Eddie and Mark’s Excellent Adventure

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Mark

Eddie tees off a Hole #1, Catfish Acres Golf Club

My friend Dave Salveson, affectionately known to me and a few other old friends, as “Eddie” (in honor of his deceased father, Edwin, though we called Dave “Eddie” long before the real Ed went to be with his Norse ancestors), is the person I have known longer than anyone else on this planet except my mom and dad. Eddie and I have been running mates, best friends (if such  label can be accurately applied) since 1958, the year we met as neighbors in Piedmont Heights, a suburban tract that sits at the top of Piedmont Avenue in Duluth, Minnesota. My life (and Eddie’s part in that strange ride) will someday be chronicled in a memoir. For now, dear readers, be satisfied that, with all we’ve been through, Eddie’s as close as a brother. We’d do anything for each other. Including bouncing along side by side on dueling riding mowers. Which is exactly what we did this past Saturday.

Eddie’s a passionate and vastly superior golfer to my infrequent forays onto the links. Hell, he’s retired, has been retired from the Duluth Fire Department for nearly a decade. He golfs 4-5 times a week with a bunch of  other retired guys, hits the ball a ton and has a pretty good short game as well. An impatient man prone to expletives and wild club swinging when things aren’t going his way, Eddie’s even got that less flattering character trait under control. I know this because the day of our 40th year high school reunion I golfed with Eddie and fellow classmates Dave Michelson and Bruce Musolf. Michelson remains a close friend, someone I frequently hang out with. Bruce? I only see him at reunions but he’s another Piedmont boy, someone I’ve known, albeit not as closely as Eddie, for nearly my entire life. Anyway, I witnessed Eddie’s newly developed powers of self-control when, on the 17th hole at Nemadji during the reunion outing, he put not one but two shots into the water on a short par 3 after shooting a round in the mid-70s. Had he even bogeyed the 17th, he would have come in at an even 80. A pretty fair score for 18 for a guy whose handicap used to be higher than mine. On the 17th, instead of tossing the offending nine iron into the drink (which is what I had come to expect in rounds past when my friend’s temper got the better of him) Eddie simply cursed, waved the club over his head, and took the six he’d earned. Age brings wisdom, they say. In Eddie’s case, it’s also brought imperfect patience.

The point of the above digression is to explain that, as a result of the reunion golf outing, I asked Eddie to lend a hand mowing fairways and greens into the field surrounding our home. Every four or five years my wife Rene’ and I turn our freshly hayed field into “Catfish Acres Golf Club” complete with 9 holes (don’t ask how they’re configured; the geometry looks like Joan Rivers’s face!), tee boxes, and benches upon which to sit and to consider the world while awaiting to tee off. Then we invite friends and family up to hit little white balls into the woods (it’s a very tight course), share some laughs and a few beers or wine coolers, and picnic. Last time out, we even managed a bonfire down by the river with singer/songwriter (and sometimes St. Louis County Attorney) Mark Rubin serenading us with his guitar and voice. But the thing is, with my little John Deere rider, mowing the fairways and pseudo-greens (you can’t putt on the stubble we cut; you have to take out a five iron and mash the ball towards the hole), takes a good eight hours. So I thought:

Dave’s got a rider. He’s retired. All he does is do chores around the house and golf. Why not ask him to lend a hand?

I asked. He said “yes”.

Saturday morning. I was up bright and early, hitched a utility trailer to my Pacifica, got my fifteen year old son Jack and his buddy Nathan out of bed and into the car, and headed towards town. After dropping Jack and Nate at my eldest son Matt’s home (they were recruited for the day as porch painters) I made my way back up the hill to Dave and Sue’s where Eddie was waiting with his own John Deere riding lawn mower. To be accurate, Eddie owns a “real” John Deere. Mine is a cheaper model, a “Sabre made for John Deere” whatever the hell that means. We loaded Eddie’s tractor without incident, stopped at Menard’s for some red shop cloths (they make great flags when attached to 3/4″ PCV by screws), and headed home.

It was a nice day to mow. Warm, in the mid-70s, sunny, with a steady breeze to keep away the hordes of mosquitoes that’ve been plaguing our place. I pulled out my “Catfish Acres” file with the detailed (not so much) hand-drawn map of the course’s layout (why change a sure thing?) and we fired up our tractors. In four hours, we had the grass cut, the holes in place (we use buckets to give the golfers a bigger target), and four of the six flags planted. (I know I said it’s a nine hole course. We use holes more than once, with different tee boxes. Use your imagination, people!) Our wives were in town at a wedding shower and destined to  return for a picnic of steak and ribs. But you know what? We were so efficient, and Eddie’s “real” John Deere was so damn fast, that we finished early in time for me to drive Eddie back to town to take a shower and wait for Sue to come home. Back in Duluth  we unloaded Eddie’s rider (again without incident or injury). I stopped by Menard’s for more PVC. We were short two flag staffs and before Eddie and I could play, the flags needed to be in place and fluttering over all the holes.

Catfish Acres fairway, Holes 1 and 7

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eddie hitting from Tee# 2, 6, and 8

Rene’ made it home just about the time Dave and Sue rolled in. While the girls made dinner, Eddie and I pulled out our clubs, swatted newly aroused mosquitoes, and played the first 9-hole round on Catfish Acres for 2013. I lost five balls to the trees. Eddie lost one. But I had three magnificent chip-ins to offset my off-target tee shots. Neither of us lost our tempers and, as we wandered back to the house for dinner, without saying a word, two old friends agreed that our labors were successful, that Catfish Acres was ready for tournament play.

Game on. Here’s hoping you hit ’em straight!

Peace.

Mark

6th Hole, Catfish Acres

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An Icon’s Story

Posted on July 19, 2013 by Mark

Thomas Jefferson:The Art of Power by Jon Meacham (2012. Random House. ISBN 978-1-4000-6766-4)

Previously, I read (but didn’t review) Meacham’s book about Jefferson’s Republican idealogical successor, Andrew Jackson, American Lion, a book that had a limited scope in that the biography chronicled only Jackson’s time in the White House and gave scant background to the man’s roots, history, and ultimate end. I haven’t reviewed American Lion but if I had, despite the fact that it was well researched and written, I wouldn’t have rated it higher than 3 and 1/2 stars simply because of its abbreviated subject matter. Here, I am happy to say Meacham gives us the entirety of our nation’s third president. This is a complete, concise, and nicely crafted biography of one of America’s most beloved and misunderstood founding fathers. There is nothing left out, nothing missing from the life of Thomas Jefferson in this fine effort.

