Your exchanges with us are good for the soul. Quite frankly I don't know how you keep it all up at your age. What a gift! You're still as sharp as tack, and not the kind to be avoided on the floor....but one to tack on to in your many down-home stories.
I don't know how the next generation will grab hold of what you offer....they seem lost from too much social media and they don't listen to stories. But that's their worry, not ours. Wait a minute! I've got grandkids out there to worry about. What will they ever do?
They don’t seem to be well-read. Few classics. They have a sense of anything goes. Fewer in our churches. Little reaching out to those in need. What can we do to pass on what we learned in our lifetimes to those just getting started with theirs. We need more role models. Ideas?
Thanks for response. Do it!!! and report to us on it. just wondering...What age is your grandson? Mine are all in their teens now. Good kids with values too, some put in place by parents and, occasionally, me their grampa. They respond, even if it's over pizza.
You could tell some of your story with your grandson in a kind and helpful way. Fingerpointing isn't the answer. Caring is. Our parents or relativeslent it to us. Many of us carried those values that have helped us to betterment over time.. We need to do the same enough that our shared memories stick long after we're gone
When I was 4 my grampa read me the Sunday funnies and told me that I'd soon be reading them to him. When I entered kindergarten I asked the teacher when we'd learn to read. She said it was next year. Durng recess I went home, just a few blocks away. My mother hauled me back and explained that somehow the sandobx and finger-painting would help me. Never cared for it. But reading was a whole new world. Still is.
Looking forward to the show in Nashville. We are flying in from Seattle. I wish NPR and or APM would find great shows to replace PHC and others. I know it's too much for your age, I'm 62 and would not want to tackle a weekly show, even with a staff. There is plenty of talent out there. But since PHC, Car Talk and Vinyl Cafe are no more and NPR is very different, the format changed for the worse in 2016. It seems they are in poor financial shape. They have agendas and many people have left. My observation has been that NPR's format change has alienated the hand that feeds them by vilifying them while glorifying people who wont. What they did to you was not OK. I saw it was a scam to beat you out of your royalties. The show they they tried to replace PHC with was terrible. After 1 show I tuned out for good. I and many others want our old NPR back and we will start donating again.
Car Talk was a real gem and Wait Wait Don't Tell Me. I think David Sedaris has done good stuff on NPR, no? I don't know, I never had time to listen to radio except back in my childhood and that's why PHC was such a throwback.
The decision of your former partners was cowardly. Mob behaviour generally is. Peace yes. But not at any price. You’ve demonstrated that the artist can reconstruct their relationship with “fans” post cancellation. Kudos!!
I certainly approve of a holiday celebrating the luxury of sunlight! I think M. Bussieres makes a good point. There's no reason that you can't celebrate a French holiday - this is the United States, the great Melting Pot of the world, after all! :)
Some of the French-Americans got to move to Louisiana, but others (my ancestors included) ended up in Quebec, M. Bussieres's home. According to Weather Spark (https://weatherspark.com/y/26469/Average-Weather-in-Qu%C3%A9bec-Canada-Year-Round), summers in Quebec"...are comfortable and wet, the winters are freezing and snowy, and it is partly cloudy year round. Over the course of the year, the temperature typically varies from 6°F to 78°F and is rarely below -12°F or above 86°F." Weather Spark claims that in your home town, "...summers are warm and wet; the winters are freezing, snowy, and windy; and it is partly cloudy year round. Over the course of the year, the temperature typically varies from 9°F to 83°F and is rarely below -11°F or above 91°F." (https://weatherspark.com/y/146224/Average-Weather-at-Anoka-County-Airport-Minnesota-United-States-Year-Round). Not too bad...
My mother was many things but one thing she was not was a gardener. Nevertheless, she grew rhubarb successfully and used to eat a stalk at a time, dipped in sugar. For breakfast. She raised three smart children so none of us copied her. She switched later in life to apple pie with ice cream. She raised three smart children so we copied her. She and our father remained in Minnesota….Mankato…for their whole lives, except for frequent travels. Our father died aged 80. My mother died recently aged 100. We all now consume rhubarb and apple pie….no strawberries….unlike our father. Just saying.
My mother convinced my siblings and me to eat rhubarb stalks dipped in sugar - I guess we were more impressionable than you were! :) She also made strawberry and rhubarb pie...
