Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

Mark, Rene’, and A.J. Munger

I am thankful for life, that I have been able to experience this wonderful thing we call existence.

I am thankful that God, Jesus, and my faith provides me with tools to live a good and ethical life.

I am thankful for having made the decision in 1977 to ask Rene’ Privette Munger to share my life with me.

I am thankful that Rene’ Privette Munger said yes.

I am thankful for my four sons-Matt, Dylan, Chris, and Jack-young men who have made me laugh, cry, and swell with pride as they mature.

I am thankful for my brother Dave and my sister Annie who make my life so much richer and fuller.

I am thankful for my parents and their partners, all of whom have given me, my wife, and my children, love.

I am thankful for my mother and father in law (both now gone and at rest) who gave their lovely daughter to me in marriage and who were part of my life for nearly forty years.

I am thankful for my daughter-in-law Lisa who has blessed Matt her love, understanding, and companionship (and who has brought some stability to the crazy Munger clan).

I am thankful for my grandson A.J.: the light of our lives and the beacon of the future.

I am thankful for my son Dylan’s partner, Shelly, for giving him direction and purpose.

I am thankful for all my friends, old and new, who have meant so much to me and who have supported me throughout life’s many twists and turns.

I am thankful for my nieces and nephews and their parents.

I am thankful that, 28 years ago, I chanced upon a want ad for a 1921 Sears home and hobby farm for sale: This place, and the black water that surrounds it, are now a part of my being.

I am thankful for my health and the health of those I love.

I am thankful for my aunt Susanne who inspired me to put pencil to paper and for all the other relatives in the Kobe and Munger families (most of whom are no longer with us) who mentored me and showered me with their love and understanding when I was growing up.

I am thankful for all those I have worked with over the years: my law partners; the employees and judges and staffs of the courthouses I serve; and those who I worked with at various jobs while going to college and law school. I learned so much from them as I made my way to the bench.

I am thankful for our president and other leaders who, though I may not always agree with their decisions, have chosen lives of public service.

I am thankful for the men and women of this nation who, every morning, put on uniforms as soldiers, sailors, Marines, airmen or women, members of the Coast Guard, law enforcement officers, or first responders to serve and protect the rest of us from harm.

I am thankful for my readers, folks who are willing to take a chance and read what a “semi-famous novelist” has to say.

I am thankful for the volunteer coaches and leaders who mentored me in Boy Scouts, on athletic fields, and at church. I am thankful for the folks who have done, and are doing, the same thing for my sons and other young men and women.

I am thankful that, on this Thanksgiving Day, 2012, I can sit at my computer overlooking my beloved Cloquet River and anticipate the arrival of family.

May you also have a wondrous and thankful day of good food and companionship.

Peace.

Mark

The Author at Festival of Trees (Photo by Steph Balmer)

I’ve been doing craft shows since Mike Savage of Savage Press published my first book (The Legacy) in 2000. I sat in Mike’s booth at the Junior League’s Festival of Trees at Lake Superior College and signed books for customers as Mike sold them faster than flapjacks at Denny’s. By 2002, I had my own small press and my own booth at the Festival. I’ve been back, through blizzards and economic downturns and Vikings’ Sundays and rain storms and beautiful late autumn days and changes of venue every year since.

Last spring, I signed up for a booth space at the Festival that could accommodate my books and my wife Rene’s mosaic art work. That was before I had shoulder surgery. If you look really, really close at the photo of me in my booth at this year’s FOT, you’ll see the sling and immobilizer on my left shoulder. So, when Friday rolled around and it was time to set up our exhibit space, Rene’ had to enlist our son Jack to help load her very heavy concrete garden benches into her Matrix. I’d already taken a tumble in the shower and landed on my left shoulder (thankfully, I was smart enough not to extend my left arm to stop my fall) and I really wasn’t in a position to help move concrete. Instead, I set up my book display, left plenty of space for Rene’, and headed up to Barnes and Noble over the hill to kill time before joining Rene’ and Jack for dinner at Perkins.

Saturday. Traffic was heavy once the doors to the Festival opened at nine. There were so many women (the crowd was 99.9% female) packed into Pioneer Hall, the flow of traffic was something akin to the LA freeway at rush hour. Sales were brisk up until early afternoon and then, the crowd thinned and I began to pass the time by reading.

