A Local Treasure

Posted on January 24, 2012 by Mark

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Up North by Sam Cook (1986 and 2003. University of Minnesota Press. ISBN0-8166-4267-2)

Everyone needs a toilet book. At least I do. Something to divert one’s attention from the business at hand, so to speak. OK, that’s not strictly true. There are folks whose constitutions require only brief forays into the lavatory: I’m not one of them. Too much information? Sorry. Not relevant to a book review? Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, dear reader.

Recently, when I’d finished the latest copy of Conservation Volunteer (that great little magazine put out by the Minnesota DNR) my literature of choice for the potty, I searched my bookshelf for something suitable for…contemplation. The stories have to be short, to the point, uplifting, and well written for a book to serve such a function. Sam Cook’s Up North is just such a collection. To be fair, it would also be great bedside material or sitting in the deer stand material or toss in your Duluth Pack and take along the trail material as well. In fact, that last application, where this thin volume is pulled out of a canvas satchel after a long day of paddling and portaging in the wilderness, opened before a roaring campfire, and read aloud, might be the most appropriate suggestion of the lot. Like a well-seasoned woman, you know, the kind with girl-next-door looks and keen intelligence who’s comfortable in a canoe, at the symphony ball, or giving birth, Up North seems to fit in wherever you decide to read it.

Not every story in this collection is great literature or reminds one of John Muir or Sig Olson or Aldo Leopold or Jack London (or any of our other great nature/outdoor/conservation writers). But there are some tales squeezed into the 180 pages of this seasonal work (the stories are arranged “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter” as their topics dictate) that reach such heights. My favorite? The story of octogenarian brook trout fisherman Enok Olson. Just give a listen to this description of a day on the water with Enok in “The Trout Fisherman”:

Soon we could hear the stream, and finally, after sliding part way on our rear ends and climbing through some cedars, we were there.

At one of our pauses on the way down, Olson said, “We may not get any fish, but I know you’re gonna marvel when you see the river.” He was right This wasn’t just a stream. It was a canyon. Sheer walls of sedimentary rock rose from the water’s edge, some 40 feet high. Where there were no walls, the valley rose at a pitch like the one we had just slid down.

The water was low, almost as low as Olson ever remembered seeing it. In the shallows it was the color of weak tea, but coffee brown in the pools below the ledges and along those sheer walls.

Olson couldn’t wait to get a worm on his hook and get it in the water. He wasn’t asking for much. “If I get one fish, I’m happy,” he said. “If I get two fish, I’m really happy.”

He pulled his hip boots up, put his walking stick in front of him, and waded into the stream. It’s hard to imagine what it must be like to be stream fishing at 89 when you’re eyes won’t see all you want them to see and your wading legs aren’t as steady as they once were.

“They’d Rather Have Cash” takes readers inside L.L. “Newt” Newton’s fur buying operation in Grand Rapids, Minnesota, perhaps giving us a glimpse of what it was like to trade furs back in the heyday of the voyageurs. Cook’s descriptive and narrative powers are on fine display in that tale, drawing us into a world that most of us will likely never traverse. Some of the shorter pieces, like “Stocking Feet” whet our appetite. Cook teases us with the beginnings of a duck hunting story: We awaken with the protagonist, can smell the morning coffee, feel the crispness of the early morning air as we load our gear, but we don’t follow the story into the duck blind itself. That’s not a bad thing. It points out, as many of these essays do, how important the smells and sounds and tastes that accompany great trips or hunts are to our memory.

Sam Cook has been an icon in the Duluth writing community for decades. It’s a testament to his story telling ability that, when I pick up the latest Sunday edition of The Duluth News Tribune, his work is the first that I read. Here’s hoping he keeps writing great stories of the world outside our doors for years to come.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5. Take this book along with you and read it aloud around the campfire on your next outing!

 

 

 

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Just a Walk

Posted on January 15, 2012 by Mark

White Pine Plantation-The Other Munger Trail

I was off work on a mental health sabbatical. Those of you who follow this blog know why. ‘Nuff said. My dad and I together have a parcel of 135 acres (give or take) out in Fredenberg Township, the place my wife, our four sons, and I have called home for the past 28 years. 28 years! That’s a hell of a long time to be rooted in a place, any place, in these topsy-turvy times. Most folks move from place to place, job to job, community to community, getting their education, chasing employment, following their children or parents. Not us. Rene’ and I were both raised in Duluth and knew, when I finished law school, that Duluth was where we wanted to settle in. I really didn’t have an itch, a desire, to live out, to live in the country, until Dave Michelson (he’s gonna want royalties pretty soon since this is the second blog in a row he’s appeared!) bought some land and an old fire-trap of a trailer on Bowman Lake, an ox bow on the Cloquet River. Once I saw the soaring bald eagles, nesting osprey, the flowing black water, and felt, yes literally felt, the quiet, I was hooked. I bugged Rene’, as law school wound down, to travel back to Duluth to look at rural property. Nothing clicked. So, like many young couples, we settled: We bought a nice little house on St. Marie Street in Duluth and moved our family of three (Matt was just a year old) back home.

