How to Talk Minnesotan

by Howard Mohr

  In a Minnesota conversation, the implication of an opinion is enough. The exact opinion is hardly ever called for, or is understood in a general sort of way.

  Take politics:

  —“Did you see who decided to run for governor? I don’t know.”

  —“Isn’t that always the way it is?”

  —“You got that right.”

  From the Desk of the President of

  the Minnesota Tourist Council:

  A Message About Hankies

  Whenever I leave home I carry a clean hanky because you never know when a tourist might be watching you. And nothing makes a bigger impression than a clean hanky. So let’s all do our part, especially during the flu and cold season when hankies really get a workout. Myself, I take a clean hanky from my dresser drawer every morning and fold it into a neat square and slip it into my back pocket. When I need to use it, I unfold it discreetly and make a little pocket in it for my nose and conduct my business. Don’t ever jerk the hanky out of your pocket and wave it around. And please watch the decibel level.

  Here are some other hanky tips. It’s okay to use a hanky to dab at your brow or take care of your sweaty palms. But don’t polish your shoes with your hanky, don’t use it to wipe up food spills off restaurant floors, don’t drape your hanky over your shoulder when you burp babies, and don’t carry your bait in it when you go fishing. And yes, I know it’s a temptation to keep the same hanky in your pocket for weeks and weeks, but it won’t make our tourists feel welcome.

  And while you’re at it, maybe carry two hankies. One for yourself and one for a tourist—just in case.

  Lists, the Phone, For Sure, Saying Too Much

  USING THE PHONE IN MINNESOTA

  As you should know by now, the heartbeat of conversation in Minnesota is the pause. If you don’t get that right, you won’t fool anybody except yourself. Just when you think we’re through talking, we get going again. By radical comparison, take New York cab drivers. If you say “Boy, the federal government, I wonder sometimes” to a New York cabbie outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral—which I did, the time I was in New York—you won’t have to say another word until you get to Kennedy Airport. I didn’t have anything else to say anyway. That same remark to a Minneapolis cabbie resulted in

  —“Yeah, you bet.”

  But I’ve drifted from the subject. What follows is a typical phone conversation in Minnesota. I have indicated pauses where they naturally occur. You can try this at home before your visit here, but make sure the other party knows what you’re up to, or they’ll think they’ve been disconnected or there’s trouble on your line. Frankly, when I make phone calls to strangers in other states (mostly catalog phone orders) I make an effort to reply as fast as I can because I get tired of hearing “Are you there?” or “Are you okay, sir?” It seems like New Jersey is the worst.

  Here’s the conversation. It’s one I had once. The person I dialed is called X because he had no interest in being in this book or any other. I don’t either but I don’t have any choice. Use it as a model. At first you should repeat it as written, but later you can develop your own subjects and force them into the basic framework. Maybe you can think of more interesting subjects. But interest is not my aim here—I’m just trying to help you survive. Making things interesting is mostly up to you. We’re not running an amusement park in Minnesota. If you want to be amused, go to Las Vegas or Disneyland.

  X: “Yep.”

  HM: “Is that you?”

  [Pause]

  X: “Who else would it be?”

  [Pause]

  HM: “I was gonna bring that kitchen table over tonight. I got her sanded.”

  [Pause]

  X: [X did not reply here because it was obvious.]

  HM: “I’d say it’d be a half hour.”

  [Pause]

  X: “I’ll be here.”

  [Pause]

  HM: “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be three-quarters of an hour.”

  X: “No problem.”

  HM: “Well.”

  X: “Yep.”

  HM: “So okay then. I’ll drive on over pretty soon.”

  X: “Good deal.”

  HM: “All right, I’ll get her loaded.”

  A word about wrong numbers in Minnesota. You know how it is, if you call a wrong number you feel like you stepped in something fresh. In Minnesota we believe a person is miserable enough without blaming them for the mistake. Here’s the full text of my conversation with a guy who called my number by mistake.

  X: “Ernie?”

