Slices of Farm Life in Verse

Good

Good Thunder, Blue Earth by Susan Stevens Chambers (2016. River Place Press. ISBN 9780990356363)

Here’s why I enjoyed this collection of poems set in America’s rural heartland:

No five a.m. eggs,

no fresh cinnamon rolls at ten.

Stay away from beef,

eat less at suppertime.

Let others do the chores.

You should think about moving to town.

(from “The Doctor’s Prescription”)

This after Grandpa Hank, the patriarch of the Carlson family farm suffers a heart attack while working the land that has sustained the Carlsons for generations. Ms. Chambers, who like me, is a judge in her vocation, clearly loves her avocation: writing strikingly poignant and succinct poetry centered around the experience of rural farming life in the present age. I am struck how this slender volume is an excellent companion to another book I am plowing through, novelist Lois Phillips Hudson’s Unrestorable Habitat: Microsoft is My Neighbor Now. The late Hudson, who taught at colleges in the Pacific Northwest but had roots on a family farm in North Dakota, left behind an assortment of essays that an organization I am affiliated with, the Rural Lit R.A.L.L.Y., (more at: http://rurallitrally.org/) has collected into Unrestorable Habitat. Reading Chambers’s poetry alongside Hudson’s lament for the loss of America’s rural heritage and love of nature (for more on Hudson, visit: http://www.loisphillipshudson.org/) is a compelling and intellectually invigorating exercise, made all the more enjoyable because Chambers, in addition to being an excellent poet, is also a fine narrator and storyteller. Her gift to the reader is the ability to take scenes, actions, and thoughts that might require dozens of paragraphs or pages to depict in prose, and render them sharply and crisply as stanzas of poetic lyricism. Loosely configured to follow seasonal life on a family farm, where joy and tragedy can be found in microcosmic equal measure, Chambers is a gifted wordsmith whose work should be read by all. Truly a stellar little gem of a book.

Peace.

Mark

5 stars out of 5.

 

 

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Caught Between Fact and Fiction

George

George Washington’s Secret Six: The Spy Ring that Saved the American Revolution by Brian Kilmeade and Don Yaeger (2013. Sentinel. ISBN 978-1-59523-103-1)

My friends Nancy and Ron don’t always see eye to eye with Rene’ and I when it comes to politics. Like so many Americans these days, we often refrain from discussing the major issues of the day because, well, our friends are Fox News sorts of folks and Rene’ and I are more attuned to MSNBC. Still, for the past twenty years or so, Ron and I have bought each other books for Christmas. And generally, though not always, we buy non-fiction biographies or histories that engage and enlighten. That’s how this book came into my hands: Ron wrapped it up in his traditional Christmas wrapping especially selected for his liberal friend (the silver foil of potato chip bags cleaned of crumbs and turned inside out) and handed it to me during Christmas 2014. It took me a year to work down my reading stack to this slender volume. Here’s what I have to report.

Despite the endorsements on the rear jacket (from literary luminaries ranging from Donald Rumsfeld to Donald Trump), this book doesn’t, as the blurb from Karl Rove states, come close to being a “rollicking read.” While the narrative contains some interesting excerpts from letters written by the Culper Spy Ring stationed in and around New York City to their commander-in-chief, General George Washington, and letters from Washington to the leader of the ring, Major Benjamin Talmadge, the authors’ collective choice to invent dialogue and thoughts attributable to Washington and his spies in what seems, at first blush, to be a non-fiction historical account of actual events, clouds the veracity and accuracy of the story. Better for Kilmeade and Yaeger to have made a choice, like Nathan Hale does early in the book, to serve only one master: Either write the story as a novel and include dialogue and emotional content that could be attributed to the stars of the story, or write a straight historical narrative that sticks to what is known about the Culper Ring. Trying to write, what in essence, is a print version of a docudrama, does the story of the brave men and the one woman who risked their lives for their ideals an injustice. I also found the descriptions of the events that lead to the “success” of the spies and the authors’ view of their importance to the Patriots’ ultimate victory at Yorktown overplayed and lacking historical support, at least as contained in this volume. There is cause, there is effect, but there is nothing linking the two by way of facts or information that seems compelling enough to sustain the premise that the Secret Six offered up anything of note that “saved” the Revolution.

The writing was crisp and succinct but tended towards the elementary. It’s as if, in addition to being perplexed as to whether the book should be a novel or accurate history, the authors couldn’t decide whether the book was meant for adults or a juvenile audience. In sum, I learned a bit about the spies that aided Washington during the war that created our nation but, aside from the narratives about hero Nathan Hale and traitor Benedict Arnold, I found very little insightful or compelling in this read.

2 and 1/2 stars out of 5. Don’t waste your money: Watch “Turn: Washington’s Spies” on AMC for a more accurate and exciting retelling of this piece of American history. (More at: https://www.historians.org/publications-and-directories/perspectives-on-history/april-2014/the-revolution-takes-a-turn. Professor Eastman suggests Washington’s Spies: The Story of America’s First Spy Ring (2006) by Alexander Rose as the source of the history behind the series; not the vague and sometimes confusing book that is the subject of this review. You can also find out more about the series at:  http://www.amc.com/shows/turn.)

