Garrison Keillor: Envoi: Oya Life These Days
Forty years ago, Garrison Keillor contributed the following, one of his New Yorker pieces, to a book I produced called Celebrity: The Media as Image Makers. It served as the envoi to the book, which was a collection of essays by twenty-five writers and journalists. The authors were listed on the cover in order of their celebrity, led by Ingmar Bargman and Norman Mailer. Garrison placed next to last in our conceit — ahead of only someone named Mary McGeachy.
Then came A Prairie Home Companion — a prodigious achievement. It’s hard to think of a more prolific artist in any medium (much less many media).
I’ve long thought that late 20th century culture will be remembered a hundred years from now (Hah!) for the contributions of three artists: Steven Sondheim, who took the American Musical to a new level, competing with — and exceeding — Grand Opera; Jean-Luc Godard, who deconstructed cinema to reveal its strengths as a language; and Garrison, who almost single-handedly preserved the art of radio, discovering new powers of story-telling. It’s no accident that these three are dramatic artists in one way of another: as the screen world continues to supersede the real world, we’ll increasingly appreciate their perspicacity.
As you get to know the Oya people, you’ll realize they are close kin to the folks of Lake Wobegon (all above average). The piece is a kind of koan about community, which Garrison — to our great benefit — spent the next decades meditating upon.
We — ”the Us” — thank you, Garrison. Don’t forget the donuts. Do good work. Keep in touch.
Oya Life These Days
by Garrison Keillor
The Oya people is the bunch that lives in the Oya Valley, as the neighbors will quickly tell you if you go looking for Oya in the hills. “We are not Oya!” the neighbors shout through locked screen doors. “We are decent, hardworking people, who hardly deserve this.”
By “this” they mean the Oya custom of going visiting and remaining behind after their ride has left. Apparently, Oya, whose name means “The Us,” do not distinguish between themselves and others, and any one they meet is assumed to be one of them, or one of ‘’The Us,” and therefore interested in their comfort and anxious to see that they have enough to eat. But if that person fails to show interest, Oya don’t become angry. They wait. Soon enough, they believe, they’ll be asked to stay.
To the visiting scholar with a keen interest in Oya ways* and plenty of money to pay for doughnuts, this facet of Oya life seems harmless and even gentle, but to the neighbors, who have their own row to hoe, it is known as “the Oya problem.” This refers to the difficulty of conversing with Oya.
* Despite their keen interest, scholars have learned practically nothing about the Oya (pronounced 0-yah), because of the Oya’s equally keen interest in them. Whenever a research team arrives in the valley, normal activity (if there is such a thing) ceases as the Oya gather around and watch intently. If the scholars ask, “But what do you do?,” the answer is “What would you like to do?,” or “It’s all right, we can always do that later.” Occasionally, the scholars amuse their audience with a short talk, which seems to be much appreciated. But the Oya never seem to get around to just being themselves. Some Oya, apparently anxious to please the visitors, may sit on a stump engrossed in thought, but only a few, and never for longer than a few hours.
An Oya converses by means of questions, if at all. His opening remark might be “That’s quite the deal, isn’t it?” if his host is busy, or “Not too busy today, huh?” if the host is relaxing. Next, he might well ask, “What do you have in your hand there? A sharp stick?,” for by this time the host has realized that he is in for a long afternoon unless he takes stern measures. He must at all costs drive the Oya off before he is asked, “What is the matter? Why don’t you like me?”
It’s impossible to answer that last question in a way that will satisfy an Oya. Because he doesn’t dislike himself, hostility only makes him curious; he wants to know what he can do to make the host feel better, such as putting an arm around him. Right here is where most personal Oya injuries occur — here and, back home, falling out of bed.
Why are Oya disliked so intensely by their neighbors? The neighbors, who are godly persons, have tried to find the answer to this one themselves. Prayer meetings are held frequently to discover the Lord’s will in regard to the Oya problem. It is a hard matter. Clearly, the guiding principle should be “Love thy Oya as thyself,” but how can one do that, many ask, when Oya behave as if they are thyself?
And such, it seems, is the case. An Oya is quite capable of showing up on Tuesday morning and staying until Sunday night, sitting in your chair, walking beside you through the garden, eating at your table, and not saying anything you’d be able to recall a few minutes later. It is said that the Oya believes that since you and he are both of “The Us,” it is the same as if you were alone. And some neighbors say that during an Oya visit they have come to believe this, too — that they are talking to themselves.
It is hard to say definitely what Oya believe, however. One can only make suppositions, based on statements of our own that no Oya has seen fit to contradict (e.g., “You don’t seem to be in a big rush to leave”). Many younger people in the neighborhood have come to believe that Oya have reëxamined the concept of individuality and found it wanting, that Oya has attained loss of self. No Oya has disagreed with this.
It may be true that the Oya have much to teach us, but, unless we are mistaken, they have not done so up to the present. They seem to feel it is all the same to them one way or the other. After a visit to an Oya home, one comes away with the feeling they may be right.
The Oya personality has been described in conflicting terms. One aspect of it is bliss. Oya seem to have a knack for being “knocked out” by ordinary phenomena, such as a faucet dripping, motes of dust in a beam of light, or the sound of their own throats clearing. It is enough for them if an afternoon brings a light breeze to stir the leaves. This attribute may help to explain their inability to socialize. When spoken to by another, an Oya is fascinated by the speaker’s lips.
The other essential Oya characteristic is “politeness.” An unspoken Oya rule is, “Let’s wait and see what everyone wants to do.” The result is that Oya spend hours waiting, lose track of time, and fall asleep early, missing their favorite programs.
Sleep is an ever-present danger, for a strange facet of Oya life is the high number of strenuous sleepers. All Oya thrash about to some extent (some have been known to rise from their beds and strip wallpaper), but many must actually be tied down, lest they get up in their sleep and walk away. The sleeper’s family is reluctant to restrain him, or uses only a very light string, and the resulting departures account for the diminishing Oya population in the valley. Someday, it seems, there will be no Oya left here. This prospect neither saddens nor pleases them.
It seems that they cannot conceive of a place with no Oya, and they have made no plans to assure that anybody stays around.
Departed Oya, Para. 12
Neighbors
attitudes toward Oya, 1–5, 7–8
religious seeking, 6
Oya
beliefs of, 2, 5, 8–9, 12
bliss of, 10
danger to, 4, 12
definition of, 2
and discrimination, 2, 7
habits and customs, 2, 4–5, 7, 10–12
and politeness, 11–12
population, 12
and programs, 11
and sameness, 7, 9
satisfaction of, 5, 10, 12
self-image, 5, 7–8
sense of time, 7, 11
and silence, 7–8, 11
and sleep, 11–12