Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

The author turned canoeist. Somewhere on a portage in Woodland Caribou Park, ON

800. Eighty-plus. Fifty-two. Sixteen. A dozen. Ten. Eight. Eight again. Six. Five. Two. Two more. Those are some of the numbers associated with last week’s trek into the hinter lands of the Ontario taiga. For you non-adventurous types, a definition is needed here:

taiga |ˈtīgə|
noun (often the taiga)
the sometimes swampy coniferous forest of high northern latitudes, esp. that between the tundra and steppes of Siberia and North America.
ORIGIN late 19th cent.: from Russian taĭga, from Mongolian.

(From The Apple Dictionary)

Having given you a short lesson in geography, let me explain the numbers. 800 is the longest “official” portage some members of Boy Scout Troop 106 of Hermantown, MN completed on our recent journey north to Woodland Caribou Provincial Park. I say “official” because one of the passages between two of the boreal lakes on our route marked as a shallow creek turned out to be virtually dry. Which necessitated nearly a mile of dragging canoes through saw grass, muck, Canadian Shield gray boulders and pink quartz. Understand; I didn’t go on this part of our collective journey but I sure heard about it from the six brave explorers who made the trek. More on that later.

Eighty-plus is the number of walleyes that my group, five pairs of canoeists, caught in two days of fishing on a lake which, because I’d like to go back and fish it again, shall remain nameless. Sixteen is the number of adults and young folks who made portions of the overall trip. I say portions because, as indicated, ten of us stayed on the fishing lake while six intrepid explorers made a large loop totaling over fifty miles of canoeing and portaging from start to finish. The explorers caught few fish but saw a bull moose resplendent in lily pads, water dripping off its rack as if staged for a Molson commercial. The six explorers also viewed pictographs drawn by long-forgotten First Peoples and touched the edge of true taiga where the spindly white spruce and jack pine that cover this part of the Canadian Shield give way to a virtually treeless landscape. And the explorers crossed over an old burn where the spindly conifers were charred to charcoal. Within the burn, Julie Belden, the only adult woman on the trip, found wild blueberries ripe and ready for the picking.

Another digression.  The number two is significant here for two reasons (cute, eh?): There were two females on the journey, including Julie and Heidi Hummell a teenager who defied the pouting, complaining version of young women seen on television sitcoms. Julie went with the explorers while Heidi and her father stayed with the fishing group.Two females. Two groups.

Launching the canoes.

Ten? That was the most portages done by the explorers group led by Jim Belden in one day. Eight? That’s the most portages completed by the fishing group led by Bryan Von Arb in one day. Eight was also supposed to be the number of fishermen staying behind to catch walleye on the secret lake I told you about but Mark and Heidi Hummell decided they’d rather catch walleye than wade loon shit. Go figure. So the second number eight in my computation became ten. A dozen represents my approximation of the snaky, voraciously hungry northern pike the group landed over the six days we were in Woodland Caribou. Since we were after walleye and lake trout, I don’t think anyone minded that we tossed every pike back into the tannin stained water of the park. Five represents the number of lake trout the group caught, beginning with my son Jack’s very first laker.

Jack’s first lake trout.

For those of you who are thinking, A week on the water in a park akin to the BWCA isn’t so tough, let me explain some facts about Woodland Caribou Provincial Park. First, the name. Yes, there are actual caribou in the park. We didn’t see any, not even the group that went further north. But, as indicated, the explorers did see a resplendent bull moose up close and personal and, the following scene will flesh out what the fishing crew experienced.

Morning. Before breakfast. The mist is clearing off Secret Lake.

Sunrise on Secret Lake

I am sitting on the rock outcropping a few meters from our campsite, sipping hot morning coffee and marveling at my good fortune. Good fortune because I was able to convince my fifteen-year old son that this would be an unforgettable trip. Good fortune because, with the guiding abilities of Mr. Von Arb, we’ve found walleye. Good fortune because I am married to a beautiful and gracious woman who knows that, from time to time, I need to replenish my internal battery on wilderness.

