The vegetable garden.

The vegetable garden.

Saturday. I’m up at the crack of dawn. There’s a big pile of cow and pig poop waiting for me to move, shovel by bitter shovel, from ground to wheelbarrow and then back to the earth. The Larsons, the folks who mow and bale hay from the field surrounding our home on the Cloquet River, dropped off a mountain of aged shit for me to consider. Free of charge. Sustenance for the soil as payment for feed for their cattle. I stand in the cool early morning air sipping coffee, thinking of how many wheelbarrows of decaying dung it will take to cover my modest vegetable plot. Steam rises from the cup. I spray myself with DEET and fill up the Troy Bilt’s tiny tank with gasoline. I shove the throttle to “fast”, push the choke to “full”, and yank the starter rope. The old tiller coughs, then dies. Another pull and the eight horse idles like brand new.

I till the sandy, largely inert topsoil of the land that I call home, working furrows into the hard, sandy loam. A flock of twenty mergansers, the males green headed, the females-dusky red, scuttles along the black surface of the river, heading downstream. The cause of the ducks’ retreat? Our nearly three-year-old black Labrador, Kena (pronounced “Keena”; Celtic for “the greatest champion”), is prancing along the top of the riverbank, searching for a tennis ball. She finds a dirty, torn up old specimen and, when I take a break from tilling, the sweat already streaking my face, she follows me, ball in mouth, insistent that I throw the disgusting sphere. I do, and, instantly realize my mistake. Labradors are notoriously persistent. I have started a game that will endure longer than my patience.

I approach my blue Pacifica, intent on unloading dog food, bird food, and assorted sundries from the van. But I’d left the ignition key in the “on” position overnight and the battery is deader than a fence post. I wander into the garage, find the battery charger and attempt to charge the Pacifica. There’s so much oxidation built up on the terminals, the battery won’t accept a charge. I unhook the battery, removed the bolts and nuts that retain the cables and bring them into the house for cleaning. There’s no baking soda to be found, the cure for oxidation, one of the few mechanical tips passed down to me by my very non-mechanical father. Rene’ will pick up soda at Super One and later in the afternoon, I’ll clean the parts, clean the terminals, and successfully start the Pacifica. But now, as cool morning air gives way to swelter, I’m content to hook up the charger. I unload the van through the passenger doors, which, thankfully given the locks are electric, were unlocked. Kena nudges my thigh, ball clenched in mouth, as I climb a ladder and fill a bird feeder with seed. I toss the ball and try to finish my chore before the Lab returns. The feeders have already attracted a purple finch, a pair of goldfinches, assorted wrens, sparrows, blue jays, bluebirds and other birds. I’m hoping for more; perhaps the return of that solitary indigo bunting we saw a few years’ back, the most beautiful bird I’ve ever seen in real life. He was here just the one time and hasn’t returned. But one can always hope.

The plot completely tilled, I begin moving the poop. It’s then I realize that I’ve made my job incrementally harder. Damn, I think, struggling to push a loaded wheelbarrow through loose soil, I should have waited until after I’d moved the shit to till.

The heat intensifies. There are no clouds. Birdsong fills the air. Horse flies and deer flies have not yet hatched and it’s too warm for mosquitoes to pester me as I stagger through the swelter. Load by load, my ruined knees bearing the weight, I push through the loamy earth, stop and toss shovel after shovel of rotting excrement onto exhausted soil. I’ve been at this for 33 summers; first at the garden we inherited from the former owners of this land, the Drews, and for the past 17 years, here, working new ground I tilled up with the Troy Bilt on the site of our new home. A pair of sandhills cranks away, too high and too distant to for me to see. A bald eagle drifts above the river, scanning for fish. A pair of mallards bursts from forest, leaving a small seasonal pond behind, a tiny bowl of water that once hosted our young sons and their friends on ice skates. Boys. There are none left around here to help move poop. The three oldest are living lives with partners other than their parents. Jack is away at Camp Ripley, participating in Army drill weekend. Truth be told, none of the boys ever really helped all that much in the vegetable garden. Fertilizing, planting, weeding, and harvesting, with rare exception, have always been the province of Rene’ and me. I break for lunch, my arms tired, my knee braces; the one on the left protecting a bone on bone joint that needs replacing; the one on the right bracing a torn meniscus that needs surgery; and fill a water bottle with ice and tap water. Kena sits on the front porch, ball in mouth. Waiting.

