Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

(Posted January 31, 2011)

Friday night. The weather folks say we’re in for a bit of a snow squall. Instead, as I drive south on I-35 in my wife’s Matrix, my wife in the co-pilot’s seat, my sons Jack and Chris safely belted in the rear seats, our weekend luggage piled high in the cargo space of the little Toyota, we hit freezing drizzle; the sort of slop that, combined with the black night, makes driving treacherous. The little car’s all-wheel-drive acquits itself well and we don’t slip and slide; we avoid jetting off into the snowy ditch like the one car we see near the Black Bear Casino that wound up facing north in the southbound median. But no matter how much heat I force onto the windshield, no matter how fast the wipers thrash, a thin layer of ice keeps reappearing on the glass, distorting my view of the road, making life difficult. My hands clench the steering wheel. My wife’s right had grasps the entry assist loop embedded in the car’s ceiling. Chris has his eyes shut, headphones adjusted, music playing. Jack’s attention is riveted on a video game when he’s not offering criticism.

“I wish Mom would drive.”

“Mom doesn’t want to drive.”

“You’re unlucky. Every time you drive, we get hit by someone.”

Chris pulls his headphones off his ears.

“Every time, Jack? Every time Dad drives, you get in an accident?”

Rene’ pipes up.

“The accidents weren’t your dad’s fault. He got hit by a drunk driver who blew a stop light and a nun who lost her way and was in the wrong lane. How is that your father’s fault?”

“He’s unlucky. I’d rather have you drive.”

And so it goes until we pull out of the rainy slime and onto dry pavement somewhere south of Hinckley.

In the Cities, we drop Chris off at his girlfriend’s apartment and leave Jack with cousins in Lakeville. The weekend is ours; Rene’s and mine. We’re going to stay one night in a nice hotel, The Depot on Washington, and meet a group of old friends from Duluth Denfeld High School for dinner and a play, “A Winter’s Tale”, at the Guthrie. It’s a trip inspired by our friend Roni, who usually comes up with great group activities, including a succession of cruises that various members of this same group, couples that have been doing an annual dinner in Duluth for nearly thirty years, have undertaken in the past. This year, instead of another dinner in Duluth, it’s a weekend getaway to Minneapolis to see some Shakespeare.

“I thought you said the walk from the hotel to the Guthrie was two blocks,” someone chides as our little band treks over freshly shoveled sidewalks to the Guthrie.

“It’s just like one of Munger’s canoe trips,” my buddy Dave quips.”I’ve been in this story before.”

“Ya,” I add. “The portage is only ten rods long.”

We take a prearranged tour of the back stage areas of the new theater. We sit down for a nice dinner at the Level Five Restaurant at the Guthrie. A surprise awaits us.

“Where you all from?” our little blond headed, college aged waitress asks as she waits on our group of twenty-one AARP-eligible folks.

“Duluth” someone says.

“That’s funny. Me too,” she reveals.

“Where did you grow up?” I ask as she brings me a glass of Merlot.

“Piedmont Heights.”

“No way! What street?”

“Plymouth.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Gustafson.”

I smile as I raise my glass to toast her.

“Well, that’s about three blocks from where I grew up. These two tables,” I say, pointing my baby finger as I hold the stem of the wineglass, “are nearly all Denfeld graduates.”

The information doesn’t seem to impress her as much as her revelation impressed me. Still, I can’t shake the conclusion that, despite the number of people now walking around our planet, Earth is indeed a very small place.

I find myself having problems understanding Shakespearean English for the first twenty minutes of the play. But then, as if a light goes off in my dialect-challenged-mind, the meanings of words I haven’t heard since high school English become clear. The group settles in to watch a great performance, taking our leave during intermission to stroll about the lobby of the theater to talk, hit the head, and retell old stories. Even the non-theater types in our group are impressed and enjoy themselves. When the final curtain draws, the walk back to the hotel (where one of the women has a homemade cheesecake waiting for our consumption) is filled with talk of the new theater, the play, and life in general. Over drinks in the hotel bar, we fork thick cream cheese filling  and crust into our eager mouths, sip beer, wine or cocktails, and revert back to the easy language of high school friends. Uncharacteristically for folks of advanced age, we close the bar.