Anyway, on Secret Lake there had been another group camping on a spit of rock a mile or so away. That group left with the onset of the sun. The lake is calm. There is no wind. And yet, as would hold true throughout the week, there are no bugs. No gnats. No accursed black flies. No mosquitoes. So I am sitting on granite, looking out over a quiet body of black water, listening to the cry of loons in the distance, when I see them.

At first, I’m not sure that what I am seeing are caribou. This is because the animals aren’t prancing along distant shoreline. They are swimming, making a beeline from the campsite the folks have just left for the far shore.

“Caribou!” I shout.

Nick Mallett, one of the Scouts, emerges from the trees.

“Where?”

“There, near the point. They’re swimming.”

“My dad has binoculars.”

“Get them. And tell the others.”

Very soon, Nick returns with the eight others in our party. We all stand on the stoney shoulders of the Shield, in a ragged line of expectancy, watching the animals swim. Each of us takes a turn with the field glasses. I’m last in line. I have the benefit of watching the animals emerge from the water onto solid ground at the mouth of a tiny creek Jack and I had fished the day before.

“They’re not caribou,” I finally say when I see the distinctive lanky legs and snout of North America’s largest ungulate. “It’s a cow moose and twin calves.”

So yes, if one counts moose as a commonality between Woodland Caribou and the BWCA, together with the omnipresent granite, thin soil, and coniferous forest, there are similarities between the provincial park and America’s most beloved canoeing retreat. But that’s about where the connections between the two places end.

First, the portages. The BWCA may have removed the wonderfully helpful portage signs (marked in rods) that announced each trail, along with the convenient portage rests on longer overland treks. But the portages one carries his or her canoe across in the BWCA (even the remotest of the remote) are generally maintained. Not so with even the most well used portages in Woodland Caribou. The trails are rugged, narrow, prone to have jack pine or white spruce blow downs blocking them, and are generally unmarked. You have to be a woodland detective to find the trail from one lake to the next.

Then there is the traffic. The two parks are about the same size. Woodland Caribou is 1.2 million acres of prime wilderness. The BWCA (without the adjacent Quetico across the border) is 1 million acres, give or take. But whereas the BWCA sees 200,000 visitors a year, Woodland Caribou has less than 1,000 visitors a season. That’s right. Less than 1,000. So while you may see fellow campers and canoeists on lakes that are known for their walleye fisheries (as our fishing group did), the more intrepid paddlers, like our explorers group, can pretty well be assured of seeing no other humans.

Then there are the campsites. On occasion, after massive straight line winds or fires, campsites in the BWCA become unusable. But the beaveresque crews of the US Forest Service usually have them cleared and in fine shape before too long. And all the approved campsites in the BWCA have fire grates and latrines, making camping, while certainly more primitive than your typical state park, doable for even the sissy pants in your group. Caribou has no fire grates. No latrines. And most of the campsites are prone to being rendered unusable without the aid of a hatchet and saw. Here’s what I mean.

Bryan Von Arb ready for a swim after clearing our campsite of dead fall on Bunny Lake.

Notice how few of the standing trees in the photo are actually vertical? Every night, the creaking of white spruce and jack pines ready to tumble to the ground made for some interesting sleep given that our thinly skinned tents provided little shelter against the sudden descent of trees. This isn’t to say that some of the sites weren’t as picturesque or more so than their American counterparts.

Jake Lake camp.

As the photo to the left depicts, our tenting spot on the crown of a rocky shoulder on Jake Lake was everything you’d want in a campsite: A clearing in the trees to let the breeze waft through. Plenty of firewood. Spots to use for your daily deposits (remember, there are no latrines and you really can’t dig into rock!). Fish (Jack caught a nice three pound laker we baked for breakfast on Jake). And even a sandy beach to clean off the dust and grime of the trail.

Zac Von Ab and Jack Munger, Secret Lake Falls. Note the campsite directly behind them where you can listen to the music of the falls entering the lake.

As depicted in the above photo, Secret Lake boasted not one, not two, but three BWCA-quality sites, two of which the separate squadrons of our group inhabited before splitting into the adventurers and the fishermen (and woman, sorry Heidi-you did your part too!). But then there were times when, as shown in the previous snapshot of Mr. Von Arb on Bunny Lake, or earlier in the trip, on East Lunch Lake, where the campsites designated on the map either didn’t exist or had been obliterated by storms.

