Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

The sky is cryin….
Can’t you see the tears roll down the street
The sky is cryin….
Can’t you see the tears roll down the street
I’ve been looking for my baby
And I wonder where can she be

(Elmore James as channeled by Stevie Ray Vaughan)

Duluth, MN Target Store under water due to Miller Creek Flooding (Photo by Matt Munger)

Wow. So far, we’ve been lucky out here in Fredenberg Township. We’ve had a lot of rain (duh!) and the Cloquet River is as high as it’s been in the 25 years we’ve lived here. But we’re not affected to the degree that the citizens of Duluth are. Take a look at the photo above that my son Matt took earlier today. That’s the intersection to the west of Target on the Maple Grove Road. It’s under four feet of water! Though Rene’ and I can’t leave the house due to the river being backed up into Knudsen Creek, which in turn, has flooded the road into our home, we’re safe and (cross your fingers and say a prayer for us and all the other folks living on the river) the rising water is not yet near the house.

Daisey and Our Access Road

This is a view of our driveway. When I stopped to take the photo there was a blue heron standing knee deep in the water. The bird was apparently camera shy and flew off before I could react. Still, this picture gives you a sense of why my wife and I didn’t make it in to work today. I’ve been around nearly seven decades (closing in on sixty, folks) and I’ve never, I repeat, never, been in the middle of a sustained downpour like the one we experienced yesterday and today. There was thunder that nearly knocked me off my tush and lightening that seared the sky from horizon to horizon. There was rain so hard and so constant, our downspouts shook like a drunk in need of a nip. Now, I’ve been in the Yucatan during a tropical rainstorm in an open Jeep. I’ve been in Florida during a six inch cloud burst that came and went during a four hour time span. But I’ve never been in such a sustained, violent deluge. As I type this, there’s a lull in the storm and blue sky is trying to overcome the gray.

The Cloquet in Full Flood Stage (6/20/2012)

There are a couple of seasonal cabins beyond our place that are accessed from our driveway. One of them was recently remodeled. A sauna building has been added to the property and the place was shaping up quite nicely. But no one asked me if I thought the old cabin should be rebuilt. Had the new owner asked, I would have counseled against it. The last time the river was this high, June of 1999, Lakehead Trucking was digging the basement for the house we live in. The Cloquet rose so high and so fast, Greg Kaneski from Lakehead had to leave his backhoe here until the flood subsided. The condition of the little cabin at the end of the road during that flood? The water reached the cabin’s eaves. I think we’re headed in that direction again.

Cabin and Sauna on the Cloquet Under Water (6/20/2012)

Cabin and Sauna: Another View (6/20/2012)

That’s my crazy Labrador mix, Daisey in the water around the cabin and the sauna. What you don’t see in the shot is that I had to wade in water up to my knees to take the pictures. Also missing are the clouds of hungry mosquitoes that the flood waters have unleashed. Then too, I’ve left out the capsized portable john that was floating nearby. Let’s hope it doesn’t sail on down the Cloquet and end up going over the Thompson dam!

Now, I’m no climatologist. And I know that the next time I tune into “Garage Logic”, the callers and Joe will poo-poo the idea that these violent storms we’ve been having have anything to do with man. Joe will argue that these storms are simply the result of a natural weather cycle. Fair enough. But let’s suppose, just for a second, that a portion of what’s happening, climate-wise, has something to do with man’s influence on Earth. See, here’s the rub: If 90% of what’s happening is God-made and 10% is man-made, well, I’d sure like to see that 10% addressed. Why? Well, take a look at the margin of safety my family has against the rising waters.

The House as Seen from the South

Looks pretty high and dry, doesn’t it? Well, let’s take a look from the north, where the Cloquet River flows next our property.

The Edge of the Bank (6/20/2012)

On the right of the photo, is the Cloquet River. On the left, a puddle of rainwater that formed in our field. Between the two, there’s about sixteen inches of elevation and less than a foot of separation. Now if we could just eliminate that hypothetical 10% man-made climate factor, I’d rest a bit easier because another 10% in my favor would keep the water from breaching the bank. Here’s the thing: In the end, I think we’ll be fine out here in the country. The rain has stopped and the water is flowing swiftly to the west, where the Cloquet will join the St. Louis, dumping all the excess water into Lake Superior. Of course, there’s a price to be paid downstream: I understand the western reaches of Duluth, where the St. Louis carves its way to the Bay, are under water. That’s not a good thing and I’m praying that everyone downstream comes out of this OK. Join me in that prayer, would you?

