(Posted July 31, 2009)
I didn’t have a lot of extra time. I was slated to have my booth up and running by 10:00am at the Blueberry Arts and Crafts Show in Ely, Minnesota; a delightfully quirky crossroads located in northeastern Minnesota; a place where musicians, artists, fisherman, snowmobilers, wilderness freaks, Boy Scouts, lesbians, straight people, wood ticks and a host of other categories of humanity intersect. Eli, a talented fiddler turned radio host, was gracious enough to book me on the “Morning Show” on WELY; Ely’s radio station which bills itself as “End of the Road Radio.” I was supposed to be at the station by 8:20am and on the air (for my ten minutes of semi-fame) by eight thirty. Like so many adventures in my writing and book hawking career, I thought I knew where the station was. I was wrong.
“Eli, where’s the station?”
I was calling from main street Ely, standing in front of something that looked like a radio station, a storefront that declared itself to be the home of the “Boundary Waters Blues Festival” displaying a neon sign which read: “On the Air”. But the doors were locked and nobody was home.
“We’re on Chapman Street. Where are you?”
It was now 8:25am.
I explained where I was.
“You’re a half block away. Take a left, then a right. You’ll be here in a minute.”
Only I can get lost in Ely.
I followed Eli’s directions. We did the interview. It went well. I was back in the park in plenty of time to put up my booth and get ready for the Blueberry Festival.
Friday sales were brisk. I stayed the night with my friends, the Gucks, on the Kawishiwi Trail, just east of town. Saturday, the rains came. Then went. Then came. Then went. The entirety of the day was one laborious guessing game as to whether the skies would eventually open up and drown out the patrons of the festival. My dad and my step mother showed up to wander the grounds and to buy me a steak dinner after I tied down my EZ Up and closed up shop for the night. I watched the last half of a made for TV movie with Ron in his basement and slurped vanilla ice cream and fresh-picked wild raspberries his wife Ronda served up. All in all, it was a good day.
Sunday dawned. The sky threatened again but rain never materialized. I was buoyed by past customers who came back to buy another of my books. More than anything, returning readers keep me going; they validate my writing and give me a reason to continue this crazy self-publishing path I am on. Without folks stopping back in to see me, folks who tell me they like what I write, who encourage me to keep at it, there would be scarce reason for me to continue booking nearly every summer weekend at arts and crafts festivals across northern Minnesota. But to be fair, not everyone is a fan.
“Willard Munger.”
A guy, seemingly a stereotypical Iron Ranger dressed in a flannel shirt and blue jeans, appearing to be in his early forties, stopped by my booth at the end of my last day in Ely.
“He was my uncle.”
“On Reserve Mining…”
“Yes?”
“He was wrong. He was full of shit. He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”
The comments were stunning. I know not everyone living in northeastern Minnesota respects the life of the man I’ve profiled in Mr. Environment. I am speechless as the Ranger contorts his face into something akin to disgust before he moves on.
I know better than to attempt a dialogue with the man. His mind is made up. No amount of discussing the merits of Willard’s life and career will change the guy’s perspective. I do something that is agonizingly difficult for an old trial lawyer. I keep my mouth shut.
In less than an hour, I’m back on Highway 4, headed for home, listening to Arlo Guthrie on the CD changer, and pondering whether I should have engaged the man; whether I was prudent or merely a coward to remain silent.
Stop in and see me tomorrow in Grand Rapids at the Tall Timber Days Festival in downtown. Wear a poncho; it looks like we might get a little wet.
Peace.
Mark
