Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

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

MM:

Let’s start with some background.

PM:

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

MM:

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

PM:

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

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

MM:

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

PM:

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

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

MM:

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

PM:

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

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

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

I still laugh about that.

MM:

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

PM:

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

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

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

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

MM:

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

PM:

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

MM:

Other highlight to your lengthy career?

PM:

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

MM:

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

PM:

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

MM:

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

PM:

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEAD LETTER                     

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

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

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

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

            “What’re you doing?” Mom asked.

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

            “Who’s winning?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John and Mark, FinnFest 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judge Mark Munger

Duluth, MN

Jack and Callie in Jack’s Solo Old Town

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

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

Dylan’s First ‘Eye of the Trip

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

Dusk on Secret Lake

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

Callie on Chipmunk Duty

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt and Adrien Waiting for Oatmeal/Waterfall Portage

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author John Simon and Me at FinnFest 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judge Mark Munger

Duluth, MN

(C) 2025, Mark Munger

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

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

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

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

Read the entire review here: 

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

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

Peace

Mark 

Interview With Dr. Arne Vainio

MM:

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

AV:

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

MM:

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

AV:

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

MM:

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

AV:

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

MM:

How did your Ojibwe heritage interplay with your Finnishness?

AV:

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

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

MM:

Let’s talk a bit about your education.

AV:

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

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

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

MM:

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

AV:

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

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

MM:

What are your thoughts regarding the Indian Health Services system?

AV:

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

MM:

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

AV:

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

MM:

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

AV:

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

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

MM:

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

AV:

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

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

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

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

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

MM:

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

AV:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus wept.

(John 11:35)

Rest in peace, Melissa and Mark.

Heal, John and Yvette and members of both families.

Judge Mark Munger

INTERVIEW With KASEY KOSKI

MM:

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

KK:

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

MM:

Folks are always fascinated to hear familial immigrant stories.

KK:

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

 MM:

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

KK: 

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

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

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

MM:

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

KK:

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

MM:

Talk about the muse that compels your art

KK: 

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

MM:

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

KK:

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

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

MM:

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

KK:

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

MM:

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

KK: 

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

MM:

Your most recent artistic endeavor involved an installation there.

KK: 

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

MM:

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

KK: 

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

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

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

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