Car Abandoned Alongside Miller Creek (Decker Road and Mall Entrance: Photo by Matt Munger)

Whether you agree or disagree with my thoughts about man’s influence on our climate, here’s something else to ponder. Forty years ago, my dad, Harry Munger, fought tooth and nail to stop the paving over and filling in of wetlands surrounding the Miller Mall. During the 1960s, Miller Creek had been restored to a functioning, productive, urban trout stream that sustained a native population of brook trout without the need for planting hatchery raised fish. But when Target was built, followed in close succession by the Mall, and many other retail stores in the floodplain of the creek, my father sounded the alarm. The warming of the water caused by the added parking lots alongside the creek pretty much killed off the restored fishery. Then, in the mid-1970s, a horrific rainstorm caused millions of dollars of damage in Duluth because, with all the marshes and swamps paved over at the top of the hill, there was no where for the rain to go but downhill. Piles of sand that were stockpiled along Piedmont Avenue for the construction of I-35 ended up crashing through the storefronts along Superior Street in the West End. Roads were ruined. Homes were flooded. But no one really listened to my dad. Think about what a remarkable place the Mall area could have been had folks listened to my old man and used just a bit of vision to preserve the creek’s floodplain: building around the trout stream in a way to enhance both the esthetics of the shopping experience and the fishing opportunities for kids. Sure, efforts were later made to resurrect what was lost. Trees were planted and retention ponds were built along Miller Creek. But, if you look at the photo above, it’s pretty clear this change in Duluth’s collective philosophy regarding development was too little and too late. And that’s a shame.

Stay dry and say a prayer for those who were affected by the cryin’ sky.

Peace.

Mark

I’m on vacation. Now, like most American males in a committed relationship, that statement doesn’t imply that I am spending my days away from the courthouse sitting on my tushy reading Tolstoy. OK. I did manage to watch the classic version of Anna Karenina starring Greta Garbo on TCM. But cut me some slack, folks. It was pouring out! And the very next day, as the inclement weather continued making it impossible for me to tackle the chores on my “Honey Do” list, I managed to watch three Dorothy McGuire black and white classics as I cleaned the house. Don’t get too excited, ladies. I’m not as great a catch as that sounds. You see, Rene’ and I’ve had a division of labor for much of our married life. We share the outside chores. Inside the house, I do the vacuuming, dusting, and wash the floors: She does the laundry, the grocery shopping, the bills, and the bathrooms, including the boys’ bathroom on the lower level. Any of you moms reading this who have sons understand what an ugly task that is and that I’m getting off pretty easy in this deal!

Yesterday. After sleeping in a bit (Jack and his buddy Dom and I took in the late showing of The Avengers in 3D Thursday night), I was up. So, to my chagrin, was the sun, meaning I could no longer dodge the work I’d been avoiding. The first task on my list was to replace the netting on the soccer goals in our back lawn. How many kids get to practice their moves overlooking a wild and scenic river, with eagles and osprey wheeling overhead and bluebirds chirping their alarm? Not many I’d guess. Anyway, once I’d cut free the old netting and secured and trimmed the new, it was time to get serious about things that needed doing around the place.

Roses. Oh, I’ll grant you that they’re beautiful to look at. But when you have a bed of perennial roses that hasn’t been attended to, well, the result is a tangled mess of thorns, weeds, and stalks. I took a look at my chore list and decided, with my wife gone to town and the boys still asleep, that I’d tackle the roses. It was a moment, I am convinced, of poor judgment.

“How’s that going?” Rene’ asked when she returned from her errands.

“Not so good.”

I’d been pruning for the better part of an hour and I’d made only a small dent in the easiest part of the rose bed. The thicker, more ornery part of the mess loomed ahead. The sun was high, the deer flies were out, and my arms and legs were a mass of shallow cuts and scrapes from the thorns.

“Thanks for doing this.”

I muttered a reply not suitable for a family blog and plunged on.

I took a break for lunch and, as a diversion, I spent an hour putting in a new dog door so that our outside dogs, Kramer and Daisey, can go in and out of the garage at their leisure. Smarter men would have gone to Home Depot and bought a new utility door with a dog door already installed instead of trying to fit a new dog door in an old aperture. Not me. My effort seemed destined to fail. Rene’ was eager to stop the invectives. But I eventually got the new door installed.

