Recently, twenty Minnesota judges gathered at the pastoral Gainey Conference Center to participate in the Judicial Decision Making Conference. Also known as the “Literature and the Law” conference, the premise of the session is to read short works of fiction, including some classic works of literature and some-lesser known stories and plays, with an eye to self-discovery and reflection on what it means to be a judge and how one goes about the difficult and sometimes gut-wrenching job of judging others. I’d heard about the conference but when an invitation to attend popped up on my work computer one day, I thought, “What the hell. I’m a writer. I’m a judge. I might as well give it a go.” And so I did.

The seminar was held at the Gainey Conference Center, an estate just outside Owatonna now owned and maintained (superbly, I might add) by the University of St. Thomas. As is my usual custom, I loaded the address into Theresa (my Garmon navigational assistant) and, on Thursday morning at 6:00am, I drove from Duluth to Owatonna. Being the optimist I am, I thought Owatonna was just a tad south of Lakeville; just outside the southern ring of Twin City suburbs. I was wrong. It’s further than I thought. In fact, it’s south of Faribault. But I had plenty of time to make the opening session, which was due to start at 9:30am, until Theresa sent me on a wild goose chase. I swear that I inputted the correct address for the Gainey Center. So I’ll ascribe my late arrrival to the tendencies of women, including electronic surrogates, to get lost. It couldn’t have been me, the male in charge,who made the mistake, could it?

Despite my sidetracked route, I arrived just as each judge was making a brief introduction. And then, the sometimes intense, sometimes humorous, always humbling work of self-reflection and assessment began.

The two major works we read and discussed, included Arthur’s Miller’s astonishingly vivid depiction of the Salem Witch Trials, The Crucible, and a lesser known work by American playwright, Wendy Wasserstein, An American Daughter. The point of the readings (which also included four other pieces of varying lengths) was not to critique or assess story, or character or plot, but to delve into the inner thoughts, emotions, and decision making of the protagonists and minor players with an eye towards tying that conduct to what we, as judges do, every day when we decide cases. There we were: white, black, male, female, Christian, Jew, and agnostic, all seated around a circle of tables, trying to understand the reasons and emotions and driving forces behind our judicial decisions. It was, at least to this judge, cathartic to hear other jurists, some new to the job, but many with more experience than me, express the methodology and basis for what it is they do with the most delicate and important of our fellow citizens affairs: How we reason as we impact liberty, family, and property with our rulings.

For my money, The Crucible by Arthur Miller (1952 and 2003. Penquin. ISBN 978-0-14-243733-9) was the work of the conference. Why? First off, Miller’s attempt to link the McCarthyism of his day to the fear and hysteria of the witch hunts in colonial Salem is spot on. There are also (to a lesser degree) parallels between the mass delusion of Salem in the 1600s to Germany in the 1930s, but the greater and more appropriate link, in my view, is to the American experience during the 1950s when men and women were challenged by “Tail Gunner” Joe regarding their loyalties. The intensity of the play, followed by watching the very fine performances in the 1996 film version of the tale, are haunting and thought-provoking. Especially relevant to the attendees, I believe, is the character of Judge Danforth, the jurist who is bent upon “rooting out Satan” in Salem even if it means the mass execution of innocent men and women. Which, of course, it does. In many ways, reading and watching The Crucible  challenges a judge, including this judge, to reflect upon the quality and nature of evidence we hear and see in court and how one’s personal views, political, religious or otherwise, skew perceptions of truth.

Wasserstein’s play, on the other hand, which was included in our readings so as to challenge our judicial noggins regarding religion, gender, and orientation, never really struck a chord with me similar to what I experienced reading The Crucible. An American Daughter (1998. Harcourt Brace. ISBN 0-15-600645-6) is the tale of Dr. Lyssa Dent, a presidential nominee for the post of Surgeon General. Surrounding the privileged and somewhat aloof Dent are her husband, Walter; her father, a United States Senator; and a host of other “interesting” supporting characters. Dent has a secret in her past which threatens to derail her nomination. Patterned after the “Nannygate” scandals of the recent past, the secret is this: When the elitist Lyssa received a summons for jury duty, she tore it up and never served. This seemingly inconsequential act turns out to be the linchpin upon which Dr. Dent’s figurative lynching in the media takes place. The problem with this play is, unlike The Crucible, where there is an abundance of sympathetic victims to pique our interest and outrage at Danfroth’s pompous piety, An American Daughter provides the reader with no such characters with which to empathize. At the conference, I quipped that the play “Reads like a bad episode of Seinfeld.” I think that’s an apt assessment. The problem for me, and I think, for anyone trying to delve into the deeper meanings of  Wasserstein’s prose, is that, the thinness of the morality of all concerned blocks any such detailed consideration of motivation or character. The play just didn’t measure up in terms of being a catalyst for serious discussion about what it is we judges do in our professional lives.

Over two days, I was privileged to discuss, break bread, and share laughs with some of Minnesota’s most talented jurists. Some folks who hold the purse strings for judicial education seem to to believe that thoughtful consideration of decision making has no place in judicial education, that, to use a Joe Soucherayism, it is too Mysterian, too “touchy feely” to merit funding and attention. After two days at the bucolic Gainey Conference Center assessing how it is we judge’s think, I heartily disagree. There’s great value in such self-reflection and contemplation, value that cannot be obtained at mainstream “topic-based” legal or judicial seminars. I’ll make the Judicial Decision Making Conference an annual “must” because the opening of a jurist’s eyes is also the opening of a jurist’s soul.

