Garrison Keillor's Blog, page 52
August 26, 2020
The News from Manhattan: Wednesday, August 26, 2020
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August 24, 2020
Something I would’ve said in June, had I been asked
I gave my love an Italian cookbook Saturday and she cut the plastic off it and opened it and found recipes for leg of kid, eel, pork liver, braised snout, sweet-and-sour snout, and I could tell that we will be eating vegan for the foreseeable future. I was just finishing up a nice helping of short ribs and she gave me a moralistic look, the sort you might give a cannibal if there were one around. And yet—who in this household is worried about high cholesterol? Not me, the butcher boy. The Queen of Greens, that’s who. Thus once more we discover the fundamental unfairness of life. The good are punished while the wicked get off scot-free.
My favorite breakfast is a sirloin steak with two fried eggs. I’m only a writer at a desk but that meal makes me feel like a stevedore looking ahead to a day on the docks running a forklift. I feel young and strong. Then I sit down at the laptop and taptaptap for a while. Meanwhile, my love eats her steel-cut oatmeal and goes for a run in the park and worries about cholesterol.
I’ve been the beneficiary of injustice for many years. I was an indifferent student and slogged through useless humanities courses and read Kafka and Camus and wrote papers about existentialism, which was all the rage back then and which nobody knew what it was exactly nor even approximately, which allowed an ignorant twerp to write inscrutable term papers about it, meanwhile the best and the brightest were studying engineering or medicine or law and forging ahead, and I, because I have a somber face and no social skills, went into radio during a boom period, and they became serfs in tall buildings in fast-moving fields (especially engineering) where obsolescence set in around age thirty-five, and I did a radio show that, because it was nostalgic, defied change, and thus did the turtle outrun a great many hares.
The plague struck in March. All of the gifted artists I knew—musicians, actors, comedians—were out of work, whereas I, the writer of homely tropes and truisms, was busier than ever. Like most introverts, I enjoyed the pandemic to the utmost.
Life is unfair. This is what the Class of 2020 should’ve been told at commencement, if there had been one. They don’t need to hear about marching to a different drummer and lighting a candle and making a difference in the world because it’s the only one we have. That is a bowl of chicken wieners in canned beans in instant gravy.
No, they need to be told that they got a third-rate education and they need to toughen themselves up so they can blow up the gates and take over the world and seize from their greedy boomer parents a fair share of the national wealth. Manufacturing is dying: everything’s made in China. The farms are industrialized. The arts? Ha! You get paid in candy wrappers and bottle caps. Your future gets more limited every day. The rules are rigged and the country is at war with itself and people are stupefied by Twitter and Facebook and it’s time to storm the barricades.
The problem with revolution, though, is that life is unfair. The revolutionaries who go to the barricades never get to enjoy the rewards. Their grandchildren do.
Revolutionaries get into bitter feuds with fellow radicals and wind up in jail or exile, embittered by a long string of betrayals. Meanwhile, billionaires live in fear of losing the mansion and the grounds, the heated pool, the staff at the ready to satisfy your every whim, if only you had a whim, but billionaires don’t have time for whimsy. It’s a hard life on both sides of the battle. So skip it. Just declare victory and go live your life.
School can’t teach you to be independent so teach yourself. If you can be happy alone, then you’ve got a good start. Try sitting in a boat on water with nobody else around, or sit in the yard the morning after a rain, or walk in the woods at dusk. Fall is coming, when the world is gorgeous to all of the senses. Let your soul breathe; experience buoyancy without spending money. Once you learn to be good company for yourself, you’ve achieved the revolution and earned a fortune. Then you can go on to the next step, which is coming in out of the rain, and lying down in the bed you have made.
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August 22, 2020
The Lake Wobegon Virus: Chapter One
Chapter 1: FEBRUARY 16, 6:30 A.M.
Well, it has been a quiet year in Lake Wobegon except for the heat wave in February and then that weird epidemic of what’s called “episodic loss of inhibition” and sensible Germans and Norwegians pouring out inappropriate feelings, spilling crazy secrets, hallucinating about some conspiracy or other, acting out—Darlene baring her breasts at the Chatterbox Cafe—Dorothy stopped her in time, but still—our beloved Darlene, the last of the old-time waitresses who called their clients “Sweetheart,” at 55 opening her blouse!—and Pastor Liz making a fool of herself in a Sunday sermon. And Clint coming out as an atheist and Father Wilmer caught in carnal thoughts, the postmaster Mr. Bauser observed while on duty singing, “The State Department and Internal Revenue are promoting a One World point of view. Obama was a Kenyan man, took the oath of office on a Koran. Don’t be brainwashed by the press, they’re promoting godlessness,” and then saw Myrtle waiting to buy stamps. She said, “Are you supposed to be singing songs on the job?” She went out and told Clarence Bunsen, and Clarence came and talked to him, and Mr. Bauser denied all. And from then on, he returned Myrtle’s letters to her, marked “Address Illegible,” though she went to school back when good penmanship was taught and hers was A+. And somebody—guess who?—put her name on the mailing list of the American Free Love Party. It was ugly. When I came to town in March, people said, “I hope you aren’t going to write about this,” which of course aroused my curiosity since I had no idea what they meant and so I stuck around to find out.
That same day, Arlen Hoerschgen walked up to the checkout desk at the library, and Grace, gentle Grace, ever-patient Grace, looked at the book of limericks he wanted to check out and said, “When in hell are you going to grow up?” And she quoted a dozen dirty limericks at him, including:
There was a young girl of Eau Claire
Who was graceful and so debonaire,
But she did not pee
Like a girl, downwardly,
But could aim up high in the air.
and others even worse and said, “I tell you, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I remember your ne’er-do-well uncle going around town tanked up on sloe gin and singing filthy songs in broad daylight like the one about the shepherd and the magpie, and his poor children were so ashamed of him they all went off and became Seventh-day Adventists.” And she stamped the due date on it and handed it to him, and he felt sort of sheepish and returned with it 20 minutes later to apologize, and she had no memory of it whatsoever. “Where’d this come from?” she said. “Read whatever you like.” Loss of inhibition followed by memory loss.