A little bondo, caulk, and paint and it will be as good as new!

In between lunch and going back into the rose thicket, there was a slight disaster. Wind had pulled one of our hummingbird feeders free of the porch ceiling, spilling sticky red liquid all over the front porch. I’d cleaned the mess up on my hands and knees a few days back. Rene’ had refilled the feeder. As I climbed the ladder, feeder in hand and raised it above my head to settle it on a hook, the bottom of the feeder let loose and covered me in red. The words and accusations against my better half again can’t be printed here. But the mess got cleaned up again and, within a half hour, I was back at the roses.

To make this story shorter than its destiny, I finished pruning and weeding and cleaning up around six. I’d spent the entire day (except for the noted diversions) assaulted by thorns.

This place is a lot of work.

I’ve thought that line more than once over the quarter center we’ve lived in the country and the remedy to my post-chore exhaustion is always the same: I climb down stairs leading to the river and, oblivious to the cold, I dive in. The black water of the Cloquet always restores me. Yesterday was no exception.

Later, as Rene’ and I stood on the front lawn talking, the real reward for our work fluttered around a Canadian Lilac planted in Rene’s flower garden.

Swallowtail on Canadian Lilac

The lilac was covered, absolutely inundated, with dozens and dozens of golden yellow swallowtails. I walked over to the tree with my wife and stared in awe at the confusion. Amidst all the gold, there were also a solitary orange monarch and dozens of smaller moths and butterflies and bumble bees lapping nectar.

“Wow!” Rene’s said.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I admitted.

A Pair of Yellowtails on Lilacs.

This morning, as I write this piece, a thought occurs to me.

I wonder if the Russian berries are ready yet?

Not too many folks grow Russian berries in this part of the world. They’re the fruit of a bush that’s related to the honeysuckle. The flavor of the berries, somewhere between the sweetness of a blueberry and the tang of a crab apple, is a great accent to cereal. After the bone-tiring toil of yesterday the thought of a few ripe, purple berries on my cornflakes seems a just reward. I stop typing, slip on my sandals, and, still in my jammies, shamble out to our vegetable garden under clear skies and a bright morning sun to check out the berries. I am not disappointed.

Russian Berries Fresh off the Biush

Peace.

Mark

The American and Finnish Flags, Finn Fest 2012

Rudy Perpich Memorial Drive. Again. Twice in a week. Still, I love the drive. Always have since I started going up to my buddy Jeff’s Finnish farmstead in Colvin Township back in the mid-1970s. There’s something, as Sig Olson once wrote, to this “Lonely Land”, this rough and tumble landscape filled with small rivers, boggy lakes, marsh, and endless stretches of aspen, pine, and birch interspersed with open hay meadows, most long abandoned, some clinging to productive life.

Once again, I’m up at the crack of dawn and headed north to sell books. This is the third or fourth time I’ve done the Finn Fest at Embarrass, the little hamlet off County Highway No. 21 that battles last week’s venue, Tower, for the coldest spot in Minnesota and the continental 48. Tower, I think, is the winner at -60F, with Embarrass right behind at -57F. (The coldest I’ve ever felt was in the mid forties below zero and that was a shocker.) But today, as my blue Pacifica glides north, there’s no danger of cold weather: The skies are clear and humid with new summer. I expect things will go well in Embarrass: Finns are, by and large, a readerly people. And they don’t restrict themselves to Suomalaiset, my historic novel about the Finns coming to North America, though that’s the draw to my booth at these ethnic festivals. Finnish Americans and Finnish Canadians  love to read. I’m expecting to sell quite a few books in this one day, easy in, easy out event. I am not disappointed.

CRP Booth at Finn Fest

The beauty of this event, like the one I did in Tower last week, is that it’s indoors. While the day is warm (overly so as the mercury will touch 90F) and the skies are clear, if you’ve read my most recent posts, you know I am done with outdoor shows. Too much hassle. Too much risk. Too few customers. And a left shoulder waiting for surgery that needs rest and pampering. So when I set up inside the big log community center in the center of town, I am a happy man. Happy to have made, after years of battling the elements, a sound and wise choice to remain indoors. Here, at this little ethnic festival, the crowd begins to gather shortly after an American Legion Honor Guard raises the American and the Finnish flags outside the hall. Customers peruse my books, many of them, like last weekend, repeat customers who want another “Munger read”. Returnees, of course, bring a big smile to an author’s face. Sales are brisk. My cheeks start to hurt from all the happiness.

