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[ORGAN MUSIC] SPEAKER 1: Carol Bly is a delightful human being and writer who lives in Madison, Minnesota. You have probably read her column-- "Letter from the Country" in Minnesota Monthly, the magazine of Minnesota Public Radio. If so, you know what a rare intelligence she brings to bear on the issues of our times. She asks hard questions, dealing with them from a moral perspective. As you're about to find out, she can also entertain with her writing.

A few years ago, I translated a story by Gunter Eich, which had some supernatural in it. It was about a stilts walker who was so devoted to walking around as a sandwich man on stilts that when the shoe firm that he was working for finally let him go because he was too crazy. He was willing to work for nothing. He walked over famous glaciers on stilts. And everywhere he smiled down benevolently at children's faces turned up to him. And they were all admiration. He was doing his real life passion, which was stilts walking, commercial return having been given up.

Then I found that the author of that story, Gunter Eich, also wrote radio plays. And it occurred to me it'd be an exercise to see if a slightly perverse radio story of about 10 or 15 minutes could be done that had a supernatural element in it and some sort of non-commercial passion in it. So then I hit the rural cultural body of opinion. American art in the country should be really country. To begin with, no radio stories. Those went out with the Brace Beemer, and Silver and Tonto, Mystery Theater, notwithstanding.

And, anyway, America never has been a radio play place. We've never really taken it seriously for adults. And rural art should be bland, and realistic, and full of crafts. Memories of canning with [INAUDIBLE] when the hailstorm came and took the screen door off that August and how the team of mules, Oskar and Alma, used to gurgle down a bottle of Coke apiece when we stopped for morning lunch during thrashing.

Our rural art is supposed to be friendly, and non-controversial, and full of rich detail without many driving ideas in it. The guidelines for regional art lead to pleasant anecdote, most of all. But I remember Eich's "Stilts Walker" because that story was regional and rural. It took place among the allotment gardens in Bavaria. The potato plants were being burnt off in the early scenes of the story. And it was not one of our regional stories, though. Because there was so much yearning and some sort of dream of excellence in it, of something not practical, something really not practical, which is a major part of country life.

In rural Minnesota, too, one of the feelings that people have a thousand times a week is the longing for some pure activity. Yet, in our crafts and in our anecdotes, we seem to be interested only in getting along with other people, community spirit, remembering the past together. There's never anything supernatural in it either. So I got interested in doing a tiny piece, a kind of a radio story with very small scope, and deliberately having the supernatural in it, and deliberately setting the story among rural Minnesota Lutherans.

Minnesota Lutherans seldom plan on supernatural intervention as a part of the week's activities. Yet, the dream of the perfect must live in people here as well as in cities. Sooner or later, frescoes have to be made on other ceilings besides the Sistine Chapel. And sooner or later, sound-absorbent tile suspended over the nave will not seem so beautiful to Minnesotans as paintings of the sibyls. We long for complication and beauty, not just regional crafts, just as human nature has always longed for them. So I would like to present a tiny story on the subject of terrible music, music accepted by a kindly disposed Minnesota congregation for years and years, although they all longed for a more beautiful sound. The story is called "The Gift of Splendid Sound."

[ORGAN MUSIC]

There was once an organist named Ardis Lou Ann Sorbisted who was the worst organist in the Southwest District of the ALC synod of the Lutheran Church in Minnesota. She was not just your average bad organist. She made such terrible musical occasions that pastors who had ever served at Jacob Lutheran Church when they met at clergy conferences later would hilariously and sadly compare notes on what they remembered of Sundays with Ardis Lou Ann.

Occasionally, a pastor would try to compete and would describe a poor organist he thought he had now in his present church. But whoever was pastor of Jacob Lutheran Church had only to relate artists' latest to make them all realize that she still held the position-- worst organist in the senate, at least in that district. When Ardis gets old, no one will come to her rocking chair at the home to tape her oral history because it isn't a grand old story.

Her memories are of a no good young sailor whom she once met at a USO dance in the cities in 1945, who only asked her out one time and then never asked her out again. And that one time, all he said to her was, you can't give me one good reason why you won't. And she said, I don't know what kind of a person you think I am anyway. I certainly never did anything to lead you on to get that idea.

Then she went back to Jacob, Minnesota and became the organist of Jacob Lutheran Church, while the other one, their real organist, was still serving for the duration, plus six months. At first, Ardis used just two fingers to get the congregation through the hymns. Then she used them all. And then she found the tremolo key, and then she was in business. Everyone in Jacob was too nice to say, gee, Ardis, you're just a terrible organist artist. Could you find some other work or something? They said, instead, Ardis, I think it's really something the way you can play so good without you having any lessons.

