Judy Collins
Saturday. I’m supposed to be at my booth in Two Harbors at Heritage Days by 9:00am. I rise from bed, wander down to the kitchen, make a pot of coffee, and power up the family iMac. My eyes are drawn to rain cascading across our newly mown hayfield.
Not very good timing. It’ll take at least three days of sun to dry that stuff out so it can be raked and baled.
I log on to the computer and write a blog about how it is I can be surrounded by hundreds of people and sell only two books.
An entire day. Two books. I didn’t even make my gas money back, much less pay for the entrance fee for my booth. Rain ain’t gonna make this picture any better.
I’ve been doing outdoor art festivals since 2002 when I had my first booth at Wisconsin’s quintessential gathering: the Bayfield Apple Festival. That’s a full ten seasons of enduring heat, wind, rain, vile porta-potties, and festival food. I’ve tried to make a go of it in my white E-Z Up tent in venues as far south as Adel, Iowa and as far north as Thunder Bay, Ontario; as far west as Grand Forks, North Dakota and as far east as Bayfield. I’ve watched storm clouds gather and let loose lightening bolts and deluges in East Grand Forks, Bayfield, Ely, Stillwater and many other locales. I’ve felt July and August’s heat through the vinyl roof of my tent with enough intensity to fry an egg. Add to these weekends lost to my family all the trips I’ve made to bookstores and libraries as far east as Youngstown, Ohio and as far west as Calgary, Alberta; as far north as Saskatoon, Saskatchewan and as far south as Council Bluffs, Iowa and you’ll come to understand that this self-publishing journey I’ve been on has taken stamina, grit, cold hard cash, and an enormous amount of time. Don’t get me wrong: This gig hasn’t all been negative. I’ve been to some wonderful cities and small towns and met thousands of folks who love books. But the clouds I am watching today are disheartening: There’s simply not enough gumption left in my tank to overcome a feeling of dread no matter how pleasant the memories.
I shower, shave, eat a toasted bagel, grab a cup of hot coffee for the road, and drive off without ever saying goodbye to my slumbering bride. Rain drifts down as the wheels of my Pacifica roll over pockmarked asphalt. I take the back roads to Two Harbors. Theresa, my ever-present GPS, tries to steer me south, towards Duluth, where I could take the expressway. That’s boring. Like my trek through self-publishing (where I’ve repeatedly done things the hardest possible way) I am not about going to take the easiest road to the festival. I turn on the car radio and tune in “Mountain Stage”.
Judy Blue Eyes.
Judy Collins (about whom the classic CSNY song, “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” was penned by Stephen Stills) is singing. Her voice remains strong and captivating after a long and storied career.
Would that my books do as well when I’ve been at it as long as she has.
Then I learn something from the show’s host that makes me smile: Judy’s newest album, Paradise, is on her own label. That’s right: Judy is self-published, just like me. (You can learn more about her latest album at http://judycollins.com/index1.php.)
When I arrive at my booth, the rain is torrential. The only folks around are vendors hiding in their booths and local musicians trying to set up on the covered stage. The nice couple who was selling clothing next to me have pulled up stakes. The vendors on the other side of me selling jewelry have taken down everything except the white metal skeleton of their E-Z Up. Rain drips on me as I open up the blue tarp that’s the “door” to my vending space. In a matter of minutes, I’m ready for business. The ugly brown tarp that I insist upon covering my E-Z Up with is doing its job: No rain leaks in. I settle into my camp chair, Tolstoy’s short stories in hand, and wait. And wait. And wait.
The music starts up. The rain lessens.
At least they’re playing some good tunes.
The band on the stage is fronted by a guy about my age backed by his son on drums and some other young dudes, members of a local metal band. They’re not playing metal and, at one point, the lead singer, the old guy, starts telling a story:
“And Woody had all these song lyrics in a trunk, thousands of ’em, with no tunes. And his daughter approached the band Wilco about putting the words to music. This is one of those songs.”
I know what they’re about to play.
California Stars.
The guy’s no Jeff Tweedy but he does an admirable job of it. The band’s rendition brings tears to my eyes as I consider Woody Guthrie and the Huntington’s Disease that laid him low. The old guy switches gears to a country tune and is joined by his wife on mandolin and vocals. Her harmony adds a nice touch to the song. Then the real show begins. All the old folks leave the stage. Two kids (barely twenty, I’ll wager) playing guitar and drums launch into a series of heavy metal tunes that rip the gray sky. The guitarist is amazing: as good as I’ve seen since watching Nels Cline of Wilco at the DECC.
The rain stops.
Maybe music really can sooth the savage breast.
I wander off in search of food. I find deep fried Lake Superior whitefish and cold slaw. I take my food back to my booth and settle into Tolstoy’s 19th century Russia between bites of sweet fish and tartar sauce.
Awesome.
Throughout the day, I check with Rene’ as to how Jack’s soccer games are progressing. The Hawks tie one and win one. Whether Jack’s team advances to the next level is uncertain. I’m not there to cheer him on and I lament this as I finish eating. Patrons gather to watch a street theater troupe that has set up right in front of my booth. This act is followed by a series of events on the main stage: a kids pie eating contest; an adult pie eating contest; a silly race to don clothing from a suitcase. When the excitement is over, I return to Tolstoy.
Towards the end of the day, bagpipers and drummers in kilts form a circle in front of the stage and perform.I recognize the first tune though I don’t know its name.
That’s from “Braveheart”.
The pipes and drums are a perfect coda to the day.
It’s just like being in Scotland.
I call Rene’ to join me. I’ve made the executive decision that I’m not coming back for Sunday, the final day of the festival. I’ve sold less than a handful of books and none of Rene’s concrete benches. By the time my wife arrives, the tent is down and my gear is ready to be loaded.
This is likely the last summer of festivals for Cloquet River Press.
I come to this conclusion because God has played the ultimate practical joke on me:
The rain clouds part and the sun appears as I fire up the Pacifica and leave Two Harbors.
Peace.
Mark
