Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

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