Pardon me if I talk about back where I’m from

I spent the pandemic in New York where I don’t know anybody except my wife so quarantine was no problem and after I got vaccinated I went home to Minnesota and had dinner with five people I’ve known forever or more, and it was a pleasure that’s worth getting old for. With old friends, conversation is simple: you open your mouth and there’s a big balloon full of words. With new people, it’s like a job interview. So I love Minnesota where those old friends are. And it’s a state that needs to be loved. 

Minnesota is flyover land and no matter what greatness we produce — Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Hubert, Jessica Lange, Prince, Al Franken, Bob Zimmerman — all that people know about us is that it gets cold there. 

I was in Paris one January years ago on a bitterly cold day, sitting in a bistro, La Ponpon, packed with gaunt young people all dressed in black and elderly communists with enormous eyebrows and embittered poets writing in tiny black notebooks, everybody chain-smoking Gauloises and drinking vials of acidic black coffee and tumblers of absinthe, and a skinny woman across the table from me, reading Albert Camus in French, stared at me and finally asked, “Where are you from?” and I said, “Je viens du Minnesota” and she said, “So this cold weather must be nothing to you.” 

Minnesota is overlooked because we were brought up not to brag, not toot our horn, not dance in the end zone. When a Minnesotan hits a grand-slam homer in the ninth to come from behind and win the championship, he trots around the bases, ignoring the roar of the crowd, and crosses home plate and walks, head down, to the dugout, and sits down, no waving his cap to the crowd, and afterward he autographs a hundred caps for hospitalized children and goes home, and mows his lawn. 

My favorite Minnesota hero is Stan Nelson, who made me do chin-ups in phy-ed class at Anoka High School in 1957. I couldn’t do them but he made me try. I didn’t know until Stan’s 100th birthday celebration that Stan had piloted an LCI 492 landing craft at Normandy Beach on D-Day, making four separate landings, dropping four bands of troops. He had been in danger but he knew that the men he ferried in were in greater danger and many would die and so he wore his honors privately. 

I once visited Harry Blackmun of St. Paul at the U.S. Supreme Court in Washington where he was employed as an associate justice and we went for a walk around the block. He had written the decision in Roe v. Wade that made abortion legal and there were protesters in the Court plaza who would gladly have swarmed him and stoned him but nobody noticed him because, like a true Minnesotan, he was good at being nondescript. 

I grew up wanting to be a satirist, as most teenagers did, but soon realized that my people were extremely sensitive to ridicule, and if I made fun of northern hospitality, Minnesota cuisine, systemic modesty, or January, it felt like treason — it amused outsiders but my people were hurt as if I had yanked out their toenails with pliers, and so I limited myself to gentle satire, which is to say “not all that funny,” to the detriment of my career. I never won the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, but then neither did Seinfeld or Johnny Carson, so who cares? And instead of major awards, I have these old friends. Some luck lies not in getting what you want but getting what you have, which — once you take a good look — you may realize is what you would’ve wanted if you had only known. I’m not sure that sentence is grammatically correct but it’s true. 

I wanted to escape when I was 17 and move to New York but I was broke so I stayed home and now that I’m married to a New Yorker who loves me, I miss Minnesota. I miss the culture of small talk. My dad never went into a gas station or shop without striking up a conversation about the weather or whatever, which shows our respect for each other. Asian, Black, Latino, he made conversation with everyone. The woman behind the convenience store counter wears a name tag, “Efthimiatou,” and I say, as my dad would’ve, “How do you pronounce that? It’s a lovely name. Beautiful day today. It’s definitely getting warmer. Spring is on the way. As long as I’m here, why don’t I buy some of those daffodils.” 
 

Posts the Host

(In reference to March 17, 2021 column, What it's like to be old, if you want to know )

Dear Garrison,
Thanks for your views on aging, which I read on my 71st birthday. It brought back the memory of when I first saw Prairie Home. You did the show on the lawn at the museum in St. Paul and it was sponsored by Sons of Knute #2 Snoose and you smoked as you did the monologue. I was living in an apartment in Minneapolis with squirrels in the ceiling. My rent was $90 a month for a big apartment where my mousetraps would go off like a string of firecrackers when I turned off the lights at night. I would time my baths to get hot water when no one else in the building was hogging it. You and PHC have blessed me since then and thank you for the birthday gift. 
Leslie
 