Thing is, I could never get the image of the Cloquet River out of my mind. Eventually, I found what I (if not Rene’) was looking for: And old Sears house, complete with a vegetable garden, a barn,  and eight acres along the banks of the Cloquet came up for sale. It took some convincing but, in 1984, expecting our second child (Dylan), we moved to Fredenberg. And we’ve been on the same tract of land ever since. During our nearly three decades in the country, I’ve managed to carve a few good trails through the woods that we use for hiking, hunting, horseback riding (we no longer have horses but our neighbors do), and cross country skiing. The photo above depicts one of those trails as it cuts through an old pasture on our property The white pines you see growing alongside the path? They’re seedlings deposited by century-old giants that survived the Great Cloquet Fire of 1918. They are not planted by man: They’re nurtured by God.

So, on my day of contemplation and rest, what I really wanted to do, since it was winter and all, was click into my Nordic-style cross country skis, let the dogs out (no need to ask “who” in this equation!), and ski our trails. But there’s little snow this year. Oh, there’s a trace: you can see that in the photos. And, desperate for the swoosh of wax on white, I’ve skied once since November. But that was short-lived: The day after I skied, it was over forty degrees and the snow cover we had turned to solid ice. I’ve learned, living out so long, that there’s great relief in being able to compromise. And so, on a fine January day not so long ago, I laced up my hiking boots, buttoned up a warm jacket, slipped gloves over my hands, and took the dogs for a walk.

We have three dogs. Matt, before he left home for good, brought a year-old-lab-husky-something-or-other mix named Daisy home from his work. She’s black most seasons, brown and black at times, and is the smartest damn dog we’ve ever owned. She’s getting close to a dozen years old at this point, a bit long in tooth for a big dog, and her hips are showing her age. But she’s always game for a romp in the trees, especially if rabbits are involved. Not grouse: She has, despite clear Labrador lineage, no interest in birds. Then there’s Jimi Hendrix, a miniature dachshund  (German for “badger dog”) who’s getting on seven years old, give or take. Jimi is about as dumb a dog as God ever created. But he is so damn cute with his double dapple coat and the way he scoots after bunnies. Finally, Chris (our number three son) rescued another Labrador,  a dog Chris named “Kramer” after the Seinfeld character of the same name because the dog is lean and lanky. Kramer came to us on approval from a veterinarian’s office in River Falls, Wisconsin, where Chris was going to school at the time. The deal was, if we liked the dog, he stayed. If not, he was going back to the vet to meet an unfortunate end. Since I’m listing Kramer as one of our three dogs, you know the end of that story!

Jimi and Daisy

The day of our walk, there wasn’t much happening in the forest. Jimi and Daisy lunged ahead over stiff snow in search of rabbits. Kramer, timid and exceedingly gun shy, his rear hips delicate and barely able to bear the weight of his rear end, ambled agreeably behind me, displaying zero interest in anything remotely close to hunting.

Kramer

It happened when we hit Old Man Farley’s Trail (don’t ask: that story would take an entire blog). Without warning, Jimi burst into his “I’m on the trail of a silly rabbit” bay. I’m not sure if all wiener dogs are high tenors or if Jimi’s pitch is due to being neutered: In any event, when he started his call, Daisy, always interested in bunnies, joined the daschund in the chase. I kept walking, knowing exactly what would happen. And it did. The yapping of the little dog grew more intense. Daisy dove deeper into the alders and birches and balsams lining the trail. And then, there it was: a bolt of white zipping across the open space of the trail cutting through  the tight woods. The snowshoe hare was fifty yards ahead of its pursuit and in no danger of apprehenshion.

We kicked up one lone roosting grouse as we descended the only hill on the trail. I wasn’t startled by the burst of energy from the fleeing partridge. And the dogs, true to form, weren’t the least bit interested in the bird. We followed the River Trail (clever name, eh?) to the banks of the Cloquet River, where, though the water was near freezing (too cold for any being possessing common sense to go for a dip) Daisy promptly plunged down the bank and sat in the black water. I stood at the top of the bank, Kramer by my side, watching the sun sink in the west, as the pink tongue of the old black dog lapped and lapped and lapped.

The Cloquet River

And then, we turned north. We followed the riverbank for a bit, still on property that my father owns, taking our sweet time to amble home. The point of this essay is this: Sure, you can spend some dough on expensive therapists after something bad or unexpected happens in your life. Seeking such help is, in fact, a good way of dealing with tragedy, a breach of privacy and safety, or loss. But there’s also this: A lot can be healed by a simple walk in the Minnesota woods with three imperfect dogs by the side of their imperfect master.

Peace.

Mark

 

 

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Bait and Switch

Posted on January 12, 2012 by Mark

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prague by Arthur Phillips (2003. Random House. ISBN 0-375-7577-8)

Too harsh, you say? I don’t think so, kind readers. The book blurb from The New York Times  (the determinator (to coin a new Bushism) of good taste for American fiction readers) reads:

Ingenious…Phillips presents his characters with a wry generosity and haunting poignancy to rival his wonderfully subversive wit…”

Well, after slogging through 367 pages of Phillips’s prose, I am a bit confused: I never found much evidence of “haunting poignancy” in this novel. Oh, there were fits and starts of a story (several stories in fact) in the form of some intriguing character sketches. One actress in this aborted play set in early 1990 Budapest, Nicky the bi-sexual, cropped hair, photographer and painter, is particularly well crafted and comes off as a complete, if flawed, human being. The primary protagonist, John (a journalist working at a tabloid in the Hungarian capital) is less fully developed, though Phillips does spend a great amount of paper and ink creating a tale of ugly sibling rivalry between John and his brother Scott, a conflict that finally disipates into thin air like smog from Budapestian traffic. That’s the pattern that is repeated time and time again throughout this novel: Characters are introduced through great chunks of narrative and dialogue that seemingly ramble on for pages, only to have those actors vaporize without any resolution of their respective roles in the overall plot.

