Garrison Keillor's Podcast

Mozart’s Symphony No. 41 in C Major, the “Jupiter,” was his last, a symphony he never heard, composed in the summer of 1788, three years before his death, along with two other symphonies, a piano sonata, other chamber works, by a 32-year-old genius deeply in debt, having lost the favor of his noble patrons, caring for his ailing wife, Constanze — it’s heartbreaking to hear the tenderness of the dances in the third movement, the inventiveness of the finale.The audience adored the Shostakovich. They gave it a standing ovation and brought the maestro back for five bows and he gave bows to the brass, the English horn, the violas, the tympani, the cymbals, the strings, the winds, the harps. Shostakovich wrote it in honor of the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917 but during intermission Jenny had shown me videos she’d taken of New Yorkers sliding Cedar Hill in Central Park, sliding on plastic saucers, pieces of cardboard, baking trays, roasting pans, skis, going off a jump and flying in the air and landing in a cloud of snow. Tyranny is brutal and blind to the goodness and delight of life that Mozart found even in his summer of distress. We have a democracy here, my friend. The vintage of the grapes of wrath has been trampled out. The king cannot lie repeatedly and nakedly and demand to be believed.

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Some days I glance at the front page and see the name RUMP in three or four places so I flip back to the Lifestyle section and maybe find a wine review, “Fresh and vivacious with chewy tannins and bursts of flowers and fruits.” The deranged man with cognitive problems is a passing phenom, but bursts of flowers and fruits have been with us forever and even in January here in Manhattan one can find shops to walk into and feel flowers bursting around you and markets where you inhale the freshness of mounds of apples and pears and oranges.The old king who goes mad is a character out of Shakespeare, he has no place in America, you walk out of a performance of King Lear and buy a bouquet of tulips and a bag of apples and you’re back to reality. When Van Gogh admitted himself to the asylum for the insane at Saint-Rémy in Provence, he spent the last years of his life painting the gardens and woods, the trees and flowers, paintings that were the finest of his life. He could’ve been destructive, set fires, broken windows, preyed on the weak and helpless, but he did not, he found solace in painting. This is the difference between an artist and a creep.

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A Times story reporting that college students in a writing course do better when they go offline for a month makes perfect sense to me, same as if you say a writer does better at a laptop in the public library than shnockered on a sailboat in a storm, but the idea of persuading students to go offline strikes me as quixotic, like Amish evangelism or banning the use of chairs. The internet is here and we’re all caught up in it.l was in my 50s when the World Wide Web came in. Its advent was not a big event to me; I was still working on a manual Underwood typewriter. I have a clearer memory of seeing Albert Woolson, the last living Civil War veteran, in a parade in downtown Minneapolis. I remember my uncle Jim farming with horses and Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio. And I remember boredom, which has mostly disappeared in America except perhaps among lighthouse keepers or attendants in parking ramps or felons in solitary confinement. And maybe imprisonment offline would be considered cruel and inhumane in a court of law.Growing up pre-Google in a small Midwestern town among taciturn people, I experienced boredom intensely and it led to reading and in due course to writing. I took up haiku:Three blackbirds shriekingAs my old black cat calmlySquats in the sandpile.This was enough to amuse me back then. And because I could write a 17-syllable haiku and had good handwriting and spoke in complete sentences, I was considered gifted.I considered becoming a poet but I wanted to earn money and not live up over my parents’ garage so I went into public radio where, thank goodness, the audience was made up of reference librarians, caregivers, birdwatchers, organic gardeners, people who were spiritual but not religious, people who enjoyed the enigmatic more than actual entertainment. I shouldn’t brag but I can be more enigmatic than anyone I know.I got a reputation as an artistic storyteller, which, believe me, there is no such thing — storytelling is not an art, it’s a craft, like plumbing, and either the water comes out of the tap or it doesn’t. But back in the Boring Eighties, enigma was more appreciated. And now, there’s the smartphone offering endless entertainment, videos, YouTube, GPS telling you exactly where on Earth you are and how far to the nearest comedy club, yoga studio, liquor store and not just any old liquor store but one that offers designer beer with floral notes of marigolds sprinkled with saffron playing off earthy vanilla with rustic bitterness in the finish. We didn’t have that back in my time, just cold beer.I try to explain this to young people, the fact that we didn’t have soft butter then, butter aerated to make it spreadable, just little hard bricks of butter that when you tried to spread it on toast, you tore the toast apart, or else you scraped shavings of butter off and by the time the toast was buttered it was cold.Back in the day, before “google” became a verb, we had to memorize information, it wasn’t readily available, such as verb tenses or state capitals or the nine planets — My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas — Mercury Venus Earth Mars Jupiter Saturn Uranus Neptune Pluto — and a boy named Ralph Krause liked to ask Mr. Jensen our science teacher, How big is Uranus? Is there life on Uranus? It was a high point of science class, in which high points were few and far between.I grew up under the heavy burden of Boy Scouts, which I believe has mostly disappeared, done in by social media. We had cruel Scoutmasters who took us winter camping in the North Woods, believing adversity stimulates intelligence. I’m not so sure. I associate intelligence with staying warm.I look at politics, the regressive MAGA right (working hard to horrify the genteel left), which has elected nihilists in golf pants who exercise their whimsical powers to serve 3% of the people 75% of the time, and it’s easy to despair but if you go offline and wander through crowds of Christmas shoppers, you sense the spirit of kindness and gaiety of our people.Old men dozing off at the switch need to be shoveled into the Home for the Hopeless and let the young and conscientious come in to repair the damage. I hope it happens in my lifetime.

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I remember when I was a kid, our family driving home from Sunday night gospel meeting and stopping at A&W for root beer floats, how beautiful they were after an hour of contemplating eternal damnation. I remember being sent to Aunt Jo’s house when my mother was having babies, a house with a wood-burning stove and outhouse like in Little House on the Prairie. I remember my first time on skis, skidding down a steep hill and thinking, “I will never do this again,” a promise I have kept.

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This all came crashing down last Monday night at JFK when I boarded a Delta flight to Seattle around 5 p.m. I consider JFK to be as close to a prison camp as I care to get. The Delta terminal is vast and crowded and ugly, endless lines at Ticketing, TSA agents whose badge entitles them to freely express hostility and contempt, miles of concourses lined with souvenir shops, the smell of bad food. Naming the airport for our late lamented president did him no service.We boarded the plane and sat at the gate for a while, then pulled out and sat on the tarmac. A massive storm was moving east. The pilot came on the horn every 15 minutes to apologize for the delay and say that Air Traffic Control had no idea when, if ever, we might leave. Five became six p.m. and then almost seven when suddenly he said we were clear to go and the plane sprinted toward the runway but something changed, we were too late, and we returned to the gate canceled.

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