Signatures and Statues: A Distant Dream

I practiced several times the week before the big event. Should I sign my name with a hurried scrawl as though dozens of people were waiting on me? How about a print-cursive combo? That would make me seem sophisticated. Or, I could always sign my name as usual. Naw, too easy!

The day finally arrived. I nicked myself shaving twice—somewhat pointless since I was wearing a long billowy skirt. I got to my publisher's booth at least an hour in advance, nervously checked out the pens and copies of my book, and tried to look as though I did this a lot. The hour chimed. I picked up a copy of Living Between the Ditches: When God Makes No Sense, literally hot from the printer (books arrived the day before!), and poised my pen over the title page.

Only one problem remained. There were no takers. Not one customer swarmed me, hoping to be the first in line. I waited. I made pleasant small talk with those working the booth. I glanced at my husband, who was trying to drum up business as people walked past the booth in the large exhibit area. Finally, he had a couple cornered. Ah ... no one could resist his impassioned sales pitch. Then he brought them to me. I scribbled on a note pad to make sure the pen wouldn't smear.

"Betty, you remember my mentioning these folks from that mission trip I took last summer?" Sim was off and running, recalling their adventures in Newfoundland, of all places. I put the pen down.

I did sign a book for someone wandering by who took an interest in the lady sitting all by herself with a stack of books. A few others asked questions and claimed they'd be back later. They probably reappeared after my one hour in the sun disappeared.

Discouraged? Not a bit. I'm sure there will be other signings—or at least other opportunities for signings. The fact that I, Betty Hassler, had an autograph party was beyond my expectations. And I really have had great reviews from family and friends!

Recently I attended a musical on the life of Stephen Foster ("Oh, Susanna," "My Old Kentucky Home," "Camptown Races," etc.) who died at age 37 with only a few coins in his pocket. Stephen was born before the era of copyright laws, and although he wrote hundreds of songs, he sold very few of them. Now you can see his statue and visit buildings named after him, as well as read his biography in Wikipedia.

I wonder if I should put in my will that my statue should wear a long billowy skirt hiding two nicked knees? Just a thought ...

Keep living between the ditches,
Betty