Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

Looking north, towards the Cloquet River

Discernible snow on October 11th? I can’t remember, in my nearly 58 years of kicking about NE Minnesota, when there’s been appreciable snow on the ground this early. But, photos don’t lie and there you are! I’ll leave it to the scientists and science haters on the House Committee on Science and Technology (isn’t it funny that we have a bunch of guys and gals from one side of the aisle on that committee who disavow the age of the Earth, dinosaurs, mastodons, and yet, supposedly serve the interests of science?) to debate why it’s snowing in NE Minnesota when the leaves haven’t even fallen off the trees. I’m not smart enough to guess the cause. But it happened.

Looking east.

Looking west.

Maybe, as they say on “Garage Logic” global warming is all a bunch of mysterian hooey, which is a polite way of saying it’s bull shit. (Or, if you’re a Joe Biden fan, malarkey.) Or maybe, just maybe, there’s something to the whole notion that we are doing something weird to our atmosphere and hence, our climate. None of us, of course, will likely live long enough to know who’s right and who’s wrong in this debate but it sure is a curious thing to wake up a few days after stream trout season has closed to see a blanket of white across the fields.

Whatever it’s source, the pristine covering was, to this old downhill and cross country skier, a welcome reminder that sometimes, we actually get real, non-man-made snow, in our “neck of the woods”. I’m hoping for a big snow year, whatever the cause, so that once I heal from my upcoming shoulder surgery, I can take to the woods and the hills and enjoy our winter.

Really.

Mark

Park Point Community Center

Saturday. My son Jack and his U15 soccer team is starting playoffs and I’m going to miss the game. Not just as a parent but as one of the coaches. Before I agreed to coach the team with Tim and Gary, I’d signed up to be at the Park Point Community Center for the “Get to the Point” craft show, selling my books. The fact that I’m going to miss the first game (it’s at 9:00am-right when I’ll be setting up my book display) but make the second game at 3:00pm by closing down my sales efforts an hour early sits in my stomach like bad beef.

Choices.

I’ve coached all four of my sons in soccer and, on occasion, two of the four in hockey. I’ve been a confirmation instructor at our church for all four boys. I’m currently active in Jack’s scout troop. I try to be a good example, to be there when our sons need their dad. But, from time to time, my desire, my drive to succeed as an author gets in the way of parenting. There’s only so much time in the week, only so many days to be shared. Today is one of those days when I have to be in two places at once.

My wife Rene’ calls me as I am setting up in the cozy space of the Community Center. It’s her job, since I’m pursuing John Grisham-like recognition, to drive Jack in to his game.

“The car won’t start.”

It’s the second time this week her Matrix won’t start. Last time, she left the dome light on. This time, the starter clicks but nothing more happens.

“Did you leave the light on again?”

My wife isn’t happy with my suggestion. She informs me that she’s perfectly capable of diagnosing a car problem and that the present defect is not, repeat, is not due to her, but a mechanical malfunction.

“Why do you always have to place blame on someone?” she asks.

Because I’m a judge. It’s what I do.

I hold my tongue. Eventually, our eldest son, Matt, his wife and infant son arrive and give Rene’ and Jack a ride to the game. Our faithful mechanic Woody is on his way to diagnose the issue: It’s a good thing he lives just up the road.

I settle into my chair, ready for customers, and try to keep up-to-date on the soccer game through technology. I don’t text often but I find myself receiving and sending texts to Matt as he watches the game. The second text I get is disturbing.

Jack’s hurt.

I try to get more information. Matt ignores my texts. Customers stop by. I sell a few copies of my work. I have a few manuscript copies of my novel-in-progress, Sukulaiset: The Kindred, the sequel to my best selling historical novel, Suomalaiset, for sale. The rest of the copies are in the hands of my pre-readers. Once I get their feedback, I’ll make my final edits and then send the book off to a professional editing service. From there, if all goes well, the book will see print sometime next summer. A professor from UMD stops by and we talk about the book. I sell her a copy. She promises to email me with her thoughts and criticisms.

Matt finally updates me. Jack is out of the game with a pulled hamstring. I try calling Matt, Rene’, and even Jack, who has his own iPhone (though it’s unlikely he has it on the sidelines). Nothing. I feel depression, a sense of failure at not being there for my son, weigh heavy.

Reminds of when I was in Winnipeg, being pummeled with questions by that crazy ass book reviewer at Chapters (the Canadian equivalent of Barnes and Noble), who it turns out was the only reviewer to pan Suomalaiset. Chris was playing in the All Star game back home while I tried to gain recognition as an author. I missed that game too. And for what? So some ass could pillory me? Sometimes I don’t know why the hell I’m doing this.