Our first night, which we spent on East Lunch Lake, was essentially an experience in sleeping on bedrock.

Site on East Lunch Lake

Thank God for the weather. Other than a rainstorm our first day on the water, which repeated itself as we slept on the rocky outcropping on East Lunch, we never encountered rain, or even wind until our time was done and we were back on Leano Lake searching for the invisible portage to the parking lot. Every day was sunny, warm, pleasant, and, though it’s repetitive to say so, bugless.

Jack and Nick Mallet holding some of the walleyes we cleaned for breakfast.

After being separated from the adventurers for two days, the fishermen reunited with the vision questers to paddle out as a group.

The adventurers return.

On the way to Leano Lake, I marveled at how tan and strong my adolescent son had become in one short week. Not that everything was always perfect in our canoe. Oh no, that would be a lie. We had our moments, like when Jack was grousing that I wasn’t paddling in the stern while he was trying to fish. He was frustrated, I think, because everyone else seemed to be catching walleye but us. His tone hinted disrespect. I splashed water at him with my paddle. We were in danger of getting into a row in the middle of the lake where everyone in the fishing group would have a ring side seat. But then, a walleye hit Jack’s jig. He set the hook like a pro. We began to catch fish and the storm passed. Funny how northerly bred walleyes, which fight so much deeper and stronger than their warm water cousins, can change a kid’s perspective on life.

Jack Munger

Once the two groups made the parking lot at Leano Lake, all that was left to do was secure our gear, tie down the canoes on the four vehicles in our caravan, and make the long, dusty trek back to Red Lake where pizza awaited.

The four amigos (Nick Mallet, Zac Von Arb, Jack Munger, and Josh Hendrickson) at Leano Lake.

Heidi  on the final portage

Rumors of a Pizza Hut proved false. But we lucked out. Antonio’s, it turns out, a place that, from the outside, looks like a hole in the wall, but on the inside, rivals the finest Olive Garden, had big pizzas, hand-made, cooked to perfection, and at a price far less than one would pay at a chain. It seems Troop 106’s good fortune held even in town.

John & Nick Mallet and crew at Antonio’s

Then it was off to Pakwash Provinicial Park for our last night of camping before the eight hour drive home. Pakwash is akin to the Minnesota state parks you may be familiar with. It has spots for tenters (like us) and RVs, pop-up campers, and everything in-between all snugged along the shoreline of beautiful Pakwash Lake. I put on my swimming suit, gathered up my toothpaste and soap, and headed for the sand beach, foregoing the hot showers that Jack and everyone else went off to enjoy. I think I chose the lake over the showers because, well, I just didn’t want the magic of the trip to end. After scrubbing my near-naked body with a bar of Dove and cleaning a week’s worth of gunk from my gums over a cold water tap, I wandered down a gravel lane to the beach. The shoreline was deserted. Alone, my aching back, hips, knees, and shoulders finally at ease, I waded into Pakwash and let the cold waters of Northwestern Ontario surround me. Threatening skies sped to the east after lobbing a few splats of rain on my newly muscled shoulders and arms. There would be no rain to ruin the evening.

Final camp @ Pakwash Provincial Park, ON.

Peace.

Mark

Pitcher plants, Woodland Caribou Provincial Park, ON

A special thanks to Jim Belden, former Scoutmaster of Troop 106 for all his work in making this indeed a trip of a lifetime.

Cake courtesy of Mary and Dave Larsen

Seventeen intrepid floggers (that’s what golfers on our pasture-based course have come to be known) and a handful of walkers, gawkers, and spiritual advisers managed to find their way to the Munger Farm on the banks of the Cloquet River Saturday for the not-so-annual, whenever-Mark-feels-like-holding-it, Catfish Open. This is the third time in a decade that, after the Larson boys have hayed our field, I’ve mowed fairways and greens and put in flags and cups to denote something close to a Scottish Highlands golf course. This year, the weather couldn’t have been better: sunny, mild, a high in the low 70s, and just enough breeze to keep off the flies. The mosquitoes, on the other hand, seemed content to lurk under the foliage and, whenever the course drew players to tee boxes or greens in the shadows, the skeeters swarmed like Japanese pilots bent on crashing into air craft carriers. DEET didn’t deter the littler buggers ardor for human blood. Only moving into sunlight seemed effective. But despite the bugs, it was a grand day for a floggin’ tournament, one that featured shots of amazing quality and skill.

