Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

((c) 2025, Mark Munger. This article first appeared in the December issue of the Finnish American Reporter.)

MM:

Describe your family’s immigration story.

FE:

My father came through Ellis island in 1899 and went to Ely, MN to join other Finns working in the timber industry and the mines. His older brother, Tom, who had already moved to Idaho, wrote Dad and told him if he didn’t come soon, all the “Free Land” for homesteading would be gone, so he moved there in 1905. My maternal grandparents, the Kangas family, also Finns, migrated with other Finns from Wyoming about that same time. My folks met when Dad was building her parent’s house and, even though Dad was almost 30 years older than Mom, they married and raised 7 children on the homestead which is still in the family. So I’m 100% Finnish!

MM:

Were there Finnish linguistic, cultural, artistic, musical, historical, or other influences in and around your home?

FE:

I grew up in Long Valley, Idaho, 100 miles north of Boise. Many Finns homesteaded there, including several from the mines of Wyoming. The Finnish immigrant men farmed their 160-acre homestead and in the early years worked the mines in the winter for cash money while their Finnish wives tended the farm year-round. The dream of most Finns coming to America was to have “a place of their own.” The immigrants, by and large, coming from rural Finland, always wanted a farm. It was a large part of the reason behind their immigration. They had lived through the famines in Finland and experience had taught them that “you won’t starve if you have land.”

Finnish was spoken in our home until Dad died, when I was eight. Since my brothers and I were in School where English was always spoken, I lost most of my ability to speak Finnish . Mother spoke Finnish as her first language, then learned English when she started school, so we spoke a lot of “Finnglish” at home.

There was always round loaves of Finn bread, made with white and wheat flour, in the kitchen. Before she got a electric range in the 1960s, Mom baked on a wood stove. But truthfully, growing up, I didn’t think about Finnishness a whole lot. Johannus Day (Midsummer) picknicks, held at local Finnish farmsteads, were always a highlight. At Christmas, Mom always cooked Lipia Kala, following a recipe her mother used, and one that I still use for our Yule time festivities.

 Although Dad was known as a good singer and entertained at Finnish gatherings, even writing some songs in Finnish, music wasn’t prevalent around the Eld home. Only my brother Larry inherited Dad’s singing talents. However, in early years, Mom’s brothers played in the local Finnish band.

Let’s talk about your education, training, and employment background.

FE:

I graduated from McCall-Donnelly high school in ’64 and applied to Columbia. Given I’d attended a tiny country school, I was conditionally accepted if I attend a year at Phillips Exeter Prep. I went from a town of 154 to New York City, though I wasn’t alone. I had Finnish cousins in NYC. That helped a lot. Once at Columbia, I concentrated on history and courses in education. I had a Work/Study job at NYC’s WMCA Clinton Youth Center. I imagine because Dad had been a Finnish finish carpenter, I inherited his skills in woodworking and established a wood shop, sponsored by the NY Rotary Club. So my Work/Study was spent teaching wood shop to inner city kids!

I graduated from Columbia intending to becoming a Social Studies teacher but ended up teaching industrial arts for ten years in a public school in Pennsylvania while I took additional courses at Millersville College. Then, I left teaching to move back to Idaho and became involved in the wholesale manufactured housing Industry. When housing collapsed, I returned East to teach Industrial Arts for 4 years in New Jersey, after which I returned to the manufactured housing business in Idaho and started the F W Eld & Company. I pioneered Land-Home packages for Manufactured homes and designed a permanent foundation plan for which met FHA and VA approval. I compiled an Idaho prescriptive code for manufactured housing, which allowed 30-year mortgages to become the norm.

After 25 years, I left the industry to run the Historic Roseberry General Store and continue the restoration of the Roseberry Museum which I had founded in 1969, the year I graduated from College. Eventually I was elected and served two terms as a Valley County Commissioner before retiring and moving to Boise.

At age 70, I returned to college an received a Master’s in Public History, something I had been involved in for over 60 years!

MM:

Detail how you became interested in the log construction techniques employed by Finnish immigrants.

FE:

After I graduated from Columbia in 1969 and began teaching in Pennsylvania, I spent summers in Idaho and founded the Long Valley Preservation Society. Initially, I bought the old general store building and began restoration. Over a period of 46 years, a group of community volunteers worked with me to establish a Museum and moved and restored 25 buildings in Roseberry, ID. Eight of these are Finnish log structures. That’s what piqued my interest in Finnish log construction. Idaho still has hundreds of early  (1900s) log buildings remaining, but I soon realized that those built by Finns were different. The craftsmanship far exceeded that of what I refer to as “American” cabins. I noted the logs were all scribed and fitted with dovetailed or double-notched corners, with no chinking between the logs. My research shows that roughly 50% are dovetailed and 50% are double-notched. This craftsmanship is what differentiates original Finnish log construction from other log buildings.

Father was one of the main builders of the Finnish structures that form the Roseberry museum, including the church and barn. As I worked on the museum, I thought, “When I retire, I’ll go across the country and see if Finns used these techniques everywhere …” I also intended to explore log construction in Finland where, up until the 1920s, nearly every building outside of the urban setting was built of logs. For the past 14 years, I have traveled across the US and into Canada locating and documenting Finnish log structures. For these long-distance travels, I use my “Finnabago”, a vehicle that folks could readily identify as mine, and visited the Midwest, the West, and New England. I have also traveled to Finland, Sweden, and Norway to research early log structures.

My travels introduced me to the work of the earliest Finnish immigrants, the Delaware Finns aka “Forest Finns”. In the Eastern US, the first sauna and log cabins built in America were crafted by Finnish immigrants.

What’s interesting is that Finnish immigration history is divided in terms of culture. West of the Great Lakes, you found Finns living in rural settings. Out East, the immigrants Finns were much more urban, having moved into already established towns or purchased abandoned Yankee farms. Although the Finns always built saunas on these farms, few were made of log. The non-availability of good logs and the readily availability of milled lumber drove their decision.

In terms of New Sweden, most of the Finns who immigrated in the late 1600s as part of that experiment were Forest Finns. Most first Finns didn’t come voluntarily: they were conscripted. The Finns in Sweden engaged in slash and burn agriculture which the Swedes didn’t appreciate. The impact of slash and burn was small but the Swedes opposed it. Swedish mining companies (copper and iron) wanted the trees for shoring timber at a time when Sweden was becoming a world power. Consequently, Swedish law banned slash and burn and those caught violating the law were sent to New Sweden. Additionally, the Crown recruited Finns from Finland itself. Karelian Finns made up most of the Finnish population that settled in New Sweden.

Finlandia National Foundation provided me with a grant to travel to Sweden, Finland, and Norway to research the Forest Finns. Fellow Historians in Finland provided information where to go to find the earliest log buildings. I photographed the oldest structures to show what the First Finnish immigrants brought across the Atlantic to New Sweden.

When the first Finnish immigrants arrived in the New World, they brought the log cabin and the sauna with them. Up until their arrival, no horizontal log buildings were constructed in North America. Of those original log structures erected in New Sweden, 5 remain. The most famous is the Mortenson House in Pennsylvania, which was saved because John Morton, a Finn, signed the Declaration of Independence. (Later research showed the house was actually his grandfather’s). The early smoke saunas from that influx of Finnish immigrants are long gone. Today, one of the best examples of an early sauna can be found at the Finn Creek Museum in New York Mills, MN.

MM:

What’s the difference between double-notched and dovetailed joints?

FE:

Double-notched corners are like the corners you find on kids’ Lincoln logs whereas dovetailed construction is more intricately notched.

MM:

Describe if you could, your process in evaluating, cataloging, and helping to preserve Finnish log buildings.

FE:

A basic process evolved after, when moving Finnish log buildings, I realized they were different. So, in my travels around the US, and Canada, I wanted to see if the techniques used remained consistent. My goal was to record every Finnish log building in existence from Washington to Maine, including Canada. What I found was that the construction throughout was virtually the same as I’d found in Idaho, with a few exceptions, primarily in New Finland, Canada where they had no straight trees. Finns built their buildings using scribed and coped logs without chinking. If you can’t see sunshine between the logs, it’s likely Finnish. MN and the UP of Michigan have the most Finn-constructed structures remaining intact. 

MM:

Tell us more!

FE:

The favorite buildings found on my travels include a Finnish sauna in Rhode Island. Why? It’s the only one there! Whoever built it clearly wanted a traditional smoke sauna. But by the 1920s, no big trees remained in the area. So the builder used what he found on his property. The logs are as crooked but he scribed and fitted them and made dovetail corners. Finnish Sisu and ingenuity at work.

Another favorite is a smoke sauna that, while in rough shape, remains unaltered from its original construction. It’s located in Monson, Maine. We tried to convince the owner to donate the structure to the local Finnish Farmer’s Club but the owner doesn’t want to give it up. I consider this sauna finding my holy grail. All other saunas built by immigrating Finns which I have found that were originally savusaunas have been converted by second generation Finns to use chimneys. That transition took place in the 1920s and it happened everywhere. Today, in Finland, they’re going back to the old smoke sauna.

MM:

I know in my area, a hotbed of Finnish immigration from the late 1890s into the early 1920s, there are a couple of unique locales where Finnish dovetailed buildings are preserved.

FE:

I have been able to find only two Finnish-built log school houses remaining: one in the UP and one in Sebeka, MN. I consulted on the restoration of the one in MN. I’ve been many times to the Wirtanen Farm near you. The original smoke sauna there is well restored. The Hanka Farmstead is the other important original Finnish Farm I’ve visited. It’s 15 miles south of Hancock, MI. You have to go there! It’s preserved but unoccupied like the Wirtanen Farm. Both have great Historical groups that maintain them.

Speaking of Minnesota, I started my research in Embarrass. That was my first trip to explore Finnish log buildings outside Idaho. I’d read a magazine article about the Finns settling Embarrass and went there 15 years ago. That started my quest. The thing is, unlike the Swedes, the Finns don’t proclaim they’re in a place: you have to find them. So I’m still looking for hidden gems of my heritage!

I was fortunate to have been named Finlandia Foundation Lecturer of the Year 2018-2019. I gave 17 lectures across the country, receiving goodwill donations and a stipend from the Foundation to fund my talks.

MM:

Years ago, friend and noted Finnish historian, Davis Helberg, introduced me to the Director of the Institute of Migration in Turku, FI, Olavi Koivukangas. At that time, Davis was working with the Institute to find a Finnish dovetailed building located in North America, have it dismantled, marked, and shipped to Finland to be installed at the Institute.

FE:

The rest of the story. It doesn’t have a perfect ending. But it does it have a good ending. It involves New Finland, which is located in Saskatchewan, Canada. The Canadian government encouraged Finns to settle there for free land. While visiting the community, a Finnish Canadian woman showed me around. Her grandparents’ house is the one located at the Migration Museum in Turku. When she showed me a photo of the house, I was surprised. The logs were chinked! Other buildings built by immigrant Finns in the area were also chinked. Because the only timber available was a small tree from the Locust family, the logs are as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. If you tried to square them, there’d be nothing left. Also, once the buildings chinked, they were all sided. So here’s the bad part of the story you know part of. Her grandparents’ home in Saskatchewan had been dismantled, shipped to Finland through Davis Helberg, and erected in Turku. Of all the surviving Finnish communities in North America that built log structures, Davis picked the one place where they chinked their logs! I told the Institute of Migration that their example was not representative of North American Finnish log construction and offered to help find an additional building. So far, the Institute hasn’t reached out but I remain hopeful. On a more positive note, there’s an excellent exhibit of Bob Kisken’s photography at the Institute in Turku detailing authentic Finnish log construction.

MM:

As you look back on your work, what’s the most important aspect of preserving old, perhaps degraded, buildings constructed by immigrants who are no longer with us?

FE:

Preserving buildings helps educate future generations. By way of example, there’s a cabin Finns built in Boise during the 1930s: a State Forester’s cabin. While repairing the building, someone suggested chinking the logs, which wouldn’t be accurate. I provided a solution to preservation that didn’t involve chinking. Another great example is a cabin near Hancock that Jim Kurrti took me to. I provided the owner restoration advice. The owner was considering tearing it down due to rot in one corner. Upon removing the siding covering the logs, we found an absolutely perfect log building. Instead of tearing it down, they fixed the problem and, in the process, saved a bit of history.

MM:

If a local Finnish group is interested in having you attend a meeting and make a presentation about your passion and your work, is that something you are willing to consider?

FE:

Always open to it. Email me at imfinn@icloud.com.

Kiitos, Frank!!

This essay recently appeared in the Winter 2025 issue of Pheasants Forever Journal. Thanks to Tom Carpenter, PFJ Editor, for featuring not only my words but my wife’s art in this great, national hunting and conservation magazine. Thanks, as well, to  The Coach (Legendary Hibbing Baseball Coach and Activities Director) Tim Scott who, along with his beloved Ruby, is pictured in René’s most excellent watercolor. Tim has joined me over the past few Decembers for what we call our “Minnesota March” and, if God’s willing, we’ll be out there again with our pups crashing through cattails and snowdrifts in 2026.

The following is the original, unedited piece I wrote.

(C) Mark Munger, 2025.

                                                      Old Men, Winter, and Dogs

The Judge came late in life to the hunt. He was along for one Minnesota pheasant hunt as a kid. He was twelve years old and carried an empty Savage .22  just “To get a feel for things.” Dad, Uncle Paul (who lived in Benson, MN), Grandpa Jack, the family black Lab and Paul’s Springer made up the hunting party. The Judge remembers Dad shooting a hen pheasant, a “no-no”, the only bird downed and sadly left behind for coyotes. Later, the Judge, attending law school, newly married, a kid on the way, met up with Dad and Jim (the Judge’s godfather), west of the Cities where he, Dad, and Jim hunted roosters and spent a couple of nights in Benson’s only motel. Uncle Paul had lost his Springer, experienced a major heart attack, was battling cancer, and could no longer take the field. That late season, shuffling-through-prairie-snow-drifts and trudging-in-cattails adventure was another bust. Only a handful of roosters flushed, few shots were taken, and no birds were bagged.

Fast forward. The Judge was elected to the bench, fathered four sons, and Dad was up there in age. The Judge and Dad experienced a handful of game farm outings where they chased and shot tame pheasants. But that was it until, out of the blue, Dad asked, “You want to hunt pheasants with Bruce and I?”

Dad and his hunting/fishing partner had been making fall pilgrimages to  Ashley, North Dakota. After saying “yes” to that invitation and taking in his first late-October trip to North Dakota, the Judge was hooked. It wasn’t that the crew shot a ton of birds. It was all about watching Dad’s black Lab Cleo work fields, cattails, trees, and grass on both private and PLOTS (Private Land Open To Sportsmen) land in the hopes of a flush.

Time eventually slows the cadence of hunting men (and I’m sure, women) who prefer walking behind a retriever or pointer to chasing whitetail or hunkering down in a duck blind when fall rolls around. But before the Ashley hunts fell victim to Father Time, circumstances changed. PLOTS land was withdrawn from public use and landowners began insisting hunters pay to hunt. Still, before things went south, the Judge was able to introduce his sons to the magic and majesty of hunting the Plains for roosters alongside their grandfather until Dad, whose beloved Cleo had passed over the rainbow bridge, chose to stay in Florida; enjoying his condo and the warmth of the Sunshine State rather than heading north to chase wild pheasants.

After one final, fruitless, wet-from-torrential-rain, October hunt near Ashley (no birds were taken and Leala, the Judge’s Brittany, “flushed” a skunk), the Judge, who had a son living in Williston, decided to try his luck further north. The plan was to stay with the son’s young family, explore the area, and hunt PLOTS and public land with Leala, who’d recovered from her run-in with a varmint. Despite a trip to the local vet to staple a gash across Leala’s thigh (an encounter with barbed wire), the hunt was everything the Judge wanted: roosters and sharp tail grouse flushing in numbers over great points by the little dog. A few birds found the game pouch: many more flew away unscathed. But, in addition to his success in the field, the Judge made some new friends in nearby Montana, folks who invited him to hunt their farm and stay with them without charge. The combination of the kindness of strangers, ample public and public access land to hunt, and good numbers of Hungarian partridge, rooster pheasants, and sharp tail grouse, drew the Judge to return year after year. His aim and his stamina haven’t gotten better. He and his partners, both human and canine, have endured driving rain, snow  squalls, unseasonable warmth, bitter cold, and the overabundance or absence of water. But even after missing bird after bird after bird this past November, the Judge’s glasses useless in a howling snowstorm, the birds holding tight, the dogs working their collective magic to flush reluctant roosters, partridge, and grouse, he and his youngest son left the prairie with memories, plenty of birds in the bag, and satisfied pups.

Four years ago, at the suggestion of a friend, the Judge planned a Minnesota pheasant hunt. The late season trip would involve the Judge and the Coach (a retired teacher, school administrator, and coach) who’s a year younger than the gray-haired jurist: both men at or near seventy. Just two old men, two Labs, and a Britt off on an adventure. The Judge had no idea what to expect hunting public and walk-in access land in southwestern Minnesota. And yet, he and the Coach (who hunts pheasants in South Dakota and ducks in North Dakota with family) were determined to see what a winter walk-about in search of Minnesota roosters might be like. Yes, the Judge knew that early December would likely mean snow. And cold. And that Minnesota bird numbers, even after serious conservation efforts by the DNR, volunteers, and Pheasants Forever, wouldn’t be near what the men see further west. Didn’t matter. The die was cast. And so, a new tradition was born. Shooting his very first wild pheasant in the state he’s called home for over seventy years of life brought the biggest grin possible to the Judge’s craggy, bearded face.

 Over the past four years, the two old men and their dogs have tromped over and through and around tree rows, cattails, snow, ice, bluestem, juniper, buckthorn, and grass in search of birds. The Judge believes the trips he and the Coach take, these last forays of the season, hunting over magnificent dogs who flush and point and retrieve (whenever the old men are lucky enough to connect) are a thing of great beauty and dampen, both physically and mentally, the impact of time.

The Judge remembers the men-all of whom are gone-who taught him to hunt; the dozens of hunting dogs he’s owned and hunted behind; and smiles when he thinks of his sons, his grandsons (and, perhaps someday, his granddaughters too!), and the Coach traipsing through pheasant country in quest of peace, beauty, and contentment.

In the November 2025 issue of the Finnish American Reporter, I had the pleasure of interviewing my friend and Northwoods legend, Paul Metsa. This is an unedited version of that interaction. (c) Mark Munger, 2025

MM:

Let’s start with some background.

PM:

I was born in 1955 in Virginia, Minnesota. My mother’s heritage was English, Scots, and Irish. My father’s heritage was Finnish. His father’s parents were from northern Finland and immigrated to Soudan, Minnesota in the 1890’s. His mother’s parents were from southern Finland and also immigrated to northern Minnesota. Both families eventually settled in Angora where my grandparents met and my father was born in 1928 on the Metsa farm.

MM:

Were there cultural, food, linguistic, social, musical, or other elements of your Finnish childhood that impacted your upbringing?

PM:

My grandfather Emil was a huge influence on me. My dad, Elder, was a very busy guy selling insurance and real estate who also served on the Virginia School Board, Virginia City Council, and two terms as Mayor of Virginia. So, in a way, my Grandpa really filled in for the time my dad did not have time for. Grandpa Metsa had two sisters, Ellen and Eva, and two brothers, Eino and Eli. While I was growing up, Eva and Eli, both single, still lived on the Metsa homestead in Angora, MN. Eino lived right across the river. And Ellen lived in Virginia. We all celebrated holiday gatherings together and would also spend time at the Metsa cabin at Lake Vermilion in the summer. My great grandfather, John Metsa, went out in a canoe with a Native American guide and a real estate agent and bought a beautiful point on Wake-Em-Up Bay for $500. He paid for it on the spot with five, crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. That was big money as Great Grandpa John ran a working farm and was also a logger and a blacksmith. We still share the point with cousins. We’ve always had a sauna at the cabin, and as it’s grandfathered in, it’s only a few steps from the lake. I’ve been taking sauna’s since I was a baby and still take three-four saunas a week at the Duluth YMCA. I hope to eventually install one in the basement of my house in Lincoln Park. We also had a sauna in our basement in Virginia. During the winter months, all the relatives would come over for Sunday sauna night. Now the world is getting hip to the wonderful health benefits of Sauna. Bless them all for that!

My two aunts, Eva and Ellen, and grandmother Elna all made Finnish biscuits. We always debated which biscuit was the best. Eva’s was special as she cooked it on a wood stove at the farm. During visits with those Finnish relatives, biscuits and coffee were always served. We all started drinking coffee as young kids. My aunt Eva would put a sugar cube in her mouth and drink her coffee out of the saucer. Grandma Metsa would usually have a weekly batch of kalamojakka on the stove and made sure she put the head of a Northern pike in the batch replete with its eyes. That used to scare the hell out of me as a kid! She’d also have sybbit bread we’d dunk in the stew and villi (fermented milk) around for dessert. 

MM:

Was Finnish spoken in your home or at family gatherings with Finnish relatives?

PM:

The older relatives spoke Finnish fluently as did my dad. My Grandma Metsa also corresponded with Finnish relatives in Finland, writing in Finn. Unfortunately, none of us kids learned the language. But I loved listening to them speak Finn as it has such a mellifluous flow.

Grandpa Metsa owned and ran the Roosevelt Bar in downtown Virginia from 1942-1965. He played accordion and, when he lived on the farm, occasionally walked through the woods to play at dances. He also had a great voice. He and Grandma got a Victrola as a wedding present in 1926 (he was 26; she was 18)  and he had an amazing collection of 78s (we still have the Victrola and records at the cabin.) My first and favorite memory of appreciating music was listening to those records at the apartment above the bar in Virginia. We’d sit in the living room, just the two of us, and listen while Grandpa sang along. That’s where my love for minor keys came from. The jukebox in the bar was filled with classic country. I’d help Grandpa clean the bar on Sundays and listening to records by Johnny Cash, Ernest Tubb, and Merle Haggard (among others) inspired my love of storytelling songs. Grandpa was a big supporter of my music and bought me my first Silvertone F-hole guitar (I was in second grade). He also bought me my first amp and built me my first microphone stand. He inspired me in so many ways. When he owned the bar, the lumberjacks would come into town and give Grandpa their checks. Grandpa would monitor them and would make sure they had enough money to take home to their families after whooping it up. Many times over the years, he’d ask me to drive him up to funeral homes to say goodbye to friend, and many times we’d be one of just a few names on the visitors’ list. He was very loyal. When we’d drive around the Range for lunch or coffee, it was rare not to have somebody come up and say hello. I remember taking him to buy a new pick-up truck. The salesman assumed he was going to order it in Finlander Blue and was surprised when Grandpa ordered a green one. Grandpa’s motto was “It’s either right or it’s bullshit.” Never a week goes by when I don’t think about him.

MM:

Growing up in Virginia, did you have occasion to visit Kaleva Hall or attend any gatherings there?

PM:

My grandma was a Lady of the Kaleva. We went to the Hall for bake sales and dinners. My mother, Bess Metsa, was on the Old Finn Town committee that spearheaded the efforts to rehabilitate Kaleva Hall. I’ve played there several times. The acoustics in the second-floor concert hall are amazing.

Grandma Elna was also a member of the Unitarian Church. I played several events in the basement  of the church beginning in grade school and on into high school. Many Finns were members. I loved their approach, a great combo of Christianity and Socialism. My grandma’s brother Ernie, a die-hard Communist (who was good friends with perennial Communist Presidential Candidate Gus Hall) helped run the Finnish American Worker when he lived in Superior. I loved Ernie. You could set your watch and after a few Tom and Jerry’s, he’d get into his Commie rap. My mother, a tried-and-true Republican, would always kick him out of the Christmas party. I also enjoyed reading the letters to the editor in the Mesabi Daily News from the old Socialists living out in the woods around the Iron Range.

Grandpa Metsa had a great sense of humor: subtle but ever-present. As a bar owner, he always had a great quip ready. I found early on humor is a great social lubricant. Our last name, when Great Grandpa John emigrated from Finland, was Metsavainio. They shortened it to Metsa at Ellis Island. I always knew Metsa meant woods or forest in Finn. Years ago I was at a party and a man from Finland was visiting. I asked him what Metsavainio stood for. Without skipping a beat he said, “oh, that means lost in the woods.”

I still laugh about that.

MM:

When and how did you start singing for folks in public?

PM:

I’ve always been attracted to the guitar. Many of the polka bands playing the Iron Range had guitar players. The great Bobby Aro (a fellow Finn) was an influence and I loved his radio show on WEVE out of Eveleth. I also did a couple of years as a DJ on WHLB in Virginia while in high school. Legendary radio and TV host Dennis Anderson (also a Virginia native) got his start there. I saw Elvis in It Happened at the World’s Fair at the MACO Theater in Virginia, MN in 1963 when I was in third grade. He was a handsome devil, played guitar, drove cool cars, won all his fights, and was surrounded by beautiful women. When I walked out of that theater, my course in life was set.

I’m primarily self-taught. When I was twelve, I took lessons from an amazing musician named Dennis Monroe. He taught me how to play finger-style guitar and turned me on to great American folk music. I wrote my first song “How Many Times Must I Cry” then. I was playing with my grade school buddy Chuck Christianson whose mom and dad were from Superior. We called ourselves Paul and Christian and thought we were the Iron Range’s answer to Simon and Garfunkel. We also started a band called the Positive Reaction that featured a young drummer from Mt. Iron named Gary Pagliaccetti who went on to become one of the youngest judges in Minnesota. I met Tim O’Keefe, also from Superior, on the first day of Senior High in 1973. We called ourselves Metsa and O’Keefe: billed as the only Finnish-Irish acoustic blues duo in the Upper Midwest. Then we formed a band called Cats Under the Stars. We’re celebrating the 50th anniversary of that band with several shows this year.

Early on, I was a huge fan of Leo Kottke. I saw a show of his at the Guthrie Theater and I was so knocked out by that show I decided to become a professional musician that night. My only goal was to play the Guthrie. I played there eight times, selling it out in 1994 with a ten-piece band. It was the last time my mother saw me play. Her work was done. I’ve always said, “All male musicians are Mama’s boys.”

I left Virginia for Minneapolis in 1977 to make my way into the music world. It’s one of the greatest music communities in America. I was like a kid in a candy store, out every night of the week listening to great, live, music. A few years later I started to play around town and played close to 6,000 gigs. Along the way, I wrote some songs and ended up winning eight Minnesota Music Awards. From there, I headed back north to Duluth where I now live.

MM:

How would you describe the process of becoming a musician, learning music, and venturing into songwriting?

PM:

Music is a calling not unlike becoming a priest; the best way to start is to take a vow of poverty. Like Brownie McGhee said, “My guitar is my weapon against the world.” Though it can be a tough way to make a living, I’ve survived over forty years in the ‘biz on sisu, described as “determination beyond all reason.” There’s no greater high when things are going well. I’ve made lifelong friends through music, played with many of my heroes, including Jorma Kaukonen who invited me to sit in with him at the Union Bar in Minneapolis in 1986. Another highlight was opening up for Gordon Lightfoot at Conners Point in Superior, WI in 1987. It was pure magic. It was an honor and a lifelong dream. Right before he hit the opening chords to “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”, a fog horn from a ghost ship in the harbor sounded. When he finished there was about twenty-nine sea gulls flew in low, over the stage, seeming to represent the sailors that went down on the Fitz. Moments like that are only experienced if you’ve devoted your life to music.

MM:

Other highlight to your lengthy career?

PM:

One of the first songs I learned was “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” by Pete Seeger. In 1996, I had the honor of hanging out with Pete and jamming with him at the Tribute to Woody Guthrie at Case Western University sponsored by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He told me the story of how he and Woody Guthrie toured Duluth in 1941 and played at a lumber camp in front of a dozen Finnish lumberjacks. They played all night long. The next morning they were getting ready to leave and the camp foreman asked why they were leaving. Pete said, “We played all night and got no response.” The foreman replied, “What do you mean? They loved you!” While we Finns are known to keep our emotions close to their vest, I may be an exception. I like to tell people I might be the only musician in America to have played both the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio and the United States Hockey Hall of Fame in Eveleth, MN!

MM:

You’re a published author as well as a singer/songwriter.

PM:

I’ve authored three books and released twelve original recording projects. Folks can find out more info at www.paulmetsa.com .

MM:

You’re visible, audible, and active in the Duluth music scene and have interest in history, politics, and social justice.

PM:

Finnish Socialists helped create the first labor unions on the Iron Range as well as food and electrical co-operatives. I recently found the card that was given out at my Great Grandmothers Selma’s funeral held at the Metsa homestead in Angora. It was put on by the Range Mortuary Co-operative which I found interesting. Leave it to the Finns to unite to save costs when saying final goodbyes to relatives!

I’ve always admired how Finns fight for social justice. I was inspired by that, along with the Civil Rights movement and other progressive social movements. Those sentiments and movements have shaped my political views and my songwriting. Part of my original repertoire includes songs about social justice. This fall, I’m releasing a collection of a dozen songs I’ve recorded over the years called Songs of Resistance and Respect which will hopefully include a songbook. I describe myself exactly like respected United States District Court Judge Miles Lord, who called himself an “Iron Range prairie populist.” 

In terms of live music and catching me on the radio, I play every Friday at Carmody’s Irish Pub at 308 East Superior Street in Duluth from 5:30-7:30pm backed by the Tilt Town Titanettes. I also host a weekly radio show, “Stars Over the Prairie”, airing on Saturday mornings from 11am-Noon on KDAL 610AM-103.9FM. The show can also be streamed via www.kdal610.com .

You can watch Paul and the great Al Sparhawk of Low in this fine new video of Paul’s new protest song, “No Kings.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkMLoJ7ZQgA&list=RDMkMLoJ7ZQgA&start_radio=1

(This story is excerpted from Duck and Cover: Things Learned Waiting for the Bomb (c) 2025. Mark Munger. Find your copy under the “Books” tab on this website.)

DEAD LETTER                     

Davy Crockett stood tall in the midst of the Mexican horde. His musket was useless; there was no more powder, no more shot. He raised his heavy rifle by its barrel like an ax. Gunfire rang out. Travis was already dead. Bowie would not live more than a minute or two. Santa Anna was poised to enter the old mission at the head of his triumphant army.

            I sat on a braided rug in our basement, my knees curled beneath me in the flexibility of youth. I was absorbed in reliving the heroism of the Alamo. Pale blue figurines of molded plastic, historically accurate and detailed, surrounded the pressed tin walls of the fortress. Few Texans remained alive. I was a small boy of nine, talking softly to myself, carefully advancing Mexican soldiers towards destiny.

            Mom stood at the ironing board watching As the World Turns on an old black-and-white cabinet-style Admiral television. Her thin, blue-veined hands pushed and pulled the hot iron in no particular pattern as she tried to follow the parade of simulated domestic problems portrayed in front of her.

            It was a school day. I shouldn’t have been home. But it was November. I always get strep in November. That year was no exception. I stayed home, nursing my sore throat and the bruise on my butt from where Mom gave me a shot of penicillin.

            “What’re you doing?” Mom asked.

            “Playin’ Alamo,” I replied without looking up.

            “Who’s winning?”

            “Mexicans. Rotten old Santa Anna wins every time.”

            “Can’t you change it so the other side wins?”

            “Mom, that’s not what happened. That’d be cheating,” I said as dragoons galloped toward the beleaguered mission.

            “We interrupt our regular programming to bring you a special report,” a male voice said. The seriousness of the TV announcer’s tone forced Mom to focus on the flickering screen.

            “This morning in downtown Dallas, President Kennedy and Governor Connally of Texas were shot. Eyewitnesses say that both the President and the Governor were rushed to a Dallas hospital. The conditions of both men are unknown. Stay tuned to this station for further details.”

            “Oh my God!” Mom murmured, placing the iron on edge and cradling her face in her hands.

            “Is the President hurt bad, Mom?” As I spoke, I placed the figure of Santa Anna next to Davy Crockett. The tip of the Mexican’s saber nudged the frontiersman’s chest, foreshadowing Crockett’s demise.

            “We don’t know yet, Mark. Just pray it’s not bad. He’s such a good man. Remember seeing him at UMD?”

            I remembered. President Kennedy had been in town a month or two before the shooting to give a speech. My father was an official in the local Democratic party and I’d attended the historic event with my parents. I fell asleep in the bleachers of UMD’s gymnasium and didn’t hear the President’s address. Still, because the man was the President (his photo hung in our den like that of a saint) there wasn’t any need to remember his words: Whatever John Fitzgerald Kennedy said was gospel.

            As the afternoon lingered on, the news grew worse. Mom and I sat together on the braided rug listening raptly as reporters talked about bullets to the head and blood staining Mrs. Kennedy’s dress. Mom held me, embracing my sickly body, taking solace in the life she’d brought into the world. And then, we watched Walter Cronkite—his velvety voice cracking with grief—announce to the world that the President of the United States was dead.

            Mom rocked me in her arms. She did not speculate why the President had been shot. She did not contemplate whether the assassin would be found. Her thoughts were singular and were devoted to the brutal fact that the First Lady had been widowed and left alone to care for two small children.

            “What a horrible thing for those children,” Mom whispered, tears sliding down her young cheeks as she spoke.

            “Do you think I should write Mrs. Kennedy a letter ’bout not being too sad?” I asked, pulling away to look at Mom’s troubled face.

            “That would be very comforting,” Mom encouraged, her voice soft and tender.

            Leaving the defenders of the Alamo to their fate, I climbed the crude wooden staircase from the basement to the kitchen. Mom remained behind, immobilized by shock from the most horrific event she’d witnessed in her lifetime.

            I wrote a letter of condolence to the First Lady. After finishing the message, I lost the nerve to send it. Mom tucked the letter away, saving it for when I was older, for when I would understand.

            In the intervening decades, through the tumult of the Vietnam War and the deception of Watergate, that unsent letter remained in my scrapbook. Years later, I happened upon the letter and considered mailing it to Jackie (who’d remarried to become Mrs. Onassis). I thought it might serve some purpose for her to know that the children who witnessed her anguish had not forgotten. Instead, I did nothing.

            Then Jackie Onassis died. After reading about her funeral, I searched for the letter. My childhood missive to the First Lady was gone. It had disappeared, leaving me to ponder whether it’s possible to retrieve what has been lost.

John and Mark, FinnFest 2023

I met John Simon by a quirk of fate. I’d never heard of the man until, after being asked to participate in FinnFest 2023 (on the strength of my Finnish American trilogy of historical novels, Suomalaiset, Sukulaiset, and Kotimaa) I noticed that a Finnish author with a strange surname (for a Finn) was going to join me on a panel discussing writing historical fiction for Finnish Americans, Finnish Canadians, and Finns. John Simon sounds Jewish, was my first thought. Having no knowledge of the man or his work, I Googled John, found his book Strangers in a Strange Land on Amazon, ordered it, read it, and loved it. An unusual blend of fact and fiction, Strangers covers ground similar to my second Finnish novel, Sukulaiset, in that it chronicles the fate of Jews in Finland during WW 2. Once I finished the book, I was anxious to meet the author. We emailed each other and, after inquiring whether John was bringing copies of Strangers to the festival to sell, and learning he was but had no means of selling them, I offered John table space in my booth. I believed in the book and John’s work and was happy to make the offer (which included running his credit card sales through my Square account). When we met in person for the first time while setting up my booth at FinnFest, we took an instant liking to each other. From there, we proceeded to spend four or five days together, every hour of the festival (outside of our time spent as panelists) talking about life, marriage, kids, basketball, writing, and our unusual (for FinnFest) non-Finnish heritages.

John had read the first novel in my trilogy, Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh, a story based upon the lynching of a Finn in Duluth in 1918. He was gracious in his praise for the book and, because much of the story takes place along the Cloquet River which flows in my rural backyard, I suggested we take a road trip to my “neck of the woods” so John could see for himself the landscape depicted in the tale. We drove to my home where John met my wife, René (another non-Finn!), wandered down to the river, and shared a meal at a local eatery as we continued to bond and talk and become friends. I can honestly say, John is one of the only human beings I’ve ever formed a deep and abiding friendship with in the blink of an eye. His personality was such that he made it easy to like him. Not only that, but his writing style was akin to my own, forming another basis for a bond.

In the end, John flew back to Helsinki, leaving me a few dozen copies of Strangers (and the routing number and account number for his NYC Wells Fargo account so I could make deposits) which I carted along with my books to various Finnish events. I sold them all and have heard nothing but praise for the book from those who’ve read it. After FinnFest, we shared a few long-distance conversations about our writing, lives, and families via WhatsApp (for an eighty something, John was darn tec-savvy!) during which he repeatedly thanked me for selling the copies he’d left behind.

A few months before his death,  John called me on another topic. “Maybe I should’ve asked permission,” he began the conversation (his wife was on the line as well). “How’s that?” “Well,” he said, “for the past year my wife and I’ve been translating Suomalaiset into Finnish.” “Really?” “Yes. And we’re getting close to the point where I’ll have a friend of mine at the university make sure we’ve got it right.” “Okay.” Then, the man’s innate kindness rose up. “It’s such a great story, a story every Finn here in Finland should know, I want to see if my publisher here will publish it.” I was stunned. Such generosity. I can’t even imagine the hours he and his wife had spent on the project. “If it happens, John, we need to figure out your share of the profits.” As I said the words, I knew he wasn’t interested in money. That wasn’t the point. Still, fair is fair. “No, Mark. I’m doing this because I believe in the book. It’s great. It needs a larger audience.” Wow. I knew, from the beginning of the conversation, that John had recently battled a serious illness but he sounded like he was on the mend. After letting John vent a bit about Finland’s decision to landmine its border with Russia and the toll Israel’s actions in Palestine were taking on noncombatants, we said our goodbyes. Little did I know, as I hung up, that would be our last internet telephone call.

I remain amazed that in four or five days of personal interaction and over a half-dozen phone calls two men can become fast friends in this hectic, dissonant, disconnected, angry world. But that’s what happened. John Simon was a man of grace, poise, intellect, kindness, and wisdom who I was happy, however briefly, to know and call friend.

(Two Celebrations of Life were held, one in Helsinki and one in New York City, to honor and remember the life of Finnish American John Simon. Both were well attended, attesting to the kindness, goodness, and integrity of this fine man.)

Judge Mark Munger

Duluth, MN

Jack and Callie in Jack’s Solo Old Town

Sometimes, my youngest son, a single, avid outdoorsman who works hard at his production job for a local company but plays equally hard on his three-day weekends (fishing every lake between Hayward and Ely in his solo canoe or his 12′ fishing boat; sharptail hunting in NW MN; pheasant and sharpie and Hun hunting in SW MN, ND, and MT; grouse hunting in NE MN; and ice fishing, again, all over the map) has some really good ideas. Like the Cast, Walk Past, No Blast day trip we made recently. That was a bit of a test for the Old Man as, a week before, I’d taken a tumble off the bottom stair of our front porch, landing on concrete with both knees, straining both hamstrings in the process. I was a hurt unit after that event. It was excruciating sitting in our Old Town 18′ canoe as we fished for trout on that earlier excursion. But we caught some splake and rainbows (he more than I), though the rainy, drizzly weather made our first joint grouse hunt a bust. Still, the two Britts (Callie and Sammy) had an absolute ball even though they only flushed three birds over several hours of scampering, snuffling, and pointing. But I came away from that one-day adventure thinking, How am I going to spend three days in a canoe? I mean, my hammies screamed the entire time we were on the water. Walking the woods was better. But being confined to the rear seat of a canoe? It was some of the worst pain I’ve ever endured.

Even so, a promise is a promise. Jack and I put together the gear needed for a BWCA paddle for four adults-sons Jack, Dylan, and Matt and myself; and Matt’s two boys, 13 year old Adrien and 10 year old Avery. All have been in the wilderness on Munger Marches multiple times, except Avery whose sole experience to the BWCA was with his dad, brother, and I when Avery was 4. Despite Grandpa’s fears, we planned our trip and God planned the weather, which, though windy, was sunny and absolutely perfect the entire time. The drive to the Tofte Ranger station to pick up our permit and watch the obligatory “Caring for the Wilderness” video included a pit stop at the Two Harbors McDonald’s (we were on the road by 7:00am, picking up Dylan in Hermantown by 7:30: right on schedule for once!). From there, it was gravel forest roads to our point of entry. Loading the canoes at the landing, paddling, and portaging all went according to plan with no grumbling, arguing, or lost gear.

Dylan’s First ‘Eye of the Trip

After a lengthy meander into our favorite BWCA walleye factory (my hips cried out for mercy the entire way), passing many occupied campsites before finding an open spot, landing three canoes (two doubles (Matt’s included Avery as a duffer) and Jack’s solo), setting up camp, and hoisting the food pack above bear-reach, we got to the business at hand and caught some walleye our first day on the water. We kept one of Avery’s fish as he insisted, though fish was not on the menu, “I want walley for dinner.” Uncle Jack cleaned Avery’s ‘eye, cooked it, and served it up to his beaming nephew who gobbled down the two fillets in seconds. “That’s the best fish ever,” my grandson said. Dylan agreed. “Grandpa and Grandma had us over for a fsh feast a couple of weeks’ ago (the fish were some crappies and walleye Jack had caught) and it was so much better than fish sticks!” What did the rest of the canoe crew have for dinner? Mountain House Chicken Fajita Bowl, teriyaki instant rice, and cherry Kool-Aid. Dylan did the dishes. The kids enjoyed hot cocoa before bed and the adults, well a couple of my sons enjoyed a nip of an adult beverage as darkness cloaked the shoreline. Me? I was too worn out and tired for such youthful shenanigans. I hit the hay before 9:30. 

Dusk on Secret Lake

Grandpa’s Solo Tent and Site. (Well, not really solo since Callie cuddled with Gramps when not fishing or on chipmunk patrol.)

Callie on Chipmunk Duty

Morning filtered into the tent. After hot coffee for the adults and hot cocoa for the kids, instant oatmeal, and breakfast bars, the adventurers ventured out and battled a raging wind in search of more fish. I fished with Jack and Callie, and as usual, the son outfished the father. I’d like to blame my screaming hips (due to a sleepless, pain-filled night) for my ineptitude but that’s not fair. My youngest son is simply a better fisherman than I am. As Jack and I fished, Matt and the boys enjoyed some hammock time. Dylan read a Game of Thrones novel in his tent and tried to catch up on missed sleep. Jack and I kept some perch and small walleye because fish was indeed on the dinner menu. Eventually, Matt and the boys joined us on the water and caught a few small walleye. Lunch, as it was the day before, consisted of tangerines, PB & J on soft tortillas, more Kool-Aid (orange flavor this time), and Hershey’s miniatures. After lunch, Dylan and I paddled into a bay we hadn’t fished. He caught another walleye for dinner, hooked into a 4-5# pike that went airborne before biting off the line, and I caught a walleye no bigger than a smelt. With dusk approaching, we paddled towards camp, dropped off Dyl’s fish where Jack was cleaning dinner (all remains were packed into the forest for disposal as per Forest Service regs) and headed back to start dinner.

Oh. One more thing about that second day of fishing. As Dylan and I approached Jack on the point, we heard a commotion behind us coming from the Other Mungers’ canoe. We had no idea what was going on until Matt and the boys paddled up to the campsite. Grandson Adrien, tired of missing little perch and walleye with his worm-tipped jig, had changed baits and thrown a surface plug into the lily pads. Bam! He latched onto a completely unexpected trophy: Adrien’s largemouth bass, landed without a net, tipped the scales at 5 and 1/2#! After taking a couple of obligatory shots for posterity, she was released back to the tannin to swim away and breed again. Talk about smiles!

Jack With Dinner/Adrien and Grandpa Admire the Giant Bass/Adrien with His Lunker (Note Avery’s envious gaze!)

Dinner was fish coated in classic Shore Lunch, the fillets rolled in French’s mustard and fried over a single burner stove, as well as Mountain House entrees (Chili Mac and regular Mac), chicken fried rice, and hot cocoa (welcomed by all: it was breezy and a cool though still clear as a bell). Matt handled the dishes as the boys, their uncles, and a very sore Grandpa watched and planets stars appear, heard swans and sandhills echo against descending dark, and took in the BWCA’s sacred, quiet, beauty. When the adult beverage appeared, it was time for the Oldster to head to his tent with his Brittany. Once inside the tent with the pup, I realized my sleep deprivation was due to my sleeping pad not being fully inflated. Situation fixed, I struggled in my tiny home-away-from-home to pull my trousers off and slide my creaking body into my mummy bag, the very tired from rodent-chasing Britt nestled at my side. Getting old means not being flexible (and I was one of the stiffest guys on the planet before turnings 70!) and dressing and undressing in a space meant for Munchkins is no easy feat!

About the only disappointment of the trip was, try as we may to find dry firewood (you’re limited to deadfall and can’t cut trees or peel bark by Forest Service regs, which makes abundant sense given 200,000 folks use the BWCA and its sensitive, no topsoil campsites every year), our efforts amounted to sputtering, ineffective fires at night. 

Jack Working His Eagle Scout Magic on the Fire (Not!)

Matt and Adrien Waiting for Oatmeal/Waterfall Portage

The second morning, it was breakfast as usual; meaning instant oatmeal, breakfast bars, tangerines, cocoa, coffee, and the last of the Kool-Aid. There was some grumbling (Dylan) that, “In the old days, Dad used to make us pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs” on these trips. True enough. But Dad can’t quite carry the loads he once did, or solo portage a Duluth Pack and an 85# canoe, or make eleven portages in a single day with three young sons in tow (with René happy not to be on that escapade to watch her husband and sons scramble over rocks and haul canoes and gear). So, you get what you get, second son! Despite sleeping another night on a rock, the sleeping pad worked its magic and, after packing up, loading the canoes, ensuring the fire was out (it never really got started!), and beginning our long paddle back to real life, miracle of miracles, my hamstrings almost felt normal. Maybe my prayers for healing worked. Maybe the Ibuprofen kicked in. Whatever it was, the long slog back to the landing was bearable. 

In my worst moment of post-fall-from-the-porch-pain in the Coleman canoe, I’d confided to Dylan, “This might be Dad’s last canoe trip …”

But every day is a new day and I’m rethinking that statement as I type this chronicle of a short but epic journey into one of God’s true wonders.

There might just be one more paddle in this Old Man’s body.

Thanks, Jack, for inviting the Munger Family into another of your adventures.

PS Pizza and and a cold Castle Danger Cream Ale enjoyed in Tofte after hitting the blacktop restores a man’s soul and his faith in himself!

Author John Simon and Me at FinnFest 2023

(Note: This eulogy was written for the Simon Family in lieu of me attending John’s upcoming Celebration of Life in NYC.)

I met John Simon by a quirk of fate. I’d never heard of the man until, after being asked to participate in FinnFest 2023 (on the strength of my Finnish American trilogy of historical novels, Suomalaiset, Sukulaiset, and Kotimaa) I noticed that a Finnish author with a strange surname (for a Finn) was going to join me on a panel discussing writing historical fiction for Finnish Americans, Finnish Canadians, and Finns. John Simon sounds Jewish, was my first thought. Having no knowledge of the man or his work, I Googled John, found his book Strangers in a Strange Land on Amazon, ordered it, read it, and loved it. An unusual blend of fact and fiction, Strangers covers ground similar to my second Finnish novel, Sukulaiset, in that it chronicles the fate of Jews in Finland during WW 2. Once I finished the book, I was anxious to meet the author. We emailed each other and, after inquiring whether John was bringing copies of Strangers to the festival to sell, and learning he was but had no means of selling them, I offered John table space in my booth. I believed in the book and John’s work and was happy to make the offer (which included running his credit card sales through my Square account). When we met in person for the first time while setting up my booth at FinnFest, we took an instant liking to each other. From there, we proceeded to spend four or five days together, every hour of the festival (outside of our time spent as panelists) talking about life, marriage, kids, basketball, writing, and our unusual (for FinnFest) non-Finnish heritages.

John had read the first novel in my trilogy, Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh, a story based upon the lynching of a Finn in Duluth in 1918. He was gracious in his praise for the book and, because much of the story takes place along the Cloquet River which flows in my rural backyard, I suggested we take a road trip to my “neck of the woods” so John could see for himself the landscape depicted in the tale. We drove to my home where John met my wife, René (another non-Finn!), wandered down to the river, and shared a meal at a local eatery as we continued to bond and talk and become friends. I can honestly say, John is one of the only human beings I’ve ever formed a deep and abiding friendship with in the blink of an eye. His personality was such that he made it easy to like him. Not only that, but his writing style was akin to my own, forming another basis for a bond.

In the end, John flew back to Helsinki, leaving me a few dozen copies of Strangers (and the routing number and account number for his NYC Wells Fargo account so I could make deposits) which I carted along with my books to various Finnish events. I sold them all and have heard nothing but praise for the book from those who’ve read it. After FinnFest, we shared a few long-distance conversations about our writing, lives, and families via WhatsApp (for an eighty something, John was darn tec-savvy!) during which he repeatedly thanked me for selling the copies he’d left behind.

A few months before his death,  John called me on another topic. “Maybe I should’ve asked permission,” he began the conversation (his wife was on the line as well). “How’s that?” “Well,” he said, “for the past year my wife and I’ve been translating Suomalaiset into Finnish.” “Really?” “Yes. And we’re getting close to the point where I’ll have a friend of mine at the university make sure we’ve got it right.” “Okay.” Then, the man’s innate kindness rose up. “It’s such a great story, a story every Finn here in Finland should know, I want to see if my publisher here will publish it.” I was stunned. Such generosity. I can’t even imagine the hours he and his wife had spent on the project. “If it happens, John, we need to figure out your share of the profits.” As I said the words, I knew he wasn’t interested in money. That wasn’t the point. Still, fair is fair. “No, Mark. I’m doing this because I believe in the book. It’s great. It needs a larger audience.” Wow. I knew, from the beginning of the conversation, that John had recently battled a serious illness but he sounded like he was on the mend. After letting John vent a bit about Finland’s decision to landmine its border with Russia and the toll Israel’s actions in Palestine were taking on noncombatants, we said our goodbyes. Little did I know, as I hung up, that would be our last internet telephone call.

I remain amazed that in four or five days of personal interaction and over a half-dozen phone calls two men can become fast friends in this hectic, dissonant, disconnected, angry world. But that’s what happened. John Simon was a man of grace, poise, intellect, kindness, and wisdom who I was happy, however briefly, to know and call friend.

Judge Mark Munger

Duluth, MN

(C) 2025, Mark Munger

Noted Northland blogger, writer, and reporter (Business North) recently read my second short story collection, Kulkuri (Vagabond) and Other Stories and had some very nice things to say about the work. 

“Kulkuri (Vagabond) and Other Short Stories, is Munger’s second collection of short fiction. Published in 2020 by Cloquet River Press, I found his book at the Duluth Public Library on a shelf featuring local authors. It wasn’t long before I drew two early conclusions. Mark Munger is a serious writer. He’s also an impressive wordsmith. 

Though he has been primarily a novelist, he is likewise adept at short-form fiction. Someone once described the novel as a short story in baggy clothes. I liked that. The best short stories are tight, compact and pack a punch. Munger has clearly honed his craft and has good instincts as regards pacing.

He is also not afraid to takes chances and try new things. There’s no formula in his storycrafting. The singular thread in this stories is a sense of place, Northern Minnesota, with its geography, history and people.”

Read the entire review here: 

https://pioneerproductions.blogspot.com/2025/08/a-review-of-kulkuri-vagabond-and-other.html?fbclid=IwY2xjawMZOQpleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHlXSSuOD3BaYeF9mTwN_2qzrkOSqtkG0Jeyre91ZHwGRVoWDvJ-stm0p3o_S_aem_49kxBTP5cfnNyQwKs2Sw6w

Again, my sincere thanks to my writerly friend for highlighting work that not always has an audience.

Peace

Mark 

Interview With Dr. Arne Vainio

MM:

Let’s start with some basics. You’re Finnish and Native American …

AV:

I’m 50% Finnish. I’m also 50% Ojibwe, also known as Anishinaabe. My paternal grandparents immigrated from Finland in the early 1900s. My grandfather settled in Sturgeon, Minnesota in 1903 and my grandmother a few years later. She traveled on a ship from Finland and was a servant for a family in New York City. Later, she answered an ad to be a housekeeper for my grandfather and I presume travelled mostly by train to Minnesota. They were married and had a son and two daughters. The son, Aarne, was my father. My grandmother always pronounced my name with both A’s. It was the last thing she said to me before dying at ninety-four. I really believe she thought she was holding my father’s hand and speaking to him as she didn’t have that opportunity before he died. 

MM:

Talk a bit about how Finnish culture was present in your upbringing.

AV:

I remember being at my Finnish grandparents’ house as far back as I have memories. We used to have coffee there even when we were really young. My grandmother would put a saucer with mostly milk and a little bit of coffee out. It was the only place we ever got sugar cubes: she knew we loved them. My grandmother made homemade bread on an old cast-iron wood stove. That stove would be going even in the summer and she’d bake bread every day. We used to have bread with butter and cheese and she’d let us dunk it in our coffee. She made soup with beef, potatoes, onions, carrots, and rutabagas. We’d have that on sauna nights and neighbors would come and have that with bread and butter and coffee after sauna. She made fish stew. When we traveled to Finland in 2010 and 2019, we had salmon stew almost every day. My grandparents, my aunts, and the people who came to visit would all speak Finnish. Sometimes we understood what they were talking about, sometimes not.

MM:

I’m fairly certain you’ve used the term “Finndian” to refer to yourself.