  HM: “No, this is Harold.” [I never use my real name on the phone. You never know.]

  X: “Is this 5263?”

  HM: “I’m sorry, this is 4265. What did you want Ernie for?”

  X: “My Plymouth—it’s a ’79 V-8—it’s making a hissing noise. Ernie’s real good with Plymouths.”

  HM: “I’m not too bad myself. Is there a kind of dull clicking with it?”

  X: “Not really.”

  HM: “I’d say power brake vacuum booster.”

  X: “I appreciate it.”

  HM: “No problem. If you need any more help, give me a ring. You remember the wrong number, don’t you?”

  From the President’s Desk of

  the Minnesota Tourist Council:

  a Message About Front Yards

  As soon as the snow melts in May, I always make a point of going around with the wheelbarrow and picking up the dead animals and fruit rinds out of my front yard, because you never know when a tourist might drive by. In the winter nothing is more natural than throwing stuff out the front door into the yard, because it disappears under the snow. But in our two hot months, steak gristle, mayonnaise jars, and mounds of leftover broccoli-tuna hotdish can create an ugly, smelly mess. I’m not talking about the rusty cars and old washing machines—a guy’s got to have someplace to store that junk. But come on, folks, do your part for Minnesota and get that rotten stuff out of your front yard in May. I know it’s easy to let it go and just say, well, in a couple of months it’ll be snowing again, but right now, let’s face it, it’s not going to make our tourists feel welcome. And while you’re at it, maybe work on the backyard, too, just in case a visitor looks over the fence.

  FOR SURE

  For sure in Minnesota is in the ballpark with I don’t know. You can say “I don’t know” and mean that you do know but you aren’t saying how much you do know, or more rarely, that you actually don’t know. The same goes for for sure, which mainly means that you are not sure, but you are saying you are sure in order to avoid a disagreement, or you just plain want to get through a murky area of the conversation.

  You bet—by comparison—is usually a more positive statement of agreement. For sure or even You got that right both express reservations without going into detail. That’s not to say that you bet can’t be used to divert opinion—for example, where a citizen on a high horse says

  —“They oughta throw the book at ’em, sell their property, and give ’em a one-way ticket out of here.”

  —“You bet.”

  That you bet does not mean you bet, it probably means you don’t bet but are saying you do. On the other hand, it could also be taken as an all-purpose you bet that means: You and I are talking, we are here, it’s a short life, let’s keep it calm, what’s the sense of stirring up trouble? You got that right as a reply is a stronger commitment to the incensed citizen’s point of view: it could lead to elaboration on his part.

  A FURTHER WORD ABOUT SAYING TOO MUCH

  Rattling on and on is bad enough in Minnesota, but combining it with erratic gesturing and body movement could put a damper on your vacation. If you’re a visitor from the Big Apple, say, and are in the Big Soybean for the first time, think before you talk, and then cut what you were planning to say by 90 percent. If in doubt, don’t say anything.

  In other words, don’t tell your life story every time somebody asks you a simple question. There are married couples in Minnesota who ha
ve lived together for sixty years who do not know each other’s life stories. If you persist in telling a Minnesotan way more than he wants to know (which is way less than you think he wants to know), you might as well repack your bags and buy a return ticket—your vacation is on its last legs.

  HOW MUCH IS TOO MUCH?

  It’s hard to say. Take the world of Minnesota politics. When running for any office, big or small, you should avoid sounding like you have a platform. You should sound like you only have a plank or a five-gallon pail to stand on.

  Right answers are never long answers.

  In Boxelder, Minnesota, four candidates for the open spot on the school board answered this question: What changes in the school would you work for if elected? (Reprinted from the Boxelder Bugle, May 1985.)

  Candidate #1: I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.

  Candidate #2: Well, that’s a good question.

  Candidate #3: None, I guess. Things haven’t been too bad so far.

  Candidate #4: We’ve got to have more communication between administrators and the parents, and between the teachers and the parents. What would be wrong with starting a PTA? I believe the community should get more involved in how the school is run. It’s our school, after all.

