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Authors: Garrison Keillor
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things from Aunt Ruth who simply adored figurines that dispensed seasoning. So Flo became a prisoner of the collection, expanded it, tended it, bought glass display cases for it, gave an interview to thepaper about it, and now she is worried about vandals so she hardly dares leave the house for a day to go to Minneapolis. There is nothing in my house that I would grieve over if someone smashed it.
(Flo has never been able to throw away keys. Did you know that? She has hundreds of them, some rusted and going back fifty years. The houses they would have unlocked were never locked in the first place and the cars they started are in junkyards but she keeps them all. If you ask her, she’ll deny it, but I’ve seen the box in her basement.
I am going to sit out on the porch and inhale flowers for a while. So little time, dear, but what there is is sweet. I hope you are getting some sweetness in your busy life and that you feel at home in this world. Lonely men tend to sink—into liquor, or homicide, religion—you name it. Don’t sink, boy. Fly. That’s an old lady’s advice. Fly.
Love to you, dear,
Yr Grandma
P.S. Here’s some money I saved by not going to Florida. Spend it on something you always wanted.
7. FINDING RAOUL
B arbara found a poem Mother wrote on the back of a recipe for ginger cake—
Go away and leave me now .
Leave me to my tears ,
The long thoughts and the furrowed brow
The griefs of my long years ,
And I will paint my face and blush
And turn down the light
And wait here in a holy hush—
He’s coming—here—tonight .
And that reminded her to call Raoul in Minneapolis. She found his return address on letters stashed in a Scotch shortbread tin in Mother’s closet. Raoul Olson, Aldrich Avenue, Minneapolis. There was a snapshot of him on a beach, grinning, flexing his biceps, an old man in crimson swim trunks, old flesh on his bones, a big head of hair dyed black black black. Mother’s boyfriend. She had suspected his existence. Oh yes, many times.
There was the poem Mother wrote and recited for the Sweethearts’ Dinner at church one Valentine’s Day, and got choked up on the lines—
Long ago and faraway ,
You and me, a sunny day—
Long ago, another time ,
When I loved you and you were mine .
Well, you knew darned well it wasn’t a poem about Jack Peterson.
And then there was the call from Mr. Becker at the bank. “I shouldn’t say this but I’m worried about your mother,” he said. “She’s been spending a lot of money lately in Las Vegas and Reno and San Francisco and hither and yon, and it’s her money, and I’m not saying she’s overdrawn, she’s not, not even close, but I just wonder what is going on here.”
And then there was the urgency with which Mother packed up and left the house for a few days—“Who are you going to see?” Barbara’d ask. “You meeting a boyfriend?” Mother snorted. Well, here was her snort: an old sporting gentleman named Raoul Olson. A postcard with the Foshay Tower on it and tiny handwriting: “Dear Rosebud”—that’s what he called her, Rosebud—“Youre a peach and thats for sure, kid, you deserve nothing but the best. Speaking of which didnt we have some laughs in Reno. Id say so. The motel was deluxe and so was the company in my opinion. We need not mention the clams. Never again. Those folks by the pool will not be the same since they got to see us two cavorting on the slide like a couple of kids, you could hear them thinking were do those two get off having all the fun and us sittinghere like two prunes. And I sure do agree with you about the importance of ‘Naps.’ Two great minds are one on that particular subject. Nuff said.”
She googled him and he popped right up.
R AOUL O LSON (June 24, 1923–) was the beloved weatherman and star of the children’s show Yonny Yonson Of The Yungle on WCCO. Olson was born in Chaffee, North Dakota, and served in the Marines in World War II after which he worked for stations
(Flo has never been able to throw away keys. Did you know that? She has hundreds of them, some rusted and going back fifty years. The houses they would have unlocked were never locked in the first place and the cars they started are in junkyards but she keeps them all. If you ask her, she’ll deny it, but I’ve seen the box in her basement.
I am going to sit out on the porch and inhale flowers for a while. So little time, dear, but what there is is sweet. I hope you are getting some sweetness in your busy life and that you feel at home in this world. Lonely men tend to sink—into liquor, or homicide, religion—you name it. Don’t sink, boy. Fly. That’s an old lady’s advice. Fly.
Love to you, dear,
Yr Grandma
P.S. Here’s some money I saved by not going to Florida. Spend it on something you always wanted.
7. FINDING RAOUL
B arbara found a poem Mother wrote on the back of a recipe for ginger cake—
Go away and leave me now .
Leave me to my tears ,
The long thoughts and the furrowed brow
The griefs of my long years ,
And I will paint my face and blush
And turn down the light
And wait here in a holy hush—
He’s coming—here—tonight .
And that reminded her to call Raoul in Minneapolis. She found his return address on letters stashed in a Scotch shortbread tin in Mother’s closet. Raoul Olson, Aldrich Avenue, Minneapolis. There was a snapshot of him on a beach, grinning, flexing his biceps, an old man in crimson swim trunks, old flesh on his bones, a big head of hair dyed black black black. Mother’s boyfriend. She had suspected his existence. Oh yes, many times.
There was the poem Mother wrote and recited for the Sweethearts’ Dinner at church one Valentine’s Day, and got choked up on the lines—
Long ago and faraway ,
You and me, a sunny day—
Long ago, another time ,
When I loved you and you were mine .
Well, you knew darned well it wasn’t a poem about Jack Peterson.
And then there was the call from Mr. Becker at the bank. “I shouldn’t say this but I’m worried about your mother,” he said. “She’s been spending a lot of money lately in Las Vegas and Reno and San Francisco and hither and yon, and it’s her money, and I’m not saying she’s overdrawn, she’s not, not even close, but I just wonder what is going on here.”
And then there was the urgency with which Mother packed up and left the house for a few days—“Who are you going to see?” Barbara’d ask. “You meeting a boyfriend?” Mother snorted. Well, here was her snort: an old sporting gentleman named Raoul Olson. A postcard with the Foshay Tower on it and tiny handwriting: “Dear Rosebud”—that’s what he called her, Rosebud—“Youre a peach and thats for sure, kid, you deserve nothing but the best. Speaking of which didnt we have some laughs in Reno. Id say so. The motel was deluxe and so was the company in my opinion. We need not mention the clams. Never again. Those folks by the pool will not be the same since they got to see us two cavorting on the slide like a couple of kids, you could hear them thinking were do those two get off having all the fun and us sittinghere like two prunes. And I sure do agree with you about the importance of ‘Naps.’ Two great minds are one on that particular subject. Nuff said.”
She googled him and he popped right up.
R AOUL O LSON (June 24, 1923–) was the beloved weatherman and star of the children’s show Yonny Yonson Of The Yungle on WCCO. Olson was born in Chaffee, North Dakota, and served in the Marines in World War II after which he worked for stations
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