I, being the travel agent of the family, was in charge of logistics. I chose our hotels based on location: three nights in Mequon so we'd be on the north side of Milwaukee close to John's brothers and the ancestral stomping grounds, two nights in Madison where we would visit friends and he could consult the state capitol's records, a final night in Milwaukee itself so I could explore the downtown on foot and he could check with a couple of historical societies in the area. We'd always stayed on the west side before, near his father and far from everything else. I knew the west side pretty well. I was not terribly sure about the Best Western Quiet House Suites I'd booked, but it was a perfect location. It looked quite decent from the outside when we arrived. But it held a dark and hideous secret.

The Quiet House was a hotel full of theme rooms.

We stood outside our door and burst into horrified giggles as we read the plaque next to the lock. It said The Victorian Brew Meister Suite. Inside was a faithful reproduction of an over-decorated, ultra fussy Victorian bedroom. The four poster bed was enormous and required steps to climb into. The walls below the dado rail were done in an overwhelming dark eucalyptus green and crimson pattern. There was a fainting couch instead of a comfortable sofa to lie on. The chairs were upholstered in horsehair and had protruding knobs and extra carved doodads all over, guaranteeing both an uncomfortable seat and barked shins. There was, of course, a doll dressed up in Victorian garb seated on its own little fainting couch, placed directly in front of the air conditioning unit where it was most likely to trip up the unwary, overheated traveler. It was beautifully done, and absolutely hideous. I promptly decided that if I ever became a porn star I would use the name Victoria Brewmeister.

The next day I walked up and down the hallway peeking at all the plaques. Most of them indicated cloying cutesyness, so we certainly could have done worse than Victoriana. I deeply regret not being given the Roman Baths Suite, I can tell you that. Downstairs, we noticed the pool had both indoor and outdoor sections with the connecting parts separated by plastic sheets much like a giant doggie door. But we had miles to go and no time to fritter on mere fun, so we trekked off to farthest Washington County. John's brother Bruce went with us. I drove, they navigated, and we all admired the lush green farmland as we puttered up and down country lanes looking for the farms associated with the Bartelt family over the years. I mooed at every cow I saw.

Part of what we were doing was tracking down dead people. We stopped by the cemeteries of Jackson and Freistadt, wandering among the stones in the heat of the day trying to discover various relatives. It was peaceful and pleasant under the old trees with the wind ruffling the leaves and lifting the damp hair from the back of my neck. At one cemetery we found a delightful series of headstones. Each of three had a portion of a poem; you needed all three lined up for it to be complete. "Life is like the wind in the grasses," said the first one. "Noted chiefly as it passes," said the second one. "Burma Shave," said John.

I laughed so hard I forgot to memorize how the poem actually ended.

It wasn't all charming drives among the cows and corn, though. There was a family dinner. I confess right now I have a very difficult time getting along with one of my sisters-in-law. She has the ability to instantly irritate me, mainly because we have completely different approaches to nearly everything. I try to control my natural reaction for a few hours. If we stay too long, though, it all gets to be too much and I lose it. Last time we met I was showing photos of our trip to Africa. The last photo was a very nice shot taken of a rhino from behind. "The end, get it?" I said, being silly. Everyone laughed except this particular sister-in-law.

"That's not very funny," she announced.

"Sure it is," I said warily.

"I certainly don't think that's funny," she replied.

"That's because you have no sense of humor," I snapped back. "Maybe you left it at home with your grip on reality." Everyone else sat very, very still. After a while we pretended no one had said anything.

This time I wasn't a hag. I merely refused to have my photo taken just as everyone was about to go home at 11pm. I mean, jeez, what a stupid time to suddenly ask us to pose perkily. Of course, this meant I was acting like a big baby, but it beat screaming at her. Driving back to the hotel I apologized to John, saying, "It wouldn't be a visit to your relatives if I didn't bring shame upon you at least once." He was pretty nice about it.

Tomorrow: Madison, gardens, dim sum, and fan gossip.

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