All posts by Lars Walker

Authors, Fiction, Religion, Uncategorized

Of Northmen and Kingsnorth

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Now I draw toward the conclusion of a brief, strenuous stretch of days leading up to the rigors of a long airline flight (different from prison incarceration, as I often say, mainly in that you’re likely to get out of prison ahead of schedule). Friday I drove up to Brainerd to speak to the convention of the 1st District of the Sons of Norway. Spoke twice on Viking Legacy and got a very good response. My only disappointment was that somehow I was boneheaded enough not to check my stock of the book. I had three copies to sell of the book I was promoting. Well done, Marketing Genius! I did have plenty of my novels, The Year of the Warrior and West Oversea (see the upper right, if you’d like to buy them), and they went pretty well.

Anyway, it was a good experience, though driving two hours (each way) is more of a challenge than it used to be – not so long ago, it seems.

Then on Sunday it was Danish Day at the Danish-American Center in Minneapolis. Last year I planned to go, but that was when Mrs. Ingebretsen, my poor PT Cruiser, broke down. The sequel to that, as you may recall, was three-and-a-half months without my car.

This year I crossed my fingers and made it. Nice day, and a good number of our Viking club members showed up to wear costumes and fight with blunt swords. The younger ones did the fighting – I looked on with a paternal smile. I only sold one book, but I never sell much at Danish Day. It was good to be out there again with my A-frame tent. And the young people were very good to help with the loading, unloading, and setting up. And down.

Our friend Gene Edward Veith has a fascinating post today (behind a paywall, alas, but I’ll link to it here anyway) about the novelist Paul Kingsnorth, previously unknown to me, who has quite a conversion story – out-Lewising C. S. Lewis himself. He went from being an atheist to being an environmentalist, to being a seeker, then a Wiccan:

I had known, I suppose, that the abyss was still there inside me—that what I was doing in the woods, though affecting, was at some level still play-acting. Then, one night, I dreamed of ­Jesus. The dream was vivid, what he had looked like. The crux of the matter was that he was to be the next step on my spiritual path. I didn’t believe that or want it to be true. But the image and the message reminded me of something strange that had happened a few months before. My wife and I were out to dinner, celebrating our wedding anniversary, when suddenly she said to me, “You’re going to become a Christian.” When I asked her what on earth she was talking about, she said she didn’t know; she had just had a feeling and needed to tell me. My wife has a preternatural sensitivity that she always denies, and it wasn’t the first time she had done something like this. It shook me. A Christian? Me? What could be weirder?

Eventually he found a home in the Romanian Orthodox Church. His full account can be read on his blog here.

Dr. Veith says he’s ordering Kingsnorth’s novel Alexandria. But since it’s the third book of a trilogy, I can’t resist starting with the first installment, The Wake.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Manual of Detection,’ by Jedediah Berry

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On Suspects

They will present themselves to you first as victims, as allies, as eyewitnesses. Nothing should be more suspicious to the detective than the cry for help, the helping hand, or the helpless onlooker. Only if someone has behaved suspiciously should you allow for the possibility of his innocence.

Charles Unwin, hero of The Manual of Detection, is not a detective, but a clerk. He works for a famous detective agency and has the honor of being the clerk entrusted with documenting the cases of Travis Sivart, the greatest detective in the world. Charles is fussy and punctilious, leading an utterly conventional and predictable life in an unnamed city where it’s always raining, and the historical period is ambivalent.

But recently he has changed his routine. Instead of going straight to the office in the morning, he makes a detour to the Central Station, where a young woman in a plaid coat stands every morning waiting for someone who never arrives. Charles fears the day when that person does show up, and he’ll be unable to see her anymore.

One day when he goes to work, he gets a shock. He has been promoted. Detective Sivart has disappeared, and Charles has been named his replacement. This is absurd. Charles is the least qualified person in the world to be a detective. Still, he wants Sivart to come back, so things can go back to normal. So the first case he tackles is Sivart’s disappearance.