Despite the fact that its drizzling and cold outside, I decide to take a walk to see what Lake Superior is doing. I follow a wooden boardwalk set in sand to an

observation platform overlooking the big water. I find relief and peace in feeling the familiar embrace of October wind and mist. I’d like to pack up my books and find a bar to drown my lament but realize that getting tanked won’t erase my melancholy. In truth, my soul craves melancholy. It’s in my DNA to persevere against angst and downheartedness and guilt. So I turn on my heels and head back to the craft show.

1-0.

That’s the text Matt sent me while I was contemplating the lake.

Who won?

Telling me the score, without putting it into perspective, really doesn’t help much. And it doesn’t tell me where the game is at in terms of time.

Is the game over? Is that a final score?

I don’t text these questions but they linger in my mind. Matt doesn’t text back. I finally call and find out that Jack’s team won. I put my phone away and have a nice chat with a young woman and her husband manning the booth next to mine. He’s a scientist with the Wisconsin DNR: She’s a “reformed” attorney, practicing her art and no longer appearing in court. Because she’s from out east, I describe our court system for her and she describes her work as a prosecutor and former Assistant AG. I glance at the clock. It’s 2:00 and the crowd is dwindling. Time to go.

I make it to the second game in time to help coach a group of fine young men. Despite his injury, Jack is determined to play. It takes him the better part of an hour to stretch out his hamstring to the point he can run at all. I yield to his petitions and, against my better judgment as a coach, I put him in. It’s clear from his limited speed that he’s still hurting. But he tries, as do his teammates, to win their second game of the playoffs. Despite hammering away at the Grand Rapids net for most of the game, the last fifteen minutes of the contest is all Rapids. We hang on and the game ends in a tie. There’s a question as to whether Jack’s team will advance further in the playoffs. My son and I head home, boxes of books stacked to the ceiling and a soccer ball rolling around in the cargo area of the Pacifica.

Peace.

Mark

Indian Lake

My wife was insistent. She was determined that we were going to take a road trip to view the colors. Complicating her Saturday desire was our 15 year old son. Jack was supposed to go with his church youth group on a paintball expedition, which meant that we had to drive him to and from town. But when Jack wandered home from a sleep over at a friend’s house, Jack did what teens often do: He changed his mind. Instead of firing balls of paint at other Lutheran kids, he chose to stay home.

“This is where Chris and I launched the canoes,” I said to Rene’ as we stood on the dock at the public landing on Indian Lake, the oranges and golds and greens of early autumn surrounding the crisp blue waters of the small ox bow off the Cloquet River.

My reference was to a trip my third son Chris and I made a decade ago. We put in our canoe at Indian Lake and paddled downstream, towards home, over the course of three nights and days. It was a great trip.

“Very pretty,” Rene’ said, looking out over the tiny teardrop of water. “Very pretty.”

Rene’ at Indian Lake

After a quick pit stop at Hugo’s in Brimson, a local watering hole noted for its friendly atmosphere and constantly revolving ownership, I put the Pacifica in gear and headed east, towards Highway 2. The maples flamed. The birches and aspen waved golden fingers in the breeze. The tamaracks hinted color. And the white pines, the sentinels of the North Woods, stood green against the painted backdrop.

Highway 1 proved arduous. Minnesota’s fifth season, road construction season, was in full swing. Fifteen miles of detour took us to Babbitt, a mining town on the far eastern edge of the Vermilion Range, where we caught County 21 and headed north, towards our ultimate destination, Ely, Minnesota.

“There’s the sign for the resort,” I observed as the car rumbled over pavement.

I was directing my wife’s attention to a large sign that read: Timber Wolf Lodge.

“Susanne says that they’ve really cleaned up the place,” Rene’ replied, referencing my beloved aunt, my mom’s only sibling. Susanne and my mom grew up working the resort on Bear Island Lake built by my grandfather Jack and my grandmother Marie. Grandpa hired the strong backs and clever hands of Finnish carpenters to build the cabins, store, ice house, and other structures of the fish camp. That all of the original buildings still stand says something about the abilities of immigrant craftsmen.

The Pacifica slowed as we approached the Chocolate Moose in downtown Ely. I found a parking spot and we clambered from car to sidewalk, intent upon lunch. I had the BLT. Rene’ had a salad and a bacon and cheese Quesadilla. We ate our fill and paid the tab before going next door to Piragis to shop. Predictably, Rene’ found clothing and I bought a book. The same pattern was repeated at Mealy’s across the street. I kept eyeballing a new CD by Eliza Gilkyson as my wife studied beautiful Arts and Crafts furniture. I finally broke and bought the music.

