“Wait up!” I can hear my fathers distant laugh, as I slam my hands into the glass door. Running to catch up, he cages me against the door and pushes it open, allowing my little legs to proceed into the restaurant. The aroma of pizza cooked behind the counter hits me like the most pleasant tidal wave. 

“Welcome to Rocky Rococo,” a man behind the register greets us with a welcoming smile. 

“Hi,” my sticky fingers grasping to the surface, as my tip-toes allow me to see counter level. 

My dad grabs me from the ground, lowering me onto his hip. 

“What can I get for you two?” 

“Can we do, two single slices of pizza and an order of breadsticks please.”

“And crayons too,” I chimed in. 

Rocky Rococo, a Wisconsin made company was built as a family restaurant. But to my three-year old self, it had always been made for just my dad and me. 

“I'll take you to Rocky’s for a slice of cheese pizza after… but only if you're good.” My dad would bribe me as I refused to be buckled into my booster seat. 

“And breadsticks?” I may have been young but I was no dummy. 

“If you wouldn't have suggested them I would have… just don't tell mom.”

I would always then quickly comply and allow him to strap me into the thing. 

I love that time with my dad, even when most days were spent at Menards being pushed around in the cart to keep my hands off of every object within the walls of that majestical place. He may not think about those days much anymore, or at least as much as I do. But it's one reason why Wisconsin was meant for me.