Peace.

Mark

(Posted January 26, 2011)

I’m not one to miss work. Last week, I, like so many Northlanders, got hit with some weird and nasty virus. It was a bug that felt sort of like a cold, sort of like the flu, but manifested itself mainly as severe headaches and total malaise. There was no vomiting or other bad stuff; no sweats or chills or fevers; no cough or croup. It just felt like someone had siphoned about half my energy out of fifty-something body. I managed to make it to work every day and even drive to and from the Cities on Friday for a meeting. There were a host of other guys at the conference confessing to bouts of the Man Cold, some with worse symptoms, some with symptoms identical to mine. Funny thing is, neither of the women there complained about their maladies. But the bottom line was, I’d stuck to my guns and made every day on the job, like a man is supposed to.

When the new week started on Monday, the virus was there, lurking somewhere in the mucus membranes of my body. I could feel it sneaking around the nooks and crannies of my head and throat; teasing my sinuses; tickling my throat. But it never broke out in a full flown display. Until Wednesday night. Wednesday night is my night to teach environmental law. I had a pretty easy day at work so the 7-10 gig at the University of Superior-Wisconsin seemed doable even in my depleted condition. I packed up my texts, notes, and class file, drove over the bridge in my rental car (my Pacifica, the one the nun took out, is being fixed), grabbed a couple of burgers at McDonald’s that would make Michelle Obama puke, and hit the classroom early to make sure I knew where the hell it was. Class wasn’t terrible. Not one of my better efforts but not bad for opening night. I made it home, tired, but none the worse for wear, said my good nights, and crashed, my body thoroughly exhausted from the day and the residual affect of the virus.

Ah, that nasty little virus. As I slept, it found all of the exhausted cells in my body it could find. It commanded their attention, lined them up, and marched them to my stomach, where, about midnight, they all cried out in agony. About two in the morning, I woke up my wife with my writhing and wiggling in the bed. It was as if my stomach was filled with agates and was turning over ever so slowly in an attempt to polish them. It was agony. I tried changing positions in bed. I tried making myself puke. I tried sitting in a chair.Nothing made the pain relent. Nothing made the pain abate. And then the headache I’d had with the Man Cold came back with a vengance; a searing, pounding, blinding thumping in my temples, like what I imagine migraine sufferers have to deal with. I slept fitfully when I slept at all. The virus ruined my wife’s night of sleep as well.

“I think I’ll stay home from work,” I finally muttered, my body curled into a fetal position against the abdominal onslaught when daybreak finally arrived.

“That makes sense. You kept me up all night.”

I called my court reporter Renata and told her that I wouldn’t be in. It wasn’t an easy call. You see, in twelve years, I’ve only been out sick three times. Once for knee surgery: I missed one day. Once with a sinus infection where it got so bad, I was too dizzy to stand up. I missed a day there as well. And once when I sliced open my foot on a rock in Island Lake north of Duluth. A little cut on the foot shouldn’t keep you out of work if you’re a real man, am I right? Well, it was more than a little cut. It took seven stitches at the ER to close it. But that was only the beginning of the story. The wound became infected and I landed in the hospital for five days, flat on my backside hooked up to an IV, receiving massive doses of antibiotics. There was a very real danger I’d lose the foot until the medicine did it’s magic. I was left with a small scar and the loss of feeling in half my foot (the rock severed a nerve) but I kept the foot. Lucky man.

So being out of work due to a little Man Cold which migrated to my stomach? Not usually a reason to be off work. But I needed the day. So I spent the day writhing in pain, drinking Orange Crush, and watching old movies. The rest did me good. The virus isn’t gone; my stomach is still churning but at least, I’m vertical and the nausea has relented.

