(Posted December 9, 2009)
Hype. That’s what I see and hear every time I listen to modern day television weather casters. It’s Tuesday. I’m fighting through some nasty criminal court sentencings to get to my last book selling event of the year at Duluth Congregational Church out on the city’s east side. My courtroom has no windows so as I deliberate the fates of folks brought by the law before me, I can’t tell whether the hype about the upcoming snow storm is achieving fruition or is merely hyperbole concocted by the news media to sell ad space on television. By the time I finish the last hearing for the day, I am a half hour past when I was supposed to be at the church, setting up my table.
I race to the car. In the process of careening out of the county parking ramp, I remember I don’t have any five dollar bills in my wallet. Since I sell my books at five dollars off the cover price at events like the craft show at the Congregational church, fives are essential. I pull into a “no parking” zone next to the Wells Fargo Bank in downtown Duluth, run like a scared rabbit through the frigid wind blowing in from Alberta, a precursor of the storm fueling endless discussion on “Garage Logic”, the Joe Soucheray radio show I’m listening to as I drive across town, grab a fist full of fives from a teller (I exchanged twenties for them, I didn’t pull a bank heist), and gun the Pacifica’s V-6 towards the far eastern reaches of Duluth.
“You’re late,” Wendy, the soft spoken organizer of the little craft festival says as I wander into the basement of the church at fifteen minutes to five. The event is already in progress. There are twenty or so vendors, some of whom I recognize from “the circuit” I’ve been working over the past ten yeas.
“I know. Court hearings ran late. I had to take another judge’s calendar.”
My statement is true. I ended up handling matters, serious, time consuming criminal matters, for another judge after he’d taken the pleas from folks who wished to avoid a jury trial. Three of the matters were extremely complex and took inordinate amounts of time. I’m frazzled and having Wendy point out the obvious doesn’t do much to calm my thumping heart. But she’s a nice woman. So I hold my tongue and we work it out. In a few minutes, my table is set up and I am open for business.
A few patrons brave the weather predictions and wander into the basement of the church, a building that looks like it was transported from Boston and planted on Superior Street right out of the early 1800s. I’m curious about Congregationalists. I’ve never been inside this particular church, nor any Congregational church, that I can think of. I know that some Congregationalists belong to the United Church of Christ, a very liberal branch of Protestantism. I don’t know what the affiliation of this particular congregation of Congregationalists is (that’s a mouthful!) and I don’t find out before the meager crowd dissipates and I pack up for home.
I sell some books, including four to another vendor, which happens to be my last sale of the year. As I’ve chronicled on this blog, it’s been a very, very taxing year for me and my little press. LeRoy Ullrich, the guy who buys the four books from me near the end of the show at the Congregational church, allows 2009 to end on a good note.
“Loved Suomalaiset,” he tells me, eyeing my other work.
“Then you’d probably like The Legacy,” I say, hopeful that I can lure him into a sale.
“I’d like to buy the four pack,” he says, referencing a grouping of my four novels I have on sale as a Christmas promotion. The pricing on the four books is such that I barely break even when they’re sold, a circumstance my wife uses to reinforce my lack of business sense whenever Cloquet River Press is discussed around the dinner table at home. “But I don’t need the Finn book,” LeRoy says. ” Can we substitute Doc the Bunny for Suomalaiset in the set?’
“How about Mr. Environment? It’s more expensive and I think you’d like it,” I offer, kindly reducing my profit margin even further.
“Sold.”
I repackage the four books, swipe LeRoy’s credit card, and the deal is done. What LeRoy tells me after I hand him the books makes the whole evening, hectic dash, anxious heart, and all, well worth it.
“I walk with a guy at the Mall every morning,” LeRoy says. “Lately, we’ve been exchanging John Sanford books but I’m tired of reading the same old story. I like your writing and I need something fresh. This will give me something new to read and exchange with the guy.”
LeRoy retreats across the carpeted floor of God’s house to his booth. The evening and my selling season ends with a big smile on my face and peace in my heart. As the show closes, I pack up plastic waterproof bins of books, tablecloths, and displays, and wheel heavy loads to the Pacifica already warming in the church parking lot. The promised snow hasn’t arrived, though the gusting air seems intent upon some sort of spectacle. I finish loading, shut the tailgate to my car, and zoom off into the dark winter night, traces of white fluttering against the car’s headlights as I head up the hill for home.
See you in the spring at an arts and crafts festival near you!
Mark