Also, the woman in the plaid coat turns out to be his replacement as clerk. He can’t talk to her though, because detectives and clerks are not allowed to socialize.

In his feckless way, Charles will gradually uncover bizarre facts about the bizarre world in which he lives. About old crimes supposed to be closed, and the derelict carnival down by the river, and hypnotism and a criminal mastermind, about the lost final chapter of The Manual of Detection, and about the third, secret division of the detective agency.

I’m told The Manual of Detection is reminiscent of Jose Luis Borges, an author I’ve always been meaning to get around to. It reminded me of Alice in Wonderland, crossed with A Winter’s Tale. In any case it was inventive and amusing, and I read it with great enjoyment. Beautifully written.

Recommended.

Music, Reviews

Streaming review: ‘Runestone! A Rock Musical’

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I went together with a friend to stream the Minnesota Historical Society’s production of Runestone! A Rock Musical on Saturday. This review will be entirely useless to you, because the show’s run is now finished, but I figured I’d report on it anyway, for the benefit of future generations. And also to fill blog space.

The production is a fairly low-budget affair, presented on a circular stage (but not theater in the round – the audience sat in front). A screen behind the actors, for most of the program, concealed the band members. Costumes and staging were minimal – the men tended to wear suspenders or vests, to suggest 19th Century clothing, and a few props were set up to suggest settings – including, oddly, a tractor to indicate the farm, though the main character died well before such vehicles became common. A small cast filled the roles, most of them playing more than one (this was exaggerated in the performance that was streamed, as a couple actors were missing. Other actors filled their parts “on book,” sometimes crossing gender lines).

The production opened with a mealy-mouthed statement from the director or somebody, which included a groveling declaration of their profound awareness of the fact that they were standing on stolen land, and declaring their commitment to the goal of “decolonization.” I’m not entirely sure what decolonization means in real life. I’m inclined to think it means genocide.

The drama goes on to portray Swedish-American farmer Olaf Ohman and his son in 1898, as they discover a carved stone buried in the roots of a tree on their farm near Kensington, Minnesota. The local banker persuades Olaf to display the stone in the bank window, and rhapsodizes about the possibility of making Kensington a tourist destination. Preliminary statements from Minnesota historians tend to support the stone’s authenticity, and spirits are high, until a Norwegian scholar dismisses the whole thing as a hoax.

At this point the actors switch to an alternate narrative, describing how Ohman, the banker, and a neighbor could have colluded to create the stone simply as an exercise in “rural humor,” meant to trick the city folks and have a laugh at their expense.

Now Ohman becomes a pariah, a subject of ridicule. He takes the stone back home with him and tries to forget it all until he’s approached by the writer Hjalmar Holand (they pronounce “Hjalmar” wrong), who takes possession of the stone (there’s some disagreement about whether Ohman sold it to him or not), and turns it into his own meal ticket, giving many lectures and writing several popular books. This leads to a final break between Ohman and Holand.

The production seems to lack any interest in making a judgment on the question of authenticity. This is fair, I suppose, and certainly prudent in a state where feelings still run high on both sides in some circles. But it’s also kind of cowardly, and makes the production more a documentary than a work of art. I might mention that the “flashback” scenes depicting the voyage of the Norsemen who may have carved the stone feature very tacky costumes including crude horned helmets. This obscures the important fact that these men (if they ever existed) were 14th Century Scandinavian Christians who’d probably have been offended to be called Vikings. If Vikings ever wore horned helmets. WHICH THEY DID NOT!

I’ve always been touchy about urban productions portraying country people (I hated the Andy Griffith Show and Green Acres back in the day). So it may mean nothing that I found the portrayals here arch and sometimes borderline insulting.

The music was not memorable. This was no Tommy or Jesus Christ, Superstar. None of the songs lingered in the mind. Sasha Andrews did a pretty good job portraying Ohman. But all in all, I found Runestone! A Rock Musical unimpressive.

