From the South Atlantic, Blessings!

We took a cruise ship out of New York to the Caribbean over the holidays, which was a good education. Twelve days among elderly people tells you what sort of elder you wish to be when you get there — mobile, standing up straight, cheerful, and conversing intelligently with others, not just to yourself. These elderly folks were carelessly frittering away their children’s inheritance, money that might’ve put a young person through Malarkey State for a degree in communications and a career as an influencer, but it was sweet to see the affection between the lengthily married, the exchange of glances, holding hands, the impulsive kiss. To stay in love, that’s a good way to maintain compos mentis.

Let the kids deal with AI, let’s U and I perch on the stern deck and watch the sun rise over Barbados and I’ll talk about my Yorkshire ancestors back in the 18th century and what if they’d immigrated here and started a plantation and enslaved the locals to cut the cane while the Keillors lounged on the veranda sipping rum and readingJane Austen, but of course they were northern stoics like me and pleasure made them feel queasy so they wound up in Minnesota and got into dairying, no slaves available except your own children.

I recall what I learned in 10th grade History, that we might be speaking French today except for the Court of Versailles losing favor among the bourgeoisie who had no interest in fighting the Brits and hanging onto the American colonies, which were mainly valuable for fur — no, the French looked south to the Caribbean to find a plentiful source of sugar. Mink is for the few, malted milkshakes and Milky Ways are for the many. Had the North Dakota sugar beet industry been in existence in 1750, the French would’ve held on and we Minnesotans would be connoisseurs of savoir faire and I could refer to my body of work as my oeuvre. We’d look down on the Dutch of New York, the Brits having followed the tea clippers to Canton, and not the one in Ohio. Thus appetite and personal preference shape history.

The real education, however, is to discover how sweet Christmas is when you get away from the songs about the joy of riding in a one-horse open sleigh and the chestnuts roasting on an open fire and recover the true meaning of the day, which is coziness and contentment with those you’re close to: standing at a ship’s rail at night and looking up at Orion with your wife and daughter has more to do with Christmas than sleighs or chestnuts or even boughs of holly.

On Christmas Eve, the waiter brought us complimentary glasses of sparkling wine and I took a sip of mine, the first alcohol other than Communion wine I’ve tasted in twenty years. It was a slender flute glass and I took a swallow and nothing happened, no memories of wild youth, just a quiet message from my brain: Proceed with caution. The slight rocking of the ship was enough inebriation, I didn’t need to get into the sauce. I used to know some hefty drinkers back in college and I enjoyed their company and they’re all gone now. It feels creepy to be around drunks. I once enjoyed an occasional cigar and now the smokers are gone except for a few standing outside the front doors of cafes. I used to hang out with guys who smoked and drank and told jokes and now they’re gone and I walk around with a great joke in my head and nobody to tell it to.

A priest sees that his bicycle is missing so he preaches on the text, Thou shalt not steal and then sees the verse Thou shalt not commit adultery and now he remembers where he left his bicycle. I love this joke but the guys who’d appreciate it are gone.

I’m on a ship sitting on a deck chair, my hand on my beloved’s leg, and I think of the priest who says to the rabbi, “I know you’re Orthodox but have you ever tasted pork?” The rabbi says, “Yes, a couple of times, and I know you’re supposed to be celibate, and have you----?” The priest says, “Yes, a couple of times.” And the rabbi says, “Better than pork, isn’t it?” Happy 2024. I wish you all the bacon you desire and no more celibacy than necessary.

Garrison Keillor © 01.01.24