Why I Blog

You probably know that Garrison Keillor is fond of mentioning Norwegian bachelor farmers in his Saturday get togethers. They have many quirks and are shy to a fault. They stand around, hands in pockets, using their energy to nod agreeingly or wrinkle their faces with smiles or concern. To them silence is a virtue. Maybe they are too polite to interject their own words into a conversation or maybe they are just too slow in putting their thoughts together. By the time they have ready what they want to say, the topic has changed and they are left out in the cold.

Well, it is not widely known, but I am part Norwegian. And I was a bachelor once. Some mixed breeds like myself claim to sit on their Norwegian part, but I think my Norwegian section resides just above the neck. I don’t think that I shy away from conflict or difficult issues, but I know that it takes me “extra” time to put thoughts into sentences.

This point was driven home tonight as I was an active listener in a conversation between my wife and her good friend. The words were bouncing back and forth faster than a Chinese ping-pong match. I didn’t have a chance. And these afore mentioned women are not even the “A” squad—that title belongs to my daughter and whomever she is conversing with. They rattle off words at a rate which makes the English language sound Spanish.

I had planned to utter a simple “thank you” to our evening visitor, but I could never time the quick pauses to breathe just right. As one breathed the other one jumped in. So I smiled.

And when all was said and . . . said some more, I retired to the basement where only the temptations of other things to read could interrupt me from jotting down some thoughts. So thank you Mrs. K. for some of your intriguing links. The one which has been the biggest temptation of late is called the Internet Monk. He is a raving Italian (or so it seems from his style) from Rhinelander, WI that has landed in Kentucky and loves to push everybody’s buttons, usually with just reason.

I’ve never heard him preach, but as I read his words I could hear the voice of a Campolo or Yaconelli, the flare to which we (even part) Norwegians never reach. But to them we can nod in consent. And so I have done for much of the evening.