On page 6

Last night I attended a gala for the release of the 2019 Saint Paul Almanac. (You'll find me on page 6, “More Champagne?”, an excerpt from The Miracles.) I checked in, received my free copy and a check. Book in hand (and a cool $50 in pocket), I checked out the view of CHS Field as the party was held in a fancy room above the first-base line. Nice ballpark.

Finding no one I knew (and thus, a little uncomfortable), I noticed a group of couches in a U-shape—a three-seater with two two-seaters facing each other. A couple occupied one of the two-seaters and I sat on the one across from them. Soon two women sat on the three-seater and the one closest to me—a poet—asked me if I was in the book. “Page 6,” I said. She gave me the page number of her poem. It was wonderful, all about the river, atrocities committed on its banks and Native people's disbelief over how intruders could treat it so poorly.

I mentioned how much I liked it and noticed how much trouble she was having reading my piece. “It's too long to read here,” I said, and she went on to explain some contraption she had at home that helped her read. I pictured an “overhead projector” like they used back in high school. She mentioned wanting to write a novel, but they were too long and it would be difficult. I mentioned wishing I could write poetry but it was too short, which made it difficult. I paraphrased Mark Twain apologizing in a letter to a friend about its length: “I would've kept it shorter but I didn't have the time.” She laughed. It was noisy and difficult to have a conversation.

About then a woman asked if the seat next to me was open. It was, and she and her grown daughter—I assume—squeezed in. Three, now, in my two-seater. A third woman joined mother and daughter, sat on the large coffee table that filled all the space in front of the couches and precluded any possible escape on my part.

I was uncomfortable. And once the program began I found those speaking were behind me and I couldn't even turn around to watch. During a lull, the woman crammed next to me asked if I was in the book. “Page 6,” I said. “You?”

Her excitement made me comfortable. She searched for one of four pieces of art she had in the book, finally finding a brightly colored painting of a woman with a green crown. Before she could find the others, her woman with the crown showed up on the big screen. I tapped her shoulder and she went wild.

Yet another woman found her way onto the big couch. I caught her name but she wasn't in the book. She made a hasty exit as the publisher came up to speak. The new speaker mentioned all involved in the publication, then singled out one person who had made a particularly large donation. It was the woman who had run away.

Maybe this is what the Almanac is all about—a poet who listens to her river being abused, an artist who fills her work with color, emotion and love, and a generous benefactor who wanted none of the spotlight. Not quite sure where I fit in, but it's getting more comfortable all the time.

Then the readings began and three women cried as they read their poems—one speaking of her son, Philando, being killed by a cop.