Mrs. Torgerson entered a national talent contest performing “Bridge Over Troubled Water” on Audubon bird whistles, all six and one-half minutes of it, and Bob took off on a long road trip to visit relatives in Oregon and Washington while she rehearsed. Neighbors said the artistry was incredible, sometimes involving three or four whistles at once, but the effect of the whole was to make you reach for your gun.
It was craziness, and it set neighbor against neighbor, Norwegian against German, a town that prided itself on sobriety and responsibility and modest behavior, and meanwhile, looming on the horizon was the very real threat of a Keep America Truckin’ Museum and Motorway in the planning stages south of town, featuring a mile oval for racing 18-wheelers—farmland was already being bought up for the thing—annual attendance estimated to be 2.2 million visitors, many with huge tattoos and carrying six-guns and six-packs, and rumor had it there’d be a six-lane freeway and a couple of high-rise hotels on the outskirts of town and maybe a casino. An absolute nightmare. The “Little Town That Time Forgot” suddenly becoming the little town that Misfortune fell in love with, where all the women are horrified, the men are bewildered, and the children are amused at the distress of their elders.
Dorothy of the Chatterbox said, “It’s been like a horror novel but with actual people, you wouldn’t want to read it but you are living it.” In the midst of a town council meeting, Mayor Eloise Krebsbach jumped up, threw her gavel out the window not noticing it was closed, and said, “This town has gone to the dogs and as far as I’m concerned, they can have it.” She took a job as a nail salon hostess in St. Paul and was replaced by Alice Dobbs, a newcomer to town (1995), who feels that problems have solutions and if we commit ourselves to the common good, we can find our way out of the woods.
Lenny, a Wobegon girl who left home to become an epidemiologist, came home during a bitter divorce and diagnosed the problem, and Alice, over fierce opposition, brought in a municipal therapist though people here don’t do therapy or discuss unpleasant feelings. If someone asks, “How are you?” you say, Fine. And that’s good enough. It could be worse. You go into therapy and you are apt to get engrossed in yourself and neglect your children and they turn out fragile and moody and take up songwriting or conceptual baking. But the therapist, Ashley, turned out to be a very nice person, mannerly, soft-spoken, once you got to know her. And in the midst of it all, I arrived to work on a sainthood project and thought about writing this book instead, but now I’m getting ahead of myself.
Where to begin?
It began on February 16th at about 6:30 a.m. in the Chatterbox Cafe when the old waitress Darlene leaned down and said to Daryl Tollerud, “You disgust me, and you know why? Because you never make eye contact, there’s never a ‘Good morning’ or ‘How are you, Darlene?’—you sit there waiting for the world to do your bidding and bring your bacon and eggs, and when I bring it, you stare at my boobs. It’s like you never saw a woman before. Twenty years you’ve been staring at them. Well, here they are—” And she tore open her shirt and there they were for a split second until Dorothy grabbed her, and Darlene picked up the plate and smooshed it in his face as fried egg yolk ran down his shirt along with hash browns and bacon, and she turned and stalked away. People around him pretended nothing had happened, which Lake Wobegon people are adept at doing. They could ignore an anvil falling out of a tree so long as it didn’t fall on them.
Dorothy cleaned him up and apologized, and Daryl felt bad about what she said, realizing there was some truth to it. It went back to when he was 16 and attended a carnival sideshow at the county fair and saw a contortionist named Maria who folded herself up to fit inside a breadbox and then handed her brassiere up to the ringmaster, and if you liked you could pay a quarter to go and look into the breadbox and Daryl did, and there she was, all folded up, her arms wrapped around her chest, and ever since then Daryl has felt a thrill at the sight of a woman with folded arms.
Minutes later, Darlene emerged from the ladies’ room as if nothing had happened, and when Dorothy said, “What’s wrong with you?” Darlene had no idea what she meant. “You spilled all down the front of your shirt,” she said to Daryl. “Don’t eat so fast.” Somebody told her she had bared her bosom. She said, “Good God, who do you take me for?” Daryl is a forgiving soul—he had four teenage children living under his roof at one time, one of them a Goth and a shoplifter, another a drummer—and also he felt he was responsible for what happened, a common reaction among Lutherans.
He finished his breakfast and went home and heard a voice from the bedroom—“Is that you?”—and of course it was him, who else would she imagine it might be? He felt a twinge of jealousy, and then there she was, half in her lingerie and half out, approaching him in a meaningful way, and said, “I was waiting for you.” His old Marilyn, mother of his five children, in the mood for love at eight thirty in the morning, will wonders never cease? She had been the most beautiful woman in town, and when she was young and went dancing at the Moonlight Bay Supper Club, men fought in the parking lot for the right to dance with her. Men cursing, fists on bone, she was so lovely, and that’s how she came to marry Daryl. All the fighting men were in a rage and she walked away with a pacifist.
It was an historic week for her and Daryl. They had rid themselves of a Chihuahua named Mitzi who was bought over Daryl’s objections, he being an old farmboy brought up to believe dogs live outdoors so they can run off interlopers and in payment for this service, we feed them. A Chihuahua serves no purpose except to share its anxieties. One day in February, the dog, on a toilet run, encountered a skunk. The dog had never imagined such a thing as a skunk existing—had no idea what the purpose of one would be—and the skunk unloaded, and Daryl grabbed the .22 and ran out and met the skunk, who still had some left in him, and Daryl didn’t even get off a shot. Mitzi had a nervous breakdown and Daryl showered for an hour and still had some skunk in his hair, so Marilyn clipped his head clean and Mitzi went off to live with cousin Janice in the city. Daryl slept in the guest room for a week and now, evidently, was attractive again.