Now it may be that I am too dunderheaded to appreciate challenging, new-era prose for the genius that it is. I am a fairly straight forward sort of a guy who responds best to novels told in classic fashion. So take this criticism with a grain of salt if you relish the odd, the brinksmanship of say, Ulysses. I’m just not that interested in stories that don’t take me to a conclusion where sense is made; where the inner and outer turmoil of fictional characters comes to a point of resolution. That’s my main criticism of this book: The writing is, overall, nicely done (with the exception of the dialogue, which tends to denigrate into speechifying) but the story is so disjointed and unrelentingly inconsequential, I found myself wanting more and getting less. For example, about half-way through the tale, Phillips introduces us to Imre Horvath, an old man and the last of a publishing dynasty that has printed Hungarian literature for over a century. Much of the second section of the book deals with Horvath’s attempts to obtain the rights to the Hungarian portion of his family’s former empire as the Communists leave power and free enterprise returns to Budapest. Charles, another main character (part of the cadre of expatriates integral to the overall story as they move through the city and plot as a group, as a band of merrymakers) ends up working with Horvath in the old man’s efforts to reunite the company. Phillips gives us, through Horvath’s piece of the overarching “pie” that sometimes resembles a plot and sometimes resembles a series of vignettes, a reason to become intrigued. But the effort doesn’t satisfy because, just as soon as we are captured by the old man’s story, we’re off again chasing the cherished Emily (the somewhat infantile and unfeeling object of John’s romantic love); or watching Mark, a gay Canadian of means implode; or sitting in the corner of John’s bedroom voyeuristically watching as he deflowers a Hungarian speed skater.

I’ll admit to it: I was looking for another Per Petterson novel after reading Out Stealing Horses and stumbled upon this book in the “P'” section at our local Barnes and Noble. I’d never heard of Arthur Phillips or the book but given I have a desire to someday go to Prague and act like a typical boorish American tourist, and given that the cover is extremely captivating, I picked up a copy (along with Petterson’s To Siberia which was a far better read. You can find a review of To Siberia and Out Stealing Horses below). To my mind, Prague doesn’t live up to its cover blurbs or its cover.

One final note. The title of this review comes from the fact that the story is set in Budapest, not Prague. The inside joke amongst the characters, if you will, is that they all long to live in Prague, which, during the early 1990s, was seen as the cultural equal to 1920s Paris by American men and women of creative bent. I wanted Prague and got Budapest. That, in and of itself, isn’t all bad and I’ll give Phillips an “A” for clever deception. But I really did want to be find myself immersed in a story set in Prague, with characters and a plot that made me desire to visit there immediately. I felt no such visceral longing for Budapest as a result of reading this book. I won’t say that my time spent in Hungary was completely wasted but I will say the tour guide could have been more succinct and direct in the construction of his truth.

3 and 1/2 stars out of 4.

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Every Morning

Posted on January 2, 2012 by Mark

The Skier, the Buddha, and Papa

It’s now ingrained, a habit. Every morning I get up as soon as my tired bones let me rise from that soft warmth I occupy in bed beside my loving wife and I pad my way in stocking feet down the carpeted hallway of our house towards the kitchen. Once there, I draw cold water from our well (through the faucet kids: we’ve got power and running water out here in the sticks!), grind beans in the coffeemaker, push the “on” button, and wander off to my writing studio. An iMac waits for me in that little room surrounded by tongue and groove cedar and two walls of single-pane windows overlooking the tired hay field that surrounds our house and the lazy black flowage of the Cloquet River. Even the ceiling of my writing space is aromatic cedar, making my creative retreat essentially a cabin in the wilderness.

The computer slumbers overnight: I rarely turn it completely off. Hell, you never know what you might miss if the magic box is disconnected from the Internet! I tap my mouse and the screen lights up. I log onto Firefox, my browser of choice. I don’t like Safari. Maybe that makes me an Apple heretic. I really don’t care-I like Mozilla better. I check my email, my Facebook page, maybe Huffingtonpost.com and the Duluth News Tribune’s website. Ego usually compels me to Google myself. I know: how horrifically shallow of me. What can I say? Folks without egos don’t become trial lawyers or District Court Judges or bloggers or writers, at least, not in my experience. Then, when the electronic alarm on the coffeemaker sounds, I get up from my cushy office chair, walk back into the kitchen, open a cupboard and select just the right cup for my morning jolt of caffeine. Not just any cup, mind you. Writers, as you are likely beginning to fathom, are the personification of pattern. No, my morning coffee is usually (unless the dishes haven’t been done) poured into either my Sloppy Joe’s cup (pictured above along with a wooden skier by my artist friend Jan Flom and the little red Buddha my sister Annie says I need to rub every day) or one of two Barnes and Noble cups I own. The B&N mugs depict likenesses of Hemingway, Tolstoy, Hurston, and other famous writers. I got them long ago when the economy was better and the corporate bookstore gave out premiums to writers who did book signings in their stores. No more. Today a writer doing a B&N signing is lucky to get a paper cup of way-too-strong coffee as he or she sits in the middle of the sprawling bookstore signing books for strangers. These are the only cups from which I drink my pre-dawn writerly coffee: For it is in the morning, my friends, that I write. Every morning I am home and not ill, I write. It’s been my obsession now for over two decades. For me (and for other authors, essayists, and poets I’m sure) this daily routine is something akin to breathing air: If I was unable to do it, I would likely give up the ghost.

