Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

“Judge,” the caller on the telephone said, “Mark Rubin here.”

When the St. Louis County Attorney (the head man and not some lackey) calls you on a Sunday afternoon, the news generally isn’t good. It wasn’t.

“Ya?”

“I’ve got some bad news.”

Go figure. What, a mass homicide that needs search warrants? A child abduction? There’s no end to the bad news one can receive from the county’s chief prosecutor.

“Colin Isaacson passed away.”

The message was a shock. Colin, a social worker for St. Louis County up on the Iron Range, was a mutual friend. Closer to the other Mark than me but still, I considered him to be a friend. Worse yet, he was our contemporary: He was only 58 years old.

Too damn young to go.

I first met Colin through author Pat McGauley, a former school teacher in Hibbing. When I began my writerly career, Pat was one of the first local authors I hung out with. Through Pat, I was invited to the Greater Mesabi Men’s Book Club, not once, but twice, to read from and discuss The Legacy  and Pigs: A Trial Lawyer’s Story. Colin was a member of the group and an avid reader. The group is infamous on the Range: They’ve been together something like thirty years and read over three hundred books. The unique thing? They only read fiction, books that few men crack open. I met Colin at Pat’s house in Hibbing where we sipped good beer and talked writing. I found out he was a musician. After that, I kept bumping into Colin as a guitarist and singer: at Land of the Loon in Virginia; at the Range Mental Health Christmas Dinner at Valentini’s; at a retirement fete for our mutual friend (and gifted guitarist) Jeff Rantala; at Jeff’s memorial service in Duluth where Colin and Mark Rubin and John Ely (famed steel guitarist and Grammy Award winning member of Asleep at the Wheel) performed; at a John Prine concert in Duluth where some yahoo in a cowboy hat disrupted the show by standing up and insulting Prine.

My second stint with the book club was at one of the member’s cabins on Crane Lake. Colin and I car pooled from his house  on the Range to the lake in my SUV. The weekend spent amongst strangers (I didn’t know a soul except Pat and Colin) was one I’ll always cherish: We ate big steaks, played poker, talked politics, took a boat ride and, yes, listened to Colin, who despite a long battle with MS, was still singing and playing the songs he loved: Steve Earle, John Prine, Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt, Guy Clark, and my personal favorite, Stevie Goodman. Colin could really finger pick the acoustic and he had a soft and gentle voice that fit the songs (music filled with meaning and empathy and angst) that he loved. Anytime Colin sang, the listener was treated to that cherubic face, the long ringlets of hair and an overwhelming sense of kindness emanating from a thoroughly decent human being. When he found out we shared a love of all things Goodman (Steve, not John) Colin sent me a copy of video he’d accumulated over the years showing Stevie’s live performances on Austin City Limits and in other venues. Not many folks would do that for someone they only saw once or twice a year.

And then there were the jokes: Bad jokes and bad puns were always Colin’s opening gambit in any conversation. His humor was kindergarten level stuff: silly and immature. Delivered with Colin’s leprechan-like persona, you just couldn’t help but laugh as you groaned.

I called him up a few years back when I wanted to do a book launch of Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh on the Iron Range. Despite our meager connection, Colin put together a group of musicians and showed up at the little Episcopal church in Virginia to play some music behind my reading. There were more musicians on stage than folks in attendance that night but that didn’t daunt Colin. He and his mates played until the last book was signed and then, he refused to take anything in payment. That was Colin.

Beyond sharing a love of music and the acoustic guitar with Stevie, Colin shared another trait with the Chicago troubadour: Both men went about life with joy and passion despite battling insidious diseases. Goodman died in 1987 from the leukemia that had plagued him for nearly two decades. Colin fought the symptoms of MS, a disease that does not render playing a guitar easy, for about as long. I’m sure that God is smiling this morning as Stevie and Colin work through chords to some new song that came to them when they finally sat down together to play.

Would you like to learn to dance?
Well I can show you that
Gotta book here, all you need to know
We can draw the Arthur Murray patterns right here on the floor.
All ya have to do is follow.
And then we’ll dance around the room a while
You can lead now if you want to, I don’t mind.
Nothin’ I wouldn’t do to see your smile
Go dancin’ ‘cross your face in perfect time
Go dancin’ ‘cross your face in perfect time.

(C) Steve Goodman

Rest in peace my friend.

Mark

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Colin’s the guy on seated on the stool with the glasses.

Watch Stevie play the song and think of Colin playing with his pal at the pearly gates: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Ltdp1-vJoI.

