The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
One scene from my childhood: Spending the night at my Aunt Eva’s, I have come downstairs at midnight for a glass of milk. She and her husband, Ferdinand, sit at the kitchen table, their backs to me. His left trouser leg is rolled up to his thigh. The stump of the leg he lost under... Read more »
They come to the door, usually carrying or leading a child, always with The Book held between them and the world. They quote Ezekiel, Daniel, Kings. They look at us and think of Nebuchadnezzar eating the grass. It is good to listen, because maybe they are angels, and behind them the sky arches, the trees... Read more »
First the Chickadees take their share, then fly to the bittersweet vine, where they crack open the seeds, excited, like poets opening the day’s mail. And the Evening Grosbeaks— those large and prosperous finches—resemble skiers with the latest equipment, bright yellow goggles on their faces. Now the Bluejay comes in for a landing, like a... Read more »
In truth I am puzzled most in life by nine horses. I’ve been watching them for eleven weeks in a pasture near Melrose. Two are on one side of the fence and seven on the other side. They stare at one another from the same places hours and hours each day. This is another unanswerable... Read more »
The sound of water screeching to a boil reminds me of my grandmother’s trembling hand pouring her steam-hissing kettle over the Lipton’s teabag settled in her white porcelain cup. Those would be the mornings I’d have slept over on the pull out in the living room, bundled in flannel, watching lights from traffic below make... Read more »
If you didn’t see the six-legged dog, It doesn’t matter. We did, and he mostly lay in the corner. As for the extra legs, One got used to them quickly And thought of other things. Like, what a cold, dark night To be out at the fair. Then the keeper threw a stick And the... Read more »