“I couldn’t resist,” I told Rene’ as we headed towards the car.

“I can see that,” was my wife’s only comeback.

“They had five copies of Laman’s River at the bookstore,” I added as my wife left me on the street corner to search for a restroom, pointing to the Piragis sign above her head.

“Nice. Did you send an announcement?”

“Yup. But they must have bought them from my distributor,” I replied as Rene’ headed into the store. “They didn’t order from me.”

I like to visit bookstores whenever we’re out and about to see if they are stocking my books. The bookstore at Piragis didn’t disappoint me. They had copies of my latest book as well as my best selling historical novel, Suomalaiset, on their shelves.

Waiting for Rene’, I called our friends, Ron and Nancy McVean who were staying in their motor home at Bear Head State Park a few miles down the road. I reached Nancy and confirmed we’d be stopping by for a visit. Our plan was to have a brief chat and then have dinner in town before heading home. Didn’t work out quite that way.

Ron McVean, Bear Head Lake

Ron and I took a long walk around the bucolic and peaceful state campgrounds. We skirted the lakeshore and ended up standing on a fishing pier, doing what old friends do: shooting the breeze. Nancy and Ron were camping with the Kuntzs, the Chesneys, and Greg Kaneski, each family in its own motor home or trailer, making a last-of-the-season camping trip to Bear Head, a trip they’ve been making as a group for nearly a decade.

“You guys want to stay for supper?” Nancy asked when Ron and I finally wandered back. “Pork chops on the grill.”

I looked at Rene’. She looked at me.

“Sure.”

Nancy got on her cell phone and caught Greg Kaneski coming out of Mass at the Catholic church in downtown Ely.

“Mark and Rene’ are staying for dinner,” she told her longtime boss and friend. “I need you to pick up two more pork chops.”

Bear Head Lake

There ensued, shortly after Nancy got off the phone, an intense discussion between Ron and me about the proper methods of campfire building. Ron is a sort of “pile it all on guy”, believing that leaving too much space between dry logs invites sputtering inefficiency. I, being an Eagle Scout, like a smartly stacked, evenly spaced column of dry wood which allows air to foster combustion.

“You’ve got too much open space, too much air between the logs,” Ron critiqued as I built the campfire pyre in the steel fire pit. “It’ll never burn.”

I ignored Ron.

“Never gonna burn.”

Someone, I think Nancy, noted that there was a wisp of smoke rising from the fire pit. I hadn’t put match to birch bark so there shouldn’t have been any heat or smoke coming from my masterpiece.

“Must be hot coals left over, ” I noted, getting down on my hands and knees to blow.

“Never gonna start that way,” Ron advised, producing a blowtorch, his weapon of choice for starting gas grills, campfires, or anything else needing a helping hand.

Much like the proverbial little engine, I huffed and I puffed. I placed a slender piece of bark on the glowing coal and blew and blew but I couldn’t create flame. Picking up a handful of dry maple leaves (we’ve had no rain for weeks and the forest is as dry as a bone), I touched an edge of the red leaf to a glowing coal. A  fragile flame appeared. I blew to encourage heat.

“You’re getting ashes all over yourself,” Rene’ advised.

“And all over my picnic table,” Nancy noted.

On the verge of vindication, Ron added a piece of dry birch bark to the flame.

“I suppose you’re gonna claim you helped start this fire,” I said as I stood up.

“You’ve got an uneven flame,” Ron noted, touching his blow torch to pieces of bark strategically placed under the pyre. Soon, the entire stack of wood was crackling.

“You’re gonna claim ownership after I knelt on the dirt and blew and blew and blew, aren’t you?”

Ron made no reply.

We ate a fine meal and talked until after dark while the fire danced. Stars came out and our fifteen year old son called and wondered where his parents were.

The fire Mark made!

Peace.

Mark

Wolf Lake

Friday. I’m off work because, well, because I need a vacation. I’ve got plenty of vacation days left over from last year and darn it, I’m gonna use them! My intention is to motor on up to one of my favorite North Shore trout streams and do a little brook trout fishing. Brookies are my favorite fish to catch and to eat. Better than walleye or crappie or salmon. You can disagree with that culinary assessment if you like. It’s a free country. Anyway, I took the day off to spend some time on a quiet north country stream. Just me, my fly rod, a few dozen nightcrawlers, flowing black water, and the closeness of the forest.

