Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

(Posted September 14, 2009)

Fog engulfed the road as I drove north last Friday to set up my booth at the Harvest Moon Festival in Ely. Yes, it’s the same town I visited during the Blueberry Festival in late July; the same town that bills itself as “The End of the Road”. When the sun finally broke through the shroud that surrounded the highway, sunlight reflected off delicate lacy spiderwebs in the tall grass and brush, making me understand the likely origins of the Native American dream catcher. Some of the arachnid-created artwork stood horizontal. Some, vertical. But all caught the brilliant briefness of a sun bent on teasing the day. A bald eagle, scruffy and non-resplendent, its white diminished by a hard life lived in the north woods, caught a draft and swept gently past my Pacifica as I listened to hard rock on the disk changer. It’s a long and lonely road to Ely and I drove it there and back three times this past weekend.

In my booth, I settled into a canvas camp chair and waited for customers, a battered paperback copy of Ayn Rand’s masterpiece, Atlas Shrugged, resting in my lap so I could hold tight to my travel mug of much needed coffee as I resumed my reading. I’ve been plowing through Ms. Rand’s 1,000 plus pages of Objectivist fiction since the first craft festival of the year in Detroit Lakes back in early June. I’m not intending a full review of Ms. Rand’s work here, only to say that, after months of my opinion bouncing between, “gee, this is some good writing” to, “God no, not another speech”, when I finally came to the infamous sixty pages in the book where the hero, John Galt, commandeers the radio waves to make his point, I skipped the last thirty pages of Galt’s speech to get back to the story. I mean, a writer of fiction (and that is what Ms. Rand purports to be) can only ask so much of his or her readers when imparting philosophy. Ursula LeGuin, one of my favorite authors, knows this. Ms. Rand apparently did not, or if she knew the limited tolerances of fiction readers for speechifying, she didn’t care. In any event, after reading half of Galt’s oration, I understand A is A, that A can never be B. I understand that, according to Ms. Rand’s view of mankind, the best government can do for us is to get out of the way and let man’s inner insatiable drive to survive have free rein. In the end, Ms. Rand argues, man’s innate selfishness will provide all that is needed. Mankind’s greatest drive, its greatest attribute, is not love of others, but love of self. Mmmm. So Jesus, the Buddha, Mohamed, and all the rest had it wrong. Only Aristotle (and with him too, Ms. Rand has issues) had anything intelligent to say about man’s motivations, the ultimate appropriate philosophy for man’s well-being.

After the climatic battle scene, where closure comes to the characters in the book, I sat in my little booth in Ely and pondered Ms. Rand’s worldview. There is a grain of truth that government can be too intrusive in our lives. There is a grain of truth that sometimes, philanthropic altruism is misplaced (sending boat loads of wool hats to Africa, for example). But in the end, I think that Ms. Rand would have done the world a greater service by writing a good page-turner of a novel than by serving up 1,000 pages of lecture disguised as marginal prose.

I stashed the novel in my booth and waited for customers, confident in my belief that mankind’s self-interest cannot compete with the handicraft of small spiders and the soaring of eagles.

Peace.

Mark Munger

(Posted August 30, 2009)

Most of my recent vacation was spent doing kid stuff. That’s what happens when you’re 54 years old (OK, almost 55) and you still have an eleven year old in the house. My wife Rene’ and I decided to take a week long vacation with our youngest son Jack in the Black Hills of South Dakota. So as not to bore the poor kid, Jack’s two cousins and his aunt and uncle from Lakeville, Minnesota joined the entourage as it wound its way across the states of Minnesota and South Dakota. We did the touristy stuff: stopped at the Corn Palace in Mitchell; drove the road around Badlands National Park; saw Mt. Rushmore; watched tatanka (bison), pronghorns, mountain goats and big horn sheep graze in Custer State Park. But the highlight of the trip for me was when Ernest Hemingway, Teddy Roosevelt and I went fly fishing.

Of course, the two other guys weren’t really there. I mean, Teddy’s been dead for almost a century and Ernest for half that period of time. But they were there in spirit, the preservationist president and the author who loved to trout fish, when I pulled on my chest waders and slid off the tail gate of my Pacifica onto the hard gravel of the access road leading to Castle Creek. The morning was cool, 43 degrees, perfect for trout fishing. I started wading the clear, fast running water of the creek, heading upstream towards the Deerfield Lake dam. I touched my hand to the water to reassure myself that the waterway was cold enough to support wild brook trout and browns. It was chilling; likely no more than fifty-five degrees, despite the clear sky and the ascending sun.

