(Posted February 4, 2011)
We met at a local craft show. She was selling jewelry; jewelry she’d made. I was selling books; books I’d written (of course). A very young, striking, diminutive woman, she approached me during a lull in the customer traffic (there was a bit too much of that) and asked me about my books. We chatted. It turned out she lives in my old neighborhood, in Piedmont, in one of the original farmhouses built on land that some ill-advised immigrant thought could turn a profit truck farming the rocky soil above Lake Superior. We talked. I convinced her to buy a copy of Esther’s Race. I told her that, if she was in a book club and the women in the club read the book, I’d come to one of their events and chat about the story, writing, and whatever writerly topics might be of interest. We exchanged cards. We later exchanged emails. A date for the book club was set.
Last night. The northern Minnesota sky is inky black. Stars pinprick the backdrop but there is no moon. I drop Jack off at the Mall for his guitar lessons. Rene’ will be picking him up on her way home from work. It was only a few miles from the Mall to Jenny’s house, where the book club was to meet.
I wonder if there’ll be any food?
I’d forgotten to eat dinner. The Club was set to meet at 6:00pm, which, in my meager experience over the past ten years I’ve been going to book clubs generally means some sort of food will be served. But still, as my stomach turns, I lament my lack of preparation.
At least some chips or crackers and cheese, I think. I’ll need something before I have a glass of wine.
While I’m unsure of the food, I am certain that there will be wine. I haven’t done a book club in a residence where wine hasn’t been part of the fabric of the event. Given the nerves that accompany talking about one’s art, wine is not a bad thing. Too much wine, of course, would be, though I’ve reached the age where moderation isn’t an issue. I pull my Pacifica into the narrow driveway of the Cross home, squeezing the vehicle in amongst an assortment of other SUVs; standard fare for our neck of the woods. I lug a plastic bin filled with copies of my books past a gaggle of women talking quietly in the drive, and on to the covered porch. Children’s toys are scattered across the green painted deck of the white house’s overhang. I shift the heavy burden in my arms and knock on the storm door.
Jenny answers with a wine glass in one hand and a welcoming smile. She leads me into the bright cheer of her home. The other women join us. There is food: Good food that satisfies. A minor setback occurs when the group (including me) can’t figure out how to use a new-fangled cork puller that Jenny’s husband apparently is proficient with. Even a call by the mistress of the house to her hubby (who is at McDonald’s with their two children) fails to figure out the puzzle. The half-demolished cork remains in the bottle. It’s not a catastrophe: There are other bottles of wine. The kids and their father wander in as we finish dinner. The Club and the author migrate from the kitchen to the living room.
“Sit here,” Jenny says, pointing to a faux leather recliner.
Having been domesticated for over thirty years, I comply. The questions begin. The kids race around the room; a tow headed boy of three or so and a little peanut of a girl, her blond hair tied in a thin top knot, both gravitating to Mom and a rocking horse standing in the far corner of the room. Intermittently, Dad tries to reign the kids in and let the women ask their questions, provide their insights, and converse with me. It’s a bit of chaos, a bit of laughter, a bit of intelligent discussion (by the women, not so much by me) about writing and how I came to the story of Esther DuMont. As always, I ask questions of my readers as well: I view these discussions as a valuable learning experience for an author. Not that I’d change what I’ve written because I’ve struck a raw nerve or ruffled some feathers. That’s not me. But if there’s a plot twist, a character, or a scene in one of my books that comes off as false, I want to know that. Or if the whole darn thing just doesn’t work, I need to know that too. Hopefully, by the time folks like the nice women in Jenny Cross’ book club are reading my stuff, most of the major kinks have been discovered by my pre-readers and eliminated. But you never know. Any way, wine is sipped, desert is gobbled, Catholicism is discussed. I read a passage from Esther’s Race; a selection about Biwabik from my work-in-progress (Sukalaiset; it’s appropriate since the host of the gathering is from that little Range town); and an excerpt from Laman’s River, my recently completed novel, and then, it’s time for the author to head out.
The whole event takes place a block from my Dad’s house, just a stone’s throw from the banks of bucolic Miller Creek where I grew up.
The warmth of the gas fireplace. The kind words of readers. The glow from the red wine. A full stomach. The joy of exuberant little kids. The cork pulling expertise of Jenny’s husband (yes, he was finally able to extract the thing from the bottle with a little elbow grease). Literary conversation with five attractive, smart women. These are things I’ll remember.
It’s was a good night.
Peace.
Mark