I’ve made this admission before. I, like the drunk would-be actor in A River Runs Through It, am a worm dunker, not a fly fisherman. I grew up plying the little streams of Hermantown and Duluth with a hand-me-down Heddon fly rod, a carton of hand picked worms, and a pair of distressed hips waders. My dad, though he had a collection of artificial flies in his tackle collection, never used them for anything other than decoration. Oh, he fished virtually every stream on the North Shore for brookies and steelhead (migrating rainbow trout), and threw lures at big German browns in Wisconsin’s beloved Brule. But use flies? I never saw him try his luck with one. So here I am, on the cusp of 60, and still fly impaired. It’s a deficit in character, I’ll grant you. But one I’m willing to live with.

“Jimber caught a nice bunch of brookies from a little creek up by Brimson,” my dad said a year or so ago.

Dad took Pauline, his significant other (and my Godmother) on a tour of the Brimson area and claimed to have located the stream. He gave me the name and the approximate location. Now, this “no-name” creek isn’t marked by the Minnesota DNR as a designated trout stream on its maps, which, if I was at all smart, should tell me something. But as I pack the Pacifica with my rod, four dozen night crawlers, my tackle, and some extra shoes (my waders seem to have gone missing, likely in the possession of son No. 3 who has a tendency to “borrow” sporting equipment), I think: What the hell. Maybe I should give the “no-name” creek a go. It is, as you’ll learn, an unfortunate decision.

After driving past Wolf Lake and other local landmarks of the Brimson area, I park the car by the side of the stream in the middle of nowhere. The land is not the steep and undulating terrain of the North Shore, where the short runs of the rivers and streams plummet from elevation to Lake Superior. No, the landscape I’m in is as flat as piss on a plate. This is not the first time I’ve gone on a wild trout chase: It likely, so long as I keep my health, won’t be my last. But as I wade into the stream, I should have known that:

1. Jimber was fibbing; or

2. I had the wrong stream.

The creek bottom isn’t pebbled and rock: It’s loon shit; thick with mud and silt, likely the result of a beaver dam further downstream. Now beaver dams, over the short term, can be great for brook trout fishing. The trout are trapped behind the dam and grow fat and impatient and hungry. But the downside to beaver dams is the silt: As the stream flows, it carries dirt and sand and debris with it. This natural trash piles up behind the dam and covers the sand and gravel beds where brookies lay their eggs. The long term impact of a beaver dam on a good trout stream is three or four years of great fishing followed by a collapse of the trout population.

“Shit”.

That’s me, about an hour into my trudge downstream on the secret creek. I make a half mile wading the oozy, yucky streambed. Walking along the bank isn’t an option: One one side, the floodplain of the creek is a mass of humps of swamp grass, the heaps of earth and root nearly waist high. On the other bank, there are black alders as thick as lambs’ wool. After stumbling and bumbling my way downstream, like I said, for over an hour, I make the decision to retreat. I’ve had one strike, a nice tug that ended up with an empty hook, but I don’t have the confidence to proclaim the fish that took a swipe at the offering was a trout and not a chub.

The path back is torturous.

“Shit.”

That’s me realizing the new worm carrier I’d just paid ten bucks for had, somewhere in the jungle of cedars and alders, slipped free of my belt and found a new home. So too my beloved Swiss army knife and black leather sheath, a knife I’ve had for over twenty years.

Damn Wal-Mart belt. I should have never listened to Harry.

I sit in the parking lot of the Two Harbors Tourist Information center listening to MPR and eating McDonalds for lunch. I have my faithful guide to Wisconsin and Minnesota trout streams open to the North Shore. I had a favorite stream picked out to fish. I had a plan. But despite the two hours I just wasted proving my age along the banks of a useless piece of troutless water, I feel adventurous. I change plans. I’m being called to a stream I’ve never fished by a ten year old guide book. It’s a  mistake I’ve made before but one that I’m willing to make again just for the sake of a story.

10″ Native Rainbow Trout I released.

I catch and release a nice, fat native rainbow trout on the stream and I catch and release a 7″ brookie all within the first ten minutes of wading the North Shore river. But the stretch of water I work is bouldery and flat; there are no pools, no undercut banks, no trees down creating trouty places. I work this first stretch for two hours and never have another bite.