Meacham, a frequent guest on “Morning Joe” on MSNBC is a brilliant commentator on contemporary politics because he understands the undergirding of our two major political parties. In this volume, we learn of Jefferson’s love of republican democracy; the right of all landed, white males to determine their fate, and the fate of their newly formed nation, without interference from a monarch or a plutocracy of the rich. A rich man himself (at least until the end of his life when Jefferson died deeply in debt), Jefferson believed in the inherent wisdom of the common man (described, as above, as landed white men, a fairly exclusive definition of folks Jefferson trusted with the power of the ballot box) and one of his lasting legacies, beyond the Declaration of Independence,  the Louisiana Purchase, and the Lewis and Clark expedition was the formation of the University of Virginia; a place where the common man would be able to enlighten himself and improve his understanding of nature, mathematics, science, the English language, and a host of other subjects dear to Jefferson’s heart.

Meacham paints a portrait of Thomas Jefferson that doesn’t shy away from the controversies that afflicted the man. Included in this narrative is a detailed account of Jefferson’s apparent cowardice during the Revolutionary War when, as the Governor of Virginia, Jefferson left Williamsburg (the colonial capital of Virginia at the time) as Tarelton and other British military commanders overran the colony. Jefferson was criticized throughout his life for leaving Williamsburg. Meacham examines the historical record regarding this incident, never passing judgment on either side of the question, allowing readers to form their own opinions on the issue. Similarly, the oft-told story of Sally Hemings, Jefferson’s mixed-race slave and alleged concubine is related in the same even-handed fashion. Meacham places Jefferson’s early opposition to slavery in the context of a southern slave owner. Despite this contradiction, the author points out that Jefferson apparently tried (on a number of occasions) to abolish the practice of slavery with the caveat that freed slaves would be sent back to Africa. Jefferson’s reform efforts failed and he gave up the notion, never releasing his own slaves from bondage during his lifetime with the exception of Sally Hemings’s offspring. Each of Sally’s children were emancipated, per his promise to Sally, on their 18th birthday. This demonstration of mercy, along with historical records, and modern DNA evidence leads Meacham to conclude that Thomas Jefferson was the likely father of all of Sally Hemings’s children. But the author also points out the inconsistency of Jefferson’s logic in that the plantation owner never released Sally from her obligations to him as a slave: It was Jefferson’s daughter, Martha, a niece of Sally Hemings, who finally freed the woman after Jefferson died at the age of 83.

Here is a full-throated, vibrant portrayal of one of America’s brightest political minds relayed to the reader with a firm eye towards fairness and accuracy. The writing is spot on. Meacham accurately describes the complexity of a man who has been quoted by American political figures as diverse as Ronald Reagan (who cited Jefferson’s love of a small central government to support his own programs) and Harry Truman (who claimed Jefferson’s views on domestic and international relations formed the basis for his own foreign and domestic policies). This is a book that every student of today’s fragmented political arena needs to read. The two-party system began with Thomas Jefferson and, despite some aspersions to the contrary, its effectiveness to govern has ebbed and flowed, sometimes working well, other times, as the present gridlock in Washington demonstrates, stalling ineffectively. Those readers tempted to decry the current political reality would do well to read this book. They will learn that, in all likelihood, “this too shall pass…”

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

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The Things I Did

Posted on July 18, 2013 by Mark

Kena, the newest Munger.

Vacation. I needed it. Some of you who are loyal CRP blog readers know that the business end of the book world has been eating away at me over the past couple years. I didn’t go into this gig to become famous, or rich, or to get my name up in lights. I wrote, and write, well, because I can’t not write. A poor sentence but one that’s as true as the day is long. So here I am with two weeks off, knocking out a blog on a 85 degree day, the sweat falling from my forehead onto the keyboard in my writing studio due to the heat and humidity in equal measure, a fan blowing like the devil, stirring up hot, still air to little effect.  Where to begin?

Let’s start with the new black lab pup, shall we? Her name is Kena (which we are pronouncing Keena, though if we were true to the Celtic roots of the name, it would be pronounced Kenna). Anyway, since my sons Matt and Chris and I hunt pheasants every year in Ashley, North Dakota and since Matt’s yellow Lab Lexie has had a tough go of it the past couple of years (too much territory for one dog to cover), I have been on the make for a new hunting partner of the four footed variety. Oh, we have three other dogs around our place but not a one of them is a retriever or pointer, attributes that come in handy for ducks, pheasants, and grouse. Fortuitously, our youngest son Jack’s school bus driver has a female black Lab and had AKC pups for sale. Jack and I took a gander at the ten little Labs when they were still on the teat and fell in love. With all of them. Kena was the only female left when it was time to choose a pup and she came home shortly before the 4th of July. Since then, I’ve been getting up at 5:00am to make sure she’s out of her kennel before she poops or pees. It’s workng. Mostly. At least she’s sleeping from ten at night to five in the morning. But man, I forgot how much work a puppy can be! On the positive side, she’s not gun shy, seems to have a very active nose, and loves to swim. Again, all good attributes if you’re being asked to chase game birds for a living. I’ll start her on obedience training shortly and then, maybe some field training as well. Hope springs eternal in the eyes of Labrador owner.

