Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

The Chernaks, the Mungers, and the Larsons.

We’re blessed with friends. That’s the one thing that I can say with certainty about my wife Rene’ and I. It’s been that way for a long while now, being blessed by friends. Many of our closest friends are folks we met in high school, at Duluth Denfeld. A few, like Jan and Bruce Larson, I met years before. In Jan’s case, it started at Piedmont Elementary in Duluth when we met in kindergarten. With Bruce, it started when a curious Baptist kid (that would be Bruce) started bugging his parents about where babies come from. Now, being that the Baptist church is fairly conservative, but wanting Bruce to know more than what he’d learn in hushed huddles during Boy Scouts, Bruce’s folks sent him to a sex education class run by Episcopalians. That’s where we met. When Rene’ and I started dating in 1976, she was welcomed into a crazy group of close and loving friends. She’s been one of us now for over thirty years.

Of course, the old friends aren’t our only friends. There are Fredenberg friends (folks we’ve met and grown to love out here where we live), family, work friends, and a whole host of other connections and friendships made over a lifetime. Some mine. Some Rene’s. But all important and sustaining. Still, the time we spend with folks like the Larsons and their relatives, the Chernaks, is a window to the past as we joke and laugh and, as we also reflect on our parents’ ages, a glance into the future. This past weekend, shortened as it was by Rene’ dealing with a flu bug (we couldn’t get up to the Larson cabin on Thomas Lake near Two Harbors until Saturday morning), was one of those get-togethers that sustains us in a world of sometimes seemingly unending uncertainty.

We were lucky. When we drove from our place on the Cloquet River to Thomas Lake early Saturday morning, it was snowing: Big, fat, fluffy early winter snow was coming down despite the fact that it was the third day of March. Let’s face it: This winter has been abysmal, a total bust. We’ve had little snow, temperatures that have been too warm, and gray sky after gray sky since November. Hell, our winter has been more like a Kansas winter than one spent in northern Minnesota. So to see snow piling up so late in the season, was, in a word, wondrous. When we arrived at the Larson cabin (which, when I was a Boy Scout and Jan’s dad, the legendary Arnie Erickson was my scoutmaster, was the “Erickson cabin”), the Larsons and the Chernaks were seated comfortably around a fire roaring in the cabin’s stone fireplace, sipping coffee and talking in low tones. Rene’ joined the crew while I hauled in our stuff and some groceries. We’ve been making this annual ski gathering for a decade or better and the ladies in the equation pretty much have it down pat as to who brings what. Bruce makes sure that there’s firewood aplenty, that the sauna is ready to go, that no water pipes have burst, and that the weekend will come off without a hitch. Me? I pretty much just show up.

The pleasantries exhausted, we knuckled down to some hard core political and philosophical discussions, beginning with my diatribe about Russ Limbaugh’s insensitive remarks about the young law student who testified before Congress, and moving on to the state of the economy in Ely, Minnesota, where Charlie and Sue Chernak hale from. By noon, Bruce had heard enough: it was time to hit the state ski trail a few miles from Thomas Lake.

Rene and Sue on the Mother Bear Trail.

Shit, I thought as I plodded along behind Bruce on my skis, I’m more out of shape than I thought.

Bruce and I generally take turns breaking trail. That’s the way it’s always been. And usually, we’re about even in our pace, with the women chatting and taking a more leisurely amble behind us. But this year, I could tell that the extra ten pounds I’d added over the Christmas holidays hadn’t come off: I struggled to keep up with Bruce as we glided silently through the snowy canopy of the forest. Charlie wasn’t with us in the trees: He was content to man the fire back at the cabin and stroke Bella, the Chernaks’ kind and gentle Golden Retriever as he sipped another cup of coffee, leaving the skiing to the rest of us.

I better get myself in shape if I want to be skiing with my grandchild.

It was a serious discussion, the one I had with myself, and one I will take to heart when I get back to that dust-covered treadmill in our bedroom in our house on the Cloquet River.

We were denied, Bruce and I were, our usual course, which is to split off from the women and take the esker trail to the right, a more difficult route. The groomer hadn’t gone up the esker and so, with some prodding from a gasping writer, Bruce agreed to take the easier spur to the left. We pushed on. The only wildlife we saw, or more correctly I saw, was a ruffed grouse which exploded from its hiding place under a spruce as Bruce and I passed by. Bruce never saw, never heard the bird: Likely the reason the Larson freezer is without grouse for table fare.

Bruce and Mark.

Bruce and I took a longer route but, inexplicably, we ended up at the junction with the main trail just as the girls arrived. From there, the five of us skied together on the last leg of the Mother Bear Trail back to the car.

