The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
During Lent, season of discipline, I drag myself early out of bed, ride to Mass with Mom and Mrs. Crivello, warm in the front seat between their woolen coats, soothed by familiar perfume. Headlights carve the ebony darkness. The women talk in low tones about people I don’t know, the thrum of their voices reassuring.... Read more »
We learn to live without passion. To be reasonable. We go hungry amid the giant granaries this world is. We store up plenty for when we are old and mild. It is our strength that deprives us. Like Keats listening to the doctor who said the best thing for tuberculosis was to eat only one... Read more »
All winter the blue heron slept among the horses. I do not know the custom of herons, do not know if the solitary habit is their way, or if he listened for some missing one— not knowing even that was what he did— in the blowing sounds in the dark, I know that hope is... Read more »
She goes out to hang the windchime in her nightie and her work boots. It’s six-thirty in the morning and she’s standing on the plastic ice chest tiptoe to reach the cross beam of the porch, windchime in her left hand, hammer in her right, the nail gripped tight between her teeth but nothing happens... Read more »
please describe the weather in great detail. If possible, enclose a fist of snow or mud, everything you know about the soil, how tomato leaves rub green against your skin and make you itch, how slow the corn is growing on the hill. Thank you for the photographs of where the chicken coop once stood,... Read more »
So many nights we sat up listening to basketball games, talking about cars and all the cities he had driven through in big trucks, all the dangerous cargo he had carried. My uncle was a night-owl and a storyteller, One-time drunk and chaser of questionable women, lover of American muscle cars, handcrafted wood, Shakespeare fishing... Read more »