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
