So that is why I recollect my transgressions and wrong turns and nurse my little pile of regrets in my old age --- I'm a midwesterner! I should have known. Now that I know the cause, what's the cure? A taxi ride on 5th Ave in NYC at mid-day? Hey, it can't hurt, right? I'm due for a visit to the great city.
6:55 am & Another Good Morning to You G.K. and all the rest of the world!
I am hoping, that as you sat safely in the cab, as opposed to attempting to descend the stairs to the subway, then boarding a " standing room only " train, or worse, being only one of a few " questionable characters " on board, I sincerely hope that your cab driver got to hear the thoughts you shared with us today. If by some chance the ride was spent with you staring out the window in deep thought and the driver wondering when he will eat his prepared lunch, that my friend would be a shame for both of you.
" Sharing is Caring "! Looking forward to your new book.
How like you, Mr. Keillor, to remember the name of the slush pile reader, all these years later, and to publicly thank her for your career. Roger Angell is a name many people know, but Ms. Kierstad was a worker bee who labored unnoticed. Yet it was she who first saw your potential. Thanks to her, indeed.
My magnificent moments have been watching my brilliant and humble daughter gracefully and steadily moving forward in the wonderful life she has built for herself with God’s grace, for which she thanks Him every day. I recall, having favored the painting “Early Sunday Morning” by Edward Hopper, master of shadow and light, turning the corner at the exhibit of his works in the museum and was stopped dead in my tracks by it, which filled a whole wall and took my breath away. I never realized just how big it was. I stood motionless and took in every brush stroke. I couldn’t tell you how long I stood there. It was my birthday. What a gift. And while there has been as much magnificence in my life matched by tragedy, the other instance stands out in my mind so clearly still. I was hitchhiking cross country for the fourth time, and it happened in Colorado. It was late afternoon, time to find a place to pitch a tent for the night, and for some reason asked the delightful trucker to let me off in the middle of nowhere as far as I could tell. I hopped out with my gear and proceeded to slide down a small hill. When the dust cleared, I was standing on the sandy bank of a brook with crystal clear water running over a bed of smooth stones. I was hot. I was tired. The sun was taking its leave for the day. I stripped my clothes off, waded in, lay on my back and felt the water washing me clean. When night fell, the sky was as black as coal and the sky was a bowl of stars with a full moon that appeared raised like a communion wafer being offered up to God. On the other side of the river was a tall hill. An eight point buck appeared, bowed and then raised its head seemingly piercing the moon with its antlers and then disappeared. I slept more deeply that night than I ever had.
I never liked “Catcher in the Rye”. But one of his lesser known books, “Seymour” and “Raise the Roof Beams Carpenters” is, to my mind, the best book Salinger wrote. Seymour Glass was a sad figure having committed suicide, and his brother attended the wedding Seymour never showed up for due to his untimely death. Now THAT is a book worth buying your brain in.
GK, Your reflections from the surroundings of approaching and being eighty and dealing with the various medical challenges that may have ended the journey have been interesting to contemplate and compare. We could have crossed paths several times, almost did at MPR once or twice, and in NYC pursuing editors at pub houses or making the cab vs subway mistake going up or down town for pitch meetings with those who controlled the cash. I’m a few years younger than you, spent time in the mid-west seeking n education, married a Brethren gal - ex-wife #1 and then stayed away from that part of America ever since. I had a sub-let for a couple of years in the City on W. 85th a block from the Park, and loved the walk across it to the east side and the Met. Almost left MA and moved to NYC permanently which upon reflection probably would have been forever and things would have been much different. The ruminating of “coulda, shoulda - maybe, or woulda” make for mutual mediations during dumbly chosen slow moving taxi trips. Hope your pub pitch succeeds. Those are much different now that corporate employees with MBAs instead of a BA in English hold silly titles in mega media companies such as Senior Editorial Director of Cultural Imprints. WTF are they thinking when only 5% of the royalty advances that the pub houses pay ever earn out? They cannot predict what the reader will like or buy no matter how much AI they feed into their analysis to help make their investment decision about whether to buy a manuscript or not. Every book is just another huge gamble. Steinbeck pointed out that being a writer made horse race gambling look like a conservative occupation. I always try to remember William Goldman’s truism describing film making and apply it to publishing that nobody knows anything.
