A Jurist for the People

Miles Lord: The Maverick Judge Who Brought Corporate America to Justice by Roberta Waburn (2017. University of Minnesota. ISBN978-1-5179-0231-5)

No. This is not how judges act, decide cases, or go about their business. That’s the thought that rings true after devouring Walburn’s well-written and researched biography of Minnesota’s most iconic, debated, loved, and hated jurist. There were so many aspects to how United States District Court Judge Miles Lord went about doing his work as a trial judge that are inapplicable and indeed, inopposite to my work as a state court judge that, while reading Walburn’s accounting of Lord’s work on the Reserve Mining case and the Dalkon Shield litigation, I found myself clenching, grimacing, and well, quite frankly, shaking my head. And yet…

Beneath it all, was a Minnesota Iron Ranger steeped in the DFL Party’s desperate rush, during the 1950s and early 1960s, to establish itself as the People’s Party, filling in the void left by the Farmer Labor Party that had held sway in Minnesota for most of the Great Depression. Lord saw himself as a fighter-both literally and figuratively-for the ordinary man both in his role as Minnesota’s Attorney General and as a judge. Personal friends with both Hubert Humphrey and Eugene McCarthy, two United States Senators from the DFL who found themselves on opposite ends of the Vietnam War, Lord tried to bridge the philosophical gap between his mentors through mutual friendship, hoping upon hope to propel HHH into the presidency. He failed in bringing McCarthy back into the fold and, in the process, failed at electing Humphrey to the presidency. Admittedly, the sections of the book detailing Lord’s ties to politics are fascinating. But it’s Walburn’s depiction of Lord’s work on the Dalkon Shield cases that is the focus of her dissection of what made the man tick.

A confession here. Perhaps I’m a bit too close to the subject matter. Not because I share Lord’s vocation, but because of my own background. I was a law clerk at the Robins, Kaplan, and Ciresi Law Firm when Judge Donald Alsop forced another Twin Cities law firm, after discovering improprieties, to disgorge over 400 Dalkon Shield products liability cases. I was working at the Robins firm when the boxes arrived a week before I left to begin my summer study for the Minnesota Bar Exam. Later, after I’d passed the bar, I represented two Duluth women who’d been injured by the Dalkon Shield in front of of Judge Alsop. Both cases settled but there’s no question that Judge Lord’s exposure of AH Robins’ malfeasance in manufacturing and promoting a device that devastated women’s health contributed to cases being resolved short of trial.

I found the author’s careful dissection of Judge Lord’s pugilistic background, juxtaposed upon the tense, ugly world of corporate litigation, to be a fascinating read. Mind you, there’s much that Miles Lord did in both the Reserve and Dalkon cases that caught the attention of the 8th Circuit Court of Appeals and got him in trouble with the appellate court. But, true to his Iron Range nature, reprimands and reversals did not change the judge’s belief that he was not just a referee between unequal litigants. In Miles Lord’s eyes, his role-as described in loving detail by his former law clerk- was to ensure everyone got a fair shake, damn the personal consequences. While that’s an admirable goal for a jurist, it’s one only those appointed to their jobs for life likely are able to fulfill with such unfettered bravery.

All in all, one of the best Minnesota biographies I’ve ever read.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Peace.

Mark

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Possibilities Delayed or Lost?

Faith Works by Jim Wallis (2000. Random House. ISBN 1-4000-6479-1)

An Evangelical friend gifted this non-fiction “handbook for Christians” a year or so back. It sat on my shelf, waiting discovery, until it became one of my bedside and bathroom reads. Because I’m a life-long Liberal Christian (yes, we still exist!), I’ve taken it upon myself to try and understand the recent election of The Orange Headed One through the eyes of my more conservative, vocal, Christian brothers and sisters. I was hoping this book would guide me to some sort of comprehension. It did not. But that’s not because the book lacks depth or quality writing or spiritual insight. Wallis’s work is filled with all of those things. But it is, at this point, eighteen years old already and sadly, written at a time when the current disaster of a president wasn’t in the picture.

Too harsh you say? I’m being too judgmental? Here’s the thing. My entire life, my biggest pet peeve is hypocrisy, the “do as I say, don’t do as I do” mentality of certain folks in power. Wallis works hard to paint a picture of the a possible unification of Christians on the right and the left by turning away from debating whether one side or the other has the keys to the kingdom, or has a clue as to WWJD (What Would Jesus Do). He reports on a then-growing movement of like-minded and stout-hearted civil rights leaders, churchmen and women, and deep thinking politicians who understood, at least back in the late 1990s, that economic disparity, racial inequality, wage inequity, and environmental instability (most often in areas inhabited by the poor) are not just political questions: they are Christian issues. His reportage, as a leader in this re-discovery of the need to blend Christian charity with governmental oversight and programming,  is concise and accurate. But there is one fundamental flaw in his logic. He could not anticipate that his audience, fueled by the advance of Balkanization through politically-driven television and radio and websites, would not come together to confront the issues he raises but rather, separate farther and farther until the two sides of any big-picture argument are no longer able to talk in a common, respectful language.