And that's how it went on for years and years. And Ardis would play "Beautiful Savior" in the key of C for the first two verses, and then slide up on the dominant seventh to the key of F for the third verse, and open the swell, off and on. At 43, she turned gray. She was respected. And if her little house hadn't got central heating, she had a wood grain duo therm space heater, which she kept shined up in the living room.

And she had presents which her brother, Eric, who was the president of the Chamber of Commerce, brought back for her from Hardonger. Then one day, the good old pastor died. And the church called a new young man. This man was named Cordell Everson, and his background was in therapy and counseling. But nonetheless, he still fired her after he'd been there only about three weeks. I've never been spoken to like that by a man before, she told him plainly.

CORDELL EVERSON: Yeah. But, Ardis, do you know what you did Sunday? You took and rewrote Bach's perfectly good "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" and put a desk ant on top of it. You turned it into "Down by the Old Mill Stream."

ARDIS: They liked it, pastor. I could tell they liked it. I can just tell. I'd been in this church 30 years, and I know how people are taking things.

CORDELL EVERSON: Ardis, listen. You play "Christ Lay in Death's Dark Prison" like country gardens. Ardis, last week, I had a look at those two rows that have hearing aid attachments. They were all covered with dust. That means those people haven't even been trying to hear anything, probably for months.

ARDIS: Maybe that's the sermons, pastor. People have real different tastes in sermons. I didn't think too much of yours on Sunday, saying that everybody was injecting their problems into other people.

CORDELL EVERSON: Projecting, projecting their own problems on other people. I got that from my pastoral counseling training, and it's a very sound idea. Anyway, to get back to the point, what about the time you fixed up that thing where you had the choir singing "Peace Be Unto Thee O' River" at the same time as you played the Bach/Gounod "Ave María."

ARDIS: They liked that, pastor. I could tell. I've been in this church 30 years, and I know.

CORDELL EVERSON: I know, 30 years. And you can tell how people are taking things. OK, but what about the time you played "Abide with Me" in the syncopated minor?"

ARDIS: Pastor, I did that to make it even sadder-like. That was for Helgi Olson's funeral. And I'm going to do that on our way, rejoicing, too. And I didn't like your funeral sermon either, pastor. You kept saying that people ought to get in touch with their feelings. Well, they were already crying.

CORDELL EVERSON: Oh, Ardis, I'm sorry. You can play at church next Sunday, but then I want you to find some other work.

[ORGAN MUSIC]

SPEAKER 2: So Ardis went home in the sleet of late afternoon, and put her chair up near her oil space heater, and made herself comfortable and miserable in her silent little house. The sleet slammed against the window, but she had the shades down. The oil heater gave its breathless, smelly heat. The damper tinkled forward and backward, exactly as it should, handling the rush of air in the shiny 8-inch pipe and up the chimney.

All of a sudden, the door behind her burst open. And in a rush of icy rainwater and wind, the figure of a woman hulked right in, slammed the door, shook out her umbrella onto Ardis' clean linoleum, and dropped her cape. It was a cape into a wet heap onto the floor. She tried heavily across, never minding Ardis' ankles, and came straight to the space heater where she held out her arms and hands to the heat and shouted in a coarse voice, oh, that's more like--

SPEAKER 1: More like what? Ardis said faintly. Home. More like home. I like a bit of heat. Now, Ardis stared as the woman shook off a wet sweater, opened her bag, and began to take curlers out of it. She began to put up her wet gray hair into huge tangled locks, not combing through it all. And with a curler or two in her mouth, she said loudly, Ardis, busy, busy, busy. I haven't much time, so let's just answer your questions before you even ask them. Why am I here? I'm here to give you a supernatural gift. That's why. I don't know what you've done to deserve it. Have you burnt down any churches? Thought not. Never mind. No problem.

Anyway, here's the gift. You can imitate, to absolute perfection, any sound in the world, except those made by what's his name. Ardis was still staring with their mouth open. Now, the woman had finished putting up her hair, arriving at an absolute Medusa effect, and now began to do her nails in primitive red. She spilled nail polish onto the space heater top, and it boiled. Her red dress began steaming on her as it dried. Ardis watched in fascination as the seams steamed in circles like smoker circles.

Well, I see you don't believe me, the woman said. Well, how about the Duluth foghorn, for example? People miss that, you know? You look ignorant. I suppose you are ignorant, aren't you? The woman said rudely. Painting the whole ends of her fingers red now, they seemed to grow more pointed as she painted. The Duluth foghorn, for your information, was installed in 1874 on South Pier, changed in 1901. But in 1969, they replaced the old grunting sound with a high whine that nobody really likes. Now, if you could imitate the 1901 sound, you'd be able to make some, I expect. Make some what? Ardis said weakly. Money, of course, her visitor snarled. Now, open your mouth. Do it.

[FOG HORN]

Pretty good, she said critically. Now try a freight train. They're easier.

