Free Fallin’

Wind has dislodged our American flag, depositing it in a bush next to the front stairs. I lean over the railing intent on clutching the flag and retrieving it. Instead, I hear a solid “crack” as the entire railing gives way. There’s nothing I can do. It’s one of those moments, like being trapped in a doomed plane, or standing beneath a cliff giving way, when you’re paralyzed. Not by fear but by inevitability. This ain’t a movie. And I am not going to stop myself before I land on the hard gravel below.

“Shit, that hurt,” I mumble, as I stand up in shrubbery. I rub my right low back and hip, thankful for the extra twenty I’ve put on over the past ten years. Instead of hip bone striking ground, my descent was cushioned by fat. “Damn, that is sore,” I continue, picking up pieces of the fractured railing.

I whine; just loud enough to wake Rene’, who should be getting ready for work. There’s no response. All is quiet inside the house as I climb the stairs with my arms full of railing.

Peace.

Mark

The rain came and went in short spurts; sometimes descending hard enough to send folks scurrying for cover; most often, simply sprinkling the crowd with vague suggestions of moisture. My books sold poorly. Time slid across the day like a dew worm across a wet sidewalk. Folks braving the weather stopped by to chat. A few bought books. Not many; just enough to force me to keep my tent flaps open and my optimism elevated.

Sunday. I woke up refreshed after a good night’s sleep. Rene’ and I celebrated our friend Ron’s sixty-fifth birthday last night. At fifty-five (my age), moderation in celebration is the key to a decent morning after. The sun was out. The sky was clear. A perfect day to sell books.

Back at the festival, I sold a few more books but total sales for the event were disheartening. Trying to juggle a full-time job and marketing my work to the world is exhausting. Book stores sell some books for me but with discounts and printing costs, hand sales at events like Land of the Loon are where I can actually improve my bottom line. Not this time.The bottom line doesn’t budge towards profitability after the meager sales I register sitting in my little white tent.

As I was loading my car, I heard the distant, forlorn call of Minnesota’s state bird, the namesake of the festival. But it, like success, was an illusion. The sound wasn’t that of a real loon calling from the weed choked waters of nearby Silver Lake: It was just a loon whistle, a trinket being sold by another vendor at the show.

“How did you do?” a lady in the next booth selling magnetic jewelry asked as I put the last of my stuff away and closed the Pacifica’s rear hatch.

“Lousy,” I replied, immediately regretting the bitterness behind my revelation. “About half of what I did here last here.”

“That’s too bad,” the woman said consolingly. “But folks really seem to like your writing. I kept hearing them tell you how much they enjoyed this book or that book. That should make you proud.”

She’s right, I thought. She absolutely right. Not a single person stopped by to complain about plot, rag on me about a typo, or debate a scene or character. To a man and woman, the folks who stopped by were not just positive; they were downright giddy with praise.

That’s enough to convince me to show up in Rochester, Minnesota next Saturday at the Olmstead County Fairgrounds for the Think Green Festival.

See you there!

Peace.

Mark