My dream comes true
An evening at a gala awards ceremony where women wear pretty dresses and Harold Kyle wins an award
By Boxcar Press Correspondent Debbie Urbanski
March 1, 2001: Twenty-five more days until the Academy Awards. To say that I love the Oscars is an understatement. I've never missed a year, even when camping with my family in the wilderness of Tennessee (we somehow managed to pick up the signal after fiddling with the antennae for two days). The fans that camp out for days to sit on metal bleachers and wave, the red carpet, the pretty nominees, the heat, the endless, endless commentary - such excitement! So when my boyfriend Harold Kyle asked me today if I want to attend - and sit in reserved seats - for the Minnesota Book Awards 2001 Awards Ceremony, how could I say no? Harold, the printer-in-residence at the Minnesota Center for Book Arts (MCBA), is being nominated in the Fine Press category for his work on MCBA's Winter Book The Summer House, by Patricia Hampl. I write "book awards gala ceremony" in large letters on the three calendars I own and begin counting down to the ceremony on April 20 because I really don't have much else to do: 50 days to find an appropriate outfit to wear.
March 25, 2001: Today is a happy day. Friends gather in my cozy garden level apartment for my annual Oscar party where we address some of the more important questions of life: which stars have had face-lifts? Is the swan on Bjork's dress real or fake? Is Steve Martin funny? The required dress for this event is either beachware or formal - some friends have managed to creatively combine the two, with bikini tops and tall dress shoes. This time, I'll admit, I watch the ceremony a little smugly, knowing soon I'll be wearing my own sparkly dress, sitting in comfortable seats, politely applauding every award winner with grace. With such confidence, I'm not surprised that I guess most of the Oscar winners correctly, win a large container of generic potato chips, and go to bed content and happy, dreaming of paparazzi, stiletto heals, and men with cameras roaming fertile, carpeted aisles. Countdown to award ceremony: 26 days
April 6, 2001: Time to worry about hair. With the award ceremony looming, I figure at least both my boyfriend and I should be well groomed. We leave the hair salon with identical haircuts that hopefully say "young - yet sophisticated - yet intelligent artists who get their hair cut at the same place." I still don't have a sparkly outfit, but figure that is something that will just fall into place like a friendly hailstorm. Standing in front of a mirror, I practice applauding with grace and a slight smile that says "even though I don't know you, I'm so happy for you to receive this award on that stage though please don't trip while walking up." Countdown to award ceremony: 14 days!
April 14, 2001: Ditch the sparkly dress idea because I don't really have one. Instead of taking out a loan to go to Saks, I decide to raid my own closet with boyfriend nearby to give feedback. Gray work suit, polyester, probably will sweat? The thrift store corduroys? I realize with a small degree of horror that most of my wardrobe is better suited for mourning than for gala awards ceremonies. All my dresses are black. Sleeveless black dresses. Long black dresses. Black skirts. Black shirts. The clothes pile on my bed. I'm not finding anything, so I begin writing a letter to express my regret at not being able to attend the award ceremony due to lack of appropriate clothing. Countdown to awards ceremony: 6 days
April 19, 2001: We've been barricaded in the apartment for the last four days, existing on saltines and withered oranges. I refuse to let either of us leave until we find appropriate outfits. The Off Fifth blue pants? My wool interview suit, perfect for January? Finally I decided on the discounted skirt from Nordstrom's Rack - 80% off the retail price! I want to leave the tag on to show everyone what a deal I found, but Harold claims that would be tacky. The skirt is pink with flowers, a rather large yet tasteful slit on the left hand side. With the skirt will be a black tank top from an unknown place and an eight-year-old Limited Express black nylon shirt that I always marvel still survives. Harold decides, after several wardrobe changes, to go with brown plaid pants - how can anyone go wrong with these? - and a lovely pale green short sleeve button down top, purchased from the best thrift stores in this world, located at a place I'm not revealing. I feel more prepared now that I know for sure that I'll be clothed tomorrow night. Countdown to awards ceremony: 1 day
April 20, 2001: Where a month before I would have been wading in my sandals through snow banks, tonight is a beautiful night: sixty degrees, the sun still tumbling over tall buildings, trees triumphant and budding. I'm not surprised. Can you remember the last time it rained on Oscar night? Someone with connections arranges these sorts of details. Once in St. Paul we find free parking at an attractive yellow meter several blocks away and race west on foot, knowing that somewhere in that direction rises the historic, lush Fitzgerald Theater, which not only hosts the Minnesota Book Awards but is also home to Garrison Keillor's "Prairie Home Companion," which I sometimes listen to just to hear his lovely voice. What excitement!
Perhaps the ceremony starts a bit early. Or perhaps we arrive a little late, due to last minute attempts to make my hair stand completely vertical. Performance poets have already begun shouting by the time we fly into, then around the glass entrance doors. Ushers try to usher us upstairs, "where the public sits." "No, no," I insist. "This here-" jabbing Harold in the stomach "is not only a world-class printer. He is a nominee." Immediately the ushers collapse around us to the well carpeted ground, sobbing - out of reverence? Nerves? I'm not sure, but priorities are priorities - Harold needs a nametag. He finds one at a table in the corner, and after several wrong turns and several wrong doors, we find our seats. Tenth row, a little off to the side - in a word, perfect for optimum viewing of the crowd's wardrobe, those mysterious few in the box seats, and the gold accents that flourish all along the walls like moisture.
