Poor America
Blame our financial woes on poor spellers, like the intellectual charity case in the White House.
Topics: George W. Bush, Liberalism, Politics News
Here we are, ignorant peasants in our mud huts at the base of the volcano of finance, begging the gods to spare us as the ground shakes beneath our feet and economists examine the entrails of pigeons and the shamans of the Federal Reserve fling handfuls of sacred powder into the steaming crater. We live with a system rejiggered by Republicans — freedom from regulation, but when the manure hits the ventilator, the Feds step in with a few hundred billion to rescue the players — and nobody can tell us ignorant savages how rough the upheaval might be. Nobody knows.
Meanwhile, there were rumors of spring but then it snowed 9 inches here on the windswept tundra so there were no crocuses for us on the way to Easter, just snow and ice, and we went to celebrate the risen Lord with a certain dread of slipping and falling. You fall on ice, you could hit your head and suddenly your command of English is gone. This happens.
The fear of disaster does not slow us down much, however. We are cockeyed American optimists. We go to the Good Shepherd Home to take Uncle Gene his lily and we see old people slip-sliding along with their walkers, enduring the extreme tedium of decrepitude, and we honestly don’t expect this to ever happen to us. We expect to continue singing and tap-dancing right up to The End and the roll of the credits.
The Puritans I am descended from were not cockeyed optimists. That was one reason they came to Minnesota. Living here is like being in a difficult marriage, a true test of one’s mettle, and the reality is that spring is going to be a little late again and love is not all you need and to dream the impossible dream and fight the unbeatable foe does not exempt you from the laws of physics when your car hits glare ice.
We used to have a potluck culture in Minnesota — the sharing of food as a way of life, you do your best for me, I do my best for you. But it easily breaks down: If some folks bring homemade pies and others bring a gallon of factory-made potato salad, forget it, the potluck is over. If other people don’t care to make something good, then why should we? And so Aunt Elsie’s excellent fried chicken passes from the scene and we settle for a Barrel O’ Breasts from KFC and meanwhile standards slip in the public schools and bankers hand out high-risk mortgages.
Garrison Keillor is the author of the Lake Wobegon novel "Liberty" (Viking) and the creator and host of the nationally syndicated radio show "A Prairie Home Companion," broadcast on more than 500 public radio stations nationwide. For more columns by Keillor, visit his column archive. More Garrison Keillor.





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