The Beauitful Winding Road of August

I went up the coast of Maine last week and came across a wonderful little café and it was so good I pulled out my pad and pen and sat writing for a couple hours. I like to write with people nearby but not involved with me personally. The waitress was all business, she greeted me by saying, “Yeah?”

I asked if they served lunch. She said, “Yeah. Take a seat.”

According to the actuarial tables I am coming within sight of the end of my life, so why do I feel I am just hitting my stride?

I’d had a bad encounter with a lobster roll the day before so I ordered a garden salad and a grilled cheese. “With chicken or crab?” she said. I said, “Crab.” Crab is not lobster.

The salad was fresh. Greens, tomato chunks, slices of cucumber. Croutons. But fresh, not shipped in cellophane bags from Croatia. And the sandwich was just fine. And so was the blueberry pie à la mode.

What I loved though wasn’t the food but the ambience. I sat in the dark interior looking out an open door to a bright sunny boardwalk and marina and the Atlantic. Younger people sat under an awning out there. My generation, indoors. The customers were stocky people, good eaters, shorts and sneakers. A chorus of children’s voices from a kiddie area about 30 feet away. Kids eat fast and then want to hang with other kids and they were busy jousting and teasing, squealing, playing with puzzles, while the grown-ups sat at tables and conversed and I sat looking out the door, aware that I was in a crowded room of happy Americans enjoying lunch, children shrieking, infants tossing out syllables, parents declaiming or describing their day, the light laughter of women, and out the door the basso rumble of boats’ engines, heading out of harbor. To listen to crowd vocalization, like musical notes, flutes, bassoons, violas, a few violins, a composition titled “Lunch Hour,” simultaneous happy talk, I felt uplifted.

It made me imagine the mood has lifted in this country and the plague of MAGA is passing, people are sick of the insults and the self-pity and the massive naked ego, and Democrats have found happiness and are leading the tourists in that direction.

The accusation that Kamala is antisemitic for having passed over Shapiro for v-p, ignores the fact that her husband is Jewish. The attack on Walz that he shirked his duty, a man who served in the National Guard for 24 years, is ridiculous coming from Mr. Bone Spurs. This guy needs to start attending his own briefings.

This is one of the happiest summers of my very long life. My wife installed WhatsApp on my phone and it dings and I pick up and she talks to me from the wine country of Portugal where she’s hiking with her brother and his wife, on their way to a baptism and pig roast. Sometimes my daughter comes on and says, “Make me laugh,” so I tell her about the woman at Yellowstone Park who was chased by a bear and the park rangers arrested her for running with a bear behind. She laughs.

I’m an old man, I have no ambition whatsoever but I love my work. I do 90 minutes of stand-up, I go back to the hotel and work on my novel, and in the morning I repeat it. The audience laughs a lot and then I have hours of pure silence occasionally interrupted by the voice of the woman I love lying in her hotel room in a heat wave in Portugal and recounting her days’ adventures. Or my little girl needing a joke. So a woman was hit by a car and lay in the street bleeding and someone yelled, “Call a priest!” The woman said, “No, I’m Unitarian.” Someone yelled, “Then call a math teacher.”

According to the actuarial tables I am coming within sight of the end of my life, so why do I feel I am just hitting my stride? On my 82nd birthday last week, I got a video of my high school gym teacher Stan Nelson wishing me a happy birthday. Stan is 103, almost 104. Stan was a landing officer on an LST at Omaha Beach that horrible day in 1944 when young men did their part to save European civilization, and here he is, smiling, speaking clearly, greeting one of his worst pupils. What a beautiful world we live in.

I see that happiness in Kamala’s face, waving to the crowd. Jamaican, East Indian, born to people who came here for opportunity, and this bright well-spoken woman with a big sense of humor and no self-pity has made millions of us look forward to autumn. Our country, sweet land of possibility.

Garrison Keillor © 08.18.24