The Gainey Conference Center

Peace.

Mark

Not Exactly the Same Dumpster...But Close!

Most of you don’t know that, in addition to working as a full-time District Court Judge, writing novels, running a blog, working with Boy Scouts and confirmation-age kids, and being a dad and husband, I also teach. At UWS. This semester, it’s Environmental Law, which is a fairly sophisticated and demanding subject. I’m what is classified, within the University of Wisconsin system, as a “Senior Lecturer”. Now, I don’t know if you have to be AARP qualified to attain the designation as “Senior” when teaching undergrads, but if that’s the sole criteria, well, I meet it!

Anyway, Sunday evenings, I usually get ready for class by reading and outlining the selected text for the week from our course books, putting aside any relevant news articles of a conservation or environmental bent for class discussion, and setting aside any DVDs I’ll be using in class. My liturgical practice is to curl up on the sofa in my writing room, books and pen in hand, the computer tuned to MPR’s classical music station, Brahms, Bach, and Sibelius playing softly in the background, with the door to the great room shut, cozy as a caterpillar in a cocoon, as I prepare. That’s the way I’ve spent many, many Sundays the past three years and I truly enjoy the work. But not this Sunday. This Sunday, panic; mind-numbing, deep-roosted uncontrollable fear took the place of careful consideration and contemplation.

“I can’t find my text books!” I yelled.

Rene’, our 3rd son Chris, and our youngest son, Jack were all within earshot as I stepped from the study into the great room of our house in a funk.

“Did you leave them at work?” Rene’ asked.

“Nope.”

“Sure you’re not just overlooking them, Dad,” Chris offered.

At the suggestion I was less than diligent in my search, my blood began to boil.

“I guess I’d know if I looked or not, now wouldn’t I?”

“Chill, Dad. Chill.”

I shook my head and wrung my hands.

“That’s over two hundred dollars in books. They’re instructor copies. Provided by the publishers. I can’t afford to replace them and I need them for Tuesday’s class. Jack has Scouts tomorrow so tonight is the only night I can prep for class.”

“Are you sure you didn’t…”

I left Rene’ in mid-sentence. A thought, a horrible realization, dawned on me.

Oh shit! I said as I walked back into the writing room and stared at last year’s books. Those were supposed to get tossed with all those writing magazines I cleaned out of here last week. I bet I tossed this year’s books instead. Shit, I am an idiot.

I threw on my jacket, pulled gloves over my hands, and bolted out the door into the garage. Without a word of explanation to my dumbfounded family, I slammed the door, hit the remote garage door opener, climbed into Rene’s car, fired it up, and backed out of the garage.

I hope they’re still there.

I knew that Harold (the youngest member of our town board) was working at the Minno-ette, the neighborhood bait and convenience store. I whipped the Matrix into the lot, leaving it running as I dashed into the store.

“This is gonna sound weird, Harold,” I said through labored breath, “but do you have a key to the mixed paper dumpster at the recycling shed? I think I tossed some text books I need for a class I teach at UWS out along with some old magazines.”

Harold shook his head.

“Nope. Not any more. But Connie can open it for you.”

“Could you call her?”

Harold, being a nice guy and a diligent public servant did just that.

I drove over to the recycling center and waited. Within minutes, Connie (one of the recycling center attendants) and her husband arrived. I retold my tale of woe to Connie. She opened the dumpster. It was jam packed full of cardboard and magazines. I climbed the cold steel skeleton of the box and plunged in.

“You know,” Connie said thoughtfully as her husband shined a flashlight on my work, “I think they emptied this since you were here last.”

I ignored the nice woman’s observation. I didn’t want it to be true: I wanted to spy one copy of Poet’s and Writer’s Magazine  or The Sun amidst all that trash. Then I would know: The books can’t be far away. No one else in Fredenberg, I reasoned with some sense of sinful pride, reads Poet’s and Writer’s.

Connie was right. I was wrong. There were no textbooks anywhere to be found in the cold, silent depths of that steel box.

Dejected, I drove home. I parked the Matrix in the garage, buzzed the door closed, and headed into the house uncertain of how I was going to explain my lack of preparation to my class. Then it hit me:

Environmental Law books sent to the recycling shed… Isn’t recycling part of protecting our environment? This all must be a lesson from God; some bit of knowledge I’m supposed to comprehend and pass along.

When I figure out  the significance behind my dumpster diving, how it relates to the bigger scheme of things, I’ll let you and my students know.

Peace.

Mark

White Pine Plantation-The Other Munger Trail

I was off work on a mental health sabbatical. Those of you who follow this blog know why. ‘Nuff said. My dad and I together have a parcel of 135 acres (give or take) out in Fredenberg Township, the place my wife, our four sons, and I have called home for the past 28 years. 28 years! That’s a hell of a long time to be rooted in a place, any place, in these topsy-turvy times. Most folks move from place to place, job to job, community to community, getting their education, chasing employment, following their children or parents. Not us. Rene’ and I were both raised in Duluth and knew, when I finished law school, that Duluth was where we wanted to settle in. I really didn’t have an itch, a desire, to live out, to live in the country, until Dave Michelson (he’s gonna want royalties pretty soon since this is the second blog in a row he’s appeared!) bought some land and an old fire-trap of a trailer on Bowman Lake, an ox bow on the Cloquet River. Once I saw the soaring bald eagles, nesting osprey, the flowing black water, and felt, yes literally felt, the quiet, I was hooked. I bugged Rene’, as law school wound down, to travel back to Duluth to look at rural property. Nothing clicked. So, like many young couples, we settled: We bought a nice little house on St. Marie Street in Duluth and moved our family of three (Matt was just a year old) back home.

