Sunday
The day started glum enough in Faribault, Minnesota - grey and rainy. It brightened while the Green Bay Packers led the Minnesota Vikings 17-0 as I drove from Faribault to Marshall, and then when the Vikings ended up winning the game in the final seconds, the sky turned ugly again.
I came into Marshall from the east on Highway 19 and saw Southwest Minnesota State University right away, off to my right. I stopped to get gasoline at the BP station on my way through town. When I walked into the convenience store to pay for the gas, I found an emptiness large enough to be a dance hall. The clerk told me the building had just been sold. The previous owner had used to empty space to sell car parts. The new owner didn't want to sell car parts but hadn't yet established what he'd use the space for.
Marshall has some curious empty spaces here and there, as if old buildings had been torn out at some time in the past and the scars have healed over. That is to say, it is not unlike a lot of other middlewestern communities struggling with the challenges of a changing world, caught between the past and somewhere in the future.
I arrived in Marshall some twenty-five minutes earlier than I'd told Dan and Mo to expect me, so I parked off on a side street to make some notes. That's something I've grown comfortable with - writing in the car - and I'll tell you I haven't been doing enough of it lately. I need to get back on the road, get back to visiting my Vagabond communities; this first moment here in Marshall is a good reminder of that.
*
At 4:00 p.m., I parked my car in the Stores' driveway. I walked past the doorway of the garage and through the window of it saw a Paul Wellstone bumperstick on the wall inside. I knew I'd come to a good house. This will be a lovely week!
*
Mo met me at the front door, and right off I was introduced to the seven cats who would be deigning to share their space with me. In order of age, they are: Abby - 15; Oreo, the psychological one - 13; Professor Morris - 12; the "blizzard cats," Mittens and Socks - 9; they were - yes - rescued during a blizzard by one of Mo's student teachers; Socks is on antidepressants "because she thinks outside the box too much;" and "the babies," Maggie and Morris Jr. - 2; Morris Jr. was hiding from us under the bedcovers in a basement bedroom, so I actually met him through the coverlet rather than face-toface. Mo said they once had thirteen cats, but she can no longer remember the story of how that happened. I do understand that cats just "happen" to you. I believe that one cat will put up a sign at a house which says "This house is one of ours, stop here!" and foreveer thereafter stray cats will come knocking at your door and won't go away. It has happened to us, too.
I brought my bags into the house and was shown my accommodations in the other basement bedroom. I have my own suite - bedroom, bathroom, toilet. A sweet suite, you might say. There's a sewing machine cabinet in the room which will double as a writing desk for me. Dan keeps his political memorabilia on the walls of the bedroom, too - political posters and photos of presidents and such. He is a nonpartisan collector, so he has Republican memorabilia as well as Democratic and Bull Moose. I do think I will have to turn the Dick ("I am not a crook") Nixon photo to the wall before the week is out, however.
There's also a .69 caliber smooth bore rifle above the bed; it had belonged to Cpl. James M. Davis of the 34th Missouri Enlisted Militia. Dan has a photograph of Davis holding this very rifle. Davis looks as if he means business. The .69 caliber rifle certainly seems to mean business.
*
I had arrived at the Stores' about 4:00 p.m. Dan arrived about half an hour later. He had been in the Twin Cities for work since Wednesday.
Soon enough we had to head to Southwest Minnesota State University for the "welcoming potluck" which opened the festival. I met Dan and Mo's friend Jackie, who is providing accommodations for Nebraska poet Marjorie Saiser and her husband. I met Marjorie and her husband, and they had supper at our table. The Nebraska State Poet, William Kloefkorn, had supper at our table, too. Both poets said I may interview them, which I will do later this week.
Potluck in Minnesota is a lot like Iowa comfort food. We ate good. But they hid the desserts on us, so we'd stay and listen to the performance by the Sutter brothers, Barton and Ross. Barton is the writer, and he'd read a poem. Ross is the musician and singer, and he'd play a song. It was a delightful mix of spoken word and song. You could tell this wasn't the first time the brothers had performed together. Barton would read a poem that took your breath away, and then Ross would sing in his rich baritone and make you want to sing along on the chorus.
Barton Sutter is that rare kind of author who can win the Minnesota Book Award in three categories - in fiction with My Father's War and Other Stories; in creative nonfiction with Cold Comfort: Life at the Top of the Map; and in poetry with The Book of Names: New & Selected Poems. During sound check before we started eating, Barton had introduced himself to me; he is also that rare kind of author who is interested in learning about others, not just talking about himself. He lives in Duluth, Minnesota, and teaches at UW-Superior.
Ross Sutter has toured Europe several times, and performed at the Winnipeg Folk Festival. He is not a heavy-metal guitarist, but he can change a broken guitar string just as fast as those fellows.
After the first set, we got to have our dessert, and again it was the old comfort favorites. The guy in front of me nabbed the last of the pecan pie, damn him; but no fear - there was a pie bangin' plentifulness of desserts, so I took cherry cobbler and wasn't disappointed.
We sat back down for another set of the Sutters' lovely spoken word and song, and then the evening was done. Time for bed.
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