How did this all get started? My wife. She did this to me. Some of you know the story. Hell, like most stories remembered and told by old men, the tale’s been told so often that my children and my wife know the punchline as well, if not better, than I do. But if you haven’t heard it, here’s the Cliff Notes version:

In 1990 I was facing a back fusion and three months away from my work at the time as a trial lawyer (think John Grisham without the money and the accent). I’d been a voracious reader and a sometime writer of poetry and the odd essay or prose piece since I was old enough to hold a pen. My wife knew this about me, knew, it turns out, more about my creative DNA than I did. “You’re a type A personality,” she said as I was recovering in St. Luke’s after having my spine cut apart and reassembled, “why don’t you get a start on that Great American novel you’ve always wanted to write?” That was it. That was all it took: One person (albeit the person I most love in the world) urging me to pick up a pencil and follow my heart. And so it began.

In the early going, I wasn’t a solid, every-morning-writer. Our kids were young and there was a lot more going on in our lives so I wrote whenever I had a chance. Morning. During the day. At breaks on the job. Late at night. For a time, I was able to piece words together into sentences and sentences together into paragraphs and paragraphs together into chapters in this haphazard fashion. Novels were born. Short fiction was written. For eight years, I also wrote a “slice of rural life” column for a weekly newspaper. But gradually, as I began to find the rhythm in my craft, mornings became an obvious preference. Some folks who write are night owls: They scrawl long into the evening. Others, confronted by life’s realities, do as I did as a beginner: They write when they can. I found, over the years of following my muse, that mornings are for me. Mornings with my Papa Hemingway cup ( provided to me by my ever-encouraging eldest son and his wife) brimming with hot java feed my obsession and drive me to words.

The funny thing, throughout the now 21 years I’ve been at this crazy lunacy: publishing books on my own because no reputable press will have me; hawking my stories to strangers in places as far flung as Helsinki and Calgary; pecking away at keyboards of successively sophisticated computers; is that I’ve never, not once, been afflicted by the dreaded curse of the writer. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, depending upon your opinion of my work) I’ve never had writer’s block. Never. Oh, I’ve stepped away from my writing to regroup. I’ve fought off minor illnesses, fatigue, and depression. But the words have never slowed to the point where I could not, on a bright sunny morning like January 2nd, 2012 take my proper place at the keyboard and begin anew.

Peace.

Mark

 

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On Eagle’s Wings

Posted on January 1, 2012 by Mark

Wishing all brightness and light in the coming year...

 

OK. So the photo I’m using in this blog isn’t really from today, New Year’s Day 2012. It’s a shot taken of the field around our house from a week or so ago: You know, the last time we saw the sun in this neck of the woods. I’m using the photo today, the first day of our new year, to make a point: I want to be upbeat and rarein’ to go as we enter 2012 and I hope you do as well. Oh, I could recount all the bad stuff that impacted the Munger Family in 2011. But you know what? Like my buddy Dave Michelson (a smart guy, one I usually listen to) says: “We Americans, no matter our politics or our economic station really don’t have much to grouse about when compared with say, Columbia (a country Dave’s done charitable work in).” Dave’s right. That’s why I ‘m using a photo with the sun prominently displayed in this article. I’m hoping that I catch Dave’s optimistic mantra: Let the little things slide and devote your energy to family, friends, and God; the things that really matter.

Right now, as I type these words in my writing studio overlooking the field depicted in the photograph (but facing north, towards the Cloquet River), I’m mindful that my “little” sister Annie has been concerned about me. Mostly since the shooting in Grand Marais. Concerned enough that, as part of my birthday/Christmas present, she enclosed a small statue of the Buddha in the package. The little figurine now stands next to my iMac. Dwarfed by the big white machine, the replica holy man stands no more than two inches tall, fashioned from some synthetic material to mimic natural stone. He’s not much to look at but I am intrigued by the Buddha and his Noble Eightfold Path, a path which the Buddha claimed would bring an end to personal suffering:

Right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gautama_Buddha)

Fairly simple. Sort of reminds me Jesus’ Beatitudes: Though whereas the Buddha’s words turn one inwards, towards the self, the message in Matthew’s Gospel is more worldly, more “other directed” if you will:

3 “Blessed are the poor in spirit,
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
4 Blessed are those who mourn,
   for they will be comforted.
5 Blessed are the meek,
   for they will inherit the earth.
6 Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
   for they will be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful,
   for they will be shown mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart,
   for they will see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers,
   for they will be called children of God.
10 Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

(See http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew+5%3A3-12&version=NIV )

I re-discovered the Beatitudes while working on my historical novel, Sukulaiset: The Kindred. The story is set in Finland, Estonia, and Karelia (Russia) during the Great Depression and World War II. There’s much angst and pain and loving and dying in the book thus far: Pretty grim stuff in spots. So when I needed a bit of light, a bit of spiritual uplifting in the tale, I turned to Matthew and once again fell in love with Christ’s words. Alexis Gustafson (a character reprised from Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh) is the instrument through which I re-introduce myself and my readers to the Beatitudes: As wonderful a passage of scripture as has ever been written. I’m hoping that, as one of my own personal petitions for 2012, I am able to keep my fingers on the keyboard and find out what happens to Alexis and those she loves. We shall see.

