A man on a porch by the river
The Column: 09.12.24
The last lovely days of summer are upon us when I sit on the porch of a little white house across the river from a marina and am grateful it’s not my house and I don’t own a boat. I’m a free man. Someone else gets to clean the gutters and I’m under no obligation to rev up the outboard and take people for a ride up the river and back. I’ve been on several boat rides in my long life and several is enough, I sailed across the Atlantic on the Queen Mary II once, five days in a Hilton that vibrates, hanging out with light-headed people in spangly clothes.
The freedom to not do what you don’t like is basic in a free society. I resist hiking, boating, golfing, climbing; I prefer porching. Summer goes against my nature except when a good thunderstorm comes crashing and flashing in and I observe divine wrath hurled down upon the wicked, it satisfies the Puritan in me. I appear to be a liberal but down deep I am a man in a tall black hat with a buckle on it. And now that the party of Lincoln that was formed to set Black people free from slavery has become the party of yellow golf pants, there isn’t enough lightning to reform it.
This all began when I was a kid. Our house had Scripture verses on the walls, which made us odd, and I wanted to keep this a secret. For example, “Thou shalt not bear false witness” — I enjoyed bearing false witness, was good at it, loved books in which writers made up stuff. But when the yellow golf pants runs for President on the basis of fictions and falsehoods such that fact-checkers have checked into Episcopal rest homes, then puritanism starts to look good.
Sitting here on the porch, I look at the woman sitting ten feet away, whom I love dearly, and she smiles and asks me, “Do you notice something different about me?” A question that strikes dread in my heart.
I don’t want to say, “You got your hair done,” if the correct answer is “You had your lower lip pierced and a large wooden disc inserted in it.” But I don’t see a disc, and she has two arms and two legs and, praise God, she hasn’t shaved one side of her head and dyed the other side green. There is no Q tattoo on her arm. I’m about to say, “I notice how radiant you look,” but she puts a finger to her lips and I notice: lipstick. Pale red. Very cool. It makes me think of Katharine Hepburn who lived just up the road from this little house.
September means school and though I graduated long ago, school is never out, it goes on and on. What Mrs. Moehlenbrock expected of me when I was 12, I now expect of myself, to work up to my potential, to engage with the world, but the world passed me by long ago and in my old age I learn to appreciate small pleasures. Coffee. The river. A toasted muffin with blueberry jam. Conversation. The woman sitting next to me regales me with reminiscence of her grandparents whose porch this once was. I love her stories, I’ve heard enough of my own.
She stands to emphasize a point and I hold out my arms and she sits on my lap, my arms around her. I hold her gently, not grabbily or clutchingly but meaningfully, two independent persons in fine alignment.
When I was 12, I was a teacher’s pet, so I was a target for playground bullies. A boy told me my teeth were green and rotten and I believed him and stopped smiling. And I believed that the Second Coming was imminent and though I was a Christian I wasn’t sure that God realized that. Brother Frank could preach a sermon that made me feel like a war criminal.
But you grow up and experience the generosity of this world. Justice prevails, at least it tries to. I got a good college education on the cheap. The world is full of fascinating individuals who are here for our appreciation. Highly educated people tend to treat you with respect, which is rather stunning. Society will try to do the right thing by you. And this woman will accept my love. So what’s your problem, Mister? Enjoy the day. All of it.
We’re looking ahead to 2025, and we’ve already got some shows on the books. Come see Garrison Keillor live later this winter!
CLICK HERE to buy tickets today!
Do you know that David Sedaris mentions you in his essay in the current issue of the New Yorker? Sedaris writes about being invited to the Vatican with scores of other comedians and wondering why “more qualified people” weren’t asked. Why not Garrison Keillor…?” he says.
A nice shout out.
And well-deserved.
From a fellow pitcher—and decker.
What a fine column. And I could have written the last paragraph myself. Life is good. May it continue until the Supreme Being decides he (or she) is done with us..