Stevie Beck, Butch Thompson Trio, Norman Kennedy, Tom Lieberman, Peter Ostroushko, Robin & Linda Williams. Vern Sutton,
No One to Talk To But the Blues (Robin & Linda Williams ) They Have Never Been In Love (Robin & Linda Williams ) You're Lucky to Me (Butch Thompson Trio , Tom Lieberman ) Charleston Rag (Butch Thompson Trio , Tom Lieberman ) Goodnight Angeline (Butch Thompson Trio , Tom Lieberman ) You Win Again (Robin & Linda Williams , Peter Ostroushko ) Si Bheag Si Mohr ( Stevie Beck , Peter Ostroushko ) The Letter Edged in Black ( Vern Sutton ) The Prisoner's Song ( Vern Sutton ) Memories of You (Butch Thompson Trio , Tom Lieberman ) Gypsy Blues (Butch Thompson Trio , Tom Lieberman ) I'm A Rover ( Norman Kennedy ) Gaelic Dancing Song ( Norman Kennedy ) Lulu Walls (Robin & Linda Williams , Peter Ostroushko , Stevie Beck ) Mr. Radio Man ( Vern Sutton ) Leap Year Birthday Song ( Vern Sutton ) Boppin' The Blues (Robin & Linda Williams , Tom Lieberman , Peter Ostroushko , Stevie Beck )
Ahua Hot Sauce (Every now and then a Suit and Tie Guy needs to cut loose - Ajua theme song) Bob's Bank (Bob will be returning to town by April 15th.) Butch Thompson Music Corporation (Butch Thompson National Information Center. Expert answer questions about melodies that stick in your head.) Chatterbox Cafe (Pot Roast Tonight!) Powdermilk Biscuits (The Radically Shy) Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery Skoglund's Five and Dime
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Well, it has been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon. My hometown ought to be. It's Lent up there. At least at Our Lady of Perpetual Responsibility, it's Lent. And in the homes of the faithful of the parish, it is Lent and will be until the first Sunday of April. And you would know it, too, if you went there. Even if you didn't know why, you'd know something was different. Meals are more sparse in the homes of the faithful. None of those big platters of pot roast and pork chops and the blutwurst, the blood sausage, they put that away. Things more like zucchini soup or Spanish rice or meatless spaghetti and the meals are quiet too no frivolous talk no frivolity in general no distractions like radio no movies cliff and murder shut down the alhambra they can't make it on lutherans alone movie theater be closed until the monday after easter Up at our lady's school, those kids are quiet in the halls and in the cafeteria. And if they aren't, why, one of the sisters gives them one of those looks and then they are quiet. Sidetrack Tap is still open. Wally and Evelyn have a special dispensation from Father Emo, but it's not much fun to go in there. You order a beer and they give you the same kind of look, that same look the sister gives the kids. It's not the right thing to do. Lent is the time of the passion and death of our Lord, and it is the time for the faithful to reflect on that. And in order to reflect, to clear the decks and clean house and get rid of the trash and the garbage and all the clutter of life. And they do that there. Elsewhere, the rules on Lent may have been relaxed, but to Father Emil, The word relaxation has no meaning in spiritual matters. We're not called on to relax, as he said this last Sunday. We're called on to be vigilant and to pay attention and to get rid of stuff, throw it away. All these orange peels and coffee rinds that clutter up our life we keep around for decoration or something or thinking they may come in useful someday, throw them away because life isn't that long. as he reminds them on Ash Wednesday, as he puts the little smudge on each forehead and says, Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return. A sobering thought. Though after these long weeks of winter, it's good to know that we are dust and not ice. At least if you're dust. All dust needs is just a little rain, you know. And then we turn into roses or string beans or turn into pumpkins. And each of the faithful in the parish is called on to renounce something for Lent, some pleasure of the flesh, to put it aside. Though, of course, skeptics have always said that Christians find it easier to renounce pleasures of the flesh because they never had that much fun with them in the first place. It's not entirely true. I remember our neighbor out there in the country renounced smoking cigarettes for Lent when I was a boy. He did not, however, renounce lighting cigarettes and having them near him, but was down to his last one the night of the big blizzard when about 15 inches fell and suddenly it was Lent for good. He about killed himself trying to get into town and get another pack. Not to smoke them, but just to have them, you know. And if you knew Father Emo, you know how much he loves that after supper cigar and that little shot glass of the single malt scotch whiskey from the case that his cousin, the Monsignor, sends him every Christmas. When he gives up those things, boy, he reflects powerfully And the sisters, too. Father Emil and the sisters have given up a lot already, you know. It's true. What Thoreau did on his vacation at the lake, they've done all their lives. It was about 20 years ago that Father Emil led a heroic retreat for Lent. It was called the Catholic Family Retreat, though everyone else called it Lent Intense. about six families packed up their bedrolls and went out to the east side of the lake to live in tents for 40 days and 40 nights they were going to stay out there to reflect on things that didn't quite work out I think they just saw each other's reflections it was shortened to seven days and six nights but they learned a lot while they were there They learned, for one thing, why the monks and the holy hermits of the church didn't have children. I learned that sometimes when you try to simplify your life, you wind up complicating it, that you think you're going to give up hot running water for 40 days and you work so hard trying to make up for it, it just cuts down on your time for reflection. And they also learned to forgive each other. And when Father Emil stood up and said, well I think we've accomplished what we set out to do let's go back nobody said no let's try and make it eight they all just