Long before the first ride started, you could feel Wa Du Shuda Days coming. If winter belonged to basketball, summer belonged to Wa Du Shuda Days. Every town has a celebration that becomes woven into its identity. It is the weekend that everyone circles on the calendar, the event that former residents come home for, and the collection of memories that somehow grows sweeter with every passing year.
For New Lisbon, Wisconsin, that celebration has always been Wa Du Shuda Days.
The name itself is unique. Wa Du Shuda comes from the area’s Ho-Chunk heritage and is commonly translated as “Rest your canoe here.” Long before highways crossed central Wisconsin, the rivers were the highways, and New Lisbon became a natural stopping point for travelers navigating the waterways. It is a beautiful phrase when you think about it. Rest your canoe here. Pause. Stay awhile. Enjoy the journey. That spirit has somehow survived for generations.
I first experienced Wa Du Shuda Days shortly after our family moved to New Lisbon in 1971. I was entering sixth grade, trying to navigate a new school, new classmates, and all the uncertainty that comes with starting over. By then, I had already attended four different schools in four years. At twelve years old, that meant learning new hallways, new teachers, new expectations, and hoping all over again that you’d find a place where you belonged. Every move meant leaving behind friends just as they were becoming comfortable and starting the entire process from scratch. Looking back, I didn’t realize it then, but those years taught me resilience. Still, if someone had asked me at twelve what I wanted most, the answer would have been simple: to stop being the new kid.
For a newcomer, Wa Du Shuda Days was an introduction to the community unlike anything else. The celebration centered around Riverside Park along the Lemonweir River. Even today, when I picture it in my mind, I can almost hear the sounds before I see anything. The mechanical hum of carnival rides. The laughter coming from the midway. The barkers encouraging people to try another game. The music drifting through the trees. To a sixth grader, it felt enormous.
Looking back now, I’m sure the carnival was much smaller than I remember. Childhood has a way of making everything seem larger than life. That is one of the great gifts of being young—you experience everything for the first time, and every sight, sound, and challenge feels monumental. There were ring tosses where the bottles always seemed just a little farther apart than they looked, basketball hoops that somehow shrank the moment the ball left your hands, and dart games where the balloons appeared impossibly easy to pop when the carnival worker demonstrated them. They made every game look effortless, convincing you that one more quarter, then another, was surely all it would take.
And then, every so often, someone actually won. They would emerge proudly carrying an enormous stuffed elephant, tiger, or bear draped over their shoulder. Some kids carried those prizes the way athletes carry championship trophies, careful not to let them drag on the ground. As a twelve-year-old, I was convinced everyone was looking at them with admiration and just a little envy. That oversized prize wasn’t just a stuffed animal—it was proof that you had beaten the odds, a badge of honor you proudly carried around the midway for the rest of the day. Years later, those prizes almost always followed the same journey: from the bedroom, to the garage, to the attic, and eventually to the garbage. But for that one magical afternoon, walking with that giant stuffed animal on your shoulder felt every bit as glorious as hoisting a trophy in front of a cheering crowd.
There were food stands serving everything carnival food is supposed to be—hot dogs sizzling on the grill, juicy hamburgers wrapped in paper, buttery popcorn salted just enough to make you thirsty for another ice-cold soda, clouds of cotton candy that dissolved into sticky smiles and even stickier fingers, paper bags of warm mini donuts dusted with enough sugar to coat your shirt, and brightly colored snow cones that melted faster than you could eat them, leaving sweet syrup dripping down your hand and onto your wrist. Every aroma seemed to compete for your attention as you wandered from stand to stand, convinced the next bite would somehow be even better than the last. Calories didn’t exist when you were twelve. Neither did cholesterol. You simply followed your nose, bought whatever smelled irresistible, and somehow always found room for one more treat.
One of the things I remember most is the setting itself. Riverside Park lived up to its name. The Lemonweir River quietly flowed alongside all the excitement, creating a peaceful backdrop to the festive carnival atmosphere. While the rides spun and children shouted, the river simply kept moving as if it didn't have a care in the world. At the time, I never thought much about it. Now I appreciate the symbolism. Life around us always feels busy and urgent, yet underneath it all, time keeps flowing quietly forward, just like that river.
Of course, for middle school boys, Wa Du Shuda Days wasn’t really about the rides. It wasn’t even about the food. It was about girls. That was the age when boys traveled in packs and girls traveled in their own packs, with some invisible force field separating the two groups. You desperately wanted to cross that invisible line. You just had absolutely no idea how.