I had picked up a copy of The Writer at BN. It’s a nifty little magazine (that I don’t subscribe to but should) about writing. Duh! Flipping pages, I came across an interview with mystery writer, Lawrence Block, a man who has penned more than 100 books dating back to the 1950s and who has won four Edgar and Shamus Awards for writing excellence in the detective/mystery genre. I’ve not read Block but I know of Block and I respect his views on the art and business of writing fiction. I was intrigued to find out that, at 74 years old, Block has embraced self-publishing and digital publishing as ways to make his work available to the public. One passage from the interview hit home for me as I sat in the concrete shell of Pioneer Hall surrounded by crafters and customers:

I’ve found self-publishing enjoyable and satisfying, and it seems to be paying off for me. It is, as I’ve said, a slow way to get rich-and if you’re hoping for wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, there may be more fertile fields for you to plow…

His thoughts regarding ebooks versus print were similarly succinct:

The set-up cost is low, and the marginal costs are zero. So whether you do it yourself or enlist an e-publisher, its economically possible to e-publish and keep in print a book that would otherwise not return its costs…(I)ncreasingly, readers love e-books. For all the crap you hear about readers wanting to smell the paper, more and more readers find an e-reader more user-friendly than a printed book…The I-wanna-smell-the-paper-crew had grandparents who were similarly wary of the automobile; I’ll leave it to you to figure out what they wanted to smell!

I chatted a bit with a neighbor in an abutting booth and marveled at how well behaved the sight-assisting Labrador bedded down behind her table was during the commotion of the show. When I asked the dog’s name, I was politely told that, because some folks try to gain the dog’s attention when she’s working, her name had to remain unspoken. Having read Steve Kuusisto’s excellent memoir on blindness and canine companions, I understood the point being made.

The working dog at rest.

Rene’ carried in another mosaic table to add to her wares and an extra box of books to replenish my dwindling supply. The author of nine books, I had only four titles available at the beginning of the show. By the time Rene’ handed me a carton full of copies of Mr. Environment, all that I had left were copies of my newest novel, Laman’s River, and the Munger biography. That’s of course both good and bad: It shows I’ve been selling books; that’s the good. But, like Block’s article points out, the margins in printed books are so small, that when you add the costs of a booth at a festival like the Festival of Trees, factor in lunch, and gasoline, and parking, well, there’s simply not enough profit to re-print my beloved stories. That’s the bad: some of my best work is not in print. The enterprise that is Cloquet River Press is sort of like having a son or daughter in youth hockey: a never ending sea of red ink. Block’s article points to a possible solution for small operators like me: Go digital with your older work and stock only your new work in paper. Maybe he has something there.

After a long day at the FOT, I hauled my ass out of my chair, picked up Chinese at Huie’s on 4th street, and headed home. Jack, our fifteen year old, was with about five hundred other ELCA kids at a retreat in Brainerd, which meant Rene’ and I were alone. Tired to the bone, full up on good Chinese, I fell asleep trying to watch Saturday Night Live, any other intentions I might have had lost to sheer exhaustion.

Sunday morning, feeling the need for redemption, I attended early service at Grace Lutheran. Rene’ was scheduled to meet our son Matt, our daughter-in-law Lisa, and our grandson A.J. at the later service. The plan was for Rene’, Lisa, and the baby to take in the Festival of Trees while Matt went to St. Scholastica to work on his master’s degree. I made it to my booth after worship a few minutes after the show opened because I stopped in at the St.Louis County Jail to deal with prisoners in custody, part of my “real” job as a district court judge. Traffic for the first hour of the FOT was heavy and then, apparently the sun came out and the hordes of women who had been intent upon shopping found other things to do. From noon until the close of the event, the concrete cavern of Pioneer Hall was empty of anyone other than vendors. Sales were bleak and, as always happens when I am not selling books, my spirits declined. Rene’ brought me lunch from Bridgeman’s, which, of course, was a positive. Nancy, Jack’s godmother, stopped in to say hello. 3:00 arrived. Rene’, Lisa, and A.J. found their way back to the booth and we began to pack. Within a short while, everything was tucked away in my Pacifica and I was out the door.

But, for this part-time novelist and full-time dad, my day wasn’t over. As Rene’ and Lisa drove to meet Matt at the college to exchange vehicles, I climbed the hill to Grace Lutheran where Jack was waiting. I picked up my son and then stopped in at St. Raphael’s Catholic Church (where Jack’s Boy Scout troop meets) to pick up Christmas wreaths Jack sold to raise money for summer camp. Two nice folks helped cram sweet smelling balsam into the bulging cargo area of the Pacifica. And then, it was time to head home.

