Looking for peace in the valley, just sit a spell and listen to Butch Thompson's jazz piano. All your troubles will float away thanks to his minor 7th piano progressions. Add two singers a third apart and it's a world of harmony. More we do not need to get started.
loved coming upon the one-sentence paragraph starting with the Dutchman, the breathtaking ride it can be to write such a thing - good on you, Garrison, live long and continue to prosper, please
We also remember our dear Walter Mondale, who died this year without much fanfare, though fanfare there was. Alone, in COVID. A statesman extraordinaire and even more a gentleman of unparalleled excellence. His is a loss the World can ill afford right now.
Men like Harry Reid are one in a million. He saw that serving his community was a greater purpose than serving himself. He gave all that he could until he could give no more. There are no better objective and goal. Thank you, Harry. Happy New Year to all.
I love you. I’ve never read anyone else’s writings like yours. You make my eyes water and my heart ache. You make an ugly world beautiful and a beautiful world into more than poet or a rich interior decorator or doctor with good news. your gift is kindness somehow wrapped in humor and self-deprecating awareness that touches my whole entire heart. i’m old now but your humor makes me a child again, laughing secretly or out loud til I am out of sadnesses.
I love you Garrison. (I don’t feel comfortable in writing Gary). But, I miss PHC. I used to fret about which of us would die first, but I just thought PHC would go on as long as you did. Maybe sanity will once again prevail and you will be back on the air. Happy New Yeat!
Good column, but would you please just keep quiet about phone calls not costing $35.75/minute. There is some guy sitting around out there who will read that and, instead of spending his thinking time on something worthwhile, will figure out a way to make phone calls cost $35.75/minute.
You, our World-Renowned Host, have probably known many, many more "luminous people" in your lifetime than I have in mine! Other than yourself, the first person who comes to my mind is a tiny, seemingly fragile, elderly woman. Her name was Barbara McClintock. In her prime, she wandered around the highlands of the Andes and collected ears of native corn. When I met her, in an attic room of the Plant Breeding building at Cornell University, she was eager to show me the dried remnants of her life's work. The ears were small, most of them less than five inches long. The kernels were a mix of colors - yellow, purple and maroon. Some of them were "bearded" with little "whiskers" growing delicately out of the surface of their kernels.
As she showed her beloved corn to me, in her memory she left the highlands of Peru and found herself standing before an assembly of geneticists at the Cold Spring Harbor Symposium in 1951, presenting her work. She had concluded that several of these traits were transmitted, not by the chromosomes, but by factors in the sap of the cell - "cytoplasmic inheritance." Three hundred men, not a single woman in the audience, heard her presentation. Three hundred men, all convinced that "genes" were the thing, that nothing else in cells could predict how the "parent" would influence the "child." Three hundred men, each of them ready to jump on a male colleague and harry him off the stage with their professional denials, but not a one of them willing to challenge "the little woman." Barbara McClintock, Nobel Prize winner in Medicine in 1983, stood there in that shadowed attic room in the 1960s, with a helpless look on her face. She knew that it was because she was a woman that she had zero credibility among those whom others might call her peers. How she had wished for someone to contest her - to show that they looked at her as a fellow researcher - to see her as someone who existed, who had a voice.
Thirty-two years later, medical doctors found evidence of cytoplasmic inheritance in children, and came across McClintock's Cold Spring Harbor presentation. In 1983, for the first time in Nobel Prize history, a woman was awarded the Nobel Prize as the sole honoree. Two Curie women had preceded her, as joint honorees with their husbands. But it was Barbara McClintock, a small, frail woman with a soft voice, and a luminous spirit that shone in her eyes, as she tenderly touched those Andean ears of corn, that finally broke the gender barrier. Thanks to her, women scientists these days can dream of being considered the intellectual equals of their male colleagues.
Rereading this message, I noticed an interesting list of "useless things." I'd "scratch" pocket billiards off that "Scratch List!" Back when I was employed and affluent (relatively, anyway), I used to take winter vacations at the trackside Isaac Walton Inn. (You might have engaged in "Railway Talk" with your neighbor, James J. Hill, about his Burlington Northern Line back in the day!) I had been out to take the northernmost Amtrak route, and the folks at the ski lodge came out and waved at us so enthusiastically, I decided to take my next winter vacation there!
On my first trek, in the dining hall I was surprised to sit across from a man who used his fork to push his food against his knife as a dining technique. I had seen a European use the same technique, so I wasn't too startled. However, when the Inn offered us a ski trip to Glacier National Park, eight of us crowded into the van. Once we were out and locked into our skis, the guide insisted that Robert be the first to follow him. It turned out that Robert had been blinded by playing with firecrackers when he was eight. As a formerly sighted person, he had some advantages, including a certain urge to "push the envelope." He could feel the tracks made in the snow, either by the guide, there in the park, or by a cross-country ski trail machine which pressed a double track into the snow for us at the Inn.
After we became friends, we'd ski together, and also play pocket billiards! I'd give him a line with his cue - cue ball to target ball, and away we'd go! He won every time - partially because I was such a bad player, and partially because if he happened to pocket the cue ball, we just let it seem like another score. I learned a lot from him. about courage, and about going beyond seeming "defects. I'll always remember thhose pool games with jooy!
Looking for peace in the valley, just sit a spell and listen to Butch Thompson's jazz piano. All your troubles will float away thanks to his minor 7th piano progressions. Add two singers a third apart and it's a world of harmony. More we do not need to get started.