I do manage, despite using an ash walking stick I peeled and carved after my last trout excursion (where I tumbled and spilled on slippery stones any number of times with, thankfully, only a few minor bruises), to once again deposit my large ass on a boulder and turn an ankle. I decide to leave this part of the river and search out the darker, calmer, deeper reaches of its nature. I decide, rather than slipping and sliding my way downstream, to bushwhack up a steep hill to the where I believe (I really don’t know for certain) I’ll connect with the Superior Hiking Trail. I am reduced to clawing my way up an earthen cliff, pulling my soggy, tired body up the slope by grabbing onto trees and roots. But I am rewarded when, indeed, I stand on the pinnacle of the ridge on a well maintained hiking path.

Looking over the river valley from the trail.

Four hours and no fish for the frying pan, a bruised ass, a lost knife, a lost worm holder, and half the worms I started out with, I think as I drive inland on gravel in search of the place the authors of my  guidebook say is a much better place to catch fish. Thankfully, I had a spare worm container in the car that didn’t get lost in my ill-fated trek down no-name creek. Otherwise, I’d be tossing flies into trees and making a damn fool out of myself. Yes, I have flies with me. Dry flies and wet flies sit, pretty much virgin and unused, in an aluminum case in my fishing vest. I have no idea how to “present” them to fish, as the experts say. I only know worms and I am happy I have some left.

The piece of water I fish, after the dust settles and I pull the Pacifica into the woods, is gorgeous.

Why the hell didn’t I start here?

Oh, I’ll be candid. The first few tosses into swirling water don’t amount to anything. The beginning stretch I worked pretty much reminded me of the flat, uninteresting topography I’d just left behind. But once I round the first bend, man, what a difference! There are impediments, man-made and natural, allowing the water to deepen without building up silt. And behind the rocks and trees and decaying structures are brookies. Fat, black backed, hungry, gloriously painted native trout.

The pond where I lost the big one.

I catch five nice (8″-10″) vigorous, dancing, tugging speckled fish in one pond. I watch a pair of blue winged teal emerge silently from rushes along the shore a few feet from where I fish, completely unconcerned about my presence. It’s the only wildlife I’ve seen today (except for a fat grouse who sat on a stump, three feet from my head as I stumbled through balsams along no-name creek). I release two smaller brookies and,down to my last three pieces of worm, decide to try a beautiful pool of black water for one last fish. On the very first cast, I hook into a monster. From the pull of the fish, from the weight of its power, from the bend of my fly rod, I can tell this fish is at least twice the size of the nice ones already in my fishing vest. I play the fish until its near the steep rooty bank where I lose her (I’m assuming it was a fat female heavy with spawn getting ready to lay her eggs). She’s smart, that big fish: I can’t entice her to bite again. I do catch one last nice fish for the frying pan as the sun descends over the treetops to the west.

The River at the end of the day.

I clamber down the riverbed until I can see the bridge. I make an executive decision to leave the water. I bushwhack again, fighting the thick boreal forest of my native land, until, exhausted, I spy the shiny blue of my car through the trees.

I take out the six small members of the char family that I have managed to catch on this fine, fine late summer day. Despite my ass throbbing like someone has branded me, I am infinitely happy.

Maybe next time I’ll try flies, I think as I pull the Pacifica onto gravel and head home.

Brookies ready for the frying pan

Peace.

Mark

The following story was one of four entries to the Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop Postcard Story Contest chosen for publication in Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop Magazine. The premise was to create a story, in less than 500 words, based upon a photo of a bicycle leaning against a shed. You’ll usually find the story posted here under the “Other Writings” tab on the dashboard. Because today marks the anniversary of the beginning of our nation’s quest to find Osama bin Laden, I am reprinting it here. Remember this, dear readers: Canadians also died on 9/11/2001 (in the airplanes and the twin towers) and Canada sent troops to Afghanistan to bring bin Laden to justice.

Missing

(c) Mark Munger 2010

Davey left Canada in March of 2005. He’s my son. My only son. Properly, I should say he’s my husband Gregory’s son as well. But Davey is, in so many ways, really only mine. When Gregory slunk off, Davey was only six; six, goddamn it! That asshole left us, me and three little kids, behind in Thunder Bay. Davey grew up spontaneously. Had to. Had to grow up fast when Gregory ran away with a leggy student from a science class he taught at Lakehead. Chemistry was her major. Gregory and I had that once: chemistry, I mean. Then the twins, Greta and Amy, came. I didn’t lose the weight from that pregnancy fast enough to suit Gregory so he latched onto the first little co-ed who smiled at him. And then he left. Just like Davey eventually would.

Gregory moved to Winnipeg. He accepted another professorship at another university. The bitch went with him as his second wife. It was tough on Davey. He was old enough to comprehend loss. I tried not to dwell on the fact that we’d been rejected. I tried not to lean on Davey in my despair. He was so young and all. I tried to fill in the void, that deep hole that’s left when there’s no father to teach a boy how to fish, how to skate, how to ride a bike.

