At any rate, by 1993, when I was working at WHYY-Radio in Philadelphia, my father had died, leaving Leno perhaps the only person in the world I could turn to for the secret of building a burnable snowman. Leno told me to erect a simple frame of utility grade lumber, form the body with chickenwire, and stuff the thing with paper (See Diagram A). The one we burned in Philly that year was much smaller than the MPR versions, but it made an impressive fire that nearly engulfed the station manager.

It is now tradition that my friend John Forde and I build the MPR snowman in the parking lot of the Saint Paul Fire Training Center. To achieve the proper artistic aesthetic, we pick the coldest and dampest day of the year, and one of us makes sure to forget to bring gloves.

Ether and the Muse
MY FATHER SPENT THE KOREAN WAR in Germany, fighting the Cold War. While he was dropping leaflets on Soviet soldiers utilizing hydrogen balloons and long fuses, he heard about the German village tradition of burning snowmen. (Kids in the villages were urged to be good or summer would never come.) When he came to LSSU in the late '60s, he began to burn snowmen, and - just as important - added poetry to let the world know about LSSU's liberal arts program. I, in turn, stole the form of the snowman burning from my father, and added music. Dan Newton's Cafe Accordian Orchestra braves the cold for our ceremony.

Why does it work on the radio? It goes without saying that everyone loves the snap, crackle, and pop of a good fire. Plus, Minnesotans need a way to kiss-off slush, blizzards, windchill, and snow-shovelling. But I believe it's the poetry that fuels the broadcast. I think we feel something deep in our soul when winter turns to spring, and poetry may be the best verbal expression of the soul.A surprising number of regular people write poetry, and I wanted to involve listeners in a significant way.

Culling with Curry and Coffee
A FEW WEEKS BEFORE the first MPR snowman burning, a well-intentioned co-worker suggested I might want to form a committee to select from among the hundreds of poems from listeners. I ran screaming and hid under the stairs, beating my toy tin drum, and nobody made me do it.

Instead, I go to my friends John and Seeta Arrell's house. He makes good coffee, and she makes sublime curry. The coffee keeps us critically sharp, and the curry opens our creative pores to the tasty phrases and apt metaphors.

Coincidentally, the man who became the Snowman Burning poet laureate, Vijit Ramchandani, has also eaten his share of curry. His poem, "Minnesota Nice," explored life in Minnesota by comparing it to food, saying it appears good, but "how does it taste?" Maybe it tastes exactly like coffee and curry; a mug of the former warding off the cold, a steaming bowl of the latter promising a few warm days this summer.