She kissed him and unbuckled his belt and placed his hand on her bosom, and he stepped out of his shoes and his masculinity hung loose like a graduation tassel. He was spectacularly impotent. She tried to get its attention, but it was thinking of other things. After years of embarrassing involuntary erections in public—walking around with a ball-peen hammer in his pants—Darlene’s attack on him had removed the lead from his pencil. His billiard cue had turned into a curtain sash.
And two days later, an anonymous person left a gift for Darlene: a new bra made of molded plastic with a combination lock on the strap. It was a joke, but Darlene took it badly, and days later she packed up and left town without a word and the loss was felt immediately.
Some people are irreplaceable, and in a small town we know who they are. Darlene is a font of information about local history and who is married to whom and where their kids wound up and what they do. For example, David and Judy Ingqvist, the former pastor and his wife—retired, Napa Valley, hikers and bikers, switched to Unitarian, daughter Brenda is a professional pet grief therapist, author of Mourning Your Cat, conducts pet grief seminars and several annual pet grief cruises to the Caribbean. Nobody but Darlene can give you this level of detail.
She also rules over the potluck suppers in town, receives the offerings and arranges them on the serving tables, and when she is away, the number of store-bought dishes quadru-ples—big tubs of yellowish potato salad rather than homemade, factory-made lasagna. With Darlene as gatekeeper, people are inspired to make an effort, and with her gone, there is a great slacking-off, and you don’t want that in a small town. What if your firemen and EMTs and teachers start to slack off? What if your neighbors see your window wide open in the pouring rain and think, “Oh what the hell. Not my problem.”
And beyond that, she’s from a previous era when waitresses might call you “Darling” or “Sweetheart” or “Sugar,” and if she knows you well, you’d be “Honeybunch” or “Sweetykins” or “Precious.” Maybe she’d ask what you want and you’d say, “The usual,” and she’d pinch the flab under your chin and say, “Maybe we’ve been having too much of the usual, darling.” With her gone, nobody would ever be “Precious” again. She was missed by all the old men whose wives no longer sweettalk them. Once, Duane Bunsen, home from his IT job in a Minneapolis bank, came back for a weekend and was Honeybunched by Darlene and went back to Minneapolis and called his office manager “Sweetheart” and was spoken to sharply. But in this town, Sweethearting and Preciousing between adults who’ve known each other since childhood is considered a comfort. And you, beloved reader, should take my word for it. I’m not kidding, Pumpkin.
It was a time of strange phenomena. Daryl and David Darwin, the one-time bullies of the town who loved fistfights more than life itself, now approaching 80, their hands having been busted so many times they cannot shuffle a deck of cards or handle a wrench—they stood in Wally’s Sidetrack Tap among the cribbage game, the basketball on TV, the pinball machine dinging, both of them tipsy on peach brandy, and they broke into “Love’s Old Sweet Song,” a favorite of their mother’s, sang it in sweet two-part harmony like Don and Phil Everly. The pinball stopped, the TV sound was turned down. Two rotten sinners and hell-raisers, but something had moved them and they sang from the depths of their blackened hearts, “Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long, still to us at twilight comes love’s old song, comes love’s old sweet song.”
Wally said, “That was beautiful, boys,” and then he sneezed so hard he blew his cigar across the room, shedding sparks like a comet, and he threw out his sacroiliac. He looked for the cigar and found it under a radiator, and there beside it was a letter postmarked 2017, addressed to Daryl Darwin when he was in jail for malicious cruelty, written by his mother, Millie, on her deathbed and delivered three years late, which said, “Darling Daryl, I love you dearly and though you have hurt me deeply, I forgive you, and as I prepare to leave this world, I want you to know that I see the good in you and am proud to be your mom.” Nobody ever had said good things about Daryl Darwin and here he’d been forgiven from beyond the grave, and he and David sang their mother’s favorite song, tears running down their cheeks, and men in the bar who bore scars inflicted by the Darwins wept along with them.
The same day Darlene got the bra, the Men’s Fellowship, a group of 30 or so who used to be the Men’s Prayer Fellowship but gradually devolved into a social club, met for lunch at the Legion hall. It was always old man Bunsen who had prayed, Clarence and Clint’s dad, Oscar, and when dementia struck, he prayed in Norwegian, which was so majestic men wept to hear it, though they couldn’t understand a word, and when he died, few ventured to pray a real prayer, knowing the result would be inferior. Oscar was widely revered. On the day he died, at age 82, though out of his mind, he came to town and enjoyed a hearty lunch, had a beer at the Sidetrack, won three bucks at cribbage, told three jokes well, danced to “The Too Fat Polka” with Wally’s wife, who was tending bar, walked three miles home, lay down for a nap and never awoke.
The Fellowship sat down to chicken chow mein and coleslaw at two long tables, and everyone murmured, “God is great and God is good, and we thank Him for the food. By His hand, we must be fed. Give us, Lord, our daily bread.” And then Clint Bunsen stood up as they started to dig in and said, “I have to say that the idea that there is a daddy in the sky who is arranging our lives and doing favors in exchange for our admiration is an old hoax, and everybody knows it deep down in your hearts and doesn’t dare say it. If he is a god of goodness and he doesn’t use his power to wipe out evil, then he isn’t omnipotent and there’s no reason to worship him. God is a wrong turn we took back in antiquity, and it is responsible for more hatred and warfare and cruelty than anything else, and yet our grandfathers handed it to our fathers and they gave it to us, and I say, No, thank you. Wake up, live your life, be glad for what you have, and don’t let delusions of godliness blind you to the beauty of nature.” And he sat down and dug into his chicken chow mein. And Roger asked Clarence if Clint was okay, and he said, “He was an hour ago.”