AV:

Being Finnish and Ojibwe is not necessarily rare in northern Minnesota. Finndian is a term that’s been used and, yes, a term I’ve used. Ojibwe people refer to themselves as Anishinaabe, (the first people) and I actually prefer the term Finnishinaabe, even though that’s also a made-up term. I’m from the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe, a reservation in Minnesota. Finnish immigrants in the early 1900s and Ojibwe people understood each other. Both come from the same birchbark band of the Earth: the trees, water, and wildlife are similar. Finnish immigrants were late arrivals to America and weren’t always welcome. That gave them an understanding of how Ojibwe people were treated. They naturally gravitated towards each other. My Anishinaabe uncle loved my grandparents and my Finnish grandmother loved her grandchildren.

MM:

How did your Ojibwe heritage interplay with your Finnishness?

AV:

My father died when I was four. Anything Finnish in my upbringing came from my grandmother and grandfather. My grandfather was the stereotypical angry old Finnish man and didn’t interact with us as much as my grandmother did. I remember taking a sauna with my father:  it’s one of my earliest memories. I was four years old and we were in the changing room after the sauna and he was swinging the screen door back-and-forth to try to get some cool air inside. I could smell the steam from the sauna stove and I could smell the Brylcreem he was putting in his hair. He rubbed his hands together and put some in my hair and carried me back to the house. It’s one of my best memories.

When I participate in native sweat ceremonies, it reminds me of that sauna with my father. Tobacco is important to Ojibwe people and primary to all of our ceremonies. I do a ceremony every morning. I put tobacco out and, as part of that ceremony, I thank my father, my grandmother, my aunt Bertie, and my aunt Helmi and tell them I love them. My father was a great fisherman and hunter and lived for the outdoors. He was welcome on the wild rice lakes with the Ojibwe people and shared his gifts with people he respected. He was fully accepted into the Ojibwe community and my mother was fully accepted into the Finnish community. My mother was traditional Ojibwe and lived that life. She instilled in us many traditional teachings throughout our childhood, mostly done without the realization she was teaching. We learned respect for all of creation. Taking the life of an animal for food was a spiritual experience and required ceremony. This respect carried into my adulthood and mixed well with my Finnish upbringing. When I was five years old, there was a skunk on the porch of my grandparent’s house. My grandmother opened the screen door, walked out, and grabbed it by the tail when it tried to spray. It’s said a skunk won’t spray if its feet aren’t touching the ground and she must’ve believed that. She carried it over a quarter of a mile to the river and threw it off a bridge. It swam to the other side of the river and never came back!

MM:

Let’s talk a bit about your education.

AV:

I never thought I’d become a physician. When I was growing up, that wasn’t something that was talked about and or offered as an opportunity. When we saw the doctor, it was for shots and stitches. He wasn’t interested in talking with us as children. Early on, I was a heavy equipment operator, a lumberjack, and worked in an auto body shop. My cousin‘s uncle went down when he was feeding his pigs. There were two people with him. They didn’t know what to do and one of them ran a quarter of a mile to get to a phone. It took forty-five minutes for the ambulance to arrive. By the time it did, he’d died. I never wanted to be a helpless person standing by so I took an emergency medical technician course. It was one hundred and ten hours long. It was the first time I was with people who were passionate about something. I loved that training but when it was done, it was done. All I had was a paper certificate.

I was working at the body shop when a logging truck collided with a pick-up. The woman in the pick-up was almost killed and I was the first one to get to her. I cleaned blood and broken teeth out of her mouth and held her still and kept her calm until the ambulance got there. Her whispered “thank you” was all I needed to realize my life needed to take a turn. I credit less than a double handful of people with getting me into medical school: she’s one of them.

I got a job as a professional firefighter and a paramedic and that led to medical school. I did my residency at the Seattle Indian Health Board from 1994 to 1997. I’ve worked on the Fond du Lac Reservation in Minnesota since 1997 and have only done Indian health. I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given and that’s part of my ceremony every morning. I’ve been a physician there for over twenty-seven years and have delivered babies from babies I once delivered. My Finnish grandmother was so proud of me when I graduated high school and I know she smiles on me now. 

MM:

What health care challenges do your patients face that are different from the health challenges of the general population?

AV:

The healthcare challenges facing Native American people are similar to those everywhere. We traveled to Finland in 2009 with Walking into the Unknown. This was a documentary film my wife and I produced. We showed it four times in Finland. We had people come up to us afterward and say the same problems addressed in the film are also problems in Finland. 

In my practice, I see lots of diabetes. When I was in medical school, one of the first lessons was “if you know diabetes, you know medicine.“ Diabetes affects all body systems and increases the risks for heart attacks, strokes, kidney disease, chronic diabetic ulcers, vision loss, and all other parts of health. I’ve been practicing on the reservation long enough to see this play out over nearly twenty-eight years, including the tragedy that can come with it. I’ve also seen the beauty that comes from a different perspective. Traditionally, indigenous people look at themselves as only part of the web of life and not dominant over the rest. This gives us a different way of looking at the world and of looking at each other. Our elders are to be treasured and are important to us as keepers of wisdom and tradition. 

MM:

What are your thoughts regarding the Indian Health Services system?

AV:

We do good medicine at Fond du Lac. We have dedicated clinic staff and providers.  I work as a family practice physician on the Fond du Lac Ojibwe reservation. I did my residency at the Seattle Indian Health Board in Seattle, Washington for three years prior to coming to Fond du Lac. Indian health is all I have ever wanted to do. The Indian Health Service’s stated mission is to raise the physical, mental, social and spiritual health of American Indians and Alaska Natives to the highest level. Every day, I go to work with people who share that mission and are constantly working to improve the health of our community. 

MM:

Like any 21^st century journalist, I Googled you and came across the site, We Are Healers (https://www.wearehealers.org/dr-arne-vainio).

AV:

We Are Healers has done beautiful videos encouraging indigenous dreamers to pursue careers in health care. I urge everyone to go to the website for inspiration and to see what guides us on the path to healing. When I was growing up, becoming a doctor was not on the horizon and was never discussed. My course to get into medical school was like that of a pinball and luckily, I hit all the right bumpers! I don’t want those who will follow me to depend on luck. I want them to see the possibilities in all of us. Certain people guided me in the right direction at the moments when I needed guidance. Without those folks, I could easily have been lost. I can only pay them back by paying it forward. My mentors have included physicians, teachers, traditional elders, and people at the end of their lives. Hopefully, allowing students (and those wishing to change their direction) the opportunity to see someone who looks like them practicing medicine will make a difference. I know it would’ve made a difference for me.

MM:

You’re a physician, a husband, a father, and a community leader. But you still make time to sauna with your good friend, Steve Leppälä…

AV:

I’ve been taking sauna with Steve on most Saturdays for almost two decades. We have a Facebook page called “Sauna Quest”. Our stated goal is to take saunas in historically significant and traditional saunas. This has led to invitations to some beautiful saunas. Steve, my wife, and I traveled to Finland in 2010 and 2019. Steve and I were pursuing traditional Finnish saunas and were able to take sauna in three savusaunas, a floating sauna, and a small sauna just steps from a Finnish lake. 

Steve sent in a cheek swab: he tells me he’s 110% Finnish! I’ve not seen the paperwork yet, but I’ve no reason to doubt him. He drives a white SUV painted like the Finnish flag. It’s impossible to miss. I drive his old one, also a white SUV painted like the Finnish flag. When we park the cars side by side, it looks like something official is happening. When we take sauna, we talk about important things like science, rhubarb, the universe, and Steve’s pursuit of the Nobel prize. I keep hoping one day he’ll get it. In all seriousness, Steve has more SISU than any two people I know and I want us to take saunas together for as long as we can. I plan on building a woodfired sauna and also hope to build a savusauna. 

MM:

Your wife, Ivy, is an extremely talented photographer and, like you, a terrific role model for children and students through her work in higher education.

AV:

I met Ivy in 1988 when I became serious about college. We met in biology lab. I graduated from medical school in 1994 and proposed to her two hours later at the casino in Hinckley, Minnesota. We were married in Las Vegas in 1997. 

Ivy’s a gifted photographer. She’s always worked in higher education and worked in community service and event planning. This led her to working with students and people who are marginalized. Ivy treats all of them with the same love and respect and they love and respect her in turn.

We go to traditional Anishinaabe big drum ceremonies in the spring and fall. These have been going on for well over century and we’ve been going to them seriously since last winter. Making traditional blankets for gifts has long been part of the ceremony. We bought a sewing machine and she makes blankets the way my mother made them. She started making blankets last March and just finished her one hundred and twenty third blanket. 

She never sells them: she gives them as gifts and has given them all away. She’s given them to elders we respect, people who have done good things and not been recognized for their acts, and people with no place to turn. 

It doesn’t hurt that she’s hilarious and sees the positive in everything. Her spirit of kindness and generosity has always been there. Traveling through life with her has been more of a blessing than I ever hoped for. She’s a mentor to countless others and we understand what that means. We support each other and we have the support of the community. 

MM:

What importance do you assign to cultural gatherings and festivals, whether indigenous or Finnish?

AV:

Cultural gatherings and events are important. Ivy and I go to Anishinaabe ceremonies and learn from our traditional elders and fluent speakers as often as we can. We recently lost four elders in our community. Those passings make us realize the importance of elders. Hearing our traditions and our creation stories in our language is important if we are to carry that on. When I was growing up, I spent a lot of time at my grandma Vainio‘s place. She spoke mostly Finnish and all of us understood her to some extent. She died when I was 21 and for the most part, I quit being Finnish. 

Finnfest 2008 was in Duluth. My wife was on the opening ceremonies committee, where she met Steve Leppälä. Steve and I became friends and started to sauna together. With him being 110% Finnish, it reawakened my Finnish side. I was a panelist for a couple of sessions at FinnFest and something I said was translated into Finnish and was quoted in the Helsingin Sanomat. This led Finnish Journalist Rauli Virtanen to fly to the United States to spend three days with us. He produced a short video about us. In that video, I said we probably had family in Finland but didn’t know how to contact them. As soon as the piece aired on Finnish television, we started getting emails. Most of them were along the lines of “I’m not related to you, but when you come to Finland, you stay with us.“  But one was from a relative who named my brothers, sisters, mother and grandmother. That brought us to Finland in 2010 to meet my family. I held my grandmother’s letters from America in my hands and could hear her longing for Finland.  We’ve always been treated so well when we’re in Finland. My grandmother left Finland for America when she was nineteen and never saw it again. When the plane was landing in Helsinki for the first time, I felt like I was bringing her home. Culture, language, and tradition are important.

((c) Mark Munger, 2025. This interview first appeared in the July edition of the Finnish American Reporter.)

(Speaker Emerita Melissa Hortman and Her Mary Murphy Dinner Quilt. Photo by Meredith Cornett.)

I didn’t know Speaker Melissa Hortman well. I didn’t know her husband Mark at all. But over the past year, I got a glimpse of the woman taken from us by assassinasin. The word I’ve been using to describe the feeling, after my eldest son Matt texted me during the early morning hours of Saturday to inform me “The Speaker of the House and her husband were just shot,” is devastating.

I was a little boy, home ill from school playing with toy soldiers on a throw rug in 1963 when news of JFK’s assassination burst upon an old black and white console TV in our basement rec room. Walter Cronkite interrupted the soap opera Mom was watching as she did the family ironing and I reimagined the Alamo. Of course, I didn’t know JFK and, being so young (I’d just turned nine), the impact wasn’t the same as what we’ve just witnessed. Still, the president was an icon in our DFL home. We weren’t Catholic. We didn’t have a crucifix or a snapshot of Pope Paul (I think he was Pope when Kennedy was killed) on the wall of our den where the family black and white television drew us to “Gunsmoke”, “Combat”, “Highway Patrol”, “The Red Skelton Show, “The Ed Sullivan Show” and myriad other network programs we watched like clockwork. No. We were DFLers and the portrait next to the television set was a signed black and white headshot of John F. Kennedy given to my father as the head of the St. Louis County Democrats. Whether it was an autopen signature or real, I have no idea. Additionally, just weeks earlier, as a member of a standing-room-only crowd at UMD, I’d witnessed JFK deliver a speech. I can’t say I was smitten by his rhetoric: I fell asleep in the bleachers. But he was our leader and beloved by the entire Munger clan until he fell in Dallas.

I’ve written in detail about that day in my memoir, Duck and Cover, and won’t add more here other than to say, though I was saddened by what happened in Dallas, I was too young to be devastated. I’d say the same emotion-sadness-applied to the later assassinations of Dr. King and Bobby as well.

The closest I can come to what I felt, actually, what I feel right now, regarding this weekend, the level of inky darkness and despair that’s making it difficult to sleep at night, was the loss of Senator Paul Wellstone. Before you decry my comparison between a politically motivated killing of a state legislator and her husband in their own home under the cover of darkness (and an equally malevolent attempt to kill Senator Hoffman and his wife) with an airplane accident, hear me out.

I only knew Paul Wellstone from a distance. René and I held fundraisers for the Senator. As an author, I also asked for and received a blurb from Paul praising my first novel. Beyond that, my connection to the man was one of simple admiration for his dignity, values, and principles. But when I stood in the lobby of Wells Fargo in downtown Duluth the day his plane went down, watching the news crawler above the teller stations, my knees buckled. I was devastated. Again, I get the differences between murder and accident. I was a trial court judge for twenty-three years and a trial lawyer for nearly twenty. But the word, it seems to me as I try to process what just happened to our state, the place that prides itself on being Minnesota Nice, seems to fit both situations.

Given my age, I’ve suffered my share of loss. Both parents, many aunts and uncles and other relatives, all four grandparents, and numerous close friends have passed on. But all of those departures are a part of life; sad, yes, but not devastating. I reserve that word for the loss of my childhood friend’s young son (at the tender age of twelve) to a heart condition. And the recent, sudden, unexpected death of another lifelong friend whose passing I learned about via cell phone while gassing up my Jeep in rural Kansas. There are likely other losses, if space and time permitted, I could recount as being devastating. But they are rare, these occasions of unexpected loss that buckle the knees. Thank God for that.

I first became connected to Speaker Hortman when she called and asked me to run for Minnesota House Seat 3B. Her request came on the heels of a lunch with Senator Grant Hauschild, and additional calls from House Majority Leader Jamie Long and DFL Chair Ken Martin. A few days later the governor called. I didn’t bite right away. I called some folks I felt had the wisdom and clarity to give me sage advice. I called former Reps. Mary Murphy and John Ward: two old school, right-to-life Catholic, DFLers I admire greatly. Both urged me to run. After talking it over with my wife and kids, I decided I could, as a former prosecutor, trial lawyer, judge, and active community member, bring something to the political discussion. I told the Speaker and the Governor “yes”.

Understand, as a District Court Judge, I was forbidden to be involved in party politics during my decades of service on the bench. I bring this up because I had no understanding of where we are, other than as a spectator, regarding our collective fall from decency, integrity, and honesty in politics. I was a babe in the woods when it came to the nitty gritty of today’s political world. Immediately after the announcement of my run at the Hermantown YMCA (one of Rep. Murphy’s proudest achievements), conservative third-party bots began attacking my judicial record based upon untruths. I held my fire, though it was an eye-opener for me to have a forty-year career of public service trashed on YouTube. But through regular Zoom meetings with DFL legislators, including Madam Speaker, I calmed down, stayed the course, and got to work.

I first met Melissa when she and other DFLers drove up from the Cities to door-knock for my campaign. Though unable, due to her age and frailty, to walk the streets of Proctor with Madam Speaker, Mary Murphy was there to urge us on with a rousing speech. I learned that day how hard folks like Melissa Hortman, Mary Murphy, John Ward, and my uncle Willard work during campaigns! After that kick-off, I saw Speaker Hortman at least a half-dozen times in House District 3B, not only rallying the troops at the DFL office in the West End but walking the walk and talking the talk by door knocking throughout the five cities and fourteen townships that make up 3B. She was relentless, tireless, fearless (with no thought of her own personal safety), and determined in her effort to get me elected: far more so than this old man who had a hard time keeping up his motivation in the face of the incessant attack ads blaring away on streaming services and over local television.

After one of these “Speaker’s Knocks” in the rural townships, we gathered to debrief, share a meal, tell stories, and tipple an adult libation (with extreme caution, of course) at Little Angie’s. Melissa gave me a big hug, told me how proud she was of the hard work I was doing, and made sure to relate that most everyone she met on the doors knew my reputation for honesty and being a straight-shooter. I’ll admit I was pretty down after having folks slam doors in my face in a place where I’d been their judge for decades. Her reinforcement of why I was on this journey, and how things were going, made rejection bearable.

House 3B was seen as a lynchpin to the DFL retaining control of the House but things didn’t go the way either of us planned. I lost by 160 votes after a long, hard fought, positive campaign. The Speaker was, using my word here, devastated. She called me the morning after a very long, not so fruitful night of poll watching, expressing her appreciation, but more importantly, her empathy and kindness. “Mark,” she said, “I’ve been there. I lost twice before I was elected to my seat.” I didn’t tell her then, given that the magnitude of the Party’s loss went far beyond my personal disappointment, that I was a “one and done guy”. I knew in my heart I wouldn’t put myself or my family through the meat grinder of another political campaign but didn’t share that with Madam Speaker.

Over the intervening months, Melissa would pop up with a “like” or a comment on a post of mine on Facebook. I texted her a few thoughts about where the Party might want to look for another candidate, about how things might have been done differently, and I offered to meet with her and anyone else interested to hear my perspective. She texted  “we’ll get together once session is over.” And then, just like that, session was over. But the legislature still hadn’t come to grips with a budget, a bonding bill, or the compromises needed by both sides to achieve completion of business. This is where Speaker Hortman’s leadership ability came to bear. Without her willingness to sacrifice legislation she held dear, the special session would’ve ended in shambles. She was (don’t believe me? Ask her Republican colleagues who say it’s so) able to bring House DFLers, many of whom who were crying “foul”, to the table to reach the agreements necessary to get the work done. And this is what is so stark, what leads to my incredulity as to why she and Senator Hoffman, along with their families, were targeted: they both supported compromise. They were, in no way, fire-branding idealogues. And yet, evil struck them and their loved ones down.

Just before the Special Session, René and I attended the First Annual Mary Murphy Memorial Dinner in Hermantown. The occasion was bittersweet: the dinner took place at the AAD Temple Shrine, the very building where I’d held my ill-fated election night watch party. When we left the building just before midnight on November 6, I was pretty sure I hadn’t carried the ball across the goal line. The numbers from Hermantown, the place our four kids went to school, the place I coached hockey and soccer, the place I volunteer in Scouting, the place I attend church, and the place my wife served on the Board of Education for fifteen years, showed me winning the city. But just barely so. Not enough to overcome the rural vote against me: the crazy, Liberal judge who let criminals out of jail to rape, pillage, and murder. But, despite a modicum of PTSD being in the place of my first and only electoral loss, René and I came to honor Representative Murphy’s legacy of public service. Before and after my speech, I had a chance to talk to Speaker Hortman. After introducing her to my wife, Madam Speaker leaned in and whispered, “Before I ask anyone else to run, I want to make sure you’re a hard ‘no’.” I nodded and René said, without hesitation, “He’s a hard no.”

That night, Melissa “won” the silent auction grand prize: a lovely, handcrafted quilt. She was tickled pink that she’d bested all comers (including Senate Majority Leader Erin Murphy) to win that lovely treasure. As she packed up the quilt, I sent her what proved to be my final text to a truly great wife, mother, public servant, and woman. The person who made the quilt, a quiet Catholic mom and widow who lives near the Munger Farm, a person reluctant to share her politics with even her closest neighbors, had been the first resident in our township display a “Munger for House” sign in her yard. I thought Melissa needed to know that and said as much in my text. Her response? “I was going to put this beautiful quilt up at home. But because of the information you sent, it’s going up in my office at the capitol!” I shared that with the quilt’s maker a day or so later. She was so proud to know her handiwork would be displayed in the seat of our democracy.

In texts exchanged since Saturday’s awful news, my quilt-making neighbor and I agree: we’re both devastated. Our prays go out to the families impacted by an act of senseless political violence. For me, the only scripture from the Good Book that sums up how I feel is also the Bible’s shortest verse: 

Jesus wept.

(John 11:35)

Rest in peace, Melissa and Mark.

Heal, John and Yvette and members of both families.

Judge Mark Munger

INTERVIEW With KASEY KOSKI

MM:

Let’s start with the basics. Where were you born and where did you grow up? What, if any, Finnish language, cultural, art, and history influenced your early life?

KK:

I was born in L’Anse, MI and grew up in the outlying communities of Aura, Pequaming, and Pt. Abbaye.  My father is a full-blooded Finn. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents who spoke fluent Finnish (as did some of the elders in the community of Aura). It was my grandparents who made sure we knew proper greetings like “Hyyva Paaiva” and “Olen soumalinen tytto.” My grandparents taught us many Finnish words for colors, plants, and animals. We learned our barnyard animals singing Ol Donald Maki instead of Ol McDonald! In my early elementary years there was a program offered for one hour a week to students of Finnish or Ojibwe ethnicity to learn their cultural history.  It was taught by Mrs. Ellie Varney. We studied vocabulary, traditional songs, and other cultural aspects that fit into early childhood education. 

MM:

Folks are always fascinated to hear familial immigrant stories.

KK:

In the last few years, I’ve explored my genealogy, trying to find out more about my Finnish side. Connecting names in the family tree is the easy part: hearing stories and knowing the questions to ask grandparents is sadly more difficult (and often not realized until they’re gone).  All my grandparents were born in the US. Three of my great-grandparents were born in Finland. Their immigration stories are mostly lost. I do know that one of my great-grandfathers had siblings who re-immigrated back to Finland.  As a matter of fact, I met some of them when I traveled to Finland as an exchange student in 2002.  I know that there’s distant family in and around Helsinki and Aland.  My great-grandfather, Matti Koski, worked in the copper mines in the Keweenaw. My other great-grandfather, Arne Kilpela, was a carpenter and stonemason who may have worked for the copper companies. Both left the Keweenaw and relocated to the Aura community with their wives and children to fish, farm, and own land.

 MM:

Was Finnish spoken around your household or in your family when you were growing up?

KK: 

Finnish was always heard around our family, but only my grandparents spoke it fluently. When they raised my father and uncle, it was more important that the children spoke English and its everyday use declined.  My generation grew up hearing it but not speaking it. 

 Sauna was an essential part of my childhood and remains an important part of life! (I’ve a huge desire to build my own but might have to wait until retirement!) My brother is building and selling small mobile saunas. I visit his frequently. There was always one at home in the basement of my parents’ house and one on the Lake Superior shoreline at the cabin. 

We grew up with many Finnish foods. The smell of cardamom brings me joy. We ate lots of fish growing up and many local community festivals were rooted in Finnish culture. My family was involved in the Aura Jamboree so traditional tunes are near and dear to my heart.  Polka and Ratikka were something grandparents taught us. We also celebrated the solstices with Juhannus and Joulu.

MM:

You grew up and attended college in the Upper Peninsula (UP) of Michigan.

KK:

I was a creative child and had many mentors in that encouraged my artistic journey. In high school I met Mary Biekkola Wright who was a force in community art projects.  She set up community painting parties and encouraged folks to pull chairs from their attics and barns to paint Finnish blue and white to line the streets of Marquette, MI. Through her, I met a number of Finlandia University (Soumi College at that time) art professors.  The art program was very small and I decided to enroll. I attended for four years spending, one semester at the Kuopio Academy of Craft and Design as well. I went to art school for graphic design. I was fortunate enough to work in that field when I relocated after graduation.

MM:

Talk about the muse that compels your art

KK: 

Most artists get tired of the repetitive nature of the professional world.  Like many others, I’ve held a wide range of jobs from doing newspaper layout to repairing shoes and leather. In my personal work, I gravitate to simple mediums. I like watercolor as it’s a less harmful to the planet than some other paint choices and it travels well. I also enjoy working in fiber: sewing, knitting, and felting bring me joy. My graphic design background also plays into my vocation. Working as a museum curator helped me learn new materials and ways to tell stories.  I’ve spent many years organizing in the arts, from running a First Friday gallery walk to being a member of a community arts commission. That allowed me to learn about the problems and pitfalls in public art. My recent public art located in the Keweenaw stems from a combination of my previous experiences. It’s a digital design translated into metal. My vision for the project answered a very specific call: bring people back to the ruins of the UP mines. I think my love of history, knowledge of materials, and the digital style I developed over the years came together nicely in that project.

MM:

Detail for our readers the work you’ve done in the various communities where you’ve lived in terms of promoting public art and art education.

KK:

I’ve lived in Wenatchee, Washington for twenty-plus years. It’s a city of forty thousand people. I was a youngster fresh out of art school when I moved here. I wanted more opportunities for young artists like myself. First, I went around to cafes and started organizing art on the walls. Next, I got involved in starting a co-op gallery that’s still in existence. Then, I joined the city’s arts commission to find out how public art worked and who decides what is made.

I did my first public project two years later. I moved into museum curation because another mentor saw something in me. Bill, my friend, asked if I’d like to be his assistant in the local museum. Ten months later, Bill retired, leaving me in charge. I found a love of history and storytelling working there. When creating exhibits, you’re an informal educator. You need to make things concise and attractive so visitors can learn about the subject at hand. 

MM:

I think I read in your bio that you’ve had involvement with Finlandia Foundation National in some aspect or another.

KK:

I’ve only done the Finnposium presentation found here: Finnposium | Heritage in Steel: Celebrating Immigrant Workers at Keweenaw National Park . It was a result of my project for the Keweenaw National Historical Park.  They are a partner of the Finnish American Heritage Center, the Finlandia Foundation National’s home in the Keweenaw.

MM:

Since first coming to the UP in 2006, I’ve fallen in love with the landscape, the towns, and the people. Talk a bit about your connection and the retained Finnish of this special place.

KK: 

As someone who grew up in the UP and went to university in Hancock, I also adore the historic towns and quaint farming villages.  I still have family there and have always considered the UP “HOME.” That’s where my roots and people are. I travel to the UP nearly every summer. There’s something about the lake and the harshness of the weather that makes people hardy and willing to help their neighbors. You just don’t find that everywhere.

MM:

Your most recent artistic endeavor involved an installation there.

KK: 

In February of 2024, I saw a call for art from the Keweenaw National Historical Park.  I had four days to send in a proposal. I’d never applied for a project in a National Park: it seemed out of my league. For the next three days I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I could see the project in my mind’s eye. On day three, I started to write about the project. Articulating a visual solution in language that others can understand is the hardest part of an application. The call for art asked for people to be placed in the ruins of the Dry House site across from Quincy Mine to help interpret the site. I edited my application and hit send. When I received an email inviting me for an interview, I was beside myself! The interview went well. After my project was selected, I traveled to Hancock to do some initial planning and research. I returned home to begin the design process. During that phase, many Internet conversations with park staff occurred. I returned in September to oversee the pouring of concrete anchors and to supervise the fabrication of the images at a metal shop in Baraga. Four life-sized sculptures were installed on September 21^st, with a ribbon cutting the week after. It was a whirlwind couple of weeks.  The project received a warm welcome in Hancock and it was great to reconnect with many of my college friends.  There was fantastic local media coverage of the unveiling and comments regarding the sculptures have been positive. The National Park Service was also very pleased with the final result. I hope to return to the UP to do more work with the park service this summer. 

MM:

As we wrap up this interview, are there things you wished I’d ask about??

KK: 

The miners that made Copper Country great are from a wide range of backgrounds. The toil of these immigrants allowed copper from the Keweenaw to bring electricity to America. Those immigrants also took part in a national labor movement and brought about the eight-hour workday and instilled safety standards in the workplace. We’ve so much to thank our ancestors for. The history of the Copper Country contains varied and interesting threads. There’s much to discover. I’m grateful that the Keweenaw National Historical Park exists to preserve this heritage. Finlandia Foundation National is also a boon to the area by preserving the Finnish American Heritage Center, its Folk School, and the North Wind Bookstore.

I’ll be returning to the Keweenaw this summer to create more work for the park.  I believe the park project upped my resume and I’m looking for projects of that scale in the Pacific Northwest as well. I also have a curatorial job that allows me time to make art on the side. I‘ve many personal creative endeavors to keep my hands and brain busy. And I have a garden, an old house, and family and friends that add to my life in the arts. Find me online at: www.kaseykoskiart.com Connect with me on social media here: facebook/kasey.koski/ Follow my crazy old house on Instagram here: mymaximialistheart .

(This interview first appeared in the June 2025 issue of the Finnish American Reporter. (C) Mark Munger, 2025).

I’m pleased to share with you my friends and Munger readers that my latest novel, published in September 2023, Muckraker, a Novel Noir, is now available through Minnesota libraries as an online read. You’ll find the book at:
https://library.biblioboard.com/content/0cdaeb50-c61a-4bad-bfbb-c812aa51a804
It’s another way of making my work accessible to those who might not be able to afford to buy a hard copy or an eBook.
Happy reading!
The Always At It Writer

Recently, I had the great pleasure to conduct an interview with Ralph and Jaana Tuttila, two renowned Finnish American musicians about their efforts to preserve Finnish and Finnish American music and culture. Here’s the interview:

MM:

Ralph. Where did you grow up? What were the Finnish foods, language, culture, or music that formed your affiliation your ethnicity?

RT: 

I was born and grew up near Ishpeming in the UP in a rural neighborhood of Finns. Everyone had a small farm but few were self-sustaining. Finnish was spoken when the elders were present.  I recall having to sit through Finnish language church on Sundays. I understood little but it’s a comforting memory.  Sunday school included neighbor children who spoke only Finnish (until they learned English in school). We had our own language when playing together and got along. Finnish was often spoken when parents did not want the kids to understand what was being said.

Foods that had a Finnish influence were Viilia, Juustoa, Moijakka, Nisu, and more. 

Of course we had a sauna! And often had family/friends over on Saturday  nights.  Most neighbors had saunas. 

MM:

Jaana, how about you?

JT:

My father was Swedish. His family immigrated to North Dakota. They were successful farmers with large families.  Many of those relatives moved west to Yakima, Washington to work in the orchards.

I discovered my Finnish heritage through DNA testing.  My Swedish relatives continue to be befuddled by this revelation! They’ve always been known as Swedes; identified as members of their local church as such but didn’t practice cultural traditions.

When I first heard Finnish music, it was played by Finn Hall in my little town in Washington State.  I was spellbound.  The music resonated so deeply: it was unlike anything I’d heard before.

I never had the opportunity to dance as it never seemed important.  But when Finn Hall played, the mandolin player (Ralph), put down his instrument to dance with audience members.  Then he asked me. I confessed I didn’t dance. But with quiet coaching, we danced. It all resonated in a meaningful way.

Discovery concerning my Finnish ancestry, including traditional foods and sauna, followed hearing Finnish music that first time.  Finnishness resonates deeply and each new tradition, Finnish tune, Finnish craft, or Finnish pattern dance I study, reinforces a soulful feeling of being Finnish.

MM:

Ralph, how did you become involved with music?

RT: 

At age four or five, I  picked up one of my mother’s harmonicas and learned to play it on my own. I heard music in Finnish at church, from my Mom who sang and played guitar, and from my uncles’ Finnish records. Most endearing was hearing a neighbor play a two-row accordion and sing  old folk songs from his front porch.  I also played cornet in my high school’s band.       

I joined the Koivun Kaiku Kantele ensemble in the ‘80s. I learned to play the five string kantele and the Jouhikko. Then I learned mandolin. I got involved with the Finn Hall group in the 90’s and joined the Kisarit folk dancers.  The Finn Hall musicians: Al Reko, Dennis Halme, and Cheryl Paschke played together for many years as Keskilannen Pelimannit. The late Margaret Norling was their bass player and Oren Tikkanen often played with them. I joined the group and it became Finn Hall.  So many memories and fun times. We recorded two CDS and were selected as Performers of the Year in 2000 by Finlandia Foundation National. We traveled to Finland and played at the Kaustinen folk music festival as well as other venues in Finland. Finn Hall no longer performs, though a few of us still perform in Lauluaika.

I play mandolin, harmonica and the two-row accordion with the new group.

My mission is to preserve Finnish and Finnish American folk and dance music; the old music from our grandparents as well as more recent folk tunes.  Not many are interested in maintaining this style of music. I grieve its disappearance but play it with passion.

MM:

Jaana, how did you become involved with music?

JT:

My father was very musical.  He was a pastor of small country churches. He

played guitar, trumpet, piano, banjo, and accordion.  My mother is also musical.  Her family is Mennonite, so singing all the parts (from tenor to bass) was important. She taught herself to play piano.  My parents often sang together with Mom on the piano or organ. Growing up, my brother and I sang during church services.

I learned piano as a child. But when I moved to Minnesota, Ralph introduced me to the nyckelharpa.  Oh what a beautiful sound! It’s organized like a piano keyboard so the fingering makes sense.  I bought my first nyckelharpa twelve years ago and have played with the Twin Cities Nyckelharpalag. Nine years ago, Ralph introduced me to the upright bass. I’ve played it with Finn Hall and Lauluaika. 

MM:

Talk a bit more about Finn Hall.

JT:

One memorable event was organized by Ralph for the 2012 FinnFest in Tucson, Arizona.  Ralph researched the Tohono O’odham (an indigenous people of AZ) and their music. He learned that some of their tunes have the same cadence as music we play for dancing.  He connected with Gertie Lopez and the T.O. Boyz from Tucson and brought together the two bands as a cultural exchange to perform at FinnFest.  We met one evening and played tune after tune to learn their music and share our music with them.

The FinnFest evening dance arose from that partnership was amazing!  There was Finnish music with violins, saxophone, and drum from Gertie’s band; and Gertie’s tunes accompanied by accordions, mandolin, and violin from ours.  The Finns danced their jenkka, massurka, polka, and valss dances. Members from the Tohono O’odham Nation danced side by side as they have for generations. It was deeply beautiful to see and hear and that collaboration was the beginning of a long friendship with Gertie.

MM:

Your thoughts about the importance of carrying on traditional Finnish music with younger generations?

JT:

When we play Finnish music and when we dance, there’s a reminder of the resiliency and strength of our extended Finnish family.  Our Finnish ancestors have written, sang, and played tunes describing the immigrant experience, the lives of miners, of being in the trenches, of finding their beloved, of betrayal, of shopping in the market, of death, about Karelia, and so on.  It’s a shared history set to music that reminds us of who we are.

We Finns have a treasure chest of tunes to console us and remind us of our strength-of our Sisu, the restorative medicine of sauna, and the gift of dance.  Sharing this heritage feels as though we’re giving following generations a great gift: one that will last a lifetime.

MM:

It’s no secret that fraternal, service, and ethnic organizations, from Moose Clubs to Scouts to places like the Finnish American Heritage Center and this newspaper struggle to keep folks engaged, donating, and working hard to preserve such organizations.

RT:

The hard truth is that organizations, ethnic and fraternal and cultural, are going away as members  die off.

We do our part to preserve Finnish music and culture. We team up with other Nordic groups to hold monthly dance events at the Tapestry Folkdance Center in Minneapolis, as well as engage in other efforts to sponsor and hold events. We’ll present some new ideas for the type of dances to use with our music in the Fall of 2025,

JT:

This is something we talk about often. How to do our ‘missionary work’ outside our Finnish community to impact others who, perhaps, aren’t aware of their Finnish heritage?  It’s why connecting with the younger generation matters.

We participate in community education programs and teach Finnish dance with members of Kisarit. Lauluaika plays music for these classes. Members of the band teach dance.  This series has brought in new community members to Finnish folk music and dance.

Ralph is instrumental in organizing a Jam at FinnFest which brings folks with instruments and voices together to play and sing Finnish music.  These events have been successful in teaching one another the traditional tunes, sharing music, and giving everyone a chance to play and learn.

MM:

What did you think of the recent Laskiainen at the Loon Lake Community Center in Minnesota?

RT:

We had a great response! Our concert/ dance was well attended. Everyone had a great time. I was there with Finn Hall eighteen years ago.   Although the festival has had Finnish music present on a smaller scale since that event, as far as I know, Finnish music was absent from the main stage until this year. We made many friends!

JT:

The day began with Kisarit performing several Finnish pattern dances. Folks seemed to enjoy seeing how the dances are choreographed. Not only did we play the dance, but we connected with locals and attendees during the festival. Taking the time to visit with and meet folks really matters.

Ralph met and worked with a young Finnish musician, encouraging him, teaching him a few things, and sitting in with him while playing harmonica.  One woman observed this and appreciated Ralph’s patience, how he engaged, listened, and encouraged the younger generation.  Later on, this young musician came to the dance/concert. After the event, he talked to a couple of band mates about music and dance.

Also, the sound crew was from the area. One of our bandmates met them and helped them. Again, this connection seemed to knit Finns together.

Finally, one of the couples in Kisarit stayed for the informal dance because, as they said, “How could you not?”  One of those dancers invited a young down syndrome woman to dance with her: she took the time to teach the young lady.  Beautiful.

MM:

I see from the band’s website (https://www.lauluaika.com) folks can find out where you are performing next (including FinnFest 2025). Talk a bit about FinnFests you’ve been part of.

RT:

UP FinnFests are my favorites.  But many smaller communities lack the lodging capacity and facilities to host. Duluth seems to work out best.

I feel that at most FinnFests include too much programming.  With so much going on, it seems we see less attendance.

JT: 

It seems that if the evening dances are scheduled at a time when there’s nothing else on the schedule, the evening concert/dance becomes a time for FinnFest attendees to unwind, reconnect with other festival goers, and enjoy a sense of community.  Often, it seems events are scheduled, or layered, over one another. That breaks up the community.  There’ve been FinnFests in the past that’ve scheduled evening dances as celebratory events to bring folks together-dancers and non-dancers-to visit, sing along, grab a beverage, and enjoy being Finnish.

MM:

If readers of FAR want to connect with Lauluaika, maybe to book a festival or a dance, what’s the best way for folks to reach you?

RT and JT:

Folks can reach us through our website or via Facebook messaging. Or they can email me, Ralph, at Rauli@comcast.net .

We’d love to hear from those interested in preserving the culture as well as music and dance. Please also check out our YouTube channel! 

(This interview first appeared in the May 2025 edition of The Finnish American Reporter)

(C) 2025 Mark Munger

The year was 1993. My three oldest sons Matt, Dylan, and Chris (Jack had not yet been born), along with my wife René and I, were staying overnight in the Twin Cities on our way to visit friends in Chicago. On a whim, I thought my boys needed an impromptu education in civics.

“Let’s give Uncle Willard a call and see if he can get us in to watch the House in session.”

“That sounds fun,” my wife replied as she packed the last of our clothes in a suitcase.

“What are we doing, Dad?” Matt, our eldest and thirteen years old at the time, asked.

“We’re gonna visit Uncle Willard at the legislature. Maybe see him in action on the floor.”

“Cool”.

“What’s the debate about?” Dylan, our nine-year-old asked.

“Who knows,” I responded. “But wouldn’t it be neat to see your great uncle working for the people of Minnesota?”

The boys nodded in unison.

“Is Willard in?” I asked when I called his office at the Capitol.

“He’s on the floor. Can I help you?” his secretary responded.

“This is his nephew, Mark, from Duluth. We’re in town and I’d love to have my boys see their great uncle at work.

“I’ll call him,” the woman replied. “I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”

Twenty minutes later, Matt, Dylan, and I were standing on the floor of the Minnesota House of Representatives next to Uncle Willard. René and Chris watched from a gallery perched high above the crowd of politicians working the House floor. We listened as speaker after speaker rose to voice support or opposition to a bill. After one heated exchange, Matt turned to Willard and asked, “Why don’t those people agree with you?”

“Because they’re foolish,” Willard answered in his customary, curt tone. There needed to be, in my uncle’s estimation, no further explanation.

“Why don’t they want poor people to have insurance?” Matt asked me as Willard turned to discuss a point with a colleague.

“I don’t know Matt, I said. “Cost, I guess. There’s only so much money in the budget. Maybe other things seem more important than medical care.”

“It’s time to vote,” Willard finally said after concluding his exchange and coming back to us. He seemed to me, at the moment, a young man in an old man’s body.

Pointing to my sons, he said, “Come on. You two are going to cast my vote.”

A huge electronic voting board on a wall across the chamber began to light up with votes. Red meant a “no” vote, a vote against the passage of Minnesota Care. Green meant “yes”, a vote in support of expanding medical insurance coverage for those who couldn’t afford to buy private insurance.

The boys followed their great uncle. I watched from a distance as the boys and Willard stood in front of Willard’s desk, huddled together, and conferred. The discussion over, Matt and Dylan selected the appropriate button and pushed it. My boys smiled wide as Willard pointed at the tally board as a green light flickered, then glowed green next to the name “Munger”.

Thanks to the integrity, grit, and dedication of a life-long public servant, many disadvantaged folks in the State of Minnesota became eligible for health care coverage that day. And, though their names do not appear on the official register of the vote, thanks to their great uncle, my boys were an integral part of passing that measure into law.

Today, as the Cloquet River flows past our old Sears house, its waters swollen from weeks of torrential summer rain, I know I’m a blessed man. There are few places on the River where one can build a home. And we’ve learned as a family, as we plan to construct a new house on the far edges of our land, that many protections apply when building near the River. Some say this shouldn’t be. Some say the shores of our lakes and the banks of our rivers, streams, and creeks should be developed by whomever wants to do so, in whatever fashion the owners think appropriate.

The dean of Minnesota conservation, the lion of the wilderness, would disagree. He would say our children and our grandchildren need wild places, that all of us need access to forests, prairies, and waterways and lakes that haven’t been used or overbuilt to exhaustion. As I sit next to the boiling water of our River, I seek solace. I’m haunted by his eyes.

It’s funny. Until I stood over him at the hospital saying my final goodbye, I didn’t know the color of Willard’s eyes. Now, after having looked into them with intensity, I cannot forget their hue. Even to the last, my uncle’s eyes were a bright and defiant blue, the color of his beloved Lake Superior, the lake he desperately worked to save. Staring into those eyes, I told Willard I loved him. I told him that he’d done well. He smiled and slipped into sleep. Two days later, he left this world for the next.

Representative Willard Munger will be remembered by folks for the many things he accomplished over his long life. My children will remember him as the great uncle who let them vote on the floor of the Minnesota House of Representatives and as the man who saved their river.

(C) 2025, Mark Munger

(Back row: John McLoughlin, John Benson, Larry Paasch. Middle row: Rick Washburn. Front Row: Mike, Wayne Rikala, Pat Pufall.)

By Mark Munger (c) 2025

Where to begin? I guess, at the beginning. Back in the mid-60s, a new family showed up at Holy Apostles Episcopal Church in West Duluth where my family worshipped. Paul Town, Sr., had moved to Minnesota with his wife, and their five children from Ohio to take a teaching job at Denfeld High. One of those Town kids (the second son and fourth child) was Michael Phillip Town. Given the size of our congregation, having a “new boy” in Sunday school was a big deal. I don’t remember much about those early days of getting to know Mike other than a scene, where my dad drove Paul, Sr., Paul, Jr., Mike, and I up to Knife River to fish steelhead the spring following the Town family’s return to Minnesota. No one caught a fish. But I remember the group stopping at Kendel’s Smoked Fish to load the Towns up on whitefish and cisco: beloved culinary treats from the North Shore. 

When Mike and I were on the cusp of puberty, my mom, the Youth Leader at the church, announced that 6th and 7th graders, a half-dozen kids from HA, were eligible to enroll in a faith-based sex education class that would bring together thirty to forty Episcopalian kids from various Duluth congregations. Phyllis, Mike’s mom, signed him up for the class but that wasn’t the most interesting aspect of the situation. Mike brought along a Baptist kid, Bruce Larson, to learn the birds and the bees alongside the Episcopalians. Apparently the Baptists didn’t address that aspect of humanity but Bruce’s mom felt it needed addressing in her young son. Anyway, Bruce tagging along with Mike was the beginning of another friendship, one that continues until this day.

Mike and I both attended Lincoln Junior High and Denfeld Senior High. Mike was a year younger. We ended up involved in vocal music in Ray Baker’s A Cappella choir. That’s where I also came to know a smart, cute, perky gal named Veronica Seger, who would one day marry Mike and become Roni Town. There were lots of shenanigans that went on in choir, including poker games beneath the Denfeld stage during concert practices, initial forays into alcohol, necking at choir parties, and such. Mike was also involved, as an offensive lineman, with Denfeld football. I was a Hunter Benchwarmer alongside Mike and his Lincoln buddy, John McLoughlin. It was that connection to John that began another lifelong friendship and my brief foray into cinema. More on that to follow.

A diversion. One evening, my parents and younger siblings were gone for the weekend and Mike, John, and I ended up at my family’s home in Piedmont. Someone, maybe Mike, maybe John, convinced me that raiding Dad’s liquor cabinet and emptying a quart of Harry’s Windsor would be good mental lubricant for writing a letter to the editor of the Duluth News Tribune. The three of us, lit to the gills, scratched out a missive to our beloved city lamenting the lack of anything for young adults to do in Duluth other than drink and party. I think we labeled the town an “unrequited shithole”. As the three of us tittered at our brilliance, fully intending to send the piece to the newspaper, we ended the evening sleeping off our stupor in the home’s downstairs bedrooms.

“Get this fucking dog off me!” a voice bellowed from my bedroom. It was sunrise when I made my way from my brother’s room to find Pelly, Bro Dave’s very hairy and energetic Golden retriever straddling John and licking my buddy’s face. “Get this fucking dog off me,” John repeated as he tried to fend off the slobbering retriever. “But he likes you,” Mike said with a wide grin, peering over the edge of the top bunk. 

The essay we’d written? It never got mailed.

About those movies. John, a big guy with a talent for humor akin to John Candy or John Goodman, and our mutual pal Dave Michelson talked me into making three films for the entertainment of the Denfeld classes of ’73 (Dave and my class), ’74 (Mike and John’s class), and ’75 (my future wife’s class). The flicks featured three brothers: the Quegleys. All the movies had similar plots: bad folks taking over the school (in the first, it’s desperados; the second features the Bagman-a creature born of nuclear waste; and the third is a Mafioso farce ala The Godfather). Mike was recruited for various roles in the first two films and ended up wandering the halls of Denfeld with a real (though unloaded) firearm. He died a pretty realistic, violent death in his brief appearance in the first film and was a resistance fighter alongside the Blackburn Twins in the second. 

Through his affiliation with Boy Scouts, Mike ended up working as a caretaker at a local summer camp after graduation. During his summer stint at Camp Jamar, Mike invited Larry Paasch and I to visit, which prompted me to start coordinating annual Memorial Day canoe trips into the BWCA. For nearly a decade, Mike was part of epic Mark Marine Marches in the wilderness (I took quite a few shots for not being able to read a map!). Wayne Rikala manned the stern of a Grumman canoe with Mike in the bow and recently commented, after he found out Mike had passed away, that the two relished sneaking away to share a refreshing smoke or two.

Mike also made many visits to The Cabin, a ramshackle affair that friends Dave Salveson, Wayne, Paul Lund, Jeff Tynjala, and I built on the Tynjala Farm north of Duluth. One of those visits nearly landed us in the clink. Driving to The Cabin over an old hayfield in a borrowed pickup, Pat Pufall at the wheel, Larry, Mike, and John in the topper, lights erupted across the field. Turns out game wardens had been following us, convinced we were shining deer. After the three drunks in the back of the truck toppled out and we explained what we were doing, the wardens had a good laugh and let us continue on our way. (Photos. Left: BWCA trip. Mike and John Benson, foreground. 2nd Photo: 1972-73 Varsity DDHS team, Mike is No. 65.)

Remember Bruce? Well, thanks to Bruce’s dad, Wendell, who vouched for Mike and helped get him a job, Mike was able to begin a career in the oil industry at the Wrenshall refinery.  Mike and Roni got married at the same time a whole slew of us tied the knot (’78) and, when the refinery closed, the couple pulled up stakes and moved to Lake Charles, Louisiana. There, the Towns had two sons, Evan and Adam (it always screws with my mind that “Adam” is the second born!) but when an opening occurred at the Enbridge tank farm in Superior, the family came back to Minnesota. Roni became deeply involved with her sons’ educations and Mike became an ardent wood worker, crafting walking sticks and Native American flutes to gift to friends. René and I had four sons and our families remained close as the boys matured. That connection included camping trips and summer parties. But the strongest bond between the Towns and Mungers involved our mutual Denfeld origins. (Photo: Mike chopping off John’s head at The Cabin. No one was actually harmed!)

In the early ’80s, a group of Denfelders, sometimes a few couples, other times, nearly two dozen folks, began an annual Christmas tradition. We’d meet for dinner at local restaurants to share stories and catch up on our lives and families. Over time, we added after-dinner concerts including a trip to the Cities to see CSN&Y, a visit at the DECC to listen to the Moody Blues play with the Duluth Symphony, and plays and comedy shows (one of the most memorable being the Duluth Playhouse’s production of The Odd Couple with McLoughlin and Michelson as the leads). Then we started taking cruises together to the Caribbean and Europe. Dubbed “Larson’s Big Adventures”, those trips gave us a chance to visit, talk kids and parents and grandkids, and rekindle friendships. Mike and Roni, and then after Roni passed away, Mike and Jill, were part of many, many of those grand adventures. After Roni’s death, Mike, who needed to get away from Duluth’s dismal winter, organized trips to Scottsdale, AZ, where his sister Patty and brother-in-law Rob lived. He made arrangements with his nephew for lodging for his Duluth pals and introduced us to the beauty of the desert. After Mike married Jill (a ’74 classmate and fellow West Ender), the Towns rented places in Oak Creek and Prescott and spent winters free of Duluth’s forbidding snows. Those forays into Arizona convinced my wife, René, we needed to buy a trailer (I call it the SAT (René’s Small Assed Trailer)) and haul our house on wheels to Camp Verde, AZ . Along the way, I presided over Mike and Jill’s nuptials in the backyard of their West Duluth home followed by a raucous celebration at the Kom On Inn. Sadly, the reception was the last time I saw John McLoughlin. He died not long thereafter. But from that loss, Mike constructed a notable celebration. When he found out John’s children were struggling to hold a memorial for John (a guitarist and filmmaker) Mike took the bull by the horns and got Bruce, Dave Michelson, me, and Scott Mork (’74) to fund the event at the iconic West Theatre. It was a very, very special night of Quegleys, stories, libations, eulogies, and way too much Sammy’s Pizza! (Above photo: Larry, Mike, and Pat @ The Cabin).

The West became, as our little band of Denfeld couples continued on, a go-to spot for shows after breaking bread at local eateries. For the past several years, Mike, Jill, and the rest of the crew have dined together and seen some remarkable shows at that old Art Deco theater. 

Mike wasn’t a perfect man. He could display, when frustrated by friends, family, or the perceived idiocy of the world, flashes of temper. But after Roni was diagnosed with cancer, beginning a long battle that ultimately ended, as Mike said, “with Roni’s last best night” (Mike, the Larsons, and the Mungers sharing stories with Roni at her hospice bedside and laughing until our bellies ached), my friend became the consummate caregiver. Gone were the impatience and anger, which, given the situation, was a remarkable shift in Mike’s personality. It was a change of such magnitude, one couldn’t help but notice and yet, sadly, I don’t think I ever shared my perception in that regard with Mike.

(Photos: Left: Dave Salveson and me in rear row. Jan Larson, Roni, and Mike. Day of my induction into the Denfeld Hall of Fame ’12. 2nd photo: Russ Ditman and Mike at Salveson’s stag.)

Many of you know I’m-to steal a Billy Joel line-a “real estate novelist”. I’ve been an author for over thirty years. During that run, I’ve written fourteen books. Many of my projects have been launched at gatherings of friends and family at various locales in Duluth. When Roni was still with us, she and Mike made every such event. After Roni’s passing, Jill and Mike continued to support my muse. Mike called in early February, indicating he wanted to buy a copy of my Finnish trilogy to gift to friends. and we made arrangements to meet at the Town apartment. After delivering the books and receiving a crisp $50 bill from Mike; Mike, Jill, and I sat in their living room and, as Mike and I sipped beer, chatted. Mike said that, while Jill wanted to stay close to home for the winter, he was thinking of returning to Arizona. No real plans had been set but that was his intention. (Photo: René, Bruce, and Mike in Scottsdale, AZ)

Not long after that evening, René and I traveled to Lake Havasu (sans SAT). While sitting by the pool at a local resort, I thought of Mike. I called him to see if, by chance, he was coming south. It turned out his plans had changed. “Maybe next year,” Mike said, “I really do need to get the hell out of Duluth in winter.” That was the last time we spoke.

While refueling my Jeep in Kansas on our return trip from Arizona, the wind howling at fifty miles per hour, my phone dinged. The text message was from Bruce: Mike had died suddenly that morning. The news of Mike’s passing buckled my knees and clouded my eyes. (Photo: Jill and Mike wedding dance.)

Ultimately, Mike was a good man and friend who, over the course of the past year, spent time with René learning the art of mosaic making. Their mutual project, a rainbow trout embedded atop an antique table, remains unfinished in my wife’s studio, though René has vowed to finish the project in time for Mike’s memorial BBQ in July.

I’m pretty sure that’ll make Mike Phillip Town smile.

Peace

Mark

(Photo: Mike, René, Karin Johnson, Kathy Benson, Chris Curtis, Jan, and Bruce.)

https://www.duluthnewstribune.com/obituaries/obits/michael-philip-town-8zkeuhriw9vgwdf9pvcs

(Photos: Top: BWCA trip. Standing, from left: John, John Benson, Mike, Rick Washburn, Wayne Rikala, Larry Paasch. Seated: Me, Pat. Second photo: Mike in Barcelona. Last photo: Mike on a modeling runway in Montenegro. Don’t ask!)

