(Posted October 5, 2009)
The title of this post may be lost on some of you under the age of fifty. Or on those of you who aren’t fans of Joe Walsh. No, not the guy who hosts “America’s Most Wanted” (that’s John Walsh). Joe Walsh, as in lead singer and guitarist of the James Gang, Cleveland’s quintessential rock trio. Joe Walsh, lately of the sardonic and cynical California-based mega group, The Eagles. Joe Walsh, while with The James Gang, wrote a beautiful song, “The Ashes, the Rain and I”. I just changed one little word in the song’s title to convey my own sense of irony. Or not.
Friday. I’m headed east on Douglas County Highway 13 towards the Apple Festival in Bayfield, Wisconsin. The sky is so heavy with rain, the landscape feels claustrophobic. As I wind my way along the south shore of Lake Superior, I see a distant sliver of blue sky, which may or may not be an opening in the deluge. All I can do is hope. There’s scant traffic along the two-laner: not a good sign. Even on a Friday, there should be traffic headed towards the festival. Even at seven o’clock in the morning. There isn’t. Fat rain drops splat against the windshield of my Pacifica. I say a selfish prayer. Though there is no rain falling in Bayfield when I arrive, my friends, Donna and Pat Surface convince me to forgo setting up my booth. Forty-mile-an-hour gusts of cold will surely twist the slender frame of my display tent into something akin to a pretzel. I set up one table displaying a few books near the open rear hatch of my car, intent upon leaving at the first sign of rain. I sell one copy of Pigs before the sky opens up. By noon, I am back on the road for home.
Saturday. There is no rain falling in Fredenberg, the township I live in north of Duluth. That changes once I get close to the big lake. Lake Superior has captured the center of a slow moving storm. The storm cell sits over Duluth like a greedy child hunkered over a box of candy. The rain pelts my car as I cross the Bong Bridge into Wisconsin. The rain is omnipresent as I make my way to Bayfield. Despite the weather, I manage to set up my tent, arrange my books and await the throng. The crowd never shows up. The few folks who brave the slippery streets of the little fishing village walk by empty-handed. They aren’t even toting the customary bags of apples which, year after year, are the mainstay of the festival. The crowd seems only interested in food, shelter and finding a porta-potty. In my eight years of selling my books at the Apple Festival, this is by far the worst Saturday of my tenure, which is a bad sign since Saturday is always the best day of the festival. After a cold, wet and agonizingly long day, I enclose my EZ Up and head for home. A hot bath and a movie with my wife do little to improve my mood. I collapse into a funk as deep and as gray as the day I spent on the waterfront trying to sell books.
Sunday. There is the promise of redemption on the Sabbath. The sky continues to dispense rain but the nearer I draw to Bayfield, the brighter the aspect of the day. I greet Pat and Donna with faux optimism. The people begin to wander in and and out of the booths lining ManyPenny, the street where my booth as been located for eight years. A few buy books, but their purchases aren’t enough to save the weekend. Just as the festival draws to a close, blue sky appears. Slashes of sunlight warm the wet blacktop as I make my escape.
Hope to see you all next weekend at the Rain Taxi Festival of Books in downtown Minneapolis.
Peace.
Mark