As always, a lovely piece. At a few years younger than you I, too, am trying to learn the wisdom of “just sitting back and relaxing” when it’s appropriate. (Think of all those times --say, back in high school-- when the thought of sitting in a cab crawling along 5th Ave in New York City[!!] would have seemed as near to heaven as could be imagined.)
But I’m afraid I need to ask for a bit of clarification: “they’re very I”?
Dang you Garrison, there you went and did it again, opened up my mind that is already spinning with the possible wonders of this very late November morning. I've had it in my head for many years, that I have a wonderful story to tell, a book for sure that will do all sorts of gymnastics inside other brains. Now at 82 years of life, actually 83 if considering that moment of conception, but that's another story. Paul Harvey and Charles Kuralt are gone from me now, we all need you here Garrison, please stay safe and alive.
Thank you for the link to that marvelous article about the Seymour Hotel. What a terrific read!
My family has various memories of our NYC experiences. Some involve the Roosevelt Hotel with it's own storied history and in its contemporary life has gone from closed to housing for immigrants, as I understand it.
Hotels (and motels) have rich associations. It's another thing that the crass proliferation of AirBnBs has taken from our memory bank.
Fun story. Reminds me of my own first commercial publishing success many moons ago. But is the ‘T obsession’ really necessary? Tends to weaken and cheapen the narrative.
Hardly an obsession. An occasional mention seems little enough contribution to what should be a national effort to thwart completion of the coup that is hurling this country to full-blown fascism. Maybe that doesn't trouble you, but it troubles - to put it mildly - many Americans who still retain some notion of "America" as something other than a "cute story."
Wow, the guy who complains that his right to free speech is being violated every time someone challenges his support for authoritarianism resurfaces to tell a female patriot that her speech in defense of this country is blather. He even does this with a condescending veneer of politeness, addressing her as "Miss Cross." It's all the more ironic because he knows very well that Annie Cross is right. He'll point out that he "means well," though. A lot of good his meaning well will do the country if enough people like him manage to usher back into power a liar who denies elections both in advance and after the fact.
"Brigattista," as you know very well, trying to overturn an election qualifies someone as an authoritarian, but that's just the tip of the iceberg with your cult leader. I know you're a self-styled "brigatista" for the right, but people like you have a special responsibility now because the unprecedented authoritarian threat we face happens to have emerged from the right. Unfortunately, you will probably leave it to the rest of us—those of us who prefer to keep our republic, our nation of laws—to make sure that the MAGA cult never succeeds at creating the mafia state it so longs for.
Shame on you for continuing to pretend you see none of this.
He exists and it would be hard not to see him. He is not like any politician who ever existed in this country. You can only compare him to Mussolini and perhaps to Hitler, though he's not that smart.
It's very easy to track down Mary D. Kierstad using Google. Her obituary is online for anyone to read. She was quite an educated and prominent figure in the NYC area, not a little simpleton reader of slush piles.
(I'm thrilled to get a response from yourself.) Glad she was! I've been a fan of your varied works since 1971, the morning radio show with Jim Ed, from the earliest PHC to now, all the music/ians you've introduced, the limericks, stories and jokes, essays, etc. You deserve a special award for your accomplishments. I've lived in Brooklyn Park, a stone's throw from where you grew up, for 16 years and Brooklyn Center 35 years (two suburbs which have gotten bad raps). I've been to numerous of your shows, including your last appearance at the "famous" Osseo Book Club. So, I feel a bit like an insider. Here's a thought--I always wanted you, in your representations of "we Minnesotans", to throw in an encounter between an old time immigrant Norwegian bachelor farmer and a more recently-arrived Hmong or Somali or Hispanic immigrant, just to acknowledge that "we
Minnesotans" have evolved, and it's OK. Keep up the great writing and spreading of cheer.
I wrote a novel called BOOM TOWN about Mexican families moving into Lake Wobegon to work in tech jobs on big prosperous tomato farms in which they bring some vibrant and joyful to town culture. It didn't get reviewed in the local papers due to the #MeToo cancellation, but it was great fun to write.