The event featured four teams of 4-5 floggers per group, all staggered around the course for the shotgun start. Because of heather-like rough (deep enough to swallow a man) and very tight, tree-lined fairways capable of consuming even the prettiest drives, I placed complimentary jugs of used golf balls on the 1st and 5th tees, Lose a ball? Take another. Seems fair to me. Since folks drove all the way from town to join my cavalcade of fun, the least I can do is supply used balls to whack into the pines. As reported in a previous blog, my first tour around the course this year, I lost five balls on nine holes. Oh, it got better. By the third time around, I only lost one. Saturday, I also positioned four of our picnic table benches around the course so oldsters like myself (and my eighty-year-old-plus father and step-father) could, you know, take a load off. Nothin’ fancy. Just a place to rest your keister while waiting to flog.

Judy Streefland and Duke Tourville, 1st Tee

Keeping up a regulation floggin’ course is no easy chore, what with familial duties, work, and other chores getting in the way. As the week approaching the great Open sped by, I knew I was in trouble. The fairways and greens were reverting to pasture, and the holes (really just those little plastic containers you buy plants in) needed re-situating. Our fifteen-year-old son Jack offered to help mow. But our rider is slow and it would have taken Jack eight hours to mow the course on his own. I didn’t want to have to cart Eddie Salveson’s riding lawn mower from town again. Remember, he’d come out two weeks earlier to help me give the fairways and the greens their first cutting. With time running short, I hit on the idea of asking Ron McVean (a neighbor and close friend who wasn’t able to attend the event) to loan me his riding John Deere. But Ron did me one better. He showed up Friday, the day before the Catfish Open, with his mower. In the blink of an eye, Ron had his rider off the trailer, fired up, and cutting grass. Between Ron and Jack, they had the entire course and the lawn done before noon. It’s a good thing to know retired guys with riding lawn mowers.Thanks, Ron, for pitching in.

Saturday. The four groups assembled around the course. Duke Tourville was the captain of my team. Eddie, the odds-on favorite to win the title and fabulous prizes (there were no prizes, not even a trophy) headed up another group. “Honest” Bruce Larson, CFO of Best Oil, Co. in Cloquet, captained Team No. 3. And Colonel Dave Larsen (US Army, Ret’d.) was the leader of the fourth and final bunch of floggers. The event called for 18 holes but, due to a late start and Suzie Salveson’s aching knees, the girls pulled the plug on the contest after everyone had completed nine. It was likely a good thing. With all the balls sailing around, my liability insurer breathed a sigh of relief when we ended the contest early. Plus, the mosquitoes hiding beneath the tree canopy continued their assault without mercy. My grandson AJ ended up looking like he had chicken pox due to all the bug bites on his face and neck. No, it was a wise decision by the women folk to override my zeal. I’m a pretty good ideas man but, when it comes to executing events ( including family canoe trips) sometimes my mind wanders into fantasy land. Nine holes was, at the end of the day, plenty for all concerned, including the author and golf course operator.

As foursomes were finishing, I fired up the grill. Once my wife (and assistant course manager) made it safely in from the field of play, the women assembled a feast of Arthurian proportions under a white EZ-Up tent that once served as my mobile bookstore. Brats and dogs sizzled. Our son Jack, his pal Nathan,and our older sons Chris and Matt played an impromptu game of football (we Americans like to call it “soccer”) on the back lawn. Beer tops were popped. Cocktails were poured. I tabulated the scores.

