The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
We were drawn that way at a young age on the main line west from St. Louis to the Columbia spur north to Moberly where our grandparents picked us up at the station and showed us the quarry behind their house on Gilman Road, warning us not to try to jump off the edge of... Read more »
Herr Bruckner often wandered into church to join the mourners at a funeral. The relatives of Berlioz were horrified. “Such harmony,” quoth Shakespeare, “is in immortal souls …. We cannot hear it.” But the radio is playing, and outside rain splashes to the pavement. Now and then the broadcast fails. On nights like these Schumann... Read more »
My grandfather, Hank, ran a hardware store full of straight–shooting solutions: washers for faucets, filters for furnace failures, or he could just cut you a fresh key. The aisles of answers held no allure for me when I was a kid so I stood by the cash register where I’d wonder which flavor candy stick... Read more »
My grandfather left school at fourteen to work odd jobs until he was old enough to join his Lithuanian kin chipping anthracite out of the Pennsylvania hills. Nine hours a day with five hundred feet of rock over his head, then an hour’s ride home on the company bus to a dinner of boiled cabbage... Read more »
Now in the blessed days of more and less when the news about time is that each day there is less of it I know none of that as I walk out through the early garden only the day and I are here with no before or after and the dew looks up without a... Read more »
They are not imaginary but accessible only intermittently. Seasonal, shall we say, in the way of the exquisite high parts of Yosemite which having visited you cannot wish inhabited more easily.