Note: Garrison Keillor recently suffered a stroke. This piece is dedicated to him, along with prayers for a complete and speedy recovery. It’s the least I can do for him, after all he does for me - and four million other people - every Saturday. Also please note that his show does not air in Alabama until Sunday. Yes, we're always behind, even in that.)
GONE LIKE THE LAST BISCUIT:
Garrison Keillor and The Ghost of Dixie Past
It is Sunday in Alabama. I am driving all over the about 700 wild, not too square miles Northeastern part of it, delivering express mail for the U.S.P.S.
It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.
And my boss made me.
But I don’t do it alone.
At one o’clock someone helps me.
Before then, I’m all on my own.
And bored out of my ever loving gourd.
But when that magic hour comes,
Even though I’m going to places where there are sometimes not one, but three rebel flags on tall poles flying in front of run down shacks
I fear no Rebel Flag.
And even though
I’m going to places so far up in the hills close to the Georgia line that the Deliverance Boys must surely be around the next dirt road corner waiting to ambush me... among other things.
I fear no Squealing.
And even though
I’m going to places that no one may have been since Sherman barely missed marching through here on his way to Atlanta, Macon, Dublin, Denmark and the Sea
I fear no hidden Jacks in the box home grown Neo Confederates.
Because now I’ve got something with me more powerful than fear.
(Here, when I read this to my little girl, she says, "Pancakes?)
No, honey, not pancakes!
And when I’ve got that something riding with me I laugh in the face of danger.
When I’ve got that with me I fear no evil, beast, nor lack of good directions back to the main highway and semi civilization.
For what I’ve got is stronger than my deceased grandmother’s old box of Bruton’s dipping snuff.
More unstoppable than a Southern Railroad locomotive pulling eighty boxcars of chitlins and grits.
More powerful than some nitwit standing legally on the side of the road by the President’s parade route with a loaded AK-47.
What I’ve got with me now is one man and every one of his many multi-talented friends.
They have been waiting for me.
And I have gladly picked them up for my journey.
Because we’re old friends now.
And I have gained their company by simply hitting one button in front of me in the car:
The play button on my radio.
And with that one simple push,
I’ve now got beloved hitchhikers riding with me on this dangerous and potentially disastrous journey into the pine forest backwoods - just as I do every week:
I’ve got Minnesota Public Radio and National Public Radio and the whole staff of Prairie Home Companion - including the band (with Tuba) stuffed in the trunk - all riding with me and watching my back.
But most of all...
I’ve got Garrison Keillor riding shotgun.
My main man.
How can I lose now?
And he’s humming "Somewhere Over the Rainbow"
while tapping his fingers on the armrest,
and looking out the window, watching for traps, both speed and bear, and Venus fly.
And he’s telling stories. Stories about Ice Fishing and Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire and what could have made his movie better.
And his friends are with him. Guest stars who would never ride in a car with me if it were not for the big Minnesotan bribing them to come along.
And...
So what if I am lost and night is falling.
Guy Noir is in the back seat with the beautiful girl from the bar who knows where the money’s at. And Guy knows how to get it out of her - how to get her to talk - if he doesn’t first fall for that long blonde Nordic hair, those green eyes of Ireland, and those legs that reach all the way from Saginaw to St. Paul, not to mention - for the fabric and tactile minded among you - the all natural sweater of the finest cashmere she is wearing, that must be like heaven to touch.
I keep glancing in the rear view mirror to see how he’s making out - with the questioning that is.
He is doing just fine. The interrogation is proceeding quite well.
But Guy doesn’t see it - but she is winking at me. Or has something in her eye!
Could it be... she wants ME?
And so what if my gas gauge is now near empty.
The sound effects man is back there, too, out of sight, laying on his back in the floorboard, whistling, doing what he does on his breaks when he is not needed - in this moment a most excellent version of Alvin the drunk chipmunk reading Hamlet in Greek, and a Tibetan Monk Channeling Andy Kauffman channeling Elvis Presley, and Andy Griffith singing Pee Wee Herman’s greatest hits about the Circus and Prison, complete with death row killers on the flying trapeze.
But now the sound effects guy IS needed.
