It’s dark as I drive old Highway 61 from Duluth to Two Harbors. After a long day at the courthouse, I’d scurried home to change into some comfortable clothes (blue jeans and a sweater) and rousted my youngest son off the computer and out the door for his guitar lesson at the Mall before heading towards Lake County. Rene’ was to pick up Jack after his lesson, freeing me to make this trip north.
The Pacifica hurtles through darkness passing well-lighted houses; some adorned with festive Christmas lights, others simply illuminated for security. No deer leap out to contest my progress. I’m on a mission. Warren Zevon’s live album, Learning to Flinch supplies the soundtrack for my journey. I sing loudly to “Lawyers, Guns and Money”, thinking back to a certain Minnesota governor in a boa crooning to Zevon’s guitar. Jesse gave the state many reasons to cringe during his four year run: One could doubt his political acumen but not his choice in music. I don’t make the connection between Ventura’s military service as a Navy Seal to the reason behind my evening dash up the Shore. I should have made the connection. I’m a writer. It’s my job to see metaphoric links and use them in my work.
I drive aimlessly around downtown Two Harbors looking for the American Legion. I pass the Legion’s darkened front entrance twice before I finally spot it and find a parking place. I click the automatic lock feature on my car’s key fob and head towards the warmth of the building. I’m expecting a big crowd. After all, it isn’t often that a local war hero, former Flying Tiger, retired attorney, and double amputee has a book signing, much less a book signing at eighty-nine years old.
“I’m looking for the Wayne Johnson book signing,” I say to two Legion officers sitting at a cash register just inside the entrance.
“Over there.”
One of the guys points to a table and chairs set up on a stage. I see the subject of my quest, First Lieutenant Wayne Johnson, former city attorney of Beaver Bay and Silver Bay, sitting behind the table scrawling a message inside a book for an admirer. The event was billed in the Duluth News Tribune as running from four until eight. It’s nearly seven.
“You can also get something to eat,” the Legion guy adds as I walk towards the author.
I don’t respond. I stop behind a man engaged in a lengthy conversation with the former pilot. I remain mute, uncertain if Wayne has seen or recognizes me. Finally, the man shakes the author’s hand, picks up his signed copy of Whitey: From Farm Kid to Flying Tiger to Attorney, and leaves the platform.
“Hello, judge.”
The old man smiles. His titanium legs gleam at the ankles, the double amputation something that happened a few years back, an unexpected complication from heart surgery. Up until that setback, Wayne had maintained an airplane and his love for flying. Now, with the loss of his legs, he can’t even drive himself to book events. But the man’s spirit, despite the extreme nature of the change to his physical being, remains active as witnessed by the fact he’s signing books in Two Harbors, Minnesota on a cold, dreary December night, instead of watching hockey on television.
“I emailed you that I was stopping by to get a couple copies,” I say, shaking his hand in a firm grip, a grip appropriate for men.
“Thought you weren’t going to make it.”
I buy three copies of the memoir; one for myself, one for my dad, and another as a gift. He dutifully signs all three, personalizing the messages at my direction. Then, hungry for dinner, I buy a plate of Swedish meatballs and sit in the now empty cafeteria of the Legion hall to eat my dinner in silence. In the background, stragglers approach the author for a book and a signature. I open a copy of the book to the acknowledgments page and a tear forms in my eye.
You see, a year or so ago, Wayne and I had lunch with my old man, a former lawyer who has known Wayne Johnson for years. After lunch, Wayne gave me a copy of the first 100 pages of his manuscript. I made it clear that I couldn’t take him on as an author under the Cloquet River Press banner. It’s nearly impossible to market my own work, much less someone else’s, given I have full time job, a family, and a host of interests outside writing. I accepted Wayne’s story with an eye towards offering suggestions regarding his writing and possible avenues for publication. I read the packet and sent him my comments. I also gave him some names of other publishers to contact. My hope was that my critique wasn’t so devastating that it would dissaude him: I found the story remarkable and the writing top-notch and I told him so. Still, I did offer some thoughts as to changes I felt needed to be made. Criticism, especially from a self-taught writer, isn’t easy to take. The last thing I wanted to do was scare the guy off, to have him shelve the book because of something I’d written or said about his effort. Thankfully, he took my critique in the vein it was given and plowed ahead.
Back to the tears. They formed because, on the acknowledgments page, I found my own name. Wayne thanked me in print for my assistance. Of course,I didn’t mention this honor when I went back, sat down, and talked shop with my fellow author. Guys just don’t do that sort of thing.
Peace.
Mark
