Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

You are wondering, “What the hell has gotten into Munger that he’s displaying a package of licorice gum on his blog?” Am I right? Well, there’s a story behind that package, one I’m gonna tell you right now.

A few months back, my mom called me.

“Mark, my book club is OK with doing Laman’s River as one of our books. How about August 21st, around 6:30? At Barb Forbert’s house. I’ll get you the details as the date gets closer.”

“Sure,” I said, always willing to share my work with a group of women, no matter what age. “Just make sure you get me directions.”

The truth of the book business is this: Women buy and read novels. 80% of books sold in America, someone once claimed, are bought by women. 80%. And the percentage is higher if we’re talking about fiction. Oh sure, men buy the occasional John Sanford or John Grisham novel. And there a few outliers like me, men who love fiction and devour it, well, like a woman. But, generally, if a man buys a book, it’s usually non-fiction: a biography, a how-to, a political tome. So any opportunity for me to connect with female writers is like gold. Even if the sponsor of the connection is my mom. So, after Mom called, I wrote the date and time on my events calendar (and on the calendar for this blog). I was set.

Almost.

The night before the event, Mom called again.

“You remember we’re doing book club tomorrow?”

“Yup.”

“It’s at 6:30.”

“I’ll be there by 6:00,” I said.

“See you then.”

Tuesday, I rushed home from work, grabbed some copies of my books, printed out the first chapter of my novel-in-progress, Sukulaiset: The Kindred, changed into my author clothes, and sped off after saying a quick goodbye to my wife and son. There was no time for dinner in the equation if I wanted to make it to Mom’s by six.

You see the problem already, don’t you? I’d forgotten that the book club was meeting somewhere other than Mom’s house out in West Duluth. I’ve done her book club twice over the years and it’s always been at her house. And, truth be told, when she called to remind me of the event, she never mentioned the event’s location. I just assumed that it was at her house. And she assumed I knew otherwise. I think the blame falls squarely on Mom, don’t you?

“Rene’,” I said, calling my wife at home after I arrived at Mom’s to a locked house and no cars in the driveway, “I think there’s a problem. Mom’s not home, there’s nobody here, and she’s not answering the phone. Can you get me her cell phone number?”

Rene’ found the number. I called, and, like so many older folks who own a cell phone, Mom didn’t deign to answer.

I was stuck. I was sitting in my mom’s driveway in my Pacifica with boxes of books and no book club to talk to. Inspiration struck. I called a husband of one of the women in Mom’s book club. When I explained why I’d called, he laughed.

“Oh, Mark,” Carl (that’s the guy’s name) said. “They’re at Barb’s waiting for you.”

He gave me his wife’s cell phone number.

“Call me back if she doesn’t answer.”

Of course, being that she’s an older person, Carl’s wife never picked up.

“How about I just give you directions?” Carl said once he stopped laughing again.

Carl gave me directions and I found the place. But the surprises didn’t end.

See, my mom’s book club is typical in the way of book clubs: eight or nine women get together to chew on lettuce, sip wine, and occasionally talk about the assigned book. Some women, I’ve found through the years, never even buy or read the books their club is reading. For those women, book club is just a night away from the mister, an excuse to get out and gab. Other book clubs are deadly serious about reading and discussing literature. Those women can be pretty intense, and at times, have offered daunting critiques of my work. Mom’s book club falls somewhere in between these extremes. I was prepared to read a passage or two from Laman’s River; answer some tough questions about the plot, characters, and the writing process; read from Sukulaiset; and enjoy a glass of wine (preferably not poured from a cardboard box!) all in a cozy setting. When I walked into the community room of the Coffee Creek Apartments, I was shocked. The room was full of folks: Barb had invited anyone with an interest in reading to attend. There were over forty men and women sitting patiently for the very late author.

Shit I thought as I carried boxes of books into the room. I don’t have anything really prepared for a big group like this.

Luckily, as folks chatted and drank coffee and ate bars, I had time to collect my thoughts, jot down a few notes, and steel myself against panic. And you know what? In the end, once I made sure everyone knew I was late because Mom didn’t remind me of where the book club was meeting, the night turned out just fine. There were succinct and well thought out questions. There was praise (something authors always welcome). And I sold a few books. The only downside? There wasn’t any wine.