Peace.

Mark

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A Writer’s Lament

AuthorDM

 

Someday, I’m gonna sit down, open my old files, and figure out how many book signings, library talks, book festivals, craft fairs, and book clubs I’ve attended over the twenty-five years I’ve been writing. In summary fashion, I can safely say that I’ve been as far west as Calgary, Alberta, as far east as Youngstown, Ohio, as far north as Winnipeg, Manitoba, and as far south as Council Bluffs, Iowa. I’d like to think that these bits and pieces of my writerly journey from considering writing a book to actually writing novels chronicles my progress as an author, but I’m not sure anyone would be interested.

I started writing seriously in 1990. My first novel took three years of sweat, blood, and tears to hammer into shape. After a decade of shopping that first effort (The Legacy) to agents and publishers, Savage Press accepted the book for publication. Mike Savage taught me the ropes of book publishing, marketing, and distribution and, in the end, after the book’s regional bestseller status began to wane, with no literary agents knocking down the door to represent my work (a necessity in attracting large, New York publishing houses—every author’s dream), and being impatient by nature, I chose to go it alone. I formed Cloquet River Press, found a printer, established a relationship with a distributor, and started churning out books. I find myself decades later with my tenth book—seventh novel—meandering towards birth having achieved little recognition for my effort.

There was a time when I submitted work I’d written, novels that had achieved acclaim from national and even international reviewers, to writing contests in hopes of winning at least an honorable mention; something, anything to set my work above the crowd of self-published authors. I know, I know. Seeking such vindication is akin to trying to win the Powerball. I understand that I should be satisfied that folks generally appreciate my work. I know this because they come back for another Munger “read” or send me kind emails praising my stories and characters. And to be fair, a couple of my short stories have won recognition in local writing contests. Such small, sweet victories raise my spirits and make me smile. For a few weeks. And then, it’s back to reality. I remain, despite serious and consistent effort at craft, virtually unknown as a writer in my own hometown. Rejection is something every writer, poet, musician, or artist must face and, having experienced such disdain by the public, ignore. I understand this delicate dance with ego. I’ve repeatedly submitted my work to the Northeastern Minnesota Book Award and the Minnesota Book Award only to watch folks, talented to be sure but having only the most tangential connections to my backyard, win year in and year out. I’ve talked to folks “in the know” and asked “why?” only to receive blank stares and the admonition to “try, try again”. Once, in answer to such an inquiry, a female judge in a local writing contest confided, “I was on the committee and thought your book (Suomalaiset) was the best of the lot.” And yet, that novel, a broad, sweeping historical look at the lynching of a Finnish dockworker in Duluth, didn’t make the cut. Despite such heartbreak, I continue to put my shoulder to the wheel of words. I cannot not write—even when my head hurts from decades of pounding it against the wall of anonymity.

Sometime this year, Boomtown, a legal thriller set in Ely and Grand Marais, will be released. I’m trying something new: I’m asking readers who’ve enjoyed my work to pre-order the novel to assist in funding its publication. I plan on releasing the book in September. So far, the response has been tepid even though Boomtown has a timely plot and reprises many characters from The Legacy, Pigs, and Laman’s River; books that have done well with readers. Resurrecting beloved characters is my way of saying “thank you” to folks who’ve read my work and told me to keep at it. But whether Boomtown is the end of my efforts to become an established author or a new beginning remains an unanswered question.

 

You can pre-order Boomtown at www.cloquetriverpress.com. Click on “Buy Books Direct” and scroll down to the book cover for Boomtown. Click on the book cover and follow the instructions. A version of this essay was first published on 03/06/2016 in the
Duluth News Tribune.

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Bonking the Noggin’…Or Things Learned in Montana

First run after the ambulance ride.

First run after the ambulance ride.

Every year, the Ski Hut in Duluth, a local ski and bike shop owned by the Neustel family, organizes a family oriented trip to Bozeman, Montana. My mom and stepdad have been going out there with their skiing friends for the better part of two decades. My own immediate family, including all four sons and their significant others, have made the trip. This year, it was just Rene’ and I, along with our friends Jan and Bruce Larson, who made the trek from Minnesota to Montana. My mom and stepdad drove out for the Tuesday buffet to visit with folks in attendance but, as both of them are over the age of eighty, they no longer ski. Rene’ and I always make the drive out to Bozeman, usually stopping in Bismarck or Dickinson, North Dakota and spending the night. My mom and stepdad also drove despite their advanced ages. It’s a long ride through western Minnesota, all of North Dakota, and most of Montana from Duluth to Bozeman but, with the exception of the stretch from Fargo to Teddy Roosevelt National Park in far western North Dakota, the ride is fairly scenic. This year, we saw pheasants and wild turkey and a large herd of pronghorn on the way west. In the past, we encountered a moose standing in a cornfield just outside Fargo, a setting for that big creature that made no sense.The Larsons avoided the boredom of driving across North Dakota by flying from Minneapolis to Bozeman.