The creek valley opened into a meadow. I waded and offered flies of all sorts to the fish. Every now and then, I saw the black back of a brookie dart from the underside of the weeds lazily dancing in the current. Once in a while, a greenish backed brown would skitter off to another hiding place as I moved upstream. But the fish didn’t bite. No matter what I tossed into the water, the trout refused to be fooled. It’s not the first time I’ve been skunked. It won’t be the last. Still, the president, the author and the judge had a fine day on the creek. I was dog tired and sweating like a hog when I finally made it back to the car after my four mile trek up the canyon and back. I’d fished for five hours and had one strike. It cost me fourteen bucks for a daily license, a few bucks in gas, and a little excess energy to fish the creek that Col. Custer and his men named for the high spires and beautiful peaks surrounding the little meander back when they explored the Black Hills in 1876. Despite the lack of fish on the hook, the experience was priceless.

Come visit me at the Harvest Moon Festival in Ely on September 11,12 and 13.

Peace.

Mark

(Posted July 31, 2009)

I didn’t have a lot of extra time. I was slated to have my booth up and running by 10:00am at the Blueberry Arts and Crafts Show in Ely, Minnesota; a delightfully quirky crossroads located in northeastern Minnesota; a place where musicians, artists, fisherman, snowmobilers, wilderness freaks, Boy Scouts, lesbians, straight people, wood ticks and a host of other categories of humanity intersect. Eli, a talented fiddler turned radio host, was gracious enough to book me on the “Morning Show” on WELY; Ely’s radio station which bills itself as “End of the Road Radio.” I was supposed to be at the station by 8:20am and on the air (for my ten minutes of semi-fame) by eight thirty. Like so many adventures in my writing and book hawking career, I thought I knew where the station was. I was wrong.

“Eli, where’s the station?”

I was calling from main street Ely, standing in front of something that looked like a radio station, a storefront that declared itself to be the home of the “Boundary Waters Blues Festival” displaying a neon sign which read: “On the Air”. But the doors were locked and nobody was home.

“We’re on Chapman Street. Where are you?”

It was now 8:25am.

I explained where I was.

“You’re a half block away. Take a left, then a right. You’ll be here in a minute.”

Only I can get lost in Ely.

I followed Eli’s directions. We did the interview. It went well. I was back in the park in plenty of time to put up my booth and get ready for the Blueberry Festival.

Friday sales were brisk. I stayed the night with my friends, the Gucks, on the Kawishiwi Trail, just east of town. Saturday, the rains came. Then went. Then came. Then went. The entirety of the day was one laborious guessing game as to whether the skies would eventually open up and drown out the patrons of the festival. My dad and my step mother showed up to wander the grounds and to buy me a steak dinner after I tied down my EZ Up and closed up shop for the night. I watched the last half of a made for TV movie with Ron in his basement and slurped vanilla ice cream and fresh-picked wild raspberries his wife Ronda served up. All in all, it was a good day.

Sunday dawned. The sky threatened again but rain never materialized. I was buoyed by past customers who came back to buy another of my books. More than anything, returning readers keep me going; they validate my writing and give me a reason to continue this crazy self-publishing path I am on. Without folks stopping back in to see me, folks who tell me they like what I write, who encourage me to keep at it, there would be scarce reason for me to continue booking nearly every summer weekend at arts and crafts festivals across northern Minnesota. But to be fair, not everyone is a fan.

“Willard Munger.”

A guy, seemingly a stereotypical Iron Ranger dressed in a flannel shirt and blue jeans, appearing to be in his early forties, stopped by my booth at the end of my last day in Ely.

“He was my uncle.”

“On Reserve Mining…”

“Yes?”

“He was wrong. He was full of shit. He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”

The comments were stunning. I know not everyone living in northeastern Minnesota respects the life of the man I’ve profiled in Mr. Environment. I am speechless as the Ranger contorts his face into something akin to disgust before he moves on.

