by Howard Mohr
Minnesota College Diploma
The issuance of this college degree to you, by us, the institution whose name is in gold letters at the top under the loon, is a matter of faith. While you were here we could not be held accountable for your ignorance, and now as you leave our halls of ivy and soybeans, we cannot be held accountable for your knowledge. You may be wiser, sadder but wiser, or just sadder, but whatever your condition we must emphasize that when you paid your tuition and bought your first yellow highlighter pen, you entered into a nolo contendere agreement with us. We told you that we could not teach you, that you had to teach yourself, that’s what education was. If you botched it, too bad. We did what we could in providing a viable environment of cafeteria food, movies, concerts, casino nights, and a chance to interact with the sex of your choice. If you are the same dumbo you were when your parents dropped you off with your suitcases and posters, you’ve got nobody to blame but yourself. We’re running a university here, in case you hadn’t noticed.
Non Sequiturs, Rebuttals, and Gifts
THE MINNESOTA NON SEQUITUR
As you already know, a Minnesota conversation can sometimes be a series of statements on a common theme: one person’s statement leads to a response from another person, as in this discussion of Dutch Elm disease by two native Minnesotans.
—“That big elm of mine over the front porch there doesn’t look too perky.”
—“I got one like that. They say a guy can pour a couple jugs of bleach around the roots. I don’t know.”
—“I tried the bleach. Then I called the County Ag Extension office and they had me smear the trunk with Cool Whip—they said some people’ve been having pretty good luck with the whipped topping.”
—“A guy gets desperate all right.”
Most Minnesota conversations do not, however, need a common theme. The only rule is to pause briefly between what seem to be disconnected statements.
—“Boy, it’s that kind of day. If it were colder you’d be talkin’ snow.”
[Pause]
—“I brought a couple of those retreads for my old Chrysler—I hope they don’t peel the way they will.”
[Pause]
—“Muskmelon. I like it, but it doesn’t like me. Upsets my stomach to beat the band.”
[Pause]
—“I used to keep my billfold in the back pocket of my pants, but then I saw this documentary on pickpockets and now I keep it in the front pocket.”
This peculiarity of the Minnesotan language was picked up some years ago by Samuel Beckett (he spent a week near Worthington, Minnesota, when his car broke down). He wrote the first draft of his most famous play in a motel room that looked out on a bare field. He called it Waiting for the Mechanic.
I saw a touring production of Waiting for the Mechanic at a community theater once. I won the ticket in a radio contest when I guessed how many bottles of Pepsi were in a ’55 Chevy driven by a girl in a bathing suit. There are these characters on a stage with no scenery except a couple of pine boards nailed together and a sun hanging from a wire. What happens is, one guy says something in a monotone—“I don’t know, it could be the alternator”—and the other guy waits until the drum is struck and then he says in a monotone, “The fruit is balanced on the vestibule.” It went on like that for almost three hours. I was fascinated.
Evidently people had walked out on Waiting for the Mechanic in some places, but the Minnesota crowd I was with stayed right down to the last beat of the drum. I’ve seen a lot worse plays in community theaters. I guess I still don’t recommend the play.
CONTROVERSY IN MINNESOTA
Phrase
Yeahbut
One natural response to a controversial statement in Minnesota is to end the discussion by saying that’s different. Delivering an apparent non sequitur has the same effect. But there does come a time when you’re forced to speak your mind and that’s where yeahbut comes in handy.
Pronounced “ee-ah-but,” yeahbut is the introductory phrase in the majority of Minnesota rebuttals. A Minnesota debate consists of a controversial statement by one person and a yeahbuttal by another.
—“It’s a big country, China, all those people. A guy kinda wonders.”
—“Yeahbut they’re drinking Coke and Pepsi now, so that’s something.”
—“I’m using Gasahol in my pickup and I get a good five miles per gallon more out of it.”
—“Yeahbut they said it can clog your lines and burn out your valves.”
—“You need some recreation. You should try playing golf.”
—“Yeahbut there’s always the danger I might start liking it.”
After the statement and the yeahbuttal, just leave it alone. Drop it. Don’t keep harping.