Thing is, I could never get the image of the Cloquet River out of my mind. Eventually, I found what I (if not Rene’) was looking for: And old Sears house, complete with a vegetable garden, a barn,  and eight acres along the banks of the Cloquet came up for sale. It took some convincing but, in 1984, expecting our second child (Dylan), we moved to Fredenberg. And we’ve been on the same tract of land ever since. During our nearly three decades in the country, I’ve managed to carve a few good trails through the woods that we use for hiking, hunting, horseback riding (we no longer have horses but our neighbors do), and cross country skiing. The photo above depicts one of those trails as it cuts through an old pasture on our property The white pines you see growing alongside the path? They’re seedlings deposited by century-old giants that survived the Great Cloquet Fire of 1918. They are not planted by man: They’re nurtured by God.

So, on my day of contemplation and rest, what I really wanted to do, since it was winter and all, was click into my Nordic-style cross country skis, let the dogs out (no need to ask “who” in this equation!), and ski our trails. But there’s little snow this year. Oh, there’s a trace: you can see that in the photos. And, desperate for the swoosh of wax on white, I’ve skied once since November. But that was short-lived: The day after I skied, it was over forty degrees and the snow cover we had turned to solid ice. I’ve learned, living out so long, that there’s great relief in being able to compromise. And so, on a fine January day not so long ago, I laced up my hiking boots, buttoned up a warm jacket, slipped gloves over my hands, and took the dogs for a walk.

We have three dogs. Matt, before he left home for good, brought a year-old-lab-husky-something-or-other mix named Daisy home from his work. She’s black most seasons, brown and black at times, and is the smartest damn dog we’ve ever owned. She’s getting close to a dozen years old at this point, a bit long in tooth for a big dog, and her hips are showing her age. But she’s always game for a romp in the trees, especially if rabbits are involved. Not grouse: She has, despite clear Labrador lineage, no interest in birds. Then there’s Jimi Hendrix, a miniature dachshund  (German for “badger dog”) who’s getting on seven years old, give or take. Jimi is about as dumb a dog as God ever created. But he is so damn cute with his double dapple coat and the way he scoots after bunnies. Finally, Chris (our number three son) rescued another Labrador,  a dog Chris named “Kramer” after the Seinfeld character of the same name because the dog is lean and lanky. Kramer came to us on approval from a veterinarian’s office in River Falls, Wisconsin, where Chris was going to school at the time. The deal was, if we liked the dog, he stayed. If not, he was going back to the vet to meet an unfortunate end. Since I’m listing Kramer as one of our three dogs, you know the end of that story!

Jimi and Daisy

The day of our walk, there wasn’t much happening in the forest. Jimi and Daisy lunged ahead over stiff snow in search of rabbits. Kramer, timid and exceedingly gun shy, his rear hips delicate and barely able to bear the weight of his rear end, ambled agreeably behind me, displaying zero interest in anything remotely close to hunting.

Kramer

It happened when we hit Old Man Farley’s Trail (don’t ask: that story would take an entire blog). Without warning, Jimi burst into his “I’m on the trail of a silly rabbit” bay. I’m not sure if all wiener dogs are high tenors or if Jimi’s pitch is due to being neutered: In any event, when he started his call, Daisy, always interested in bunnies, joined the daschund in the chase. I kept walking, knowing exactly what would happen. And it did. The yapping of the little dog grew more intense. Daisy dove deeper into the alders and birches and balsams lining the trail. And then, there it was: a bolt of white zipping across the open space of the trail cutting through  the tight woods. The snowshoe hare was fifty yards ahead of its pursuit and in no danger of apprehenshion.

We kicked up one lone roosting grouse as we descended the only hill on the trail. I wasn’t startled by the burst of energy from the fleeing partridge. And the dogs, true to form, weren’t the least bit interested in the bird. We followed the River Trail (clever name, eh?) to the banks of the Cloquet River, where, though the water was near freezing (too cold for any being possessing common sense to go for a dip) Daisy promptly plunged down the bank and sat in the black water. I stood at the top of the bank, Kramer by my side, watching the sun sink in the west, as the pink tongue of the old black dog lapped and lapped and lapped.

The Cloquet River

And then, we turned north. We followed the riverbank for a bit, still on property that my father owns, taking our sweet time to amble home. The point of this essay is this: Sure, you can spend some dough on expensive therapists after something bad or unexpected happens in your life. Seeking such help is, in fact, a good way of dealing with tragedy, a breach of privacy and safety, or loss. But there’s also this: A lot can be healed by a simple walk in the Minnesota woods with three imperfect dogs by the side of their imperfect master.

Peace.