Oh. You’re wondering about the gum? Well, one of the ladies in attendance handed it to me during my talk as a small gift. Black Jack chewing gum is a clue to the killer in Laman’s River. You’ll have to buy a copy of the book and read it to find out what that’s all about.

Peace.

Mark

Hackensack Art and Book Festival (8/18/2012)

Friday evening. The Pacifica is jammed to the ceiling with my wife’s mosaic benches and tables, cartons of Munger books, and plastic bins. It’s all I can do to save a spot for Jack behind the passenger’s seat. For the first time in years, our teenager is accompanying his crazy aging parents on a sales trip. Our destination: exotic Hackensack, Minnesota for the annual Northwoods Art and Book Festival. Chris, our third son, will be checking on the house while we’re gone and taking care of Jimi Hendrix. Yes, I know, Jimi the musician passed on quite a few years back and likely doesn’t need much looking after at this point. The Jimi I’m talking about is a very neurotic seven-year-old miniature Dachshund, who, if left alone in the house while we’re on the road, would likely pee in every corner of every room to make a point. Hence, the respite care provided by Chris.

After a short detour at the intersection of Highway 2 and 200 that takes us a few miles north of where we want to be, the Pacifica flies over new blacktop down 200 through Jacobson, Hill City, and Remer. We roar past the shores of Leech Lake, into Walker, hang a left on Highway 34, and then pass through Akeley and Nevis before pulling into Park Rapids.

“I’m not sure if I made the reservation at the AmericInn or not,” I say to my Rene’ as I exit the van.

There was a bit of  a dust up before we left home because I couldn’t find the copy of my Expedia reservation for the hotel. I said some recriminating things to my spouse and youngest son before realizing that I’d left the paperwork in my dad’s car. There was no apology in the wind, only a cessation of the accusations. Turns out, we were at the right hotel. After leaving our luggage in the room, we traipse off to downtown Park Rapids in search of food. We find a good meal at the Good Life Cafe,  a funky little eatery that also has Guiness on tap. What’s not to like?

Rene’ and Jack at the Festival

Mark at the Community Center, 2012 Hackensack Festival

Saturday morning. 6am. Rene’ gets up and, uncharacteristically for her, is groomed, dressed, and at the breakfast table on time. Our reluctant fourteen year old, however, takes  a bit more “convincing” to get him up and at ’em.  Eventually, all three of us pile into the Pacifica and head east on 34 towards Hackensack. I’m miffed that we’ll be late, that we’ll encounter sour looks and worse from the perennial ladies who are in charge of such things wherever craft shows are held. Not to worry: we arrive under blue skies and a light breeze with more than 45 minutes to set up our respective displays.

We work as a team and, well before the nine o’clock starting time, Rene’s benches and my books are ready for customers. Jack wanders off to work on his foot skills with a bright blue soccer ball he bought in Montreal a few months back. Rene’ and I sip hot coffee and wait. In between glances at early bird customers, most of whom are just browsing, I dive into Go Tell it on the Mountain, the classic novel by James Baldwin. After a few pages I understand why the book was immediately considered to be a “must read” in American letters. I want to go deep into  Harlem of the early 20th century as painted in prose by Baldwin but darn it, customers actually start wanting to buy books from me!

The day putters on. I sell and sell and sell. Rene’ is having a tougher time getting customers to bite and actually take the plunge and fork over $100-$150 bucks for her work. She hands out many business cards and takes several orders for custom work before finally selling one of her pieces to a local couple. Jack and I help the guy lug the heavy concrete top and legs to his car. “Thank yous” are said and the folks drive off, eager to install a Munger original in the garden of their lake home.

Hackensack Art and Book Festival (2012)

Past customers of mine stop by as I chomp on hotdogs cooked to perfection by the local Elks club. Jack devours two “tacos in a bag”. Rene’ downs a brat before knitting contentedly, working on another sweater for our new grandson, A.J. Between mouthfuls of wiener, I talk to folks who’ve read my books and like what I do. Some buy Laman’s River, my newest book. Others simply want to tell me how much they’ve enjoyed my words. I take such compliments as genuine: There’s no reason for someone who was disappointed in one of my books to search me out and tell me a lie. At least, that’s been my thinking over the twenty years I’ve been doing this writerly thing.