May it be Better Happy New Year for all.
loved coming upon the one-sentence paragraph starting with the Dutchman, the breathtaking ride it can be to write such a thing - good on you, Garrison, live long and continue to prosper, please
We also remember our dear Walter Mondale, who died this year without much fanfare, though fanfare there was. Alone, in COVID. A statesman extraordinaire and even more a gentleman of unparalleled excellence. His is a loss the World can ill afford right now.
A wonderful and thoughtful read. A happier new year to you.
I believe indoor plumbing beats all of mankind’s inventions, not FaceTime or hair products😊
Mr. Keillor, Best wishes for the New Year! Do you really believe a person can “Rise in Glory”? Be well. Philip Freedman
Thank you dear Garrison, for your gift of optimism and gratitude, and Happy New Year!!
Men like Harry Reid are one in a million. He saw that serving his community was a greater purpose than serving himself. He gave all that he could until he could give no more. There are no better objective and goal. Thank you, Harry. Happy New Year to all.
dear Mr keillor
I love you. I’ve never read anyone else’s writings like yours. You make my eyes water and my heart ache. You make an ugly world beautiful and a beautiful world into more than poet or a rich interior decorator or doctor with good news. your gift is kindness somehow wrapped in humor and self-deprecating awareness that touches my whole entire heart. i’m old now but your humor makes me a child again, laughing secretly or out loud til I am out of sadnesses.
thank you for that.
rmp from california- land of $6/gal gas
I like your recommendations, and I'm looking forward to hearing the feature show later today!
I love you Garrison. (I don’t feel comfortable in writing Gary). But, I miss PHC. I used to fret about which of us would die first, but I just thought PHC would go on as long as you did. Maybe sanity will once again prevail and you will be back on the air. Happy New Yeat!
Good column, but would you please just keep quiet about phone calls not costing $35.75/minute. There is some guy sitting around out there who will read that and, instead of spending his thinking time on something worthwhile, will figure out a way to make phone calls cost $35.75/minute.
Happy New Year ...
You, our World-Renowned Host, have probably known many, many more "luminous people" in your lifetime than I have in mine! Other than yourself, the first person who comes to my mind is a tiny, seemingly fragile, elderly woman. Her name was Barbara McClintock. In her prime, she wandered around the highlands of the Andes and collected ears of native corn. When I met her, in an attic room of the Plant Breeding building at Cornell University, she was eager to show me the dried remnants of her life's work. The ears were small, most of them less than five inches long. The kernels were a mix of colors - yellow, purple and maroon. Some of them were "bearded" with little "whiskers" growing delicately out of the surface of their kernels.
As she showed her beloved corn to me, in her memory she left the highlands of Peru and found herself standing before an assembly of geneticists at the Cold Spring Harbor Symposium in 1951, presenting her work. She had concluded that several of these traits were transmitted, not by the chromosomes, but by factors in the sap of the cell - "cytoplasmic inheritance." Three hundred men, not a single woman in the audience, heard her presentation. Three hundred men, all convinced that "genes" were the thing, that nothing else in cells could predict how the "parent" would influence the "child." Three hundred men, each of them ready to jump on a male colleague and harry him off the stage with their professional denials, but not a one of them willing to challenge "the little woman." Barbara McClintock, Nobel Prize winner in Medicine in 1983, stood there in that shadowed attic room in the 1960s, with a helpless look on her face. She knew that it was because she was a woman that she had zero credibility among those whom others might call her peers. How she had wished for someone to contest her - to show that they looked at her as a fellow researcher - to see her as someone who existed, who had a voice.
Thirty-two years later, medical doctors found evidence of cytoplasmic inheritance in children, and came across McClintock's Cold Spring Harbor presentation. In 1983, for the first time in Nobel Prize history, a woman was awarded the Nobel Prize as the sole honoree. Two Curie women had preceded her, as joint honorees with their husbands. But it was Barbara McClintock, a small, frail woman with a soft voice, and a luminous spirit that shone in her eyes, as she tenderly touched those Andean ears of corn, that finally broke the gender barrier. Thanks to her, women scientists these days can dream of being considered the intellectual equals of their male colleagues.
Rereading this message, I noticed an interesting list of "useless things." I'd "scratch" pocket billiards off that "Scratch List!" Back when I was employed and affluent (relatively, anyway), I used to take winter vacations at the trackside Isaac Walton Inn. (You might have engaged in "Railway Talk" with your neighbor, James J. Hill, about his Burlington Northern Line back in the day!) I had been out to take the northernmost Amtrak route, and the folks at the ski lodge came out and waved at us so enthusiastically, I decided to take my next winter vacation there!
On my first trek, in the dining hall I was surprised to sit across from a man who used his fork to push his food against his knife as a dining technique. I had seen a European use the same technique, so I wasn't too startled. However, when the Inn offered us a ski trip to Glacier National Park, eight of us crowded into the van. Once we were out and locked into our skis, the guide insisted that Robert be the first to follow him. It turned out that Robert had been blinded by playing with firecrackers when he was eight. As a formerly sighted person, he had some advantages, including a certain urge to "push the envelope." He could feel the tracks made in the snow, either by the guide, there in the park, or by a cross-country ski trail machine which pressed a double track into the snow for us at the Inn.
After we became friends, we'd ski together, and also play pocket billiards! I'd give him a line with his cue - cue ball to target ball, and away we'd go! He won every time - partially because I was such a bad player, and partially because if he happened to pocket the cue ball, we just let it seem like another score. I learned a lot from him. about courage, and about going beyond seeming "defects. I'll always remember thhose pool games with jooy!