With two weeks off, you might think I’d spend my time fishing or biking or traveling. Plans were made along those lines but circumstances changed, preventing Rene’, Jack, and I from going away for the duration of my time off. It’s for the best. When you have 53 acres of forest, lawn, pasture, and gardens to take care of, and, for the past decade, you’ve been chasing your tail as a self-published author running over hill and dale to sell books at summer festivals, well, let’s just say there’s some catching up to do around this place in terms of maintenance. The first major project of my time off was the demolition of our rose bed. I wrote a piece last year about weeding the roses. Two brutal days of thorns, sweat, swearing, and marginal success. Over the winter, Rene’ and I talked about having Lakehead Trucking come in with a back hoe and pull out the roses so we could plant some shrubs and trees and end our annual battle with the roses. So, a few Saturdays ago, I pulled out all the sandstone around the garden and stacked the stones for reuse. Then Lance from Lakehead came in and removed every last bit of rosy evidence from the place. Trust me; no tears were shed when the roses vacated. Rene’ and I then double-teamed the topsoil Lance left behind, shoveling dirt into a wheelbarrow and carting it across the lawn to the old rose bed. After the dirt work, Rene’ put in landscape matting, cut holes and planted trees, placed wood chips over the fabric, and put the sandstone back in place. It was a long and physically taxing process. But it was only the beginning of Rene’s garden improvements to the place. The roses conquered, my wife set about tearing out the grass surrounding our concrete patio. When Rene’ hit topsoil, she added dirt, rolled out landscaping fabric, planted shrubs, covered the matting with wood chips, and finished her creation with black plastic edging. I did some carting and wheeling of topsoil to the site but the vast majority of the work was done by my way too energetic wife.

Russian berries, 2013

My wife is the landscaper, the flower gardener. She also, when called upon, works in the vegetable garden. In years past, when I’ve been on the road hawking books, she’s enlisted our sons to plant the vegetable garden in my absence. But this year, I’ve been primarily responsible for the plot. There was the first tilling just before Memorial Day. The planting of the seeds and started plants around June 1st. Then waiting, fingers crossed, that the whole damn thing wasn’t doused with buckets of rain (last year the entire garden was under water for much of June) or touched by the last frost of spring (it’s happened at our place as late as June 10th). This year was another wet June. The corn never germinated. The beans remained dormant. But most of the other plants; the carrots, the squash, the pumpkins, the potatoes, the onions, the tomatoes, and the peppers seemed to weather the storms. With as short a growing season as we have in the Cloquet River Valley, I wasn’t about to try and germinate corn after losing two weeks’ time. So I replaced failed corn with another row of tomatoes. The beans? I filled that row in with more squash, melon plants, and pumpkins. But with all the rain we’ve had, it’s a toss up as to whether the garden will produce bounty or only yield a wee bit at harvest time. That’s one thing you learn by having a vegetable garden. You appreciate the vagaries of what real farmers, folks who live off the land, experience. We hobby farmers don’t know the half of it. Our welfare isn’t tied to whether wheat germinates or corn pollinates or puddles in the fields recede in time for planting. But at least I have a basic understanding of how it all works.

Things are way behind out here in the Valley. Normally, our Russian berry bushes are ready to pick towards mid-June. I picked the big bowel shown above yesterday, July 17th, a full month after when I should be picking. The raspberries and black raspberries are no where near ready. The blueberries? Still green. The gooseberries? Slowly ripening. But the rest of the plants in the garden look darn good. We’ve been blessed this year, once the deluge of early June abated, with steady moisture and recently, with hot, humid conditions. When I look at the newly weeded rows of plants, their leaves shiny and uplifted to the blazing July sun, I am content.

Looks like it will be a good year.

After pulling weeds in 93 degree heat, I joined my wife and our friend, Sue Salveson, for a float from the Island Lake Dam down the river to our house. Despite all the hot weather, the river is up and running cold. No more than 66-68 degrees at best. Chilly when clouds cover the sun but refreshing when you’re sweltering, which we were. I spent the better part of an hour trying to inflate flotation devices stored under our  screen porch. In the end, I was able to find one lounge chair and two inner tubes that held air. Rene’ had to buy another floatie from the Minno-ette before we could begin our voyage. The rapids below the dam were brisk and frisky. The float usually takes a good hour and a half. It took less than an hour with the weight of the recent rains behind us. Lounging on old inner tubes, I managed to sunburn my belly and legs but a sweet southern wind kept the mosquitoes (of which there are legion after the rains) and biting flies (fewer in number but far more persistent) at bay for most of the trip. A quick dip at the end of the line and we were in the house, dressing to meet Sue’s husband Dave at the Blue Max Resort for early dinner.

Rene’ at Lester Park

Later that day, after saying our goodbyes to Sue and Dave, we drove our youngest son Jack and his buddy Nathan to Lester River to swim. Given that there’s a deeper, colder, faster river running by our back door, I think the venture had more to do with teenage girls in bikinis (we don’t have any of those in our backyard!) than swimming per se. But never-the-less, we toted the boys to town. After dropping the boys at Lester Park, we drove off to do errands. When we came back, Rene’ and I decided to take a gander. We’ve both been residents of Duluth for more than 50 years each and yet, inexplicably, neither of us has ever walked around Lester Park. We were amazed at the place’s beauty. Hidden right in the city, there are trees and rock formations, and rivers, and wildlife worthy of wilderness. Who’d have thought?

Amity Creek Falls, Lester Park

Kids swimming at “The Deeps”, Amity Creek

Rene’ and white pine, Lester Park

 

Bordered by Lester River and Amity Creek, the place was packed with kids and parents and grandparents trying to beat the swelter. There were cliff dives being made that would curdle the blood of any sane parent. Adolescent romances blossomed beneath the thick cedar and pine canopy. And shouts of joy rang throughout narrow canyons carved into billion-year old rock. It made me want to go swimming. Which is just what I did after we dropped Nathan off at his house.

Here’s to another week of vacation and hoping your gardens grow, your children smile, and you and your loved ones stay safe.

Peace.

Mark

Mark at Lester Park

 

 

 

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Discovering a Forgotten Author

Posted on July 16, 2013 by Mark

(1992. Plume. ISBN 0-452-26324-7)

First off, don’t rely on the book jacket description of this forgotten work of literary prose from a now-forgotten author. There is indeed a family secret, as hinted in the blurbs on the novel’s back cover that weaves its way into this story of hardscrabble existence. But unlike the depiction of the revelation of that secret in the comments from the book’s rear cover, the mystery concealed deep within the history of the Clanghearne clan doesn’t reveal itself in the opening stages of this fine story: It unravels, as Abby Clanghearne’s life seems destined to, far into the tale, long after Jared Clanghearne, Abby’s brother, has met his untimely end.

           That having been said, this is one of those period novels written by an author readers haven’t heard of that is truly a “must” read for a number of reasons.

