Post to the Host
GK responds to queries on topics from childbearing to potato salad, with a little bookstore fetish in between.

Send your own post to the host.
Here's your chance to ask GK your most pressing questions—about the writing life, the radio life, Lake Wobegon, Guy Noir, whatever you like. Also, feel free to send feedback about the show. Honest comments and criticism are always welcome!

Dear Garrison,
I had the pleasure of spending an evening with you in Wilkes Barre, PA on Tuesday. You spoke for a very long time without a break, and I noticed that you did not have water on stage with you. I often find the amplified slurping and "glug glug" sound bothersome. So, even though you may have been parched up there, I just wanted you to know that I appreciated it.

Thanks,
Curt
Montoursville, PA

Curt, I was having a good time in Wilkes-Barre and felt no thirst at all. I had finally figured out the correct way to pronounce the name of the city — Wilkes-BARRY, not -bury — and that freed up a whole lot of hard drive for me. And then, too, I was looking forward to the drive after the show. Somebody told me that Wilkes-Barre is only two hours from New York, so I'd rented a Ford Taurus and was heading for the city. Too bad I didn't ask for directions. I wound up heading south on 81, missing the turnoff on 80 that would've taken me sailing in through Jersey to the GW Bridge, and drove all the way to Allentown and 78 and then northeast to the Holland Tunnel, only to get lost in the backstreets of Bayonne. But it was a wonderful drive and as I closed in on New York, traffic got lighter and lighter. Black asphalt pavement stretching ahead with the little reflective lane markers, so it felt like an airport runway. I never get to drive anywhere anymore except over to Minneapolis, so a drive in a car is a big deal.

Dear Garrison,
We're longtime listeners of PHC and here in Massachusetts, where we love winter as much as those in Minnesota, we eat a lot of oatmeal. We're hoping to hear again on your show about "Mournful Oatmeal - the cereal of Calvinism." We think we heard this on a show where children were warned that an eyeball was about to be gouged out. Funny how somethings "stick" in your mind.

Sincerely,
Evan (16), Dylan (12), Rachel (10), and Amy W. (we need not say), Newburyport, MA

I am sure that Mournful Oatmeal will be back as soon as the weather turns cold and Mr. Dworsky and I will get to sing the oatmeal jingle in our best Benedictine style. It is the oatmeal that provides ballast for life's journey to keep your center of gravity low and with ballast comes common sense, which is one reason we stopped waving sharp sticks around before we poked our eyes out. This summer I was about to peel an apple with a paring knife and I went to scratch my nose with the hand that held the paring knife and I came within an inch of gouging my eye out. Be careful.

Dear Garrison,
Some think that conservative talk shows need some competition and while I have listened to the attempt by Al Franken to fill this niche, I am not enamored of the others on that network. Would you have any interest in trying this sort of thing?

Muriel Hackney
Ft. Myers, FL

Not me, Muriel. My interest in politics is fitful, to be honest with you. The right-wingers on AM radio are amazingly single-minded, like the old Leninists or like the guys on sports-talk radio. I like grassroots political stuff, going to a neighborhood rally, meeting people, standing around and shooting the breeze. I did a couple of those this fall, one for Chris Coleman who was elected mayor of St. Paul and who is just the sort of person who should be mayor, a guy who loves our city and enjoys the hubbub and is tireless and funny and very well-spoken. And another for Sandy Wollenschlager, who is running for legislature from down along the Mississippi south of Red Wing. She is young and big-hearted and as tall as I and I think she's going to be governor someday. I was proud to go speak in her behalf, but what's the pleasure of yammering about President Bush on the radio? I'd much rather talk about Lake Wobegon.

Dear Mr. Keillor,
My wife and I live high up in the Sierra Nevada mountains of California. We heat our cabin/home during the cold months with a woodstove.

Every fall, two woodsmen deliver a cord each of cedar and oak to our driveway. It's up to me to haul it in small wheelbarrow loads 100 feet to the side of my house and stack it, after which I spend three days flat in bed with my heating pad and acetaminophen, it's my annual "throwing out my back to heat the family home" routine. Any idea how to handle this chore? And please don't tell me to hire someone to do the work as my wife still thinks I'm young and vibrant (something I'd like her to believe for a few more years).