[TRAIN CLANKING]

I wish you wouldn't stub out your cigarette on my space heater top, Ardis said. The woman laughed rudely. We wish a lot of things. I think you wish I were a nice devil of the old type, too, don't you? Good-looking fellow in white tie, tailcoat, English accent, all that smooth manners. Ardis said shyly, well. Well, I'm not, the woman said. The woman's movements got down to us, too. Are you the devil himself? Ardis asked. No, they still have all the top executive positions, she snapped. But I'm middle executive, and that's good enough for you. You don't seem very grateful. I've given you a wonderful gift, and you're not even using it.

You've tracked in yellow mud from somewhere, Ardis observed. I never saw mud like that around here. Epping Forest, the woman replied. I get around. And I still have to fly to Houston tonight to wreck a large sales meeting, too. I wish they wouldn't give us these last minute two-bit jobs like yours. You don't look like much to me. I bet you aren't capable of anything any more evil than being too lazy to work. You probably just don't practice. You're an organist, aren't you? I know the type. You'll never burn down a church. You'll never even burn down a doll house. Can't think why they want to give you anything.

Well, why don't you say something? Ardis said, I was just now trying to imitate the B minor mass. I told you, the devil woman said, rising now and throwing her sweater back over her shoulders. I told you, you can't make sounds made by what's his name. Well, who's what's his name? You mean Bach? Ardis said. No, think it over. Now, I've got to go. And don't stare at me in that stupid way. I don't look like anybody out of Steve Canyon. And I don't look like Bela Lugosi. I am the new type.

One thing I have learned down at the office is to keep up with styles. Anything that stays the same is hopeless. You've got to go along with progress. When everybody started jogging, I went with jogging. And I keep up with the times. I got 34,000 people with slipped disks to take up jogging. When everybody was for meditation, I was for that. I even got 324 people to give up eating meat. And some of them didn't defect back to steaks for a year and a half. And I got all sorts of middle-aged people to go around in tie front white trousers and mandarin collars. Not bad, I'd say. You don't have to look so horrified.

Remember this. If you don't like me, I don't like you either. I don't like these out state jobs. I asked for a big potential crook in Saint Paul or at the worst, Burnsville. And what do I get? A church organist, practically in South Dakota. It's a bad business.

She left her lighted cigarette in a wooden bowl that said [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH], which Ardis' brother Eric had given her for Christmas. On the underside of the bowl, it said made in Kyoto, Japan. But Ardis thought it was nice anyway. Now, it was simply going up in flames. When it was all burnt up, Ardis saw the devil woman had left. And there was no sound but the sleet falling straight and heavy now and the occasional ticking of the stove draft.

Everything changed in Jacob after that. Ardis' brother, Eric, right away, saw that the chamber should organize Ardis' talents. They set her up with an office, and she had hearings. All the people that wanted the old Duluth foghorn had to come on Tuesday afternoons. The rest of the five-day week, she saw people with individual requests. They left large donations or small. She was never particular. And she did not notice that her brother and also representatives of both churches in town took up a collection from the waiting room. People wanted to hear any sound that reminded them of the good old days.

SPEAKER 3: Hey, missus, did you think you could do a '38 Studebaker pickup?

SPEAKER 2: And Ardis said 1/2 or 3/4 ton. Well, give you the half ton.

[ENGINE REVVING]

And another visitor asked, could you possibly do an old Allis-Chalmers WC?

[MOTOR]

CORDELL EVERSON: Oh, I remember that. Oh, oh, I do remember that, making the turn at the end of the headland.

[MOTOR]

Oh, ma'am, how about an old SS white foot drill, not the new air drill kind? I used to be a dentist, and I've been retired for years. But now and again, I think, oh, well.

[SHRILL SOUNDING MOTOR]

I can't believe it. I want a Ridder high-speed air turbine with a contra-angle handpiece.

[SHRILL SOUNDING MOTOR]

Marvelous. And later, he kept shaking his head as he put on his coat. As the weeks went on, her repertoire grew famous. A control data employee who used to be with the RAF asked for a Spitfire Mach 4.

[AIRPLANE MOTOR]

She did the tide coming in at Limantour Beach and the tide ebbing at Cape Ann.

[OCEAN WHIRRING]

Two women from the women's movement came.

ARDIS: Could do the sound of Amelia Earhart taking off on her last flight? Well, the last leg of her flight with Fred Noonan?

[AIRPLANE MOTOR]

SPEAKER 1: Sometimes she failed. Some visitors wanted to hear English church bells doing triple bobs. And Ardis opened her mouth, but nothing came out. A group wanted to hear the Quran being recited. Nothing came out. But generally, she was very successful. And she could make the differing sounds of the sea at different places. California, Trouville-sur-Mer, the Hook of Holland. She did the [INAUDIBLE] of Robert Frost's paper in his hands as he read poetry at President Kennedy's inauguration.