By Mark Munger (c) 2025

I was raised by my parents, church school teachers, and my Scout leaders to always look for the good in folks. Sometimes, that’s a difficult task.

I’m one of those people who wears an electronic device on my left wrist. The photo above depicts the second FitBit watch I’ve owned. The first one, given to me several years ago by my wife in hopes I’d calculate my daily activity (known affectionately as “steps” in SmartWatch jargon) to keep my old man belly from getting larger, died of natural causes not long after its purchase. Never one to forget her purpose (here, keeping me in shape) René bought me the replacement shown in the picture, one I’ve now owned for a few years and worn nearly every day to compute my activity level. So, when we recently took our annual spring sojourn to Arizona (this year, sans SAT (René’s Small AssTrailer)), the watch and its charger and cord came along for the journey.

I have to admit: since Callie the Brittany is always with us on camping outings, even though we were doing motel and cabin stays on this trip, I like having the FitBit on my left wrist when I take her for walks to do her business. She’s the sort of gal who’s leisurely about her morning constitution, meaning I get a lot of steps in before my wife is out of bed. That’s not a bad way to start the day but enough background: on with the tale! 

Since we weren’t hauling a small house behind our rapidly aging Jeep Grand Cherokee on our annual vacation from retirement, I decided to drive the northern route to Lake Havasu, our first destination. René’s older sister and husband have always wanted us to see where they stay in their RV, so my wife booked us into a Day’s Inn in downtown Havasu City. We spent our first night on the road in Nebraska, after which we drove to Denver and then into the Rockies, eventually arriving in Grand Junction, Colorado the second night of our trip. I’d made a reservation at the local Ramada and it turned out the place had seen better days. Though the lobby and common areas were recently remodeled, our room was a bit tired and rundown. Still, it was clean and we settled in for the night. 

In the morning, we ate the complimentary breakfast and began packing up for the journey through Vegas, the desert, across Utah, and into the northwest corner of Arizona. While loading the Jeep, I noticed my FitBit was low on battery juice so, without really thinking things through, in the middle of a harried retreat, I plugged the watch into its charger and connected it to an outlet in our soon-to-be-empty room. You can see where this is headed, right?

“Hi,” I said, the next morning from the Havasu Days Inn, my call to the Grand Junction Ramada made moments after I realized my watch and charger and cord were still in Colorado, “Mark Munger here. I think I left my FitBit, charger, and cord in our room yesterday.”

“What room were you in, Sir?” the desk clerk, the same guy (he had a noticeable East Asian accent) who’d checked us in, asked.

I told him.

“I’ll go check and call you back.”

I missed the guy’s return call because we were off doing touristy things with Steve and Diane, René’s brother-in-law and sister. But the guy was kind enough to leave a voice message. By the time I noticed he’d called, it was evening.

“Yes, Sir. We have your watch and stuff. Please give a call back.”

I called the next morning. 

“Oh yes,” a female voice at the Ramada front desk said when I explained why I was calling, “your watch and charger and cord are here.” 

Great news! Except, when I asked how I could get my property back, offering to pay for shipping, the clerk was very clear about protocol. “You’ll need to talk to the manager to make those arrangements,” the young woman said. “She works this weekend so call back then.

That made perfect sense to me so, on Saturday morning, I called the Ramada again. It just so happened the manager answered the phone. After explaining why I called, she said she’d look for the FitBit and accessories and call me back. She never did. I waited a day and called again.

“You’re watch and charger and cord aren’t here,” the woman said. 

That astounded me. Troubled me, might be a better description.

“How can that be? I heard from two of your staff. They both said my stuff had been located and was still at the hotel.”

“We don’t have it,” was her curt reply.

“I saved the voice message on my phone from the guy who found it. When I called back, a second desk clerk, a woman, confirmed my watch was there.”

The manager was miffed at my insistence. “Your stuff isn’t here. But I can ask the person who left you the message. He’s working today. I’ll check and call you back.”

She never called. After waiting a few hours, I called again.

“He says he doesn’t have your watch.”

“What? Two people at your hotel …”

Click. She hung up on me in mid-sentence. I want to be clear here. I hadn’t raised my voice. I hadn’t accused anyone of anything. I was simply trying to get my FitBit back. I called the desk again. The manager didn’t pick up. I waited an hour and called back.

“Ma’am,” I said evenly, “I don’t appreciate being hung up on. I didn’t raise my voice, didn’t get upset with you. But this is wrong. Your folks said the watch was there. Now you say it isn’t. Did you ask the fellow who found it where it might be?”

Her patience, at an end, she hissed out, “He says he doesn’t have your watch. There’s nothing more I can do.”

“Will you ask him if he ever had my watch?”

“No.”

“Can I speak to the general manager?”

“You are.”

“Can I speak to the owner?”

“He lives in Nepal. I don’t know when he will be in town.”

I was getting frosted. “You know, this is a theft. You had my watch. Now you don’t. Meaning someone took it. It’s now a matter for the Grand Junction Police.”

“Fine. Report it. Have a nice day.”

This time, furious and afraid I might say something I’d regret, I ended the call. I explained all this to René as we biked around Havasu City on borrowed eBikes. I mulled over in my mind what I should do. Report it to the cops? Send a letter to the owner? Send a letter to Ramada corporate? Report it to the Better Business Bureau? Ultimately, I decided to enjoy my vacation sans FitBit and leave things alone.

“Dad,” our youngest son Jack said when I called home a few days later, “there’s a package here from Grand Junction, Colorado for you.”

“What?”

“There’s an envelope here, a big one, from Colorado.”

I knew what was inside. “Open it.”

The kid complied. “Why did you mail your watch home?”

I smiled. “It’s a long story.”

But the FitBit is back where it belongs, on my left wrist, telling me to get moving.

Peace

Mark

Jeff Tynjala at “The Cabin”

Paul Vesterstein leaving Europe at age 19. Note his suitcase includes his destination: “Duluth, USA.”

Proud Estonian American, businessman, skier, and longtime mentor Paul “the Count” Vesterstein recently passed at the age of 96. I was asked by the family to provide some remarks at Paul’s upcoming Celebration of Life but I find myself unable to attend due to a prior commitment. Here is what I would’ve said had I been there to bid the Count farewell.

The Count Has Left Us

(c) Mark Munger 2025

When I was a child growing up in the Piedmont Heights neighborhood of Duluth, I had the great fortune of being surrounded by phenomenal male and female role mentors. Many kids I played tag, army men, cowboys and Indians, trench ball, softball, and street hockey with had moms who didn’t work outside the home. Those moms, despite the limitations placed upon them by the times, guided us with steady hands, keeping us safe, laying down the law, making us better citizens. But for boys, it was the dads of the ‘Hood (Chambersburg Avenue, Hutchinson Road, Morris Thomas Road, and Robert Court) who left a lasting impression regarding what being a man, father, and husband entailed.

There were attorneys (my old man being one), dentists, engineers, railroad workers, steel plant guys, tradesmen, businessmen, and just about every other career path represented by our collective fathers. Some dads were heroes: men who’d served in combat during WW II and Korea. Others, like my dad, Harry, joined up but never saw the battlefield. The point is, nearly every one of our fathers put on a uniform.

The Vesterstein’s: Paul-the father; Joy-the mother; and their children moved into a tract house on the same side of Chambersburg as the Munger’s. There were two houses between theirs and ours. My earliest memories of the man we later called “the Count” (not because he looked like Dracula but because of his accent) don’t involve the Vesterstein and the Munger kids. They involve dogs.

My first pet, a big boned black Lab named Deuce, was the terror of the neighborhood. My dad had little patience, scarcely any time, and pretty much left the Lab on its own in the wire mesh kennel behind our garage. Deuce figured out ways to escape the kennel or get off leash and once loose, create havoc. His favorite pastime was beating a beeline for the nearest trash can and emptying its contents onto the ground in search of food. As the eldest Munger child, I was summoned by neighbors, including Joy and Paul, to clean up the mess. But that wasn’t the half of it.

The Vesterstein’s had an unspayed female German shepherd named Fifi whose hormonal scent captivated Deuce. How else do you explain the many calls my mom, Barbara, received from Joy imploring her to “Send Mark up to get Deuce” after he’d jumped inside Fifi’s kennel?

There was a time or two, given I was older than the eldest Vesterstein kid, Scott, I was asked to babysit. Without getting into details, just know that, to this day, Scott insists I was the “worst babysitter” he ever had. I guess the fact I knew how to change a diaper, a skill I learned caring for my sister Anne, wasn’t enough to hide other failings in the caregiving department.

Over the years, I came to appreciate bits and pieces of Paul Vesterstein’s remarkable story. While I would’ve been hard pressed to point out Estonia on a globe, I knew that’s where Paul hailed from and that he’d endured great hardship to make the long journey from war-torn Europe to the States at the end of WW II. I also knew that Paul worked, early on, for the Duluth YMCA. My mom’s first antique restoration project was buying an old China hutch (painted an ugly green and used as a file cabinet in Paul’s office at the Y) from Paul. That piece of furniture followed Mom until her passing and stands in the Great Room of my home on the banks of the Cloquet River as a constant reminder of the Count.

Along the way, two things of note happened. First, the Vesterstein Family, grown too large for their bungalow, built a new home in Duluth’s East End next to Northland Country Club. Second, Paul became a businessman, using his intelligence, UMD education, and skiing ability to start up Continental Ski Shop. Our family began downhill skiing because of the ski shop and because moms in the Piedmont neighborhood took up the sport at Joy’s behest.

Though our families were separated by distance, we spent time together at the Y’s Camp Miller, at Mond du Lac (where all the kids were part of the Duluth Alpine Club), at each other’s rented lake places during summers, and skiing the mountains of Colorado. It was in the mountains (I think at Snowmass) where Paul was labeled the Count and held court with a nefarious group of guys from Duluth including his Legal Advisor (my dad), the Sheik (George Haddad, who wore an actual Bedouin outfit on the slopes), and a host of other middle-aged men all enjoying the attention of the local news media.

One year, when the Vesterstein kids were young and I was in my teens, Paul hired me, despite my reputation as a terrible babysitter, to be his “eyes and ears” while Scott and Kirk hit the Colorado slopes. I got a free trip to Snowmass out of the deal and had an absolute blast! Back in Duluth, when I was invited over to Vesty’s new place, Scott and I would exit the back door, grab old golf clubs, sneak onto Northland, and play a few holes before the greenskeeper found us out and sent us on our way.

I helped the two eldest Vesterstein boys (Scott and Kirk) get up on water skis behind Dad’s runabout when they stayed with us on Caribou Lake. Less successful was our building of a primitive raft on the shores of Grand Lake (another summer rental) which, when Scott, my brother Dave, Kirk, and I climbed aboard and pushed off, promptly sank. Mom rescued us and I’m pretty sure we kept that one quiet from Paul and Joy.

I remember hearing from Paul how difficult it was to be so far from his homeland, the place where his extended family still lived, and recall being invited, along with my parents and siblings, to meet Paul’s brother Karl who, despite Estonia being occupied by the Soviets and being behind the Iron Curtain, had managed to travel to Duluth to see Paul. That dinner event, which took place at the Vesterstein home, stuck with me in terms of how gutsy Paul had been to leave his ancestral home after serving in the Estonian National Guard as a teenager.

Paul was there, at Spirit Mountain, the day Vice President Mondale came to Duluth to ski with the Mungers and attend my son Matt’s baptism. After time on the hill with Fritz, Paul and his family attended the service at my family’s little Episcopal church, likely in recognition that my parents were Scott’s godparents.

After graduating from law school and returning to Duluth to work with Dad, our office represented Paul, Joy, and Scott on various legal issues, including the family’s initial involvement with Benetton stores and Fitger’s. Eventually, their operations became too complex for a four-person firm to handle and we parted ways professionally on an amicable basis. Before that happened, I always enjoyed poking my head into my partner Blake MacDonald’s or Harry’s office when Paul or Joy was around, catching up on all things Vesterstein. Years later, when I decided to run for an open judicial seat, I had the support of the entire Vesterstein family, including the placement of “Munger for Judge” signs in all the appropriate places.

On a more personal note, once my writing saw print, Scott and Paul enthusiastically supported my work. That support included sponsoring book signings and launches at the Theater of the North in the Fitger’s complex. Their belief in my writing continues: I spent a recent Saturday at the Bookstore at Fitger’s hawking my fiction to strangers at the invitation of my Estonian American friends.

After the success of my Finnish American historical novel, Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh in 2004, I was convinced by Finnish American Davis Helberg to take my work to Finland. He helped arrange a tour of Helsinki and Turku for a neophyte non-Finnish author and his wife. Things went well: I met the poet laureate of Finland, was interviewed by the Turku Sonomat, lectured at the Institute of Migration and was escorted to lunch by its director; pretty heady stuff. But the real highlight was a phone call I received in my hotel room in downtown Helsinki.

“Hello?”

“Markie.”

I knew the voice and accent instantly.

“Count?”

“Yes. I hear you’re in Helsinki.”

“René and I are. But how did you find us?”

“Your mother told me you were over in Finland and gave me the number for your hotel.”

“Oh.”

“Markie, you have to visit Tallinn (the capital of Estonia).”

“We’re going there later in the week by ferry.”

“Good. I have some ideas for you …”

Paul’s enthusiasm and love for his native land, chronicled by his family in his obituary, permeated our conversation. In the end, the Count had his Estonian lawyer, a young woman who spoke excellent English, meet us in Old Town Tallin and give us a personal tour of the walled city. Such a gift!

After Suomalaiset I figured I was done writing about Baltic peoples. But at the behest of a Finnish friend, I began exploring the history of the Winter War, the Continuation War, and the Lapland War (all part of what we Americans call “WW II”) in Finland. As I researched, it dawned on me that Finland, by having to select Nazi Germany or Soviet Russia as its protector, was not alone. My study of history drew me to Estonia and the terrible, terrible price that tiny country paid during the war. Learning that Finns and Estonians share a common language, heritage, religion, and culture, I thought, I need to talk to Paul. A lengthy dialogue with Paul regarding his experiences during the war, his immigration to the U.S., and the choices Estonia was forced to make, ensued. Mind you: the Count didn’t always agree with my view of Estonian history. But he never tried to limit my artistic expression. The resulting novel, Sukulaiset: The Kindred was published in 2014. Though the book isn’t Paul Vesterstein’s story: the scenes set in Estonia; the two Estonian brothers who are featured characters; and the themes of the story; are largely taken from Paul’s own experiences and those of his kindred. The writing remains, to my biased eye, some of my best and I have Paul Vesterstein to thank for that.

As that manuscript neared its final draft, I approached Paul to assist in finding a professional editor. Over lunch at Fitger’s, Paul handed me a check, a touch of generosity and a gesture of kindness towards an unsung author. Once the book was published, Paul and his partners sponsored a lavish dinner in the book’s honor at Fitger’s. By coincidence, international musician Ulla Suoko was in attendance. When asked by the Count, Ulla sang both the Estonian and Finnish national anthems for Paul and his guests, putting a smile on the old man’s face. Later that night, the book was launched at the Theater of the North and Paul was in the audience to applaud my adaptation of his story.

I last saw Paul at my mother’s visitation in October of 2023. Age had caught up with the man who meant much to me, my family, his adopted city, and his children. We had a brief chat, during which he said, “I’m so sorry, Markie.” Only a few folks call me that.

He earned it.

Rest in peace, my friend and mentor.

Judge Mark Munger

Scott Vesterstein, the author, and Kirk Vesterstein Snowmass, Colorado

(Photo Below: Fritz Mondale, Bruce, George Millard, Harry Munger)

                                                      BRUCE WILIAM JOHN MEYER

The characters I encountered through my old man, Harry, are rapidly leaving us. Bruce Meyer, a guy I met when I was eight years old, is one of those remarkable folks.

Bruce passed away on November 22, 2024, after a long battle with lung cancer. He was born in 1933 in Merrill, Iowa, attended and graduated from Morningside College and the former St. Paul College of Law. Bruce is survived by his special lady of 33 years, Maureen Mahoney, and children Greg, Dan, Julie, Tony, Dave, and Rachel.  These details from Bruce’s obituary don’t begin to tell the story of this unique human being.

            Dad first met Bruce in law school. It was 1956: Dad, who’d received his BA in history from UMD, had been at the St. Paul College of Law a few years before he and Bruce, recently arrived from Iowa, met. My parents were newly married, had one kid (guess who) and were living in an apartment on Grand Avenue. Bruce? He was single and living in his car. Despite their personality differences: my dad, open, gruff and loud; and Bruce, quiet and reflective, the two men found they shared a love of the outdoors, an affinity they renewed after coming to NE MN to practice law. As a wide-eyed eight-year-old, I tagged along with them, sat in bullrushes surrounding a pothole north of Duluth, and watched the two pals hunt. My recollection of that day is that Bruce was far more patient with a fidgety kid in a duck blind than my old man.

            Years later, I worked for General Cleaning, buffing the terrazzo floors of the First American National Bank Building while attending UMD. I hadn’t seen Bruce much over the intervening years but knew he’d become a criminal defense lawyer. It turned out, Bruce was officing with an interesting group of fellows in the building I cleaned. The cast, if I recall correctly, included Jack Durfee (who became Chief Public Defender), Jack Litman (later Judge Litman), and a young lawyer by the name of Fred Friedman. I bumped into Bruce a time or two during my stint at General Cleaning while he worked late at night, preparing for trial, and we chatted briefly about my future and my plans: neither of which included a legal career.

            Always interested in the world, politics, religion (though I’m unaware if he professed a particular faith), the out-of-doors, and events of the day, Bruce also took up a number of hobbies. His passions included rock collecting, jewelry making, and vegetable gardening. He sold his jewelry at shows across the US, gave away heaps of produce, and attained the designation of Master Gardener while continuing to hunt, fish, trap, and raise children. He also built the rustic cabin in Lake County he called home.

As a criminal defense attorney, Bruce handled many difficult and notorious cases. When local legend, prosecutor, author, and judge, John DeSanto found out I was presenting Bruce’s memorial, he sent his remarks to me via email from his new home in Sioux Falls, SD. Don’t worry, DeSanto fans, I’ve edited John’s remarks for brevity! Here’s John’s take:

            “Bruce Meyer was a real character and good friend. Bruce and I tried at least a half-dozen jury trials (mostly drug cases) against each other. During proceedings involving Roger Caldwell, Bruce covered some early appearances for Caldwell’s attorney of record, Doug Thompson. But there was a major difference: Bruce came to court wearing Sorels and a wrinkled corduroy sport jacket, unlike Doug, who was always “dressed to the nines”. I really enjoyed trying cases against Bruce.”

Sometime in his 40s, Bruce suffered a heart attack: a life-changing wake-up call. After recovering, Bruce closed his law books and headed west, to Montana and the Dakotas, where he worked as a truck driver. As I said, the man was unique.

            Later on, after I’d become a partner at MacDonald, Munger, Downs, and Munger a guy I didn’t recognize wandered into the office. The slightly disheveled man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, displayed a quiet, unassuming demeanor and asked, “Is Harry around?” Dad was summoned and reintroduced me to Bruce, who, for whatever reason, was back in town, ready to relaunch his legal career. But there was a problem. A little thing called CLEs-continuing legal education credits-had been instituted by the Minnesota Supreme Court. Bruce, having been off on the prairie driving truck, had a whole shitload of CLEs he needed to complete, which he started working on while encamped in our conference room/law library. Bruce eventually finished his CLEs, was reinstated, and returned to practicing law. Back in the Supreme Court’s good graces, Bruce joined the Lake County Attorney’s Office as a prosecutor under CA Bruce Anderson.

            After I was elected judge, Bruce Meyer, who’d retired from Lake County, was hired by Carlton CA Marv Ketola as an independent contractor. I spent three years as an “extra” judge in Carlton, meaning that Bruce appeared in front of me many, many times. His work as a criminal defense lawyer made Bruce a pragmatic and fair prosecutor. He was always prepared, always willing to listen to the stories of the folks appearing in court, and always ready to defer to the judge even if that judge was a wet-behind-the-ears youngster.

            I also reconnected with Bruce on a more personal level. Harry and Bruce, who remained life-long hunting and fishing buddies, invited me to tag along on their annual pheasant hunt to Ashley, ND. It was a wonderful bonding experience hunting with two old geezers (before I became an old geezer myself) and later, introducing my sons to that tradition. Later, I was recruited to be the designated driver for an annual fishing trip involving Harry, Bruce, Fritz Mondale, and Mondale’s pal, George Millard, to the Litman Camp in Ontario. For over a decade, I had the privilege of driving the old men, Mondale firmly planted in the front passenger’s seat fiddling with his iPad as the others jawboned behind us, across western Ontario to Ignace, where we caught a float plane and joined hosts Ross and Jay Litman for five days in the Canadian bush. Those drives, where the former vice-president, senator, and ambassador quizzed us about politics, history, our personal lives, and whether Fritz or Harry was the better outdoorsman, were memorable. At the Litman camp, Bruce and I often fished in the same boat. I’d operate the outboard and find fishy looking spots. On one occasion, Bruce insisted on keeping a 28” walleye. When we came back to camp, that decision drew Sheriff Litman’s ire. I was new to the protocol of the place but Ross made it clear, since Bruce had fished the lake many times before, “Meyer, you know you can’t keep that goddamned fish!” Bruce shrugged and apologized. That said, I’m pretty sure Bruce enjoyed the breaded and deep-fried wallet fillets served later than night.

            I made one pilgrimage to the Betsy River in Michigan with Harry and Bruce. We spent our nights in a rental cabin and our days wearing hip waders casting spawn bags at steelhead. Typical of fishing with Harry¾maybe Fritz was right¾there were no fish to be had. Bruce was more pragmatic. Since the trout weren’t biting, he went ice fishing on a local lake for jumbo perch. Bruce was always, even when we were hunting birds on the prairie, searching for jumbo perch.

            When Harry died, Bruce drove up from the Iowa home he shared with Maureen to attend my old man’s last goodbye. Sitting with Mondale and Millard at the Buffalo House during Harry’s Celebration of Life, the always affable, unflappable, and introspective Bruce stayed in the background as droves of admirers fussed over Fritz. As much as my old man loved Fritz, I’m pretty sure he was even more tickled that Bruce made the trip.

            After Dad’s passing, Bruce and I kept tabs on each other. Our final telephone conversations occurred this past summer and it was obvious to me that Bruce was struggling. Having beaten many, many health scares over the years, I’d grown accustomed to Bruce’s matter-of-fact descriptions of his maladies and treatments. He’d nearly died in the hospital a few years back but had, even at death’s door, maintained the same, even-keeled demeanor that was the hallmark of his personality. Still, our most recent conversations, including one where Bruce asked for the name of “a good estate lawyer”, were troubling.

On what turned out to be our final call, Bruce requested the mailing address of my late-in-life political campaign. A true Libertarian (he’d ditched his NRA membership after Sandy Hook), Bruce had no trouble writing a check to fund an unabashed Liberal’s pie-in-the-sky aspirations. I gave him the address. The check came. It cleared. I’ll miss the guy.

Mark

(c) 2024 Mark Munger

Distance. I needed some between my recent electoral defeat to encapsulate my run for the Minnesota House. I think, to some degree, I’ve arrived at a point where I can work things out, if not orally then at least in writing. Here goes.

When my opponent (who’ll not be named in this piece given she personally attacked my reputation, integrity, and legacy during the campaign) defeated longtime Minnesota Representative Mary Murphy, a woman I have known for over fifty years and a true public servant, by 33 votes in 2022, I, like many folks in House District 3B, was troubled. And saddened. And yes, in some small way, upset. But anger cannot be a candidate’s motivation for running. Instead, a candidate should enter the political arena because he or she believes that the current occupant of the position doesn’t reflect one’s personal values. I’d like to think that, when folks came calling after my name was mentioned as a possible candidate, it wasn’t anger or ego or hubris that compelled me, after due reflection and considerable discussion with my wife and others, to “throw my hat into the ring.” Truly, I believe I said “yes” because I was and am worried about the lack of integrity, honesty, and decency in our politics. I truly fear for the future we’re leaving our grandchildren in this, the greatest modern democracy existing on earth. 

I can honestly say, though I was flattered to be asked by folks I admire and humbled to receive encouragement from public officials and friends whose judgments I trust, ego wasn’t really a motivator behind my recent run for office. When you’ve served 23 years as a District Court Judge, a position that requires you to make decisions regarding the most important aspects of the lives of your friends and neighbors, there’s really no larger stage in terms of ego. Every day judges are confronted with stories concerning their fellow citizens: some tragic, some humorous, some sad, a few happy, all of which require jurists to make determinations regarding facts, honesty, the truth, and the law. I thought my public service over a 40-year legal career as a prosecutor and judge would convince folks I could be trusted to enact legislation promoting the general welfare and enhancing the lives of Minnesotans. I was naive to believe voters would see the blizzard of negative ads launched at my judicial record (all based upon one case out of tens of thousands and nowhere near the truth) and contrast and compare that with my record of judicial prudence; service to my country; dedication to my faith and my church; years of involvement in youth athletics as a coach; decades of work with the Scouts; my deep connection to the place I’ve called home for most of my life; and simply ignore the noise. I made a choice and didn’t respond to the attacks. I also vowed I wouldn’t attack my opponent (other than calling her out regarding her legislative record). I stayed true to those commitments but I’m convinced those choices cost me the 161 votes needed to win. 

On this gray, gloomy Monday morning, I’m sitting in my writing studio overlooking the Cloquet River still processing my electoral loss. But I find myself more concerned about what transpired on the national stage. Mistakes were undoubtedly made by my party during this election cycle. The messaging from the Left wasn’t crisp, accurate, or convincing. Strategic miscalculations likely played a role in defeating a worthy, honest, smart, hard-working duo of candidates. But I will not, I cannot, concede that where we are as a nation and a people is what our Founding Fathers, my mentors, my teachers, my parents, my Scoutmasters, my Sunday school leaders, my priests and pastors, or my immigrant ancestors had in mind as a future course for America. Where we go from here is yet to be written but I know that this old bruised and battered lion won’t be running for office again. It’s time for young folks of character, integrity, and honor to step forward, pick up the torch, and do what I tried to do: make this land a better place for all of our grandchildren regardless of ancestry, race, ethnicity, gender, orientation, or religion.

As for me, it’s time to get back to writing; being a husband, father, and grandfather; canoeing the river; traveling; and chasing birds with my hunting dogs.

Peace

Mark 

((c) 2024 Mark Munger)

The Women of Copper Country by Mary Doria Russell (2019. Atria. ISBN 978-1-9821-0958-5)

I love the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I’ve spent many days and nights there, attending Finnish festivals, signing books at North Wind Bookstore (formerly attached to Finlandia University), giving interviews about my Finnish trilogy, and lecturing on writing and my use of history to tell a story. The third book of my trilogy, Kotimaa: Homeland, follows much of the same historical arc as this book, though the main female character in Russell’s work doesn’t appear in mine. That’s curious, I guess. So when I saw that the Keweenaw Community Foundation was raising money for a statue to one of the UP’s most beloved and iconic women, labor leader Annie Klobuchar Clements, I had to attend. My wife and I took a break from my political campaign and stayed five nights at the Houghton, MI municipal RV park right next to the Keweenaw waterway (Portage Lake) and made the short drive to Calumet for the gala. It was a stunning event with great food, people, history, and music. This book (an author signed copy) was in the silent auction, along with a collage created by its author and I was the lucky winner!

In essence, this is historical fiction featuring Big Annie (as she was known) during the 1913 Copper Strike. It is not, as the title suggests, really about the other women involved in the labor dispute except as very minor, adjunct, characters to Big Annie. Oh, there are snapshots of other female characters inhabiting the tale but none of them occupies center stage in the manner of the chief protagonist. That’s OK. However, there’s a bit of hero worship going on here, with the author drawing Annie’s already impostng physical and moral stature even grander and more important than the role history affords her. Again, not a real issue, though the praising of Annie’s moral fiber and grit seems a bit exaggerated. So too is the main antagonist’s fate. 

James MacNaughton, the principal of the Calumet mine where Annie’s husband and thousands of other men toiled beneath ground to extract copper for their masters, is not given much in the way of characterization beyond being a greedy, evil, SOB. Whether or not his callousness and vitriol towards immigrants and their children is real or imagined, the fact that there’s not a more nuanced approach to his persona and actions seems forced. That’s my major critique of the story and the writing: with the exception of Hitler, Stalin, and some other notable historical figures, most men are not pure evil. They are more nuanced and more complex than such a simple demarcation. But it’s within an author’s purview to tell his or her story as he or she sees fit. If it’s a tad tilted against reality, so be it.

In the end, the forces of good (Annie and the miners) and evil (MacNaughton and his thugs) plays out fairly well against the reality of history. I liked the book. I wanted to love the book but that didn’t happen. Still, a worthy read.

Peace

Mark 

4 stars out of 5. A good book for a book club to read and discuss against the backdrop of today’s resurgence of unionism.

 An Interview with Hanna Pylväinen …                                

MM:

Let’s start with the most exciting news, at least insofar as I’m aware. You were recently installed as the Finlandia National Lecturer of the Year.

HP:

Lecturer of the Year is a an especially cool honor since it means I can be invited to travel to any Finlandia Foundation chapters to do a reading or presentation or seminar, whatever the chapter wants and wherever the chapter might be. The Finlandia Foundation pays for my travel there, and the chapter covers my honorarium and accommodations in their home city—I’ll do eight of these trips this year. It’s a special pleasure to have Finnish readers and listeners—the burden of explanation comes down a lot—and of course people often have interesting stories for me in return.

MM:

Where were you born, where were you raised? What influence did Finnish culture, music, food, language, and customs play in formulating an affinity for Finnish and Finnish American culture? Have you visited Finland? If so, what impressions did that/those experience(s) leave with you?

HP:

Like so many Finns in America, I’m from Michigan—born and raised near Detroit. My mom taught me to make pulla, my uncle and father built a sauna in our basement, our cupboards were full of Moomin mugs, Marimekko patterns could be found on curtains and clothing and towels. We were musicians, we played all kinds of instruments, sometimes together, and we learned to love the outdoors, especially remote places—I would say all of these things, so to speak, are pretty Finnish. When I went to Finland for the first time in 2000, I was struck by how much I seemed like everyone else, both in terms of my looks but also things like other people’s love of music—it was almost odd. I’ve returned many times since, mostly to northern Finland in the Enontekiö region to do research for The End of Drum-Time, where I experienced more of Sámi culture than Finnish, though there, too, were Moomin mugs and Marimekko and saunas—and, of course, a love of the outdoors.

MM:

Was Finnish spoken in your home when you were growing up? How fluent are you in the language? I note from reviews of We Sinners and various interviews you’ve done, you were raised in a conservative Laestadian Lutheran home.

HP:

I don’t speak for everyone who is or has been Laestadian, of course, but for me, the experience of being raised Laestadian and then feeling it was imperative to leave it was difficult and poignant, in part because Laestadianism is a very tightly-knit community that becomes so embedded in your life, so central, it is hard to imagine life without it. There can also be huge social consequences to leaving—loss of friends, maybe family—so the pressure to stay can be huge. It’s also a religion that very much emphasizes feeling—feelings of guilt from sin and then feelings of relief from forgiveness—and this can create bodily sensations that the only way to not have sin is to be Laestadian and to be forgiven via their rituals and people. So this sets up the sense that to leave is crazy—then you’re stuck forever in the first, worse feeling—or that’s how it can seem. In this sense it’s not surprising, I don’t think, that the characters of my books think so much about what they feel—and are so swayed by their feelings—it was such an emphasis. Even the language of the church itself—there is no way to underestimate the impact of hearing the cadences of the King James Bible and the sermons every Sunday and more for the first eighteen years of my life. And while we didn’t speak Finnish at home except for bits and pieces (puuroa, miitoa, ole hyvä, prayers, etc.), there were many hymns sung at church in Finnish (that we didn’t understand), and also sermons (that were translated). In this sense, the rhythms and sounds of Finnish have always been extremely familiar to me; indeed, familial.

MM:

Authors take diverse roads to their passion. But most always, they are writers and readers from an early age. Was that true for you?

HP:

I read a lot as a kid—Laestadians don’t watch TV. I didn’t write very much, because ultimately one of my sisters would find it and, in the most painful workshop I’ve ever sat through, read my work aloud to me in mockery (once through the bottom of the bathroom door as I tried to hide). I wrote a short story for a church contest—maybe some little things here and there for school—but that’s about it; it didn’t occur to me to either be a writer or want to be one because I held them in such esteem and because most of the writers I read were dead—I used to read Anna Karenina every Christmas, and all the Austens, some Dickens, lots of old stuff. So becoming a writer did not really seem like a possible thing to do. This changed for me in college when I took a short story class as a break from a a lot of labs and science classes (I was thinking about going pre-med) and my writing professor insisted I study writing. I wrote a memoir called Unbelieving for my senior thesis and used that to get into graduate school—I felt at every turn I had no business really being there, or that I was wasting people’s time. It took quite a long time to feel like I was “really” a writer, and moreover, that I should be one.

MM:

We Sinners is, at least in my take (my men’s book club read it as our January 2024 read), a contemporary story of a Laestadian family struggling with their faith, the modern world, and current issues affecting families. What was your inspiration for the story? The novel reminds me, both in style and subject matter, of Canadian Mennonite writer Miriam Toews’s work. Any thoughts on that comparison?

HP:

We Sinners is my idea of a plausible fictional family that might have existed in my own family’s congregation; it is not actually my family. There are stories I either lived or heard of that formed the basis of a chapter, but usually by the time the story was finished the relationship to the truth was almost entirely lost. I was interested in what the arc of fiction could do for me as a writer that nonfiction could not do, both in terms of freeing me from some of the desultoriness of dailiness, but also in relieving me of the responsibility of representing real people—I love and admire my family deeply and did not want them to feel like I was writing about them. This turned out to be a little naive, since people imagine everyone I wrote to be completely real anyway. I’m okay with that these days—it’s only human—and to my mind at this point, the Rovaniemi family memebers that appear in We Sinners are their own people, with their own particular set of problems.

That said, of course, I did grow up facing many of the restrictions that the Rovaniemis face: no make-up, no earrings, no TV, no dancing, no listening to music “with a beat,” etc. These prohibitions are more or less common to fundamentalism of all kinds—part of what fundamentalist groups share are strict rules of behavior combined with a denial that these are “rules” or indeed intended to control people; everything becomes rooted in whether or not you are, essentially, morally good or pure. In this sense your behavior is never unimportant—I put it that way purposefully. I think there’s real reasons to think about why this kind of religion has historically appealed to Finns at all—and I think there’s many reasons to make a comparison to Miriam Toews.

MM:

Your second novel, The End of Drum-Time, was a finalist for the 2023 National Book Award.

HP:

We Sinners is based on what I knew about the life I had lived; The End of Drum-Time is based on what had created my life that I knew nothing about. That is to say: The End of Drum-Time tells the story of the creation of Laestadianism in the early 1850s; in it, a (fictionalized!) daughter of Laestadius runs away with a Sámi reindeer herder. It took me ten years of research and drafting and traveling to and from Sápmi to really understand what it was Laestadianism has to do with the Sámi—it turns out, a lot. As is often the case, again, by the time I was done writing it The End of Drum-Time doesn’t feel, I don’t think, much like it’s “about” Laestadianism—it’s about Willa, the daughter, and Ivvár, the reindeer herder, and it’s about complicated politics of colonial forces that led to why Laestadianism would have been appealing to Sámi reindeer herders (and poor northern Finns) in the first place. It was, as you might imagine, mind-boggling to be named a finalist—it was not the kind of thing I ever sat around dreaming about.

MM:

If a Finnish group wants to take advantage of your being selected Lecturer of the Year, what’s the best way to contact you to see if you’re available to read and discuss your work with a local group?

HP:

Zoom is a possibility, though part of being the Lecturer of the Year is that the Finlandia Foundation covers my travel to wherever your group is! I do have some LOY readings lined up: in Hancock, Michigan on April 13th; in Ithaca, NY on May 19th; and in Baltimore, MD on October 13th; and hopefully one in Sonoma, CA sometime in September or October.

MM:

Might your fans see you at an upcoming Finn Fest? Finally, without giving too much away, are you working on a project?

HP:

I’ll be giving a reading at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, MA on April 6th and a reading at NYU in NYC on April 11th, and a reading in Houghton on April 13th. I’ll also be at FinnFest. People looking for upcoming events can check my website at hannapylvainen.com.

I’m working on my next novel, which takes place in 2013 Boston. I’m very excited about it, though as far as I can tell, it has nothing to do with being Finnish, Laestadian, or herding reindeer, but you never know, these things have a way of sneaking in.

(This interview first appeared in the July 2024 issue of The Finnish American Reporter.)

An interview with Jess and Julie Koski …

MM:

When and where did you start your journey across America?

Jess:

We took our first steps west from Schoodic Bay, Acadia National Park on July 7^th, 2023. Neither of us had ever been to Maine before (one of maybe 5 states we hadn’t visited) and we were eager to experience Acadia NP!

MM:

I understand that you were walking to call attention to the epidemic of opioid addiction.

Julie:

We all have personal experiences with addiction: there is no one who hasn’t been touched by a friend or a family member’s struggle. Yet, there is still stigma associated with drug use. After 13 years as an ER nurse caring for people who overdose, it’s an issue close to my heart.   We’ve watched the opioid epidemic grow and change and become the monster that it is today. Opioid overdoses kill 80,000 people a year and are the leading cause of death of 18-to-45-year-olds. 80,000 people who could be alive due to the failure of the medical industry, from big Pharma to the local hospitals, to act and it sickens me. It’s time we accept and teach harm reduction: Naloxone is the simplest way to do this. It reverses the opioid poisoning so the person can breathe on their own and survive. Our approach of talking to people while walking was meant to open up discussion, one on one, so we could talk frankly and openly about experiences, feelings, and ideas relating to addiction and overdose. Many people we spoke with had lost someone and were interested in learning about harm reduction.  It was great to answer their questions and discuss their concerns in an informal, friendly manner. 

MM:

Jess, given your surname, you have Finnish heritage?

Jess:

I’m Finnish, as well as some other Northern European, French, and Native American blood. I’m an enrolled member of the Minnesota Chippewa Tribe and live on the Grand Portage Reservation. Some might call me a “Finndian” or “Finnishanabe”.

I visited Finland in the early 1990’s to ski in the World Master’s Ski Championships in Kuusamo, an eye-opening experience! I considered myself a competitive athlete, but regularly got my peppu kicked by much older men.

I took a Finnish language class before the trip. Prior to that, I had a vocabulary that was limited to mostly swear words.

I’ve always been proud of my Finnish heritage and took inspiration from the great Finnish running tradition. I read everything I could get my hands on about Paavo Nurmi and the other early champions. I was a young runner when Laase Viren won the double golds in Munich and Montreal. (I have a picture of myself and a few other locals with Viren when he came to run Grandma’s Marathon.)

Julie:

I’m pleased to say that I’ve enjoyed several rounds of karjalan piirakka back in the days of Hojito in Thunder Bay! But, as far as I know, I’m not Finnish. I’m adopted and not certain of my paternal side though, so you never know.  I grew up in Fargo, ND and my (adoptive) parents weren’t Finnish. My dad was a Fulbright scholar in Germany as a teen, thus we leaned to the schnitzel. 

MM:

Let’s get back to the walk you embarked upon last summer.

Jess:

Since doing things “the easy way” isn’t in our vocabulary, we decided to walk diagonally across the US from Maine to San Diego California. The route was very fluid and changed as we walked due to road and weather conditions. For example, we only learned about the wonderful Erie Canalway rails-to-trails path when we arrived in Maine. Consequently, we enjoyed an easy to navigate, 350-mile path free of cars. But we also had to detour away from a similar trail in Illinois due to the horrors of entering Chicago congestion.

We changed the route from Nebraska to Missouri/Kansas due to the approach of cold weather. And did so again in Colorado, detouring south into New Mexico and Arizona. These decisions turned out to be the best we made over the entire trip. Missouri has the KATY Trail; another rails-to-trails that follows the Missouri River and the route of Lewis and Clark. And New Mexico turned out to be our favorite state!

Logistically, we worked out a system where Julie would start walking each morning and I’d drive ahead, park the car (hopefully in some shade so the dogs could be comfortable), meet up, and I’d head out for my miles. We’d do this two or three times per day until we reached our daily mileage goal (15-30 miles.)

The dogs didn’t do a lot of walking. Izzy turned 17 on the walk and is mostly deaf and blind. Jessica is our year and a half old golden doodle and has plenty of energy but most often, we didn’t feel comfortable having her out on busy roads with us. I’d estimate she did maybe 150 miles of walking on dirt roads or paths. If we ever do another trek like this, Jessica would certainly be invited! Izzy will most likely be in “the happy hunting ground” by then, though we really didn’t think she’d make it to the Mississippi River: she’s actually more vigorous now than she was at the outset of the trip!

We walked from Maine to Indiana without taking a break. Then Julie went to Chicago for a music festival with some friends. We took another break for a trip home to see family around Christmas, and another for me to go to Phoenix for a 100-mile race. Yes, walking across the country apparently wasn’t enough for me!

In the end, we shifted a bit north of San Diego to Carlsbad to avoid big city traffic. We walked onto Terramar Beach and into the surf up to our shins.

Our sisu was tested when we reached Alamosa, Colorado. We were met with below freezing temps (-5F), very strong headwinds (40+mph), and high altitude (7000’-8000’.) There were a few days we just had to pack it in after seven miles, which put us further behind schedule.

Julie had surgery for lung cancer three years ago and, though she is doing great, she does have her limitations, walking over a 10,000’ pass into a howling headwind being one of them.

We’re excited to reunite with family in Minnesota and should arrive on my son, Eli’s, birthday! (We began the walk on Julie’s birthday—July 7th, and ended it on my daughter, Phoebe’s birthday, April 5th.)

MM:

Maybe let our readers in on the highlights of your trek.

Julie:

The highlight of the trip for me was the last step: right into the Pacific! The sun was shining down on us as we ran around on the beach in a giddy stupor, cheering with beers and letting the dogs bark and run wild. We’d finished without anything horrible happening. When you walk every day for months and months, it becomes part of you. The road, the trail, the highway, the wind; hours turn into days, days turn into months, miles turn into more miles. It’s hard to explain, but the process of one step after another and another quiets your mind and brings a deep feeling of peace even with semis whizzing by. 

 After walking and talking with people across this country, the idea that we’re all here to help each other still rings true. The kindness shown to us was epic. People everywhere stopped to ask if we needed help and that question usually led to a harm reduction conversation. In New Mexico, a woman jumped out of her car and ran over and hugged me. Later that day, we went to her house for dinner and to do laundry. We met a woman in Vermont with a dog like ours and when we arrived in Kansas, her sister took us out for breakfast. In Colorado, a former drug dealer gave us a beer and offered a place to camp for the night (we declined the camping spot but drank the beer).  In New York, a photographer friend-of-a-friend invited us to his studio and made a video for us. Finally, Jess had a great talk with an Amish fellow in Indiana. 

We have stories of kindness and support from every state and so many new friends who followed us on social media. There were also a few encounters with people not as open to us or our message but nothing scary.

We need to mention how grateful we are to our friends and family! For 8 months they’ve held us up, cared for our cats and plants, and encouraged us daily. What a journey! 

MM:

Will there be a chance for folks to hear and see about your epic trek either through a video compilation, lectures, or perhaps, a book?

Jess:

We’ve posted links on our website to some of the interviews we’ve done with newspapers and radio stations. Readers can find those links at: www.walkforthelove.com. Also, WITP radio in Grand Marais, MN did a wonderful job of keeping up with us. Those interviews can be accessed at www.wtip.org.

I do write (I’ve a Masters in Creative Writing from Northern Arizona University, and taught English at Hibbing Community College) so the idea of completing a book about our journey is appealing. I’ve gotten some “pre-orders” from a few people along the route, though I think maybe they’ve consumed one too many beers!  We’ll see. Maybe someone out there knows of a potential publisher?

MM:

What’s next for you two?

Jess:

We’re slowly making our way back to Minnesota and “the real world.”  Julie is pondering the next chapter in her professional life: she still has a few more years before she can join the ranks of wandering retirees.

We sometimes daydream about another walk (perhaps across Europe: the Arctic Circle to Morocco) but we also feel the need to reconnect to Northern Minnesota and spend time with our (grown) kids, siblings, and my mother.

We’re passionate about a number of issues beyond Harm Reduction, such as climate change, plant-based diet, and inspiring people to get out and move or take on a challenging physical/spiritual journey.  We met many people who said, “I wish I could do what you’re doing.”  I always replied, “You can! You don’t necessarily have to walk across the country, but you can go for a hike every day, walk or bike across your state, or commit to a daily practice of exercise, meditation, yoga, or whatever makes you feel good.”

MM:

Where can folks find out more about your walk across America?

Jess:

We’ll keep our Facebook and Instagram pages active, and I’ve promised at least one more blog post on our web site.

Thanks so much for your interest in our walk, Mark and Finnish American Reporter!

(This article first appeared in the June 2024 issue of the Finnish American Reporter)

                                                INTERVIEW WITH MISKA KAJANUS

MM:

Kiitos for agreeing to do this, Miska. Let’s start at the beginning. Where were born, where did you grow up?

MK:

Thank you for interviewing me. This is an honor!

I was born in Oulu, Finland, but I grew up in Iisalmi, Finland. It is in the Northern Savo region of Finland.

MM:

So, knowing only that you are the 2024 Finlandia National Foundation Performer of the Year (courtesy of this newspaper), I ended up on your website, https://www.miskakajanus.fi/ . There, I found some hilarious videos (loved the “Brag for Finland” piece), but also some musical clips, the trailer for Insanity, a feature film, and some stand-up comedy. What was your first experience in terms of entertaining others? How old were you? Where did that first experience happen? 

MK:

Thank you!

I was quite active in sports when I was a kid, but when I was 12 years old I started to play drums a bit, and eventually I got a guitar and started my first punk band. Theatre and acting started in my teens too but entertaining started with playing guitar.

MM:

Thankfully, as a non-Finn doing these interviews, you included English language clips as well as subtitles on your website amongst the samples. You’re fluent in Finnish, I assume, as well as English. Any other languages? 

MK:

I speak a little bit of German and Swedish, but mainly English and Finnish. However, as an actor I sometimes need to play different nationalities, so I have learned various European accents. And of course I audition often for Russian parts, so I have learned to speak in Russian accent too.

MM:

Finland is considered by many to be a world leader in the education of children. Could you describe your educational experience growing up in Finland? Did you enter college or any higher education upon completing your basic public education? Have you always known you wanted to be a performer? Your first love in terms of drama, comedy, or music?

MK:

I finished my high school in Finland, and then did the military service. I was in Music Troops. Then I studied one year at the University of Helsinki. I wanted to get into the Theatre Academy in Finland, but I never got in. So, I found a school called New World School of the Arts in Miami, and I eventually got my theatre degree from that school. It is a part of University of Florida.

MM:

At some point, you left Finland for the bright lights of LA and America. When and why? How has that transition gone for you?

MK:

It was when I was 22 years old. I really wanted to become an actor, and the school in Miami opened its doors to me. After the school I have been going back and forth between Finland and the US, but now I’m finally a dual citizen, and I call Los Angeles my home.

MM:

Your webseries, “Helsinki BLVD”, has that wrapped up or is it ongoing? What was the inspiration behind it and why a webseries?

MK:

We did the 1st season a few years ago, and I would be interested in doing more. And if we get an order from a TV channel, streaming service, or any other outlet, we’ll do some. However, I’m not actively pursuing new avenues for Helsinki Blvd now, but maybe we’ll do more at some point!

The series was inspired my troubles when I went back to Finland after my theater school in America. My US student visa ended, so I had to go back to Finland even though I wanted to stay in the States.

MM:

I’d love to watch The Road (originally, Käräjävuorentie) if I could find a copy with English subtitles. Talk a bit about the movie, your role, and whether the film (from 2012) is readily available to viewers outside Finland.

MK:

I will find out from the distributor! There are a couple of other Finnish films that I am in, that I’d love to see released with subtitles in the US. The Road was my first opportunity play a lead role in a feature film, and I’m forever thankful to filmmakers Anna Peräaho and Essi Mitronen for that.

MM:

With so many creative hats atop your head, what are you working on right now?

MK:

Lately I have been focusing on getting my theatrical Performer of the Year monologue ‘My Immigrant Story’ ready. I’m also halfway done with my next feature that I am directing. It’s called Reunion, and it’s a fun comedy about a love triangle between an American couple and a Finn.

But in the middle of my projects, I audition for various other projects almost every day, and I act in them whenever I get booked. 

MM:

How do you think being the Entertainer of the Year will help your career and your connection to the Finnish American public? Have you booked any gigs through that title as of yet? Do you anticipate doing mostly standup, question and answer sessions, or maybe a little of both when you present to groups around the US over the next year as Performer of the Year?

MK:

Being Performer of the Year is a great honor, and I am looking forward to meeting all the wonderful Finnish-American communities around the US. I feel that the Performer of the year title is the biggest honor an performer can get from the Finnish-American community.

 I have already booked shows to Washington DC, Delaware, Philadelphia and Hancock MI.

 My show is a comedic monologue, which also has some songs in it. I will also have a question-and-answer session after it.

MM:

Sisu, released in 2022, seems to have taken American movie goers into the Finnish psyche, at least in terms of its box office receipts and reviews. I’ll confess: my 26-year-old son loves the film and has urged me to sit down and watch it. I have some great Finnish war films in my collection (Ambush, The Winter War) so I suppose I’ll have to watch it eventually. Your reaction? Talk about the difficulties of making a big budge, epic movie that features Finnish history and Finnish characters for the wider world.

MK:

I haven’t seen it yet, but I have heard wonderful things about it! I am looking forward to watching it. My guess is that it seems to be Finnish enough to be unique, but not too Finnish, so it still connects with American and international audiences. It’s definitely not easy to make an international Finnish blockbuster! But at the same time I also believe that very uniquely Finnish stories could connect internationally too!

MM:

I listened to a bit of your musical clip on the website. Seems as if you’re style fits in with Scandinavian metal. Is that where you’d put your music, in terms of genre? If so, what is it about the far north that triggers a love or affection for heavy metal music? Are you still making music? In a band or solo? How does that fit in with your other creative endeavors?

MK:

Thank you! My biggest inspirations to my music have been Rage Against the Machine, and even an old Finnish rap group Raptori. I am not really a good singer, but I can rap a bit and yell. And often I have featured artists in my songs who sing the melodic parts!

I think the weather and nature in the far north can be heard in Scandinavian heavy metal. As you know, winters can get quite dark in Finland.

I have recorded instruments to 2 more songs already, they are missing the vocal parts, I would love to do more music, and I will eventually release more.  But currently I am concentrating on my Performer of the Year shows and Finishing my feature film Reunion.

MM:

What sorts of Finnish traditions do you continue to enjoy here in the States? What do you miss about Finland? How often do you get back?

MK:

I have learned to bake rye bread from a starter I got from a Finnish friend here. But I don’t have a sauna yet. That I do miss! I go back 2-3 times a year. I usually get some acting or music gigs in Finland every year. So, I get to go back often enough.

MM

If you could work on a feature film here in the states as director/actor, would you prefer drama or comedy? Any scripts you’re working on right now?

MK:

I am concentrating my efforts on finishing my comedy film Reunion, which I wrote with a Finnish screenwriter Katri Manninen. But the latest thing I have written is my Performer of the Year show “My Immigrant Story”. That has been fun to put together!

MM:

Last question. If a local Finnish group wants to book you as part of your work as Finlandia’s 2024 Performer of the Year, how does it go about making that connection?

MK:

You can find all the info from here:

https://finlandiafoundation.org/programs/performer-of-the-year/

And if not, you can find my contact info on my website:

https://www.miskakajanus.fi/

I’d love to visit you! 

(This piece originally appeared in the May 2024 issue of the Finnish American Reporter.)

Imagine being a young Finnish boy growing up in Minnesota’s Finnish Triangle. Consider dealing with congenital hip defects and leaving the family farm outside Sebeka at age six to travel to Gillette Children’s Hospital in St. Paul for multiple surgeries. Imagine, as a consequence, spending nine months in the hospital, three months with casts on both legs, and celebrating your seventh birthday amongst strangers. Then, appreciate that the lad depicted eventually became an award-winning, Duluth-based architect.

Seventy-eight-year-old David Salmela’s quintessential tale of the American Dream began in a small hospital in Wadena, Minnesota. Because so many children were delivered the day David made his appearance, because all the delivery rooms were in use, Salmela’s mother gave birth to him in a hospital corridor.

David was raised on a small farm outside Sebeka. The Salmela place was surrounded by dozens of other Finnish farms. Once his hips mended, David found himself attending a rural school, the center of education for himself and twenty other children of Finnish descent raised in bi-lingual homes. Though¾through careful listening¾the children learned Finnish at home, they didn’t speak it at school.

“I’m usually interviewed by architectural magazines,” David related as we sat in the Salmela’s lovely home perched high above Duluth overlooking St. Louis Bay and Lake Superior. In his quiet, firm voice, David revealed an innate reluctance to boast. “I’m interviewed by newspapers. One of my goals is to stay out of the public eye …” He added, “It’s a responsibility but one that needs to be treated carefully.” With a slender laugh, he conceded that Finnish folks rarely toot their own horns: “Finns frown on that.”