There was one particular girl who had completely captured my attention. I won’t mention her name all these years later, but if she somehow reads this, she might recognize herself. The moment I spotted her, with the summer sun catching her hair just right, the carnival seemed to lose its hold on me. The rides still spun, the barkers still called out, and the music still drifted through the trees, but all of it faded into the background. Somehow, without even thinking about it, my feet always seemed to carry me in her direction, as though I were being pulled by the same invisible force that spun the Tilt-A-Whirl. Walking close enough that our shoulders nearly brushed was enough to make my heart race. Catching the scent of her shampoo as she passed by could occupy my thoughts for the rest of the evening. And if our hands had accidentally touched while reaching for the same railing or concession stand, I would have replayed that tiny moment over and over, wondering if she’d noticed it too.
Nothing ever happened. There was no magical summer romance, no first kiss beneath the fireworks, no dramatic declaration of feelings. Mostly there were stolen glances across the carnival, nervous smiles that may or may not have been returned, and countless moments of wondering whether she even knew I existed. Looking back now, it all seems wonderfully innocent. At twelve years old, though, those tiny moments carried the emotional weight of a lifetime. Funny how the feelings that once seemed so overwhelming eventually become some of our sweetest memories.
As darkness settled over Riverside Park, another transformation took place. The carnival lights became even more beautiful. The music seemed louder. Families gathered on blankets. Children who had been running nonstop all afternoon suddenly became still. Everyone looked toward the sky. Then came the fireworks.
There was always something magical about watching fireworks over a river. The reflections danced on the water while explosions filled the sky with brilliant reds, blues, golds, and whites. Every grand finale felt impossible. How could there possibly be one more shell? Then another. Then another. Then thirty more. Everyone's gaze was skyward. Children were covering their ears, and there was a smell of gunpowder in the air as smoke drifted across the river.
Everyone applauded as though they had never seen fireworks before. Maybe that’s because each show really is unique. Or maybe the adults back then simply enjoyed being reminded that there are still things capable of taking them back to their younger days.
One memory from those evenings always makes me smile because it captures how different life was in the early 1970s. After the fireworks ended, I remember hurrying home as fast as I could. Not because I was tired. Not because my parents wanted me home. I wanted to watch the TV show, Love, American Style.
For anyone too young to remember it, the show was considered surprisingly daring for its time. By today’s standards, it would seem incredibly tame, but in the early 1970s it had a reputation for being just a little bit risqué. That alone made it irresistible to a young teenage boy.
Oddly enough, I even remember the opening sequence featuring colorful fireworks, making it feel like a natural extension of the evening I had just experienced. Streaming services didn’t exist. There was no DVR. No YouTube. If you wanted to watch a television show, you watched it when it aired. If you missed it, you missed it. So I ran home.
When I think about Wa Du Shuda Days today, I realize it represented something much larger than a carnival. It marked the rhythm of summer. School had ended. Baseball was being played. The days were long. The future seemed endless. Every July felt like it would last forever. Of course, it never did. Summer always ended. School always started again. For those few days during Wa Du Shuda, life seemed to slow down just enough for everyone to enjoy being together.
The celebration has grown considerably over the years. Today there are volleyball and cornhole tournaments, live music, a medallion hunt, more family activities, more vendors, and more entertainment. Yet its purpose remains unchanged: bringing people together to celebrate community and create memories. That doesn’t happen by accident. It happens because volunteers, businesses, and families continue to invest in traditions worth preserving.
I sometimes wonder what my twelve-year-old self would think if he attended today’s celebration. He’d notice the bigger crowds and newer attractions, but before long he’d realize the important things haven’t changed. Kids are still laughing. Parents are still carrying sleepy children to their cars. Teenagers are still working up the courage to talk to someone special. And fireworks still make everyone stop and look up.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized nostalgia isn’t about wanting to relive the past. It’s about appreciating it. We don’t miss those years because they were perfect. We miss them because we finally understand how fortunate we were to live them.
This year, as America celebrates its 250th birthday, communities across the country will gather once again for parades, picnics, festivals, and fireworks. Children will create memories they won’t fully appreciate until decades later. Some twelve-year-old boy will spend the evening trying to find the courage to talk to a girl. Someone will eat too much cotton candy. And fifty years from now, they’ll smile as they remember it.
Whenever I hear the words Wa Du Shuda—“Rest your canoe here”—I think of more than a stopping place along a river. They remind me to pause, treasure family and friends, celebrate community, and recognize that life is measured as much by ordinary summer evenings as by life’s biggest milestones.
For me, Wa Du Shuda Days will always be one of those places where life felt wonderfully uncomplicated: a carnival beside the Lemonweir River, fireworks lighting the night sky, and a shy boy with dreams he was too nervous to share. Those summers became some of the most enduring memories of my childhood. Before long, though, adolescence would begin changing everything, and another story would unfold—one involving a football game, a backyard, and a girl named Sue Ann.