Peace.

Mark

KAXE, Grand Rapids, MN

Wednesday afternoon. My left arm and shoulder are killing me and I can barely keep my eyes open and on the road. I’m driving northwest on US Highway No. 2 to attend a pot luck and discussion of my latest novel, Laman’s River at one of northern Minnesota’s beloved cultural icons. Duluth has KUMD. Ely has WELY. And the great north woods, from Crow Wing County to the boondocks north of Bemidji has KAXE, or, as the station likes to label itself, “Northern Community Radio”. I’m on my way to eat with and talk to the KAXE Bookclub which selected my latest murder mystery as their October read. Though I am dog tired and weary, I didn’t think of letting the fine folks in Itasca County down. They’ve been alongside me for nearly every step of my journey as a writer and I wouldn’t want to disappoint such loyal fans.

In 2001, shortly after the release of my first novel, The Legacy, I got wind of a radio show run by a perky little blond gal, Heidi Holtan, in the Grand Rapids area. I’m not sure how we connected but Heidi had me on Realgoodwords with that first book and has had me back on her show with every book thereafter. She was even nice enough to drive down to Duluth with a friend and MC the book launch of Laman’s River this past spring for the price of a good dinner at the Zeitgeist Cafe’. And, sometime after connecting, Heidi also introduced me to serial reader and all around good guy, Randy McCarty. Randy then convinced his pals to select Suomalaiset as a read for their book club. Anyway, Randy is also the culprit who convinced the KAXE Book Club to read my latest and it was Randy who enticed me to take the long drive from Duluth to ‘Rapids to share a meal and talk writing at KAXE.

Bleary eyed and dragging after a day of conciliation court, I pull into a convenience store in Floodwood for a restroom break and a cup of coffee. With my arm in a sling post-shoulder surgery, getting in and out of a seat belt and my Pacifica is a challenge, but nothing near what many disabled folks face every day. My impairment is a temporary inconvenience, nothing more. Back in the van, coffee steams from a Styrofoam cup as I roar out of the station back onto No. 2. I tune the FM dial to KAXE (91.7) and listen to news as I make my way west.

Once in town, I pull into Village Books, the local independent bookstore in Grand Rapids, to see whether or not the store has Laman’s River in stock . It does. I spy a copy of the latest novel from Hibbing writer Pat McGauley, A Passage of Redemption, and, after confirming that it’s a signed copy, I purchase it. Supporting brother and sister authors and poets (along with independent bookstores)  is a mission of mine. Hopefully, my fellow authors return the favor! I confirm with the clerk that I’ll be back at Village Books for a book signing on November 30th and then, I head to the radio station.

Fortuitously, Randy pulls up just as I park the Pacifica in front of KAXE. After hauling in a steaming pot of goose stew, he helps me lug books to the conference room where we will gather. I set up a small display of my work, complete with credit card imprinter and signage, and mingle with book club members as they arrive singularly or in couples. Soon, the smell of hot food and the garbled conversation of book lovers fills the small room. Heidi is there, seemingly no worse the wear from her stint as a blocker on the local roller derby team. We sit down to a smorgasbord of great food and lively conversation. Not everyone in attendance loves Laman’s River but the discussion is engaging and enlightening for me, the author, as I listen to thoughtful questions and comments and try to respond without stepping over my tongue. I sip a glass of wine, sell and sign a few books, read from my novel-in-progress, Sukulaiset: The Kindred, and then, far too soon, it is time to pack it all in and hit the road.

Not too far out of town, with the sky blackened and moonless, a shooting star; not one of those fleeting, little dashes of light one usually catches out of the corner of an eye, but a brilliant, white ball of fire with a matching tail, plummeted to Earth just ahead of the Prairie River. Don’t know what it means, as a metaphor against the evening with my friends at KAXE, but it sure was cool!

If you want to catch me at an event in the near future, check out the calendar on the upper right hand side of this blog. Click on any date in red to see where I’ll be that particular day.

Thanks, Randy, Heidi, and all of the KAXE Book Club for making my short visit memorable and worthwhile. See you on November 30th from 5-8 at the Village Bookstore!

Peace.

