The Pinacle and the Depths

Table read at Peace Church. 12/2/2014.

Table read at Peace Church. 12/2/2014.

The Pinacle: Peace Church, Saturday, December 6, 2014

It’s a fair winter morning as I shuffle my feet against melting snow, the burden of a box of books heavy, my frayed bathrobe snugged tight against cool air. I’m loading my blue Pacifica for another book selling event. I’m headed to the Get it Local arts and crafts fair at Peace Church on Duluth’s east hillside. That little fair has been good to me over the years. With minimal table fees, easy access, a short work day, I usually sell a few of my books to strangers, repeat customers, and acquaintances. As I load the back of the SUV with folding tables, table cloths, books, and accessories, I’m optimistic that the day will go well.

Given my age and my expanding belly, I avoid the temptation to stop at McDonald’s for an Egg White Delight on the way in. The car loaded, my shower completed, my attire suitably “dressed down” for a casual day of book selling at a craft show, I scarf Yoplait (strawberry/banana) followed by a coffee chaser. I fill a stainless steel travel mug with more coffee, leave a note for my seventeen-year-old son, and head out the door. The sky is blue and fringed with soft, uneventfully white clouds. Our resident bald eagle soars across the meager snow of the field leading from our house to the banks of the Cloquet River. He or she doesn’t glance at the Pacifica as it pulls away from the stark white home perched above the slowly churning black water. The eagle isn’t interested in art. He or she is art and is interested in finding a meal. I see no deer or other wildlife on the drive in as I listen to a tribute CD of songs written by Jackson Browne. The album features artists as diverse as Springsteen and Lovett and Colvin and Souther. I try to harmonize to the tunes and realize, yet again, that choosing writing over music was a good avocational decision. I may never break even, much less get rich, penning fiction but it’s unlikely I will injure anyone writing imaginary stories. I can’t make the same promise about my harmony.

“Hi, Wendy,” I say as I approach the promoter and organizer of the event. “Could I buy two extra feet from you? I brought two four foot tables and I don’t think six feet will be enough space.”

Wendy Grethen walks over to where my table space is, the six foot limit of my booth marked with blue tape on the vinyl floor of the congregational church’s social hall, and nods. “That’s doable.
“What do I owe you?”

“Another ten bucks.”

I fill out a check I brought with for the transaction and hand it to Wendy before setting up my book display. I’m happy Wendy is flexible. I erred in only renting a “mini” space given that I have nearly all my titles available for purchase.

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking ordering only a six foot space.

Kids from a local elementary school arrive with supervising adults to warm soup for lunch. The proceeds from their sales will go towards environmental education efforts. As pots of pheasant and wild rice and tomato basil soup simmer, the food’s fragrance blends with the odor of fresh baked bread from Amazing Grace. In less than fifteen minutes, my table is set up. I move the Pacifica from the church parking lot and wait for customers. The crowd doesn’t disappoint.

I’ve been doing the arts and crafts circuit for over fourteen years. I know that each show, each season, each event has its own rhythm, its own cadence. The health of the economy drives whether or not people show up and whether or not they browse or purchase. I noted a few weeks’ back at the Festival of Trees, one of the larger holiday craft shows in the area, that folks were, after years of reluctance, opening their wallets. Today, as I read passages of Moberg’s The Emigrants between customers, I experience first-hand the resurgence of the American economy. Folks not only stop to talk; they buy books. After five hours of flurry, I run out of titles: Black Water, Esther’s Race, and Ordinary Lives all disappear. The big sellers, of course, are the Finn books: Suomalaiset and Sukulaiset.

The Square, I think as I swipe credit cards through the tiny plastic cube affixed to my iPhone, is a wonderful device.

The Square allows me to accept credit cards and have the funds electronically posted to my Cloquet River Press checking account without incurring fees from my bank. Before the Square, I was relegated to using an old fashioned mechanical credit card swiper, collecting the carbon copies of the transactions, and tediously entering all the data onto a website at home. No longer. The Square spares me time; a commodity, an asset, that’s limited for a guy with myriad interests and a grandson living next door.

