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I am enjoying being 83 more than I expected to and I'm not sure why. Happiness with no discernible cause. Maybe it's caused by sobriety, maybe it's a signal of dementia, maybe it's the realization that, despite my wayward ways, G od loves me and I am finally profoundly grateful.
When I was a kid and feeling oppressed, misunderstood, cheated of life's pleasures, uninvited to cool kids' parties, my mother liked to say to me, "What's the matter? Did the dog pee on your cinnamon toast?" And it always made me happy. Still does.
I feel unreasonably happy after taking a bad fall in January and crunching my left shoulder so my arm hangs in a sling, which makes taking a shower rather tricky and I must blow myself dry with a hairdryer, and pulling on my underpants is a real feat — a person could charge admission and sell popcorn and let people shoot video — but still I require assistance from the love of my life to pull on the T-shirt and buckle my jeans. Instead of a sex object suddenly I'm an invalid. It's a comedy act and we humorists can appreciate a slight to our dignity. It comes with the job.
She and I are crazy about each other sometimes and the rest of the time we suit each other very well. She is a perfectionist and I do the best I can under the circumstances. She has anxieties. I don't because my vision is poor.
That's one reason I live in New York now: I'm a dangerous driver with poor peripheral vision and there's a lot of periphery in Minnesota so for public safety I live in the canyons of Manhattan within three blocks of three subway lines that I can board and ride downtown and be no threat to anyone. In Minnesota, a non-driver is by definition disabled. I live in an apartment building with doormen who shovel the sidewalks after a snowfall. I hear stories of old men in Minnesota who perished while heaving heavy shovelfuls of wet snow up onto eight-foot drifts — what a ridiculous thing, to give your life for a clear sidewalk, a victim of the male work ethic. Hire a guy to come plow it for thirty bucks and live another five or six years, go to some ball games, read Dickens, buy the French Pinot Noir rather than the Wisconsin. Make love to your wife and quote Mary Oliver: You do not have to be good: just let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Sing the Everlys' Each time we meet, love. I find complete love. Without your sweet love, what would life be?
I will always be a Midwesterner at heart. In addition to the Sermon on the Mount, the Beatitudes, the two great commandments, I try to live by certain simple principles:
There are worse things than being wrong. Being a jerk, for one.
Nobody is born smart.
Listen too hard and you'll always hear something bad about yourself.
The way to get something done is to do it.
The big thieves hang the little ones.
It's a stupid goose who goes to the fox's church.
Don't cut the branch you're standing on.
And my favorite: If you didn't want to go to Chicago, why'd you get on the train? That one sums it up pretty well. If you order leftover sardines, don't hope for lobster ceviche.
A gaggle of geese is packed into the First Fox sanctuary and in proceed Bishop Buzzard and Monsignor Mongoose and Archbishop Aardvark and a choir of coyotes and there's a loud ker-CHUNK as the wardens, two wolves, bar the doors and suddenly all is clear. The preachers promised an end to all suffering and sorrow and they are about to deliver on their promise.
Garrison Keillor is an author and radio personality. His latest book is "Cheerfulness". Buy it at a 38% discount! by clicking here. Sales help fund JWR.