Ha. I live in New Orleans….the end of the Mississippi River not the beginning like in the Minnesota where I (one of three siblings) was raised. Heat and humidity similar to Minnesota summers and we do get snow occasionally in the winters ….which are not six months long….but I do not have easy access to rhubarb while there. Apple pie with ice cream is not a true substitute for one containing rhubarb singly or in conjunction but the memories are the same and substantial. I guess y’all WERE more impressionable……you did what your mother wanted.
i can assure you that your writing is not monochrome. I have long admired how you took classic American genres: the Western, Noir and homespun Mark Twainish tales and made them your own. It's storytelling that we like isn't it? Because we learn something about ourselves I suspect.
As a writer I aspire to be as interesting, funny and generous as you. Glad to know you sir. If you come to San Antonio or even Austin I'll be in the front row. A tall scraggly older guy who looks like he just got off a 25 mile hammer down bike ride cause i probly did.
Garrison, In this post I saw your back-and-forth with architect Donald Singer. Don and I were in high school together in Hollywood, Florida, graduating in 1955. We both went to the University of Florida (Gainesville) and both graduated with degrees in "Architorture." Don went on to a distinguished career in the profession in southern Florida. I drifted away into Fine Art Photography, but still dabbled, having committed architecture thrice, but have never inhabited it.
I was without internet for a couple of weeks. I fervently hope that I am still subscribed to your fine posts. Jay Dusard, photographer (and pre-stroke jazz cornetist) Douglas, Arizona.
I have enjoyed PHC countless times, and had the habit of recording many of the shows on tape cassettes. One of my favorite of your monologues was “Gospel Birds”. I also liked the one where Rev Inkfist (SP?) put the entire congregation on notice that someone would be called on to say a prayer. They congregants all feared they would be called on, but it was worth it to go to the service just to see who would get the nod.
Years ago, my father was a Lutheran minister in Miltona, MN. I learned to swim in Lake Miltona, where the temperature of the water gave meaning to the phrase “mortification of the flesh”.
To me, Lake Wobegon harkens back to kinder, gentler times of the village, a place where people live responsibly in community and despite idiosyncrasies and annoyances at bottom really do love each other, though they would never say so, of course.
A project which is not beyond your powers. Collect your essays that are appearing here into a compendium. Include the photos, where you can get the permissions. With or without comments. Perhaps enlist your loving wife; but beyond doubt, there is someone you trust to take as great a joy in doing it as we'd take in reading it.
Fond memories. Years ago when my mother was still living, (1903-2002) I would go to her house and we would listen to PHC on I believe Sunday evenings. We had to bring the radio out to the screened in porch of her trailer to get reception!! Those were nice evenings for us and since my mother was blind, she didn't miss anything as she would with TV. I still say, "'mon back"! Thanks for the laughter!!!
Just noted your future plans "...my wife wants to go to Vienna, Budapest, Stockholm, Prague, and Switzerland..." Excellent choices all, but there is some rivalry as the Viennese insist that in the case of Zurich, it is twice the size of Vienna's main cemetery and half as much fun. You are welcome to join an ex-pat, dual national for a glass of new wine at one of Vienna's famed Heurigers at the city's edge.
When you get to Skelton, perhaps you'll have a "Spirit Guide." I can testify that such things can happen! When I came to New York state, I ended up in an Ukrainian Pentecostal church for fellowship. Our pastor had a large family, so large that they couldn't find a suitable residence close to town. They finally bought a farmhouse not far from the Oswego River. His five sons liked to go bike riding along the shore. They'd often double-up, with some of the boys riding on the crossbar of one brother or another.
At the end of one Saturday night service, Police notified our pastor that one of his sons, Erik, had been electrocuted. One of the riverside inhabitants had set up a jury-rigged wire to keep the Canada Geese from hanging around his shoreline and Erik had grabbed hold of it.
You can readily imagine the shock that gave our congregation, hearing this at the end of our evening service! That night, around midnight, I woke up, feeling suddenly that I was that little boy. Jesus was standing at the foot of my bed. "Come Unto Me!" Jesus said. And because I (Erik) was such a good little boy, I came.
The next morning, in the Sunday service, Erik's father, our pastor, castigated himself for "Not being a better father." The officer who had informed him of Erik's death had asked "Why weren't you even aware that he was missing?" The boys had been very casual in their cycling arrangements - the boy who had brought Erik to the riverside didn't think a bit about it when he rode his bike back alone. He figured one of his brothers had taken him back home. Even Sunday morning, going to church, the older brothers had driven their siblings in their cars without counting who was present, and who was not. It's easy to imagine how "things as usual" might have confused the true situation.
After the pastor's sermon, I went up to Erik's father and recounted the visitation I had had the night before. "Erik was such a good boy, Jesus wanted him to come to Heaven, to be there with Him," I said. "It wasn't your fault. You need to keep on being the best father you can for the rest of the family." His red eyes cleared, and I could see him forming a resolve to be a better parent for the living.