OK, that's good to know; I'll read Boom Town next. Re #MeToo cancellation--reminds me of a pepfest in the high school gym, too easy to go off the rails and turn into a mess of mob mentality misbehavior when it started as a civilized cheering of the school's sporting engagements. Anyway, the schedule of 50th anniversary appearances is a testament to the enduring value of PHC etc., something to be proud of. Keep spreading the music, the talent, the cheer.
“Memory is fiction — an anecdotal version of some scene or past event we need to store away for present or future use.” Roger Angell got it right. Thank you for sharing the story. Having him as your editor puts you in good company- John Updike, etc.. I wanted to be a writer and a baseball player. Who knows where meeting Roger Angell in 1971 might have led!
So that is why I recollect my transgressions and wrong turns and nurse my little pile of regrets in my old age --- I'm a midwesterner! I should have known. Now that I know the cause, what's the cure? A taxi ride on 5th Ave in NYC at mid-day? Hey, it can't hurt, right? I'm due for a visit to the great city.
How lucky you were to know Roger Angell...his essay on The Martini is a masterpiece!
6:55 am & Another Good Morning to You G.K. and all the rest of the world!
I am hoping, that as you sat safely in the cab, as opposed to attempting to descend the stairs to the subway, then boarding a " standing room only " train, or worse, being only one of a few " questionable characters " on board, I sincerely hope that your cab driver got to hear the thoughts you shared with us today. If by some chance the ride was spent with you staring out the window in deep thought and the driver wondering when he will eat his prepared lunch, that my friend would be a shame for both of you.
" Sharing is Caring "! Looking forward to your new book.
How like you, Mr. Keillor, to remember the name of the slush pile reader, all these years later, and to publicly thank her for your career. Roger Angell is a name many people know, but Ms. Kierstad was a worker bee who labored unnoticed. Yet it was she who first saw your potential. Thanks to her, indeed.
I wrote a poem for Mary D. Kierstead entitled "ANGEL".
I want to thank you, darling, that back in 1969,
Looking through a pile of unsolicited stories at The New Yorker, you pulled out mine
And sent it to an editor and said, “Read it,”
Which was what I desperately needed.
I imagine you, a graduate of Barnard, a writer yourself,
Working through piles of paper on a shelf,
An angel smoking a menthol cigarette,
Horn-rimmed glasses, hair the color of sunset,
Hundreds of writers hoping to catch a ride
And the importance of angels cannot be denied.
Fifty years have passed since I made you smile
But to me it’s still happening, my story in the pile.
If you choose me I’ll write books and do a radio show
And marry Jenny. And if you don’t, I don’t know.
I’ll sit in a parking lot shack, a pint of bourbon in my coat,
Grieving for all the stories that I never wrote.
You chose me and it led me to a better place.
Fifty years illuminated by our grace.
I write this poem, my dear, and lay it at your feet,
My angelic first reader at 25 West 43rd Street.
Lovely. ❤️
My magnificent moments have been watching my brilliant and humble daughter gracefully and steadily moving forward in the wonderful life she has built for herself with God’s grace, for which she thanks Him every day. I recall, having favored the painting “Early Sunday Morning” by Edward Hopper, master of shadow and light, turning the corner at the exhibit of his works in the museum and was stopped dead in my tracks by it, which filled a whole wall and took my breath away. I never realized just how big it was. I stood motionless and took in every brush stroke. I couldn’t tell you how long I stood there. It was my birthday. What a gift. And while there has been as much magnificence in my life matched by tragedy, the other instance stands out in my mind so clearly still. I was hitchhiking cross country for the fourth time, and it happened in Colorado. It was late afternoon, time to find a place to pitch a tent for the night, and for some reason asked the delightful trucker to let me off in the middle of nowhere as far as I could tell. I hopped out with my gear and proceeded to slide down a small hill. When the dust cleared, I was standing on the sandy bank of a brook with crystal clear water running over a bed of smooth stones. I was hot. I was tired. The sun was taking its leave for the day. I stripped my clothes off, waded in, lay on my back and felt the water washing me clean. When night fell, the sky was as black as coal and the sky was a bowl of stars with a full moon that appeared raised like a communion wafer being offered up to God. On the other side of the river was a tall hill. An eight point buck appeared, bowed and then raised its head seemingly piercing the moon with its antlers and then disappeared. I slept more deeply that night than I ever had.
