Silver Creek Tunnel
The week began with my iMac being left at CW Technologies in Duluth for a new hard drive courtesy of Apple. It ended with me selling a couple of books to a childhood friend at the Bookstore at Fitger’s in Duluth. Between those two events, I spent a week of my vacation becoming intimately familiar with the controls of my 2008 Chrysler Pacifica, rekindling old acquaintances, reading from my books to strangers, and making new friends.
Monday, November 26th. I’m on vacation. I drive from our house on the Cloquet River into Duluth to drop off the computer. I received an email from Apple advising me that my iMac had been flagged as having a defective drive. The nice lady at CW Technologies sees my arm in a sling (shoulder surgery) and offers to carry the iMac from the van into the store. The errand done, I head home, load bins and boxes of books into the Pacifica with one hand, and begin my week long book tour to promote Laman’s River. I drive the back roads to the Silver Bay Public Library, meet Julie, the librarian, and set up a small display of my books. A dozen or so folks (including fellow author Wayne Johnson, and his former law partner, Pete Morris) show up to hear me read from and discuss my latest murder mystery. It’s dark when I begin my trip back down the North Shore, towards home, a cold wind buffeting the van as I negotiate the twists and turns of Highway 61.
Tuesday, the 27th. My morning begins at the West Duluth Kiwanis Club. I was invited by Tom Ward to give a presentation about Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story to the group. I eat breakfast and read the paper at McDonald’s and then show up at Asbury Methodist Church around 9:30am, ready to regale Kiwanians with stories of my uncle’s life. Thirty or so folks, including my cousin Patsy (Willard’s daughter) are in attendance and seem to enjoy learning details about my legislator uncle’s personal and early life. Then I head north on US 61 (again!) in the steel blue Chrysler, the cargo bay loaded with books to sell.
Grand Marais Harbor
Grand Marais. I pull into downtown, intent on talking to Beth Kennedy, owner of Birchbark Books, one of two independent bookstores located
Coast Guard Station, Grand Marais
in the sleepy little fishing and tourist village. A week before, as I was finalizing an event at the Grand Marais Library, I learned that the town doesn’t allow
authors to sell books, even their own work, without obtaining a peddler’s license and passing a background check. Linda, the librarian, apologized for the mix-up: She understands that the purpose of doing a reading and discussion of Laman’s River is twofold: To educate the public about the ins and outs of writing and publishing and to sell books. The second half of that equation (the selling books part), along with an occasional mileage stipend from a sponsoring library, keeps me moving forward. Without being able to sell books, my trip to Grand Marais won’t fund itself. Linda suggested I approach Beth and see if she wouldn’t be willing to step in and sell my books at the last minute: Beth, being a bookstore owner and all, means she doesn’t need a peddler’s license. Beth agreed to attend the event and hawk books for me. I find her shoveling snow off the sidewalk in front of her bookstore and thank her profusely for her kindness. Then I drive to the Cook County Courthouse to drop off excess inventory: My next gig is across the international border where I’ll participate in a reading at the Mary Black Library in Thunder Bay, Ontario and I don’t want to pay duty on books I won’t likely sell in Canada.
Beth Kennedy and Birchbark Books
At the border, I hand a nearly expired passport to the Canadian custom’s guy. He asks if I am bringing anything into Canada. I tell him, “yes’ some books to sell”. He flags my entry and I have to talk to immigration. An immigration official has me take a seat inside the border station while he determines whether or not I’m a dangerous character. Cleared by whatever internet protocol Canadians use for that sort of thing, I bring my passport and duty sheet to a cashier. While waiting for immigration to clear me, the cashier and I talked about my arm being in a sling and his own need for shoulder surgery. When the cashier discovers the small number of books listed on the duty invoice, he looks at me and says, “What the hell” before crumpling the paperwork into a ball and tossing it in the trash. “Have a nice stay,” he says, waving me through without requiring me to pay duty on the books.
I check into the Prince Arthur Hotel in downtown Thunder Bay, an old railroad hotel that I always stay at when I’m in town. After settling into my room, I cross the street to eat at Armando’s, my favorite Italian restaurant in Thunder Bay. I learn from the owner that this will be my last meal in the place: At his wife’s insistence, he is retiring from the business. I eat my penne pasta with sausage and mushroom, slowly sipping a nice glass of Merlot, and lament the passing of an institution. After dinner, I fire up the Pacifica, travel across town to the library, where I share a few short passages from Laman’s River with a crowd of 20-30 interested members of NOWW (Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop). I meet up and have a nice discusssion with some old friends and fellow members of NOWW including author Lyle Nichol. Lyle and I make plans for breakfast at Hoito on Wednesday morning. I drive back to my hotel room, the sky black, the wind howling in from Manitoba, call my wife to say goodnight, and read a bit before exhaustion leads me to sleep.
Mary Black Library, Thunder Bay, ON
Lyle and his wife, Vicki, came down to Duluth in May of 2009 for the launch of Mr. Environment, a touching show of support for an American writer they barely know.