Mark

Jack Munger, Kevin Harris, and Dale “Guitar” Harris waiting on The Boss

When I heard my brother in robes, Dale Harris, talking about getting tickets to the Bruce Springsteen concert in St. Paul early in the summer, I had to butt in.

“You’re taking Kevin?” I asked, referring to his 14 year old son, a kid I’ve coached in soccer and who’s played both soccer and hockey with my son, Jack.

“I am.”

“If you can get two more tickets, I’d love to take Jack.”

Now, some folks might view my intrusion as being a bit pushy. But Dale knows that, by nature, I’m always pushy so the request didn’t strike him as untoward.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Dale came through and we made arrangements to stay overnight so as not to duplicate the foolishness of younger men: Driving from St. Paul to Duluth at o-dark-thirty after three hours of The Boss was something we’d both done in our twenties. A long drive in the dark with two teenagers asleep in the back seats wasn’t something we were interested in attempting. We checked into the Embassy Suites in downtown St. Paul (you know, the one with the cute little wood ducks floating in the fountain) early enough to have a brew and dinner, and then, along with several dozen other fans, the four of us waited for the shuttle to take us to the X.

The X Begins to Fill

While we waited in the lobby of the hotel’s faux Irish pub (any place that runs out of Guinness and tries to claim it’s a pub is a pretender in my book!), Dale and I speculated as to which of the hundreds of Springsteen hits the band would select to start the concert.

Dad and Son Listening to “My City of Ruins”

“”We Take Care of Our Own'”, Dale suggested.

The choice made perfect sense. Springsteen had worked tirelessly, between his horrific concert dates, to show up in Ohio, Wisconsin, and Iowa to sing songs of protest in support of President Obama’s re-election. The populist message of Springsteen’s songs of broken dreams, shuttered factories, and folks trying to get by fit in well with the message of the Prez. Pulling the first song off Wrecking Ball, an album that drips of Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan and Neil Young at the height of their collective political consciousness; well, that just seemed so damn logical.

“It’s Veteran’s Day,” a guy who had no connection to us and certainly wasn’t in on our conversation, interjected. “He’ll honor men and women in uniform by playing ‘Born in the USA.'”

Dale and I looked at each other but the shuttle arrived before we could disagree with the stranger.

The Band in Full Flight

My partner was right on the money. The audience burst into screams as the opening chords of “We Take Care of Our Own” shredded the cobwebs that had settled in during the near hour wait. What followed was a display of musical excellence. Many new cuts from Wrecking Ball (as fine as album as Bruce has crafted in years: see my review of the same under the “Reviews” tab of the dashboard above) made the playlist as did some old favorites. A few chestnuts, like “Atlantic City” from the sparse and lonely Nebraska (one of my all-time favorite Springsteen efforts), were completely remixed to bring freshness and originality to the songs. Other classics, like “Born to Run” and “Rosalita” were played straight, as if decades of time hadn’t passed between laying the tunes down on vinyl and wandering onto the X’s stage on a cold November night after the 2012 election.

The five-piece brass section, the three-fold E Street Gospel Choir, the percussionist, and the present E Street standard bearers (Tallent, Van Zant, Lofgren, Weinberg, Bittan, Giordano, Tyrell) worked together in perfection whether the piece was a rocker or a soft ballad (such as “If I Should Fall Behind”). Bruce strutted. He played guitar. He belted out standards, crooned gospel, and dialed it down to sing lovely, lovely slow songs of angst and longing. He crowd surfed. He grabbed a pre-teen boy and dragged him onto the stage in the midst of the pit and had him slap hands alongside The Boss. He sang a duet with a young girl. He brought an 88-year-old birthday girl onto the stage during “Dancing in the Dark” because the sign she waved above her gray head said she wanted to dance with Stevie Van Zant. And, thankfully, after all the mud and slime that was slung by politicians over the past 18 months, there was not one word, despite Bruce’s obvious political leanings, about the election. Not one.

25 songs. Three hours aboard a musical steamroller. Not a break. No warmup band. Just the man and his pals, playing their music. Man, what a night!