As I write this, I feel  better though I’m still a bit queasy and toast is about all I can keep down. But there’s work in our courts that needs to be done. I’m going in today. I hope Ms. Skube has a bucket handy in the courtroom.

Peace.

Mark

(Posted January 17, 2011)

January 4th. Two years ago. Driving my jet black Pacifica on Arrowhead Road. Driving my son Jack from indoor soccer at the College of St, Scholastica to church. Approaching U.S. No. 53, I glance up. The light is green.  l look both ways, up and down the highway. There are large snow banks so I can’t see the highway all that well. Then there’s the fact that Arrowhead and 53 don’t intersect at right angles. There’s a slight mathematical deviation to their joinder which makes it difficult to see to the left, particularly over piled snow. But the light is green. I enter the crossing. A horn honks. And then, the most violent crash I’ve ever experienced sends our car into a complete spin. When the Pacifica finally stops moving, we’ve completed at least one full 360 dgree revolution in the highway, sustained three collisions (the initial blast from the offending vehicle just behind my driver’s door; our car striking the offending car front to rear during the spin; and the Pacifica crushing into the big steel light pole in the center media of the road, again, on my side of the car). Jack and I end up going by ambulance to the hospital. Minor injuries. Saved by the side airbag. Scared the crap out of Jack (and me, if truth be told. I still have PTSD entering any intersection on Highway 53). Jack sustained a hernia (from the seat belt) and a huge fear of riding in the car. I sustained a bruised left shoulder from the airbag and a strain to my neck and back. The Pacifica was totaled. My attorney and two insurance adjusters sent letters back and forth. Most of you have probably experienced the drill. I hadn’t, at least not outside my position as a judge. Being the victim (the young driver was drunk at 10:00 am on a Sunday morning and never slowed from her highway speed of 50-60mph when running the red light) was a role I hadn’t experienced. The St. Louis County Attorney had to farm out the girl’s case to Itasca County due to a potential conflict of interest. Same thing with the judge; John Maturi from Grand Rapids came down to accept the girl’s guilty plea. After a month of driving a rental car, I found a replacement vehicle. Jack’s nerves seemed to heal (though his school work suffered mightily for a long time) and we both were able to put the accident behind us. Until yesterday.

A bright, cold sunny Sunday morning. Jack and I are leaving the College of St. Scholastica after an indoor soccer game. I’m driving a white Chrysler Pacifica (I’m loyal to the model since it saved my life in the 2009 collision). As I’m pulling up to the stoplight at College and Kenwood, intent on making a left turn to go to the St. Louis County Jail to do bail settings (my weekend to do so as judge), I watch a white sedan make a right hand turn from Kenwood onto College. Nothing out of the ordinary except the elderly lady who is driving has chosen to use my lane, not her own, to complete the turn. I can see her, and her two elderly female passengers, through the windshield as plain as day. She’s looking right at me. There’s not a hint of recognition that she’s in the wrong lane or that a collision is imminent.

“What the hell!”

Jack’s expression is cloaked in the fear of past disaster.

“She’s not going to stop!”

My comment is fortuitous. I slam the steering wheel hard to the right to avoid a head on collision. The offending car crashes into the left front of my Pacifica’s grill. My car skids to a stop, the entire lower section of my bumper seared from the car, the sound of crunching plastic and glass brittle in the below zero cold.

Jack goes ballistic. He tries to get out of the car to scream at the woman. I admonish him before I exit the driver’s door.

“I am so sorry,” the woman says, standing next to the crumpled front end of my car. Her little Chevrolet Lumina is only slightly dented. The front end of my Pacifica is destroyed. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No, ma’am. But my son is freaking out. Two years ago, almost to the day, coming from Scholastica after a soccer game, a drunk driver hit us and nearly killed us.”

