The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Near the end of our annual solstice party as guests were rummaging through the pile for their coats and hugging many goodbyes the very first snow of the year began to eddy down in big flat flakes. It was cold enough to stick, with the grass poking through and then buried. Now the ground gives... Read more »
In her nineties and afraid of weather and of falling if she wandered far outside her door, my mother took to strolling in the house. Around and round she’d go, stalking into corners, backtrack, then tum and speed down hallway, stop almost at doorways, skirt a table, march up to the kitchen sink and wheel... Read more »
Well here’s a salute to that clean old man who’s out every day fishing up coins with a string and a bit of gum through the subway gratings on Broad- way he says that he aver- ages five dollars a week and he says that’s enough for a man who don’t drink.
Must another poor body, brought to its rest at last, be made the occasion of yet another sermon? Have we nothing to say of the dead that is not a dull mortal lesson to the living, our praise of Heaven blunted by this craven blaming of the earth? We must go with the body to... Read more »
Sometimes I feel I have nothing in common with anyone. I shamble through the day, dragging my knuckles in the grass, and each new hour with each new person is a cliff I can’t climb — yet I know I’m alive now — inside a song as deep as forever, that stretches to the infinite... Read more »
Pedometer attached to her belt, your mother, spry and strong at eighty, joins the other Methodist Church members in calculating the 5,915 miles, no matter the weather, to add up all the way from Linesville, Pennsylvania to Jerusalem. They need not worry about miracles or pausing at the signs of the cross. They need not... Read more »