I’m looking at the last piece of lattice crusted homemade blueberry pie that Jen made from blueberries we picked and thinking that these Summer days have so much to offer that we’re lucky if we don’t miss some of it. Live baseball over the weekend, meet and greet with the Police Department in the park and the Farmer’s Market last night. Food trucks, swimming, festivals, road construction, fishing, tubing, berry picking, garden growing, lawn mowing, garage sales, heck just a trip to the grocery store parking lot is an adventure.
Last night we wrote poems and sold pottery in the park like we do every Tuesday night at the Farmers Market. The place was packed. We had three orders for poems stacked up while we were finishing some. It was a great time to meet people and connect with words. I always (obviously) know that I’ve touched someone, that I tapped into what they wanted when they stepped up to the plate and said, “I’d like a poem, how does this work?”-- after we’ve written, read to them and delivered the poem when there are tears in their eyes.
That’s not easy to do. When they give you a subject about their dog, honeymoon, anniversary or summer spent guiding in the Boundary Waters, it is possible. Their first time to Ely in a cabin on the lake. Boom. Sometimes we hit a home run. It happened three times last night. The last two came from the last customer of the night after almost all the other booths were already gone. We were still banging away on those old typewriter keys and her reaction after hearing what we’d crafted for her in just under 15 minutes was all the reward we needed.
I think we each wrote seven or eight poems, I lost track, and even though the night started slow enough for us to enjoy dinner from Subway under our tent, I felt like I’d made a small difference in a few people’s lives. My words, our words were going to travel home (like all the way down to Texas and further) with folks that just happened to walk through a Farmers Market. They had no idea we were going to connect or that they were going to leave with a one of a kind piece of poetry written just for them. One from each of us, actually.
The best part is, that I had no idea who we were going to meet or what they were possibly going to want us to write about. We’ve written about dogs, cats, canoe trips, pickles, Coke, Vampire Bunnies that only come out after dark, weddings, anniversaries, break-ups, exes, first loves, first kisses, cabins, lakes, loons, origami elephants, Ely, Boundary Waters and more. The only thing I’ve ever turned down is when someone wanted me to transcribe word for word a poem that they created – but typed by me on my typewriter. In the words of Meat Loaf, “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That).” Also, we don’t sell typewriters.
We do sell nostalgia, or give a little bit away, I guess, every minute we’re writing in the park, because on average, 10 to 20 times a night, someone walks by and says some variation of “ooooh, typewriter, I learned on one of those, you don’t wanna know how many papers I wrote on those, do those work, you’re typing, ahhhh, I recognized that sound, it haunts my dreams.”
Well, it’s a great gig. Been doing it into the Fall now for about 15 years I guess and it is something beyond describable to share with my two daughters. It encapsulates the summer sunshine for me. I don’t know how many summer days and early fall days we’ve got left and I’m not counting. I’m just going to cram as much of Ely into them as I can fit. I am going to eat that last piece of pie for breakfast though and that’s no lie.