“I am so sorry. Here’s my insurance information,” she says, handing my an envelope. “I’m Sister Beverly.”

Oh Lord, I think. God is getting even with me for Grandpa Kobe leaving the Catholic Church over eighty years ago.

I don’t have my cell phone so I ask a passing gawker to dial 911.

I sure as hell don’t want to have pit my credibility against one of Christ’s brides if this thing goes to court.

“Is it really necessary to call the police?”

“Yes, Sister, I’m afraid it is.”

“My friends were going to mass. Can I take them and come back?”

I look at the old woman and nod.

An hour later, the police paperwork is completed, the remnants of my front bumper are secured in the cargo area of the Pacifica, and we’re on our way.

I think Jack needs to find something to replace indoor soccer during the winter, I think as my disfigured Pacifica rattles towards church.

Peace.

Mark

(Posted January 4, 2011)

I resist. I’m eligible for membership in what once was known as the American Association of Retired Persons, but is now simply known as AARP. I am eligible and I’ve resisted the tons of applications and solicitations AARP has sent me both before my 55th birthday and after. I’ve tossed every single one of them into the garbage.

But I may have changed my mind. Is it so bad to save a few bucks by playing the age card?

Who’d have thought I can save ten bucks on a $37.00 lift ticket? I would’ve learned this little gem of information if I would’ve used my AARP-authorized eyes to read the fine print: “Over 55-$10.00 off”. Hell, I was over 55 last year but, given my poor attention span and even worse vision, I didn’t notice the fine print then and sure didn’t see it this year until my much younger (Denfeld Class of ’75) spouse read it while paying for her lift ticket.

“Hey, Hon,” Rene’ said as I helped her fold her ticket over a wire wicket affixed to her jacket, “did you know you get a $10.00 discount if you’re over 55?”

“No way.”

“Yep.”

Before I could stop her from embarrassing me, Rene’ caught the attention of the salesclerk who’d waited on us.

“He didn’t get his senior citizen discount.”

“He didn’t ask for one,” the woman said wearily.

“Let’s just chalk it up to a learning experience,” I urged, turning my wife gently by the elbow. “Good information to know for the next time we’re here.”

Thankfully, Rene’ followed my lead (unlike when we dance) and we got the hell out of there with our dignity.

Later, on the ski lift, as the cable lifted the chair I was riding on above the aspen, maple, white pine, and cedar forest, my head turned to watch the lights of Duluth ignite as the sun sank behind the hills above town, a sense of acceptance overwhelmed me.

Hell, I thought. I’m in good health. My legs, for my first time out, are doing fine. I haven’t biffed. I wear my helmet and ski in control. I’ll likely be able to do this a long, long while. Maybe not as long as my step-dad’s pal, Wesley Neustal, who, at the tender young age of ninety, is still downhill skiing. Not just on flat little Spirit Mountain, but at Bridger Bowl, in Montana. I don’t know that I have Wesley’s athletic longevity. But maybe I can ski into my late seventies; another two decades away. Ten bucks a ticket for twenty years could add up to some real scratch.

By the time my skis touched snow at the top of Gandy Dancer, I was OK with being able to take advantage of senior pricing for skiers. But join AARP? I’m not quite there yet.

Peace.

Mark

It’s dark as I drive old Highway 61 from Duluth to Two Harbors. After a long day at the courthouse, I’d scurried home to change into some comfortable clothes (blue jeans and a sweater) and rousted my youngest son off the computer and out the door for his guitar lesson at the Mall before heading towards Lake County. Rene’ was to pick up Jack after his lesson, freeing me to make this trip north.

