A Prairie Home Companion from American Public Media: First Person

Years ago I lived on a Michigan farm
By Elena Gillespie

Years ago I lived on a Michigan farm with people whose family have owned the land for over a hundred years, or rather, the land owns them. The eye-filling cornfields, green pastures and woodlands are my secret garden. Silence so loud you can hear it. I go back to visit now and then, so I went this last weekend; it is a place where I can leave the suit and the need to think behind. As I said, these people belong to the land. They are quiet and our history is long, so conversation is sparse, the connection between us is permanent. The high point of the day is my friend setting down laden plates of barbecue and potato salad and giving voice; 'BOYZ. FOOD. EAT. NOW.' and the children alighting like a cloud of locusts and cawing like jays, levitating the plates away and back up to the tree house. Little things.

I was driving down the road for home with the moon roof open, slowly, and 'You' came up on the player. It's a love song without words, written by one of my favorite artists, a musician born and bred on the plains of Missouri. I'm from California, and while I am blas' about the opulence of the coast, the Midwestern sky at dusk in the summer is luminous and something I will never become used to.

It seeps up the sky from green at the horizon, to turquoise, to lavender, blue and then indigo at the zenith, silent fanfare for the lady of the evening sky, Venus, and her followers, Mars and Jupiter as they wend their way across the night. But this time was special, all had a voice and every leaf down to the tiniest blade of grass had a name, and they all seemed to be speaking of now. A rabbit was running along side my car for a moment; I stopped and opened the window and he stopped, so odd, he should have been afraid, the music was so loud.

He turned, flicked his ears towards me for a moment, eyes deep as centuries and paintbrush fur, and the love song seemed to hold the meaning. He loped off and disappeared and I drove on, back to the suit and the need to think, left with all that is. I don't know what he was saying to me, but perhaps someday I will become wise and get it. In the meantime, no matter where I go, when I need reminding, I'll just remember that song, the rabbit, and the Midwestern sky at twilight.

About the author:
I am an American living in England. I was born and raised in California, but spent 20 years living in Michigan. It was during this time that I became acquainted with Mr. Keillor and PHC. Both the PHC and the Midwest are an acquired taste, but like water being necessary and pop is not, I couldn't possibly do without either one,even in the midst of magnificent England. The Midwest gets in your blood and stays there.