How to Talk Minnesotan

by Howard Mohr

  A fishing trip is in the same category as a poker party, except that trying to smoke, drink, and tell dirty stories in a rowboat while messing around with sharp objects is considerably more dangerous than poker played in a basement. If you ever get a hook in the side of your nose—which is one of the reasons I stopped drinking beer when I fish at night—you’ll know what I mean. There is an occasional minor injury at a poker party—usually when somebody trips on food debris or pokes himself in the eye with a pretzel.

  At a Minnesota poker party the noise never lets up—except during the 10 o’clock break when we all go watch the news. At the end of a hand the noise gets louder, because that’s when the winner is attacked by everybody else and given a hard time. It’s obligatory. Don’t be afraid to join in.

  But the real hubbub comes at the beginning of a hand when the new dealer (the deal rotates around the table) announces the game he wants to play. There will be a roar of confusion.

  —“Didn’t we just play that?”

  —“I was shelling peanuts. Tell me again.”

  —“I don’t understand.”

  —“What the hell kind of game is that?”

  At a Minnesota poker party, nobody seems to know how to play anything anybody else does. The dealer sometimes doesn’t even know how to play the game he’s dealing. The talk is all part of the fun, the way it is in Monopoly. We like the games with a little meat to them. Simple five-card draw or seven-card stud are not very popular here—they just don’t have enough rules or wild cards, and they don’t require explanations. If you try playing only draw or stud at a poker party, the boys will head home early or fall asleep with their face in the chip dip.

  —“Cut the cards. We’re playing Midnight Minnetonka.”

  —“What? What did you say? Is that like Mud in Your Eye, where queens are wild unless a jack is turned up?”

  —“No, you’re thinkin’ of Over the Hills and into the Woods, but you take out the deuces in Over the Hills and add the joker.”

  —“Huh? That’s Sitting by the Side of the Road, isn’t it? You get three cards, two down and one up. Then you bet, then you deal two in the middle that belong to everybody. That’s the side road. But if one of the cards matches the card you got down, it’s wild unless somebody raises.”

  —“That’s Fast Freight. And nines and threes are wild.”

  —“That sounds like Pearl Harbor, to me. If a four is turned up, do you get to buy an extra card for a quarter?”

  —“That’s Chicken in a Basket, you bozo.”

  If the argument goes on too long the dealer will generally change his choice:

  —“Okay, forget Midnight Minnetonka, the game is No Hunting or Trespassing.”

  —“Is that where you pass three cards to the left and then change chairs after the first bet?”

  —“No. That’s Mission Impossible.”

  —“Mission Impossible…Mission Impossible. Oh, yeah, I know that game. You deal out five cards, but you drop one of your cards over your left shoulder and if it lands face up, it’s wild.”

  —“That’s Fishing for Bullheads, and besides, it’s the right shoulder.”

  But once we have the rules down, we get in the pot and stay there till the cows come home. After all, we came to play poker, not watch somebody else do it.

  Minnesota Body Language

  THE ANGLE RULE

  Two standing Minnesotans never face each other during conversation. The angle made by the two intersecting lines running parallel to the chests of the participants should never be less than 45 degrees, 90 degrees is the average, 135 degrees is common, and 180 degrees is within reason. Heated arguments in public places would be in the 45-degree range. Voices are not raised.

  A simple discussion between two standing Minnesotans about the weather or the Twins’ chances for getting out of the cellar would be conducted at a full 180 degrees—both would be staring off into the distance as they talked to each other.

  If you are seated during conversation, the ideal angle can sometimes be achieved if you will move your chair. Two Minnesotans in a living room for conversation will both sit on the sofa, one at each end, facing forward, with only an occasional side glance.

  EYE CONTACT

  On subways in major American cities eye contact is avoided because it may be taken as a sign of weakness by the criminal element. We don’t have any subways in Minnesota, but we avoid eye contact anyway. If a person looks directly at you and locks on to your eyes while he talks, we take that as a sign that he’s selling something or not from around here, or both. If you are selling vacuum cleaners door to door in the Gopher State, don’t talk too fast and don’t lean over and get sincere by looking straight into the customer’s eyes. There are ways to make a sale in Minnesota but that doesn’t even come close.

  THE MINNESOTA MMDBB

  The MMDBB—Minnesota mean distance between bodies—varies according to the situation. Movie lines contain fewer people per yard (.56) than in any other state. In normal conversation, with the chest angle at 45 degrees, the MMDBB would be four feet. Anything closer than that gets into the area of intimacy, whether you both have clothes on or not.

  BODY CONTACT

  Keep your distance.

  Avoid touching people.

  Public body contact between Minnesotans is rare.

  How much private body contact occurs in Minnesota is none of your business.

  When you shake hands, get it over with fast and extend your arm the full length during the engagement. Don’t ever reach over with your left hand and pat the other person’s hand during the shake.

  There is no “high-five” in Minnesota—it’s called the “belt-five”: the arms of the participants are fully extended at waist height and the palms and five fingers touch briefly.

  In most situations where other people are in the vicinity, keep your arms folded or hanging straight down at your sides.

