Lake Wobegon Summer 1956

by Garrison Keillor

  Meanwhile, it was the bottom of the second inning, the Whippets were down 1-0, and I couldn’t remember exactly how or why. I tried not to listen to him, but he was hard to not listen to. When he wasn’t yakking, he was singing to himself, going bip-m-bip-m-bip-a-bomp-bomp, hmmm-ba-dee-ba-dee-mmm-ba-dee, mmm-ba-dee-mmm-bomp-bomp. After the second inning, he dug into one of the cardboard boxes and got out a 45 and played it over the PA—You got a Ford, you’re on board.

  A Chevrolet, you’re okay.

  I told him I heard that song on Weegee and he nodded. “It was Number One there for three weeks in a row.”

  Most of the crowd took the song as a minor annoyance, no cause for alarm, but a few heads turned to gaze our way, and one of them was Leonard Larsen, sitting next to his dad. Leonard peered up at me, trying to catch my eye, his hand raised, ready to wave, a tentative smile on his face. He was hoping I’d invite him up to sit in the press box with me and Jim Dandy. No way, José. He shielded his eyes with his hand and waved with the other and I ignored him. Plead all you want, pal. I’m here, you’re down there. That’s just how things are. No hitchhikers. And if you think it’s so great up here, guess again.

  Jim Dandy put the 45 back in the paper sleeve and scribbled on it and handed it to me. It said, “To Larry, All the best in life, Your friend Jim Dandy.” Jim Dandy was an illegible squiggle with a fancy scrollwork tail under it. “Someday this’ll be a keepsake. After you see us on Ed Sullivan you can tell your girlfriend, you knew that guy when he worked at the ballpark.” He grinned and shook his head at the wonderful irony of it. Then he said, “What are those words, kid?” He was looking at my word list, auspicious, entreaty, incipient, and so forth. “You don’t want to use words like that, kid. People’re gonna think you went to college, they won’t believe a thing you say.”

  There was a knock on the door. It was the bratwurst man. Mr. Dandy bought four with onions and mustard and ate them fast, a brat in two bites, and chewed with his mouth wide open and chased them with vodka and tomato juice, and then reached down for a coffee can and took out his whanger and peed into the can; meanwhile, he had the binoculars trained on the maracas below. “This is the life, isn’t it, kid?”

  It seemed to be the life for him all right. Up high in the press box, getting a royal perspective on things, the green field of manly combat and the motley crowd of peons below. He snorted at them. “Norwegians! They don’t even contemplate sex unless they’re too drunk to go fishing. Then they marry the ugliest woman in town so they won’t have to think about it too often. Or marry a pregnant woman to save themselves the time and trouble. A Norskie spends his life looking at the rear ends of Holsteins, shoveling the feed in one end, shoveling the shit out the other, pumping the milk out the bottom, twice a day, 365 days a year, a prisoner of lactation. Couple times a year, he nails the old lady, and a couple times he slips off to the ballpark with a roll of cash in hand, looking to make a wager, and that’s when I like to make the acquaintance of Mr. Dairy Farmer—yes, sir! When he’s ready to roll—oh yes!—you let him win a few, and then you lift that roll of fifties from his pocket like you were taking sugar from a bowl.” Then he spotted another woman in the crowd. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, honey in the dish!” he cried. “Coupla mangoes on that babe! Oh, buttercups! Have mercy!” He had examined every female chest in the grandstand and had yet to see one he didn’t like. They were all good, there were no bad ones in the bunch.

  “You ever hear ‘Gambling Man’ on Weegee?”

  I hadn’t. So he played it after the second inning.

  I’m here to tell you people

  I’m doing all right.

  I am a rambler and gambler,

  I play cards every night.

  I have a porterhouse steak

  Every night for my board.

  That’s more than any loafer

  In this town can afford.

  Got a beautiful mattress

  That’s a couple feet deep.

  An electric blanket

  Keeps me warm when I sleep.

  And I earned it with poker

  And craps every night.

  I tell you folks,

  I’m doing all right.