I was hoping that Wallis, an acclaimed Evangelical himself, could point us all in a direction that would lead to reconciliation and healing. But despite his best efforts, that didn’t happen and in fact, seems desperately impossible. His stern warnings about Trump the candidate went unheeded by his fans and those fellow Evangelicals who believed Wallis, back when this book was written, was spot on. (See https://www.huffingtonpost.com/jim-wallis/donald-trump-narcissist-i_b_7770156.html.) And yet, here we are. We elected ( I include myself because, well, I am still an American and must live through the next three years alongside my fellow citizens who put Trump in office) a man who thinks only of himself, is a serial adulterer, denigrates women and minorities and immigrants and just about everyone who doesn’t share his white skin and his privilege, avoided military service when called, and worst of all, has no semblance of Christian charity or belief about him. Wallis tried, when he began the Sojourner Movement in the 1990s in the face of  Congressional attacks on the social safety net, to bring Jesus forward, to make Him the focus of a discussion of how to improve morally as a people. I applaud his tenacity and his faith. I am only sorry that his vision of a unified approach to the biggest social and equity issues confronting our nation has led us to this.

In reading Wallis’s book, my one major criticism is that he soft sells the wide gap between Evangelicals and Liberal Christians when it comes to the issue of abortion. The topic is only marginally present along the edges and never is tackled head on. This is, in my estimation, a mistake. Until the two sides in the abortion debate can come to some sort of armistice, whereby the Right is allowed to hold fast to its belief that abortion is a moral sin but admits those who think otherwise aren’t murdering, unfeeling animals; and the Left acknowledges that abortion is a morally difficult topic and recognizes that casually denigrating those who believe abortion to be morally repugnant are ignorant, backwater boobs is wrong; none of what Wallis hopes to accomplish across the spectrum of Christianity is likely possible. My personal take is such an accommodation may once have been plausible and all sorts of Believers might have been able to agree to disagree had that dialogue taken place around the time Bill Clinton (no moral guiding light, I’ll admit) shared his belief that abortion should be “legal and safe, but rare” in 1992. Had that discussion taken place before Hannity and Maddow, perhaps Wallis’s vision might have come to pass. But that era disappeared within the whirlwind of impeachment based upon a Liberal president’s own moral failings. Absent the heavens opening and Jesus descending sometime soon to guide us out of this morass, I’m not encouraged that things are gonna change and men and women across the political divide will roll up their sleeves and do the Good Work that Wallis believes is possible.

4 stars out of 5. Trump isn’t Wallis’s burden to bear. He is ours.

Peace.

Mark

(PS One could write volumes about the disconnect between how Evangelical Christianity held its collective nose and voted for an immoral man simply because he assured them “I stand against abortion” and yet aimed its collective slings and arrows in the direction of an intelligent, honest, faithful, and thoughtful black man. But this isn’t the place…)

 

 

 

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Maybe the Movie is Better

Big Shoulders by William Jamerson (2007. Pine Stump. ISBN 978-1-882882-12-0)

The back cover jacket of this “coming of age in a CCC camp” novel reveals that the author is an award winning filmmaker (Camp Forgotten: The CCC in Michigan) so when my writer-turned-aunt handed me this book, being that I am a historian by training, I thought, “what the heck.” I must say, even though I managed to finish the story ( ever the optimist, I rarely ever give up on a novel), it’s not a story that I’d recommend to anyone over the age of 16. So. in addition to all of the book’s other flaws and faults, I’d add false advertising to the mix as well. Why?

There’s nothing on the back cover or inside the novel that warns the reader that the book is written for middle and high schoolers. That’s probably because the author did not intentionally set out to write a juvenile novel. But that, in the end, is what readers are left with. Beyond that, Jamerson’s writing style, while accurate, is stiff and analytic and contains few, if any, memorable scenes or passages. The old adage for budding fiction authors, “write like your parents are dead” is completely absent. Mr. Jamerson, while likely a very nice man and a find filmmaker, takes zero risk in his prose. The protagonist, Nick Radzinski-a city boy claimed by the camps for redemption-ambles along in this tale, avoiding, as the author does, any real consequence or conflict or revelation of mind or spirit. Two major plot points, Nick’s looming fight with the camp tough and his burgeoning affection for a local girl (Betty) end in abject disappointment. And the ending, where Mr. Jamerson attempts to “bring it all home” with a climatic, suspense-filled, nail biting conclusion, fails to excite or engage. The final scenes, in which Nick uncovers the identity of a camp thief-a person he’s been seeking to uncover to clear his good name-don’t even rise to the level of middle school suspension of disbelief, much the thrilling  to an adult-level read.

On the plus side, I discovered no sentence clunkers or typographical glitches or major deviations from the English language in this book. But technical competence cannot bring life to a body of words that lacks heart.

In the end, I wish I’d watched the documentary.

2 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Peace

Mark

 

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A Great Road Listen

Winter Garden by Kristin Hannah (2011. St. Martin’s. ISBN 978-0312663155. This review is of the Audible version of the novel.)

It’s a long way from Duluth, Minnesota to Williston, North Dakota. So, when my wife Rene’ and I decided to change things up and not “do” Thanksgiving at home but travel to our son’s home in the Bakken, bringing my 89 year old mom with to visit her great granddaughter, I knew the only way we’d survive 10-11 hours (one way) in the Jeep was to have a good audio book ready to go. Having thoroughly enjoyed The Nightingale, a fabulous portrayal of conflict, love, and the French resistance during WW II, when I saw this title, saw that it was by Ms. Hannah, and read a few blurbs, I guessed it’d be a story my wife, my mother, and I would all enjoy. I’m glad I trusted my instincts.