Conversation was muted after that and stuck mainly to the weather, the long-term forecasts. It was Lent, after all, and Lutheran men sign a Lenten pledge to observe 10 hours of silence a week, which for some of them would be a normal day. Anyway, they didn’t talk about atheism.
When Clarence caught up with him later, Clint, unlike Darlene, did not deny having said what he said. He said he’d heard a TED Talk by a woman who said that deism is destructive to our ability to empathize, that it dehumanizes us, and he’d been listening to her podcast, so some of her thoughts were running through his head and something moved him to speak them aloud, so he did, and he didn’t feel embarrassed, quite the contrary. His granddaughters had been encouraged to express themselves freely, and now they are all over the map ideologically, anarcho-humanist, animal activist, post-behavioral feminism, witchcraft, and he feels okay about stepping out of the Comfy Grampa role and staking out some ground for himself.
Clarence pointed out the obvious—that their Ford dealership, Bunsen Motors, is traditionally patronized by Lutherans, rather than the Catholic Krebsbach Chev, and so it might be prudent to keep any atheist thoughts to himself lest Ford owners feel a divine calling to buy Chevs instead. Perhaps an apology to the Men’s Fellowship would be in order. Clint declined to apologize. “I feel like I’ve been apologizing all my life and that’s enough.” He said it felt good to say his piece, and it made people sit up and think, and how can you be opposed to thoughtfulness?
“There is truth in what you say, I’m sure, but we have a business to think of,” said Clarence.
“Ha! A dying business. You and I are old, and none of our kids are interested in selling cars or working on them, believe me, I’ve asked. Duane’s happy in Minneapolis, Harry does comic books, Donna’s in real estate, Barbara Ann runs her husband Bill and elects Democrats. And what fool is going to buy a small-town Ford dealership that runs 85 percent on personal loyalty? New owner comes in, and suddenly all the Lutherans are free to shop around and buy Japanese. There’s a big Ford dealership just down the road that undersells us by 10 to 15 percent. You know it and I know it. You’re looking at retirement, Bubs. Another year or two and you can stop combing the hair over your bald spot and get yourself a bigger color TV.”
“Okay, okay,” Clarence said. “Think what you like, but don’t feel you have to share it with the world, okay? Spare me the headache. No need to go around desecrating things.” And Clint nodded and slid back under the car—a quart of peanut butter had melted into the heater and needed to be vacuumed and squeegeed out—reason enough, Clarence thought, to lose faith in God temporarily. He noticed on the workbench a white lily and a chocolate-covered doughnut and a Post-it note, “You’re my hero. I love you.” In Irene’s handwriting. He’d been counting on Irene’s help. No such luck.
Clint had had his doubts about Christianity for years, having been the Samaritan who goes out on emergency calls with the wrecker to rescue Christians with car problems. Hundreds of times he had stood beside a motorist staring helplessly at his engine and taking the Lord’s name in vain and Clint reached down and flicked something, and the car leaped to life, and the Christian hated him for fixing it so quickly (couldn’t he have pretended to be confused and said, “Boy, I dunno, this is a toughie,” but no, he just reached down and bingo). So the Christian hands him a ten, and Clint says, “No, no, my pleasure,” and he smiles and pats the Christian’s arm, and walks away, and it’s the pat on the arm that pisses the Christian off, the patronizing pat of the big hero of the highway, and you’re the goat. No, Clint had helped many a stranded Christian and heard his teeth grinding as he walked away.
Now he expected Pastor Liz to come and have a word with him about faith and offer him some helpful pamphlets to read, and he planned to tell her, “I decided it’s time to face the darkness and not be afraid,” and two days later Pastor Liz went over the cliff.
The next Sunday morning, she seemed distracted, she didn’t join in the opening hymn, she stood up to give the sermon. The rule about sermons is: they should have a clear beginning and a strong end, and the two should be as close together as possible. Liz is dyslexic, so she tries to memorize the sermon, but she carries blank paper with her because Lutherans get nervous if the pastor in the pulpit has no text, they worry that she’ll go on at length and the pot roast will burn in the oven.
This sermon got away from her, and it went on for almost an hour. It started out on the verse in Colossians about Christ interceding for us at the right hand of the throne of God, and the word “throne” flipped a switch, and she told about the time she flew to Boston and used the toilet on the plane, not noticing the warning sign “DO NOT FLUSH WHILE SEATED ON TOILET,” because she was sitting on the toilet at the time, and she flushed and felt a powerful force gripping her butt like a python seizing a rat, and she couldn’t pry herself loose. The flight attendant was tapping on the door and asking, “Are you all right?” and Pastor Liz didn’t know how to answer that question. She was basically all right in that she had faith in God’s unceasing love, but on the other hand, she was being swallowed by a toilet. The flight attendant tried to break the seal by inserting his hand between the toilet seat and her left cheek. But she was still stuck, and the plane had to make an emergency landing in Cleveland, and the ground crew cut the toilet free with an acetylene torch and lifted her out, the seat still stuck to her, and carried her through the terminal, toilet seat attached, and someone took a picture and it appeared on Instagram, Liz looking like a Parker House roll on a plate, with arms and legs. This picture made its way to the bishop, and so Liz, who’d been marked for a coveted assignment at prestigious Central Lutheran in Minneapolis, got shunted off to Lake Wobegon. Minneapolis Lutherans didn’t want a pastor whose buttocks had gone viral online. One wrong flush, and though she’d been valedictorian at St. Olaf, she was sent to the sticks. The mention of St. Olaf then reminded her of the boy named Adam who took her virginity, but she had to beg him to do it, he didn’t do it of his own volition, and then she talked about her cat, Muffin, who had a kidney infection, and then she went on a tirade against the church demoting the Holy Spirit, who is the feminine member of the Trinity—the congregation sat in shock and three people walked out, and then the organist, Tibby Marklund, who’d been working a crossword puzzle, planted her left foot on a pedal and there was a throbbing bass note like an ailing hippopotamus, and two altos burst out in horrible whinnying laughter, and Liz left and there was no Communion.