Paul Lund and Duke Tourville

The soccer game

As expected, my retired fire fighting pal Eddie squeaked his team to a one stroke victory. Duke Tourville and Colonel Dave’s teams tied for second place, though, in a moment of executive decision making, I declared Duke’s team to be second and the Colonel’s misbegotten clan to be third. Since I was on Duke’s team, a protest was lodged with the executive committee. But since I am the executive committee, redress was denied. “Honest” Bruce Larson, who, as a CPA, never met a number he didn’t like, computed his group into last place, apparently oblivious to the “new” math that most floggers rely upon when reporting their scores.

Gathering for dinner

Col. Dave, Roni Town, Mary Larsen, and Jan Larson

Eddie Salveson explains politics to “Honest” Bruce Larson and Harry Munger

The Mungers and the Larsons dine on the patio

After dinner, conversation, and an adult beverage or two, I toddled off to start a bonfire down by the river’s edge. One by one, the couples who’d shared Catfish Acres with us said their goodbyes. As dusk closed in around the field and the fire crackled, Roni Town, Rene’ and I, my mom and Duke, and the Salvesons claimed seats around the fire and talked a bit more, relishing memories of soaring white balls and flailing clubs.

The Salvesons and Tourvilles around the campfire

No. 1 green, Catfish Acres Country Club

Thanks to everyone for coming out to share a glorious day on the River with Rene’ and I. Hopefully, we don’t wait four years to do it again…

Peace.

Mark

Today I celebrate the day my wife Rene’ trusted her instincts and said “I do.” Understand; it wasn’t really a reciprocal deal. She was the one who had to take the leap of faith in saying “yes” to my proposal. I was a flighty, weird, nerdy, day-dreaming sort of mystic who thought he knew something about life but had not clue about how to be an adult. Not that Rene’ was a saint or anything. No, she wasn’t that. But I think she had a clearer view of the days ahead for us than I did. The amazing thing, is, despite whatever clarity she was able to assign to our future, she took a flyer and plunged ahead. That’s damn trusting, as anyone who knew me back in the day will attest.

Tonight, while I am busy talking to my fellow judge Eric Hylden’s book club about my latest novel, Laman’s River, the wife of my four children, my girlfriend, the love of my life, and the best cook a man could ever hope for, will be, as she has for over three decades, cooling her heels at home after a tough day of work. She’ll be trying to keep our new Lab puppy from peeing on the carpet. She’ll be trying to have a heart-to-heart conversation with Jack, our fifteen-year-old-going-on-forty son, the last of the Munger boys left at home. And she’ll be there to snuggle with when I return from chasing the very same dreams that have eluded me for the better part of our life together.

I love you.

Peace.

Mark

Today marks the retirement of a fine journalist. Mark Stodghill, a fixture around the Duluth News Tribune for as long as I have been a lawyer and judge (over thirty years), is putting the old dust cover on the Underwood, placing his No. 2’s in an old “Grandma’s Marathon” coffee cup, ripping off the last pages of his last notepad, and turning in his final story. Those of us that have known Mark as the guy who covers crime and the criminal justice system will miss him. Why? Because Mark could always be trusted to write a fair, balanced, and thorough version of any particular investigation or trial no matter how sensational or scintillating or sordid the facts might be.

I first met Mark when, after having my head shaved bald and fresh from twelve weeks of basic training at Fort Dix, New Jersey as an enlisted man (I joined the Army Reserve at 26 to pay off my student loan debt from law school), I joined a host of other young and not so young professionals playing basketball over the noon hour at the Duluth YMCA. I was never much of a ballplayer as a kid and certainly didn’t improve with age. But to keep up my “fighting weight” (I lost not only my hair but 30# in boot camp), I decided to join the noon-time games for exercise.

There were some mighty good ballplayers in the mix; former Duluth high school legends Rodger Hanson, Lew Rickert, and Thor Sorenson (now Pastor Thor) were always involved in the “A” game, a serious never-ending battle featuring the top players in the gym. Chief County Prosecutor Gary Bjorklund, private investigator Dan Olson, and Dr. Chris Chapman  played in the “A” games as well and Stodghill was right there with them, a talented ex-college ball hawk and shooter. Some of the guys who took the court for those contests (none that I’ve named here) behaved as if those games were preludes to future greatness. Those guys made it tough on novices like me and my fellow Denfeld alum, Chief Public Defender Fred Friedman, and neurosurgeon and former college football star, Dr. Bob Donley. It’s not that the three of us were unathletic. We simply weren’t ex-college or high school basketball stars. We could run the court. On occasion, we could put the ball through the hoop. And Donley and Friedman in particular could certainly occupy the paint and rebound. But we weren’t in the same class as the real “A” players and when, on occasion, the top game needed additional bodies and we were allowed into the inner sanctum, well, we didn’t exactly measure up.

