The blue Pacifica, Leech Lake, MN
Saturday. 5:00am comes early after a long and difficult week behind the bench. As I get older, I find that my stamina, my ability to process the multitude of cases that come before me during criminal arraignment week is affected by age and fatigue. Hearing hundreds of cases over the course of arraignment week leaves my low back stiff, my neck sore. Hot baths seem to have lost their healing powers. It’s with reluctance and trepidation that I move from the cozy confines of the bed I share with my wife of 36 years into the bathroom to shower. Miraculously, the hot water rejuvenates me. After dressing in the stillness of early morning, dawn’s light obscured by fog and thick pewter clouds outside, I load books into my trusty Chrysler and head down the road. My destination is Hackensack, Minnesota where the 19th annual Northwoods Art and Book Festival is being held. It’s a two-plus hour drive so I haul ass through more fog, mist, and gray.
I fill up my van’s fuel tank and my tummy at the Pike Lake Holiday station. I also fill my travel mug with coffee. I need caffeine to keep my eyes open and my wits about me as I drive west on US 2. The sky threatens rain but, other than occasional mist and a few drops, the land remains relatively dry. I arrive in Hackensack by 8:15. I stop by the festival’s registration table, pick up my packet, park the Pacifica, and commence unloading boxes and bins.
Most years I turn in my application form on time, which means my table space is in the UCC church with dozens of other authors. But this year I was late sending in my registration. So I find myself selling next to J.B. Hove (an author I recently met at Finn Fest) in the community center surrounded by jewelry makers, artists, and crafters. I say my hellos to the Hoves while setting up my display. Once the rented table is filled with Munger books, I park the van and wander over to the church to say hello to writers I know.
I love doing this event. Year after year, customers who’ve bought books from me want other titles. Towards noon, a lady stops by, picks up Sukulaiset: The Kindred (a book not even in bookstores because it’s so new) and says words any author would cherish:
“I just love the way you write. I have a stack of books to read but, whenever I find a new one of yours, the others can wait. I love that you try new genres, plot new and different stories, and introduce me to things I hadn’t thought of. You’re a gifted writer.”
Now, this woman’s not affiliated with an agent. Her acclaim will do nothing to advance publicity for my work. And yet, her statement, unsolicited and spontaneous, is like balm on a burn patient’s wounds. I smile, thank her for buying my latest novel, sign a copy of the book, place it in a biodegradable bag, and shake her hand. “Keep writing,” the woman adds as she walks away, the bag and book tucked under an arm.
Sales are brisk. Despite standing on bare concrete for most of the day (occasionally sitting on a metal folding chair, reading Undaunted Courage, Stephen Ambrose’s mammoth book about Merriweather Lewis) I make it through the day none the worse for the wear.
Maybe its the good vibes and well wishes of my customers that acts as tonic for my ills.
I call my wife a few times during lulls in the action to find out what’s happening back home. I’m told my grandson AJ and his parents, my eldest son Matt and his wife Lisa, are coming for dinner. I offer to pick up ice cream for dessert. My wife doesn’t object. By 3:00pm, the end of the festival, I’m satisfied and happy. I’ve sold books, received encouragement from readers, and renewed my friendship with Mr. and Mrs. Hove. I pile cartons and bins into the Pacifica and by 3:15, I’m on the road. The sky remains ominous. The air holds water like a saturated sponge but the clouds never open up. I stop at Leech Lake just to study the slate colored water.
I really need to fish this lake.
I pull up to the house a few minutes before six, mint chocolate chip ice cream in tow. When I open the door and plop cartons of unsold books on the landing, AJ greets me with a yelp and a smile. I pick up my grandson, give him a big hug and a kiss, and greet my wife and Matt and Lisa.
“You got a pretty good review in the Budgeteer,” Matt says.
“Rene’, why didn’t you tell me there was a review in today’s paper? I’ve been waiting for someone to give me feedback on the new book.”
My wife continues her work in the kitchen.
“I didn’t know there was a review in the paper,” she says matter-of-factually.
I wander over to the couch, find the paper, and locate the review.
Budgeteer News (8/24/14)
“Matt, this review is better than pretty good…”
Indeed. The headline is more than enough to soothe my authorial fears.
Ms. Maloney’s commentary is the perfect end to a very good day in the life of a regional writer.
Peace.
Mark
Leech Lake, MN