“Oh that Suomalaiset,” an older woman says as she stands in front of my display with her husband, speaking in a very thick European accent that I can’t quite decipher. “That’s the best book I’ve ever read.”

A lump forms in my throat and I stammer out a “thanks”.

By three o’clock, as the show winds to its conclusion, heavy rain is rattling off the metal roof of the community center. Jack and Rene’ and I scurry through the deluge to load the car. Speed is not easy when lugging concrete but eventually, the Pacifica is packed and we’re headed for home after a very successful Saturday in Hackensack.

Peace.

Mark

Four Generations of Munger Boys

A very few of you know I had a pretty bad day a couple of weeks ago. Nothing like illness, or a death in the family. Just a speed bump on the road of life which threw me for a loop for a few days. I tried to grab for the brass ring, so to speak, but like an off balance gymnast, I missed. Anyway, after careening into the ditch (metaphorically), I thought maybe I’d lay low, not attend some functions I’d planned on attending. After suffering disappointment, I wasn’t in the mood for crowds of people, if you know what I mean.

I’d signed up to attend a retirement event for Minnesota Supreme Court Justice Helen Meyer. I don’t know Helen well but, a while back, when the supreme court came to Hibbing High School to hear oral arguments on a case (part of the court’s state-wide outreach), Rene’ and Matt and Lisa and I had the pleasure of sitting with Helen, for dinner at a gathering sponsored by the Range Bar Association. Just the Justice and the Munger Family dining together. She was so gracious, interesting, and kind, well, when I heard she was retiring from the high court and that she was going to be honored at the law school we both attended (William Mitchell in St. Paul), well, I just had to go. And given that my dad also graduated from Mitchell (Class of ’56) and hadn’t been on campus since my graduation (1981), I thought, “What the hell. Why not take the old man on a road trip?”

As I said, I nearly backed out of the deal but, in thinking it through, and given my old man is nearly 85 and doesn’t get out to see his old legal buddies (the few that remain with us), I figured I owed him a trip down memory lane no matter how uncomfortable it might make me feel to be around folks. Turns out, we had a wonderful day.

We arrived early and were given a guided tour of the campus (much changed since my graduation and completely new to my father). Then we stood in line to shake Justice Meyer’s hand, stood in line again for a soda (the old man went with something a bit stronger!) and stood in line for food before the speeches began. Dad reconnected with an old running mate from his day’s as a trial lawyer, talked at length to another Twin Cities attorney with Duluth roots, and met most of the current and former supreme court justices in attendance. I could tell from the omnipresent smile on Dad’s face he had a great time.

After we said our goodbyes and I punched in an address in Fridley, we zoomed off in my Pacifica to attend another event, the retirement of musician, friend, and fellow district court judge, Don Venne. There was only one glitch: Maggie, my ever faithful built-in GPS, steered us to the “new” Central Avenue NE when the Shoreview Supper Club is located on the “old” stretch of Central. The detour wasn’t long: I actually did the unthinkable for a male-I asked someone for directions! In any event, we said hello to Judge Don, ordered a libation, and sat and had a wonderful conversation with Judge John Hoffman and his wife about politics in present-day America, a topic my old man could expound upon for hours.

As the sun was setting behind the western treeline, casting oranges and reds over the lake next to Highway 65, the Pacifica pulled out, heading north, towards home. I was glad I’d swallowed my pride and taken the ride with Harry. In the process, we honored two very fine jurists and made some memories between father and son. And that’s never a bad thing to do.

Peace.

Mark

The Duluth Denfeld High School clock tower

Yesterday. I sat on the stage of Denfeld High School along with 19 other Denfeld High School alumni and former educators (or their proxies) as inductees into the Denfeld Hall of Fame. For me, the last time I was on that stage was in January of 1999 when I insisted upon holding my investiture (swearing in) ceremony as I took on the role of District Court Judge. I insisted upon having a ceremony normally confined to a courtroom in our local courthouse because of the impact the school had on me during my three year stint as a Denfeld student. I was about to write, “as a Denfeld Hunter”, but those of us who graduated from Denfeld know that, “once a Hunter, always a Hunter”: In essence, the impact of the school on our lives doesn’t end on graduation day.

