Lake Wobegon Days is the only novel I've read where the main character is a town. The town of Lake Wobegon is technically fictional, yet all too real for those of us who grew up in, and thus grew to love, small town life. The book was charming because the town is charming. It was a montage of stories depicting the town's conception and infancy, it's growing maturity, and the new tidings offered by the four distinct seasons. There was no one plot that followed the book from beginning to end, just a host of quirky townspeople connect through the generations by their association to this one picturesque like hamlet on Lake Wobegon.
Garrison Keillor brings us tales from Lake Wobegon every Saturday evening. I purposefully set my clock by A Prairie Home Companion. At promptly 6 pm every Saturday I set down the book I'm reading or the papers I'm grading and turn on the kitchen radio, perennially tuned to our local NPR station. I know this sounds "so 1930s," but I can't help myself. It's a ritual more akin to my grandparents' generation. In our day of DVRs and Netflix, who sets their clocks by a show anymore? Much less a radio show! But I'm old fashioned and I like it. The delight of listening to Garrison live offsets any temptation I might have to venture out on a Saturday night. (Unless of course, it is to see him broadcast live at Wolf Trap - a recent treat that thrilled me beyond all explanation).
For two hours Garrison Keillor provides our evening's entertainment as we prepare, eat, and clean up dinner. The voice actors use their bygone art-form to satirize old-time radio shows. We've become quite attached to Guy Noir, the bungling private eye, and that lonely, guilt-inducing mother whose screeching voice makes us cringe and laugh simultaneously. I'm also rather entranced by the parodied advertisements for Bebopareebop Rhubarb Pie and Powdermilk biscuits, both of which sound delightful in their apparent disregard for the trending food movements outside Lake Wobegon. Neither of these items is fresh, local, or devoid of carbohydrates, but I feel like people in Lake Wobegon don't worry so much about carbohydrates. Whatever gets them through that long cold winter can't be that bad.
I don't have the slightest inkling of ever living in Minnesota. I'm not that hard-core. Yet, at this time of year I always find myself a little homesick for my own "Lake Wobegon." I can't stop missing a little town in Western New York where the winters are only marginally better than those in Minnesota and everybody knows everybody else's quirks. It's a place where people don't have perfectly manicured lawns devoid of dandelions, they don't freak out about ticks every time they go outdoors, and they don't find it necessary to refrigerate all the buildings during the summer. One day perhaps we'll retire to that idyllic little place - if I can convince my husband to move so far from "civilization." (Though I'm sure he'll bring his more "civilized" views toward dandelions with him.) In the meantime, we'll enjoy our quaint little Saturday night ritual for as long as Garrison Keillor has stories to tell.
"And that's the news from Lake Wobegon, where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children above-average."
- Garrison Keillor
No comments:
Post a Comment