I know better than to attempt a dialogue with the man. His mind is made up. No amount of discussing the merits of Willard’s life and career will change the guy’s perspective. I do something that is agonizingly difficult for an old trial lawyer. I keep my mouth shut.

In less than an hour, I’m back on Highway 4, headed for home, listening to Arlo Guthrie on the CD changer, and pondering whether I should have engaged the man; whether I was prudent or merely a coward to remain silent.

Stop in and see me tomorrow in Grand Rapids at the Tall Timber Days Festival in downtown. Wear a poncho; it looks like we might get a little wet.

Peace.

Mark

(Posted July 18, 2009)

What a day! But what happened to Mark? His oldest son/webmaster took over the booth duties at the Mines & Pines Arts Festival in Hibbing, MN. The day started off really cold but the people came anyway. The booth was open on Sunday too and Mark did reappear. Thanks to those who stopped in and bought books. See you in Ely next weekend!

Peace.

Matt and Mark Munger

(Posted July 13, 2009)

Clean water slides over the lip of the dam and plunges but a few feet before splashing laughingly in a torrential slap against the broiling river. The old mill, its wooden siding rickety and worn, reflects the stark light of the Otter Tail County countryside as people begin to file into the Phelps Mill Arts Festival. It’s Saturday, the first day of the two day event, and I am hurriedly erecting my EZ Up, covering discount store plastic folding tables with blue table cloths, and stocking the resulting temporary display surfaces with books. New banners displaying covers of my books hang from the accordion rafters of my tent and flap noisily in the slender July breeze. The crowd begins to build.

I began this weekend’s journey appearing on Twin City Television’s celebrated “Almanac” show. I had my five minutes of fame before driving to Fergus Falls where I met my wife and my youngest son. My wife told me that the interview went well but I am dubious of my performance as I await my first sale, struggling my way through Atlas Shrugged, the book I selected to read when the summer selling season began a month ago. Ayn Rand’s Objectivism isn’t necessarily a bad philosophy to be contemplating while trying to sell books. It’s just that her writing is so uneven: from preachy to literary with long stretches of boring speechifying in between; it’s not an easy read.

A customer picks up a copy of Suomalaiset and, after thoughtful deliberation, decides to buy the book. Several fair goers stop in to advise: “I saw you on “Almanac” last night. You were very good. I just had to say ‘hello’.” Some buy books, some don’t. But I am happy to see them all the same. Sales begin to mount. Afterwards, I meet up with Rene and Jack for a quiet family dinner in a small Mexican restaurant in downtown Fergus. The Corona hits the spot.

The threat of rain (much needed by the surrounding farmland; not conducive for selling paper-based products) disappears and Sunday begins breezy and cool. The sun peeks through the high grey ceiling and ultimately wins the day. My sales exceed expectations. I chat with the manager of a local state park that my uncle Willard was instrumental in creating. The man scurries away but returns, wife in hand (she had the credit card) to buy a copy of Mr. Environment. The son of one of my former clients wanders in with his wife and five sons. Ashley is surprised when I remember his name. His wife buys a book. I connect with one of my dad’s cousins. A childhood friend of my dad’s, a woman nearing ninety, clutches a copy of the Willard biography in her thin veinous hands and recollects how she used to take care of “Baby”; the nickname my dad’s family gave him because he was the youngest child. She’s interested in reading the book despite the fact that her eyes have been giving her trouble. After exhausting her memory, she finally decides to buy a copy.

My neighbor at the festival, a young African woman who makes custom jewelry and clothing, walks into my booth near quitting time. “I wanted a book,” she says, eyeing the now depleted stock displayed on the soft blue tablecloths, “but I don’t remember the title. Esther, something, I think.” I hand her a copy of Esther’s Race, a novel written in the first person (as if I am an African American woman living in contemporary America). “This is the one,” I say. “And since you’re my neighbor, I’ll give you a discount.” I try not to reveal that I’m a bit nervous having someone born in Ghana, with skin as black as the darkest ebony, scrutinize my innermost thoughts about race in America. She smiles, hands over a bill, and nods her head. She is my last sale.

Thanks to all of you who emailed me or stopped in to say you saw my segment on “Almanac”.

Peace.