Monday. First day. I don’t remember much about President’s Day. In fact, when questioned in the ski patrol room, ambulance, and Bozeman Deaconess Hospital about the day and date, I couldn’t remember that it was Monday, that is was February 15th or that it was President’s Day. Ambulance ride? you ask. Si! Sometime between leaving my wife early on Monday morning to ski the black diamond runs off the Bridger lift and finding myself in the ski patrol room at the base of Bridger Bowl, something happened to my noggin’. The what is elusive. No one was with me so no one can attest to whether my complete loss of three hours’ time was due to a catastrophic fall, oxygen depletion, dehydration, or a combination of all three. I don’t remember making my way to the Deer Park chalet for cocoa with Rene’, Jan, and Bruce. I don’t remember repeating the same question to my wife eight times in a minute’s span. I don’t remember being confused as to where I’d left my skis. Or that I couldn’t remember the make or color of my skis. And I don’t remember taking six runs with the Larsons. It’s all gone. Completely wiped from my mind.

Rene' skiing Bridger Bowl.

Rene’ skiing Bridger Bowl.

Apparently, my friends and my wife determined that something was very wrong with my mental status while we ate lunch. Lunch? I don’t remember it at all. I do remember being ushered by Bruce to the ski patrol room and meeting with a patroler and an orthopedic surgeon from New Zealand as they provided an assessment and care for my disorientation. But I don’t recall our conversations, or the tests they ran, or my responses to their questions. Their diagnosis was “altered mental state possibly related to a fall” and Rene’ was advised that I should be taken by ambulance to the local hospital for further evaluation.

The young female EMT who rode with me in the back of the ambulance down the mountain was cute with dyed red hair, scandalously cool tats, and an even manner. When I complained that my bladder was full, she gave me a portable urinal and moved to the front of the rig to give me privacy and talk to Rene’. Ever tried peeing while lying down and strapped to a gurney? Doesn’t work, at least not for this 61-year-old man. The first thing I did when I was brought into Bozeman Deaconess was to ask for privacy to go. And I did. Then it was off to the CT scanner. My blood, drawn by the EMT in the ambulance, was analyzed. My vitals were checked. My blood pressure, which is normally on the low side,

Bruce and Rene', Bridger chalet.

Bruce and Rene’, Bridger chalet.

was high. My oxygen was slightly depleted. The scan appeared, according to the doctor and the nice PA who worked on me, normal. “Did anyone see him fall?” the PA asked Bruce, Jan, and Rene’. The answer was of course, a resounding “No.”

Bruce and Jan Larson, Bridger Bowl.

Bruce and Jan Larson, Bridger Bowl.

“How about his helmet?” the PA asked. “It’s in the car,” Bruce replied. “I’ll go get it.” We’d all arrived at the hill in my blue Pacifica. After my momentary lapse of reason, Rene’ rode shotgun in the ambulance. The Larsons, after collecting all our gear, had followed in the Chrysler. When Bruce returned with my helmet, it was pockmarked with new scrapes and dents and dings. It certainly looked like I’d fallen. And yet, the truth remains elusive as I have no recollection of the incident, if there was one.

I took the next day off on doctor’s orders. I sat in the Bridger chalet, reading The Confabulist (see review elsewhere on this blog), sipping coffee and lamenting that I’d cost my wife and my friends half a day of skiing. Rene’ and the Larsons were out, doing what I wanted to be doing, gliding down the slopes. But the doctor had given me strict orders not so ski for the rest of the week. I figured one day off and I’d be good to go. I can be a stubborn old cuss at times.

Moonlight Basin at Big Sky.

Moonlight Basin at Big Sky.

After attending the Ski Hut banquet on Tuesday night, where copies of my books were given away as door prizes, and after Potter Neustel pointed to me as he was giving away a ski helmet and quipped “Just ask Judge Munger the value of a helmet…”, and of course, after explaining what I knew (or didn’t know) about what had happened to me, I skied Bridger on Wednesday and Big Sky/Moonlight on Thursday. Rene’ took two days off, Wednesday to simply rest her sore feet (she had new ski boots and they were causing blisters) and Thursday to visit the Spa in Big Sky, using a gift certificate I’d given to her at Christmas. The Larsons kept me by their side, making sure that I didn’t over exert myself or end up in the trees. On Thursday, strong winds at Big Sky, along with thunder and lightening, shut down the hill for a time. When we finally got back to it, Jan, Bruce, and I were pelleted by sleet sharp enough to make skin bleed.

A highlight of the trip was taking Eagle Scout and Hermantown kid, Rudy Hummel, out for pizza at McKenzie River Pizza in downtown Bozeman. You might remember Rudy. He’s the young lad who slept outside for 365 straight days, making national news for his effort. He’s now attending Montana State and, given that we’re Face Book friends, I had messenged him and offered to treat him to pizza. He obliged and regaled the Larsons, Rene’, and my mom and stepdad with his remarkable story.

Of course, being that my own tale was circulating amongst Duluthians occupying the Comfort Inn, I was asked to retell my story, or non-story, many times over the succeeding days. During that time, the fogginess I’d experienced subsided. I recovered sufficiently to take a final plunge down a double black off the North Bowl traverse. Despite my forgotten Monday, I ended the trip breathless  and wanting more.

“How was your last run?” Jan asked as I clambered into the chalet to meet my party for a beer. “I think you must have snuck in an extra run somehow,” she added. “I did.” “So…?” Bruce asked, “how was it?” “It was legendary,” I replied. And it was.