  A recent computerized study of Minnesotan has shown that eighty-five words carry the load in Minnesota conversations. This core vocabulary was found to be smaller than that used by any discrete American group, except for the “B-Tens,” a self-sufficient culture of bingo players in Los Angeles.

  In a pioneering experiment at Prairie Gate College—conducted by psychology professor Clint (“Looking Out for Number 3 or 4”) Beersford—a group of Minnesotans were hooked up to electrical wires during conversation in a laboratory setting and given a jolt every time they said you bet or whatever. In less than a day, all eight subjects were speechless.

  Critics of the study said that if you put eight Minnesotans together for a day—in or out of the laboratory—they always end up speechless, and without being hooked up to electrical wires. I don’t think there’s any doubt about it.

  Learning to talk Minnesotan is hard enough for visitors, but learning when not to talk is even tougher, I think. I wish I had all the answers for you on that. I don’t know what to say.

  And if that news is not bad enough, think of the fatal mistakes you can make with your nonverbal Minnesotan: Standing. Sitting. Walking. Gesturing. Raising your eyebrows. And the most difficult nonverbal art of the lot:

  WAVING IN MINNESOTA

  More often than not, what brings the stranger to his knees here is waving. Waving—it looks like a simple act, but it’s almost as complicated as spoken Minnesotan.

  I remember my first wave. I was fifteen years old, driving a John Deere A—the one with the narrow front end and no self-starter. To start it you had to open the petcocks on the two cylinders to lower the compression and then spin the heavy flywheel by hand until the thing kicked over. That’s the one I was on, just east of our farm there, going downhill. And coming up the hill was a guy in a car. I didn’t recognize the car, but when it got closer, I could see it was Donny Goodman. He waved at me just before we passed, and I managed to get my arm in the air for a return wave. I didn’t even think about it—I just did it. But I hit my thumb on the throttle lever coming up and I thought I
could see a smirk on Donny’s face.

  It was a terrible wave. I dreamt about it. I’ll never forget it. But now, more than thirty years later, I’m probably as good a waver as you’ll find in Minnesota, but I still don’t know it all, and if I’m tired, sometimes I’ll even give the wrong wave in a situation.

  Waving is a greeting delivered from a distance when one or both people are in some sort of motorized vehicle traveling in opposite directions. No waving situation develops when both people are out of their vehicles, because a wave involves the passing process, when one or both are going by.

  However, when you meet somebody while you’re out walking, a wave can be used to supplement the spoken word, but is never used by itself. (And for that matter, the classic wave from vehicle to vehicle never includes a verbal exchange. Rolling the driver’s window down and saying something as you pass would be the height of folly. Even if you are both on open tractors with no cab, don’t speak.)

  If you meet and pass somebody walking, you should say “How’s it going?” or “What’d’ya think of this weather then?” If you toss in a wave, make it a simple opening and closing of the hand. Any of the motorized waves would be overstaffing.

  If a vehicle goes by your place while you’re on the ground sawing down dead elms, walking beans, or changing the oil in the tractor, the responsibility for starting the wave process is yours. You look up or you don’t. If you look up, you will wave if you know the person. On rare occasions you may wave at a perfect stranger going by if they look like they need a wave. This is the “goodwill” wave. The Minnesota Tourist Council ran a big billboard campaign on it a few years back, trying to get us to perform more goodwill waves. I think we’re back to square one now, though.

  A word about the “why me?” wave that does occur in some situations when both people are on the ground out of their vehicles and are standing still and see each other across a room or yard full of people holding plates of food. It usually happens at a family reunion, or a wedding, or some other place where you would rather be anyplace else than. This wave is delivered with the arm hanging at your side, the neutral position. The only motion is in the wrist—bring the fully opened hand up about 60 degrees and hold it a second and then slowly bring it down. This wave means, roughly: “I see you’re about as miserable as I am in this deal.”

  Waving, by the way, takes place in the country, and in some smaller rural towns where everybody knows everybody else. But in the Twin Cities, or Duluth, or even Mankato and the other burgeoning urban centers of Minnesota, even people who know each other do not wave at each other. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with cities, I don’t know. Neighbors in cities will sometimes wave at each other over their fences, as long as one of them doesn’t have a dog that turns over garbage cans or yipes all night.

  Another thing. Don’t substitute honking for waving unless the other person just got married or you notice oats leaking from the truck where the rags fell out.

  How Often to Wave

  Never wave more than once if the same situation develops again in the same day. You wave twice at a person only if on the second time by they have either changed vehicles (bigger tractor, tractor to three-wheeler) or changed grains (hauling corn first time, beans second). If they’ve only taken off their jacket or changed seed corn hats, you should not wave again.

  Sighting

  Begin evaluating and identifying the approaching vehicle as far ahead as possible. It goes without saying that you should know what vehicles your friends and neighbors are currently driving and be able to recognize every single one of them from a distance. Once you are pretty sure you know who it is, get ready for the wave by easing up your grip on the steering wheel with your right hand. Even left-handers use their right for waves, don’t ask me why. Clear a path for your arm: hitting the windshield or any other part of the vehicle or your own body during the wave is bad form. Also, do not lose control of your vehicle. If waving means you will risk driving into the ditch and out into the field, forget it. The other person will get over it in time.