The sun climbs and the air inside the big building becomes stuffy. The music, kantele players and Finnish folk singers, adds to the lively, festive spirit of the event. Folks of all ages find empty chairs to sit in, listening to songs sung in a language, quite frankly, that is so daunting the best I can do is “kiitos” (“thanks”) after over a decade of being immersed in Finnish culture.

The Stage at Finn Fest

I pass up the Mojakka ja Leipa (beef stew) and donate a couple of bucks to kids selling brats and hot dogs to raise tuition for summer camp. My heart objects, telling me I should have gone with the healthier option, and I manage to leak mustard and relish onto my white cargo shorts.

Crap.

Still, the food is hot and in keeping with the celebratory theme of the event. After hitting the head, I grab my iPhone and wander outside where I know young folks will be waiting with their horses.

Horse Competition, 2012 Finn Fest

Putting on the Brakes, Finn Fest 2012

There was a time, seemingly another life ago, when I owned horses. Oh, I was never much of a rider. And my boys and my wife were never that interested in the animals. Truth is, by the time we built our new house (which lacked a barn) and sold the old place, I’d worn myself out shoveling horse crap and stacking hay bales. So selling off our three horses wasn’t that big a shock to my system. Still, I love animals. Watching young folks, mostly young women, put their big mounts through the paces in the ring at Finn Fest was a treat I hadn’t contemplated when I sent in my check for this show. It’s an added bonus, to see these majestic animals move to command under the hot Embarrass sun, several states away from where one would normally expect to watch horses work.

Boot Toss

I wasn’t outside the log hall when that seminal of all Finnish contests, the boot toss, took place. And sadly, perhaps because of the advancing age of the crowd (or maybe due to liability concerns) I didn’t see any evidence of the “Wife Carry”, where husbands struggle under the girth and heft of their former lithe sweeties, totting their mates like sacks of inert potatoes to a finish line in a madcap race for the ages. But I did see kids playing a modified form of soccer under the azure sky; horses standing patiently waiting to be fed and watered; and over a thousand folks of Finnish descent (or, like me, with an interest in the culture) having a whale of a good time on a very hot and muggy day in Embarrass.

Peace.

Mark

On the Road Again

Saturday morning. It’s five a.m. and I’m up and in the shower, trying to wake up. Today is the day of the Harbor Festival in Tower, Minnesota where I’m slated to sell books for the next two days. The sun is climbing and the day looks good as I pull on my blue jeans, my Spiritwood Music T-shirt, and hit the road. The Pacifica is already packed so it’s only a matter of sliding in behind the wheel, turning the key, and heading north on Rudy Perpich Memorial Drive.

Driving through the Cloquet River Valley and into the drainage of the St. Louis River, I pass all the old Finnish farms that I’ve lamented and written about. Here and there, some sturdy citizen still keeps a herd of beef cattle on the scrubby land, trying to scratch out a few extra dollars in a tight economy. But the few old dairy barns I pass by (most of them have fallen into themselves) are largely empty, the milk cows that once chewed contentedly in the tamarack stalls long gone, victims of the “supersizing” of America’s family farms. What are left are a few straggling herds of beef cattle, essentially hamburger on the hoof, animals that don’t require twice a day attention at the milking stand.

I set up in the community center in Tower. I’m inside for this show, which, as I’ve said before, is my new operational guide: Inside shows only. No more EZ Up tent. The day is bright and warm. I chat with my neighbors, mostly women of a certain age who are selling their art and their crafts. We talk about the downturn in the economy, what it means to these little events and our bottom lines, all with a keen understanding that, for the vast majority of us, this is a diversion, a hobby. We are uniformly thankful we don’t have to try to live off what we make and sell.

Harbor Festival Booth

The crowds this year, like the past several years, are down as the day elongates towards noon.  Outside, I hear the milling of patrons and the strumming of guitars. When I wander out to check out the entertainment on the flatbed trailer-turned stage, I come across some old friends. Marty Pavola, John Ely, and Bill Maxwell, billed as “Bill Maxwell and Friends” are tuning their instruments. I say my hellos and stand in the late morning sunlight listening to fine musicians play cover tunes made famous by others.