Grandsons. When I get home, he’s there, at the house with his grandma, my wife, ready to greet me. We watch Stewart Little and Polar Express together. I carry our Christmas tree in from the covered front porch of the farmhouse and, with grandma’s help, secure it in a metal tree stand. We don’t decorate the Douglas fir but allow it the night to unfurl its branches and get accustomed to the house. I fill the metal pan of the tree stand with water. Grandma changes Adrien for bed and spends time reading next to him as the little guy settles in for the night. There’s no question that a day selling books and the a spent with a grandchild is about as good as it gets.

Adrien James Munger and Mr. Claus

Adrien James Munger and Mr. Claus

The Depths: Redbery Books, Cable, Wisconsin, Sunday, December 7, 2014

The Rivers Restaurant.

The Rivers Restaurant.

Maybe the date should have been a clue. Pearl Harbor Day. The day of infamy. Whatever. When I saw the announcement promoting a gathering of local authors at Redbery Books in Cable, Wisconsin, I was intrigued.

I’ve never been to the store, I thought as I considered the posting on the electronic calendar of Lake Superior Writers. It can’t hurt to try to expand my readership.

I sent an inquiry to Bev, the bookstore’s manager, indicating I was interested in participating. I received a acceptance email and an attachment advising me of my responsibilities as a participlant. Given that the bookstore is attached to a restaurant/bar, The Rivers Eatery, which, through my prior experience in doing readings and signings at independent bookstores located in tourist villages (a term that fits Cable given it’s notoriety as a cross-country skiing mecca and fishing destination), seemed to be a positive, an additional draw to the event, I was excited to join other local authors at Redbery.

I’d left the Pacifica loaded with books and supplies and, after watching Stewart Little II with my wife and my grandson, after turning the little guy over to his parents, and after filling my belly with oatmeal and orange juice, I climb into the cockpit of the book selling express and head south, towards the home of the Birkie. The day is overcast but warm. There’s no trace of snow in the sky as the Pacifica turns from US 53 onto county roads taking me east, into the lake country of northwestern Wisconsin. Rounding a bend, the pavement dry, the oak and pine forest hugging the shoulders of the constantly turning highway, I hit the brakes and stop on a dime.

That’s a lot of turkeys.

A gaggle of wild toms and jennies flutters across the asphalt, the big birds a scurry of feathers and indignation. Little do I realize that scene will be the highlight of an otherwise disappointing day.

I have high hopes when I arrive at the bookstore. Redbery is located in a refurbished dry goods store. As I walk through the door, I’m impressed. The shop is bright and airy, Banks of clean windows allow the meager light of the overcast day to bathe the store. A freshly painted tin ceiling and a restored plank floor complete the room. Hundreds of hardcover and paperback books are displayed on orderly shelves. Bev greets me and shows me to the restaurant/bar where other authors are already setting up their displays. I find my spot and glance around the cavernous, empty restaurant There are a half-dozen or so authors getting ready for customers. Some participants display one title. Others, like me, have multiple books on hand to sell. But as I take in the space we occupy, it dawns on me:

The restaurant isn’t open.

Redbery Bookstores, Cable, WI.

Redbery Bookstores, Cable, WI.

Indeed. The additional draw of an open eatery filled with patrons is not going to be part of my experience in Cable. Neither are customers. Of any sort. In two hours, I talk with one potential customer and he’s really only here to assist another author with loading that author’s car when the event is over. I sell no books and, truth be told, witness, I think, a total of three books sell in the time spent at the rear of the bookstore. Anytime you spend an afternoon surrounded by more authors than potential customers is a bad sign. At 3:00, I leave a check for my table rental at the bookstore counter and, without a word of farewell, load the Pacifica for the long ride home.

I don’t blame the bookstore for the lack of sales. Folks will buy what interests them. There’s very little one can do to change a customer’s interest or taste. And I understand the extreme pressures being exerted upon independent bookstores by the Internet, eBooks, and the Evil One: Amazon. Still, it’s pretty tough to sell even William Kent Krueger in a bookstore devoid of customers.

To make matters worse, the turkeys aren’t out and about to entertain me as I head home.

Peace.

Mark

 

 

 

 

 

About Mark

I'm a reformed lawyer and author.
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