Who do you remember on Memorial Day?

People disagree on the intent and customs of Memorial Day. I've been to ceremonies that honor every deceased veteran, whether they died of injuries in war or old age in the nursing home. Some families decorate the graves of all loved ones on Memorial Day, whether or not the departed served in the military. Sometimes you can't tell the difference between Memorial Day, Veterans Day, Armed Forces Day, great-great-uncle Hezekiah's birthday, a beer blast and a half-price sale on suntan lotion.

I grew up observing Memorial Day as the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs defines it, a day that "commemorates the men and women ho died while in the military service."

So, on Memorial Day, I particularly remember my grandfather. LCDR Frank Aloysius Mullen, USN, retired during the Great Depression, was called back to service in World War II and died in the last year of that war. As a child, we hung the flag that draped his coffin out the front window of our house every Memorial Day. As an adult, and a veteran myself, I continue that tradition.

I was born a few years after his death, so I have no specific memories of my grandfather. I remember him in the broadest of senses; at times we are called to ponder and reflect upon people we did not know and experiences we did not witness, yet whose legacies still affect us. For reasons that I cannot explain, because I don't fully understand them, I doubt that Frank Mullen III would ever have found a home in the Navy were it not for the family stories and remembrances of Frank Aloysius Mullen.

Who do you remember?

My favorite compliment

What I like about hearing from readers by mail is they usually have something nice to say.

Negative commentary is usually is delivered as anonymous comments attached to columns published online. I read them whenever I'm feeling so happy that I have the uncontrollable urge to be brought down by relentless negativity. This happens once every, oh, year or two.

But snail-snail-mail correspondence is usually positive. Even when it's critical, I take it seriously; someone who takes the time and effort to write a letter deserves that courtesy.

Yesterday, I received a letter from a woman in a nearby Illinois town telling me she enjoys my weekly column in the Rock Island Argus. She closed with a heartfelt line that, I have to say, moved me deeply. I've heard it before, but every time a reader compliments me this way, it's as powerful as the first time. She wrote:

"You're the Garrison Keillor of the Midwest."

This is particularly poignant because I live in western Illinois. I don't know if I'd be as humbled and gratified if I lived elsewhere and was told I was "The Garrison Keillor of New England" or "The Garrison Keillor of Miami Beach."

But to live in the Central Time Zone and be told you're the Garrison Keillor of the Midwest is a fine, rare compliment, and I wonder--does anyone ever say this to Garrison Keillor?

Concerning the clumsiness of oafs

Occasionaly I think about Jeff, a guy in my college dorm who earned the nickname "Clumsy Oaf" for the very reason you think of when you hear the term.

Dictionaries tell us that an oaf is a clumsy, stupid person. So, isn't "clumsy oaf" a redundancy?

Who's Who in the Midwest

Last night I gave a reading for the membership of a local women's organization. I read a story published a few years ago, "A Midwestern Goodbye," recounting my first visit to this Illinois town. It features my in-laws, their friends June and Andy, the pastor and other local personalities, all referred to by first name only.

The ladies followed the story attentively and, I think, appreciatively, but every time a character was introduced ("Their friends June and Andy burst into the kitchen"), they tuned out and turned to each other. I could practically hear them whispering, "No, not Andy Phillips; his wife is Jane, not June. Must be Andy and June Anderson.") Once they had the cast sorted out, they'd return their attention.

I'd forgotten that this is the Midwest. Details are important, and no detail is more important than "who": Who's she's related to? Who were his parents? Who did she marry?

I shoulda prefaced the reading with an oral dramatis personae, a rundown of who's who in the story.

My bad.

Plowing Through Acres of Details.

Readers have been expressing interest in the math problem at the center of my March 28 column in the Rock Island Argus/Moline Dispatch. Specifically, they want the answer to Farmer Krueger's economic dilemma.

Midwesterners tend to get involved in details that don't matter. For instance, Boney's Farm Store is about a mile east of my town. Maybe more, maybe less--doesn't matter. It's not like we're in New York City. It's like we're in a cornfield. Someone asks me how to get there, I'll tell him to drive about a mile east of town on the highway. End of discussion.

But ask a Midwesterner where Boney's is, and you're gonna get an answer that involves the names of the two banks you'll pass on your left, the car dealership on the right, and other assorted landmarks, all listed in order, west to east. Pray nobody else is listening to this conversation, because he'll join in, quibbling about the distances, estimating drive-time to the nearest 10-second increment and telling you the life story of the guy who operated the farm stand across the highway from Boney's during the Korean War.

Your difficulties with my column stem from the fact that you got sidetracked by details. The story was a rich tapestry that ties together a love of literary beauty with the deep spiritual response that comes from deep reading on weighty topics. But you got stuck on the question of Farmer Krueger and the profits he might realize by selling off various sections of his farm.

I give up. I'll explain it in the column next week. But meanwhile, you're perfectly capable of figuring it out yourself. Hint: not every fact in that question is relevant. You need to weed out the unimportant stuff. Prioritize the information. Ask yourself of each detail, "Is this relevant? Do I need to know this to accomplish my goal?"

Uh, I hate to say this, but these are words to live by.