Slow Saturday Mornings With White Man's Gospel

I started college when I was 16. I don't remember what the class was, but it was in the early evening, and the instructor had us listen to bits of this show called "All Things Considered" during class. It was on this radio station called "NPR". From the first listen, I was hooked.

Twenty years later, I keep what is really my only religious ritual, listening to my local NPR station for as long as possible on Saturdays, preferably starting with Weekend Morning Edition, ending with Says You. In the middle, Car Talk is over and I'm awaiting my favorite show, Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.

One of the very first things I do when I move to somewhere new or am on vacation or traveling for work, is to tune in the local public radio station.

When I lived in Little Rock, my ritual was to clean house Saturday mornings while I listened.

I was so proud when I made my first annual pledge of $60 when I lived in Lincoln.

I didn't know what to do with myself when I found out there were multiple stations in Seattle.

I have a love/like relationship with Prairie Home Companion. I prefer when the program is more homogeneous. I don't mind an opera singer or two, but not in the middle of a banjo piece and a children's choir. I enjoy sitting quietly and listening intently to the news from Lake Wobegon.

When my sister-in-law and her kids lived with us last year, they quietly suffered through long Saturdays filled with Auntie's radio programs. It was a foreign listening experience for kids raised on hip-hop. One day while PHC was on, my then 5 year-old nephew walked through the kitchen as a bluegrass piece with vocals was being performed. He stopped, thought for a moment, and said, "Oh! Auntie Terri Ann like white man gospel!" Having figured it out, he continued on his way.

Just now, I had discussed with Dean going to run errands after Wait, Wait... is over at 11. He went to tell Angel that we would leave at 11.
Angel: I know.
Dean: Oh, did you hear us discussing it?
Angel: (Quite matter-of-factly) No. That's when her show is over.
Even the 12 year-old knows me so well. I suppose there is some comfort in consistency.