He has to make the sound of the near last of my gas swirling around in the carburetor, it just starting to sputter.
And the sounds of the springs on my right front wheel strut coming unsprung from the huge bump we took when we ran over that porcupine 7.3 miles back. It was a monster. Had to be on performance enhancing steroids.
Then to that the sound man adds, the stroke of a master sound man - the just barely audible sound of the last of my transmission fluid dripping into the dirt road from a tiny leak caused by the final quill of that same porcupine.
You can stop now, sound guy. You’ve proved you’re incomparable.
But he doesn’t. He adds the sound of air slowly hissing out of three of the four tires.
Ok, that’s enough now, sound man, sir. Great job. We’re already done for here.
But it’s not enough. It is never enough for a highly skilled artist such as him.
He adds the coup de gras:
The sound of what no other sound effects man has ever attempted before, all the above mentioned sounds at once... PLUS...
the sound of a man passing gas... but with a Southern accent.
Then... with a Scandinavian accent.
Garrison and I look at each other. We each recognize our own. There is no denying it. The sound man is a masters master.
And so what if my headlights slowly cutting through the fog now suddenly light up a kudzu covered sign that says "Welcome to the Ghost of Dixie Past" - instead of Anniston/Oxford twenty miles, Rainbow City ten, like I was hoping for..
And so what if the red engine light chooses that very moment to come on and steam and smoke start pouring out from under the hood and my federal government car begins to come to a slow halt due to the failure of anyone to check the oil in over 300,000 miles.
Then the car stops dead.
Right in front of a old gray mailbox.
There is total silence
as the full meaning of the wording below the welcome part of the sign sinks into our minds. It says:
"We never surrendered, AND WE NEVER WILL."
And there is a bright yellow happy face below that, with the words "We’ve got you now, Carpetbaggers!" gleefully printed beside it.
And Garrison says, "Man, we may be in trouble now..." to which I reply, "What do you mean, we, Lone Ranger? I was born here."
And so what if we look up from the foot of a hill and up at the top you can see the flashing sign of the Jedediah Bates Motel, with small lettering saying Robert E. Lee, the Twenty Seventh, Proprietor. Jeffrey Davis Junior Junior, Chef. And Nathan B. Forrest, the Seventh... Hotel Security.
And so what if right next to that sign is an even smaller one that says, " Tanning Booths, Restaurant, and Chainsaw Repair," and a little menu boast under the restaurant part that says "Fried Yankees our Specialty."
And so what if we now see Glenn Beck coming screaming and yelling and frankensteining down from the hotel to take our bags...
And Ann Coulter (or is that a scarecrow?) smiling, and waiting in the door way to check you in. (She loves to check in lost liberals.)
And Sarah Palin behind her, practicing her "you betchas" and waiting to serve you Alabama Moose (Possum) in the parlor. And very willing to give you directions in the morning - if you live that long - and as long as the directions are to Russia.
And so what if I am now so far back in time and the unreconstructed past and present history that my last minute attempt to call 911 on my cell phone can’t pick up anything but an alien space ship (which looks suspiciously like pancakes) looking for a quick place to land, and a leader to be taken to for a rational discussion of tolerance among (interplanetary) peoples and politicians.
(Good luck with that here, aliens!)
And they are going to need a room. A good meal. And a conservative brainwashing. Free. Compliments of Hotel Management.
And so what if in three seconds my whole world is about to go to hell in a hand basket when they learn I don’t want to check in, I’m happy being an independent..
But none of this matters,
Because,
I’ve got Garrison Keillor and his whole crew riding with me,
and Suddenly,
It’s time for The Prairie Home Companion Show to begin -
Brought to you by Powder Milk Biscuits
and the music is kicking in and Garrison comes in on cue singing
"Have you tried them Powdermilks?
Have you tried them Powdermilks?
If your family’s tried’em You know you’ve satisfied ‘em,
Have you tried them Powdermilks?"
