Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

Only love
Can make it rain
The way the beach is kissed by the sea.
Only love
Can make it rain
Like the sweat of lovers’
Laying in the fields.

Love, Reign o’er me.
Love, Reign o’er me, rain on me.

((c) P. Townsend)

Leaving for Sister Wolf Books 6/23/2012

In the photograph above, you can see that our access road is still under water. It’s been nearly a week since the rains started and the water surrounding our place hasn’t receded. Oh, Minnesota Power tried. They shut some of the gates on the dam upstream from us. That lasted until it started to rain again. The water went down a foot. It’s now back up. So, if Rene’ or Jack or I want to go anywhere, it’s still by canoe. My dad’s significant other, Pauline, volunteered her Chrysler van for our use. Otherwise, we’d be completely without transportation. The van’s parked at the far end of our road, out of the water…at least for now.

9:30am. Saturday. I’m up and in my swimsuit, sandals, and T-shirt again for the paddle out. I’m supposed to be at Dorset, Minnesota, at a funky little independent bookstore just a stone’s throw from Park Rapids, Sister Wolf Books, for their annual gathering of  Minnesota authors. Despite some success as a regional novelist, when I sent out promotional materials announcing the release of Laman’s River, my new mystery, only three bookstores responded with offers for me to come and sell and sign books. Sister Wolf was one of them and so, despite the Great Flood, I am duty bound to go.

The other thing you can see in the above photograph is that it’s raining. That’s right: As I paddle down our driveway, the sky is once again cryin’. No, that’s not quite right: The sky is absolutely weeping. That blue object in the center of the canoe? It’s a waterproof plastic bin filled with copies of Laman’s River, Esther’s Race, Suomalaiset, and Mr. Environment. The bag at the bow? That’s holding my dry clothes.

Pauline’s van is crowded with authors as it chugs west on Highway 200 towards Dorset. Stephen King, Maurice Sendak, John Updike, Billy Collins, James Baldwin, Norman Mailer, David Sedaris, Philip Roth, Richard Price, Joyce Johnson, Allen Ginsberg, Fran Lebowtiz, and David Rakoff are all crammed into the Chrysler for the ride. No, not literally: In spirit, silly. I’m listening to NPR’s Terry Gross interview the above-listed literary and poetry giants on CD, on Fresh Air: Writers Speak (2004. Highbridge Audio. ISBN 1-56511-918-5).  No matter how many books a guy has written, there’s no end to the learning involved in the writing process.

Leech Lake (on the way to Dorset)

I pass by Leech Lake on HIghway 200, the rain finally stopping, the sun shining. Back home, I know my wife is headed towards the Park Point Art Fair with her friend, Nancy. Rene’ will canoe to the highway where Nancy will pick her up. When you’re surrounded by angry water, it helps to have more than one canoe. I call my wife repeatedly until she finally picks up. We chat. We say our goodbyes. The Chrysler rolls on.

When I pull into Dorset, the little burg is jumping. There are cars parked up and down the county highway splitting the town in two. Folks are wandering from store to store, restaurant to restaurant, enjoying the emerging sun. I park behind an Italian restaurant, dig out my bag, and wander into the place, the rump of my swimsuit still wet with rain. I change into dry clothes, dry sandals, and a clean shirt before enjoying a pretty good meal of spaghetti and sausage. After paying the tab, I cross the street and introduce myself to Sally, the manager of Sister Wolf Books. The little store is crammed to the shelves with books, patrons, and, most importantly, authors. I see Will Weaver, a northern Minnesota writer of some note I’ve corresponded with but never met, across the room, and saunter up to him and introduce myself. Then it’s two o’clock, time for my two hour shift at a little table in the front of the store.

