Essay: Wheeling Wausau by Sam Beurskens I, having the screwy nature of humanity, fell into the primordial desire and fault of fantasizing about Wausau, Wisconsin’s potential social utopia. I imagined the quaintness of the homes, the little hobbit-like children playing in the front yards adjacent to quiet streets. I fancied those streets at night lit by lampposts akin to Narnia’s. In my mind’s eye I beheld husbands and wives holding hands, strolling in unbreakable romantic friendship down the streets, while the birds of spring chirped joyfully at the sight. I imagined my apartment building neighbors, my brothers and sisters in dwelling, would be hospitable, gracious, and clean-cut, perhaps leaning out of windows chatting each other up—a Norman Rockwellian scene, I admit. I thought after I would get to know them briefly, they would greet me in the hall and ask me how I was doing as they were passing, in exchanges friendly and courteous such as one gives to another, acknowledging each other’s existence. In other words, I came to Wausau with a surging hope of finding another Bedford Falls with all of its beautiful ordinariness, friendliness, and smallness. But as it turned out, I was completely wrong, for the very reason that nothing that humans dream of really comes about in perfect form. Still one has to accept the circumstances and make the best of that experience—gaining wisdom for later. To illustrate my epiphany of reality clearly, I will tell you of three experiences I had which awakened me from this mirage of dreamy thoughts as if I were sleeping, and tipped me off the edge of the bed, suddenly jolting me to the hopelessness (not to overstate things) of everyday reality that I had unfortunately discovered. On a bright sunny day with the snow from the other night melting from the heavenly morning temperature and brilliant blue skies, I decided, with the A-Team theme song and a large playlist in my ears, to suit up with all my wheelchair gear to go on a stroll. Getting out of my apartment was a bit of a hassle as usual. I cut a wound in my apartment wall for the hundredth time since the entrance is too small for my chair. Still, I managed to shimmy my way out and began to wheel along the uneven and crumbling sidewalks of Wausau’s busiest and obviously most annoying street towards the downtown, which was peaceful and respectable. As I was traveling, I had to overcome the sidewalk crossing, and I’m Page 30
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