Judy Collins

Saturday. I’m supposed to be at my booth in Two Harbors at Heritage Days by 9:00am. I rise from bed, wander down to the kitchen, make a pot of coffee, and power up the family iMac. My eyes are drawn to rain cascading across our newly mown hayfield.

Not very good timing. It’ll take at least three days of sun to dry that stuff out so it can be raked and baled.

I log on to the computer and write a blog about how it is I can be surrounded by hundreds of people and sell only two books.

An entire day. Two books. I didn’t even make my gas money back, much less pay for the entrance fee for my booth. Rain ain’t gonna make this picture any better.

I’ve been doing outdoor art festivals since 2002 when I had my first booth at Wisconsin’s quintessential gathering: the Bayfield Apple Festival. That’s a full ten seasons of enduring heat, wind, rain, vile porta-potties, and festival food. I’ve tried to make a go of it in my white E-Z Up tent in venues as far south as Adel, Iowa  and as far north as Thunder Bay, Ontario; as far west as Grand Forks, North Dakota and as far east as Bayfield. I’ve watched storm clouds gather and let loose lightening bolts and deluges in East Grand Forks, Bayfield, Ely,  Stillwater and many other locales. I’ve felt July and August’s heat through the vinyl roof of my tent with enough intensity to fry an egg. Add to these weekends lost to my family all the trips I’ve made to bookstores and libraries as far east as Youngstown, Ohio  and as far west as Calgary, Alberta; as far north as Saskatoon, Saskatchewan and as far south as Council Bluffs, Iowa and you’ll come to understand that this self-publishing journey I’ve been on has taken stamina, grit, cold hard cash, and an enormous amount of time. Don’t get me wrong: This gig hasn’t all been negative. I’ve been to some wonderful cities and small towns and met thousands of folks who love books. But the clouds I am watching today are disheartening: There’s simply not enough gumption left in my tank to overcome a feeling of dread no matter how pleasant the memories.

I shower, shave, eat a toasted bagel, grab a cup of hot coffee for the road, and drive off without ever saying goodbye to my slumbering bride. Rain drifts down as the wheels of my Pacifica roll over pockmarked asphalt. I take the back roads to Two Harbors. Theresa, my ever-present GPS, tries to steer me south, towards Duluth, where I could take the expressway. That’s boring. Like my trek through self-publishing (where I’ve repeatedly done things the hardest possible way) I am not about going to take the easiest road to the festival. I turn on the car radio and tune in “Mountain Stage”.

Judy Blue Eyes.

Judy Collins (about whom the classic CSNY song, “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” was penned by Stephen Stills) is singing. Her voice remains strong and captivating after a long and storied career.

Would that my books do as well when I’ve been at it as long as she has.

Then I learn something from the show’s host that makes me smile: Judy’s newest album, Paradise, is on her own label. That’s right: Judy is self-published, just like me. (You can learn more about her latest album at http://judycollins.com/index1.php.)

When I arrive at my booth, the rain is torrential. The only folks around are vendors hiding in their booths and local musicians trying to set up on the covered stage. The nice couple who was selling clothing next to me have pulled up stakes. The vendors on the other side of me selling jewelry have taken down everything except the white metal skeleton of their E-Z Up. Rain drips on me as I open up the blue tarp that’s the “door” to my vending space. In a matter of minutes, I’m ready for business. The ugly brown tarp that I insist upon covering my E-Z Up with is doing its job: No rain leaks in. I settle into my camp chair, Tolstoy’s short stories in hand, and wait. And wait. And wait.

The music starts up. The rain lessens.

At least they’re playing some good tunes.

The band on the stage is fronted by a guy about my age backed by his son on drums and some other young dudes, members of a local metal band. They’re not playing metal and, at one point, the lead singer, the old guy, starts telling a story:

“And Woody had all these song lyrics in a trunk, thousands of ’em, with no tunes. And his daughter approached the band Wilco about putting the words to music. This is one of those songs.”

I know what they’re about to play.

California Stars.

The guy’s no Jeff Tweedy but he does an admirable job of it. The band’s rendition brings tears to my eyes as I consider Woody Guthrie and the Huntington’s Disease that laid him low. The old guy switches gears to a country tune and is joined by his wife on mandolin and vocals. Her harmony adds a nice touch to the song. Then the real show begins. All the old folks leave the stage. Two kids (barely twenty, I’ll wager) playing guitar and drums launch into a series of heavy metal tunes that rip the gray sky. The guitarist is amazing: as good as I’ve seen since watching Nels Cline of Wilco at the DECC.