Lutherans are not amused by stream-of-consciousness sermons. Some people said, “Oh, she was only sharing her humanity,” but phone calls were made by the elders, and on Monday morning Lutheran HQ sent a psychologist to talk to Liz, who had no memory of the sermon though she admitted the toilet seat story was true, and the psychologist asked her if she had had a mental lapse of this sort previously, and Liz looked him in the eye and said, “I don’t care for your tone of voice. I am a minister of the Gospel, I am not here for you to patronize. Go be snotty to somebody else.” The next day she left quietly on an extended leave of absence with her sister Lil, who’d come all the way from Grand Forks to collect her. The cat was given to the Tolleruds, and that evening Daryl dosed it with a tranquilizer crushed in whipped cream, and Muffin went to the Great Lap in the Sky.
Lake Wobegon had never had a genuine clerical scandal before, and it made the most of this one, especially the Catholics did. They went out of their way to accost their Lutheran friends and express sympathy in a way that made you want to give them a good swift kick in the shins. Their sympathy was insufferable.
Myrtle Krebsbach said to Florence Tollefson, “I can’t imagine what you people are going through right now. This must be terribly painful. She seemed like such a nice person.”
Florence said, “Mind your own business for once.”
“To sit there Sunday morning and listen to your own minister talk about getting stuck on a toilet seat and then losing her virginity to somebody who didn’t even like her. In church. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like.”
Florence’s gaze drilled right into her. “Well, I’m glad we’ve given you all something to gossip about. Feast on it. Your turn will come, I promise.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, I hope you’ll let me know.”
“You could start by losing 40 pounds and using less eye shadow. You’re 80 years old, for God’s sake.”
“I’m only expressing my sympathy. I’m sorry this is so painful for you.”
Florence said, “Well, you can take your sympathy and put it where the sun don’t shine.”
There was great delight in the Sidetrack Tap, of course, a place where decorum is not a fixed standard. Men took a toilet seat off the wall and passed it around, and Clint Bunsen, on his second rum and Coke, hung the seat around his neck and sang:
I used to work in Chicago
In a big department store.
I used to work in Chicago—
I did but I don’t anymore.
A lady came in for a girdle.
I asked her what kind she wore.
“Rubber,” she said, and rub her I did,
And I don’t work there anymore.
And Mr. Bauer recited: “There was a young pastor named Liz who sat on the toilet to whiz. She flushed and it stuck on her butt. WTF. And that’s what her ass meant and is.”
Clint split a gut, and then they did “Waltz Me Around Again, Willie” and “Roll Me Over in the Clover” and the dirty version of “Red Wing,” and they told limericks about the young man from Antietam and the young lady of Buckingham. The Sidetrack Tap is not the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and it has its own rules. Of course, if Pope Francis walked in or Michelle Obama, people would behave accordingly, but meanwhile, it is what it is, and the old patrons took some pleasure in the chagrin of Lutherans at the Liz episode.
And so the town headed into March, the month God created to show people who don’t drink what a hangover is like. The Lutheran bishop sent a pale seminarian named Phipps to replace Liz. He was pleasant enough but had a terrible habit of strolling into the congregation during his sermon, approaching people, putting his hand on your shoulder, preaching face-to-face, which terrified people. What if he grabbed you suddenly and hollered, “Heal!”—what would you do? Lutherans are not Pentecostals, they’re not looking for out-of-the-body experiences. So Phipps was sent back to the factory, and a young woman named Faith arrived who was Episcopalian as you could see from the rather ornate sash around her neck, like a sidecloth from your grandma’s buffet, and good God, the way she genuflected with a deep curtsy—can’t you cross yourself without making it into a ballet move? She did the Good Friday reading of Christ on the cross, and when she read, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” it sounded like she was having an episode. And the Easter reading and the angel saying, “DO NOT BE ALARMED”—it was alarming. This is church, not Masterpiece Theatre. She was sent back.
Meanwhile, the inappropriate incidents went on. Margie Krebsbach sat down in the Bon Ton to have her hair done and started talking French to Charlotte. French! She spoke a whole slew of it. Charlotte remembers enough French from high school to recognize it as something of a communistic nature with the words “Allons! Allons! Mes camarades!” Then Margie closed her eyes and leaned back, and Charlotte did the usual and no more was said. Weird. It was Arlene Bunsen who read an article about inappropriate outbursts as a symptom of food poisoning, and she took it to Dr. DeHaven, who was busy with a man whose urinary tract was on the fritz, so she left the article for him and he wrote her a note before he went home for his nap. She had to find his old nurse Eleanor, who is the only person in town, including Dr. DeHaven, who can read his handwriting. He said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got my hands full with people who actually need help. Your people are just competing for attention.” Dr. DeHaven was 78 and had hinted at retirement years before but was offended that nobody tried to talk him out of it, and so he stayed on. He was a good man, but his general motto was “Let’s wait and see,” which doesn’t always lead to good results. He was easily bored by people’s complaints and often changed the subject to his own adventures as a hunter and fisherman and told one story after another until the appointment was up and thanked the patient and saw him or her to the door.
