by Howard Mohr
2.1. I’m from New Jersey and I wonder if ice fishing would be a way to meet beautiful Minnesota women?
Well, yes and no. It’s a bit tricky. Gender is very hard to determine when you’re faced with hooded parkas, ski masks, wool-lined boots, heavy gloves, and insulated pants. We call it Ice Roulette.
2.2. I’m from Atlanta and what’s this I hear about that professional wrestling governor of Minnesota you-all had a few years ago?
There is a lot to hear about him, but if you mean “Did he want to make ice fishing a sport involving skimpy tight costumes, masks, finger-jabbing, and top-of-the-lungs boasting?” the answer is no. But Jesse “The Body” Ventura did have pretty good luck making the job of governor a contact sport, as many a legislator learned the hard way. A bipartisan body slam was a very successful vote changer.
2.3. I live in Key West and I’m into extreme sports, so what’s the rush in ice fishing for me?
The ice-fishing high comes only from sitting alone in the dark for hours on a frozen lake with no bites. Once you’ve experienced the ice-fishing ecstasy, scuba diving with sharks, and parasailing into the Amazon from ten thousand feet seem about as thrilling as driving into town to get 2 percent milk.
How We Write Our Poetry Here and What We Do with It
Poetry is just below corn as a state crop, and slightly above soybeans. Not much poetry is exported—most of it gets consumed one way or another by Minnesotans. As they say around here, if our poetry had any calories, we’d all be fat.
There are different opinions on the subject of Minnesota’s poetic produce. My opinion probably doesn’t matter, but I think a person could do a lot worse things than write poems, so I’m all for it. That doesn’t mean some poets couldn’t do a lot better.
I’ve tried to include here a representative sample of views on Gopher State poetry, not all popular views. When you visit, keep in mind another saying we have: you can try to ignore our poetry if you want, but it’s not gonna go away by itself.
How We Write Our Poetry Here
by Grant Mentor, CEP
[Note: Grant Mentor is Chief Executive Poet of the Minnesota Prairie Poet League, one of the strongest forces in contemporary nature poetry in the world, with over 800 members (798 Minnesotans) and 2,300 books to date. At present Mr. Mentor is editing the League’s long-awaited magnum opus—a twenty-volume work to be called Ten Thousand Lakes: Ten Thousand Poems. One of my poems—“School Grove Lake Educates Us All”—is scheduled for Volume 8, as long as I keep paying my dues to the League, which I plan to, although I would feel better about it if Grant hadn’t raised his salary this year. —H.M.]
The Minnesota Prairie Poet League Oath:
I pledge to memorialize Minnesota nature in poetry,
without regard for monetary gain or personal safety.
Let’s lay our poetic cards on the table. We believe that if a poet moves into a small farmhouse on the Minnesota prairie and is unable to produce a collection of nature poems, he or she should go back to where he or she came from. All of us in the Prairie Poetry League have nurtured our talents on the prairie, and even though some of us have moved to the city and bought condominiums in order to be closer to the office, nature never leaves our hearts.
The key is sincerity. Nature abhors pretense.
Let me speak personally here for a moment. Before I put in my formative year on the prairies, I was a typical urban scribbler, obsessed by shopping malls, diesel fumes, and pavement. I wrote good poems, even a fairly well-known sonnet cycle on downtown redevelopment. And that’s not to say that the city isn’t fit for poetry: the inhuman crush of people, the explosive frustration of one-side parking in the winter, runaway crime, and singles bars must have their voice, but that voice is prose, not poetry.
I remember my very first day in the farmhouse (I found it in the League’s newsletter: “Old fmhse, Ibdr, Ivngrm, wdbrngstve, 2cmpsothps, no rnngwtr. Must sacrifice, going to NYC”) when I looked out the west window of the kitchen and wrote what became the central poem in Snow Piles (Gopher Press). The prairie, indeed, spoke to me immediately, and it kept on speaking through the winter.