The rain stops.

Maybe music really can sooth the savage breast.

I wander off in search of food. I find deep fried Lake Superior whitefish and cold slaw. I take my food back to my booth and settle into Tolstoy’s 19th century Russia between bites of sweet fish and tartar sauce.

Awesome.

Throughout the day, I check with Rene’ as to how Jack’s soccer games are progressing. The Hawks tie one and win one. Whether Jack’s team advances to the next level is uncertain. I’m not there to cheer him on and I lament this as I finish eating.  Patrons gather to watch  a street theater troupe that has set up right in front of my booth. This act is followed by a series of events on the main stage: a kids pie eating contest; an adult pie eating contest; a silly race to don clothing from a suitcase. When the excitement is over, I return to Tolstoy.

Towards the end of the day, bagpipers and drummers in kilts form a circle in front of the stage and perform.I recognize the first tune though I don’t know its name.

That’s from “Braveheart”.

The pipes and drums are a perfect coda to the day.

It’s just like being in Scotland.

I call Rene’ to join me. I’ve made the executive decision that I’m not coming back for Sunday, the final day of the festival. I’ve sold less than a handful of books and none of Rene’s concrete benches. By the time my wife arrives, the tent is down and my gear is ready to be loaded.

This is likely the last summer of festivals for Cloquet River Press.

I come to this conclusion because God has played the ultimate practical joke on me:

The rain clouds part and the sun appears as I fire up the Pacifica and leave Two Harbors.

Peace.

Mark

Man, this can’t continue.

Friday morning was bright and warm and humid. I had been in Hibbing watching Jack’s soccer game Thursday night (he played well and the team won) so I didn’t have the energy to pack the Pacifica for Heritage Days in Two Harbors. I dragged my sorry ass out of bed on Friday morning to the song of bluebirds and red wing black birds in concert and, in my pajama bottoms and sandals, proceeded to load the van with my wife’s hefty art work: concrete benches with glass mosaic tops. It’s not bad enough she couldn’t pick something smaller and lighter as a pastime: She’s now making the benches heavier and bigger! Her passion has now become my duty and requires me to hitch up our utility trailer in order to carry my E-Z Up tent and assorted accessories: All my stuff no longer fits in the cargo space of the van.

I’ve learned over the years that, when setting up my booth at summer festivals on warm mornings, I need to bring a change of clothes. I packed an extra pair of underwear, shorts, t-shirt, a towel, and my ditty kit so I can wash up and change clothing after Cloquet River Press is ready for business. I drove the forty-five minutes to Two Harbors over back roads, the trailer bouncing and pitching and yawing, Deer stood grazing in the ditches but didn’t dart in front of my car. The sun was steady: There were no clouds in the sky. I followed Theresa, my GPS unit, her sexy mechanical voice something akin to a Stepford wife, to the McDonald’s located just at the entrance to the little railroad and harbor town.

“I’ll take a small orange juice and a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel,” I told the nameless, faceless girl manning the drive-through intercom.

It took a full hour and a half to set up my booth. Sweat poured off me as I wheeled heavy concrete into the tent, lifted bench tops onto the thickly poured legs, and straightened the benches so they’re ready for viewing.

This used to take a half an hour. I’m getting older and slower and Rene’s benches are getting heavier.

The festival was slated to start at 11:00. I was set up and ready by 10, a good sign. I was expecting brisk sales and some nice interaction with my readers.

It didn’t happen.

I should have realized what the state shutdown means to little festivals like this. No state parks are open along the North Shore, so why would tourists come up here? They can’t camp. The park concessions and information buildings are closed. There are no attendants or docents to assist visitors. God, I am stupid.

Of course, since this was my first time at Heritage Days, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know, for example, that last year, the whole thing came apart in a thunderstorm on Saturday of the three-day event. My neighbors at this year’s festival told me that virtually every booth either packed up and left or was torn to shreds by the weather. I also didn’t know, until I listened to it all day long, that this festival has the absolute worst musical talent of any venue since the “Gong Show”. If you’re too young to remember Chuck Barris’s show, it featured amateur talent that, if the audience and Barris were so inclined, was “gonged” and forcibly removed from the stage. Live television at its best. Well, as much as I like to be a nice guy, the talent on the stage yesterday wouldn’t have made it to the buzzer. Not a one of the acts belonged performing in public. As a self-published novelist floundering around in the art world, I understand dreams. I get passion. But here’s the thing: I don’t force anyone to read my words. My customers choose to read my books: I don’t read at them. Forcing vendors and patrons to listen to ungodly noise for the better part of the day (the recorded filler music was alright but that’s about it) is just, well, inartfull, if you’ll pardon the pun.