Both sides of David’s family remain in contact with relatives in the Old Country. Visits “back home” have included tours of ancestral farmsteads. In fact, the heritage of one paternal farm dates back to 1770: a longevity of ownership that’s been recognized by the Finnish government.

With a smile, David explained how he, and later his children, became immersed in both cross country running and skiing. “It was a mile from the farm to the school,” he said, “and I got tired of being beat by the girls.” He added, “That’s when I started running. One mile there, one mile back. Every day.” By ninth grade, David was confident enough to try out for the Sebeka High School cross country team. He won the tryouts, made varsity, and, as a sophomore, won his first race (which took place on a farmer’s field near New York Mills). “I realized, ‘Isn’t it amazing. I’m doing this after having congenital hips and spending a long time in the hospital.’” David continued. “Not only was I crippled, but, because I lost four inches of growth due to the surgeries, everyone else was bigger than me.” Another pause. “After my senior year, maybe I could have gone to Bemidji (Bemidji State University) and run on the team. But it was over. I’d gotten what I needed … (T)hat reflected onto our kids. Cory and Chad and Tia and Kai and Brit are all runners and skiers. On a national level, even competing internationally.” David confided, “I never pushed them.” When each child was about to graduate from high school, his advice was, “Well, you know, you can always go to school. But you can’t always be young and be a competitor.” The Salmela kids pursued their sports, returning, in due time, to complete post-high school studies, including Kai who earned a master’s in architecture from the University of Minnesota, a BFA in graphic design from Rhode Island School of Design, and now works alongside his father in the family firm. “They all got into better schools than they would’ve starting out …”

Immersed from birth in the Finnish language, David observed, “My grandmother lived with us and never spoke English. Half of the conversations at home were in Finnish, half in English.” When he went to junior high school in the town of Sebeka, David noted it was “like moving from Duluth to St. Paul. It was a different world. All of sudden, there were Germans and Swedes and Norwegians!”

David acknowledged that, ingrained in Finnish American culture is the knowledge of how to solve the inherent problems of farm life. David explained that his father grew up in Vermillion Lake Township, the first white child born there. Lacking money to buy things for the house, David’s paternal grandmother crafted furniture from orange crates. “You build things with what’s available,” he noted, a sentiment reflected in the choice of building materials used in Salmela designs.

A recent example of such problem-solving involved David being asked to design a chair for Osmo Vänskä (when Osmo left the Minnesota Orchestra). As the material for the chair, David selected indigenous basswood. “The cheapest wood you can get locally. The logic, the Finnish logic, is that you use available material.” Once the chair was built and David presented it to the famed conductor, “Osmo looked at it and said: ‘That is a Finnish chair!’.” The architect’s take is that, driven by poverty and a difficult climate, “the realization of years living in the aftermath of Finnish culture, without even realizing it” culminates in such design sensibilities. He concluded, “If you look at Finnish architecture and design, it’s as beautiful as anything in the world.”

So how does a Finnish boy from Sebeka end up an award-winning architect? The answer to that question can’t be discerned by following a simple, linear path.

After graduating from high school, David, who was infatuated with architects Frank Lloyd Wright, Charles Le Corbusier, and Alvar Aalto, wanted to become an architect. He was also interested in art, attending a Modernist art exhibition in the Twin Cities that inspired him to create an abstract painting in the style of Jackson Pollack on the backside of an old quilt lining of his mother’s. “The painting hung in my parent’s living room for years. But when neighbors came over, they wouldn’t look at it!” he said with a laugh.

It was  the early ‘60s. War is in the wind. Rather than wait to be drafted, Salmela enlisted in the Army National Guard and served six months of active duty. After completing his military obligation, he enrolled at the University of Minnesota with the intention of earning a degree in architecture. But reality set in. Required to take four years of prerequisites before entering the architecture program (expending seven years in total to earn a master’s) David did the math. “How in the world will I pay for this?” he asked himself. “I’ll just take a drafting course.”

David enrolled in a four-month drafting course held above a Minneapolis drugstore. He left the class early with the intention of finding a drafting job at an architectural firm. “They all laughed at me.” Redirecting his efforts, he applied at engineering firms, landed a job, and met his wife, Gladys. The couple married and later moved to NE Minnesota because David wanted to live on his father’s farmstead near Tower. Settling on the Iron Range, David found work with various engineering firms. But the draw of architecture wouldn’t abate. Eventually, Salmela applied for a position with Finnish American architect, Eino Jyring, and was hired as a draftsman. A year later, David joined the Damberg firm in Virginia, MN. At Damberg, the first building David worked on was the White Community Hospital in Hoyt Lakes, MN. The success of that project led to David designing the IRRB headquarters in Eveleth. The success of that project led to some unexpected professional recognition. “All of sudden, architects in the Cities are saying, ‘who the heck did this?’”

“We won-on smaller projects-Minnesota American Institute of Architects (AIA) Honors Awards, which was a shock because no one outside the Cities had won one in twenty-five years.” But it wasn’t until he was asked to design a residence for Finnish American doll designer, Faith Wick, when David utilized lessons learned as a boy growing up in Sebeka. “Everything before the Wick house was Modernist, which was in keeping with where Minnesota design was at the time.” He paused. “But then I read an article about all the nationalities that came to and lived on the Iron Range. When I read that, and Faith wanted a Finnish folk house, I said ‘holy cow’…”

His design for the Wick home won an Honor Award from AIA Minnesota. Using what he learned from that process, David designed a home for photographer, Peter Kerze, again, following his Finnish sensibilities regarding materials and design. That homestead (which includes a sauna) won yet another AIA Minnesota Honor award. When asked by this Slovenian American why Kerze, an Italian-Slovenian American, needed a sauna, David laughed and said, “Because he’s a Ranger!”

David worked at Damberg for twenty years. When the firm merged with another group, David began searching new opportunities. He landed a job with a firm opening a Duluth office (necessitating the Salmela family moving to Duluth) before eventually founding Salmela Architect.

I was curious how David was able to become a registered architect without a college degree.

“I remembered there was a grandfather clause¾for those with at least thirteen years of experience but who didn’t have a degree¾and it was going to sunset. I had one year to study for the exam and get all my prerequisites in order to take the test. I passed eight of nine sections, retook the section I missed, and passed it.”

As our time together drew to a close, David referenced a collection of distinctive dwellings built into the craggy Duluth hillside surrounding the Salmela home. Studying the cluster of Salmela-designed homes, I recalled that my former law partner, Tom Clure, hired David to design the Clure house just down-slope from where we were talking. “Tom gave me this lot for my work,” David recalled. “These homes collectively won an AIA Minnesota Honor Award for urban design in 2007.”

Hoping to understand Salmela’s creative process, I asked David to explain his approach to building design. According to David, there are five key principles he considers when envisioning a project:

1. Understand the land;
2. Know where the sun rises and sets;
3. Understand the means of building, which includes the materials that could be used and overall affordability;
4. Grasp the client’s program and goals; and
5. Appreciate the connection between the structure and the surrounding culture.

In 2007, David was granted an honorary degree by the University of Minnesota-Duluth for his amazing body of work. To date, Salmela Architect has won seventy-seven awards from prestigious state and national organizations. David’s philosophy regarding design has been written about throughout the world and his remarkable legacy is the subject of two books published by the University of Minnesota Press.

But, more importantly, despite all the attention and the accolades, David Salmela remains the same unassuming, humble Finn who decided, when girls sprinted past him at school, to improve his lot in life through hard work.

“I attribute the courage, the instinct to do what I do, to the Finnish culture. To sisu. It’s like what my ancestors experienced coming here. They didn’t have time to complain. They came here and made things work. There was no one helping them-or me-out.”

(This article first appeared in the March 2024 issue of The Finnish American Reporter.)

We Sinners by Hanna Pylväinen (2012. Picador. 978-1-250-3218-8)

I saw that the author of this novel was selected by Finlandia National Foundation’s 2024 Lecturer of the Year. Because I’d not read any of her work and I have an interest in Laestadianism (a branch of Lutheran fundamentalism associated with the Apostolic Lutherans in my neck of the world), I decided to make this slender novel my book club pick for the month of February. 

Pylväinen knows of what she writes, having been raised in a conservative Christian family adhering to the doctrines first pronounced by Lars Levi Laestadius in the mid-19th century when Lars, an indigenous Sami Lutheran pastor from Laplap (Arctic Norway, Sweden, and Finland), underwent a personal epiphany. The “sins” prohibited by Laestandism include dancing, alcohol, and gambling: a direct result of Laestadius’s own father’s addiction to alcohol and the family’s resulting poverty. In We Sinners, the author chronicles a contemporary Finnish American family (also struggling with poverty in spite of their piousness) adhering to this strict form of Lutheranism and, despite the introduction of strict parenting, homosexuality, doubt, alcohol use, and other sinful conduct into this family of nine children. Pyläinen renders each of the children deftly, with love, and without severe judgment for the parents or their chosen faith, though it does become confusing at times, with so many children, who she is writing about when she switches from one to the next.

In the end, this is a well-written exploration of a little-known part of the Christian faith in a fictional rendering. My one criticism of the book is that, coming in at only 189 pages while covering nine children and their parents makes the story feel more like a series of vignettes than a novel. But that having been said, it’s well worth the read: my book club universally concurred.

4 stars out of 5. 

East of Eden by John Steinbeck (2002: Centennial Edition. Penguin. 0-14-200065-5)

Steinbeck reportedly considered East to be his masterpiece. I’m not sure about that given the beauty and story of Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, and some of his other works. But I will say this: in creating Cathy Ames, the female antagonist of this morality tale set in the Salinas Valley, Steinbeck drew one of the most convincing tales of female sociopathy ever put to paper. That alone is sufficient reason to consider this work as one of the author’s most ambitious.

The plot’s basic premise is not hard to extract despite the tale’s heft and volume. Good and evil exist in this world, not only within the same family, but within the same person. Ambiguously, we never know whether Charles Trask, the roustabout and quick-to-anger son of Cyrus Trask (a heavy handed Civil War veteran who is essentially an embezzler and crook), or his kinder, gentler, more polished brother, Adam, impregnated Adam’s wife (Cathy, who wiggled her way into both men’s beds), the result of which is a set of twin boys, Caleb and Aron. The Biblical links to the story of Cain and Abel are not hard to discern in either the Charles/Adam or the Caleb/Aron plots. It’s this simplistic connection that many critics of the book found to be its deepest flaw. I disagree.

The interjection of Cathy, who leaves the twins with Adam and vanishes into the world of prostitution, into the well-known Biblical tale makes the plot sing and keeps the reader guessing. Originally released in 1952, the themes of Cathy’s life post-abdication from the Trask home, (she becomes the madam of a house of ill-repute that prides itself on fetishes and sadism) must have caught the eye of more than one censor. Tawdry, raw, and emotionally upsetting as Cathy’s life and immorality may be, it is her tale to be told and one that leaves you, in the end, without a clear resolution of the conflicting themes carried throughout the book.

Is it better than Grapes? That’s in the eye of the beholder … But it’s a book every novelist wishes he or she wrote.

5 stars out of 5.

Love and Spirit: A new Set of Eyes by Thomas R. Martin (2015. Balboa. 978-1-5043-4197-4)

Confession time (pun intended). Tom is a guitarist in the River of Grace praise band at my church, Grace Lutheran ELCA. So consider my review with that connection in mind.

This is a compelling look at what it means to be Christian (not just Lutheran) in a world full of competing faiths. The author discusses Jesus and God and the Holy Spirit in a unified, easy to follow manner, all of which has, at its core, the belief that Love is at the center of the Christian faith (and the world’s other major religions as well) and that it’s this Love (agape love, not lust or romantic love or familial love) that’s indeed behind Jesus and our redemption. 

Using the language of the Gospels, the Old Testament, and the Gnostic Gospel of Thomas, the author leads readers on a welcoming and loving journey of Faith; one in which he doesn’t shy away from such questions as, “Can a non-Christian like Ghandi, who did everything Christ-like but wasn’t a believer in the Holy Trinity, be saved by Love?”. The thoughts expressed and ideas and doctrines explored are not new: most of us have questioned, “Hey, but what about good people who haven’t heard the Word, or who have heard it, have acted in a manner Christ would approve of, are full of agape Love, but haven’t converted?” and have, like the author, struggled to find an answer to that query.

This book is a welcome addition to that discussion.

4 stars out of 5

Peace

Mark

A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings of Martin Luther King, Jr. Edited by James M. Washington (1986. Harper. ISBN 978-0-06-064691)

I made a promise to myself, after attending the 2023 MLK Breakfast at the Copper Top Church in Duluth, to find a book of Dr. King’s writings, speeches, and theories regarding race relations and discrimination and read it. I picked up this very exhaustive collection from our local Barnes and Noble and, over the past year, with an eye towards completing my read by MLK Day 2024, got to work. I missed finishing the book by my deadline by a week but I am ever so glad I undertook the task.

What did I learn by reading this tome? I learned that King’s brilliance, though at times repetitive in theme, shines through his words and establishes guidelines for how we should be working towards equity amongst the races and the poor in America and the world. Along the way, King details his theories of non-violent change based upon principles pronounced in Christianity and by Ghandi; why he, as a minister of the Gospels, decided to vocalize his personal opposition to the Vietnam War; and why the uptick of violence in the inner cities of America following the passage of Civil Rights legislation was, while regrettable and not in keeping with his pleas for social and electoral change through sit-ins, boycotts, and other non-violent protest, completely understandable yet avoidable.

I came away from reading this collection convinced that not only was Dr. King a leader of a movement; he was a brilliant thinker and strategist whose lessons and thoughts are as applicable to our tortured race relations today as they were during his oh-too-short-life.

Beautiful prose and succinct reasoning.

5 stars out of 5. A textbook for nonviolence. 

No Time to Spare: Thinking About What Matters by Ursula K. Le Guin (2018. Recorded Books.)

This was another of my YMCA workout “listens”. I’ve been a fan of Le Guin since taking a political science class at the University of Minnesota-Duluth concerning utopias. I picked up one of her early science fiction titles (The Left Hand of Darkness perhaps?) as part of that class and wrote a paper on it. Here, Le Guin, very shortly before her death in January of 2018, collected a number of essays on a variety of topics ranging from literary awards, writing, science fiction, the F-word, cats, marriage, and a smattering of other seemingly unrelated topics into a fanciful, humorous, yet poignant whole. While not as thought provoking or entertaining as the best of her fiction (I still consider her Earthsea series to be the gold standard of fantasy), there’s enough in here to keep any Le Guin lover (or anyone simply interested in her thought process) entertained while walking the track, the dog, or simply chilling in the car.

4 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

                                                Erik Koskinen Interview

MM:

 Let’s start with your roots, where you were born, where you grew up?

EK: My father was born in Helsinki and was adopted in Negaunee, Michigan as a young child. As an adult he traveled and lived around the United States but met my mother in Marquette, Michigan. I was born with my twin brother in Fort Collins, Colorado. By the time I started grade school, I was living in The Copper Country and my parents worked at Suomi College (Finlandia University). My mother’s family has been in the US for generations and are Irish/Scottish/British. My whole family on my father’s side resides in Finland still.

MM:

 A bio of you on the First Avenue (a famed Twin Cities music venue) website indicates you were “raised in Northern Michigan”.

EK: The Keweenaw Peninsula is a large part of my upbringing and of course I grew up with Sauna. Some of my relatives in Finland fought in the wars of the 1940’s on skis. I grew up skiing all the time. Food that was either brought from Finland or adopted by Finns in the UP was around me often. In general, Sauna, skiing, fish, stews, pasties, polka. Cussing in Finnish was a popular activity. Part of my high school was in NE New York, near Quebec, and I only met one Finn there. I took French classes, but I let everyone know I was a Finn!

MM:

 Growing up, was the Finnish language spoken around you by parents or extended family members?

EK: My family from Finland speaks English so well (maybe better than I) that my household never took it in as a necessity. My father has lots of terms and phrases he uses from the old Finn world. Many of these are now unknown to family in Finland. I heard a language program on the radio recently that mentioned that the two most used Finnish words in America are Sauna and Sisu. Sisu has strong sentiment in my world. I believe in it and I’m very proud of my heritage which has heavy influence on my daily life, including writing music.

MM:

I’m a huge folk, rock, blues, and Americana fan. One of my favorite singer/songwriters of the past several decades is James McMurtry, son of famed author (Lonesome Dove, Last Picture Show) Larry McMurtry. I hear some similarities to Jim and his austere, stripped-down songwriting and arranging (including simple yet elegant guitar work) in your songs.

EK: Interesting question. My parents are writers and teachers. They taught me about Larry McMurtry early on and I was in his hometown visiting his bookstores at the end of a tour in Texas about twelve years ago. Archer City, Texas. It’s where they filmed The Last Picture Show. Very close to where my mother was born. I wanted to visit both places.

The first time I heard of James I was on a road trip playing shows in Duluth, MN and I called my father from a payphone. It was the late nineties. He said that he just heard an interview with James on the radio and Dad said James reminded him of me. I’ve heard that more in the last 25 years than I can count. I’ve been compared to no one else more than him (in a positive way). So early on, he wasn’t an influence. But I’ve grown to love his music, writing, phrasing and the intent of his delivery. He’s brilliant. I would imagine I’ve been influenced inadvertently, but not directly. I always take it as a high compliment when someone mentions the similarities, but I feel like a novice comparatively.

MM:

In that same First Ave bio, you’re listed as currently living in Cleveland, MN. I have to confess, I’ve been to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, OH but never, at least knowingly, been to Cleveland, MN.

EK: I don’t live there but I have my recording studio there. It’s a small but grand farm town near Saint Peter, MN. Folks treat me with respect, and I do the same. I moved to the Saint Peter area from the city because of true love with my lady. Why else move? Before that I’d been in Saint Paul for a while. I play annually in Cleveland (early August) and it’s a ruckasy, fun time. Lots of people from all over Minnesota, Wisconsin and Iowa. The show has a bit of a Willie Nelson Picnic vibe. City folks, farmers, townies, hippies, musicians. Everyone gets along great and has a lot of fun.

MM:

Have you toured outside the United States?

EK: I’ve toured in Canada, Ireland, Northern Ireland, Scotland and England. I felt very at home in all of those places. In fact, I loved it and I can’t wait to go back. That side of my blood felt soothed. I really want to play Finland: it’s in the master plan. If it doesn’t happen soon, I’ll be going to visit family regardless.

MM:

The same First Ave bio indicates you spent some time in “upper New York State”. What timeframe are we talking about? Did that include time near Woodstock, where famed Band drummer Levon Helm operated and recorded at the infamous Barn? I only ask because another Munger interviewee, famed Jefferson Airplane/Hot Tuna guitarist, Jorma Kaukonen has done some work there and in fact, will be headlining a show at The Barn next April. Have you ever met or played with Jorma?

EK: The music world is like a small town: you’re always one person away from knowing the President, so to speak. But I’ve never crossed paths with Jorma. I sure hope to. I’ve seen him play but let him be at the end of the show. He’s brilliant. He’s also way more influential than he gets credit for.

MM:

Just a couple more and I’ll let you get back to making music. It looks like you’ve worked with quite a few folks based in or from my hometown of Duluth, MN.

EK: I’m pretty old school as well. I still listen to “albums” and prefer that. I hope the tradition never dies and even if it fades a bit, I believe it never will die. It will have a resurgence, which I think has already started. 

I get hired many ways as a working musician. Sometimes I’m a guitarist or a producer or an engineer or co-writer. Many times, I’m all of the above at the same time. I feel very lucky that people keep contacting me to work with them. My own Duluth history goes back almost to my beginning. It’s the first town I “toured” to. My history with Sacred Heart also goes back to the beginning. A musical mentor, Bernie Larsen, sold his recording gear to the people that started Sacred Heart. The very gear I learned to work on in Michigan made its way to Minnesota! I also recorded one of the first records ever recorded there. I was told I was part of the influence to record the first “Duluth Does Dylan” compilation record. Even though I never lived there, they included me on the record! That was all done at Sacred Heart, along with many others compilation records that involved Trampled By Turtles, Haley, Low, and Charlie Parr. Teague Alexy (from Duluth) is a dear friend. Sarah Krueger too. Tim Nelson has a lot to do with that scene. I wish I could mention everyone.

MM:

Last one. Looks like your latest, album-length recording is Burning the Deal. I thoroughly enjoyed “Big Plane” which to me, again evokes not only McMurtry, but also the Finnish folk duo (no longer so, I’ve been told), Ninni and Mika (whose great album Powder Burn was recorded and engineered by Amy Helm at The Barn). Is Burning the Deal your latest? Where can folks, including newspaper writers not of Finnish heritage, find your music?

Kiitos!

EK:

Thanks much! That’s the newest. There’s a new one coming very soon. I’ve been so busy working on musical projects for others that my own work has taken a back seat, but only to refine it slowly. I’m fine with the time it’s taken (four years). I’ve not listened to Ninni and Mika but now I will: thanks for that as well.  I was honored to play with Amy Holm once but not at the barn. Hopefully, one day …

My website, www.erikkoskinen.com has an online store and all the streaming platforms have all the records. I love to sell them at live shows. Coming soon to a town near you!  Kiitos! Kiitos!

(This interview first appeared in the February 2024 issue of the Finnish American Reporter.)

Nostromo by Joseph Conrad (2011. Tantor Audible. ISBN 978-1853261749)

I’m a Conrad fan. Victory. Heart of Darkness, his short stories. I’ve read and loved them all. But I hadn’t heard of, much less listened to, Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard, until my book club picked it as the January selection. Again, given I’ve been spending rehab time at the Y track in Hermantown, I chose to listen, rather than read, this novel. After many hours on the track, with the weights, and on the exercise bike, here’s my take.

The headline says it as succinctly as I can. If this was a debut novel, given it takes the first one-third of the book before the story begins to pique one’s interest, I’m not sure a modern day first-time novelist could get this story published. I’ve been told that editors/agents in this hurly-burly world give a book-at most-five pages, to make a favorable impression. Here, if that test is applied to Nostromo, the novel would be doomed. But it isn’t. Why? Because Conrad wasn’t some neophyte handing an agent or an editor his first manuscript. By 1904, when this book hit the shelves, Conrad, whose remarkable personal story deserves an entire book itself, Heart of Darkness, Typhoon, and Conrad’s other noteworthy works of fiction had already made their marks, meaning Conrad had the attention of the world’s readers when Nostromo debuted.

This is a very complex novel in terms of multiple characters, including the title actor, Nostromo, the leader of the the longshoremen in the fictional port town of Sulaco, in the Occidental Province, in the nation of Costagauna (a stand-in for Columbia). But the plot itself is relatively simple and straight forward once Nostromo is introduced and the action begins. Again, patience is required for a reader to meet up with the dashing former Italian sailor, who, while admired by everyone in the port city for his pluck, bravery, and daring-a-do, is not one of the city’s elites.

A revolution is taking place. A rebel army is threatening. The region surrounding the port is home to a productive silver mine and Nostromo is charged with captaining a boatload of silver away from the rebels’ hands. I won’t spoil the plot here by divulging what becomes of the sailor, his companion, or the treasure. I’ll leave it to you to turn the pages and come to the book’s conclusion before making up your own mind up about whether, as some contemporaries of Conrad opined, this is best work.

All things considered, worth the listen or the read.

4 stars out of 5

Peace

Mark

I’m a dyed-in-the-wool Liberal and proud of that label. So, take my musings with a grain of salt.

Recently, I’ve been troubled by a segment of America continuing to support the former Occupant and his vision of the future for nation. As a retired judge, former prosecutor, historian, political scientist, and author, I believe the man has proven himself to be unqualified for public office. His rhetoric and actions during his presidency (and since his electoral defeat) have only solidified my perception. With that perspective in mind, I’d offer the following as a way to truly make American great again.

SUGGESTION ONE: READ THE NEWS

I’m not talking about scanning blogs or posts or headlines constantly appearing like freshly popped popcorn on the internet. I’m talking about subscribing to and reading your daily newspaper. It might be the printed version. Or it might be online. Or it might be, as my newspaper is, a hybrid. Whatever format fits your lifestyle is fine by me. But it’s critical, if we actually want to make America great again, that we support, read, and consider our daily newspapers. Without them (and they’re disappearing faster than moose in Minnesota) we’re left with local gossip and unverified rumors as our guides.

SUGGESTION TWO: WATCH AND/OR LISTEN TO LOCAL BROADCAST NEWS

Turn on your television (or, if in the car, the radio) and supplement the news your get from your local newspaper with actual, non-biased, reporting. This means avoiding MSNBC, CNN, Fox, NewsMax, or similar agenda-driven networks. On the radio, that’s a hard ask since much of Am radio is dominated by Right Wing Talk. I prefer PBS and Public Radio. Why? Not because there’s an elitist, Liberal bias to such outlets but because they drill deep into issues. And, nearly every night, I supplement public media reports with local television news as well as national news from the Big Three, ensuring that my bank of knowledge is wide and varied and based upon fact, not fiction.

SUGGESTION THREE: MEET CHALLENGES RAISED BY THOSE WHO DON’T AGREE WITH YOU

Recently, a friend asked me to watch The Fall of Minneapolis, a film concerning the conviction of Derek Chauvin for the murder of George Floyd. Five minutes into the two-hour YouTube video, I was ready to pull the plug. It was obvious the producer/director had a bias, one that, having spent considerable time following the trials concerning the involved officers, I knew was not based upon fact. But my wife, a mental health practitioner and a very wise lady, convinced me to watch the whole film before casting judgment. So, I did. It was a painful exercise, one filled with half-truths, undisclosed conflicts of interest, and bias. But in the end, she was right. If you’re asked to read something or watch something by a well-meaning friend, even if you’re suspicious of what’s behind the information, do so.

SUGGESTION FOUR: DIG DEEPER

In today’s social-media-driven world, it’s easy to see a headline, accept it as gospel, and move on. Don’t. I’ll confess that, from time to time, I log onto Huff Post or similar Liberal pages (or watch a short clip from “Morning Joe”).  But I learned long ago that both sides of the political divide like to “gild the lily” as Grandmother Munger used to say. A number of times, I’ve read a headline on a Liberal media site, said to myself, That’s interesting, and opened the article only to find that the hook exaggerated the facts. My caution to you is, regardless of whether it’s a piece by Hannity or Scarborough (or anyone else) read, watch, or listen to the offering in its entirety. Don’t rely upon a headline, or worse yet, someone else’s interpretation of the information, for the basis of your opinion

SUGGESTION FIVE: READ BOOKS

No, not mine (unless you want to!) I’m talking about investing time, either listening to audio books, reading books on Kindle, or reading a book the old-fashioned way. And in this vein, here’s a thought. Before getting on the band wagon to ban a book in a school or library, why not actually read what’s been written before allowing censorship by a school board, a governor, or some other authority figure to ban someone’s words? One school district in Florida is, at present, considering dictionaries and encyclopedias as books worthy of such consideration. Really? That’s damn scary stuff to anyone, Liberal or Conservative. Maybe Webster’s including the term “transgender” somehow will magically turn Florida children into furries. I doubt it but I’d suggest that, before such things are accepted, citizens actually read and weigh in on books being scrutinized. And while I’m at it, did you know that half of our population (the female half) buys 80% of all the books sold in America? That’s unacceptable, men. We need to be reading, learning, and growing regardless of our age, gender, or political affiliation. So read, gosh darn it, and hopefully some of your reading includes history, biography, fiction, and poetry; not just the latest tomes from political pundits or celebrities.

SUGGESTION SIX: STOP WEARING POLITICAL SIGNS AS CLOTHING

In our home, there’s an old John Kerry for president ball cap hanging on a hook. No one wears it. Not out of shame or remorse but out of respect for others who might not view the world as our family does. I also have a “46” tee (in honor of Biden’s win) in my closet but only wear it around the house. Not out to dinner. Not to church (yes, some Liberals actually go to church!). Not to the local Y. Not to the mall. Same is true of my “Shut Up Man!” tee (my favorite Biden debate response). While I love Uncle Joe and want him to serve another four years, I don’t need to parade my support around town. My suggestion to my Conservative friends? If you own a MAGA hat, sweatshirt, or tee, maybe consider leaving it at home rather than trying to stir up an argument. Sure, I get there’s a right to free speech. I’m not saying anyone should be prevented from expressing their politics. I’m just saying wearing a political billboard in public  (not talking about at campaign events here) isn’t helping us to talk things through. You won’t sway me with your tee shirt and I won’t sway you with my ball cap.

SUGGSTION SEVEN: TAKE DOWN THE FLAGS

Folks in my neck of the woods continued flying flags supporting the ex-President for months following January 6^th. During the 2020 election, my wife and I spent time in an Arizona RV park surrounded by such flags. Did it make me feel uncomfortable to be in the minority? Sure. Did I object or start arguments with my fellow campers? Of course not. And after the election, after Biden won the popular vote and eclipsed the prior Occupant’s “electoral landslide” (his words, not mine), the next time we were in the park, the flags were gone. We can have a debate about the validity of the election results. We may disagree as to whether the events of January 6^th, including the actions of the former president, constitute fomenting an insurrection. But I’d prefer letting juries decide such things. Continuing to fly MAGA flags after that terrible January day isn’t fostering productive dialogue. So, instead of flying such a flag at your cabin, from your boat, or on your pickup, take it down. Invite me over for coffee and conversation. But be prepared: I won’t allow you to rest on fiction; I’ll ask for the sources behind your positions and your views.

SUGGESTION EIGHT: WALK A MILE IN SOMEONE ELSE’S SHOES

This is my biggest criticism of the former Occupant. He, in my humble view, is entirely devoid of empathy. He cannot, will not, place himself in the shoes of another. Christ encouraged us, throughout the Gospels, to do just that. You don’t have to be a Christian to accept that, before you cast the first stone, you should look at yourself. As an example, every one of us (with the exception of descendants of African slaves brought here against their wills; or Native Americans on whose land we now tread) are the progeny of immigrants. Yes, the southern border needs addressing. But before you decide how that should be accomplished, do the hard work of reading up and listening to and watching news reports covering the issue. Do the same for any issue you’re concerned about. Then, as Christ would, put yourself in the shoes of the people being affected by the issue.

SUGGESTION NINE: DO THE HARD WORK

In my vocation as a novelist/writer, I find myself relying upon the internet to research events, people, and places. As I do so, I’m constantly checking the source I’m consulting against other sources to ensure I’m not relying upon an article, movie, clip, or book based upon magical thinking or revisionist history. As an example, I’m currently working on a novel based upon my Slovenian heritage. In  nutshell, I’m trying to understand what happened in the Balkans from 1918 through present day. In doing research, I must constantly guard against bias, be it Slovenian, Serbian, Croatian, or Bosnian, as to what happened and why. To do so takes hard study and in-depth probing. It might seem like a lot to ask you to be similarly thorough with respect to your political views. But, if you’re casting a vote for a candidate based upon his or her views, upon his or her perceptions of reality, don’t you owe it to America (and to your kids and grandkids) to do the hard work and make sure what you’re being sold is the real deal and not a catch phrase based upon fiction or bias?

SUGGESTION TEN: BE INVOLVED AND VOTE

I may not like your position on an issue. I may not support your views of a candidate or a platform or where America is headed. That’s OK. Our Founders didn’t always agree with one another when they created, out of whole cloth, the Great American Experiment. But if you take the above to heart and choose to support or vote for a party or cause or candidate after you’ve done your best to ferret out truth from fiction, I can live with that.

Peace

Mark

Recently, an old friend, whom I admire both for his wisdom and pragmatism, asked me to watch the documentary, The Fall of Minneapolis. After watching the first five minutes, wherein the intentions of the folks behind the film are made abundantly clear (the main premise being that the conviction of Derek Chauvin for the intentional murder of George Floyd was a sham), I emailed my friend and said, “No, I’m not going to watch the rest. I already know where it’s headed.” But my wife, a very thoughtful, retired mental health professional, convinced me I needed to watch the entire documentary to come to a judgment regarding its merit. So I did.

Before I discuss the factual and legal fallacies inherent in the film, let me raise a couple preliminary points.

I’m in the midst of reading the complete works of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I have, for the better part of a year, been steeped in King’s message of nonviolent change. I’m at the point in King’s journey where he’s dealing with advocates of Black Power: younger, more strident Black men and women tired of the slow, steady, drip-drip of attaining civil rights. King watched the Watts and Detroit and other riots of the mid-60s, his people fueled by rage and anxiety and poverty and hate to destroy the cities they lived in due to frustration at the pace of racial reform. As the riots unfolded, King believed his way, the nonviolent path to racial justice in America, was in jeopardy. I write this so you understand: I don’t minimize or condone what the rioters did in Minneapolis or any other American city following Mr. Floyd’s death. Violent crimes were committed and the folks who committed those crimes should be held accountable. In addition, much of the film deals with the angst and heartache and loss and sadness and fear experienced by the Minneapolis police officers who worked out of the 3rd Precinct and were forced to retreat from their beloved station house. They were heroes, doing heroic things to try to keep order and peace in a neighborhood on fire. The officers failed in their attempt to keep the peace, not due to a lack of courage or will but due to overwhelming odds against them. There’s no shame in that and I honor their sacrifice and their service. 

When I conduct historical research or in-person interviews for my books (or when I worked as a judge and attorney) I am and was cognizant of the training I received as a college student working on research assignments handed out by my history and political science professors, as well as the research protocols I learned as a law student, legal assistant, and full-time legal researcher while attending William Mitchell College of Law. In any such enterprise, the fundamental questions to be asked are:

1. What is the source of any background material?; and
2. What biases do the witnesses and/or the individuals (including me!) asking questions bring to an interview?

The film begins with footage of the arrest of George Floyd. Let’s remember that Mr. Floyd had not been accused of committing a violent crime. He was accused (by a shop owner) of attempting to pass a counterfeit $20 bill; a financial offense. For certain, passing/possessing a fake $20 bill can be charged as a felony. But the question I’ve never been able to answer is whether Floyd knew the bill was fake. That’s something any prosecutor charging Mr. Floyd would want to know and the answer, so far as I’m aware, died with Mr. Floyd. Given the nature of the allegation, the interaction between the suspect (Floyd) and the officers (Chauvin and others on scene) should, all things being equal, have been a routine matter. For a number of reasons, it wasn’t.

There’s no question Floyd was high on illegal narcotics, including fentanyl and meth. That combination didn’t assist his cognition or how he responded to officers. But in the initial interaction, it’s clear Floyd isn’t verbally abusive or cursing or disrespecting the officers. He’s mostly polite, if excited, and largely cooperative with commands to leave the van he’s seated in. The video shows at least one officer approaching the parked van with his handgun raised and pointed at Floyd. I understand officers believed something was going on inside the van (cops call such behaviors “furtive movements”) which made them wary. But a cadre of uniformed cops approaching a Black man, with at least one gun raised, shouting the “F word” at the top of their lungs would be enough to make even the most compliant and calm citizen nervous. 

Additionally, young Black men have been taught for generations that policemen, Black, white, purple or orange, are not necessarily their friends. This urban understanding is historical and long-standing. I have four sons. I’ve never had “The Talk” with my sons about potential interactions with police because, well, they’re white and that discussion is something Black parents have with their sons. That Mr. Floyd becomes more and more upset, as no officer on the scene takes the time to calmly defuse the situation and explain that Floyd is suspected of a financial crime, might not be understandable to me, an old white man. But it’s understandable to George Floyd and generations of Black men.

Let’s also remember that the Minneapolis Police Department has a history of misconduct based upon race. Remember: this is the same department, that, when dealing with an intoxicated Native American, saw its officers shove the man into the trunk of a squad car for the ride back to the precinct. That incident, and countless others, have cost the city money in civil settlements over the years. That history, well known throughout the state, is part of a larger legacy of racial profiling and mistreatment of citizens of Color by the Minneapolis police. It’s not me saying that: it’s the United States Department of Justice and State of Minnesota agencies saying such is the case in their official findings.

Back to the film. 

With respect to source material, the movie is less than two hours long. Testimony, instructions, and arguments in Chauvin’s jury trial took more than a month. For the first fifteen minutes or so of the movie, we’re provided snippets of body camera footage from cameras worn by three of the four responding officers. So I raise this question: Why is there zero, repeat zero, footage from Derek Chauvin’s body cam included in this film? After all, that footage was viewed by the jury and presumably, if they did their job, jurors considered that evidence in arriving at their verdict. To this researcher, reporter, trial lawyer, and judge, that’s a glaring, selective omission and, likely, by its absence, an admission that the footage doesn’t support the film’s political agenda.

Additionally, the journalist on camera conducting interviews needs some discussion as well. The photo at the top of this piece is of former WCCO reporter, Liz Collins: the face and voice behind the film. It’s important to understand that Ms. Collin is married to the former head of the Minneapolis Police Federation. After a lengthy career as a cop and union steward, the husband, Bob Kroll, found himself under scrutiny for a number of things, not the least of which was wearing an arm patch (off-duty) supporting white supremacy. He left his post in January of 2021 and, in 2023, settled a civil lawsuit filed by the ACLU regarding his actions following the murder of Mr. Floyd. The financial terms of that agreement are sealed but the settlement includes a provision that Kroll not seek employment with any law enforcement agency located in Hennepin, Ramsey, or Anoka Counties. This husband and wife connection, a clear conflict of journalistic interest for Ms. Collin, is undisclosed in the film. 

Further, while the fact a book about the Chauvin trial and the violent riots following Floyd’s murder (They’re Lying: The Media, the Left, and the Death of George Floyd) is referenced at the film’s conclusion, nowhere are viewers told that the person conducting the interviews and the person who penned the book is Ms. Collin. And it’s curious to me that Collin’s name, unlike the names of witnesses she interviewed, never appears beneath her during the film (as least so far as I can recall). Wouldn’t it be important, in assessing bias of the reporter asking questions, to know she’s married to a cop (and not just any cop but the head of the police union) and that she has already, as indicated by the title of her book, made up her mind regarding who is the real victim in her saga?

Now, let’s examine the folks who speak on camera and support the film’s conclusion that Chauvin did nothing wrong. Collin parades ex-Minneapolis officers, sergeants, lieutenants, and the mothers of two of the convicted officers to establish a number of points of view. Understand: all of this narrative would be irrelevant and inadmissible in a criminal trial. Just like a defendant’s prior arrests or an officer’s prior instances of excessive force and/or misconduct are, under general precepts of evidence, irrelevant and not fodder for jury consumption, so too are the opinions of the officers and the mothers shown on camera. I wasn’t at the trial and I didn’t follow it day to day. But I know it’s likely that both sides presented evidence regarding whether the “hold” used by Chauvin was proper police procedure under Minneapolis rules and guidelines. Such evidence would have been presented by experts (training officers) who reviewed the manuals, training videos, and other evidence of what Chauvin was actually taught. Both sides would’ve called their experts: the state, to show Chauvin’s conduct was beyond the pale; the defense, to show Chauvin did what he was taught to do. The officers who appear in the film (other than a self-serving audio by Chauvin from his prison cell: “I did nothing wrong”), so far as I know, don’t have the expertise to provide such evidence. If they did, they would’ve qualified as experts and been allowed to present their opinions to the jury.

More broadly, who and what is Alpha News, the outlet behind this documentary? According to reputable media watchdog groups (e.g., www.factcheck.org) Alpha News is:

• A conservative news outlet founded in 2015 by Tea Party Activists;
• A media organization with questionable veracity and reliability based upon poor sourcing of information, promotion of conspiracy theories, anti-Islamic propaganda, bias, and a lack of transparency as to its funding and ownership.

On the company’s website, Liz Collin is listed as a principal reporter/journalist working for and at Alpha. I don’t know about you but I don’t get my news from CNN, MSNBC, Fox, or any other cable/streaming outlet. I get my news from PBS, the three major networks, our local TV and radio news outlets, and mainstream newspapers.

Much is made of “missing” or “withheld” body cam videos. The innuendo is that someone: the AG, the police chief, Mayor Frey, President Biden, Governor Waltz, the Court, or perhaps Pope Francis, deliberately excluded relevant body cam footage from the jurors’ review of evidence. No. Close scrutiny of the film establishes that, while that allegation is made at the beginning of the documentary, what in fact was excluded from jury consideration was body cam video taken after George Floyd died. The videos referenced are shown towards the end of the film and include efforts by Officer Kueng to apply CPR in the ambulance (but Floyd was already dead) and footage depicting conversations held in the ambulance cab between Kueng and an EMT. None of that would be relevant at trial given the charges involved murder, which had already occurred. 

The film also includes an interview of a nurse anesthetist. In her discussion of the case, she states that: a. a mistake was made by the EMTs with respect to providing oxygen to Mr. Floyd; and b. she has an opinion regarding George Floyd’s cause of death. Again, the nurse being interviewed did not, so far as I know, testify as to either issue. Why? Even though, as a nurse, she may be qualified to give certain opinion testimony in a trial, her views regarding perceived EMT errors, while interesting, are not probative as to why Floyd died unless she has the necessary expertise to establish some causal connection between such errors and his death. Further, nurses don’t testify in courtrooms regarding causes of death. MEs, coroners, and pathologists carry that evidentiary burden. She may have a personal opinion as to cause of death based upon her background but she doesn’t have the necessary experience, education, or training to testify about the same in front of a jury. 

Collin also interviews a general surgeon on similar topics. In a telling exchange, the doctor admits his views are based upon hearsay (“I’m told …). He also downplays the fact that the autopsy, which found the actions of Derek Chauvin (kneeling on Floyd’s sternum/neck area for 7-9 minutes) likely caused Floyd’s fatal heart attack, had its conclusions peer reviewed. That review found the ME’s conclusions (testified to at trial) were supported by the science behind the medicine. Finally, the general surgeon, who might be able to testify regarding cause of death but who, to my knowledge did not do so at trial, indicates the involvement of the FBI in the investigation into Mr. Floyd’s murder is a “red flag”; intimating that there’s sculduggery afoot to wrongfully convict an innocent man (Chauvin). 

The film makes a great fuss about whether “MRT”, an arrest technique described in Minneapolis police training manuals and policies, is what Derek Chauvin applied when he knelt on Floyd’s neck/shoulder/chest area for 7-9 minutes. In the movie, officer after officer sympathetic to Chauvin makes the claim that MRT includes the maneuver/technique deployed by Chauvin. However, no interviewee is able to supply Collin with a video or a diagram from Minneapolis police training materials depicting the technique. Not even Chauvin’s mother, who holds up two manuals (owned by her son) for the camera, is able to open either manual and prove that MRT, as described in the manuals, includes the hold Chauvin used on George Floyd. There’s a still photograph in the video demonstrating the technique but we have no idea where it came from and, if it wasn’t from Minneapolis training materials, the trial judge would’ve barred it from jury consideration as irrelevant. That some other department, in some other city or state or county allows the technique and teaches it isn’t the issue. A similar, grainy, hard to see line drawing of the technique likely ran up against the same evidentiary bar. But it must be repeated again: the manuals introduced at trial, the testimony that the jury saw and heard regarding MRT, apparently did not establish that what Derek Chauvin was doing to George Floyd for 7-9 minutes was, at the time, an approved Minneapolis police procedure. 

Which leads to this question. If Derek Chauvin was trained by the Minneapolis police department in a technique he says was part and parcel of MRT, why didn’t he explain that to the jury? Sure. Jurors are admonished by the judge at the end of the case that the state must prove a defendant’s guilt; that it’s absolutely within a defendant’s right not to testify and that his or her silence cannot be weighed against the defendant. And yet, if things were as Mr. Chauvin believes, that all he was doing was his job, following protocol, using approved techniques to subdue Mr. Floyd, why not tell the jury? And, while you’re it, tell them, that while you were just doing your job, you now regret a man lost his life in the process. Those things didn’t happen because Chauvin decided not to clear the air.

There’s a hint in the video that Derek Chauvin couldn’t get a fair trial in Minneapolis given pre-trial publicity and the riots that engulfed the 3rd Precinct and other parts of North Minneapolis. Ask yourselves this question: given a state court case cannot be moved out of the state where the crime was allegedly committed, what far reach of Minnesota was not affected by the murder of George Floyd and its attendant publicity? What other jurisdiction within Minnesota could provide the necessary security, jury facilities, and a similar jury pool (including jurors of Color)? In the end, it’s within a trial judge’s discretion to grant or deny a motion to change venue (I both granted and denied such motions as a jurist) and if Judge Cahill got it wrong, the Minnesota Court of Appeals, the Minnesota Supreme Court, and the United States Supreme Court all have the ability to vacate a wrongful conviction, grant Mr. Chauvin a new trial, and order that the second trial be moved. The reviewing courts declined to do any of those things. 

A couple of other observations gleaned by a fact-finder of forty years’ experience. One of the allegations, not necessarily proven during the Floyd trial but one advanced in political, social, and cultural circles, is that the Minneapolis police department had, over considerable time, demonstrated racism during interactions with young Black men. Racism is a strong word. I don’t know what’s in a man or woman’s heart. But one of the officers in the film, when discussing Floyd’s situation, uses the phrase, “Well, if a person is colored …” That caught my attention as it’s the sort of language my ignorant paternal grandmother used when discussing Black folks. She often, in a very pejorative way, called Blacks, “coloreds” or “darkies”. Both terms carry connotations of prejudice. Then too, Officer Keung, his mother and other interviewees spend time pointing out that Keung is Black and that he’s listed as the arresting officer. But, as other police officers (including respected chiefs of police) have pointed out in the aftermath of the Floyd verdict, the fact Keung is Black doesn’t and didn’t insulate him from becoming part of the Blue Wall. As an officer responding to a situation where a superior (Chauvin) was acting in a fashion not in keeping with “protect and serve”, it doesn’t matter if Leung is Black, Asian, Native American or white. It matters he was complicit in a man’s death at the hands of a fellow officer. 

There’s a scene towards the end of the film where an officer is standing next to his or her (the footage is grainy) squad car and a citizen throws a hub cap. The cap strikes the officer in the head and drops him/her to the ground. No explanation or context is included. What’s depicted is a heinous and unprovoked attack. But stop the video. Rewind it (as I did). Study the emblem on the squad car. Study the writing on the driver’s door. Compare it to the earlier views of the marked squads that responded to the counterfeit bill call. To me, the emblems don’t match. The writing on the car doors doesn’t match. To me, the incident shown is yet another attempt to advance an agenda. That’s not reportage or an honest exploration of the facts. 

A last word. I’m deeply troubled that, if one clicks on Ms. Collin’s book title on Amazon and looks at the ratings and reviews, one finds universal praise for her work. No, this isn’t my ego rising up; my hackles being raised by a competing author’s success. I wish Ms. Collin well in her writerly pursuits. But it’s deeply disturbing to this old man-someone whose professional career was an attempt, perhaps misguided, to attain justice for the ordinary folks I represented as a lawyer and the citizens who appeared before me as a judge-that facts no longer seem to matter in our democracy.

Here’s what you need to do to prevent being hoodwinked by such faux news. Stop. Consider the source of the information. Then, dig deeper. Go behind the headlines. Uncover the reality concealed by fantasy.

The truth is out there waiting to be discovered. I am certain of that.

Peace

Judge Mark Munger (Retired)

See also:

https://thebradentontimes.com/stories/letter-fall-of-minneapolis-documentary,68870?

Here’s the unedited version of my interview in FAR with Finnish American author, Tim Jollymore.

MM:

Kiitos for doing this, Tim. Let’s start with your surname. Jollymore certainly doesn’t seem to be Finnish and yet, we run into each other at all these Finn Fests and events! Give the readers of FAR a brief explanation of your heritage and how Finnishness fits into your upbringing.

TJ:  Both my first and most recent novel (Listener in the Snow and The Nothing That Is Not There, respectively) investigate this conundrum of identity: How can a fellow named Jollymore be Finnish?

The short answer, and one very incomplete, is that once in America, my grandmother Ruth Martin of Kokkola, Finland, married the immigrant Andrew Lumppio. My mother, born in  Cloquet, 1915 then, was as Finnish as her mother and father were.

Had Elsie Elizabeth, my mother, met and married a Finn, I would have fully identified as the same, but then entered the handsome, half-Irish, French Huguenot and German John Jollymore, my father, who was as proud of his own heritage as he was unfamiliar with mom’s. The result was that the Jollymore in me was raised up and the Lumppio in me was suppressed, although  never extinguished.

Being Finnsh, then, was more an aspiration, more a search, more a mystery to me than it was a belonging, a surrounding of culture, or familiarity with  practices and foods that were Finnish at their root. It was not until adulthood that I tasted (and made) pulla, had enjoyed a wood-fired sauna, spent a summer at the cabin, or had spoken even a word of the language.

In a sense, the search for identity that Tatty Langille, my hero in the books cited above, is represented in my own life: a choosing  among things Finnish over the things of the wider European tradition.

MM:

You’re a writer and a playwright who’s written a number of novels. What writers have influenced your work? Who do you consider to be your mentors? Are any of the works distinctly Finnish in culture, history, plot, or character?

TJ:

I grew up an English major, so, of course, I’ve read the cannon that was current, say, in 1968, but I seldom now think of or mention anyone but Fitzgerald and George Orwell. Writers creating work since then have more meaning for me now: Sigred Nunez (The Last of Her Kind), Paul Auster (Leviathan and The New York Trilogy), Cormac McCarthy, and the Scandinavians: Knut Hamsun, Laxness, Petterson, Gaarder  and Knausgard.

I single out Diego Maroni’s New Finnish Grammar (a novel) which takes up Finnish identity in a most fascinating and surprising story of engaging and learning culture from an absolutely blank slate, something my own Finnish identity lives within.

MM:

You’re presently located in California. Could you give the readers of FAR a history of your education, employment, and background as to how you ended up on the West Coast?

TJ:

I grew up in my dad’s town, Proctor, and my mother’s town, Cloquet, then spent thirteen years in Duluth, half of that in college at UMD. I earned my MA degree at Duluth. I never intended to leave the area and have always and do now love the town. But Honeywell, Inc. had plans for me in Minneapolis and San Francisco. The company so well respected in Minnesota, was just another pretty face on the coast and our relationship did not last. Finally, I found and rededicated myself to teaching, Advanced Placement English. Teaching writing proved an easy step into professional writing. Since 2014 I’ve published seven books of fiction as well as publishing the fiction and poetry of others.

MM:

Finns Way is your publishing enterprise. Could you explain the origination of Finns Way, the ins and outs of self-publishing, and what are the benefits and/or downsides to being your own publisher. What advice would you give to would-be writers who are thinking about going the route of self-publication.

TJ:

I publish my own work and the work of two other authors, one’s a poet. Using my own imprint allows my work to be read. Had I insisted on finding an agent or other publisher, my words would likely have been less widely distributed.  A cursory glance on-line tells us that of five million titles  published annually nearly four million are self-publications. The main difference will be that the self-published works sell fewer copies each (mainly because of lack of promotional funding) but in aggregate own 30-40% of the market. Traditional publishers are certainly better at promoting new titles than a new self-published author can ever hope to be. Self-publication, though, opens more door to a variety of voices.

MM:

Have you visited Finland? If so, what were your impressions of the country, its people, its history and geography? If not, any plans to do so in the future?

TJ:

I have spent time in Helsinki, Truro, and Kokkola. “Progressive” and proud, but not in an overweening or obnoxious way, is how I’d characterize Finland and the Finnish. Left to their own devices the Finns are ingenious and highly creative folk.  Unfortunately, the history of the country and people is replete with interference (Swedish, Russian, and German) from outside. I most admire the Finnish dedication to excellence in education and support of the newborn citizens of their republic. I was able to participate in this last by sending a “baby box” to my son before the birth of my grandson. He’s an honorary Finn and 12%-er.

MM:

Your novel, Listener in the Snow, draws from Native American mysticism and religion. Do you have indigenous heritage? If not, what are the drawbacks to a non-Native utilizing Native American characters in a fictional work? If so, what from that heritage to you draw upon to formulate the plot and characters of the book?

TJ:

Any author works both within and outside of their zone of comfort. Far from gender or cultural appropriation, the active author must strive to characterize and authentically portray characters of another sex, age, culture, or set of interests. As long as same-gender authors and writers working within their cultural milieu are promoted, there is less danger in a majority imposing its understanding of gender and culture on others. Leave the judgment to quality and depth of the character and narrative.

MM:

What are you currently working on? Is there a snippet of your work-in-progress, maybe a short scene or exchange of dialogue, you’d be willing to share with our readers? When do you expect the work to be published? Where can the new book, and all your other books, be purchased by readers?

TJ: In the last few years, I took a turn at something very different: The Final Confession of Saint Augustine, an historical novel set in the north African 5^th century. It is a scholarly work with dynamite plot and character twists. My challenge, beside historical accuracy, was to portray the characters both from the historical contemporaneous standpoint, that is to show Augustine, for instance, as a Catholic church father, a flesh and blood man, and as an interior character with the usual blindsides, fears, and weaknesses. That work has been warmly received.

Last year, while touring with The Final Confession of Saint Augustine, a classmate of mine from Cloquet High asked, “Tim, why haven’t you written a sequel to Listener in the Snow? We all wonder what happened to those people.” After thinking about it a day or two, I committed myself to give it a try. Within nine months, The Nothing That Is Not There was ready for publication. Lovers of Listener will be pleased.

MM:

Last question. What’s on your reading and signing calendar for the coming days? Any appearances back home in Minnesota?

