Garrison Keillor

I used to sit with my Granny on the weekends. With the sound of a Western on the television, she taught me to crochet. While some of the other cousins were out shopping with her roommate and our aunt, Granny and I would read books and chat. 

It was on one of those Saturdays, in the very house that now gives my little family shelter from life's storms, that, at the age of about 15 or so,  I discovered Lake Woebegone. 

Fast forward a few years, I am back in my hometown after a marital spat. I couldn't tell you what it was over, but as far as we both were concerned, it was over. Granny had been gone a few years, but her spirit and her copy of Lake Woebegone lived on with me.  On the drive back home "to collect my things" I tuned the dial to public radio. A deep voice embossed with gravel was telling the story of a young newlywed couple, wrestling the mattress they'd tied to their car down the highway, toward their new home.  But really it was the story of marriage - all of it - summed up in a box spring. 

And it was the gift of unexpected laughter. One of my all-time favorite gifts to receive. 

If my memory is correct, that was when I first made the connection between the book(s) and the radio, but it's the kind of memory that feels too recent. It seems like I've just always known Keillor. 

 Over time, I read each new Keillor book and became a regular listener. I found out my Uncle Roy was a fan and that he listened to GK with Granny's roommate, and my aunt, whom Roy had been lucky enough to marry years after Granny's passing. 

We often talked about Prairie Home, Powdermilk Biscuits, the feel-good power of Ketchup and GK's signature red shoes. 

When Garrison Keillor released his collection of poems, he helped me be less ashamed of realizing poetry runs in my veins (truly, it is a malady one is born with) In fact, as a writer he has inspired and instructed me in countless ways. 

We saw GK in Savannah, just before the release of 'Pontoon' and when I finally checked Pontoon out from the library, I was amazed to realize our live show had been the book, monologued and set to music. 

One of my favorite Writer's Almanac episodes was a trifecta of literary proportions: Billy Collins fills in for GK and reads a poem by John Updike about baseball on George Orwell's birthday ...  June 25, 2013

(link to episode:  https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2013%252F06%252F25.html ) 

But my most favorite Writer's Almanac episode is from Thursday, April 21, 2022 - John Muir's birthday. I have always felt a deep kindred with Muir if only for answering the mountains' call expediently. 

At the time this episode found me, I was walking through an area we call the Greenway. It is a walking trail surrounded by tall trees and as close to a mountain hike as one can get without leaving town. 

It was before my surgeries, when my eyesight was failing and I felt so - removed?- from the rest of the world. When one or more senses aren't working, there is an isolation that is hard to describe, but being behind a thick veil, or looking into a darkened mirror, to borrow from the 13th chapter of 1st Corinthians, are perfect metaphors. 

Again, this man with the unexpected joy. 

I learned a lot about John Muir from this less-than-ten-minute snippet, and on this twilight walk in a thicket of trees, I felt re-connected to the world - if only for a moment.  

(link to episode: https://www.garrisonkeillor.com/radio/twa-the-writers-almanac-for-april-21-2022/ )

And this song has lived on my playlist for at least the last decade, probably longer if I'd stop to do the math: 

(link to GK & Sara Watkins: Brokedown Palace https://youtu.be/Zfuh7Ifmp3Y?feature=shared)

When I worked as a church secretary for a small, local Lutheran congregation - they didn't even have to teach me what lutefisk was. Keillor had already done it. 

Tonight was my second - and likely last - time at a Keillor show. I wasn't the youngest person in the audience this time - my 14 year old daughter was. 

Oh, but I do appreciate being surrounded by wisdom and experience. 

The tickets were a gift from my always generous dad, who knew I love the "Life Among The Lutherans" author. 

As we found our seats, Fisher remarked "Leave it to Papa to pick the best seats in the house." 

Yep, that is just the kind of thing Papa likes to do (Thank you, Mom and Dad!) Any closer and we'd have had to look up his nostrils. 

But, for the first little bit - it didn't matter where we were sitting because GK was walking everywhere, visiting with the crowd.  

We talked about important things - like living in the right here and now. And we sang together. It was the best part.  

I agreed with Keillor that when we're singing together, we're not focused on our differences or divisions, but (literally) on harmony, and I cast my vote with his that we need more congregational acappella far and wide. 