Hoito (“Care”): Finnish Labor Hall, TB, ON
I remember their kindness fondly as Lyle and I eat pancakes and eggs and drink thick black coffee the next morning at Hoito, a cafe located in the basement of the Finnish Labor Hall on Bay Street. Sadly, Vicki is not feeling up to par and unable to join us but Lyle and I talk writing, politics, and life, rekindling our fledgling friendship.
Back in the States, I stop in at the Cook County Courthouse in Grand Marais and retrieve co-workers Kim and Nancy for lunch. Jean, a young lady who works in the county attorney’s office, tags along. We have a nice meal and then, I head over to the library for another reading from and discussion of Laman’s River. I am worried as I meet Linda, the librarian, and set up my book display. It’s nearly 2:00pm, the time for my talk, and there are only a handful of hearty folks milling around, waiting for me to begin. And then, the room begins to fill until every seat in the place is taken. The talk goes well. Beth sells some books. All is right with the authorly world as I pack up and head south again on No. 61, tired but extremely fulfilled.
Thursday. I meet my Aunt Susanne (a fellow writer) and her husband Wayne at Blackwoods Restaurant in Two Harbors. I’m the guest of the Friends of the Two Harbors Library: I’ll give yet another reading and participate in another discussion of my new murder mystery. The impetus for my sojourn up and down the North Shore is obvious: much of the story takes place on the North Shore or in Duluth. A nice crowd shows up at the library. I take questions and try to answer them as best as my road-weary mind can, and then, with darkness hanging over the road, I head home to my wife and son.
Friday, November 30th. The end of the month and nearly the end of my travels. I kiss Rene’ goodbye, tell Jack to “listen to his mom”, and put the Pacifica through its paces once again. This time, I’m headed west, to Grand Rapids, to sign and sell books at a nifty little independent bookstore in town, Village Books. I wander into the mall a bit ahead of schedule. The clerk and I make an executive decision to move the table I’ll be sitting at from inside the store to the corridor in front of the store’s display cases. Business is slow at first but then, as I talk to two ladies bell ringing at a nearby Salvation Army kettle (and convince them to order copies of my Finn novel, Suomalaiset from the store because I’m sold out), I begin to sell books to Itasca County folks. Randy McCarty and his wife Kath show up near the end of my shift. I’m staying at their lovely home on Lake Pokegama. In return, I’ve offered to buy them dinner. Randy rides with me to a nearby hotel where we have a great meal accented by lively and intelligent conversation. At the McCarty estate, I meet Maggie, a 14 year old yellow Labrador and stroke her soft fur as the McCarty’s and I drink hot chocolate and talk some more. In the study where we sit, we’re surrounded by a private library of 4,000 books, all of which, I believe, the owners of the house have read. After exhausting the topics of books, politics, and life, I find my borrowed bed and sleep hard, as if drugged.
Leech Lake
Saturday. It’s a new month. I rise before the McCarty’s, make myself a pot of coffee, take a hot shower, read a bit, and wait for my guests to awaken. When they finally wander into the home’s study, we gather in the kitchen where I eat hearty oatmeal and gulp down more coffee. After breakfast, I hug Kath, shake Randy’s hand, and vamoose. The morning is foggy: Driving to Park Rapids proves taxing but manageable. On my way to Beagle Books, I stop at the casino in Walker to deliver one of my wife’s mosaic garden benches to a resort owner. Rene’ met the man and his wife in Hackensack, at a local art fair, during the summer. The couple commissioned Rene’ to make a bench and, over the fall, Rene’ pieced together a beautiful display of a blue heron on a northern lake. The guy lifts the bench and legs from my car into his pickup. “She did a great job,” he says. I’m on the phone with Rene’ so I hand my iPhone to him so he can thank my wife. He chats for a while, says goodbye, pays the rest of what he owes, and we part. I fire up the van and head west on Minnesota 34.
Time passes slowly when you have no customers. I sell a single copy of Laman’s River during the course of my two hour stint in Park Rapids. After the success of my North Shore trip and my time in Grand Rapids, I am disappointed that my event at Beagle Books isn’t more productive. But I’ve driven as far as Cleveland, OH and spent time at the Barnes and Noble there selling no books. So I gather my patience, wait out my time, and then, once again, the sky shrouded in gray, I head home.
Finally. It’s Sunday morning, December 2: The last event of my week long book tour is at hand. Jack, Rene’, and I attend worship at Grace Lutheran and then I am off to the Bookstore at Fitger’s in Duluth. Sally (the manager of the store) promotes local authors: stocking the shelves of the quaint and vibrant store with the work of dozens of relative unknowns like me. My childhood friend Monica wanders up and buys a couple of books. Some strangers peruse the titles on my table and buy as well. Sales are modest but enough to satisfy my need for assurance that my work has value. And then, near the end of the afternoon, near the conclusion of an exhausting week, it happens. St. Nicholas himself saunters up to my table, picks up a copy of Suomalaiset and begins talking to me in Finnish. I don’t know the language beyond a few pat phrases but I sense Santa is intrigued by my book. And that’s how I my book tour ends: I gain Santa Claus’s endorsement. What more could an author ask for?
Peace.
Mark
Santa, the Author, and “Suomalaiset”