The Larsons and the Mungers, Bridger Bowl.

The Larsons and the Mungers, Bridger Bowl.

But that’s not the end of this story. After a fifteen hour drive, Rene’ and I tumbled into our own bed, exhausted, leaving the Pacifica full of our gear. Sunday afternoon, I unloaded the van. I was unaware that it had rained during our absence, leaving treacherous black ice beneath an inch of new powder. As I took a step towards the garage door, my right foot slipped and I tumbled. My right leg bent behind me, resulting in a very painful impression of a human pretzel. Thankfully, I didn’t hit my head. But when I tried to stand, I knew I’d done serious damage to my right knee, my good knee. The left? It’s slated for partial knee replacement after years of running, skiing, football, softball, and assorted other outdoor activities. My right knee? Up until that moment, it was without pain. As I type this piece three days’ after my fall on ice, my right knee is swollen and sore. I have trouble standing up from a chair. I can’t put weight on it. I see my doctor tomorrow to fulfill the old adage, “You should have your head examined!” I’ll have to tell Dr. Knutson my story, including the last little bit because he’ll also need to examine my right knee. When I explain what happened in Montana, and then later, in Duluth, I hope it’s the last time I have to repeat my story, a story I really don’t know.

Moonlight Basin at Big Sky

Moonlight Basin at Big Sky

Peace.

Mark

Last day on the mountain.

Last day on the mountain.

 

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Three from the Road…

Houdini

The Confabulist by Steven Galloway (201. Riverhead Books. ISBN 9781594631962)

Two true confessions. First, from the time I saw an article about Houdini in a 1917 copy of Life magazine stacked amongst hundreds of other copies of that seminal 20th century periodical, and then watched Houdini starring Tony Curtis as the ill-fated magician, I was enthralled with the story of Ehrich Weiss (Houdini’s Americanized name). So when I learned that a new novel about Houdini was in the works, I made ready my credit card. Second, because I had the privilege of interviewing Canadian author Steven Galloway as part of the Cloquet Library’s One Book event in 2013, and later that same evening, dined with the man who penned The Cellist of Sarajevo; and as Galloway is the author of both books, I looked forward to reading his take on the Houdini legend. A few weeks back I picked up a hard cover version of Galloway’s latest at The Bookstore at Fitger’s. The book sat, unread until I left for a ski vacation in Montana. I read the novel between runs and at night as I tried to find sleep. In the end, unlike The Cellist, which I found to be “(B)rilliantly conceived (and) excellently executed”,  rating it at 5 out of 5 stars, The Confabulist doesn’t measure up.

There’s no question that the author’s take on the story of Houdini’s tragic end, where he is punched in the stomach by an angry young Martin Strauss, eventually dying from a burst appendix that some historians relate to Strauss’s punch, is a unique and ingenious one. Moving from third person (the Houdini story) to first person (Strauss’s story) is done seamlessly. But the addled mind of Strauss, and the confusion of fact and fiction in that reporter’s mind, is the confabulating factor in this story, so much so, it is difficult to understand and follow the tale’s various tangents. This is not to say that Galloway completely missed the mark. Rather, my take, upon finishing the book, is that it is a middling effort, worthy of print, but nowhere near as glorious a read as The Cellist.

Additionally, the author spends a great deal of time telling, not showing, how magic and slight of hand work. All well and good if he or she is writing a tutorial for budding magicians but lost, I am afraid, on the general reading audience who is more interested in Houdini the man than how he once made an elephant disappear. Further, the additional subplots featuring international intrigue and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle do very little to move the story forward. Finally, the ending, while certainly written with skill, is confusing. Perhaps a second reading of the last few chapters might reveal more but one shouldn’t have to work so hard unless one is reading Joyce.

In the end, a somewhat intriguing read but not nearly as compelling as The Cellist of Sarajevo (a review of which can be found by using the search feature of this blog.)

3 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Ireland Ireland by Frank Delaney (2005. Audio version. Harper Audio. ISBN 9780062119681)

My wife Rene’ and I like to listen to fiction when we drive long distances. We’re old fashioned and, rather than have books sent to us via a streaming service, we buy audio CDs for the six disc changer in the blue Pacifica that is our traveling wagon. Sometimes we find gems (as we did with The Nightingale’s Song: you’ll find a review of that marvelous read by using the search function above). And sometimes, we find duds. Though the packaging and the promotional art for Ireland led me to believe this book would be a diamond. I was wrong.