Sister Wolf Books

Folks come and go in droves. Women enter the front door of the bookstore in pairs and, at times, in packs. I learn that some of the groups are book clubs on the prowl for a new book to read. Several of the women check out my books as possible reads. Some buy from me, some don’t. But, for a tiny town and a tiny store, the action is, in a word, constant. I share my iPhone pictures of the canoe carrying books with customers, Sally, and some of the other authors. All of them are cognizant that Duluth and the surrounding area have been hit hard by the recent weather. There are a few other writers from Duluth who have personal stories of near-disaster that they also share with the patrons. After selling and signing a fair number of books, it’s time to pack it all back into the Chrysler and head east.

The ride home is uneventful. I stop in Remer for an ice cream cone and gas. Rene’ and I talk via cell phone. It rained nearly all day at the Art Fair in Duluth. I tell her that the weather in Dorset, weather which is headed towards the Cloquet River, is bringing sun and clear skies. Driving through Floodwood, I can see that the nice weather is now over Duluth; that the rain has finally stopped.

When I park the van at the end of our road, I see Jack paddling towards me in our Old Town. Our pink Coleman canoe is at this end, upside down and immersed in a foot of water. When I left for Dorset in the morning, I left the Coleman high and dry. The water has come up at least two feet during the day.

“What’s up?”I ask my son as he clambers out of the Old Town.

“I’m bored,” my fourteen year old says. “I’m gonna run to the Minno-ette for a movie.”

And he does. Literally. He runs three miles round trip and paddles a half mile to bring back a DVD for the evening.

“Marcus.”

It’s my friend Bruce, on the telephone just as I sit down to dinner.

“Hey, Bruce.”

“Jan and I are coming over to see how you’re faring.”

The Larsons are old and dear friends. Jan and I have known each other since kindergarten. I’ve known Bruce since we both tortured Miss Eck, our piano teacher, in elementary school.

“You’ll have to use the canoe. The road is underwater.”

For a moment, I forget that Jack is still on the road in search of a movie. If Bruce and Jan use the Old Town, there’s no way for Jack to paddle home. I hustle down the driveway, climb in the Coleman, and paddle like hell to the end of the water.

“We need to leave that one for Jack,” I say, pointing to the green canoe.

“I thought that was him on the road,” Bruce says as he and Jan climb into my canoe. “But I couldn’t figure out what he was doing by himself at the Minno-ette.”

“He’s getting a video.”

The Larsons laugh.

The Larsons Come to Visit

We make short work of the waterway and land the canoe on asphalt. Rene’ greets us and we show the Larsons the results of the Great Flood of 2012. Later, while talking and enjoying a glass of Rene’s homemade wine in the house, Jack wanders in with a movie. We talk some more and then as dusk settles over the Cloquet River Valley, the Larsons take their leave. They begin their paddle out just as the sky opens up again.

The Waterway at the End of Our Drive (Note the Cart and the Waterproof Bin Full of Munger Books!)

Peace.

Mark

Canoeing to Work, 6/21/2012

That’s our access road you see in the photograph.  Really. I took the shot yesterday at about 7:00am. I’m heading due east, towards the Taft Road, to meet up with my son Chris. He’s high and dry where he lives, in rural Rice Lake Township. My Pacifica and my wife’s Toyota Matrix unfortunately can’t negotiate four feet of standing water. Since that’s the case, I resorted to the methods of the folks who once walked and hunted this land: Like the Ojibwe (and the Sioux before them), I paddled to work. Fifteen minutes later, my third son picked me up at the end of our road in my swimsuit, flip flops, and T-shirt (I was carrying a change of clothes more appropriate for the courtroom). After a brief tour of some of the destruction (including passing two cars stalled in water near the Wells Fargo branch near the Mall), Chris dropped me off at the Duluth courthouse.

“Mark: Matt and Lisa and the baby are coming by to pick us up.”

That’s the call I received later in the day from my wife, Rene’. Our oldest son, his wife, and their one-month-old son, A.J., were hell bent on coming down to Duluth to see what nature had wrought. I’d called my old man earlier in the day and made arrangements for him to drive me home at four; in plenty of time to meet my son and his wife.