Then after he gets you hungry for those mouth watering biscuits it’s time for
The Lives of the Cowboys and a Letter from Home and singers singing and
The News from Lake Woebegon
And it’s ALL good,
and it’s making me think,
and making me laugh,
And just as Rush Limbaugh rises up from the muck outside my car window
and smashes his scary face against it
in a last ditch attempt to ruin my day
and puts his hand on the door to jerk it open and pull my
Communist, Socialist, Democratic, probably Nazi loving pinko voter butt out of the car,
I read the name on the mailbox and it is the same as who I have my last Express mail of the day for: The Sons of Republican Confederate Veterans! And I power down the window a crack and slide it out to him and say "Have a nice day" as he takes it and says "Thank you," momentarily forgetting that he hates every bone of my racially tolerant body.
He throws the big envelope down as I try to start the car.
There is no sound. The sound man is on a regularly scheduled union authorized break. We’ll have to go it alone here.
Limbaugh sticks his hands in the window crack as I power the windows up again and there would be the sound of knuckles crunching if we had a sound man.
Ouch!. That must have hurt.
I try to start the car again as Coulter and Beck and Palin are now surrounding the car, banging on it shouting, "Un-Americans! You’re Un-Americans!"
Palin is now on the top of the car looking down into my face with her pit bull one but upside down and I freeze up in total fear that this woman might actually win the 2012 elections!
And just as they start rocking the car in preparation for turning it over,
Garrison reaches over and tries the key one last time
and the motor spurts to life and I stomp on the gas and I leave Rush with nubs for fingers and rubber from torn up retreads flying in all four automatic gears on the dirt road (Go sound effects man, go!) (He’s back from break now, Thank God!)
And I throw dust all over the comic crew now chasing us with pitchforks and tar and feathers and family value ropes made in Brazil by former public servant mistresses...
And suddenly I hear bells pealing the alarm up at the "Church of Our Blessed We’re the Only Ones Right" steeple, now visible behind the hotel - and I see that Fox News - which has a branch station in every town in the South - is shouting, "The Public Option is Coming! The Public Auction is Coming!"
And lights are coming on in double wides all over the hills surrounding us, and people are opening their doors and coming out on the porches to see what the ruckus is about - all dressed in their same red state jammies - the top of which all say "WE’RE BIRTHERS AND WE’RE PROUD OF IT!."
And the Birthers see the spaceship hovering above us the same time we do and they start shouting "MEXICANS!" at them and "Go home you illegal aliens!" and "Amerika for Amerikuns!"
And Coulter is pointing at me and yelling to the crowd "HE’S ONE OF THEM! The driver! He’s a MUSLIM! Or at least he looks like one! Get him anyway - even if he’s not!"
And me and Garrison look back over our shoulder and the whole mob is coming after us now chanting "DON’T KILL GRANNIE! SAY NO TO OBAMA DEATH PANELS!" and the old standard, "LOVE US OR LEAVE US!"
And there the former Governor woman non quitter person dressed to the pre-election max getting in the side of a whirling, waiting helicopter and somebody is handing her a big, big gun, and something tells us it is open season here on stray Democrats and she is not going hunting penguins.
And as the helicopter lifts off there is Todd on his championship snowmobile and he is revving up to chase us but it looks like his heart is not really in it
but he knows part of a six million dollar book deal may be in it for him if he just tries to look like he’s helping, so now he’s coming along behind us, gonna hit us with a snowball or something,
and just then
Guy Noir looks up at what is going on from his continuing interrogation of the blond and screams "LOOK OUT!" as we are about to drive right off a cliff and Garrison jerks the steering wheel hard to the left and we escape certain death...
And we veer off the left shoulder and we go head/car first right into a train tunnel!
And the sound effects man let’s us know with whistles and without any hesitation that the train from Chattanooga to Mobile is about to enter the other side going just as fast as we are going in this side
and just as in the dark the bar blonde leans forward and whispers in my ear "Help me get rid of Guy Noir, and I’m all yours..."
Garrison stomps on my already stomped gas pedal foot and we shoot like a NASA rocket in a Jimmy Neutron cartoon through the tunnel
Missing the oncoming certain smash by fractions of an inch
(Or fractions of a millimeter if you are reading this in Europe)
and jumping a washed out bridge Dukes of Hazard style at the same time...
(Was that Daisy Duke skinny dipping in the creek below???)
And landing with a sudden stop and a huge explosion on all four now flat tires...