She did the central heating fans at Saint Patrick's, the air conditioning at the delegates lounge of the UN. Retired people wanted to be reminded of old jobs they'd had. Ardis imitated 1920's Olympia typewriters, ticker tape machines, three makes of photocopiers, the assembly lines at Ypsilanti, Gary, Bremerton, and Elizabeth. She did the cars starting up at Willow Run, the in/outdoors at Marshall Field's, Macy's, and FAO Schwarz.

For one very elderly couple, Ardis imitated the ball wrecking the house that they'd lived in, in a furnished room together-- 131 East 61st Street between Park and Lexington. For dozens of people, she did the Third Avenue El.

[TRAFFIC HUMMING]

She did the sound from underneath and from inside the cars. Two Mohawk Indians came in full dress and asked for the distant, from far below sounds, of Herald Square traffic coming up vaguely to the I-beams where they had done construction work and eaten their sandwiches at noon. For children, she did the ominous clickety click of the roller coaster mounting its cogged path, preparing for the horrible descent. For older people, the lovely thrum and plunk and thrum and plunk of the Mount Mansfield, Vermont chairlift as it passed the rollers of the pier towers.

She did the tiny, decided click of communion glasses being replaced in the deacon silver holders in Protestant Churches. For the young, she did the snarl of the reminder noise in Buicks when the door has been opened, but the key has been left in the ignition. She did the static picked up by Houston control when they first talked to the astronauts near the moon.

SPEAKER 2: The whole town of Jacob, Minnesota, began to thrive on Ardis' strange gift. A railroad company that had been initiating abandonment met its board about putting in a spur. Photographers came to take her picture. TV cameras shone for days in the office, set aside for her by the chamber. Famous visitors were interviewed. Old enemies sometimes arrived at the same time by accident. Someone with a thick, guttural voice asked Ardis, I would like to hear the sound of a merchant ship exploding when a torpedo has struck it.

[EXPLOSIONS]

SPEAKER 4: Good.

[LAUGHTER]

Now, let's just check in torpedo strike as well.

[EXPLOSIONS]

SPEAKER 5: Yeah? And I'd like to hear the sound of a sonar coming off a U-boat and then the sound of a tin can tossing a depth charge at it.

[LAUGHTER]

[SPLASHING]

[BEEPING]

SPEAKER 2: Three young men smoking marijuana came over and said, hey, man, can you do the sound of a ship sinking? And then when the sea pressure gets too high, that different watertight compartment has given way. Hey, man, can you do all that?

ARDIS: I expect you'd like to hear the cries of the crew as the compartment gives way. And passengers? The Lusitania, the Titanic, or what? I know. How would you like it if we gave you all of it? I'll combine everything and give you the track for both ships, Lusitania and Titanic. And I can throw in the Andrea Doria as well.

SPEAKER 6: Wow, man. Sure, terrific. You get the idea exactly.

ARDIS: I thought you might have something like that in mind.

SPEAKER 6: Hey, man, this will be the biggest learning experience of them all.

ARDIS: I think I'm just now losing my gift of splendid sounds.

SPEAKER 7: Ardis, I remember you. Do you remember? We had good times, such good times, back during the war. I was in the Navy, and you were working at Dayton's. Do you remember? We had such wonderful times. Hey, how about doing a guy Lombardo number, just to take us back a bit? Remember how we danced?

ARDIS: I remember you, too. We met at a USO dance, to tell you the truth. And we only went out once. That's how it really was. And it wasn't Guy Lombardo. They had some sort of records. Oh, Johnny. Oh, Johnny, how you can love. Oh, Johnny, heavens above. Something like that.

SPEAKER 6: Hey, missus? Can you do the ship sinking like you described with the people kind of screaming and that? Maybe the water rushing in. Could you do a burst boiler, say? Well, gol, it's not just for me and my friend. How about your old friend here? I mean, it'll help him. It'll remind him of the good, old days. And you can't do much better than that.

ARDIS: Those aren't the good old days, though. They aren't the good old days. And I really don't want to make that kind of sound anymore. And I'm not sure just what the good old days are. But I want to make that other kind of sound, those sounds that are made by what's his name. What I want to do is I want to practice. I'm going to have to practice. That's what. I haven't got any more time now. You'll all have to go because I'm going off. I'm going to practice.

[ORGAN MUSIC]

SPEAKER 1: This story, "The Gift of Splendid Sound" by Carol Bly is part of Minnesota Public Radio station KRSW's Poets-in-Residence Series. You heard the voices of Carol Bly and Joe Patek, as well as Bill Holm, who also provided the musical interludes. Produced in the Worthington Studios of KRSW by Nancy Patek and Vicki Sturgeon, this program was made possible in part with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts.

[ORGAN MUSIC]