Thank you for any insights,
Pierce

Hire someone to do the work, Pierce. Such as those two woodmen. Probably they brought the wood in trucks. Why cannot the trucks back up a hundred feet to your house and dump the wood there? Do you live surrounded by a moat and a swinging drawbridge? Do you live in a treehouse? You will not be very vibrant if you injure your back by this sudden burst of hard physical labor. I am a firm believer in spreading the wealth by hiring people to do work for you, especially woodmen. The lower back is crucial to your future plans as an ambulatory person, Pierce, a man who can get in and out of cars without help, a man who does not moan whenever he bends over to pick up a fallen pencil. Perhaps you should consider moving to St. Paul. Here, the city does not deliver natural gas in large steel cylinders to the curb where you must wrestle them into your home ----- no, natural gas is PUMPED THROUGH PIPES into your home, and as a result, St. Paulites walk more or less upright and at a brisk pace and keep their youthful vibrancy well into their forties and fifties. I am 63 and still vibrating, thanks to my ability to slough off hard work on others. Don't hurt yourself.

From the Host:
It isn't often we get a letter from a real cowboy, so we'll send this one on, just as it came to us. No response necessary. GK

Dear Garrison,
On one of your last shows, you told a story of a young boy fishing with his grandfather in the early morning mist, on a small boat, on a lake. I started crying, tears pouring down my face. I grew up on a cattle ranch in the Texas hill country west of San Antonio, there was a lake on the ranch and some mornings my father and I would get in an hour of fishing before the work of the day, the scene you described was exactly as it was on those mornings, with my father who has been gone for 25 years. You have made me laugh and cry many times over the years. I want to take the time to say thank you.

I got word this week that the last of my father's best friends had passed away, another tough old texas german rancher. His passing brought back a flood of old memories from growing up. Every spring, several ranchers would get together to work the cattle, the families did not have enough money to pay a bunch of men to work the cattle, so every weekend for a few weeks in spring, the men and boys would go to a different ranch with their own horses in tow, to work the cattle. The school principal would let the boys off Fridays, we would work for free, and the next weekend the other men would work for us free on our cattle, we would ride the back country one day to round up the cows and new calves, bring them all together in one pasture with a fence around it. The next two days we would cull out the ones going for hamburger, the best mothers to keep, the one to de-horn, castrate and so on. We had a system set up, one rider would rope a cow and drag it over to the camp fire with the branding irons, we would walk up to the cow, one guy would check the hooves to look for any troubles, rocks, wires, stuck shot gun shells, another guy would look at the skin, eyes, ears, mouth, teeth, tail, just giving the cow a good going over health check for the year, two or three of us holding the cow while the other guys touch, poke, prod, dig out rocks, ticks, treat wounds, etc. When that was done, if the rancher wanted to save that cow for the herd we would brand it and then we would pour tick medicine down the length of its backbone and into each ear, when all this was done we would all step away from the cow, take the rope off, and let that cow go back to the herd. We had been doing this for hours one day, over and over, and over, but somehow we had gotten out of order. Someone poured the tick medicine over the cow and then another person put the branding iron on the hide, now every time you brand a cow, there is a flash of fire from the cow hair right around the brand, no big deal, a little flare and it is gone, but this time the tick medicine which is oily and has alcohol in it, caught fire. At first we were all caught by complete surprise and amazement, for few long seconds we just stared at this burning cow, a 1,000 pound hunk of beef was on fire and it was spreading like a grass fire on a windy day.