Set in present day Washington State and WW II Leningrad (St. Petersburg), this tale is a complex family saga, historical novel, and contemporary love story (or actually, love stories) chronicling the lives of two sisters, Meredith and Nina as they slowly uncover, while mourning the loss of their father, the truth of their mother’s heritage and the reasons behind her stern, Russian demeanor. While the contemporary sections of the story were, as is always the case with Ms. Hannah’s expert narration, dialogue, and word craft, well paced and cleanly drawn, it is the “story within the story” (actually, at one point, this novel includes a story within a story within a story as well!), Anya Whitson’s (the mother’s) recalling of her survival of the siege of Leningrad by the Germans (for more on the siege see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Leningrad) that is both riveting and heart-wrenching. In the details of Anya’s life during the war, Hannah hits on all cylinders, compelling readers (or in our case, the listeners) to fear and dread and hope as each scene slowly unfolds. In a word, the Leningrad segements are masterful; expositions of fine prose by a writer at the peak of her craft.

My only criticism of the novel is that the ending (no spoiler here) is a bit too convenient, a bit too coincidental for my taste. But the two females on that long ride to and from Williston do not seem to share my concerns in this regard. Perhaps I’m too engaged in my own craft as a writer to allow for suspension of disbelief to the degree Ms. Hannah requires at the end of a very, very satisfying tale. The truth is, even with my slight critique of the book’s conclusion, this novel is a well-written generational tale that both men, who like action and warfare and history, and women, who are more partial to cerebral tales of familial conflict, can enjoy.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5. A page turner and a marvelous read.

Peace.

Mark

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Kena Teaches Leala the Ropes

Kena waiting for the hunt.

October. Every year. It’s a tradition that began with my old man and his buddy Bruce. They started the legacy my sons and I are carrying on sometime back in the 1990’s. They were already old men then, old men who still had vim and vigor to chase wild pheasants and ducks in the Dakotas. At first, they hunted South Dakota. But when that became too pricey, too uppity for Harry and Bruce, they moved north a bit. They found a little town not far from where Lawrence Welk was born. Ashley, ND has been the center of the Munger pheasant hunt now for twenty plus years. I’ve been part of this trip for going on fifteen years. My eldest son Matt joined us a few years back, followed by his brothers Chris and Jack. Reid, one of Matt’s buddies, rounds out our five-some. The old guys don’t come out anymore. Joints and heart issues and maladies and such. Time and age eventually catch up with even the most stubborn hunter. Oh, they’d both be making this trip if they could. But such is not to be. Sometime during this trip, we’ll tip a beer in tribute to Harry and Bruce. It’s not much but at least it’s something in honor of our hunt’s founders.

This year, Kena-“the greatest champion” in Celtic-Jack’s four-year old black Labrador is our “go to” dog. Matt’s yellow Lab Lexi is battling cancer, is over ten, and isn’t able to hunt anymore. In Lexi’s stead, I’m bringing my five-month old Brittany pup Leala-“faithful” in French. I’ve never had a pointer so I’ve been working Leala and Kena every day. They’re both eager to hunt. For the Mungers Plus One, expectations are low. Why? The five of us are poor shots when it comes to hitting rooster pheasants on the fly. Shooting trap, you suggest, might be of help. Not so much. We’ve tried that and it really didn’t improve our collective effort. And so we go into the field as we are.

It’s a seven hour drive to Ashley. Should be six but we’ve started a tradition of stopping partway to grill lunch. Last year, we pulled over at a city park in Fergus Falls. This year, with Matt and Reid in Matt’s Dodge pickup and Jack, me, and the two dogs in my Grand Cherokee we pull off in Pilager. Matt cooks lunch on  a portable LP grill. We munch on brats and chips, sip soda, and let the dogs run around. The sky is high and blue. The weather is warm. Unseasonably so for mid-October. Our bellies full, it’s back on the road.

Matt the chef.

We count rooster pheasants over the flat desolation of North Dakota farm and ranch country as we head south on No. 11. We pass through familiar towns, none of them bigger than a postage stamp, arriving in Ashley-the county seat of McIntosh County-near dark. Chris, who lives in St. Paul, is already at our rental house and has likely turned on the water and the heat. When Harry and Bruce first started coming to Ashley, they stayed at the one and only motel in town. Then they befriended a local rancher and rented his extra house, thereby gaining permission to hunt acres of private field and forest. This relationship soured shortly after I started coming along (maybe it was something I said?) and so for the last decade, we’ve stayed in town, limiting our hunting to PLOTS land and waterfowl production areas. I’m not keen on paying farmers to hunt their land or asking permission to walk their property and though such an attitude limits our opportunities, so far, no one in the crew has mutinied. 

Morning. It’s glorious working open fields beneath an endless sky, watching the dogs track birds. Kena is steady and strong and conserves energy: finding scent, following scent, her tail relatively calm until she hits on a bird in cover. Leala is a coiled spring of boundless energy, all youth and spunk. Jack never touches the remote controlling Kena’s eCollar. She’s so compliant and diligent to task, there’s no need. On the other hand, the pup needs constant mild reminders from my thumb on her eCollar not to roam too far or chase corn fed white tail bucks or scoot off after owls that slowly flap away from hidden nesting places as we hunt.

Leala waiting for her master.