  He was halfway into the vodka now and getting more expansive by the minute and it wasn’t even the fourth inning yet. He leaned back with his feet up on the table and the microphone on his chest and I told him who was next up to bat and he switched on the mike and announced it. A couple times I had to reach over and switch off the mike because he started commenting on the mangoes and maracas.

  “Some people go into music for the money. Ha! In two years, kid, I’ll have a million bucks, bet you anything, but it can’t make you happy like a woman can. No, sir. Money is something to throw off the back of a train. Women are the reason to go into rock ’n’ roll. All the babes flock to the band. Hit bands mean hot babes. You do your set and a coupla encores and you come off backstage and they’re standing there by the back door, the babe auction, holding out the paper for the autograph, and their eyes are saying, Take me, Jim Dandy. Yes, sir. And they come back next day saying, ‘Jim Dandy, do that thing again!’ I got more young honeys than I personally know how to handle. A bass singer like myself has more capacity than the average man, but five women a day is physically taxing to me, and the backlog of womanhood seeking my attention—I have to tell them, ‘Get in line. One man can only do so much!’ ”

  He grabbed another 45 from the box and slapped it on the phonograph, but before he got the needle down, in came the other Doo Dads, Richie and Earl the Girl and Stevie John, all in white Bermudas and peppermint-striped shirts and sneakers and none of them happy to be here. I shoved over into the corner, squished between the boxes of product and the table, and tried to get my mind on the game, but it was hard to ignore the Doo Dads up close, they had large personalities, like Jim Dandy but not so well lubricated.

  —What a bunch of pumpkin-rollers and nose-pickers we got before us today. Oh my. Rednecks as far as the eye can see.

  —You on bush patrol, J.D.? Who’s yer little pal?

  —Shut yer yap.

  —My, somebody’s flying high.

  —C’mon, you lovebirds, stop the goosing.

  —Gimme some of that rope, my good man.

  —You got hash?

  One of them opened up a brown bag and pulled out a cigar, and when he lit it, it smelled like burning tires.

  —He’s got the real shishi, the black Russian.

  —Hang it on me, scout.

  —Oh, Nelly, let those temple bells ring.

  Thick smoke rolled out the windows.

  —Don’t breathe, kid.

  I was trying not to. Meanwhile, the Whippets had leaped into the lead on the strength of Roger shutting down Avon and also hitting himself a nice triple, scoring the Perfesser and Boots. Mr. Dandy shared the Doo Dads’ cigar and announced the batters—“Leading off for Avon, second-baseman Fred Lederer!”—and down below Leonard kept glancing up, trying to catch my eye, and the bratwurst man returned with four more dogs, slathered with mustard, and the vodka dwindled, and finally came the seventh-inning stretch, and Jim Dandy announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome . . . the Doo Dads!” and they gathered in close to the microphone and sang—HOME BASE! (That’s the place!)

  HOME BASE! (You win the race!)

  I got to first when she gave me a kiss,

  I got to second when I squeezed her like this!

  I rounded second, I was going hard,

  Slid into third and caught her off-guard,

  I got a glimpse of nylon and lace

  And I headed for HOME BASE!

  And they started in growling and howling and squealing and moaning in rhythm, and Jim Dandy grunting and grinding like a slide trombone and Earl the Girl up high squeedling and whining and Stevie John singing, Here it comes here it comes here it comes closer closer, and Richie panting and sighing and then they stopped and sang two big chords with Earl going up through the ceiling, HOME
... BASE!!!!

  There was not big applause at the end, but Jim Dandy hollered into the microphone, “How about a big hand for the Doo Dads, ladies and gentlemen? They came all the way over from Millet for the game and to entertain you folks today, let’s give them a big hand!” And a few more hands clapped.

  And then the Avon batter came to the plate and Roger looked in for the sign.