I wandered off to find my two free slices of Do North Pizza (the only saving grace to the day: the sponsors of the festival gave every vendor a coupon). The pizza and the mini-donuts that I scarfed down later were the only highlights to a day of inactivity: There were few patrons. I saw no folks carrying packages.

The economy is in the tank.

I’d heard the unemployment numbers on NPR during the drive to Two Harbors.

But people still need to read.

Maybe not. Maybe they need to pay the mortgage and feed their kids before they waltz up the North Shore to a little art festival set up on the waterfront next to the maroon and rust colored DM&IR ore docks and waste their precious treasure on books by a guy they’ve never heard of.

You still have your job. Quit complaining. This only cost you a vacation day, the registration fee, and some gas money. There are folks losing their homes.

By the time the Norwegians and the Swedes square off in front of the stage just outside my booth for a lutefisk tossing contest, I’d had it. I’d talked to a few folks, sold a couple of books, had little interest in my wife’s artwork, and pretty much wasted the day. I listened to MPR on the way home. The news didn’t get any better.

“Tomorrow’s forecast calls for thunderstorms with a 70% chance of precipitation throughout the day.”

I plunged into the Cloquet River when I got home. My swim was a godsend after a hot, frustrating day spent reading Tolstoy’s short stories in my camp chair. After getting dressed for bed (it was only seven but I was all done in), I watched the Twins until erstwhile closer Matt Capps came in: I didn’t need to worry-he was perfect-and I was in bed before ten, an old man exhausted by trying to live a young man’s folly.

Today, I’m up at the crack of dawn and writing.

This doesn’t look promising, I say as I sit at my computer looking to the west.

The sky is pouring rain. Gray covers the landscape. Our newly mown hayfield is covered in wet hay that will require a few days to dry out before it can be raked and baled.

A day in the E-Z Up selling no books and trying to stay dry. Wow, you’ve really made it, Munger.

Oh, I’ll be there. I’ll take my shower, don my clothes, and head over to Two Harbors. I’ll open my tent and watch darkness at the edge of town ensnare the day and my dreams. Maybe one of you will bring me a hot cup of coffee and a smile.

Peace.

Mark

Fireworks over Island Lake (photo by Rene’ Munger)

I sipped coffee on the back deck of the home I share with my wife, Rene’.  We watched songbirds flit in and out of our feeders. Osprey spat with each other over the Cloquet River. There was work to be done: I had the second half of our covered front porch to stain. I’d finished the deck portion of the project after church. There was much more to do. But the sunlight, after a month of insistent rain, felt good. My wife and I had gossip to catch up on. There was the Sunday paper to finish as well. All of these things bade me to stay, to keep my keester planted in my chair and to enjoy the early morning sun.

So I did.

Eventually, I made it to the front porch. I moved our small television/VCR from the guest bedroom onto the porch and popped in “The Patriot” starring Mel Gibson. Now, I know Mel’s had his problems: with racism and sexism and antisemitism. But can you find a better movie for the 4th than “The Patriot”? I doubt it very much. To say I watched the video is misleading. I listened to the story. See, whenever I paint, that’s what I do: listen to old movies. As a writer, that’s something akin to doing homework. Study the characters. The pacing. The plot. Learn. Always learn.

Despite the newness of the day, the sun was hot and the air was still. My hands and fingers cramped as I worked the stain into the spars and the railing of the porch, the most tedious part of the job. The deck (which I’d finished on Sunday) was the most physically taxing because, despite my wife’s admonition to use a roller and a long handle, I stained the decking with a brush.

“It covers better if you use a brush,” was my refrain.

“Don’t complain to me then, when your back is sore and your knees ache.”

On the 4th as I stained the railing, my back bore the residue of my impertinence but I did not vocalize my pain.

“I’m done. You ready to go?” I asked my bride after completing the job and taking a quick shower.

Rene’ had been productive herself. She was busy all morning pouring concrete bench legs and tops for her glass mosaic garden benches she creates (see below for a sample. You can email her at rkmunger@gmail.com if you like what you see).

“Ya. Load up the car.”

Jack wandered up from the basement. Chris was tinkering with something or other in his room.

