An Afternoon with Congressman Jim Oberstar, Including Four Insights for Young Writers

"My father told me when I graduated from high school, 'You have two choices. You can work in the mines, or go to college to create for yourself a better life... And it better be one that helps other people." 
Congressman Jim Oberstar

* * *

When Susie and I moved to Duluth in 1986 I was able to land a job as a writer at AMSOIL, a small but growing manufacturer of synthetic motor oils. I achieved this with a strong portfolio, four years of published work from our time in the Twin Cities where we'd bought our first house with money earned by painting apartments. Evenings, however, were devoted to freelancing with the hope that one day I'd be a full-time writer. 

During that time I attended two writers conferences that proved exceedingly helpful, and also joined a writers group, which led to a lifetime friendship with the late John Priin who took me under his wing, serving as a mentor for the early years of my fledgling writing career. 

In early 1988, a publisher in Minneapolis sought to assemble a magazine-sized voters guide that would provide an in-depth look at the Republican and DFL candidates for Congress. The aim was 5000 words on each canditate and "report card" style of Q&A for the various issues important to voters at the time. They had lined up seven writers for the seven Congressional districts but didn't have any ideas for Duluth. Someone evidently said, "Ed Newman moved to Duluth."

Out of the blue I received a phone call. The publication was to be called People and Politics. I was told that they would make arrangements with the candidates and I would only need to find a photographer who could get some photos. It became the highest paid freelance job of my career. 

Over the years I have several good meetings with Jim. His chief of staff, whom I ran into atthe library the following year, told me that Jim liked the article very much and said it was the best article ever written about him. (EdNote: Perhaps Inside-the-Beltway journalists aren't as concerned about being Minnesota nice.)

Congressman Oberstar had originally arranged for me to interview him at the Chisholm City Hall. After fifteen or twenty minutes he suggested we go to his mother's house and continue after. He wanted to call is wife in DC who was dealing with cancer. 

It seemed apparent that the neutral location had been chosen for our meeting in the event that I was maybe a journalist out to skewer him. Instead, I spent an hour with his mother and daughters who were cleaning up after their Sunday dinner. Oberstar and his family were so down-to-earth, thoughtful and kind. When he emerged from the other part of the house where he'd been on the phone, we headed off for an afternoon at Iron World.

The most memorable moment at Iron World, for me, was when the car came to a stop in the parking lot, it seemed like Jim's eyes changed. It was like the clear eyelids that go over a frogs eyes just slid over his expression so that he was transformed from the son/spouse/father persona into a public figure. There were crowds at the gate all greeting him, some calling out his name as if seeking recognition, and Jim waving, approaching, shaking hands, becoming the politician.

Looking back on the experience, I can see a few lessons for young writers. Here are three that come to mind.

1. Be Connected
I never did learn how my name came up for consideration to do this story for People and Politics. I've always assumed it was someone from the writers group I'd been part of, though it may have been one of the two writers conferences. I met a variety of editors at each. Perhaps I'd made a good impression with one of these?

2. Reputation Matters
I've always attempted to maintain a high standard for my work. Even more important, from an editor's point of view, would be the writers ability to meet deadlines. My first published article was heavily edited. No one saw that except H.K. (the editor) and me. One thing an editor cannot do it edit a blank page. When it comes to writing assignments, I can honestly say I've never missed a deadline.

3. Initiative
Chance favors those who prepare. Besides accumulating bylines, I worked hard to produce good work. Over time I've continued to read books and listen to lectures about writing. You're never too old to learn a few new tricks. 

4. You Never Know Where Things Will Lead
If you're motivated (for me I believed it was a calling) writing can land you a job as a writer. Once inside the door, If you're at a good company you'll have opportunities to fan your cards and get noticed. My career in advertising/PR/marketing began with taking initiative.

When I asked Congressman Oberstar how he got into politics, he said, "It was just all by accident. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, 'The greatest adventures in life are those we do not go forth to seek.'" He then shared how he intended to become a missionary in Haiti. He learned French as part of that preparation. After meeting his wife he ended up in Washington, and the world of politics. 

There's an interesting twist here. Steve Jobs famously audited a class in calligraphy after dropping out of college. Years later, this exposure to fonts led to the MacIntosh with its more elegant graphical interface. Once Jim Oberstar was in Congress, the Quebec media, seeking out people who could address audiences in their native tongue, soon found their inside man. 

President U.S. Grant began his autobiography with this same sentiment: "Man proposes, God disposes." 

