Sconnie Skit
Larryland Levity
As my dad used to say in southern Iowaese, I spend ‘acouplathree’ days a week over on the ‘Sconsin side of the Mississippi. Your ear may have noticed that ‘Sconsin’ makes a gradual transition to ‘Scansin’ as you progress eastward across the Badger State toward Lake Michigan, as evidently speakers of that dialect have a healthy dose of Chicago embedded in their brains’ language center. Here in southwest ‘Sconsin where I’m writing this, you hear in the voices a lot more Minnesota than Iowa (I lived in the former for 16 years), although northeast Iowa, southern Minnesota, and almost all of Wisconsin are generally classified within the “Inland North” dialect of US English (Southern and Western Iowa are classified as “Central Plains Accent”). But I think all Iowans know that there are many local accent/dialect variations across the Hawkeye state and to my ear, some very definite urban and rural differences.
The folks here in this Sconnie town (DeSoto, pop. 300) seem to almost never go to “Iwa” unless they have to, ‘have to’ in this case meaning to get groceries. To get Sconsin groceries at anything other than a convenience store is an hour round trip to LaCrosse, Prairie DuChien, or Viroqua. The trip to Viroqua means driving the longest 25 miles in Wisconsin over hill and dale (emphasis on the hill) to shop at Walmart or (gulp) the “hippie” grocery store (there is a co-op in Viroqua that is a favorite of the many expatriated Madisonians that live there). Driving to Viroqua on a windy winter day will make you think Driftless hills are the Rocky Mountains of Montana.
There is an IGA grocery store in Lansing, Iowa, a town that is only six miles away and visible from DeSoto. I’ve noticed that DeSotoans never go to “Lansing” for groceries; they do, however, go to “Iwa”, like Iowa is some hinterland across the Great Water visited only for sustenance that can’t be had through the hunter-fisher-gatherer-gardener avocation embedded in the culture here. Somehow driving five hours to Green Bay seems more reasonable and more mentally comfortable to the Sconnie psyche than crossing over the Mississippi for a loaf of bread or something really exotic like Cheerios. There is an Arco gas station in DeSoto that sells some staples like milk and eggs, when they have them. Milk trucks barrel past my house seven days a week from the dairies just up the hill, but somehow Arco manages to be out of milk about half the time. But never fail, that carbonated liquid from Spotted Cow is always in stock.
My youngest daughter used to like coming up here to DeSoto from Iowa City with me before she moved on to Colorado. How many of us empty nesters are there in Iowa whose fledglings have migrated to mountains and clear water? So many, it seems. At any rate, we noticed (anecdotally anyway) that so many of these Sconnies and rural people in general seem to have close relationships with their cousins. We also had a habit of launching into impromptu skits while driving down the highway, usually after seeing a pickup held together by rust and not much else hauling bizarre loads of firewood, old appliances, rusty box springs, all three, or other such cargo that had value to somebody, apparently.
What follows is a little skit that attempts to capture all of the above. It’s probably a risky and presumptuous move for me to write fiction, but hey, you don’t know unless you give it a shot. I’m also trying to write in dialect here, which is equally bold (or stupid) because it is not something easily done; I characterize it as similar to playing music by ear, not that I can do that. But I did try this from time to time in my blogs and figured why not, I’ve made a fool of myself so many times, what’s one more at this point.
Somewhere in rural SW Wisconsin near the Mississippi River:
(LARRY, as he taps the brakes on his slowing pickup): Hey Bill look up dere at the pull-off by de historical marker.
(BILL, seeing a young woman trying to open the hood of a car): Yah must be having problems. Looks like one of dem Suburus. My cousin had one, one problem after ‘nother.
(LARRY): Should I pull over?
(BILL): Might as well. We’re in no hurry. Sportsman’s don’t start servin’ ‘til 11:30. It’s only quarter ‘til now. (pickup pulls into turnoff)
(LARRY, leaning over while shouting across Bill through passenger side window): Need any help?
(MAGGIE, near tears): Well, I think so. The car just died and I was barely able to roll into this turnoff. And I’ve got no cell phone service here.
(LARRY): Mind if I check it?
(MAGGIE): Please do.
(LARRY, jumps out of pickup and into Suburu, turns key): Nothing. Dash lights don’t come on. Radio don’t come on. ‘Lectrical problem.
