(Posted November 1, 2009)
The rain is unrelenting as my Pacifica speeds south towards the Episcopal Diocesan Convention at the Marriot in downtown Minneapolis. The windshield wipers of the car barely keep up with the pounding of water on glass. It’s my 55th birthday, or, as one friend from Trinity Episcopal Church will later remind me, “the speed limit birthday”. Of course, that could apply to many numbers: 30, 35, 40, 45, etc…But I get the drift of the comment. And it does seem, as my car plows through puddles of water draining off the roadway, that this birthday, more than any other, is some sort of a milestone. The only good thing about the drive is that John Prine is singing to me. “She is My Everything” blares over the six speaker stereo of my car as I drive through darkness and murk. There’s something about a John Prine song, even the ones that are sad and desolate, that makes the day worth getting up for. Few singer-songwriters can take trouble and longing and make them seem joyful. John Prine can.
After setting up my table in the market hall of the convention, I spy our current Bishop, Bishop Jim, working the crowd. I’m a life-long Episcopalian, which means I’m a disobedient Catholic or an uppity Lutheran; take your pick. I’ve attended dozens of these conventions as a delegate, casting votes on various topics, including the election of Bishop Jim a long time ago. But this year, I’m only here to sell my books to fellow Anglicans. I know the Guy in the Big Hat (that’s what I call Bishop Jim) has taken some shots for his style of management. But I like the guy. Always have. He helped get our little church in Hermantown off the ground more than a decade ago. He dreams big dreams for his flock. I wish him well in retirement, though I never get to tell him any of this over the two days of convention.
Sales are, to be blunt, dismal. Detecting my funk, two women from my church convince me to go with them to the Dakota Jazz Club for dinner. I order a couple of glasses of good Merlot, pumpkin soup, prime rib of pork, and top it all off with a birthday dessert. The food is great; the music fabulous; the company, welcome, though later, I sleep like crap in my rented hotel bed 170 miles away from my wife on my birthday.
In the morning, I resume my place behind my table and chat with the guys in the booth next door. They’re architects who build churches. We have some nice exchanges, avoiding hot-button topics like Iraq and that idiot of a man, Dick Cheney who has just come out criticizing President Obama for “dithering” on the war in Afghanistan. I’m a writer. I can tell you that, in over a million words of prose written over two plus decades, I’ve never had an occasion to use “dithering” in my work. But if I had, I would have applied it in the negative to President Bush and his evil henchmen, as in: “I wish these idiots would dither a bit before sending soldiers and marines off to die”. (Note: According to Webster’s Dictionary (Unabridged, 2nd Ed.) in northern English, the word “dither” means “to tremble with excitement or fear”. I’m sure that this definition is spot on when applied to Bush, Cheney, and Rumsfeld. Not a one of them served their country honorably in time of war; but they were all as giddy as hell to send the sons and daughters of my friends and neighbors off to die in a war of convenience).
I hold my tongue, keeping the peace, and the architects leave shortly before the marketplace closes. I stay on for a bit, hoping to make one last sale, a sale which never happens. I pack up before the final vote is taken on Bishop Jim’s replacement. I’m rooting for a female priest (who served on the Standing Committee with me) to win the election. I learn later that she, like my books, doesn’t fare so well with our fellow Episcopalians.
Catch me next Saturday in Duluth at the Unitarian Church from 2-6.
Peace.
Mark
