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Lake Wobegon Summer 1956 by Garrison Keillor Recommendation: •••
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Above Average Listening to Garrison Keillor’s radio show, A Prairie Home Companion, returns a listener to a time of innocence and close community living, especially in the weekly segment, News From Lake Wobegon, a mythical Minnesota small town. Keillor’s new autobiographical novel, Lake Wobegon Summer 1956, transports readers to innocence and adolescence, with Keillor’s fine description, wit and care. Here’s an excerpt about a principal’s arrival in an eighth grade classroom in 1956: “That afternoon, Mr. Halvorson dropped in on our class in the middle of Emily Dickinson and gave us a lecture about taking responsibility for our behavior – that small careless deeds, no matter how innocent they may seem, can have horrible consequences. ‘You could snap someone with a towel – for fun – and injure him so that he will never be able to have children,’ said Mr. Halvorson. ‘You didn’t mean to, but you’re still responsible.’ We pondered this, the sting of snapping cloth against our testicles. ‘Or you could make a thoughtless remark while someone is eating and he could choke on his food and die. It’s happened. I don’t want it to happen here.’ He stood next to me, his hairy fingers tapping on my desk – ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like to choke to death?’ The room was still. And then his body sort of tensed up and gave out a low ripping sound, and suddenly a terrible sour shitty smell was all over the place. It smelled like the outhouse burned down. And the smell didn’t go away. This was no ordinary 59-cent fart but one of those quiet, deadly ones, a sizzler, mean and dark, a stink submarine. Like anyone else, I maintained a healthy interest in farts, all then varieties – the silent but deadly, the slow leaks, the hissers, fizzers, poppers, croakers, bangers, cheek-flappers, tail-gunners and cargo farts, the ones that deliver a load – and this one was in a class all its own. A small dark cloud of a fart such as an alien from outer space might deliver to Earth, necessitating the evacuation of cities. But Mr. Halvorson kept right on yakking about personal responsibility while his handiwork hung in the air. No apology from his whatsoever, no ‘Gosh, boys and girls, that was a ripe one, wasn’t it,’ no nothing. I stared at the poem in front of me – The voluptuous Tapestry Of day is done Behold – the Majesty Of Setting Sun. The darkness – like Ocean Currents Descends – and soon The chaste Appearance Of the Orphan Moon. And what Foul Blast - Is this – dark Breath - That holds us fast - Who else – but Death? And I let out a sudden high-pitched whinny that could not be held in. And he turned and smiled his phony Educator of the Year smile and said, ‘Did you think of a joke, Gary?’ I shook my head. No, sir. Not me, sir. ‘It must have been a good one to make you chortle like that.’ No, sir. There is no joke, sir. ‘I’m sure we’d all appreciate a good, funny joke right now. Wouldn’t we, class? Why not share it with everyone?’ I looked down at the Emily Dickinson poem. He said, ‘Go ahead. We’ll just wait until you’re ready to share it with everyone, whatever you were thinking.’ And so I told him. My face turned blazing red but I said, ‘That’s the worst fart I’ve ever smelled. It smells like a badger fart.’ His smile immediately faded. He turned to the class, who were all in a tizzy (What did he say? A badger what?), and thanked them for their attention and said what a fine bunch of individuals they were and what a privilege it was to be their principal and out the door he scooted. Miss Lewis gave me a dirty look. ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ she said.” Keillor tells lots of stories in Lake Wobegon Summer 1956, and you’re likely to enjoy reading all of them. Steve Hopkins, September 12, 2001
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