The Lutheran church was pastorless, so the bishop sent Rev. Anderson, a retiree, a pastor from the pasture, 82, who often neglected to wear his hearing aids and seemed quite content to be deaf. According to Lucille, who cleaned the parsonage as well as the church, he missed the toilet when he peed, and he took two-hour naps, sometimes two in succession. It was discovered after three weeks that his sermons came word-for-word from Homily Helper, a collection of 520 sermon outlines that he read as sermons, about three minutes in length. To Lutherans, those are known as “chalk talks,” and they’re meant for children. The man was shirking his duty.
Lutherans are dutiful people. Many Lutheran couples, after their wedding and the supper in the church basement, have stuck around to help with the dishes and cleaning up, even though their families tell them, “You go now. We’re fine. It’s your honeymoon, for heaven’s sake,” but the couple insists, “No, we don’t want to leave you with the mess. As soon as we sweep up and clean off the tables, we’ll be out of here.” Elderly Lutherans have gone in the hospital and wished the pastor would come visit them but refused to let anyone tell him. They would rather die than be a problem, and often they do. But a three-minute sermon is an insult. So Clarence and Roger and Grace and Dorothy drove down to the Minneapolis Lutheran synod headquarters and arrived a few minutes before the 5 p.m. closing time, and the front door was locked, so Roger got out a lug wrench and banged on the glass until a bishop appeared, and they marched in without a word of apology, unusual for Lutherans, and told the bishop that Pastor Anderson was a disgrace to the vestments, and he was drummed out, and the next day Liz came back, good old Liz. She’d been accepted as an intern at an organic hydroponic herb farm owned by Ben, who was auditioning to be her boyfriend, but when the bishop called her, she felt a tug at her heartstrings, and besides, Ben—a Republican who believed that a Deep State of undercover Harvard liberals was running Washington—required more remedial work than she cared to invest in him, so she accepted her old job back and the next Sunday there she was, and as she came down the aisle, the congregation applauded. Highly unusual in a Lutheran church. Historic, even. But they’d seen the alternatives and compared to arrogance and sloth, a bare butt looked not so bad.
Wobegon is a town of nice people except for a few cranks who serve to show how nice everyone else is. Self-effacing people. Bare butts are not what Wobegon is about, not at all, and yet—once Lutherans had seen the grabby guy and the thespian and the slacker, they welcomed Liz back joyfully and forgivingly. It’s good for a pastor to experience public shame and be forgiven. You practice on the pastor, and maybe someday you’ll be capable of forgiving yourself.
© Garrison Keillor, 2020
The Lake Wobegon Virus comes out on September 8, 2020 via Arcade Publishing.
Preorder an autographed hardcover copy →
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August 20, 2020
The News from Manhattan: Thursday, August 20, 2020
(1) The secret of good writing is rewriting. I’ve just finished the sixth rewrite of my memoir and I can say this with authority. You don’t know what you have until you look at it again. At the age of 78, there’s a limit to what you can do, but push the limit.
(2) There is value in getting a second opinion. My old ophthalmologist was rather sanguine about my eyes though I was having vision problems that made it hard to work at a screen for hours. It felt disloyal to look for a new doctor in New York but finally I did.He’s on Park Avenue, in a ritzy building where Helena Rubinstein once lived in the penthouse, then Charles Revson of Revlon. I walked into the office, run by a gang of young women in white gowns and immediately sensed tremendous competence as I went from room to room for a series of tests and exams and finally to see Himself in his office, a brisk man who went through the test results and did a lengthy examination and told me a whole list of things that are wrong and what might be done to improve the situation. We made an appointment to return in September. A nurse gave me a lecture on eye care, drops, cleansing fluid, etc. Among many other things, I learned that I suffer from a congenital condition called Duane Syndrome. I am not making this up. It causes double vision when looking up. This is why I couldn’t be an astronomer. It’s also why I dropped the easy fly ball in fifth grade that caused such shame and humiliation, I quit baseball, hid out in the library, made books my friends, turned inward, and became a writer. In a few minutes yesterday on Park Avenue, an ophthalmologist explained my life to me. No need for a shrink, just an eye exam.
End of lecture. There is no charge for this. Go and do likewise.
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August 17, 2020
God bless America, you are my sunshine
“Into each life some rain must fall,” said my dear Aunt Eleanor, and so when it rained all day on Saturday I thought of her. This is a true memorial, truer than a stone with your name on it. Say memorable things. Grandma said, “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.” She also said, “We are all islands in the sea of life and seldom do our peripheries touch,” which is also true, especially during a pandemic. My periphery has only touched that of my wife and daughter since February. Whenever handshaking becomes legal again, I hope I remember how many shakes you should do (three? five?). And which friends do you hug and for how long.
In the pandemic I’ve started watching TV again, a habit I lost in 1982 when I got too busy. I can only watch for about half an hour and then I get restless and I only watch baseball, only my Twins, with the fabulous Byron Buxton in CF and a manager named Rocco Baldelli and amid a bunch of talented Latino players we have Max Kepler, a name right out of the 1890s.
Watching baseball makes me feel I’m in America and an old man needs reassurance on that. Back when I lived in Denmark and felt I was walking around with a big red A around my neck, it was thrilling to walk into the Anglican church on Sunday and say the words, “Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name,” like standing under a hot shower. Same when a sausage was served in a bun, to be eaten in the hand, not with fork and knife. Copenhagen was a strange city, where pedestrians stood waiting for the light to change even though no traffic was coming, but the Lord’s Prayer and a hot dog restored my sense of identity. They had no baseball, they played a game they called football but only used their feet and wore no helmets.
