Lake Wobegone - Where all the womn ARE strong

How Old While Ladies (OWLs) of Minnesota stepped into our privilege and found our strength.

What you are about to read is an excerpt from WOMN, the interior experience and emotional truths of the women of Minnesota during Operation Metro Surge, holding the grief, the rage, the tenderness, and the fierce love that women know so well.

If you see yourself in these pages,
Pass it to the woman next to you.

This is the introduction from the chapter about OWLs (old white ladies) and how we embraced our white privilege as a super power during the surge. I hope you enjoy.

Lake Wobegone

“Hello, and welcome to A Prairie Home Companion, coming to you live from the Fitzgerald Theater in Saint Paul, Minnesota.”

Garrison Keillor’s voice echoes from the top of Linda’s avocado-green fridge at the family cabin up north. It’s Saturday night in June, and she’s rolling dough for pies at the counter while her mom sits at the kitchen table, embroidering herb plumes onto flour dish towels.

“How many you got left, there?” Linda asks.

“I finished the rosemary, basil, and lavender. I just have the thyme, mint, and sage left to go.”

“Well, it’s been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, my hometown…

The rest of the family is outside. Linda’s husband, Dad and the uncles at the fire pit, somebody’s transistor radio out there too, the Twins game is on low underneath the sound of the lake settling into evening. The occasional loon call punctuates the air as the younger kids chase fireflies around the edges of the yard.

The screen door bangs every few minutes — someone coming in for bug spray, someone else going to use the bathroom — and each time it bangs, the someone says “smells good, when’s the pie gonna be ready?” and Linda always answers “Almost”.

Mom doesn’t look up from the dish towel. Linda doesn’t look up the dough. Outside, someone laughs at something. The screen door bangs again.

We all know that up-north kitchen. Even if we didn’t have a cabin in our own families, we all got invited to spend a weekend at one at some time or other. If the appliances weren’t avocado green, they were autumn gold, and the kitchen table was always a wobbly worn wood, or some form of sparkled formica.

Garrison Keillor’s voice came on the radio every Saturday evening, blending stories of Lake Wobegone with the smell of Grandma’s best recipes wafting from the oven. And in that voice, week after week, was a made-up town on a made-up lake, that became famous for nothing special across the world.

We listened to gossip in the aisles of Ralph’s Pretty Good Grocery, where if you can’t find it at Ralph’s, you can probably get along without it. We heard about the Sons of Knute lodge, where serious men gathered to discuss matters of grave importance and ended up talking about the weather and the price of corn. And we grimaced at the sermons given at Our Lady of Perpetual Responsibility, where the congregation shuffled in every Sunday because you still go to church every Sunday, even if you are on vacation. It’s just what we do.

We knew that congregation. We were that congregation.

Keillor tells us about the quiet week, where nothing much happened but everything mattered. He tells us about the Tollerud family and how they found their lost cat, and the Bunsen boys latest not-quite-run-in with the law, and Pastor Ingqvist’s latest attempt to say something meaningful to people who would rather he kept it brief. He tells us about the Norwegian bachelor farmers who eat their meals standing over the sink and about the Swedish farmer who loved his wife so much he almost told her.

Almost.

We are, all of us, fluent in almost.

We Minnesota women are known to almost say something, and be glad we didn’t. We almost ask for help, and are grateful when someone notices and offers without our request. The almost is just part of the air in Minnesota, like lake humidity that almost forms into rain but never quite does.

Garrison Keillor’s radio show is slow and steady, with a tinge of melancholy, finding the humor in the sadness and the sadness in the humor. And, like a hymn we already know by heart he reminds us every week that in Lake Wobegone, all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.

Linda pulls the pie out of the oven as Mom sets down the embroidery hoop and holds the dish towel up to the kitchen light to check her stitching. They have each other’s hands.

Of course the women are strong. What else would they be?

Outside, the screen door bangs. Somebody holler that pie’s ready.

We are Lake Wobegon women. White women. We are women who grew up fluent in the language of almost — we almost said something, almost made a fuss, almost asked for what we needed, we almost told someone how much they mattered.

Then ICE came to Minnesota in Operation Metro Surge.

And we white women tossed the almost into the trash like an over-burnt pie.

ICE broke our almost wide open and we started saying something, making the fuss, asking for what we need, and telling everyone how much they matter.

This is an excerpt from WOMN- a book about the women of Minnesota and what Operation Metro Surge made of us.

It’s a mutual aid effort — written by us, for us, moving hand to hand the way love does when it’s real. New excerpts will be released as I write them, every Tuesday, here on Fierce Love. When the manuscript is complete, I plan to release it the grassroots way. Self-published, and supported by grief at grounding community gathering events and independent bookstores.

If this chapter found you, it found you for a reason.

If you want to support this effort, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Paid subscribers will receive full chapters (not just excerpts) with my author’s commentary about my process and experience at least once a month.

Please add your voice by sharing in the comments. I’m listening. We all are.

That’s how this works.

That’s how we work.

I love you fiercely,

TeriLeigh 💜