(ORGAN THEME)
Tim Russell: And now Richfield Farms, makers of Beauty Milk, the skin emollient that restores lost youth, brings you...THE FOLKS ON THE HILL... stories of a city on the river...and the longings of the human heart, as powerful as the flow of the mighty Mississippi (BOAT HORN) --
(THEME UP AND FADE)
(BLIZZARD)
Garrison Keillor: A bitter winter in St. Paul, and along West 7th Street the workers head home from the day shift at the brewery toward the warmth of their small semi-furnished homes -- (FIRE FLICKERING, RATTLE OF PANS AND CUPS)
TR: Faith but it's a cold one, Mary me proud beauty.
Sue Scott: Aye, that it is, love. And I worry for me darling Kathleen scrubbing floors for that cruel Montague family, may they rot in blazing hellfire.
TR: Now now, Mary, let's not be cursing the bosses. Keep a civil tongue--
SS: Echhhh. Montagues. Them what closed the banjo factory and moved it to communist China, they did, and why? so they could save a few pennies and spend their winters in Naples, Florida and not suffer like us working folk --
TR: Now, now-- we have our warm stove...and our television with basic cable, Lord be praised.
Tom Keith (OFF): Did I hear someone refer to the good Lord? (DOOR CLOSE, SLOW FOOTSTEPS)
TR: Why, tis Father Finian, the worker priest, come from the union rally--
SS: Come in, Father. Have a seat by the stove. Can I get you a piece of bread and some bacon fat?
TK (WARMING HIMSELF): Aye, thank you, Mary. Thank you.
TR: So tell us about the union rally, Father--
TK: Aye, the cleaning ladies have voted to go out on strike. (MURMURS OF APPROVAL) After today, the privileged will have to clean their own bathrooms until they agree to a decent wage.
SS: Praise be, that is good news.
TR: Aye, tis indeed.
SS: I must call Kathleen. Immediately. (BRIDGE)
GK: Meanwhile, in the great stone mansion on the hill, home of the Montagues, a young woman polishes the silverware in the pantry...
SS: (TO HERSELF) I must sit down, my heart is pounding so. And my face is flushed. Knowing that the young Master is in the house. He and I. Just the two of us. He gave me such a long look when I brought the tea tray up to the library. I blushed like a schoolgirl. Which, in fact, I am. A housemaid by day and by night a graduate student in creative writing...Oh! (CLATTER OF SILVERWARE) Oh. I'm sorry. You startled me, sir.
GK: I'm sorry.
SS: Would you care for more tea, sir? More biscotti perhaps? Did I neglect to bring you milk for your tea?
GK: Could you please stop curtsying and just -- look at me?
SS: Yes, sir. Of course, sir.
GK: I'm in love with you, Kathleen. There-- I've said it. And it's true.
SS: That's impossible, sir.
GK: In all this life of dishonest pretension and cruelty and vulgar excess, you are, for me, the one true and honest thing--
SS: But you hardly know me, sir--
GK: I do know you. I've read your poems.
SS: My poems, sir! But--
GK: I know. I had no right. And yet poetry that good has no right to be private. You speak to my heart, Kathleen--
SS: Me, sir?
GK: "When in the kitchen peeling the potatoes' eyes
I do beweep my low and wretched state
And slice them into strips to make French fries
And toss a salad and broil sirloin steaks for eight"
SS:
Wishing I were not on my knees with a bucket of soap,
Scrubbing these marble floors, cleaning the toilet and the tub,
Wishing my skin were smooth, my breath mint-fresh with Scope,
Wishing I were in Naples, at the Naples Country Club
Standing at the first tee, with my driver, teeing up the ball
And now enduring this bitter winter in St. Paul.
GK: I admire that poem, Kathleen. And more than that, I mean to make it come true. If you married me, I could take you south to my family's home in Naples, or our home in Jamaica, or the one in Provence. Or Maui.
SS: I don't know what to say, sir-- you make me blush...
GK: O Kathleen, I know there is a chasm between us. You from the blue collar neighborhoods of West Seventh Street, I from the lofty perch of privilege here on Summit Avenue. And yet-- I love you. I love you for your wit and courage, and your indomitable spirit...
TR (OFF, RICH MAN): Hold on just one minute, Skipper.
(FOOTSTEPS APPROACH)
GK: Father!
SS: Mr. Montague!
GK: I thought you were in Florida.
TR: I came back to close the banjo factory. And I heard every word you said, Skipper, and I have no choice but to fire you, Kathleen, and send you home--
SS: Yes, sir.
GK: In this blizzard, Father? You cannot.
TR: I can and I do. Here is $15 for severance pay. Kindly turn over your keys.
GK: I love her, Father.
TR: Impossible.
SS: Please, don't -- I'll go--
GK: I want to marry her, Father.
TR: You do and I will write you out of the family trust without a penny. Your decision.
SS: Please, don't--
TK: Mr. Montague, you ought to be ashamed!
TR: Why, it's Father Finian, the radical priest-- what brings you here, Father? Trying to rabble-rouse again?
TK: Trying to appeal to your conscience, sir.
TR: If it's about the banjo factory, forget it. What's done is done.
TK: It's not about that. It's about this.
TR: What's in the envelope? (RIPS ENVELOPE OPEN) Some sort of radical tract -- (HE GASPS)
GK: Father? What is it? (TR GROANS) You've turned pale!
SS: I'll go fetch a glass of water.
GK: Shall I call a doctor, Father?
TK: He won't be needing that, son. The paper is your birth certificate.
GK: My birth certificate?
TK: Your true birth certificate.
GK: You mean, he's not my father?
TK: He is your father. But your mother is not Mrs. Montague. Your mother is a Swedish laundrywoman named Greta Gustafson. She was once in your family's employ and your father got her in a family way and took her to Florida to have the baby and then brought you back here. He's kept the secret all these years.
GK: So I'm half Swedish. No wonder I have a keen social conscience, not to mention this insatiable lust for herring.
SS: So if you're of common ancestry, then we could marry--
GK: But Father would cut me out of his will--
TK: Not unless he wants me to spill the beans, he won't.
TR: Curses. Looks like you've got me cornered, Father
Finian.
GK: We'll marry and we'll spend my vast fortune to build a recreation center for the workers, where they can play handball and tennis and bridge and learn to ride a horse and how to select the proper wines ...
SS: There's just one problem.
TK: What is that, Kathleen?
SS: I don't care for him, Father.
GK: You don't?
SS: You're boring and self-centered and -- and you're not that bright.
GK: I can change.
SS: I frankly doubt it.
GK: Please. Give me a chance.
SS: You can't even iron a shirt. Or clean a bathroom properly.
GK: I can learn. Believe me, I can learn! ... (THEME)
TR: THE FOLKS ON THE HILL...brought to you by Beauty Milk, the skin emollient that restores lost youth. Join us again next time as we bring you stories of the longings of the human heart, as powerful as the flow of the mighty Mississippi. (BOAT HORN)