The Writer’s Almanac for Thursday, October 10, 2019


How happy is the little Stone…
by Emily Dickinson

How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn’t care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears—
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity—

 

“How happy is the little Stone…” by Emily Dickinson. Public Domain. (buy now)


It was on this day in 1938 that Germany, Great Britain, France, and Italy ceded the region of Czechoslovakia known as Sudetenland. This was a result of the Munich Agreement – a pact signed on September 29.

Sudetenland was home to more than 3 million ethnic Germans, and Hitler had threatened to take the area by force if the region was not given over. The Czech government initially refused, believing they could gather reinforcement, but the Allies were hesitant to escalate the situation with Germany and reached an agreement without Czechoslovakia’s consent. The so-called Munich Agreement was signed by Adolf Hitler, Neville Chamberlain, Benito Mussolini, and Édouard Daladier.

Though he promised that by signing the agreement he was pledging peace and that he would not invade Czechoslovakia further, Hitler told his aides, “Gentlemen, this has been my first international conference and I can assure you that it will be my last.”

Six months later, he violated the agreement and destroyed the Czech state. He said, “It is my unshakable will that Czechoslovakia be wiped off the map.”


Charles Darwin published The Formation of Vegetable Mould Through the Action of Worms on this date in 1881 (books by this author). It was his last scientific book, and his most successful. In it, he explains that the very ground we walk upon has passed through the bodies of worms and emerged as castings. He also estimated that there are more than 53,000 worms at work in any given acre of land, and reported that they had turned a rocky field behind his uncle’s house into smooth soil over the course of many years. He was fascinated by the work of the earthworm, which he called an “unsung creature which, in its untold millions, transformed the land as the coral polyps did the tropical sea.” On the surface, the study of earthworms seems to have little to do with the work on evolution and natural selection that made him famous. But this book, too, was about the inexorable processes of nature that, over long spans of time, can bring about dramatic changes.

The book started as a paper, which Darwin presented before the Geological Society of London in 1837. In 1842, Darwin spread a layer of chalk fragments over a pasture near his house and observed the worms’ effect on it for almost 30 years. He placed a large, flat stone — which he dubbed the worm stone — in a field and measured the movement of soil as the worms digested the earth beneath the stone. He also kept worms inside the house, examining the effects of bright light and sound. He figured out through trial and error what the worms’ favorite food was: carrots. He was fond of the worms, which were unmoved by art or music — much as Darwin himself remained unmoved by the arts.

By 1881, Darwin’s health was failing, and he remarked to a friend that he wanted to complete his book on worms before he joined them in the local cemetery. He pushed his publisher to bring the book to press as soon as possible. When it was first published, the work of 44 years, Worms was a best-seller, and Darwin received a surprising amount of fan mail. He died six months after the book was published.


It’s the birthday of English playwright Harold Pinter (1930) (books by this author), born in London and best known for his provocative plays, including The Birthday Party (1958), about a piano player who receives a visit from two sinister strangers on what may or may not be his birthday. Pinter once said his work was about “the weasel under the cocktail cabinet.”

Pinter’s plays often take place in a single room and employ dramatic pauses, which became his trademark. He would note the pauses in the text of the play in three ways: he would note the longest break with “silence”; a normal break with the word “pause”; and the briefest silence was noted with just an ellipsis. The pauses came to be known as “Pinteresque” and are included in the Oxford English Dictionary. 

Pinter was a boy during World War II and even though his parents sent him to Cornwall to protect him, he never forgot the intense fear and desperation of the city during the Blitz. At Hackney Downs School, he acted in plays, played cricket, broke the school record in sprinting, and devoured the novels of Virginia Woolf and Dostoevsky. He primed his future ear for dialogue watching American gangster films and British war movies. He was called up in 1948, but registered as a conscientious objector, an imprisonable offense. Instead, he was fined, but over the years, his plays would become increasingly political.

Pinter spent two years in drama school before dropping out and joining an Irish theater troupe (1951). He performed under the name David Baron and mostly played romantic leads and policemen. He was also working as a doorman, dishwasher, waiter, and writing poems under the name “Harold Pinta.”