Mark

The Skier, the Buddha, and Papa

It’s now ingrained, a habit. Every morning I get up as soon as my tired bones let me rise from that soft warmth I occupy in bed beside my loving wife and I pad my way in stocking feet down the carpeted hallway of our house towards the kitchen. Once there, I draw cold water from our well (through the faucet kids: we’ve got power and running water out here in the sticks!), grind beans in the coffeemaker, push the “on” button, and wander off to my writing studio. An iMac waits for me in that little room surrounded by tongue and groove cedar and two walls of single-pane windows overlooking the tired hay field that surrounds our house and the lazy black flowage of the Cloquet River. Even the ceiling of my writing space is aromatic cedar, making my creative retreat essentially a cabin in the wilderness.

The computer slumbers overnight: I rarely turn it completely off. Hell, you never know what you might miss if the magic box is disconnected from the Internet! I tap my mouse and the screen lights up. I log onto Firefox, my browser of choice. I don’t like Safari. Maybe that makes me an Apple heretic. I really don’t care-I like Mozilla better. I check my email, my Facebook page, maybe Huffingtonpost.com and the Duluth News Tribune’s website. Ego usually compels me to Google myself. I know: how horrifically shallow of me. What can I say? Folks without egos don’t become trial lawyers or District Court Judges or bloggers or writers, at least, not in my experience. Then, when the electronic alarm on the coffeemaker sounds, I get up from my cushy office chair, walk back into the kitchen, open a cupboard and select just the right cup for my morning jolt of caffeine. Not just any cup, mind you. Writers, as you are likely beginning to fathom, are the personification of pattern. No, my morning coffee is usually (unless the dishes haven’t been done) poured into either my Sloppy Joe’s cup (pictured above along with a wooden skier by my artist friend Jan Flom and the little red Buddha my sister Annie says I need to rub every day) or one of two Barnes and Noble cups I own. The B&N mugs depict likenesses of Hemingway, Tolstoy, Hurston, and other famous writers. I got them long ago when the economy was better and the corporate bookstore gave out premiums to writers who did book signings in their stores. No more. Today a writer doing a B&N signing is lucky to get a paper cup of way-too-strong coffee as he or she sits in the middle of the sprawling bookstore signing books for strangers. These are the only cups from which I drink my pre-dawn writerly coffee: For it is in the morning, my friends, that I write. Every morning I am home and not ill, I write. It’s been my obsession now for over two decades. For me (and for other authors, essayists, and poets I’m sure) this daily routine is something akin to breathing air: If I was unable to do it, I would likely give up the ghost.

How did this all get started? My wife. She did this to me. Some of you know the story. Hell, like most stories remembered and told by old men, the tale’s been told so often that my children and my wife know the punchline as well, if not better, than I do. But if you haven’t heard it, here’s the Cliff Notes version:

In 1990 I was facing a back fusion and three months away from my work at the time as a trial lawyer (think John Grisham without the money and the accent). I’d been a voracious reader and a sometime writer of poetry and the odd essay or prose piece since I was old enough to hold a pen. My wife knew this about me, knew, it turns out, more about my creative DNA than I did. “You’re a type A personality,” she said as I was recovering in St. Luke’s after having my spine cut apart and reassembled, “why don’t you get a start on that Great American novel you’ve always wanted to write?” That was it. That was all it took: One person (albeit the person I most love in the world) urging me to pick up a pencil and follow my heart. And so it began.

In the early going, I wasn’t a solid, every-morning-writer. Our kids were young and there was a lot more going on in our lives so I wrote whenever I had a chance. Morning. During the day. At breaks on the job. Late at night. For a time, I was able to piece words together into sentences and sentences together into paragraphs and paragraphs together into chapters in this haphazard fashion. Novels were born. Short fiction was written. For eight years, I also wrote a “slice of rural life” column for a weekly newspaper. But gradually, as I began to find the rhythm in my craft, mornings became an obvious preference. Some folks who write are night owls: They scrawl long into the evening. Others, confronted by life’s realities, do as I did as a beginner: They write when they can. I found, over the years of following my muse, that mornings are for me. Mornings with my Papa Hemingway cup ( provided to me by my ever-encouraging eldest son and his wife) brimming with hot java feed my obsession and drive me to words.

The funny thing, throughout the now 21 years I’ve been at this crazy lunacy: publishing books on my own because no reputable press will have me; hawking my stories to strangers in places as far flung as Helsinki and Calgary; pecking away at keyboards of successively sophisticated computers; is that I’ve never, not once, been afflicted by the dreaded curse of the writer. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, depending upon your opinion of my work) I’ve never had writer’s block. Never. Oh, I’ve stepped away from my writing to regroup. I’ve fought off minor illnesses, fatigue, and depression. But the words have never slowed to the point where I could not, on a bright sunny morning like January 2nd, 2012 take my proper place at the keyboard and begin anew.

Peace.

Mark

Wishing all brightness and light in the coming year...

OK. So the photo I’m using in this blog isn’t really from today, New Year’s Day 2012. It’s a shot taken of the field around our house from a week or so ago: You know, the last time we saw the sun in this neck of the woods. I’m using the photo today, the first day of our new year, to make a point: I want to be upbeat and rarein’ to go as we enter 2012 and I hope you do as well. Oh, I could recount all the bad stuff that impacted the Munger Family in 2011. But you know what? Like my buddy Dave Michelson (a smart guy, one I usually listen to) says: “We Americans, no matter our politics or our economic station really don’t have much to grouse about when compared with say, Columbia (a country Dave’s done charitable work in).” Dave’s right. That’s why I ‘m using a photo with the sun prominently displayed in this article. I’m hoping that I catch Dave’s optimistic mantra: Let the little things slide and devote your energy to family, friends, and God; the things that really matter.