We all knew what awaited us back at the cabin: An afternoon and evening of snacks and cold beer and a hot sauna followed by a nap and Sue’s homemade beef stew and more beer and a board game or two pitting the women against  the men. As usual, the men prevailed and Bruce and Charlie and I raised our arms in our fifty-something version of “The Wave” and sang Queen’s “We Are the Champions” as only old men can.

Thanks, friends, for another great memory.

Peace.

Mark

(Photos by Bruce Larson)

The Blogster at Red Lodge, Montana.

What I learned after skiing five straight days last week with my fourteen year old son  and my wife in Montana.

First, as I get older, I don’t get better on skis. But as 14 year old’s get older, they do get better. Go figure!

Second, Montana beer is great beer. And it’s better than great after that first day of fighting moguls on black diamond runs from the top of Red Lodge Mountain to the chalet. Trust me. 57 year old legs and thighs fairly burn after the first three or four turns at 9,000 feet but after two Glacier Ales at the local pizza parlor (Pizano’s:  great pizza and fantastic staff), you forget the pain. Honest.

Mark and his second Glacier Ale of the night!

Third, my 2008 Pacifica (which I just bought with 61,000 miles on it to replace my 2005 Pacifica with 160,000 miles) has the same flaw that the 2005 version of the van had: It hates altitude to the point where it blows its coolant cap and dumps anti-freeze all over the parking lot. You’d think a vehicle that, when new, commanded a $40,000 price tag (not what I paid, trust me!) could handle altitudes commonly found in the American West. Here’s a tip for you Pacifica owners: Carry an extra cap and a gallon of anti-freeze with you anytime you go above 4,000 feet. You won’t regret it.

Fourth, when your wife suggests that she’s just fine gliding down the greens and blues at a ski hill, leave it at that. I followed this line of logic on this year’s sojourn to mountains and guess what? The arguments were nil!

Fifth, 15 inches of mountain snow is still 15 inches of snow. Add to that, the steepness of the bowls at Bridger Bowl and you have the makings of more muscle pain and agony between your thighs and calves. Again, don’t bother asking the 14 year old whether his thighs are on fire after a day of black diamonds and bumps: He’s oblivious, immortal, as only 14 year old boys can are.

Jack Bridger Munger at Bridger Bowl in the middle of a snow storm.

Sixth, hot tubs were likely invented by skiers. Old skiers. And they work.

Seventh, when you refill the coolant tank in your 2008 Pacifica after the cap has gone kaput, do it when the engine is COLD! That’s what the little fill level line is for. Not following instructions leads to two things: No heat in the car and a very serious rise in the heat gauge until you’re smart enough to shut the car off, let the engine cool down, and then fill the coolant tank to the proper level.

The eighth lesson I learned while skiing happened at Moonlight Basin, the newer, cheaper, less-well-known sister hill to Big Sky. Never, never keep skiing on a black diamond run after you’ve lost a ski, especially if you’re surrounded by trees. The result? You take a nice header avoiding a pine and smack your shin with the trailing ski. Metal edges are made out of metal for a reason.

Lone Tree Lift, Moonlight Basin.

Skiing in the mountains is as close as I’m ever going to get to sky diving. But I’m OK with that, and that’s the ninth thing I learned while out in The Treasure State: Be happy with who and what you are and don’t worry about things you haven’t done or may never get to do. The guy who organizes the annual Ski Hut excursion from Duluth to Bozeman, Montana, Wes Neustel, taught me that. Wes is still downhill skiing, in the mountains, at 92 years old. I don’t think he’s all that into hang gliding or sky diving. That Wes is steady and true on his skis, even into his tenth decade of life, seems like a great life lesson to me.

And finally, I learned that, even if the wallet is a bit thin on cash and things aren’t going exactly how you thought they should, a week with your wife and your son, skiing the Big Skies, is a good break from real life. Thanks, Rene’ and Jack for putting up with a tired, cranky old judge skiing on borrowed skis…

The Blogster at Bridger Bowl.

Peace.

Mark

Recently, twenty Minnesota judges gathered at the pastoral Gainey Conference Center to participate in the Judicial Decision Making Conference. Also known as the “Literature and the Law” conference, the premise of the session is to read short works of fiction, including some classic works of literature and some-lesser known stories and plays, with an eye to self-discovery and reflection on what it means to be a judge and how one goes about the difficult and sometimes gut-wrenching job of judging others. I’d heard about the conference but when an invitation to attend popped up on my work computer one day, I thought, “What the hell. I’m a writer. I’m a judge. I might as well give it a go.” And so I did.

