Garrison Keillor. (photo: MPR)
16 September 19
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birthday is this week, which I mention by way of saying, “Please. No
gifts.” My love and I went through major downsizing in January and we
are pretty much done with Things now, even a picture of a wilderness
lake taken by you or an inspirational book that could change our lives.
My life is good enough. Every day is precious. When you reach 77, you’ll
feel the same way. It’s a shame that a con man is in the White House as
the Arctic is melting and white nationalists are shooting up our
cities, but we’ll be okay, we just need a Trexit vote next year.
I reached my present age thanks to medical advances
that didn’t exist for my uncles (than whom I am now somewhat older) nor
for Dostoevsky (59) or Thoreau (44). Pharmaceuticals would’ve enabled
Dostoevsky to retire from writing agonizing novels and switch over to
light comedy in his old age and Thoreau to leave Concord and move to New
York and find a girlfriend. He went out on a cold rainy night to look
at trees and caught bronchitis, which agitated his TB and he went into a
steep decline. As he lay dying, his aunt asked if he’d made his peace
with God, and Henry said, “I was not aware that we had ever quarreled.”
So he had a good last line, which many people don’t, but think what he
and his girlfriend could’ve done with thirty more years. Go into the
canoe business, buy a house with a lawn, beget kiddoes, enjoy evenings
at home, Isabelle lying with her head in Henry’s lap, reading “Walden,”
laughing at the funny parts.
Life is unbearably precious. Two heroes of mine died
in car crashes when I was in college, and yet I myself, a couple years
later, driving north on Highway 47 in my 1956 Ford, on a straight
stretch in Isanti County, gunned it to 100 mph just to see what it felt
like. It felt good. Then a pickup truck eased out of a driveway and onto
the road. This was before seat belts. In a split second, I swerved to
go behind him and it was a good choice — he didn’t back up — otherwise
he and I would’ve been forever joined in a headline. I hope he has
enjoyed his survival. Whenever I relive those fifteen seconds, all
regrets vanish, all complaints evaporate.
I am now older than my older brother, who died ten
years ago at 71. He slipped while skating and fell backward and hit his
head. I think of him often. He was a scientist and engineer, a
problem-solver, a sailor, a family man, and when faced with a personal
dilemma, it’s good to ask, “What would Philip have said?” He tends to
recommend patience, attention to detail, and taking a break for a few
hours, perhaps on a boat, during which the answer may suddenly occur to
you.
I don’t brood about death as the actual date
approaches. My mother (97) enjoyed herself into her mid-nineties, flew
places, saw her ancestral Scotland, cruised the coast of Alaska, and
seemed, all in all, happier than when she had six little kids to worry
about. We grew up near the Mississippi and she thought extensively about
drowning. When cousin Roger (17) drowned, trying to impress his
girlfriend Susan, Mother sent me to swimming lessons at the Y, but I
couldn’t bear it, the instructor was such a bully, so I went to the
library instead, a wise choice on my part, and I grew up to earn my way
as a writer rather than as a professional swimmer.
Nature is not interested in my twilight years; past
30, semen develops problems, man becomes irrelevant in the furtherance
of the species. God created erectile dysfunction because old men can’t
be trusted to raise kids. Living past 70 is an artificial idea, a lovely
idea, like flying or anesthesia, but still. So an old man needs to
justify his continuance, taking up space and being a traffic hazard on
the freeway by driving the speed limit. My reason for living is simply
this: I am still working and my best work may be yet ahead of me.
I say, 77 is a fine age, way beyond 17 or 37 or 57,
but take your time getting there, and remember to marry someone who is
good company and can carry one end of the conversation and sometimes
both. There’s the real message. That’s worth reading to the end of the
column to find out.
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