Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

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

Rod, Don, and Harlie Privette

This week, goldfinches, purple finches, morning doves, barn swallows, and bluebirds came back to the feeders on our lawn rolling to the banks of the Cloquet River. It was 86 degrees out at the house yesterday, a record, I am certain, for May 18th in NE Minnesota. Spring has unfolded with a rapidity that matches the speed of my family’s life. The Munger family seems to be racing into the future at an unreasonably hurried clip. There’s no question that my wife and I need to slow down a bit. Here’s just a snippet of what we’ve been through the past seven days.

The lead picture to this article is of three brothers. Don, Rod, and Harlie Privette all grew up at 2716 W. 3rd Street in the modest workingman’s neighborhood of the West End in Duluth. It wasn’t called Lincoln Park back then and I’ll not diminish the memory of my father-in-law by hanging some moniker on the place he called home that isn’t true. Last year at about this time, my wife lost her mom, Mercedes Privette. Merc’s death was a sudden, unexpected event that sent the family for a loop. In contrast, Don’s death, while mourned to be sure, was wholly expected. He’d battled emphysema and diabetes and heart issues for the last third of his life. Though the folks at the Franciscan Home on Park Point took great care of him, it was a tough last couple of years. For a man used to carrying a rifle in the woods during deer season, or switching railroad cars for the BN, or pulling monster northern pike from a hole in the ice during below zero weather, sitting day after day in a wheel chair surrounded by other old folks in the same plight, well, that wasn’t living. And though there was an element of blessing to Don’s joining Merc this past week, the family still is working through its grief.

AJ Munger Enters the World.

Just before Grandpa Don left us, Adrien James Munger joined the family. He was born to my oldest son, Matt, and his wife Lisa, on May 11th. (Lisa, of course, would reverse the order of that phrase!) For those of you who missed the announcement on Facebook, yes, A.J. was the reason Matt and Lisa missed my book launch last Thursday at Teatro Zuccone. Seems the little guy wasn’t willing to wait until after his grandpa got done talking to join us. He was making his way into the world as the music played, as the words were read, and as friends, family, and fans gathered together to celebrate Laman’s River. I used to think that the launch of a new book felt somewhat akin to the birth of a new child. Not even close. A.J. is the star of the week: I’m just a shoddy old sideshow.

Grandpa Harry Fishing the Whiteface

Those of you who read this blog regularly recognize the last photo in this post. It’s of my dad, Harry Munger, and was taken last weekend during the Minnesota Fishing Opener on Whiteface Lake north of Duluth. I’ll not repeat the story told about the Munger men and their fishing exploits here: That fable has already been penned. But in the seven days that comprise the week, yesterday was another milestone for the Munger family. One day after putting Grandpa Don to rest at Oneota Cemetary, Grandpa Harry, the patriarch of the Munger clan, went in for carotid artery surgery at St. Luke’s Hospital. So there we were, my sister, Annie, my brother Dave, me, and Harry’s significant other, Pauline, sipping hospital coffee and telling old stories as the surgeons did their work. Turns out, the docs knew what they were doing: Harry pulled through just fine. He’s not in any shape today, less than 24 hours after the procedure, to read this blog. But maybe Pauline can read it to him.

My mom, perpetually young-at-heart, also had a little dose of reality this week. She went in for cataract surgery. A minor procedure, to be sure. But when a guy in a white coat messes with your eyes, one never can be too sure things are going to go well. They did. She’s fine.

Toss into this mix of life the fact that I worked some at the courthouse, wrote some at my iMac, mowed and trimmed the lawn, and let Jack drive my Pacifica for the first time (he’s 14 and will be eligible for his driver’s permit soon), and you get a glimpse of the whirlwind that Rene’ and I endured these past seven days. But the most memorable incident or event of the week?

It was me holding my newborn grandson A.J. at Grandpa Don’s funeral: an experience that put a period on the sentence that was Donald E. Privette’s life.

Rest in peace, Grandpa Don.

Mark

2012 Fishing Opener Featuring Jack Munger

The title says it all. I’ve been coming to Bob and Pat Scott’s cabin on Whiteface Lake for the Minnesota Fishing Opener since I was 13 years old. It started when Bob invited six of the dads in his Denfeld High School supper club to come up to his place on Whiteface, a reservoir lake maintained by Minnesota Power. The gathering grew year after year as the oldest of the sons (no daughters have ever been allowed, though the dads all have plenty of those) got married and had kids, until, at one point, the six original dads were surrounded by nearly two dozen sons and grandsons. Amongst the six original fathers in the crew, the group included a cookie salesman, a lawyer, an electrician, a railroad switchman, a grain elevator operator, and a appliance store owner. A melding of mid-America, if you will.