First, Pope is a quality wordsmith. That alone should be enough to compel you to search out this long out of print piece of fiction. But more importantly, I have the deep suspicion that one of our most revered and beloved pieces of Southern writing, To Kill a Mockingbird, had at least a shove at its inception, from this story, Race does play a part in this tale, a significant one. Though unlike Harper Lee’s masterpiece, where the issue of privilege and social standing due to the color of a man’s skin is tackled head-on, Southern discrimination against those of black or mixed race seeps into Colcorton like swamp water leaking towards a stream. I have no proof, of course, that Ms. Lee read and was inspired by this novel. I have only the rankest of suspicion on my side that there’s a kinship between the two tales. But I stand by my observation. I’ll leave it to scholars of the two authors to settle the debate.

            More importantly, Pope paints her characters, particularly the two female protagonists, Abby Clanghearne, the surviving matriarch of a nearly extinct and once proud clan, and her sister-in-law, Beth, Jared’s widow and the mother of the last Clanghearne  (Jad, the heir to the decaying mansion, Colcorton, the centerpiece of the diminished family estate) with as fine a brush as a novelist can wield. Abby’s a rough and tumble creature reminiscent of the frontierswoman Ruby Thewes in the literary and commercial blockbuster, Cold Mountain. It may well be that the similarities between Abby and Ruby are coincidence. Or it may be that Charles Frazier, another writer with Southern sensibilities, read Pope’s work before he constructed Cold Mountain. One can never be positive of the influences relied upon, consciously or subconsciously, by writers. But if you’ve seen the film version of Frazier’s masterpiece and you read Colcorton, I guaranty you’ll envision talented actress Renee Zellweger, who played Ruby in the movie version of Cold Mountain, playing the part of Abby Clanghearne.

            Pope’s use of the countryside; steamy, hot, wet, and full of danger real and imagined; is one of the most compelling reasons to read this book. The swamps and beaches and tidal marshes and wild creatures of the St. Augustine area come to life, much like the human characters in the story:

Staggering, she paused to watch an osprey drop through the sky like lead, his talons curving fiercely for the kill, his wings straight up like the wings of a sphinx. He hit the water with a smack and vanished in a plume of spray. Water flashed and fell from his pinions as the hawk beat his way upward, a fish moving in his claws. “Ay-ay,” Abby groaned in admiration. “Ain’t that a fine way to git your supper.

The land. It’s the land, as well as the family secret, that compels Abby Clanghearne to stay despite poverty, decay, and advancing age. And it is the land as depicted by Pope that forms as powerful a protagonist as Abby herself in the tale:

 The sky grew pink in the east. She could tell where the ocean ended. The water no longer looked flat: she could see the scooped out shadows of the swells. Silvery beams of light ran up to the top of the sky. The sand began to sparkle. The sun came out of the ocean, burning red. The waves stopped purring; then the surf began to roar. The wind had sprung up.

 Lord, to have the native or nurtured talent to write such a passage!

            In many ways, this is a simple story in terms of the cast of characters who take the stage, the very parochial and condensed setting, and the moral and ethical issues that are raised by the Clanghearne family secret. And yet, as with Harper Lee’s better-known novel, there is complexity in the seemingly common and ordinary lives depicted in Colcorton. That alone makes this novel worth devouring.

           Sadly, Edith Pope died fairly young and largely forgotten with but a modest body of work to her credit.  There is no Wikipedia entry regarding her life or career and her obituary (http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=888&dat=19610201&id=E-4NAAAAIBAJ&sjid=EHkDAAAAIBAJ&pg=5959,61347) reveals little about the writer as a person. The article chronicling her passing indicates that Mrs. Pope died of complications from a long illness (rheumatoid arthritis) in 1961 at the age of 53 after having created one work of note.  Given how well Colcortan is constructed, perhaps that’s enough.

 4 and ½ stars out of 5.

 Note: This review first appeared on the Rural Lit R.A.L.L.Y. website, http://rurallitrally.org/. Log onto that website to learn more about this forgotten author. I’ve recently purchased a used copy of Pope’s historical novel, River in the Wind. I’ll let you know how that book reads in a bit…

 

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Not The Firm or The Pelican Brief or The Jury

Posted on July 8, 2013 by Mark

The Racketeerby John Grisham (2012. Doubleday. ISBN 9780385535144)

I must be honest here. As I’ve written before, formulaic fiction isn’t my cup of tea: I rarely read genre fiction. But when I do, I expect to be entertained by a fast paced plot (I stick to mysteries and legal thrillers if I am going to read commercial fiction) and sketches of interesting and quirky characters. That’s what Grisham, deemed by many critics to be the titular head of American barrister fiction, gave us in his earlier works. And, because he self-published his first novel, A Time to Kill, and because the man was, at one time, a practicing trial lawyer like I was, I’ve always had a soft spot for his work. But having read many of John Grisham’s novels, including his non-legal thriller prose and short stories, I’ve come to the conclusion that this author has been on cruise control for quite a while. The Racketeer does nothing to change my view.

Malcolm Bannister, the author’s first person protagonist, is in prison as this tale unfolds. He is, as so many of Grisham’s characters, wrongly accused and misunderstood. His fall from grace, orchestrated by an over-zealous United States District Attorney in the State of Virginia, was due to Bannister’s unconscious decision to represent a client involved in money laundering. What’s initially interesting about Malcolm is that he’s black. I was intrigued by Grisham’s attempt, as a Southern white man, to get inside the skin of someone removed from the author’s own ethnicity and experience. I’ve done this slight of hand myself (in Esther’s Race) and I know it’s no easy feat. Initially, the author’s expose’ of Malcolm stirred my interest. Grisham seemed headed towards creating a character that could drive this book towards literary light. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, Malcolm became more interested in his cohort Vanessa’s breasts, which I fear, also distracted the author from plot and character development. Understand, I didn’t start out disliking the book and, in the end, it’s a tolerable read. But that’s about it. The plot becomes predicable. The characters, including Malcolm, flatten out into two dimensional cutouts. I’d liken the steady decline of this story to a party balloon with a slow leak; engaging and three dimensional to start with but limp and barely able to hold one’s interest as its size diminishes and the air escapes.