Rene’ is otherwise occupied, cleaning out the rock garden that defines our front yard. She’s hard at it, laying down a new pond liner in one of the fountain pools and patching the other pond basin with concrete. Back at the poop pile, the Labrador insists on another toss. I chuck the ball from the top of the brambled riverbank, the pitch so steep, a man can’t climb it without grasping the shoots of aspen, pine, birch, and balsam that hold the slope together. Kena pounces through thicket and plows into the cold, black water. Once. Twice. Three times I toss the ball and still, she appears at my feet, eyes expectant, ball waiting on the ground between her paws, eager for another go.

By dinnertime, the pile of shit is nearly gone. The garden has been revitalized. Rene’ calls The Eagle’s Nest and orders burgers. I shower and, with the Pacifica’s battery reconnected, drive to Fish Lake to pick up our food. While the cook finishes up, I sit at the bar sipping ice cold tap beer and wonder how many years my body will let me garden.





OK. Here’s your chance to make a difference in the world of digital publishing. If you own a Kindle, use the Kindle app, or have an Amazon account, you can log onto Amazon and vote for the book. if the book receives enough votes in the next 30 days, it’ll be published by Kindle, you will receive a free Kindle version of the book from Amazon, and I’ll get a publishing contract with Kindle. Everyone wins! How do you know if you want to vote for Boomtown? Starting tomorrow morning, you can log into the Boomtown page on Kindle Scout and read an excerpt as well as some other fun stuff about me and the book. Then, if you like the book, simply cast your vote. That’s all there is to it. And those of you that want a printed version, don’t worry. I am only giving Kindle exclusive rights to the eBook and audio book versions of Boomtown. I retain the print rights and the copyright. So, here’s the link to the Boomtown page:

Happy voting!




…swift, bright, drift… by Diane Jarpvenpa (2016. Red Dragonfly Press. ISBN 9781937693831)

There is is,

hanging from the top

of a living room painting

like a dogwood pod

or an old dried-up fig.

So begins Twin Cities singer/songwriter and whimsical poem, “Holding On”, a piece about a misplaced, solitary bat that enthralled me. My favorite line in swift, bright, drift is included in this poem:

A changling in its perfect frailty…

Stunningly simple and yet, so descriptive. So unlike my prose, where words beget words beget descriptions that sometimes beget redundancy and confusion. Here. there is sparse clarity, the poet setting forth scenes and emotions without extraneous verbiage. This is not to say that these simple poems channel verses written during childhood; little bundles of word play wrapped in neatly rhyming couplets. Rather, as demonstrated above, Ms. Jarvenpa (known as Ms. Jarvi when performing music) asks us to suspend our disbelief and walk with her through cosmopolitan backyards and along the banks of wilderness streams as she narrates.

Broken into three short sections, a half-dozen poems or so in each section, I read swift, bright, drift twice, not because the poetry is difficult but because I knew I’d likely missed something, some hint of the poet’s intuitive love for place, family, and nature. My only criticism is that this volume feels truncated. But then again, due to its size, this slender book is one a reader can revisit at his or her leisure, carefully examining the cut of each wordsmithed gem along the way.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.




One Man, One River

 When great men or women die, the passage of time acts like rust working on iron: as years roll by, the societal remembrance of the departed slowly dissipates until there is only a vague recollection, a caricature of sorts, of the deceased left for consideration. Many of you have no idea who Willard Munger was or how his story is interwoven with that of the modern St. Louis River. Hopefully, this short essay will recall his fight to clean up and preserve the estuary that is the birthing place of the Great Lakes, the world’s largest repository of fresh water.

Willard was born on a farm in Otter Tail County, Minnesota on January 20, 1911, the son of an impoverished farmer and a homemaker of limited education. After a bout of illness, Munger graduated from Fergus Falls High School in 1932 and began working a series of jobs that eventually took him from northwestern Minnesota to Duluth. Other than a few marine drafting courses taken at UMD to secure a job in the shipyards of Duluth and Superior during WW II, Munger’s formal education ended with high school. However, despite this limited exposure to schooling, Willard Munger was steeped in the conservation ethic of his paternal grandfather, a man who, though a poor farmer, was a firm believer in the power of the political process to preserve the land and water for future generations. Lyman Munger exposed his grandson to the forests, marshes, rivers, and beauty of the natural world to be found in rural Otter Tail County, imprinting upon his young grandson a land ethic akin to that later immortalized by Wisconsin’s Aldo Leopold. Willard carried a vague and half-formed appreciation for the natural world with him when he arrived in the Twin Ports in 1935. Settling in Duluth, Munger’s imprecise and somewhat naive understanding of the environment and man’s ability to adversely “soil his own nest” collided with the reality of the tragedy occurring along the banks of the St. Louis River.