That's the prelude. What happened to me afterward was quite extraordinary! Every now and then, as I drove around rural New York State, I'd pass a cemetery. "This One," I'd sense. I'd stop at the gate and follow some invisible guide to some one particular tombstone. It happened five or six times. Every time, when I "Got There", I'd find the tombstone of an eleven-year-old boy. The stones were often very old. A relative of the Fargos (Wells Fargo company) lies less than 20 miles away from my house. The boy died a century ago - there's a kneeling "Lamb of God" emblem carved on his headstone. Every time I'd "be led" to these memorials, I'd feel that Erik was introducing me to his new companions, "On The Other Side."
Does this still happen? No. Once, in a sunset, I felt as if Erik were talking to me. He described a situation similar to Purgatory - waiting at the gates. "When one of my brothers is baptized into our church, I'll be free to enter Heaven itself'" he said. I had a chance to speak privately with our pastor, and asked why he was delaying Paul's baptism. "He's so immature - he's not ready," his father replied. "When we were travelling together in the Ukraine," I replied, "he told me how fervently he wished that you would trust him enough to grant him this privilege." About a month later, we were at the lake where our Pastor was baptizing Paul. As the father dipped his son into the water, I looked above me. I KNEW that Erik was on a pine branch, watching with every ounce of his being.
I have never been directed to search for tombstones in old cemeteries again!
Your exchanges with us are good for the soul. Quite frankly I don't know how you keep it all up at your age. What a gift! You're still as sharp as tack, and not the kind to be avoided on the floor....but one to tack on to in your many down-home stories.
I don't know how the next generation will grab hold of what you offer....they seem lost from too much social media and they don't listen to stories. But that's their worry, not ours. Wait a minute! I've got grandkids out there to worry about. What will they ever do?
I worry about them too. I hardly ever get to have a conversation with a teen or twenty-year-old and it feels like a real deprivation.
They don’t seem to be well-read. Few classics. They have a sense of anything goes. Fewer in our churches. Little reaching out to those in need. What can we do to pass on what we learned in our lifetimes to those just getting started with theirs. We need more role models. Ideas?
I don't know that Im a teacher but I'd like to listen to people my grandson's age and try to understand their situations.
Thanks for response. Do it!!! and report to us on it. just wondering...What age is your grandson? Mine are all in their teens now. Good kids with values too, some put in place by parents and, occasionally, me their grampa. They respond, even if it's over pizza.
You could tell some of your story with your grandson in a kind and helpful way. Fingerpointing isn't the answer. Caring is. Our parents or relativeslent it to us. Many of us carried those values that have helped us to betterment over time.. We need to do the same enough that our shared memories stick long after we're gone
When I was 4 my grampa read me the Sunday funnies and told me that I'd soon be reading them to him. When I entered kindergarten I asked the teacher when we'd learn to read. She said it was next year. Durng recess I went home, just a few blocks away. My mother hauled me back and explained that somehow the sandobx and finger-painting would help me. Never cared for it. But reading was a whole new world. Still is.
I agree that strawberry-rhubarb pie is a fine pie, but one simple way to improve it is to leave the strawberries out.
We're having an argument about that and I'm seeing the rhubarb side more clearly.
Now that's funny because I believe Rhubarb is a terrible thing to do to an innocent Strawberry!!! :) :)
If you come to Austria, dear Mr Keillor, please let me know. We´d like to offer you and Mrs Keillor some Austrian hospitality.
Very kind of you. We know a couple of Ellies, both of them dear people, so there's a precedent.
Looking forward to the show in Nashville. We are flying in from Seattle. I wish NPR and or APM would find great shows to replace PHC and others. I know it's too much for your age, I'm 62 and would not want to tackle a weekly show, even with a staff. There is plenty of talent out there. But since PHC, Car Talk and Vinyl Cafe are no more and NPR is very different, the format changed for the worse in 2016. It seems they are in poor financial shape. They have agendas and many people have left. My observation has been that NPR's format change has alienated the hand that feeds them by vilifying them while glorifying people who wont. What they did to you was not OK. I saw it was a scam to beat you out of your royalties. The show they they tried to replace PHC with was terrible. After 1 show I tuned out for good. I and many others want our old NPR back and we will start donating again.
Car Talk was a real gem and Wait Wait Don't Tell Me. I think David Sedaris has done good stuff on NPR, no? I don't know, I never had time to listen to radio except back in my childhood and that's why PHC was such a throwback.