This year, with Bob and four of the other dads having passed away, the numbers are sparse. Four-plus decades of the Opener have seen joy in the form of weddings, graduations, births of grandkids and great grandkids, new jobs, and the retirement of old men from their chosen occupations. The group has seen its share of tragedy as well: cancer, heart attacks, Parkinson’s, the death of a daughter in a car crash, the death of a wife in a car crash and the resulting family turmoil caused because one of the sons sued his own father for his mother’s death, divorces (both for the dads and their sons) and all the other curve balls that a long history of affiliation tends to bring to a group of friends. But my old man, a stouthearted old man of German and English ancestry, is still hanging in there. Oh, he’s had his own bouts with mortality. A heart attack. A couple of small strokes. Intestinal bleeding. A hip replacement. He’s been dinged, to be sure, by age. But he’s with us on the Whiteface, tossing minnows to scrawny walleyes and snaky northern pike, just like he did back in the 1960s. A bit slower, I’ll grant you, on both the cast and the retrieve. And he needs help threading the line through the eye of the hook and keeping his line free of snarls. That’s my third son Chris’ job over the weekend; a job he gladly accepts to ensure Grandpa Harry is with us, in the boat, chasing fish. We’re missing Dylan, my second son, who is out in Williston working the oil fields to make his fortune, and Matt, my oldest, who is at home minding his beautiful wife, Lisa, and their new son, my first grandson, Adrien James Munger. Next year, boys. Next year.

Grandpa Harry Fishing the Whiteface

Bob and Pat’s second son Tim is a busy boy this weekend. He has coordinated buying the food for ten guys, about a third of the group at its peak, and then, he’s off to the college graduation of his daughter, Abbie, and other family events. He manages to spend time with us during the mornings and evenings but he doesn’t get to wet a line.

Jack, my youngest son, at 14 years old, is the youngest of the group. My Dad, at 85, is the oldest by two and a half decades. My brother Dave and his son, Jonathan, couldn’t come this year. John Scott, now the patriarch of the Scott clan, is absent as well. The other families that were once part of this event: the Listons, the Lundeens, the Tessiers, the Nelsons, have all stopped attending; not in a catastrophic departure; but like the erosion of a sand bank along a river, over time, they have simply found other things to do during the Opener. Not the Mungers. We’re persistent people. As long as the Scotts invite us, we’ll show up.

Saturday Night Bonfire. Chris and Jack Munger and Tim Scott.

Saturday morning. We’re on the lake before seven thirty, a rarity in the years we’ve been at Whiteface. Usually the bullshit and the beer fly in equal measure on Friday night as the older guys (like me) catch up with each other. This celebration of friendship usually leads to very slow departures on Saturday morning. Not this year. We’re serious about fishing for the first time in years. And it pays off. Pat “Poncho” Scott, the youngest of Bob and Pat’s kids and the captain of Boat No. 1 (I am captaining Boat No. 2), brings his crew to a school of walleye and they net quite a few. I manage to steer Chris, Jack, my dad, and me into a honey hole where we catch walleye, perch, and northern pike. My dad wants some fish to fry so we keep eight or nine. After lunch at the Scott cabin and a nap (there’s always a nap waiting at Whiteface!), we head back out but catch only snaky northerns.

Steaks sizzle. Beer is tipped. Grandpa Harry fillets his fish. After the dishes are done, we forgo the traditional Smear game and spend time sitting on benches talking around a fire. The topic turns to legislative gridlock and the wisdom of using state money to build a football stadium. The arguments for and against are passionate and heated. Chris and I take the losing side, the side opposing the deal. Voices grow louder. More beer flows. Joe Scott, the oldest grandchild of Bob and Pat, argues both sides of the case. The next morning, we greet a sunny, wondrous Whiteface morning sky, fire up the outboards, and scour the lake in search of fish. We don’t catch much on Sunday, never have. But what does it matter?

Jack and Chris Munger. Chris is mending our landing net with garden netting. The fish are very big on Whiteface!

Peace.

Mark