But as intense as Stodghill was on the court during those tilts, he never once demeaned or talked down to the “B” level guys who were pulled in as extras. I stand by this observation: You can learn everything you need to know about a man or woman’s character on the playing field or the ball court. And what I learned about Mark’s character during those games is that he’s a class act, not one to rest upon his past glory or place himself above folks who might not share his athleticism.

After tearing my left ankle pulling down a rebound during one of the “B” level noon games (Donley tended to it, thought it was broken, and made me go to the ER), I hung up my game and, once the cast was off, went back to running at noon. My acquaintanceship with Mark was put on hold until I filed for election for an open judicial seat in 1998. Mark covered that election and was the first person to call me from the press after the polls closed.

“How does it feel, Judge Munger?” he asked.

My family and friends and supporters were gathered at Blackwoods in Proctor waiting for the election results on television. Given that it was the same year Jesse “The Body” became governor and that there were more interesting contests for the news to cover than a bland judicial race, those gathered at Blackwoods had no idea where I stood in the polls before Mark called. His question confirmed that I’d made it, that seven months’ of hard work had paid off.

“I think you’re telling me I won.”

“Correct. Would you like to comment?’

After that night, our professional paths crossed regarding many cases, notorious and otherwise. Having started my collegiate education as a journalism major, I always appreciated Mark’s candor, his honesty when asking questions. With Mark, “Off the record” meant that what I was telling him would never appear in print and never be used to embarrass me. “On background”: same thing. And if Mark needed information about a case that wasn’t confidential or otherwise protected from the press, but couldn’t be gleaned from the court file, I never hesitated to return his call and provide what he needed because I knew Mark Stodghill was journalistic integrity personified. Mark played the news writing game just like he played hoops: with passion and grit but always within the bounds of the rules. Not many athletes or newspaper men or women can make that claim.

Here’s to one of the good ones. Now, from one writer to another: Mark, it’s time to get started on that memoir…

Peace.

Mark

Some day, it won’t be such a big deal. All of America will have experienced what my family and I experienced at Peace Church in Duluth, Minnesota on Saturday. In the very near future, the official union of two men or two women in marriage will no longer shock, amaze, or surprise the vast majority of us. But right now, it is something new, something different, something revolutionary. Maybe it shouldn’t be. But it is. At least to me.

My own evolution on the issue of same-sex marriage has been a long and winding internal dialogue between myself and God. Yes, I talked it over with God. Not that I ever believed same-sex relationships were sinful or evil or doomed or destined to bring down the American family as we know it. Hell, with over 50% of heterosexual marriages already ending in divorce, the tragedy of which I witness from behind my judicial bench, it wasn’t my thinking that there’s something unGodly about such unions. Ten years ago, in a conversation with a gay woman acquaintance who served on a board of directors with me, I was happy to show my progressive political bent by telling her I was “all for” civil unions between same-sex partners. But, I was quick to point out, I just couldn’t abide calling such arrangements “marriage”. She, of course, wasn’t impressed by my paternalistic view, a view that limited her expression of commitment and love to something legal but something less than marriage. I didn’t see her point then, a decade ago, but as time went by and I watched and listened to the debate fermenting around the country regarding the issue, I began to understand her position and the position of her gay brothers and sisters. Calling solid, loving, caring, and dedicated long-term relationships that American gay couples were engaged in anything less than marriage robs those citizens of not only the benefits that society and the law bestows upon married couples, it robs them of their dignity. Understand: I’m not exactly comfortable equating the gay marriage movement with the civil rights movement of the 1950s and ’60s as, so far as I know, there have been only isolated incidents of violence and hatred towards gay Americans. Unlike Black Americans, who experienced draconian institutional measures to ensure their subservience over centuries of American history, gay Americans experienced discrimination on a more personal and less systemic basis. The exception to my observation, it seems to me, is in the area of marriage: Just as ill-advised statutes precluded the intermarriage of the races, so too did statutes prevent two men or two women in a committed relationship from becoming a family recognized by law. In the end, like many straight Americans, the debate of the last decade changed my thinking on gay marriage.