Right now, as I type these words in my writing studio overlooking the field depicted in the photograph (but facing north, towards the Cloquet River), I’m mindful that my “little” sister Annie has been concerned about me. Mostly since the shooting in Grand Marais. Concerned enough that, as part of my birthday/Christmas present, she enclosed a small statue of the Buddha in the package. The little figurine now stands next to my iMac. Dwarfed by the big white machine, the replica holy man stands no more than two inches tall, fashioned from some synthetic material to mimic natural stone. He’s not much to look at but I am intrigued by the Buddha and his Noble Eightfold Path, a path which the Buddha claimed would bring an end to personal suffering:

Right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gautama_Buddha)

Fairly simple. Sort of reminds me Jesus’ Beatitudes: Though whereas the Buddha’s words turn one inwards, towards the self, the message in Matthew’s Gospel is more worldly, more “other directed” if you will:

³ “Blessed are the poor in spirit,
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
⁴ Blessed are those who mourn,
   for they will be comforted.
⁵ Blessed are the meek,
   for they will inherit the earth.
⁶ Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
   for they will be filled.
⁷ Blessed are the merciful,
   for they will be shown mercy.
⁸ Blessed are the pure in heart,
   for they will see God.
⁹ Blessed are the peacemakers,
   for they will be called children of God.
¹⁰ Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

(See http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew+5%3A3-12&version=NIV )

I re-discovered the Beatitudes while working on my historical novel, Sukulaiset: The Kindred. The story is set in Finland, Estonia, and Karelia (Russia) during the Great Depression and World War II. There’s much angst and pain and loving and dying in the book thus far: Pretty grim stuff in spots. So when I needed a bit of light, a bit of spiritual uplifting in the tale, I turned to Matthew and once again fell in love with Christ’s words. Alexis Gustafson (a character reprised from Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh) is the instrument through which I re-introduce myself and my readers to the Beatitudes: As wonderful a passage of scripture as has ever been written. I’m hoping that, as one of my own personal petitions for 2012, I am able to keep my fingers on the keyboard and find out what happens to Alexis and those she loves. We shall see.

Back to the main theme of this piece. My sister, sweetheart that she is, wants me to rub the Buddha’s belly “for good luck” whenever I feel the need. As a Christian, I know that’s akin to idol worship; something that’s been frowned on since Moses blew his stack over the golden calf. Still, what harm can it do? I mean, despite my pal Dave’s admonition that “we Americans have it pretty damn good”, who couldn’t use a little luck or grace or divine guidance? Am I right? So, I’ve been rubbing the little statue a bit and praying a bit more. Not only selfish petitions (like the one about my manuscript); not only pleas for myself; but also requests  for peace on Earth, good health for my family and my friends, and healing for those who are troubled and in need of love.

Does God hear me? Is He or She moved to action by my small, distant voice?

Perhaps: After days of faux winter, fluffy white flakes have begun to fall outside the windows of my sanctuary, covering our field in a blanket of much needed snow. A bald eagle (a year-round neighbor because the Cloquet River stays open all winter in front of our house) just drifted into view beneath the thickening squall, gliding effortlessly on a heavy wind. Watching the graceful bird, I find myself asking another question:

Is the eagle a symbol of good luck as my Native American friends believe?

I tend to think so. It’s a talisman that’s worked for me in the past: I’m hoping that’s the case today and that God is indeed paying attention.

Here’s to hoping that your 2012 is as glory filled as the waning sun in the photograph at the beginning of this essay.

Peace.

Mark

In 2002, a group of talented Iron Range journeymen was assembled by Terry Miller and Mark DeMillo to back singer-songwriter Roxie DeMillo (Mark’s wife) on her debut CD. The lineup, Terry Miller on keyboard and bass; Jeff Rantala on lead guitar; Mark DeMillo on drums, and Roxanne DeMillo on vocals, guitar, and flute, is preserved for posterity on To Spain, Roxie’s debut recording. Though Roxie’s voice is a tad thin on some of these tunes (though always evocative), her songwriting (and the expression she puts into her own songs and those of others), along with the phenomenal guitar work of the late Jeff Rantala make this a treasure of a recording that few people outside Hibbing and Grand Rapids have ever heard. Take a listen to “Crow River”, which has a sweet, Irish-Canadian lilt to its melody and lyrics that reminds one of Joni Mitchell at her best. Or turn up the volume and shake your money maker to “Coffee Time” a piece on which Rantala’s Steely Dan guitar riffs soar. Of the ten tunes on the disk, 6 of them are Roxie DeMillo originals and all of them are as good as the stuff that Mitchell, King, Dement, and Chapin Carpenter turned in during their primes. For the past five years or so, Cloquet River Press has featured this CD as a product option both online and at various craft shows. Now, as the economy stagnates, and the last To Spain is shipped out of CRP’s inventory, it is time to say goodbye to two friends who have passed on. I’ve been selling the CD mostly to honor Roxie and Jeff, both of whom died far too young of cancer.