Back to the main theme of this piece. My sister, sweetheart that she is, wants me to rub the Buddha’s belly “for good luck” whenever I feel the need. As a Christian, I know that’s akin to idol worship; something that’s been frowned on since Moses blew his stack over the golden calf. Still, what harm can it do? I mean, despite my pal Dave’s admonition that “we Americans have it pretty damn good”, who couldn’t use a little luck or grace or divine guidance? Am I right? So, I’ve been rubbing the little statue a bit and praying a bit more. Not only selfish petitions (like the one about my manuscript); not only pleas for myself; but also requests  for peace on Earth, good health for my family and my friends, and healing for those who are troubled and in need of love.

Does God hear me? Is He or She moved to action by my small, distant voice?

Perhaps: After days of faux winter, fluffy white flakes have begun to fall outside the windows of my sanctuary, covering our field in a blanket of much needed snow. A bald eagle (a year-round neighbor because the Cloquet River stays open all winter in front of our house) just drifted into view beneath the thickening squall, gliding effortlessly on a heavy wind. Watching the graceful bird, I find myself asking another question:

Is the eagle a symbol of good luck as my Native American friends believe?

I tend to think so. It’s a talisman that’s worked for me in the past: I’m hoping that’s the case today and that God is indeed paying attention.

Here’s to hoping that your 2012 is as glory filled as the waning sun in the photograph at the beginning of this essay.

Peace.

Mark

 

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What a Long, Strange Trip It Was

Posted on December 18, 2011 by Mark

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Led Zeppelin: When Giants Walked the Earth by Mick Wall (2008. St. Martin’s. ISBN 978-0-312-59039-0)

I know. The lyric is from the Grateful Dead, not Zep’. But after reading Mick Wall’s comprehensive biography of the quartet, it just seemed to fit. The author (who didn’t come onto the music scene soon enough to personally chronicle the first real power quartet to meld classical, rock, soul, and blues into music that grabbed hold of popular culture; taking work done by other bands like Cream and the Stones and the Beatles to a new and unexpected plain) uses personal interviews, archived materials, news reports, and the like to pull together a very comprehensive and thoroughly enjoyable peek into the lives, demons, and thoughts of the four founding Zeppelin members. It’s, in the end, a well-written book that makes you want to listen to lesser known Zep tracks and simply chill while Jimmy Page’s genius as a guitarist and producer washes over you like the wall of sound that crashed over millions of fans during the band’s zenith.

There is no question after reading Walls’ chronicle of the parade of booze, drugs, groupies, sessions, antics, and concerts that made up the lives of Jimmy Page, John Paul Jones, Robert Plant, and John “Bonzo” Bonham for the better part of a decade, that the lads were lucky that only Bonzo died of an alcohol and drug induced stupor (choking on his own vomit in 1980). Bonzo’s demise spelled the end for Zep, though, as Walls sketches the story, the band had already passed its creative prime and was headed towards a collective crash landing at the time of the drummer’s death. Bonzo’s death (a man revered by many as the greatest rock drummer of all time) simply solidified what was already in process: the end of Zeppelin. The odd three man reunions that took place thereafter (with Bonzo’s son Jason filling in on drums) never rekindled the magic of the band’s six studio albums or the live performances of the mid-1970s and, in many ways, were like the return of an aging athlete to his beloved sport when he’s past his prime. Walls does a very fine job of following the careers (or, in the case of Jimmy Page, non-career) of the surviving band members, making it very clear that Robert Plant, the voice of Zep, was already on the way out when Bonzo died and, with his solo career well launched (including a fist full of Grammys for his work with roots star, Alison Krauss), has never had regrets that Led Zeppelin finally, like the famed Hindenburg, crashed and burned. John Paul Jones, the most inventive and adept musician of the bunch, has found satisfaction in producing the work of others and appearing as a session player on many, many albums since the demise of the band. It is only the sad lament of lead guitarist and band leader, Jimmy Page, who has, since Bonham’s passing, floundered. Walls paints the picture of Page as an old man desperate to recreate what he once had and lost, pleading, begging, for Plant to come back to the fold to recreate the impossible.

Taken by promoter Tats Nagashima to what he boasted was “the most elegant restaurant in Tokyo”, Bonzo grew fed-up with being served sake’ in tiny cups and demanded “a beer mug or some buckets”. Later that night, they paid a visit to Tokyo’s famous Byblos disco where Bonzo showed his disapproval of the music by urinating from a balcony on the DJ. Bundling the drunken drummer into a cab, Cole finally gave up and left him to collapse on the street just feet from the entrance to the Tokyo Hilton where they were staying. The next day, Bonzo and Cole bought Samurai swords, and drunk again that night, began enacting a sword fight at the hotel, slashing and cutting at anything they could: chairs, curtain, mirrors, paintings. For an encore, they snuck into John Paul Jones’ room and carried his still sleeping body out into the hall where he spent the rest of the night…At the end of the night, the Hilton banned Led Zeppelin for life…

This passage reflects the sort of “all hands on deck” writing style Walls employs (to much success) through most of the book. The only criticism I have of the biography is Walls’ use of fictionalized “first person” vignettes interspersed throughout the book: These passages detract from the thorough journalism Walls employs and, are in a word, quite silly. But for this ill-advised device being employed, the book would be a five star read.

