An Embarrassment of Riches in Priceless Works of Art, and A Prairie Home Companion (when it was good)

It’s likely you have no idea just how utterly wealthy you are, dear reader – but it’s true

Recently, my birthday arrived, and quickly passed.

My wife observed it in her inimitable fashion, otherwise, it was without any fanfare – just the way I like it. My sister’s birthday is just one day later (as was our late father’s), and as it happens, my wife’s is within a few days of mine, so when we could all gather on a Sunday to observe and “celebrate” them, we did.

Usually, there isn’t a lot of time dedicated to very much introspection. There has been more than enough of that, for me, over the past five, or so, years. That I’m closer to the end of my race is a fact of which I am ever mindful, as I’ve already outlived our late father by three years. Tomorrow is not promised to any of us; hence I am making my peace with God, now – as well as with those who I need to and who are still among us, the living. This is one loose end that will not be left untied.

This birthday, however, was a bit of a milestone and the temptation to be a little introspective would not be denied, especially as I’ve noticed that time is passing much more quickly than when I was much younger – maybe ten years ago.

“Years grow shorter, not longer,
The more you've been on your own.”
– Jimmy Buffett, “Wonder Why We Ever Go Home”

My thoughts have been repeatedly returning to an essay written by Garrison Keillor in the chapter titled, Easter, in his book, Leaving Home,

the follow-up to his award-winning, Lake Wobegon Days.

Nothing you do for children is ever wasted. They seem not to notice us, hovering, averting our eyes, and they seldom offer thanks, but what we do for them is never wasted. We know that as we remember some gift given to us long ago. Suddenly it’s 1951, I’m nine years old, in the bow of a green wooden rowboat, rocking on Lake Woebegon. It’s five o’clock in the morning, dark; I’m shivering; mist comes up off the water, the smell of lake and weeds and Uncle Al’s coffee as he puts a worm on my hook and whispers what to do when the big one bites. I lower my worm slowly into the water and brace my feet against the bow and wait for the immense fish to strike.

Thousands of gifts, continually returning to us. Uncle Al thought he was taking his nephew fishing, but he made a permanent work of art in my head, a dark morning mist, the coffee, the boat rocking, whispering, shivering, waiting for the big one. Still waiting. Still shivering.

This was when he showed himself to be as gifted a writer as he was a more-than-capable host of the first incarnation of the weekly radio show, A Prairie Home Companion,

which was, as he described it in the Preface of, Lake Wobegon Days, “…a live musical variety show like the Opry” only with a decidedly Midwestern tone and flavour. This was long before he would reveal himself to be little more than an ultra-partisan hack, signaling his virtue to the emerging militant left.

Upon graduating from college at the time when, A Prairie Home Companion, was beginning to approach the height of its popularity (in Minnesota, anyway), it was time for me to head out on my own and fully claim my true independence. My odyssey took me as far as possible without needing to speak Spanish as a primary language: Phoenix, Arizona – which was also where my professional career began. This job offer was accepted because, being more than 1,500 miles from home, if things went south, there would be no going back – it was too far away.

There was also a need to be consistent with my criticism of friends and acquaintances in high school who would be attending college not even fifteen miles from where most of us grew up. To my way of thinking, if one was going to go away to attend college, then one should go away – a drive of several hours, ideally. Even better if out-of-state (provided there was tuition reciprocity, of course) – but I digress.

In any event, during that first year on my own, A.P.H.C. was a touchstone, for me. As strong as was the desire to find my place, and forge my own identity in the desert Southwest (or so was my belief, at the time), it was not my inclination to completely sever the most tangible connection to my roots. So, every Saturday at five o’clock in the afternoon, the tuner of my sound system

Didn’t every would-be audiophile in the 80s have one of these? Or something like it? I thought it was so state-of-the-art…

was dialed to the local NPR affiliate receiving the radio feed from Minnesota Public Radio’s flagship station at the time, KSJN (it would be another thirty-some years before I would disown the state in which I grew up), so that I could hear the show and its centerpiece, The News From Lake Wobegon, monologue. Here is a sample:

This is among my favourites for a number of reasons, and it’s worth listening to in its entirety. If you are of a certain age, and have lived through some specific life changes, you’ll understand – and appreciate it more than some.

There was comfort in knowing that my parents, and many others like myself, were listening, too. The following, from an article in TIME magazine from November 1985 is offered, as proof:

At any rate, though there are other ways to pass the time Saturday evenings, P.H.C. fans in considerable numbers say they plan their weekends around the show. Nutritionist Leslie Cordelia-Simon and her husband drive from their home in Houston to the Gulf almost every Saturday, then park on the beach and listen to the program. ‘It's a little respite at the end of the week,’ she says.

