by Donna Graham
July 23-25, 2021
Needing more exposure for my newly released thriller, Silenced to Death, I signed up as a vendor to sell my book at the Ely Blueberry Festival, which was Friday, July 24th, through July 25th. Immediately upon learning the number of fair attendees was over 30,000, various self-prophesizing fears developed for me. What if I was unable to sell any books and embarrassed myself? What if I fainted from the heat, which I had done before? What if I was criticized? Despite myself, I shook it off and moved forward with the plan.
My husband, Jim, volunteered to help, and we drove the hour to Ely on Thursday, the set-up day. Denny, my brother, met us there to be Jim’s right-hand man, literally. Jim still had restrictions on his right shoulder after his fourth surgery two months earlier.
Denny, who was always available with his bag of opinions, began advising Jim not to overdo securing the tent. Ignoring him, Jim continued to drive mile-long nails through each of the four flanges with his left hand. Then he added guy ropes to each side, extending out six feet, and with the final stronghold, he positioned double sandbags attaching them onto each corner post. Denny just shook his head, making sure he was on record opposing all the additional beefed-up measures.
Friday morning, we arrived early to find lovely and talented vendor neighbors all around us. The hours flew by with selling more books than I had anticipated. After ten hours of working hard in the 94-degree heat, I had not passed out.
That afternoon, around 5:30, Denny called, warning us of an impending storm heading towards Ely, which Jim confirmed on the NOAA weather app on his phone, showing up as a blood-red blob. The fest was to close at 6:00, but the Ely Chamber of Commerce contract was firm; leaving the fest early was against the rules, jeopardizing the following year’s invite. So, we forewarned our neighbors and others, secured our tent – funny phrase since we’re discussing nylon and aluminum tubing- and then we left. Within twenty minutes, we were driving right into the storm and, it was fierce. It seemed to be a small cell because it wasn’t long before it had passed.
Saturday morning, we were ready to walk out the door when we heard the fair had been canceled due to the storm damage. The pictures were graphic and horrifying.
Now let me pause here, and tell you about my husband, Jim. Our family, which extends far and wide, has always known Jim as an over-doer; a lot is better if a little is good. Which to me meant Jim was wasting not only products but time.
Years ago, Jim and I lived with our kids in Burnsville, in a two-story, cedar-sided house. Hearing scratching through the walls, we realized a squirrel had eaten a hole through the wood siding and made his home nestled among the soft piles of fiberglass insulation. It was October, and Jim decided he needed to get rid of the little bugger as winter was just around the corner. He called his older brother, Bill, for assistance.
Jim retrieved his forty-foot ladder, known as “big silver, and climbed to the tippy top, just outside the bedroom of our ten-year-old son, Joey, who was residing uncomfortably with the squirrel in his wall.
Bill was in Joey’s bedroom, pounding on the wall until the squirrel popped out, made eye contact with the man on the ladder, and scampered down the outside of the house. Jim took action and proceeded to fill the ex-squirrel hole with spray foam insulation: five cans.
Back down on earth, both men who had never high-fived, giggled at the job well done. After pizza and beer, Bill left, and our family went to bed. In the morning, Joey walked down the hall to our room and woke us. He was scared because he had heard a big thunder boom. But he also wanted to show us something and dragged us to his room.
Standing in the doorway of his bedroom, we saw what had scared him awake. Behind his bed, still warm from his body, was a one-inch-wide crack in the sheetrock, from the ceiling to the floor, which had blown – thunder-like, wide open. Yellow foam oozed out of the laceration in the wall, and the expanding foam had turned solid. Groaning, I wasn’t sure what I should do, laugh or cry. Joey didn’t do either. He packed up and moved to the bedroom in the basement, forever afraid of the poltergeist that had entered his room, leaving clear evidence of his presence.
From that point on, my husband’s reputation was comical. Discussing Jim’s projects, folks would poke fun and mention how he had jimmed it up. They still do.
Okay, back to the festival. Saturday morning, we parked in the school lot, across from the park, and saw a twisted white tent with absolutely nothing around it. It was the only tent left in that area, and it was ours.
The tent had not released from those four well-supported corners but had actually coiled around itself, further protecting the items inside. I couldn’t tell you how fortunate we were to find our undamaged show sign, which our daughter-in-law had made, my new precious antique bookends, and a dozen books we had left inside a plastic box. Our large, expensive sandwich board signs, displaying the cover of my book, were still lying on top of the six-foot table, unharmed, still covered by black garbage bags. I thanked Jim over and over for being so super cautious. We were tickled to find how fortunate we were until we looked around and felt the quilt for all of those less fortunate vendors.
I stopped to talk with a man and his wife from Mora, who were packing out. They had arrived for the festival with handmade baskets and chess boards, which had taken over a year to make their ample supply. Friday night, unaware of the impending storm, they sat on the patio outside of their motel when a blast of sand hit them in the face, seeming to come out of nowhere. The winds drove them inside to safety. The time was 6:50 p.m.; the storm had started.
The festival sustained a huge loss due to either straight-line winds or a tornado that roared through the park, double-backed, and hit it again. Trees were downed, the hurricane tents collapsed, broken pottery scattered, and large artworks landed on rooftops.
The town of Ely rallied with dozens of volunteers, cutting up tent frames and loading them into the overflowing dumpster. The businesses of Ely were donating money to those that had catastrophic losses, and the Ely Chamber of Commerce has also added a virtual Blueberry Festival to help vendors sell their wares. I’ll be signing up for next year’s festival and bringing along my husband again, so he can Jim things up and make things safe.
My self-prophesying fears did not materialize, and my one day as a vendor was fabulous. But as I continue on my quest to learn more and making myself better in the final quarter of my life, I found a lesson in the storm. My apprehension before the fair was fear, which was just my over-active emotion, enhanced with the dark colors of my imagination. I learned this from my mother, to be afraid of any and everything new. Anxiety, dread, fearfulness, panic, or trepidation can be detrimental and debilitating.
What I discovered was fear is not real. You cannot touch it with your finger or see it in a mirror. It may not be time for Lent, but I have given up fear unless it is present and throws sand in my face.