Maybe in large part because of my own vision issues, I noticed his eyes looked irritated and he wiped at them several times throughout the show. So, after the standing ovation, encore and final curtain call, I double backed and asked the stage hands if they could get eyedrops back to him. I keep sterile, single use packets with me everywhere I go. 

But the stagehands didn't know who to take them to. 

So, I stepped backstage and found Mr. Keillor sitting alone in his dressing room. He was looking at his phone, his glasses set on the table beside him. I gave a courtesy knock before stepping in the room and mentioned I'd seen him rubbing his eyes. I asked if he could use some eye drops and explained they were sterile, that I kept them on account of having eye surgeries. He accepted them, thanked me and asked how my eyes are doing now. I told him I was almost blind, but now, I can see (legitimately) 

Part 1: Was Blind (link: https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2023/08/was-blind-gift-of-cataracts-part-1.html )  

Part 2: Now I See (link: https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2023/10/but-now-hd-gift-of-cataracts-part-2.html )

I also thanked him for all the good he's invested in my life over the years, without taking any more of his time to itemize all the ways...starting with that story about how marriage and wrasslin' a mattress are basically the same thing ... and the simple reminders that laughter and poetry make good umbrellas for those sustained winds of change ... for the coffee, pie and endless comfort at the never-closed Chatterbox Cafe...  and most of all for a place to call home where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, the children are above average and - even if only for a moment - our woe can be gone.

Thank you, Mr. Keillor. 

Hard-Won Freedom: A Farewell to Harm

The following is my entry @ The Unsealed for the writing prompt "Write A Letter To Your Fear" 

Hard-Won Freedom: A Farewell to Harm

Dear Fear,

I know you’re upset I left you behind. There wasn’t enough room in the car for all your baggage and, if I’m being honest, had we brought you along, we never would have reached our destination.

This note may be little consolation, but it’s all I have to give. I will always owe you a debt of gratitude for showing me the danger ahead. If you hadn’t, the kids and I might not be alive today -not all of us, anyway.
Thank you for walking me out the door.

I can’t say I wish you were here, but sometimes, it’s like you are.
Sometimes, I realize I’m holding my breath for no reason.

On days I’m running late from work or the store, my heart races just like you used to make it do. But when I walk in, no one yells or slams a door. Suspicious accusations do not season dinner, and no one leaves the table upset. So, I exhale and keep moving.

I thought I saw you, that day, in the courthouse bathroom mirror. But when I looked closer, it was Courage staring back. You two look alike in a certain light.

I know you expected to hear from me sooner. We’ve been so busy rediscovering home.
It’s beautiful here. Safe, too.

Granny’s old house is a bit “mend-and-make-do,” but we toss eggshells in the garden instead of carpeting the rooms.

Hues of hospitality drape the walls. Music, not cursing, drifts down the hall.

The furniture is never thrown.

Open windows welcome kind-word breezes. The warmth of good friends coax our roots to grow. Drinking from a deep well of compassion, we’ve forgotten the road back to you.

I almost called you when Anger threatened to shatter our stability. But Family comes before Fear in my contacts, so I reached out to them before resorting to you.

They reminded me you’re bankrupt now, your energy all spent on fencing us in.

I know we will cross paths someday. But I’ve already grown so much since we left. You might not even recognize me when we do.

Oh, but Fear, won’t I recognize you? That insidious whisper, those suspicious, dark eyes? How could I ever forget your too-tight grip on this slipping-down life?

I will meet you head-on and return the favor. I will escort you through the door and send you back where you belong.

Fear, you excel at crocodiles and sharp lightning. Because of you, people avoid speeding tickets and poison ivy. But you can be irrational, too.

I know your real name is Afraid. It used to be my name, too.

Remember when we talked about your empty-bucket soul? How you never felt fulfilled because you couldn’t fix that hole?

There is a patch called Love. You really ought to try it. It covers everything.

First, sand away blame and excuses. It is a crucial step. Then allow it to seep down and completely absorb your being. Be careful not to confuse it with Indulgence, which costs more and eventually corrodes. Love’s brand is gritty and forms much thicker skin. Once it takes hold, the results are eternal.

Listen, Fear, I need to say this outright: we are never coming back.

Please do not pursue us. We’re doing just fine. In fact, we are better off now.

I’m sure you’ll find ways to occupy your time. Perhaps you can roam the beaches, reminding everyone about sharks or rattle tree limbs against the windows of sleeping children in the dark.