– and it was, indeed.

The reassurance expressed in the sentiment, “Nothing you do for children is ever wasted.” was absolutely true, once, and for a very long time – perhaps it still is. The supposition is that it depends on whether that which is being done is for the child’s benefit, and that is probably best illustrated by the era in which my siblings and our contemporaries grew up in small towns throughout the upper Midwest.

For the record, we hold as rock-solid conviction that we grew up during the best possible time, in the best possible place, in the best possible country – this is absolute, indisputable, and universal truth, every bit as much as is the firmness of the earth – don’t even bother to fact-check it.

Once, at a July Fourth celebration hosted by a colleague from work at his home on a lake in north-central Illinois, I found myself near the shore, looking out over the silver water shimmering in the late afternoon sun. A natural, spring-fed freshwater lake has a certain scent – it’s not an odor as it is not unpleasant, but it is distinct – it can’t be described – one has to experience it, firsthand. Between the smell of the lake, and that scene, I was immediately transported to any number of occasions on which my folks had taken my older sister, my older brother, and me to the private lake club* of which we were members, courtesy of our father’s membership in the local Masonic Lodge.

The memory is one of a sunny day, warm but not uncomfortably hot and/or humid, a gentle breeze, hamburgers cooking on the portable grill, a picnic basket containing the side dishes and trimmings. It wasn’t clear to me then, but this was about as much luxury, and/or extravagance, as my folks could afford. Years of Saturdays in the summer spent just this way. Like Garrison Keillor’s uncle Al, my folks were creating lasting works of art in our heads. Art in the form of memories that, for me, had lain dormant for more than thirty years were suddenly brought back to life and so clear that it might as well have been yesterday.

Those memories were created for the price of some groceries, a bag of Kingsford charcoal briquettes and a can of lighter fluid, and maybe a half-tank of gas – if that. The trip from home to the lake seemed to take forever, but when the car reached the crest of the hill, and that tiny sliver of brilliant dark blue appeared in the distance on the horizon, everyone (except me – I didn’t know the words) would sing the chorus – and just the chorus – of this song (a cappella, of course):

These were not the only ones, though – there were also summer vacations at resorts (maybe as many as a dozen guest cottages) on lakes in the northern part of the state. The appeal of these resorts on relatively distant lakes, it seems, is that they were distant – several hours away, by car. For several years, these vacations were with two other families, and their kids – all close friends who enjoyed each other’s company for a little less than a week. The anticipation of going, the exhilaration of finally arriving, and the sadness of leaving, are as vivid now as they were, then. It’s likely that three families combining their vacation stays at the same time resulted in a break on the weekly rate – if so, it didn’t matter to any of us. The memories were being made.

Our folks were geniuses.

Thankfully, this practice has continued with countless families in generations that followed, and still does – and in this day and age, it is desperately needed. My best friend has been single-handedly upholding this tradition with his boys for years, now. He knows that it isn’t where they go, or what they do in those six or seven days – fishing, go-karting, maybe a half-day on a lake in a wet sailer – what matters, and what they’ll remember, is the time he spent with them. This is because what he remembers most about his late father is the time he dedicated to spending with him.

Despite one long-term relationship, and two marriages, there are no children of my own for whom similar memories might have been created. A most bitter regret seldom recalled, now – and the reasons for such are not worth mentioning. What’s done is done, or perhaps more accurately, what wasn’t done can’t be done, now – the opportunity has passed, and there’s nothing that can change that history.

“Oh, yesterday's over my shoulder, so I can't look back for too long
There's just too much to see waiting in front of me and I know that I just can't go wrong”
­– Jimmy Buffett, “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes”

Yet…there is an opportunity to be a grandfather figure, of sorts, to my wife’s grandchildren – I’ll do what I can to make the most of it.

Decades from now, after all of us are long gone, perhaps the children of those who were brave enough, and courageous enough to raise families of their own may recall similar works of art in their heads – memories that their parents made for them, knowing they would never receive the gratitude they undoubtedly deserved.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. If only we could tell you what priceless memories you created, and thank you, for them…someday, we will.

---

*This was a private club, but without the prestige that such connotes. Yes, there was a caretaker on-site during the summer months it was open and its grounds, the “marina”, and the swimming area were for the use of members and their guests, but it was about as opposite of a country club like Bushwood as you could get.

Our lake club on the left, and the fictitious Bushwood Country Club from the iconic film, Caddyshack, on the right.

Thank you, dear reader, for your time and indulgence. It is my hope that you are able to discover your own childhood memories that are every bit as priceless as mine are, to me.