Originally founded in 1966 as a way to honor male athletes from the school’s past, the Hall of Fame has expanded over time to include both male and female alumni and folks who have succeeded in business, art, music, literature, commerce, and a host of other disciplines beyond athletics. In all, 59 folks (at the conclusion of yesterday’s program) have been inducted. I am one of the lucky 59. You might ask, “Who cares? High School was three years of a (hopefully) long, long life. It wasn’t anything special. In fact, I don’t even go to my reunions.” I understand that sentiment. Life is a long road and indeed, high school is a very short rest stop along the way. But, as I said yesterday in my very brief speech (supposed to be a minute but I think I kept it to two), there’s something different about the vibe and history and impact of Duluth’s western high school upon it’s graduates. Many of the industries that existed when I was a student there, including the U.S. Steel Plant, Atlas Cement, Diamond Tool, National Iron, American Hoist and Derrick, and a whole host of others; places that allowed honest working men (and a few women) good wages with which to raise their children and offer those children a chance at a different life through higher education; are long shuttered. But the history of the sons and daughters of railroad men and steel workers and tool cutters and dock workers and plant secretaries achieving the American dream is still what Denfeld is all about. More so than any of the other high schools in the city. There’s a slight edge, a chip on the shoulder of a Denfeld graduate, if you will, that seems to advertise to the world “Get out of the way because I’m coming through.” And despite the fact that my parents were both professionals, because my best friends for those three years of high school generally came from large families whose parents (usually the dad but sometimes the mom) graduated from high school (usually Denfeld!) and then went right into the work force, I couldn’t help but be affected by that history.

I once gave a speech at Denfeld after I’d graduated. I was asked to talk to the entire student body, over 1,000 kids strong, about my life experiences and how even someone like me, a kid who had his fair share of visits with Principal Samskar, could make a difference in the world. During a tour of the newly remodeled school, a Denfeld administrator commented that, “for a trade school (meaning the students were generally fated for blue color jobs and not college), the new computer lab might be overkill.” I bristled at the comment but held my tongue. I knew then, as I know now, that Duluth Denfeld High School’s unique legacy of academic success, close ties to the community, and common roots and values, has and will continue to change the lives of the students who leave its doors with a high school diploma. They say that the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Here are the folks who were inducted yesterday and brief snapshots of their lives. The thing is: these folks are not the exception, they are the rule. There are tens of thousands more where they came from.

Peace.

Mark

The 2012 Denfeld Hall of Fame Inductees

Greg Anderson (Class of 1979): Professional drag racer. Winner of 73 National Hot Rod races and NHRA World Champion.

Peter Bergman (Class of 1959): Lifelong educator and principal in the Duluth Schools, Peter holds both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in education. He was the principal of the first magnet school in Minnesota.

Tyrone Bujold (Class of 1955): Noted trial lawyer for over 40 years, Ty is a member of four prestigious legal societies that are limited to less than 1% of all practicing trial attorneys. He declined a full scholarship at Harvard to attend Marquette. He holds a B.S. from Marquette and a J.D. from Minnesota.

George Dell Daedo (Denfeld Educator): Principal of Denfeld from 1948-1963. Active community member, sitting on the boards of the United Way, the Red Cross, and Rotary. Bequeathed $40,000 to the Denfeld Scholarship Fund.

M. George Downs (Class of 1946): 38 years on DM&IR RR, working up the ladder from laborer to Assn. Manager of the Ore Docks. Served ten years on the Duluth School Board. Served 12 years on the Duluth City Council.

Edgar “Father” Felton (Denfeld Educator): A professional musician who taught in the Duluth Public Schools from 1930-1966, exclusively at Denfeld and Lincoln Jr. High.

Pat Francisco (Class of 1963): Played all sports at Denfeld and was All City in football and hockey. Attended UMD and played college hockey. Taught at Silver Bay and Duluth Cathedral before founding Patrick Francisco Financial Advisors. On many, many boards and commissions and a driving force behind reclaiming and reusing the old Clyde Iron Words as the Heritage Center (hockey and indoor soccer arenas; Boys and Girls Club; Children’s Museum; and retail facilities).