Yes, David Sedaris has done good work. Wait Wait Dont Tell Me is a weekend favorite. We miss the great weekend shows.
But that's why we are flying to Nashville from Seattle next week to see you.
So, see you then.
See you then. I'm going to make that show worth your trip.
Blessed are the peacemakers Mr. Keillor.
The decision of your former partners was cowardly. Mob behaviour generally is. Peace yes. But not at any price. You’ve demonstrated that the artist can reconstruct their relationship with “fans” post cancellation. Kudos!!
I certainly approve of a holiday celebrating the luxury of sunlight! I think M. Bussieres makes a good point. There's no reason that you can't celebrate a French holiday - this is the United States, the great Melting Pot of the world, after all! :)
Some of the French-Americans got to move to Louisiana, but others (my ancestors included) ended up in Quebec, M. Bussieres's home. According to Weather Spark (https://weatherspark.com/y/26469/Average-Weather-in-Qu%C3%A9bec-Canada-Year-Round), summers in Quebec"...are comfortable and wet, the winters are freezing and snowy, and it is partly cloudy year round. Over the course of the year, the temperature typically varies from 6°F to 78°F and is rarely below -12°F or above 86°F." Weather Spark claims that in your home town, "...summers are warm and wet; the winters are freezing, snowy, and windy; and it is partly cloudy year round. Over the course of the year, the temperature typically varies from 9°F to 83°F and is rarely below -11°F or above 91°F." (https://weatherspark.com/y/146224/Average-Weather-at-Anoka-County-Airport-Minnesota-United-States-Year-Round). Not too bad...
The poor folks who got to go to Louisiana also get to experience flooding, "...long, hot, and oppressive..." summers (https://weatherspark.com/y/11799/Average-Weather-in-New-Orleans-Louisiana-United-States-Year-Round), lots of mosquitoes, hurricanes, and alligators. Everyone has their trials...
My mother was many things but one thing she was not was a gardener. Nevertheless, she grew rhubarb successfully and used to eat a stalk at a time, dipped in sugar. For breakfast. She raised three smart children so none of us copied her. She switched later in life to apple pie with ice cream. She raised three smart children so we copied her. She and our father remained in Minnesota….Mankato…for their whole lives, except for frequent travels. Our father died aged 80. My mother died recently aged 100. We all now consume rhubarb and apple pie….no strawberries….unlike our father. Just saying.
My mother convinced my siblings and me to eat rhubarb stalks dipped in sugar - I guess we were more impressionable than you were! :) She also made strawberry and rhubarb pie...
Ha. I live in New Orleans….the end of the Mississippi River not the beginning like in the Minnesota where I (one of three siblings) was raised. Heat and humidity similar to Minnesota summers and we do get snow occasionally in the winters ….which are not six months long….but I do not have easy access to rhubarb while there. Apple pie with ice cream is not a true substitute for one containing rhubarb singly or in conjunction but the memories are the same and substantial. I guess y’all WERE more impressionable……you did what your mother wanted.
Thank you,
Be grateful for goodness wherever it prevails and enjoy the day.
--GK
is now on my wall.
hello garrison
i can assure you that your writing is not monochrome. I have long admired how you took classic American genres: the Western, Noir and homespun Mark Twainish tales and made them your own. It's storytelling that we like isn't it? Because we learn something about ourselves I suspect.
As a writer I aspire to be as interesting, funny and generous as you. Glad to know you sir. If you come to San Antonio or even Austin I'll be in the front row. A tall scraggly older guy who looks like he just got off a 25 mile hammer down bike ride cause i probly did.
rohn bayes
Garrison, In this post I saw your back-and-forth with architect Donald Singer. Don and I were in high school together in Hollywood, Florida, graduating in 1955. We both went to the University of Florida (Gainesville) and both graduated with degrees in "Architorture." Don went on to a distinguished career in the profession in southern Florida. I drifted away into Fine Art Photography, but still dabbled, having committed architecture thrice, but have never inhabited it.
I was without internet for a couple of weeks. I fervently hope that I am still subscribed to your fine posts. Jay Dusard, photographer (and pre-stroke jazz cornetist) Douglas, Arizona.
Dear Garrison,
I have enjoyed PHC countless times, and had the habit of recording many of the shows on tape cassettes. One of my favorite of your monologues was “Gospel Birds”. I also liked the one where Rev Inkfist (SP?) put the entire congregation on notice that someone would be called on to say a prayer. They congregants all feared they would be called on, but it was worth it to go to the service just to see who would get the nod.