Now the cow, at this point, did not really care she was on fire, their hide is way too thick, but then we all jumped and started to beat and slap at her with our big leather gloved hands, trying to desperately pat out the fire. This she did not like, 5 men, 3 boys, beating the hell out of her. She started jumping up and down, the fire was growing, this is when the horse who was holding the cow by a rope, looked around to see a large cow on fire in tow, so the horse now gets excited and starts to buck around to get lose from the spreading fur fire, the rider hits the dust, cow on fire jumping around, 5 men yelling and jumping around beating cow, with hands, horse tied to cow jumping around, man on ground, trying to keep from getting stepped on by, cow, horse, other cowboy boots, dogs are barking, boys trying to grab horse, dust and dirt flying everywhere. One guy ran to the horse trough and got a bucket of water, threw it at the cow, hitting most of men, missing the cow, because the cow is a moving target, again runs for water, again throws for cow, over and over, horse is now jumping from fire and buckets of flying water. Finally, we get the fire out. Most of the cow hide is singed to a crisp, completely black, we cut the rope and off she goes mad as hell to be beaten by 5 men and 3 boys for no reason. At this point we all start laughing, we are wet, covered in black, burnt cow fur, dust, mud, manure, yes the cow did launch a pie at some point. We laughed so hard we cried, our stomach hurt and even one guy threw up, from laughing so hard, the horse was out of there, the dogs after the cow and horse, we laughed, in the dust on our backs, we laughed and laughed. I should say the cow made a full recovery, with absolutely no physical harm, the most silky soft fur to touch grew back over the summer. From that time on, every year for round up the story of the burning cow was told to new cowboys, as a warning and we would laugh again like fools. I am sure someone told it at the bar after Robert's funeral. This, I swear, is a true story...

Hugh Guidry
Denver, Colorado

Dear Garrison,

Has being in your very late forties, combined with your heart procedure, given you perspective that you wish you had when you were, say, about to turn 47? My 47th is on November 17th, and I don't want to wait or be cut into to get smarter or calmer or more insightful. I'm ready. You can give it to me straight. I can take it...

Ed McShane
Escondido, CA.

Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Ed. Happy birthday to you. Try to stay off the operating table. Walk a lot. Walk more than I do. Much more. When you get there, if you find what you're looking for, be happy, and if you remember what it was, come and tell me. What was the question?

Dear Garrison, I had never heard of Norwegian bachelor farmers until I started listening to your show a few years ago and am curious about this. My partner's mother (first generation Norwegian) had three bachelor brothers. Has anyone done research about the reluctance of Norwegian men to marry? Seems like a great Master's thesis for someone. One of the brothers was dating a Catholic girl and went to church with her. She stopped to genuflect as she entered the pew and he did not notice and fell over her onto the floor, and left the church in great haste, never to see the poor girl again.

Nancy Mobley
Morrill, NE

Nancy, One theory is that they were deeply attached to their mothers and couldn't break this attachment. Another is that they were gay and didn't know it. Another is that they were pretty happy as they were and once they had passed a certain threshold and remained single ----- say, the age of 30 ----- then they became trepidatious about what was involved. They lived in rather small communities where everyone knew everyone else and there were few available women and a bachelor was watched carefully for signs of interest, and they simply found it easier to retire from the field of battle and embrace bachelorhood. To pursue romance in a small community, with everyone looking at you, exposes a man to large risks of losing his dignity, much as bronc-riding does or writing sonnets or singing German lieder, and Norwegians, always capable of sacrifice, might naturally choose celibacy.

Dear Garrison, I have a perplexing ecumenical and theological question for you. I am a Catholic taking a Lindy Hop East Coast Swing dance class at an Evangelical Lutheran Church in Pasadena, California. My question is -- is there a deep, serious (perhaps "mortal") sin somewhere in the midst of all this? I know it is okay for us Catholics to dance, but our recently elected, more conservative Pontiff may not be too pleased I am dancing at a Lutheran Church. As for the Lutherans, is it okay to dance on Church property, let alone make money by selling these dance lessons? My concern is that I might be offending God, Pope Benedict XVI, Martin Luther, Charles Lindbergh (whom the Lindy Hop is named after), and the little old ladies of Pasadena -- all at the same time!

Any advice would be most appreciated.

Sincerely,
Donald Bentley

Mr. Bentley, one could argue this question for a month of Sundays and not be happy with the answer, so I recommend that you go by the Scriptural injunction to be joyful and rejoice, and have a good time, and try not to step on any Lutheran feet. We've worried long enough about offending the Lord so maybe we should try enjoying Him. But don't tell the bishop I said so.

Dear Mr. Keillor, My in-laws in Eastern Pennsylvania went to see you perform outside of Philly October 25th and were thrilled to meet you, take pictures, and listen to your story-telling. As my sister in law put it - "It was better than a rock concert."
As Mennonites, we like to keep our pride deep within ourselves, but my in-laws were proud to send us their pictures. I must ask, where do you get your red ties? They are a little too flashy for my home town in Holmes County, Ohio, but they fit right in in Cincinnati.