On the first day it spoke of silent shadows (“Scared”), animals at dawn (“What’s That Gnawing Sound?”), small flying bugs (“The Bug in My Ear Is Saying Hello”). On the second day the prairie said I must create my own mountains in a land so flat only the grain is elevated (“Higher Truth”). On the third day it told me I would never get hot water unless I turned on the propane tank (“Fossil Fuels”). The next day it told me I had to light the water heater myself, but I couldn’t, so I called Prairie Propane and they sent a man out (“Fire Bringer”).
Snow Piles grew naturally out of a prairie winter, where I asked myself many questions. Why does it seem colder after lunch? Will TV reception be better if I put the antenna on the chicken house? Is it okay to have the lead-in wire horizontal? Should I invest in a signal booster? I loved walking down the lane to the mailbox (“Rural Free Deliverance”). One letter addressed to Current Occupant could generate an afternoon of excitement. Whether I wanted to borrow $5,000 on my signature from a loan company in Pittsburgh or not, I read the brochure until I understood it completely (“It Looks Like a Good Deal”).
Out there in the farmhouse, I came to realize that there is no such thing as an accident for a nature poet—everything, no matter how small, is charged with meaning if we can only see it. One day, after two weeks of below-zero weather, I took my Datsun a mile down the road and ran over a large object and blew out a tire. It was a deer’s head with antlers (“Deer Tracks and Other Traces”). How strange, how wonderful.
And there was that morning when I stood in the yard and watched my neighbor’s house moving slowly from north to south. Where was he going? Why was he taking his house? Was that his wife waving from the picture window? Was this a holiday? I never saw them again.
Enough about me and my first book. If you have that poetic drive, drop by the Prairie Poet League’s headquarters in the IDS tower. After your interview and standardized test, we’ll get you settled. And don’t worry about the relocation fee. We’ve got a payment plan to suit every budget.
Oh, for and Heckuva Deal
Phrase
Oh, for
The oh, for construction is used mostly by women to describe a person, thing, or animal, including oneself. For example, if a kitten climbs into somebody’s shoe, you would say Oh, for cute. If the baby smiles and waves its arms, you would say Oh, for darling or Oh, for sweet.
If you were supposed to bring the Jell-O/pineapple salad to the potluck and you forgot it, you would say
—“Oh, for dumb.”
If you are attending a bridal shower and the bride-to-be has just unwrapped a lace nightgown, you would say
—“Oh, for nice.”
If the bride-to-be receives a ten-piece Tupperware set, including the lettuce keeper, you would say
—“Oh, for useful.”
If somebody accidentally unplugs the refrigerator and a gallon of melted chocolate rocky road ice cream is spreading across the kitchen floor when you get back from the dentist, you would say
—“Oh, for yucky.”
If you are at League Bowling and your ball leaps the gutter into the next lane, you would say
—“Oh, for embarrassing.”
Men do not use the oh, for phrase in the same way. If the mechanic at the garage shows you the grease all over the brake shoes, it would be a big mistake for a man to say
—“Oh, for dirty.”
On the other hand, both men and women in Minnesota will say
—“Oh, for crying out loud!”
when one of the kids says she ran over the lawn mower with the car, but the tire can probably be patched.
THE MINNESOTA DEAL
Phrases
Heckuva deal
Good deal
The word deal, in combinations such as “It’s no big deal,” has no more to do with gambling than you bet. The deal phrases
are used to express a Minnesotan’s range of feelings and opinions. Study this exchange between two Minnesota males.
—“Martha and I are having a few people over for steaks on Sunday. We hired a band. You’re invited, not that you have to come.”
—“What’s the deal?”
—“It’s no big deal.”
It’s not too good a deal means almost the same thing as It’s a bad deal, depending on who’s speaking and what the trouble is.
—“I went up to the lake last weekend—heard the walleyes were biting—and the motor got loose and fell into about a hundred feet of water. I knew I shoulda tightened those clamps.”
—“That wasn’t too good a deal.”
—“It was a bad deal, all right.”
Don’t confuse It’s a bad deal with Not too bad a deal, which means almost the same as It’s a good deal, depending.
—“Listen to this. I got a raise on Friday, then Saturday I hit a long shot at the track. Cool Whip came in at 40 to 1. Not too bad a deal, huh?”