Ireland follows the related stories of a mythical bard, The Storyteller, and a young listener, Ronan, who encounter each other when Ronan is 9 years old and The Storyteller is a guest in Ronan’s home. Enthralled with the tales that the old man spews, as Ronan ages, ultimately entering university as a history major, he becomes more and more determined to seek out The Storyteller to hear more of Ireland’s history and legends. What follows is a fairly trite and no-nonsense excursion through Ireland’s history: the Viking conquest; Oliver Cromwell’s invasion; the battle between William and James to secure Ireland as either a Protestant or Catholic nation; Wolf Tone’s uprising; the legacies of Parnell and O’Connell; and the 1916 Easter Rising. A collection of legends, myths, and historical tales takes the listener from ancient Ireland to 1961. The glue that ties the stories together is, sadly, one that seems forced and unnatural. The plot device used by Delaney, having the tales repeated to Ronan by third-hand narrators, Ronan always a step behind The Storyteller as the young historian chases the old sage across the island, seems contrived and doesn’t flow all that well. Add to this the fact that some segments are just dull and uninteresting, or, as in the case of three Irish guitar players singing a historical trilogy, downright annoying, and you have a mishmash of a novel; a haphazard collection of stories that are hammered into place to achieve the outwardly bulwark of a novel. But the heart, the soul of the stories, stories that Irish lad and lassies have reveled in for over a thousand years, is lost in the process of linking these bits and pieces of lore into something akin to a novel.

My wife quickly grew bored with the story. I listened to all 20 hours, if only to learn a bit more Irish history. I learned a few things but, sad to say, wasn’t entertained much in the process.

3 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Gray

Gray Mountain by John Grisham (2014. Audio version. Random House Audio. ISBN 9781101921852.)

Will Grisham ever write another The Firm or A Time to Kill? I thought he might have as I listened to his wonderful characterization of the 2008 recession that is the beginning prompt in this story. In Samantha Kofer, a young third-year associate at one of the world’s largest law firms, a Wall Street insider whose work involves the boring, but necessary examination of financial documents, Grisham sculpts a lawyer whose selfish, egocentric, money grubbing psyche seems poised to launch the novel into greatness. And while Sam’s persona holds up over the arc of the story, and other supporting cast members such as Maddie (the principal in a legal aid clinic Sam ends up working at as an unpaid intern) and Donovan (a brash, local trial attorney whose sole joy in life is suing coal companies in the Appalachians) the plot, as has been the case in too many Grisham books of late, simply fails to launch.

Oh, there’s much promise in the opening few chapters where Donovan explains the evils of King Coal to the neophyte lawyer from New York City. The relationships that develop, including the love interest between Sam and Donovan’s brother Jeff are well written and believable.  But a series of slapstick maneuvers, a pale imitation of the skulduggery engaged in by Mitch McDear in The Firm, make the plotting seem forced. Add to this unresolved plot twists (what did happen to that second lawsuit, anyway?) and an ending that comes off as a rush to publication, and well, this Grisham effort doesn’t quite make the mark.

Gray Mountain wasn’t a bad book. It was enjoyable listening across the plains of North Dakota. But it could have been so, so much better. I am hoping John hits the next one out of the park. Why? He’s my hero. He self-published The Firm and worked hard to establish himself as a renowned author. Now, if he’d only spend more time on the writing and less on the marketing, maybe there’s another A Time to Kill inside his lawyerly skull.

3 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

Peace.

Mark

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An Interesting But Uneventful Flight

wright

The Wright Brothers by David McCullough (2015. Simon and Schuster. ISBN 978-147672874)

Masterpieces: The Path Between the Seas. John Adams. 1776. The Wright Brothers? Not so much. I’ve read the first three titles, all great works of non-fiction by Mr. McCullough, and was held spellbound through each of them. Perhaps it is the epic nature of the subject matter of those tales. Or, in the case of the building of the Panama Canal, the exotic locale. But more than that, I think, McCullough’s other works involved characters of great interest: Men (and in the case of John Adams’s wife (Abigail) a woman) whose stories, when set against their timeframes, made those non-fiction works read like great literature rather than fact-driven histories. Unfortunately, either Orville and Wilbur Wright were two of the brightest yet dullest human beings on the planet or the author missed some juicy narratives and salacious gossip that would have made this book more compelling. Given David McCullough’s credentials as a researcher and writer, I’m fairly certain that his study of the Wrights, including The Bishop (their father) and Katherine (their sister) is spot on. That leaves us with a detailed and sometimes interesting rendition of the invention of the airplane and not much else. It’s not McCullough’s fault the Wright Brothers were so damn boring. They just were.

My copy of the book was given to me by a guy who, though having lived and made history, was once labeled by news pundits to be, well, somewhat dull and uninteresting. Knowing the former U.S. Senator, Vice-President, and Ambassador to Japan personally, having been the brunt of his wry, sometimes sardonic wit, I have to disagree: Walter “Fritz” Mondale is an interesting character, a point made clear in his memoir, The Good Fight. (The Good Fight: A Life in Liberal Politics by Walter F. Mondale with David Hage (2010; Scribner. ISBN 978-1-4391-5866-1)).  Fritz handed McCullough’s book to me at a cabin in Ontario and said “Give it a read and let me know what you think.” He also hinted that the book wasn’t all that exciting a read. I disagree to a point. I found the book well researched and written but, as I’ve said, somewhat thin when it came to exposing the inner lives of the book’s principal subjects. In fairness, the author did make me care about The Bishop (Milton Wright) and Katherine. Those two personages, rather than the brothers themselves, make for intriguing inquiry. Again, the lack of character examination and revelation concerning the brothers is likely due to the fact that, beyond being determined inventors, fine mechanics, skilled flyers, and gifted innovators the Wright Brothers were not especially compelling human beings.