When a friend from drama school asked him to write a play, Pinter initially declined, saying it would take six months. Instead, it only took him four days. The Room premiered in 1957, when he was 27, and Pinter was hooked. A producer happened to see it and asked if he had anything else. Pinter wrote The Birthday Party and it premiered in 1958, but it was a disaster. Audiences booed and even theater critic Kenneth Tynan said he “saw no promise.” The play closed after eight performances. Pinter kept writing, though, and his next play, The Caretaker (1960), was a resounding success. The Birthday Party is now considered a classic.


It’s the birthday of the composer Vernon Duke, born Vladimir Dukelsky, in Parafianovo, Belarus (1903). He was a talented classical musician, educated at an elite conservatory, but his family fled Russia after the revolution and he wound up playing piano in cafés in Constantinople (now Istanbul). From there, his family rode steerage class on a ship to America, went through Ellis Island, and ended up in New York in 1921. There the teenage Dukelsky met George Gershwin, who was only a few years older, and the two became good friends. Dukelsky played Gershwin what he described as “an extremely cerebral piano sonata,” and Gershwin, who was also trained in classical music, suggested this: “There’s no money in that kind of stuff, and no heart in it, either. Try to write some real popular tunes — and don’t be scared about going low-brow. They will open you up.” He also suggested that Dukelsky shorten his name, as he himself had done — Gershowitz to Gershwin. So Vladimir Dukelsky came up with the name Vernon Duke, but he didn’t use it for a while.

First, he went to Paris. There, he met and impressed the great ballet impresario Sergei Diaghilev.  Dukelsky wrote later about their first meeting — that Diaghilev had drawled: “‘Ah, a good-looking boy. That in itself is most unusual. Composers are seldom good-looking; neither Stravinsky nor Prokofiev ever won any beauty prizes. How old are you?’ I told him I was 20. ‘That’s encouraging, too. I don’t like young men over 25.’” And so Diaghilev commissioned him to write a ballet, and he wrote Zephire et Flore, with sets by Georges Braque, choreography by Léonide Massine, and costumes by Coco Chanel. It got a great reception, and Dukelsky was taken in by the not-quite-as-good-looking Stravinsky and Prokofiev. For a few years he divided his time between Paris, where he continued to write classical music, and London, where he wrote show tunes and used the name Vernon Duke. Then in 1929, he decided to go back to America, and he wrote some of the biggest hits of the 1930s — “April in Paris” (1932), “Autumn in New York” (1934), “I Can’t Get Started” (1936), and “Taking a Chance on Love” (1940). And he wrote the music for the Broadway show and film Cabin in the Sky (1940). By that time, he had become an American citizen and officially changed his name to Vernon Duke.

He said, “Every dogma has its day, but good music lives forever.”

 

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.®

Wobegon Virus

Coming September 8th: It's a new Lake Wobegon novel from Garrison Keillor. Hardcover and eBook are both available for preorder now, and an audiobook will be available for presale in the coming months.

In The Lake Wobegon Virus, a mysterious virus has infiltrated the good people of Lake Wobegon, transmitted via unpasteurized cheese made by a Norwegian bachelor farmer, the effect of which is episodic loss of social inhibition. Says Keillor, "The people of Lake Wobegon were waiting for the chance to go wild and so the book wrote itself."

Read more about the book and pre-order your copy >>>


My future, in case you are curious

I turned 78 five days ago and gave a party, a pandemic party, it was on Zoom, 457 guests, nobody I know, they heard about it on Twitter, no gifts, just donations to your favorite charity, nobody sang “Happy Birthday,” thank you, it lasted about 28 minutes, and we played one game — Guess the Age of the Host — and most people guessed in the 40s, nothing over 50. It was also a Republican party in the sense that nothing I’ve told you is true.