With my inventory of To Spain sold out, I’ve decided to concentrate on my writing and my books. Not an easy choice since I still love, and still play, To Spain when I’m on the road. But though CRP will no longer carry the disk, you can contact Mark DeMillo at 1330 13th Ave E. Hibbing, MN 55746-1220 if you’re interested in buying a copy of this great album for your collection. It is, as I’ve said, a wonderful piece of local recording history and your purchase would honor the memory of two very fine musicians.

Here’s the track index of the CD:

Crow River (R. DeMillo)

Can’t Let Go (R. Weeks)

River (J. Mitchell)

Believe It (R. DeMillo)

Coffee Time (R. DeMillo)

Run (R. DeMillo)

2 Cool 2 B Forgotten (L. Williams)

Kiss me (R. DeMillo)

To Spain (R. DeMillo)

Shearin’ Song (Traditional)

Peace.

Mark

Dr. Paul G. Theobold the Dean, School of Education, Woods Beal Endowed Chair, and chair, Department of Social and Psychological Foundations of Education, Buffalo State College, had his assistant, Ms. Cynthina Anthony, ask whether I would be willing to allow a link from their site, Rural Lit RALLY (Reinvigorating American Life and Learning through the Literature of Yesteryear) to my essay, “Reading Herbert Krause” (see above under the “Other Writings” tab). The Rural Lit folks are apparently trying to catalog and, through the use of their new website (http://rurallitrally.org/) begin an online dialogue about the importance of rural writing, notably the “forgotten” writers of the dust bowl days and before, including my personal favorite, Minnesota native, Herbert Krause. Dr. Theobald and the Rural Lit RALLY folks sum up their mission this way:

There is a saying:  “You don’t  know what you’ve got til it’s gone.”

Out of print for decades, and long-since discarded from all but research university libraries, wonderful works of rurally based literature are disappearing every day.  Variously called “farm novels,” “regional novels,” or “local color fiction,” these works portray farm life perceptively and in great depth.  To lose them is to lose a piece of our collective history; a piece of who we are, as a people and as a nation.

This Rural Literature Initiative seeks strategies for building demand for rural literature in rural and urban schools such that academic/university presses can put this literature back into print or, short of this, that digitized collections might be created.

As a lover of Krause and the not-as-yet-forgotten Cather and Rolvaag, I welcome Dr. Theobald’s interest in my essay. I hope to participate in the online discussion that takes place regarding Krause’s importance as a regional writer in January on the RALLY site. I’d also urge all my blog readers who enjoy finely wrought prose to give Krause and the other authors featured on the Rural Lit RALLY website a try. Most of the books are out of print but you can find these gems online (at the usual suspects) or in the dusty corners of you local used bookstores. You won’t be sorry for trying these forgotten authors. Old is not to be confused with outdated: the themes in these stories are as relevant and timely today as they were when they were written. Who knows, if you look hard enough, you might even find an autographed copy for a reasonable price! Holding literary history signed by the author is a treasure to be relished and read. And, if after reading Wind Without Rain or some other long forgotten classic, you feel like joining in the online conversation, I’m sure your input would be appreciated by the folks behind RALLY.

Peace.

Mark

Thanksgiving on the Cloquet River

This week was one of mild disappointment. There, I said it. I released the anxiety and the minor upset and the bitter taste that sits in your mouth after you’ve tried for something and, through no fault of your own, you’ve failed. The details are wholly irrelevant and unimportant. What is important is that, despite my OCD nature, I am ready to put that failure, that upset, behind me and move on. Part of why this is so is because of last night.

You see, every year, many (not all) of the churches in Hermantown, MN; the little city that has been the center of our family’s life for the past 27 years (mostly because that’s where our sons have all gone to school) gather together for an ecumenical Thanksgiving worship service. It’s one of the only times when the Roman Catholics, Episcopalians, ELCA Lutherans, Presbyterians, and even (on at least one occasion) the Latter-day Saints worship together. I won’t pretend I’ve attended every one of these ecumenical celebrations. But whenever I have gone, I have carried away with me a sense of hope and promise that, despite the petty grievances and debates over ritual between denominations, is sustaining and real. Last night was no different. Thank God. It’s been a tough year and I needed the boost.

I am now at that age when my parents’ close friends, folks that were like extended uncles and aunts to me through nearly six decades of life (writing that phrase is daunting!) are passing away, one after another, leaving my parents behind. Now, don’t get me wrong: It is a real blessing to have Mom and Dad around. They’re both in their eighties, living independently and in good health. That, alone, is more than enough to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day. But the recent deaths of some of their closest friends, folks who had a huge influence on who I am as a person, have taken some of the wind out of my sails, so to speak. Then there was, as I’ve written in detail, the loss of Mercedes, my mother-in-law, a woman who raised six children on a railroadman’s salary and did her very best to see that they all became good Christians and good citizens. That was a tough one because, even though she was 86, her passing was very unexpected. But the blessing in it is that, for over 35 years, I got to love her as my second mom and she (hopefully) got to love me.

My daughter-in-law Lisa has had it rough this year, rougher than me by a long shot. She lost her father, a guy not much older than me, to a sudden heart attack, and also her maternal grandfather, all in the span of four or five months. Though I didn’t know either man well, their passings touched me because of the pain I could see, and still can see, in Lisa’s eyes when we talk about the men who made a difference, who held her up, in her young life.