—“You bet. Good deal.”
Quite the deal means it’s a pretty good deal, only a little more, depending.
—“Say, I heard you took a trip to Europe.”
—“You bet.”
—“How was it?”
—“It was quite the deal.”
—“Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”
Good deal can be dropped in a conversation anyplace and it can be interchanged with you bet for variation. No matter what anybody says to you in Minnesota, you can reply with “Good deal.”
—“Well, going to the state fair was different this year.”
—“Good deal.”
Of course when good deal is used this way it doesn’t mean that it was a good deal necessarily. In this case they were all doing fairly well through Machinery Hill and the Sheep Barn, but then they ate a bunch of Pronto-Pups and Mini-Donuts before they rode on the Tilt-a-Whirl. What did they expect?
More practice: Just say “Good deal” after each statement until you sound completely neutral and semiconscious.
—“I’m not gonna start you as center tonight, Bill, you’ve been falling down too much on the court.”
—“Looking at your transcript, Carol, the only course that transfers is General Math. You basically have another four years ahead of you.”
—“Sir, I’ll seat your party at this table near the kitchen exhaust fan.”
—“We decided to stay with you and Helen a couple more days. We’re not doing anything at home anyway, now that Mack’s out of work.”
Now go back to the practice statements and say “You bet” after each one. See how upbeat it sounds?
Now do the same with whatever. As you can see, whatever is a more strongly opinionated reply than good deal in these examples.
For further practice, pick up a romance novel and read a passage of dialogue out loud, substituting good deal and you bet for the speeches of one character.
—“Oh, God, Jacques, I can’t stand it when you do that.”
—“Good deal.”
—“I don’t ever, ever want you to leave. You won’t leave, will you, Jacques?”
—“Good deal.”
—“Oh, Jacques, say it, say it—I’ve got to hear it from you.”
—“You bet.”
A heckuva deal is the biggest deal of all in Minnesota.
—“On that Oldsmobile of mine, you know, I’m gettin’ about thirty-two miles to the gallon in town. Not too a bad a deal, huh?”
—“That’s a heckuva deal if you ask me.”
Caution: Don’t confuse a heckuva deal with a heckuva note. A heckuva note is never a heckuva deal—it’s closer to a bad deal.
—“I didn’t notice my credit card was missing and somebody bought this big stereo system and the company says it’s my problem.”
—“Well, that’s a heckuva note.”
Polka Pants™
Carl Griscowski, CEO of POLKA PANTS, LLC, and the patent holder for POLKA PANTS, was a big fan of the Polka Hour from its beginning in 1968 on his local PBS channel in south central Minnesota. Both Carl and the Polka Hour, I’m happy to say, are still kicking in 2012. The Polka Hour is a raucous free-for-all featuring regular folks from near and far in Minnesota who love to polka and don’t mind having people watch them dance with their sweethearts. Carl loved the way the women whipped their polka skirts around with no unsightly pulling and binding when they danced, but the men seemed drawn to the polyester pants that had no wiggle room. It cramped their style big-time, especially after they grew larger in the middle and the polyester pants did not, which inevitably resulted in the tremendous on-camera steamy blowouts that sent entrepreneur Carl to the drawing board. By the early 1970s POLKA PANTS were available in accordion stores nationwide. Turk and the Oompah Turkeys in 1974 was the first polka band to switch over to wearing POLKA PANTS on the bandstand, but not the last.
Carl made a bundle on POLKA PANTS, retiring to Florida in 2006, where he streams the Polka Hour on his laptop every Saturday afternoon. Carl turned the company operations over to his son, Noah, in 2008. In 2010 Noah moved the POLKA PANTS factory to China from its original location in New Ulm, Minnesota. In early 2011 the first shipment of twenty-thousand pairs from China arrived with POKER PANTS emblazoned on them.
Noah said it was a fluke. He managed to break even by selling the POKER PANTS to the Federal Prison System. POKER PANTS are a hot item on eBay, the only way to get a pair unless you are convicted for grand theft auto or armed robbery.
