The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I didn’t stay for the closing hymns and prayers. I felt out of sorts, so I left. Someone was before me at the door: a child, gazing at a spot on her wrist. She said, “Can you help me?” “What is it?” “A ladybug,” she said. So I opened the door, and she said, “It... Read more »
Looking for something in the Sunday paper, I flipped by accident to Local Weddings, Yet missed the photograph until I saw Your name among the headings. And there you were, looking almost unchanged, Your hair still long, though now long out of style, And you still wore that stiff, ironic look That was your smile.... Read more »
By the first of August the invisible beetles began to snore and the grass was as tough as hemp and was no color—no more than the sand was a color and we had worn our bare feet bare since the twentieth of June and there were times we forgot to wind up your alarm clock... Read more »
Our favorite uncle, Stanley, the youngest of five brothers and the most handsome, used to play a game with my sister and me, hiding a nickel and making us choose which hand, clenched behind his back, held the prize. The two of us danced from one foot to the other, giddy with wanting— the nickel,... Read more »
The high-tension spires spike the sky beneath which boys bend to pick from prickly vines the deep-sopped fruit, the rind’s green a green sunk in green. They part the plants’ leaves, reach into the nest, and pull out mother, father, fat Uncle Phil. The smaller yellow-green children stay, for now. The fruit goes in baskets... Read more »
It’s what she does and what her mother did. It’s what I’d do if I were anything like her mother’s mother—or if the times demanded that I work in my garden, planting rows of beans and carrots, weeding the pickles and potatoes, picking worms off the cabbages. Today she’s canning tomatoes, which means there are... Read more »