  Which candidate won the election?

  #1 got 432 votes.

  #2 got 287 votes (she shouldn’t have said it was a good question).

  #3 got 103 votes (made the mistake of implying that there was room for improvement with the I guess).

  #4 got 12 votes (eleven relatives and self; eight other relatives, including his wife, voted for #1 and said so publicly).

  Enough said.

  EXCERPTS FROM

  The Minnesota Book of Lists

  (Reprinted by permission of the publisher.)

  The Top Fifteen Opening Gambits in Minnesota Conversation

  The heat’s not bad if you don’t move around.

  I notice they’re tearing up Twelfth Street for some reason.

  I never thought I’d say this last February, but I’m sort of looking forward to winter now.

  I never thought I’d say this last August, but I’m sort of

  looking forward to summer now.

  Has anybody ever said you look like Walter Mondale?

  Been having pretty good luck with that car?

  Do you think it really helps to burp the Tupperware lid?

  How much rain did you get? My gauge showed an inch.

  Were you listening to WCCO this morning?

  The Twins are struggling now.

  Looks like it’s shaping up to be a pretty nice day.

  Have you been to Canterbury Downs yet?

  To be honest, I never thought they’d get that Ice Palace built.

  This is funny weather, isn’t it?

  They said it wasn’t a tornado, but if it wasn’t, I don’t know what it was.

  Four Knickknacks Found on Every Minnesota Whatnot Shelf

  Miniature wicker cat.

  Souvenir spoon from St. Paul Polka Daze.

  Shiny rock from the backyard.

  Salt and pepper shakers shaped like grain elevators.

  A List of the All-Time Five Top-Selling Books in Minnesota

  Oversize Zucchini: A Guide to Painful Weight Loss, by Art Nelson, as told to Vera Quirk, his personal physician.

  Boy, It Makes You Wonder Sometimes, the memoirs of Floyd Yeakley, the father of the NoTug Milking Harness.

  Loose Bales, Dead Groundhogs, Funny Stripes on the Trees, poems by A. V. Hind, three-time winner of the coveted Governor’s Medallion for Poetry About Livestock.

  Consumer’s Directory of Pretty Good Deals on Things You Might Not Buy Otherwise.

  Stop and Go, by Dorey Burt, a first novel about driving to work every day.

  The Three Biggest Commercial Flops in Minnesota

  Tofu on a stick.

  Colored shirts.

  The 11 o’clock news.

  A List of Things Said to Customers in Minnesota Food Co-Ops

  You’re supposed to bring your own bags.

  That’s peanut butter—what did you think it was?

  It’s got sludge in the bottom of the jar because it’s 100 percent natural.

  Those are edible sweatbands.

  The Minnesota Long Good-bye

  If you say hello during your visit to Minnesota, you’ll probably say good-bye at some point. The Minnesota greeting may seem a little on the slim side to you, but don’t worry—we make up for it when we say good-bye. The clearest measure of affection in Minnesota is the Long Good-bye. Saying good-bye is our strong suit.

  Phrases

  We better head out.

  It’s getting late.

  It’s past my bedtime.

  Let’s hit the road.

  The most important thing to remember in the execution of a Minnesota Long Good-bye is to begin early, long before you actually climb in your car. The preparatory statement should be directed to your spouse—or to yourself if you’re visiting alone; the people you are leaving will overhear it.

  In the first stage of departure, never speak directly to those you are leaving. (Speaking indirectly will serve you well in other areas during your visit. See Indirectness elsewhere in this guide.)

  Dialogue

  (These guests have spent the day with their Minnesota hosts, evening has fallen, supper is over.)

  —“Well, Doris, I suppose we oughta hit the road.”

  —“You bet, honey. It’s about that time.”

  —“You two just got here. Stay awhile. Did we do something wrong?”

  You will be offered another cup of coffee and a light lunch. Go ahead and eat, let your food settle, then with a halfhearted lunge from your seat and a yawn, speak directly to your host:

  —“It’s past our bedtime. We really gotta go.”