Mark

(Published July 4, 2009)

Summer finally arrived yesterday along the Cloquet River in northeastern Minnesota. I rose early to greet the clear, azure sky, to sip a cup of hot coffee with my wife under an umbrella shading our picnic table on the back patio, and to study the birds. This is the first year since we built our new house nine years ago that my wife and I have put out what I’ll call “serious” bird feed. And our avian neighbors have responded with dances of color, feats of feathery daring-a-do and birdsong galore. The only drawbacks? Crows and blue jays, relatives, I’ve learned, whose manners are suspect.

When the crows descend with the first morning light peaking over the eastern treeline, the other birds, the colorful, soulful, beauteous song birds disappear. The black demons strut around the base of our bird feeders like so many street corner bullies, announcing their presence in ugly croaks, thrusting out their collective chests and daring all comers. Thankfully, a clap of hands sends them scurrying for the forest; perhaps a reaction to being shot at one too many times during grouse season.

Into the crowless void, the smaller jays descend. Understand, I love their color and their chattering language when I see blue jays in the wild. But here, in the backyard? How can I say this politely…Blue jays are finicky, picky eaters who delight in scrounging through the feeders with frantic desire, searching through mixed seeds, berries and dried fruits for only those morsels that meet their high expectations. Their finicky appetites mean that perfectly good feed gets thrown carelessly from the feeders onto the patio, the deck, the picnic table. And of course, being smaller cousins of the crow, the jays’ behavior intimidates smaller song birds into reticence. We watch as goldfinches flit in and out of the becalmed summer air, searching for an opening, a chance to feed. Cedar waxwings and rose-tinted pine grosbeaks await their turn; patient in their confidence that eventually the jays will have eaten their fill. But such steadfast belief in jay benevolence is misplaced. It is only after I shout at the brazen intruders in blue, sending them off to wherever it is that blue jays fly for respite, that the smaller birds realize an opening and come in to feed.

Have a great summer now that it’s finally here. And don’t forget to stop in and say hello next weekend at the Phelps Mill Festival in Fergus Falls.

Peace.

Mark

(Published June 23, 2009)

Brazen morning light greets me as I drive north on US 53. I’m on my way to Virginia, Minnesota to lounge in my EZ Up tent and sell books at the Land of the Loon Festival. The tires of my Pacifica slap blacktop. Each ridge, each seam in the roadway sounds a discordant beat; a rhythm at odds with the music of the Three Dog Night tune playing on the radio. As I drive, I ruminate. I remember my first real date with a lovely little girl named Kim. I always liked her. Still do. She was a friend, someone I could talk to. Except, of course, when I became interested in her. Then things sort of fell apart. Not just the relationship, as brief as it was, but our friendship too. I didn’t understand that a man and a woman can be involved and still be friends. In fact, that’s what keeps my thirty-two year marriage to Rene’ alive. Why am I thinking about an isolated date with a girl (now a woman and a middle-aged one at that!) I haven’t seen in twenty years? Three Dog Night. That’s what Kim and I did on our first date: went to see Three Dog Night at the height of the band’s career in 1973. I don’t normally listen to old 70s pop-rock but the band happens to be on “Tent Show Radio”. The band’s sound seems less rock and more pop-maybe to cover up the fact that the boys can’t hit the high notes like they once did. Who can?

Anyway, thinking about Kim and visiting with folks in my booth reminds me that we are, despite the song lyric at the heading of this post, never truly going it alone. Each of us, whether we sing stale old rock ballads underneath a canvas tent in northwestern Wisconsin in the company of aging hippies, or try to hawk books to strangers who meander into the shade of our EZ Up, stands upon the shoulders of every person who loved us and encouraged us along the path of life. I try to remember this at the Land of the Loon as Mark and Nancy (longtime friends), as Colin (the musician), the Sale girls from Aurora and others from various facets of my life stop in to support me. I stand on their shoulders, and those of many others, my head above the water, breathing the fresh summer air in a little park in Virginia, Minnesota.

Thank you.

Peace

Mark

(Published June 8, 2009)

I know my last post from the road (see The Peddler on the Archive Page) wasn’t the most cheery of messages. Sometimes, when you’re battered a little by life, whining isn’t a bad thing. Letting it out, vocalizing the seeming injustice of fate, has a cathartic affect, though hopefully such posts will be few and far between.