In the end, if you want to understand where all that fantastic music came from, this book is a good place to start. Fifty pages into the story, you’ll want to buy the six Zep albums and surround yourself with their collective genius.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

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More on Herbert Krause

Posted on December 4, 2011 by Mark

Dr. Paul G. Theobold the Dean, School of Education, Woods Beal Endowed Chair, and chair, Department of Social and Psychological Foundations of Education, Buffalo State College, had his assistant, Ms. Cynthina Anthony, ask whether I would be willing to allow a link from their site, Rural Lit RALLY (Reinvigorating American Life and Learning through the Literature of Yesteryear) to my essay, “Reading Herbert Krause” (see above under the “Other Writings” tab). The Rural Lit folks are apparently trying to catalog and, through the use of their new website (http://rurallitrally.org/) begin an online dialogue about the importance of rural writing, notably the “forgotten” writers of the dust bowl days and before, including my personal favorite, Minnesota native, Herbert Krause. Dr. Theobald and the Rural Lit RALLY folks sum up their mission this way:

There is a saying:  “You don’t  know what you’ve got til it’s gone.”

Out of print for decades, and long-since discarded from all but research university libraries, wonderful works of rurally based literature are disappearing every day.  Variously called “farm novels,” “regional novels,” or “local color fiction,” these works portray farm life perceptively and in great depth.  To lose them is to lose a piece of our collective history; a piece of who we are, as a people and as a nation.

This Rural Literature Initiative seeks strategies for building demand for rural literature in rural and urban schools such that academic/university presses can put this literature back into print or, short of this, that digitized collections might be created.

As a lover of Krause and the not-as-yet-forgotten Cather and Rolvaag, I welcome Dr. Theobald’s interest in my essay. I hope to participate in the online discussion that takes place regarding Krause’s importance as a regional writer in January on the RALLY site. I’d also urge all my blog readers who enjoy finely wrought prose to give Krause and the other authors featured on the Rural Lit RALLY website a try. Most of the books are out of print but you can find these gems online (at the usual suspects) or in the dusty corners of you local used bookstores. You won’t be sorry for trying these forgotten authors. Old is not to be confused with outdated: the themes in these stories are as relevant and timely today as they were when they were written. Who knows, if you look hard enough, you might even find an autographed copy for a reasonable price! Holding literary history signed by the author is a treasure to be relished and read. And, if after reading Wind Without Rain or some other long forgotten classic, you feel like joining in the online conversation, I’m sure your input would be appreciated by the folks behind RALLY.

Peace.

Mark

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Per Is Peerless

Posted on December 2, 2011 by Mark

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Siberia by Per Petterson (1996. 1998 Translation. Picador. ISBN 978-0-312-42899-0)

On the way home from school I walk right behind Lone and mimic the way she moves. She minces along. I go on doing that as long as it is fun, and Lone never once looks back. She lives in a big house…almost at Frydenstrand. I don’t go as far as that, but in the same direction. We never walk together. Lone is upper class and must not be seen in my company. The feeling is mutual. But as I am about to turn up Asylgate, she does turn around. She stares at me with eyes full of hate, takes hold of her scarf and wrenches it around so the knot is at her nape and hitches it up until it’s really tight, sticks out her tongue, and squints at me. At once I start to run, hit her with my shoulder, and knock her backward into a snow drift. I give her a thorough ducking. She may be the headmaster’s daughter, but no one makes game of me. No one.

In this brief, almost novella-sized poetic novel, Petterson, whose  Out Stealing Horses (see my review in the Review Archives) became an international best seller, paints a picture of pre and post WWII Denmark and Norway that is the literary equivalent to an Edvard Munch painting: Sparse, dark, bitter, yet compelling. To Siberia is really a collection of interlocked vignettes rather than a fully realized novel: The storyline skips and meanders and moseys around, following the young female protagonist and her brother through a series of scenes and encounters. But this lack of continuity and structure is not a deficit. Indeed, the wayward path of story in this book is one of its distinct charms. The Scandinavian lilt and lyric of the author’s prose reminds one of an old Norse saga or of some long forgotten folk song. Sea spray and snow and gray skies and bone chilling cold are omnipresent throughout this story of  two siblings growing up in chaotic times. There are hints of holocaust, war, death, sabotage, sex, forbidden love, and incest sewn within the fabric of Petterson’s poetry, all of which enable the fully realized characters of the tale to grapple with the emotional upheaval of small countries dragged into a world wide conflagration. A simple yet powerful piece of writing.

4 and 1/2 stars out of 5.