Fiction, Reviews

‘But the Doctor Died,’ by Craig Rice

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It’s a strange and somewhat disquieting experience for me to discover a classic mystery series from the Fifties of which I’d never heard. This is the John J. Malone series, written by “Craig Rice,” which turns out to be a nom de plume for Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, a troubled and alcoholic writer who kept much of her life private. I thought as I read this book that it had the feel of a book written by a woman, because of the nature of the women’s conversations. I didn’t think a man could easily write that kind of dialogue.

However, I am informed, by an Amazon reviewer and by the author’s Wikipedia page, that this is almost certainly a ghostwritten book. So a guy might have written it anyway. And wouldn’t my male chauvinist face be red if that’s true?

In any case, the book is But the Doctor Died, the final book-length work in the series. I picked it up because I got a deal on the Kindle Version. John J. Malone is a Chicago lawyer, on the seedy side of the profession. He’s scrappy and aggressive and has his own code of conduct, which doesn’t always coincide with the laws on the books. In this story, John is defending a small-time criminal, but the cops have got him locked up somewhere he can’t locate. Then a poor mother comes to him to ask him to defend her son, who is completely innocent (actually he’s a bum, but a client’s a client).

Then he sees his friend Helene Justus, wife of Jake Justus, night club owner, on the street. He’s fond of them both, but secretly in love with Helene. She is walking along the sidewalk in a haze, carrying a bag of confetti, and doesn’t seem to recognize him. He will soon learn that she’s gone to work for a top-secret government agency, where suspicious things are happening.

The whole thing gets pretty complicated. Incredibly complicated. I found the plot wholly impossible to follow. But I understand that’s how these books are – light, improbable hard-boiled stuff.

I should probably read a book by the actual author before I judge her work. I may just do that. Even in this form, I found the characters intriguing.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Pictures to Die For,’ by Stuart Doughty

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If James Bond had been an art theft investigator instead of a spy, he’d probably be something like John Kite. I couldn’t help imagining him with Roger Moore’s appearance and voice.

His real name is not John Kite. He discovered, after growing up in luxury, that his parents were part of organized crime. So he broke all ties with them, assumed a new identity, and devoted himself to fighting art crime.

In Pictures to Die For, Book 3 in the series, John is babysitting the transport of a ridiculously valuable painting by a very hot, recently deceased artist, in Florida. But the armored car carrying the painting is struck by a rocket-propelled grenade and vaporized. Why would anyone want to destroy such a valuable object?

Witnesses report a mysterious man and woman making inquiries at John’s motel just before the crime. He will need to try to trace them and talk to them.

Then suddenly he’s contacted by Rochelle, his former partner, now married to an English lord. She says her husband has disappeared, and she’d like John to look for him. John still cherishes feelings for Rochelle, so he’ll try to help her with her problem too. His journey will take him to Brussels, and at last back to the US for a cinematic final showdown with a criminal mastermind.

If this plot sounds like it belongs in a Hollywood thriller, that’s because it does. Indeed, the author, Stuart Doughty, spent his career in the film industry, and obviously learned the formula. Do not look for realism in this book. John Kite is as indestructible and unbelievable as Jason Bourne or Rambo.

However, I was surprised by the quality of the writing. Author Doughty knows what he’s doing with words. And that bought a lot of goodwill from this reader.

I will consider reading more John Kite books. There’s nothing substantial here, but it’s enjoyable entertainment, suitable for popcorn.

Religion, Uncategorized

‘The Mansions of the Lord’

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I always post “The Mansions of the Lord” on Memorial Day, because no other song I know expresses it like that one does. It doesn’t work theologically, but even I have to just go with my heart sometimes.

As I wrote in The Year of the Warrior, playing fast and loose with theology in my own right:

“It’s strange to die this way, and me a Christian. If I were heathen yet, I’d know that Odin would welcome me to Valhalla. What welcome has Christ for a warrior, Father?”

I had no quick answer, and Moling must have seen my trouble, because he asked what the boy had said. I told him.