(MAGGIE, tears welling up): What should I do? I can’t even call anybody!
(BILL, to LARRY): Larry, call your cousin down in Ferryville.
(LARRY): Sure, sure. (Gets out phone, ringing, ringing). No answer. He’s gotta be ‘round the garage though.
(BILL, to MAGGIE): You can hop in and we can take you down to de Ferryville garage. (Pointing to Larry) Larry’s cousin runs the place. Good agg. Gotta tow truck. This time-uh day, he’s dere. It’s only about fifteentwenty minutes down de road.
(MAGGIE): (eyes glancing from Larry to Bill to the pickup cab, estimating their criminal potential and the likelihood of contracting a disease from garbage in the filthy pickup cab): I suppose I have no choice. But I want the side and not the middle.
(BILL): No problem, I can take de middle. Let’s go Larry.
(Maggie grabs purse from Suburu, they all get in pickup, pickup pulls away)
(LARRY): So I’m Larry and this here is Bill, but his real name is Richard. So, what’s your name?
(MAGGIE): Maggie McCarron.
(BILL): Is that Irish?
(MAGGIE): (drying tears with tissue) I guess so.
(MAGGIE, TO BILL): Why do you go by Bill?
(BILL): When I met my wife I went by Dick, she didn’t like dat name, so den I started going by Rick, and den she says that’s her cousin’s name who gave her her first kiss, so den I started going by Rich and she said dat sounded like a guy who couldn’t make up his mind between de lesser of two evils, and so she suggested I use my middle name of William since dat was her first husband’s name before he died from fallin’ outta a tree stand, so to make her happy I go by Bill.
(LARRY): Our wifes are cousins, by de way.
(MAGGIE): Huh, interesting. (TO LARRY): Your wife left your name alone?
(LARRY): Yeah, I’m her first husband. But I s’pose if I die, she’ll look for another Larry.
(BILL): I kinda doubt that.
(LARRY): Maggie, you don’t talk like you’re a Sconnie.
(MAGGIE): What’s that?
(BILL): You know, somebody from ‘Sconsin.
(MAGGIE): Oh. No, I’m from Iowa City. I was up here staying at a friend’s cabin, sort of a long weekend retreat.
(LARRY): Retreat eh? Trying to relax?
(MAGGIE): Well, yes, in a way. I’m a poet, actually. I’m always looking for creative inspiration. I love the hills around DeSoto.
(LARRY): You might be lookin’ for inspiration, but I guess you can tell by now sittin’ next to Bill that you also found you some perspiration. Bill, get it? I’m a poet!
(BILL): C’mon Larry, if you would’ve helped me load dose barn boards instead of jawboning with Harold, I wouldn’t have gotten so overheated.
(MAGGIE): (looking back into the bed of the truck) That wood doesn’t look so good.
(BILL): Hell no it’s not good, three-quarters of it’s rotten but Larry’s idiot cousin Troy down in Lynxville said he would sort through it after he bought us lunch at Sportsman’s for hauling it down there.
(LARRY): He’s trying to make some rustic-looking furniture so he needs some weathered boards.
(BILL): You and I both know he’ll just end up burnin’ ‘em when his firewood runs out in March, cuz he’s too goddamn lazy to lay up enough.
(LARRY): Prob’ly. Although he has made some nice chairs.
(BILL): Yeah, nice if you like your wife pulling splinters outta your backside with her eyebrow tweezers.
(LARRY): So Maggie, Iwa City, is the college there?
(MAGGIE): Yes, I study in the university’s Writer’s Workshop.
(BILL): My cousin was in Iwa City once. Won free tickets to de Badgers game down dere. He started drinking too early, left at de end of the 3rd quarter cuz the Badgers was getting pasted, went to a bar with his buddy and got himself pasted den got in a fight with a guy who said Aaron Rogers was overrated, got his nose bloodied, ran through de red at a stop-and-go light headed out of town with a cop sitting right dere who pulled him over and throwed him in jail for a DUI and didn’t get back up here until the following Tuesday and den got fired from his job at the LaFarge sawmill for missing too much work and den his girlfriend kicked him out cuz he wasn’t paying his share of the rent and now he’s tending bar in Soldier’s Grove and renting a room up above. Those tickets weren’t so lucky I guess.