We don’t know it at the time but the first flurry of the first morning, a passel of roosters rising as we push a fence line marking the edge of the CRP land we’re hunting is our best opportunity for multiple birds. Reid downs one, which the dogs have trouble locating but eventually find. The rest of us miss our shots. After finding Reid’s bird, I introduce Leala to her first pheasant. I toss it a few feet. She runs to the bird and struggles with a dead rooster that is about a quarter of Leala’s weight. Which is to say, having hunted over Labs and the occasional Golden Retriever and Springer, I am not used to considering a twenty pound dog a hunting companion. But over the course of days, the Brittany’s stamina and nose convince me of her worth. Unlike past years, where we’ve lost a half dozen or so downed birds, we don’t lose a single rooster this year. Granted, we don’t hit all that many. But still. It’s nice not to lose birds. After that first day-when we down three-it gets very, very tough. The wind roars in, gusting to over 50mph, making it impossible for the dogs to follow scent. In turns it rains and spits and blows harder, making our time in the field miserable. But when the weather calms we hunt long and we hunt hard. The health app on my phone says we average 8.5 miles per day. We walk over 10 miles on Sunday. So, if nothing else, we’re getting our exercise!

A pair of Dakota roosters.

I have to stop here to say this: Without the efforts of my eldest son, this hunt would never happen. Once the old guys stopped coming, Matt took it upon himself to become trip planner, quartermaster, and chef. He rents the house, buys the food, and cooks every meal (except breakfast which is cold cereal). He’s the guy. Period. For that, I thank him deeply.

And I don’t want you to form the conclusion that these trips are complete affirmations of familial love. Reid, who’s now tagged along with the Mungers for more than half a decade, will attest to the fact that we’re all stubborn bastards and that every year (this one included) one of us will march off in a huff, threatening to drive back to Duluth and “never come to Ashley again.” But it’s all bluster and nonsense and, as with the weather, eventually things calm down. That Reid Amborn is willing to put up with such drama is a testament to his good nature. Or maybe, he enjoys a little theater on the Plains. Whatever. He’s managed to figure out how to stay out of the fray, keep his head down, and have a pretty good time despite us.

My contribution to these annual trips? I’m the dishwasher. Chris and Jack clean and pack birds, with Chris being the teacher and Jack the student. Reid pitches in peeling potatoes, cutting carrots, grilling steaks, sweeping up; doing whatever he’s asked to do whenever he’s asked to do it. Despite my earlier proclamation of discord, for the vast majority of the time we spend together, we’re a jovial, happy crew. Especially when the cold beer comes out at the end of a long day…

Three days in, Kena has worked so many fields and marshes and swamps that she’s split open a pad on her right front paw. And both she and the little one are the very definition of dog-tired when we get back to the house after dark, hitting the couch as soon as they get in the door.

A hard day’s night…

I bandage the Lab’s foot and hope for the best. In the morning, she limps a bit but once her adrenaline starts pumping, she forgets her pain. Still, Jack’s careful not to overwork her. She, like Leala, are more than hunting dogs. They are family. That having been said, Kena doesn’t miss a beat, retrieving every bird we hit, poking her nose in every possible roost, never slowing down.

Matt, Reed, and Chris working the grass.

Still, I’m amazed at the little pup’s stamina. For a tiny bit of dog flesh-she’s mostly fur and sinew-she never backs down from a challenge. Cattails so thick that a man can barely bust his way through don’t stop her. Bramble and thistle don’t deter her. Whereas Kena will power through such obstacles, Leala simply ducks down and avoids the worst of it. After four days of watching the dogs, I’m pleased with how well they work together. By the end of the hunt, I’m reaching for Leala’s eCollar remote with less frequency.

“You want to try that CRP up north, where we saw those roosters driving in?”

It’s Wednesday morning. We’re cleaning the rental house, leaving it-since Reid, Jack and I are all Eagle Scouts-cleaner than we found it.

“Sure,” Jack replies.

I pack the Jeep. Chris packs up his Nissan. Matt and Reid close the tailgate on the Dodge. We lock up the little white house and garage and hit the road. A couple of hours later, Jack and I are walking another grassy section of CRP; a huge slice of acreage further north than we’ve ever hunted. The dogs get birdy. A rooster bursts from cover. We shoot. For a moment, I think I’ve clipped it. But if I did and it hit the ground running, the PLOTS land we are hunting is so vast, the dogs will run themselves to exhaustion trying to corner the bird. And truth be told, I think I am being overly optimistic. Chances are, the bird is unharmed. We hunt for another hour but no other roosters take wing. We’ve missed our last chance at a pheasant. With the dogs back in their kennels and our shotguns packed in their cases, we take one last look at the Plains, and climb into the Jeep for the long ride home.

Jack and two more birds.

Peace.

Mark

Home.

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Pappa Playing Joyce?

Across the River and into the Trees by Ernest Hemingway (1950. Scribner. ISBN 978-0-684-84464-0)

Mmmm. How to begin? How about with this. After being lured into the crazy world of writing, editing, and publishing by the seductive, dynamic, and brusque style of my authorial mentor; after diving headlong into the pool of words to create seven novels, a collection of short fiction, a biography, and one volume of essays, reading this book-the last novel written by Pappa Hemingway (The Old Man and the Sea came out two years later but is a novella)-made me feel like I’d hit my head on the bottom of that linguistic swimming pool. I should have heeded the critics who, when this book was released four years before I was born, panned it as “Hemingway’s worst” (see https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/ernest-hemingway/across-the-river-into-the-trees/. But, being this was his last effort to write another Great American Novel, I had to give it a chance. Sadly, I must report those critics-most of whom are long dead (as is the author)-were spot on.

Here’s a story of a fifty-something combat officer, a career army man who’d served in both the Great War and WW II, and who’d spent considerable time during both conflicts in Italy. The Colonel falls in love with a 19 year old Italian girl, Renata (I’m not being pejorative here; the protagonist refers to her as “Daughter”) while on a duck hunting trip to Venice. Or perhaps, he met her somewhat earlier and they are ending their relationship. One can’t really be sure about timelines or much else in this jumble of a late-in-life Lolita story (Hemingway is more cautious with his lust for young things than Nabokov since Renata in this tale is at least older than the age of consent). What’s the problem, you ask?