“Chris, we’re leaving.”

“I’ll be up at Greg’s in a while,” he replied.

We’ve been spending 4th of July at my brother-in-law and sister-in-law Greg and Sue Privette’s cabin on Island Lake for nearly twenty years. It’s one of the few times during the year that my wife’s family gathers. Over the years, of course, there have been sunny days and stormy days and hot days and cool days. That’s summer in NE Minnesota: You never can tell just what sort of weather you’ll be blessed with on the 4th of July.

Well, yesterday was wondrous. A slight breeze kept the bugs at bay. The sun stood high and warm. Nieces and nephews and sons and daughters and the occasional old fart (that would be me) donned swimming trunks and dove into the cool waters of the Cloquet River (Island Lake is a reservoir on the river) to feel the joy of summer at the lake. Kids tossed fishing lures from a paddle boat. I tipped my son Jack and my nephew Alex and my niece Clare out of the floaties they were jealously guarding. No one dared disturb Rene’ in her inflatable as she floated serenely on flat black water. We all knew better than to dunk the queen of the floaties.

And then we ate.

Brats and burgers and steaks sizzled on two gas grills as Greg and Allen flipped meat and cooked to perfection at the top of the hill next to the cabin. Wet from the lake, I popped the top off  a cold Leinnies and chatted with Chris and Dylan and Dylan’s girlfriend, Shelly. We talked about Grandma Merc’s recent passing and Grandpa Don, who couldn’t attend the picnic because of his own health problems. We told old stories (and some new ones), discussed politics, and solved the world’s problems in short order. No voices were raised. No wounds were opened. The kids ran to and fro, my little grandnephew Ryan (encouraged by Dylan) doused the adults with squirt guns that he insisted on reloading at the water’s edge. Rose breasted grosbeaks and purple finches and goldfinches darted in and out of thick forest and gorged at feeders. Elwood (Colleen and Allen’s sweet but somewhat dimwitted Springer Spaniel) sat waiting for chipmunks to err. At the appearance of the striped little rodents, Elwood would launch himself at his prey. He was too slow. He’s always been too slow. But failure doesn’t deter Elwood: His memory is self-erasing.

Dusk fell. Greg’s wife Sue passed around raspberry dessert: overkill atop a five thousand calorie day. Addison, the newest addition to the Privette family, sat on her young mother’s lap, bundled against the bugs and played slap hands with her grandmother. All around the lake, fireworks began to appear. Spidery webs of cascading light fell slowly above still water. A pair of loons objected nosily to the display. Stars appeared above the pyrotechnics.

When we arrived home, we were greeted by a hayfield filled with dancing fireflies. Thousands of tiny lights winked on and off in the high grass. Lightening slashed in the west. Thunder boomed. Against the advancing thunderstorm, the report of rockets being launched over the surrounding lakes continued. A pair of loons flying high above the river uttered their final protests.

It was a fine 4th of July.

Peace

Mark

One of Rene’s benches. Built from the ground up.

rkmunger@gmail.com

We have a big ass lawn. I know, I know. You’ve talked to my wife, right? She’s told you that I could make our lawn smaller by simply choosing not to make it so big. After all, our lawn is essentially a hayfield that preexisted building our house. So if I want a smaller lawn, I can simply choose to cut less grass. Easy fix, right? Not really. You see, the back lawn has two soccer nets that I put up when Chris and Dylan were still playing soccer. Though our two middle sons are rarely around to kick a ball, Jack uses the nets almost daily. Shrink the back lawn? Maybe in 2016 when Jack’s done with soccer (that’s the year he graduates from high school).

The front lawn? Well, there again, I mow a big patch of former hayfield along the driveway because Rene’ likes it that way: Her idea, not mine. And then there’s the big expanse to the east of the house where we store our firewood, a utility trailer, and my boat. That patch, which started as a buffer alongside the pasture, was also her idea. So for someone (Rene’) to tell another someone else (me) that the lawn is the size it is because it’s my choice, well, that’s only partially true.

The point of this is that, for me to go golfing on Saturday with Matt and Jack, I was up at oh-dark-thirty to mow all that grass. Under ideal conditions (once June’s rains have petered out) it’s a four hour job. Jack does the push mowing around Rene’s water gardens. I do the rest. I know, I know. You think he’s old enough to do some of the sit-down mowing, right? So do his brothers. So does his mom. He’ll get there. This summer. I promise. In the meantime, during June, I spend an average of six hours mowing, raking, and trimming. Saturday was no exception. I started at 7:00am. I was still at it when Matt and Lisa (our daughter-in-law) came at 10:00. I was still at it when Rene’ and Lisa left for the Park Point Art Fair at 10:30. I finally finished up around noon,. I was hot, tired, and sweaty. A cool dip in the Cloquet River, a ritual that Rene’ calls “predictable” awaited.