 

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An Amazingly Creative 55 Years

Posted on November 25, 2011 by Mark

 

 

Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson (2011. Simon and Schuster, ISBN 978-1-4516-4853-9)

I want to live alone in the desert
I want to be like Georgia O’Keefe
I want to live on the Upper East Side
And never go down in the street
Splendid Isolation
I don’t need no one
Splendid Isolation
Michael Jackson in Disneyland
Don’t have to share it with nobody else
Lock the gates, Goofy, take my hand
And lead me through the World of Self
Splendid Isolation
I don’t need no one
Splendid Isolation

((C) 1998 Warren Zevon)

I’m listening to Warren’s song from his live album, Learning to Flinch as I type this review on my iMac wireless keyboard in my writing studio overlooking a river that, though he wasn’t an outdoorsman, Steve Jobs would appreciate. There’s a high gray and aqua sky above the stark, empty early winter landscape. The sun is hidden somewhere between twelve o’clock and nine: it’s completely concealed by clouds. Somehow, the austerity of the day, the melancholy of the “in betweeness” of this time of year is a suitable, nay perfect, backdrop to talk about the life and legend that was Steve Jobs.

Enigmatic. Irritable. Demanding. Narcissistic. Habitually deficient in honesty if deception served a “greater” purpose. Emotionally absent as a father and partner.

These are a few of the negative character traits that ring true from Isaacson’s multiple interviews with Jobs (over 100) and the men and women who knew him as boss, father, husband, lover, friend, and business competitor.

But, as with every great man (and make no mistake about it, in terms of late 20th century and early 21st century product design and intellectual capacity, Steve Jobs possessed the greatness of a Henry Ford or a Thomas Edison), there is also the positive. For if a man like Jobs did not have his positive side, well then, what the world would be left with is another sociopathic tyrant, another Hitler, another Stalin.

Loyal. Honest in most things (perhaps too brutally so). Generous. Self-reflective. As demanding of himself as he was of others. Spiritual. Artistic. Gifted. Genius. A leader.

Those are the positive aspects of Jobs’s complex personality that shine through in this impressive book.

I am new to the Apple fold. Since 1984, when Rene’ and I bought our first Tandy 8088 machine from a Radio Shack store in the Burnsville Mall, through a series of other DOS or Microsoft based machines ( a Sony, an HP, a Micron, a TI, a Gateway, and several others), I had adhered to the notion that Apples were for graphic designers, architects, and no one else. There was, as I considered each new computer purchase along the way (necessitated by the built-in obsolescence of the DOS-Windows machines or by their inability to last for more than a year or two without a major melt down) always the sense that those folks who owned a Mac were snooty: That because they bought an Apple they were condescending and chauvinistic about their choice in technology. But when my eldest son (and webmaster) Matt finally had enough of my phone calls, enough of my emails asking “How do you add this widget to Windows again?” and pushed hard last year for me to make the switch, I went with him to Best Buy to pick out a new iMac. Now I know what I’ve been missing for  27 years. Finally, as Steve Jobs intended, I have a machine that is built for humans to interact with and understand: I am no longer the pawn of a series of programmers and engineers. I am no longer the mere operator of a machine: I am its master.

The biography is, for someone like me (who didn’t really appreciate the Steve Jobs story as it was being played out in Silicon Valley) an eye opener. Walter Isaacson was tabbed personally by Jobs to write this book and, given that the story’s subject matter selected the author, this biography could have been a whitewash, a fluff piece extolling Jobs’s brilliance as an engineer. But Jobs wasn’t a genius in the sense of Bill Gates or Jobs’s own original partner, Steve Wozniak. Steve Jobs’s genius is best described (according to Isaacson) as an affinity for standing at a particular intersection to direct traffic:

“I always thought of myself as a humanities person as a kid, but I liked electronics…Then I read something that one of my heroes, Edwin Land of Polaroid, said about the importance of people who could stand at the intersection of humanities and science, and I decided that’s what I wanted to do.” It was if he was suggesting themes for his biography…The creativity that can occur in one strong personality was the topic that interested me in my biographies of Franklin and Einstein, and I believe that it will be key to creating innovative economies in the twenty-first century.

There is no clearer example of Jobs standing at the above-stated intersection than his involvement with the iPod and his ability to convince recording studios and musical artists (including U2, Bob Dylan, and the Beatles) of the need to make their music available to the common man and woman through Apple’s iTunes Store at a time when Napster and other on-line sites were decimating the bottom line for artists and studios.

After a lot of negotiating with the record companies, he said, “they were willing to do something with us to change the world.” The iTunes Store would start with 200,000 tracks and would grow each day. By using the store, he said, you can own your own songs, burn them on CDs, be assured of the download quality, get a preview of a song before you download it, and use it with your iMovies and iDVD to “make the soundtrack of your life.” The price? Just 99 cents, he said, less than a third of what a Starbucks latte cost. Why was it worth it? Because to get the right song from Kazaa (an on-line service) took about fifteen minutes rather than a minute. By spending an hour of your time to save about four dollars, he calculated, “you’re working for under the minimum wage!” And one more thing: “With iTunes, it’s not stealing anymore. It’s good karma…” Eddy Cue, who was in charge of the store, predicted that Apple would sell six million songs in six months. Instead, the iTunes Store sold a million songs in six days…

Jobs’s insistence on the vertical integration of Apple products, from iMac, to iPod, to iPhone, to iPad has been challenged by tech savvy geeks as being overly paternalistic and limiting. But for the vast majority of computer and device users who have no interest in hacking or innovation on a household level, Jobs clearly got it right: Build beautiful, easy-to-use, durable machines that don’t witness their usefulness expire once they’re pulled from the box. Isaacson explains this philosophy, the history behind it and the man who preached it to his disciples in a concise and compelling fashion that anyone interested in computers, business organization, or creative genius will gobble up like free space on a hard drive.

