The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Peace on my little town, a speck in the safe, comforting, impersonal immensity of Kansas. Benevolence like a gentle haze on its courthouse (the model of Greek pillars to me) on its quiet little bombshell of a library, on its continuous, hidden, efficient sewer system. Sharp, amazed, steadfast regard on its more upright citizenry, my... Read more »
They no longer sleep quite as well as they did when they were younger. He lies awake thinking of things that happened years ago, turning uncomfortably from time to time, pulling on the blankets. She worries about money. First one and then the other is awake during the night, in shifts as if keeping watch,... Read more »
Dr. Zhivago was playing at the Paramount Theater in St. Cloud. That afternoon, we went into Russia, and when we came out, the snow was falling—the same snow that fell in Moscow. The sky had turned black velvet. We’d been through the Revolution and the frozen winters. In the Chevy, we waited for the heater... Read more »
In November of 1963, you were all the center of my days and when I heard on TV Kennedy had been shot, I wrapped you in your blue blanket and walked for miles (I was strong then), carrying you on sidewalks in the middle of a country stunned by rapid-fire bulletins. It was pink Chanel... Read more »
I fished alone that languid autumn evening. Fished as darkness kept coming on. Experiencing exceptional loss and then exceptional joy when I brought a silver salmon to the boat, and dipped a net under the fish. Secret heart! When I looked into the moving water and up at the dark outline of the mountains behind... Read more »
The day I learned my wife was dying I told myself if anyone said, Well, she had a good life, I’d punch him in the nose. How much life represents a good life? Maybe a hundred years, which would give us nearly forty more to visit Oslo and take the train to Vladivostok, learn German... Read more »