Bill Maxwell and Friends

Tower isn’t the biggest show I do. In fact, in terms of attendance, even at it’s best, the Harbor Festival is one of the smaller venues I work. But I find, as I sit in my booth, plowing through Doris Goodwin’s A Team of Rivals between customers, that many of the folks who stop by and buy a book are repeat customers. For an author, there’s nothing better than having someone buy a second book. The validation that comes from knowing a reader likes what you’ve written enough to seek you out, well, that’s just about as gratifying as it gets for a semi-famous regional author.

Harbor Festival 2012

By closing time, I’ve talked with and sold books to several dozen fans. I marvel at how nice folks are to me: In over 12 years of hand selling my fiction to readers across most of the Midwest at event after event like the Harbor Festival, I’ve had but one or two disgruntled readers stop in to point out my flaws as an author. That’s a pretty good history, I’d say, given I’ve managed, in that time frame, to sell something like 14,000 copies of my books to the public. I know, I know. J.K. Rowlings sells 14,000 books a minute. Or a second. Or a nanosecond. Still, as I drive down Highway 4 towards my niece Madeline’s 10th birthday (and the promise of a cold Grain Belt), I can’t help but smile. It’s been a good day to be a writer.

Tomorrow, I’ll be headed back up the highway, “Tent Show Radio” blaring over the six speakers of the Chrysler’s stereo, for the second day of the festival. I won’t sell much. Sundays are never, with rare exception, very good days at craft fairs. But I’ll be fine (even I don’t sell another book in Tower) because my work has been validated by the folks who matter: the readers.

Peace.

Mark

Cloquet River, May 31, 2012

I can hear the strains of that lovely old Scottish melody as I stand next to the rising waters of the river that defines my life. If I am very still, I can hear the water gurgling, trying to tell me a story. Blue jays flit and caw. Mallards zip down the avenue of slowly flowing black water, hell bent on finding a place to safely nest away from the diluvian hand that the spring rain has opened. A solitary doe stands on the bank across from me sipping greedily and eyeing me with nervous caution.

It’s been at least six or seven years since the Cloquet River has been this high. Where we live, when the rains come and Island Lake is full and the dam is open, the river does not cascade past our home in a mad rush to join the St. Louis River on its plummet to Lake Superior. Where we live, the flow of the river is strong and steady but not hurried. Being country folk, my family measures the depth of the river in front of our home, not with a stick or a ruler, but by how high the water has climbed on “the Big Rock”. This rock, really a boulder, sits in the middle of the river, downstream from the stairs that lead from our lawn to the water’s edge. You could see the Big Rock in the photo above during the summer. But right now, it’s about four feet under water. After all the dry summers we’ve had, those of us who rely on wells in the country for our drinking water think it’s a very good thing that God has chosen to replenish our water supply with spring rain. City folk don’t think about such things. They turn on their taps and fill their glasses with chemically purified water. Out here, under the big blue sky of northeastern Minnesota, we don’t have water softeners or purifiers or any other fancy intrusions between the water that rests in the ground and the water that passes our lips. And every time I see the level of the river dip to a new low, every time I watch my lawn turn brown under the July sun because the summer rains have stayed away, I worry about our well. I shouldn’t: It’s over ninety feet down into gravel and sand and will likely, unless my piece of heaven falls victim to desertification, always be able to provide for us. But you worry about these things when you live next to a wild and scenic river even when the water is wide.

The Water is Wide

When I think of that old tune and I consider the river, I hear the voices of the millions around our world who don’t have the benefit of such a magnificent sight, such a beneficent resource right outside their back door. We who live in Minnesota, a land filled with lakes, rivers, streams, and creeks, shouldn’t forget how blessed we are. For us, the water is indeed wide, clear, and ever flowing. Let’s keep it that way.

To listen to a wonderful rendition of the song, go to:

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

Peace.

