(On June 12, 1999, I was part of the crowd as Schilberg Park in Milton was dedicated. Later that night, I was in Chicago at a jazz bar. This unpublished piece was simply my reflections on that day.)
Life is full of contrasts. America, especially, can be a study of contrasts. Some are more obvious than others, especially when witnessed within a 24-hour span.
At 2 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, residents of Milton gather at the site of the city’s newest park. Schilberg Park, named after the philanthropists that contributed the lion’s share of the money to make it happen, is being dedicated and presented to the people in a ceremony in which the entire community was invited, and most of them accept.
It is a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. The high school band plays. The mayor speaks. The superintendent of schools speaks. Important guests speak. All praise the efforts of the Schilbergs and the other groups and individuals that stepped forward to make the park, 40 acres of lush wonder, come to life.
Wally Schilberg, the 60-year-old man who was the main force behind the project, steps to the mike. The man has put more than money into this park. He is out there every day, mowing, trimming, and fussing about every detail. Many, many people, touched by his spirit and generosity, came forward to help the park become a reality. At this moment, his shining moment in front of his grateful neighbors, he is nearly too choked up to speak.
Helium balloons of black, white and red are distributed to the crowd. When the official ribbon is cut, opening the park, everyone releases their balloons, sending an impressive mass of color into the atmosphere.
After the ribbon cutting, all in attendance are treated to soda or Budweiser, courtesy of the Future Farmers of America Alumni, as well as a free concert in the new pavilion by a country-and-western band.
The entire ceremony is a community love fest. Anyone who is there has to think that this, truly, is America. The feeling must be doubly so for those that had earlier in the day experienced the camaraderie and fellowship of the county dairy breakfast. These slices of Americana seem far, far removed from the reality of school shootings, gangs, and wretched excess. On Saturday, June 12, 1999, that outside world does not exist in Milton, Wisconsin.
Several hours later, you find yourself in a much different part of America, transported from the heart of a farm community of 5,000 to the heart of the nation’s third-largest city. The green grass is replaced by 40-story apartment buildings, graffiti-tagged walls, and a seemingly endless string of restaurants, bars and shops. The construction you see is not of parks, but of a new Nordstrom’s that will take up an entire city block. You weave through clogged traffic and jaywalkers amidst the frequent honking of horns. You’re amazed at the crowds of pedestrians, seemingly more on one city block than in the entire town you just left.
It’s $15 to park, and $10 just to get into the downtown jazz bar of your choice. You grab two seats at the bar as you watch the club fill with a combination of aging hipsters, fashionable yuppies, overdressed men, and underdressed women. Unlike your afternoon activity, the crowd is a mixture of races and attitudes. The dimly lit milieu includes clinking glasses, smoky conversation, and expensive, but top-quality, beer.
The combo consists of three older black men and a young white cat in suit-and-tie who is moonlighting from the Chicago Symphony.
The leader of the group is the saxophonist, whom you peg as about 60 years old, but whose appearance might be aged by the life of a jazz musician. You wonder how many thousands of gigs the man has played. Yet he is doing anything but going through the motions. He fills the joint with contagious enthusiasm, when he’s not filling the air with the marvelous sounds of his horn. The sax seems like an extension of his own voice, his playing as natural and effortless as speaking. Both his bandmates and his audience respond to him with appreciative smiles.
The dark beers and the events of the day start to sap your energy, so you decide to leave after the second set. When you re-enter the outside world, you discover a city that has not yet wound down with you. At 1:30 a.m., the streets of Chicago are still alive with pedestrians. Laughter, horns and sirens are everywhere. The traffic is still thick, the driving still a video game. As you head north along the lake shore, you notice more than a few bicyclists still on the bike path, and young people still walk the beach. You think about Milton, where a 1:30 a.m. pedestrian would probably be stopped by a cop, if for no other reason than to see if he was all right.
When you leave Chicago the next morning, you observe that the traffic seemed heavier at 1:30 a.m. than it does now at 9:30 a.m. Chicago and Milton are in the same time zone, but the schedules are radically different.
You take the train back toward the community you left behind the previous day. The end of the line is Harvard, a Milton-sized city near the Illinois-Wisconsin border. As you make your way through the town, it suddenly dawns on you. Harvard is the missing link. Both geographically and characteristically, Harvard is the middle ground between Milton and Chicago.
When you enter Harvard, it looks a lot like Milton. You’re greeted by a water tower proclaiming Harvard as the “Home of Milk Day.” Main Street USA is graced by a giant statue of a cow, a cow that stirred up a great deal of debate a few years ago when the city moved it from the middle of Main Street to the sidewalk. Main Street has its typical display of stores and bars. But then you notice some of the storefronts. Mexican restaurants and grocery stores. Other signs written in Spanish. A Hispanic family passes you on the street. There are several children in the group, and a clown, and an irritated-looking grandmother scolding the “niños” in Spanish. In fact, at the train station, the passengers are a fairly equal mix of whites and Hispanics. This is not a lily-white farm community, after all. It appears to be a diverse little town that from all indications is comfortable with its diversity.
You notice other differences. You pass the giant Motorola plant on the north end of town. It sticks out like a sore thumb; a suburban Chicago industrial park building literally sandwiched between two family farms. Progress may have begun, but it has not yet infringed on the industry that founded the town. On the south side of town, there’s a Wal-Mart, seemingly an oddity in a city this size. But it’s somehow indicative of approaching change, the beginning of this dairy community metamorphosing into something much different.
You think it’s appropriate that Harvard sits squarely between the two communities you were in the previous day. It’s literally a combination of the two, a link in the chain of transition between idealistic rural community and modern, fashionable, diverse big city. And you think again about the contrasts. Will Milton start to diversify like Harvard? Will Harvard grow like Chicago? Will Chicago discover the communal spirit of Milton?
When live jazz comes to Milton, you’ll explore these questions again.
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