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Dan Kennedy
Welcome to the Moth Podcast Hi, I'm Dan Kennedy. The Moth features true stories told live without notes. All stories on the Moth Podcast are taken from our ongoing storytelling series in New York and Los Angeles and from our tour shows across the country. Visit themoth.org the story you're about to hear by Garrison Keillor was recorded live at the Mothball, the Moth's annual gala.
Garrison Keillor
I wanted to come because I've listened to the moth on CDs for so long and always admired the fact that after people tell stories, you can hear all of these women's voices going woo. And they never do that at A Prairie Helm Companion. I never knew how to get women to go woo before, but so it's nice to be in this company. Storytelling is an art that one enters into for all the wrong reasons, but it doesn't really matter. We get into it in order to show off and also to engage the interest of women. But if you stay in it, and if you're lucky enough to stay in it for a while, you realize that it is a premier performance art in which the purpose is to gain intimacy with people whom you will never, ever know. To get become intimate with strangers is the purpose of storytelling. Intimacy is a great luxury for young people your age, but as you get to be my age, it becomes a necessity of life without which you cannot possibly live. And it is through language that we achieve this. I learned this When I was a boy. When I was 12 years old, the summer my cousin Roger drowned in Lake Minnetonka, just west of Minneapolis. He was 17, and he had just graduated from high school and had gone out with his girlfriend in a boat. And they were swimming off the boat, he and the girlfriend, and in order to impress her that he could swim, he went paddling away and he went down. We got the call at our house, and I remember my mother's voice and that sound of hollowness in her voice. And the very next week, she. She signed me up for swimming lessons at the YMCA in downtown Minneapolis. In order to save my life. I got on my bicycle and I rode from my house, which was up on the Mississippi, up in truck farming country, and into the city. This is back in streetcar days, so that the edge of the city was a definite edge. You rode your bike through farms and there was the city. And then you rode your bike along Washington Avenue and through a factory district that no longer exists in Minneapolis. On a hot summer day when the doors of factories, foundries, metal shops were open. There was a cooperage, a barrel making factory. There were a couple of dairies. There were printing plants, and this acrid smell of ink wafted out from them. There were two lumber yards, which also were sawmills. So the smell of fresh wood. It was a gorgeous bike trip for a boy, all the way downtown and then up Hennepin Avenue, which was the show street in Minneapolis. The big theaters, the Orpheum and the State and the Gopher and the Alvin, which was still doing burlesque back then. Blaze Star was a headliner. Her name was on the marquee. There was the Rifle Sport Penny Arcade, and there were adult bookstores and men slumped into doorways. And you pedaled your bike up to 9th street and you took a left and there was the ymca, which reeked of chlorine. You went down into the cellar, and here you were in a group of 30 boys, all 10, 11, 12, 13 years old. You were told to take off all your clothes and to go into the shower, which was cold, and then into the pool area, where you sat naked around the edge of the pool. And the lordly swim instructor paced up and down and ordered you, three and four at a time, to go into the pool and to swim. He told you how to swim, and then when you got into the water, he made fun of you for how weird you looked down there. It was a cold, clammy place that reeked of chlorine. And I stood it for Three days in a row. And then I didn't go to the YMCA anymore. I rode my bike one more block up Hennepin to the public library in a great big brown stone building, a great castle. I leaned my bike up against it. There were no bike locks. Then we just leaned our bikes and we went in through the periodicals room. And we went up the stairs past the facsimile of the Declaration of Independence and past the Egyptian mummy that was on the landing on the third floor. And you went into the children's room. And here was the smell of fresh books. And that's where I spent my summer every morning, biking in through the factories and up Hennepin Avenue to read books and to sit and to read Dickens and to read Mark Twain and to read Robert Benchley and everything I could get my hands on. It was my first great act of disobedience in my life. And I've been repeating it ever so often, ever since then, all in search of the intimacy of stories on a page. To read, stories written by people who've been dead so long their bodies are moldering and yet they're speaking directly to you in your own language is such a great miracle. I never regretted it. But I've gone back to that story over and over again and tried to figure it out. Sometimes I'm the boy who drowns in the lake, and Roger is the one who goes to take swimming lessons and winds up at the lake library. The swim instructor pacing up and down in his swim trunks no longer is evil in my mind. He just is a man whose job it is to initiate a boy into a male world. And I chose not to go into it and to come into another world. And that's been my life ever since. I'm still trying to figure it out. I met the girlfriend two years ago on the plane from Minneapolis to New York. A woman of 70 walked up to me when we were boarding, and she said, I knew your cousin Roger. I was his girlfriend. I said, I really would like to hear that story. I've thought about you a lot. She said, I imagine you have. I gave her my telephone number. I gave her my email address. It's been a year and a half. I've never heard from her. I guess the story, even after 50 years, is still just terribly, terribly vivid to her. But I still have hope. So I'm just waiting to hear the rest of that story. Still waiting. Thank you so much.
