JULY 13, 2024 –
Yesterday evening, my wife and I along with other family members were among the sardines who packed ourselves into the Fitzgerald Theater in downtown St. Paul for the first of three 50th Anniversary shows of A Prairie Home Companion. If the marathon performance encroached on the bedtime of many a fan in the stands, the star of the show—nearly 82-year old Garrison Keillor—showed no signs of fatigue.
In the year or two leading up to his retirement from the stage in 2016, devoted fans, I remember, cheerfully opined that maybe he ought to quit singing harmony, but when I heard him in yesterday’s show, I felt a hint of envy: at nearly 70 (the big man and I share the same birthday—August 7), not only can I not begin to sing as well as he; I never could.
Back in January I’d procured tickets to the show. I’d wanted our eight-year-old felinophile granddaughter to join us for the historic event; to see her characteristically taciturn Great Uncle Garrison, creator of the Songs of the Cat album and author of Cat, You Better Come Home book, hamming it up on stage. The two characters—great uncle and grand-niece—are good buddies; birds of a feather (or is it “cats of a whisker”?) when it comes to creative talents and . . . a sense of humor: both the eight-year-old and the eighty-plus-year old are enamored of scatological humor.
It was vintage Prairie Home, except spoken word and fresh lyrics to old tunes were reflective of older age—his own and his audience. He was joined by veterans of the old shows—vocalists Heather Massie and Christine DiGiallonardo; star guitarist Pat Donahue and keyboard wonder Rich Dworsky, backed by a terrifically tight band of guitar/string players; genius impressionists Sue Scott and Tim Russell; and sound-effects master, Fred Newman. Along with the rest of us, all the performers have aged, but their performances were as bright and fresh as the sunrise over Lake Wobegon.
Backstage before the show, the eight-year-old shared with Garrison her latest joke:
“Have you seen the movie, Constipation?”
“No.”
“Well . . . it hasn’t come out yet.”
Garrison laughed—as had my wife and I when we’d heard the joke earlier, except the funniest aspect of that telling was after the initial laughter had subsided. Having guffawed heartily at her own joke, Illiana asked, “What’s constipation?”
Ahead of the show I’d informed her that she had full license to clap, cheer, whoop, and holler whenever it was time for applause. She took abundant advantage of the opportunity to express her enthusiasm.
If many of the octogenarians (and a soon to be septuagenarian) in the audience were pushed to their physical limits after the three-hour mark, the eight-year-old was likewise wanting to “go home to bed.”
“I understand,” I said. “It is getting quite late. Tell you what. The monologue will be next. Then we can slip out. Deal?”
“Okay, Grampaw.”
I realized that she didn’t know about the most famous feature of Garrison’s 1,500 shows: The News from Lake Wobegon. “His monologue will be a story,” I said, “masterfully told.” Illiana loves stories and often asks her grandma or me to tell her one.
Garrison’s “story,” as it turned out, followed the pattern of many of his monologues, taking his listeners down one road and leading them up and down many other winding trails. When the journey reached a somewhat raunchy section of “his town”—a Syttende Mai festival featuring drunken Norwegians—Illiana quipped to me, “I’m the youngest person here, and there are things being said I shouldn’t be hearing.” I laughed—reflexively, as I do in her ever-amusing company.
I marveled at the showman’s indefatigability—and his perpetual genius. If one octogenarian might not belong in the Oval Office, another does just fine performing on stage for longer than it takes someone to qualify for the Boston Marathon; then repeating the feat two more days in a row. Though Garrison has mellowed much in recent years, allowing for more casual, regular, and extended interaction, his creative energy continues unabated.
On the way out of the Fitz, my wife exhorted Illiana to remember the very special occasion of that show, celebrating the 50th year since its beginning. “I will, Grandma,” she said. “I will.”
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