The bike: Not Davey’s first, but his last, rests against the garden shed out back of our house. I keep it out of sentiment, out of hope that someday my son, who wandered off to Shilo to join the Army-the 1st Horse Artillery-in that unplanned, drifting way that young men take up their life journeys at eighteen, will exit a taxi on Gertrude Street, walk up the front sidewalk, and throw his arms around my neck. The Army says that’s impossible, that remnants of Davey were found scattered over the Afghani highway leading from Kandahar. I don’t believe the Army. My son is coming home.

In my self-taught, self-directed course, “How to Become a Novelist by age Sixty”, a class which has only one student, I’ve relied upon others to provide me with insight into the world of words and publishing. One of the resources I find indispensable to my education as a writer is Writers Ask, a quarterly published by the editors of Glimmer Train, a short fiction magazine that I also subscribe to. The most recent issue of Writers Ask features interviews with a number of famous authors about the value of would-be fiction writers being ardent readers. All of the pieces are good. One, author Steve Almond’s observation about reading and our youth, is great. Here’s a bit of what Steve has to say:

The generation I am seeing is screen-addicted. Technology has changed so much…(I)nstant messages, cell phones, Blackberries, internet, videos, video games, TV in myriad forms, DVDs…There are all these ways of not being in the present moment, of not being with someone in the room, not being conscious of your surroundings and the fact that you’re a human being on the earth with other human beings…They look to these screens as a way of feeling less lonely and isolated…I think it’s a false fix, but it’s very compelling, and it makes it more and more difficult for people doing the lonely, dogged work of reading.

Reading is not easy. It engages your full imagination and concentration, and as people are raised from the time they’re little kids, every two seconds there’s a new image on TV, I think it is changing the way their brains function. If you took the average human being now and transported them back a hundred years, they would all be clinically ADD. (A) hundred and fifty years ago, people didn’t fight over the TV remote; they fought over the latest installment of Dickens. And it’s not as if our brains have fundamentally changed…We’re still capable of that greater concentration and that greater sense of empathy, and having our imaginations fully engaged and activated by literary art…

((c)2012 Glimmer Train and Steve Almond)

I am going to read Almond’s entire interview to my 14 year old son tonight after soccer practice. Why? Because I am trying to raise my youngest son to be a reader. Not just because I, as a writer, need an audience, but because my love of reading, the passion that I have for good books is so ingrained, so deep in my soul, it’s nearly religious. And, like any good evangelist, I want to share the grace, the peace, the enlightenment that comes from reading the great novelists and short story writers with my youngest son.

Now if I can only find the “off” button on the X-box…

Peace.

Mark

Judy, Lisa, Rene’, and Jack at the 2012 Minnesota State Fair

Politicians. Farm animals. Vendors. Mounted police. Food. Music. Noise. Antique tractors. We saw and heard it all at the 2012 Great Minnesota Get Together. Rene’, Jack, and I drove down to the city of my birth, St. Paul, for a short get away. My wife and I had long planned to attend the wedding of one of my fellow judges so when we learned that our oldest son, Matt, his wife Lisa, and our only grandson, A.J., were going to the State Fair, an idea was hatched. Of course, before we could meet up with Matt and Lisa and hand over Jack, who seemed OK with spending the night at Judy Streefland’s house with Lisa (Judy’s daughter), Matt, and his three month old nephew, Rene’ needed some mall time.

“I thought you wanted to go to the Mall of America,” I whined as we set a time to have lunch in the food court at Rosedale.

“Too big. Too hard to find what I am looking for,” my wife replied.

We were standing in the the middle of the Rosedale Mall, light from overhead skylights streaming in.

“You picked the one mall in America with nothing for guys,” I lamented.

It’s true: There are no electronics stores, hardware stores, music stores, bookstores, or even farm toy stores sharing space in Rosedale to pique the interest of a straight guy.

“Ya, Mom. This place is a bore,” Jack agreed.

Our collective observation had no impact on my determined wife. We made our plans to meet up for lunch and she, to her infinite delight, wandered off to shop on her own. Later, after we’d filled up on mall Chinese, we turned Jack over to Matt and Lisa in the mall parking lot and headed off to find our hotel.

The wedding took place in the 1st Baptist Church of Minneapolis, a beautiful old icon of Christianity located in downtown Mill City. The reception in Uptown was about what one would expect from an event held in such an artsy neighborhood: Trendy (and tiny!) appetizers and eight dollar beers.