Dan Kennedy
Garrison Keillor is the author of numerous books and the creator, host and writer of the shows A Prairie Home Companion and the Writer's Almanac, both heard on public radio stations across the country. The Moth is a non profit organization. Consider supporting our free podcast by going to our podcast contribution page or by becoming a moth member@themoth.org where you can also buy moth stories on CD, including today's story, which is featured on Audience Favorites Volume 5, which you'll get for free by becoming a moth member. Visit themoth.org for details.
Leah Tao
Hi, I'm Leah Tao, I'm the Executive and Creative Director of the Moth and I'm here to remind you about the Mothball, our annual benefit at Capital in New York City on Tuesday, November 18th. This is our biggest night of the year and the money raised at this gala helped to support all of our programs, our community outreach program, our story slams, our main stage series and this podcast. This is how we stay alive and we need all of you to come out. John Turturro will be our host and we'll have stories by Garrison Keillor and Salman Rushdie. We'll also have our first ever East Coast West Coast Story Slam off judged by a special panel including Lily Taylor, Simon Doonan, Adam Gopnik, Mike Birbiglia and Nathan Englander. And there'll be dinner, dancing and lots of drinks too. Tickets are on sale@themost.org ball. We look forward to celebrating with you on November 18th. And of course, if you can't come to the Mothball, you can always support the Moth by becoming a Moth member or by buying our CDs online@themost.org Thank you.
Dan Kennedy
To learn more about this and all of the Moth's upcoming shows and our corporate events and training program, Visit our website themoth.org and please tell us what you thought of today's episode. Tell us what you think of the Moth podcast in general. What do you love? What do you hate? What would you like to hear more of or less of? Email us@podcastthemoth.org thanks to all of you for listening. We hope you'll have a story worthy week Podcast audio production by Paul Ruest at the Argo Network.
Summary of "The Moth" Podcast Episode: Garrison Keillor - Lessons in Swimming
Release Date: November 17, 2008
Host: The Moth
Storyteller: Garrison Keillor
Recorded At: Mothball, The Moth's Annual Gala
In this compelling episode of The Moth, award-winning storyteller Garrison Keillor shares a deeply personal narrative titled "Lessons in Swimming." Known for his evocative storytelling and reflective prose, Keillor takes listeners on a journey through memory, loss, and the quest for intimacy.
Keillor begins by recounting a pivotal moment from his adolescence—the summer his cousin Roger tragically drowned in Lake Minnetonka. At twelve years old, this loss profoundly impacted him. He reflects:
"When I was 12 years old, the summer my cousin Roger drowned in Lake Minnetonka... in order to impress her that he could swim, he went paddling away and he went down."
(Garrison Keillor, 02:45)
This event serves as the catalyst for his determination to learn how to swim, motivated by his mother's plea:
"In order to save my life."
(Garrison Keillor, 04:05)
Motivated by his mother's concern, Keillor describes his bicycle journey from his rural home to the YMCA in downtown Minneapolis. He paints a vivid picture of the city's landscape during the streetcar era, highlighting the mix of industrial scents and the bustling environment:
"There was the Rifle Sport Penny Arcade, and there were adult bookstores and men slumped into doorways."
(Garrison Keillor, 04:50)
Upon arrival, he confronts the imposing atmosphere of the YMCA:
"The YMCA... reeked of chlorine."
(Garrison Keillor, 05:10)
Keillor narrates his challenging experience during swim lessons. The swim instructor's demeanor adds to the tension:
"The lordly swim instructor paced up and down and ordered you... he made fun of you for how weird you looked down there."
(Garrison Keillor, 06:20)
Despite enduring three days of uncomfortable lessons, he reaches a breaking point:
"And then I didn't go to the YMCA anymore."
(Garrison Keillor, 07:00)
Rejecting the YMCA, Keillor finds refuge in the local public library. He describes the library's grandeur and the transformative power of books:
"To read, stories written by people who've been dead so long their bodies are moldering and yet they're speaking directly to you in your own language is such a great miracle."
(Garrison Keillor, 08:15)
This act of rebellion marks the beginning of his lifelong pursuit of intimacy through storytelling and literature.
Keillor delves into the essence of storytelling as a means to connect with others:
"Intimacy is a great luxury for young people your age, but as you get to be my age, it becomes a necessity of life without which you cannot possibly live."
(Garrison Keillor, 09:00)
He reflects on his evolving understanding of relationships and the role of narrative in bridging connections.
In a poignant conclusion, Keillor recounts a chance meeting with Roger's former girlfriend on a flight:
"I still have hope. So I'm just waiting to hear the rest of that story."
(Garrison Keillor, 09:40)
This unresolved thread underscores the enduring impact of his cousin's death and his ongoing quest for understanding.
Garrison Keillor's "Lessons in Swimming" is a heartfelt exploration of loss, resilience, and the human yearning for connection. Through vivid descriptions and emotional depth, Keillor invites listeners to reflect on their own experiences with adversity and the ways in which storytelling serves as a bridge to intimacy and healing.
Notable Quotes with Timestamps:
This summary captures the essence of Garrison Keillor's storytelling during the episode, highlighting key moments and emotional undertones that define his narrative. For those who haven't listened, it offers a comprehensive overview of the discussions, insights, and personal reflections shared by Keillor.