Only love
Can make it rain
The way the beach is kissed by the sea.
Only love
Can make it rain
Like the sweat of lovers’
Laying in the fields.
Love, Reign o’er me.
Love, Reign o’er me, rain on me.
((c) P. Townsend)
Leaving for Sister Wolf Books 6/23/2012
In the photograph above, you can see that our access road is still under water. It’s been nearly a week since the rains started and the water surrounding our place hasn’t receded. Oh, Minnesota Power tried. They shut some of the gates on the dam upstream from us. That lasted until it started to rain again. The water went down a foot. It’s now back up. So, if Rene’ or Jack or I want to go anywhere, it’s still by canoe. My dad’s significant other, Pauline, volunteered her Chrysler van for our use. Otherwise, we’d be completely without transportation. The van’s parked at the far end of our road, out of the water…at least for now.
9:30am. Saturday. I’m up and in my swimsuit, sandals, and T-shirt again for the paddle out. I’m supposed to be at Dorset, Minnesota, at a funky little independent bookstore just a stone’s throw from Park Rapids, Sister Wolf Books, for their annual gathering of Minnesota authors. Despite some success as a regional novelist, when I sent out promotional materials announcing the release of Laman’s River, my new mystery, only three bookstores responded with offers for me to come and sell and sign books. Sister Wolf was one of them and so, despite the Great Flood, I am duty bound to go.
The other thing you can see in the above photograph is that it’s raining. That’s right: As I paddle down our driveway, the sky is once again cryin’. No, that’s not quite right: The sky is absolutely weeping. That blue object in the center of the canoe? It’s a waterproof plastic bin filled with copies of Laman’s River, Esther’s Race, Suomalaiset, and Mr. Environment. The bag at the bow? That’s holding my dry clothes.
Pauline’s van is crowded with authors as it chugs west on Highway 200 towards Dorset. Stephen King, Maurice Sendak, John Updike, Billy Collins, James Baldwin, Norman Mailer, David Sedaris, Philip Roth, Richard Price, Joyce Johnson, Allen Ginsberg, Fran Lebowtiz, and David Rakoff are all crammed into the Chrysler for the ride. No, not literally: In spirit, silly. I’m listening to NPR’s Terry Gross interview the above-listed literary and poetry giants on CD, on Fresh Air: Writers Speak (2004. Highbridge Audio. ISBN 1-56511-918-5). No matter how many books a guy has written, there’s no end to the learning involved in the writing process.
Leech Lake (on the way to Dorset)
I pass by Leech Lake on HIghway 200, the rain finally stopping, the sun shining. Back home, I know my wife is headed towards the Park Point Art Fair with her friend, Nancy. Rene’ will canoe to the highway where Nancy will pick her up. When you’re surrounded by angry water, it helps to have more than one canoe. I call my wife repeatedly until she finally picks up. We chat. We say our goodbyes. The Chrysler rolls on.
When I pull into Dorset, the little burg is jumping. There are cars parked up and down the county highway splitting the town in two. Folks are wandering from store to store, restaurant to restaurant, enjoying the emerging sun. I park behind an Italian restaurant, dig out my bag, and wander into the place, the rump of my swimsuit still wet with rain. I change into dry clothes, dry sandals, and a clean shirt before enjoying a pretty good meal of spaghetti and sausage. After paying the tab, I cross the street and introduce myself to Sally, the manager of Sister Wolf Books. The little store is crammed to the shelves with books, patrons, and, most importantly, authors. I see Will Weaver, a northern Minnesota writer of some note I’ve corresponded with but never met, across the room, and saunter up to him and introduce myself. Then it’s two o’clock, time for my two hour shift at a little table in the front of the store.
Sister Wolf Books
Folks come and go in droves. Women enter the front door of the bookstore in pairs and, at times, in packs. I learn that some of the groups are book clubs on the prowl for a new book to read. Several of the women check out my books as possible reads. Some buy from me, some don’t. But, for a tiny town and a tiny store, the action is, in a word, constant. I share my iPhone pictures of the canoe carrying books with customers, Sally, and some of the other authors. All of them are cognizant that Duluth and the surrounding area have been hit hard by the recent weather. There are a few other writers from Duluth who have personal stories of near-disaster that they also share with the patrons. After selling and signing a fair number of books, it’s time to pack it all back into the Chrysler and head east.
The ride home is uneventful. I stop in Remer for an ice cream cone and gas. Rene’ and I talk via cell phone. It rained nearly all day at the Art Fair in Duluth. I tell her that the weather in Dorset, weather which is headed towards the Cloquet River, is bringing sun and clear skies. Driving through Floodwood, I can see that the nice weather is now over Duluth; that the rain has finally stopped.
When I park the van at the end of our road, I see Jack paddling towards me in our Old Town. Our pink Coleman canoe is at this end, upside down and immersed in a foot of water. When I left for Dorset in the morning, I left the Coleman high and dry. The water has come up at least two feet during the day.
“What’s up?”I ask my son as he clambers out of the Old Town.
“I’m bored,” my fourteen year old says. “I’m gonna run to the Minno-ette for a movie.”
And he does. Literally. He runs three miles round trip and paddles a half mile to bring back a DVD for the evening.
“Marcus.”
It’s my friend Bruce, on the telephone just as I sit down to dinner.
“Hey, Bruce.”
“Jan and I are coming over to see how you’re faring.”
The Larsons are old and dear friends. Jan and I have known each other since kindergarten. I’ve known Bruce since we both tortured Miss Eck, our piano teacher, in elementary school.
“You’ll have to use the canoe. The road is underwater.”
For a moment, I forget that Jack is still on the road in search of a movie. If Bruce and Jan use the Old Town, there’s no way for Jack to paddle home. I hustle down the driveway, climb in the Coleman, and paddle like hell to the end of the water.
“We need to leave that one for Jack,” I say, pointing to the green canoe.
“I thought that was him on the road,” Bruce says as he and Jan climb into my canoe. “But I couldn’t figure out what he was doing by himself at the Minno-ette.”
“He’s getting a video.”
The Larsons laugh.
The Larsons Come to Visit
We make short work of the waterway and land the canoe on asphalt. Rene’ greets us and we show the Larsons the results of the Great Flood of 2012. Later, while talking and enjoying a glass of Rene’s homemade wine in the house, Jack wanders in with a movie. We talk some more and then as dusk settles over the Cloquet River Valley, the Larsons take their leave. They begin their paddle out just as the sky opens up again.
The Waterway at the End of Our Drive (Note the Cart and the Waterproof Bin Full of Munger Books!)
Peace.
Mark