GIVING AND ACCEPTING GIFTS
Christmas is a time of stress in Minnesota, organized as it is around the giving of gifts. The giving part isn’t so bad—we like giving gifts. But it’s a two-way street, and eventually somebody will give us a gift in turn or for no reason at all, which is worse. This can lead to hard feelings.
When it comes right down to it, Christmas is a tough one all the way around for most Minnesotans, because although we believe in being of good cheer, we don’t think, as a rule, it’s a healthy idea in excess. I think what happens is that our natural tendency to keep a neutral point of view and a face to go with it is severely tested at Christmas, and so we draw back and overcompensate. But I’m no psychiatrist.
It comes out in odd ways. Grain elevators like to have a large Christmas star on the highest point, but they leave it up there the year around so it doesn’t stand out so much at Christmas. It makes sense to me.
The main idea at Christmas is to get the gift stuff out of the way as efficiently as possible with the least amount of trouble. On Christmas morning the gifts are distributed and opened, and then lined up for everybody to see. The paper and boxes are burned, and it’s time for breakfast. It’s not unusual to see Minnesotans working at little jobs on Christmas, like changing the oil in the car, cleaning the garage.
The key in all this is to pretend that the holiday is like any other day. Treat it special and pretty soon you’re sitting around eating fudge and watching parades on television, and by the end of the day you feel like something the cat dragged in and left on the floor. It can ruin the next day, too.
The best advice: get it done and go on to normal things.
Giving the Gift
When you give a gift to a Minnesotan, be calm, keep your voice down, and avoid eye contact. Don’t say the word gift during the transaction. Also never wrap the gift, it only aggravates the situation. If you feel you have to wrap it, use old newspapers or butcher paper, and don’t mess around getting the ends neat. Leave off the bows.
—“Here, take it.”
—“What is this?”
—“Oh, something.”
—“What’s the deal anyway?”
—“I don’t know, maybe you won’t like it. It’s no big
deal.”
—“Well, I hope not.”
When Minnesotans say “You shouldn’t have,” they mean it, because essentially all you’ve done is make them feel guilty. It can also backfire on you at any time.
—“Here you go.”
—“What’re you doing?”
—“Oh, it’s just something I brought you from home. It’s nothing. I didn’t wrap it.”
—“Nothing? It looks like a big box of hand-dipped candy to me.”
—“Yeah, but maybe they’re spoiled.”
—“I can’t take this. You eat the candy.”
—“But it’s your gift. I just gave it to you.”
—“Think I don’t know that? So that means it’s mine. Right? So I’m giving it back to you. Here.”
—“Well, I appreciate that, I guess.”
—“You bet.”
This gift-giving transaction was moving along real well until the gift giver said the word gift, you see. That’s where it soured.
Let’s pick up the dialogue at the trouble spot.
—“I can’t take this. You eat the candy.”
—“I’m gonna leave it with you. I’m gonna put it down by your overshoes.”
—“You do what you want. But don’t expect me to eat it.”
—“Eat what?”
—“The candy, there, in the box.”
—“Oh, that.”
There’s no guarantee that the candy will ever be eaten. It may be sitting there by the overshoes next time you visit. If you want to ensure that your gift will be used, make it something that requires no effort on the part of the gift receiver. Extension cords are good. Or light bulbs. Or a couple gallons of milk. Anything that tends to blend in and won’t be noticed as a gift.
Accepting a Gift from a Minnesotan
Play it by ear. It’s hard to give a gift back to a Minnesotan. Take it, say “You shouldn’t have,” and put it down someplace. Don’t exclaim about it. Eventually it will seem as if it didn’t happen.
* * *
[Note: In regard to Christmas. The “Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus” letter is rarely reprinted in Minnesota. It’s “A Minnesota Dad’s Xmas Tree Lecture” that bring tears to many of our eyes during the blessed holiday season. It proves something about us, but what I’m not sure. I’m no psychiatrist, as I said.—H.M.]
