I began this
blog eight years ago because I was told a writer needed a blog. I had
no idea what I was supposed to do with a blog and still don't. I
thought I'd begin by recording some stories of famous writers I'd
met. I started with John Gardner and Raymond Carver, and—to show my
versatility—filtered in Kirby Puckett (okay, it was just a tip of
the helmet) and a First Avenue encounter with Michael Stipe.
With these four
luminaries headlining the blog, my followers still stalled out at
six. (It may say seven on the blog but two are really just one
person.) Then a few friends died and my blog turn into an obituary
column. My number of followers remained at six. I scrapped the
name-dropping idea, even with the likes of Carolyn
Forché
and Tim O'Brien still left to capitalize on. After all, if getting
hit on by Michael Stipe doesn't get peoples' attention, what will?
(And,
yes, eight years later I still have the same six followers. I'm
hoping the “follow” button in broken.)
Anyhow,
word recently came out that Carolyn Forché was coming to town to
read at the Plymouth Congregational Church. Couldn't miss that. The
last time I was aware of her being in town was maybe thirty years ago
at the Walker, shortly after I had had the pleasure of working with
her on something called the Iron Range Documentation Project up in
Duluth. The project teamed up writers and photographers to stay with
families on the Range and included a reading on Duluth Public Radio.
Very few writers signed on, which was fine with me for it left me
with plenty of Carolyn's time and plenty of radio airtime. After the
Walker reading we had talked at length, and she even invited me to
drop by where she and her husband were staying the next night so she
could look at some of my stories. This never happened as she got into
a car accident the next day.
After
thirty years I didn't expect much if I got a chance to speak with her
again. Though certainly she'd remember the car wreck.
I
arrived early and purchased her new book, What
You Have Heard Is True. Her
reading was terrific, her commentary on El Salvador riveting, as
expected. While in line to have her sign my book, I rehearsed what
I'd say to her in those precious few seconds to try to rekindle a
memory.
As
I reached the signing table, I spotted a tiny woman squeezing between
it and the buying table. She had a large man in tow and proceeded to
introduce Carolyn to him.
You're
muscling in on my time, lady, I
thought as I pushed the book toward Carolyn.
“I
served you food at Bread Loaf back in '82,” I said to Carolyn,
referring to our first encounter while she was on the Bread Loaf
staff, and I was there on a “working scholarship”. “And later I
was in on that Iron Range Project where—”
Carolyn
interrupted by saying the tiny woman was the organizer of the Iron
Range deal.
“What's
your name?” the tiny woman asked.
“Will
Tinkham,” I told Carolyn.
“I
don't recall that that name,” the tiny woman said as my time ticked
away. “No, I'm sorry, but I don't remember that name at all...”
Carolyn
handed the now-signed book back to me. “I waited tables at Bread
Loaf myself back in '71,” she said, then referred to my sling:
“Hope your arm heals okay.”
I guess I
should've mentioned the car wreck. I hope she got out of town okay.
This is an example of how I network.