  Jim Dandy shoved the microphone down toward me. “Here, kid, have yourself a ball,” he said. And the Doo Dads piled out of the press box and loped down the stairs, waving to the crowd that sat ignoring them. There was so much I wanted to ask him—Did he ever hear from Ricky? Has the FBI talked to him about Ricky? What do FBI agents look like? Where do the Doo Dads record their music? Is it heard all over America or only in Minnesota? Has he ever met Elvis Presley?—but they were gone, disappeared into a passageway and out to the parking lot, and I heard their cars start up, one by one, four big mufflers snarling, and the rear tires kicking up gravel, and out of the lot they roared, and four pairs of rear tires caught the asphalt, one after another, four long screams of rubber, as they raced out of Lake Wobegon, heading for the HiDeHo, where they would sing that night to a crowd that really truly loved them, and afterward there would be a line of brand-new girls backstage. Nobody announced the players over the PA and the crowd did not seem perturbed at the lack of this information. Leonard sidled into the press box after the eighth and tried to make chitchat. I told him I was busy. I said, “I’m on deadline.”

  19

  The Freshman Fireballer

  The Whippets won the game, and I worked Sunday night and Monday morning polishing my story, and made Roger Guppy a hero of the first order, a rookie hooker, a blazing young southpaw, a Whippet rifleman, a freshman fireballer , and Ronnie Piggott was a fleet-footed shagger who patrolled the garden and garnered flies, and the Perfesser became the veteran speedster and he came up to the dish and got a ticket to first, whereupon he purloined second and was in position to waltz home when Roger Guppy larruped a mighty sacrifice fly deep in the garden. The next inning, Roger snagged a scorcher at shoelace level and tossed the pill to shortstop Rasmussen to set up a 1-6-3 DP, erasing an Avon rally. The old spitballer Ernie (mound main-stay Ernie Sauer) came in for Roger in the eighth and toyed with the Avon stickman before giving him his walking papers. Backstopper Milkman Boreen became a slugger, a cloutsman, a lumberman : he applied the lumber to the ball, powering a homer and sending the Avon twirler to the showers. Our boys drilled the ball, they hammered the ivory, kissed the apple, aired the orb, pummeled the pill, pasted the pellet, rammed the radish, tore into the tomato, slammed the spheroid, overpowered the oval, bounced a beaut into the bleachers, sent one by airmail. They donned their spikes and crossed bats with the foe and brought home the bacon. They rang the bell, stole the show, and took the verdict. They jolted the Bards, squelched their rally, settled their hash, and wowed the fans.

  The big sister was steamed over me breaking into print in the Herald Star and complained bitterly to Daddy that she was pulling more than her fair share of the load, dishwashing-wise. She watched my yardwork like a hawk for any sign of slackery and was overjoyed to point out a few incipient dandelions by the birdbath. She told Mother that there definitely was smoke on my breath. And she snatched up the paper on Wednesday and opened it to the sports page (“Whippets Limn Avon, 5-4, As Guppy Pitches 9-hitter”) and read it out loud, my first story, shrieking at every poetic turn of phrase. Portside flinger Roger Guppy twirled a nifty nine-hitter—“Twirled! Did he have a baton? Were there tassels on his hat? Why don’t you just say pitched?” I liked twirled because it lent some artfulness to the pitching. But there was no explaining that to her. Local baseballites were treated to a thrilling sixth-stanza swatfest by sticksmiths Piggott and Tommerdahl, who larruped the leather for back-to-back round-trippers, hoisting the home nine from the cellar to sixth rung in the New Soo circuit.

  It was a small story, six paragraphs and box score, sandwiched between a column of Cards of Thanks (“The Joseph Schrunk family wishes to thank everyone at Our Lady of Perpetual Responsibility Church for their kindness and prayers during our father’s recent illness”) and an article from the state home-extension service about how to liven up your summer dinner table with colorful centerpieces made from milk cartons, and it was a real bell-ringer, including the line an auspicious sortie behooving incipient contenders as the Whippets thwarted the pliant Bards, to plaintive entreaties from the drowsy crowd.

  I dropped by the ballpark Wednesday evening for practice and there was Roger in the dugout, rubbing oil into his glove. He offered me a cold beer from under the bench. I declined. He said, “Nice story about the game. I like your style, man. You really know your onions.” He finished with the glove and started oiling his shoes.

  I would’ve gladly oiled them for him. My face burned from the compliment. I sat at the end of the bench. “Yeah,” I said. “It was a good game.”