I never liked “Catcher in the Rye”. But one of his lesser known books, “Seymour” and “Raise the Roof Beams Carpenters” is, to my mind, the best book Salinger wrote. Seymour Glass was a sad figure having committed suicide, and his brother attended the wedding Seymour never showed up for due to his untimely death. Now THAT is a book worth buying your brain in.
Good sermon.
Thanks.
GK, Your reflections from the surroundings of approaching and being eighty and dealing with the various medical challenges that may have ended the journey have been interesting to contemplate and compare. We could have crossed paths several times, almost did at MPR once or twice, and in NYC pursuing editors at pub houses or making the cab vs subway mistake going up or down town for pitch meetings with those who controlled the cash. I’m a few years younger than you, spent time in the mid-west seeking n education, married a Brethren gal - ex-wife #1 and then stayed away from that part of America ever since. I had a sub-let for a couple of years in the City on W. 85th a block from the Park, and loved the walk across it to the east side and the Met. Almost left MA and moved to NYC permanently which upon reflection probably would have been forever and things would have been much different. The ruminating of “coulda, shoulda - maybe, or woulda” make for mutual mediations during dumbly chosen slow moving taxi trips. Hope your pub pitch succeeds. Those are much different now that corporate employees with MBAs instead of a BA in English hold silly titles in mega media companies such as Senior Editorial Director of Cultural Imprints. WTF are they thinking when only 5% of the royalty advances that the pub houses pay ever earn out? They cannot predict what the reader will like or buy no matter how much AI they feed into their analysis to help make their investment decision about whether to buy a manuscript or not. Every book is just another huge gamble. Steinbeck pointed out that being a writer made horse race gambling look like a conservative occupation. I always try to remember William Goldman’s truism describing film making and apply it to publishing that nobody knows anything.
Hopefully, he will be headed to prison rather then the White House!
You may spell your last name wrong but you are a great person and may G-d and a jury hear your prayer!
I'm so glad they pulled you out of that slush pile...my world would be sadder without lake Wobegon
Good morning Garrison
As always, a lovely piece. At a few years younger than you I, too, am trying to learn the wisdom of “just sitting back and relaxing” when it’s appropriate. (Think of all those times --say, back in high school-- when the thought of sitting in a cab crawling along 5th Ave in New York City[!!] would have seemed as near to heaven as could be imagined.)
But I’m afraid I need to ask for a bit of clarification: “they’re very I”?
The phrase appears after "VIP" so the letter I refers to that, "Important".
Ah, of course. Thank you.
I love the way you punctuate you stories with vignettes. The lady in the hammock, reading, perfect.
I love the way you decided to make the best of the long taxi ride... I'm not quite your age but I I'm at the age where I can relate.
I love the way your stories are usually upbeat and that's why I read them at the end of the day. Thank You, Garrison!
Dang you Garrison, there you went and did it again, opened up my mind that is already spinning with the possible wonders of this very late November morning. I've had it in my head for many years, that I have a wonderful story to tell, a book for sure that will do all sorts of gymnastics inside other brains. Now at 82 years of life, actually 83 if considering that moment of conception, but that's another story. Paul Harvey and Charles Kuralt are gone from me now, we all need you here Garrison, please stay safe and alive.
Here is an article on The Seymour you might find of interest. Apparently quite the elegant building when first built. A pity it became a fleabag hotel. https://daytoninmanhattan.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-lost-seymour-hotel-44-west-45th.html#google_vignette
Thank you for the link to that marvelous article about the Seymour Hotel. What a terrific read!
My family has various memories of our NYC experiences. Some involve the Roosevelt Hotel with it's own storied history and in its contemporary life has gone from closed to housing for immigrants, as I understand it.