(MAGGIE): What’s a LaFarge sawmill?
(LARRY): The sawmill in LaFarge. It’s a town.
(MAGGIE): Oh.
(BILL): Me and Larry don’t get over to Iwa much.
(MAGGIE): (pointing across the Mississippi to Iowa a stone’s throw away) It’s right over there.
(LARRY): Yeah we know, we just like ‘Sconsin. My Grandad’s cousin farmed down in Dubuque County Iwa and I went down dere a few times when I was a kid.
(MAGGIE): Oh my mom’s cousins farmed in Dubuque County!
(LARRY): Did they have one of dose Irish farms?
(MAGGIE): I don’t know, I guess.
(LARRY): I remember my Grandad’s cousin saying “dere’s two kindsa farms in Dubuque County, German farms and Irish farms. German farms look prosperous and Irish farms look like an Irishman was farmin’ them.”
(MAGGIE): Oh.
(BILL): A few weeks ago I drove my cousin across to Iwa, Waukon asamatterafact, to get a fuel pump for his pickup cuz his license is still ‘spended and my wife says stop at dat new Fareway grocery store over dere and pick up some meat cuz dey have good meat and some buns too and I’m telling you Larry dat is the nicest grocery store you ever saw and so I grab dis huge pack of buns and some burger and went up to de checkout and this nice old lady running de checkout says you get a free jar of pickles with dose buns and she sends the teenager bagging groceries over to aisle 6 or something and here he comes back with a huge jar of free pickles.
(LARRY): Nice. Have you ever been to dat hippy grocery store in Viroqua?
(BILL): You mean de one they call a Co-op?
(MAGGIE): I’ve been there!
(BILL, TO MAGGIE): I sure hope you didn’t buy dat baked garlic cheese which I had to buy because I was on my way home from LaCrosse and my wife calls me and says her cousin and his wife is coming for supper and her cousin loves dat cheese with his Potosi and de cheese plus de six pack was 25 dollars and I didn’t know hippies made enough money to shop in those typa places but I guess they must.
(MAGGIE): Well the organic asparagus I bought there was incredible.
(LARRY, strongly): Was dat Stuart Hollingsworth’s ‘sparagus?
(MAGGIE): I don’t know.
(LARRY): Well dat son of a bitch is my cousin and he grows orgaaaaanik ‘sparagus on 8 acres near Red Mound every spring and den leaves for Arizona where his wife lives year round and he always owes me money when he leaves. Thinks I’ll forget about it over the winter, which I usually do.
(BILL, TO MAGGIE): If you were in DeSoto, you mighta seen his truck going back forth on 82. Drives 20 miles round trip three times a day to eat all his meals at de Bright Spot because his wife’s cousin Arlene who he dated in high school runs de place.
(MAGGIE): Um, what are you saying?
(BILL): I’m saying de pickup is this ridiculous white short-box thing with dumb sideboards dat couldn’t haul no barn boards like we got here and it’s about 40 years old and it don’t look natural for ‘Sconsin cuz it’s got no rust on it on account he’s down in Arizona eight months a year and never here in the winter and you might of seen it going back and forth on 82.
(MAGGIE): No, I mean what are you saying about Arlene, and….what’s his name? Stuart?
(BILL): Oh, nothin’.
(LARRY): Anyway you wouldn’t believe de money that son of a bitch makes selling orgaaaaanik ‘sparagus to Sconsin hippies 3-4 months a year. I bet he makes more selling ‘sparagus dan our idiot cousin Kirk makes selling weed.
(BILL, TO MAGGIE): Sorry we swear so much.
(MAGGIE): No big deal, you should see my poems.
(BILL AND LARRY BOTH LOOK SIDEWAYS AT MAGGIE)
(MAGGIE): Do you guys fish? My friend likes fishing dere, I mean there, around DeSoto.
(LARRY): Yah asamatteroffact we fish together quite a bit.
(BILL): We useta fish all the time with our wifes’ uncle Wendell, our wifes are cousins ya know, until he died a cupla years ago.
(LARRY): Yah he always liked fishing for mudcats dere in Henderson Slough, but since he died we fish more bass up dere in what we call the Turtle Highway.
(MAGGIE): I’m sorry about the uncle.