“Tell him I’ve had a dream about Heaven,” said Moling. “The teachers tell us that the Beloved lives outside Time itself. He goes back and forth in it when He wills. And when we go to be with Him, we too will be outside Time.

“It seemed to me in my dream that at the last day the Beloved called together all the great warriors who had been brave and merciful, and who had trusted in His mercy, and He mustered them into a mighty army, and He said to them, ‘Go forth for Me now, My bonny fighters, and range through Time, and wherever there is cruelty and wickedness that makes the weak to suffer, and faithful to doubt My goodness, wherever the children are slain or violated, wherever the women are raped or beaten, wherever the old are threatened and robbed, then take your shining swords and fight that cruelty and wickedness, and protect my poor and weak ones, and do not lay down your weapons or take your rest until all such evil is crushed and defeated, and the right stands victorious in every place and every time. We will not empty Hell even with this, for men love Hell, but I made a sweet song at the beginning, My sons, and though men have sung it foul we will make it sweet again forever.’”

I said these words to Halvard in Norse, and he died smiling.

Goofing

The mark of Merlin

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Today started out kind of gray, but it gradually grew brighter and warmer. Right now it’s just about a perfect spring evening.

Got an amusing letter, from a friend. I’d give his name, but maybe one shouldn’t throw names around on the internet. Though one feels one ought to cite one’s sources.

Anyway, the letter came as a surprise. It was a one-page, photocopied missive, telling about what he’s been reading, and about being on vacation in Oregon. He said he found himself near the town of Merlin, Oregon. And he had a bunch of USPS dragon stamps.

He couldn’t resist sending a letter with a dragon stamp and the postmark, “MERLIN.”

Fiction, Reviews

‘Cannon’s Mouth,’ by W. Glenn Duncan

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Number 5 in W. Glenn Duncan’s amusing Rafferty series is Cannon’s Mouth. Hard-boiled detection on the lighter side of the scale (though plenty of dark stuff happens).

Rafferty, as you may recall, is a Dallas private eye. He’s surveilling a delivery man suspected of pilferage on a hot Dallas day, when he steps into a little park to spy from the shade. A small, pudgy man comes up to him and starts talking as if he knows him. Talks about murdering his business partner, who is ruining the business. Rafferty is so hot and impatient that he barely pays attention to the man. But afterwards he does his civic duty by alerting his friends on the police force, providing all the details he can remember. They’re not much impressed.

Until the named target shows up dead, the night before the “contract” had specified. Worse than that, Rafferty is the one who finds the body. Now he needs to do some quick dancing with suspicious cops, including the leader of a drug task force who’s taken an unexplained interest in the proceedings.

Even when he’s released, Rafferty’s problems aren’t over. Somebody is calling him to demand the money they “earned.” And they’re not above throwing a bomb or two to show they’re serious.

Cannon’s Mouth leans a little too heavily on coincidence in its plotting to please me. And, as always, Rafferty isn’t as funny as he thinks he is. Still, the book was likeable and diverting, and I can recommend it as light reading – the kind of book you’d enjoy taking to the beach this summer. Plus, it’s a couple decades old, so it doesn’t preach at you.

Uncategorized

“Next time…”

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Photo credit: Noah Silliman @noahsilliman. Unsplash license

I meant for this to be a more cheerful post. I’ve been feeling pretty good of late, and wanted to talk about it, once I’d caught up with book reviews. Today I’m caught up, but…

I’ve noticed I’ve been feeling unusually cheerful for some time now. I won’t say happy because, as I see it, real happiness involves good relationships. And I don’t really have much in that department, nor am I likely to.

But I’m used to being chronically depressed. It’s how I’ve always defined myself – I am a depressive person. Melancholic. I take pride in handling a chronic condition that some less fortunate folks don’t survive.

