Lake Wobegon Summer 1956

by Garrison Keillor

  So we went in through the big front door of Our Lady of Perpetual Responsibility, a dramatic moment for Brethren children. The entering of a Roman Catholic church was an act so far beyond the pale, it never had to be mentioned: in that respect, it was like shoving your mother down the stairs or eating ground glass. We swung the door open on its black iron hinges, Catholic hinges, and stood in mute astonishment at the opulence and vastness and sheer color of it, the marble pillars, the gilded folderol in the lofty ceiling, the gold-flecked mosaics in the maroon tile floor. It was a cathedral, with great stone arches and columns and florid scenes in stained-glass windows and statues along the sides, angels and prophets and apostles, faces filled with compassion, extending their hands to bless us. Kate, for all her sophistication, was as stunned as I. We snuck up the side aisle toward the high altar, all pink and blue and pale rose, a flame flickering in a crimson urn. In the pews were scattered fifteen or twenty people, kneeling. I recognized Krebsbachs and Lugers and Magendanzes, people I knew from around town but I had never set foot in their houses. Old Mrs. Luger shot me a suspicious look when we eased into her pew, her at the other end kneeling, us sitting—then Kate knelt, and so did I. (When in Rome.) Up ahead was Father Emil bowing and kissing something on the altar and curtsying and turning, as David Magendanz in a white smock followed him, holding a brass pole with a candle at the end. I had never imagined David in a dress, all those years he was beating up people on the playground.

  It was the feast day of St. Joseph the woodcarver, Father Emil announced, a man of great faith who in old age set out to carve his magnum opus, a six-foot oak statue of our Lord kneeling in the Garden of Gethsemane, and he carved it in eight months—and a magnificent work it was—and the next morning he came to his studio to find that the oak had become living wood and sprouted branches and leaves, and his work was deformed. He chopped off the branches and carved a smaller figure, about three feet high, of St. Paul preaching, and it was likewise masterful, but lo, the next morning, the wood had sprouted branches again and the figure was ruined. So he left the branches on it, and carved a miniature figure of himself, the woodcarver, in a tree, like Zaccheus hoping to see the Lord, and this was his great work, and it was only eight inches high. And soon thereafter Joseph took sick and lay on his deathbed in great distress. And his friend Titus the Mocker came unto him and called out, in jest, “St. Joseph!” And the woodcarver whispered, “Not yet.” And gave up the ghost.

  David Magendanz looked straight at me through Father Emil’s peroration on St. Joseph, wondering why I was here, daring me to think bad thoughts about his little gown, and then turned when the priest turned to face the altar, and they both knelt and we read St. Joseph’s prayer.

  It was not a prayer such as Brethren prayed, asking God for the strength to continue doing the great and good things we are doing now for His sake and to withstand the indifference of the unbelievers around us, no, it was only a prayer for solace and comfort, a prayer for a prayerful heart, and Father Emil read it and didn’t try to improve on it with a lot of huffing and woofing.

  And then it was time for the bread and wine, and Kate looked at me and we scooted out.

  She was married to Roger at 6 P.M. in the Lutheran church, in a white satin dress and a cloud of veil, Roger in a navy-blue suit, his hair cut short, his brother Jim next to him in a white suit. An odd choice, I thought, and then I spotted the other Doo Dads in white suits, sitting in the front row. And next to them, with Mr. and Mrs. Guppy, was Ricky, in handcuffs, and a U.S. marshal next to him. He looked as pale and queasy as in gym class, faced with the rope climb.

  I sat between the older sister and Aunt Eva, who didn’t let out a peep when she arrived with Grandma, just plopped down next to me and sighed, twice, for the misery of being there and all. The organ played and the minister prayed and a girl sang “Oh Promise Me” and the minister read the parable about the tree bearing fruit and nodded to the Doo Dads, who hopped up and sang:If I speak—with the tongues—shang shang shang

  Of men and of angels—oooooooooooo yes—

  And have not love—love! love!

  I am become as sounding brass

  Or tinkling cymbal.

  Love suffereth long and is kind—so kind!

  Love thinks no evil—no no!

  Love beareth all things—O yeah—

  It believeth all things—

  It hopeth all things—

  It endureth all things.

  And now abideth faith—and hope—and love.

  These three.

  But the greatest of these

  Is love—ooooooooooooooh yeah.

  Daddy paid no attention to them, kept his eyes fixed on the floor, and after their quavery last chord, the minister stepped up and asked if there was just cause why these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony. Yes, I thought, there is every reason in the world. But probably they should go ahead and do it since we’re all here now.

  I could smell Aunt Eva’s smell and I was so sorry she was crazy. Maybe that’s why she was afraid of strangers, because a stranger could recognize her craziness which we didn’t because we were so used to her. I wanted to sit and cry for her. But everything is changed and we can never go back to who we were. The terrible things she dreamed about me turning my back on her are all true. We will never stand in the sunshine again, she and I, and wipe the dirt off a tomato and bite into it and taste the hot juice.