“Born to Run” as an Encore

When a musician has written some of a generation’s most memorable tunes, penned some of its most poignant lyrics, and cut dozens of quality albums, and is still learning his craft and evolving as an artist at age 63, how do you pick one song out of a performance and claim it was “the moment” during the show? There’s never going to be uniformity in such an endeavor. Each fan will have his or her view of what was special, which song soared and tugged at their heartstrings, what struck him or her as the most memorable portion of a very long but very enjoyable ‘coaster ride. For me, when Bruce grabbed a placard bearing a request and spent time with his band, singers, and the horns figuring out what key to do “Savin’ Up” in, well, that blew me away. I’d never heard the song and when Springsteen worked the kinks of the unrehearsed tune in front of us and explained that he’d written it for Clarence Clemons (whom everyone knew as The Big Man, the glue behind the E Street Band and its dynamic, unusual sound: what other rock band from the 70s features a sax player the size of Jupiter?) , well, you just knew something special was about to happen. And it did., especially with Jake Clemons (Clarence’s nephew) blowing the sax in honor of his late uncle.

I sat, I stood, I yelled, I sang, I cheered. And so did my fifteen-year-old son. After a marathon of great music from America’s hardest working musician, the smile that began with “We Take Care of Our Own” was still there when the last chord of “10th Avenue Freeze Out” had faded and The Big Man’s face on the overhead screen disappeared.

Peace.

Mark

You can watch footage of “Savin’ Up” from the concert at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdIwe4XPUks

Apparently, it’s the first time he’s ever done it with the E Street Band!

St. James School and Catholic Church

Thursday. I arranged my schedule at the courthouse so that I could spend some time with budding young writers at St. James Parochial School in West Duluth. The invitation to talk to and interact with Mrs. Lindquist’s 6th, 7th, and 8th grade English classes came fortuitously and in typical 21st century fashion: A Facebook friend sent Mrs. Linqduist my way when the young teacher let folks know she was looking for a published author to talk to her students. Following 21st century protocol, we never spoke on the telephone but simply messaged each other until a date and time for my visit was set.

St. James is typical of many Roman Catholic schools, I imagine, throughout the country. Classes are held in an old, but well maintained building attached to the local parish. After parking my Pacifica and making my way to the one entrance (of a myriad of entrances) that the public is allowed to use to enter the complex, I followed signs leading me down brightly lighted, freshly polished hallways to the school office. After checking in, the office administrator escorted me past clusters of little kids wearing school uniforms: white polo shirts and khaki slacks for both genders. Gone are the powder blue shirts, narrow ties, and black slacks boys who attended Catholic school wore “back in my day”. And the young ladies? Completely absent were the string ties, crisp white blouses, and blue plaid skirts of the 1960s Roman Catholic school girl uniform. In the 21st century, students of both genders dress alike.

Mrs. Linqquist turned out to be a bright eyed, pretty, young lady who whose attention to her charges and her duties as a teacher would do any parent proud. As we talked before the kids filed in for my appearance, I learned that she grew up in Duluth, graduating from Duluth Central and UMD (after a spell at Concordia-Moorhead), and that she teaches English, Composition, Spanish, and Religion. Quite a load but given the small class sizes at the school, it’s a schedule that she finds manageable. We were soon joined, in her basement classroom (a cluttered but inviting space) by another young teacher and 15 or so energetic but polite young men and women between the ages of 11 and 15.

I have to say: I’ve done many, many talks, media interviews, workshops, lectures, signings, and readings concerning my books over the past 20 years but the hour I spent with Mrs. Lindquist’s kids in that small, dark classroom last Thursday, was one of the most rewarding hours I’ve ever spent as an author. Having my own 15 year old at home, I tried to make our discussion lively: less a lecture and more interactive. I welcomed questions from the students, all of which were insightful and well thought. Mrs. Lindquist was quick with the computer mouse when we took the students on a tour of this blog, finding categories and tabs and clicking on them to display areas of interest on an overhead screen as fast as I could think. Ah, the power of youth and technology! In the end, I think I drew more from the kids’ energy and enthusiasm for writing and reading than they learned from me. Our time together ended far too early.

Duluth Congregational Church Art and Craft Sale

After an afternoon of signing search warrants, finishing orders, and returning telephone calls, it was time for me to once again take off my judicial robe and become, as my second son Dylan once labeled me, “a “semi-famous” author. Jack, the only of my four sons left at home, had packed the Pacifica with boxes and storage bins the night before. I’m still recovering from shoulder surgery and, on doctor’s orders, I’m unable to use my left hand and arm for anything more than typing. So, with my judicial duties completed and as a one handed author guy, I headed all the way across town, to Lakeside, where I was scheduled to have a booth at another of WendyUpNorth’s neighborhood art and craft shows.