The pandemic is a beautiful thing for an old guy like me. Young people do all the complaining so I don’t have to, I’m free to be cheerful. I detest physical exercise and now I have an excuse: heavy breathing spreads the virus. I also have a cover for not wanting to travel: Europe doesn’t want us. Even the Canadians don’t want us. As for restaurants, I never liked eating out; I haven’t hung out in bars since I was in college. I’m an introvert and social distancing comes naturally to me. Down deep, I have an aversion to people who subscribe to complicated conspiracy theories or who think the virus is a hoax or who like to use the word “systemic” and now I can block them on my phone. I love to watch baseball without spectators in the stands, no video close-ups of couples kissing, no mascots dancing around in cartoon outfits. And I’ve discovered that if I put one tablespoon of fermented mead in my wife’s Cream of Wheat, she becomes giddy and laughs at everything I say.

When I was 77, I could look back at my early seventies and even my late sixties and brood about the decline of civilization, but 78 means I’m looking at 80 and having to decide what sort of octogenarian I plan to be, an active youthful one who serves as an inspiration to others or a comfy old coot in a rocking chair with a quilt over his lap.

I’m familiar with the inspirational geezers — the kind who can do handstands and golf under par and bench-press a bureau dresser — you read about them in the paper on a slow news day, 80-year-old mathematicians still out on the frontiers of algorithms — and it never was my ambition to be an example to others. I am the least ambitious person I know. My ambition is to be content. I am grateful to have achieved that.

I am fond of my laptop and my iPhone and don’t crave anything better. I do not need more apps. I may need a heart valve procedure in the future but nowadays they don’t need to saw open your chest and leave you with a long zipper scar like Frankenstein’s monster, they run a little tube up an artery, and snip snip snip, as you sit there reading a book. Everything is better nowadays, how can a person complain? I come from the era of Karens and Larrys and now we have Sophias, Olivias, Avas, Arabellas — Aidans, Juans, Rolands, Noahs. This diversity bodes well for the country.

My one big ambition is to be America’s oldest productive novelist. I’m competing against Joyce Carol Oates who is four years and dozens of novels ahead of me and Anne Tyler and several others. I have a new novel coming out in a month, which won’t sell well — it has the word “virus” in the title — why? Why did I shoot myself in the foot like that?

But I’m planning to step up production in 2021 when America will be in the mood for comic fiction again, rather than the kind we’ve been reading for the past three years and 203 days. I’m going to write a novel about an old writer in isolation in the woods during a pandemic who writes a brilliant novel and decides to keep it to himself and not publish, dreading the notoriety. Then a novel about a young woman, Siobhan, who loses her mind due to unwise drug use and is given a memory transplant from a dying man of 95 and lives her life, a beautiful New York woman of 25 with clear memories of small-town South Dakota in the Thirties. And one about a colony of the Last Canasta Players in Massachusetts. As you may detect, there is a theme here. Systemic aging. Enough about youthful anguish and childhood suffering. Let’s grow up.

Gradually a man comes to accept his limitations probably

I ordered a nice office chair online last week because I’m a writer — this is me, writing this — and I’ve written a truckload of stuff on an assortment of cranky kitchen chairs, some designed by federal agents to torture confessions out of suspects, and my lumbar region feels delicate, and while I’m at it, I may as well confess that I bought this chair from Jeff Bezos, the Nebuchadnezzar of American retail, because it’s easier than walking over to Acme Office Supply, and Bezos’s minions bring it to my door in a matter of days, and here it is.

It’s waiting for my wife to return from visiting relatives in Connecticut. She’s the one who Puts Things Together in this family. She has smaller fingers and finer digital skills, being a violinist, and unlike me, she reads directions. She assembles parts into a coherent whole. I am a writer and the problem of assembly puts me into a subjunctive mood and I might have solved it had I taken my time but what I assemble is a non sequitur and somewhere a child is weeping bitterly. So I wait for her to come home.

A couple weeks ago, a workman came to our apartment backdoor and asked me (I think) something about air conditioning. I believe he is Polish and some of his English sounded Polish to me so I notified my wife and he spoke to her and she pointed to a panel in the ceiling over the washer and dryer, and there it was, a condenser or whatever it’s called. I come from simple rural people; we worked in the sun and after a day of that, the shade was good enough, we didn’t require AC.

