Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

INTERVIEW With KASEY KOSKI

MM:

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

KK:

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

MM:

Folks are always fascinated to hear familial immigrant stories.

KK:

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

 MM:

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

KK: 

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

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

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

MM:

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

KK:

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

MM:

Talk about the muse that compels your art

KK: 

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

MM:

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

KK:

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

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

MM:

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

KK:

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

MM:

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

KK: 

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

MM:

Your most recent artistic endeavor involved an installation there.

KK: 

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

MM:

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

KK: 

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

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

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

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

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

MM:

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

RT: 

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

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

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

MM:

Jaana, how about you?

JT:

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

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

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

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

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

MM:

Ralph, how did you become involved with music?

RT: 

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

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

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

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

MM:

Jaana, how did you become involved with music?

JT:

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

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

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

MM:

Talk a bit more about Finn Hall.

JT:

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

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

MM:

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

JT:

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

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

MM:

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

RT:

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

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

JT:

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

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

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

MM:

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

RT:

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

JT:

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

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

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

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

MM:

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

RT:

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

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

JT: 

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

MM:

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

RT and JT:

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

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

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

(C) 2025 Mark Munger

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

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

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

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

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

“Cool”.

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

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

The boys nodded in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(C) 2025, Mark Munger

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

By Mark Munger (c) 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace

Mark

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

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

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

By Mark Munger (c) 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told him.

“I’ll go check and call you back.”

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

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

I called the next morning. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He says he doesn’t have your watch.”

“What? Two people at your hotel …”

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Can I speak to the general manager?”

“You are.”

“Can I speak to the owner?”

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

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

“Fine. Report it. Have a nice day.”

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

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

“What?”

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

I knew what was inside. “Open it.”

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

I smiled. “It’s a long story.”

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

Peace

Mark

Jeff Tynjala at “The Cabin”

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

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

The Count Has Left Us

(c) Mark Munger 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?”

“Markie.”

I knew the voice and accent instantly.

“Count?”

“Yes. I hear you’re in Helsinki.”

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

“Good. I have some ideas for you …”

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

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

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

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

He earned it.

Rest in peace, my friend and mentor.

Judge Mark Munger

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

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

                                                      BRUCE WILIAM JOHN MEYER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mark

(c) 2024 Mark Munger

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

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

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

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

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

Peace

Mark 

((c) 2024 Mark Munger)