First off, I’ve written before about sixty or seventy year old white men writing tales of love where the object of the thinly disguised autobiographical protagonist’s affection is a woman twenty or thirty or forty years younger than the male centerpiece. I’ve criticized Jim Harrison, Larry McMurtry, and John Irving for similar flights of fancy. Not because such December-May relationships don’t happen in real life (they do) but because the versions of this age old daydream from testosterone deprived men I’ve come across simply don’t ring true. Other than the classic Lolita I’ve yet to run across a novel that pulls off the December-May thematic alignment with poise and grace. Hemingway doesn’t do it here and additionally, in an apparent nod to Joyce and experimental prose, Hemingway discards punctuation, capitalization, sentences, plot, and any sort of meaningful tension to create interest in either the Colonel or his young mistress as the tale labors towards its predictable conclusion.

In addition, readers of this slender tome experience a fictional version of A Moveable Feast starring two lovers and no one else. There are no interesting supporting actors or actresses adding context or color to the tale. It’s boring, staid, and not at all titillating. Two scenes out of this 170 page disaster of a story convince me that, had he actually cared, Pappa could have pulled it off. The book’s beginning and end feature some fine writing about duck hunting in the tidal marshes of Italy. But if I want great duck hunting stories, I’ll read Sam Cook or Gordon MacQuarrie. Here, the outdoor scenes, while well written and concise, are too little, too late to save the plot or the characters or the author.

Pick up a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls or The Sun Also Rises or Farewell to Arms and regale in Hemingway’s masterful, curt yet precise writing. Don’t waste your time on this outline of an old man’s lustful desires.

2 stars out of 5.

Peace.

Mark

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A Memorable Journey

The Circus at the Edge of the Earth by Charles Wilkins (1998. McLelland and Stewart. 978-0771088421)

In this travelogue, memoir, and depiction of a dying art form, my Canadian friend and noted nonfiction writer, Charles “Charlie” Wilkins leaves us with a concise, riveting, and accurate portrait of the Great Wallenda Circus. That alone is worth the price of admission (which, in my case, was quite modest since I bought the book used at Duluth’s great new independent bookstore, Zenith Books). But more than reportage of the locales and route of the Wallenda show as it made its way through NW Ontario and Eastern Manitoba, more than a critique of the individual performances of its component parts, it’s Wilkins’s ability to relate to, embrace, and yet effectively profile the performers, workers, and ultimately, the founder of the troupe-Ricky Wallenda himself, that makes this such a great read.

Wilkins introduces his first such character, the tiger tamer Wilson Barnes, on the very first page. The riveting first chapter, which portrays Barnes’s history and the inner workings of his training regimen, sets the stage (pun intended), detailing the steadfast hard work and dangers inherent in trusting five hundred pound cats to remain compliant even as their native hearts look upon Barnes as not much more than a next meal. But it is the appearance of elephant man Bobby Gibbs, whose larger-than-life persona is contained in a mammoth, obese, extraordinary physical presence who, upon entering the narrative, ends up stealing the show (yes, intended that one too!). In the character of Bobby Gibbs, the author finds his cornerstone to build a vivid, depressing, exhilarating, sad yet happy tale of a vanishing way of life. Wilkins admits to his humanness; he never claims to be an entirely disinterested scribe simply chronicling the demise of an art form. Instead, he allows us to accompany one tour of the Wallenda Circus through his knowledgeable and equitable eyes, all the while providing a historical narrative of both the Wallenda family and the component parts of this less-than-greatest show on earth. He takes on animal rights activism, the Shriners (who sponsor the shows), Canada’s treatment of its First People, and other ancillary yet important topics with an eye to explaining, not condemning; a trait that serves the narrative well and adds spice to the tale. Here’s a sample of the high quality of prose that populates this book:

“(T)his blind guy came out on the floor with his mother at intermission and the mother said to me, ‘My son would like to touch the elephant. Is that all right?’ And I said, ‘Sure, just take him out there.’ And she said, “He doesn’t need me. He can go out on his own.’ And this guy walked right out to where Judy was standing and put out his hand and gently started moving it across the side of her face. She don’t miss much-she knew right away that something was different about him. She just stood there kinda lookin at him outta one eye, and then very cautiously brought her trunk up and over and extended that little finger on her trunk, and brought it down so that it touched him lightly just below the eye. She was saying to him, ‘I understand-it’s your eyes…'”

I waited years to finally get my hands on this book. Having met and been encouraged by Charlie in Thunder Bay when I was just beginning my writerly journey, I’ve read most of his other work, all of it solid and exceedingly memorable. But, mostly out of a sense of nostalgia I suppose (having not attended a circus in a decade or so now that my sons have grown into men) this was the Wilkins book I wanted to read. And I’m damn glad I finally did!

A stellar effort of nonfiction writing.

5 stars out of 5. I’d highly recommend this book to book clubs. It’ll spark hours of conversation and reflection.

Peace.

Mark

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Prego, Italia!

“I thought we were going to Scotland,” I complained as my wife showed me a TravelZoo page on the family iMac.

The page wasn’t of some gray and drizzly loch in the highlands but rather, of Villa I Laghi; a villa set in the golden hills and stark light of Tuscany.

Villa pool in Tuscany

“I want to go to Italy,” Rene’ replied.And that was that.