  And now I think I am going to cry.

  They vowed to love and cherish in sickness and in health and the bride wasn’t violently ill and she processed and recessed without sudden unseemly bodily eruptions and Aunt Ruth cried in a stately manner and Sugar blubbered like a baby, and sunbeams streamed in the window and motes of dust danced in them and then a naked girl dove into the water, her beautiful marble buttocks, her breasts like two friendly otters, and took me in her arms. And then the Mendelssohn march thundered from the pipes and I rose and filed out. All of the Brethren looked sheepish to be there in the midst of doctrinal Error, and anxious to leave. To get home and wash their hands and brush Error off their teeth.

  Kate stood in the reception line shaking hands, looking unsteady, thin-lipped, Roger looming over her, grinning at his buddies. I hung back, not knowing what to say. The Pontiac had been smeared with ripe cheese, and tin cans and shoes tied to the rear bumper, and she and Roger posed for pictures, her in his arms, and then they headed for the car to get away. “But what about the supper?” cried Aunt Ruth. Kate whispered something in her ear. “Well, that’s fine, honey, you go lie down,” said Aunt Ruth. “And take some Kaopectate.” The couple headed for the door, then LeRoy cried out, “One more picture!” and they stopped and posed, with their aunts and great-aunts and old teachers and the ladies from the Bon Marché. Aunt Eva stood in the back row, her face solemn but trying to smile, everybody trying to be as happy as possible under the circumstances, for Kate’s sake.

  I followed them out the door and waved as they drove away to live their new life, whatever it should be, and I started walking and wound up at the ballpark, dark, deserted, the streetlight casting a faint glow on the outfield. The long shadow of the grandstand stretched out beyond second base. I walked onto the field. So peaceful. To be alone in the ballpark, the simple grandeur of it, the darkness. The four light standards like rockets against the starry sky, the ghostly white foul lines to the deep corners. I took off my shoes and socks and walked across the infield grass and then stripped off all my clothes and folded them and set them on second base and turned and faced the stands.

  A person walks around in a cotton envelope, it’s good to open yourself to the fresh air and reveal yourself to the universe. Here I am, all secrets known, all desires revealed, and I am not ashamed. Go ahead and turn on the lights, I refuse to cringe and run away.

  I could imagine Ding Schoenecker in the dugout yelling, “Hey! You! Boy! What you think you’re doing?” Imagine Miss Lewis pale from shock and requiring smelling salts. Imagine the sister c
rying out, “See? I told you! Nobody believed me! So look for yourselves!” Imagine a story in the paper, BOY, 14, FOUND NUDE AT BALLPARK, HELD FOR OBSERVATION, PARENTS SAY HE “SEEMED NORMAL.” How could you do it? they said. Because it felt good. And because I am a writer and have to live life.

  I jogged out to center field and broke into a run as if chasing a long fly ball and stretched and caught the ball over my shoulder and put on the brakes and pivoted and hurled the gleaming spheroid to second base to catch the winged speedster by inches! I strolled toward home plate, acknowledging the roar of the crowd. The grass was cool and damp. My pecker had jounced around like a jockey in the course of my heroic dash and was now on full alert. I did not bother to cover it. I lay on the grass on my back and it stood like a flagpole in the night and then slowly began to bow to the crowd. I lay looking up at the stars and there were Grandpa and Jesus looking over the parapet of heaven.

  “I can’t believe him lying there stark naked like that,” said Grandpa. “What would people think?” Jesus said that people think all sorts of things. The human mind is like a cloud of gnats. Constant motion. That’s why you have to look on the heart. “Oh,” said Grandpa. He leaned farther over. The coast was clear. Nobody coming. “Shouldn’t we tell him to get up and put on his clothes?” he asked. Jesus said I would put on my clothes in approximately eight and a half minutes. Grandpa said, “I worry about the kid. Lying there with his wiener out. What’s going to become of him?” Jesus told him to take it easy and to come away from the window and get back to the singing and hallelujahs and the no-tears policy.

  AUTHOR OF

  Happy to Be Here

  Lake Wobegon Days

  Leaving Home

  We Are Still Married

  WLT: A Radio Romance

  The Book of Guys

  Wobegon Boy

  Me: The Jimmy (Big Boy) Valente Story

  COMING SOON

  Suspicious Behavior: How to Recognize It, How to Deal With It

  Are You Too Nice for Your Own Good? Changing the Type C

  Personality to Double D

  What You May Not Know About Glutens

  Appraising Your Hedgehog Collectibles

  The Case of the Hideous Guest (A Mrs. Whistler Mystery)

  More You Can Do with Mangoes

  The Fifteen-Minute Parent

  Using What We Know About Plants to Deepen Our

  Relationships at Home and Work