Mark

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

(Abraham Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address”)

On Monday, I tried my best to honor Lincoln’s sentiment. I think I have a good handle on our 16th president, thanks to Doris Kearns Goodwin’s great book, A Team of Rivals, which I’m plowing through as my early summer read. So, with Lincoln as my guide, I pulled on a heavy jacket and drove into town to attend a Memorial Day remembrance at a local cemetery. I hadn’t been to a Memorial Day event in at least four years and felt it was my duty, my obligation to those who have served us and have given, as Lincoln so aptly described later in his short poetic speech, “the last full measure” for their country. Understand: My service in uniform was meager: I was in the United States Army Reserve during peacetime, saw no conflicts or bloodshed, and was never deployed overseas. About the only good thing that can be said about my service is that I received an Honorable Discharge for my efforts. So my compulsion to attend Monday’s service really was to honor others, folks who gave their lives to protect our democratic way of life.

The big white circus tent holding folding chairs, the stage, and the crowd quickly warmed with so many bodies (someone said over 500) crammed into the place. There was, as is to be expected, the Pledge of Allegiance to open the ceremony, followed by a spirited rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner” sung by a poised young woman with a great voice. And then came the invocation. That’s when, but a few moments into the event, I felt my heart drop. Not due to the weight of all of the departed we were there to consider, but due to the chaplain’s words. There, at a memorial service in honor of all who have served and given their lives, he did the inexplicable: He threw up an evangelical Christian prayer to the Almighty on behalf of the departed.

Now, understand, I am a Christian. Always have been, always will be. But I, like Lincoln and most of the great American leaders and thinkers who came before him have always understood this truth: Calling upon God in battle (or a football game, for that matter) to render your opponent impotent is a bit silly. There is very little of God in war. There is much of man. Perhaps, in a war such as World War II, or more recently, Bosnia and Afghanistan, where the evil of the opposition is clearly defined, invoking God as the arbiter of justice makes some sense. But in a war between brothers, Lincoln recognized that, as honorable as his move towards emancipation of the slaves might be seen, the Civil War was not fought, at its outset, to free a race but to preserve union. Invoking God in such circumstances; to, in essence, fulfill a political agenda, was not something our 16th president urged or contemplated.

Indeed, if you read the entire “Gettysburg Address”, you will note that Lincoln invoked the Creator’s name on one occasion, at the very end of the speech. Those who proclaim, as the chaplain seemed to be doing on the Memorial Day just past, that Jesus walks shoulder to shoulder with our military, in every conflict, on every battlefield, miss one very important point: Many of those who have died serving the United States of America in our armed forces, and who serve today, are not Christians. They are Buddhists and Muslims and Jews and Hindus and animists and agnostics and atheists. The very document that gives us our freedom to practice Christianity also protects the faith (or non-faith) of all men and women under arms.

Since the Revolutionary War, the armed services have tried to ensure that soldiers can practice their faiths, and that chaplains serve not only those of their own sect but all who may need pastoral care. The services have also sought to adhere to the First Amendment prohibition of any government “establishment of religion.” (Christian Science Monitor)

But things, on the most recent Memorial Day, took a turn for the worse. After a number of speakers, some additional music, and the introduction of the five WWII veterans who were on the stage, the master of ceremonies launched into, what, in my humble view, amounted to little more than an evangelical Christian sermon. There was no recognition in the address of the divergence of faiths and beliefs that has, since the dawning of America, been our hallmark as a country. And, as so many folks of a conservative religious bent are prone to do, the speaker emphasized a religious history of the founding fathers and our most beloved president, Abraham Lincoln, that is not buttressed by the record. Historian after historian has been quick to point out that Jefferson, Adams, Lincoln, Franklin, and Washington, and, two generations later, Abraham Lincoln, were men of tenuous faith. They were in no sense of the word, religious zealots and, in many ways, just like you and me, struggled with the fragility of their beliefs. Invoking their memories when offering up a wholly, and restrictively Christian theme to remember our fallen service men and women is not, in my humble view, accurate or appropriate.

When the event was over, I felt the opposite of what I had come to that big white tent to feel: Instead of being filled with patriotic spirit and reverence for those who paid the ultimate sacrifice, I felt betrayed, I felt used. Now, maybe it’s just me, the crazy Liberal seeker that I am. But I don’t think so. Unsure of myself, feeling that I had somehow lost my moral compass, I spent some time talking my feelings over with two men I respect: Wayne, a WWII fighter pilot and Roger, a Vietnam combat veteran. Both of them understood my point. Both of them, men who actually felt the breeze of bullets flying past them in war, agreed: To leave out those who are not Christians but who died in America’s wars is not what Abraham Lincoln envisioned when he stood on that platform before 9,000 Americans in 1864 and dedicated the Gettysburg cemetery.