I used to resent competent people and now I am married to one. I was an English major in college and looked down on the engineering students in their polyester plaid shirts with plastic pocket protectors, and now we live in a digital world they designed and I can’t figure out how to make my iPhone deZoom after it has enlarged itself. I need to ask my wife, the one who reads directions.

A couple years ago, I couldn’t start my car one morning and had to call a tow truck. Back in the 20th century, you’d see a neighbor pull out of his driveway and wave to him and he’d get out jumper cables and start you up, but these days your neighbor is very likely an English major who wanted to be a writer but instead became an Executive Vice President for Branding and Inclusivity, which is a different branch of fiction, and if I wave at him, he’ll pretend not to see me. My dad, up to the mid-Sixties or so, was able to take his cars apart and do repairs. The neighbor guy and I are of a generation that Does Not Understand How Engines Work. So the tow truck started me up and I drove to a shop where the mechanic discovered that a malfunctioning lock on the trunk was draining my battery. Amazing. It’s like a boil on your rear end is the cause of your migraine. But he fixed it. This sort of competence is inspiring to me. And we are surrounded by it. If ever you should call the EMTs at 911, you’ll be swarmed by great competence.

Meanwhile, there is a cultural movement among us that argues that our world is systemically oppressive and corrupt, the institutions and laws, epistemology, mindsets, literature, politics, religion, cheeseburgers, cole slaw, rotted through and through by elitist masculine Western Eurocentric misogynistic homicidal hierarchical colonialist biases, and there is no such thing as commonality, community, competence, comedy, all of which are intrinsically unequal and tools of oppression, and I, as an oppressor, have internalized my dominance, accepting it as something earned, not inherited.

One could call this movement fascistic but it doesn’t really matter because I am 78 and the movement won’t take over the country until after I am gone, and meanwhile, in the time it took me to write this, my love has assembled the chair and I sit in it and I feel so good, I write an elitist limerick, my favorite tool of oppression:

Classic, romantic, baroque,
Whether you sleep or are woke,
Remember this, Jack,
There’s no turning back
From the fact that you know you’re a joke.

One man’s pandemic is another man’s picnic

I love reading columns that snap and crackle and poke powerful people in the kisser and I am bored by columns like this one, which is about the goodness and generosity of life, but what can I say? When you’re busy doing things you love and you skip the news for a while, life can be beautiful. My love and I have been absorbed in the lives of the mockingbird family in our backyard, the parents ratcheting at us when we set foot out back, the little beaks upraised, the relays of food, the first hesitant hops from the nest, the high anxiety, the chirps of the teenagers, and then one morning, nobody’s home. Gone. No word since.

Instead of studying Joe Biden’s 13-point lead in national polls, we were absorbed in the lives of birds. We’ve never run for public office, but we have been parents and we have empathy for them, even birds. It’s odd to me, at 77, to see two men my age running for the White House. I remember the excitement when Kennedy, 43, succeeded Eisenhower, 70. We needed that this year and it didn’t happen.

But thanks to the recumbent, the man in the large golf pants, we live in the Golden Age of delicious vicious columnry, the best of them being conservatives such as Jennifer Rubin and George Will whose outrage rises to great literary heights whereas old liberals like me sit and play “Honolulu Baby” on the ukulele and toss in a little tap dance. For Mr. Will, Trump’s takeover of the Republican Party is like Mother poisoning Dad and marrying a Mafia hitman. I turn to Mr. Will in the Washington Post and feast on lines like “this weak person’s idea of a strong person, this chest-pounding advertisement of his own gnawing insecurities, this low-rent Lear raging on his Twitter-heath has proven that the phrase malignant buffoon is not an oxymoron.”

It’s a great line and I have nothing to add to it. Mr. Will is a lifelong Republican conservative and he knows in his heart that the recumbent is no more a Republican than Nancy Pelosi is a pole-vaulter and the recumbent is no more a believing Christian than he is the Dalai Lama-rama-ding-dong. It is an insane moment in the history of the Republic and it drives Mr. Will wild, but to me, it’s just a TV show and I turn it off and go sit on the shady terrace and feast on these giant blueberries grown in Peru and feel content. I toss a few of them toward the mockingbirds’ nest, hoping to lure them back, but no such luck.