Understand that Matt was bound and determined to get to the fair with his wife, new son, little brother, and mother-in-law in tow, by 7:00am on Sunday. I think I made it pretty clear to my son that his mom and I had no intention of being awake, much less at the Minnesota State Fair, so early on a Sunday morning. True to my word, I slept in. Until 6:30am. Rene’ snored on a bit longer but we both managed to watch most of “CBS Sunday Morning”, drink hotel room coffee, get dressed for the fair, have a nice hot breakfast, and talk about the wedding, without being rushed.

“I saved two bucks a ticket,” I said proudly to my better half after taking advantage of the senior citizen discount offered at the Fair ticket booth.

“The benefits of old age,” Rene’ quipped. “But I’m still not ready to join AARP.”

After several uncertain phone calls between us and the other Munger party, we met up at the International Bazaar.

“Alright,” I said to Matt, who never met a piece of Fair food he wouldn’t try, “how was the alligator on a stick?”

“Didn’t have that,” my eldest said with confidence, “but the deep fried herring on a stick was wonderful!”

When Matt was through listing the foods he’d already ingested (it was only 10:30 and the list is far too long to post in a blog), and after both Grandpa and Grandma had enough A.J. time, Rene’ and I broke off to tour the livestock barns. With swine flu running rampant, my son and daughter-in-law didn’t want A. J. exposed so they went off in search of more deep fried delights while we visited the horses and dairy cows.

Adrien James Munger at the Fair

St. Paul Mounted Police

Thankfully, it was not a typical Labor Day weekend in St. Paul. Yes, it heated up. By the end of our time wandering around on the steamy blacktop roads that wind through the fairgrounds, my iPhone told me it was 86 degrees. Hot enough for a northern Minnesota boy, I can tell you that! But there was a nice breeze and the humidity was low. Plus, I’d dressed for the weather in shorts, tennis shoes, and a short sleeve Hawaiian party shirt that has become my standard attire when in search of fun.

Still, this year’s trip to the Fair was a tad disappointing in that “Prairie Home Companion” didn’t do a show at the grandstand. Now, don’t get me wrong. Despite my wife’s criticism that I’m too predictable, that I often fall into repetitive behaviors, I’m adaptable. The fact that Garrison skipped the Fair this year, well, sure, I was a bit bummed out about that. But hey, a guy is allowed to have preferences, right? And seeing America’s greatest storyteller and humorist live, at the Minnesota State Fair, well, I prefer that, if you will, to eating deep fried frog testicles on a stick!

But we had a good day, my wife and I, looking at pole buildings and boats and campers and a host of other products for sale at the Fair that we can’t afford. See, part of the attraction of attending the Great Minnesota Get Together is the dreaming that goes with the experience. That, and, at least in my case, walking quietly through the horse barn and admiring the velvety sheen of well groomed animals standing patiently in stalls, waiting to be shown or ridden. And people watching. Now that’s a talent my wife, with her very large brown eyes, is an expert at and I’ve only become proficient at under her tutelage. Of course, with peepers like Rene’s, sometimes, when her gaze becomes too elongated, she gets caught in what the object of her inquiry might consider to be a rude stare. My wife’s not rude. But one might get the wrong impression if her eyes are locked on you like a falcon diving on a robin.

The Crowd at the 2012 State Fair

“Where are you guys?”

I was using my iPhone to locate Matt and his party after Rene’ and I had seen most everything at the Fair we wanted to see.

“By the International Bazaar.”

I’d figured out how to use the GPS mapping feature of the phone while wandering around the Fair. Slow learner, I’ll admit. I’ve had the phone for over six months and I just figured out it has GPS! Well, that’s better than the tailgate on my Pacifica. I drove my first Pacifica until it was demolished in a collision with a drunk driver and never once, during that nine month span, did I ever figure out that the tailgate had a remote control key-less release. It was only after I bought my second Pacifica that I figured out what that extra button on the key fob was for. So discovering GPS not even a year into owning an iPhone shows my technological progress. Really.

“That’s all the way back where we came from.”

Rene’ and I turned around and waded back through the crowd. After reclaiming our youngest son, who, as the first picture on this blog attests, visited most of the Liberal political booths at the Fair and got to meet Senator Amy Klobuchar, and saying our goodbyes to A.J., his parents, and his maternal grandma, we headed back through the crowd towards the car. As we passed the “Vote Yes” booth, where well-intentioned folks were lobbying the crowd to have marriage in our state defined as being between one man and one woman, Jack couldn’t resist parading in front of the booth with his “Vote No” placard. Others holding “Vote No” signs were already engaged in spirited debate with the folks manning the booth so Jack’s silent protest went largely unnoticed. But I’m quite sure Jack’s Great Uncle Willard was smiling.