Scuba gear, jets, the Caribbean, women in bikinis, cold beer, wads of stolen cash, and international money transfers, all of which first appeared in The Firm, reappear here without The Firm’s compelling narrative and the tension between Abby and Mitch McDeer that filled out that great story. Here’s an example of the prose contained in this re-hashing of many of the author’s favorite gimmicks from his previous work:

The swelling is gone. The nose and chin are a bit sharper. The eyes look much younger, and the round red tortoiseshell glasses give the look of a pretty cool, cerebral documentary filmmaker. I shave my face once a week so there is always some stubble, with just a touch of gray mixed in. The slick scalp requires a razor every other day, My cheeks are flatter, primarily because I ate little during my recovery and I’ve lost weight. I plan to keep it off. All in all, I look nothing like my former self, and while this is often unsettling, it is also comforting.

This scene, where Malcolm, now Max, reviews the physical changes plastic surgery, courtesy of federal witness protection, has wrought, depicts what is wrong with this tale: Every turn of the plot relies upon coincidence or the stupidity of federal agents. Malcolm Bannister, a man supposedly morally unable to commit the simple crime of money laundering, constructs an escape route out of federal custody worthy of Henri “Papillion” Charierre. Much of The Firm contained similar stretches of implausibility involving the Mitch McDeer character. But readers (including me) were more than willing to overlook the impossible when it came to Mitch McDeer’s escapades because the plot was terse, the dialogue crisp, and the characters compelling. Here, once Malcolm Bannister’s past is revealed and his future is foretold, the story simply meanders along to a less than surprising conclusion.

3 stars out of 5. Not one of John Grisham’s better efforts.

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Family and the 4th

Posted on July 6, 2013 by Mark

Fireworks in Fredenberg

Dr. Bob McVean, a friend and my chiropractor, said something last night that will stay with me. We were at his folks’ place on Island Lake for a post-4th of July picnic and bonfire the day after Independence Day. We were sitting around, enjoying balmy weather, watching clouds begin to gather for a summer cloud burst, shooting the breeze, when Dr. Bob interjected a thoughtful note into our conversation.

“Isn’t it a great thing to belong to families who enjoy each others’ company?”

I had no retort. I didn’t even nod my head. Bob’s comment, a simple, one sentence acknowledgement of the gathering at his parents’ place was as profound, maybe more so, than anything I’d ever chronicled in a book or a blog. And it formed the perfect introduction to this piece, a reflection on how I spent the 4th of July this year.

For over two decades, my family has gathered at my wife’s brother Greg’s cabin on Island Lake for Privette family 4th of July. Not this year. Greg’s back has been giving him grief, and, as anyone who has ever invited family to a large gathering, be it a 50th wedding celebration, Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving dinner, or simply for a Saturday picnic knows, trying to get your place ready for company takes physical effort. Having a bad back isn’t conducive to getting everything around the place just right for guests. Rene’ and I learned that there’d be no gathering at Greg and Sue’s cabin a couple of weeks before the 4th. We knew Dylan, our second eldest, and his girlfriend Michelle would be in town and so, my wife wove together an alternative to our traditional Independence Day. We invited all three emancipated sons, their significant others, and our singular grandchild, AJ, to picnic on the 4th at the Munger farm. We opened the invitation up to Rene’s sister, Colleen Schostag, her husband Al, and their two kids, as well as my folks and their partners. Sadly, this is the first 4th of July that both of Rene’s parents aren’t around to enjoy. Don and Merc Privette used to wait all year for the party at Greg and Sue’s. It was the one time during the year besides Christmas they got to see all their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren gathered together. They weren’t here in body to enjoy the sun filled day spent along the banks of the river. But their spirits were certainly with us. And my dad couldn’t make it either: he’s recovering from carpal tunnel surgery and wasn’t in the mood for celebrating.

Claire Schostag on the trampoline

The 4th. Even with the weight of getting ready for the day on Rene’ and my shoulders, by the time folks started arriving, we were relaxed and ready to enjoy company. That’s not always the case, as Dr. Bob so aptly observed. Often times, efforts at celebratory perfection leaves the hosts of family gatherings tired and ill tempered, which in turn leads to discord. Didn’t happen this year. There wasn’t a tense moment or a quick, thoughtless response throughout the day that I could discern. And the weather. Ah, yes. The weather. The skies were clear and open to the blue vault of heaven (maybe so Don and Merc could see what was going on?) with just enough south breeze off the Big Lake, to keep the bugs at bay and keep the swelter off our backs. At the height of the day, Alex Schostag, his sister Claire, our youngest son Jack, and I tumbled down wooden stairs into the cold and welcoming grasp of the Cloquet. Later, all four Munger boys and the two Schostag kids engaged in an impromptu soccer match on the back lawn. Footballs were tossed. AJ enjoyed his new swing. The adults reminisced.

AJ Munger, Rene’ Munger , Barb and Duane Tourville

AJ Munger and Claire Schostag

Chris Munger, Colleen Schostag, Dylan Munger

Jack Munger, Lisa Munger, and Shelly Helgeson

 

 

 

And of course, there was food. My mom, Barb Tourville, brought a mountain of potato salad. Others brought corn, cold salads, deserts, beans, and assorted side dishes. Rene’ slaved over a hot grill cooking brats and ‘dogs and burgers. There were coolers filled with soda and a variety of adult beverages. And there was conversation. Intelligent, respectful, polite (I’m not kidding!) discussions about politics, fracking, and family. Being a collection of Catholics, Lutherans, and Episcopalians, we didn’t talk religion. There wasn’t a hint of argument or upset. Not a hint. There also wasn’t much discussion of the reason we all had the day off: there was little recognition of the day our country declared that it was no longer a colony of a foreign power. Pretty important day to remember, if you’re an American. And yet, we all sort of took it for granted as we sipped cold Leinnies and chewed on our plates of vittles. Still, the importance of the day’s history was visible, I think, on the faces of everyone there. We all, down to little AJ, seemed to understand how damn lucky we are to live where we live: in a nation where we can love who we want without recrimination, work at the the job suited for our talents, and live where and how we choose. I’m not sure the collective herd of ten dogs that ran around the Munger farm this Independence Day thought much more than “Darn, what a great place to live”. But I’m sure that even little Kena, barely seven weeks old, the newest Munger dog, understood something special was happening.