Years ago, my father was a Lutheran minister in Miltona, MN. I learned to swim in Lake Miltona, where the temperature of the water gave meaning to the phrase “mortification of the flesh”.
To me, Lake Wobegon harkens back to kinder, gentler times of the village, a place where people live responsibly in community and despite idiosyncrasies and annoyances at bottom really do love each other, though they would never say so, of course.
Conrad
A project which is not beyond your powers. Collect your essays that are appearing here into a compendium. Include the photos, where you can get the permissions. With or without comments. Perhaps enlist your loving wife; but beyond doubt, there is someone you trust to take as great a joy in doing it as we'd take in reading it.
Fond memories. Years ago when my mother was still living, (1903-2002) I would go to her house and we would listen to PHC on I believe Sunday evenings. We had to bring the radio out to the screened in porch of her trailer to get reception!! Those were nice evenings for us and since my mother was blind, she didn't miss anything as she would with TV. I still say, "'mon back"! Thanks for the laughter!!!
Just noted your future plans "...my wife wants to go to Vienna, Budapest, Stockholm, Prague, and Switzerland..." Excellent choices all, but there is some rivalry as the Viennese insist that in the case of Zurich, it is twice the size of Vienna's main cemetery and half as much fun. You are welcome to join an ex-pat, dual national for a glass of new wine at one of Vienna's famed Heurigers at the city's edge.
Last time I had a piece of storebought rhubarb pie was one night in a cafe in a small cow town in Idaho. It was wonderful.
When you get to Skelton, perhaps you'll have a "Spirit Guide." I can testify that such things can happen! When I came to New York state, I ended up in an Ukrainian Pentecostal church for fellowship. Our pastor had a large family, so large that they couldn't find a suitable residence close to town. They finally bought a farmhouse not far from the Oswego River. His five sons liked to go bike riding along the shore. They'd often double-up, with some of the boys riding on the crossbar of one brother or another.
At the end of one Saturday night service, Police notified our pastor that one of his sons, Erik, had been electrocuted. One of the riverside inhabitants had set up a jury-rigged wire to keep the Canada Geese from hanging around his shoreline and Erik had grabbed hold of it.
You can readily imagine the shock that gave our congregation, hearing this at the end of our evening service! That night, around midnight, I woke up, feeling suddenly that I was that little boy. Jesus was standing at the foot of my bed. "Come Unto Me!" Jesus said. And because I (Erik) was such a good little boy, I came.
The next morning, in the Sunday service, Erik's father, our pastor, castigated himself for "Not being a better father." The officer who had informed him of Erik's death had asked "Why weren't you even aware that he was missing?" The boys had been very casual in their cycling arrangements - the boy who had brought Erik to the riverside didn't think a bit about it when he rode his bike back alone. He figured one of his brothers had taken him back home. Even Sunday morning, going to church, the older brothers had driven their siblings in their cars without counting who was present, and who was not. It's easy to imagine how "things as usual" might have confused the true situation.
After the pastor's sermon, I went up to Erik's father and recounted the visitation I had had the night before. "Erik was such a good boy, Jesus wanted him to come to Heaven, to be there with Him," I said. "It wasn't your fault. You need to keep on being the best father you can for the rest of the family." His red eyes cleared, and I could see him forming a resolve to be a better parent for the living.
That's the prelude. What happened to me afterward was quite extraordinary! Every now and then, as I drove around rural New York State, I'd pass a cemetery. "This One," I'd sense. I'd stop at the gate and follow some invisible guide to some one particular tombstone. It happened five or six times. Every time, when I "Got There", I'd find the tombstone of an eleven-year-old boy. The stones were often very old. A relative of the Fargos (Wells Fargo company) lies less than 20 miles away from my house. The boy died a century ago - there's a kneeling "Lamb of God" emblem carved on his headstone. Every time I'd "be led" to these memorials, I'd feel that Erik was introducing me to his new companions, "On The Other Side."
Does this still happen? No. Once, in a sunset, I felt as if Erik were talking to me. He described a situation similar to Purgatory - waiting at the gates. "When one of my brothers is baptized into our church, I'll be free to enter Heaven itself'" he said. I had a chance to speak privately with our pastor, and asked why he was delaying Paul's baptism. "He's so immature - he's not ready," his father replied. "When we were travelling together in the Ukraine," I replied, "he told me how fervently he wished that you would trust him enough to grant him this privilege." About a month later, we were at the lake where our Pastor was baptizing Paul. As the father dipped his son into the water, I looked above me. I KNEW that Erik was on a pine branch, watching with every ounce of his being.
I have never been directed to search for tombstones in old cemeteries again!