Where to Go in Minnesota
SANE DAYS
Some Minnesota communities, in reaction to the proliferation of Midnight Madnesses and Crazy Days that were driving them nuts and to the poorhouse at the same time, came up with Sane Days as an alternative. During Sane Days they don’t advertise, put up banners, or dress in costumes.
When you go through a Minnesota town during your visit, if a Sane Day is in progress the signs will be unmistakable. Very few people will be on the streets. The stores will be dimly lit. When you enter, the merchant will say:
—“Are you gonna buy anything?”
If you say “Yes,” the merchant will turn on the rest of the lights. Nothing will be on sale. If you buy something, the merchant will ask you if you want a sack for it. No major credit cards will be accepted. That’s the way it’ll go, shop after shop. Normal, everyday, minimal merchandising. It’ll make a nice change of pace for you.
BOB’S B-17 PARK
Bob’s B-17 Park—north of Deadwood Falls, Minnesota—has twice received the Medal of the Unusual from the Minnesota Tourist Council. Not that the Council necessarily approves of what Bob is doing out there or that it’s the kind of image Minnesota needs, it’s just that Bob stands head and shoulders above his competition in the class. But Bob doesn’t care one way or another what the Council thinks. He threw the medals in the old matchbox with the paper clips and rubber bands. For that matter, he doesn’t care what anybody thinks. He thinks what he wants to, they can think what they want to.
If you come into Deadwood Falls on Highway 29 from either direction, ask anybody how you get to Bob’s B-17 Park. If you stop the right person, you’ll be personally escorted to Bob’s entrance gate and get yourself a pleasant earful besides. If you stop somebody from the other group, they’ll say, “Never heard of it.” But they have. Everybody has. It’s just that there are some killjoys who’ve been trying for thirty years to change the zoning laws and have Bob’s Park—and Bob with it—cleaned up.
There’s never a dull moment at Bob’s if you are fascinated by old cars and machinery. If Bob does not seem to be home, watch out for the dog. It’s called “Dog”—that’s what Bob has called all his dogs. He says it’s easier to remember and dogs are not particular about names. If Dog comes running out from under the boxcar where Bob lives and hits the chain-link fence at full speed, you would be better off waiting till Bob gets home. Dog’s bark is not worse than its bite. Dog never barks. If Bob is home, Dog stays under the boxcar. If Bob is not home, Dog bites whatever comes through the gate. That’s what the sign says and you’d better believe it.
When I went out there in the fall of ’86—I get out there a couple times a year—I spent the whole day looking at Bob’s earth-moving-equipment collection. He could build a freeway on his own if the mood struck him.
He built his own lake in the late ’50s with the big Caterpillar bulldozer that he still uses for major maintenance and radical snow removal. He actually built two lakes in the same spot, the second one after the dam washed out on the first one. Bob learned from experience—and so did his neighbors downstream. It’s a nice-looking dam and the lake has some fairly good-sized walleyes in it.
One time I was fortunate enough to catch Bob when he was taking out a few tree stumps. That’s another thing about Bob. Whatever he’s doing, he doesn’t stop doing it when you visit. You take potluck. If he’s standing in the yard when you show up, then the agenda is open. There are two schools of stump removal, according to Bob. One is to put a logging chain around the stump, hook it to a Caterpillar, and jerk it out. But the other school is dynamite. This is Bob’s method of choice. The day I was there, Bob wired eleven stumps with two sticks each while I watched from the cab of the dragline in his yard with binoculars. He pushed the plunger and eleven stumps were separated from the earth, roots and all. I had never seen anything like it. What a show. You should be so lucky on your visit.
If you stop by Bob’s on a day when he won’t say a word to you, just ask him about his B-17. He bought his B-17 down in Arizona with money he saved up from selling used auto parts and soybeans. He hauled it back to his farm in three large pieces in three long trips in 1963 on an old semitrailer—the trailer is permanently parked in the yard next to the pile driver.