I remember those days, Leslie. Old winos used to talk their way past the ticket-takers (who were good liberals and couldn’t bring themselves to exclude the needy) and now and then one would bring a harmonica and want to play with the band. And the audience, made up of good liberals, WANTED ME TO LET THEM DO IT. It was affirmative action in action. The problem was that the wino harmonicist was a terrible musician and we had a great blues harmonica player, Soupy Schindler, on the show, which was broadcast all over Minnesota and so listeners would hear a drunken solo and wonder what was wrong with Soupy. I had to exercise arbitrary authority, which was not in my nature to do, but I did. I was booed for it. Gently, but still. Those shows began with the bonging of a carillon from the tower of Church of St. Louis across the street and often included the sirens of fire trucks from the station nearby. Exciting times but I wouldn’t care to relive them.
GK
 
I just finished listening to your audio version of Huckleberry Finn and had to write to express my gratitude and admiration. I taught that book for 30 years at a fancy prep school, a job that included reading all the juiciest parts aloud to virgin ears, and I thought I had loved it about as much as a book can be loved. But even in the crazy three-hour abridgment, you’ve brought the thing newly alive for me in about 17 different ways.

I don’t think any writer has more successfully plumbed the hilarious possibilities of the American sentence than Mr. Twain, and I can’t imagine another reader hearing what he’s up to and voicing it as you have. Thank you, and enjoy being.
Dean
 
I am sure, sir, that my reading of Huck Finn is simply bringing back to you your own pleasure at facing fresh audiences for thirty years, but I’m happy to accept a compliment from a teacher, seeing as I got so few of them as a student. Thank you.
GK
 
Dear Mr. Keillor,
When I was a little girl, my father would take me on Saturday night to the McDonald’s to buy Happy Meals and he timed it so that we listened to PHC. So all those precious alone times in the car with him, you were there too, and I grew up loving you both so much.

My dad died unexpectedly this year. He fell and hit his head in just the wrong way and there was nothing anyone could do. I was lucky that at least I got to sit next to him in his hospital room for a few hours as he died. When I ran out of things to say, I read him the Writer’s Almanac.

I loved my dad so much, and there was so much about him I didn’t understand. I think he loved me and I know there was so much about me he didn’t understand. There was so much we couldn’t say to one another, but we both liked you.

I always wanted to send one of those greeting messages from me to him during the show — but I could never think of anything clever enough. And then the show went off the air and now he’s dead. But when I read your words, I always feel like it’s the three of us again.
Please keep writing,
Kate
 
Kate, I thank you for your letter, which is completely mysterious to me and also beautiful, like an October sunset. I’m stunned. I didn’t understand my dad and we didn’t have much to say to each other, but I have clear memories of the time he took me with him to New York when I was eleven. My mother made him take me, but I loved being alone with him and seeing the city. He’d been stationed here during WWII, a Minnesota farm boy in uniform in Manhattan, and he told me about those good years. He was worried about losing me in crowded places and so he held my hand, the only time in my life I remember him doing that. My other memory of him is of taking my little three-year-old daughter to visit him as he lay dying. She grabbed for his big toe under the blanket, and he moved his foot away from her hand and she was delighted by this game of hide-and-seek. She kept trying to grab it and he pulled it away and finally she got hold of it and both of them were laughing. She knew nothing about death, and he knew that he’d never know her as a person, but in this little playful encounter they did sense each other’s humorous nature. I feel so privileged to have been that invisible voice that mysteriously drew you and your father together. A great mystery, and it amazes me as it does you. 
GK
 
 
Perhaps, Mr. Keillor, in your remaining years you could develop compassion for animals and stop eating them, which would also make you healthier and help save the planet. Since there is no reason to eat animals and their “products” to be healthy, then eating them becomes an ethical issue; it is wrong. It is also an ethical issue that by eating them you are contributing to environmental collapse as the system of raising animals for food is the single biggest driver of global warming. If there is no need to take an animal’s life, then it is immoral to do so. And eating them causes a host of deadly and debilitating diseases, including: cancer, diabetes, erectile dysfunction, osteoporosis, arthritis, heart disease, dementia, and on and on.