The Pacifica hurtles through darkness passing well-lighted houses; some adorned with festive Christmas lights, others simply illuminated for security. No deer leap out to contest my progress. I’m on a mission. Warren Zevon’s live album, Learning to Flinch supplies the soundtrack for my journey. I sing loudly to “Lawyers, Guns and Money”, thinking back to a certain Minnesota governor in a boa crooning to Zevon’s guitar. Jesse gave the state many reasons to cringe during his four year run: One could doubt his political acumen but not his choice in music. I don’t make the connection between Ventura’s military service as a Navy Seal to the reason behind my evening dash up the Shore. I should have made the connection. I’m a writer. It’s my job to see metaphoric links and use them in my work.

I drive aimlessly around downtown Two Harbors looking for the American Legion. I pass the Legion’s darkened front entrance twice before I finally spot it and find a parking place. I click the automatic lock feature on my car’s key fob and head towards the warmth of the building. I’m expecting a big crowd. After all, it isn’t often that a local war hero, former Flying Tiger, retired attorney, and double amputee has a book signing, much less a book signing at eighty-nine years old.

“I’m looking for the Wayne Johnson book signing,” I say to two Legion officers sitting at a cash register just inside the entrance.

“Over there.”

One of the guys points to a table and chairs set up on a stage. I see the subject of my quest, First Lieutenant Wayne Johnson, former city attorney of Beaver Bay and Silver Bay, sitting behind the table scrawling a message inside a book for an admirer. The event was billed in the Duluth News Tribune as running from four until eight. It’s nearly seven.

“You can also get something to eat,” the Legion guy adds as I walk towards the author.

I don’t respond. I stop behind a man engaged in a lengthy conversation with the former pilot. I remain mute, uncertain if Wayne has seen or recognizes me. Finally, the man shakes the author’s hand, picks up his signed copy of Whitey: From Farm Kid to Flying Tiger to Attorney, and leaves the platform.

“Hello, judge.”

The old man smiles. His titanium legs gleam at the ankles, the double amputation something that happened a few years back, an unexpected complication from heart surgery. Up until that setback, Wayne had maintained an airplane and his love for flying. Now, with the loss of his legs, he can’t even drive himself to book events. But the man’s spirit, despite the extreme nature of the change to his physical being, remains active as witnessed by the fact he’s signing books in Two Harbors, Minnesota on a cold, dreary December night, instead of watching hockey on television.

“I emailed you that I was stopping by to get a couple copies,” I say, shaking his hand in a firm grip, a grip appropriate for men.

“Thought you weren’t going to make it.”

I buy three copies of the memoir; one for myself, one for my dad, and another as a gift. He dutifully signs all three, personalizing the messages at my direction. Then, hungry for dinner, I buy a plate of Swedish meatballs and sit in the now empty cafeteria of the Legion hall to eat my dinner in silence. In the background, stragglers approach the author for a book and a signature. I open a copy of the book to the acknowledgments page and a tear forms in my eye.

You see, a year or so ago, Wayne and I had lunch with my old man, a former lawyer who has known Wayne Johnson for years. After lunch, Wayne gave me a copy of the first 100 pages of his manuscript. I made it clear that I couldn’t take him on as an author under the Cloquet River Press banner. It’s nearly impossible to market my own work, much less someone else’s, given I have full time job, a family, and a host of interests outside writing. I accepted Wayne’s story with an eye towards offering suggestions regarding his writing and possible avenues for publication. I read the packet and sent him my comments. I also gave him some names of other publishers to contact. My hope was that my critique wasn’t so devastating that it would dissaude him: I found the story remarkable and the writing top-notch and I told him so. Still, I did offer some thoughts as to changes I felt needed to be made. Criticism, especially from a self-taught writer, isn’t easy to take. The last thing I wanted to do was scare the guy off, to have him shelve the book because of something I’d written or said about his effort. Thankfully, he took my critique in the vein it was given and plowed ahead.

Back to the tears. They formed because, on the acknowledgments page, I found my own name. Wayne thanked me in print for my assistance. Of course,I didn’t mention this honor when I went back, sat down, and talked shop with my fellow author. Guys just don’t do that sort of thing.

Peace.

Mark