Trent Hummel
Cincinnati

Trent, The event outside Philadelphia was the 50th anniversary of the Penn Foundation, an exemplary community mental-health program, privately funded, run by Mennonites for the good of all, and it was good to hear about its good work in identifying and offering treatment for depression and chemical dependency and other ills that beset us. Christian people, especially those of conservative bent, have been slow to address mental health problems, and what the Mennonites have done is so merciful and thoughtful. A man named Dr. Loux started the program there, and he attended the program, and he and I came to the conclusion that we are related, though my people spelled the name Loucks, but they're pronounced the same.

The crowd included a lot of Lutherans, I might add, who are also strong in eastern Pennsylvania, so naturally we sang some hymns acapella, impromptu, and everybody knew the words ----- the Doxology, of course, and "Pass Me Not O Gentle Savior" and "Softly and Tenderly" and "How Great Thou Art".

As for the red tie, it's my favorite, bright red but not shiny, cotton, and I bought it in Bergdorf's in New York. I went in there and bought a bunch of stuff about five years ago and saw Ross Perot, very natty, ramrod straight, all alone, standing by the shirt counter, waiting to be waited on. I said good morning and he said good morning back. A sunny spring day on Fifth Avenue and I walked south past where those bookstores used to be, Doubleday's and Scribner's, and the Hotel Seymour, the dive where I stayed when I went to New York to apply for a job at The New Yorker in 1966, and I wound up working for a few hours at the General Mechanics Library on 44th Street, across from the Harvard Club, and then got a sandwich and ate it in Bryant Park. A wonderful New York day, and it's all encapsulated in a red tie.

Mr. Keillor, Up here on the frozen tundra of Alaska, your show is a warm fire on a cold night with a good friend. I'm a Air Force physician scheduled to deploy to Iraq next summer. I have been advised to bring plenty of reading material with me to the desert. Are there certain books you'd recommend to read in the summer heat of Babylon?

Sincerely,
Scott McBride

Scott, I'd recommend The Medical Detectives by Berton Roueche, a collection of true stories about adventures in diagnosis by a wonderful old New Yorker writer. Another guy you might like is A.J. Liebling and there's a great old collection from Playboy Press, in two volumes, "Liebling At Home" and "Liebling Abroad," that you can buy (cheap) from a used bookstore. Try abe.com for easy ordering online. And how about Stendhal's "The Red and The Black". And the poems of Barbara Hamby, which are wild Americana. I could go on .......

Garrison, There are few things in life that remain constant. I have always counted on hearing the "News" during the second hour of your show to be one of them. Why the switch to the first half the last two weeks?

Rick Litman
Plymouth MN

Rick, You're right about there being few constants, though I can think of a number of them off the bat, including the St. Paul Cathedral, Raisin Bran, Frank Sinatra, and the pleasure of seeing a quarter on the sidewalk. We're seeing how the News from Lake Wobegon feels in the 2nd half-hour and so far we like it. Its presence in the 3rd half-hour was becoming shaky and it was getting shoved into the 4th and that sometimes meant that the News got squished. I'm too old to have to do what I did a few weeks ago and compress a 20-minute story into 10 and do it on the fly. It makes me feel pale and puny just thinking about it. The 4th half-hour feels like a steeplechase. The 2nd half-hour feels sort of leisurely and leisurely is good when it comes to telling a story.

Dear Garrison— Thank you for helping me with my empty nest syndrome. My daughter went 1400 miles to Macalester College and is having such a good time she has forgotten to communicate with me. I listen to your show faithfully now so as to feel some connection to her. I fantasize that I will hear you read the words, "Hi Mom. Thanks for sacrificing all those years for me to have a good education and name-brand clothes." Well, I'll keep listening. Thanks again.

Glenda L.
Kennebunkport, ME.

Glenda, it's a chilly rainy fall day here in St. Paul and your beloved daughter at Macalester, a mile west of me, is probably homesick and missing you so keenly that she doesn't trust herself to call you and have a conversation without bursting into tears and causing you anxiety. And so this considerate young woman is toughing it out until she can get a good grip on the situation. She's growing up and this is what will make it possible for the two of you to be friends and that is going to amaze you.