Dad showed up right on time. After a brief stop at Super One so I could do some grocery shopping, we drove out to our place.

“I could drive you in.”

We were sitting at the end of our road watching Jack and his pal Nathan paddle towards us in a green Old Town canoe. I had left our pink (used to be red until the sun bleached it out) Coleman canoe near the highway so I had a means of getting home.

Jack and Nate Sich Canoeing the Driveway

“Are you crazy?” I replied. “The water would be halfway up the hood of your Tahoe.”

Now, maybe Harry was teasing. He does have a pretty good sense of humor. But maybe, just maybe, he was serious.

You see, I remember one winter’s day before we built our new house and the road you’re looking at was improved (it was only a logging trail at the time) when Dad wanted to show Judge Jack Litman the Minnesota Power land he and I had recently bought. I told him, “No, Dad, you can’t take your Suburban back on that road. It hasn’t been plowed and you’ll just get stuck.” His response was, “That’s what four wheel drive is for, Mark.” Sure enough, as Rene’ and I watched my old man and the judge tool off down the tote road, he made it about fifty feet before he had his big rig stuck up to the axles in new snow. It took my little Dodge Dakota 4×4 and a whole hell of a lot of digging by a much younger me to get the Suburban back onto solid ground so Dad could back his way out.

So when my father said he was thinking about trying to make a run through the river that had claimed our road, maybe, just maybe, he was serious. I’ll leave it to you which way he was leaning as he surveyed the expanse of black water in front of his Tahoe.

But instead of gunning the engine and tempting fate, Dad sat patiently behind the driver’s wheel as I loaded bags of food, milk, juice, and dog food into the Coleman for the paddle home.

“Thanks.”

With a wave of his hand, the old man backed the Tahoe out onto the highway and roared off. I’m pretty sure he was disappointed I didn’t let him make a go of plowing water with the SUV. But I’m also pretty sure he’ll thank me tomorrow for being the voice of reason.

Rene' Canoeing her way to A & Dubs

As soon as I got home and Rene’ put the groceries away, she hustled me back  out the door.

“Matt’s a few minutes away,” she explained. “We’re supposed to meet them out on the road.”

Rene’ and I climbed into the Coleman. Jack and Nathan claimed the Old Town. In a few minutes time, after dropping Nathan off at his home (he hadn’t been able to get to his house since Monday evening), we were on our way with Matt, Lisa, and A.J. (who was grumpy and wanted to be fed) to town. We took in Lincoln Park (where cars were stopped and folks were snapping photos of the plume of brown water shooting up from the sliding rock); the Lake Superior Zoo (where it was obvious that water had destroyed many of the exhibits and left slime and mud behind as an added insult); and Gary-New Duluth (when we couldn’t go any further due to barricades, we drove over the Oliver Bridge and took in the massive sheet of butterscotch water flowing beneath the span: a volume of water I’ve never seen flowing in the St. Louis River in my lifetime). And then, we stopped at Rene’s favorite fine dining establishment: A & Dubs in Duluth’s West End.

You’ll note I didn’t call the neighborhood where my wife and her siblings were raised (and where I went to junior high) “Lincoln Park”. Lincoln Park, my friends, is an actual place. We drove Lincoln Park Drive through the park on our way down the hill. A & Dubs drive-in is in Duluth’s West End. End of discussion. In any event, while A.J. slurped his meal in the front seat, the rest of us ate burgers and fries and onion rings and corn dogs (the West End’s version of health food) and sipped cold, sweet root beer. Lisa handed A.J. to me so she could finish eating. He immediately objected to the scary old man holding him, necessitating Grandma Rene’ taking over grandchild duties. In the end, the rocking and rolling of the Suburban put the kid to sleep. We stopped on the Munger-Shaw bridge over the Cloquet, the water nearly lapping at the driving surface, to take one last peek at the river before heading home.