Please watch Cowspiracy on Netflix and read my book: vegdogsavesplanet.com
Thank you for listening,
Margaret Hurley
 
I admire your ambition, which is truly heroic, to eliminate the eating of meat, eggs, dairy, from the planet. My ambitions are puny compared to yours, even minuscule. Your ambition is close to what I remember of the preachers of my youth who felt called to save the world from eternal damnation by taking the Gospel of Jesus Christ to all the nations of the world, even India and China. My wife is a gradualist and she seeks to limit the consumption of meat. Last night we had a flatbread pizza with a little cheese and bits of prosciutto on it and a green salad, and the night before, it was a salad and a Manhattan clam chowder. The clam bits were not prominent. I don’t know that clamming contributes to global warming, but I’d be glad to be enlightened. Meanwhile, I go for walks in New York and see small dogs on leashes wearing sweaters and vests and two yesterday who wore snow pants. This strikes me as abusive but I don’t feel up to carrying on a campaign. I didn’t speak to the dogs’ “owner” about it because, frankly, I’m a coward. My role in my “remaining years,” as you put it, seems to be in the field of comedy, and that leads me to think about a vegan dictator who takes over the country, bans the slaughter of animals, and the arrangements that must be made to care for the billions of chickens, pigs, and cows and give them a comfortable natural life. There is a book here somewhere. Thanks for your letter.
GK
 
Dear Sir,
I just got high-speed Internet out here where I live alone at the edge of the universe. I can see Canada from here. It has opened up a plethora of entertainment and other stuff to help me waste my time. The best thing I’ve stumbled on is YouTube recordings of News from Lake Wobegon and from there I found your website.

Previously, I only knew you as a comforting soothing voice in my old Panasonic with bitchin’ big speakers, that only gets a few stations out here at the edge of the universe. One is country — not good country, and one is NPR on a good day. It’s fuzzy and crackly but it comes in.

So now I can click and any time I want I can listen to your comforting soothing voice in crystal-clear digital splendor. You’re not as handsome as I had imagined you, so I just turn around and gaze at the old Panasonic while I listen. This is how I always pictured you, an old Panasonic with bitchin’ big speakers — but not as dusty.
God Bless,
Pat B
 
My wife feels the same way about me being fuzzy and crackly and not as handsome as she once imagined me to be, but we keep the lights turned low and avoid staring head-on and life is good. She understands that I’m a Minnesotan brought up by fundamentalists so I was taught to avoid attractiveness lest it lead to fornication, which can lead to dancing. My wife is witty, as you are, and that’s what attracts me to her. She fusses with her hair and her skin and she dresses becomingly, but it’s her smart retorts and comebacks that win my heart. Thanks for the note.
GK
 
 
Once again, you and I are in sync. Appreciate small things, yes. When I retired a few years ago, and no longer traipsed the campus, teaching, suffering through committee meetings, I was faced with a life without any of these things. I had a transformative epiphany (is that redundant?): Seeing older people (I live in a 55+ community), with various illnesses and disabilities, I realized that one day I would be one of “them.” That is when I learned to value all the things I could still do, like jog to the mailbox, read the entire paper, garden to my heart’s delight, fix things around the house. When I was “careering,” as you put it, I took all these things for granted. Now I have time to love every minute.
Howard
 
Happy to be in sync with a happy man. I don’t jog or garden or fix things, but I read what I write to my wife and if she doesn’t laugh, I throw it away. I’ve come to love the 45-minute nap. I love revising my new novel. I go to bed at night and watch her reading a book nearby and try to distract her. And so on and so forth. I wish we could join forces and fight the good fight against committee meetings but it’s too much work.
GK
 
Mr. Keillor,
You saved my life many years ago when I was living in a little frame house in a hollow south of Charleston, West Virginia. It was a hot summer evening in 1983, I was new in town, had no money and no friends or acquaintances. My ex-girlfriend wouldn’t talk to me. The radio was tuned to a top-40 station. I was sharing my last pieces of bologna with two cats on the front porch and turned the radio dial and heard a man singing an odd jingle about Powdermilk Biscuits, which caught my ear. Peter Ostroushko was on the broadcast. Settling in on the porch with the cats and listening to the show, I found a place to just be. That was what I needed. I was young and foolish then and am old and not as foolish now, but still remember the day you saved me.
Thank you.
Neil Robinson
 
I take no credit, Neil, but it’s a good story. A man may have to hit bottom before he realizes which way is up. I’ve had some hard times but never was down to my last slices of bologna. I’m sitting at our kitchen table right now and I can see a block of cheese and part of a baguette, so we’re all set. 
GK
 
Thanks for your celebration of the little things of life, the mysteries in the ordinary. But how does an old person deal with the big things: one’s mortality; the prevailing injustices in our society; the fact that others — conveniently far away and out of sight — slave away so that we can have it easy; robbing our grandchildren to keep ourselves comfortable. What do we do about all that?
 