Willard Munger settled in northeastern Minnesota at the height of the Great Depression. His first reaction to the sewer laden, foul smelling, toxic waters of the great waterway dividing the industrial cities of Duluth and Superior was disgust. But, with a child on the way and a young wife at home, Munger reconciled the river’s ugliness with society’s need for economic progress and his own need to find work. It wasn’t until Reserve Mining proposed (in 1948) to obtain a permit from the State of Minnesota to dump waste from its taconite processing operation into the pristine waters of Lake Superior and Willard joined the United Northern Sportsmen of Duluth, that Willard came to realize the wrong headedness of what was happening to the St. Louis River and Lake Superior. It was then that the young liberal politician, steeped in the socialism of the Nonpartisan League and Farmer Labor Party of his grandfather and his parents, decided “enough is enough” and began to work against those in power who saw the St. Louis River as an open sewer and Lake Superior as an inexhaustible holding pond for industrial and municipal waste. Though the United Northern Sportsmen’s efforts to stop Reserve Mining’s plan to dump taconite tailings into the lake failed, that effort gave Munger confidence to run for public office. He’d run unsuccessfully, on an economic platform of reform rooted in his ancestor’s socialism, for the State Legislature in Otter Tail County as a twenty-one year old Farmer Laborite in 1934. He lost. He ran again for a position in the Minnesota House of Representatives in 1952 under the banner of the newly minted Democratic Farmer Labor Party, placing his passionate love for the St. Louis River estuary, and the need to regulate the waste being dumped into that delicate ecosystem, front and center in his campaign message. He lost again.

Rethinking his strategy, Munger came to realize that he was, in many ways, ahead of his time and his would-be constituents in the blue-collar neighborhoods of West Duluth that he proposed to represent. The environment, the cleaning up of the St. Louis River, was not high on the list of priorities for local voters. Jobs. Taxes. Preservation of social security and pensions. These were issues that galvanized Munger’s fellow West Duluthians, issues that Munger adopted as his own when he won a House seat in 1954. But the fact that Willard publically pivoted away from his dream of cleaning up the St. Louis River did not equate to an abandonment of principle. In 1955, as he took his seat in the Minnesota House of Representatives (a seat he held until his death in 1999) the very first piece of legislation Willard Munger sponsored was a bill seeking $25,000 to study the idea of treating industrial and municipal sewage through regional waste treatment districts. His request was promptly rejected by the conservative forces in control of the House. Undaunted, Munger brought the bill back during the next legislative session. Money was allocated in 1957 to study whether or not all of Minnesota’s rivers, not just Munger’s beloved St. Louis, were in need of rejuvenation. It took Willard Munger the next fifteen years to convince his brother and sister legislators that Minnesota’s shameful abuse of its rivers and streams needed corrective action.

Willard Munger’s foresight led to the creation of the Western Lake Superior Sanitary District, the WLSSD, a regional waste treatment facility that, along with a myriad of other conservation and environmental legislation Munger passed over a laudatory and lengthy political career, made Minnesota’s waterways cleaner. When Munger began his efforts to revitalize and reclaim the river, human feces floated in St. Louis Bay. The ancient fishery, one that boasted bountiful populations of walleye, pike, sturgeon, bass, and other game fish, was dead. The few walleye that managed to spawn in the turbid, toxic waters of the St. Louis were inedible. The sturgeon were gone, killed off by progress. The pike tended to stay out by the cooler, less polluted waters of the Big Lake. Today, on any given summer afternoon, one can look out across the flat, broad waters of the St. Louis River and see countless fishing boats bobbing at anchor or trolling the repatriated weed beds of a healthy ecosystem. Willard Munger’s persistence, his refusal to accept “no” for an answer, is a big reason why the folks in those boats are enjoying themselves.

As Willard’s staff assistant Ann Glumac once said, “I’ve known many famous, important men in my lifetime but I’ve only known one great man. That man was Willard Munger.” Indeed. Representative Munger’s life should not be forgotten but remembered by posterity as an example that even ordinary men can do extraordinary things.

Happy Earth Day 2016!


