Rain Taxi Book Festival 2023

I dropped in at the Twin Cities Book Festival once again the other day, where you never know what books you'll discover, what old friends you'll run into, or what new friends you'll make. The day is usually cold and blustery, making the two-block walk up the hill to the event refreshing, and this year was no exception. As I approached, the smell of mini-donuts filled the air—a pleasantly bitter-sweet reminder that we hadn't gone to the State Fair this year.

The Nodin Press booth no longer occupied its prime position by the front door, due to an administrative mix-up, but it was only one row down, still next to the main aisle. It was perhaps a better location: just as prominent as usual but less exposed to the elements. I said hi to Norton and poet Sharon Chmielarz, who was there to sign copies of her new book, Duet in the Little Blue Church, and promised to be back soon.

A few booths down I spotted a new novel by Will Weaver, Power and Light, on the Holy Cow Press table. "One of my favorite books," I told the rep standing there, "is Weaver's The Last Deer Hunter. I'm not a deer hunter myself," I hastened to add. "Then again, neither is he."

"What? Did someone say my name?" came a voice from down the way. It was Will himself.

"I was just conveying my appreciation for The Last Deer Hunter," I said. "It's got the farm, back-woods, and out-state urban flavor, but also Santa Cruz. I'll never forget the scene where you bring your girlfriend from Madison home to meet your parents, and wonder what she'll think of all the frozen fox carcasses in the barn. Hilarious."

"Thank you," he said with a smile. "Though the book is called The Last Hunter."

"My wife and I travel around the state a lot, and a few years ago we took a turn through your neck of the woods: the Smoky Hills. There's not a whole lot there."

"It's subtle," he said with a laugh. "Very subtle."

Turning back toward the Nodin booth, I ran into a young woman I vaguely recognized. "I think you're one of the famous authors that will be reading today," I said. "But I don't remember your name."

"I wouldn't say famous," she laughed. "I'm Kathleen Rooney. From Chicago. Right now I'm looking for that Robert Bly book. Oh, there it is.  I love Bly."

I couldn't resist mentioning that I'd edited and designed that book."

"Well, I reviewed it for Laurie Hertzel."

"Thanks very much. Laurie had a great book page, don't you think?"

So we talked about Laurie, and I mentioned that I'd reviewed a few books for the Star Tribune back in the Dave Wood era. (Kathleen was probably an infant then.) But Laurie knew a lot of book reviewers,  and drew from a far wider pool. 

I mentioned that I'd also reviewed quite a few books for the Rain Taxi Review. While we were discussing the virtues of that publication and the ways that Rain Taxi keeps the local book scene bubbling, Kathleen spotted Norton's bushel basket of crabapples, and that got her going on some of the orchards just east of Madison, WI, where they've succeeding in bringing back some heirloom species.

"I'm sure you know that the U of M is a sort of apple breeding capital," I said. "Haralson, Fireside, Honey Crisp."

"Yeah, well, that's not quite the same thing." True enough.

And I'm thinking now, isn't this what the book fest is all about? Individual authors and regional proprietors? Niche audiences? Intimate associations?

It's been quite a while since I met such a disarmingly friendly young person, who actually seemed eager to chat. I looked Kathleen  up online when I got home, and was introduced to the astonishing array of her literary endeavors  as both author and publisher. Yet she never mentioned any of them.

My next stop was the used book stall in the far corner of the building, where books were arranged at random in a few broad categories: fiction, biography. non-fiction, poetry, art, travel. I glanced at a few titles as space between browsers permitted. On the "non-fiction" table, which was relatively open, I came upon a weighty hardcover volume titled Bach's Musical Universe by Christoph Wolff, Harvard professor and former director of the Bach Archive in Leipzig. It looks a little technical—not a book to read cover to cover, perhaps—but I'm pretty sure he'll offer enlightenment about any particular piece I want to find out about. What? Only $5.

Less than a minute later I hit upon a paperback edition of The Size of Thoughts by Nicholson Baker. Essays. The pages were yellow, but the title was intriguing. And it was only $1. Why not?

But I drew the line at a $2 copy of Kenneth Rexroth's autobiography. I knew of the book, but had never seen a copy before. But the type was SO SMALL. I knew I'd never read it.

One very long table was devoted to LPs. The dust jackets looked ragged, the artists stale. Who cares about Cream or the Turtles these days, much less Peter Frampton or Styx?  "Where are the CDs?" I asked the nearest Rain Taxi volunteer.

"We don't do CDs," he said dismissively. "But next year we'll have cassettes." Are you joking?

Wandering the aisles, I spent some time chatting with Bookmobile prepress guru Sean Nickerbocker about his printing strategy for the series of graphic novels he's been publishing. And in the next aisle, I reintroduced myself to Carla Lomax, with whom I worked on the newsletter of the Professional Editor's Network many years ago. I passed junior colleges promoting their writing programs, individual authors hawking their self-published books, university presses where the books were lined up in a row between bookends (as if they didn't really want you to look at them), library organizations, and used book stores.

In one aisle I stopped to chat with a gentleman tending a booth for St Paul's East Side Freedom Library. By coincidence, I  had looked up the location of this branch just a few days earlier because some local poets had been scheduled to do a reading there.

I told the man that I knew almost nothing about the East Side, though I'd been up and down Arcade a few times as a youth on my way into St. Paul, before the freeways were built. He told me a bit about the neighborhood's immigrant heritage. What I learned just now, a few minutes ago, online , is that the East Side Freedom Library isn't part of the city system. Though it's located in what looks to be a beautiful Carnegie library building, it's an independent institution dedicated to labor history.  

 Among the most pleasant encounters I had, naturally, were with Rick Johnston, Richard Stegal, and Annie Klessig, old friends from Bookmen days. We used to chat often at the warehouse when business was slow, and occasionally at a happy hour after work. Here we were, striking up the same humorous banter as if it were thirty years ago.  It was a rare treat.

Back at the Nodin Press both I sat with Sharon while Norton went off to get some lunch. We chatted while she signed a few copies of her new book, Duet in the Little Blue Church, for fans and strangers. I mentioned that I'd been talking with a man from the Freedom Library. "I love that library," she said. "Such lofty windows. That man was poet Clarence White."

The festival also sponsors author appearances throughout the day. I was intrigued by the morning's opening event, which featured Josh Cook, author of The Art of Libromancy: On Selling Books and Reading Books in the Twenty-First Century. Cook, a youngish used book dealer from Cambridge, Mass, would certainly have had some interesting things to say about the future of the book trade. But consulting the online catalog of the Hennepin County Library before the fest, I noticed that a copy of his book was available, and I placed a hold. It will arrive in a few days, and I can ponder his theories at my leisure. (Stay tuned.)

By the time I left the morning had warmed, but not much. Yet I had been warmed in all kinds of ways. I don't think anyone bought any of my books, but little matter. Though when one visitor to the Nodin booth approached our cigar box checkout table with a copy of Jim Gilbert's beautiful Minnesota State of Beauty under his arm, I couldn't resist mentioning that I'd designed that book and taken more than a few of the photos.

"Really?" he said. "Would you sign it for me?"

"Surely you're joking?" I said.

"Not at all. Please sign it 'to Ted.'"