(Posted September 13, 2010)
Harvest Moon Festival in Ely: The three day festival celebrates not only the end of summer but also serves as a place for Voyageur re-enactors to ply their wares and skills. It’s also one of my best venues in terms of book sales.
Friday morning. Another lost vacation day from my “real” job as judge. I drive north once again on Highway No. 4. Seems like I was just up this road, doesn’t it? Well, I was; last weekend when I drove to Brimson. Just not as far north is all. This time, my Chrysler is loaded to the hilt. My wife Rene’ just had foot surgery. So I packed a few mosaic garden benches she created (some of which are solid concrete and weigh over 200#) in the back of the Pacifica to sell in Ely along with my books. I’m hopeful some benches will sell so I don’t have to load them back into the van for the trip home on Sunday.
Dar Williams plays softly over the CD changer. This is an all girl trip (except for the driver): I’ve loaded the disc changer with Dar Williams and Lucy Kaplansky cds. “I’m Not Your Yoko Ono” is playing as I pass a magnificent bald eagle, likely a male by the size of the bird, perched on the dead carcass of a white tail in the left ditch. As I slow the van, the bird watches me with a keen gaze but doesn’t budge from his feast. I drive on.
In Ely’s Whiteside Park, I unload the van, set up my tent, and arrange my books and those god-awful heavy benches my wife has sent with me. It’s cool but no rain falls despite the overcast sky.
A perfect harvest day.
Once the EZ up is secure and my display is in place, I wander over and say hi to friend and folk musician, Pat Surface, and his wife, Donna. Good people, those two: Always willing to share their knowledge of this crazy festival game. After a brief chat, I stroll on. As I walk, I change my mind about skipping breakfast.
Might as well have some cakes and sausage. Need some fuel to keep warm against the day.
I buy breakfast to go from the Lions and head back to my booth to eat by myself.
By five, I’m eyeballing the time. I’m supposed to attend to a dinner honoring legendary Ely conservationist and teacher, Sigurd Olsen. I close up my tent a half-hour early and race to the Grand Ely Lodge, where the dinner is being held. I gather clean clothes from the rear of the van, walk into the hotel lobby, and find the men’s room where I change into attire more appropriate for a fundraiser. At the bar, I pay for two Blues (don’t want to have to wait ten minutes for a second beer). I find an empty chair at a table dominated by Duluthians. They invite me to sit. I oblige. Dinner is great; the company, better. During the presentation following dinner, I learn some things about Sig I didn’t know. I say my goodbyes and leave.
My budget is tight. Many times, I rely upon the kindness of friends for places to crash. Harvest Moon is no exception. After dinner, I drive to the Korman place on White Iron Lake, where Dennis and Roxanne Korman are letting me hang my hat for the weekend. By the time the Kormans and other family members shuffle in from watching the Ely-Carlton football game, it’s time for lights out.
Saturday is cold, windy, miserable, and unproductive. That’s how I’d describe the day. I sell little, which, despite the poor weather, is unusual for Harvest Moon. I see few folks wandering past my booth with purchases.
The economy. It’s got to be the economy.
It’s that, but it’s also more than that. When I arrived in the park Saturday morning, there were EZ UPs strewn about the place, the result of a torrential downpour and vicious winds overnight. My ten-year-old tent was battered, but undefeated. That’s because I always make a point of covering the roof of my EZ Up with a cheap tarp. The tarp is a wise investment: For twenty bucks, my space stays dry: Rain runs right off. Without the tarp, the rain would pool on the roof and the thin material would sag. When wind catches such an overstressed canopy, the result is total mayhem. I share this information with a neighbor whose tent frame is now a metal pretzel due to the combined force of rain and wind. Thankfully, another vendor lends the guy her tent. She’s selling metal sculpture that’s impervious to weather and doesn’t sweat sitting outside, protected only by a hand-held umbrella.
The kindness of strangers…
In my tent, protected from wind and drizzle, I eat JR’s beef, sip Dorothy Molter root beer, and read Wally Lamb; The Hour I First Believed. The beginning of the novel is mesmerizing and describes, in succinct prose, the horror of the Columbine massacre. But in the end, the gigantic work (over 700 pages long) disappoints. I like Wally Lamb. I consider his writing to be fine literary fiction. But…
(You can read more about the book under the tab “Mark’s Reviews” above. Don’t want to give it all away here.)
Sunday morning, I make coffee, pack my gear in the van, and motor away from the Korman house before anyone else stirs. I repeat the exercise of the past two mornings; I buy blueberry pancakes and sausage from the Lions and have a proper breakfast while finishing Lamb’s book. My own book sales over the course of the day, a beautiful autumn day by any measure, disappoint. I sell fewer books here over three days than I did in a half hour in Brimson. Go figure.
After a taxing weekend of meager sales and uncooperative weather, I begin the arduous process of leaving Ely. I’m disheartened that I didn’t sell a single garden bench (though many shoppers “oohed and aahed” over my wife’s artwork). As I load concrete benches into the Pacifica, I conclude that I’m not a fan of recessions.
Peace.
Mark