All of this loss, this passing (even though, outside of my mother-in-law’s death, I haven’t been touched by gut-wrenching, knock-you-on-your-ass sadness) is sort of like being bit by mosquitoes: The bites don’t have the sting of a hornet’s barb but they begin to bother you over time. Still, even with all that’s happened over the past year, I am a thankful man, though it took last night to reinforce that notion.

Cheryl and I have known each other since we were four years old. We’ve been church friends, work friends, and friends at large for most of our lives. She has had her ups and her downs over the years but, in the end, she’s turned out to be a hell of human being. She’s a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a civil servant, an Episcopal Priest, and an artisan. She was one of the guiding lights in the little Episcopal church that Rene’ and I and the boys attended for many years. Her preaching is powerful yet compassionate. Her singing voice is steady and true. Her ministering is fair and even-handed. So, when she and I talked in my judicial chambers about my decision to leave the Episcopal Church and attend an ELCA Lutheran church closer to home, there were tears and hugs and quite a bit of sadness. I was, and am, despite the transition that needed to be made for our family, so grateful, so thankful to have sung by her side and listened to her wisdom for all these years.

So last night. I wandered over to our new church, Grace Lutheran, for the ecumenical Thanksgiving service because, well, because I had to. The minor disappointment of the week, sitting as it was, on top of the larger losses of the past year, compelled me to seek solace in faith. I know, from year’s of casting petitions to the great beyond, that not every wish or desire or whim I send up to God in a prayer comes to fruition. But I also know that sitting in community with others, listening to sacred music, hearing the words of the Savior, never hurts. And so I went. I am so glad that I did.

It wasn’t a huge crowd, maybe eighty or so Christians from all faith traditions worshiping together. But the vibe was so calming and grace-filled, the size of the congregation really didn’t matter. The sermon was rock-solid, like Peter roaring at the crowd on his best day. Each pastor or priest played a part, no matter how large or how small, in the service, giving the ceremony legitimacy in ways that an ordinary service, conducted by a singular man or woman of God, cannot. But the best was yet to come.

Cheryl and the musical director of Grace stood shoulder to shoulder by the keyboard and sang a duet, so spiritual and soothing, so thanksgiving laden, that tears came to my eyes. The music moved me to understanding, to releasing my burdens and bowing my head in a gentle, calm, and sincere prayer:

“Thank you, God, for I am truly blessed.”

The faces of all those who have departed (and those still with us), the dozens if not hundreds of friends, family, teachers, religious leaders, co-workers, Boy Scout leaders, coaches, and all the others who have carried me this far in my life came into focus during my silent contemplation. And with that prayer came the reinforcement of spirit that I so desperately needed and this realization:

I know I am a blessed man; the father of four beautiful sons, the husband of a wonderful wife, and the son of two caring and loving parents.

Nothing life throws at me can change that truth.

Peace.

Mark

Rene' and Mark Munger at FOT 2011

I’ve done the Festival of Trees (FOT), an event sponsored by the Junior League of Duluth, ever since I became a published author. My first novel, The Legacy was published by Savage Press of Superior, WI in October of 2000. That November, I sat in the Savage Press booth during the FOT and sold books alongside the owner of the press, Mike Savage. I did so well that, the next year, I had my own booth space. Over the ten years CRP has been a presence at the craft show, it has done well. I’ve sold hundreds of books to folks (mostly women). This year’s event, sad to say, was not very productive.

Now, I’ll readily admit, that part of the problem is that I haven’t had a new book released since Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story came out in March of 2009. So It’s been over two years since a new “Munger” product has been released. And book buyers, whether they are purchasing for themselves or others, want a new book, something unique and never-before-seen, to either read themselves or give as a gift. I get that. But, with stock of four book titles on hand (out of eight), one might assume that there would be something for everyone interested in buying a book even without a new title. But it’s more than that, dear readers. It’s also, as someone during a debate once said, “It’s the economy, stupid.” To be fair to the estrogen-driven female shoppers at this year’s FOT, I’d say my poor sales this year are a combination of not having “new” on hand to entice shoppers and the hard economic times we find ourselves in. I can remedy the first problem by releasing a new book (though, right now, I can’t afford to print it). But, like President Obama and Congress, I am clueless as to how to turn our dismal economy around.