went back took baths I remember at the time I thought that living in Lake Wobegon was renunciation enough but it was kind of lent year-round tent city there when I was a boy Because I looked off to the south to where I thought I could see the city lights on the horizon at night, the Aurora Metropolis, the lights of Minneapolis, that island of sophistication and a sea of corn. and I'd go to bed take a radio with me under the covers and listen to the deep voices of those smooth talking radio announcers from Minneapolis who'd been there they'd seen it they'd done it they'd been to New York Chicago they'd been around they were sophisticated and so I left I don't really know why and I'm not going back and I don't know why either But at least after all these years, you start to remember and to learn what it was that you left behind. And it's another life. It's not my life. I think of it as the life of my Uncle Frank, who was a wonderful man. I could say a lot about him, but he was a man who didn't have time for people who talked a lot. So I just tell you that he farmed 180 acres north of town, where he kept a herd of about 20 Holsteins. And he was a man who never made a false move. He never had a wasted move. He never said a thing that he didn't mean. He never retraced his steps. Never thought about himself in the third person. He did everything one way all his life. Woke up in the morning, washed his face the same way in the same wash basin, cupped the water in his hands, put it up to his face, made a kind of a chuffing sound. Soaked up his hands, his face, chuffed again. Rinsed, chuffed. Ate breakfast. Coffee and cornflakes in the summer. Coffee and oatmeal in the winter. Spring and fall was a matter of choice. Put on his same blue jacket, his same boots. Went out to the milk house, rinsed out a couple of pails. Got a pail of warm water, got a clean rag. Went down to the barn. All was started at the far end. Washed off the udder. Put the pail down. Put his head in against the cow's flank. Said, low boss. Twice. And then he began to milk. Every day, twice a day, the same way. Always in a 4-4 rhythm. No waltzes, no ragtime. No tangos. Just bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum. And every few measures, he'd squirt one over to the cat sitting there. Hit that cat right on the nose every single time. Cat just open its mouth. Oop! There was one thing that made him angry that I never understood at the time and that was when he reached for something and didn't find it there. It upset him. He'd reach for a hammer and it wouldn't be there because I'd left it out in the yard overnight and he'd get angry at me. And at the time I thought it was a lack of imagination on his part. But it was important to him that everything be in its place. And now I think back on him when I wake up in the mornings And I go in and wash my face, sometimes cupping water into my hands, sometimes using a washcloth if there's one there. If there isn't one there, I usually get soap in my eyes, have to run and find a washcloth. And all of a sudden I hear water boiling down the kitchen. Don't know how long that's been boiling, maybe left it on last night. Go down, make coffee, bring up a cup of coffee, put it down by the sink, start to shave, start in a different place every day. Cut myself in a different place every day. Rinse out the razor and the cup of coffee. Go down and get another cup of coffee. Come back up, brush my teeth, sometimes up and down, sometimes sideways, circular. Then I have to go put on my clothes. Difficult clothes decisions. Whether to wear a suit and a tie or... Whether to wear khaki pants and sneakers or wear something eccentric and odd. And then my wallet. Where's my wallet? I gotta find that. I know I left it someplace last night that I knew I was going to remember it in the morning. But here it is now. It's in my pants from yesterday. The eccentric pants. So I put the wallet on the kitchen table. And then just to make sure I don't forget, I write a note to myself, wallet on kitchen table, put it in my pocket, because now I've got to find my car keys. And they're either on the mantle, or they're on the bedside table, or they're in a cereal bowl, because I thought I was going to have cereal this morning. but there's no time for that because I just remembered that I'm supposed to be someplace in 15 minutes and somebody's expecting me in 15 minutes and I can't remember who it is or what I'm supposed to do or where I should go but I think I wrote it down and put it on a slip of paper that I put in my wallet and now and now my wallet's not on the kitchen table anymore So I go off and I find that. And in the meantime, it's 15 minutes later. And somewhere somebody is waiting for me. And I have no idea who or where. Except I think maybe it's my Uncle Frank. He's hitched up the horses to the hay rick. And he's out there at the edge of the meadow. And there's mist rising up from the meadow. And he's sitting there. And there's no nephew. And finally he goes off without me. Surprised but not really surprised Knowing some people have to get their head screwed on every morning His head was screwed on every morning. He never took his head off. He slept with his head on I Thought he lacked imagination But now I look back and I think he was the most graceful man I ever knew His life was a prayer. You know that? I can't explain it, but it was. Maybe at the beginning he had to use words like renunciation or faith. But after a while, when he got all his moves down, his work became his prayer. My old Uncle Frank, he's way ahead of me, I'll tell you. I'm still going back changing my clothes. I'm still going to look for my wallet. Maybe I'll put on the brown pants, the brown shoes. Put on that button-down hair shirt that I got last week. Go well with that striped millstone. Go off and do something somewhere, I don't know. That's the news from Lake Wobegon, Minnesota. Where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average, you betcha.
Eibie Blake's 100th Birthday. Garrison and Vern discuss Vernon Dalhart.
1983.02.26 Johnson City Press / 1983.02.26 St Cloud Times / 1983.02.20 Star Tribune
Archival contributors: Ken Kuhl/Michael Owen