The Cloquet in High Flood

Another View

Later, as I read a biography of Woodrow Wilson, Jack read Night  by Elie Wiesel, and Rene’ worked  the News Tribune’s  crossword puzzle, the telephone rang.

It was my old man.

“You need a ride to work tomorrow?”

I had arranged to use my law clerk’s car to get from the courthouse in Duluth to the Carlton County Courthouse tomorrow but I’d forgotten to take into account that I needed another ride into town.

“I do. Can you pick me up at eight?”

“Sure.”

Here I am nearly sixty years old and my father is driving me to work. Oh well, it could be worse: Harry could be stuck in the middle of the flood in his Tahoe.

Peace.

Mark

Long as I remember the rain been comin’ down
Clouds of mystery pourin’ confusion on the ground.
Good men through the ages tryin’ to find the sun.
And I wonder still I wonder who’ll stop the rain.

((c) John Fogerty)

Jack Munger and Nate Sich (The Great Flood of 2012)

As usual, I was wrong. The river is still rising out here in Fredenberg. If you read the last blog, you’ll remember the 16″ of bank we had left protecting us from the Cloquet River. Well, that 16″ of dry land is somewhere beneath the two boys in the photo above. And there appears to be more water coming downstream. I got the boys, who are both stuck here because there’s no way to leave our place, to help me move the canoes, duck boat, and lawn furniture out of harm’s way. That’s why the next photo you’ll see is one of a naked canoe rack. Hide your eyes if such things offend you! The second picture is of Jack and Nate wading the road leading from our house to the county highway. You can see that the only way to get through is to wade, swim, or paddle.

Naked Canoe Racks

Jack Munger and Nate Sich Wading the Road to Nowhere!

Nate and Jack Coming to the end of a Very Wet Walk

Out on the main road, I picked up the mail from our mailbox and tucked it into my shirt along with my wife’s camera (the one I used to snap these shots) and Nate’s iPod. I told the boys that they’d be hauling our two-wheel garbage bin back home through the water and there wasn’t much disagreement. Give kids the chance to try something unusual, like plowing water with a garbage can on wheels, and they’ll generally get on board.But before heading back home, we walked over to the Taft Road bridge to get a better view of the torrent. Man, that slow moving, lazy sonofagun summer river I know so well was no where to be seen. The past few summers have been so dry, you’d scrape rocks canoeing this stretch of the Cloquet even in June. It’s pretty clear that rocks wouldn’t be the problem today, folks.

The Author Standing on the Taft Road Bridge Looking Downriver

One of the really neat things about our house becoming an island is that every bird for miles around has decided our place is a refuge. Today, I’ve seen mourning doves, goldfinches, cowbirds, catbirds, hummingbirds, an osprey, a sand hill crane, a blue heron (twice), bluebirds, robins, barn swallows, ducks, and a mature bald eagle who was sitting in the white pine next to our canoe racks until the boys and I descended upon his tranquility.

The Boys at the Taft Road Bridge

Looking Upriver, The Great Flood of 2012

Looking Downriver, The Great Flood of 2012

We made it back from our excursion to the bridge a little wetter but much wiser. The boys struggled with the garbage bin, mostly because of inattention and not physical strength. From the giggles I heard as they splashed along behind me, I think they enjoyed their time away from our island home.

So long as the water begins to recede by morning, I’ll be content to chalk up the past day off work as another life experience I needed to go through to grow as a person. But if the clouds continue to cry, maybe I’ll have to Google John Fogarty, find his phone number, give him a call, and see if he ever found an answer to his question.

Heard the singers playin’, how we cheered for more.
The crowd had rushed together tryin’ to keep warm.
Still the rain kept pourin’, fallin’ on my ears
And I wonder, still I wonder who’ll stop the rain.

((c) J. Fogerty)

Peace.

Mark

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