The trip was solely and wholly an idea conceived and orchestrated by my wife. She celebrated her 60th birthday in June. We celebrated 39 years of marriage in August. She was bound and determined that her longevity and her patience should be rewarded.

Without so much as a peep, I agreed: “Italy it is!”

Because I’d actually been watching flight prices to Scotland, I knew we could drive to Thunder Bay (TB) and fly Air Canada for significantly less than flying out of the Twin Cities. Plus, having flown out of TB on my infamous tour of Independent bookstores to Winnipeg, Saskatoon, and Calgary (please, don’t ask), I knew that TB’s airport had cheap parking and was, like Duluth’s airport, easy to get in and out of. I found tickets from TB to Rome with one stop in Toronto for $400 cheaper than any flight out of Minneapolis. Because Rene’ was booking a villa an hour outside of Florence, we’d need a car. To get from Rome to the villa, I booked a flight on Alitalia and reserved a car at the Florence airport through Sixt. I figured we could drop the rental car at the Florence airport, take a cab to the railway station, and take the bullet train to Rome fro the second part of our journey. All that remained was to lock in a place to stay in Rome. I found decent prices at the Hotel California (“You can check out anytime you like but you can never leave…” is NOT their motto!). I did everything-airplane tickets, car, and Rome hotel stay-on Expedia using my ten year old iMac.

 “Do you think we should see if anyone else wants to go with?” Rene’ asked one evening after finalizing our itinerary.

Whoever we approach will have to have the time and the money to say “yes”. We’re two months out so not a lot of our friends can say ‘yes’…”How about the McVeans?” I suggested.

 “I’ll ask Nancy.”

A few days later, Nancy and Rene’ were sitting on our sofa, logged into my notebook, trying to book the McVeans on our trip. It took an actual person at Expedia to make it all come together. But our friends were in. And off we went on our excellent Italian adventure.

Rome, Italy. “The website says that the flight to Florence is cancelled,” a young lady, her hair pink, her eyes, nose, and tongue pierced, deadpanned.

We found ourselves stuck at the airport, waiting for an Alitalia jet to Florence. Our flight was scheduled to leave by 3. It was nearly 5:30 by the time the airline confirmed what the bright young lass with the smartphone had already learned via the Interweb. Alitalia handed us vouchers for sandwiches with the promise of a bus ride. No one, least of all the four Americans who’d spent 9 hours on Air Canada jets, was happy that we’d paid good money to go zoom zoom and, through bait and switch, were going to be crammed into a tourist bus for a two hour ride through the dark Italian countryside. But, true world travelers that we are, we didn’t complain.

The Florence airport was deserted when we pulled in seven hours after our flight was due to land. We found the Sixt booth, rented our car ( a Spanish Seat sedan complete with six speed manual), and headed for the villa. I’d insisted on GPS in the Seat. Good thing. It was as dark as the bottom of the sea as we tried to find the village of Montaione (a place which it took Ron and I two weeks to finally pronounce correctly and remember!). Eventually, Rene’ called the folks managing the villa (it was nearly midnight) who came into town, met us, and led us down a lonely dirt road to our digs.

Villa I Laghi

The stay at the Villa I Laghi was exceptional with one caveat: Tuscan mosquitoes are ungodly. They’re nearly invisible but when they latch on, they leave behind nasty welts that itch for days and days. But the pool, the hillside, the morning coffee on the stone patio complete with fresh croissants. Ah. It was like a scene out of Under the Tuscan Sun. Our hosts were kind, considerate, helpful, and made the stay remarkably easy. From our villa, we took in the sights of Montaione, Sienna, Pisa, Marina di Pisa (on the Tyrrhenian Sea) Florence, and the walled fortress town of Monteriggioni. The delights came day after day after day of bright sun, warm breezes, and great pasta and wine. But of all the cathedrals and churches and ruins and buildings we visited, the Duomo di Siena (Sienna Cathedral) in Tuscany was the most striking, most amazing building to my eye. Though, truth be told, sitting in an open-air pizzeria in rural Tuscany, listening to rain beat a cadence on the tin roof while watching young Italians slide pizzas in and out of a woodfired brick oven as lightning lit up the night and thunder boomed across the valley, was nearly as memorable. As was an evening spent in a linen-table-clothed restaurant within the walls of Old Montaione. The four of us toured the bistro’s wine cellar, tried to understand our waiter (whose English matched my Italian), received bags of pasta made by either the waiter’s cousin or nephew (the language thing again), and then sat down to a seven course feast ( I had the lamb: it was out of this world) and several fine bottles of locally crafted wine.

Sienna Duomo

Our time in Tuscany, other than the driver of the Seat (me) burning the clutch on a steep, rainy road coming back from town with groceries, was without any major international incident. Don’t laugh: Given my friend Ron’s penchant for engaging and talking to everyone, including immigrant workers in the eateries and random folks on the street, I figured we were destined for an Italian prison once he said the wrong thing to the wrong person. But he never did.

Ron, Nancy, and Rene’ in Sienna

 

Rome was busier than the laid back time we spent in Tuscany. The bullet train (which hit a top speed of 165 mph) was the perfect way to travel. We’d taken a local train from Castelfiorentino into Florence (I didn’t want to test my international driving skills in city traffic), which was an easy way to get to town. But that line was diesel and slow and not anything like the state-of-the-art electric wonder that whisked us from Florence to Rome. Once at the Rome station, it was just a short walk with our luggage to the Hotel California. Again, the reviews on Expedia and TripAdvisor were spot on: the place was funky but clean and had a great buffet breakfast, all for a very reasonable price. The blue glazed glass shower sitting in the middle of the room took a little getting used to but, well, when in Rome, do as the Romans do!