I like doing these smaller, indoor shows. In fact, as I’ve said before, I’ve sworn off doing the big summertime outdoor festivals that once were the bread and butter of my book sales. Being indoors has the advantage of dispensing with the need for an EZ Up tent, worrying about the weather, and makes for a less stressful existence. In addition, the cost of renting a table at these events is modest in comparison to the fees charged at larger festivals. And there is usually music, as there was on Thursday. There’s nothing better than acoustic music playing in the background to tame the savage breast, right? On Thursday, longtime Duluth-Superior folk icon Jim Hall played his guitar and sang his songs off in a corner of the event, adding a wisp of melancholy to the evening.

The One-Armed Author Guy

Though there weren’t crowds of customers, the folks who wandered in were interested in art and literature and, by the end of the night, I’d done fairly well in the sales department. I also renewed acquaintances with a woman I went from kindergarten through high school with (thanks, Monica for stopping by and buying some books!), chatted with a young woman who recently served on a jury in my courtroom, and talked music with an old acquaintance; Duluth folkie John Ward.

Towards the end of the night, I thought I’d made a sale to a woman whose husband, according to her, was 100% Finnish and likely interested in my two historical novels about the Finns.

“My husband would love these books, ” she told me. “I’ll bring him over to take a look.”

Like many folks who browse and say they will be back to buy, she didn’t return. The next time I saw her, her husband, and their teenaged daughter, I was on my way to the restroom and they were leaving the church.

“I wonder how we get out of here,” the woman said.

“Right down the hall,” I said, pointing to the exit as I entered the restroom, a bit disappointed that she hadn’t come back to my table.

From the restroom, I could hear the woman say to her husband:

“Oh, that’s the man who had the Finn books for sale. You should really take a look.”

I could sense that they’d stopped short of the exit.

“You’ll give me a few minutes to look them over?”

“Sure.”

I did what needed doing, washed my hands, and scurried back towards my table. Sure enough, the family was standing over my display, the father and husband reading the back of Suomalaiset. After some preliminaries, he bought both Suomalaiset and a manuscript copy of Sukulaiset. It’s not often that a prospective customer fulfills his or her promise to return and buy something once they’ve passed by. The fact someone came back and bought two books, was, in addition to the great time I had in Mrs. Lindquist’s class at St. James, the perfect end to a perfect day.

Mark’s Books

Peace.

Mark

In the end, half of us  (the Midwest and the coasts) voted for a man who raised himself up from his bootstraps, became the first African American editor of the Harvard Law Review, launched the greatest political campaign of our lifetimes, and served admirably (without scandal or serious misstep) for four years as our president. The other half of our nation (most of the West and nearly all of the South) voted for a man who was raised in privilege, served his business interests, his family, and his church with distinction, and served one term as the governor of a state that didn’t even vote for him in the presidential race. To say that we are a divided nation is an understatement. To say that we face challenges is to minimize the schism in our neighborhoods, cities, states, and country. Still, I think some basic truths from the past eighteen months of rancor should not be ignored.

First, Americans have now rejected a political philosophy based upon theological arguments: one which chooses to ignore dinosaurs, evolution, climate change, medicine, science, and commonly understood human biology. As an example, in Minnesota, a state of great teachers, great public and private universities and colleges, and thoughtful (for the most part) politicians, voters soundly rejected amendments to the Minnesota Constitution which sought to define marriage based upon theological principles and which would have turned the right to vote into something akin to cashing a check.

However you feel about same sex marriage, the failure of the recent amendment regarding that issue deserved its fate: Minnesota law (statutes passed by our elected representatives) already define marriage as the union of one man, one women. Defeating the amendment did nothing to change that legal definition.

With respect to the Voter ID proposal, I was puzzled by the debates surrounding the issue. Lost in the passion displayed by both sides was this fundamental truth: Voting is a right, not a privilege. Putting on my lawyer’s hat for a moment, my argument against the amendment is very simple: Every man or woman living in Minnesota has the right to cast his or her vote unless someone can establish that the person attempting to vote is unqualified to do so. Period. Voting is not akin to obtaining a hunting license, a license to drive, or seeking public benefits. Those are all privileges that may or may not be accessed by Minnesotans upon showing suitable qualifications. Casting a vote; a basic, fundamental right of any adult Minnesotan who has not had his civil rights taken from him due to a felony conviction or a finding of incompetency by a court of law; should not require anything more than the voter’s attestation that the voter is who he says he is and that he lives in the precinct where he is casting his vote. Think about this: any felon released from prison can attain a license to drive. A photo ID (driver’s license) doesn’t establish that a felon has had his civil rights (including the right to vote) restored. Presenting a photo ID at the polls in no way “prevents” the voter fraud that is claimed to be at the root of the proposed amendment.