Your Winter Vacation in Minnesota
Winter vacations in Minnesota are pretty popular because of the many recreational opportunities, including ice fishing and snowmobiling. Winter is not so bad here, really. The stories in Sunbelt newspapers about tourists who have disappeared and been found unspoiled during the spring thaw are exaggerated. Sure it’s happened, but what’s a vacation without a little risk?
Heartwarming Human Interest
Stories from Minnesota Blizzards
(reprinted by permission from assorted state newspapers)
[Note: It seems as if winter brings out the best in people. Another good reason to make your trip in the winter. —H.M.]
Good Samaritan Delivers Lutefisk
A Minneapolis man skied two miles, slogged three, and crawled several hundred yards through deep snow to deliver four pounds of lutefisk to Mr. Ole Olson of St. Paul, who had been unable to pick up his order at the lutefisk depot before the storm hit. The unidentified man, who lives in the white frame house in the 1400 block of Beebee Boulevard, said he wants no thanks, the deed was reward enough. Apparently the elderly Olson offered to cook up a mess of the slick, shiny fish for the Good Samaritan, but according to Olson, the man said he felt invigorated after the exercise and he wasn’t all that hungry, he would pass on the lutefisk. Later Ole Olson ate most of the lutefisk himself, with a special cream sauce made from cabbage and a pinch from a plug of Old Socks snoose.
Local Man Gets Faith Restored
A local man, Larry Gavene, was pleasantly surprised after the blizzard this week when he dug his late-model car out of drifts in the parking lot where he works and discovered a note from a would-be felon on the front seat. “Your stereo, your tapes, and the fuzz-buster are right there where they’re supposed to be because it brought tears to my eyes to think of you shoveling and shoveling and then finding your stereo system gone. I took one of your candy bars from the glove compartment and left a quarter. I also hot-wired the car so I could warm up. I appreciate it sincerely. God bless you in the coming year.”
When Mr. Gavene arrived home he found another note on the closet floor where his case of twelve-year-old Scotch had been. The penmanship was familiar. “This you can do without. Sorry about the relapse. I’d be the first to admit that we need some changes in the criminal justice system. I’m a hopeless case, probably, although you never know—with the right support network I could turn over a new leaf. Once I got your add
ress from the registration card I just had to see what kind of house you lived in, and sure enough, nice place, but one suggestion: repaint the dining room in a pastel. By the way, I took the gold coins you had in that cute little safe made from a hubcap under the false floor below the kitchen sink. I give you a B-plus for effort. Many happy returns and let me say, I have no hard feelings about any of this, if you don’t. It happens, Larry, it happens.”
Mr. Gavene said it could have been “a lot worse” and it was a pleasure in a way to deal with a polite and literate thief for once.
DJ Goes Berserk, Hauled In
As the blizzard picked up steam on Wednesday, Mike “Speedboat” Arntsen, well-known Twin Cities radio personality, allegedly “had it up to here” with reading school- and business-closing announcements. Arntsen had logged over 4,000 announcements, including 540 late starts and no morning kindergarten, when—according to KRED chief engineer D. Dwight—he threw the list into the air and got a “strange look” on his face. Speedboat opened the Yellow Pages of the phone book and closed everything from Aardvark Beauty Shoppe down to Millicent’s Rent-a-Fantasy before being put under house arrest by special agents of the Federal Bureau of Radio Ethics. Arntsen entered a plea of “temporary insanity” and was released on his own recognizance.
Area Farmer Sent Kiting During Storm
A farmer in the hard-hit southwestern part of Minneapolis had a ride he won’t soon forget. When the blizzard struck, in early afternoon, Jody Ethleton was in his ice-fishing house and decided to stay put because the walleyes were biting, so he just packed himself another pipe and turned the oil burner up a notch. About sundown, according to Ethleton, the fish house was propelled across the frozen lake by the seventy-mile-per-hour winds. “I could feel it shudder and I thought, well, it’s going over, but it didn’t. She sort of accelerated and it was smooth sailing after that, mostly, with some short stops when the wind let up, but I wasn’t about to open the door.” Ethleton was found the next morning by a search party of neighbors. By then he had his limit of walleyes (in the two-pound range) but his tobacco was gone.