Grandma and Aunt Eleanor would’ve done fine in a pandemic, being farm women, hardy, self-sufficient, devoted to family. Grandma wasn’t a joiner, she had her eight children and sister Della and brother Lew and that was enough. She lived a close compact life, even without a virus to require it. They called it “visiting,” and women were good at it and men not so much, except Uncle Lew. When he was old and failing, he said, “If you don’t have time to come visit me now, don’t bother to come to my funeral,” and he meant it. Sitting and visiting was fundamental to life, and the conversation was all reminiscence, never about politics.
My daughter, home from school, is like them. I hear her in her room, doing FaceTime or Zoom or some app I’ve never heard of, and a flock of girlish voices chattering. It’s what holds her world together. I don’t understand a single thing they’re saying, any more than I understood Danish, but I love the sound. I grew up a loner and never acquired social skills, that’s why I have to write books.
I am of a bygone era, I write on yellow tablets with a rollerball pen. I don’t get contemporary fiction, I want to go back and reread Dickens and Cervantes and Tolstoy. I go for a walk and see a deranged man yammering to himself, a perfectly well-dressed lunatic having an episode, and then I notice the little device clipped to his ear.
I need fixed markers in this attention-deficit world. Mine are my wife’s shoulders and my laptop computer. When people dare to congregate again, I need to go to church and feel absolved of my sins and then go to comedy clubs and watch stand-ups ply their trade. I need to stare at the screen so I don’t miss the fly ball to deep left center and the outfielders stretching out full tilt and the ball rolls into the gap for a double. Such graceful things can happen within this fixed finite field. Bases loaded, one out, our pitcher is struggling, disaster on the horizon, and then there it is — a squiggly grounder to the shortstop who underhands it to the second baseman who pivots and fires to first for the DP, catching the runner by a half-stride, and reflexively we jump to our feet and say, YES!
I want more of those moments, in church, in comedy, in my own kitchen looking at the salad my wife made. YES! I say. Praise the Lord for the zucchini.
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August 16, 2020
The News from Manhattan: Monday, August 17, 2020
One thing learned from the pandemic life is the beauty of domesticity, which I rebelled against as a teenager and kept rebelling against into septuagenarianism and now find beautiful. Yesterday I finished editing my memoir in the morning. I took a nap. I spoke to my grandson. I had popcorn for lunch. I read some of Jim Harrison’s poetry. Two neighbors came for supper on the terrace, salad and short ribs. A wide-ranging conversation about homeless who live in the train tunnel under Riverside Park and the social workers who look after them and various other matters. I heard the phrase “Jews of color” for the first time. The sky turned dark, there was lightning over New Jersey. We finished dessert and came indoors just as it began to rain. We said goodbye. I watched two innings of the Twins v Kansas City game at Target Field in Minneapolis and our team scored a couple runs and I noticed in the cardboard cutouts in the box seats the face of the old radio announcer Herb Carneal. That’s my Monday and it is enough. Praise the Lord.
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August 10, 2020
My future, in case you are curious
I turned 78 five days ago and gave a party, a pandemic party, it was on Zoom, 457 guests, nobody I know, they heard about it on Twitter, no gifts, just donations to your favorite charity, nobody sang “Happy Birthday,” thank you, it lasted about 28 minutes, and we played one game — Guess the Age of the Host — and most people guessed in the 40s, nothing over 50. It was also a Republican party in the sense that nothing I’ve told you is true.
The pandemic is a beautiful thing for an old guy like me. Young people do all the complaining so I don’t have to, I’m free to be cheerful. I detest physical exercise and now I have an excuse: heavy breathing spreads the virus. I also have a cover for not wanting to travel: Europe doesn’t want us. Even the Canadians don’t want us. As for restaurants, I never liked eating out; I haven’t hung out in bars since I was in college. I’m an introvert and social distancing comes naturally to me. Down deep, I have an aversion to people who subscribe to complicated conspiracy theories or who think the virus is a hoax or who like to use the word “systemic” and now I can block them on my phone. I love to watch baseball without spectators in the stands, no video close-ups of couples kissing, no mascots dancing around in cartoon outfits. And I’ve discovered that if I put one tablespoon of fermented mead in my wife’s Cream of Wheat, she becomes giddy and laughs at everything I say.
When I was 77, I could look back at my early seventies and even my late sixties and brood about the decline of civilization, but 78 means I’m looking at 80 and having to decide what sort of octogenarian I plan to be, an active youthful one who serves as an inspiration to others or a comfy old coot in a rocking chair with a quilt over his lap.
I’m familiar with the inspirational geezers — the kind who can do handstands and golf under par and bench-press a bureau dresser — you read about them in the paper on a slow news day, 80-year-old mathematicians still out on the frontiers of algorithms — and it never was my ambition to be an example to others. I am the least ambitious person I know. My ambition is to be content. I am grateful to have achieved that.
I am fond of my laptop and my iPhone and don’t crave anything better. I do not need more apps. I may need a heart valve procedure in the future but nowadays they don’t need to saw open your chest and leave you with a long zipper scar like Frankenstein’s monster, they run a little tube up an artery, and snip snip snip, as you sit there reading a book. Everything is better nowadays, how can a person complain? I come from the era of Karens and Larrys and now we have Sophias, Olivias, Avas, Arabellas — Aidans, Juans, Rolands, Noahs. This diversity bodes well for the country.
My one big ambition is to be America’s oldest productive novelist. I’m competing against Joyce Carol Oates who is four years and dozens of novels ahead of me and Anne Tyler and several others. I have a new novel coming out in a month, which won’t sell well — it has the word “virus” in the title — why? Why did I shoot myself in the foot like that?