Men with cameras who hide their ears in headsets wander the aisles proclaiming this is a live event. Many women match the seats, a pretty plush red. Some wrap themselves in sparkling evening gowns. Others are in matte evening gowns. Maybe I should have taken out a loan to afford a fancy dress. The important question of the night: stiletto heels or bulky heels on most women's feet? I can't see anyone's feet, though I do believe my hair sticks up highest out of any person present. I figured perhaps there is a special award for me because of this, and I am ready.
Just like at the Academy Awards, handsome men are saying things. One stands in a balcony in a spotlight with the loveliest voice, blond hair swept up and away from his forehead like the sort of waves that surfers love. He reads from "The Great Gatsby" about parties. All around us are authors with published books. Some I recognize from readings. It is a polite, subdued crowd who can be thunderous like Zeus in their applause, in the gasp of excitement when a winner's name is read and they bound up the five stairs to the wooden stage where everyone is staring. I wish the seats had seat belts so I could buckle myself in for the ride.
I will admit I spend a minute or two mourning the lack of envelopes involved with this ceremony. Host Archie Givens, Jr. simply reads the winner's name like he had known all along. No breaking of the golden seal, no searching out teleprompters from across the auditorium. I consider making envelopes out of gas station receipts, programs, other people's purses and urging him to use them already, at least for dramatic effect. However, Fine Press is the second category and all my energy is needed.
Several thousand people across Minnesota stop breathing as Mr. Givens reads the nominees. We are all on the edge of our seats. I nearly fall off mine, gripping the armrest, Harold's leg, the carpeting, my program, my recently injured knee. Harold's hands are shaking slightly as he focuses on Mr. Givens, looking at nothing else, not the chandeliers on the ceiling, not the people in the row behind us who watch him as if he either had something on his neck or is a famous printer. Finally, the winners are announced:
The Summer House! Patricia Hampl, author! Harold Kyle, book artist! Michael Lizama, book artist! Mary Jo Pauly, book artist! Minnesota Center for Book Arts, publisher!
We all begin to breathe again. Harold stands up. No one else does. He hands me his program. The world slows down. Michael is a few rows ahead of us. Harold walks up on stage first, then Michael. The auditorium waits for their words. Damn, I think. I forgot to write Harold a speech.
"You probably have two of the least verbose book artists up here," says Michael. Yet he spoke eloquently, and then Harold gives a lovely speech while being blinded by spotlights that enter his eyes like bright light. Truthfully, either half the room either has allergy attacks or their eyes are tearing from his sweet words about the support he's received from the other book artists also nominated in his category, from his thanks to the Minnesota Center for Book Arts, and thanks to a girl named Debbie for putting up with his long, long, long, long, and even longer hours during this book project. He receives admiration all around, both for his dress ("you look like a printer") and his elegant words. "Your timing was perfect," someone says from the shadows backstage. Even former governor and book collector Elmer L. Andersen congratulates him.
Once the speeches concluded, the award winners are ushered off stage. My hands begin to shake. What if he never comes back? The seat is noticeably empty next to me. Its emptiness is distracting. Minutes pass. More minutes pass. More award winners keep moving off stage, into the shadows where I can't see. Will the room soon be half empty with only the winners' significant others? Perhaps there are press conferences back there to complete, and photographs, posing with the certificates, parties in small rooms, white cake, hands thrust out to shake.
Yet finally Harold returns, his arms filled with gifts from admirers. He settles back down into his seat, smiles, and everything once again feels right.
Later in the evening, Carol Bly tells a long story about cavemen lovers, and former governor Elmer L. Andersen gives a rousing speech about the future, the end of materialism, equality, justice, and more while a woman with the most intricately blue beaded dress (his editor) stands near him and glows. By the end of the evening, we crack the winner's code: any nominee seated in the aisle is an award winner. This lessens some of the suspense. Yet there are always more haircuts to admire in the crowd, more dresses to notice. My favorite: the sleeveless style with a pretty chiffon scarf wrapped casually around the shoulders, usually some light spring color like lime.
Once the TV cameras turn off, men in tuxedos without headsets weave between the crowd offering strange puffed creations of food. I tap my feet against the floor, hoping for some rousing swing orchestra hidden behind the curtains to get us dancing. But no one notices my tapping, and people seem content sipping cream from those little plastic cream containers and feasting on flaky hors d'oeuvres.
At home at our Formica Kitchen Table, Harold unloads his prize bag - a mysterious mug from the Port Authority, beautiful cards, tickets, gift certificates, broadsides, t-shirts with Snoopy on them. "Does life ever return to normal after this?" he asks, trying to squeeze into his Snoopy t-shirt that was three sizes too small. I told him "no." And then we brushed our teeth and went to bed.