Scott Gernander (Class of 1965): All City, All Tri-State, and All State as a Denfeld athlete, including selection in basketball to Parade Magazine’s All Prep Team. Obtained a BA and masters from UMD, taught in Tower before moving to Texas where he coached and taught in high schools and at San Jacinto Junior College, where he led the men’s basketball team to 3 national championships.

Marguerite Gilmore (Class of 1924 and Denfeld Educator): Taught English at Denfeld and Lincoln Jr. from 1947-1970. Upon the deaths of her brothers, she established a scholarship fund for Duluth high school graduates that gives out 25 $10,000 scholarships per year.

Roger Grimsby (Class of 1946): Graduate of St. Olaf, a lifelong broadcaster. Was the first television news man to earn more than $1,000,000 salary per year and the anchor of ABC’s weekend news. Winner of 6 Emmys.

Gary Harker (Class of 1962): A stellar athlete at Denfeld, Harker went on to play and coach college hockey at UWS. He achieved a B.S. and a Masters from UWS and was the head hockey coach at UWS from 1977-1986. Currently a scout for the Toronto Maple Leafs. 3 time NAIA Coach of the Year.

Dr. Roger Kerin (Class of 1965): Received his BA from UMD, Masters and Ph.D from Minnesota. Presently a college educator at SMU, he is the author of five books in marketing, his field of expertise. Holds the Harold C. Simmons distinguished Professorship of Marketing at SMU.

Joyce Lamont (Class of 1934): Used her BA in English and journalism to become a radio pioneer. First woman on the air for WCCO in 1950. Moved from WCCO to KLBB in 1989 and is a charter inductee into the Broadcasters Hall of Fame.

Doug MacIver (Denfeld Educator): Began his career at Denfeld as a coach and educator in 1970. Head boys’ basketball coach from 1974-1984. Also coached boys and girls cross country. 25 Year Service Award from the Minnesota Coaches Assn. Was Denfeld’s Athletic/Activities Director  and a promoter of Title IX opportunities for female athletes.

Jack McKenna (McNulty) (Class of 1940): Served in the Air Force during WWII after graduation. Became a broadcaster and spent his lifetime as a radio and television personality in the Twin Ports. Can still be heard on KUWS, 91.3 on Fridays after 5:30pm as one of the hosts of “Radio Superior”, an award winning program.

Dick Palmer (Class of 1948): Was the editor and owner of the Duluth Budgeteer, a local newspaper, beginning his career in journalism in 1950. Served on the Proctor Village Council for two terms and served a term in the Minnesota Senate as an Independent. Chair of the Denfeld All Class Reunion in 1976 and the Duluth All Class Reunion in 1986. Retired from the Army and Air Guard with 20 years of service.

Janet Peterson (Denfeld Educator): Mrs. “Pete” began her stay as a teacher and mentor to young women at Denfeld in 1958. Taught phy ed and was the cheerleading advisor and Power Club advisor, retiring from Denfeld in 1976.

Robb Stauber (Class of 1986): Stellar hockey goalie, Stauber led the Hunters to their first ever (single bracket) Minnesota High School Hockey Tournament. Played at the U of M. Hobie Baker Award winner and went on to a ten year professional career, playing for various NHL teams. After retirement, he’s coached and trained hockey goalies, both men and women, and been the goalie coach for teams that won NCAA titles.

Bill Westholm (Class of 1966): Three year letter winner in track and football at Denfeld. Graduated from UMD, received a Masters from Minnesota, and a law degree from William Mitchell. Taught and coached at Duluth East. Was Assistant Principal and Principal of all three Duluth public high schools. Currently serving on the Duluth School Board. Chair of the Greater Denfeld Foundation which administers over $6,500,000 in assets for scholarships given to Denfeld students.

Mark Munger (Class of 1973): You can read the plaque now hanging in the halls of Denfeld!

Mark-circa 1973

PS Thanks to all my family and friends who attended. I love you guys!

