The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
You see them on porches and on lawns down by the lakeside, usually arranged in pairs implying a couple who might sit there and look out at the water or the big shade trees. The trouble is you never see anyone sitting in these forlorn chairs though at one time it must have seemed a... Read more »
Poets can’t wait to bury their fathers so they can write about it. Mine wanted no part of that. “I’ll bury myself, thank you.” I thought he meant later, but that afternoon he left a note: I’m dead. I dialed his cell. The reception was bad at that speed but he heard me ask, “What... Read more »
This is farming country. The neighbors will believe you are crazy if you take a walk just to think and be alone. So carry a shotgun and walk the fence line. Pretend you are hunting and your walking will not arouse suspicion. But don’t forget to load the shotgun. They will know if your gun... Read more »
On my way back from the Tabac two Dutch businessmen stopped to ask which way and how far to the Metro. I tell you it felt fine: I felt Parisian and tried to sound it. Walking to the Crillon, Caroline and I were stopped by a chic couple who asked if they were near the... Read more »
I am a sheep and I like it because the grass I lie down in feels good and the still waters are restful and right there if I’m thirsty and though some valleys are very chilly there is a long rod that prods me so I direct my hooves the right way though today I’m... Read more »
I miss my stepmother. What a thing to say, but it’s true. The prince is so boring: four hours to dress and then the cheering throngs. Again. The page who holds the door is cute enough to eat. Where is he once Mr. Charming kisses my forehead goodnight? Every morning I gaze out a casement... Read more »