Peace.

Mark

I’ve written about blue moons before and explained that, in common parlance, the term is meant to apply to the second full moon in a month: a somewhat rare occurrence. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. According to both Wikipedia and SkyandTelescope.com, the term originally meant the third of four moons in a season. Why is that unusual? Most seasons of most years have only three full moons. Whichever definition you apply has some accompanying issues. So why not apply both? (See http://www.skyandtelescope.com/observing/objects/moon/3304131.html for more details.)

I’m telling you this because those of us living in the north country experienced our own blue moon on Friday night. In celebration of that somewhat rare occurrence, my wife had an idea.

“Let’s take the boat out for a ride to the Island Lake Inn.”

We don’t live on Island Lake. We live a mile and a half below the Island Lake dam on the Cloquet River. To take a boat trip to the aforementioned local tavern and restaurant, we have to hitch up our trailer and boat to the Pacifica, drive ten minutes or so to the public landing, and launch the boat. I was tired from a day at the courthouse but, knowing it was going to be a blue moon evening, I agreed to Rene’s suggestion.

Jack, our fourteen year old son, wasn’t all that enthusiastic. In fact, he objected until we were across the big water and slowly negotiating the shallow channel that runs through big Norway and white pines along the north shore of the lake. It was a calm, peaceful night with no bugs and few competing boaters as the old Force 35hp two-stroke pushed us towards the tavern. Don’t get the idea that we motored in luxury: Our fishing boat, while it does have cushioned seats and a steering console, is over twenty years old. So is the motor. But the Force is generally liable. Remember that adjective.

It took quite a while to get our food. Jack and Rene’ shared an enormous pepperoni pizza. I had a cheese burger and a couple of draft beers. The place was packed. It was anything but a quiet night out in a sleepy country bar. Just as I was paying the bill, a guy wandered in and started setting up amps and cords and a music stand. As we were leaving, the guy (dressed in a leather vest and a black cowboy hat) began picking on his six string acoustic, signing a countrified version of an old Bob Seger tune in a tentative, slightly off-key voice.

Give the man credit, I thought as I walked behind my wife and son.

“He’s doing what I do when I’m sitting in a book stores signing books, ” I said as we walked through the gravel parking lot.

“There’s the moon,” my wife commented, ignoring my reference to my stagnant authorial career. “It’s a blue moon.”

“I forgot it was a full moon,” I said as we followed the slope of the land towards the water.

It took only a few minutes to get the Force fired up and the boat underway. We passed one boat in the narrow cattail lined channel sneaking behind half million dollar homes lining the lake shore. It was a big pontoon boat filled with revelers on their way to more beer: there wasn’t more than a foot of space between the boats as we went our separate ways. Free of the shallows, I opened up the throttle on the ancient outboard.

“Weeds,” I said, looking at the GPS speedometer. We were stuck at 13 miles per hour, about six miles per hour slower than true cruising speed. “Must have weeds wrapped around the prop.”

My mind urged me to stop the boat, tilt the motor up, and remove the weeds. But my heart: My heart told me to keep going under the brilliant iridescent night sky, the yellow circle of Earth’s one natural satellite lighting the way across velvety water.

Half way across the main lake, the engine coughed and came to a stop.

“Out of gas,” I explained.

I didn’t study the faces of my wife and son who, at least by the tone of their conversation, weren’t put out by our brief delay. I poured gas from the spare can into the tank. With a half tank of gas for the big motor, we were good to go. I sat behind the wheel and fired up the Force. The engine responded as if new. We were soon flying across the flat, dark water with vigor. Then motor coughed again, shut down completely, and refused to start.

“I’ll have to use the trolling motor,” I said apologetically.

My passengers finally voiced concern.

“You got enough gas to get us all the way in?” Jack asked.

I opened the cap to the little two horse Honda’s fuel tank, dipped a finger in, and found that there was about 1/3 of a tank of gas.

“Plenty,” I lied.

We took one wrong turn as the Honda putt putted towards shore.

“I could swear there used to be a streetlight marking the boat launch,” I said as we loaded the boat back on the trailer.

My passengers said nothing as the Pacifica pulled away from the landing, our old boat and its inert motor in tow as the blue moon cast amber light on other motorboats racing across the lake.

Peace.

Mark