(BILL): Wendell told us if he died, whichever one of us got to his garage first could have his fishing tackle. Wouldn’tcha know my dumb luck he died aboot 4 in the afternoon and I was working the second shift at Heileman’s canning Old Style at the time so this bum got it all.
(LARRY): Yah but you got the .30-30.
(BILL): Lotta good it done me since you drove over it pulling his log splitter outta the garage.
(LARRY): Well at least you got de ammo.
(BILL): Yah did I tell you about dat huge buck I got over by Plugtown? Dropped like a rock after I tossed a .30-30 cartridge at him.
(LARRY): He he, yah sorry about dat Bill.
(MAGGIE): Huh?
(A MINUTE OR SO OF SILENCE AS THEY DRIVE DOWN WI-35 TOWARD FERRYVILLE)
(LARRY): So Maggie, you gotta a boyfriend or a husband or something?
(MAGGIE): Yes, I’m engaged to my boyfriend down in Iowa City, Trevor. OH MY GOD! I JUST REALIZED HE’S A SCONNIE!
(BILL): Oh yeah? Where’s he from?
(MAGGIE): Superior.
(LARRY, PONDERING FOR A MOMENT): Well, I don’t know. Maybe technically he’s a Sconnie. Mainly squareheads up dere, might as well be in Minn’sota as ‘Sconsin.
(BILL): Agree with ya Larry on dat.
(MAGGIE): Well I guess that explains why he isn’t like you two.
(LARRY AND BILL): Huh?
(MAGGIE): Oh nothing.
(LARRY, to MAGGIE): So do you think you guys will have any kids?
(MAGGIE): Well, that’s getting a little personal, but I think so. But I want to get my career started first.
(BILL): Do poets make much dough these days? Maybe dere’s a poetry factory down dere you can work in?
(LARRY chuckles quietly)
(MAGGIE, annoyed): Well just so you know, I could teach or edit a magazine, or work for a publishing house, those sorts of things. And work on my poetry at the same time.
(BILL): Okay, okay, sounds good! Didn’t mean no offense. I loved ‘Twas de night before Christmas’ when I was a kid.
(MAGGIE): Do you guys have children?
(BILL): Well my wife’s son lives with us, he goes to high school at DeSoto. His name’s Bill too, but he’s named after de first Bill, not me.
(MAGGIE): That’s kind of awkward. (Pause) The name thing I mean.
(BILL): Well she loves her Bills, I guess. My wife, I mean.
(LARRY): I got two boys who moved out to Nort D’kota few years ago to work in de oil fields, and one-uh them moved on to ‘Laska coupla years ago. He’s done a little bitta this and a little bitta that up dere. Neither one of-em is named Bill. (CHUCKLES) One’s named H.A. and one’s named Tony. (Maggie wondering how bad your name must be to go by H.A.)
(APPROACHING FERRYVILLE)
(LARRY, to MAGGIE, pointing up the hillside): See dat garage up dere with three doors, little house, tow truck? Dat’s my cousin Larry’s repair shop. He lives in de little house.
(MAGGIE): Wait, his name is Larry too?
(LARRY): Yah we had 6 Larrys out of 17 boys in our graduating class, I think.
(BILL): uh oh.
(LARRY): what?
(BILL): Did you see who else is up there? (Points to newish Volvo parked around the side of the garage).
(LARRY): Oh boy. Looks like Alice is getting her oil changed again. I guess we know now why he wasn’t answering the phone.
(MAGGIE): Who’s Alice?
(BILL): Them Volvos need new oil pretty frequent, apparently. Either dat, or she drives a lotta miles.
(LARRY): You know, it’s getting close to 11:30. We could meet up with Troy at Sportsman’s and come back after. Are you hungry, Maggie?
About my book: The Swine Republic is a collection of essays about the intersection of Iowa politics, agriculture and environment, and the struggle for truth about Iowa’s water quality. Longer chapters that examine ‘how we got here’ and ‘the path forward’ bookend the essays. Foreword was beautifully written by Tom Philpott, author of Perilous Bounty. Choice of free book copy or t-shirt for all paid subscribers to this Substack ($30 value).
Fun read! Spent teen years fishing out of DeSoto with my uncle and taught for a year in Lansing so all the sites are very familiar. Brought back some fun memories.
Thanks for a fun read!