(This essay was originally written for the One River, Many Voices project regarding the history and importance of the St. Louis River. It was not chosen for airing on Wisconsin Public Radio but another of my essays, “Ducks”, was. Stay tuned!)



Ann Glumac and Rep. Munger

Ann Glumac and Rep. Munger



If you are in the area or know anyone with an interest in Finnish history, world history, or literature, pass along this snippet if you would: I’ll be at the New York Mills Regional Cultural Center on Friday, May 6th at 7:00pm talking about Sukulaiset; the background and the story. Here’s the link:
Hope to see some folks show up and buy a signed book or two from the Cultural Center bookstore!


Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe (2006. Scribner. ISBN 9780743297318)

Time for a confession. I have always confused the Thomas Wolfe, renowned contemporary of Hemingway, Faulkner, and Stein with the other Tom Wolfe (Bonfire of the Vanities) who was born seven years before the author of Look Homeward, Angel died of miliary tuberculosis of the brain. OK. So I admit I’m no literary scholar. Cut me some slack already. Still, I love to read and having never read either Wolfe, I thought I’d start with the more senior of the pairing. I wasn’t disappointed.

Eugene Gant, the troubled, talented, confused young protagonist of a family saga entwined with Gene’s “coming-of-age” revelations, is a character that all readers, regardless of gender or upbringing, must eventually come to love. Precocious, intelligent, curious, and adventurous, young Eugene reminds me in some ways of another young man in another coming-of-age novel, Holden Caulfield. The difference between Wolfe’s take on the genre and Salinger’s is not just the depth and weight of the family saga that Wolfe uses to backstop Gene Gant’s journey to adulthood; it is the complexity of the language Wolfe infuses into the story, a choice that is at equal measure frustrating for its winding, digressing, and meandering style, and one distinctly at odds with the reclusive Salinger’s simplified prose. Perhaps the difficulty of tracking the arc of Look Homeward, Angel‘s storyline in and around Wolfe’s sweeping and soaring wordsmithing is why nearly every high school student in America has read Catcher in the Rye but far fewer have delved into this thick volume of Southern musings, anecdotes, and twisted familial disasters.

Though set in the mythical town of Altamount, North Carolina (loosely based on Wolfe’s ancestral home of Asheville), clearly written in the languid and internally conflicted style of other Southern writers (Faulkner, O’Connor, and Welty come to mind), and deeply rooted in place as the overriding character looming behind the story, Wolfe’s take on family and maturation is universal and deserving of closer scrutiny and a larger following. And yet, the difficulty of his craftsmanship, the author’s incessant need to digress and add countless cultural, literary, and regional asides to the narrative, is likely one reason why Wolfe is not studied nor read with the same width and depth that his aforementioned Depression era contemporaries seem to be. But once the reader comes to appreciate the cadence to Wolfe’s elegant prose, the saga of Oliver and Eliza Gant and their expansive brood of little Gants (including Eliza’s favorite child, Eugene) this book truly is a transformative read. Here’s a sample of what I am talking about:

Oliver had about twelve hundred dollars, saved from the wreckage of Cynthia’s estate. During the winter he rented a little shack at one edge of the town’s public square, acquired a small stock of marbles, and set up business. But he had little to do at first save to think of the prospect of his death.

There. That short passage says much, in a mere three sentences, of the inner demons afflicting the hard drinking patriarch of the Gant family. And such wonderful exposition of soul is only the beginning.

4 and 1/2 out of 5 stars. An American classic.




Unrestorable Habitat: Microsoft is My Neighbor Now by Lois Pillips Hudson (2010. Foreverland Press. ISBN 9780996528924)

I loved Hudson’s one and only novel, Bones of Plenty, a compelling melodrama set on the plains of North Dakota (see review elsewhere on this site). So when an organization I am involved with, the Rural Lit R.A.L.L.Y. suggested that I review this collection of Hudson’s essays on modern life, the environment, and contemporary culture, I leapt at the chance. I accepted the “read” knowing that the pieces were essentially unedited, rough drafts of Hudson’s musings on technology and it’s impact on the author’s beloved Sammanish River. As the back jacket of the book states:

There are many parenthetical comments within the text where she reminds herself to recheck sources, verify facts, and to delete repetitions…Also there are a few typographical mistakes. However, the text is being published as Hudson left it, without editorial corrections.