5 stars out of 5. Highly recommended as a holiday gift!

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One Thanksgiving

Posted on November 24, 2011 by Mark

Thanksgiving on the Cloquet River

 

This week was one of mild disappointment. There, I said it. I released the anxiety and the minor upset and the bitter taste that sits in your mouth after you’ve tried for something and, through no fault of your own, you’ve failed. The details are wholly irrelevant and unimportant. What is important is that, despite my OCD nature, I am ready to put that failure, that upset, behind me and move on. Part of why this is so is because of last night.

You see, every year, many (not all) of the churches in Hermantown, MN; the little city that has been the center of our family’s life for the past 27 years (mostly because that’s where our sons have all gone to school) gather together for an ecumenical Thanksgiving worship service. It’s one of the only times when the Roman Catholics, Episcopalians, ELCA Lutherans, Presbyterians, and even (on at least one occasion) the Latter-day Saints worship together. I won’t pretend I’ve attended every one of these ecumenical celebrations. But whenever I have gone, I have carried away with me a sense of hope and promise that, despite the petty grievances and debates over ritual between denominations, is sustaining and real. Last night was no different. Thank God. It’s been a tough year and I needed the boost.

I am now at that age when my parents’ close friends, folks that were like extended uncles and aunts to me through nearly six decades of life (writing that phrase is daunting!) are passing away, one after another, leaving my parents behind. Now, don’t get me wrong: It is a real blessing to have Mom and Dad around. They’re both in their eighties, living independently and in good health. That, alone, is more than enough to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day. But the recent deaths of some of their closest friends, folks who had a huge influence on who I am as a person, have taken some of the wind out of my sails, so to speak. Then there was, as I’ve written in detail, the loss of Mercedes, my mother-in-law, a woman who raised six children on a railroadman’s salary and did her very best to see that they all became good Christians and good citizens. That was a tough one because, even though she was 86, her passing was very unexpected. But the blessing in it is that, for over 35 years, I got to love her as my second mom and she (hopefully) got to love me.

My daughter-in-law Lisa has had it rough this year, rougher than me by a long shot. She lost her father, a guy not much older than me, to a sudden heart attack, and also her maternal grandfather, all in the span of four or five months. Though I didn’t know either man well, their passings touched me because of the pain I could see, and still can see, in Lisa’s eyes when we talk about the men who made a difference, who held her up, in her young life.

All of this loss, this passing (even though, outside of my mother-in-law’s death, I haven’t been touched by gut-wrenching, knock-you-on-your-ass sadness) is sort of like being bit by mosquitoes: The bites don’t have the sting of a hornet’s barb but they begin to bother you over time. Still, even with all that’s happened over the past year, I am a thankful man, though it took last night to reinforce that notion.

Cheryl and I have known each other since we were four years old. We’ve been church friends, work friends, and friends at large for most of our lives. She has had her ups and her downs over the years but, in the end, she’s turned out to be a hell of human being. She’s a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a civil servant, an Episcopal Priest, and an artisan. She was one of the guiding lights in the little Episcopal church that Rene’ and I and the boys attended for many years. Her preaching is powerful yet compassionate. Her singing voice is steady and true. Her ministering is fair and even-handed. So, when she and I talked in my judicial chambers about my decision to leave the Episcopal Church and attend an ELCA Lutheran church closer to home, there were tears and hugs and quite a bit of sadness. I was, and am, despite the transition that needed to be made for our family, so grateful, so thankful to have sung by her side and listened to her wisdom for all these years.

So last night. I wandered over to our new church, Grace Lutheran, for the ecumenical Thanksgiving service because, well, because I had to. The minor disappointment of the week, sitting as it was, on top of the larger losses of the past year, compelled me to seek solace in faith. I know, from year’s of casting petitions to the great beyond, that not every wish or desire or whim I send up to God in a prayer comes to fruition. But I also know that sitting in community with others, listening to sacred music, hearing the words of the Savior, never hurts. And so I went. I am so glad that I did.

It wasn’t a huge crowd, maybe eighty or so Christians from all faith traditions worshiping together. But the vibe was so calming and grace-filled, the size of the congregation really didn’t matter. The sermon was rock-solid, like Peter roaring at the crowd on his best day. Each pastor or priest played a part, no matter how large or how small, in the service, giving the ceremony legitimacy in ways that an ordinary service, conducted by a singular man or woman of God, cannot. But the best was yet to come.

Cheryl and the musical director of Grace stood shoulder to shoulder by the keyboard and sang a duet, so spiritual and soothing, so thanksgiving laden, that tears came to my eyes. The music moved me to understanding, to releasing my burdens and bowing my head in a gentle, calm, and sincere prayer:

“Thank you, God, for I am truly blessed.”

The faces of all those who have departed (and those still with us), the dozens if not hundreds of friends, family, teachers, religious leaders, co-workers, Boy Scout leaders, coaches, and all the others who have carried me this far in my life came into focus during my silent contemplation. And with that prayer came the reinforcement of spirit that I so desperately needed and this realization:

I know I am a blessed man; the father of four beautiful sons, the husband of a wonderful wife, and the son of two caring and loving parents.

Nothing life throws at me can change that truth.

Peace.

Mark

 

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