Photography by Cheryl Walsh Bellville
|
Keillor Instinct
By Paul Engleman, March & April 2005
The master storyteller reflects on fame, fatherhood, and flattery
|
After 30 years in the spotlight as creator and host of A Prairie
Home Companion, Garrison Keillor is still uneasy with his fame.
The rumbly voice that spins tales of the mythical Lake Wobegon on
his National Public Radio show is even softer in person, trailing
off repeatedly when the subject is Keillor himself. Says Tom
Keith, the show's sound effects wizard: "Those shy
people he talks about in his stories—that's him."
And yet, as he sits on his shady patio, on a crest overlooking
the verdigris dome of St. Paul, Minnesota's Catholic
cathedral, Keillor's innate Midwestern courtesy prevails. At
62, he speaks plainly about the writing life—his latest
book,
Homegrown Democrat: A Few Plain Thoughts From the Heart of
America (Viking), came out last July—about his
third wife and young daughter, and about the peculiar comforts
and discomforts of having become, in the words of author Studs
Terkel, "the great storyteller of our time."
Q. How long did you think A Prairie Home Companion
would last when it first aired?
I thought it would be an interesting thing to do for a summer or
so. Public radio was just seven years old in 1974. It was a tiny
organization in which a lot of things got started simply because
there was all this time to fill. If you wanted to do an hour on
Lithuanian folk dancing, you probably could have done it.
Q. What was your inspiration?
The show was based on radio that I grew up with. Radio back then
was warm. They weren't out to shock you. They were there to
tell you what the weather would be like, to help you find good
buys on your groceries, and so on.
So I was reverting to what I grew up with, as we all do. As we
get older we become more like our fathers. If I become enough
like mine, eventually I might be able to fix my own car.
Benefits for People 50 and Over
Join AARP to receive exclusive benefits such as expert advice on
consumer protection, healthy living, community services, travel
savings, and more. Membership is only $12.50/year. Join or renew online
today!
Q. You're often compared to another master storyteller,
Mark Twain. Do you think it's a fair comparison?
No, I don't think so. I love Mark Twain, and I admire what he
did, the complexity of his life, and how he managed to survive
tragedies that would have killed anybody else. But Mark Twain
loved being one of the most famous people in America. I would do
anything to avoid being that famous.
Q. It may be too late. You have a radio audience of 4 million
listeners a week.
Yes. But they listen. It's a very dignified relationship
between us.
Q. Regarding relationships: you have a daughter who turned
seven in December and a son who is 35 with two sons of his own.
What was it like to have a second child 29 years after the
first?
To have a child in your mid-50s is not for the timid. But I felt
that if you are with a woman who wants very much to have a child,
you must say yes or you must break up. Every child is not the
result of a rational decision.
Q. Are you a hands-on, doting daddy?
My wife [the violinist Jenny Lind Nilsson] is such a devoted
mother that my whole role is to support her. Our little girl,
Maia, has a slight developmental glitch called apraxia that
causes a slowness in speech development and motor skills. Her
brain is up there firing away, but her ability to form words is
very slow in developing. Jenny has made it her mission to know
about this condition. She is always studying things and working
with therapists. Well, there's no point in the two of us
doing this, so it's better if I am the person she can tell
about it. The person who makes the macaroni and cheese.
Q. Has having Maia changed you?
You have this joyful little person in your life who triggers a
process that may be common for people my age. That process being
a loss of interest in yourself—a certain dramatic loss of
ego that is really kind of startling.
"It's astonishing to realize what a gray eminence you
have become, when inside all this youth keeps pounding on."
Q. Can you give an example?
I would not walk around the block to get an honorary degree. I
think the whole thing is embarrassing. I didn't used to feel
that way. I got an honorary degree back in my 40s or something
and stood up with a black gown, and somebody read something in
Latin. I blushed in a winsome way and I twisted my toe in the
dirt, but I wanted to hear more. Now, I just honestly don't
care.
Q. You're a prolific writer. In addition to the
Writer's Almanac spots you do on NPR's evening news and
the novel you always have going, you also wrote a screenplay. [At
press time, Robert Altman was scheduled to begin directing the
film A Prairie Home Companion.] Is writing your first
love?
I enjoy writing. But I love to do it without a deadline. Without
a knapsack full of rocks on my back. I actually enjoy tinkering
with sentences. That's my hobby.
Q. You wrote an advice column called Mr. Blue on Salon.com for
a while, and now you respond to readers' questions on the
show's website, www.prairiehome.org. Whom do you turn to for
advice?
My wife is the authority in my life. The older you get, the
harder it is to get an honest opinion from someone. People sort
of give up on you when you get to be a certain age. They think,
well, that's just what he does.
Q. What has been the hardest thing about aging for
you?
You go through your life feeling inside that you're in your
early 20s. It's astonishing to realize what a gray eminence
you have become. To many people, you become sort of a statue.
But, inside, all this youth keeps pounding on, coming up with new
ideas.
Q. You're a comedian of a sort. Who makes you
laugh?
My friends. And my wife. I married my wife because she makes me
laugh. You should never marry someone who doesn't make you
laugh.
Q. One last question: what have you learned about yourself so
far?
Well, that's the great thing about being this age. You learn
this great lesson of life: it's not about me. It's just
not. The matter of talent—which seemed so important to you
when you were young—is of not great importance. We're
simply a conduit. We take things out of the air into us and put
them in the form of stories. That's pretty much it.
Paul Engleman, a Chicago journalist, is author of the Mark
Renzler mystery series.
|
