An old man disposing of possessions

The Column: 07.21.23

Clearing out an apartment a man sees what a work of art domestic life is, and clearance demands an iron will, no shilly-shallying, no regrets. Hundreds of books must go. The painting of the blizzard must go; I bought it long ago because it reminded me of Minnesota mornings and walking to school, and now she informs me that it gives her the heebie-jeebies, and because I am in love with this woman I offer it up as a sacrifice. This impresses her and so she allows me to keep the stone busts of Mark Twain and Erato the Muse of lyrical poetry. Horse-trading. I keep the bust of Lincoln because it reminds me of my father.

I keep mementos of family and teachers. Now and then young progressive Democrats have said to me, when I expressed an opinion, “Well, you’re a privileged white male,” and of course they’re right. In first grade, Mrs. Estelle Shaver kept me after school to read aloud to her and one day the janitor walked in and she said, “Listen to him, Bill. Doesn’t he have a wonderful voice. I love to listen to him while I grade lessons.” It was remedial reading, of course, but she made me believe I’d been chosen for this privilege and she changed my life. In fourth grade I was leery of playground bullies, and Mrs. Fern Moehlenbrock let me spend recess in the library. She knew I loved to read. To know at the age of 10 what you love is a privilege.

Honors were bestowed on me in my professional life that might impress you but they were minor annoyances compared to the blessings of good teachers.

The young Democrats are nursing their resentments in behalf of the underprivileged, a noble though harmless exercise, and I am an old Democrat who allows himself to be grateful. It’s a beautiful summer, the new valve in my heart is working, my wife is happy, I’m trucking around doing shows, and people tell me jokes: Ron DeSantis is struggling politically because he keeps having Disney spells.

Politics is uglier than ever before. Politicians refer to an “invasion” of Hispanic migrants across the southern border and then a man, using the word “invasion,” killed 23 in a Walmart in El Paso. A former president’s website offered up the Obamas’ home address and a gentleman read it and announced that he was going to try to get “a shot” and the Secret Service arrested him near the home, carrying two guns and 400 rounds of ammunition.

It’s hard to imagine Bob Dole doing that to Bill Clinton. Respect for the rival is taught to children in games; you line up afterward and give a fist bump to the opponents who were in your face minutes before. I admire my competitor Taylor Swift, a dedicated professional and a generous soul. I don’t do costume changes in my show, I just stroll out on stage and sing a prayer and sing about fading daffodils and the brevity of summer and “This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long” and the crowd and I sing “My country, ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty,” which they probably haven’t sung since the sixth grade, and we do the one about deer and antelope, and maybe the Doxology, and while Taylor gives hope and affirmation to the anguished young, I assure the aging that they’re heading in the right direction. Past 70 there is a tremendous diminishment of B.S. around you. And your sins diminish: your greed is satisfied at any ATM, your lust is for more sleep, your gluttony is for a Dairy Queen Blizzard, your sloth becomes meditation.

I’m an English major, an education that prepared me for a career in valet parking, but instead I go around and allow the curious to see a grateful old man. My people invaded from Yorkshire and Wales, and we’ve done well here, thanks to good teachers and our elders who taught us gratitude. Life itself is a privilege: look around you and be grateful for the trees, the grass, Lincoln, Twain, even the snow falling in the painting, and thanks to the good people who took it off my hands. I’m in the deletion business: I’ve eliminated running, TV (except for baseball), and I gave away my unread Moby-Dick. Not enough time. I hear that Ahab dies and Ishmael survives to tell the tale. Good enough. Time for a walk.

Celebrate 50 years of A Prairie Home Companion with a first stop at The American Theatre in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, on July 29.

CLICK HERE for tickets to that show and a list of other upcoming performances!

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