I am almost 78 and America’s problems are my grandchildren’s problems, not mine, and I have been married for 25 years to a woman who thrills me and to avoid the plague we’ve spent four months in close proximity and it’s been good. I am capable of bitter sarcasm — I had a column all set to go about the MacDowell Colony in Peterborough, N.H., dropping the word “colony” from its name because it suggested exclusivity and hierarchy. But I don’t care about artists’ colonies, have no interest in spending time in one, am grateful to be excluded. The higher the ark the better; I don’t want to get on board. The street carnival in Portland is not my concern, except to hope that nobody gets hurt. The Bullying that is going on over Capitalization of certain words is — how shall I say it? — Remarkable. As for racism, there is no room for it in the Christian faith where it continues to thrive.

I come from a generation that spent 57,000 American lives in a war that had no point then and has no defenders now and American cruise ships now dock at Hue and Da Nang and Saigon and folks from Omaha and Seattle eat in sidewalk cafes whose owners may have been among the guerillas who defeated us and who cares?

Madame and I have our own colony, and beyond that, each of us has a circle of pals, which the pandemic lockdown makes all the more enjoyable. Theaters are dark and concert halls, but the telephone still works and now that people are sticking close to home, the phone calls get longer and more fulfilling and launch into stories, and we don’t bother talking politics, we talk family history, which is more interesting. And if asked what we’re up to, we will talk about mockingbirds.

The birds are worried and I feel just fine

Thirty-eight percent of Americans surveyed believe the Prez is doing a good job with the pandemic, which is good news for folks offering Florida timeshares for August and telemarketers who’ll turn your songs into No. 1 hits if you give them your credit card number. Thirty-eight percent approval means that there is a big market for agates as an investment.

It’s a dangerous world out there, don’t kid yourself. I feel for the mockingbird parents on our terrace who screech at us, warning us not to grab their fledglings. We can see them in the nest, beaks wide open, squeaking for food, just like our own daughter years ago. The parents are in high anxiety. My wife and I are liberals, we eat beef and pork, have no interest whatsoever in eating mockingbird — and I feel their pain.

Violence is part of life. Every day you get dinner or you are dinner. Fish are beautiful, like fashion models parading back and forth, and then a killer dashes in and eats one: that is a fish’s way of life. The mouse is in the cornfield, shopping for his family, and he hears a rush of wings and feels sharp back pain and suddenly he is very high in the air. Our football teams are named for killers, lions, wolverines, eagles, gators. Only two for religious figures (saints, cardinals) and one for temp workers (gophers). Will the Washington NFL team now change its name to the Sergeants and the Minnesota Vikings become the Viruses? Go to Oslo and you’ll see that the Norwegians are not the marauding warriors they were back in the ninth century when they raided and pillaged widely. They’re more into tillage now.

We liberals tried to create a safe world for our fledglings. I grew up before there were seat belts so I rode standing up in the front seat as my dad drove 75 mph across North Dakota, but my children rode in podlike car seats belted in like test pilots. They rode tricycles, wearing helmets. We banned smoking. There were warnings on everything, like kitchen knives (“Sharp: may cut skin if pressure is applied.”) and ovens (“Do not insert head when gas is on.”).

No wonder we are kerfluxxed, reading about a man with no conscience, no empathy, no principles, not a shred of honesty, who presides with great indifference over a plague. As any New Yorker can tell you, the problem with the Trumps is that the 90% who are corrupt give the others a bad name. In Manhattan, where he spent his adult life, he got 10% of the vote. And now 38% of our fellow Americans think he’s doing okay when the disaster is out in the open for all to see. The body count is staggering. Vietnam does well, Japan, Italy, but America is a pitiful giant.

I’m locked up and don’t worry about catching the virus but at 78, I’m aware of mortality and can imagine going to the doctor and finding out I have a rare case of desiccated angiofibrosis of the fantods, four months to live, maybe six. I’d thank him and stop at the drugstore for a carton of Luckies and come home and get out the gin bottle.