Colleen and Alex Schostag

 

Al Schostag

Matt Munger

 

When the skies cleared of pyrotechnics and the night descended over the newly mown field around the house, the real celebration began. Thousands, perhaps millions, of lampyridae, fire flies, emerged from their hiding places. Soon, the field and the low sky were filled with blinking, winking, undulating flashes of green and yellow light. It’s as if God the artist had chosen to accent our farm with the tip of a luminescent paint brush putting Her emphasis on the importance of family being the foundation of this great land we call home.

 

Dawn, the day after.

 

Peace.

Mark


 

 

 

 

 

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Why We Live Here

Posted on July 3, 2013 by Mark

Jack and Rene’ Munger, Fish Lake

I had forgotten. It’s not like, over the past 12 years as I scurried about hawking my books at summer craft festivals, that I didn’t have time for the occasional weekend day off to go fishing. But with nearly every summer weekend booked at this event or that event, from Ely to Hackensack to Grand Forks to Iron River, Wisconsin for more than a decade, relaxing days in a boat, or on the banks of a favorite brook trout stream, or in a canoe on the Cloquet River have been few and far between. This summer, as you’ve read before, I am not doing any festivals or events. That’s right, not a single one. My change of heart, or business plan, or direction began a couple years back when, after another summer of wind, rain, low sales, and constant running, I put away my EZ-Up tent for good. I decreed, to my family’s delight, no more outdoor shows. No more crossing my fingers as I drove my Pacifica north, south, east, and west with a constant and dedicated eye on the weather. That’s where the great decline, or the great awakening (you choose which, I cannot) occurred. It wasn’t that great a leap, after a very difficult time researching and writing Sukulaiset: The Kindred, the long-awaited (at least by me and a few of my Finnish friends) sequel to Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh, for me to decide that I needed to slow down and take some time to live life rather than chronicle it or invent it on the page.  Writing is like that. Sometimes, a story will come to you as whole cloth, woven and complete. Other times, you have a germ of an idea, as I did with Sukulaiset, but the fibers are stubborn, the loom is cranky, and the weaving takes a lot of time, patience, and love. Any way, after three years of starting, stopping, changing, editing, and finally being satisfied with the end product that will one day become my 10th book, I decided it was time to fish.

Sunday. My wife and I worked like dogs to tear apart our old rose bed and remake it into a much less confused and difficult plot of trees, shrubs, and wood chips. It was truly a team effort. Then, with the lawn freshly mowed from the day before, I raked piles of grass into neat little humps, fired up the gasoline trimmer, and finished the lawn work. By the time I was done with chores, which I’d started in early morning light, it was past noon. I grabbed my copy of The Racketeer by John Grisham and headed towards the river. There, another summer delight that had eluded me for a couple of years awaited. Hammock time, time spent with a firm pillow under your head, a ball cap blocking out the sun, and a good book in hand, is another of summer’s gifts. But again, I’d been delinquent in reserving hammock time over the past couple of summers. In fact, last summer, I didn’t make it into my hammock a single time. Not once. Shame on me, right? This Sunday, I managed to get myself situated in the embrace of canvas and read for a bit but the flies were insistent and eventually, I wandered back to the house for lunch. Despite the abbreviated nature of my time in canvas, there was something transcendent and holy about the effort and it got me to thinking about all the things I’d missed over the past summers spent trying to build an audience and sell my novels to strangers.

“You want to go fishing later this afternoon?” I asked Rene’ back in the house.

“Sure. Where?”

“Fish or Island Lake,” I replied, naming the two largest lakes within a five minute drive of our house.

Understand, this suggestion was made with some queasiness on my part. My boat and its 35hp Force outboard hadn’t been in the water since last fall. I’d charged the battery, replaced the gas line, replaced some rollers on the trailer, installed new seats (thanks, Rene’!) and stitched gaping holes in the canvas storage cover  but I had yet to fire the motor up to see if the darn thing would run. Still, even in the throes of doubt, fishing sounded like a pretty good way to end a nearly perfect weekend in the country. If the motor didn’t run, well, it didn’t run. No use getting excited about things you can’t change, right?

The author and “the big ‘un”.

After filling up at the local bait and convenience store (the Minno-ette), we trailered the boat to the public landing on Fish Lake. It was an absolutely gorgeous Minnesota summer day. 75 degrees. A slight breeze. Occasional, non-threatening clouds. I backed the boat and trailer down the ramp and into tannin stained waters while Jack gave me constant instructions as to the proper way to back up a trailer and a boat. He is something of an expert on the subject, having just this week earned his Driver’s Permit. So of course, I accepted his critique without comment. Eventually, the boat was launched, the Pacifica and trailer were parked in the adjacent lot, our gear was loaded, and the big moment arrived.

I should have had more faith. The motor caught and purred like a kitten on a teat.

“I was worried,” I said to my wife as we pulled away from the landing. “I didn’t know if the new gas line would work or not.”

Perhaps I spoke to soon. A few hundred yards away from shore, the Force began to sputter.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” Jack asked.

I didn’t reply. I simply slowed the motor down, hoping that last winter’s gas was the issue and not something major. The old gas apparently cleared. The pitch of the Force sounded healthy again. We motored on.

“Right there, by the loon sanctuary is a good place to fish,”Jack suggested as we approached a small clump of weeds, rocks, and shrubs sticking out of the water.

“OK.”

We anchored and rigged up our rods with plain hooks, sinkers, bobbers, and leeches or dew worms. It was only a matter of a minute or two and I was reeling in the first fish, a small sunfish, of the afternoon. That’s not the fish in the photograph. But the picture records my proudest moment of the day. The bluegill I caught was shorter in length than the leech it attacked. Perfect size, though, if you want to start a fresh water aquarium! Jack was soon in the game, landing fish after fish. Rene’ had line and reel problems (I confessed to her and confess to you it was my fault: I respooled the reel with new line and put too much on, causing snarls) but eventually, she too caught fish. When we were done, after reeling in a couple dozen sunfish, blue gills, one green sunfish, and a nice large mouth bass, we had a meal of fish on the stringer.

The catch.

 

“Where are we going for dinner?” Rene’ asked as the sun started to head towards the western tree line.

“How about the Eagle’s Nest?” I answered, selecting one of the three bars and restaurants on the lake.