The seminar was held at the Gainey Conference Center, an estate just outside Owatonna now owned and maintained (superbly, I might add) by the University of St. Thomas. As is my usual custom, I loaded the address into Theresa (my Garmon navigational assistant) and, on Thursday morning at 6:00am, I drove from Duluth to Owatonna. Being the optimist I am, I thought Owatonna was just a tad south of Lakeville; just outside the southern ring of Twin City suburbs. I was wrong. It’s further than I thought. In fact, it’s south of Faribault. But I had plenty of time to make the opening session, which was due to start at 9:30am, until Theresa sent me on a wild goose chase. I swear that I inputted the correct address for the Gainey Center. So I’ll ascribe my late arrrival to the tendencies of women, including electronic surrogates, to get lost. It couldn’t have been me, the male in charge,who made the mistake, could it?

Despite my sidetracked route, I arrived just as each judge was making a brief introduction. And then, the sometimes intense, sometimes humorous, always humbling work of self-reflection and assessment began.

The two major works we read and discussed, included Arthur’s Miller’s astonishingly vivid depiction of the Salem Witch Trials, The Crucible, and a lesser known work by American playwright, Wendy Wasserstein, An American Daughter. The point of the readings (which also included four other pieces of varying lengths) was not to critique or assess story, or character or plot, but to delve into the inner thoughts, emotions, and decision making of the protagonists and minor players with an eye towards tying that conduct to what we, as judges do, every day when we decide cases. There we were: white, black, male, female, Christian, Jew, and agnostic, all seated around a circle of tables, trying to understand the reasons and emotions and driving forces behind our judicial decisions. It was, at least to this judge, cathartic to hear other jurists, some new to the job, but many with more experience than me, express the methodology and basis for what it is they do with the most delicate and important of our fellow citizens affairs: How we reason as we impact liberty, family, and property with our rulings.

For my money, The Crucible by Arthur Miller (1952 and 2003. Penquin. ISBN 978-0-14-243733-9) was the work of the conference. Why? First off, Miller’s attempt to link the McCarthyism of his day to the fear and hysteria of the witch hunts in colonial Salem is spot on. There are also (to a lesser degree) parallels between the mass delusion of Salem in the 1600s to Germany in the 1930s, but the greater and more appropriate link, in my view, is to the American experience during the 1950s when men and women were challenged by “Tail Gunner” Joe regarding their loyalties. The intensity of the play, followed by watching the very fine performances in the 1996 film version of the tale, are haunting and thought-provoking. Especially relevant to the attendees, I believe, is the character of Judge Danforth, the jurist who is bent upon “rooting out Satan” in Salem even if it means the mass execution of innocent men and women. Which, of course, it does. In many ways, reading and watching The Crucible  challenges a judge, including this judge, to reflect upon the quality and nature of evidence we hear and see in court and how one’s personal views, political, religious or otherwise, skew perceptions of truth.

Wasserstein’s play, on the other hand, which was included in our readings so as to challenge our judicial noggins regarding religion, gender, and orientation, never really struck a chord with me similar to what I experienced reading The Crucible. An American Daughter (1998. Harcourt Brace. ISBN 0-15-600645-6) is the tale of Dr. Lyssa Dent, a presidential nominee for the post of Surgeon General. Surrounding the privileged and somewhat aloof Dent are her husband, Walter; her father, a United States Senator; and a host of other “interesting” supporting characters. Dent has a secret in her past which threatens to derail her nomination. Patterned after the “Nannygate” scandals of the recent past, the secret is this: When the elitist Lyssa received a summons for jury duty, she tore it up and never served. This seemingly inconsequential act turns out to be the linchpin upon which Dr. Dent’s figurative lynching in the media takes place. The problem with this play is, unlike The Crucible, where there is an abundance of sympathetic victims to pique our interest and outrage at Danfroth’s pompous piety, An American Daughter provides the reader with no such characters with which to empathize. At the conference, I quipped that the play “Reads like a bad episode of Seinfeld.” I think that’s an apt assessment. The problem for me, and I think, for anyone trying to delve into the deeper meanings of  Wasserstein’s prose, is that, the thinness of the morality of all concerned blocks any such detailed consideration of motivation or character. The play just didn’t measure up in terms of being a catalyst for serious discussion about what it is we judges do in our professional lives.

Over two days, I was privileged to discuss, break bread, and share laughs with some of Minnesota’s most talented jurists. Some folks who hold the purse strings for judicial education seem to to believe that thoughtful consideration of decision making has no place in judicial education, that, to use a Joe Soucherayism, it is too Mysterian, too “touchy feely” to merit funding and attention. After two days at the bucolic Gainey Conference Center assessing how it is we judge’s think, I heartily disagree. There’s great value in such self-reflection and contemplation, value that cannot be obtained at mainstream “topic-based” legal or judicial seminars. I’ll make the Judicial Decision Making Conference an annual “must” because the opening of a jurist’s eyes is also the opening of a jurist’s soul.