I also think that what Minnesota, what America affirmed last night is this: We celebrate and hold nearly sacred stories of Americans of modest means who have followed their dreams and made something of their lives. President Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama are sterling examples of such hard-earned success. Despite the birther and other crazed voices to the contrary, they have done nothing to diminish the level of their accomplishments in either their private or public lives.

Finally, what Minnesota and America also affirmed last night is that personal integrity: being true to one’s moral and ethical compass; can defeat, in the end, distortion and deliberate falsehood. Contrast President Obama’s obvious personal integrity with Mitt Romney’s response to the racially coded (or not so coded) venom injected into the campaign by Trump, Gingrich, Limbaugh, and a host of others on the Right. Not once during a very strained and heated campaign did the president point to Gov. Romney’s faith as being out of the mainstream or an impediment for the Governor to be president. No surrogate of the president went there either. But on the other side of the equation, Governor Romney was remarkably silent. He did nothing to challenge or rein in the nonsense being spewed by his crowd. Nothing.

John McCain, when confronted with right wing commentary about candidate Obama’s race, religion, and place of birth in 2008 stood far taller. He said loudly and clearly: “Knock it off.” He showed that, even in a losing effort, ethics and integrity matter. Unfortunately, Mitt Romney never displayed similar fortitude.

The way I see it, the legacy of this election is not so much a story of the division of our beloved nation based upon red and blue states. It is more a reminder to us all that personal integrity matters even when the flames of politics are hot and the race for high office is razor close.

It was heartening to see America vindicate our president, his wife, and their family as being indeed, not just one of us, but the best of us.

Peace.

Mark

Duluth Heights Community Club

The crowd was meager from the get go and didn’t change much over the course of time. Seven hours. Six books sold. Not a very productive way to spend a Saturday. I know. Even J.K. Rowling may have had a day, somewhere long ago in her past, where she sat by herself at a book store or a public signing event. Maybe. I know many other nationally known writers, including Jane Hamilton (Map of the World) and Jacquelyn Mitchard (Deep End of the Ocean) have written about such occasions despite their literary success and having large publishing houses behind their work. Still, I am, by nature, an optimistic man and when the Duluth Heights Hockey Association emailed me a notice that they had room for an author at their first ever fundraising carnival and craft show, I looked at the calendar, saw an open date, and jumped at the chance to try to hawk some books.

My Table at Duluth Heights

I was pushing my recovery from shoulder surgery to be lugging around boxes of Laman’s River, Mr. Environment, Suomalaiset, and my novel-in-progress (Sukulaiset, of which I have a few extra review copies I sell at such events) but I figured it was the opening day of Minnesota’s firearms deer hunting season and there would be women (the half of American society that buys and reads fiction) out for a day of shopping and diversion while their menfolk stalked whitetail. I was wrong. Oh, there were indeed a few women about, lugging infants or with toddlers in tow, who came for the carnival in the basement of the community center. And a few of them lingered upstairs to look at the wares of the various vendors. But on this glorious late autumn day, with slight rain giving way to sunshine and balmy temperatures, I saw very few ladies digging for cash in their purses at my booth or any other booth at the event.

My ever diligent wife showed up with lunch for me sometime after tedium turned to boredom. My old man called about a personal problem while I was occupied with selling a book to a young man who had served on a jury a few months back in my courtroom. I had to brush Dad off so I could make the sale, which I did. I returned Dad’s call, gave him the best advice I could, and chatted with Rene’ for a time as I munched on a McDonald’s wrap. Rene’ said adieu and then it was just me and the empty space of the hall, or so it seemed to my now less-than-optimistic eye.

Don’t get me wrong. The exposure was likely a good thing despite the lack of sales. I managed to chat with a few folks who, though they didn’t buy a book directly from me, were interested in the Nook or Kindle version of Laman’s River. And I did other work while I sat in my chair, my left arm immobilized in a sling, Lortab coursing through my veins. I managed to select the textbooks for my environmental law course at UWS next semester. And I finished reading the most recent issue of Poets and Writers Magazine. So, despite the scarcity of sales and the infrequency of patrons, the day was productive.

