago to Green Bay.

Maybe it had something to do with that beer I'd just had at one of O'Hare's bars. Or maybe airport security personnel had been told to be especially vigilant when it comes to protecting Green Bay.

"Makes sense," my dad said later, as we were sitting around on the patio behind my parents' house. "After all, we've got that new stadium and everything." (During this summer's Fourth of July celebration, they even had scuba divers in the river to prevent?well something, certainly.)

Things had changed both dramatically and not at all in Green Bay since I was last home. A mighty shell had been built around Lambeau Field, to accommodate another 10,000 fans. Across the street from the football field, the Veterans Memorial Arena (where I saw my first rock concert, my first circus and several pro-wrestling bouts) had been replaced by another, larger arena nearby. A few more sidewalks had been added in my parents' neighborhood, too.

The trees in the backyard, which I remember being little more than twigs when I was a kid, had grown enormously, their branches creating a canopy over the patio and the grass.

It was all very quiet. There wasn't even much traffic on the street outside, given that the bridge down the road had been shut down for renovations.

Even with the Osco Drugs, the Subway sandwich shops and Target stores going up everywhere (as they have been for a long time now), with condo developments covering hillsides and former sandlots, there's still something inescapably Ozzie and Harriet about the place I consider my hometown.

My dad told me that just a few days before I arrived, he was doing something in the front yard when a kid pulled up on a bike. He'd never seen the kid before.

"Hey, Mister!" the boy said. "Have you seen the ice cream truck go by here? Me and my friends are looking for it."

My dad had to admit that, no, he hadn't. In fact, he hadn't seen an ice cream truck go by in some time. Not like when I was a kid, and the Dilly Man made the rounds a couple times a day.

"But," my dad told him, "I might be able to help you out." He had a freezer full of popsicles and ice cream bars in the basement.

"That'd be great! Can I get some for my friends, too?"

"Sure, how many are there?"

"Four."

"And where are they?"

"They're over by the psych ward."

My dad went downstairs and got enough for all of them. Before he drove away, though, the kid said, "Mister, I just moved to town a couple weeks ago and I don't know much of anyone yet?can I come back?"

Sure, my dad said, as the kid sped off to the psych ward, laden with the melting ice cream.

"You better be careful with that," I told him. "One of these days they'll get you for child enticement or something."

Then I remembered where we were. Looking at the local papers, though, it was clear that more than chain stores had moved into town. The day before I arrived, a 28-year-old who'd gone off his meds intentionally slammed his pickup into a police cruiser, killing both of the officers inside. There had been a number of drive-by shootings as well. Hmong and Mexican youth gangs, I was told.

Still, doors remained not only unlocked, but wide open during the day. And just down the street, I was able to pick up a 12-pack of Pabst short-neck bottles for five bucks. Smokes are $3.60 a pack, and a nice, sturdy, two-story house just up the street from where I grew up is on the market for $60,000.

Trampolines must be cheap, too?which would explain why one can be found in nearly every backyard in town these days. Best of all, there were no cellphones. Not obvious ones, anyway. Not once did I see or hear one being used in a store, on a sidewalk or in a car.

Something about it seemed very tempting. Of course it would, I guess, given that I was only there for three days, and spent most of that time sitting in the backyard, drinking Pabst, smoking cheap smokes, breathing clean air and talking to people I liked. Eating brats and listening to all that quiet. It was easy to forget that living there requires an automobile, and a lawnmower and a snowblower. It was also easy, near the end of July, to forget about those winters.

It was easy to forget about all those things when the paper was running big ads for the annual Brat Fest down in Sheboygan. It's a fine time, the Brat Fest. I didn't have time to make the trip, which was too bad. I had to get back to New York, and on with things.

At the airport, after saying goodbye to my family, I was once again subject to one of the most stringent security screenings I'd ever encountered. Shoes off, belt off, bag torn open, hat patted down, frisked?though here at least, everyone was very polite about it. They all said "please."

Again it struck me as odd that I should run into tighter security getting into and out of Green Bay than I did getting into and out of New York. But like my dad said, there is that new stadium to consider.

It was a melancholy trip back. I would be very happy to see Morgan and the beasts, of course, but apart from them? I kept thinking of all that quiet.

The DC-9 landed at La Guardia half an hour early, and taxied slowly toward the gate. Then we stopped. A few moments later, the captain's voice crackled through the cabin.

"Uhhh, ladies and gentlemen, since we're here a little early, it looks like we're gonna be sittin' on the tarmac for a bit until things clear out in front of us. So feel free to use your cellphones if you'd like."

I winced as the once-silent cabin was suddenly filled with the sound of a hundred bags frantically being ripped open simultaneously, followed by the unholy beeps of 100 cellphones being turned on, then by 100 very loud voices, all having exactly the same conversation.

"Hi-i! I'm on the runway, and..."