(Posted October 11, 2009)
I drove south on I-35 in the early morning light. I was on my way to the Rain Taxi Twin Cities Book Festival. Rain Taxi is the name of a book review periodical headquartered in Minneapolis and for the last decade, the magazine has sponsored the only enduring book festival in Minnesota. Duluth tried one (the Great Northern Festival of Words), an ill-fated effort that essentially fell apart before it opened, and Mankato tried to replicate the Rain Taxi experience with its Deep River Book Festival alongside the slowly churning waters of the Minnesota River only to see the event whither on the vine. You’d think that, in a state which prides itself on a highly educated populace, Minnesota would have a festival akin to the Printer’s Row Book Festival in Chicago; a week long celebration of writers, poets, and publishers centered along four blocks of downtown Chicago. Such is not the case. Maybe it’s our Midwestern modesty that prevents us Minnesotans from thinking big. Maybe the vast educated masses in our state are into twittering and texting; the printed word, the feel of a good book in one’s hands having been left in the dust of 1’s and 0’s.
Anyway, as my Pacifica skittered along the first snow of the year (isn’t it a bit early, folks?), I watched the sun rise. Geese flew overhead in their seemingly inexhaustible southern parade. Sunlight reflected off remnant leaves of maples and oaks lining the freeway; new light enunciating the colors of autumn, forming cascades of scarlet, yellow, brown and gold against the starkness of the white ground. Slowed by road construction, I arrived a few minutes before the scheduled 10:00am opening of the festival. Because I had no tent to set up and no tables to carry into the hall, I was able to be open for business in the span of a few minutes.
Folks began to mill around. John Helland, a friend of my Uncle Willard’s and the creator and promoter of an educational video about Willard’s life (see the “links” section to watch a clip of the film) stopped by to render encouragement. My son Chris and his girlfriend Sarah came to cheer me up. And then a guy wearing sunglasses and the demeanor of a musician stopped by to shoot the breeze, having been alerted to my presence at the festival by his cousin, a fan of my book, Soumalaiset: People of the Marsh.
Virginia, Minnesota native Paul Metsa bent my ear about writing and publishing and then asked me what I thought about the state of the arts in Duluth. He’s got something driving him, gnawing at his craw. An idea. I won’t divulge it here because he’s not ready to let it fly in public, but it sounds good. Real good. Coming from a guy who played at the Woody Guthrie Tribute in Cleveland, alongside Springsteen, Pete Seeger, Ani DeFranco and the Indigo Girls, I’d say he’s got a shot. We’ll see. He left me some of his musings from life on the road to look over. Good stuff. Real good stuff. A much different flavor and tone than my own writing but then, Paul Metsa is obviously a much different guy than me.
After selling a few books, I packed up and hit the road. Back in Duluth, my twelve-year-old son was having five buddies sleep over to celebrate his birthday. My wife was alone with the six little devils. I put the pedal to the metal and cruised north against a waning sky to save her.
Catch me at my booth during the annual convention of the Episcopal Diocese of Minnesota in Minneapolis on October 30th and 31st at the Minneapolis Convention Center.
Peace
Mark