  —“Are you kidding? The news just started.”

  Watch the 10 o’clock news at least through the weather forecast.

  —“Well, this is it, we’re leaving.”

  —“Why don’t you just stay over? I hate to see you on the roads this late. We got plenty of room. You can leave after breakfast.”

  —“No, we couldn’t do that.”

  —“There’s that double bed in the attic nobody’s using.”

  —“No, then you’d have some more sheets to wash. Can’t do it.”

  —“You’ll be fresher in the morning.”

  —“What do you think, Doris, maybe one night?”

  Since you’ll be staying the night, you can have another sandwich while you watch Johnny Carson, but when you get tired, don’t just stand up and go to bed. Here is the beginning of the Minnesota Long Goodnight:

  —“[Yawn] Boy, I tell you a guy gets tired.”

  —“You said it, I’m not gonna last much longer at this rate.”

  —“Well, if it’s all the same to you, then, I think maybe I’ll just hit the hay.”

  In the following dialogue a couple we’ll call Bob and Kate are about to leave the home of Harold and Phyllis, where they have stayed overnight. They may have been there two or three days, I don’t know. Try your hand at all the parts for practice.

  The good-bye begins in the living room on a Saturday afternoon. Nobody is moving toward the door, the coats are still in the closet. Everybody is seated.

  BOB: “I think maybe Kate and I are gonna head out then…”

  HAROLD: “Well, you don’t have to rush off, you know, we still got Sunday.”

  KATE: “We really meant to leave last night, Phyllis.”

  PHYLLIS: “You guys aren’t leaving because of that bed we put you on, are you? Harold and I like a soft mattress.”

  BOB: “It wasn’t too bad, really, but it’s a creeper. If you thrash around, it tends to inch across the floor.”

  HAROLD: “It’s always done that. One of these days I’ve got to nail it down. I’m gonna bracket the legs with two-by-fours, I think.”

  BOB: “That would do it. I fina
lly blocked it with my shoes so we could get some sleep.”

  KATE: “Let’s go, Bob. Get up off the couch.”

  PHYLLIS: “Oh, I hate to see you go. Why don’t you stay for a little lunch.”

  BOB: “We just ate an hour ago, Kate.”

  PHYLLIS: “Well, be that way. At least I’m gonna make up a food bag for you to take in the car. Baloney sandwiches, and a few of the Seven Dwarf Rainbow Bars.”

  KATE: “You don’t have to do that, Phyllis.”

  HAROLD: “Yes, she does. We’re not gonna let you out the door unless you take a little lunch with you. What if your car breaks down?”

  The next stage of any Long Good-bye generally takes place in another room of the house. In this dialogue, the scene is Harold and Phyllis’s kitchen. Both couples have their coats on and are standing near the door.

  BOB: “So okay then, we’re leaving now. This is it.”

  HAROLD: “I still say, you don’t have to go on our account. You sure you’re not mad about something?”

  KATE: “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Harold.”

  PHYLLIS: “You got the lunch, don’t you?”

  KATE: “I sure do, Phyllis, but what’s in this big Tupperware container?”

  PHYLLIS: “It’s the rest of that Norwegian Taco salad. Gwen brought it over, remember?”

  HAROLD: “Yeah, what makes it special is those pickled herring chunks in it. Boy, can she cook. Give ’em some of that Glorified Rice, too, Phyllis. We got a ton of it.”

  BOB: “No, we can’t take all your food.”

  PHYLLIS: “You’ll be doing us a favor.”

  KATE: “Well, maybe a little.”

  HAROLD: “Give ’em a lot.”

  PHYLLIS: “We’ll walk out with you.”

  BOB: “You don’t have to do that.”

  KATE: “We already got our coats on.”

  HAROLD: “Don’t like our company, or what?”

  The next stage of the Long Good-bye takes place outdoors, near the host’s house. In this dialogue, both couples are on the lawn. The car has not been started yet.