I’d have a martini on the terrace, my first drink in eighteen years, and toss the lemon twist away and the mockingbirds would pick it up and immediately they’d calm down. With the screeching stopped, the fledglings would fly. My neighbors would smell the gin and knock on my door. I’d get out the shaker and martini glasses, and we’d have a party. They’re all liberals; they’ve lived on a fixed schedule of their children’s social, educational, recreational, and therapeutic engagements, and the gin would make us good and silly and we’d say things that don’t appear on the Op-Ed page of the New York Times. Things like “That which has been is that which shall be, there is nothing new under the sun” — these are Roman times, Nero is in power and he won’t relinquish it so long as the generals are loyal. He is half naked, and 38% of our people like him in just his underwear. Let the fledgling millennials talk about justice and equality, let the old man enjoy his gin and vermouth. These desiccated fantods are not going away. Nero is your problem, not mine. Hand me down another bag of pork rinds, darling, and I’ll put a porterhouse on the grill.

A Prairie Home Companion An Evening of Story and Song Humor Love & Comedy Tour Old Friends Poetry Prairie Home Christmas Show Solo Songs Stories The Gratitude Tour
Schedule
Radio

To sign up for the daily Writer’s Almanac e-newsletter, please click here.

The Writer’s Almanac for Saturday, August 15, 2020

The Writer’s Almanac for Saturday, August 15, 2020

It’s the birthday of essayist Thomas de Quincey (Manchester, England, 1785), who arguably invented the “drug memoir” genre.

Read More
The Writer’s Almanac for Friday, August 14, 2020

The Writer’s Almanac for Friday, August 14, 2020

It’s the birthday of cartoonist Gary Larson (1950), who created the popular single-panel comic “The Far Side.”

Read More
The Writer’s Almanac for Thursday, August 13, 2020

The Writer’s Almanac for Thursday, August 13, 2020

The Lebanese-born Dr. Michael Shadid established the first cooperatively owned and operated hospital in the United States on this date in 1931.

Read More
The Writer’s Almanac for Wednesday, August 12, 2020

The Writer’s Almanac for Wednesday, August 12, 2020

It’s the birthday of Katharine Lee Bates, who wrote: “O beautiful for spacious skies, / For amber waves of grain, / For purple mountain majesties / Above the fruited plain!”

Read More
The Writer’s Almanac for Tuesday, August 11, 2020

The Writer’s Almanac for Tuesday, August 11, 2020

It’s the birthday of Alex Haley (1921-1992), who wrote both “The Autobiography of Malcolm X” (1965) and “Roots” (1976).

Read More
The Writer’s Almanac for Monday, August 10, 2020

The Writer’s Almanac for Monday, August 10, 2020

It’s the birthday of Joyce Sutphen, Poet Laureate of Minnesota, whose poem “Happiness” we are featuring today.

Read More
The Writer’s Almanac for Sunday, August 9, 2020

The Writer’s Almanac for Sunday, August 9, 2020

It’s the birthday of author P.L. Travers (1899-1996), who described her popular Mary Poppins series as “both a joy and a curse.”

Read More
A Prairie Home Companion: August 15, 2009

A Prairie Home Companion: August 15, 2009

A poetry compilation show featuring Poets Laureate past and present: Billy Collins (U.S.), Robert Bly (Minnesota) and Maxine Kumin (U.S./New Hampshire).

Read More
The Writer’s Almanac for Saturday, August 8, 2020

The Writer’s Almanac for Saturday, August 8, 2020

The first refrigerator was patented in the United States on this date in 1899. The company Frigidaire was founded 19 years later.

Read More
The Writer’s Almanac for Friday, August 7, 2020

The Writer’s Almanac for Friday, August 7, 2020

Today’s episode features a poem by Galway Kinnell, called “Wait,” promising that “Personal events will become interesting again.”

Read More
Writing

My future, in case you are curious

I turned 78 five days ago and gave a party, a pandemic party, it was on Zoom, 457 guests, nobody I know, they heard about it on Twitter, no gifts, just donations to your favorite charity, nobody sang “Happy Birthday,” thank you, it lasted about 28 minutes, and we played one game — Guess the Age of the Host — and most people guessed in the 40s, nothing over 50. It was also a Republican party in the sense that nothing I’ve told you is true.