Sunday, highway drivin’
It all looks about the same
Nowhere, just arrivin’
Still I play the game, yeah yeah

I’m home, grown, growin’ my own and I need ya
Need ya to beg my pardon, to tend my garden

((c) Joe Walsh)

Here I am…after tending my garden

Gotta love the James Gang. For my money, Joe Walsh, one fine guitar player, has never achieved the same level of musical success with the Eagles that he achieved as the center man for the power trio from Cleveland. Ah, the creativity of youth. Anyway, That’s me in the picture above after working four hours in our family vegetable garden, pulling eight wheelbarrows of weeds from a jungly mess.  It was over ninety degrees and the sun was high and hot as I sat on an upside down plastic five gallon bucket and pulled and tossed weeds in the sweltering heat. There’s a word we don’t often use even during the height of summer up here in the northland. It’s a rare experience for a northeastern Minnesota boy like me to experience a day of sweltering in my own backyard. Well, Sunday met the definition: high heat, blazing sun, and over powering humidity. The thermometer on the garage wall said 93 degrees in the shade. But weeding wasn’t my only task while AWOL from church.

On Saturday, Rene’ had discovered that our outdoor hot tub wouldn’t turn on. After a couple of futile attempts to clean the filter and re-set the GFI breaker, she called her brother, Greg, an electrician by trade.

“Maybe it’s another snake,” he offered.

I was listening in to the telephone conversation.

“I doubt that,” I’d said with some authority. “It’s nearly 100 degrees out. There’s no reason for a snake to crawl into a motor to stay warm.”

Just to dispel his theory, I opened up the cover to the hot tub motor and pump, stuck my nose down by the motor, and sniffed.

Nothing.

The thing is, about five or six years ago, a big bull garter snake did take up residence inside the motor housing. The serpent coiled itself around the warm windings of the motor and was snug and safe until the pump called for the motor. Yup. Instantly fried garter snake. We didn’t discover the dead reptile for a week or so. I’ll spare you the details of what we found. Suffice it to say, you don’t forget the stench of a week-old dead garter snake in a confined space. Rene’ conveyed my opinion. Greg said he’d stop by on Sunday.

True to his word, my brother-in-law pulled in as I was pulling weeds. The two of us explored the possibilities of why the hot tub wasn’t staying on.

“I smell something,” Greg opined, his long, pointed French-Canadian nose inspecting the air around the pump motor like Inspector Clouseau on a murder case. “I think you might have a dead mouse in there.”

“Or a snake,” I offered, as if I’d come up with the idea.

Sure enough, when I pointed a halogen beam flashlight into the space behind the air vents at the front of the motor housing, I saw the familiar black and yellow stripes of a coiled garter snake. After debating the wisdom of trying to tear the motor down, evict the serpent, clean the motor out, dry it, and rebuild it, Greg and I took the thing apart.

“Well,” Greg said as the motor sat on a low brick wall drying in the sun, “maybe you’re right. Maybe we can save you six hundred and fifty bucks.”

That’s what a new motor and installation had set us back the last time a snake decided to call our hot tub home.

“At least it’s fresh,” I said as I tossed the mangled reptile into tall grass.

We took Greg to breakfast at the nearby Blue Max Resort for his trouble. After a hearty meal of eggs, toast, and hot coffee, Greg took the motor back to his cabin to blast water from the coils with compressed air. I went back to my garden.

“It’s working,” Greg called out later, rising from his knees as he listened to the motor purr. “Seems to be running just fine.”

I didn’t stop what I was doing. I simply waved goodbye as my brother-in-law put away his tools and drove off in his truck.

By 2:30pm, the garden was free of weeds and in need of a good soaking. After the great deluge of June, we hadn’t had rain in weeks. The ground was as hard as iron and the newly revealed corn stalks, potatoes, melon vines, bean bushes, and carrot sprouts were thirsty. I set up a new 360 degree tripod sprinkler I’d bought at Menards and opened the hose. You could almost hear the plants sing.

A flat of raspberries from the Munger veggie garden. The plants are a combination of shoots given us by Rene’s late mother, Merc, and a few taken from our old Sears farm house located upriver from the new place.

Peace.

Mark

PS If you want to hear Joe and his mates sing the song that inspired the title to this blog, go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqeErugWXZ4. Be patient: It takes a few moments for the organ to key up…