A Famous Writer Comes to Town

Such long fingers he has, I thought, upon seeing Garrison Keillor for the first time. I'd come to the First Congregational Church in downtown Portland to hear the writer speak. Even from my seat high in the second balcony I could see that Keillor was a man who liked red socks and had a tendency to go too long between haircuts. These traits, combined with his glasses, gave him a sort of elongated Stephen King look.

I also noticed something that made my heart sink. When he walked onto the stage, Keillor carried with him a copy of his new novel. I was disappointed to see this because I was tired of paying $12.50 for a lecture ticket only to have the speaker read from a book that I could just as well read from the comfort of my own bed.

But a few minutes into Keillor's speech I realized he'd also known disappointment. Perhaps that explained why, before breaking out his book, he buttered us up with several minutes of funny stories. Keillor is a skilled speaker with a soft, deep voice and a studied stammer that almost makes you believe he just now thought of what he's going to say next. For a few minutes I even forgot where I was and imagined myself sitting in a farmhouse across the kitchen table from Keillor, swapping stories over glasses of buttermilk.

Keillor's performance was nostalgic, sad and silly. The sappy parts particularly endeared him to me, for I consider it an act of courage for a grown man, especially a tall grown man, to act goofy.

Several of his sentences burned deep: He described his hometown of Anoka, Minnesota, as a town where "at least twice a year nature tries to kill you." Life, he said, is "a continual conflict between loyalty and curiosity." And a storyteller is "someone who feels more comfortable with his relatives at a distance." His monologue went on to include a sing-a-long and more than one dirty limerick, by which time Keillor had me in the palm of his large, long-fingered hand.

After the reading, everyone was invited downstairs to meet the author. I hoped I might have enough nerve to go up and talk with him but that did not prove to be the case. I did spend some minutes hanging around the water fountain, pretending I was getting a drink when in fact I was watching the writer from a safe distance, which was when I noticed his shoes ─ black with thick rubber soles and somewhat scuffed. I imagined Keillor walking the sidewalks of New York City in those sensible shoes. Perhaps he even wore them into the offices of the New Yorker. Like Keillor, I come from a small town where people buy shoes because they fit, not because they look good, so when I saw Keillor's shoes I knew we had something in common, which, when I thought about it, was all I'd hoped for that night. I did not go home disappointed.