My final thought, as I stood amongst the little American flags covering the cemetery grounds alongside the graves of veterans of our armed forces was this: How would Jack Litman feel?

You likely don’t know who Jack Litman is or was. Jack was raised on the Central Hillside of Duluth. He was also a lawyer and district court judge of some renown. Most folks who remember Jack, remember those details. But what many forget is that Jack was also a bomber pilot during WWII. He flew countless combat missions over Nazi Germany. That alone is enough to honor his memory. But here’s the thing that bothered me most about my experience on Monday: Jack Litman, a member of the Greatest Generation who was my mentor and friend, was a Jew.

Peace.

Mark

The old EZ Up at the 2011 Land of the Loon Show

My left shoulder, the one that got blasted in a car accident back in January of 2010 (don’t get me started!) has finally broken down to the point where it needs surgical help. I can work through most pain and, in fact, over the past two years, that’s what I’ve been trying to do: rebuild the muscle in the shoulder and upper arm through stretches and exercise. But you can’t rebuild torn tissue by working out and so, it’s off to the surgeon I go. You know it’s time to go in when you can’t sleep through the night anymore without pain pills.

I’d pretty much cut my summer outdoor craft shows to one, the best one, the Blueberry Arts Festival in Ely, before the MRI showed the damage.  I’ve done the Ely show for years and it’s always been my most productive. So even with the severe downturn in the economy and its adverse impact on craft show vendors (including me!), and even after I eliminated every other outdoor show, I kept Blueberry on my calendar. But no more. With my upcoming surgery making it impossible for me to tote books, concrete benches, and set up the EZ Up, it’s time to leave the outdoor craft fair circuit in my rear view mirror. So I have bowed out of this year’s Blueberry and I don’t plan on doing outdoor shows in the future. I’ll miss the two Ely shows most of all because I’ll miss hearing my buddy Pat Surface and the Boundary Water Boys playing in the background as I sell books. And I’ll miss staying at the Korman cabin down the road and drinking beer with Uncle Buck. But life is about change, right? And change I must.

You’ll still be able to catch up with me at indoor arts and crafts events, and at libraries and bookstores. Just keep on an eye on this website for announcements or periodically check the calendar on this site. And if you are a member of a book club and like one of my books, ask me to come and talk about the book and writing with your group. I love doing book clubs because I learn more from you guys than you’ll ever learn from me.

To those loyal readers who found me year after year at the Blueberry Festival and Harvest Moon in Ely, or Mines and Pines in Hibbing, or the Cranberry Fest in Warrens, or the Apple Festival in Bayfield, or Fall Fest in Chester Park, or the myriad of other outdoor shows I’ve done over the past 12 years, thank you for you support and your readership.  I hope our paths cross again. But it won’t be in an EZ Up!

Peace.

Mark

Mark’s Copy of “Bird by Bird” after a bath in Whiteface Lake

One of my favorite books about writing is Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott (1994. Anchor Books. ISBN 0-385-48001-6.) I’ve read it from cover to cover at least twice and used excerpts from the book in countless lectures and workshops. I like Bird because Anne is hilariously candid about what it means (at least for those of us who aren’t Stephen King or J.K. Rowlings) to be a writer. Notice I didn’t say those of us who “want to be a writer” or  those of us who “are an author”. The issue isn’t whether you’ve been published (which would make you “an author”) or whether you have the desire to write something (be it poetry, prose, or creative nonfiction): I am assuming if you are reading this sometime after I wrote it this morning at 4:45am that you already write. And that, my friends, is really all it takes, in my book (and Ms. Lamott’s) for you to earn the title of “writer”. To be a writer very simply requires that you write.