Then too, like most of America, I’ve also experienced the “coming out” of a family member. Or, in my case, several family members and a close friend of one of my sons. Putting a face or faces on the gay marriage debate, making it personal, had an impact on me beyond political discussions on CNN and MSNBC. By the time I sat at Peace Church on Saturday afternoon and the beginning stanzas of one of my favorite songs, “The Rose” began to echo across the church sanctuary, my eyes weren’t just clouding over. I was gushing. My youngest son was embarrassed by my display of emotion. I wasn’t. I think I finally understood, as the music swelled and the words to the song carried high into the sacred air, the beauty of what was happening. As the couple joined each other at the altar and the families of the young women looked on, I remembered the two commandments Jesus said changed everything for everyone: Love God and love your neighbor. It’s that simple.

I’m not so ignorant or naive as to think the struggle for gay Americans is over. But on one Saturday afternoon in Duluth, Minnesota, I came to appreciate the appropriateness of the letters “WWJD”, letters that many young people wear on wristbands as they go about their daily lives, gay or straight. “What would Jesus do?” He’d applaud two people committing themselves to each other in love.

Megan and Melissa Landon with  AJ Munger (Photo by Matt Munger)

Peace.

Mark

The author painting the front porch while listening to Dylan Thomas

As you can tell from the caption to the above photo, I’m not talking about my son Dylan Mark Munger or Duluth’s most famous native son, Robert Zimmerman. The title for this blog comes from my need, even when working on the “honey do” list while on vacation, to absorb the words of poets and writers who’ve gone before me and established themselves in the world. As you might have surmised from the past two weeks of book reviews on this site, I’ve been reading like a fiend during my time off. Yesterday, I finished River in the Wind a fine historical novel of Florida during the Seminole Indian Wars written by Edith Pope. My review of that novel will follow shortly. But the point is that throughout my two-week furlough from the litigation trenches, I’ve been hard at it, learning my craft as a writer by blogging, reading great and near-great books, and finally, listening to the voice of my favorite poet, Dylan Thomas.

Narrated by former American Poet Laureate, Billy Collins (who has recently been filling in for Garrison Keillor on “A Writer’s Almanac”) the Caedmon Collection I was listening to features 12 and 1/2 hours of Thomas reciting poetry, discussing writing, narrating some of the poet’s better-known short stories, and finally, participating in a live production of his stage play, “Under the Milkwood Tree”. One of my favorite tracks reveals the poet and others dissecting “In Country Heaven”, an unfinished epic poem that Dylan was working on when he died in November of 1953. The privilege of listening in while Dylan explains how he made word choices can’t be understated. But enough about Thomas. On to my part in the events of a few days’ past.

More painting to Thomas.

Clever of you. You caught the change in preposition from “with” to “to”. I’m not sure which is more appropriate. I mean, the drunken spirit of the Welshman was certainly “with” me as I crawled along on a cushion trying to keep paint from straying, But then again, he wasn’t there physically to assist me. He was, at best, an inactive partner in my enterprise; I was simply listening “to” his words as I crept across the cedar planks of our front porch. In any event, the first day I painted it was as hot as blazes and I caught a nice tan. There was enough breeze to keep the bugs off as I kept at it, diligent in my efforts, sweat pouring from my brow, from late morning into evening. Rene’ made me a nice lunch; a couple of tuna fish sandwiches, some cold grapes, chips, and a Hersey’s bar. Damn, that chocolate tasted good! After a brief respite in the shade, where my wife and I sat and talked over things that married couples talk over, it was back to a task that, every two years, is necessitated by the brutality of winter on flat, painted surfaces in northeastern Minnesota.