Right in front of my house.
And there...
my wife’s got the porch light on
and I can see my cat looking out the window...
Saying to herself, "What the HELL was that?"
And I turn to Garrison and say,
"Thank God we made it, Garrison...
But he is gone.
Vanished...
I get out and look at the car.
A little wash job tomorrow and it’ll be good as new.
I go inside my house
and my wife asks me, "How was the trip this week?"
And I say, "Great."
She says, "Any problems?"
I say, "Nah. Just a normal day."
Then I add, "Got any more of them Powdermilk Biscuits?"
And she says, "The ones in the big brown bag, with the dark stains to indicate freshness?
And I say, "Yeah."
And she says, "The ones made from whole wheat raised by Norwegian bachelor farmers?"
And I say, "Yes, Yes."
And she says, "The ones that are not only good for you but are pure, mostly?"
And I say, "Yeah. Those for goodness sake.."
And she says, "No. We’re out."
And I say, "There was one left when I left this morning,"
And she says, "I ate it."
And I say, "The whole thing?"
And she says, "Yep."
And so I go to bed...
Hungry for more Powdermilks...
And for more Prairie Home Companionship.
Garrison and his crew are gone. Vanished.
Gone like the Biscuit.
But only until next Sunday,
When he and the crew will sing and tell more stories
that will make me think,
make me laugh,
and break my heart...
only to put it back together again at the end of my ride
with the glue of hope - that people -
including most Republicans,
aren’t really so bad after all.
And getting me through one more boring Sunday
of riding the back roads and byways of northeastern Bama,
The land that time forgot...
The land from Sand Mountain to Mentone...
From Flat Rock to Shiloh.
From Pisgah to Skirum
From Snead to Spring Garden.
From Buck’s Pocket and Tait’s Gap
All the way to Fackler
(Did I mention Fyffe? And Keener and Dogtown?
Hustleville and Nixon’s Chapel? Susan Moore?
Ragland and Allgood? Don’t want to leave THEM out!)
Me and the gang, Sunday after Sunday
going to all those places and all the lonely points in between,
All the while knowing that
no matter what wing nuts I encounter,
I will eventually recover and find my way back home.
Just as Garrison must get well again after his recent illness.
He’s got to.
Who else can I get to ride with me,
into this Southern Pine woods forest Never Never land...
Week after week,
and at such a low price:
Just one telethon and donation a year -
which I am sad to admit, I’m way behind on donating to.
But if you’ll just get better Garrison,
I promise...
I’ll give you double next year (or triple if I hit the Georgia lottery this week!)
And if I don’t...
You can send Guy Noir down here looking for me
to find me lost in Dixie
And tell him good luck with that! It might be his hardest case ever!
As when driving I sometimes I don’t even seen a mailbox, much less a double wide, (possibly double wifed) trailer - I mean prefabricated mobile home - for hours at a time.
Sometimes I think I may in fact not be on a road anymore, but on the Appalachian Indian Trail.
Or on one of the Creek Indians lesser known hunting paths.
Seriously though Garrison,
And the whole Prairie Crew...
Thanks for always being there for millions of others,
and lonely old me...
As I ride the dusty old range alone
In the service of his majesty
the Federal Government,,,
trying to deliver these overnight express packages
of life saving medicine or
do it yourself crystal meth lab chemicals...
Or whatever is so important enough that people without telephones or cable TV or outhouses
just have to have it overnight.
And Dear God, if as an aside I can speak with you for a moment,
I want to ask you,
that if I touch the radio as he - Mr. Keillor - this master of storytelling speaks...
Will you please let some of his incredible treasure chest full of talent
run through the speaker and up my right arm and into my brain
and down through my left hand and into the pencil I write with
when I drive,
(I’ll drive with my elbows for a moment)
so that someday
I can write some thing
that will touch others in the way
you help that man touch us all.
If you can do that, thanks and
Amen.
Will.
P.S. Also, from now on please also send a great hail of static after every Prairie Home Companion Show is over... as nothing else is on after that except televangelists.
Thanks.
Coming in My Next Sunday's 1:PM Diary: "Make Me Young!"
WillBevis.com