The year was 1993. My three oldest sons Matt, Dylan, and Chris (Jack had not yet been born), along with my wife René and I, were staying overnight in the Twin Cities on our way to visit friends in Chicago. On a whim, I thought my boys needed an impromptu education in civics.
“Let’s give Uncle Willard a call and see if he can get us in to watch the House in session.”
“That sounds fun,” my wife replied as she packed the last of our clothes in a suitcase.
“What are we doing, Dad?” Matt, our eldest and thirteen years old at the time, asked.
“We’re gonna visit Uncle Willard at the legislature. Maybe see him in action on the floor.”
“Cool”.
“What’s the debate about?” Dylan, our nine-year-old asked.
“Who knows,” I responded. “But wouldn’t it be neat to see your great uncle working for the people of Minnesota?”
The boys nodded in unison.
“Is Willard in?” I asked when I called his office at the Capitol.
“He’s on the floor. Can I help you?” his secretary responded.
“This is his nephew, Mark, from Duluth. We’re in town and I’d love to have my boys see their great uncle at work.
“I’ll call him,” the woman replied. “I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”
Twenty minutes later, Matt, Dylan, and I were standing on the floor of the Minnesota House of Representatives next to Uncle Willard. René and Chris watched from a gallery perched high above the crowd of politicians working the House floor. We listened as speaker after speaker rose to voice support or opposition to a bill. After one heated exchange, Matt turned to Willard and asked, “Why don’t those people agree with you?”
“Because they’re foolish,” Willard answered in his customary, curt tone. There needed to be, in my uncle’s estimation, no further explanation.
“Why don’t they want poor people to have insurance?” Matt asked me as Willard turned to discuss a point with a colleague.
“I don’t know Matt, I said. “Cost, I guess. There’s only so much money in the budget. Maybe other things seem more important than medical care.”
“It’s time to vote,” Willard finally said after concluding his exchange and coming back to us. He seemed to me, at the moment, a young man in an old man’s body.
Pointing to my sons, he said, “Come on. You two are going to cast my vote.”
A huge electronic voting board on a wall across the chamber began to light up with votes. Red meant a “no” vote, a vote against the passage of Minnesota Care. Green meant “yes”, a vote in support of expanding medical insurance coverage for those who couldn’t afford to buy private insurance.
The boys followed their great uncle. I watched from a distance as the boys and Willard stood in front of Willard’s desk, huddled together, and conferred. The discussion over, Matt and Dylan selected the appropriate button and pushed it. My boys smiled wide as Willard pointed at the tally board as a green light flickered, then glowed green next to the name “Munger”.
Thanks to the integrity, grit, and dedication of a life-long public servant, many disadvantaged folks in the State of Minnesota became eligible for health care coverage that day. And, though their names do not appear on the official register of the vote, thanks to their great uncle, my boys were an integral part of passing that measure into law.
Today, as the Cloquet River flows past our old Sears house, its waters swollen from weeks of torrential summer rain, I know I’m a blessed man. There are few places on the River where one can build a home. And we’ve learned as a family, as we plan to construct a new house on the far edges of our land, that many protections apply when building near the River. Some say this shouldn’t be. Some say the shores of our lakes and the banks of our rivers, streams, and creeks should be developed by whomever wants to do so, in whatever fashion the owners think appropriate.
The dean of Minnesota conservation, the lion of the wilderness, would disagree. He would say our children and our grandchildren need wild places, that all of us need access to forests, prairies, and waterways and lakes that haven’t been used or overbuilt to exhaustion. As I sit next to the boiling water of our River, I seek solace. I’m haunted by his eyes.
It’s funny. Until I stood over him at the hospital saying my final goodbye, I didn’t know the color of Willard’s eyes. Now, after having looked into them with intensity, I cannot forget their hue. Even to the last, my uncle’s eyes were a bright and defiant blue, the color of his beloved Lake Superior, the lake he desperately worked to save. Staring into those eyes, I told Willard I loved him. I told him that he’d done well. He smiled and slipped into sleep. Two days later, he left this world for the next.
Representative Willard Munger will be remembered by folks for the many things he accomplished over his long life. My children will remember him as the great uncle who let them vote on the floor of the Minnesota House of Representatives and as the man who saved their river.
(C) 2025, Mark Munger
