Sometime in the late 1970s I first heard a public radio show called “Prairie Home Companion.”  It seemed to me odd and indefinable, with a variety of musical shapes and weird ads.

In time, I became familiar with the format and especially the prime performer, Garrison Keillor.  I looked forward to his many allusions to Lake Wobegon “where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.”

By now, I am a frequent listener, especially when Garrison Keillor tells his stories. For me, this rates as the best part of the show, where the host is at his most entertaining.

He has long since established himself for me as currently the best story teller in this country, another Mark Twain, full of wit and a fair amount of wisdom.  Usually drawing on tales of folks living in the region of Minnesota where he grew up, he fastens on their idiosyncrasies and human weirdness.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of seeing Garrison Keillor up close.  The site was Harvard Square’s First Parish Church where a large crowd had assembled to listen to him, and perhaps to buy his new book.

I mention the place because this speaker began by singing hymns. Not only that, but he coaxed the audience to sing them as well. In mixing song with speech, he displayed another talent that serves him well on his radio show.

Keillor is much taller than I had realized. At six-four he stands high and has stage presence.  At age 71, he has attained what he calls “the scriptural three-score-and-ten.”  Age and height appear to give him the confidence in the task of keeping his listeners entertained.

What I most enjoyed in his talk were accounts of his growing-up years. “Quiet and bookish is how he described his youthful self.  He did not easily make eye contact with people, something that – – he humorously observed — is not a problem in radio.

Among his stories of early days, he told about becoming a newspaper reporter, showing up at five o’clock in the morning.  This recollection prompted me to ask a question: “What do you think about the survival of newspapers?”

To this, he expressed a strong belief in their importance to society, and confidence in the survival of newspapers.  This response evoked fervent applause from the audience.

His philosophy of life is also a central interest.  It comes from his parents who suffered from the effects of the Depression and learned from it the importance of cheerfulness.

One of their mottos was “Don’t make too much of your problems,” one that Keillor has adopted for himself.  He also sees his work as a way of bringing happiness to other people.

His vocation as a writer emerged early. After finishing high school, he claims to have sent a letter to a monastery in Iowa asking for admission.  Fortunately, he received no reply, so enrolled instead in the University of Minnesota which nurtured his writing skills.

Those skills have won him a place in the New Yorker roster of writers, a somewhat surprising venue for someone who presents such a homespun image. Despite my enjoyment of his talks, some of his work seems to me to miss the mark. His new book opens with a poem about Billy the Kid: “He killed some guys, but if you knew ‘em. You’d say they had it coming to ‘em.”

But when I read his short stories, or listen to that spellbinding voice on Saturday evenings, I continue to be grateful for him for his enduring presence on the American scene.