Nancy and Rene’ at the seashore

In our six days in the ancient capital, we saw and did it all: the Vatican Museum, St. Peter’s, the Sistine Chapel, oodles of other museums, Trevi Fountain, the ruins, the Colosseum, Hadrian’s Mausoleum, and many lesser, but equally beautiful cathedrals and churches, the likes of which took your breath away at every turn. What made it all even more real is that, while on the bullet train, I’d finished my last physical book in my backpack, pulled out my phone, opened up the Kindle app, and began reading From Sand and Ash.

St. Peter’s Basilica; Michelangelo’s Pieta

“Hey, “ I said to Rene’ once we arrive in Rome, “this novel…”

 “Yes?”

 “I loaded it on Kindle because I liked the cover. Turns out, it’s about the Holocaust in Italy. It’s set in Rome and Florence.”

 “No kidding.”

I gave the book such glowing reviews, Rene’s book club selected it for this month’s read. Go figure.

Language was never a barrier. Oh, I won’t claim we mastered Italian. Time and time again, when we’d try out a phrase on a waitress, she’d invariably correct our missteps. But kindly and always with a smile. Even a simple, “Grazie” (thanks) usually came out deformed; and Ron’s misuse of “Prego” (you’re welcome) with any number of comely young ladies from all parts of the world has given me an idea as to what Ron will be getting for Christmas. But most Italians readily accommodated our inability to communicate by speaking passable English.

Two Happy Guys

I can’t end this piece without giving you some advice: If you want to see the Vatican, go with a tour. It’s crowded and you don’t want to wait hours to get in. As far as the Colosseum and the forums, you can do those on your own. But, unless Ron is with you, make sure to reserve your tickets online. What’s so special about Ron? Well, you’d never know it from how he plays volleyball, or hockey, or basketball, or works around the house, but he’s missing his left arm. Now, having known the guy for 34 years, I can tell you this: Never once have I ever thought of Ronald McVean as being handicapped. He is one of the most able bodied people I know. But this exchange proves why you need to bring Ron (or your own one armed pal) with you to Rome:

“It’s gonna be a two hour wait to get in,” I moaned as we approached the Colosseum. “The line winds all the way around the place…”

Rene’ bit her lip. “You don’t come all the way to Rome to look at it from outside.”

“I agree,” Nancy said.

“Me too,” Ron agreed.

So, I complied and followed my group begrudgingly towards the entrance.

An Italian in charge of security eyeballed Ron. “You sir, are you with a group?”

“Yes. Four of us.”

The officer looked at Ron’s stub. “Follow me.”

Now whether he thought Ron was an American war hero (doubtful since he served his time in the Air Force away from falling bombs) or, as we seemed to be learning by a sequence of random acts, (Ron was given special privileges on other occasions as well), it’s simply Italian good manners, the four of us went to the head of the line. And, once inside, I have to say: I enjoyed the view immensely!

The Forum, Rome

Ronaldo on the tour bus

We ate our last dinner in Rome at another fine restaurant, dining as we nearly always did, under a canopy on the sidewalk, before attending a Vivaldi concert (how can you not take in “the Four Seasons” when Italy?) performed live in a beautiful Anglican church a few blocks from our hotel.

The next morning Ron said goodbye to his new friend from Sri Lanka, an airline pilot Ron had breakfast with most days, exchanging emails and promises to “stay in touch.” We caught a cab to the airport, waited in agonizingly slow lines, and finally, our feet weary but our spirits content, we flew back to Canada, four American friends who’d managed to avoid international incident or embarrassment…mostly.

Pace (Peace in Italian. I looked it up…)

Mark

Art-the Italian Way!

                 

                 

                 

 

 

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Two Reads in Tuscany

My Own Words: Ruth Bader Ginsburg by Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Mary Hartnett, and Wendy W. Williams (2016. Simon & Schuster. ISBN 978-1-5011-4524-7)

Someone gifted me this book for Christmas. It sat on my reading shelf, somewhere down in the stack, until Rene’ and I were packing for a trip to Tuscany and Rome. Despite the book’s bulk, I tossed it in my suitcase with relish, thinking, That’s gonna be a great read. I will finally find out something about my legal heroine’s upbringing and life. Well, I, along with whomever bought me the book, misconstrued exactly what this volume entailed. Sadly, expecting a memoir or autobiography of one of most notable liberal Supreme Court Justices still serving telling me her story through childhood remembrances and perhaps, through anecdotes shared by others, this hastily put together mishmash of old school editorials, speeches, and lectures wasn’t anything like what I was expecting. Now, it is true there wasn’t any “bait and switch” here: The cover never proclaims this volume to be a memoir or autobiography (can someone enlighten me as the difference, please?). Instead, the subtitle tells potential readers that the book’s material is “in her own words”, which, because the speeches and other writings quoted are indeed the Justice’s, is not deceptive. But it’s also true that neither the front nor the back cover indicate this tome is simply a collection of Bader Ginsburg’s previous writings. In some ways, the disappointment I experienced reading this collection, given my high expectations for unique, revelatory prose matched my reaction to Pat Conroy’s, A Lowcountry Heart, a similar collection of Mr. Conroy’s prior speeches, eulogies, and blogs that was published after the author’s demise. Here, Justice Ginsburg, being very much alive, missed a chance to tell her story in her own words. That, to me, was a missed opportunity.