Rene's Benches FOT 2011 CRP Booth

Thinking  about this weekend (two days of not many sales), maybe there’s more to this story than just product fatigue and global economic malaise. I come to this conclusion because, as the title to this piece says, I spent much of the weekend in my booth with Steve Jobs. No, I didn’t become delusional as I sat alone, waiting for customers, asking the perennial question I always ask: “Did John Grishom start this way?” (Actually, he did. A Time to Kill, his first effort, was self-published and languished in boxes in his basement until The Firm went ballistic.) I was reading, as I always do during down time at festivals, and my book of choice was the new biography of Apple icon and founder, Steve Jobs. I’ll save the review of the book for another blog but, suffice it to say, with all Jobs’s peculiarities, there’s one thing that has impressed me about the man’s story so far: He was always concerned with the aesthetics and the utility of his products. Keeping them beautiful and simple, while retaining functionality, was and is the hallmark of Apple’s product line. Reading the book got me to thinking (always dangerous, as my wife will attest): What if Cloquet River Press adopted the same business philosophy? What if, instead of perennially hitting my head against the wall, trying to break into a mainstream publisher through force of will, churning out manuscripts, sending out queries to agents and small presses, I simply took a step back, gathered my breath, and changed how Cloquet River Press does business? Interesting. What if, instead of trying to do things that big publishers are very, very good at (though their profit margins suck these days due to the onset of e-readers), like getting books into bookstores for strangers to read, I concentrate on my loyal fans, as small a base as that may be, and simply give them the best product I can produce? What if, when the next Munger book is released, it is done not with an eye towards pushing Mark Munger to a new level, but is released on a limited print basis (with e-book versions on all the major platforms) so that, in the end, I am not running hither and tither trying to sell books in the rain beneath my beloved EZ-Up? Craft shows were once the mainstay of what I did to sell books. Over the past three years, that avenue to sales has, even with a new book on the table (Mr Environment) dried up. Maybe the message that is being sent is: “Munger, it’s time to re-think, to re-vision what it is you’re trying to do.”

Over the next year, I will ponder more and travel less in an attempt to figure out what model makes the most sense for CRP. I’m tired of swinging for the fence only to hit pop flies: Better to wait for the right pitch and take a single. Steve Jobs likely wouldn’t be happy with that analogy: He’d urge me to swing for the fence. But in this changing world of print media, with a down economy and all the uncertainty of what tomorrow will bring, maybe taking a deep breath and actually thinking about where I want to be with my writing and my stories is the right thing to do.

Peace.

Mark

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead: Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved: and now we lie
In Flanders fields!

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields

(Composed at the battlefront on May 3, 1915  during the second battle of Ypres, Belgium by Lt. Col. John McCrae, British Expeditionary Force)

Graves of the Lost

The guns fell silent 93 years ago today. On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918, the fifth year of the devastation and destruction that defined the so-called Great War, the fighting stopped, men and boys at arms stood down, and WWI was over. Though political intrigue and fighting would continue in places like Finland, Estonia, Russia, and the Middle East as world leaders tried to redraw and redefine the global map, with the Armistice, the war was declared “over” and American soldiers, sailors, and Marines (who, in the last year of the war had been deployed to shore up the French, British, Italian, Canadian and other allied forces against the Germans and Austrians) began to dream of returning home.

Home.

I sit this Armistice Day (renamed “Veteran’s Day” to honor all of the men and women who have fallen defending America across time) in the comfort of my little writing studio along the banks of the Cloquet River in northeastern Minnesota, never having fired a shot at another human being; never having clawed my way through mud on my belly in the face of combat; never having experienced the utter terror and degradation of war on a personal level. Oh, I served ever-so-briefly. My career as an Army Reservist was undistinguished and of short duration. It did not involve watching my friends and my enemies die. It involved typing at a unit typewriter (you remember typewriters, I’m sure) at a cozy desk in a warm office in Fort Snelling. But, despite my innocence, my naivete with respect to the horrors of combat, I think I understand. But of course, as interview after interview with the vanishing heroes of another war (members of, as Tom Brokaw proclaimed, “The Greatest Generation”) have revealed I know nothing about war. So I will not pretend, as I sit contentedly in my bathrobe sipping hot coffee and listening to classical music as I type this piece, to understand what our young men and women in uniform posted in Iraq and Afghanistan are experiencing. I cannot relate to their reality any more than I can relate to the experiences of Frank Buckles and the other young men who stood the trenches on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month so many years ago.

Frank Buckles, last WWI Veteran

And now, they are all gone. Buckles was the last: The last American veteran of WWI. He died this year. He died, in some ways, unhappy: He had lobbied, to the end of his days, for a memorial to be erected to honor those who fought and died (improvident as the war might have been) as Americans under arms in the Great War. Perhaps it is too distant a time, too far a journey back, for the public to care enough (or at all) about their service. But Buckles cared: He knew the terror, the blood, the horrors of trench warfare and its impact on those who survived and how, for nearly five years, political forces on both sides of the conflict moved young men around strategically, like pieces manuevered by chess masters, with little regard for their dignity or their lives. They called it the Great War: Those who served and saw would tell you that there was nothing magnificent or heroic about it at all, that in the end, twenty million human beings (more than six million of that number were civilians) died because of a madman’s political insult. And though, in some ways, WWI was the end, for empires and old alliances, it was also the beginning: Science and technology impacted the way men would kill each other in that, for the very first time, masses of humanity could be dispatched from a distance by the use of modern weaponry. Despite the distance of time, on this eleventh day, of the eleventh month, of the eleventh year of a new century, how much, dear readers, has really changed? How much have we humans really learned?

Today, take a moment away from your coffee cups, from your cozy enclaves, from the safety and security of your existence here at home and say a prayer, or recite a poem, or simply remain silent in honor of those boys who stood (and still stand) the trenches, and for the women who minister to the wounded, guard our positions, and transport our troops. Whether you believe we need to be in Iraq and Afghanistan isn’t the issue. When you remember the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month remember this as well: We asked and they said “yes”.

American men and women who serve in uniform should be honored (for doing what the rest of us cannot or will not do) regardless of our personal politics.

Peace.

Mark