TJ:

I appeared at Finn Fest 2023 in July. Coming up are events at Hakensack, MN, The Art and Book Festival, August 12, at North Country Booksellers in White Bear Lake, MN on August 19, Chapter 2 Books in Hudson, Wisconsin, August 26, a CHS class party, August 19, Ely’s Harvest Moon Festival, September 8-10, and events at The Coffee Landing, International Falls, the Thunderbird Lodge, Rainy Lake, MN, and Nelson’s Resort, Crane Lake, MN. I leave for California in September. Finn Fest 2024 is a likelihood.

Tito: The Story from Inside by Milovan Djilas (1981. Phoenix. ISBN 1-84212-047-6)

In my continuing research regarding my manuscript, Slovenci (The Slovenians), I picked up my second book by one of Josip Broz’s (Tito’s) understudies. Here, Djilas, writing after his fall from grace (1954) chronicles Yugoslavia’s wartime hero in terms of personality, traits, and actions. Djilas carefully avoids sounding like he has a bone to pick with Tito, despite being removed from office, incarcerated (twice), and reduced to a mere private citizen because of his “anti-Communist”, revisionist views. In essence, the journalist and one-time Partisan ends up in Tito’s doghouse because he believes that more personal freedoms, both individual and economic, need to be incorporated into the Yugoslav political equation, especially after Stalin’s death changes the interplay between the countries. 

Tito, who was pragmatic enough not to completely nationalize the entirety of the agricultural output of the united nation, and who, for a time, tolerated Djilas and others gently questioning the direction of the country after its break with Stalin in 1948, finally had enough dissent. His retribution, disguised and carried out by other functionaries, left one of his closest advisors in prison, shamed, and forever marked as unpatriotic. But through it all, the author manages to maintain sufficient distance from his own story to paint a thorough and fascinating portrait of a man whose persona held disparate peoples together until his death. 

Djilas is wise enough to understand that, with Tito’s passing, the dream of Yugoslavia would likely come to an end. And it did.

4 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

Surface Displacements by Sheila Packa (2022. Wildwood River Press. ISBN 978-1-947787-36-0

I woke to an acre of mayflies

a lace of water lilies and weeds

before and after

nudges of waves

coming to and from the island

a cloud on the water, thick pollen afloat

and lines crossing.

Confession time. I know the poet. She knows me and has even been a pre-reader for Sukulaiset. So take my review here with a grain of salt. But I have to say, friend or not, I thoroughly enjoyed my time with Ms. Packa as encapsulated in her latest volume of poems. Why?

First, she carefully and dutifully explores NE MN, where both of us have lived the majority of our lives. It takes someone who is born (or has spent extensive time in) the gabbro and peat and muskeg and open pit mines and black water to do this place justice. And she has. Second, the title cleverly sets the stage for an examination of the displacements we, as northerners living in a land of cold and snow and mining (and, sometimes seemingly incomprehensibly, wilderness) and our ancestors, be they Finnish (Packa’s) or mine (Slovenian) commonly experience. One might argue that her musings about our “neck of the woods” containing three continental divides (the Arctic Ocean to the north, the Atlantic Ocean to the east, and the Gulf of Mexico to the south), given the erosive power of the rivers raging to those compass points, forms a third displacement, one based upon geographical orientation and watery flow.

I sat in my easy chair in my writing studio over a period of a couple of weeks inhaling these little gems of verse and wisdom. I was unhappy my time with this work ended so quickly. That said, this is my first review typed at my new stand-up desk in my studio space, a feature that my newly fused and titaniumized low back sorely (pun intended) needed. All things considered, fused spine and all, I’m happy to give the newest effort from Duluth’s former poet-laureate a big thumbs up.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

Land Without Justice by Milovan Djilas (1958. Harcourt. ISBN 978-1-15-648117)

Just so you know. I’m in the process of trying to write a second historical novel regarding Slovenia from the 1930s to present day. My first effort, The Legacy, was well received but I feel, in retrospect, taht novel was a bit too sentimental in its treatment of the rise and fall of Tito, Yugoslavia’s dictator who controlled the fate of the Balkans until his death. In my second attempt at writing the Great Slovenian American novel, I’m trying to paint with a broader brush and understand why, within a decade of Tito’s demise, Yugoslavia ceased to be and the region once again found itself plunged into terror and war. In any event, I’m reading some of the literature of Milovan Djilas, one of Tito’s trusted lieutenants who, in 1954, ended up falling from grace to spend decades in prison and/or under house arrest. This is the first of two Djilas books I’m using as background for the middle portion of my novel, the timeframe being post-war through Tito’s death. 

This is an interesting read in that, rather than focus on Yugoslavia as a whole, it’s a patchwork of anecdotes concerning the author’s upbringing (and his family’s history) in the tiny state of Montenegro. Essentially, one gets, from reading this irregular narrative, that Montenegrins share with their Serbian brothers and sisters a history of repression and prejudice at the hands of the Ottomans, who ruled both nation-states into the late 1800s. This, in the author’s skilled prose, begets atrocities on both sides of the ledger: cruelty and nastiness permeates virtually every corner of Montenegrin and Serbian society during the timeframe of the tale. From that standpoint, it makes what happened in 1991, when the federal state so carefully managed and nurtured by Tito and his Communists, a union of six Balkan states, including Slovenia, Serbia, Montenegro, Bosnia, Croatia, and Macedonia, blew apart, understandable. Certainly not laudable. But understandable.

I found this book to be a valuable addition to my understanding of the circumstances confronting the Balkans before, during, and after the Great War. But given the slightly disjointed nature of the storytelling, it’s not quite the classic I’d hoped for.

3 and 1/2 Stars out of Five.

Peace

Too Much and Never Enough by Mary Trump (2020. Simon & Schuster. ISBN 978-1-9821-4146-2)

I get it, Dr. Trump. I really do. After spending time reading your analyses of your uncle, former president (and hopefully, soon-to-be convicted felon) Donald J. Trump, after wading through your version of family history beginning with the great grandparents of the House of Trump, carefully assessing your views of the patriarch of the family’s real estate business, grandfather Fred Trump (and his often ill, never child-centric wife), my conclusion about your book is exactly the conclusion I came to with respect to Right-wing iconoclast Mike Savage’s terrible book, Banned in Britain: you could have spared us all a long, tedious slide into Trump slimedom by writing a succinct opinion piece for any major newspaper. Instead, readers, who must spend hours of time inside a very fucked up family, are treated to few new revelations and asked to navigate a fairly listless, factless, and uninspired reportage of grievances you hold against Grandpa Fred, with a few sidelong glares tossed The Donald’s way.

Sure, I understand that Grandpa was aloof, unloving, and really a no-good bastard bent at all costs to make money: the one and only god he and his younger son, the Donald, worship. It’s obvious you feel you father, the eldest Trump son, Freddie, got a raw deal; that the Klown Prince of the family, the dilettante playboy-turned serial husband and money loser stole your father’s inheritance (and yours), not to mention your dad’s rightful place in the sun. But really, aren’t you, in your indictment, overlooking your own father’s failings, including his inability to manage money or his sobriety, to toss vitriol at a dead man? Sure, you throw The Donald into the same pit of inequity and dishonesty and “money at all costs” that claimed Grandpa Fred’s soul. And you do include some casual, non-specific, generic references to the former president’s sociopathic behaviors. But that’s not new information, revelatory or, likely-given the multiple axes you juggle as you grind them against the lodestone of history-to convince anyone who believes the chief liar’s lies of your major premise: that the man is dangerous and shouldn’t be given sharp scissors, much less nuclear warheads.

I so wanted to like this book. I cannot stand the man who’s the subject of this tome. And yet, I came away a very disappointed reader.

2 stars out of 5. Wait for the movie version starring Christian Bale as The Donald … (JK)

Peace

Mark

(Find my review of Savage’s hit piece by typing in “Banned in Britain ” in this website’s search bar, above right.)

Today, my local paper, the Duluth News Tribune, published my rather lengthy (what did you expect from a novelist?) rumination on the writing life. You can read the edited version here:

https://www.duluthnewstribune.com/opinion/columns/local-view-how-does-an-author-know-when-its-time-to-rest-the-pen.

Or the unedited version here:

                                                            A WRITER’S JOURNEY

It started with a subtle suggestion from my wife. On the eve of my first spinal fusion surgery in 1991, René knew, given my OCD nature, I’d be a handful for her if I didn’t keep my mind and my body occupied. “You’re going to be off work for three months,” she said as we rode to a medical appointment with my neurosurgeon, “you need to do something to occupy your time.”

I shrugged, looked out the window and simply let her keep going. “Why don’t you write a novel? You’ve always wanted to,” she added.

            I won’t belabor the point. I’ve told many gatherings, book clubs, and groups who’ve come to hear me speak since my first novel, The Legacy, hit bookstores in October of 2000, how I came to writing, how, as a small child learning to read, I penned my first “book”, a daring-a-do adventure saga entitled The Priates and the Two Man (The Pirates and the Two Men) in Mrs. Nelson’s first grade class. The writing bug struck early, stayed with me through high school (I was the sports editor of the Denfeld Criterion), but took a hiatus during college and law school. Still, even while navigating courses and papers and professors on my way to attaining a juris doctorate degree, I remained an avid reader. Mostly of historical and contemporary fiction: books like Lonesome Dove, The Thorn Birds, Rich Man, Poor Man and The Godfather. It wasn’t until we moved back to Duluth and started practicing law that I explored the classics: diving into Hemingway, Tolstoy, D.H. Lawrence, and other authors of note. Those novels rekindled a desire, an urge, a calling, if you will, to write. But instead of staking out a plot of writerly ground from which to plant and harvest fiction, I started writing a column for my local newspaper, The Hermantown Star, a slice-of-life effort entitled “Living Out”, chronicling our family’s life in rural NE Minnesota in an old Sears farmhouse along the banks of the Cloquet River. For eight years, editor Cindy Alexander (and her successors) welcomed my essays portraying the antics of the Munger clan until, as I faced surgery, René issued her challenge to my creativity.

            Oh. I didn’t stop writing “Living Out”. Rather, that effort became secondary to my research and writing a James Michener-style combination historical novel/thriller set in my maternal grandfather’s homeland, Yugoslavia. From 1991 until 2000, I worked and reworked the novel, queried literary agents and publishers, and waited for someone to say, “This works. We’ll publish it!”. Along the way, I was hoodwinked by an unscrupulous agent, had a Canadian agent pass away just as she was going to accept the book, and tried to hold my fire and let things play out. In the end, the book came out in October of 2000 through Savage Press, a local collaborative publishing house, and became a regional bestseller.

            Following book tours (that took me from Youngstown, OH to Denver, CO and all points in between), I hunkered down to write Pigs, a Trial Lawyer’s Story, a John Grisham-style legal thriller set 0n Minnesota’s prairie. But even after the modest success of The Legacy, neither Savage nor any other publisher was interested in the manuscript. Which, after much consideration, led me to form Cloquet River Press (CRP) as a vehicle to self-publish Pigs in 2002. I’ll spare you the details of what that journey entailed, other than to simply chronicle, that, along the way, two of my U.S. distributors closed their doors; my Canadian wholesaler filed for bankruptcy; and I was left distributing my books through Ingram, the largest book wholesaler in the world. That wasn’t a good fit: the publishing game requires that books be sent to the wholesaler with the caveat that all books not sold are eligible to be returned to the publisher (me!) for full credit. In the end, that model proved too expensive and difficult for me to negotiate (I was working fulltime as a district court judge), which led me to rely heavily on hand sales (at events) and internet sales (through Amazon).

            I changed printers because I couldn’t afford to order books in amounts that allowed for a reasonable per-book-cost, migrating to KDP, Amazon’s self-publishing platform, where books are priced, not upon quantity ordered, but upon page count. Since moving to self-publication, a number of my novels, most notably the Finnish American trilogy (Suomalaiset, Sukulaiset, and Kotimaa) have sold well, with two of the Finnish historical novels garnering national grants towards publication. But I’ve never made money, much less broken even, on any book following the success of The Legacy. More devastating to my writerly ego, of the fourteen books (nine novels) I’ve penned in the past 30 years, nary a one has been seen worthy enough to be a regional or state-wide award winner (or even receive an honorable mention) from judges reviewing my work. Oh, a couple of short stories have won local writing contests but the collections containing those stories (Ordinary Lives and Kulukari (Vagabond) and Other Short Stories) have been largely ignored by the powers that be. Even so, I’ve soldiered on, my fragile ego buttressed by reviews from Kirkus, readers, and book clubs who’ve found my work worth a read. But a writer can only chase a dream so long. At some point, the costs associated with paying professional editors, printing review copies for pre-readers, and attending craft fairs, book fairs, and other events (which require paying a table or booth fee), and printing books for sale become something akin to Ahab sailing an endless ocean in search of a white whale.

            This book buying season, I find myself once again facing spinal fusion surgery. I’m not able to host a book launch of my latest tome, Muckraker, a Novel Noir, or attend book festivals, craft shows, or readings and signings. Like all my work, for better or for worse, I put my heart and my soul¾not to mention considerable coin¾into researching, writing, editing, formatting, and uploading my latest book onto KDP (Amazon’s printing arm) and Ingram Spark. My own hubris may have well brought me to this point, a point where I unplug my keyboard, end my research (the new book I’m working on is a massive historical novel chronicling Yugoslavia from its inception to its disintegration through multiple characters and families), and simply admit, “I’ve done the best can. It’s time to rest the pen.”

Agents? I queried an even one hundred while working on Muckraker, following the carefully described protocols on their websites when submitting the manuscript. Perhaps a dozen agents wrote back, saying, in essence, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Small presses? Two dozen received queries from me. I never heard back from a single one. So, as autumn turns to winter, as the sleeping lawn between my writing studio and the black waters of the Cloquet River whitens from snow, I’m left to consider: What now?

I’ll let you know if I arrive at an answer that suits both my writerly ego and my desire, my passion, to tell stories.

(Mark Munger is a life-long resident of NE MN, retired attorney and judge, author of 14 books, and a writer for the Finnish American Reporter.)

Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng (2017. Audible. B074F3BX79)

I’ll confess. Before I listened to this audio version of Ng’s novel, I watched the Hulu series adapted from the book. I’d suggest reading or listening to the story first, then watching it, because once you spend time with Reece Witherspoon and Kerry Washington as the two primary characters in the video version, it’s awfully hard to get those faces and their depictions out of you mind while reading or listening to the novel. Still. Even after watching the series, I found the book extremely well-written, timely, and full of interesting character (if not plot) twists.

Elena Richardson is a well-off, well-meaning, wife, mother, and journalist who believes she is a modern, highly educated, race-neutral American woman. She and her husband and their three kids live in Shaker Heights, a planned suburban community outside of Cleveland where income, race, religion, and connections are believed not to matter. Mia Warren is an African American woman, artist, and mother of Pearl Warren, her only child (who was actually supposed to be adopted as a surrogate but Mia ran off before fulfilling her surrogacy contract). The Warrens end up living in a rental home owned by Elena, which is the foundation of the connection between the two families. 

I’ll not try to walk through all of the plot twists and turns in this short review. What I will divulge is that Ng tackles not only race as it pertains to interracial dating and the everyday interactions of Americans of different ethnicities, she heaps the social issue foundation that undergirds this lovely, well-written work with, as mentioned, additional questions devoted to surrogacy, abandonment, interracial adoption, poverty, white guilt, and a host of other triggers that keep the reader, viewer, and listener riveted on the story. 

A fine effort.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5

Peace

Mark

Invisible Child by Andrea Elliot (2021. Random House. ISBN 978-0-8129-8694-5)

Full disclosure: I worked in the area of child protection for the State of Minnesota as a District Court Judge. Every 8 weeks, I did child protection cases as part of my general judicial rotation, and over the 23 years I was active on the bench, I dealt with several thousand children caught up, for whatever reason, in Minnesota’s foster care, adoption, and termination of parental rights system. I have to say that my experience was nothing close to the judicial and legal system depicted in this book. The sheer volume of child protection cases, situations where social services becomes involved in protecting children who are in families impacted by poverty, abuse, drugs, alcohol, and/or poverty, in New York City boggles the mind. Yes, our child protection social workers in Minnesota, even in relatively staid and predominantly white NE MN, have heavy caseloads. But the number of families and children each social worker (and, for that matter, judge) is required to oversee in our child protection system is nowhere near as mind-numbing as depicted in this book.

Let’s digress. Elliott is a reporter with the New York Times who approached her editor with an idea: “Let me imbed with a family in the system and follow the children, the eldest, Dasani in particular, for not weeks or months but for years.” This the reporter does, chronicling the heart-wrenching story of Dasani from pre-teen to adult, from shelter to slum apartment to the Hershey School and back to New York City. She had unrestricted access to Dasani, the child’s parents, the child’s siblings, and even, through subterfuge, placements that would normally be off-limits to a reporter. Through a very objective and professional lens, Elliott describes the struggles of Dasani’s parents-both of whom who are chemically dependent, undereducated, and prone to violence-as well as their seven children regarding food, clothing, housing, employment, schooling, and safety. She pulls no punches and the depiction of Dasani’s successes, struggles, and ultimate acceptance that she cannot, even at a young age and with the positive assistance of teachers and other mentors, change her life or the outcome of her fate, is extremely unsettling.

In the end, this book offers no solutions to the fate of Dasani and the countless thousands, nay, millions of children who find themselves removed from the familial home by state social service agencies every year with an eye to protect those children from their parents, their lives, and their circumstances. But it’s a valuable reminder that parents and children caught up in the system are more than mere numbers and that, by and large, even the worst of parents (and Dasani’s parents have many, many failings) genuinely love their children and want them to succeed. 

My only complaint with the book is that it’s horribly misprinted in that, inexplicably and unexpectedly, the story leapt from page 300 to page 413, confusing the hell out of this reader! The book then started anew with Chapter 40 (p. 443), only to flip back to page 317. What the author had to say from pages 301-317 is anyone’s guess! One would think Random House has better quality control than this … I know Cloquet River Press does.

In any event, this is a valuable read for anyone interested in the American social welfare system that deals with fractured, ruptured, and dysfunctional families.

4 stars out of 5

Peace

Mark

                                    INTERVIEW WITH JOHN SIMON

MM:

Though you live in Helsinki, where were you born? Where did you grow up? What’s your ethnic/religious background?

JS: I was born in Richmond, Virginia in 1943 and grew up in typically suburban Pleasantville, New York, where I attended school (K-12). I was raised in a Reform Jewish home and congregation, but the community where I grew up was culturally mainstream Christian.

MM:

Fill the readers in regarding your educational path after high school.

JS: I entered Hamilton College in Clinton, N.Y. in 1961, spent my junior year at the Sorbonne in Paris, and graduated as an English major from Hamilton in 1965. The next two years were spent at Cambridge University, where I obtained a master’s degree before moving on in 1967 to the University of York, also in England, where I began a Ph.D. program focusing on the works of Samuel Beckett. My research included semesters in Paris, Rome, and Dublin. During 1967-70, however, I became deeply involved in anti-establishment politics and never defended my thesis.

MM:

Later, you found yourself living and working in Finland. Explain to our readers how that journey evolved. How did you acquire fluency in the Finnish language?

JS: In 1965-66, while at Cambridge, I played basketball and shared a flat with a Finnish student. We became close friends, but he returned to Helsinki to continue his studies at the Helsinki School of Economics at the end of the school year. During the summer of 1969, I traveled by car with two friends from York to Moscow. On the way, I stopped in Helsinki to spend a week with Kari. While there, I met my future wife, Hannele, who was also studying at the Helsinki School of Economics. In 1970, after spending time together in Paris, Copenhagen, and my family’s home in Pleasantville, we married in Helsinki and moved to New York, where I worked as director of a youth center in a politically active community organization on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Hannele taught in a daycare center run by the same organization. I later wrote about my work in New York and the challenges faced by young people of color at that time in To Become Somebody: Growing up Against the Grain of Society (Houghton Mifflin, 1982).

My work kept me on call 24/7. By 1982, Hannele and I had two children, Mikko and Elina. I wanted to spend more time with them while they were still young, so I took a sabbatical from my job, which we spent in a furnished apartment in Vantaa, Finland. The children and I began learning Finnish and getting to know Hannele’s relatives. I taught English (I was a certified high school English teacher in New York) and absorbed as much Finnish culture as I could in one year. As soon as we returned to New York, I began to feel that living in Manhattan imposed unfair restrictions on the children. They couldn’t walk out the door of our apartment without an adult to accompany them, whereas they had been able to ride bikes and wander around our Finnish neighborhood safely by themselves. Within a month, we decided to move back to Finland and did so in the summer of 1984. We’ve lived in Finland ever since.

MM:

At some point, you began work on the biography of the patriarch of the company you ended up working at in Finland. Can you explain how did that process come about and perhaps describe the process of writing a biography?

JS: I started working for KONE, one of the world’s leading elevator and escalator companies (best known in the Midwest for having acquired Montgomery Elevator in 1994) as soon as we arrived back in Finland. My job was to put together the company’s global in-house magazine.

KONE’s principal owner and CEO, Pekka Herlin, was a legendary business leader, having taken charge of a domestic company in 1964 and transformed it into Finland’s first truly multinational organization. He was brilliant but unpredictable; and like many of his Finnish contemporaries, he had a serious drinking problem.

By the time Pekka Herlin’s eldest son, the new CEO of the company, asked me to write his father’s biography, Pekka had been dead for several years. Many writers had asked the family for permission to write an authorized biography and gain access to his papers, but the family was afraid hi story might be sensationalized. In fact, the truth was sensational enough. I only agreed to write the book if I could do so honestly. If the family didn’t like what I wrote, they could refuse to publish it. I’d never written a biography, and the challenge was daunting. Pekka Herlin had five children, and they had been fighting among themselves ever since Pekka secretly transferred a controlling interest in KONE to his eldest son. I interviewed all of them as well as their mother and nearly one hundred others. I shared what I was writing with the family. Sometimes one sibling would tell me, “What X says is bullshit.” I would tell him or her, “I wasn’t there so I can’t say who is right. What I can do is write: ‘X says so-and-so. Y remembers it differently…’ and include both points of view.” In the end, a number of events beyond my control (a granddaughter was kidnapped and held for ransom; the youngest son published a blog on the eve of publication, saying his father was a monster) created an unprecedented amount of publicity, and KONE’s Prince became a bestseller with over 100,000 copies sold. It was written in English but translated into both Finnish and Chinese.

MM:

You are Jewish but living in a very secularized, Lutheran country. At some point, the uniqueness of that circumstance must have led you to explore the history of the Jewish faith in Finland, leading to another book which became Strangers in a Stranger Land.

JS: Helsinki’s only Jewish congregation is strictly orthodox and very conservative. I had no reason to connect with it during the first twenty-five years I lived in Finland. After KONE’s Prince was published, though, my editor read in one of the reviews that I was Jewish. He gave me a book to which he had contributed to which multiple authors dealt with ways in which the various Nordic Countries had been involved in the Holocaust. In the chapter on Finland, I saw a picture of a tent synagogue and a dozen or so Finnish Jewish soldiers on the Eastern Front, peacefully preparing for Sabbath services less than half a mile away from Germany’s 163rd Division’s headquarters. Then I saw pictures of two Finnish soldiers and a member of the women’s auxiliary, all of whom were awarded the Iron Cross by the German Army. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Then I read that although more than 200,00 German soldiers were stationed on Finnish soil during WWII, Finland was the only combatant country on either side that didn’t have a single Jewish citizen sent to concentration or death camps or harmed in any way by the Germans (23 Jewish soldiers in the Finnish Army did, however, die in battle, but they were killed by Soviet troops). I felt that I had to understand how such a situation – contrary to everything I understood about Nazi Germany and its treatment of Jews – could have come to pass. The best way to understand it was to write about it.

MM:

Strangers is a fascinating, very well-written, yet somewhat quirky book. It’s part historical novel, part straight history.

JS: I wanted people to learn about this unique situation. The number of readers willing to dive into a straightforward factual recitation of an out-of-the-way country’s history is relatively small. I felt from the outset that the predicament of Finnish Jews in a country with hundreds of thousands of German soldiers moving through it was inherently dramatic, and I wanted the reader to experience that tension. The only way to ensure that was to create characters with feelings the reader could recognize and identify with. On the other hand, so few people outside Finland know anything about the country and its history, let alone about its tiny Jewish population, that I had to provide a factual (but, hopefully, not too heavy) framework for the story. The result was a hybrid work that provides both the context and the drama in ways that augment each other.

MM:

Strangers was first published in Finland in Finnish?

JS: Strangers in a Stranger Land was short-listed for History Book of the Year during Finland’s Centennial Year, 2017. The head of the jury confided in me that the book might have won without the fictional content, which disqualified in the view of some of the jurors. I was initially worried about how the Finnish Jewish community would react to a foreigner’s “appropriation” of their history, but I received nothing but cooperation and support from community members. The nicest comment was made by a history teacher at Helsinki’s Jewish School, who told me: “You have colored in our history.”

MM:

The book is also available in English. How did it end up here, available for purchase? Where can folks find a copy, other than on my website (www.cloquetriverpress.com : where I have a few copies you kindly left behind for me to sell).

JS: I had little trouble finding a Finnish publisher for the book but it was difficult finding an agent or publisher for Strangers in English, largely because Finland was not seen by them as a “commercially interesting” subject. Eventually, I was able to convince Hamilton Books to publish the (original) English version. The Finnish version is a large format hardcover with full-color illustrations; the English version is in paperback with black and white pictures, and I had to purchase a considerable number at the time of publication, which explains why I was in Duluth at FinnFest, selling books at your stand. The book can be purchased from Amazon or from Roman & Littlefield

( https://rowman.com/ISBN/9780761871491/Strangers-in-a-Stranger-Land-How-One-Countrys-Jews-Fought-an-Unwinnable-War-alongside-Nazi-Troops%E2%80%A6-and-Survived ) once the supply at Cloquet River Press is exhausted.

MM:

You did a fairly extensive book tour in the U.S with Strangers. Maybe give the readers a sense of when that took place and what the tour involved. Would you be available for Zoom presentations regarding the book if a Finnish American or Finnish Canadian group wanted to have you speak to its membership?

JS: In October-November 2019, I undertook an East Coast tour of libraries, community centers, bookstores, synagogues, Finnish-American societies, radio stations and museums that started in New York, wound its way to Northern Massachusetts, down through Boston to Rhode Island, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., Richmond, Roanoke and Atlanta. I ended up giving 40 talks in 40 days. Then in January-February of 2020, just before Covid would have made it impossible, I gave another twenty talks to various groups in Southern Florida.

Since then, I’ve given a few presentations via Zoom to groups in the U.S. and Israel. I remain willing to give remote talks to interested groups with the only reservation being that the 7-10-hour time difference makes it a bit challenging to schedule evening meetings in North America.

MM:

Are you working on another book?

JS: I’ve a new book coming out in Finnish translation in the spring. It tells about the experiences of a young Syrian boy growing up in the epicenter of the devastation of Damascus by the al-Assad regime and its Iranian and Russian allies. It accompanies him on his traumatic flight at 14 to Turkey (where he was mistreated) and Greece (where he almost drowned), until he was selected for relocation to Finland at the age of 16. He and I have grown close, and I have tried to support him as he tries to adapt to the very different customs and requirements of Finnish society at a time when the government is becoming increasingly hostile to immigrants from anywhere outside Europe and North America. Once again, I am having trouble finding a publisher for the English-language version.

MM:

It was a pleasure to appear with you at Finn Fest as co-panelists talking about our writing and our work regarding Finnish history. Stay well and keep writing!

JS: FinnFest was an interesting and rewarding experience, but the best part was gaining a new friend, who is not only an interesting and charming person but a wonderful writer. Thank you, Mark, for your books and your friendship.

(This article first appeared in the Finnish American Reporter, October 2023 )

                                                                        FOR MOM

Those of you who knew Barbara, or as her Kobe relatives called her, “Jean”, know she was a fastidious woman, always dressed to the nines, always ready for the next big party or event. But there was another side to Barb, one that only her family was privileged to view.

I know it’s hard to imagine but I was a handful as a child. When I started kindergarten, Miss Ness, a beloved Piedmont teacher, told Mom, at my first school conference, “Keep that boy busy or he’ll end up in jail.” Maybe that’s why Mom doled out chores to me, and later Dave and Anne, by affixing long lists of things that needed doing to the kitchen refrigerator. Or maybe it was Mom’s OCD, which, as she aged, became more and more prevalent, culminating with, when her health required her to move to assisted living, no less than a dozen bottles of Ranch salad dressing and ten jars of peanut butter in her fridge and on her shelves. But whether it was a shopping list or a chore list, Barbara Jean always craved organization.

How else do you explain the note she left for Anne one day? Our house on N 22^nd Ave W in Piedmont was surrounded by forest. Apparently, at least to Mom’s keen eye, a very messy forest. So, Barbara’s note, tacked to the Munger refrigerator was succinct: “Anne: Pick up all the sticks in the woods.” Only Mom would think to tidy up nature.

Despite the lists, we three children loved Mom. But we weren’t always the most obedient. When we strayed, there was Barbara, ready with a bar of Ivory soap to wash out our mouths if we used vocabulary inappropriate for the Munger home. Or if our conduct needed more immediate, serious attention, Mom, would unleash the wooden yardstick she kept in the kitchen closet to whack us on our bare bottoms. Once, when I was about ten or so and Mom took exception to my sassing, a fevered chase ensued around our Chambersburg home, with Mom running after me with the yardstick, her intentions clear. I ducked behind the fridge, and without thinking things through, stuck out my foot and tripped Mom. My actions resulted in a broken big toe and a trip to the ER for Mom, but she didn’t blame me for her injury, a circumstance which has always puzzled me.

A couple of other stories come to mind. When I was twelve or thirteen, Harry, our Dad, got the bright idea to take his 18’ fishing boat from Grand Portage to Isle Royale across Lake Superior’s open water. We were to spend a week on the island, staying in the three-sided cabins the park provides. Grandma Munger, who was in her late 70’s at the time, came with but stayed in the hotel at Washington Harbor. When Mom saw Dad’s run-a-bout loaded to the gunwales with food, clothing, fishing equipment, and supplies for a week-long stay, a boat that had no radio, no radar, and only a single inboard/outboard engine with no back-up for power, she drew the line. She, Grandma, and Dave all booked passage on the Wenonah, a commercial ferry to the island, leaving me to motor across the inland sea with Dad in a very overloaded boat. I’ve always wondered what she was thinking by sending me along with Harry in a boat that had no life raft and no radio.

On another occasion, Duke Tourville, our stepdad, and Mom invited my wife, René, our son Matt (who was five or six), and me on another trip to Isle Royale in Duke’s twin screw, blue-water boat. Unlike Harry, Duke really knew boats and big water. But when the Ransom II came around the northern tip of the island and hit a brisk wind, the lake turned ugly. The little boat bobbed and surged ahead, crashing through whitecaps. Duke and I were having a great time bouncing around on the fly bridge. Mom, René, and Matt were all safely tucked inside the boat’s little cabin. The seas were so large, when the boat dipped into a trough of wave, you couldn’t see anything but blue-green water. It was a pretty cool ride, though, when we docked on the west side of the island, I learned the truth of what had transpired inside the boat’s cabin. As the waves grew larger, René had become very alarmed, especially since Matt was along for the ride, and started panicking. Mom’s elegant solution? Mix my wife the strongest Brandy-Seven she could concoct and keep refilling René’s glass until my wife’s frayed nerves were calmed by booze.

When Anne was ten or eleven, Mom left her written instructions (yes, yet another list) asking Anne to bake potatoes for dinner. The directions said to place the potatoes on a paper plate, insert the plate into our brand-new microwave, and set the timer for a half-hour. Before the timer “dinged”, the paper plate caught fire and flames melted the plastic lining of the microwave. Burning plastic oozed onto the kitchen’s linoleum floor. The result? The floor and the microwave were toast. The plus side of all this was that Barbara Jean was able to replace the kitchen floor, something she’d been asking Harry to do, with new linoleum purchased with insurance money. Coincidence? I think the truth of that resides with Mom in eternity.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t say a word about Barbara Jean’s faith. As Episcopalian kids growing up surrounded by Lutherans and Catholics, my siblings and I often felt estranged from our friends due to our religious affiliation. I tried, early on, to sneak into the Lutheran fold. I went to Vacation Bible School at Christ Lutheran in Piedmont. I was invited to join the youth choir at the church, something I found enticing since the majority of pretty girls in Piedmont were either Lutheran or Catholic. There wasn’t a single Episcopalian kid in our neighborhood outside the Munger clan. But Mom, who married our dad, Harry, in this very church, made me toe the line: there was no way I was going to join a Lutheran choir, no matter how many cute girls may have been members! Mom’s love of the Episcopal/Anglican faith was as strong as her steely, Slovenian resolve. So strong that my Roman Catholic fiancé René and I were also married in this church by an Episcopal priest and a Catholic priest. My sister too, said her nuptials before the St. Paul’s altar. Over a decade ago, both René and I became ELCA Lutherans, joining Grace Lutheran in Hermantown. I figured Mom would be upset. But she wasn’t. I think she was happy that my family sought solace in the Christian faith. After our stepfather Duke passed away (his funeral was also held here), Mom spent Christmases at the Munger home and attended Christmas Eve candle light services with my family at Grace. She always, up until Easter of this year, refused to come forward for communion. Her belief, her faith, that the Anglican way was the only way, was that strong. Even when I urged, “But Mom, there’s an agreement in place that allows Episcopal and ELCA clergy to serve both faiths,” she remained unmoved. This Easter, Mom finally relented. She took communion at Grace without a word of encouragement from me. Something in Mom had changed. What it was, I can’t say. But I’m happy she decided to take communion with her family one last time regardless of the setting.

On behalf of Barbara’s family, I want to thank all of you for being here to celebrate the life of a beautiful, smart, loving, woman of faith  who made our lives better and, on occasion, made us smile. Rest, Mom. You earned it.

Barbara Jean Kobe Munger Tourville, the eldest daughter of John “Jack” Kobe and Eloise “Marie” Barber Kobe, was born on September 21, 1928, in Wadena, Minnesota. Jack, an immigrant from Slovenia, grew up and worked in the iron mines of Aurora where he met Marie¾a teacher¾while giving Marie a tour of the mine where he worked. The couple married, lived in Wadena, Iowa, and Minneapolis before settling in Duluth where Barb’s younger sister, Susanne Kobe Pederson Schuler(“Sukie”), was born.

During the 1940s and early 50s, Barb and Sukie spent late spring, summer, and early fall at the Buena Vista, a family-owned resort on Bear Island Lake near Babbitt. The Kobe girls spent many weekends with their cousins (most notably, Jim and John Sale and Lizette “Bootsie” Barber (nee Grinden)).

Barb met Harry Munger at Duluth Denfeld High School and the couple became part of a close-knit crew of Hunters; a life-long Dinner Club that included the Monsons, Lundeens, Listons, Scotts, Tessiers, and the Nelsons.

Barb completed a four-year degree in medical technology at St. Scholastica. After marrying Harry, the newlyweds moved to St. Paul where Harry attended the St. Paul College of Law and Barb worked at Miller Hospital. The couple’s eldest child, Mark, was born in St. Paul in 1954. Upon Harry’s graduation from law school, the couple returned to Duluth, built a small house on Chambersburg Avenue, and added son David and daughter Anne to the family.

Barb was unique for her time in that she was college educated and worked outside the home at the Duluth Clinic. But after David joined the family, Barb became a stay-at-home mom and pursued an interest in gardening and flower arranging and judging. She also worked on various charitable causes: the Heart Association, Piedmont PTA, March of Dimes, Planned Parenthood, and others. The Munger family joined Holy Apostles Episcopal Church where Barb taught Sunday school and supervised the youth group.

As a member of the Duluth Lawyers’ Wives, Barb traveled extensively, gathering information and touring lockups, work that culminated in the establishment of the Arrowhead Juvenile Center.

            Barb took up tennis in her thirties and played until knee surgery ended her time on the court. She joined other youthful Piedmont moms and took ski lessons at Mont du Lac. Considered an elegant downhill skier, Barb carved graceful turns under magnificent control into her late seventies. After infecting her family with the “skiing bug”, Barb and Harry skied France, Yugoslavia, Wyoming, Idaho, Colorado, Loch Lomond, Lutsen, Giant’s Ridge, Telemark, and Sugar Hills. Barb encouraged her children to join the Duluth Alpine Club and watched her kids race competitively. When Spirit Mountain opened, Barb served on the hill’s first Authority. Over the course of their marriage, Barb and Harry attended two Democratic National Conventions (and numerous local and state conventions) as delegates and alternates. She also became active in, and a proud member of, DAR.

            After thirty years of marriage, Barb and Harry divorced but remained friendly. Barb then met and married the love of her life, Duane “Duke” Tourville, a former ski jumper, avid downhiller, railroad engineer, and jazz drummer. During their marriage, Duke and Barb accompanied Wes and Shirley Neustal (owners of the Ski Hut) and other Duluthians to Montana to ski Bridger Bowl, Showdown, Red Lodge, and Big Sky.

            Duke and Barb also sailed Lake Superior in the Ransom II (Duke’s Bertram), vacationed in Europe and the Caribbean, traveled the US, and built homes in Superior, Wisconsin; on Island Lake; and a townhome on the St. Louis River in West Duluth. The couple remained active in the Episcopal Church, attending Holy Apostles (Duluth), Christ Church (Proctor), Trinity (Hermantown), and St. Paul’s (Duluth).

Barb loved hosting dinner and cocktail parties, “cutting a rug”, and enjoying Saturday afternoon jazz sessions at the Saratoga. Duke and Barb also attended the annual Red Flannels winter dinner/dance at the Kitch in the company of son Mark and daughter-in-law René.

            After Duke passed away in 2017, Barb remained in the townhouse on Bay Hill Trail. There, she met special friend and companion, Chuck Ralph. The couple enjoyed dining out, dancing, playing cribbage, and attending family gatherings. Following Chuck’s death in 2021, Barb continued to live independently until she moved to Scandia Homes in West Duluth in June of 2022. Barb later moved to Diamond Willow Assisted Living in Lester Park, residing there until her death on September 26, 2023: five days after her ninety-fifth birthday.

            Barb was preceded in death by her parents, her sister Sukie, husband Duke, ex-husband Harry, and special friend Charles “Chuck” Ralph. She is survived by her son, Judge Mark (René) Munger, son David (Diane) Munger, daughter Anne (David) Sarvela, ten grandchildren, thirteen great-grandchildren, beloved nieces Julie (Brad) Shafer, and Heidi (Nick) Kipp, numerous Kobe/Barber cousins, and oodles of friends from the Rat Pack, the Ski Hut group, DAR, and the Episcopal church.

            The family thanks the staff at Scandia Homes, St. Luke’s Hospital, the Bendictine, Ecumen, Diamond Willow, and Ecumen Hospice as well as Dr. Zach Lundstrom (and his nurse Patty) at St. Luke’s Internal Medicine for their thoughtful care of Barbara Jean.

A special thanks to Mark and Mary Bolf who watched over Barb after Duke’s passing and to Kathleen Smith and Angie Shambour who drove Barb to St. Paul’s for worship.

Visitation will take place at the Dougherty Funeral Home (600 E 2^nd St, Duluth) from 5:00pm-7:00pm on 10/5/2023. A Celebration of Barb’s life will be held at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church (1710 E. Superior St., Duluth) on 10/6/2023 beginning at 11:00am.

In 2018, Barb and Sukie were present as guests of honor when Buena Vista Resort became the Northern Lights YMCA Family Camp. Memorials to the camp (YMCA of the North, P.O. Box 1450 Minneapolis, MN 55485-5901) or to the Greater Denfeld Foundation Memorial Fund (401 44^th Ave W, Duluth, MN 55807) are appreciated in lieu of flowers.

A Promised Land by President Barack Obama (2020. Crown. ISBN 9781524763169)

I’ll be upfront. I am a Liberal reviewing a memoir penned by one of my favorite Liberal politicians. But I’m not here to evaluate President Obama’s politics (though I deplore those who simply call him “Obama”). I’m doing a review of his latest book. So on with it.

A Promised Land’s early pages take you behind the scenes of lawyer Barack Obama’s formative years, highlighting his time as an organizer, his romance with Michelle, his beginnings in politics, and his affiliations with noted iconic figures such as Rev. Jeremiah Wright. The book’s beginning is concise, well written, reads at a fairly brisk pace, and leaves the reader waiting to turn the page.

The middle section of the memoir, wherein President Obama chronicles his leap from a single, unfinished term as a United States Senator to the Oval Office, begin with the same fevered, can’t-stop-reading, pace. But when the storyline merges with the administrative and legislative agendas of the first term of the Obama Presidency, the narrative gets a bit into the weeds, leaving the reader wanting the pace to pick up and return the story arc to its earlier adrenaline rush. Despite this slight lag in the memoir’s narration, the final chapters, when President Obama places you in the Situation Room as Navy Seal Team 6 breaches the security of Osama Ben Ladin’s Pakistani compound (the mission having just slightly better than fifty-fifty odds, memories of President Carter’s failure to rescue the Iranian hostages and Blackhawk Down (a rescue mission in Somalia under President Clinton)) are riveting. You’ll want to cheer aloud again when the madman behind 9/11 is found, killed, and dropped into the sea after his DNA is confirmed. At the book’s conclusion, the storyline is pulsing, swift, and uniquely hard hitting.

One thing I will add here is that (and this is coming from my Liberal bias) it’s amazing we once had a two-term president who actually can spell, write elegantly, and publish a fine piece of history without the need of a ghostwriter. That trait alone makes this book a winner and makes me wish the man who wrote it had come out stronger against the fraud who succeeded him in office.

4 stars out of 5. Every Faux News aficionado should be placed in a locked room and forced to read this book.

Peace

Mark

                                                            EULOGY FOR SCOTT MORK

Longtime friend, Scott Mork, passed away on September 12, 2023, in Indianapolis, Indiana.

Many of you likely didn’t know Scott. The first thing I’ll say about Scott is that he was an Eagle Scout, attaining Scouting’s highest rank with his West Duluth BSA Troop back in 1973. I start with this bit of “Zork”-that’s what pal Bruce Larson called him-trivia because the Scout motto, “Be Prepared”, was part and parcel of who Scott was. Even in his last days, when he refused medical interventions to prolong his life, Scott followed the Scout motto. How so? He texted me a few weeks before he passed away and asked me to write this Facebook piece for his Duluth friends and neighbors.

Scott grew up the son of John Willis and Marge Mork. He was raised in West Duluth (no “Spirit Valley” nonsense for Scotty!), attending Laura MacArthur Elementary, West Junior High, and Duluth Denfeld High School (DDHS) as a proud member of the Class of ‘74. His sophomore and junior years at DDHS, Scott participated in both speech and debate. His senior year, Scott was elected vice-president of his class and to Pyramid (student council). He was also selected to be a Junior Rotarian. Scott was a proud member of “McLoughlin’s Marauders”: an intramural basketball team at Denfeld. Playing for the Marauders, Scott achieved notoriety-if not Hall of Fame status-as the most foul-prone hack on a team full of hacks (earning Scott the beloved nickname, “Hatchet Man Mork”). In addition, Scott was a star in numerous vignettes and movies written and directed by his buddy, John McLoughlin, including two of the three “Quegley” flicks (most notably as a Fung Yu monk);  a shockingly risqué aftershave commercial; and other hilarious McLoughlin film projects.

While attending Denfeld and UMD, Scott worked at the West End Bridgeman’s until his generosity (he gave little kids and his pals “too much ice cream”) ended his time as a soda fountain jerk. At UMD, Scott hunkered down to serious study and also pledged Alpha Phi Omega. He graduated in 1978 with a BA in Business. He then began a lengthy business career, finding work in the Twin Cities, and it was while working there that Scott’s life was forever altered.

Involved in a near-fatal car accident, Scott was rendered paraplegic. But, after completing months of grueling rehab at Sister Kinney and learning to drive a hand-controlled automobile, Scott’s indelible Moxy shone through and he continued on with life. Following rehab, Scott revisited his McLoughlin’s Marauders days by becoming a fierce competitor in wheelchair basketball. He ended up traveling throughout Minnesota to play in tournaments, never the star, but always eager to play. In addition, Scott’s demeanor and dedication to his rehabilitation earned him “Sister Kinney Patient of the Year”, an honor of which he was very proud and which led him to serve on the Sister Kinney board of directors.

Scott spent 20 years in the Twin Cities and Indianapolis working as a Sales Manager and Marketing Services Manager for ITT/Cannon.  During his employment with ITT, Scott completed the University of St. Thomas-Opus College of Business MBA program. For the remainder of his work-life, Scott held various administrative, management, human resource, and other business-related positions, including serving nearly 8 years as the Business Manager of Geist Christian Church of Indianapolis, retiring in April of 2020.

Along his life journey, Scott maintained close contact with a group of friends from Duluth, getting together with them whenever he was in town and, on one occasion, joining them on a Caribbean cruise. Everyone on that cruise fondly remembers Scott’s grit and determination-as the group visited various islands-to be part of it all even though many tourist destinations were nowhere near wheelchair friendly. He also enjoyed co-piloting a tourist van filled with his Duluth friends during a trip to a volcano, never blinking an eye as the rattle-trap van careened around unguarded bends on a narrow, gravel, mountain road. But the image of Scott his cruising pals will never forget is the night Scott danced late into the evening at the ship’s disco with a half-dozen nurses on vacation: twirling and bobbing and weaving his wheelchair to the music and to the delight of his female companions (an incident fondly remembered as “Nursecapades”). Scott always did love the ladies!

Recently, Scott began to struggle with his health. Even so, through numerous hospital stays, procedures, confinements, operations, and medical interventions, Scott fought to remain the same happy-go-lucky guy I first met in Mrs. Minter’s kindergarten Sunday school class at Holy Apostles Episcopal Church. That church was the center of my relationship with Scott. We spent Sundays together. We attended Christian Sex Education Class together (at our mother’s insistence!). We were confirmed together. And as part of a small cohort of Episcopalian teenagers, we attended many, many youth group events together. Through it all, he was a boy-and later, a man-of faith who tried his best to live the Christian creed he professed.

Two summers ago, a mutual friend (and fellow Quegley) Dave Michelson convinced me to tag along with he and his wife, Lail, to visit Scott in Indiana. It was a quick trip, just a few nights in Indianapolis to see our buddy. I was truly amazed at Scott’s prowess as he drove around Indianapolis in his conversion van (the kind with the lift installed for a wheelchair), weaving in and out of freeway congestion. We spent a lovely day at the zoo, had a fine Italian meal (Scott insisted on paying), shot the breeze at Scott’s condo, had breakfast the next morning, and said our goodbyes. That was the last time I saw Scott. Dave and Lail Michelson and Bruce and Jan Larson saw him earlier this year in Indiana after Scott experienced another health setback. Those visits proved to be the last occasions his old friends from Minnesota got to witness Zork’s great smile and see that he was still, despite the curveball’s life had thrown at him, the same, slightly gawky, very smart, ready-for-fun kid from West Duluth we all came to know and love.

Scott was predeceased by his parents, and is survived by his sister, Kathryn Nelson; niece Chris Horvatich and her son Wyatt Thompson; Aunt Marilyn Anderson; and other members of the extended Anderson and Mork families. In addition, Scott is missed by many life-long Duluth friends and a huge group of Indianapolis friends, including Chaleen Stevens and her daughter Faith¾with whom Scott shared many holidays and who also comforted Scott during his hospitalizations and his final days.

 Memorials are preferred to the Greater Denfeld Foundation Scholarship Fund, the Sister Kinney Institute, or to a charity of the giver’s choice. Funeral arrangements in Indianapolis are pending and this post will be updated as to those arrangements. It’s anticipated the service will be live-streamed to accommodate folks not able to make the trip to Indianapolis.

Peace, my friend.

MM:

Where do you hang your hat, the place you call home? How is that location connected to Finnish American or Finnish culture, heritage, and history?

SS:

I don’t actually remember being born, but I (never) “grew up” in Palo Minnesota far “north of ordinary,” as we say on The Iron Range. Now my proverbial hat hangs in Duluth … but I’m really not much of a hat guy. Lol. And as far as Finns go, they got more Finns in Palo than in an Aquarium! The basic history of Palo in a nutshell, is that it was mostly all homesteads built by former iron ore miners blackballed by the mines for unionizing. Somewhere along the line the Norwegians showed up to keep us from going insane.

There’s still a handful of folks that Feak Spinnish there too. 

MM:

Was Finnish spoken around you? How about your early connections to Finnish heritage?

SS:

Yaya, the Grandparents knew a handful of words (mostly the swears) but really my Finnish language came from Duolingo and YouTube. Plus, the Berlitz Learn Finnish in Sixty Minutes CD I “long term borrowed” from the Mt. Iron Library. It’s been a LOOOOONG sixty minutes: eleven years, I think.

I’m about as good as I can get in terms of speaking Finnish without a teacher, friends, or investing hours a day into it. Maybe halfway fluent. The vocab is there: grammar not so much. And ya, heritage has been all over my life. Saunas, Mölkky, breakfast foods. I grew up near the Laskiainen Festival in Palo, so that was always something to look forward too. I’ve even competed in Wife Carrying a few times!!!

Plus, we still have some Finnish Tunes in the hymnal at church! I’ve been the organist for a few years. And even in childhood I remember hearing “Jeesus Mua Rakastaa” 

MM:

Knowing you to be a gifted, professional musician, where did your interest in music come from?

SS:

Music from my childhood? My mother shoved ABBA down my throat, classic rock constantly, and country too. I honestly never liked music … still don’t! Just kidding: To me, music is a vehicle for the deep thoughts of an artist. I prefer listening to Rodney Dangerfield’s Stand-Up Highlights to gentle pop music. Most of my songs have a surface meaning as well as a deep one. It gets so creative even the artist can’t understand it! But the jokes make it easier to digest.

When I was in high school, an uncle played a Bobby Aro CD for me: Finn-glish Fun! That changed everything! I wasn’t forbidden to be a musician. But there wasn’t much urgency to support that choice either. I remember my first couple of trombone lessons as a fifth grader. My step-dad said something like, “One of us needs to bring Steven to horn blowing class.” When I played accordion, the folks looked at me like I was about to bomb the property: it wasn’t the best environment for a musician to start off. But disappointing everybody, now that’s what’s made it fun! 

Step-dad was a miner and mom worked in a hospital. They were up early. As a high schooler, I’d be sauntering in from a gig when the step-dad was going to work. I had a cheap little keyboard. I’d take an extension cord and a lamp into my closet and stuff clothes under the door to mute it. I’d shingle roofs or work fast food during the day and practice music at night. I would have traded years of my life to have taken piano lessons earlier. But it was not to be. Nevertheless, my dreams could not be dissolved by the circumstances of my life. And they still can’t now. I’ll outwork any competition: it’s terrifying what I’ll put myself through to entertain.

I love my folks, and I always will. But supportive families can be a double-edged sword. To be honest, I think I got better in music because I honed my skills in introverted, rural silence. I’d play my accordion for the cows when no one was home. They always cared and they always listened, though they never bought a ticket! 

MM:

Explain your musical training. I note your bio says you attended Rowan University.

SS:  

I never didn’t start piano lessons until 2015 (when I was eighteen). I was a late bloomer. I had to be forced into choir and theater by peer pressure. Even though I was a courageous youth, playing trombone abnormally well in band was really a nerdy, inside joke. I may have had dreams back then, but I never saw a future in music until I started making money. A lot of the motivation honestly came from shutting up all the people telling me to get a real job. “A simple-minded farm boy like you is best be fit for the mines or in military.” That quote lives rent free in my mind. I won’t mention who said it, but he motivated me by saying it!

Another character from my Musical Mt. Rushmore is Veda Zuponcich. There’s a documentary, Iron Opera that reveals in depth her impact on my life. From troubled youth; to hostile teen; to confident college kid; Veda deserves a lot of the credit. She’s responsible for me going to college and validating the existence of art in my life. I grew up very tentative in art. I’m so glad she found me and that I found art. It saved my life. But that’s another story.

Rowan University made me twice the man I am (and eight times the musician!). I got to be a little fish in a big pond. Six hours a day on piano, skipping parties to compose and rehearse: it didn’t last long. I played trombone in the pep band: my first instrument, and first love. Played piano, even accompanied a little. Got into church organ a bit. But the accordion was my breadwinner. I played the Hurdy Gurdy in a medieval music ensemble. Got a harp somewhere in there. Bagpipes too. I play over twenty-four instruments. But remember gang: it’s not about the number, it’s about the memories!

Then the rise started (if you can call it a rise.) Two engineering buddies signed me up for the battle of the bands competition as a one-man band. It was a joke. They knew I could play instruments with my feet AND my hands. Their pressure caused me to assemble a ragtag one-man band out of duct tape and prayer. The rest is history. The passion, the niche, the confidence, the creativity: it was all unique, and the future was bright as the sun. 

MM:

Presently, you tour as “Steve Solkela’s Overpopulated One Man Band”. Could you tell the readers of FAR what went into your decision to become a solo act, one that not only includes music but a hint (just a hint) of self-deprecating humor?

SS:

God forbid someone shakes up this earth with humor!

What kind of nerd is a “serious musician” anyway? Humor is the purpose of life. You can still do a few sensitive pieces and arias amongst the laughter: help people be removed from their daily woes and trials at your shows. That’s my advice to any musician confused about his or her purpose. Life is complex: you are simple. Make things better by being you! Even Mozart was known for his bold sense of humor. Quit licking the salt shaker and live a little! 

As far as the one-man band, it’s a product of my environment. I tried to collaborate with people. I learned the lesson, OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN, that people don’t care, and will never be as passionate as I am about music. I’ve started fourteen bands. Only six have been profitable and only three had everyone pulling their own weight. You have to pick your battles. I learned the hard way that I was the only one who’d show up when it mattered.