There’s more to it, of course. To be a writer, one naturally, at first blush, must be a reader. No, not a reader of your own words. Sure, that’s part of the puzzle, isn’t it, reading revision after revision after revision of the same piece of crap that came out of your warped little mind until you are numb on the brain? But that’s not what I mean when I say you must be a reader. To be a writer requires a dedication to reading other people’s work. Voraciously. Constantly. Whenever you have a spare moment. That’s how my copy of Bird by Bird  ended up warped. I was trying to read it on the Scott’s dock at Whiteface Lake while brushing my teeth during the Minnesota Fishing Opener. Now, I, apparently like Anne Lamott (she reveals this about herself in her book) am a bit of a clutz. Some folks can chew gum and walk, or, as in the case of that bucolic morning standing on the dock jutting out into the tannin stained waters of Whiteface, hold a book and brush their teeth at the same time. I, however, cannot. One minute, I was reading Lamott’s concise prose and relearning what I’d learned from her the last time I picked up the 238 page gem that is Bird by Bird and the next moment, I’m on my knees on the cold wooden dock, trying to snatch a floating mess of soggy paper before it drifts away. Why was I so insistent upon reading Lamott on the cusp of the Opener in my PJs while brushing my teeth on the Scott’s dock? Here’s just a sample of the wisdom she imparts, in this case, about being published, in her book. This is a scene where the author has just been notified she’s been invited to a prestigious writing event. She’s shopping for a dress and reveals to the shop owner that the dress needs to be special because Ms. Lamott is a writer about to attend a special function. The owner asks the ultimate question that is always asked of us writers: “What have you written?” Lamott, who is anything but a household word, tries to brush the question off and find a dress. The shop owner is undeterred and presses on.

“Beth, Beth,” the shop owner called out suddenly…”Don’t I read everything? Tell her! Beth said yes, yes, this is true, she reads everything. Then the owner looked at me kindly and said, “Now come on, what’s your name?”

I sighed, smiled, and finally said, ” Anne Lamott.” She stared at me with great concern. The room was very quiet…Then she pursed her lips and slowly shook her head. “No,”she said. “I guess not.”

It took me about  a week and a great deal of cheap chocolate to get over that. But then I remembered that whenever the world throws rose petals at you…beware. The cosmic banana peel is suddenly going to appear underfoot and make sure you don’t take it all too seriously…

This snippet of Lamott’s candor is so close to the bone, so dead-on-honest about what it means to have your name on a book available for sale in a bricks and mortar bookstore, or online, it’s beautiful in its simplicity.

The Inside of Mark’s Water Logged Copy of “Bird by Bird”

So when my copy of Bird by Bird fluttered through the warm spring air of NE Minnesota and found the gently rocking waves of the lake a week ago, I couldn’t let that be the end of my relationship with Ms. Lamott, as one-sided and hermit-like as it might be (she of course, has no idea of my adoration). I did, in keeping with her instructions, what needed doing: I rescued the book and opened it to the sunshine filtering through the windows of the Scott cabin and let the book dry. And once the paper was no longer dripping and the book was again safe to hold, I resumed re-reading Lamott.

Why, you ask? Why was I re-visiting something I’d read before? Not once? But twice? Because, I say, because I needed the reassurance that a good teacher gives his or her pupils when they are faced with a crisis. Since I am a self-taught novelist, and since those around me, my friends and family, will naturally hide their criticism and critical remarks about my work to save me from hurt, I find the honest feedback I need as a writer in Lamott’s words and also, to a similar extent, in another slender volume from another female author, Annie Dillard. Dillard’s 111 page memoir about writing, The Writing Life is also a source of inspiration and comfort when I am in one of my funks after a book event or reading where things didn’t go exactly as planned. As I planned. But to the point: Since I saved Bird from the lake, I’ve been plowing through Lamott’s wisdom, breathing freely, welcoming her advice, finding inner peace in the knowledge that I am indeed, a writer and that, to some extent, what I create is loved.

Jimi Hendrix (the dog, not the guitarist) and Mark reading Lamott

In the above photo, I am sitting on the porch swing of our covered front porch. The rain that’s pummeled our place for two days has abated. Jimi, my wife’s daschund and I are sitting on the swing, gently swaying in the cool air, my nose buried in the last chapter of Bird. It’s a great day to finish a book about writing and to be a writer. Tomorrow, I’ll get up early and write a little piece about Lamott’s book and how important it is to me. And maybe, once I’m done with Bird by Bird, I’ll re-read The Writing Life, or finally read that copy of Stephen King’s On Writing sitting on the bookshelf that I’ve never gotten to.

But before I do that, I’ll stroke the dog’s smooth fur, prop my bare feet up on a table, and sway in the freshly washed air, thankful that Ms. Lamott has written a book about writers just for me.

Peace.

Mark