  When to Wave

  If you are both in fast vehicles, the waving situation develops and is over before you can say “Boo,” so wave when the vehicles are about ten yards apart. If you are both in slow vehicles—driving by the crops in the pickup or trying to find out where that turn is—the time to wave is pretty important, otherwise the wave vacuum can occur: the wave comes too soon and you are just passing each other without anything to do. If you wave too soon, it is best to check the pin on the wagon or find out what is under your foot. In fact, in slow vehicles, most drivers inspect their equipment right up until the passing moment.

  Kinds of Waves

  This is the tough part. The wave itself. It’s so easy to foul up. It’s almost better not to wave—or even honk the horn—than to use the wrong wave. Here are a few guidelines.

  The ordinary garden-variety wave here is the finger wave. Your hand is gripping the steering wheel, you meet another vehicle, and you raise the index finger. You don’t leave it up, you just flash it. The finger wave has more variations than I intend to go into here. Watch for it, try to imitate it.

  The thumb is never featured in a wave.

  Two- to four-finger waves are commonly used between fast-moving vehicles, but the nicely executed single-finger wave is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. To me, it perfectly sums up the Minnesota character that I love so much. The finger wave from the steering wheel: when you get it right, you’ll know you’ve arrived and you don’t ever have to leave again if you don’t want to.

  In general, if the situation for the wave is uncommon—say, if you or the other person has a gutted deer on the hood—then the wave should be a product of the imagination, but would certainly involve some horizontal movement of the whole arm.

  A newcomer to Minnesota can’t expect to do more than get the rudiments of waving down before crossing the border. Practice at home. Get a member of your family in a second vehicle and go by each other and wave. At least you’ll have the mechanics of it down.

  There is one Minnesota wave that doesn’t come up all that much, once per person being the average. But you might as well be aware of it. Minnesota ranks very low among the states in production of famous last words, but we’re high in production of last waves.

  —“Did he say anything before he died?”

  —“Nope. He just waved and then dropped his head on the pillow.”

  In this situation, the return wave is optional.

  Paradise

  Driving up north in the summer to a lodge on one of Minnesota’s fabled1 ten thousand lakes has been a tradition for well over a century. Some of the first vacation lodges2 rented to tourists and in-state adventurists toward the last decade of the nineteenth century and into the first decade of the twentieth could only be reached by boat and a lengthy trek with heavy canvas backpacks. The only amenities provided were a front door without a lock, a couple of windows, a wood-burning stove, a table, and cast iron cookware. The fishing was outstanding, nobody starved, and the arrival of a black bear or a wolf felt like a friendly welcome to the neighborhood. It was a somewhat safe education in survival for children and parents alike, a link to our American past, and tip of the hat to our ancestors for being so tough. Children young and old were in hog heaven in these lodges.

  That sort of back-to-the-land tourism is still being approximated in the Boundary Waters of northeastern Minnesota in 2012: canoeing, portages, camping in tents, cooking over open fires, and yes, a welcome3 to the neighborhood from the odd wolf, black bear, or cougar.

  Paradise Relaxed

  By 1987, when How to Talk Minnesotan was published, fishing lodges in Minnesota continued to be extremely popular for visitors seeking a little peace and quiet and a chance for total relaxation. Walleyes were caught and fried fresh less than an hour from the water. Visitors went swimming or water skiing. They periodically fired up the rental boat for a “Sunday drive” around the lakeshore to look at the other lodges
and the many second homes of Minnesotans and the huge summer homes of the sort of rich and sort of famous. They took naps whenever they felt like it. They read the books they brought from the library back home. They told stories around the campfire on the beach. The guys ambled up to lodge headquarters where they talked to the manager about life in the Northwoods, maybe tipping a brew with the other guests, many of whom were summer friends, because they too had been coming there forever it seemed. Over the years families became sentimentally attached to a particular lodge and even a particular cabin. Not going back every year to Cabin 7 would have been a sacrilege, especially so since somewhere along the way three generations had begun to make the northern trek, with Cabins 5 and 6 now part of the tradition.

  Paradise Lost

  I am not sure when the dam burst, but when I was up at the lake one year, probably 1998, a guy carrying a laptop was asking the lodge manager when he was going to get an Internet connection and how did he expect him to be out of touch with his office for so long. Nothing came of it and that guy never returned. We already had spotty cell service, and I for one thought spotty was quite enough, but the next year a cell phone tower rose blinking above the trees.

  And then all of a sudden new lodges and old in Minnesota started advertising broadband Wi-Fi, flat-screen TV with 120 cable channels, and DVD players, and with it came a host of Jet skis whipping around the lake. It was so loud some days, as my mother liked to say, you couldn’t hear yourself think. Air-conditioning became standard for lodges. The families arrived not in one car but in three or four SUVs that blocked views to the shore. Nobody seemed to be fishing much. Teenagers sat around looking at their smartphone screens, using the word boring like a punch in the nose. Nobody brought books, because like most Americans they got what they needed from TV. Cars were coming and going all day and into the night.