It started as accordion practice on the farm. I’d get paid gigs and try to share it with drummers, bass players, piano players etc. … but they would flake. “Collaboration is key!” Flake. “I’m getting lonely here with all these gigs.” Flake .”I’ll send you video clips of the bass part if you’re having a hard time learning.” FLAKE. I’d type up music, get gigs, advertise, take photos, do social media, incur most of the costs, handle all the phone calls and confrontation … and they’d flake! Four-digit gig in Michigan, three months’ notice and my bandmates couldn’t get off work at Walmart. Flake. Start a band, set weekly rehearsal times convenient to their work schedule. FLAKE! Go to their house to rehearse and the doors are locked. FLAKE! 

So, yes, the One-Man Band started out of pure anger and hatred for liars. Now, I make my living from music: doing over two hundred gigs a year and selling my T-Shirts and CDs. I’ve performed on five continents. And contrary to my resentment to flakers, I hope they all eat. I hope they find fulfillment through music, and I hope they find the courage to not only accept a challenge but attempt it. The standards I set for myself would crush an average man. I’ve never found the healthy work/life balance. I gave up the life portion to pursue greatness with all my ability.

As for scaling back, I flaked on two out of over two hundred gigs last year. One because I went in the ditch on my way to that gig and once due to a massive snowstorm. 

Long story short, flakiness is a pet peeve of mine.  If you work with a musician like me, bring your A game.

MM:

I know you tour quite a bit, having just come back this spring from traveling that included a jaunt to Florida.

SS:

I’ve been quite the globetrotter. I believe I’ve performed in over twenty states and five countries. Sometimes I just fly with an accordion and leave all the one-man band instruments and trinkets behind. Whatever the gig calls for. Some of my absolute favorite places are New Jersey; UP Michigan; Milwaukee, WI; Jerome, AZ; Lantana, FL; Oulu, Finland, Kaleva Hall on the Iron Range; and good ol’ Duluth, MN. 

My repertoire is diverse. I keep the Finnish stuff to a minimum unless it’s requested. Comedy goes over best. I do a lot of covers: I’m better than a jukebox! When I was in Finland, it was before my prime as an entertainer. I really hope I can go back now that I’m entering my prime. Maybe the summer of 2024? Start a rumor! Finland is a very different world but I can’t wait to see it again. Maybe I’ll bring my unicycle …

MM:

Could you given the readers an idea of your recordings, where they can be found, and what else might be in the works?

I’ve made seven CDs in my lifetime. One a year since 2015. Sold out the first 3 but I’ve no interest in pressing more. I’ve improved so much since then: every musician hates their past work. You know you’re doing it right when you’re regularly crushed by your own standards. There’s nothing easy about it: so many sleepless nights.

I owe much of my success to a fella by the name of Rich Mattson at Sparta Sound in northern Minnesota. He recorded six of my albums and was able to harness whatever you want to call this caffeine-fueled-tidal-wave-of-creative-rage that is “me” into something beautiful. That man is also on my Mt. Rushmore. My music can be found on Spotify Apple iTunes YouTube, or on CDs purchased from me at gigs. 

MM:

Are you available for events? Is there a Solkela YouTube channel?

SS:

Youbetcha there’s a YouTube Channel. It’s called “Solkelamaniax” check it out!

I’m comically easy to get a hold of. Facebook is easiest: I post my schedule on my page monthly. But I do the Insta, Snappychat, and even telekinesis! Plus, the website (which I need to update) but you can reach my team at www.stevesolkela.com .

My schedule is packed, but like every working-class person, my time and talent is available for purchase. 

MM:

Last question. Do you think your accordion skills will ever rise above “average”? (Your word choice, not mine!)

SS:

LOL! Humility is a weird thing. If you talk to an old accordionist who knows the standards from the 50s, I suppose I might appear weak in repertoire. At least, before I started the Polka Band and learned most of the old stuff. But the truth is, there’s over 6000 songs in my repertoire. If I ask that same old accordionist to play the metal, rap, Finnish reggae, or classic rock I know, the tables would turn. The creative and committed server (my brain) rivals a robot! Come to a show: I take requests and can do just about anything, including playing my accordion on a unicycle. 

The truth is, I’m an incredible accordionist (gosh, I hope so). I skipped so many social events to practice and compose. The discipline I possess isn’t humane but I won’t allow my ambition to be tarnished. Humility works hard to make sure you never get credit for your work. I’m glad I started believing in myself more after college. So much time was wasted with the self-deprecating stuff that was deemed safe by my conditioning.

It’s a great show I’ve conjured up. Music, comedy, stunts. A twenty-three-piece one-man band! Humor. Danger. Even time travel (musically).  I’m proud of it and folks are going to love it! I wish I’d have ignored all the comments weighing me down earlier in my life. It took years, but I gave myself permission to be myself when no one else did. I’ve given my life meaning through sheer focus of will and the desire to amount to something. We’ll all confront death. Will you be proud? I, for one, am proud of what I’ve been able to do artistically in the short time my hourglass sand has been falling. In the end, I believe I’ll be remembered as the hardest-working entertainer of all time.

Thank you so much for interviewing me!

(This interview originally appeared in the August 2023 edition of the Finnish American Reporter)

                                    INTERVIEW OF NATALIE SALMINEN RUDE

MM:

Your last name, Salminen, is definitely Finnish.

NR:

My Finnish heritage stems from my father. My great-grandfather, Alfred, moved from Vaasa, Finland to Toronto in 1903. He fled Finland as a young husband and father because the Russian army was kidnapping young Finnish men to serve in the Russian army. He sailed to Toronto, moved to North Dakota, and then to Virginia, MN to work in the iron mines. Great-grandfather Salminen then moved his wife and four children from Finland to Virginia, where my grandfather, Bernhardt Veikko Salminen, was born. He grew up speaking Finnish and English and taught his parents English. Eventually, my great grandparents received their citizenship, of which they were very proud. My grandfather then met my Swedish grandmother in Denver, CO. He’d been drafted into WWII and stationed in Denver. They married and settled in Mahtomedi, MN.

My mother’s mother was Swedish. Growing up with a robust Scandinavian heritage was a defining element of our family. Ancestral reminders came from nursery rhymes sung by our grandparents in Swedish and Finnish, from the food they made, the slang they spoke, the sauna’s they stoked, and the stories they told. It came from the artwork on the walls and from the napkins on the table, from the needlework and the candy dishes and the glass birds sitting on their shelves. It came from the morning kahvi and pulla bread and from the salty black licorice I’d sneak from the glass dish besides my grandpa’s arm chair. Although my grandpa did not teach my father Finnish because they were “American”, the pride of that heritage was clearly felt and celebrated.

MM:

I recently interviewed watercolorist John Salminen and he confided you’re not related …

NR:

It’s wild that John and I aren’t related given our shared surname and love of art. I met him at my first solo show in the George Morrison Gallery in 2005. I was honored he attended. He told me that when I was in high school, he received many phone calls at his house looking for me! We’ve crossed paths at other events. His work is a true gift to our community and the world.

MM:

How did you become involved in art?

NR:

I wasn’t overtly artistic as a child but I always had a very, very strong aesthetic conviction. In kindergarten (ask my mom!) I had an eye for design and beauty. In both middle and high school, I was blessed to have Tom Rauschenfels and John Harder as art educators at Hermantown. Their encouragements became confirming voices. As a young person, I formed the image that artists were selfish, solitary beings, who were out of touch with their realities and communities. After a few years of international travel, I pursued a BFA from UW-Superior and worked as a studio assistant for Jay Steinke and Lisa Stauffer. Even so, I still didn’t want to be an artist. But I knew it would be the only thing I’d enjoy pursuing at UWS. Timothy Cleary was my sculpture professor at UWS and he sang the same beautiful encouragements I’d heard earlier. His mentorship was also paramount to my artistic unfolding.

After more travel, I met two accomplished artists in south Florida, Clyde and Niki Butcher. They mentored me and helped me get started as a professional, working artist. My youthful idea of what an artist is matured while witnessing their lives. They worked hard and hand-in-hand with their community, as well as with conservation agencies around the country, to document “the last of wild Florida.” Their example gave me the vision of the arts at work I needed to see embodied.

I’ve been continually inspired by fellow artists and supporters. When someone is willing to invest in you, when someone believes in the work you’re doing, there’s no greater agent for motivation and living out one’s purpose.

MM:

What have been the disciplines in art in which you’ve concentrated?

NR:

My BFA concentrations were ceramics and oil painting. I love the physicality of ceramics, but the color that came from oil painting was the language I wanted to speak most. I also began exploring encaustic medium: a marriage of physicality and color. Encaustic has become a primary medium for me: its versatility is mind-blowing. It’s an ancient medium of beeswax, damar resin, and pigment, fused by heat. Encaustic is created by painting in layers. Within each layer, the wax may be carved into, sculpted or have mixed media embedded. The possibilities are endless. (The Egyptians painted funerary portraits with encaustic: it’s impervious to moisture. These Fayum portraits are still with us today, almost 3000 years old!)

My studio is multidisciplinary. I work in both two and three dimensions, incorporating printmaking, sculpture, oil, encaustic, mixed media, collage, photography, and haiku poetry.

My current passion is my forever passion – which is to follow my curiosity. Wonder is my creative fuel! I’ll never not be amazed. I’m grateful that I’m able to follow what intrigues me and work out these ideas in whatever medium communicates the ideas best. I truly love what I do. And whatever I seem to be exploring  – whether the work of the Finnish design house, Marimekko, or of the late French sociologist and theologian, Jacques Ellul, and his work on the sociological impacts of technology, writing fables celebrating the North Shore of Lake Superior, or creating encaustic paintings of the BWCA to pair with the writings of conservationist and author Sigurd F. Olson – all of these explorations are nuanced and layered, just like my work. I want to be a bridge builder and draw more people to see their own place within the arts. Creativity is everyone’s birthright.

MM:

 Why Haiku?

NR:

What a gift this humble poetry has become for me! Haiku is an ancient Japanese literary form that traditionally follows the form of three lines in seventeen syllables – five, seven and five, respectively.

I started writing haiku to go along with photographs I was taking. Haiku captures an essence, a moment in time. In my studio practice Haiku has become a doorway to so many things! I had a brick-and-mortar studio and showroom in Hunter’s Park a few years ago, aptly named Studio Haiku.

studio haiku

a poetic atmosphere

for creative acts

With all the clanging cymbals and noisy gongs that fill our cultural climate, haiku gives us space to think upon one idea slowly, contemplatively.

like a small smooth stone

rolling thoughts around with care

quietly, I see

And isn’t that what we crave more of today amidst this hectic pace? Start writing little poems with your higher power and see what happens! Here’s one for the Finns amongst us:

to be determined

commitment sans flamboyance

is haiku Finnish?

That one made me laugh out loud! Reminds me of the Finn who loved his wife so much he almost told her!

MM:

Have you been to Finland?

NR:

In 1993, my great aunt invited me to Stockholm where she and my great uncle lived. She also took me to Finland. I was struck by the similarities of landscape to my Minnesotan home. I remember thinking to myself, “This is why all my ancestors moved to Minnesota! It looks exactly like home!” We visited many in Helsinki as well as Turku and traveled mostly by ship and train. I was so at peace in those familiar woods and waters. In 1997 I traveled to Norway. I’d love to return again to Scandinavia. I’d like to visit Finland to explore the strong Finnish-Japanese connection and investigate how haiku fits into that relationship. I’m so curious to explore how the Scandinavian and Japanese people express of their strong love of the natural world through art and design and to explore how this cross-cultural love affair began.

MM:

What Finnish heritage themes did you experience as a child and growing up in NE Minnesota?

NR:

 Sadly, I don’t write or speak Finnish but Finnish heritage was something we were brought up to be proud of. On my father’s side, we heard our grandparents speaking both Finnish and Swedish and my grandparent’s home was full of culturally significant items. Everything had a story. Everything had meaning. Textiles, glasswork, portraits, maps, needlework, jewelry, food. Each artifact told me a little bit about who I was.  At their home we ate krupsu for breakfast and mojakka for dinner. And of course, there was kahvi and pulla every midmorning. We grew up with sauna: it was a cultural, familial rhythm not only at my grandparent’s home but also in my own childhood home. Now, in my own home, I share that heritage with my children. Keeping my last name was also critical in terms of staying connected to my heritage. It has brought wonderful Finnish connections in art and I’ve been able to participate in a host of Finnish-American exhibits. For example, I recently exhibited work for Finlandia University’s 31^st Contemporary Finnish American Artist Series and I’m looking forward to participating in Finn Fest here in Duluth at the end of July.

MM:

 You’re the mother of three, your husband is a pastor, and we just came through a Pandemic. How did that affect your kids, your art, your ability to create?

NR:

We have three phenomenal children who all needed to be home at some point during the pandemic. Josh works as a pastor, a chaplain, and owns Glørud Design: a woodworking design studio. There was so much upheaval for us, like there was for most people, but the pandemic was also illuminating. For me it has been the Great Exposition of sorts. It’s been difficult, but cleansing. It steered me towards celebrating our humanity (and our limitations) and continues to steer me away from dehumanization.

The beginning of Covid was the end of my retail energies: I knew I was being called to part ways with the “hustle” culture. My shop was doing well but I wasn’t making much art. I just didn’t have the bandwidth for it all. Covid came at the perfect time for me to make my exit from bending to the demands of the market. I knew that if my authentic studio practice was to survive, I’d have to say no – even to good things.

I also chose to take that first year (2020) away from the internet and social media. It wasn’t until I stopped the online noise that I was more able to hear my own thoughts.

MM:

 You collaborated with Jordan Sundberg on a book, Fables of the North Shore.

NR:

 The Fables of the North Shore has been a joyous riot. Jordan Sundberg and I were asked to collaborate on an exhibit. When we talked about what we wanted to do, “play” was the word we both heard. We took that call to play and joy ensued! We had so much fun working together. Initially, we wrote five fables that highlight the treasures and lore of all things North Shore. These are timeless stories for all ages and all lovers of this amazing place we live in.

After we wrote the stories, we made any art that came to mind in terms of illustrating the fables. It flowed easily. Jordan and I had both wanted to stretch our studio muscles so we explored new mediums. We created seagull mobiles and dioramas complete with (encaustic) thimbleberry candies, Glørud canoe paddle collages, lovely drawings of the harbor in Grand Marais, paintings of smelt tacos with a side of blueberries, and a rouge taconite pellet … it was just pure visual delight.

We had an amazing response. Many requests were made for a book. We self-published the fables along with photos of the art work. The book was ready by the closing of the show in September. There was such an amazing energy and joy around the project, we just kept going with it – and in the end, we commissioned eight talented puppeteers to perform the fables live at the book release and closing party. You can find the book in many places: REI (their Bloomington location);  Zenith Books and the Bookstore at Fitger’s in Duluth; Duluth shops (Frost River, DLH, Siiviis Gallery); up the Shore in Lutsen, Silver Bay, and Grand Marais; or on my website.

MM:

 Where can folks see your art?

 NR:

 I’m excited to be a part of a group show of Finnish American artists for Finn Fest this summer. Our show, “Inspiraatioita: Finnish Art and Design in Minnesota” will take place at the Nordic Center in Duluth from July 26th-30th, with an evening reception date of Friday, July 28th from 7pm-9pm. All are welcome! I will be showing prints from work I created for Finland’s 100th year of independence that celebrate the Finnish design house, Marimekko, and the creative women at its helm.

I also show my work on at Lizzards Gallery in Duluth. I sell art giclée prints, books and haiku at www.nataliesalminen.com. I’m working on a new painting series for a show at the New Scenic Cafe, as well as work for a multidisciplinary show on technology that I hope to bring to Chicago in 2024.

(This interview first appeared in the July 2023 issue of The Finnish American Reporter)

Strangers in a Strange Land by John B. Simon (2019. Hamilton. ISBN 978-0-7618-7149-1)

I had never heard of this author or this title until I found myself invited to be part of a panel at this year’s Finn Fest in my hometown of Duluth, Minnesota. I did a quick Google of my other panelist and the moderator and that’s how I came to know this book. John B. Simon and I will be sharing our experiences regarding Finnish and Finnish American fiction in Duluth at the DECC on July 28 at 10:30. The discussion will be moderated by Dr. Suzanne Matson, Finlandia National Foundation’s Lecturer of the Year for 2023. I’m humbled to be in such company. But being asked to participate made me want to know and understand Mr. Simon’s work, which includes this title. So I ordered a copy of Strangers and dug in. 

Three young Jews, Benjamin, David, and Rachel, all full citizens of Finland at the beginning of the Winter War, form the key characters for the fictional portions of what Finland’s Jews experienced during the Winter War, the Continuation War, and the Lapland War, spanning 1939-1944. I say fictional portions because the format of this book is not simply another war novel. Interspaced with Simon’s depictions of the day-to-day lives, loves, travails, and successes of the three fictional characters (and their families) is a non-fiction historical narrative that educates the reader, in a very flawless and succinct way, about the Jews of Finland: their history, struggles, and enduring legacy. Never more than a few thousand souls, it would be wrong to judge the importance of a religious minority such as the Jews of Finland based upon size alone. This is especially the case when, as Simon portrays things, Finland’s Jews appear to be pawns in a tripartite political game of chicken between Finland, its traditional backer, Germany, and its former imperial master, Russia in the guise of the Soviet Union.

At first, as I struggled to get my bearings in this unusual book, I found myself questioning the author’s artistic choice, to create a hybrid of story and history, rather than a book that was one or the other. But as the narrative of the non-fiction unfolded and the lives of the three protagonists came clearer into focus in relation to events being depicted, I thought, By Jove, he’s done it! What was very interesting to me, as a writer, was the fact that many aspects of my own historical novel, Sukulaiset: The Kindred, are set in the same time frame as this work and cover much of the same ground, including the choices made by Finland and Estonia before and during the wars depicted, as well as the fate of eight unfortunate, foreign Jews who were dispatched from Finland to the Gestapo. We are vastly different writers and yet, I came to respect Mr. Simon’s retelling of that story in ways that I had not expected.

If you are interested in history, Judaica, Finnish history, or the less-well-known aspects of WW2, and are also a fan of well-drawn characters and fictional narratives, you will like this book. I certainly did. I look forward to meeting the author and trading stories about writing fictional accounts of Finns and their history.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5. 

Mark

The Girl from Venice by Martin Cruz Smith (2017. Audible. ISBN 978-1439140246)

So, this was another book I “cheated” on as a book club assignment. I listened to most of this while walking the track at the local YMCA and finished it listening in my car. The seminal question, given I’m in the process of tackling my own Holocaust novel set in Slovenia during WW2 (with scenes set in Croatia, Poland, Norway, and Austria as well) is this: Does the world really need another novel about the destruction of Europe’s Jews? The answer is a qualified “yes” and this book meets my qualification. 

Smith has given us a story set in Venice, and unravels an uniquely interesting and unexplored peek into the Holocaust during the last days of German rule during the time-frame of Mussolini’s fall, capture, and death. The story’s main protagonists are as follows: Cenzo a reluctant Italian soldier who comes home to resume his life of a fisherman after being discharged for refusing to use poison gas on African villagers; Guilia Silber, the always in jeopardy, obligatory Jewish beauty; and Giorgio, Cenzo’s actor brother who is at times, his brother’s foil and at times, his savior. There are a host of other minor characters who populate the tale but the plot rests upon the well-muscled, strong shoulders of Cenzo. The plot is engaging. The historical details are well researched, well placed, and don’t bog the story down. And the action is unrelenting. My only critique is that Cenzo, supposedly a somewhat downtrodden, ignorant fisherman, speaks and thinks more like a college professor, making him Giulia’s equal, than like a peasant. But that aside, I loved the read and would recommend this book to other book clubs not exhausted by the plethora of Holocaust books (hopefully, mine included) that have been released in the past decade. 

My qualification for a new read based upon the Holocaust to be worthy of a read is that it cover new ground regarding that topic in engaging and riveting fashion. This book meets that requirement.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5

The Long Norwegian Night by O.M. Magnussen and Kaare A. Bolgen (2013. Fern Hill. ISBN 978-1-48403244-2)

This book is actually an English translation of a memoir by Norwegian POW O. M. Magnussen, a member of the Norwegian resistance to Nazi occupation of Norway during WW II. Bolgen includes Magnussen’s original artwork, drawings done on scraps of paper by Magnussen in various prison cells and concentration camps where he was interned during his long incarceration. The main reason I purchased this book was as background for a novel about the Holocaust and its aftermath in the Balkans that I’m currently researching and writing. One of my characters in my novel is transferred from Croatia to Norway, arriving at the Falstad Labor Camp, before being sent to Grini, another concentration camp run by the SS and its Norwegian counterpart, and a camp that Magnussen spent time at. 

I’ll be candid: I tore through this memoir in a few days, reveling in the details and the storytelling that make it a very captivating read. As with my review of The Girl From Venice (above), as I write a fictional rendition of what Yugoslavians went through during. the war, including brutality against Jews, Roma, Serbs, Communists, and others by the Ustaše (Croatian Fascists), the seminal question I ask myself is: Does the world really need another Holocaust novel? The answer, so long as it covers new and unique ground is “yes”.  This book satisfies that requirement. It’s also well written and engaging though, given it is one man’s experience at the hands of the Gestapo and the SS, it’s of limited scope. For my purposes, it was a fine addition to my research and anyone who has an interest of what took place in Norway during the war would be well served to pick up a copy and read it.

4 stars out of 5

Peace

Mark

Found on Goodreads:

“INCREDIBLE book. As a Minnesota gal with Finnish ancestry and relatives from Michigan that moved to Minnesota. It felt as though this could have been one of my ancestors. Beautiful storytelling and realistic representations of life during the era of the book. Lovingly careful with the personalities and immigrant stories. I loved it! I gave it to my mom to read, she loved it. I gave it to my dad to read, and he loved it!”K. Ferrier

Hope to sell a few of these, along with the other two installments in the Finnish American Trilogy, at Finn Fest! See you there.

Peace

Mark

The Kids Are Gonna Ask by Gretchen Anthony (2020. Park Row. ISBN 978-0-7783-0874-4)

My title says it all. I did not toss this novel in the trash as I did one of John Irving’s worst. I did not stop reading 100 pages in (though I should have) as I did with one of Stephen King’s worst. I soldiered on, despite my doubt at where the plot and the characters of this read were headed. I shouldn’t have plowed ahead. I should’ve stopped.

This is the tale of two adolescents who, having lost their mother to a horrific accident, and never having known their father (the family lore is that they were the offspring of a one night skiing trip/romance that took place when Bess, the mom, was in college), use modern technology (a podcast) to search for Dad. Along the way we learn that these kids ain’t starving, uncared for, unloved, underprivileged kids. No. They live with their maternal grandmother Maggie who really doesn’t know much more about Dad than the kids do. Maggie is a person of means. She has a chef who prepares all the meals for the household. Let that sink in. How in God’s name are we supposed to have any sympathy or find any empathy for two orphaned kids when they have it all, they live as One Percenters and don’t really, other than sadness over their mother’s death, have a care in the world.

This is, in a word, a terrible read. I didn’t find the plot structured or compelling. The issue of absent dads is, for sure, a real issue in modern-day America. But it turns out that Jack, the father, isn’t a deadbeat or an asshole: he was just never told by Bess he was the father of twins. The two main protagonists, the twins Thomas and Samantha aren’t endearing, or memorable, or really even crafted in a way one cares whether they find Dad or not. Same thing for every other character in the book, including the “antagonist”, Sam, a get-rich-off-the-kids-media mogul who isn’t really scary or evil or anything much other than annoying.

I stand corrected. Jack, the dad, is somewhat interesting, at least as it concerns his occupation as a charter fisherman, being a drunk, and as a lost soul. In fact, come to think of it, this would have been a much better book if it was told from his frame of reference throughout. Then, perhaps, maybe, there’s a story to captivate readers and tackle modern day issues of absent parents, privacy, and instant media.

Sadly, this book, a book I “won” during the dice game at Christmas, should have stayed in it wrapping paper.

2 stars out of 5. Don’t waste your time like I did.

Peace

Mark

Pedaling on Purpose by Ken Rogers and Steve Anderson (2008. Inspirit. ISBN 978-1-60461-634-7)

Another “read” loaned to me by my friend, Ronaldo. It’s actually not his book but one he borrowed from mutual friends. The book is personally signed to those folks so I’ll need to get it back to Ronaldo so he can return it.

Any way.

The authors, Rogers and Anderson, decided, really on a whim, to support the Minnesota chapter of the Make a Wish Foundation (an organization that funds wishes for severely ill children) by bicycling into (not through) all 48 contiguous states of these United States of America. The authors pedaled through rain, snow, sleet, heat, cold, bugs, dogs, and assorted other challenges on the way to completing a trip that exceeded 10,000 miles. Rogers had zero previous long distance biking experience and purchased the Trek he rode throughout the arduous journey only weeks before the pair departed the Twin Cities. Anderson had some experience in long-distance biking but nothing remotely close to what the duo engaged in during this ride.

Though not especially well written in a literary sense, this book has a lot going for it, from the audacious decision by both men to quit their jobs and bike around the nation; to their persistent banter and less-than-helpful minor squabbles; to episodic kindnesses the pair received from complete strangers in terms of lodging, food, donations, and support. I enjoyed this tale immensely and, though I was a bit put off by the use of bold type to differentiate Anderson’s contributions to the book (it was mildly distracting), I got over that criticism to read on. It was especially helpful to see more photos chronicling this incredible ride towards the end of the story: I wish there’d been more snapshots taken in the beginning, especially the portions involving the American West where the riders were challenged by wide open spaces, mountains, and arid deserts. 

Throughout the “read” the authors, Rogers in particular, share their Christian faith with their audience and explained how, in some instances, faith communities opened their arms to receive and house the pair, and, at least on one occasion (when a Catholic priest slammed the door to the rectory in their faces) didn’t. The inclusion of religion in the story made sense given the toil and hardship and sheer determination of will that went into completing the trip so that money could be raised to make children’s dreams, if only for a moment, come true.

Truly inspiring and well worth the time spent accompanying two brave men on their quest.

4 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

C,S,N,&Y by David Browne (2019. Hachette. ISBN 978-0306922633)

They are my Beatles. And, in some ways, the rise and fall of this great American band, the band I grew up listening to through covers of their best stuff played by my buddies at high school dances, mirrors that of the Fab Four. What do I mean? Well, Browne lays it all out: the jealousy between the fabulously talented guitar licks and songwriting of Neil Young versus the sometimes brilliant and often times mundane contributions of his other three bandmates to the legacy of their work (think John and Paul versus Ringo and George). Steve Stills, whose career started with Young in the Buffalo Springfield, shot his wad, in many ways, very early on in BS and through his early contributions to C,S, & N. “For What It’s Worth”,  “Love the One You’re With”, and “Carry On”, are some of his most important contributions to our musical heritage and they all were written very early in Stills’s lengthy career. Crosby (kicked out of another supergroup, the Byrds), always the best of the band’s voices, was never a great or prolific songwriter, tending to moody, strange, off-the-cuff tunes that, while very personal, didn’t really sell beyond his initial solo offering, If I Could Only Remember My Name, a cult classic. And Nash, the sensible, intelligent, former member of the Hollies, hit the mark as well with his early solo album, Songs for Beginners. But after that, the mule carrying the egos of the quartet was all Neil, plain and simple.

This was another ’round the YMCA track “listen” for me. And it was a gem. Granted, those of you who aren’t big fans might get bored as to the detail Browne invests in telling the stories of these four talented musicians. But for anyone who possesses and cherishes the original C,S, & N album, Deju Vu, the two later-in-career studio reunion albums from the full quartet, or, my personal favorite, a glimpse of the band at its peak despite its flaws, Four Way Street (the clunky piano mishaps on “Chicago” notwithstanding), or have followed Young’s mercurial career and his oft-misfiring journeys away from the sound that made him a legend, this book is a must read.

The chronicling of Crosby’s addictions and near-death experiences; the frail ego of Stills when his work is compared with Young’s; the snappy comebacks of Nash to criticisms of his and the band’s work; and the on-again-off-again participation of Young in group projects; are all here for you to discern, consider, and apply to your own view of the band’s importance to American rock and roll.  Though the story ends short of Crosby’s recent death, this is as complete rendition of the band’s sad, joyful, filled-with-jealousy complexity you’ll ever encounter. 

A great book about good to great singer/songwriters who rarely saw got along.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tocarzcak (2019. Penguin (Audible) ISBN   978-0525541349)

My book club, the Greater Mesabi Men’s Book Club of Hibbing, Minnesota, is located over an hour from my rural NE Minnesota home. Some time ago, I was invited to join the club after the guys read a couple of my novels, a snippet of the more than 450 works of fiction the club has read and discussed over its thirty-plus years of existence. As the Club’s newest (and youngest) member, what I love about this club is that the mix of members is so eclectic, you just never know what the next selection will bring. Drive Your Plow is a book I would never choose on my own but I’m glad I read it.

Janina Duszejko, the book’s first-person narrator, is a retired civil engineer living in the mountainous region of Poland along its border with the Czech Republic. She is working, after her career in construction has ended, as an English teacher in a local Catholic school. It’s an intriguing read insofar as language because the author, a Nobel prize winner, writes in Polish and must await translation of her work into the wider-read English language. I loved the woman who narrated the audio version: her accent alone called to mind a babushka-wearing older woman, whose health is plagued by a mysterious illness, and who is suddenly surrounded by dead bodies, all of them men, all of them neighbors. While critics (and the author) bill this novel as a crime thriller/mystery, that’s not really a good fit in terms of labeling. This is more of an introspective, literary reflection chronicling the narrator’s singular, loveless existence in the hinterlands, including her affection for and dedication to living things. She abhors hunting. She has lost her two “girls” (dogs) and that loss figures into the solving of the murders and the storyline. 

In the end, this was not a great tale. Nor was it especially suspenseful or thrilling in its pace, story, and unfolding. Rather, it’s a good read from a talented author and I enjoyed it, despite some dragging points here and there, to the very end.

4 stars out of 5. She’s a Nobel winner not for this book but for her body of work.

Going After Cacciato by Tim O’Brien (2011. Audible. ISBN 978-0767904421)

This is a read that was actually a listen. Again, as I try to stave off low back surgery by working out and walking the Hermantown Y track, I listen to novels and biographies and what have you, all of them provided by Audible. Being a fan of O’Brien’s work (he’s a Minnesotan so what’s not to like?), I selected this novel for my workout routine. I wasn’t disappointed.

This is unlike any other war novel you will ever read. If you are trying to replicate the internal angst and fear and combat weary feel of Matterhorn ( a great novel of the Vietnam War in its own right) or O’Brien’s slender, much loved The Things We Carried or If I Die in a Combat Zone, you’ll experience some of the same reactions and emotions you encountered reading/listening to those books while listening to/reading Going After.

But this book is far more experimental, far more cerebral in its conception and execution than simply a straight-on, tell-it-like-it-is war novel. You simply have to experience it to understand what I mean. Without giving away the store, all I can say is there is magic and mysticism in this tale. There are also imagery and longing and fear to be gleaned from a listen or read, all of which ring true despite the format and the narrative license the author engages in to tell the story of one squad, sent to find a deserter, as it heads west, out of the war. 

A fine book. I’m not sure if it deserved to be book of the year or not but it is a dandy read.

4 stars out of 5. A great book club selection.

Peace

Mark

(Kid Cann (middle figure) the man behind the killing of Walter W. Liggett and the inspiration for Muckraker: A Novel Noir)

If you are willing to take a slight risk, pre-order my novel, Muckraker, by clicking on the “Buy Stuff” tab above and selecting Muckraker in the items offered. You’ll be able to pre-order a copy (or copies) of the book and help get it edited and published! You have my promise the book will be in your hands by 10/1/2023 if I reach my goal of 200 pre-sold copies.

If you have any doubts about the quality of the story or the research or the writing, you will find a review of the book here:

https://www.thehistoricalfictioncompany.com/post/organized-crime-and-corrupt-politicians-an-editorial-review-of-the-pen-and-the-sword

Thanks for being a loyal Munger Reader!

Peace

Mark

                                                INTERVIEW OF ERIC PELTONEIMI

MM:

Let’s start with your Finnish roots.

EP: 

I was born in St. Paul while my Dad was in law school. Kip was, too. My Dad was born and raised in New York Mills which used to be a very Finnish town. You could hear the language spoken on the street, at the creamery and in the restaurant and barber shop. By the time I was four and a half years old we had moved back to the Mills area for a brief stay at my grandparent’s farm, then to nearby Wadena. My brother and sister and I often spent time at the farm in our younger days and would go into town with Grandpa where we heard him talking to his friends in Finnish. We also went to the farm for sauna. Grandpa sang songs to me when I was younger, but the Finnish side of the family were Apostolic so we didn’t hear much from them. They did have an old cylinder record player with some Finnish cylinder recordings. Later family friend Irja Hanson properly introduced me to Finnish songs and gave me songbooks from Finland. My Dad read to us from an English translation of Kalevala.

MM:

Like being a real estate novelist (my apologies to Billy Joel), choosing a career in music is a pretty risky endeavor.

EP:

When I was out at the farm, I often went through my Grandpa’s dresser so I could see his WWI medals and silver Colt revolver. He was a wounded and earned the Silver Star. My mother never knew, but he let me shoot the pistol when I got older. One day when I was 11 or 12, I crawled under my grandmother’s bed and discovered an old Sears mail order guitar in a dusty case. My Grandma told me it was hers and that she used play in a family band with her sister on fiddle and her dad on pump organ. They weren’t Finns but used to play ‘old timey’ country music at house parties and barn dances. Grandma’s mother was from Scotland so they also played Scottish songs like “Annie Laurie.” I tinkered with the untuned guitar every time I was at the farm and one day, she just gave it to me. My best friend got an old guitar from his grandparents, as well: his older brother already played and taught us how to tune the strings and showed us chords. We began playing old-time country: songs by Eddy Arnold, Ray Price, and others, and we were off to the races. Eventually, we played fairs, town dances, and appeared on local radio and television. We liked all kinds of music: early rock, doo-wop, folk, and started writing songs. We later got into old country blues artists, singer-songwriters like Bob Dylan, and some of the British Invasion bands.

MM:

Was Finnish spoken at home? What’s your proficiency in the language?

EP:

My mother wasn’t Finnish so it wasn’t spoken in the home. She was Swedish and Norwegian, although if she had lived a little longer, Ancestry.com would have showed she was also part Finn. Kip and I only heard Finnish from our grandfather, his brothers and friends, and the little bit of what my Dad knew. Finnish as a language was already disappearing. Our local music store in Wadena had a large section of albums imported from Finland and we bought a copy of every one of them. I started picking up Finnish from those songs and took Finnish classes as well. I have never been strong as a Finnish speaker. I was at my peak back in the 1990s and 2000s when I was in Finland more often. I’ve lost a lot of it in recent years, but when I go to Finland to hang out with my friends, comes back a little.

MM:

Watching the great Finnish film Ikitie (about Jussi Ketola) I noticed you wrote a song for the film, “Punainen”. Talk a bit about that song and writing songs in Finnish.

EP:

I didn’t write “Punainen” for the film. I’d written it in the 1990s in response to first hand stories of historic persecution and prejudice against Finns. I may have only sung it publicly a couple of times, but while in Finland, I taught the song to my friend Hannu Saha’s son, Topi, who began singing it. The song supervisor for Ikitie was Karri Miettinen and he happened to hear Topi sing it. He played it for producer Ilkka Matila and director AJ Annila. They loved it and asked me if it could be part of the film. After getting my OK, they decided I should be in the film, too. The scene in the film with the song wasn’t in Antti Turri’s novel, but he also loved the idea of creating a scene for the song. AJ, Ilkka, and Antti were great people to work with. The film is about a very dark chapter of Finnish, Finnish American, and Finnish-Canadian history in Karelia. But the film was expertly written, directed, and acted by some of Finland’s, Denmark’s, and Estonia’s best actors. It was shot mostly in Estonia and I had a ball doing it!

In the late 1980s or early 1990s, Finnish folklorists toured  the UP, Wisconsin, and Minnesota recording Finnish Americans singing Finnish songs. Someone turned them on to me and they came to my house to record me,  which led to me recording an album of Finnish and Finnish-themed songs for EiNo Records in Helsinki. The theme of that year’s Kaustinen Folk Festival was Juuret Suomessa, so  they brought a whole bunch of us over to sing and play at the festival.

I’ve been back several times, touring clubs and playing festivals. It’s kind of my second home and, honestly, I think I have more friends there than I do here! Finland is a very natural place for me demographically and culturally. It also happens to be ranked as one of the top five societies in the world.

MM:

An online biography indicates that, after honing your musical skills in the area you were raised, you migrated to folk/rock music and played in several bands, including Trova, Suomi Orkesteri, and Trova Ystavineen.

EP:

I like playing solo and with bands equally. I like the interaction with other musicians, but playing solo allows you to dive deeper into a song.  I left full-time playing with a band to focus at Red House Records which was demanding more of my time. But I wouldn’t rule out playing in the right group again. In 1969, I’d been in college, but not very focused in my studies (I mostly played music in coffeehouse). The Vietnam War was on and I got tired of renewing my student deferment so I enlisted in the Air Force. To my surprise, I was rejected from the services as 4F. I immediately dropped out of school, headed to New York City, and started to play my songs around Greenwich Village. There has been no looking back.

MM:

You’ve worked in musical theater, writing music and lyrics for the stage. I note that one of the most influential works you had a hand in, Ten November (working with playwright Steven Dietz) not only drew regional accolades for the work but the music from the play became an album featuring yourself and some great regional names in folk music: Prudence Johnson, Ruth Mackenzie, Peter Ostroushko, and others.

EP:

Writing songs and music for film and the theater differs only in that I’m more often writing about something specific to the plot or general theme; the tools and skills I have accrued over the last 60 years are the same. I’ve never written a theatrical song for an already existing plot. I’ve always been a full partner working side by side with the playwright creating the play.

Ten November was a life-changing experience–very meaningful to me and probably the highlight of my career. Its Great Lakes theme dealt not only the Edmond Fitzgerald story, but with other shipwrecks: the power of nature and loss. It also examined potential causes of the sinking, the legal ramifications, and the human components. I met people who’d lost a family member on the Fitzgerald and other wrecks. Their positive response to the show was a humbling experience.

MM:

In addition to all your creative work, you took over the reins of one of the most beloved (at least by me!) folk/Americana labels in the music industry, Red House Can you give the readers of FAR a short history of Red House and its work in promoting musicians that aren’t always household names? I believe the notion of an independent label headquartered in St. Paul, MN started as idea that Greg Brown, another legendary singer/songwriter, shared with Bob Feldman.

EP:

After going to New York for a couple of years as a performing artist, my management moved our operations to Los Angeles. While there I had a day job working for an artist studio that designed many of the iconic LP packages of early 70s rock and pop music. I was just a lackey there but I picked up a lot of skills relating to the music business. After LA and a short time in San Francisco I moved back home, got married and had a child on the way. I decided to stop actively performing then and focus on the album production side of the music. I produced two albums for Flying Fish Records in Chicago and a well-received album for Spider John Koerner. In the course of the Koerner project, I met Bob who had recently started Red House Records with Greg Brown. Bob was a terrific entrepreneur but was doing all of the label work from his dining room. He wanted the Koerner project at Red House. I agreed and we became friends. At some point I noticed I was actually working at Red House and had become the first employee. My skills and Bob’s skills complimented each other, and due to a convergence of many factors, like the emergence of A Prairie Home Companion (our national platform), our artist roster and own talents, Red House grew into an internationally-distributed record label earning Grammy Awards.

MM:

Red House promoted and sold music written and performed by some of America’s best: Jorma Kaukonen, John Gorka, Eliza Gilkyson, Lucy Kaplansky, Spider John Koerner, and many others. What was your day-to-day role in signing performers and supervising the production of their music at the label?

EP:

I either produced a recording session in the studio myself or interacted with outside producers we brought in for a specific project. Originally, everything was recorded in the Twin Cities. But soon our artists were being recorded in New York, Austin, Nashville, Los Angeles, Canada, Scotland, and England. Part of my job was trying to make sure we got the best results we could, without running up too much cost¾a lot of time on the phone and staring at a computer screen! I also interacted with artists at the recording stage, discussing their projects and what they hoped to achieve. Finally, I coordinated designers around the country commissioned to design album packaging.

MM:

One of the founders of Red House passed in 2017 and eventually, the label was purchased from his estate by Compass Records, a Nashville, TN label. Talk a bit about that process and what led to you leaving Red House? What have you been doing to keep your own creative juices flowing since Red House was acquired by Compass and you left your post as President of Red House?

EP:

Bob died in 2006 and I became president of the label with the mission of carrying on our vision. I stayed on as president for over ten years but longed to get back to my own creative work. The record industry was changing, and I thought the label could use some younger leadership. I took a sabbatical and went to Spain. My wife’s family is from Spain; most of her relatives are there. I spent time with them and walked the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage by myself. It was a fantastic experience and when I came back, I’d pretty much decided to retire from Red House. The label carried on for a couple more years, and then Bob’s wife Beth decided to sell it to Compass. Garry West and Allison Brown, who run Compass, are old friends and have a similar mission so it was the perfect hand off.

MM:

Any chance we’ll see you and/or your musical brother, Kip, performing at the upcoming Finn Fest in Duluth? Where can folks find your music?

EP:

Kip and I will both be there, though not performing together like we often do. I’m looking forward to it. I hope folks can come.

As for my music, my Finnish albums are out of print. The only two recordings currently available are my solo English-language album, Songs of Sad Laughter and the cast recording of Ten November. Prudence Johnson, Ruth MacKenzie, Claudia Schmidt, the late Peter Ostroushko, Dan Chouinard, Jeffrey Willkomm and I toured a concert version of the play’s music three times around the Great Lakes states under the name “Gales of November” to differentiate our concerts from the actual play.

Like the shoemaker’s children who go barefoot, I’ve been slow to make new recordings (COVID partly being to blame), but I have some new stuff in the works that might be ready by Finn Fest. I also love doing house concerts. Folks can Contact me if they’re interested in producing such an event at e.peltoniemi@icloud.com !

(This interview first appeared in the April 2023 issue of the Finnish American Reporter.)

I’m at it again. After spending two decades exploring Finnish, Finnish American, and Finnish Canadian culture; and after writing three historical novels from that experience and research (Suomalaiset, Sukulaiset, and Kotmaa); I’m returning to my maternal grandfather’s roots in hilly, southern Slovenia. My first novel, The Legacy was part historical novel set in WW II and part present-day murder mystery/thriller. I’m following that pattern in my present manuscript (working title, Slovenec: The Slovenian) and crafting a very rough draft of a fictional story while researching the Slovenian Partisans, the Croatian Ustashi, the Serbian Chetneks, and the Holocaust as it happened in the former Yugoslavia. That’s the projected first half of the book. The second half will take the characters (those that survive!) from the war to present day.

Anyway. 

The Heretic is a fine biography of Josip Broz’s (Tito’s) life from birth through the book’s release (1957). This extensive volume takes the reader through the war hero’s formative years as a young Communist, to his break with the Soviet Union (after WW II), and ends analyzing the upset caused by Poland’s and Hungary’s challenges to U.S.S.R. Marxist-Leninist primacy during the late 50’s. Maclean, who ended his career in the British Army as a brigadier general (and also served in Parliment) parachuted into Yugoslavia during the war to meet and work with Tito and the Partisans. Much of his writing about the Field Marshall of Yugoslavia comes directly from Tito’s mouth through the leader’s personal stories and the interactions between the two men. In addition, the geopolitical aspects of Yugoslavian story are well-researched and based upon Maclean’s exhaustive review of Balkan history. The book is well-written, gives a fair and balanced view of Tito’s faults and talents, and will be the cornerstone for my writing about the post-war situation in the reformatted Yugoslavia.

A must read if you are interested in a fascinating man and nation, no longer in existence, with a tortured past.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Not to be confused with movies bearing the same name, this novel is not a book I would have purchased for myself. I’d never heard of it despite the novel being on the NYT’s Bestseller list. I’d also never heard of the author. But someone gave The Matrix to me as a gift, it was in my “to read” stack for quite awhile, and I finally plucked it from fictional purgatory and to give it a read.

Marie, the protagonist and heroine in this tale, is a tall, strong, strapping and not-so-very-pretty young woman when the novel begins. She’s infatuated (likely sexually) with Eleanor, a Queen of both France and the rough and unruly hinterlands of England. There is only one Christian faith and church during the story’s timeframe (approximately around the time of the last of Crusade) and ultimately, because Marie is a bastard (the product of the rape of her mother by a nobleman) and unmarriageable, the girl is sent to live in a convent across the English Channel. This is, in essence, the life story of a girl turned nun turned force of nature who transforms her dreary existence as a novice to become Abbess, eventually wielding great power and authority; a standing in the world that the Queen herself cannot break or harness. 

Written in a tone and style that reminds the reader of the best fairy tales and ancient legends, it is easy to respect and admire Marie’s pluck, resolve, and grit. Harder is the task of grasping exactly what her faith is, the basis of her beliefs, and whether she is actually, deep in her soul, a good Catholic or a heretic. In one very moving scene, when there’s no opportunity for a priest to make his way to the Abby to conduct Communion, Marie puts on priestly vestments, hears confession, and conducts Mass, all to murmurs of apostasy and horror amongst her most ardent followers.

I liked this book’s style, story, and pacing a great deal and found it a hard tale to put down despite my early reservations that it might not be, as the English say, “my cup of tea.”

5 stars out of 5. A great bookclub read!

Another one of my Audible “listens” while working out at the local Y. Also a book club pick by a member of my book club. I will be frank. I would have never read this novel, one filled with speculations about life’s origins, meanings, astrophysics featuring a fairly unlikeable father and his savant/genius autistic son. But because it was selected by one of my book club guys, well, I gave it a listen to fulfill my duty.

Guess what? I actually enjoyed the story. It challenged me in ways similar to how I’d been challenged as a young college student when I reading Ursula LeGuin as part of a political science course on utopias. LeGuin, a fine, fine literary writer who chose to write fantasy and science fiction, is my bellwether when it comes to speculative fiction like Bewilderment. I thoroughly enjoyed following Robin’s, the autistic child’s, meanderings in and around genius and his emotive angst regarding the status of our fragile Earth. I was less enthralled with the character of Theo, the father, who, to my tastes, was a cardboard cutout of a man. Oh, I’ll concede that he’s dedicated to his son, having been made a widower by a car accident that claimed his wife and Robin’s mother, and spends every moment when not at work trying to mentor and father his child. But he is one angry, unpleasant, self-centered, mess of a human being. In addition, the ancillary characters don’t really add a whole hell of a lot to what is, at it’s core, a rumination on planet Earth, human existence, faith, science, and the unknown.

Good writing, not great writing, a passable plot line (though be warned, the ending is very predictible), and one memorable character who will stick in your mind in the manner of Owen Meany.

4 stars out of 5.

That’s it for now, folks!

Peace

Mark

Another of my listens while exercising at the local Y. Here’s my pitch: Don’t be swayed away from this great piece of writing by those who have panned the book, including Bill Steigerwald’s “exposés” concerning the narrative and timeline that form this travelogue. This is an exemplary piece of “road writing”, one that lays out an America Steinbeck encountered when he packed up his pickup truck and its camper, placed his standard poodle Charley in the cab’s passenger seat, and set off to explore his native country. 

Steinbeck spent his youth and much of his adulthood in California and New York. The journey he depicts in Travels starts on Long Island and ends there as well. In between, the author navigates two-lanes, and the occasional expressway, from Maine to the West Coast, through Texas and the Deep South, before returning home. The ending will bring a smile to your face so I won’t spoil it here. But the storytelling to be found in Steinbeck’s greatest prose, Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden, Of Mice and Men is on full display here. Critics, like Steigerwald, who pan the itinerary and factual basis of these terrific essays, miss the entire point of the book. Who cares if Steinbeck met or didn’t meet the folks he portrays? Who cares if he spent more nights in motels and hotels than roughing it in his camper? The yarns he tells and the landscapes he paints give us a glimpse of the America he discovered along the way: the beautiful and the ugly; the kind and the racist;  the confined countryside (New England) and the breadth of the West (especially Montana, his favorite state). 

In particular, his depiction of the sadness and the anger he witnessed in the Deep South, where he drove smack dab into the midst of Dr. King and the Civil Rights Movement, are touching, telling, and fist-wrenching. Steinbeck’s recounting tale of watching a young Negro (his term, not mine) girl, a “mite of a thing” as he puts it, being escorted from a federal marshal’s car by big, burly, serious white men who are there to protect her from “the Cheerleaders” (white mothers and grandmothers who scream at the little girl) inside a formerly all-white elementary school in Louisiana) is the best of the lot. Whether the event happened exactly as depicted, on the day depicted, or whether it’s a collage of what the author read in local newspapers or saw on the local news during his travels isn’t of interest to me. I’m interested in the larger story, real or imagined, placed upon the page by one of our greatest 20th century writer commenting on America and the Americans he may have (or may not have) met and distilled.

Readers and Steinbeck scholars who attack the “facts” contained in this work need to understand: this is memoir, the blending of fact and lyrical narrative that may or may not be exactly so. In my own memoir, Duck and Cover, I have hundreds of conversations in quotations and recount a similar plethora of events I believe I experienced during the beginning stages of my life. That such dialogue, settings, and events portrayed may not have happened exactly as I recall or depict doesn’t diminish the truth of my story. In similar fashion, the larger truths of Steinbeck’s travel memoir must be read with the same eye.

The fact that Gary Sinese is the narrator of the Audibile version of the book only adds frosting to this finely baked cake of a travel story.

5 stars out of 5. Don’t listen to the detractors.

Peace

Mark

Given F. Scott, the husband of Zelda, is a Minnesota author, I’ve always had a certain fascination for his work, his life, and his marriage. So, when I was in need of an audio book to listen to while walking the track and working out at the local Y, I used some of my Audible credits to load this novel into my phone.

The tale Zelda writes here is supposedly her own take on her marriage to Scott and mercurial the time they spent in France during the 1920s and 1930s. Save Me is seen by some Fitzgerald scholars as a preemptory strike against her husband. How so? The faintly autobiographical Tender is the Night was in the process when Zelda, after heavy editing by her husband to remove passages that painted him in an unflattering light (he’s the model for the husband in Zelda’s tale), found herself a publisher and launched this book into the world. There are many experts of the Fitzgerald legacy who decry Save Me the Waltz as limited in scope and value due to its fairly mundane plot and pacing. Others claim that F. Scott borrowed many of the themes from this novel (boredom, infidelity, the rigors of child birth and child rearing, and so on) and adapted those to his purposes for Tender. I’m no Fitzgerald scholar but what I will say, having listened to both books, Tender is by far the more complex and more completely executed tale. 

Save Me is, in  the end, mildly interesting, decently written, but never captivating in the manner of the author’s husband’s best work.

3 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

Someone gave this book to me as a present. Likely for Christmas. I don’t know for sure who gifted it to me but I am grateful. Here’s my take.

Farrow is the son of actress Mia Farrow and the step-son of Woody Allen. His sister, Dylan, rocked the world in 1992 with allegations that Allen had sexually abused her as a child. Ronan is Dylan’s brother and, though he originally disbelieved her version of events, he ultimately took her side in things. That case was investigated by local authorities and was the subject of a lengthy custody trial, which included testimony about Allen’s affair with the couple’s adopted older daughter, whom he ultimately married. The family court found no credible facts to support Dylan’s allegations but she has maintained it happened and Ronan has supported her. That’s the backstory for Ronan’s work on allegations regarding Harvey Weinstein’s rapes, assaults, and sexual misconduct against young models, actresses in films he produced through his company, Miramax, and similar incidences of conduct involving female staff at Miramax.

At the time he received tips regarding Weinstein’s behavior, Farrow was a reporter for and contributor to the Today Show on NBC. With the support of a co-worker at NBC, Rich McHugh, Farrow began interviewing the women whose names he heard or learned were allegedly abused by Weinstein. In the mix of his investigation, he ran across connections between Weinstein and David Pecker, editor of the scandal sheet, The National Enquirer, as well as snippets of information involving Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, including the story of Stormy Daniels that’s now playing out in Trump’s indictment. Many of the names he discovered as having had nonconsensual sexual interaction with Weinstein are not well known but he was able to confirm the producer’s conduct with Mira Sorvino, Roxanne Arquette, and Daryll Hannah amongst others. The writing in this nonfiction exposé that details the length and breadth and determination of Farrell’s investigation and reporting is tightly drawn, tense, and in places, reads like a James Bond script. As women begin to open up, as new sources come to light, the author begins to believe he is being followed; that someone attached to Weinstein is tailing him, sending him false leads, and trying to infiltrate confidential sources in hopes of intimidating them. Turns out, he was right to be suspicious. A notorious Israeli security firm known as Black Cube was investigating the investigator and even hired a couple of folks to pose as sympathetic ears to lure Farrow and one of his interviewees into relationships meant to undermine the investigation.

Fun stuff, this spy angle. But the real meat of the story is narrative regarding the hierarchy of NBC; from the director of news operations to the highest levels of 30 Rockefeller Plaza; and efforts from inside the network to kill the story. What is striking about the tale, when one finally closes the back cover and sits in reflection, is the fact that if NBC, with is history of brilliant, all-hands-on-deck reporting, can be swayed by one powerful predator to walk away from a story, what else have the major networks (and perhaps even PBS) been manipulated into ignoring? 