Where are the elders in our youth-obsessed, progress-driven world?
Respectfully,
Rudi Krause in Vancouver
 
Mortality isn’t a problem, Rudi, it’s our destination. Meanwhile, we’re privileged to enjoy some years of contemplation and ordinary pleasure. I don’t accept that injustice “prevails” and I don’t accept that our prosperity is based on slavery, but I will leave that to younger and more ambitious people to resolve. The pandemic has dramatically simplified my life and I’m grateful. I have time to think back over the years and feel gratitude for good things, and from this comes a measure of wisdom. As an old Democrat, I worry about the Democratic Party and if I were to deal with the big things, I’d throw myself into party politics, but I’m restrained by knowledge of my mortality. My prospects of success as a reformer are slim. I want to savor my life and so I shall.
GK
 

This week on A Prairie Home Companion

NEWS FROM PAST GUEST PERFORMERS:
Many performers who appeared on the show over the past 40 years have been entertaining fans with new projects and virtual concerts. We will check in on a few each week and hope that you check them out!

Grammy Award Winners
Over 43 years, A Prairie Home Companion welcomed over 10,000 musical guest performers to its stage and broadcast the performances across the world to a global audience. The show’s musical reach could still be seen today as many guests who graced the stage received this year’s Grammy Awards. These include:

Sarah Jarosz — Best Americana Album for World on the Ground.
Gillian Welch and David Rawlings — Best Folk Album for All the Good Times.
Brandi Carlile along with the Highwomen — Best Country Song for “Crowded Table.”
James Taylor — Best Traditional Pop Vocal Album for American Standard.
Vince Gill — Best Country Solo Performance for “When my Amy Prays.”
The late John Prine — Best American Roots Performance and Best American Roots Song for “I Remember Everything.”

Congrats to all!

Peter Ostroushko
Over an hour of LIVE music from Peter Ostroushko as performed on A Prairie Home Companion. Featured music from over a 40-year period.

Listen to the stream >>>

More memories, photos, and stories are shared on our dedicated web page to Peter.

Visit the Memorial Page>>>

Patty Loveless
“If Garrison was thinking in terms of pure pandemonium, then he got it right! None of the participants, including the audience, knows what the hell is going to happen next. That’s great!” — Patty Loveless on how Prairie Home is put together.

In this guest interview, find out what Patty’s been up to, how an album is put together, what it’s like recording for a major label vs. small label, and a few stories behind the songs, in addition to videos and links to PHC shows.

Read more >>>

"Duets 2" from  A Prairie Home Companion

“The world is full of lonesome singers, bless their hearts, who need to tell us about their empty days and weepy nights, but the answer to their dilemma is so simple: find someone to sing with and feel better. Our radio show has been working on behalf of duetology for years and this second volume of duets from the show is proof that whether the voice is united with that of a sibling, pal, life partner, or someone you only met last Tuesday, the result can be delightful and moving. And because it’s the performers’ relatives who buy their CDs, sales are doubled.”

— Garrison Keillor

Following in the grand tradition of the original A Prairie Home Companion Duets collection, Duets 2 gathers even more outstanding performances from the show’s archives, revealing the magic that occurs when two voices meet in front of a live audience. As part of the download project, the product page has been updated to include full track listings and details, plus easy download links from Amazon and iTunes.
                                 

Listen to a sample >>>
Read our annotated blog post >>>
 Get the CD >>>
 Get the Duets Trio package >>>

Signed 2010 Cinecast Poster

On October 10, 2010, A Prairie Home Companion was beamed into movie theaters across the country. The show was performed LIVE from the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul, Minnesota, with musical guests Joe Ely, Sara Watkins, Old Crow Medicine Show, and Andra Suchy, in addition to our sound effects cast and house band. Garrison, cast, and guests signed posters on that evening. These are the same posters that promoted the show in each theater and in the lobby of the Fitz. We are making 50 available now. Measures 11” by 18”. 

Listen to the show >>>
Get the Poster >>>

$4.99 Prairie Home Journal & Pen

“I write every day except when I’m sick or my wife insists that we are on vacation. I like to write early in the morning, and if I wake up at 5 a.m. or even 4 a.m., it is with a sense of gratitude for the extra hours of pure quiet. I make a pot of coffee, boot up my laptop, sit anywhere in the house that seems promising and launch forth.” — Garrison Keillor

Now, you can fill the pages of our bargain-priced journal (complete with pen). Fill it with reminders of things to do, limericks, lyrics, or simply random thoughts! This journal is from the 2020 cruise that never happened, so we hope this keeps you dreaming.

Get the Journal >>>