When I met Garrison Keillor in 1995, I was young, immature, and easily offended.

I couldn’t believe he made me wait over an hour for an interview. Keillor, a legendary storyteller, was busy tending to his fans, you know, the special people who listened to his shows, read his books, and bought tickets to his performances. The nerve! 

At the time, I was a one-man band reporter for KCCO-TV, a small satellite station in Alexandria, Minnesota. We did cut-ins for WCCO, the CBS O&O in Minneapolis. It was my first on-air job, and I was wearing all the hats: Driver, photographer, writer, and editor. If WCCO was the executive’s steak dinner, we were the small potatoes that might make it onto the kiddie plate. 

But it was a starting point, and I worked hard for every bit of my $6.63 hourly wage. 

Keillor’s northern Minnesota appearance was my assignment that day. He’d already racked up millions of listeners through his highly acclaimed radio program, “A Prairie Home Companion,” and was gaining even more with his newest production, “Writer’s Almanac.” 

If only I’d known more about Keillor. I should have. I grew up in Minneapolis, not far from Anoka, where he was born. With understated finesse, and 100 percent accuracy, he’d mock Minnesota’s culture and Scandinavian quirks. He’s funny and spot-on. My parents, Norwegian immigrants, loved him.

“Karen, we’re listening to Garrison Keillor on MPR,” mom would say as I whizzed by. “He’s so funny. You should join us.”  I really should have joined them.

Some of Keillor’s narratives could have come straight from the Hovland family household. After all, my parents were straight off the boat, making my brother, sister, and me first generation Americans. 

He once wrote, “Good old Norwegian cooking, you don’t read much about that…”  Growing up eating boiled fish, boiled potatoes, and boiled broccoli, I’d tend to agree. (Don’t worry, ladles of melted butter went a long way at dinnertime.)

Bemidji is two-and-a-half hours north of Alexandria. It’s way up there, just a county shy of Canada. The city had been dubbed America’s “Curling Capital,” and I wondered if Keillor would weave that into his monologue.

As I entered the city limits, I took note of the towering Paul Bunyan statue along the shore of Lake Bemidji. Surely Keillor would reference the giant lumberjack and his oversized blue ox, Babe. Together, as folklore goes, they could “clear-cut an acre before lunch.”

I pulled into the Bemidji State campus, and easily found the right building. A woman greeted me at the door.

“I’m Karen Hovland,” I said. “From KCCO. I’m here to interview Garrison Keillor.”

“Of course,” she said. “Follow me.”

She walked me down a long hallway, around the corner, and into a large room. Up on the small stage stood a man with a head of shaggy brown hair, bushy eyebrows, and glasses. He was sharing stories about a fictional place called Lake Wobegon. His deadpan delivery captured the attention of everyone in the room. There were close to 200 people there, mostly older, their laughter filling the cavernous space.

I only caught the last 20 minutes of his monologue—enough to capture my “B” roll, the cover video for my story, scheduled to air at 6 and 10 p.m. I white balanced, then lugged the Beta camera and bulky tripod from one side of the room to another. Capturing wide, medium, and tight shots of Keillor and his beloved fans. 

Finally, he bid his famous farewell from Lake Wobegon, “where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above-average.”

I was anxious to interview him, not because I knew what a privilege it would be, or what a gifted storyteller he was, but because I was on a deadline. I followed my campus contact to Keillor. He was about to start autographing books and greeting the men and women who’d lined up to see him. I watched as she whispered to Keillor. 

“She’ll have to wait,” Keillor said in the same dry voice he’d used on stage.

“That’s fine,” I said, replying to him, even though he hadn’t addressed me directly. People often liked getting news coverage. He, quite clearly, didn’t care about the camera or the small-town reporter. Something told me he wouldn’t bend over backwards for a big-time reporter, either.

He was very tall. I was 6′ and he had several inches on me. I set up the tripod higher than usual and turned on the mike. I was good to go, but Keillor wasn’t. I’d wait a good while longer, as the line snaked along the wall and around a corner. He was in no hurry. 

Intrigue replaced impatience. I was impressed with his authenticity, and the time and care he took to connect with everyone who wanted just a few minutes of his time. 

If I could do it again, I would have interviewed attendees, found the woman who was his greatest fan and had listened to every episode since his very first, or the couple who knew him as a bookworm in grade school, or as a college student at the University of Minnesota. There were likely many stories at Bemidji State University that day, but I didn’t bother to find any. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.

Eventually, the crowd dwindled, and it was my turn. Keillor wasn’t just taller than me, he was bigger than life. I knew he was a big deal; I wouldn’t have been sent to Bemidji otherwise. But it would take some time before I came to see him as one of the greatest writers and humorists of my lifetime. Regrettably, I don’t remember the questions I asked, the angle I took, or the story that eventually aired.

What I do remember was my mom’s reaction when I told her I interviewed Garrison Keillor. She was thrilled and bragged about it to every friend in her Norwegian knitting club, and to anyone who would listen at Mindekirken, the Norwegian Lutheran Memorial Church, the next Sunday.

My parents saw Keillor perform twice in the Twin Cities before my dad died in 2002. By 2006, my husband and I had settled in Huntsville, Alabama, and I’d left news for nonprofit work. When I found out Keillor was speaking at the Madison County Library’s Vive le Livre fundraiser that year, I got tickets. My mom just happened to be visiting that week. It was one of the most special events she and I would ever attend together. 

While I can’t remember his entire monologue, I can still see my mom’s smile (and Keillor’s red shoes and red socks!), and feel her joy. I finally joined her, and I finally listened. I was hooked. We laughed out loud, just like the crowd did in Bemidji back in 1995. I felt a connection to this man whose stories reminded me of my beloved hometown and the people who lived there.

“That was so special,” Mom said afterwards. “Thank you!” 

I realized then what a mistake I’d made in 1995. Instead of committing to a truly special piece, I interviewed Keillor as if he were simply filling a slot in our Central Minnesota newscast. I was the one who had some nerve. I would have made me wait, too!

On Tuesday, I’ll have the opportunity to see Garrison Keillor a third time. My husband and I are attending his performance at Mars Music Hall. Nearly 30 years have passed since that Bemidji interview. I can’t wait to see him in person again.

I’ll relish his stories, and reflect on my own Norwegian-American upbringing on Columbus Avenue, where the lefse was soft; the lutefisk, pungent; and the children, all three of us, above average (even if the youngest was a little hard-headed).