“Whichever is faster,” my wife added. “I’m starved.”

The Force hit its top speed of 17 miles per hour on the run to the bar. The surface of the lake was calm as we passed pontoon boats, jet skiers, and fishermen. There were no surprises or glitches or breakdowns as we pulled into the Eagle’s Nest, tied the boat off, and bounced along the floating dock towards dinner. After a good meal and a couple of cold Amber Bocks, it was time to head back to the landing. We made the return trip without incident. The boat loaded quickly and with minimal verbal criticism from the newest driver in the Munger household.

Loon Island, Fish Lake.

Back home, Jack and I unloaded the Pacifica, put away the rods, tackle box, and life jackets, and pulled the canvas cover over the boat. Jack fed the dogs while I tied the boat cover down, dressed in long pants and a jacket, and headed to the river to clean fish. I’m not the best with a fillet knife but as the sun set and night overtook the Cloquet River Valley, I finished the job, sealed the fish fillets in a clean plastic bag, disposed of the offal, and stood on the banks of the Cloquet wondering why it had taken me so long to figure out how much I’d missed.

Peace.

Mark

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Neil Young’s Tome

Posted on July 2, 2013 by Mark

Waging Heavy Peace by Neil Young (2012. blue rider press. ISBN 9780399159466)

I’ve said it before when I reviewed Young and Crazy Horse’s Americana: I love the guy. I came of age in the late 1960s, early ’70s listening to my buddies Jeff Tynjala, Mike Schiltz, Evan Wingness, Wayne Johnson, and Steve Cordes (can’t remember the name of their garage band but that doesn’t matter here) playing “Cinnamon Girl”, “Down by the River”, “Broken Arrow”, “Ohio”, and “Southern Man” at dances around West Duluth. I wasn’t musically talented enough to be part of a band: I tried a few times, always inspired by Young and my pals, but I didn’t have the chops and I don’t play an instrument. So I spent my nights, in my basement bedroom, listening to Four Way Street, Harvest, and Everybody Knows this is Nowhere until the tape on my cassettes wore thin. Over the years, I’ve stayed interested in this Canadian import’s career and life so that when I received a copy of Waging Heavy Peace as a Christmas gift, I was pretty sure I’d enjoy Young’s effort at autobiography. Well, I finally got around to reading the big book last week and I was sorely disappointed.

Here’s the thing: Though Young has some genetic writerly roots (His father Scotty was a noted Canadian journalist) and uses his native talent to great advantage in the short form, crafting song lyrics, he doesn’t have the ability to create interesting, memorable prose. His style, matter-of-fact, stream-of-consciousness dictation presenting disorganized and unrelated snippets of life without theme or direction, while perhaps fine in an album of ten songs, can’t carry a two pound book. I also think there’s a disconnect here that has manifested itself in Young’s attempts at film making. Back in the early 1970s, he tried to pull together Journey Through the Past, a film built around his more “Southern” influenced music. (Think “Alabama” and “Southern Man“.) It didn’t make it to the theaters. There have been, as related in this book, other serious efforts by Young at movie making over the years. None of them has ever made money or found critical success. It seems that this memoir fits in the same category as Young’s films and his attempts to experiment with long form story in music, as in Greendale, one of the worst albums Young ever made.

Another criticism of Waging Heavy Peace is the title. I love the word order. Love it. But my impression, naive, I now admit, was that the title had something to do with Young’s musical stands against the Vietnam and Iraq wars, sort of a follow up to his great documentary film and the music behind Living with War. That film was, in my view, a success because it wasn’t an attempt to tell a fictional story, the genre where Young usually falls flat on his face, but simply a memorialization of CSNY back out on the road, singing their songs, old and new, in protest against unnecessary war. But the title to this thick brick of a book has nothing to do with hippies or protests or veterans or peace in the world at large: it comes from Young’s attempt to create a more authentic sounding digital recording that preserves music for listeners the way musicians hear it in the studio. The “war” Young is speaking of is against MP3 players and Apple over the quality of the music.Which leads to another criticism of the book: While a chapter about PureTone and another about LincVolt (Young’s attempt to electrify a gas guzzling Lincoln Continental) would have been enlightening, the constant, non-sequential sermons on his experiments are distracting and, quite frankly, not all that interesting.

There are snippets of stories and scenes from Young’s life, from his youth in Winnipeg, his early days on the road, his domestic life, and from his tours and albums with Buffalo Springfield, CSNY, the Stray Gators, and Crazy Horse that are compelling. His devotion to Pegi, his wife of 35 years, and their two children, as well as his love for his son by another woman, all shine through and put the face of humanity on what otherwise seems to be a very self-absorbed and narcissistic tale. Someone else wrote that, whereas Shakey, the seminal biography of Young’s life, portrays the man in all his complexities including his ruthless protection of his music to the point of discarding longtime associates, band mates, and friends to keep the musical bus rolling, this effort is not nearly as revelatory. I have to agree. There is little “writing as if your parents are dead” here, the admonition that first year MFA students hear when they begin their writerly journeys and far too many attempts to justify actions or to name drop. There is also the simplistic tone of Young’s prose. While his song lyrics have been praised for their sparse beauty, Young’s creative genius in songwriting doesn’t carry over to his attempts at prose. Consider this scene from a visit Young and friends made to a Costco store in Hawaii:

My first big purchase was a set of replacement brushes for my Sonicare toothbrush, a product I am very pleased with. I really needed those and had been wondering how to find them. We wandered on through aisles of myriad products before we reached the book department, where Marc purchased several books for his little daughter, Leia. She is a beautiful and bright child who calls me Uncle Neil and asks me where my guitar is. We made a note to look for a guitar for her, but found only ukuleles at Costco. A plan was made to locate a music store. There were no records for sale at Costco except for local Hawaiian. I was happy for the locals.