You see the tail section from the road before you see anything else when you drive up the county road that connects to the private dirt road that leads to Bob’s. Big American flag on it. Takes your breath away to see that thing out there in the pasture, like it only landed to refuel. If Bob’s in a good mood—it’s hard to tell one mood from the other with him—he’ll let you sit in the top gun turret and push the pedals and rotate the bubble and take aim. He’ll even talk to you from the cockpit. “Bogey at two o’clock,” he’ll tell you over the intercom. You get to wear a leather helmet with goggles, gunner’s gloves, the flight suit. Bob’s got it all, except live ammunition. But he knows where to get it if he ever needs it. A guy never knows, he says.
The Army made Bob an aircraft mechanic in 1942 when he was eighteen years old and then sent him overseas. When he came back in 1946, he’d seen England, he’d seen France, he’d seen some ladies’ underpants, and that was that he said. He was perfectly happy to farm the old family place and tend his garden of cars and machinery. And, since 1963, keep his B-17 operational.
There were people who said Bob was crazy long before he bought the B-17, but after he reassembled the bomber on the hill they called the FBI. The agent they sent out from Washington, D.C., spent two days riding around with Bob on heavy equipment, watched him blow up stumps, and even helped Bob fly a complete mission in the B-17—they took off from England and flew across the Channel without ever leaving the pasture. The agent filed a report at headquarters that gave Bob a top Bureau rating.
Over the years different people have got wild hairs, particularly during the stump season, and made the mistake of calling the FBI again. They’ve all been told the same thing: Get off Bob’s back, we like him.
And so do I. He’s good company and he never puts on airs. He’s exactly what he is. And the only thing that worries me is that one of these days he may put a runway in front of that B-17 with the Cat, fire up all four engines, and take off for parts unknown without so much as a good-bye. But that’s Bob for you. He’s not real big on ceremony.
Minnesota Minute Mysteries
MINNESOTA MINUTE MYSTERIES
It is a snowy night in December and you are going door to door trying to make extra cash selling battery-powered aerosol cans. At the last house of the evening, the bell is answered by a little girl about eight years old. She has chocolate all over her face
and hands and she says her parents are in the other room. The TV is way too loud, the refrigerator door is open, two dogs are chasing each other through the house. You find the parents in the study, on the floor, with tinkertoys stuck in their ears. Who did it?
* * *
You are on the road to Grandma’s house in a blinding rainstorm. The car is missing—first on one cylinder, then on two. You think you can make it, even after the headlights flicker and the oil light comes on. You can’t shift out of second and the radio doesn’t work. After passing over a swollen creek, you are now on a section of road with no shoulders. You think you hear a tire making a funny noise. Is the tire going flat? Is there a jack in the trunk? Or is it back home in the garage with the lug wrench?
* * *
A policeman stops a gray car that didn’t come to a full stop at a stop sign. He cautiously approaches the driver’s window and asks the driver for his driver’s license. The driver reaches over to the glove compartment. The policeman says “Hold it” and draws his gun. The driver sits up real fast, accidentally knocking the car into gear with his shoulder. The car bumps the policeman, causing him to discharge his gun. The bullet travels a few feet, richochets off the curb, and ends up in the middle of the TV screen of a family watching a rerun of “Love Boat,” and it’s one they haven’t seen. The wall behind the TV set catches fire, so the family evacuates the apartment and calls first the fire department and then the police. Meanwhile the policeman, who had only been trying to do his job when he was knocked down, has been nearly run over twice by vehicles whose drivers had scanners. They help the policeman up and call the ambulance. Then they go put a paper bag over the head of the driver who didn’t stop at the stop sign. The excitement has made him hyperventilate. The fire truck rounds the corner and hits the police car from behind, pushing it into the produce section of the supermarket across the street. The firemen begin shooting water into the apartment building next to the one where the family was enjoying “Love Boat” so much. The ambulance arrives, skids on the water from the fire hoses, and ends up on the steps of the Episcopal church, where a wedding has just started. The WRT Live-Action News Team comes in overhead in the WRT Action-Copter, televising live to its audience, who have, until then, been watching “Love Boat.” The pilot miscalculates and sets down on top of a camper van with tin cans and streamers trailing from its bumper. Everyone at the scene is interviewed. Nobody finds out whether the guy on board with the accent is really a count, as he says, or a realtor trying to impress the secretary who is pretending to be a film star. Whose rights have been violated here?