Hotels (and motels) have rich associations. It's another thing that the crass proliferation of AirBnBs has taken from our memory bank.
THANKS for the link. It's remarkable to contemplate the sheer density of history in New York City. Every block contains a hundred thousand lives.
Fun story. Reminds me of my own first commercial publishing success many moons ago. But is the ‘T obsession’ really necessary? Tends to weaken and cheapen the narrative.
Hardly an obsession. An occasional mention seems little enough contribution to what should be a national effort to thwart completion of the coup that is hurling this country to full-blown fascism. Maybe that doesn't trouble you, but it troubles - to put it mildly - many Americans who still retain some notion of "America" as something other than a "cute story."
Do you ever take a breather from this "Hurtling towards fascism" blather, Miss Cross? You've ruined, yet again, another pleasant Comments section.
Be nice, children.
Wow, the guy who complains that his right to free speech is being violated every time someone challenges his support for authoritarianism resurfaces to tell a female patriot that her speech in defense of this country is blather. He even does this with a condescending veneer of politeness, addressing her as "Miss Cross." It's all the more ironic because he knows very well that Annie Cross is right. He'll point out that he "means well," though. A lot of good his meaning well will do the country if enough people like him manage to usher back into power a liar who denies elections both in advance and after the fact.
"Brigattista," as you know very well, trying to overturn an election qualifies someone as an authoritarian, but that's just the tip of the iceberg with your cult leader. I know you're a self-styled "brigatista" for the right, but people like you have a special responsibility now because the unprecedented authoritarian threat we face happens to have emerged from the right. Unfortunately, you will probably leave it to the rest of us—those of us who prefer to keep our republic, our nation of laws—to make sure that the MAGA cult never succeeds at creating the mafia state it so longs for.
Shame on you for continuing to pretend you see none of this.
He exists and it would be hard not to see him. He is not like any politician who ever existed in this country. You can only compare him to Mussolini and perhaps to Hitler, though he's not that smart.
When it comes to misleading people into supporting him, he may actually be smarter.
It's very easy to track down Mary D. Kierstad using Google. Her obituary is online for anyone to read. She was quite an educated and prominent figure in the NYC area, not a little simpleton reader of slush piles.
She was a smart and dedicated reader of the slush pile, a crucial person at the magazine.
(I'm thrilled to get a response from yourself.) Glad she was! I've been a fan of your varied works since 1971, the morning radio show with Jim Ed, from the earliest PHC to now, all the music/ians you've introduced, the limericks, stories and jokes, essays, etc. You deserve a special award for your accomplishments. I've lived in Brooklyn Park, a stone's throw from where you grew up, for 16 years and Brooklyn Center 35 years (two suburbs which have gotten bad raps). I've been to numerous of your shows, including your last appearance at the "famous" Osseo Book Club. So, I feel a bit like an insider. Here's a thought--I always wanted you, in your representations of "we Minnesotans", to throw in an encounter between an old time immigrant Norwegian bachelor farmer and a more recently-arrived Hmong or Somali or Hispanic immigrant, just to acknowledge that "we
Minnesotans" have evolved, and it's OK. Keep up the great writing and spreading of cheer.
I wrote a novel called BOOM TOWN about Mexican families moving into Lake Wobegon to work in tech jobs on big prosperous tomato farms in which they bring some vibrant and joyful to town culture. It didn't get reviewed in the local papers due to the #MeToo cancellation, but it was great fun to write.
OK, that's good to know; I'll read Boom Town next. Re #MeToo cancellation--reminds me of a pepfest in the high school gym, too easy to go off the rails and turn into a mess of mob mentality misbehavior when it started as a civilized cheering of the school's sporting engagements. Anyway, the schedule of 50th anniversary appearances is a testament to the enduring value of PHC etc., something to be proud of. Keep spreading the music, the talent, the cheer.
“Memory is fiction — an anecdotal version of some scene or past event we need to store away for present or future use.” Roger Angell got it right. Thank you for sharing the story. Having him as your editor puts you in good company- John Updike, etc.. I wanted to be a writer and a baseball player. Who knows where meeting Roger Angell in 1971 might have led!