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Eight a.m. is a fine time to go out for a walk in
New York City because you get caught up in the
happiness of little kids dressed up for school,
holding a parent's hand, jazzed by the hubbub
of life around them, curious and eager,
jabbering about everything they see on the way,
completely in the moment. Teenagers tend to be
solemn, practicing their looks of angst and
disdain, but the jubilation of little kids is
inspiring. (It helps that I'm not responsible for
any of them.) I walk down Columbus Avenue to
pick up a couple bagels and coffee (black, thank
you) and that first happy impression of the day
sticks with me no matter what. I remember
Estelle Shaver, my first-grade teacher, now
consorting with archangels in Glory. I was shy,
bookish, an observer, which she encouraged and
which, as it turned out, saved me from a career
in politics or operating a Ponzi scheme or
becoming a psychic with curative powers to
prevent Parkinson's, pancreatitis, and panic
attacks. I lacked the confidence to work the con.
Now I'm an old man, in no rush, keeping an eye
out for curbs and crevices and treacherous slabs
of sidewalk, hoping not to make a spectacle of
myself, knowing that in New York I am
surrounded by writers, real or imagined, who
would find the crash of a tall elderly author
rather satisfying. Once I was swift afoot and
long astride, and now I amble along, accepting
distractions, my barber Tommy, a sculptor of
hair, at work in his shop, and the newsstand, a
historic relic, in the Online Age, and the security
woman in her yellow vest at the schoolyard gate,
and these beautiful children, apartment kids
growing up on crowded streets, learning social
skills. I had the Mississippi River and woods to
go wander off alone in and so I picked up a
pencil and a Roy Rogers tablet and wrote, as I
am doing now.
School didn't really work for me. I learned out
in the real world. I learned about economics
years ago when I took three relatives to Paris
and we stayed in a sweet little hotel near Notre-
Dame, the Luxembourg Gardens, the Panthéon,
and ate well and walked the narrow streets and
sat in cafés and reminisced about our childhood
along the Mississippi River, and the cost of it all
was less than what I'd need to renovate our
kitchen, which didn't need renovation. So to my
way of thinking, it was a free trip. Last year I
pledged to my church an amount less than what
I'd pay for full-time care if my minor cerebral
incident that caused a minute of aphasia had
been a major one instead and put me in a
wheelchair. Thank you, Lord, and here is the
refund.
I learn about unfairness whenever I consider
that I have had 64 years more than my cousin
Roger who, a week before high school
graduation, went swimming with a girl he had a
crush on and dove from a boat though he
couldn't swim a stroke, trying to impress her,
and drowned. He was a hero of mine and from
his senseless death I learned that injustice is
everywhere. Now I'm old, I wince when the
flight attendant refers to our "final destination"
or someone asks, "What was your last book
about?" and I still sometimes think of Roger
standing in the stern of the boat, bending
forward, and I try to stop him.
It's the age of gratitude, 81. A motorcycle roars
past and I remember my motorcycle ride on the
winding roads of Patmos with my girlfriend
hanging on to me, a nerdy writer suddenly
become daredevil Evel Keillor. I step into H&H
Bagels and remember going into the Horn &
Hardart Automat when I was eleven, on a trip
from Minnesota, just me and my dad. It was, I
can see now, the great privilege of my life.
Mother made him take me but he was good
about it. We saw the wonders together, Grand
Central, the Empire State, Miss Liberty. That
trip shines forever in memory.
I want to tell the parents on Columbus Avenue,
"Take that kid on a trip alone with you to the
Grand Canyon or Greenland or some other
stunning spot; the privilege will see that kid
through many hard times." Bestow yourself.
Eleven is an age of wonderment. Take time to
be wonderful.
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Garrison Keillor is an author and radio personality. His latest book is "The Lake Wobegon Virus: A Novel". Buy it at a 33% discount! by clicking here. Sales help fund JWR.