The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
only when he was nervous about fixing something, anything. It was an aptitude he lacked. He worked as a weaver in a silk mill, then as a chauffeur, and then he fell into his life’s work, at which he excelled: he drove a truck filled with clinking milk bottles, and deposited them on doorsteps, front... Read more »
I sound so much like my mother that when people called our house for help, I’d have to stop them halfway through their stories. Hold on, I’d say, I’m not her. When I went with her on calls, I hovered in doorways, holding her equipment, watched her walk to the center of what was wrong.... Read more »
Those nights lit by the moon and the moon’s nimbus, the bones of the wrecked pier rose crooked in air and the sea wore a tarnished coat of silver. The black pines waited. The cold air smelled of fishheads rotting under the pier at low tide. The moon kept shedding its silver clothes over the... Read more »
The mental pictures I have of my parents and grandparents and my childhood are beginning to break up into small fragments and get blown away from me into empty space, and the same wind is sucking me toward it ever so gently, so gently as not even to raise a hair on my head (though... Read more »
I read that the men, on their way to Gettysburg, stopped along the road to pick and eat ripe cherries. That the fruit should not go to waste. That they should take such pleasure before battle. That the oldest among them should shake the trees and the youngest gather the fallen fruit. That they should... Read more »
driving out of Pittsburgh Brandenburg #6 on FM Bach sent it to the Margrave with his job application that was turned down the music lost for 100 years so much sweetness hidden I heard it first at 18 in the Cornell music room I’d never listened much to “classical” and now scribbling this on the... Read more »