My major criticism of the book concerns the ending. Readers are guided by the narrative to 1910, on the cusp of the Great War, which any historian or student of history knows was the first war involving combat aircraft. It would have been a far better ending to the Wrights’ story if the author had given us the history of how the fragile Wright Flyer, which barely cleared the sand dunes of Kitty Hawk in 1903, became a stable and reliable machine capable of great destruction in the space of only a decade. There are hints of this history in the book but they are only that: wisps of rumor and regret. Also, after spending 250 pages exploring the solitary and unexciting (save for their inventiveness) lives of the Wright Brothers, their respective ends are given fairly short shrift. The brothers grew up the sons of a Bishop in the United Brethren Church and a bit more examination of their faith, especially towards the end of their lives, would have added necessary humanity; flesh to their bones, as it were.

Fritz Mondale is an astute man. This book is well written but lacks the drama and characterizations of its subjects that would make it a “must” read. I learned much about the invention of the Wright Flyer but not so much about the men behind the machine.

3 and 1/2 stars of 5.

Peace.

Mark

 

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Minnesota’s Shame Writ Large

Up1

Uprising A Novel by Dean Urdahl (2007. North Star Press. ISBN 978-0-87839-247-6)

I met Representative Urdahl at Hostfest in Minot this past fall. We manned tables across from each other in the Nordic festival’s bookstore as we hawked novels to strangers, and had many occasions to talk about kids, life, writing, and the travails of self-publishing. I found that Rep. Urdahl was an engaging man, whose prior career as a teacher and high school cross country coach was evidenced by the native patience displayed during our conversations. I’m normally very leery about trading copies of my novels with other self-published authors because I’m invariably disappointed. Not so this time. Here’s why.

First, the topic of Dean’s novel is of significant interest to me. My best selling books have all been historical fiction (The Legacy, Suomalaiset, and Sukulaiset). Back a decade or so ago, I too considered researching and writing a novel about the 1862 Dakota uprising. For those of you not steeped in Minnesota history, in 1862 the Sioux, who were confined on reservations near Mankato, rose in rebellion against their white neighbors. The cause of Little Crow’s War, as the conflict came to be known, was simple: Once again, the white man failed to abide by promises made in signed treaties, most importantly, the promise to pay the Indians an annual annuity that the Sioux depended upon to feed their families. Ultimately, I chose not to write a tale set against this tragedy and, given that Urdahl has done a credible job of bringing the story to life, I am glad I yielded this topic to him.

Secondly, my prose tends to be a hybrid of contemporary and literary styles that generally works to my advantage with readers. But if an author wants to reach the wider public, a more contemporary and less literary style sells books. Here, that’s exactly what Dean Urdahl has done. His writing, while crisp and fast paced, doesn’t hold any pretense of being literary and that, as I’ve said, is a sure fire way to engage the occasional reader. If one wants to educate the general public, the style chosen by Urdahl in Uprising hits the mark and makes for an easy, though accurate and thought provoking, read.

Urdahl handles the historical portions of the narrative with an even handed, genteel approach. Yes, the Sioux were mistreated and the white traders who often cheated, lied, and mislead their Indian neighbors did stand by, their granaries full of wheat and corn, watching women and children and tribal elders perish of starvation when promised annuity payments did not arrive from the federal government. There’s no question that, once a wandering band of young Indian men encountered a farmer and his family while hunting and that confrontation ended in murder, the events that unfolded thereafter, to include the deaths of over 800 white civilians, many of whom were helpless women and children, were indeed tragic for both parties. Urdahl doesn’t excuse the conduct of the beleaguered Sioux; he explains it and provides key historical details that bring the terror of the uprising to life:

The trap door to the cellar was open and, baby and all, she slipped and fell down the stairs, stifling her cries of fear and terror and pain. Meredith gripped her child tightly and tried to shield him from the fall as she rolled down the stairs and onto the packed earthen floor .

My major criticism of the book is that the author relies upon an invented subplot involving a fictional character, Rebel soldier Nathan Thomas (aka, Nathan Cates) to carry the story arc. In Urdahl’s fictional retelling of the tale, Thomas is sent by Confederate President Jefferson Davis to Minnesota as an undercover agent to rile up the Sioux in hopes of opening up a distraction while General Lee invades Maryland. At first, this addition of a fictional plot and a created character infuriated me to the point where I wasn’t going to continue reading. But, because the author’s prose was compelling and the history was of interest, I soldiered on (pun intended). I’m glad I did. While the ending seemed a bit abrupt, and the eventual “outing” of Thomas and its attendant consequences were a tad implausible, overall, the story was well crafted, the dialogue believable, and the novel, one that I would recommend to anyone interested in this unique piece of Minnesota history.

4 stars out of 5. Not the great American novel but worth a read.

Peace.