But – and it seems to go back to when I got booted from my job and started freelancing – I’ve been feeling pretty good for a while. To top if off, lately, in preparation for the Great Norway Trip, I’ve been seriously dieting. I’d dropped 15 pounds last time I checked. Also I’ve been exercising regularly at the gym. The other day I had to do some walking, and I found it was much easier than it had been some months ago. That’s a pleasant sensation, especially for an old man.

Yesterday was another good day. I had to take Mrs. Ingebretsen, my PT Cruiser, into the shop because the Check Engine light had come on. But they told me the problem wasn’t serious, and could easily be put off. On top of that, the light went off again today.

Even better, recently I’d been trying a new mental trick. It was based on an article I read in Reader’s Digest many, many years ago. I mean, before I graduated high school, I think.

The article, as I recall it (probably wrong), was written by a guy promoting an idea he’d gotten from a rabbi in his youth. The rabbi told him, when he had an embarrassing experience, not to beat himself up. Instead, say “Next time.” “Next time I’ll know to do it better.” “Next time I won’t make that same mistake.” Turning personal errors into learning experiences, rather than occasions for self-loathing.

For some reason, that article had stuck in my mind, even though I made no attempt whatever to put it into practice. But now I thought, what can it hurt to try? The next time a shameful memory popped up, I tried using the “next time” technique. And what do you know? It seemed to help. It’s early days in the experiment, but it looked good.

But that was before this morning. This morning I picked up my cell phone to check the usual suspects. I got a nice message from a nice person who’ll be hosting me in Norway. They’d bought me a ticket for something I’d enjoy doing. And I had to tell them I was already booked for that time slot. This was almost physically painful. I hate turning a kindness down. Kindness should be encouraged. There’s little enough of it in the world.

And then somebody commented on one of my posts on Facebook, and what they said really kicked me in a sensitive place. I don’t know if they meant it to hurt like that, but it did hurt. Still does.

And the day was rainy and gray and cold. And there’s that terrible news from Texas. I got nothing productive done, beyond my visit to the gym. Haven’t had a bad day like this for some time.

But tomorrow will be another chance at a day.

Next time, I’ll do it better. I hope.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Last Redemption,’ by Matt Coyle

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Her brown hair was slicked back into a bun above a face of sculpted symmetrical beauty. She wore a matching symmetrical smile that exuded all the warmth of a protractor.

I’d been following Matt Coyle’s Rick Cahill series of private eye novels, but somehow I’d missed the latest, Last Redemption, which came out in 2021. I missed a lot, as it turned out.

Rick Cahill is a San Diego PI, formerly a cop and a bartender. He struggles with guilt over past mistakes, and has been somewhat self-destructive in the past. But now his life has changed. He’s engaged to a woman he loves, Leah, and she’s pregnant. They plan to marry before the baby is born.

What he’s not telling Leah is that he’s been diagnosed with CRT, a brain damage condition common to pro football players. Repeated head traumas over the years are beginning to take their toll (I’ve always felt fictional private eyes get knocked out too often, without realistic effect). He occasionally suffers mental fugues, forgetting who he is and what he’s doing. And the doctor tells him his life expectancy is reduced. He’s going to tell Leah soon, but hasn’t made up his mind to it yet. Still, he’s changed his life. He’s not taking the hard-boiled jobs anymore. He’s doing security checks for companies. Simple office work, on his computer. Boring, but the income is good and he wants to be a family man now. To be around for them.

Then he hears from Moira, a fellow private eye who’s saved his life in the past. She’s worried about her son Luke, who’s a computer whiz. Luke had been working for a company that audits computer programs, and was checking out a medical technology startup that’s on the brink of a breakthrough in cancer treatment. But Luke has broken up with his girlfriend, who put a restraining order on him. And now he’s disappeared. And he’s suspected in a murder.

Well, how dangerous can this job be? Quick in, quick out, no hassle, right?

There will be hassle.

Last Redemption was well-written, gripping, and suspenseful. I enjoyed it immensely, and recommend it highly, along with the whole series. But this one was the best of the lot.