  He said, “Kate said you write other stuff.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Poems. Stories. Different things. Whatever I think of.”

  “I really envy somebody who can do that. Just make things up.”

  “It’s not that hard once you get going.”

  To the great surprise of all, the Whippets won their first three games, with Roger on the mound every time. He was a stomper. The opposition was accustomed to feasting on the big meatballs served up by the Whippets’ knuckleballer, Ernie Sauer, and instead, here was a barn-burning aces-high pitcher who tossed his hair back and wound up, his right knee tucked under his chin, and kicked and threw a hard one under your chin and one across the plate, low and slow, and a third one breaking up and in, and the umpire pointed you to the dugout and off you went, carrying the bat like you had never seen one before.

  I sat in the press box game after game and tried not to breathe too much of Jim Dandy’s cigar smoke and gave Roger a nice write-up and also Ronnie and Milkman and Fred Schue and even the Perfesser if he didn’t mess up too bad. The others, like Boots Merkel and Orville Tollefson, there wasn’t much to say about. They were dead weight in the batting order, and in the field they were obstructions, like trees or boulders. Hit a ball at any of them, it bounced off.

  Uncle Sugar waited for me after Roger won his third game (Lakeside Nine Brands Bulls, 7-4; Ragin’ Roger Fans 6) and asked, “What do you think of him?” I said I thought Roger had a fastball, a curve, and a change-up and was the best ballplayer on the team. And he was a good guy, with an appreciation of the English language.

  “I wish I knew he were a Christian,” said Sugar.

  20

  Tomatoes

  It was a little envelope, the stamp slightly askew, the flap taped shut, and inside was half an index card, and on the back, in her small precise hand:Gary,

  The tomatoes are ripe and awaiting harvest. Where have you been keeping yourself? Are you anticipating a visit to your old aunt and grandmother in the near future or must we be patient and wait until the snow flies and your social obligations lighten?

  Aunt Eva

  The next Sunday morning, at the Breaking of Bread, sitting in the circle in Aunt Flo’s living room, I try not to look at Aunt Eva in her Sunday outfit for fear she is looking at me. I look at Kate instead, then Sugar, then Flo. If Mother is willing to tell me Eva is “not right in the head,” I wonder how much she isn’t willing to say. Last Sunday, Eva brought a rhubarb pie for Mother, and when Mother served it after dinner I declined a slice. The thought of poison entered my head. A crazy idea, yes, but maybe that’s how a crazy person thinks. Uncle Al stands, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed, raising up and down on his toes, and prays, thanking the Lord for His Precious Word that sufficeth for all our needs, surely. Maybe it sufficeth for them. But it doth not suffice for me. I want more. I want to kiss girls, just to name one.

  Sit in a car with a girl, my arm across the back of the seat, my right hand stroking her hair, and kiss her on the lips, our lips parted, my tongue in
her mouth.

  Go to the University of Minnesota and study writing and meet girls who are also interested in writing and kiss them.

  Have my own ideas about things, especially about girls.

  But the Sanctified are hard on independent thinkers. Thinking is something that is simply not supposed to happen. You’re supposed to read Paul’s epistles and conform your life to them, like you’d read a book about how to play the violin and then, by George, sit down and play the thing. Just do it. A writer in the Brethren is like a fish wanting to sing, you have to leave the lake and be eaten by a singer.

  Eva corners me afterward, when Grandma is talking to Mother. She leans close and I smell that smell so beloved to me when I was little.

  —You seem to be avoiding us.

  I pretend not to know what she means.

  —I brought you up from a pup. I know when you’re being sneaky. You can’t fool me.

  I say that I have been extremely busy with my yardwork and writing for the newspaper.

  —We don’t get the newspaper. I never found anything in it that was worth my time. Maybe you should send me a copy.

  Eva and I stand in the doorway to Aunt Flo’s kitchen and the others drift away from us. Uncle Al leads some of them to the backyard to look at his roses and Aunt Flo pours the wine back in the jug and puts it on the shelf. The remains of the bread she drops into the wastebasket! A revelation. The Body of Christ, thrown out with the garbage—I can’t wait to bring this to the attention of the big sister.