Mark

 

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Renewal

Cold Afternoon on the Cloquet

Cold Afternoon on the Cloquet

The past twelve months have been hard. Good friends lost battles with insidious diseases or were struck down in the prime of life through no fault of their own. Another close friend slipped further into dementia. Two family dogs passed on. For the first time in my 17 years as a judge, the job, the day-to-day grind, is wearing me down. Rene’ went through foot surgery and then, after devoting 16 years to helping kids as a mental health therapist in the public schools, after 12 years working in Proctor, saw her position with Bayview Elementary eliminated with not so much as a “thank you.”  I found out my left knee is bone on bone, requiring at the very least, a partial knee replacement. I discovered black mold behind the walls of our garage. Water from the garage also leaked into the house and damaged drywall in the basement. The hot tub sprang a leak and, once the leak was repaired, the motor died. OK. I’ll grant you that last item doesn’t really deserve to be on the list. But the cumulative effect of it all is what’s so hard to wrangle, to come to grips with. I’ve told Rene’ that, after inventoring the woes of the past twelve months, this year has been absent joy. But that’s not entirely true.

There have been glorious moments I’ve experienced over the past year. Like the birth of Avery, our second grandchild, Jack’s graduation from Army basic training, Rene’ being hired as a Guardian ad Litem by the State of Minnesota, time spent with my boys hunting and fishing, holidays and other occasions spent with good friends and extended family, dates with my sweetie, trips to Montana and Florida and North Dakota and South Carolina, and the announcement of another grandchild on the way. However, behind the good times and moments of expressive joy, there still lurks a foreboding, a darkness that, well, for the first time in my life, I have felt incapable of overcoming. I know the funk I’m experiencing is what everyone who lives to my age encounters: a feeling of being “in between” the past (for those of us whose parents, thankfully, remain in good health), the present (as manifested by our children), and the future (as engendered in our grandchildren). I get it. I get that things change and I must endeavor to change as well. The first step, I think, is to vow, bad knee or not, to engage in physical activity, to set the pulse a racing, the breathing a gasping, and the muscles to aching. When I’m active, while the black clouds don’t disappear, they do seem far distant and not nearly as ominous as when I sit moping in my easy chair, staring out a window. And so, with our young Labrador Kena leading the way, I’ve made the conscious effort to get off my tired old duff, dress for the below zero days we’re experiencing,  wax up my skis, and lose myself in forest.

Kena on the River Trail.

Kena on the River Trail.

Looking north.

Looking north.

“Kena is a good girl”. That’s a phrase my son Chris invokes when talking about our dogs. Chris is spot on when it comes to our energetic two-year old pup. Oh, she’s not perfect. Yesterday, she managed to get hold of Rene’s stocking cap and destroy the tassel. But such incidents are few and far between. And Kena loves the trail, loves romping ahead of her human companion as we make our way through the aspen, maple, balsam, birch, and pine woods surrounding our house. This time of year, with the sun bright, the mercury below zero, and the air as still as a deep freeze, there’s not much wildlife to see. But on one of our recent treks, a ruffed grouse, concealed beneath snow, burst into the sunshine as we passed its hiding place. Kena, who has a pretty good nose, didn’t have a clue. The explosion of wings set my heart to racing but barely garnered a glance from the Lab. Also, despite an abundance of whitetails around our place, I rarely see deer out and about in such cold and, on our most recent below-zero ski, even their tracks proved scarce.

There’s a flock of Goldeneyes that, like clockwork, arrives on the Cloquet River in front of our house every November. The ducks time their descent from Canada to coincide with the expiration of waterfowl hunting. I have no idea how Manitoba ducks know when the season ends, but they do! Sometimes, as Kena and I make our way onto the stretch of ski trail that hugs the east bank of the river, twenty or so Goldeneyes will rise as one, whistling as they depart. Then too, a resident pair of bald eagles will often soar above the river, searching diligently for fish, their feathered majesties unaffected by cold. But on these January treks, it’s usually just Kena and me. And it’s while poling and gliding and huffing and puffing over new snow that I catalog the losses and the gains of the past year, my OCD mind creating a ledger of the good and the bad, an internal balance sheet that, in the end, favors the positive.

What do folks who live in town do when the weight of life, the passing of time and friends and family, and creeping despondency invade their spirits? I’m not certain. But I hope they have some place, like the trails behind my house on the Cloquet, where they can find renewal. Maybe its a city park or a local skating rink or a state ski trail or the slopes of Spirit Mountain or Mont du Lac or Lutsen or their church or mosque or synagogue or the public library that allows them to rekindle the flame. One thing is for certain: Life doesn’t get easier. Winter in Minnesota and the attendant seasonal malaise don’t help. But despite it all, there’s a chance for all of us to start anew, to forge ahead, putting one foot ahead of the other. I’m working on it. I hope you are too.

Peace.

Mark

The good girl.

The good girl.

 

 

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A Peek Under the Tent Flap

Hass

Simon’s Night (including Simon’s Night Journal) by Jon Hassler, edited by Joseph Plut. (2013. Nodin Press. ISBN 978-1-9356666-53-0)

Jon Hassler. My wife’s favorite author. A Minnesota original. I’ve met and spoken to Hassler’s friend and former colleague, Joseph Plut, and reviewed Plut’s extensive conversational memoir, Conversations with Jon Hassler, over the years. I’ve also spent a fair amount of time chatting with the owner of Nodin Press, the publisher of this edition of an early Hassler novel. So, there’s both a familial and a personal interest behind my reading Simon’s Night, which, at 256 pages, is not one of this author’s longer or more involved works. Putting aside my ties to the Fredenberg Chapter of the Jon Hassler Fan Club (membership: one, my wife), and my personal relationship (meager at best) with the book’s publisher and editor, I have come to the conclusion that this unique combination of novel and authorial journal/memoir is a winner.

