The Minnesota Goodbye

With this post, we'll be closing out our Neighborhood Storyteller column. Hard to believe it's already been a whole year since we started this series! I'll be the first to say that these pieces have made me laugh and cry (sometimes at the same time), and have served as a weekly reminder to appreciate the everyday, small joys that make our places lovable. 

The work of a Strong Towns advocate is slow and persistent, and the victories will come when more and more people in your place can start to enjoy the things that Karla has highlighted in her writing: delightful local businesses, beautiful public spaces, connections with our neighbors...and the many other elements that add up to indicate a good life in a prospering place.

—Strong Towns Copy Editor Shina Shayesteh

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It’s been a while since I shared a good joke with you, and since this will be my final appearance as your Neighborhood Storyteller, I figured I’d better get on the stick.

So, did you hear about the French guy who told everyone goodbye and then didn't leave?

It was much adieu about nothing.

I went ahead and took that one a step further, personalized it with a little Midwestern twist: 

“Did you hear about the Minnesotan who told everyone goodbye and then didn’t leave?” 

Well sure, that’s pretty normal.

If you’ve never heard of the Minnesota Goodbye, don’t take my word for it; go get your Google on. You will find evidence all over the World Wide Web on how the  protracted Minnesota Goodbye has been spoofed, parodied, and otherwise spun into pure comedy gold. There are a few YouTube videos, the best of which is a 1980s vintage; dry, with bright notes of wit balanced with tannic sarcasm, rounded out with long “o” (oh??) sounds and subtle notes of modesty.

I even found a podcast called The Minnesota Goodbye which, disappointingly, seemed to be just a couple of radio talk show hosts nattering on about their PG-13 weekend shenanigans. Classic bait-and-switch. It’s hard to imagine even the longest Minnesota Goodbye stretching out over a series of episodes and staying even remotely interesting.

For those not indoctrinated in the ways of the Minnesota Goodbye, more inclusively known as the Midwestern Goodbye, I’ll provide a quick summary: 

The whole process starts with announcing your imminent departure anywhere from 30 minutes to three hours before you actually leave. This could be considered a warm-up, a practice goodbye that starts out as something like, “Well, I really should get going…”  or a glance at a wristwatch, followed by, “Would you take a look at the time! 8:30 already?” 

Here is where your host, if they’ve been properly trained to read cues, will offer a second helping of dessert, or pass a plate of cookies. Coffee will be offered no matter what time of day or night it is, though, full disclosure, it may be instant. 

Sit down, relax. Have a cookie. (Source: Author.)

At this point, over snickerdoodles and Sanka, another conversation will start, which sometimes leads to a photo album, or a “short” video of an 80th birthday party. At some point, someone will suggest a trip down to the basement to check out a new sump pump, or to paw through a box of old Christmas decorations the host is offering up. In the basement, there might be a group discussion about an old sewing machine that may or may not be worth fixing, and talk of the hosts’ plans to replace the carpet with laminate flooring. This could drag on for hours, so be warned: You may end up spending the night.

If you’re lucky enough to make it out of the basement before the pull-out couch is deployed, there will be some standing at the front door where you’ll keep one hand on the doorknob while your host talks about the icy roads. At this point, you can’t even imagine ice because you are standing in a down coat, wool hat, and you have sweat running from your armpits all the way into your Sorel boots. You’re hoping that contact with the cool, metal doorknob will lower your core temperature a degree or two as you clutch a paper sack filled with peanut butter sandwiches your host slapped together in case you get hungry on the seven-mile drive home. “And you never know, you might break down, or get high-centered on a snow drift.” There will be lots of knowing nods.

Just as the moment finally arrives where it seems possible to make a clean break into the bracing, cold air, someone will bring up a whole new subject from which there is no easy way out. This could involve a recent election, climate change, or property tax hikes. If this stage is reached, it will usually result in your host giving you a toothbrush, new in the package, and some guest towels so you can go wash up while they make up the pull-out couch bed in the basement with clean sheets.

When I first left home after high school and moved to Arizona, even more shocking to me than wearing shorts and t-shirts in January was the way people just sprang up and left a dinner, a movie, or party like it was nothing. I was blindsided. I felt personally offended until I realized that these dashes for the door that felt premature, truncated, and even a little rude to me, were business as usual for the rest of the world.  

I surmised that the lack of extra clothing to gather on the way out the door made the difference. In Arizona, no one needs a parka, or snow boots, hats, and gloves. No one needs to warm their car up, or scrape ice from the windshield. Departing guests don’t need a baggie full of carrot sticks, potato chips, or a repurposed yogurt container filled with leftover chili for a leisurely walk home in flip-flops through the palm-lined streets of Tucson. Besides, if you get hungry along the way you can just reach up and pluck an orange or a grapefruit out of a tree.

But let’s face it, not everything in life is weather dependent. For some of us, no matter where we live, the Minnesota Goodbye is not a choice, it’s a default factory setting. 

When I sat down to write this, my last Neighborhood Storyteller column, I did some loose math and calculated that if I wanted to stay true to Minnesota goodbye form, I should have started at least a month ago. 

But there were other things to talk about a month ago, and besides, I procrastinate. So, seeing how we don’t have enough time for a proper Minnesota Goodbye, I’ll have to employ my acumen for squeezing things into the last minute, which in fact is precisely the moment we’ve arrived in together.

I could run my mouth all day and half the night while you stand with your hand on the doorknob, bundled in your winter clothes. I could reminisce over a year of weekly columns, wrap up some plot lines, revisit characters, and take you back to the old haunts in the neighborhood. I could even start in on a whole new story, in which case you would have to unzip your coat.

But I wouldn't do that to you.

Instead, I will be that classy host whose doorknob speech is short and sweet, the conscientious host who sets you free before you even start sweating, need a drink of water, or have to go to the bathroom.  

And because I like closed loops, things that come full circle, and jokes, I’m going to end this Neighborhood Storyteller thing the same way I started it way back in January: with a joke. 

How does a single-celled organism say goodbye to its friends?

“Adios Amoebas!”

You liked that one? Well, I’ve got more where that came from, so if you want to stay a little longer, I think I’ve got some lemon bars in the freezer. It’s getting dark, anyhow, and you know the deer are all over the highway. Just relax… I’ll put some coffee on.

This also gave me the nudge I needed to change my mailbox message. (Source: Author.)

Read more of our weekly Neighborhood Storyteller columns here!

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