I should digress here a bit. Before I ever got to the painting part of the project, I had this exchange with my dear wife when she came home with two buckets of paint and new brushes.

“There’s a problem with the had rail on the left side of the steps.”

“How so?” I asked.

“The wood is rotting. It needs to be replaced.”

I glanced up from my cereal bowl and frowned. I wasn’t looking forward to painting for two days of my vacation, much less attempting carpentry beyond my ken.

“That’s the railing that collapsed last winter after the big storm,” I said confidently. “I put it back together. Put in some extra screws for good measure. It should hold up just fine.”

My wife’s face displayed the skepticism of a woman who’s listened to a husband’s excuses for the better part of four decades.

“It’s not very stable. I think it needs to be replaced.”

Of course, she was right. And despite family lore that declares I am incapable of admitting when I am mistaken, I told her so later that morning. Then I did my duty. I replaced the decaying railing (I’d saved a piece of cedar rail for just such a project) and re-anchored the other handrail just to be thorough.

The morning of the second day, Dylan and I were to tackle painting the back porch, a much less arduous task. The front porch is big but it’s not the porch’s flat surfaces that form the brunt of the work; it’s all the spars and the railings that take time. There are four sides to every post needing paint, along with a top and bottom rail. And it’s a job that requires being on a ladder in shrubbery to complete the outside surfaces. I didn’t count the number of spars I painted, but as I plugged along, it seemed as I finished one spar, another manifested. Despite my hallucinations, I finished the front porch before dark that first day. By 9:00am on the second day of my ordeal, I was back at it, stroking brown paint on the cedar spars of the back porch. And it wasn’t long before I had unwelcome company.

Why are there so many hornets buzzing my head?

If you’ve lived the country you’re bound to appreciate this feeling, more of a premonition than a realization.

Shit, there must be a nest under the back porch.

There’s a crawl space under the rear porch of our home. The day before, my wife had been under the porch putting away the hose and had banged her noggin on a wooden beam but hadn’t riled up the enemy. My mere presence, on the other hand, was taken by the guardians of the hive as a direct threat.

“There’s a hornet’s nest under the back porch,” I called out to Rene’ as she made coffee in the kitchen.

“Oh my,” she replied, “I was just under there and banged my head. I’m lucky they didn’t come after me.”

Armed with a can of Raid and the hose, I found the hive: a swirling intersection of nastiness the size of a volleyball tucked into a corner directly under where I’d been painting. I blasted the nest with insecticide and pummeled the pulpy mess with water. The insects’ home distintegrated. Angry yellow jackets threatened as I stepped back and let them have it with the Raid. The threat eliminated, I went back to painting. The rest of the job was completed without incident.

That evening, the furniture and log rack restored to the front porch, the back platform cordoned off to keep the new puppy and our three old dogs away, Jack and I settled into chairs on the south bank of the Cloquet River to fish.

The Cloquet at dusk.

Jack rigs up his rod.

The campfire.

The writer toasting Dylan Thomas with a cold one.

Cool air kept the mosquitoes at bay. Kena, our new black Labrador pup, cavorted in tall grass. Jimi, the wiener dog, slept on a lounge chair. Over the next few hours, Jack and I pulled in two channel catfish  (Jack’s was the biggest at 3 and 1/2 pounds) and four red horse suckers. The fish went back to the black water to live another day. Rene’ joined us in her jammies.

“The porches look really nice,” my wife said as fireflies emerged and blinked over our field.

“Thanks. You were right about that railing,” I reiterated.

There was nothing really more to say.

Peace.

Mark

Sunset over the field.

Dylan Thomas: The Caedmon Collection is available on CD. ISBN 0-06-079083-0. You can order it through our local independent bookstore, Fitger’s at: http://www.fitgersbookstore.com/. You can also learn more about Dylan Thomas at: http://www.dylanthomas.com/. And if you ever find yourself in Ireland on vacation, don’t miss The Falls Hotel, which was once owned by Caitlin Thomas’s father (Caitlin was Dylan’s wife), Francis MacNamara, Jr.. The setting is exquisite and the food, quite good. Find out more at:  http://www.fallshotel.ie/.