3 stars out of 5. An interesting compendium of writings worth reading to understand the Justice’s take on modern American life but not a linear memoir or biography.

Peace.

Mark

From Sand and Ash by Amy Harmon (2016. Lake Union Publishing. 978-1-50393932-5)

I didn’t know. Looking for something as a “backup” read for a two week trip to Italy and with two big paperbacks already crammed into my suitcase, I wanted a digital book on my phone that I could read and enjoy during the 9 hour plane rides to and from Europe. I looked on Amazon, found this novel as a “free” read on Prime, and downloaded it onto my iPhone 7 in the Kindle app. All I can say is: “Wow!”

Little did I know that this story of a Jewish woman and a Catholic priest caught in the whirlwind of Italy after the Nazis take control of the country during WW II would serve as a literary tour guide for my first visit to Florence and Rome. Yes, that’s right: without a clue, I’d downloaded a book simply because of the cover art and because it was free and it turned out to be a novel set in the very country, and in the very cities, I was visiting! Weird, huh? Anyway, to cut to the chase, those folks who loved the literary sensibilities and historical accuracy of The Nightingale and, more recently, All the Light We Cannot See, will love, yes that’s right, simply love this story. It’s memorable for all the right reasons and would make for a fine book club read.

5 stars out of 5. I suggested it to my wife for her book club and they picked it up. I’ll let you all know what a group of rural Minnesota women think!

Peace.

Mark

 

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2 Summer Reads

Going Coastal: An Anthology of Lake Superior Short Stories (2017. North Star Press. ISBN 978-1-68201-069-3)

I have to be careful here. I’m reviewing a collection of short stories by contemporary writers (some of whom are acquaintances of mine) whose work appears in a collection for which my own short story, Isle Royale, was not selected for inclusion. So I’m hoping this review is objective and not fueled by the sting of rejection. The best way to determine the measure of my fairness? Buy a copy from Zenith Books or The Bookstore at Fitger’s and read it!

As a whole, I was impressed by the quality of the writing. There were a couple of stories here worthy of national attention. My favorites are “The Urge for Going”, a story of a Native American’s journey home that follows the North Shore of Lake Superior. There was something about the tone of the story and the geographic progression of the protagonist’s internal and external trek that struck a chord. The other notable piece, “The Heart Under the Lake”, was much different but every bit as readable and riveting. Most of the other stories were also skillfully crafted. However, “The Lake Effect”, a piece of historical fiction involving the loss of a steamer in 1919 had a number of implausibilities embedded in the plot that made it difficult to swallow, not the least of which was the protagonist, the captain, “darting” across an icy deck from one section of the doomed ship to another during a snow squall. Details make historical fiction believable, allow the reader to suspend his or her disbelief, and “The Lake Effect” simply failed to attain that mark in my view. However, if you read the piece and form a more favorable opinion, so be it.

The remainder of the book includes solid writing, which, coupled with the short duration of the tales, makes the book a great choice for a vacation read. By way of example, “Water Witch” has a refreshing, somewhat mystical theme, one not found in the remainder of the stories in the collection. My one criticism of the collection as a whole is that the breadth and depth and complexities of Lake Superior’s geography and history and people don’t really get the expansive treatment they deserve. Yes, the First Peoples deserve to be showcased. And the North Shore is magical. But what of the Norwegians, the Finns, and all the other ethnic groups that settled around the lake? And where were the stories of the towns, the cities, and industry to be found around the largest freshwater lake in the world? And why no tales set in the UP, another magical, nearly mythical region of the Lake Superior Basin? A good collection that reflects, in a partial way, how it feels to live here.

4 stars out of 5.

The Heavens May Fall by Allen Eskens (2016. 7th street Books. ISBN 978-1-63388-205-8)

The first third of this murder mystery/legal thriller depicted the Twin Cities with such clarity and succinctness that I was ready to give the book a “5 star” rating right off the bat. My ardor for the writing cooled a bit as the plot evolved but, despite the fact that Eskens, in my view, grew a bit less engaging and compelling in his details and depictions as the story arc climaxed, this is s still a fine, fine summer read.

Max Rupert is convinced that defense lawyer Ben Pruitt killed Jennavieve Pruitt, Ben’s wife. Past experience with the lawyer may or may not have caused Rupert to ignore other, more plausible suspects. As is usual in such novels, there are depictions of wealth and privilege and sex and violence, all of which move the story along quite well. As a former prosecuting attorney and now a sitting judge of more than 19 years, I can vouch for the fact that Eskens gets the details mostly right. The one glitch I found, one that should have been edited out early on, is this exchange:

“They’ll hold me over for a bail hearing.”

We’ll get you in and out as fast as possible.”

“And what if the judge denies bail?”

(p. 151)

Fact is, since Pruitt is alleged to have committed murder, a state crime, he’s in Minnesota State District Court on the charge. Minnesota requires bail be set in every case, no exceptions. Even Charlie Manson would be allowed bail in Minnesota; unlike some states where the judge can simply “remand” (keep in jail) a defendant without setting bail. The lay reader won’t likely even see this glitch and, to be fair, it’s about the only error in the procedural depictions in the book that I found.The twist at the end seemed a bit forced to me but I’ll let you discover that on your own and form your own conclusion as to whether it works fully as an ending or not.

The dialogue is crisp and believable. The plotting, quick and lithe, just as you’d expect in this type of yarn. Overall, a well done pot boiler that makes for a good summer hammock read.

4 stars out of 5.

Peace.

Mark

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