But I’m planning to step up production in 2021 when America will be in the mood for comic fiction again, rather than the kind we’ve been reading for the past three years and 203 days. I’m going to write a novel about an old writer in isolation in the woods during a pandemic who writes a brilliant novel and decides to keep it to himself and not publish, dreading the notoriety. Then a novel about a young woman, Siobhan, who loses her mind due to unwise drug use and is given a memory transplant from a dying man of 95 and lives her life, a beautiful New York woman of 25 with clear memories of small-town South Dakota in the Thirties. And one about a colony of the Last Canasta Players in Massachusetts. As you may detect, there is a theme here. Systemic aging. Enough about youthful anguish and childhood suffering. Let’s grow up.
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August 9, 2020
The News from Manhattan: Sunday, August 9, 2020
Our world is very small
No room for waste at all
Just one small ball
But on a night in fall
I hear the wild geese call
From Montreal to South St. Paul
And Portugal.
God let me be renewed
With cheerful attitude
Thanks for the food
And for this woman who’d
Always improve my mood
Whether she is dressed or nude,
Accept my gratitude.
I just turned 78
The hour is getting late
The road leads straight
Up to the golden gate
I think that I shall wait
I’m staying with my mate
Til I’m one hundred one
Then I’ll be done.
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August 6, 2020
The News from Manhattan: Friday, August 7, 2020
And here is the Writer’s Almanac for August 7:
On this day 28 years ago, I gave a birthday party for thirty at the University Club in St. Paul, attended by family and old friends, lots of musicians, and a slender young violinist from West 102nd Street in New York. She’d grown up on Rice Street in Anoka, Minnesota, and been a free-lance musician in the big city since she was 17, playing in City Opera tours and all over Asia and Europe. She was 35, I was 50, and we were an item in New York, but nobody in this room knew about her. I wanted her to be there but I didn’t want people to stare at her. She felt a little odd, she tells me. Three years later, we married.
On this day eight years ago, Jenny and Maia and I were out to sea aboard the Queen Mary 2 sailing from NYC to London and we got dressed up and had dinner in the Queen’s Grill and to celebrate, I ordered a bottle of Bordeaux from the year of my birth, 1942. It was the most I’d ever paid for a bottle of anything. It made my brain go dim to look at the price. I grew up in a family of six. Dad was a railway mail clerk. We had a big garden. Mother mended clothes, darned socks. I wore hand-me-downs. It was a big deal if, after Meeting on Sunday, we went to the YMCA cafeteria for dinner. My people were frugal. So were Jenny’s. This extravagance was meant to dispense with that childhood feeling that we were poor. The sommelier brought the bottle, which looked very historic, and the cork crumbled a little as he eased it out but he got all the shreds and he poured a finger of murky dark wine in my glass and I tasted it. (I’d quit drinking in 2003, so this was a big deal.) It was a sort of incredibly ordinary wine. Bordeaux was occupied in 1942 and maybe the French didn’t go to great lengths, knowing the Nazis would take what they wanted. A good object lesson: a bundle of money for an interesting disappointment. The trip was pretty wonderful though, the teenage Maia, the sea, the ballroom with the big orchestra where we danced every night. My sense of childhood penury had been a storyline in the Lake Wobegon saga, which, of course, had paid for the trip, including a room at Claridge’s, the price of which would’ve made my father faint.
As for the details, the event took place in Dr. Mork’s maternity hospital on Ferry Street in Anoka. I was the third child of John and Grace. He was a Pure Oil attendant at his uncle Lew’s garage a few blocks away. It was the day of the American invasion of Guadalcanal, the first Allied offensive in the Pacific.
And now this year, we sit in New York, the two of us, and thanks to the pandemic, we’ve not gone anywhere or done much of anything except live with each other since February. Three friends will come over for supper, including Suzann Weil, who’s 85, and who, in 1974, put on the first Prairie Home Companion show at Walker Art Center. April 7th, you could look it up. A woman who gave me a career. We’ll sit out on the terrace of the apartment where Jenny and I lived 28 years ago when we first became an item. I’ll work all day and maybe we’ll go for a walk in the park. Can’t imagine a better birthday.
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The News from Manhattan: Thursday, August 6, 2020
We step out the door of 12B
Onto our terrace
To look out at Paris,
London or Rome,
New York our home,
The Upper West Side,
And be mystified
By the lights and sky
Under which she and I
Sit down to dine
On salad and wine
With thanks for the good life that we
Live up in the air,
That is our prayer.
And I look at her gratefully.
A big obit in this morning’s Times for the NY tabloid writer and novelist Pete Hamill. Nobody does obits so well as the Times and God bless them for it. The big news yesterday was the death of my old Writer’s Almanac writer Hadassah at the age of 100 back in Minnesota. Much of the history she wrote about, she had been present for, and goodbye to all that and we move on into a foggy future. Today some picture hangers come with a big painting that hung for years over our fireplace in St. Paul, two boys on a beach looking at boats. Today I shall write to my cousin Patti who says she learned “Tell Me Why” from me and now she and her two-year-old sing it to each other. That, and the knowledge that a little boy in Boston sings “Pu’Uanahulu” which he learned from a CD by Heather and me, is enough legacy for me, no need for the Lifetime Achievement Award. My lifetime isn’t over yet. I’m mulling over a new Lake Wobegon novel. A young woman drops out of college where she intended to become a meteorologist. She is almost always wrong about weather forecasting but somehow she picked up a gift for prophecy. She can look at you and look at the sky and tell you in some detail about your future. People want to know but they don’t want to know. She is scary. She lives alone in the woods, raises sheep, is a weaver, has been courted by several men but looked at them closely and shook her head and they went away and dreadful things happened.
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