Mark with His Magazine

Dad wandered in near closing time. We talked a bit and then he waved his hand and went home to watch talking heads on MSNBC. I sold another book: Then it was time to leave. One of the vendors, a nice older woman (who had bought a copy of Sukulaiset) offered her four wheeled dolly and the services of her husband to help me load out. The kindness of strangers, the charitable intent of the show (and the friendliness of the folks who put on it on) might tempt me to come back in spite of disappointing sales. I have a year to think about it.

Peace.

Mark

The Hall Near Closing Time

Matt and Chris Munger with Lexie

OK. So the photo doesn’t exactly show how flat the terrain outside Ashley, ND is.  It shows a hill: A big mother of a hill that we climbed last week in search of pheasants. For the 6th year in a row, my sons Matt and Chris and I have joined my old man, Harry, in a rental house in downtown diminutive Ashley (population 882 but I think the census folks counted the cats too!) to hunt pheasants, the occasional sharptail grouse, and ducks. Normally, the boys and I stick to upland birds and leave the ducks to Grandpa (he’s 85 today!) and his 80 year old buddy, Bruce. But this year, there was no Bruce. Only grandpa, me, the two boys, and Lexie, my son Matt’s affectionate and hardworking red Labrador.

Matt and Chris and the Big Slough

Generations

We’re as dedicated in the field as my kid’s dog. We’re just not very good shots. Oh, we had our moments this year, don’t get me wrong. There were a couple of double roosters, where Chris and I, or Matt and Chris, hit the big beautiful male birds as they took to the sky. There was at least one triple: Chris hit two pheasants and I hit one from the same flurry but we lost my bird when poor Lexie couldn’t make up her mind which of the three downed, but still running birds, to track. In the end, for our four days of hunting, we downed nearly twenty roosters, saw some impressive corn fed deer, watched flight after flight after flight of geese and ducks and swans and cranes fly over head, and only argued a time or two. Grandpa managed a few flurries into the field. even bagging a sharpie and a rooster in the bargain. But we all knew, in the undercurrent  of irritability that surfaced from time to time when trivial things got Grandpa’s goat, that he really wanted, more than anything on Planet Earth, to be a young man tromping through the cattails with his hunting buddies. Problem is, he’s not a young man and, truth be told, other than Bruce, who missed the trip due to an upcoming medical procedure, there aren’t any hunting buddies left to take the field.

Still, and this came through as we downed good beer and shots of Jamison during the 3rd presidential debate after another hard day on the Great Plains, I knew how much Dad enjoyed being with us. Despite his gruff demeanor (and even gruffier beard!), an aura of love emanated from the Old Man even when he was yelling at the President to stand up to the man Dad calls “the empty suit”.

You can tell how happy Grandpa was to be along for the trip (a trip that he organized for years: a duty Matt has now assumed) from the photograph of Harry and Lexie on the couch after a long day in the field. See, Grandpa came out a few days early with Lexie to “scout” out the terrain, to get the lay of the land, and learn the local hunting scuttlebutt. His last Labrador, Cleo, died a few years back: The best damn hunting dog he ever owned. There’s a point in life as a bird hunter when you realize you’ve had your last dog. To Harry’s credit, when Cleo passed, he recognized she was the end of an era. But Matt and his wife Lisa are generous with Lexie. The dog often spends respite time at Grandpa’s house for no other reason than because she’s loved. So, while Harry may be dogless, he is not without a dog. Anyway, Lexie and Harry spent a few days bonding in North Dakota before we arrived. Their connection is clearly shown below.

Lexie and Harry

No man knows his own destiny, nor the time of his passing, nor the true impact of his life upon others. Walking the windy fields, the dry marshes, and the rolling hills of southern North Dakota last week called these truths to mind. No father is perfect. Lord knows, I’ve tried to be there for my four sons and likely succeeded in some ways, failed in others. So has my father. But one thing is certain: Dad passed on a love for this earth, for the thrill of the hunt, and a reverence for wildlife to not only me, his eldest son, but also to his grandsons. How many hunts remain for any of us? Who can say.

Matt, Chris, Lexie, and Harry (and a few pheasants for good measure!)

Mark, Lexie and a pair of roosters

Happy 85th Birthday, Dad!