“Holy crap, this is cold,” Matt said as he stood in waist deep black water.

After a week of solid rain, the river is finally back to normal depth. The water flowing by our house comes off the bottom of Island Lake: a lake that is 90 feet deep at its deepest. The Island Lake dam is only a mile upstream from my house. There’s not enough time for the water from the lake to warm before it gets to our place. It’s cold: brook trout cold.

“Whimp. Duck under and rinse off all the slimy sweat,” I replied.

Matt, who just came back from a six mile run, complied.

“Holy shit.”

“Whimp.”

We ate lunch and then drove over to Proctor for a day of golf.

I’ll spare you what transpired on the golf course except to say this: Jack quit on every hole. Not actually quit, but he said, after every errant shot, that he would quit. He never really did pack it all in and go back to the club house, and we did get in all 18 holes, but it was a trying day for the lad, to say the least. On one particularly trying hole, as Matt and I were waiting for Jack to take his third or fourth shot off the tee, my six iron, a club Jack had borrowed from me, went soaring across the course against the blue summer sky.

I looked at Matt across the fairway.

“Hey Matt?”

“What?”

“See that performance?”

“Ya.”

“Best birth control ever invented.”

My eldest son laughed.

Back at the farmhouse with the too big lawn, we ate Kentucky Fried Chicken on the back patio and ice cream cake (in honor of Rene’s birthday, which is actually today) and watched goldfinches flit in and out of feeders. After the great deluge of the past week, I didn’t want a Saturday filled with sun (even if it also contained occasional flying golf clubs and long hours on a riding lawn mower) to end. But as dusk closed in, Matt and Lisa gathered up their dogs (they have four) and headed back to their house in Hibbing. Rene’ and I cleaned up and settled in to watch the 10:00 news.

It was dark. The dishes were done. The leftovers were in the fridge. Jack was downstairs playing video games. The television screen glowed in the great room of our house. Rene’ and I noticed the show taking place over our pasture at the same time.

“Do you see…?”

I interrupted my wife.

“I know.”

She was on our small back deck looking out across the lawn. There were a few dozen fireflies dancing across the newly mown grass against the black sky.

“Jack, come outside,” I said from the covered front porch of our house. “Rene’, wait until you see the pasture.”

Both Rene’ and Jack joined me.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said in a whisper.

“Me neither,” my wife answered.

“Wow,” was all Jack could say.

It’s not an exaggaration to say that there were as many fireflies dancing against the great vault of the night as there are stars in the Milky Way. All across the uncut hay surrounding our house, a new hatch of the illuminated bugs rose and fell, flicked on and off, like a vast, miniature galaxy of distant, twinkling stars. We’ve always had fireflies over the field during the summer. But we’ve never had such a display: such a grand affirmation of beauty in our twenty-seven years of living on the river. The three of us stood along the railing and watched the waltz of light  until the mosquitoes, another of the “gifts” of summer, found us.

Peace.

Mark

Rain.

All it does is rain.

I’m sitting on the covered front porch of our white farmhouse, a misty, lacy rain descending over a field of white, green, orange, red and blue. It’s June 23rd and the wildflowers are in bloom on the hayfield that surrounds our home on the banks of the Cloquet River. I’m deep into my second week of being off work: I was supposed to be off this week on vacation, which I am. But that I ended up being off most of last week, to tend to my dieing mother-in-law and my wife, and to attend my mother-in-law’s wake and her funeral, well, that was unexpected.

Unexpected? Don’t humans know? Don’t we appreciate that, no matter how far we fly or drive away from home, no matter what religion we follow, no matter how fit we keep ourselves, death is always to be expected? In fact, if you’re a Christian, like I purport to be, death is not only known: It should be welcomed because Christians, of all the faithful, know what comes next. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.

But the rain. The damn rain. It has been falling since late last week. Jack’s soccer and baseball schedules have been tanked by the deluge. Our vegetable garden (apparently a favorite gathering site for every black hearted crow in NE Minnesota) has been so wet, only the potatoes seem to enjoy the bath. There are no corn stalks growing. There’s been no sun. And it’s far too long into our eighty-day growing season to plant new seeds. My wife has been waiting to repair her water garden (it sprung a leak but, due to the rain, has stayed full) but can’t because…Guess what? It’s been raining!

