Every Minnesotan has known a Tim Walz or two in his lifetime. Or more.
He’s the indistinguishable smiling chub in your dad’s old hunting photos. Or the guy who was the manager of the meat department at the grocery store. Or the guy in cargo shorts and a polo shirt and white sneakers (black socks, optional) at the hardware store on Saturday, chatting with the clerks about the price of propane. Or the governor. Or the guy in the local paper opening the new car dealership. Or being arrested for skimming from the old car dealership. We’ve been turning out Walzs up here for years. Guys who go from 30 to 50 overnight and stay there.
Our basic take, as Minnesotans: Probably a good neighbor, as these things go—you could borrow a bag of briquets from him if your cookout hit a snag. If he did the same, he’d pay you back. If he got up earlier than you after a snowfall, he might shovel your front walk. (Driveway’s up to you.) At the neighborhood block party, you talk about crime in vague, nonspecific terms while the wives talk about the kids. When they downsized and moved to Arizona, you’d say you should get together before they go, but you don’t, and you don’t miss them that much.
The stories in the news talk about Walz’s “big dad energy!” Yay patriarchy, apparently. His legions of new fans describe his grounded Midwestern appeal, sensible and practical like the rest of the denizens of the great flat lands. The stories about his days as a high school teacher paint a picture of a man whose students liked him, a lot, and how he was a great teacher. No reason to doubt that.
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