(Posted September 20, 2010)
Chester Bowl.The place where Elwood Ramfjord tried to make me into a ski jumper. I was eight and terrified of Rabbit Ears, a small bump of a jump. Elwood got me to go off that nob a time or two before I surrendered to my fear and, trembling and crying after another crash, gave up. Pure and simple: I ended my Nordic Olympic dreams in second grade. In high school, Duluth East held an alpine race or two on the small downhill runs carved into the hillside above Chester Creek. I did OK on alpine skis; I was less terrified and, in the end, made my mark as a pretty fair skier.
Today I’m in the park surrounding the old ski hill and the last remaining ski jump scaffold, Little Chester, trying to sell books to Duluthians during FallFest. There’s an autumnal chill in the air. In fact, it’s so darn cold, I’m double layered as I sit in my EZ Up and read: First, the newspaper; then Glimmer Train magazine. A few friends and familiar faces stop by. The sun climbs above the steep hills enclosing the little creek valley. I sell no books. But universally, those who stop by are enamoured by my wife’s mosaic benches. You’ve heard me describe them before: concrete behemoths that I’m required, as part of my husbandly duties, to tote to every craft and art festival I’m in. Chester Bowl is no exception. I unloaded six of the beauties from my Pacifica and they’re all arrayed in my tent. Anyway, folks love Rene’s work. A few keep coming back. I sell a book here and there but the real attraction in my booth this day is my wife’s artwork, not my writing.
My sister Annie, my brother-in-law Dave, and their two daughters stop in the say hello. Annie takes a twenty from me and returns with some health food to cure my sour mood (mini-donuts) before ambling off in search of produce. There are farmers here with fresh corn, apples, and other foods that are actually good for you. I relish the dough and sugar and fat and couldn’t care less about the consequences as I down mini-donut after mini-donut in a misguided attempt to cure my funk.
“Will you deliver the bench? I don’t have my car. I walked here.”
“How far away?”
“A few blocks.”
A deal is stuck. A woman pays for a hummingbird-themed composite bench and writes her address on the back of one of my business cards so I can drop the bench off at her home after the festival closes.
There’s something wrong about me taking orders for Rene’s work on the back of a Cloquet River Press business card.
The envy is palpable. Then it gets worse. I sell one of the two big concrete benches I have with me for sale. In the matter of a few moments, my wife has made more money on two items than I’ve made over the past two weekends selling books. Thankfully, I don’t have to deliver the concrete bench: The folks who buy it are volunteers at FallFest and will simply pick it up at the end of the day.
The crowd winds down.Competing candidates for St. Louis county attorney have handed out their last buttons. I’m done in. I’ve read the last short story of the day.It’s time to go home.
Peace.
Mark