Really? Did Young’s fans and the readers of what is supposed to be the definitive expose of his life really need to learn the brand of toothbrush Young prefers or his th0ughts as he walked through Costco? Or, ask yourself this: If it wasn’t Neil Young’s face on the cover of this very bland, disconnected, repetitive, unorganized ramble, would any publisher, including Cloquet River Press have released this book? I think not. The only positive I can really say about this memoir is that I didn’t toss it into the garbage can. I did that once with a book, with Until I Find You by John Irving. Irving’s novel was so terribly written, I didn’t get past the first 150 pages before I hurled it away in indignation. At least this memoir was something I was able to stomach to the last page. But that’s about it. Save your money. Buy Shakey instead. Better yet, if you want to really understand Neil Young and want a glimpse into his genius, do what I did while I was writing this piece. Listen to his latest CD with Crazy Horse, Psychedelic Pill (review to follow) and revel in the genius that, from time to time, surfaces from this Rock and Roll legend.

 

2 stars out of 5.

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A Grand Tale

Posted on June 28, 2013 by Mark

Ordinary Grace by William Kent Krueger (2013. Atria Books. ISBN 9781451645828)

72. That’s the ranking of William Kent Krueger’s latest effort on Amazon. 2,479,690. That’s the ranking of Laman’s River, my latest novel on the same website. Though the two books have about the same ratings in terms of readers’ reviews (4 and 1/2 stars out of 5 for both on Amazon; 4.17 for Ordinary, 3.89 for Laman’s on Goodreads; 4.5 for Ordinary, 5.0 for Laman’s on the BN site), I’ve never had a title crack the top 20,000 titles on Amazon, including The Legacy, my first novel which sold out its initial printing in 6 weeks. So far as I am aware, every one of Mr. Krueger’s novels has made the NYT’s bestseller list. Every one.

Why am I disclosing this information in a review of Mr. Krueger’s latest work of fiction? Simple. While, as a judge (my vocation) I may be somewhat thick skinned and able to “roll with the punches” so to speak, as an author (my avocation) my ego, at least thus far, is about as fragile as a DDT infected eagle egg. It’s tough, this self-publishing gig, especially now, my third decade into writing, my second decade as a published author. Few folks outside of a tiny cadre of loyal readers, family, and friends know who the hell I am. So when I review books written by folks who are from my “neck of the woods” and who’ve done well for themselves in the publishing world, given my fragile writerly self, I’m always on guard. I remain diligent that envy, the “green headed monster” I’ve written about in the past, doesn’t infect my critiques of other Minnesota authors. I am not perfect in this quest. This I know. But I am at least willing to recognize the flaw and try to address it.

That’s a long-winded introduction to this, my first review of a William Kent Krueger book on this site. I’ve read Purgatory Ridge and at least one other Cork O’Connor mystery penned by Mr. Krueger and while I enjoyed them, they weren’t what I would consider to be compelling reads. Entertaining. Well written. But not compelling. Ordinary Grace is a much different book than the formulaic fiction I’ve read from this author in the past. It is, in a word, grand. Grand in its literary tone, grand in its treatment of the folks who inhabit the story, and grand in plot. Grand. I’ve never used that word in a review before, but I think that slender word captures nicely my opinions concerning this period murder mystery wrapped in the guise of a literary novel. I see Ordinary Grace as sort of a Midwestern Rebecca told from the perspective of an adolescent boy.

Early on in the tale, a child’s body and the body of a drifter are discovered. Upon first encountering these revelations, I felt that Krueger might be borrowing too heavily from Stephen King’s coming-of-age masterpiece, Stand By Me. But my fears of authorial mimicry were soon alleviated. As the story unfolds, the main protagonist, teenager Frank Drum, emerges as a viable, believable character in this quiet yet riveting drama. As I was pulled deeper and deeper into the story, I discovered character-driven, literary fiction much different from anything I’d read by this author. And despite Krueger’s attention to each character’s psychology, Krueger doesn’t forget his roots. He builds a plausible, intriguing plot that unfolds in a thoroughly described small town placed along the sandy banks of the Minnesota River. There’s nothing missing in this story. Nothing.

I read somewhere that William Kent considers this to be his finest piece of writing. Having read but a few of his more traditional mystery tales a long time ago, I can’t support or deny the author’s claim in this regard. But I can say this: I hope to include writing this good in at least one of my books.

Anytime an author writes outside his or her genre and tries something new, regardless of the result, they deserve respect. Here, Krueger, much like John Grisham did with A Painted House not only tested the waters of literary fiction but he swam confidently across them.

A fine summer read and a story you will remember long after you close the book or turn off your Kindle or Nook or Kobo.

5 stars out of 5.

 

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Reading Vintage Maugham at the Lake

Posted on June 25, 2013 by Mark

South Sea Tales by Somerset Maugham (1950. Perma Books. ASIN B000KU89E4)

I found myself at the Litman Camp on Elsie Lake in Ontario. I’d finished a collection of short stories I brought with and ended up perusing the bookshelves of the main cabin for something to read between walleye fishing, watching storms, taking sauna, and doing chores. I pulled this collection of Maugham’s stories about life in the orient down and began to read. There’s no question about it: If you’ve never read The Razor’s Edge or Of Human Bondage, these stories, really novellas in size, are a great place to inoculate yourself with a bit of Maugham. “Rain”, one of Maugham’s most famous short works, starts off the collection and sets the theme for many of the eight stories in this book. Maugham, a thoughtful, deeply intuitive writer, sets up a psychological conflict in each of the pieces.

The length of these tales is perfect for leisurely entertainment. My favorite story in the collection isn’t “Rain”, the piece most often cited to reveal Maugham’s talent as a master of short fiction, but “Red”, an evocative, titillating, sensual mystery of a stranger’s past revealed in bits and pieces over the duration of the story. A literary strip tease, if you will.

There are numerous configurations of these stories available from the usual retail suspects but all of the variations contain gems of writing that will entertain, enlighten, and amaze. The Perma version of the collection happens to be a pocket-sized hardcover; perfect for tucking into a back pocket and taking out on the lake.But whatever version you decide to read, South Sea Tales is sure to engage your mind and your heart. Consider this short passage from “Rain”:

When he was on deck next morning they were close to land. He looked at it with greedy eyes. There was a thin slip of silver beach rising quickly to hills covered to the top with luxuriant vegetation. The coconut trees, thick and green, came nearly to the water’s edge, and among them, you saw the grass houses of the Samoans; and here and there, gleaming white, a little church.

Take a gander at the photo below and decide for yourself. Doesn’t it look like I’m engrossed in the book?

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

The author reading Maugham during a break from fishing.

 

 

 

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