On the Road Again
Saturday morning. It’s five a.m. and I’m up and in the shower, trying to wake up. Today is the day of the Harbor Festival in Tower, Minnesota where I’m slated to sell books for the next two days. The sun is climbing and the day looks good as I pull on my blue jeans, my Spiritwood Music T-shirt, and hit the road. The Pacifica is already packed so it’s only a matter of sliding in behind the wheel, turning the key, and heading north on Rudy Perpich Memorial Drive.
Driving through the Cloquet River Valley and into the drainage of the St. Louis River, I pass all the old Finnish farms that I’ve lamented and written about. Here and there, some sturdy citizen still keeps a herd of beef cattle on the scrubby land, trying to scratch out a few extra dollars in a tight economy. But the few old dairy barns I pass by (most of them have fallen into themselves) are largely empty, the milk cows that once chewed contentedly in the tamarack stalls long gone, victims of the “supersizing” of America’s family farms. What are left are a few straggling herds of beef cattle, essentially hamburger on the hoof, animals that don’t require twice a day attention at the milking stand.
I set up in the community center in Tower. I’m inside for this show, which, as I’ve said before, is my new operational guide: Inside shows only. No more EZ Up tent. The day is bright and warm. I chat with my neighbors, mostly women of a certain age who are selling their art and their crafts. We talk about the downturn in the economy, what it means to these little events and our bottom lines, all with a keen understanding that, for the vast majority of us, this is a diversion, a hobby. We are uniformly thankful we don’t have to try to live off what we make and sell.
Harbor Festival Booth
The crowds this year, like the past several years, are down as the day elongates towards noon. Outside, I hear the milling of patrons and the strumming of guitars. When I wander out to check out the entertainment on the flatbed trailer-turned stage, I come across some old friends. Marty Pavola, John Ely, and Bill Maxwell, billed as “Bill Maxwell and Friends” are tuning their instruments. I say my hellos and stand in the late morning sunlight listening to fine musicians play cover tunes made famous by others.
Bill Maxwell and Friends
Tower isn’t the biggest show I do. In fact, in terms of attendance, even at it’s best, the Harbor Festival is one of the smaller venues I work. But I find, as I sit in my booth, plowing through Doris Goodwin’s A Team of Rivals between customers, that many of the folks who stop by and buy a book are repeat customers. For an author, there’s nothing better than having someone buy a second book. The validation that comes from knowing a reader likes what you’ve written enough to seek you out, well, that’s just about as gratifying as it gets for a semi-famous regional author.
Harbor Festival 2012
By closing time, I’ve talked with and sold books to several dozen fans. I marvel at how nice folks are to me: In over 12 years of hand selling my fiction to readers across most of the Midwest at event after event like the Harbor Festival, I’ve had but one or two disgruntled readers stop in to point out my flaws as an author. That’s a pretty good history, I’d say, given I’ve managed, in that time frame, to sell something like 14,000 copies of my books to the public. I know, I know. J.K. Rowlings sells 14,000 books a minute. Or a second. Or a nanosecond. Still, as I drive down Highway 4 towards my niece Madeline’s 10th birthday (and the promise of a cold Grain Belt), I can’t help but smile. It’s been a good day to be a writer.
Tomorrow, I’ll be headed back up the highway, “Tent Show Radio” blaring over the six speakers of the Chrysler’s stereo, for the second day of the festival. I won’t sell much. Sundays are never, with rare exception, very good days at craft fairs. But I’ll be fine (even I don’t sell another book in Tower) because my work has been validated by the folks who matter: the readers.
Peace.
Mark