Saturday morning. Lucy Kaplansky on the CD changer. It’s bright and sunny and the road is clear. The hum of tires against pavement as a backdrop to edgy vocals and clever lyrics. I’m on my way to Tower, Minnesota to sell books at the very first Lake Vermilion Harbor Days Festival. Somewhere north of Island Lake on Highway No. 4, a bald eagle swoops towards the blacktop before veering off, soaring away into the blue. Further up the road, deer threaten to bolt in front of my Pacifica. A broad winged hawk sits contentedly on a dead snowshoe hare, protecting its kill from intruders. Cottontails nervously bound across the blacktop, presumably aware their rodent cousin has become raptor feed.

I set up my display inside the community center in Tower. It’s a small festival, maybe fifty vendors. Familiar odors; grease and pork and fry bread and kettle corn; greet my nose as I sit in a metal folding chair and wait for customers. I am early. I am always early.

Patrons begin to meander through. Wallets open. Money is produced. Change is made. Books are signed and handed to their new owners, and every now and then, kind folks tell me how much they’ve enjoyed my writing.

Later, I get a big hug from my friend Donna as I stand outside in the cold; the sun having long since disappeared behind a solid ceiling of gray. We listen as Donna’s husband and his band work an old Stephen Stills song, ‘Love the One You’re With”. The Boundary Water Boys kick the shit out of the tune and all is once again right with the universe.

Peace.

Mark

(Published June 1, 2009)

Well, the weekend in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota could have been worse. I mean, in addition to selling only a handful of books (which is quite depressing), it could have rained both Saturday and Sunday. God at least spared the deluge until late Sunday. But the weekend still turned out to be very trying.

Sitting in my little white EZ Up enclosure, hawking my writing to strangers, is a very vexing circumstance. I was the kid who didn’t like to sell Little League candy bars door-to-door so promoting my books to the world isn’t easy. There are other regional authors, like Bill Durbin and Tom Chapin, who are masters of the sales pitch. I’m not. I’m by nature a coward and so, selling my work is the least enjoyable aspect of this little adventure of self-publishing that I find myself on.

At this point in the game, nine years after the publication of my first novel, The Legacy and eight years into self-publishing, it is time for a serious assessment of whether or not the world needs my words. I’ve exhausted myself. Exhausted my bank account. Exhausted my family’s patience. The ego can only prop up the body so long. Maybe it is time to admit that self-publishing is a delusion, much like mainstream publishing, in that only a chosen few ever become successful at this game.

I’ll rest a tad (when I’m not at my real job) before starting the charade all over again next weekend. During my spiritual recuperation, I’ll contemplate whether I am too old, too battered, too egocentric to ride this horse into the barn.

Stay tuned.

Peace.

Mark

(May 24, 2009)

Yesterday, I worked my tail off in the yard. Our lawn is huge. It takes four hours to mow, another hour to trim. I also tilled the vegetable garden, transplanted some roses (a chore on my “Honeydo” list) and did some miscellaneous stuff around our place on the banks of the Cloquet River. It’s not like I was doing this all by myself. My wife Rene’ was out in her flower gardens, pulling quack grass and working just as hard to make our place shine. So when we were done and our son and his buddies were content at play, we loaded up our old square stern aluminum canoe, fired up the Honda two horse, and went downriver in search of walleye.

The trip was delayed because Jimi Hendrix, the family dachshaund, ran franticly along the bank trying to keep pace. Rene’ solved the problem by locking him in the garage. We were home free. Not. Daisy, our very bright but slightly deranged black lab mix followed us. First, she dove in the cold waters of the river and crossed to the far side. I opened up the throttle on the motor in hopes we’d outrun her. But she hung with us, swimming back and forth across the wide river whenever she needed to cut off territory. Eventually, we came to the pool where we usually fish. And there was Daisy, a mile from home and soaking wet, waiting for us.

Daisy was entertained for the better part of an hour by a family of beaver who, not knowing her domestic upbringing, took her for a coyote. Every few minutes, the thunderous slap of a beaver tail sounded the alarm as the dog pawed and snuffled at a newly remodeled beaver lodge at the water’s edge. After a couple of hours of no fish, I loaded the meandering dog into the canoe and the three of us headed upriver. A solitary male partridge amorously drummed somewhere on a log in the depths of the maple scrub forest. Ducks took wing. A great blue heron rose slowly out of the marsh. The sun descended.

Another day on the river.