Read More

The News from Manhattan: Sunday, August 9, 2020

I just turned 78 / The hour is getting late / The road leads straight / Up to the golden gate.

Read More

The News from Manhattan: Friday, August 7, 2020

I’ll work all day and maybe we’ll go for a walk in the park. Can’t imagine a better birthday.

Read More

The News from Manhattan: Thursday, August 6, 2020

Today I shall write to my cousin Patti who says she learned “Tell Me Why” from me and now she and her two-year-old sing it to each other. That is enough legacy for me.

Read More

The News from Manhattan: Wednesday, August 5, 2020

don’t think I know many authors by sight anymore. What’s worse, I doubt that others do. I think the era of Famous Writers is over.

Read More

Gradually a man comes to accept his limitations probably

I ordered a nice office chair online last week because I’m a writer — this is me, writing this — and I’ve written a truckload of stuff on an assortment of cranky kitchen chairs, some designed by federal agents to torture confessions out of suspects, and my lumbar region feels delicate, and while I’m at it, I may as well confess that I bought this chair from Jeff Bezos, the Nebuchadnezzar of American retail, because it’s easier than walking over to Acme Office Supply, and Bezos’s minions bring it to my door in a matter of days, and here it is.

Read More

The News from Manhattan: Tuesday, August 4, 2020

This is the week I turn 78, a fitting age for one born on the 7th day of the 8th month, and then my next stop is 87.

Read More

The News from Manhattan: Sunday, August 2, 2020

One day runs into another, one project after another but not much progress is felt, a book is opened and soon shut, and the future remains as murky as ever.

Read More

The News from Manhattan: Thursday, July 30, 2020

I sang a song to my dear wife last night and now it’s echoing in the canyons of the cerebellum. I need to know more people in their 80s and 90s to serve as my scouts.

Read More

The News from Manhattan: Wednesday, July 29, 2020

After two days of silence in an apartment, the return of the lover is triumphant, bands play, she rides in on an elephant accompanied by men waving scimitars.

Read More

Email sign-up:

Sign up for the weekly Garrison Keillor and A Prairie Home Companion email newsletter here >>>

Sign up for the daily The Writer’s Almanac email newsletter here >>>

If you’d like to sign up for BOTH newsletters, you may do so here >>>


Submit to The Writer’s Almanac:

We are not accepting new poetry at this time. For questions, please contact twa@garrisonkeillor.com


ShopGarrisonKeillor.com Questions 

For questions related to items you have ordered from our store, please contact Katharine at kseggerman@garrisonkeillor.com


Get In Touch
Send Message

Press Kit

If you are hosting a show with Garrison, please feel free to use the below press photos for marketing, as well as the below short biography. Promo video for purpose of booking is available here.

Garrison Keillor did “A Prairie Home Companion” for forty years, wrote fiction and comedy, invented a town called Lake Wobegon where all the children are above average, even though he himself grew up evangelical in a small separatist flock where all the children expected the imminent end of the world. He’s busy in retirement, having written a memoir and a book of limericks and is at work on a musical and a Lake Wobegon screenplay, and he continues to do “The Writers Almanac” sent out daily to Internet subscribers (free). 

He and his wife Jenny Lind Nilsson live in Minneapolis, not far from the YMCA where he was sent for swimming lessons at age 12 after his cousin drowned, and he skipped the lessons and went to the public library instead and to a radio studio to watch a noontime show with singers and a band. Thus, our course in life is set. 

Recent reviews:

“Fans laughed, applauded and sang along throughout Sunday night’s two-hour show” -Jeff Baenen, AP News

“His shows can, for a couple of hours, transform an audience of even so-called coastal elites into a small-town community with an intimacy only radio and its podcast descendants can achieve” -Chris Barton, LA Times

“[Keillor is] an expert at making you feel at home with his low-key, familiar style. Comfortable is his specialty.” -Betsie Freeman, Omaha-World Herald

To shop merchandise related to Garrison Keillor, A Prairie Home Companion, and The Writer’s Almanac, visit our new online store >>>