As I sit on the front porch and watch a thin pewter sheen descend over color, Daisey, our black lab-and-something-else-mix sleeps on her side on the cool boards of the porch. The dog snores contentedly on a deck that needs attention.

I could stain the porch boards if the rain would stop.

The air is cool. In that sense, the weather is a temporary blessing: There are no mosquitoes.

But just wait. With every pot hole and ditch full to the brim, those little bastards will be hatching a freakin’ armada of nuisance whenever the sun decides to shine…

Far across the wet pasture, I watch as a doe and her spotted fawn stop their traverse of the green grass and the abundant color of the newly bloomed wildflowers. The mother deer spreads her legs. The newborn ducks beneath its mother’s  belly and begins to nurse. As the fawn suckles, the doe licks her offspring, cleaning the fawn of ticks and whatever other vermin fawns accumulate in the forest. After a few minutes, the deer wander into the aspen stand at the far edge of the grass and I pick up a magazine to read.

I’ve just finished reading Ayn Rand’s  massive tome, The Fountainhead (See below for a review or click on the “Book Reviews” tab above). So as I sit in my rocking chair (now that I am of suitable age to enjoy it), my reading material is shorter fare: The Sun magazine. I brought a collection of Dostoevsky’s short stories with me onto the porch as I well. But I can’t get started on his work. The weather, the funeral, the last book event I attended (Land of the Loon in Virginia, MN: You can read about that disaster below): They’ve all knocked me down to a point where I really don’t need to read depressing Russian fiction, no matter how well-written. So I concentrate on articles, poems, and essays in The Sun. For those of you who’ve never read it, be advised: The Sun can be the most depressing magazine in the world. Beautifully written but depressing. Still, I find the magazine is perfect for this day, a day of constant rain: Because the pieces are short, my eyes are able to wander.

The gray sky is filled with birds. No, not the ugly, cawing black bastards that are eating my garden. Flits of yellow (male goldfinches) chase their less colorful female consorts up and over and through trees. The finches love our bird feeders (when not being bossed about by noisy blue jays) and come to visit in flocks. Here and there, the muted pink of a male purple finch darts in and out of the mist. The heavy drone of ruby-throated hummingbirds echoes against the porch ceiling as the tiny birds hover and suck nectar from hanging feeders. Red-winged blackbirds dive;  their orange and yellow wing patches vibrant against a drab sky. Above the hayfield, barn swallows chase flying bugs. To the west, a solitary osprey hovers over the Cloquet River, searching the water for fish, its distant cry a mere peep. A massive bald eagle alights from the a white pine standing next to the river, makes a wide turn, checks out the field, and then follows the river downstream. A male eastern bluebird (whose color is subdued and nearly absent until he takes flight) lands on the porch railing within my reach.

Long into the day, the sky finally lets up. Mind you, the gray doesn’t leave: The rain simply stops falling. Jack and I wander onto the wet grass of our backyard to toss a ball. After we warm up, he takes his place a fair distance away. I hit a baseball to him: Towering flies. Line drives. Grounders.  He catches some. He misses some. We change positions. I toss him a tennis ball: my impersonation of an out-of-shape relief pitcher. He clobbers the first pitch and rockets a line drive at my face. I duck. The ball skids across wet grass and sheds water like a tire on wet pavement.

We call it a day. I reclaim my rocking chair. There’s nothing scheduled: no appointments or events to attend. I return to The Sun hoping and praying that tomorrow, the actual sun will show itself.

Peace.

Mark

Saturday. Driving to Virginia, Minnesota for the 35th Annual Land of the Loon Arts and Crafts Festival. A big deal. Lots of vendors. Thousands of folks wandering through Olcott Park looking for something to eat, drink, and maybe, with a little luck, read. The weather sucks: The forecast is for rain, maybe thunder storms, all day. It’s 6:30am and I’m watching drizzle slide off the white hood of my Pacifica as I head north on Highway 53.

I’ve done this festival a number of times. It’s never had the attendance nor the sales (for me) of say, Blueberry Festival in Ely or Phelps Mill in Fergus Falls. Still, it’s been occasionally lucrative and worth my while. So I sent in my check, packed up my van, and decided to give it one last shot.

I should have stayed home.