First, the novel itself.

Simon Shea is an old man, a college professor, who is suffering memory lapses and decides, without medical confirmation, that he’s in the throes of dementia and in urgent need of round-the-clock care. He rents a room in a local boarding house for oldsters after he nearly burns down his riverside cottage outside mythical Ithaca Mills, Minnesota; the sort of stereotypical town in the western hills and river country of Minnesota that Hassler knew like the back of his hand. Simon’s time at Norman House, where he encounters an assemblage of old folks not unlike the cast of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (featuring, coincidentally, a big Indian bent upon shooting one last goose for dinner) includes memorable dialogue, comedic scenes, an engaging backstory, and ample ruminations by Simon Shea on his marriage to his wife, Barbara. Barbara. Maybe the only real difficulty I had with the book’s plot is the notion that, despite thirty years of separation from each other, Simon and Barbara remain married. They live separate lives; Shea in Minnesota, Barbara in Texas, have only sporadic contact, and yet, due to Shea’s Catholic roots, never divorce. There is the obligatory affair; Simon beds a twenty-something former student in Ireland where both end up on vacation; but, despite time, distance, age, and this indiscretion, Simon and Barbara’s connection to each other perseveres. I wasn’t completely sold as to this aspect of the plot, though I will concede it’s possible. Plausible? I’ll leave that determination for the reader.

Like all Hassler novels, there are humorous twists and scenes, religious digressions, and a slow, meandering story arc that eventually finds conclusion. If you’re looking for things blowing up, nubile vixens being bedded, or international intrigue, this book won’t do it for you. But if you enjoy methodical, richly constructed prose with a bit of Irish wit, Simon’s Night won’t disappoint.

Perhaps more valuable to me as an author is Simon’s Night Journal. Editor Plut has assembled over 100 pages of letters written by Hassler to Dick Brook, one of Hassler’s lifelong friends, all of which have direct ties to Hassler’s writing of Simon’s Night. Just as the title of this review suggests, the author’s letters to Brook (along with a few other notes scribbled to friends, his agent, and former students) allow readers into the inner sanctum, indeed, into the author’s mind, as he works on the book from early gestation to publication. We are privileged to listen in as the author reveals his struggles with writer’s block, character delineation, and the writing process. We, the readers, are along for the ride: from the lows, as when Hassler believes he may need to trash the entire project, to the highs, when he has not one but two novels-including Simon’s Night-being selected for publication in the same year. Plut has done a fine job editing out the extraneous and preserving the intimate. I was enthralled by the exposition of Hassler’s deepest fears and ambitions as a writer and would highly recommend that this volume, novel included, be utilized in college writing courses. An excellent combination full of teachable moments.

Novel: 4 stars out of 5. Journal: 4 and 1/2 stars out of 5. A notable and well-conceived idea!

Peace.

Mark

 

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A Limited Cosmos

Waverly

Waverly’s Universe by Jim Trainor (2012. Up North Press. ISBN 9780615709215)

Sorry, Rev. Trainor, but this is the weakest of the three books of yours I’ve read. There. That’s as plain as I can make it.

My friend Vicky gave me Trainor’s books as gifts a few years back. I previously read and reviewed Grasp, a nonfiction book examining faith and science (4 stars) and The Sand People, a contemporary Christian relationship novel (3 and 1/2 stars). It was clear to me after reviewing those books, and it’s clear to me now, that Trainor, who is both a scientist and an Episcopal priest, is a man of deep thought and spiritual belief. He is also a fair narrator when it comes to critically examining present-day issues and a decent nonfiction writer. But he is extremely limited as a storyteller. These observational points were reinforced in Waverly.

Josh Waverly, a physicist who works for a corporate laboratory in New Mexico, is a shallow imitation of his father, a world famous scientist whose expertise was parallel universes. Through a fairly incredible set of circumstances, the single and nerdy Josh is thrown together with an exotic and beautiful young Hispanic woman, Evangelina Gomez, who, we learn, has two very bad men after her. The bad guys (I’ll use a term that fits the level of the author’s plot and character development here) end up trying to kill not only Evangelina, but Josh, and Evangelina’s young daughter as Trainor tries his hand at a unique genre: the Christian action thriller. Reverend Trainor writes confidently and with purpose when he examines the inner lives, feelings, and motivations of the book’s protagonists but he is far less adept at dialogue, action, and plot. In a nutshell, had the author worked the story of the star-crossed lovers into a contemporary Christian novel akin to The Sand People, perhaps this effort would be more compelling. But this book was printed a year before The Sand People and presumably written before that work, meaning that Waverly evinces less polish and literary merit than its successor.

In the end, I think Reverend Trainor has much to say about science, faith, and human relationships. I’m just not certain that his vehicle for expression should be fiction. Jim Trainor did a fine job conveying a message in Grasp. Nonfiction seems to be his strength and I’d recommend that he continue to explore that medium and leave fiction to less linear writers.

3 stars out of 5. Readable but not compelling.

Peace.

Mark

 

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