(Posted July 13, 2009)
Clean water slides over the lip of the dam and plunges but a few feet before splashing laughingly in a torrential slap against the broiling river. The old mill, its wooden siding rickety and worn, reflects the stark light of the Otter Tail County countryside as people begin to file into the Phelps Mill Arts Festival. It’s Saturday, the first day of the two day event, and I am hurriedly erecting my EZ Up, covering discount store plastic folding tables with blue table cloths, and stocking the resulting temporary display surfaces with books. New banners displaying covers of my books hang from the accordion rafters of my tent and flap noisily in the slender July breeze. The crowd begins to build.
I began this weekend’s journey appearing on Twin City Television’s celebrated “Almanac” show. I had my five minutes of fame before driving to Fergus Falls where I met my wife and my youngest son. My wife told me that the interview went well but I am dubious of my performance as I await my first sale, struggling my way through Atlas Shrugged, the book I selected to read when the summer selling season began a month ago. Ayn Rand’s Objectivism isn’t necessarily a bad philosophy to be contemplating while trying to sell books. It’s just that her writing is so uneven: from preachy to literary with long stretches of boring speechifying in between; it’s not an easy read.
A customer picks up a copy of Suomalaiset and, after thoughtful deliberation, decides to buy the book. Several fair goers stop in to advise: “I saw you on “Almanac” last night. You were very good. I just had to say ‘hello’.” Some buy books, some don’t. But I am happy to see them all the same. Sales begin to mount. Afterwards, I meet up with Rene and Jack for a quiet family dinner in a small Mexican restaurant in downtown Fergus. The Corona hits the spot.
The threat of rain (much needed by the surrounding farmland; not conducive for selling paper-based products) disappears and Sunday begins breezy and cool. The sun peeks through the high grey ceiling and ultimately wins the day. My sales exceed expectations. I chat with the manager of a local state park that my uncle Willard was instrumental in creating. The man scurries away but returns, wife in hand (she had the credit card) to buy a copy of Mr. Environment. The son of one of my former clients wanders in with his wife and five sons. Ashley is surprised when I remember his name. His wife buys a book. I connect with one of my dad’s cousins. A childhood friend of my dad’s, a woman nearing ninety, clutches a copy of the Willard biography in her thin veinous hands and recollects how she used to take care of “Baby”; the nickname my dad’s family gave him because he was the youngest child. She’s interested in reading the book despite the fact that her eyes have been giving her trouble. After exhausting her memory, she finally decides to buy a copy.
My neighbor at the festival, a young African woman who makes custom jewelry and clothing, walks into my booth near quitting time. “I wanted a book,” she says, eyeing the now depleted stock displayed on the soft blue tablecloths, “but I don’t remember the title. Esther, something, I think.” I hand her a copy of Esther’s Race, a novel written in the first person (as if I am an African American woman living in contemporary America). “This is the one,” I say. “And since you’re my neighbor, I’ll give you a discount.” I try not to reveal that I’m a bit nervous having someone born in Ghana, with skin as black as the darkest ebony, scrutinize my innermost thoughts about race in America. She smiles, hands over a bill, and nods her head. She is my last sale.
Thanks to all of you who emailed me or stopped in to say you saw my segment on “Almanac”.
Peace.
Mark
