The People of Beagle Books
From left to right:
Deane Johnson, Jill Johnson, Megan Geraedts, Jennifer Geraedts, Sally Wills, Tom Geraedts, Bob Wills.
In 2007, the Johnsons sold Beagle Books to Bob and Sally Wills,
the owners of Sister Wolf Books, a seasonal bookstore in
nearby Dorset. The Wills' daughter, Jen, is the new manager of
Beagle. The rest of the staff of Beagle is continuing, as
is everything you've come to love about the store. While Kallie
was not part of the sale, she is making regular appearances at
Beagle Books. We will of course continue to celebrate her
birthday every August.
The Ladies of Beagle Books
Beagle Books: a Personal Bookstore
groups are an important part of Beagle Books. The Women's Book Club meets once a month on the third Thursday at 6:00 PM, the Men’s Group
meets the third Tuesday of every month at 8:00 AM.
Special events from book signings to celebrations and book-related adventures are announced here and in the e-Newsletter we share with Sister Wolf Books.
Beagle also carries beautiful, unique Inuit
art pieces, and Scandinavian books, music, and maps.
Farewell from the Johnsons
Dear friends and kindred spirits,
We have loved sharing our love of books and music with
you the past six years.
When we opened Beagle Books
May 1, 2001, no one could have predicted September 11,
2001 would change all of our lives forever. Many of
you came in that sad day to share our grief. Somehow
our connection to books helped all of us to make sense
of a world that is both terrifying and beautiful.
Thank you for being there for us, for making Beagle
Books a community gathering place and for allowing us
to be a part of your lives. Jennifer, Tom, Megan,
Sally and Bob are wonderful book people and friends.
They have the rare combination of passion and service!
Love and blessings, Deane, Jill
and Kallie (woof!)
The Original Beagle of Beagle Books
Jill and Deane Johnson and their beagle,
Kallie, opened Beagle in 2001, after deciding Park Rapids needed
a year-round independent bookstore.
Kallie dressed for her birthday.
The tinkling of the bell above my head
Announces my arrival, like the trumpets of royals,
But less grand.
I’m greeted by the friendly nuzzle
Of a tired dog and the warm smile of
I take in the smell of printed paper,
Hot apple cider, and the unclassifiable scent
My tongue burns from the fresh hot coffee
I’m holding in my left hand,
But it’s a good kind of burn,
Like suffering for your art.
I’m here to get lost in other stories,
To mingle among brilliant minds,
And in some cases, minds containing little more than fluff.
This is the one place
Where cultures co-exist,
Where religions contradict, but do not judge.
This is where creativity has
An outlet to be exposed and shared.
I run my hand along soft wooden shelves,
Listening to authors whisper titles.
I recognize spines, skip over a few, and select
Those that are appealing.
I imagine some are self important – deemed classic
And better than the rest. I suppose some drip of
Sap, and some pages are tired with pain.
Non-fiction holds its head above the make-believe, and All
Are placed far from mass market mystery.
I choose the ones I cannot live without,
And walk out the door,
With the small joy
In the possibility that I now hold my next great