The Gainey Conference Center

Peace.

Mark

Not Exactly the Same Dumpster...But Close!

Most of you don’t know that, in addition to working as a full-time District Court Judge, writing novels, running a blog, working with Boy Scouts and confirmation-age kids, and being a dad and husband, I also teach. At UWS. This semester, it’s Environmental Law, which is a fairly sophisticated and demanding subject. I’m what is classified, within the University of Wisconsin system, as a “Senior Lecturer”. Now, I don’t know if you have to be AARP qualified to attain the designation as “Senior” when teaching undergrads, but if that’s the sole criteria, well, I meet it!

Anyway, Sunday evenings, I usually get ready for class by reading and outlining the selected text for the week from our course books, putting aside any relevant news articles of a conservation or environmental bent for class discussion, and setting aside any DVDs I’ll be using in class. My liturgical practice is to curl up on the sofa in my writing room, books and pen in hand, the computer tuned to MPR’s classical music station, Brahms, Bach, and Sibelius playing softly in the background, with the door to the great room shut, cozy as a caterpillar in a cocoon, as I prepare. That’s the way I’ve spent many, many Sundays the past three years and I truly enjoy the work. But not this Sunday. This Sunday, panic; mind-numbing, deep-roosted uncontrollable fear took the place of careful consideration and contemplation.

“I can’t find my text books!” I yelled.

Rene’, our 3rd son Chris, and our youngest son, Jack were all within earshot as I stepped from the study into the great room of our house in a funk.

“Did you leave them at work?” Rene’ asked.

“Nope.”

“Sure you’re not just overlooking them, Dad,” Chris offered.

At the suggestion I was less than diligent in my search, my blood began to boil.

“I guess I’d know if I looked or not, now wouldn’t I?”

“Chill, Dad. Chill.”

I shook my head and wrung my hands.

“That’s over two hundred dollars in books. They’re instructor copies. Provided by the publishers. I can’t afford to replace them and I need them for Tuesday’s class. Jack has Scouts tomorrow so tonight is the only night I can prep for class.”

“Are you sure you didn’t…”

I left Rene’ in mid-sentence. A thought, a horrible realization, dawned on me.

Oh shit! I said as I walked back into the writing room and stared at last year’s books. Those were supposed to get tossed with all those writing magazines I cleaned out of here last week. I bet I tossed this year’s books instead. Shit, I am an idiot.

I threw on my jacket, pulled gloves over my hands, and bolted out the door into the garage. Without a word of explanation to my dumbfounded family, I slammed the door, hit the remote garage door opener, climbed into Rene’s car, fired it up, and backed out of the garage.

I hope they’re still there.

I knew that Harold (the youngest member of our town board) was working at the Minno-ette, the neighborhood bait and convenience store. I whipped the Matrix into the lot, leaving it running as I dashed into the store.

“This is gonna sound weird, Harold,” I said through labored breath, “but do you have a key to the mixed paper dumpster at the recycling shed? I think I tossed some text books I need for a class I teach at UWS out along with some old magazines.”

Harold shook his head.

“Nope. Not any more. But Connie can open it for you.”

“Could you call her?”

Harold, being a nice guy and a diligent public servant did just that.

I drove over to the recycling center and waited. Within minutes, Connie (one of the recycling center attendants) and her husband arrived. I retold my tale of woe to Connie. She opened the dumpster. It was jam packed full of cardboard and magazines. I climbed the cold steel skeleton of the box and plunged in.

“You know,” Connie said thoughtfully as her husband shined a flashlight on my work, “I think they emptied this since you were here last.”

I ignored the nice woman’s observation. I didn’t want it to be true: I wanted to spy one copy of Poet’s and Writer’s Magazine  or The Sun amidst all that trash. Then I would know: The books can’t be far away. No one else in Fredenberg, I reasoned with some sense of sinful pride, reads Poet’s and Writer’s.

Connie was right. I was wrong. There were no textbooks anywhere to be found in the cold, silent depths of that steel box.

Dejected, I drove home. I parked the Matrix in the garage, buzzed the door closed, and headed into the house uncertain of how I was going to explain my lack of preparation to my class. Then it hit me:

Environmental Law books sent to the recycling shed… Isn’t recycling part of protecting our environment? This all must be a lesson from God; some bit of knowledge I’m supposed to comprehend and pass along.

When I figure out  the significance behind my dumpster diving, how it relates to the bigger scheme of things, I’ll let you and my students know.

Peace.

Mark