Besides Ronan Farrow and his partner at NBC, there are other heroes in this tale, most notably, Rachel Maddow of MSNBC who didn’t bow to an order from on high not to ask the fateful question: What did the hierarchy of NBC know about Weinstein and when did the bosses know it? She bluntly, and bravely asked that question and, to his credit, Farrow answered it, costing him his job.

A brilliant piece of nonfiction writing. My only criticism is that the Matt Lauer story, though important because it shows the culture of “don’t ask, don’t tell” within NBC, doesn’t really belong in this book to the depth it’s included. It’s tale that deserves its own telling in a separate book.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

I “inherited” this hardcover (JPEG and ISBN above relate to the paperback version) from my maternal grandfather’s collection of outdoor books. I found it when I was pulling books from my 94-year-old mother’s shelf, getting things ready for an estate sale because she was moving from her lovely townhome on the St. Louis River into assisted living. Hard move, for sure. For all concerned, especially for Mom, who grew up skipping stones and catching frogs at the family resort on Bear Island Lake between Babbitt and Ely. Anyway. It’s a signed copy (by both the author and her illustrator/husband) but lacks the dust jacket, making it less a collectible and more of a family heirloom. I’d never read Hoover but had heard of her writing in the context of outdoor/wilderness writers such as Sig Olson and put the reclaimed book on my “to read” shelf, promising to get to it. And I did.

This is a bit different from say the writings of Olson or Sam Cook or Doug Wood, writers who spend considerable time exploring the spiritual value of wild places, hunting, fishing, camping, canoeing, and the like. Here, we are gifted a more domesticated view of living in a rustic cabin/home “off the grid” in the 1950s and early 60s. Hoover is quite clear that neither she nor her artist husband hunt or fish. The scenes painted by the author involving wildlife, from fisher to bear to deer mice to ruffed grouse to deer to black bear involve interactions between the animals and the human characters on rustic property up the Gunflint Trail. (I believe; she never really tells us where the cabins are) and do not involve stalking and killing animals for sustenance. This remains true even when the couple becomes snowed in, witnesses the dwindling of their food supplies, and things appear dire given they have no vehicle, no phone service, and no real neighbors close enough to assist them in times of need. But despite this personal reticence towards hunting and fishing, Hoover recognizes that such pursuits are part of the north wood’s heritage and doesn’t object, for example, to rendering aid to a wandering fur trapper who needs a place to stay, a warm fire, and food for his belly. 

The writing is easy to follow, though at times, the author’s digressions to her past life in Chicago as a scientist intrude upon the meat and potatoes of the storytelling: which is essentially the tale of two city folk trying, without much experience or knowledge, to make a home and live their lives in NE Minnesota’s rugged and remote Arrowhead country. When she gets down to describing the sights, smells, and surroundings of her adopted land, she is every bit as good a writer as the others I’ve mentioned. The fact she writes with a more, as I’ve said, inward-looking, domestic eye, is not pejorative towards her gender: her perspective as a professional, a woman, and a wife simply gives us a different perspective. And that, in my view, makes this book well worth reading.

The concluding scenes (I won’t ruin it for you here) are riveting and leave a reader (me!) wanting more. Isn’t that what good writing, nature or otherwise, should do?

4 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

I cheated again. I listened to this biography of Steinbeck while doing my walking/work out/stretching (in that order!) at the local YMCA (thanks, Audible!). I’m a huge fan of Steinbeck, placing East of Eden in my top ten of favorite novels. And, as a novelist and writer myself, I always enjoy peeking under the tent to see how it’s done. Here goes.

Souder’s book is as literary as it gets. His writing style is immaculate, precise, concise, and well, just plain marvelous. The portrait he paints of the tortured life of one man, banging away at the keys, trying to write stories that others will enjoy, stories that will carry a message-for certain-but entertaining and well-received, is masterfully told. We journey with the author of Of Mice and Men, Travels with Charlie, Grapes of Wrath, The Red Pony, and countless other novels and short stories, from his humble California upbringing, to Stanford, to LA, to San Francisco, back to the Monterey area, to NYC, to Europe, and elsewhere all the while being a witness to the difficulties confronting those who write with an eye towards publication.

The personality quirks of Steinbeck, including his abhorrence at, yet pursuit of, fame; his seemingly manic-depression reeling from the pinnacle of happiness to the well of despair; are all chronicled here in bold and honest fashion. His loves, his friendships, his connections to other writers, his fear of rejection, his seeming lack of pride in his success (including his blasé reaction to being awarded a Pulitzer and a Nobel) are well described, detailed, and explored. 

For me, a struggling author who has now lived a longer life than the greats I admire (Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald) how others deal with the pain of literary rejection and/or criticism is in my wheelhouse and Souder does a fine job of laying out the tortured path John Steinbeck trod in this regard.

My only criticism of the book is that, in the end, after Steinbeck’s passing is chronicled, the author doesn’t explore the man’s legacy, his current standing amongst other significant writers of the 20th century. I would’ve appreciated learning what, if anything, current academics and scholars and critics think of the man’s body of work. I have my opinion but I would have liked to have heard from other readers of the man’s classic works as to what his legacy is some fifty years after his passing.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5. A biography all writers need to ingest and digest.

Peace

Mark

The Contested Country by Aleksa Djilas (1991. Harvard. ISBN 0-674-16698-1)

Diljas answers many of my questions about why and how the relatively new nation of Yugoslavia emerged from the aftermath of WW II. And while he doesn’t enlarge the topic to include why and how that same nation disintegrated a decade after Marshall Tito (the titular head of the country from 1945 until his death in 1980) ended his long reign, the seeds of understanding the nation’s demise are indeed reflected in the political history chronicled by the author. 

I ordered a used copy of this scholarly work not for my reading pleasure or on some whim of trying to understand my own Balkan heritage (I’m one-quarter Slovenian) but because the writing bug has me pointed in the direction of my first novel, The Legacy. In that story, I somewhat innocently beatified Tito and his prowess in forging an army and a nation. I did not, for example, delve into the reasons behind Croatian and Serbian atrocities against each other during WW II nor explore the massacres, murders, and heavy-handedness of Tito towards the vanquished once his Partisans (Communist guerrillas) emerged as the clear power during their war against the Germans, Italians, Croat Ustashi (Fascists aligned with the Axis Powers), and Serbian Chetnik forces. That history, I think, is a fine setting for, if not a sequel, than at least a sequential novel, which I’ve just begun to work on. Research, as Mitchener has taught those of us seeking to write fictional truth, forms the bones of a historical novel. And so, this book became a “must” read.

The Contested Country is a scholarly read. By that I mean Diljas offers a plethora of footnoting to support his essential argument: that both Croatia and Serbia, the larges components in terms of the population of what became Yugoslavia, harbored nearly magical thinking when it came to interpreting the importance of their history. The medieval kingdoms of Serbia and Croatia were never world or regional political powers when they did exist as independent nation states. Ultimately, both were absorbed by larger empires; the Croats into Austro-Hungry and the Serbs into the Ottoman body politic. Serbia managed, before WW I, to wrest itself free from Turkish control and, at the end of the war, as a member of the victorious alliance, carved out the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes (the South Slavs), leading to the imposition of Serbian monarchs, who, on the cusp of the 1930s, turned the constitutional monarchy into a dictatorship. Imposition of Serbian rule against the Croatian national will, coupled with traditional Croatian animosity towards the Serbs (not based upon language, culture, or even religion but ethnicity) led to an explosion of intraSlav terrorism and slaughter, the extent of which, given the mists of history, remains largely difficult to document even today.

Anyone who is seeking to understand the Balkans as they exist in the 21st century should start here. The book is not a pleasurable read but it is succinct, well drawn, and sets the stage for what took place once Tito died.

4 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

Confession time. I supported Senator Klobuchar when she was a candidate for the presidency in 2020. I cast my primary vote in support of her by mail only to have her announce her withdrawal ahead of the primary. So it goes. Any way, my daughter-in-law gave me this book a Christmas ago and it’s been sitting in my “to read” pile for over a year. I finally got to it. Here goes.

The first half of the book, chronicling Amy’s childhood, schooling, family woes, law school education, courtship, marriage, birthing of her only child, and her private legal career is very well written. Often, the senator lets her hair down and even cusses a bit, which, given her father’s Iron Range roots and lengthy career in the newspaper business, makes abundant sense. I was especially taken by her description of working at Dorsey, a law firm I spent two years at (working full-time days as a litigation legal assistant while attending night law school), and her appreciation for our mutual mentors (and later, Dorsey lawyers) Fritz Mondale and Warren Spannus (former MN AG). Both men are exemplars of what was once the pride and joy of public service: dedication to the people who voted you into office, their concerns, and the greater good. There’s a lot of those two men in the way the author ran for, won, and managed the Hennepin County Attorney’s position: her springboard into politics. 

Klobuchar’s discussions regarding the justice system, as seen by the chief prosecutor of the largest Minnesota county (in population), the cases that came before her, the decisions she made, including the decision to prosecute Minnesota Court of Appeals Judge Roland Amundson (who taught ethics, of all things, to my Baby Judge class in 1999) and seek prison time for the judge’s financial thievery (from a disabled person he was supposed to be protecting) was riveting. Those passages displayed her ability to lead her prosecutorial team “without favor” (her words). Her run for the senate, the parades, the decisions about campaigning, and the fervor of seeking one of the most powerful offices in the land, is also enlightening and educational without being dull or preachy.

The only failing in the book is that it came out four years too early. What do I mean? The later portion of the book, where the senator details the bipartisan bills she worked on and passed with the assistance of her Republican mentor, John McCain, while recognizing DC gridlock and a trend to making law only when pushed to do by crisis, still rings with optimism, a “we’re all in this together” cheeriness that, sadly, disappeared with the 2016 presidential election. I wish she’d waited a bit longer to discuss and digest what the Orange Prankster means to our nation and its future. She couldn’t have known and yet, reading her optimistic end chapters, her belief that there will be many, future opportunities for the two sides of the aisle to come together and do great things had the opposite effect on me as I closed the book. She intended positivity concerning our collective future; a commodity I believe impossible in a political world that includes Faux News, the Orange Imposter, Little Kevie, and the Turtle Man. Yes, there are some good people in politics on a national level. Senator Klobuchar is one of them. But other than a handful of old-style, moderate Republicans (Romney and Collins come to mind), the other side of the aisle is full of lunatics and crazies and those who seek power, not answers to national problems. Not her fault. But the ending to her story has yet to be written.

Peace

4 stars out of 5

Mark 

Minnesotan. Iconic member of the Paris scene from the days of Hemingway, Stein, and a host of other ex-pats. Husband to Zelda, whom some claim was the real, if tortured, genius in the family. I’ve listened to this classic novel through Audible now at least three times and despite the familiarity such usage brings, even the third trip through Europe at the head of F. Scott’s pen was worth the time.

Love triangles tend to be, in real life and in literature, messy affairs (pun intended). In this, one of Fitzgerald’s most autobiographical works, Dick Diver, M.D., an up-and-coming psychiatrist from the States who survived WW I’s horrific trenches, becomes infatuated with Nicole, another American ex-pat who is being treated at the Swiss Clinic where Diver works. Originally, the scheme of the author’s storytelling included much back and forth, past and present, which, to the critics, made the storyline confusing and didn’t help sales of the book when it debuted in 1934. A later revision of the novel (the one I was listening to) was completed in the 1940s by a friend of the author’s using Fitzgerald’s notes to create a more linear piece of fiction. This later version of the tale is listed as one of the great novels of the 20th century. 

The tortured romance between Diver and Nicole, whom the doctor eventually “cures” and marries, profiles Diver’s plunge into alcohol abuse and Nicole’s re-emergent psychosis (either schizophrenia or manic-depressive disorder), as well as the doctor’s brief yet destructive affair with young American actress, Rosemary. Though Dick is the mature one in the tryst, it is Rosemary’s strength of character, and Nicole’s eventual recovery and affair with soldier-of-fortune Tommy Barban that convinces the disintegrating doctor that his marriage, and his time with Rosemary are over. The writing is crisp and moves with rapidity, mirroring the “Jazz Age” vintage of the work. One comes away from the tale’s ending wishing that, someway, somehow, Fitzgerald’s friends could have saved he and Zelda from disaster, a disaster foreshadowed in this novel. But such was not to be …

5 stars out of 5. A classic tale of hubris, lust, longing, and downfall.

I’ve not read Mary Evans (pen name, George Eliot) before so I thought I’d give a listen. This is a very long audiobook: coming in at over thirty hours, perfect for listening to when walking the track at the local YMCA. Eliot weaves a comprehensive tale of life in the fictional English village of Middlemarch during the early-19th century (circa 1820s-30s), a time when, despite having lost the United States as a colonial territory, the Brits rule the waves and most of the world. In this lengthy, sprawling, domestic novel, Eliot centers her prose on a fairly remarkable young woman, nineteen-year-0ld Doreathea Brooke, who marries a man of means, Rev. Edward Casaubon, a codger nearly thirty years her senior. Casaubon is the most unloveable of the myriad characters Eliots sets upon her stage: an old fuddy-duddy who, given his youthful bride’s beauty, is convinced Doreathea is in love with a vagabond traveler, Will Ladislaw, a distant cousin of her husband’s. Though those suspicions are not, at that point, based on fact, Casaubon’s vitriol forces him to include provisions for disinheriting his wife should she remarry Ladislaw upon the old man’s demise.

There are many other subplots and minor and major characters woven into the privileged, gentrified life of the plot’s principles. In its setting and characters, a reader might consider this to be the gentrified equivalent of Dickens. Each personage in the tale has his or her own story to tell and Eliot does a masterful job of merging varied storylines into a coherent, conclusive plot. While the language is, given the time period, somewhat foreign to today’s ear, and the setting of the tale in an English village is somewhat limiting in terms of the social and economic backgrounds of the characters, I found the book, as a whole, very satisfying, and well worth time spent walking the Y’s track to find out what happens to Doreathea and her companions.

4 stars out of 5

Finally, to prove I still actually read the written word, there’s this collection of essays written in the late 1970s and early 1980s by former newspaper and Door County (Wisconsin) resident Norbert Blei, to consider. 

Last fall, as the leaves on the maples, oaks, aspen, and birch turned to glory, my wife René and I towed our travel trailer to a destination we both had never explored: the tourist mecca of northern Wisconsin, Door County. We camped at the KOA just south of Sturgeon Bay, the largest municipality on the peninsula, and by bicycle and car, explored the apple orchards, vineyards, fishing villages, and eateries of the storied county. At the infamous Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant in Sister Bay, I picked up this book while perusing the restaurant’s gift shop while waiting for a table. I was not disappointed by the food nor Blei’s prose.

Each chapter in th book is a vignette of someone whom Blei became acquainted with when he moved from Chicago to the county in the late 1960s. Some, like painter Charles “Chick” Peterson, a watercolorist, are internationally known. Others, like neighbor Charley Root, are simply, in the truest and kindest sense of the word, characters who the author became close to before his death in 2010. Many of the pieces were published as newspaper articles or profiles during the author’s lifetime but only later were compiled into a comprehensive volume with the assistance of editor and publisher David Pichaske. I always love buying quality local fiction or creative non-fiction when I travel. It allows for a more in-depth inquiry into the places that René and I visit. In that respect, this collection is well worth reading by anyone traveling to or staying in Door County.

Throughout Blei’s essays, the theme of inexorable progress, the gentrifying of a water-contained thumb of land thrust into Lake Michigan, surrounded on three sides by Green Bay and the vastness of the lake, is a constant refrain. But it’s not only the landscape that is changing, day by day, acre by acre, as more restaurants and condos and shops squeeze out fishermen, dairy farmers, orchards, and ordinary working folk living in the place:

The specifics of melancholia Chicago set in. How do I look these days? Strange, strange. That’s one of the last changes to take effect, though Door worked on the dress of the former Chicagoan from the very beginning. Back-t0-earth can play havoc with a man’s manner of dress-a whole wardrobe goes to seed. I hardly recognize myself these days …

If you are at all interested in the changing of rural America into something folks who passed on just a generation ago might not recognize; if you have any interest in visiting Door County; or if you’ve been to this still somewhat (despite the progress lamented by Blei) removed and rural piece of Wisconsin to fall in love with the God-painted leaves, flights of noisy Sandhill cranes flying overhead and landing on neighboring fields by the thousands, or platoons of grim, serious fishermen and fisherwomen lining the lazy rivers of the county in hopes of latching on to gigantic Chinook salmon during their fall spawn, well then, these stories are for you.

5 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

As the newest member of the Greater Mesabi Men’s Book Club (GMMBC), I was charged with providing the book, treats, and beverages for this month’s meeting at Dr. Rich Dinter’s home outside of Hibbing, MN. Given I’m of Slovenian ancestry (one-quarter) and given my first novel, The Legacy, was about Tito and Yugoslavian Partisan resistance to Fascists during WW II, and given I’m attempting to work on another historical novel set in post-WW II Slovenia, I scoured the Internet for a novel that might be of interest to my fellow book club members. Necropolis is the book I settled on.

I’ll admit to making a slight mistake in selecting the book. GMMBC reads exclusively novels, which, on many websites, Necropolis is considered to be. However. In reading the book and checking other sources, it turns out the book is more correctly denoted as “autobiographical fiction”, i.e., memoir. So right out of the gate, I violated the intentions of the club I’d just joined. Ugh.

Anyway, the members were kind and, to a reader, appreciated Pahor’s effort to illuminate an aspect of the Holocaust that gets little attention: the plight of non-Jews who opposed Fascism and found themselves in various Nazi-run concentration camps in Europe. Pahor, who was Slovenian but born and raised in Trieste, which became part of Italy after WW I (remember, Italy spent that war on the side of the Allies; territory including Trieste was Italy’s reward for opposing Austria), was drafted into the Italian army in 1940 and served in Africa. After the Allies cleared the Axis from north Africa, Pahor returned to Trieste and joined the Slovenian Partisans, a group opposing not only the Italians and Germans but Tito’s communist Partisans as well. That stand, one voiced in his writings, got the man into hot water and ended with him being sent to Natzweiler Concentration Camp in France. Given his language skills, Pahor ended up working as a camp medic and that’s where his journey to hell begins.

Pahor’s prose is lyrical and, as one of my book club members pointed out, reminiscent of Ulysses  in it’s non-chaptered, stream of consciousness style. In describing the heroism of a young athlete who attempted escape by improvisational pole vaulting over an electric fence, only to be recaptured and executed, the author writes:

A quarter of a century had passed between that “damn you” and the moment when the young Russian spat at an SS commandment here, but the essential qualities of the players had not changed. Slavic pride, Germanic ruthlessness. Indeed, except for love, which indisputably holds first place, high-minded resistance to injustice is the most we can contribute to the salvation of human dignity.

The Russian did not escape Germanic ruthlessness but the image Pahor paints with words is timeless. My only criticism of the book is that, in attempting to ramble through the horrors of Nazi evil in a very personal re-telling of his experiences, coupling history to revisiting the camp (wherein he describes present-day tourists viewing sites he lived through in pain, agony, and dismay), the author leads the reader on a somewhat confusing journey. The retelling is very non-linear and takes some getting used to.

That said, in the end, this is a classic story of the Holocaust, retold by one who survived.

4 and 1/2 stars. The book prompted much in-depth examination by members of my book club.

Peace

Mark

I picked up this book at a local arts and crafts fair here in Duluth. I’ve met and chatted with the author, a professor at a local college, on a number of occasions and, having enjoyed his poetry (insert the author’s name in the search bar on this site to see other reviews) so I thought I’d give his prose a try.

Boelhower uses the faith traditions of the world’s major religions (Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, Christianity, Confucianism, and Hinduism) to craft a model for both joint (institutional) and individual decision making in a modern world. To do so, he culls five key wisdom principles common to our major faiths to create operating principles and judgmental criteria to assist readers in coming to wise and clearly-thought decisions. The five tenets cited (and used) by the author in crafting his model include:

1. Respect for all persons;
2. Appreciation of the wholeness of being human;
3. Recognizing the interconnectedness of all reality;
4. Valuing inner wisdom and personal experience;
5. Attending to preservation and transformation.

The book often times seems directed more to institutional and corporate collaborative thinking than individual problem solving, which is my main criticism of the work. However, Boelhower’s organization and elucidation of his salient points does transfer from group institutional decision making to family, personal, and smaller group transformation through careful discussion, planning, and implementation. 

All in all, I came away with, I think, a more thoughtful and kind approach to working with others, both in my family and in my greater world.

4 stars out of 5

Peace

Mark

I rarely read genre fiction but when assigned this book after my very recent acceptance into a local men’s bookclub, I plunged in eyes wide open. I was hoping, given that Ms. Coel chooses to write Arapaho-inspired crime fiction due to an encounter with the late, great master of Native American detective/police stories, Tony Hillerman, I might learn a bit and also be entertained as I had been by Hillerman’s Joe Leaphorn books. I wasn’t. Here’s why.

As described by the book club member giving us a mini-tutorial on Coel’s life and writing career, the author is a historian by trade who, after listening to Hillerman at a gathering of writers, turned her love of the Arapaho people in Colorado into a series of novels. That background was interesting but what struck me most is that Coel considers herself dedicated to character rather than plot, a departure for most genre specific authors. Generally, writers of mystery tales, detective stories, or police procedurals are driven by a crime and the resulting plot and only briefly touch upon character. So I was surprised to hear that this writer views herself more interested in studying and illuminating the folks who populate her stories. That may be her ambition, her intent, but that’s not how this book played out.

There are two stories here. The first, a present-day murder that takes place on the reservation, leads to speculation by the protagonists, lawyer Vicky Holden and Catholic priest Father John O’Malley that Robert Walking Bear’s death wasn’t an accidental drowning but a murder related to the second story: the legend of a fortune buried in the Colorado hills where infamous hoodlum Butch Cassidy buried loot back near the turn of the 19th century. It’s the historical fiction contained in the Cassidy sections that’s tightly drawn, spurred my interest, and kept me engaged in the book. One of the main issues with the story is that Vicky, a local attorney, is a poor choice to be the foil for the obligatory evil surrounding Walking Bear’s death. She is not a DA, not a criminal defense lawyer, not someone who would naturally be tossed into the mysterious death of a local. She’s a civil attorney and seemingly, as the plot plods along, really doesn’t do all that much in terms of solving the crime other than placing herself smack dab in the killer’s clutches. I disagree with the author: she is not a writer of complex, deep, interesting characters, at least not here. Here, she is the creator of a formulaic genre crime story populated by paper dolls.

Unlike Hillerman, who delved deeply into the culture of the Navaho to explain and detail his plots and characters, Coel doesn’t do a great job of giving the reader insight into Arapahoe culture as it relates to her fictional story. In the end, I agree with a couple of my other book club buddies: this is a beach read, though even in that context, I’ve read better.

Too coincidental and ordinary to compel me to read others in the series and that’s too bad because I do so love Hillerman. Not horribly written but not something that makes a reader go “wow.”

2 and 1/2 stars out of 5

Peace

Mark

Here’s the thing. I’m not going to quibble too much about the author, a trained trial lawyer like me, setting up a death penalty case in Mississippi circa mid-1970s without an alternate (or two) on the jury. Maybe he inserted that detail and I missed it while listening to this novel via Audible while walking the track and working out at the local “Y”. Maybe not. There were a couple other instances (like the fact that the District Attorney’s second-in-command, a witness to a fatal bombing, sitting as co-counsel at the bomber’s murder trial) that didn’t ring true. But it’s fiction, right? So I’ll give the dean of trial thrillers a pass. 

But what I won’t give the author a pass for is the lack of any real suspense, surprise, or tension within this long saga of the Delta underworld. Oh, I was interested in Jesse, the protagonist DA’s battle to bring sanity, values, and peace to his birthplace by taking on the Dixie Mafia. I also was intrigued to an extent  and by some of the antagonists and other supporting characters. But after spending much time setting up the characters for the anticipated twists and turns inherent in Grisham’s best work (e.g., The Firm) once good and evil squared off, other than one unfortunate death (no spoiler here!), this tome plods to a very dull, unsatisfactory conclusion. 

The narration is typical for this author and is acceptable genre prose. The dialogue, read by the narrator, is fine. But what this story lacks is heart: a deep-seated, emotional bond created between the book’s fictional characters and the reader. Readable (or listenable) for certain but nowhere near the best of this author’s legal thrillers or those of others in this category. I recently re-watched the movie version of TheVerdict, a faithful rendition of Barry Reed’s classic courtroom drama. That story and The Firm, both on the page and on film, are what we who write legal fiction should strive for. Sadly, this effort falls short of reaching such a such lofty perch on the library shelf.

3 stars out of 5. Not sure if book clubs want to tackle this one or not.

Peace

Mark

From this month’s Finnish American Reporter: writer Mark Munger interviews Finnish-Canadian filmmaker Kelly Saxberg.

MM: I’m assuming, given all the work you’ve done to preserve Finnish Canadian history in your documentaries, that you’re of Finnish descent.

KS: My Finnish heritage is on my father’s side. My great-grandfather, Kustaa Saxberg, immigrated at the end of the 19th century to Fort William. He first started working at Silver Mountain as a miner. Then he met his wife Ida, who was from Himanka and they lived out at the mine site and she was a midwife. When they moved into Fort William (now Thunder Bay) my great-grandmother would host Finnish women from rural communities and helped birth hundreds of children. She was the main midwife for the east end of Fort William, which was home to many immigrants in those days. My great-grandfather, because of his mining experience, helped build the water tunnels from Mount Mackay to Fort William. My grandfather was the youngest child of eight. I made a film about his oldest brother, Alfred Saxberg, who was a veteran of the first World War.

MM: Can you fill the readers about you, about Thunder Bay, and what it means to be a person of Finnish heritage in Thunder Bay in the 21st century?

KS: I was born in Cornwall, Ontario, but my parents moved back to Thunder Bay when I was just a baby so my mother could finish her nursing degree. Then we moved to Brandon and later to Winnipeg, but my family never missed a summer out at Lake Shebandowan, where my grandfather Jack Allen built a log cabin in 1928. When I started in the film industry, my first company was Shebandowan Films now shortened to Shebafilms. Somehow fate brought us back to Thunder Bay in 1996 when my husband Ron Harpelle got a job at Lakehead University teaching history. I had been working in the film industry but since there were no jobs for me in Thunder Bay, I decided to try making my own films. Not long after our success with a few, Ron joined the filmmaking and later, when our children grew up, they too joined the family business. One of the first films I made was “Letters from Karelia” about Finns from North America who were recruited to build a socialist utopia in Stalin’s Karelia. I then made the film “Under The Red Star,” which tells kind of a prequel and is the story of the Finnish Labour Temple.

MM: As a non-Finn, I loved the neighborhood surrounding Hoito and the old Finnish Labour Temple. Tell a bit about the building’s history and the effect of its loss.

KS: My husband and I started Friends of the Finnish Labour Temple as a charity when we were both on the board of the Finlandia Association of Thunder Bay. As the treasurer, I knew how fragile the state of finances were; however, by careful sales of some parking lots, the Kivela Bakery, fundraising, and, new management of the Hoito and its renovation we were able to get everything back in the black. Sadly, a group of people with other agendas were voted in and they had other plans. Within a few years, almost every organization that had helped raise funds for the hall were no longer welcome. Bad management finally led to bankruptcy and the building sold to an outsider who gutted the hall to build condos. A fire started accidentally that winter and it destroyed 110 years of Finnish and labor history in a few hours. Miraculously, the owner was able to demolish the entire building two months later and get every permission to build condos in a building five times the size of the original historic landmark. They claim that they will rebuild the façade, but it just won’t be the same. The owner was the same person who gutted the inside and sent hundreds of historic artifacts to the landfill. 

On a positive note Friends of the Finnish Labour Temple is more active than ever. We continue to collaborate with the Finnish community. We have organized two Finn Festivals Canada events and three virtual Juhannus festivals.

MM: One thing I loved about sitting in Hoito was listening to the Finnish voices around me. Do you speak and/or write Finnish?

KS: the first thing I did when I moved to Thunder Bay was to sign up for Finnish language course at the University of Lakehead. I did really well, and now that I have been back-and-forth to Finland and working on several films in Finnish, I have a pretty good ear for the language, but I will never be fluent. I do feel however, a strong connection to my roots and I’m very proud of the countless hours of footage captured of events that I documented over more than a dozen years at the Finnish Labour Temple. My hope is that I will create a virtual website that will rebuild a virtual Finnish Labour Temple.

MM: I recently watched your short film, The Hoito Project. Give the readers some insight into the film.

KS: It was the composer for my film Letters From Karelia, Ari Lahdekorpi, who got me involved in the Finnish Labour Temple. He is an amazing jazz musician, and he was very active in the Finnish community, and had just been elected to the Finlandia Association, when we proposed our very first film festival to be held in 2005 in Finnish Labour Temple. … I have been involved in literally hundreds of fundraising efforts for the Finnish Labour Temple. I don’t regret any of it and we were able to bring Finnish musicians, filmmakers, artists to Thunder Bay to experience the Hoito and the magic of the Big Finn hall and all its legacy.

MM: Describe your background, training, and desire to make films. Where did that passion originate?

KS: I became a filmmaker because of my dad who was a local DJ here in Thunder Bay in the 1950s and early ‘60s. He was the on-air sports Director at CKX in Brandon then got his teaching degree and got a job teaching broadcasting at Tech Voc high school in Winnipeg. As a 12-year-old I was able to go and play with all of the equipment and make videos. I had a babysitting job when I was 14 which allowed me to buy a film camera and projector. When I was 18, I got a job at the local television station doing studio camera for the nightly news and TV show. Later I did sound for the newsroom and learned how to edit. My boss there, then connected me with Lara Mazur at the National Film Board who hired me as an editor trainee. Eventually I started editing NFB films and when I moved to Thunder Bay I decided I wanted to be a director and cinematographer as well. Because we live in a small, isolated community far from Toronto, I also had to become a producer, grant writer and promoter. We helped build a filmmaking community here with our not-for-profit organization, Flash Frame Film and Video Network.

MM: Talk a bit about Under the Red Star and your work with Ron as a collaborator on your films.

KS: “Under The Red Star” was really Ron’s idea and Michel Beaulieu’s research. We wrote up a proposal quickly to the Ontario Arts Council and a new organization that funded films to build an industry in Northern Ontario gave us a grant that enabled us to shoot on 16 mm film and create an amazing historical docudrama that was supported by almost the entire community. The film is also about politics so the people who are on the right-wing spectrum obviously never supported the film, or went to set foot in the “The Big Finn Hall,” which was built by socialists.

The same divisions between red and white are still alive and well in Thunder Bay. Part of the reason for this is because, the most recent Finnish immigrants were obliged by the Canadian government during the Cold War to pledge that they never had been nor ever would become communist. The halls during the war were closed down, because in fact, Canada was at war with Finland, which was a co-belligerent with Germany, and had invaded our ally, the Soviet union. Amazingly all these politics still tend to play out.

Ron was the producer, production manager, actor and helped write the narration for the film. It was a huge project and meant that we had to gain the trust from the local Finnish community. The working title for the film was “Big Finn Hall.” When we showed the film in Finland people were absolutely amazed by the number of Finnish speaking local actors we were able to feature and hire.

MM: Another of your Finnish-themed documentaries is Letters from Karelia. What prompted your interest in the reverse migration of Finns from Canada back to Karelia?

KS: When I first moved to Thunder Bay, I started researching my Finnish heritage and found the story of Rosvall and Voutilainen, and found a book by Varpu Lindstrom called “Defiant Sisters.” I phoned her up and told her I was interested in telling that story and I would like to meet Taimi Davis, who she had been interviewing and documenting for years. I went to Toronto and Varpu gave me all of her research and was keen to help me make films about Finnish immigrants in Canada. It became a labor of love because we didn’t get any positive response for any of our project ideas so we decided we would just make a film about Taimi. Then the letters arrived from her brother, who had gone to Karelia in the 1930s. We learned his fate and in investigating it, we found out the fate of so many others. The project was not really about making a film. It was about telling the stories of people who had been disappeared and murdered.MM: Most readers will likely be familiar with the somewhat pejorative terms, “church Finns” and “hall Finns.” In Under the Red Star, you explore the more radical elements of Finnish political thought.

KS: Varpu Lindstrom‘s work in Defiant Sisters told the story of radical women, Finnish immigrants like Taimi, her mother and Sanna Kannasto. Their stories and struggles were so incredible to me. I felt I needed to shed light on them, and the contribution they made to our country.

My Finnish family were in fact, quite conservative and leaders in the church; however, my great-grandfather and my grandfather were union men and they knew how to fight for workers’ rights. You don’t inherit your politics, and I would say I was drawn to these stories as a historian, and also as a feminist. Looking over my entire career as a filmmaker, I have to say that the majority of my work focuses on strong women and stories that are seldom heard and rarely celebrated.

MM: How do you select a topic for a film? What goes into writing, filming, editing, and distributing documentary films in Canada?

KS: I have a master’s degree in history and my thesis was “Women in Power Structures in Cuba and Nicaragua.” My husband is a Latin Americanist and we have spent a lot of time travelling and living in Latin America. We are both historians and we are both fascinated with labor history and social history. Most of the films we have made stem from the kind of research that we are doing. We are getting old now, and someday might even retire however, we have trained up a dozen or so young filmmakers and artists in Thunder Bay, who will be able to carry on the tradition that we have started.

MM: I recently interviewed your friend Ava Karvonen. She’s working on a feature film and then, likely, looking towards retirement. What are your future plans in terms of projects and life after filmmaking?

KS: I would love to show any of my films at Finn Fest 2023. I am the current chair for the Finnish Canadian Cultural Federation which organizes Canadian Grand Finn festivals. We have had to go virtual for the past three years, so we are really looking forward to participating in a live Finn Festival once again! Right now, Ron and I are on sabbatical in France where we are trying to complete three films which were delayed due to the pandemic, but are nearly complete. We have funding for three more films which are now starting in production. Another huge project connected with Friends of the Finnish Labour Temple has been the digitization of our local 16mm nightly news footage from 1956 to 1979. We created Reel Memories of the Lakehead on Facebook and streaming on www.ResearchTV.ca and are now working on another series called the View From Up Here.

MM: Kiitos!

The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles (2021. Viking. ISBN 978-0-7352-2235-9)

Love it or sort of like it. No one I’ve talked to who’s read this very long, winding epistle from the road, actually hates it. Readers appear to fall into two distinct camps: those who adore the book and those who can take it or leave it. After spending inordinate time slogging through this lengthy tome, I find myself in the later camp.

Towles begins his story in southern Nebraska, not far from the Kansas state line, in the little farming community of Morgan. In the first chapter, we’re introduced to Emmett Watson, eighteen years old, traveling in the back of  a car driven by the warden of the reformatory where Emmett did time for manslaughter. At the Watson farm, we meet Emmett’s eight year old brother, Billy, a precociously strange child who is, in a word, a savant genius and wise beyond his years. Shortly after the warden deposits Emmett on the family farmstead, we learn two other inmates from the reformatory; the troublemaking yet lovable Duchess and his affable and nondescript (at least to me) sidekick, Woolly; have hidden themselves in the warden’s car trunk to escape their youthful prison. The patriarch of the Watson family is dead, having failed miserably as a farmer, and so the two boys decide to set out in search of their mother who left the dusty plains for San Francisco years before.

What transpires is a convoluted, unexciting, mundane, slow-moving trip, not west, to California, but east to New York City. I quickly became uninterested in the boys’ journey (the two escapees being part of the drive east on the book’s namesake highway), finding little to pique my interest beyond the insertion of Sally, a local gal who may or may not be Emmitt’s love interest, and the mysterious Preacher, a Black tramp the Watson boys befriend after hoping a train (their car having been “borrowed” by Duchess). It’s not that Towles can’t write. He clearly can. But as a storyteller, the principle job of an author dabbling in fiction, I found the boys’ journey, both literary and descriptive, to be unduly tedious. It took three hundred pages into this long, long saga of nuance for me to say, “OK, there’s enough here for me to see it through.” Not what I’d call a sterling endorsement. 

After that, I found myself digging in and enjoying the storyline as all four boys scurried around New York City trying to figure out their collective or separate destinies. But then, in supremely disappointing fashion, as if the writer of this long, meandering road journey ran out of gas, I came to an ending that left me thinking, “What was the fucking point?” Sorry to swear but that’s what I actually said when I closed the cover on this one, folks.

Love it or tolerate it. I didn’t end up hating this book (despite my rant) but the invocation of an eight-year-old genius protagonist began this tale’s long, slow descent into disbelief. From the book’s onset, I couldn’t buy into the character of Billy, one of the four main actors on Towels’s stage. He seems, as I think about the book, a weak attempt by the writer to avoid writing in the guise of a child by cloaking Billy with wisdom, intellect, and insight that, as a dad of four sons, doesn’t ring true no matter how smart the kid is. That strained depiction of character started my questioning of this story, questioning that briefly abated but then became full-blown skepticism when I reached the novel’s uninspired conclusion.

Maybe you will see things differently. Maybe not.

Peace

2 and 1/2 stars out of 5. Book clubs seem to love this novel and I can’t figure out why.

Mark

Having traveled to Venice with friends (at the end of a 12 day Mediterranean cruise) and spent three days taking it all in, I wish I’d read this book before making the trip. While Crowley’s primary emphasis is chronicling-sometimes in agonizingly lush detail that slows the narrative, the military history of an enigmatic republic-he weaves within that storyline enough politics, culture, art, and science to flesh out Venice’s rise and fall as an Adriatic naval power to keep things well-rounded.

Written in a largely crisp and sequential style, the author carefully reconstructs the history of Italy’s most magical and independent city-state from the Crusades to the fall of Constantinople and beyond. Along the way, we are treated to character studies of scoundrels, leaders, admirals, artisans, traitors, and thieves that enrich the overall story arc and strengthen the narrative.

A fine piece of historical writing.

4 stars out of 5

                                                            INTERVIEW WITH JOHN SALMINEN

MARK MUNGER:

Hello, John. Kiitos for doing this interview. I first encountered you as an art teacher at Duluth Denfeld High School.

JS: .  

My interest in teaching dates back to the 1960’s. When I declared myself as an Art Major, I realized that, in the name of practicality, I would need to consider earning a living, and teaching seemed a good insurance policy. I was hired after graduation and discovered I really enjoyed working with kids. I retired after 33 years, and I can honestly say I enjoyed my job right up to my last day. I spent, roughly a decade at each of Duluth’s 3 public high schools, and while each school had superficial differences, the constant factor was the relationship I maintained with the art students. In the twenty-plus years since I last taught, I still derive great pleasure from emails and Facebook contacts with former students and it’s gratifying to know their time in the art room meant a great deal to them, as it did to me.

MM:

How did you come to specialize and become known primarily as a watercolorist?

JS:

In the early 1980’s I was introduced to Cheng Khee Chee. Fellow East art teacher, Mel Kumsha and I took a series of Continuing Education watercolor classes from Chee, and I realized I’d found my medium. Chee is an excellent teacher and I soon found myself focused on learning as much as I could from him and from the larger realm of contemporary watermedia. I had no idea at the time that I would become a significant contributor to modern watercolor medium.

MM:

With a surname of “Salminen”, you obviously have Finnish heritage.

JS:

I’m Finn on my Father’s  side and Dutch on my Mother’s. My dad grew up on a subsistence farm in Florenton MN. His upbringing was difficult and he spoke no English until entering the Virginia, Minnesota public schools. Like many first-generation Americans, he wanted to put his immigrant upbringing behind him and become “American”. He left Northern Minnesota and never looked back.

As a result, my brother and I were not very aware of our cultural ties to Finland. As I began to wonder about my Dad’s growing up and our Finnish heritage, his recollections had begun to fade. Given Finland’s global contributions, its high standard of living and top education system, I’m proud to have a Finnish surname, but my contact is primarily vicarious. 

MM:

I’ve seen your paintings in galleries and online and it seems you love depicting the hustle and bustle of cities.

JS:

As an artist, I’m best known for my urban landscapes. John Salminen, Master of the Urban Landscape (published by Penguin Random House) is an excellent overview of my work. I think my fascination with city scenes comes from the fact that my wife Kathy and I live in a log home situated on one hundred and ten acres of Northern  Minnesota real estate: in the deep woods. To me,  big cities, the vibrant hustle and bustle and visual chaos is exotic and very exciting.

Once I decided I wanted to make my mark as a professional painter, I realized I needed to hone my skills ( practice, practice, practice) and establish credibility within the profession. This occurred in a couple of ways.

First, attaining signature membership in national professional organizations, which is accomplished through acceptance in competitive exhibitions. After my signature on my paintings, I display the initials of two top organizations: AWS ( American Watercolor Society) and NWS ( National Watercolor Society). These are hard-won distinctions and I display them proudly.

Additionally, publication in national magazines enhances one’s artistic credibility. The route to publication includes having work displayed in national exhibitions. These exhibitions are competitive. Over the years the acceptances began to outweigh the rejections, and eventually, publishers noticed. It’s through involvement in highly competitive shows and achieving high-profile awards that my work came to the  attention of the international art community. As a result, I’ve been invited to represent the United States in numerous international forums. This is something I never dared to imagine from the perspective of a public-school teacher.

MM:

You’ve exhibited your work and painted all over the world.

JS:

International travel has been a wonderful perc of being part of the global art community. I’ve just returned from a trip to Scotland. I was invited to teach for a week and also spent several weeks visiting Edinburgh and the remote Northwest coast. I work primarily from photos I take on location, and I’ll be devoting my studio time to painting Scottish scenes for a while.

MM:

You remain active as a mentor to aspiring artists and as a judge in international competitions.

JS:

My career as a teacher has continued uninterrupted since I left the Duluth Public Schools. I now teach week-long workshops throughout the country. My students are adults and are highly motivated to expand their skills and understanding of painting. I find I still love teaching. After twenty years of traveling for workshops, I’m about to slow down and spend more time devoted to my first love … painting! I also judge competitive exhibitions and I find this is a good way to keep in touch with my painting peers. Folks always wonder how you judge artwork, and the answer is simple: pick your favorites. Of course, my definition of “favorites” has been honed over the years and results from the willingness of generations of students to generously share their work with me. Thanks to each and every artist, from high school students to International Masters who have shaped my vision and enabled me to continue to contribute.

Kiitos, John! See more of John’s amazing work at https://johnsalminen.com/home/ . (This interview first appeared in the Finnish American Reporter.)

This ginormous book was, like the experimental novels written by its subject, a bit of a slog. But I made it through Ellmann’s revised biography of the great Irish novelist and man of letters. Eventually. A scholarly tome, the book’s narrative covers 745 pages. Footnotes and endnotes add an additional 200 pages, none of which I investigated, read, or scanned. I couldn’t bear it. I was done in by the minutia of detail the author incorporated into his study of a man, though quintessentially Irish, who left Ireland in his twenties never to return. That I guess was the biggest take-away for me. James Joyce left his father and mother and home island to chase his dream of fame and notoriety as an erudite man of letters, never to return. Not for his mother’s funeral. Not for his father’s illness and death. And not to spread the gospel of A Portrait, Dubliners, Ulysses, or Finnegan’s Wake up and down the coasts and byways of the Emerald Isle.

In addition to being struck by Joyce’s recalcitrance at returning to the place of his birth, Ellmann’s detailed accounting of decades of his subject’s failure to be recognized and published, including years of trying and failing to place Dubliners in the hands of readers both at home and abroad, complicated by years of reluctance by agents, editors, and publishers to chance prosecution for obscenity, struck a chord with this self-published author. To a far lesser extent, I too have tried and failed to attract an agent, editor, or mainstream publisher to work with me: to bring my words to a broader audience. But unlike Joyce, I’ve maintained, for the thirty-odd years I’ve been at the poet’s game, gainful employment so that my family never experienced the poverty and desperation James Joyce foisted upon his mistress/wife and two children. My wife would have never, even on the promise of my work becoming chosen for greatness by the powers-that-be, stood for what Joyce put Nora, Georgio, and Lucia through, including the period when he was finally recognized as a literary genius shortly before his death.

In the end, this book assisted me in understanding the driven nature of Joyce’s obsession to write and be published; marks of character I know intimately. But reading this mammoth work did not bring me closer to understanding that unattainable, virtually unreadable whale of a novel Joyce labored over in his attempt to re-write Homer. I still don’t understand Ulysses and this book did not tempt me to attempt a second read of Joyce’s masterpiece. There are too many other great books to read.

Still, as an in-depth, exhaustive study of a famous scribe, this book is indeed the ultimate repository of all things Joyce.

4 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

My novel, Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh was researched and written between 2002 and 2004 as an attempt to highlight, explain, and fictionalize the mystery of Finnish immigrant Olli Kinkkonen’s disappearance.  The question I’m often asked, as a non-Finn writing about Finnish Americana, is “Why?” Here’s the answer.

While working as a District Court (trial level) Judge in my hometown, I was asked to participate in a serial reading of Michael Fedo’s book, The Lynchings in Duluth, at a local bistro. The event was an attempt to raise money for a memorial to the horrific lynching of three Black circus workers accused of raping a white woman in 1920. In reality, the purported crime was a false report by a daughter frightened to tell her father she’d been out “on a date”. But that truth didn’t stop a mob of angry white men from hanging three innocent men.

That backstory is important because, in preparation for the public reading of the Fedo book, I researched the lynchings on a Minnesota Public Radio website. There I found a short rendition of the “other” Duluth lynching; one that took Mr. Kinkkonen’s life. Given I’d grown up with friends of Finnish heritage, given I’d spent many nights in a log cabin my high school friends and I built on an old Finnish farmstead in northern Minnesota, and given I was innately curious as to why the Finns tried to farm such an inhospitable land, I was drawn in by Olli’s story and went to work uncovering what I could about the man, his times, and his death.

I planned to write a fictionalized biography of Mr. Kinkkonen’s life story. But as I dove into the historical record at the Duluth Public Library (a wonderful treasure trove of newspaper clippings, articles, maps, photos and the like) I felt it was not my place to speculate about a real human being. Tell his story, sure. But there is so little known of Olli Kinkkonen beyond articles surrounding his death, a circumstance where he was dragged from his boarding house in Duluth’s “Finn Town”, and disappeared, it simply didn’t “feel” right making him the protagonist of a novel. I should note that, three weeks after his abduction, Olli’s tarred (not feathered) body was found hanging from a birch tree in Lester Park. After a cursory inquiry, the Duluth Police concluded he’d committed suicide. Despondent, they theorized, and embarrassed at being tarred, he’d hanged himself. As a former prosecutor, trial lawyer, and sitting judge, I thought that conclusion convenient and nowhere near the truth.

My skepticism regarding the “official” record made it even more important to me to tell the story, but not further tarnish the man’s memory. And so, Olli became a character in Suomalaiset, but only a minor one, allowing me to still tell his story but to do so in a broader context of immigration, love, the Great War, the Influenza Outbreak of 1918 and the Great Cloquet Fire.

I chose this approach for two reasons. First, as I’ve written, I didn’t think it was my place to invent a life for a victim of tragedy. In addition, there is so little known about Mr. Kinkkonen, meaning most of what I would’ve been included, if he was the central figure in the story, had to be invented. What is known about the man is that he immigrated to the United States in the early 1900s, worked as a logger and laborer, and was an opponent to compulsory military service during WWI, which drew the attention of some folks who abducted and likely murdered him for his “unAmerican views” in September of 1918. That is essentially all the public record includes regarding the man. Far too slender in detail, I determined, to make him the protagonist of a novel. So, in an effort to educate, entertain, and enlighten, I invented Anders Alhomäki, a Finnish “everyman” and friend of Mr. Kinkkonen, to carry the fictional tale.

 In working on the book, I was cognizant that a retired Duluth police officer was also researching Olli’s death with an eye towards writing a non-fiction book. I knew that I had to work diligently and with speed to be “first” in getting Olli’s tale into the hands of the public. I plowed ahead; cognizant I was wading into unfamiliar waters. What if the Finns hate what I’ve written? I mean, it is one thing to follow your high school English  teacher’s adage “write what you know”:  it’s quite another to write about an ethnicity  and a history not your own. Still, Olli’s story needed telling and I was, I hoped, the man who could tell it with grace and dignity.

Since 2004 when the book was published, I’ve received positive feedback from Finnish Americans, Finnish Canadians, and Finns who’ve read not only Suomalaiset, but my sequels to Anders Alhomäki’s story: Sukulaiset: The Kindred, and Kotimaa: Homeland. My willingness to explain Olli Kinkkonen’s murder (and the larger story of Finnish migration) in historical context has brought me to Finnish festivals, allowed me to form valued friendships with folks of Finnish ancestry, taken me to Finland and Estonia, compelled me to write articles for this and other Finnish American newspapers, and is, quite simply, the best decision I ever made as a writer

In late September of 1918, Olli Kinkkonen was buried in Duluth’s Forest Hill Cemetery. For nearly a century, his remains occupied an unmarked, pauper’s grave. In 1993, the  Työmies Society installed a marker at the gravesite to remember the man, his abduction, and his death.

(This essay first appeared in the Finnish American Reporter October 22, 2022 issue.)

The Torqued Man by Peter Mann (2022. Harper. ISBN 978-0063072107)

Here we go. I was privileged to be asked to join one of Minnesota’s longest running male only book clubs, the Greater Mesabi Men’s Book Club (GMMBC), for their annual summer retreat. I have been the featured author at two of their meetings in the distant past and have developed a friendship with some of the group’s members (including musician supreme, Colin Isaakson, who has sadly passed on) and so, when asked to join the boys for their summer retreat on Trout Lake, I readily accepted. The assigned book, The Torqued Man, was, at the time I ordered it, only available in hardcover. I dutifully ordered the book from The Bookstore at Fitger’s (one of two Indies in town) and set to reading.

Ugh. Where do I begin? Ostensibly billed as a WW II spy novel, this mishmash tale includes scenes set in the Spanish Civil War, World War II, Ireland, Germany, and other locales surrounded by a plot that was so confusing and unfulfilling, it was a struggle for me to finish the book and be prepared for the book club outing. The twin protagonists featured in the tale: Abwehr Agent and reluctant Nazi, Adrian de Groot, who becomes the second man’s “handler”; and Proinnsias “Frank” Pike, aka Finn McCool, did absolutely nothing for me as characters. So too the plot.

The gist of the tome is that, as Germany crumbles, two manuscripts, one involving each man, are found in the ashes of Nazi failure. The interwoven stories are the grist for the mill of the tale and, quite frankly, made for one very confusing read. Mann’s reliance upon Irish folklore (Finn McCool being the most obvious link) and references to classical literature seem randomly tossed into the book as a means to establish the intellect and erudite wisdom of the novelist and do little to move the story towards anything close to satisfactory comprehension. I was as confused reading this book as I was tackling Ulysses: a feat I will not revisit. Nor shall I, despite promises to give this novel a “second go”, spend time with Mr. Mann again.

When the GMMBC finished polishing off a fine meal prepared by our host and got down to digesting both our meals and the book, I was the outlier. Nearly everyone in the group gave Mann’s effort high marks for wit, plot, character development, and story. I refrained from commenting until asked to weigh in and let it all hang out. Once I dished the book, I figured it was the last time the GMMBC would invite me to participate. But, in an inexplicable act of kindness, the group held a vote that barely, just barely, made me a member. Go figure.

2 and 1/2 stars out of 3. I didn’t toss the book in the trash, as I did with one of John Irving’s terrible tomes (Until I Find You). But it was a close call.

Wow. Now that was well done. Ms. Casey explores the world of dolphins, from spinners to orcas, with a kindness, alertness, and keen appreciation for nature and truth. She chronicles, in a series of exploratory scenes, human affection, interaction, and abuse of these mysteriously intelligent creatures, traveling the earth in search of connections, both positive and negative, between us and the Cetaceans we became enamored with watching Flipper as kids on black and white television sets in the 1960s. In her quest, Casey shares reportage that includes tales of extreme (a group in Hawaii that believes dolphins are an alien life form possessing magical and mystical properties) dolphin lovers; alongside those (Japanese fishermen who trap dolphins in a secluded bay and slaughter them as “the enemy”) who despise these undersea miracles of nature.

I picked this book up at the Talk Story, the western-most bookstore in America (on Kaua’i), where I’ve been treated to displays by Humpbacks, spinners, and bottlenose dolphins and I’m glad I did. It was a fine, fine non-fiction read. The final chapter, where Casey explores humankind’s age-old connection to these intelligent mammals by visiting ruins in the Mediterranean (where dolphins were once deified) is simply the best. Excellent work.

5 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

MM:

Could you tell the readers of FAR a bit about your Finnish heritage?

AK: 

My dad’s family migrated from Karjala to Canada. His father came in 1925, followed by his mother and sister. Dad was born in Canada in 1935. They homesteaded in Northern Alberta. My mom was born in Forssa, Finland in 1930, and in 1951, migrated with her family to Edmonton. Finnish is the first language for both of my parents.

MM:

We met while attending Finn Fest in Thunder Bay, Ontario. What’s the importance of ethnic festivals to Finnish American and Finnish Canadian culture, language, and history?

AK: 

The Finnish Community in Edmonton, Alberta is not large. Many of us are the children of immigrants.  When I was younger, my parents were more active in the Finnish community.  Many of these people immigrated to Canada around the same time as my mom and remain her life-long friends.  I was fortunate to have my Finnish grandparents (and aunts and uncles) in Canada.  Many immigrants have no other family in Canada. These gathering places allow them to share their culture with their children, non-Finnish spouse, and friends.   Members of the community take on roles of honourary aunts, uncles, and grandparents for people who have no extended family in Canada.  Festivals allow me to better understand my own family and be exposed to new stories.  For my parents, it provides them with opportunities to speak their first language.  I love reading books and watching films that have Finnish characters.  They feel familiar and help keep me connected to current events and my culture.  With the current situation between Ukraine and Russia, I feel it’s extra important to know Finland’s history.