OK. As an author who studies other writers and their techniques, I’ve found such revelations, as in the recent Nodin Press version of Minnesota novelist John Hassler’s classic, Simon’s Night, which included Hassler’s personal journal as part of the book, to be of great value. That said, I can’t say the same about the asides included in this work. First, the parentheticals don’t, when taken as a whole, reveal all that much about Hudson the writer or Hudson the person. And because the parentheticals are simply included alongside the text, without being italicized or otherwise distinguished from the body of the work, they are distracting. Also, the choice not to edit out repetitive passages (how many references to the life cycle of Pacific coast salmon need to be included to make the author’s point?) or typographical errors seems to me to be a curious way of presenting this educator and writer’s epistle on contemporary life.

A bigger flaw to me, however, is found in the overall dire alarmism of Hudson’s prose. What do I mean? A reader’s attention is consistently and constantly called to childhood obesity, lack of juvenile attention and inquisitiveness, environmental degradation, and a host of other maladies that Hudson blames upon computers and the digital age. Here’s a sampling of the author’s remarks in this regard:

As a descendant of Irish-immigrant farmers who slaughtered Native Americans and grubbed their way across North America without ever cashing in big, I will guess that if we ever do find another planet to plunder, once again it will be those who already have who will ultimately take over the New Frontiers. And with the rest of the world’s proletariat, I will be inhaling the clouds of rocket exhaust watching the pioneers blast off “to seek a better life” in Boeing space ships financed by me.

Seems to me that Hudson, much like current presidential contender, Bernie Sanders, is decrying problems, such as wealth inequality, without offering concrete solutions.

Despite the repetition of scenes, comments, and thoughts that plague this book, and despite the author’s consistent rage against Microsoft, Bill Gates, and assorted other computer innovators, I found validity in Hudson’s dire predictions about where mankind is headed both socially and environmentally. However, when all is said and done, it seems to me that the author’s fatalistic approach to the decay of American life, much of which she attributes to sloth and greed, is tiresome in that, while Lois Hudson has a sharp tongue for criticism, she has little to offer in way of suggested solutions to the ruinous path we’ve embarked upon. The points Hudson makes here are valid but, without any hint of an alternative path, really don’t add much to the discussion. Instead of coming off as the wise old sage who has seen much and has deliberated on society’s ills to the point of offering helpful insights, Lois Hudson’s alarmism, without more, reminds me of the cranky old lady who lived between me and my best friend Eddie. Mrs. Swanson’s voice was loud and critical but always ignored by us as we cut through her manicured back lawn.

One other point. This collection originally came out as an eBook and the print version appears to have been digitally printed through Create Space, an arm of It’s a bit of hypocrisy, in my humble opinion, for the author’s critique of Jobs, Bezos, and Gates, to come to fruition through the very technology Lois Hudson decried.

3 stars out of 5. Editing  out the repetitive passages in this work would have improved its readability a great deal. This book would be a useful adjunct to environmental science and law courses but not as a stand alone “read”.




Good Thunder, Blue Earth by Susan Stevens Chambers (2016. River Place Press. ISBN 9780990356363)

Here’s why I enjoyed this collection of poems set in America’s rural heartland:

No five a.m. eggs,

no fresh cinnamon rolls at ten.

Stay away from beef,

eat less at suppertime.

Let others do the chores.

You should think about moving to town.

(from “The Doctor’s Prescription”)

This after Grandpa Hank, the patriarch of the Carlson family farm suffers a heart attack while working the land that has sustained the Carlsons for generations. Ms. Chambers, who like me, is a judge in her vocation, clearly loves her avocation: writing strikingly poignant and succinct poetry centered around the experience of rural farming life in the present age. I am struck how this slender volume is an excellent companion to another book I am plowing through, novelist Lois Phillips Hudson’s Unrestorable Habitat: Microsoft is My Neighbor Now. The late Hudson, who taught at colleges in the Pacific Northwest but had roots on a family farm in North Dakota, left behind an assortment of essays that an organization I am affiliated with, the Rural Lit R.A.L.L.Y., (more at: has collected into Unrestorable Habitat. Reading Chambers’s poetry alongside Hudson’s lament for the loss of America’s rural heritage and love of nature (for more on Hudson, visit: is a compelling and intellectually invigorating exercise, made all the more enjoyable because Chambers, in addition to being an excellent poet, is also a fine narrator and storyteller. Her gift to the reader is the ability to take scenes, actions, and thoughts that might require dozens of paragraphs or pages to depict in prose, and render them sharply and crisply as stanzas of poetic lyricism. Loosely configured to follow seasonal life on a family farm, where joy and tragedy can be found in microcosmic equal measure, Chambers is a gifted wordsmith whose work should be read by all. Truly a stellar little gem of a book.



