chapter 14

Paper Discovery Centre and SueAppleton had a paper museum, The Paper Discovery Centre, and since the more the merrier was the dictum that guided us where museums were concerned, Arpitha took us there. Amar was at work. She booked the cab after lunch and we piled in. How very easy and pleasant these two had made our excursions.It was Gary again. Each cab ride with Gary revealed more about the man and his life. Every time we entered the cab, he greeted us like long lost friends and while greeting us, would turn down the volume of the radio. Noticing this happen a few times, VK asked him about it, after we had become more familiar with him. ‘I’m a conservative,’ he said. ‘I listen to Fox News and not all passengers are happy with that.’ He flashed a happy smile.The Paper Discovery Centre, Appleton, has, we learned later, been described as a boring museum. But since we do not take the expectations we take to a rock concert with us when we visit a museum, we had a very good time. What had been a paper mill, the Atlas Mill, owned by Kimberly-Clark, had been turned into a museum and learning centre. We learned a lot about paper making, its history and the technology behind it. We also became more familiar with the history of Wisconsin.We even made some paper, along with a group of school children, with a guide hand-holding us through the process. We could choose colours, glitter and embellishments to go into the paper and at the end, VK had a greyish blue, subdued and spartan paper; Arpitha who has a talent for painting, had an artistic creation while I added a little of everything available into the mixture and ended up with a sheet that looked like a Matisse masterpiece.The guide looked startled. ‘Interesting combination,’ she gave an uncertain smile. ‘And colourful. Yes, very eye-catching. Vibrant, actually.’ VK made a pretence of hunting for his non-existent dark glasses. Arpitha, the kind soul, was indulgent. ‘Beautiful, Aunty,’ she said. Of course, she was referring to the paper.Soon after this adventure, a man accosted us. He was a Kimberly-Clark engineer, an Englishman who had made Wisconsin his home. I mentioned that our son was working for his company. He—the man, not Amar—had just retired and was slated to be the director of the museum. He said he had more Indian blood than people might believe looking at him. Yes, it would take a great deal of imagination to suspect that—he looked Hollywood white.A great grandfather of his had served in India during the Raj and had returned to England with an Indian woman for a wife. She had spent the rest of her days in the U.K. He did not know any of this till he had had a DNA test done to find out about his ancestry. Puzzled by how much ‘Indian blood’ showed up in the test, he had done some research and ferreted out these details. He chatted a while about his plans for the museum; we wished him luck and said our goodbyes.Next door, practically under the same roof, was a restaurant, ‘The Atlas Waterfront Café’, or, as the handwritten sign on a white board near the entrance announced, ‘The Atlas Waterfront Café and Gathering Room’. It appeared to have been picked out of some design or architecture magazine—it was picture perfect. There was a terrace on one side, overlooking the Fox River, with tables and chairs. It provided a splendid view and a most relaxing atmosphere, but was too cold for us. Even a beautiful scene loses some of its appeal when you have to watch it all hunched up and through chattering teeth.So, we settled for the proper dining room. It was one of those places where you collected your food from a counter and took it to your table, not uncommon in America. The café, we discovered, was run by an old couple. Sue, the lady at the counter, took our orders, helping us find our way through the menu. Every menu card with unfamiliar food items, hints at adventure, and I was grateful for her assistance. She was the most gracious of hosts. She insisted that we sit at our table. The food would be brought to us. ‘You are the only patrons here now,’ she pointed out.Larry, her husband, looked like he was made of paper and seemed even older than the paper mill. We never heard him speak at any point, though he was shuffling around most of the time. What a store of stories he must be, I wondered. There must be a Wisconsin-centred history of the U.S. in the twentieth century in him, I felt. But, alas, we did not have the time or space to find out.In a corner of the room was displayed a huge dictionary, open roughly in the middle. It was ‘The Enormous, Corduroy-clad Century Dictionary’, a board nearby said. It gave details of the tome. It had over 7,500 pages, was printed in 1914 and now belonged to Sue and Larry. As much a part of Appleton, I thought, as the paper mill and the lovely couple running the café, in what had once been the paper mill’s dining room.Sue joined us after we had eaten. She came over to our table to sit and talk for a while. She was curious about us. We told her the main reason for our visit was Arpitha’s graduation and she was very happy to know about it. I mentioned that it was my first trip out of India and that we had landed in Chicago less than a fortnight earlier. We wanted to visit as many museums and parks as we could while in the country, I said.After a while, she asked, ‘If you don’t mind my asking, how were those gentlemen at the Chicago airport?’ Tactful way, I realised, of finding out if the then president’s attitudes had seeped into and hardened the officials at immigration at O’Hare. VK took over. ‘A gentleman went through our papers, looked at his computer screen, slammed a seal on a sheet and, instead of saying “Welcome to America”, which I expected him to say, looked over my shoulder and shouted, “Next, please.” We trudged off, looking for the exit.’Sue’s smile faded. She lowered her head into her cupped hands. She stayed frozen in that position for a while, before lifting her head to say, softly and with genuine warmth, ‘On behalf of my country, I apologise.’ Now we were embarrassed and assured her there was no need for an apology. ‘We have some of these types in Chicago,’ she added with some force.There was a heap of lovely stuff—handbags and knickknacks—arranged on one side of the café. Wishing to change the subject, I asked her what they were. She explained that she and her husband were organising a sale for charity. ‘Generous people like you are a big help,’ she said and smiled. Before I could scratch my head and wonder when we had been generous, Sue added that all tips left behind went to charity. ‘Your tip was generous.’ Amar had taught us to tip and tip well.Later I commented to Arpitha that I wished I could have been a recipient of the charitable venture—one of those bags in particular was very stylish. VK overheard—he has a great knack for hearing all the wrong things—and shook his head in disapproval. ‘When will you leave these very Indian traits behind?’Sue and Larry, we realised, represented an older, more gracious and cultured America—the polite, hard-working, dignified middle class we had all read about. Like the lumber mills and paper factories of Wisconsin, they were all disappearing. And the values they represented were also fading.In 2019, almost exactly a year after our visit to The Waterfront Café, Sue and Larry had to close their establishment—an Appleton newspaper, available on the internet, reported it. We read this with a sense of loss, as if we were Appletonians. They could not renew their lease and were on the lookout for something else to occupy their time. The café had been open for fifteen years and was popular with a lot of the locals. We were lucky to have visited when we did.On the white board outside their café was a sign saying ‘Love your neighbor.’ There was an asterisk over ‘neighbor’. Below that line there was a clear definition of ‘neighbor’. It said: ‘Your black, brown, immigrant, disabled, religiously different, LGBTQ, fully human neighbour’, all in capitals.Let us salute Sue and Larry Bogenschutz. We didn’t just have a nice lunch but a taste of a culture that is evaporating. Small, Sue showed us, was tender. And gentle. And most beautiful. Even in America, the mammoth land of mammoth things.Amar met us at Neenah Public Library and shepherded us into this fascinating place. It is huge, attractive, well maintained and, whether you are a child or an octogenarian, you can get lost there and be content to stay lost. There is something for everyone—children, teens, tweens, adults and senior citizens.The children’s section with its ‘reading tent’ extends beyond an enviable selection of books to puppets, stuffed animals, puzzles, games and other attractions, while adults have books, magazines, movies and music to listen to, if they wish. They could also just sit somewhere and dream. Or work.‘Anyone can use the library,’ Amar said, as he took us around. ‘I often come here to do my work. And borrow books by self-scanning them.’‘Can’t people just take books away, then?’ I asked, incredulous. ‘What high levels of trust.’I thought of our libraries where some members have made an art of making away with books. We have heard of patrons entering the library with trim figures and leaving it barrel-chested or slightly potbellied.‘Well, not really. There will be a beep if an unscanned book leaves the library,’ he chuckled.‘Ah, how could I have forgotten? It’s the technology they trust.’We noticed very old people engrossed in games of scrabbles, cards and jigsaws at cosy tables in corners. Some earnest-looking men and women were working on laptops, at tables by windows with a serene view of the waters. This is a place where time could stand still. And this is one place I would love to sneak out of the U.S. and transport to Thiruvananthapuram; let Neenah reverberate with beeps.Outside the library stood the statue of the incredible Native American and Ho-Chunk Chief, Glory of the Morning, with a few firsts to her credit. She was the first woman chief of Ho-Chunk, one of the first tribes of Wisconsin and the first woman to be mentioned in the written history of Wisconsin. We looked her up and down before going on a long walk up to the lake near Fox River. People were fishing from the bridge, perfectly still, totally focussed on the line and the water, waiting for the slightest tug. Here, we didn’t see any dead fish but even if we had, I doubt any of the people around would have even heard VK’s question. They were, like all true-blue fishermen, oblivious to everything else.We walked along the streets of Neenah and spotted the sculpture of Thomas Jefferson seated on a bench, patting the space beside him, as if inviting us to sit there. We took turns to do that; how could we not oblige the prime architect of the Declaration of Independence?At the Statue of Liberty Corner, we found a 15-feet replica of The Statue of Liberty, a memorial commemorating the hundredth birthday of the original statue. If Lady Wisconsin guards Madison, Lady Liberty does the honours for Neenah. Close by, we also found sculptures of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington, both frozen on stone benches.We wound up the day with dinner at Sai Ram, another Indian restaurant. Come to think of it, we had been going mostly to Indian restaurants. But this particular visit was very special for here we discovered something that saved us from the trap of huge portions—the kids’ portion. The moment I spotted this on the menu card, I perked up.‘Why not ask for that?’ I suggested. ‘I’m not hungry at all.’VK also wanted the same, so that’s what we got. Not only was it just right for us, there was an added bonus of a toy at the bottom. I got a top and VK got a soft toy. After that it was always kids’ portions for us and we didn’t have to shop for toys to take home.