MM:

I think you’ve traveled to 43 countries. Do you speak and/or write in Finnish?

AK: 

My website is dated … I’ve traveled to more than 60 countries! I speak and write very little Finnish. When my parents were in school, they were discouraged from speaking their mother tongue. Even my grandparents spoke to us in English. I’m the 4^th of 5 children and my family spoke English at home. My mom spoke Finnish with my oldest brother and sister when they were young. I wish my parents and grandparents had spoken Finnish with me so that I could converse with them in their first language. I’m in my late fifties and have contemplated taking a summer language course in Finland. 

MM:

What’s the importance of getting away from one’s home, culture, and comfort zone to explore the larger world?

AK: 

It’s important to step outside of my comfort zone and the homogenous groups I often find myself in. Traveling and meeting new people helps me look at the world in new ways. I’m exposed to new ideas, new foods, new ways of doing things. I love traveling to countries where English is not the first language because I must learn a few words and put effort into communicating. When visiting India, I experienced new smells, sounds, food – and witnessed people practicing their faith. Canada is a young country: I enjoy traveling to countries that have older architecture and a different history. 

MM:

How did your family preserve a sense of Finnishness?

AK: 

I grew up just outside of Edmonton, Alberta. When my child was born in 1998, my Auntie Maija hosted a baby shower and invited ladies from the Finnish community.  I’ve known these people my entire life and many of them immigrated to Canada around the same time as my mom.  The Edmonton Finnish Society hosted events throughout the year, and I’ve found recollections of the Children’s Christmas party.  When I was a young woman, I stopped going to these events.  Many of the Finns from that era drank heavily: some of the men engaged in inappropriate behaviour. I was also of the age that I wanted to hang out with my own friends.  When I had a child in my early thirties, I returned to participating in Finnish community events.  I wanted to introduce my non-Finnish partner to my culture. I’ve reconnected with people I grew up with and have met new people, more recent immigrants to Canada.

MM:

Did you always want to be a filmmaker?

AK: 

My mother is an accomplished filmmaker in addition to being a textiles artist/weaver.  She started making her films in her sixties. My father made nature films. My mother made films about artists and her migration/cultural experience. “The People of Sointula” is one of my favourites. 

I spent a lot of time in nature growing up. I completed a degree in Recreation and Leisure Studies, majoring in interpretation. I wanted to be a “Parks Interpreter”, but those jobs disappeared around the time I graduated. I tried to stay away from the film industry but got pulled back in. 

I love hearing people’s stories and sharing them. I get to ask questions that one normally does not get to ask over coffee or dinner. I once interviewed more than thirty people about their migration experience.  Most of them, I’ve known since I was a child but had never heard their migration stories. 

MM:

Talk a bit about Reel Girls, your production company. I note that you’ve been involved with everything from a true crime series for television (The Lie Detective) to nature documentaries (Return of the Peregrine).

AK: 

Most of my projects are the result of personal connections. I love talking to people and hearing their stories. It helps me understand the world I live in and my own problems. I love traveling and new adventures. In 2006, I did a media embed in Afghanistan for a documentary that followed five military families for a year. Another project took me to China where we followed two childhood friends who were doing eco-rehabilitation work and knowledge sharing with scientists and farmers. People have such unique lives and when you meet them, you want to find out more. When people open up about their lives, I feel privileged, but also obligated to hold their stories sacred. I’m protective of the people I capture on film.

MM:

What’s the difference between being the producer of a project and being its director?

AK: 

I often wear both hats. As a producer, I pitch ideas to investors and broadcasters to raise financing for a project and then oversee the execution of that project.

The director leads the creative team. She gives direction to the camera person, focuses the interview, comes up with ideas for scenes that assist in telling the story, and works with the editor to assemble the footage. At the end of the project, the director moves onto the next job while the producer works on distribution, marketing, and sales. 

MM:

You’ve written for FAR highlighting your Finnish ethnicity. How did that start?

AK: 

I received a grant to interview Finnish Canadians about their migration experience. I knew my parents, and many of the people in my community, were aging and I was running out of time.  I also wanted to record my own family’s story. I interviewed over thirty people and the project resulted in eleven short films. The stories I write for FAR are as much for my subjects as they are for me. I’m proud of my Finnish heritage. And the reaction has been positive: my parents have my stories taped on their wall! 

MM:

Your filmmaking explores environmental, social, and educational elements of modern life.

AK: 

The stories I tell reflect my own journey (and in some ways the things I’m working through in life) and the journeys of people I meet along the way. Through stories, we learn about each other, get insight into each other’s lives, and better understand our world.

MM:

What projects are on your bucket list?

AK: 

I’m working on a documentary, Lessons From The Sunflower (An ambitious man ascending the corporate ladder responds to a devastating cancer diagnosis). My mother’s going through her 3^rd cancer diagnosis, and as Steven¾the film’s protagonist¾shares his story, it helps me understand Mom’s journey.  It’ll be released later this year.  I’m also working on a feature film with filmmaker Anne Wheeler titled When I Sing, based upon Anne’s life. The story takes us back to 1966. Dodie Spinner’s life seems perfect until she’s raped, left pregnant, and must fight for her future at a time when a woman’s choices are few. As a woman, the film’s subject matter resonates with me. I hope to get the film made in the next eighteen months. Then I’ll focus on retirement.  I’ve been trying find more time for family, sauna, berry-picking, and hobbies.  I also hope to travel more in the future, including a trip to Finland to see extended family.

MM:

Any chance we’ll see a Karvonen film at the 2023 Finn Fest in Duluth?

AK: 

Any contact information you could share would be great!  I’d be delighted to have one of my docs (or one by Mom or Dad) shown at the Festival.

The title of this review? Recently, I had the great fortune to do an online interview with Grammy Award winning, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee guitarist (Jefferson Airplane, Hot Tuna, and a lengthy solo career) Jorma Kaukonen for the Finnish American Reporter. My interviews for the paper are generally limited to 1,000 words but, in Jorma’s case, Dave Maki, the editor, made an exception. There was just so much to ask and answer given the man is now in his ninth decade of life. But to my point: I wish I’d have taken the time to read Jorma’s memoir before creating my questions. Had I done so, I would have been far more astute in what I was asking the man about his Finnish roots, his life, and his career in music. Anyway.

This is a nicely crafted work of nonfiction. It’s written in a breezy, easy-to-relate style that, if I ever sit down with the author over a cup of coffee, I’ll anticipate to be his matter-of-fact manner. There’s plenty here about Mr. Kaukonen’s fairly turbulent upbringing as the son of a father employed in foreign service (which caused frequent moves for the family) and a frustrated-by-her-limited-role (given the times and opportunities for women) intellectual mother. But Jorma doesn’t cast stones: he only tells his truth. Puzzling, more so than his reflections of his parents and his connections to them is the missing Kaukonen: brother Peter. Scattered within the work are references to his younger sibling and the distance between them. But while that wound apparently continues today, into both men’s old age, there’s no in-depth examination of the rift.

It may well be that, unlike discussing an abortion a former girlfriend experienced, an affair while married to his present wife that resulted in another pregnancy and the birth of a son, myriad bad choices the author made regarding his first marriage, or his affinity for substance abuse (all of which are explored with candor) the gap between brothers is simply too personal to bear detailed exploration. Whatever the reason, I found myself slightly perplexed, and certainly saddened, that the basis for the distance between siblings wasn’t more fully disected. That’s minor quibble doesn’t detract from the books’s overall “read”.

More difficult to understand is the decision, by the author, editors, and publisher to include lyrics from songs penned by Kaukonen in both the body of the memoir and as an appendix. There’s no question that Jorma Kaukonen is one of the world’s finest finger-picking guitarists on the planet. As I type this, I’m listening to his CD, River of Time, which not only features great licks but some fine, understated vocals as well. But Kaukonen is not Dylan or Springsteen or Browne or Chapin Carpenter. While it’s clear, having listened to songs he penned with the Airplane and Hot Tuna, his songwriting skills have matured, including lyrics within the work and then at the end of the tale doesn’t, to me, make a whole lot of sense. But hey, it’s his book, not mine.

This memoir takes you across America, riding on motorcycles and in cars that Kaukonen loves. You meet Janice and the Dead and a host of other luminaries in rock, blues, folk, and Americana along the way. More importantly, the man bears his soul to the world, exposing his faults, his travails, his loves, and his disappointments. He shows we mere mortals that even the greatest amongst us are flawed. Flawed yes, but capable of redemption.

It’s a fine journey, well written, despite the minor beefs noted above.

4 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

Recently, I had the privilege of interviewing Grammy Award winner and Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee, guitarist supreme, Jorma Kaukonen, for the August edition of the Finnish American Reporter. Here’s the interview.

Mark Munger:

Kiitos, Jorma, for agreeing to do this interview. Let’s start with your heritage. Your father is of Finnish descent. What’s your ancestry and how was Finnishness part of your upbringing?

Jorma Kaukonen: 

A most interesting question. My maternal grandfather came from Ukraine, my maternal grandmother from St. Petersburg, Jaako (Jack) Kaukonen from Ylistaro, and Ida Kaukonen (née Palmquist) from Hanko. Jack (Jaako) and Ida settled in Ironwood, Michigan up in the UP and had a house on Garfield Street. Jorma Sr. and his two brothers, Tarmo and Pentti, were all born there in Ironwood. My father’s first language was Finnish. He learned to speak English at the local Carnegie Library. I didn’t meet Grandmother Kaukonen until 1956 when we toured Europe and went to Finland where we met all the Finnish relatives. I remember Grandma Kaukonen came and spent a couple of days with her sister in Hanko and decided that she felt more at home in Los Angeles. I remember she walked to the plane without looking back. A true Finnish response for that generation. Grandpa Jack died before I got a chance to meet him. Grandma Kaukonen seemed very old to me at the time, but she was younger then than I am now! Her English was broken and even though she was far from religious, she spent a lot of Senior time with Scandinavian church groups so she could speak Finnish and Swedish. Her favorite spot to eat was a Smorgasbord restaurant called A Taste Of Sweden. Dad, in his quest to be an “American”, never shared his Finnishness with me until much later in life. 

MM:

What about other aspects of Finnish culture, music, food, traditions, and the like did you experience as a child?

JK: 

In  retrospect it seems that WWII separated the family until the late 40’s, I say this because after the armistice in the Far East, Dad found himself employed by the government doing who knows what. The Finnish Connection came in 1956. We were in Karachi, Pakistan from 1953 the 1956 when Dad was director of The Asia Foundation. On our way home from that posting, we drove from Italy to Finland, and I had a chance to meet my Finnish family for the first time. Back then, most of the roads outside of Helsinki were gravel and dirt. We traveled from Helsinki to Rovaniemi which was much smaller than it is today. I got a beautiful Puuko made by Lauri, which I still have today. I met Kaukonens, Rasis, Palmquists and more. This is when I heard Dad speak Finnish almost full time. The relatives lovingly chided him for having the vocabulary of an adolescent. I’m not in touch with my Finnish family as much as I should be, although I am in touch from time to time. My son Zach visited them several times as a teenager. I grew to love the food on that trip. What’s not to like about smoked reindeer heart? Piimä is good too! The relatives my age were more interested in talking about the evolution of American rock and roll back then, but Sibelius was always present. Kantele music was, and still is, fascinating, both concert and five string.

MM:

You began life on the East Coast, migrated to the West Coast in pursuit of a musical career with Jefferson Airplane and Hot Tuna, before ending up in the Midwest.

JK: 

I moved the California to finish my college education. Staying in school was a predictable way to avoid the draft and  gave me plenty of time to play the guitar. The concept of a career was totally unknown to me at that time. I was fortunate to be in the right place and the right time to be part of an artistic and cultural movement. I got into Jefferson Airplane in 1965 the year I graduated college and Hot Tuna would follow in the late 60’s. Though those halcyon days in San Francisco were historically notable, as an East Coaster, I missed seasonal change, fall foliage and more. When I got divorced from my first wife after twenty years, I returned the East Coast and lived for a while in Upstate New York. It was a homecoming in a significant way. Then, I bought a beautiful piece of rural property in Southeast Ohio in early 1990 and I’ve been here for the last thirty some years. With a dad in government service, our family traveled constantly. It’s just the way it was. I think my muse has always been life situation oriented rather than geographical.

MM:

Growing up, what sorts of music played in the Kaukonen home?

JK: 

Dad and Mom had lots of intellectual pretensions. My love of Elvis, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, and the Coasters were an anathema to them…until much later when they came to regard the previously mentioned music as a legitimate art form. Classical music was always on the FM or on Dad’s turntable. They both played classical piano and I took lessons as well. The guitar came later: the evolution of guitar centric music in the 50’s told me that it was the instrument I needed to learn.

MM:

Wikipedia reports the name of Jefferson Airplane was a spinoff of a nickname given you by a musician-friend.

JK: 

A bunch of like-minded musician friends were hanging out together in Berkeley. We were all goofing on blues names: Blind Boy Fuller, Peg Leg Jackson, stuff like that. For me, my friend Richmond Talbott picked “Blind Thomas Jefferson Airplane”. In our defense, it was the 60’s!

MM:

Jefferson Airplane had the distinction of playing Altamont, Monterey, and Woodstock. To a kid growing up in northern Minnesota listening to the band’s Crown of Creation album, those festivals seemed like the crowning glory (pun intended!). Given the times, how did you make it out alive?

JK: 

I know it’s hard to imagine, but we were all really young back then. We were pretty much fearless because, hey…at that age you know you’re going to live forever, don’t trust anyone over thirty, and all that nonsense. Arena gigs didn’t exist yet…not as we know them today, but the big shows of the time were part of our story. It’s going to sound self-serving and a little self-important, but when you’re bathed in success at a relatively young age you forget how lucky you are and tend to take It as your due. As for getting out alive, we were tough … and very lucky.

MM:

Jefferson Airplane, including you as its lead guitarist, was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1996. In 2016, it was honored with a Lifetime Achievement Grammy Award. Pretty cool, right?

JK: 

Jefferson Airplane also received a Grammy Nomination for “White Rabbit” and Surrealistic Pillow back in the 60’s but I didn’t even know it until 2016, when we received the Lifetime Achievement Award. I didn’t dwell on accolades back then. Wasn’t aware of them. I am now though…and all these things are not only pretty cool, but a great honor. When I received a Grammy nomination for Blue Country Heart in 2003, I couldn’t believe it.

MM:

Have you played Finland?

 JK: 

Yes, on a number of occasions:  Jefferson Airplane, Hot Tuna with Jack Casady, solo, and with Barry Mitterhoff. Barry and I played the Kaustinen Festival in the early 2000’s and it was awesome! I need to do it again before it’s too late.

MM:

You’ve had a long musical brotherhood with bassist Jack Casady. What’s the secret behind your relationship?

JK: 

Jack and I have been friends since 1956 and played music together since 1958. We’ve always respected each other as individuals, artists, and men. We’ve never had a “Band Meeting”!

MM:

As a teen, my guitar hero was Leslie West of Mountain, who recently passed. You both played Woodstock. Did your paths ever cross so you could trade licks?

JK: 

I never got to really get to know Leslie, but I did some  work with Felix Pappilardi, Mountain’s bassist, who produced our Double Dose Album.

MM:

I’ve been listening to River of Time. I bought the album because of your rendition of “Trouble in Mind”, featuring the late Levon Helm of The Band on drums. You also did that tune live on Love for Levon to raise money for Levon’s pet project, The Barn. What was it like working with Levon and his pal, Larry Campbell?

JK: 

As for Mr. Helm, I always loved Lee…and I miss him. When I moved to Woodstock in the 80’s, I became sort of a satellite to The Band’s family and did lots of gigs them. Loved those guys…toured Japan with them. Larry Campbell  and I became friends a year or so before the River Of Time sessions. Working with Larry was a moment of marvelous synchronicity. Getting Lee to play drums on Trouble In Mind was the frosting on the cake!

MM:

How did you make the transition from lead guitarist to songwriter?

JK: 

I started out as a solo performer and had to learn how to be a band player. In some ways, I’m still learning. Except for “Embryonic Journey”, which is an instrumental, I never wrote a song until my Airplane bandmates encouraged me to do so. I guess in “the-before-Airplane-time” being “the front man” was just how it was. That’s just what so many of us folkies did. It was easier than learning to be an accompanist. 

MM:

River of Time, including the instrumental piece, “Izze’s Lullaby”, feels introspective.

JK: 

When Izze came into our lives, I’d never been a primary caregiver to a child. That magical feeling, a sense of being the shelter from the storm for a young child, was amazing. The Song “Simpler Than I Thought” from the same album was inspired by the new father adventure. Izze is driving now, has one more year of high school, and then off to college. I still feel that honor. The mystery that accompanies those feelings still exists.

MM:

Sorry to say, I missed your recent show in Duluth. How was the vibe playing the restored West Theater in my hometown?

JK: 

Totally awesome! It was great to be back up there. Spring hadn’t broken yet: snow and ice were everywhere, and I got to shop at Duluth Trading! Great theater: I hope it makes it and that I get to come back!

MM:

What role did your father and/or your mother play in shaping your creative path?

JK: 

Mom was always supportive, artistically speaking. Had things been different, I think she would have chosen a creative path. Dad was somewhat disdainful of some of my life choices. But when Jefferson Airplane made the cover of Life Magazine, he finally embraced some of those choices: I’d become a bona fide success!

MM:

Levon had The Barn. You’ve got Fur Peace Ranch. How did Fur Peace get started and what do you hope to accomplish with the effort?

JK: 

Fur Peace opened in 1998, in hopes of providing an unintimidating place to learn music and foster a like-minded musical community, all hosted in a beautiful environment. Levon talked to me about trying the same sort of model up at the Barn. Time ran out before he had a chance to act on it.

MM:

I’m reading your memoir, Been So Long. What prompted you to peel back the layers of the onion?

JK: 

Something told me I needed to do that: I’m not quite sure what.

MM:

A  few years ago, Finnish duo Ninni Poijärvi and Mika Kuokkanen played a benefit concert in Duluth. During a break, they referenced cutting their great album  Powderburn, with Amy Helm (Levon’s daughter) at The Barn. Might we see a collaboration between Jorma and my favorite Finnish duo? Or with Amy?

JK: 

I was just on a show with Larry Campbell, Amy Helm, and the Ramble Band. Hot Tuna drummer Justin Guip is Larry’s production partner. They produced and recorded Ninni and Mika’s project at the Barn. Justin will be out with Jack and myself on a Little Feat Tour later this summer. Anyway: collaborations¾count me in!

MM:

Another musician who performed at that benefit was Eric Peltoniemi, former head of Minnesota-based Red House Records. How did you get involved with Red House? Will that connection continue now that the label has been sold?

JK: 

Eric is an old friend of the family. Red House was the right place to go for a lot of reasons. Without too much  complaining, now that Compass owns Red House, it’s just not the same. Life goes on.

MM:

Gerry Henkel, former editor of The New World Finn, recalls meeting you backstage while you were performing with guitarists from different genres and you remarking what a great experience that was. Do you remember who you were playing with at the time?

JK: 

That was the Columbia Artist Management Guitar Summit Tour. Kenny Burrell, Manuel Barueco, Stanley Clarke, and Steve Morse. It was back in the 90’s but it was a heady tour!

MM:

You recently collaborated with John Hurlbut on The River Flows.

JK:  

John is a forty-year friend and the Ranch Manager at Fur Peace Ranch. We cut two albums in just two days. Justin Guip was the engineer. I wish all projects were that easy! I would’ve done the albums myself, but Culture Factory and I have a relationship. They’re a niche label and everything is limited-edition stuff. They do all the work and you’re pretty much guaranteed a sell-out. Love those guys!

MM:

Last question. After I’ve finished reading Been So Long, any chance I can stop by Fur Peace for a cup of coffee, some conversation, and a tune or two? I mean, as an ex-judge, lawyer, and music geek, I might have more questions!

JK: 

Sounds good Mark. Just make sure I’m going to be home! Hope to see you somewhere. Stay Well.

Find Jorma’s music and merchandise at: https://furpeaceranch.com/

Yes, I am a retired judge. Yes, from time to time in my role hearing matters in Minnesota District Court, constitutional issues arose that required me to research and apply principles of law handed down to us by the Founders in that most precious of legal documents, the United States Constitution. But in 14 years as a prosecutor, 18 years in private legal practice, and 23 years on the Bench (20 active; 3 on senior status) I was never called upon to research the history behind the Second Amendment, the so-called Right to Bear Arms addition to our Constitution as part of the original 10 amendments, the Bill of Rights. As a lawyer, historian, political scientist, judge and yes, gun owner, I thought it was time I learned the basics. This is the book I selected from the hundreds available on the topic of how and why the Second Amendment came to be. I am glad I took the time to breeze through this relatively brief tome.

Waldman takes us back to the debates surrounding the adoption of the Bill of Rights, zeroing in on the discussions held, both in writing and orally, amongst the Founders and Framers of our constitution. The gist of the beginnings of the Second Amendment are very simple: there was a faction of American men of power who believed that state militias, the essence of the new republic’s military force during its insurrection against England, had to be recognized and preserved against the Federalist forces supporting a national army and navy. Why so? The so-called Anti-Federalists, men like George Mason, feared that a central government controlling a national military would abrogate and erode states’ rights, perhaps to the degree where the republican dream of the American experiment would devolve into a substitute monarchy led by war hero, George Washington. The author makes the pointed and well-supported argument that there was virtually no discussion, amongst the opposing camps, regarding an individual citizen’s right to bear arms at the time the Constitution was written, or subsequently, when the Bill of Rights were adopted. If one looks at the original thirteen colonies that formed our “more perfect union”, the individual states had a plethora of regulations relating to arms; including the primitive firearms of the day. There were restrictions against carrying arms openly; restrictions against Blacks owning and possessing firearms; and a host of other regulations that were not, upon the passage of the Second Amendment, abrogated by federal power.

Waldman then takes us on a winding and tortured path beginning with the single sentence of the Second Amendment, A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed, to the first case to declare, by edict of our present Activist Conservative Supreme Court, that those words, originally written to allow states to be free of federal oppression via “well regulated militias”, somehow abrogate virtually all regulations or restrictions applicable to an individual’s right to own a gun. Heller, the case that turned what had been the commonly understood power of states and local governments to regulate firearms for the purpose of public safety, was not decided until June of 2013 when “originalist” jurist, Antonin Scalia, declared for the majority of the United States Supreme Court that there existed, for the first time in a decision of the Court, a virtually unrestricted individual right to own and possess nearly any type of firearm. It is the originalist label that Waldman critiques in great depth, making it clear, from history and the prior decision of the supreme court, that such a label is merely a subterfuge given the original debates over the Second Amendment did, in no way, support such an edict. Those, like Scalia (who has passed on but whose legacy lives in the present Conservative Activist majority of the court) who bemoaned and berated the advancement of rights and powers not enumerated in the Constitution or its Amendments (which would, be extrapolation, include privacy rights supporting the right to procure birth control, the right to marry across ethnicities, the right to marry a person of the same gender, and of course, the right to procure an abortion (which is now relegated to the various states); as well as the right to associate (to join groups such as the Boy Scouts or the KKK)) are no different than the philosophical stretch utilized by the Burger Court to legalize the right to abortion in its own time. In essence, what we are facing today is the blow-back by neo-conservative jurists who were and are affronted by virtually every progressive piece of federal legislation from the New Deal to Joe Biden. Making things even more depressing, the jurists taking such stands in federal courts across the land are appointed for life: They are not subject to the will of the people even when the decisions of the courts impede the right of the citizenry, by majority vote, to regulate gun ownership through legislative enactment.

Waldman leaves us with the observation that perhaps Congress can pass legislation to deal with the issues left unanswered by Heller in terms of gun safety and gun control. But of course, that optimism was penned before the present term of the court and the total polarization of American politics. Well written. Insightful. Damn depressing.

Peace

Mark

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

INTERVIEW WITH SARA PAJUNEN

Mark: 

I’d like to start by asking a bit about your connection to Finnish heritage. Where were you born and where did you grow up? What are your ancestral links to Finnishness?

Sara:

My grandfather was from a small village just east of Tampere. My great-grandparents were from Kuortane, Kortesjärvi, and Liminka. My father grew up in Toivola, MN with Finnish as his first language.

Mark:

As a child, were you exposed to Finnish language and culture? What are your memories of those influences?

Sara:

Growing up in Hibbing, MN, I began playing in the Singing Strings performance group at a young age. The director of the group, Helinä Pakola, is from Finland. We performed repertoire from various genres and I sang in Finnish very often as a child, but I can’t say I knew what I was singing! We brought our music all over the world, including Australia, Finland, Soviet Russia, the Clinton White House, and as the official performers for the Finnish Olympic Team.

Mark:

When did you begin your musical training?

Sara:

I began taking Suzuki piano lessons at the age of 6, but I was very restless. When my mother saw an advertisement for violin in the local paper, she thought it may be a better fit if I could stand up! 

When my family moved to Minneapolis during my high school years, I played in youth orchestras and took lessons at the University of Minnesota. I received a Bachelor’s of Music from the University of Minnesota Twin Cities and then I went on to study chamber music in Helsinki at Aalto University (then Stadia). Last year I also completed a Masters of Music in Contemporary Improvisation at New England Conservatory in Boston. I’ve also studied folk music in Finland at AK Opisto in Kaustinen and with Arto Järvelä (thanks to Finlandia Foundation), and I studied hardanger fiddle in Norway with support from the American Scandinavian Foundation. 

Mark: 

I know you once performed with Finnish American folksinger Jonathan Rundman in the duo known as Kaivama. What was behind your interest in exploring Finnish American and Finnish music with Kaivama?

Sara:

My interest in my Finnish heritage started early on in my adult life. I studied Finnish language for a summer in Jyväskylä just out of high school, and during high school I took Finnish classes at the University of Minnesota. I lived in Helsinki from 2004 to 2008, where I met many relatives and visited my ancestral places. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more interested in the United States – the factors that brought my family here to this country, the history of the industry here in Northern Minnesota and beyond, and the relationship we have with the land.

Mark:

Kaivama recorded a CD with noted Finnish fiddler Arto Järvelä. How did that connection affect your musicianship?

Sara:

I consider Arto to be my mentor when it comes to Finnish folk music. In 2010 I stayed in his home in Finland studied with him. He is so naturally committed to folk music and Finnishness and he is his own musician, which I really admire! After my studies he was generous enough to record and tour with Kaivama. 

Mark:

You’ve worked closely with Finnish accordionist Teija Niku and collaborated with her on a couple of albums as Aallotar. How did you meet Teija?

Sara:

Teija and I initially met when she was performing with the duo, Polka Chicks, in Minneapolis. I hosted them at my house, and a year later our two duos played together at Finn Fest in San Diego. Eventually Teija and I formed our own duo, Aallotar, and our first gig was at a festival in Dubrovnik, Croatia! We have recorded two albums together and were set to tour last year in Finland and Germany, but unfortunately those performances had to be rescheduled for 2023. Our duo will definitely continue.

Mark:

It looks like you’re currently involved in two other projects. One, Sound an Echo, is a union of your fiddling and singing with folk musician, Rachael Kilgour, one of my favorite Minnesota originals. 

Sara:

In Sound an Echo, Rachael and I have focused mostly on American folk music in English or music from the British Isles – although we have performed a Finnish song or two. Our duo is also on a bit of a hiatus, but we will have a few gigs throughout 2022.

Mark:

Another project you’re working on is Mine Songs: Sounding an Altered Landscape. What do you hope to achieve with that effort?

Sara:

My Mine Songs project is a long-term umbrella project that encompasses different media rooted in Minnesota’s Mesabi Iron Range. I have always been a musician, but my interests have always been varied as well, and this is the place for me to explore. I have had Mine Songs work in various galleries and this fall I will have a solo exhibition at the Lyric Art Center in Virginia, MN. The works – whether photographs, audiovisual art, music compositions – ask the viewer/listener to sink into the landscape in a different way, a way to allows for reflection on new ways of connecting to the earth. I have been working recently on aerial photographs of the region and will have them for sale on my website (www.sarapajunen.com). I also plan to release an album of Mine Songs work soon.

Mark:

Any plans to participate in Finn Fest 2023? It’d be great to see you and Rachael perform music together in a place full of Finns!

Sara:

Yes!  I’m renovating a house in Duluth’s hillside, which keeps me around these parts.

Mark:

What other projects are on the agenda? Where can people buy copies of your CDs?

Sara: 

In addition to my Mine Songs project, I have been slowly working on solo music for violin or hardanger d’amore. If you’re interested in CDs, drop me an email – I send them out myself. sara@sarapajunen.com 

Thank you, Mark, for asking me to reflect on my musical life!

(This interview first appeared in the February 2022 issue of The Finnish American Reporter.)

It started with a text. Patrick “Poncho” Scott texted me sometime after out annual Whiteface Fishing Opener, an event the Munger and Scott families have shared for more than fifty years. The gist of the message was “We should do a Munger/Scott pheasant hunting trip.” I replied that his suggestion had merit but didn’t do anything immediately to put Poncho’s plan into action.

Sometime in late summer, I sent my sons and Poncho and his older brother Tim a text asking if there was any interest in trying southwestern Minnesota as a locale for a Munger/Scott outing. With COVID raging and work obligations, none of the three Munger sons who are hunters committed to a trip in the fall. Poncho and Tim were both “in” and the planning began.

“What about Marshall?” Tim texted sometime in August. “Sounds good,” was my curt reply. See, the thing is, we never, until the day to leave for hunting dawned close, actually chatted the old fashioned way, on the telephone. No, despite all three of us being over sixty, we communicated the 21st century way-via text. Be that as it may, Tim did some preliminary map scouting and I arranged for a hotel stay for two nights, Sunday through Tuesday morning, at the Marshall AmericInn. Poncho’s son Christopher, who is newly married, Poncho’s Labrador Bailey, Tim’s Lab Ruby, and my Brittany Callie were slated to make the trip so I reserved two rooms through Expedia and the gig was on.

Given our schedules, we picked early December, Saturday the 4th through Tuesday the 7th to hunt public land, which Tim assured me there was plenty of around Marshall. We knew the roosters would be flighty, having escaped numerous brushes with death over the course of the Minnesota pheasant season. On the plus side, most bird hunters had cleaned their shotguns for the final time, tucked away their upland hunting garb, and ended their quest to put a rooster in the crock pot. We expected, rightly or wrongly, to be virtually alone in the field.

We were right.

Behind all the planning and texting and thinking through the short trip to Minnesota pheasant country was this truth: I’ve never, in fifty-five years since completing gun safety through the Boy Scouts, shot a Minnesota pheasant. I came late in life to the sport, having hunted ringnecks only once as a youngster with my father and godfather, Jim Liston, back when I was newly married and attending law school. I drove from the Inver Grove apartment I shared with René to the little farming community of Benson, MN where my uncle Paul lived. Paul, who’d had a heart attack and bested kidney cancer, no longer hunted but drove us to various locales in hopes of bagging roosters. If memory serves me right, my dad hit a hen by mistake and I believe that was the only bird we shot. Then, in my late fifties, my old man invited me to join him hunting pheasants in North Dakota, which is how I fell in love with the sport. That said, when I arrived at Tim and Sandi’s home outside the Twin Cities to stay the night, having never shot a pheasant in my native state, I was nervous that, despite the planning we’d done, our trip would be a bust.

I was wrong.

With Tim acting as my co-pilot, our two dogs crated, and the cargo area of my Jeep filled with guns, ammo, and our gear, we met up with Poncho in Marshall and proceeded to find Walk in Hunting, Waterfowl Production Areas (WPAs), and other places to chase roosters. Conditions were relatively mild; it was overcast and in the twenties when we exited the vehicles (Poncho and Bailey were in Poncho’s pick-up truck) and started our quest.

Not minutes into our first romp, Bailey rousted a big fat rooster in front of Poncho.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The only rooster we put up on that piece of land flew away unharmed.

The second location we hunted turned out to be a dandy, at least for Tim. While I skirted a creek, Tim and Poncho and their dogs worked a frozen marsh.

Boom.

Tim had the first Minnesota rooster of our trip in the bag. But that, other than Callie and Ruby chasing up a few hens, was it for that slice of pheasant heaven.

Working a dry slough the dogs kicked up a rooster. Tim shot. I shot. The bird flew on. I pulled the trigger a second time on my Stevens 555 twelve over/under and the bird went down. Callie, who’d pointed the pheasant like a champ, is only a year and a half old and still learning to retrieve so I called Ruby over to find the bird. Nothing. Tim was convinced the bird, hit but not dead, had run into thicker cattails. We sent the dogs in, with Poncho and Bailey working the far side of the rushes. Nothing. After a good half-hour of searching for the downed bird, we pushed on. I counted the missing pheasant as a bird in the bag despite my game pouch being empty. Tim agreed as his pup was the one unable to come up with the retrieve. But to be fair, Ruby was distracted from task when Callie flushed two hen pheasants from where we thought the wounded rooster was hiding.

“Look at that,” I said over a brutal wind, pointing across the mud flats of the dry pond. Not more than fifty yards away, a huge raccoon waddled, completely ignorant that it was being watched by men with guns. “Hope the dogs don’t see it.” They didn’t and within a few steps, Callie was back on point. Out of a small cluster of grass, a rooster exploded. I took aim and this time, there was no doubt.

We ate lunch in the field. I’d brought bread and cheese and ham and mustard for sandwiches, making them the night before at Tim’s, so we gobbled sandwiches and jerky and oranges, topping off our thirst with GatorAid. Back at it, we hunted a big Walk In area abutting a harvested field, the tall grass and marshes prime pheasant cover. That was the thing about the maps Tim printed out from the Minnesota DNR: nearly every spot listed as open to public hunting was a good one. Unlike some of the PLOTS land I’ve hunted in North Dakota, where private farmland is open for public hunting but farmers or ranchers till or graze the acreage (making it useless as bird cover) every piece of public land we hunted in Minnesota boasted excellent pheasant cover.

The three of us spread out to work the big Walk In area. The dogs kept their noses to the ground as we moved forward. Callie locked up hard on a tuft of grass just along the edge of the harvested field. A rooster cackled, took flight and, with one shot, was down. There was no need for a dog to retrieve the bird as it landed a few feet away but Callie seemed intent on bringing me the rooster. Except. She learned first hand about spurs. The rooster was on its back, feet and spurs clawing the air. I picked up the bird, snapped its neck, and slid the bird into my game vest. “Good girl, Callie,” I said, happy, if I included the lost bird, to have shot a Minnesota pheasant limit.

We ordered Pizza Hut pizza, sipped cold beer, and watched television in the room Tim and I were sharing as we nursed sore feet and muscles. The dogs snoozed on the queen beds in their respective hotel rooms. Oh. There was one small glitch with the hotel. Not with Expedia but with Poncho. First, a few days before our trip, Poncho let me know Christopher couldn’t come. I still figured we’d need two rooms anyway for three guys and three dogs. Second, as we checked into the hotel, Poncho let us know he had to work Tuesday. Which meant we only needed the second room for one night. I canceled the second night at the desk, but, because I’d prepaid, no refund. Even so, the trip was relatively inexpensive as hunting expeditions go.

Monday morning. The wind howled. A cold front dropped the temperature into the single digits. We bundled up, drove south of town, and worked the same Walk In area where we’d ended our Monday hunt. Despite seeing oodles of hens and roosters get up out of gun range the previous day, nothing flushed. We decided to try a WPA that, from the road, looked promising. There was iced-over water on a big pond surrounded by cattails and what looked to be very walkable bulrushes and grass. But soon into the hunt, our mistake became evident: there was no grass alongside the cattails; only thick, nearly impenetrable cattails lined the frozen water. It was a hard go. A few hens got up in front of the dogs before Callie went on point. A rooster flushed and cruised right over the spot where Tim should have been.

Except he wasn’t there. Tim had had enough but didn’t communicate his departure to Poncho or me.

“Where the hell are you?” I asked after calling Tim on my cell phone.

“Too thick. I gave up. I’ll meet you on the far side of the lake.”

Good to know, old buddy.

Poncho and I waded through the crap, chasing up another five hens, birds that Callie pointed and Bailey flushed. Nary a rooster was found. After our arduous trek, we met up with Tim. “That was a mistake,” was the common consensus, especially from me because, in trying to crash through jungle, I’d pulled my right hamstring and was limping. After our dubious exercise in poor judgment, Poncho and Bailey said farewell and Tim and I stayed at it.

The wind died a bit and we found another lovely piece of ground to hunt. In a plot of waist-high cattails, Callie went on point. I stepped forward. Callie moved slightly. I stepped again. Beneath the cattails, a rooster was running, its head ducked, a wing dragging behind it. “Wounded bird!” I yelled so Tim could hear me. Tim sent Ruby over to assist but the dogs were unable to pin the rooster.

We moved on.

We worked a drainage ditch and again, Callie went on point. A rooster flushed and scared the bejeebers out of me. I shot, thought I’d hit the bird but it was Tim who hit the pheasant broadside. With a fine retrieve by Ruby, Tim had his second rooster of the trip. We continued to work the Walk In area, pushing through dried swales and waterless ponds, flushing a few hens but no roosters. As the sun set on our second day in the field, we headed back to the Jeep. We came to the area where Callie had chased the wounded rooster and she became excited again. Then, she went on point. Then she moved. Went on another solid point. And moved. Her incremental pointing and creeping went on for ten minutes with the Brittany covering every square inch of cover in the half-acre plot we were working. Tim watched, thinking we were searching for the wounded pheasant again. I had no idea what was going on. When Callie finally locked solid and did not move a muscle, I took one step and a healthy rooster exploded from beneath my boot. One shot and the bird was down. Ruby ran across the prairie, found the dead bird, and brought it to Tim.

“Nice shot. I thought you guys were looking for that mythical wounded bird.”

“Always trust the dog,” was my patented, tongue-in-cheek reply.

“Two birds,” Tim said as we drove back to town in twilight. “Poncho should have stayed.”

That evening, I nursed my strained calf in the hotel hot tub as Tim took a shower and the dogs fell into the sort of deep sleep that comes from long, hard days afield. After getting dressed, we drove to Applebees for dinner and adult beverages, satisfied we’d hunted as hard as two old farts can hunt.

Tuesday morning. The temperature on the Jeep’s thermometer registered one above. We dressed, packed our lunches and our gear, and checked out of the motel. Marshall was covered in a soft, white blanket. More snow fell as we drove west. The first piece of land we found to hunt looked like a pheasant factory. But after working cattails (walkable and not a jungle), a big slough, and tall prairie grass, with Callie pointing her little heart out and Ruby working the edges of cover, the plot only revealed hens. “That was disappointing,” Tim said. Despite the two of us being retired and of social security age, we felt good enough to tackle another big plot of Walk In land that, on paper and from the road, looked to be great pheasant country.

Nope.

“That was godawful,” I said when we got back to the truck, Callie having dragged me into yet another cattail marsh from hell. We’d managed to kick out a few hens from very thick cover but no cacklers rose before us. Though the setting seemed ideal, apparently the birds thought otherwise.

It then became a bit of a hide-and-seek exercise to find a place to hunt. We drove and drove and drove in search of another site but kept coming up empty. Much of our flailing around had to do with the fact that the DNR map Tim had printed out didn’t correspond with the reality of the landscape or my Jeep’s GPS map. After an hour or so of aimless wandering, just before dusk, we discovered one of the best, if not the best, pieces of hunting land available to the public in southwestern Minnesota. With the sun out and the wind down, we exited the Jeep for one last walk.

“You know,” Tim said as we loaded our shotguns for the final push, “we’ve put in nearly thirty miles on foot.”

“How many miles do you think Ruby and Callie have put in?

“Triple that.”

The interesting thing about our last hunt was that, until Tuesday, we’d seen only one or two other hunters out and about. We never had to forgo a spot we wanted to hunt because someone else was already there. The last piece of grass and marsh and ditch we hunted was an exception to this observation. As daylight grew scarce, as we grew more desperate for a place to end our hunt, we saw, as we pulled off the side of the road abutting the parcel we completed our journey on, that others had already worked the plot. From prints in the snow, it looked like two hunters and one dog had been in ahead of us. But, given the late hour of the day, and given we’d seen roosters moving in the fields now that the sun was out, we made the decision to forge ahead.

“Shit! Fuck! Good girl Callie,” was my uncensored cry after missing a big, fat Minnesota rooster my beloved Brittany pointed not ten feet in front of me.

“Nice language, Munger,” Tim quipped as he watched the pheasant fly off. Not long after that, Tim missed his own chance and repeated my mantra word for word, causing me to double over with laughter.

Redemption.

Working our way back to the Jeep, covering the last bit of dry cattail swale on the parcel, Callie and Ruby started going nuts, getting “birdy” as we hunters say. Then, the little Brittany locked up, her tail rigid, her eyes staring straight ahead. After a few seconds, a gorgeous rooster burst from cover. Tim shot. Once. Twice. The big bird flew on. I drew a bead, pulled the trigger, and hit the bird about thirty yards out. Ruby tore through the bullrushes, found the dead rooster, and brought it to Tim.

With that, our epic hunt was over.

Callie on Point

“I was pleasantly surprised,” was the common theme in the Jeep as we drove through darkness towards the Twin Cities. Tim had convinced me that Callie and I should spend the night at his house. Given my aching body, I yielded to Tim’s common sense. Sandi greeted us at the door, the smell of pizza wafting from the kitchen.

“There was better cover and more birds than I’d expected,” Tim said at various times during the three hour drive to his house. Our first pheasant hunt together was a scouting expedition, a learning experience, and an exploration of Minnesota pheasant country. The first ever Munger/Scott bird hunt wasn’t about how many birds we shot. It was about hunting an elusive and wily prey with old friends over great dogs in our home state.

How do you put a price on that?

Peace

The Weary Hunter

The title of this essay references my infatuation with the David Gutterson novel, East of the Mountains, and actor Tom Skeritt’s portrayal of Gutterson’s protagonist in the film version of the story. In essence, Ben Givens (Skeritt’s character) finds out he has incurable cancer and decides to wander off into the vastness of the West in search of partridge with his Brittany. There’s an allusion or two to the ailing hunter taking the Hemingway approach to ending it all but thankfully, Dr. Ben doesn’t take that route.

With things all balled up politically, an aging mother who just lost her significant other and was due for a cognitive assessment likely to end her driving, and the hint of mortality whispering in my ear as the seasons turned, I set out to hunt pheasant with Kena (an eight year old black Lab) and Callie (a year and a half old Brittany).

The wisdom of a sixty-seven year old wandering about the prairie without human companionship is dubious. An old guy can stumble and break a leg. Or a hip. Or an ankle. Or have a heart attack or a stroke. Any manner of possible bad outcomes await a hunter foolish enough to venture out into the unknown on his or her own. The trip, one facilitated by the kindness of Mark and Brad, two guys I’d met along the way who open up the Miller ancestral farmhouse for me to use as a basecamp, wasn’t supposed to be a solo endeavor. But my sons backed out of the trip for one reason or another and, well, as I made clear before, this journey was one I needed to make.

I brought with food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; simple, easy fare like packaged rice dishes and dehydrated chicken for supper, oatmeal and breakfast bars and milk and juice for breakfast, and peanut butter, chips, candy bars, apples, and bread for making lunch to eat on the move. When I arrived at the Miller Farm near Dagmar, Montana I unloaded my gear, stashed the dog kennels in the garage, fed the dogs and tucked them in for the night, Mark greeted me with pizza and we shared some Linnie’s dark I brought from home. Brad was off working on important stuff, leaving Mark and I to talk about life, politics, family, and old men foolish enough to hunt alone. Tired from the twelve hour drive, I said goodnight, unrolled my sleeping bag, and fell into bed.

5:30am, I was up and about, fixing breakfast, getting dressed, feeding the dogs, and making ready to hunt the Miller Farm. Before 8:00am, my canine companions had flushed (Kena) and pointed (Callie) two fine prairie roosters. My nearly-new Stevens 555 over-under twelve barked but the birds flew away unscathed. I trudged on through the morning dew and thick swale hoping upon hope my dogs would forgive me.

They did.

By noon, after taking two splendid roosters on the Farm and finding another on a nearby BMA (Block Management Area; private land open to hunters), I had my first Montana limit of the trip.

Giddy from success, I tweeted and texted and sent all manner of messages back to my sons and wife and friends about how the hunt was going. Sure, I’d missed two birds but hey, I hit the next three with one shot each. I envisioned a trip where, by the time I was done hunting Montana (three days) and North Dakota (three more), I’d have my possession limit of fifteen big fat roosters in my cooler. That was the dream.

The reality was something else. I put in, as my iPhone computed it, over forty-four miles walking swales and grasslands and treelines and hills over the next week. In the end, I missed a hell of a lot of cackling, bursting-from-cover, seemingly invincible male pheasants. The next two days, I walked and walked and walked in the bright sunshine of the Montana prairie and shot one additional rooster and one wayward Hungarian partridge that, given it was about half the size of a pheasant, one wonders how I was able to draw a bead on it. Through it all, the dogs were stellar. Callie doesn’t, at least at her young age, retrieve. But her points were rock solid and she, despite a Brittany tendency not to listen to voice commands, got the eCollar messages I sent. Kena, who’d only pointed a rooster or two on previous trips, got in on the pointing thing and amazed me with her German Shorthair-like ability to lock on birds. More importantly, we did not lose a single downed bird.

Tuesday night, Mark (with Brad still off doing the Lord’s work), came home from teaching kids to sing and play musical instruments at the K-12 school in nearby Grenora, ND, cooked up a lovely meal of spaghetti and french bread for the two of us as the family pet Mourning dove (a rescue bird) zoomed around the living room. Once the bird was put away, two cats made themselves known, seeking the occasional belly rub before wandering off to do whatever cats do. Wednesday evening, we feasted on Fraboni’s pasties I’d brought with. Thursday, as Mark was providing keyboard accompaniment for a musical being produced in nearby Antelope, after a long and tiring day of shooting that solitary Hungarian partridge, Mark drove us to the Antelope Bar. After eating hearty flat iron steaks, baked potatoes, salad, and having adult beverages (my treat) we attended the play practice. Despite the remoteness of the place and the likely scarcity of folks willing to act and sing in public, the acting and the singing and the play itself were actually quite good.

Thursday, as I sought my zen moment and resumed treking over hill and dale, I was blessed to roust a ginormous bull moose from cover, watch pronghorn dash across the plains, count any number of owls and hawks in flight, and chase myriad whitetail and mule deer from their hiding places.

Friday, my Montana license done, I hunted near Grenora on my ND license. Amazingly after my dismal showing on Wednesday and Thursday (where a clown with a rubber hammer could have knocked his or her limit of pheasant out of the clear Montana sky) I limited out on ND roosters. We worked a big piece of WPA (Waterfowl Production Area) and bagged two beautiful roosters. It wasn’t like I became a deadeye or anything. No, I missed some easy shots, causing Kena, who has somewhat of a superiority complex, to turn her head and look at me with those big brown Lab eyes as if to say, “What? Now I have to shoot the damn things too?” Callie never slowed down, even when as I took stock of her after downing the last bird to my limit, I discovered she’d cut herself either on barbed wire or underbrush. Her feathery white fur was blemished with pink; blood she’d shed working her ass off for her master.

Knowing what old fences can do to Britts (after taking my beloved Britt, Leala, to the Williston Vet for twelve staples two Novembers ago) I’d recently purchased a canine first aid kit. I bandaged Callie in the field and called it a day.

Friday night, I ate one of my rice packets and dehydrated chicken pouches for dinner before settling in to watch Godfather II. Mark and Brad eventually made it home as Pacino had an unsuspecting Fredo dispatched while fishing from a tiny boat. We chatted about life, politics, hunting, and the world at large but, given the length of my wandering and tired legs, I turned in once the movie ended. Before hitting the hay, Brad found me some ointment to put on Callie’s wounds. I removed the bandages, noted things weren’t as bad as I’d first believed, salved the now-scabbed sores, and put my girls to bed.

I arose on Saturday feeling melancholy. I made the decision to take Callie with but only allow her out of the crate if we were hunting easy ground; no cattails or swales for the little girl. I donned my orange hunting jacket, slid on gloves and an orange stocking cap, put on my hunting vest, and motored off in rainy gloom. Despite the inclement hand God dealt us, Kena found a rooster in cattails bordering a frozen pothole. I hit the pheasant with the one and only shot I’d fire that day. As the wind whipped and drizzle turned to snow, I yelled above the gale, “Kena, dead bird.” She worked the shoreline over and over and over. Nothing. She got disinterested, at one point even flushing a second rooster from cover, raising my ire that she’d given up on the dead bird. “Here, Kena,” I yelled above the howling wind. “Dead Bird.” She complied and, after another ten minutes of covering the same small patch of bullrushes, I saw her stop, nuzzle the ground, and lock up. Forty-five minutes had passed and yet, the forever puppy had done her job. “Fetch,” I yelled. And she did.

Mark cooked a pork roast with scalloped potatoes and a salad for dinner. I was bone weary and had nearly decided, as I watched Callie scamper across the gray plains when I finally let her join the hunt at the end of the day, fresh snow blowing about us, to pull up stakes and leave Sunday instead of Monday as planned. I was disheartened at missing so many opportunities presented by my loyal and hardworking companions. The dogs continued, even with Callie’s afflictions, to put up roosters and sharptails well within range; birds I missed without reason or excuse. But after thinking it through, I decided to see my epic journey through. I’d shot eight pheasants and the one Hungarian; the trip could not, I mused, end because I hadn’t been as successful a hunter as I would’ve liked. My walkabout, my journey to Dagmar, wasn’t made to fill my larder with dead birds. It was to rejuvenate my beleaguered soul and find purpose, if such purpose could be found, to my being. So I stayed.

When I awoke on Sunday, the sun was peeking over the eastern horizon. I’d made the decision to drive north through Plentywood, Montana, and head east towards Fortuna, ND. The reasons behind my long-distance meander were two-fold.

First, I wanted to fill up the Jeep. Dagmar has no gas station so I either needed to drive east to Grenora, where I’d already filled up once, or north to Plentywood. Wanting to scout out additional BMA land for next year’s trip, I made my way to Plentywood, filled up, and took Highway 5 towards North Dakota. At the top of the hill east of town, I was teased by a gathering of between thirty and fifty Montana pheasants pecking grain on a mown field. The sight was both aggravating (my Montana license had expired) and hilarious because the flock of pheasants taunting me was feeding right across from a BMA Jack and I’d hunted, without seeing a single bird, the year before.

The second purpose behind my long drive was I wanted to check out the PLOTS (Private Land Open to Sportsmen) around Fortuna, ND. This I did. The one easy-to-hit bird Kena and Callie (I used her sparingly) rousted for me flew off without a scratch. The rest of the day, I saw few birds, mostly distant coveys of sharptail and Hungarians; birds I had no chance to bag. The dogs managed to point and flush any number of hen pheasants; birds they wanted me to shoot but off limits to human hunters. Mostly, we tooled around, fighting the clay-based muck of section-line roads that threatened to, but never did, mire my Grand Cherokee. One road was so greasy, the Jeep felt like it was going to slide into the ditch despite me throttling down to a crawl. I had no wish to call Brad, who has a new Ford F150 4X4, so he could pull me out of the mud. I stayed the course, saw tons of mule deer and ducks and geese, and headed back to Dagmar.

As our last day on the plains waned, we returned to the WPA where I’d shot two roosters. It was drizzling again as Kena and I took one last walk along the rushes. That’s the thing about this year. The experts forecast a tough year hunting due to drought. The evidence of the lack of rain was clear in myriad empty potholes dotting the prairie. The WPA we ended our hunt at was no exception. As Kena and I moved, our legs tired, our sprits flagging, the snows and Canadas and swans riding the wind high overhead towards Nebraska and the Platte, the entire basin of the wetland was a vast sea of frozen mud. Still. Kena locked up hard. Her snuffling had once been loud but, as she stopped moving, the world grew eerily silent save for the calls of the great migration overhead. Then it happened. A big fat, North Dakota rooster burst from cover close enough for me to grab it. I fired my twelve gauge. Once. Twice. And still it flies.

I learned something about myself as I wandered the fields and prairies of the West. While prolonged solitude might be a worthwhile experience, hunting for a week straight without human companionship proved to be too much isolation for this old man’s soul.

After a hot shower, I ended my time in Montana with a fine steak dinner (thanks to Brad and Mark), excellent company, and some lively political discussions. I was up and out the door by 6:30am Mountain Time. The twelve hour drive home was spent thinking about my gracious hosts, my aging mother, my beloved wife, and my kids and grandkids. Central to my nostalgia was thanking my father, Harry, the man who introduced me to pheasant hunting as a young boy.

Today, as I write this essay and reflect, I feel refreshed and satisfied despite my inability to down the easiest of birds taking wing. The dogs? Callie’s on the mend and Kena seems to have forgiven me. I sense they’re anxious to make our last hunt of the year; a trip planned for early December to chase Minnesota roosters with Tim and Poncho Scott.

The number of dead roosters in the freezer is of little consequence to me. The takeaway from my recent journey west is this: I thank the Creator I’m healthy enough to witness my dogs working the prairie, the majesty of their steady points, the adrenaline rush of roosters bursting from cover, and the whirl of pheasant wings in the bracing November air.

Peace

Mark