5 stars out of 5.




George Washington’s Secret Six: The Spy Ring that Saved the American Revolution by Brian Kilmeade and Don Yaeger (2013. Sentinel. ISBN 978-1-59523-103-1)

My friends Nancy and Ron don’t always see eye to eye with Rene’ and I when it comes to politics. Like so many Americans these days, we often refrain from discussing the major issues of the day because, well, our friends are Fox News sorts of folks and Rene’ and I are more attuned to MSNBC. Still, for the past twenty years or so, Ron and I have bought each other books for Christmas. And generally, though not always, we buy non-fiction biographies or histories that engage and enlighten. That’s how this book came into my hands: Ron wrapped it up in his traditional Christmas wrapping especially selected for his liberal friend (the silver foil of potato chip bags cleaned of crumbs and turned inside out) and handed it to me during Christmas 2014. It took me a year to work down my reading stack to this slender volume. Here’s what I have to report.

Despite the endorsements on the rear jacket (from literary luminaries ranging from Donald Rumsfeld to Donald Trump), this book doesn’t, as the blurb from Karl Rove states, come close to being a “rollicking read.” While the narrative contains some interesting excerpts from letters written by the Culper Spy Ring stationed in and around New York City to their commander-in-chief, General George Washington, and letters from Washington to the leader of the ring, Major Benjamin Talmadge, the authors’ collective choice to invent dialogue and thoughts attributable to Washington and his spies in what seems, at first blush, to be a non-fiction historical account of actual events, clouds the veracity and accuracy of the story. Better for Kilmeade and Yaeger to have made a choice, like Nathan Hale does early in the book, to serve only one master: Either write the story as a novel and include dialogue and emotional content that could be attributed to the stars of the story, or write a straight historical narrative that sticks to what is known about the Culper Ring. Trying to write, what in essence, is a print version of a docudrama, does the story of the brave men and the one woman who risked their lives for their ideals an injustice. I also found the descriptions of the events that lead to the “success” of the spies and the authors’ view of their importance to the Patriots’ ultimate victory at Yorktown overplayed and lacking historical support, at least as contained in this volume. There is cause, there is effect, but there is nothing linking the two by way of facts or information that seems compelling enough to sustain the premise that the Secret Six offered up anything of note that “saved” the Revolution.

The writing was crisp and succinct but tended towards the elementary. It’s as if, in addition to being perplexed as to whether the book should be a novel or accurate history, the authors couldn’t decide whether the book was meant for adults or a juvenile audience. In sum, I learned a bit about the spies that aided Washington during the war that created our nation but, aside from the narratives about hero Nathan Hale and traitor Benedict Arnold, I found very little insightful or compelling in this read.

2 and 1/2 stars out of 5. Don’t waste your money: Watch “Turn: Washington’s Spies” on AMC for a more accurate and exciting retelling of this piece of American history. (More at: Professor Eastman suggests Washington’s Spies: The Story of America’s First Spy Ring (2006) by Alexander Rose as the source of the history behind the series; not the vague and sometimes confusing book that is the subject of this review. You can also find out more about the series at:




If you’re looking for a good book to read over spring break or vacation, check out the tab above, “Buy Books” direct. You’ll find everything from outdoor stories (Black Water) to biography (Mr. Environment) to murder mysteries (Laman’s River). Or, better yet, if you have a special someone who loves to read, go to, pick out a Munger book and receive that same book FREE for your Kindle or other Kindle-ready device. That’s right: Buy the physical book from Amazon and you receive the eBook delivered to your eReader absolutely FREE!

Or, if you just want the eVersion of the book, we’ve got you covered. All the books are now reduced $2.00 per title, which means all Munger books except Sukulaiset are now only $2.99 and you can pick up the Kindle version of Mark’s latest, Sukulaiset for the awesome eBook price of $7.99 (was $9.99). (Note: Mr. Environment is not available as an eBook. But you can get it here for the paltry price of $5.00 plus shipping and handling.)

So let’s make April Munger reading month and buy your books here, on Amazon, or, if you love our local bookstore and want a physical copy of the book, at The Bookstore at Fitger’s.

The CRP Marketing Team



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