The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I remember the lakes of my Michigan childhood. Here they are called ponds. Lakes belonged to summer, two-week vacations that my father was granted by Westinghouse when we rented some cabin. Never mind the dishes with spiderweb cracks, the crooked aluminum sauce pans, the crusted black frying pans. Never mind the mattresses shaped like the... Read more »
When from our better selves we have too long Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign is Solitude! —Hermit Deep in the bosom of the Wilderness; Votary (in vast Cathedral, where no foot Is treading and no other face is seen) Kneeling... Read more »
On account of my knees I thought a camel would be appropriate: I could be helped on and eventually off again. Have you ever got on a camel? They go down for you on their own padded knees and close their eyes while they wait for you to be set in place, like priests waiting... Read more »
There was a show on TV called You Asked For It. Viewers would write in and ask to see unusual things, such as the world’s greatest slingshot expert. I watched it every week on our humble Motorola, although the only episode I can remember now is the one about the slingshot expert. He was a... Read more »
Just beyond the hem of the lake’s blue skirt the sky turned suddenly jaundiced, a weighted stillness, not quite your own, descended, and even the black pine and birch hovered motionless in a calm that bore no calmness at all. And for what must have been the briefest of moments you gazed, a child of... Read more »
When I was a child my mother and I traveled the long miles to see her mother, once a year. That hillside farm was mostly gravel, the kitchen smelled like a churn, guineas and chickens strutted the porch. When we left, my grandmother would stand in her garden and wave. I’d watch her a long... Read more »