The highlights of my Saturday at the 35th Land of the Loon are as follows:

1. Listening to my copy of  the “Joshua Tree” album by U-2 on the drive north;

2. Selling one of my wife’s concrete mosaic garden benches to a nice lady from Carlton, Minnesota to be placed in her backyard garden as a memorial to her dead husband;

3. Having Range native and well-traveled blues man Paul Metsa stop in and say hello and introduce me to his girlfriend;

4. The music from the main stage of the festival, which includes not only Metsa, but some other great acts as well;

5. The fact that it stops raining by 8:00am and doesn’t rain again until I’m on my way home.

Book sales? Nonexistent would be an optimistic rendition of what took place. I’m depressed beyond a level that Zoloft could even begin to touch.

Don’t people from Virginia know how to read?

I’ve asked this question in the past, when I’ve compared my sales at the now defunct Mines and Pines Festival in Hibbing with my sales at Land of the Loon in Virginia. Hibbing, despite being the hometown of Bob Dylan (sorry, Duluth but he was only in Duluth for a minute as a youth), has always been touted as the “rough” part of the Range when viewed by residents of Virginia (which, by the way, calls itself “The Queen City”). So logically, if Virginians’ opinions of Hibbing’s reputation had any veracity, Virginians would be better educated and better read than their neighbors to the west. Well, guess what? Despite the fact that Mines and Pines was only a third the size of Land of the Loon, I always, and I mean always sold more books at the Hibbing event than at Land of the Loon. Go figure. But I thought, what the hell, I need another event in June, I’ll give Virginia one last try.

A rain-out would have been a blessing.

Sunday. Again the forecast calls for thunderstorms. Again, there’s a slight drizzle that ends before I arrive. The highlights of my Sunday at the Land of the Loon are:

1. Listening to “RealGoodWords” on KAXE radio on the drive up. Heidi Holtan, the host (a great supporter of “little” authors like me) is interviewing a local poet. She then follows up with an interview with singer Andy Williams. Yes, the Andy Williams, who has a new memoir out;

2. Having Range native and well-traveled blues man Paul Metsa stop in and say hello again;

3. The music from the main stage of the festival, which includes not only Metsa, but some other great acts as well;

4. Reading The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand (see today’s book review of the same) and the most recent articles in my favorite Finnish American paper, New World Finn;

5. Having a daydream about my recently passed mother-in-law, Mercedes Privette, who always stopped by my booth in Ely  (at the Blueberry Festival), opened her little coin purse with her arthritic fingers, and nervously withdrew a twenty to buy her friend Audrey one of my books;

6. The fact that it doesn’t rain again until I’m on my way home.

Notice that nowhere in this listing do I include “and selling books to Virginians”. That’s because I don’t. Not in any measure. And I don’t sell any more of my wife’s benches either. Which means I have to lug the heavy, concrete works of art back to my Pacifica and unload them once I get home. (As an aside: I wish Rene’ would get a hobby that involves lighter media. I had to lug the bench I sold Saturday uphill three blocks on a collapsible two-wheel dolly over grass to make the sale. And I did it for no pay. Well, OK, I did it for love. Still…)

The road home is depressingly familiar. I listen to “Prairie Home Companion” and rock gently to Storyhill’s music as I drive south. When I get home, I rush to unload the car so I can bring Jack to soccer practice. Of course, he’s thirteen and he’s not even close to ready. I “urge” him to get dressed and then I turn my attention to lifting 100# bench tops  and 50# bench legs out of the back of the van.

Shit.

One of the mosaic tops, a beautiful bluebird scene (my favorite of the ones I brought along) is cracked in half. I don’t know how it happened: But a week’s worth of my wife’s hard labor is now in pieces. Despite time constraints, I didn’t drop the piece. It is simply broken and I have no idea why.

Shit.

Jack wanders out in his soccer cleats with a bottle of water in one hand, a soccer ball in the other, a pullover (it’s drizzling again) over his shoulder, ready to go. I put the broken work of art in my wife’s studio, tell her what’s happened, and leave.

When I come back from the practice, after having spent an hour and a half in the Pacifica reading The Fountainhead while 11, 12, and 13 year old boys run across wet grass striking white balls beneath a damp sky, my wife (who should be pissed at me) is not upset. In fact, she’s made me dinner. Rib eye steak, baked potatoes, and all the trimmings, no less.

“Call your two oldest boys,” she says. “Before you eat. They’ve both called here three times trying to talk to you.”

“Why? And what’s with the fancy dinner?”

“Happy Father’s Day.”

I nearly cry.

Peace.

Mark