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Gradually, a person edits out stuff that makes no sense and I scratched football, Florida vacations, artichokes, science fiction, pocket billiards, and broadcast journalism, and thus life became more and more interesting. It's been forty years since I watched a football game. Twenty since I put the bottle away. These changes make one hopeful for the future. And here we are, looking around at 2022.
Call me naïve but I've been around for three score and ten plus nine years and I believe in progress. I was impressed when science found a way to put shampoo and conditioner into one bottle and when the cranberry and raisin married to form the craisin.
I still rejoice at the ease of long-distance phone calls — we don't even use the term "long distance"anymore — I'm astonished when my daughter FaceTimes me from London as I sit in a cafe in New York, and in our capitalist society, why does this not cost $35.75 a minute? A miracle.
I read about Boyan Slat, the young Dutchman who invented a boom that collects tons of plastic pollutants for recycling, pollutants that rivers dump into the seas and that kill fish, and it gives a person hope that we will work out the problems that a great many writers revel in despairing over, the fashionable dystopian soothsayers who prevail in academia and the media and who congregate on the coasts and talk to themselves about their iconic migraines and the systemic emptiness of life in Middle America, which they seldom set foot in but where their books sell by the truckload to comfortable people in need of the thrill of crisis.
I've known some luminous people in my time, and what distinguished them was their enduring enthusiasm and hopes and aspirations, and I recommend the same to you. When I was your age, I learned the arts of sarcasm and ridicule, and as a young writer aimed for a dark neurotic brilliance ("Devastating … compelling" — NY Times, "Rips the covers off the myth of exceptionalism" — Vanity Fair), but as an old man I look around and see splendor and bravery and genius and kindness and that, my dears, is the real story.
Sitting in a cafe on Columbus Avenue in New York a couple weeks ago, I watched an ancient man inching his way along the sidewalk, long white hair and beard, blinded by the sun, confused, tattered, about to step into the bike lane and be run down, when two young women and a young man came to his rescue, took his hand, got his address, called an Uber to come get him, put some money in his hand, and off he went.
This is the real story, a man of my generation rescued by the young. Writers can revel in despair but other people are intent on solving problems, and that's where you should put your money.
Baseball will return.
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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.