Give our regards to your mother, Pride and to your father, Cowardice.
Tell your sister Avarice we desire no visitors at all.

I bid you an ardent farewell.

Sincerely and Securely,
Hard-Won Freedom

Fight, Flight or Write

 I haven't talked much about my "healing journey" in these spaces. 

Outside of close family and friends, or in situations where I feel the need to clarify or speak directly into unfolding narratives, I haven't really shared the A-Z  of what I'm healing from. 

The drum we beat becomes our anthem. I love too many types of music to get stuck in one song. 

I'm still not sure how much of those rhythms I even want to revisit. I spent enough time there, waiting for the sun. Good news is, there's no rush. 

If and when the things I have to say about those topics and that time in my life seem necessary, whether to speak the truth about a version of events or to encourage someone going through similar things, I've found the words are well within my reach. They flow like a faucet, when the spigot is turned. 

Unless and until then,  I am not seeking to set myself up as an authority on domestic violence, abuse, divorce, et al. 

I never hope to set myself up as an authority on anything at all.  I'm a life-long learner, still figuring out who I want to be, who I am becoming. 

I am getting to know me and I'm taking my time. 

However, as a writer and longtime blogger, the temptation to turn any one fleeting thought into a full-blown series, complete with searchable keywords and a free, downloadable  .pdf of helpful resources is very, very real. 

The convenience of telling a friend who is midstream in mediation "Go to my blog, click the 'Survivng the Night' tab for exhaustive (and exhausting) coverage of my own journey as well as helpful links for your own journey" would be, it seems, quite convenient and efficient. 

But way less personal and much less personalized than the one-on-one conversations that occur, as needed, in real time, once in a blue moon. 

So, when I have a simple thought like "I notice that I'm noticing details more and I think it has something to do with getting better." or "I notice my attention span changing and it feels healthy." the writer within wants to 'talk' about it.  

And I have been noticing just that. I will watch a movie or read something I've already been exposed to in the past but I am experiencing it anew, with deeper saturation. I am able to be more present, more dialed in.  

It is a positive change, one I'm happy to notice in myself. It is nice to know that healing is possible. It is important to believe it, too. 

"I should share that," I think "for the sake of others who are nursing their own nervous systems. I should tell them that better things await, there are better things ahead"  (pun intended, if you spot it) 

I shared with a friend this week (and my little sister last week) that part of my challenge in writing now is I don't really need to. I am safe now. Free to speak freely, or to say "No" or, if I don't want to,  nothing at all.  

I no longer feel the need to start a new journal entry behind several blank pages of 'camouflage' (lest my words be intercepted and intentionally misinterpreted.)  It's a thing I still find myself doing out of habit sometimes, even after I realized I could breathe easy and start on Page 1. 

Not that long ago, I had a similar moment of realization about visual art & collage. For many years, I scrap / art journaled, primarily rearranging words and images I cut from the mountains of magazines  hauled home from library discard piles.  

(links: Orange Journal -  https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-orange-journal_27.html and Blue Journal: https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2018/09/the-blue-journal_6.html  - I haven't digitized all of them but these were used for court) 

In my 'Scavenged Art Project' I made a point to use up so many of the clipped words I'd been harboring for years. I still do collage and couldn't pass up a busted laundry basket full of discarded magazines if I tried, but I've found my execution is evolving. 

I don’t need the words of others so much - I use my own now. 

(link: posts about  "Scavenged Art"-  https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/search?q=Scavenged+Art)

Yesterday, I shared some old writing entries with that same friend and, as is often the case, I got a better glimpse of who I've been thanks to the visage from Hindsight Hill.  

Often, I remember I have an entry about a keyword or certain subject (in this case, it was about fire and matches) but I'll have forgotten the full context, and especially any palpable emotions I now see clearly in revisiting. 

So often, my words have been spillage, a way to cope. 

Did I think I was doing a good job hiding pain back then? Like a child who thinks she's hidden by keeping her own eyes closed, perhaps.  

Or was it necessary to bury these losses in shallow word graves and just keep moving? Like casualties in war time with the enemy fast approaching, we'll come back later with headstones. 

And then - - I see the date and, though it feels like four lifetimes ago, it was practically only yesterday. 

My lines are fewer now ... for now ... because I'm free (and apt) to speak aloud. 

And that's a good thing.