Las Vegas, NV
May 20, 2020
Garrison Keillor hits Las Vegas with a new solo show!
April 18, 2020
Garrison Keillor comes to the Rochester Civic Theatre for a night of stories, songs, poetry, and humor. Tickets $50 and up
February 19, 2020
Garrison Keillor with Heather Masse at the Dakota. Night 2 of 2. Tickets $30+
February 18, 2020
Garrison Keillor with Heather Masse at the Dakota. Night 1 of 2. Tickets $30+
I must say I don’t mind this scourge
And I’m in no rush to emerge.
And sit in a crowd
And whoop and get plowed
And Sunday I wind up in church,
The minister talks
As I lie in a box
And the organ is playing a dirge.
A gorgeous Friday, almost 80, and maybe we’re leaping ahead to summer. The finch family seems to be settling on the balcony below ours though we offer plenty of cover, but parents are jittery, as we all know. When Maia was small, she had a febrile seizure and we dialed 911 and the EMTs were there in three minutes and sized up the situation and one of them explained to me that febrile seizure is common, but it wasn’t common to me, the sight of one’s rigid prostrate child stays with you for a long time. Her school has gone to great trouble to set up a good online learning program and she’s been a faithful student. Meanwhile, Jenny complains about forgetfulness, trying to make the old man feel better and I appreciate the effort but yesterday I had to work long and hard to recall the word “metafiction,” meaning a piece of fiction in which the author comments on the writing itself, abandoning the illusion of naturalism. I never did it before and think that, at 77, it’s time to venture into new territory. In the course of trying to find the word, I searched through an enormous glossary of literary terms and was stunned by how many I couldn’t define. I once taught a creative writing course but nobody would ever hire me for that now. It’s a good thing I’m retired because I am no longer qualified for employment.
It was sad but not surprising to hear that Tanglewood canceled its summer season. Prairie Home played there ever June for years, a paradise grassy slope where people sat on blankets going way back and Heather and I walked through the crowd during intermission and sang choruses in duet and everyone sang with us. Jenny loved it, having once played in a student orchestra under Bernstein’s direction, and his love of music was communicable and fervent and unforgettable. We stayed in the old inn in Stockbridge and often it was the last show of the season and the spirit of the crowd was powerful, their love of the place, a landmark in their lives. I’d give anything to do another show there, just to hear that crowd sing.
But one can ask only so much, and I have what I want: family, friends on the phone, the novel chugging along with metafiction intact and I’ve now written a daring passage in which God speaks to Clint Bunsen who had thought he was an atheist. Never had an atheist in Lake Wobegon before and I admire Clint for taking the leap. How do you know you believe unless you try out unbelief and see it if fits? Enter into his gates with thanksgiving and into his courts with praise and eat more vegetables and enjoy the sunshine.