Man, this can’t continue.
Friday morning was bright and warm and humid. I had been in Hibbing watching Jack’s soccer game Thursday night (he played well and the team won) so I didn’t have the energy to pack the Pacifica for Heritage Days in Two Harbors. I dragged my sorry ass out of bed on Friday morning to the song of bluebirds and red wing black birds in concert and, in my pajama bottoms and sandals, proceeded to load the van with my wife’s hefty art work: concrete benches with glass mosaic tops. It’s not bad enough she couldn’t pick something smaller and lighter as a pastime: She’s now making the benches heavier and bigger! Her passion has now become my duty and requires me to hitch up our utility trailer in order to carry my E-Z Up tent and assorted accessories: All my stuff no longer fits in the cargo space of the van.
I’ve learned over the years that, when setting up my booth at summer festivals on warm mornings, I need to bring a change of clothes. I packed an extra pair of underwear, shorts, t-shirt, a towel, and my ditty kit so I can wash up and change clothing after Cloquet River Press is ready for business. I drove the forty-five minutes to Two Harbors over back roads, the trailer bouncing and pitching and yawing, Deer stood grazing in the ditches but didn’t dart in front of my car. The sun was steady: There were no clouds in the sky. I followed Theresa, my GPS unit, her sexy mechanical voice something akin to a Stepford wife, to the McDonald’s located just at the entrance to the little railroad and harbor town.
“I’ll take a small orange juice and a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel,” I told the nameless, faceless girl manning the drive-through intercom.
It took a full hour and a half to set up my booth. Sweat poured off me as I wheeled heavy concrete into the tent, lifted bench tops onto the thickly poured legs, and straightened the benches so they’re ready for viewing.
This used to take a half an hour. I’m getting older and slower and Rene’s benches are getting heavier.
The festival was slated to start at 11:00. I was set up and ready by 10, a good sign. I was expecting brisk sales and some nice interaction with my readers.
It didn’t happen.
I should have realized what the state shutdown means to little festivals like this. No state parks are open along the North Shore, so why would tourists come up here? They can’t camp. The park concessions and information buildings are closed. There are no attendants or docents to assist visitors. God, I am stupid.
Of course, since this was my first time at Heritage Days, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know, for example, that last year, the whole thing came apart in a thunderstorm on Saturday of the three-day event. My neighbors at this year’s festival told me that virtually every booth either packed up and left or was torn to shreds by the weather. I also didn’t know, until I listened to it all day long, that this festival has the absolute worst musical talent of any venue since the “Gong Show”. If you’re too young to remember Chuck Barris’s show, it featured amateur talent that, if the audience and Barris were so inclined, was “gonged” and forcibly removed from the stage. Live television at its best. Well, as much as I like to be a nice guy, the talent on the stage yesterday wouldn’t have made it to the buzzer. Not a one of the acts belonged performing in public. As a self-published novelist floundering around in the art world, I understand dreams. I get passion. But here’s the thing: I don’t force anyone to read my words. My customers choose to read my books: I don’t read at them. Forcing vendors and patrons to listen to ungodly noise for the better part of the day (the recorded filler music was alright but that’s about it) is just, well, inartfull, if you’ll pardon the pun.
I wandered off to find my two free slices of Do North Pizza (the only saving grace to the day: the sponsors of the festival gave every vendor a coupon). The pizza and the mini-donuts that I scarfed down later were the only highlights to a day of inactivity: There were few patrons. I saw no folks carrying packages.
The economy is in the tank.
I’d heard the unemployment numbers on NPR during the drive to Two Harbors.
But people still need to read.
Maybe not. Maybe they need to pay the mortgage and feed their kids before they waltz up the North Shore to a little art festival set up on the waterfront next to the maroon and rust colored DM&IR ore docks and waste their precious treasure on books by a guy they’ve never heard of.
You still have your job. Quit complaining. This only cost you a vacation day, the registration fee, and some gas money. There are folks losing their homes.
By the time the Norwegians and the Swedes square off in front of the stage just outside my booth for a lutefisk tossing contest, I’d had it. I’d talked to a few folks, sold a couple of books, had little interest in my wife’s artwork, and pretty much wasted the day. I listened to MPR on the way home. The news didn’t get any better.
“Tomorrow’s forecast calls for thunderstorms with a 70% chance of precipitation throughout the day.”
I plunged into the Cloquet River when I got home. My swim was a godsend after a hot, frustrating day spent reading Tolstoy’s short stories in my camp chair. After getting dressed for bed (it was only seven but I was all done in), I watched the Twins until erstwhile closer Matt Capps came in: I didn’t need to worry-he was perfect-and I was in bed before ten, an old man exhausted by trying to live a young man’s folly.
Today, I’m up at the crack of dawn and writing.
This doesn’t look promising, I say as I sit at my computer looking to the west.
The sky is pouring rain. Gray covers the landscape. Our newly mown hayfield is covered in wet hay that will require a few days to dry out before it can be raked and baled.
A day in the E-Z Up selling no books and trying to stay dry. Wow, you’ve really made it, Munger.
Oh, I’ll be there. I’ll take my shower, don my clothes, and head over to Two Harbors. I’ll open my tent and watch darkness at the edge of town ensnare the day and my dreams. Maybe one of you will bring me a hot cup of coffee and a smile.
Peace.
Mark