* * * 

This past week I came across an envelope with these photos from that day, photography by Dan Grandmaison. It triggered a batch of memories and a few thoughts about that time in my writing career. The Republican candidate was Jerry Shuster. 

One of the questions I asked each was, "What are your strengths?" This gave each man a lob pitch to hit a home run if they wished. (These interviews were at separate on separate days.) I then followed up with, "What's your greatest weakness." Jim, a seasoned veteran of hard questions, replied, "Chocolate."

Why “Sonny” Resonates Across Generations

Sometime this winter a recording of the song "Sonny" by the Irish folk singer Mary Black, accompanied by Emmylou Harris and Dolores Keane, ended up on my playlist. No matter how often I play this haunting melancholic song it touches me.  

"Sonny" (originally titled "Sonny's Dream") is a folk song written in 1976 by Canadian (Newfoundland) singer-songwriter Ron Hynes. In 1991 Mary Black recorded a highly popular version that appeared on her 1992 compilation album A Woman's Heart. Her rendition of this song helped make A Woman's Heart the best-selling album in Irish history (up till that point in time, surpassed in 1998 by David Gray's White Ladder), introducing it to a much wider international audience. 

Until researching the backstory, I was unfamiliar with Ron Hynes (1950–2015), who has been called “the man of a thousand songs” and was a cornerstone of Newfoundland folk music. Hynes wrote “Sonny’s Dream” while on a road trip with his band in western Canada. He based it on his uncle, Thomas “Sonny” O’Neill, who taught young Ron to play guitar and strongly encouraged him to pursue music professionally. 

The song draws from the real tensions in Hynes’ own life and Newfoundland culture: the pull between staying rooted in a rural, often isolated homeland (the “Rock”) and the lure of leaving for bigger dreams. It captures the emotional weight of family duty, emigration, and what’s left behind—common themes in both Newfoundland and Irish folk traditions. 

The track first appeared on recordings by Hynes’ band, The Wonderful Grand Band. It spread to Europe when Scottish folk artist Hamish Imlach heard it in Canada, made slight modifications, and performed it in British folk clubs. Christy Moore then brought it to Ireland, where Mary Black recorded her version (titled simply “Sonny”) with producer Dónal Lunny. That recording, with its haunting harmonies and gentle arrangement, became iconic in Ireland. 

Mary Black’s original single didn't include any vocal accompaniment. The collaborative version below with Emmylou Harris and Dolores Keane appeared on later releases.

The Long Echo of “Don’t Go Away”

The lyrics tell a poignant, multi-generational story in simple, poetic language. Here’s the full set (as recorded by Mary Black):

Sonny lives on a farm, in a wide open space

Take off your shoes, stay out of the race

Lay down your head, on a soft river bed

Sonny always remembers the words Mamma says.  

Chorus:

Sonny don’t go away, I’m here all alone

Your Daddy’s a sailor, never comes home,

Nights are so long, silence goes on,

I’m feeling so tired and not all that strong.  

Sonny works on the land, though he’s barely a man

There’s not much to do but he does what he can

Sits by his window in his room by the stairs

Watching the waves drifting soft on the pier.  

[Chorus repeats]  

Many years have rolled on, Sonny’s old and alone

His Daddy the sailor, never came home

Sometimes he wonders what his life might have been

But still from the grave Mamma's voice haunts his dreams.  

[Final chorus] 

It follows Sonny from youth to old age. His mother’s repeated plea—“Sonny don’t go away”—keeps him anchored to the family farm by the sea. His absent sailor father and the mother’s loneliness create a powerful sense of duty and guilt. Even after her death, her words echo, leaving Sonny to wonder about the roads not taken while remaining tied to home.

The more you listen, the more you find to think about. At the center is the tension between family duty and personal dreams, between chasing your own path and the responsibilities (and guilt) that come with staying to care for loved ones. Sonny’s life is an uneasy mix of quiet sacrifice and quiet regret.

A secondary theme has to to with how a mother’s words shape Sonny’s entire life—even from beyond the grave. It’s a reminder of how deeply our early family experiences can define (or limit) us. In my own life there many things my mother said that shaped me to a large extent. One of these was from John Greenleaf Whittier, "For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.'" Perhaps this was a motivating impetus to my trying so many things over the course of a lifetime. And perhaps this, at root, was what Sonny was struggling with.

Ironically, there are costs in whatever choices we make, whether staying or leaving. In Newfoundland and Irish contexts, this resonates with generations who faced emigration. The song doesn’t judge; it simply shows the emotional reality on both sides—the loneliness of those who stay behind and the quiet ache of those who remain.

On the other hand, how important is the rat race really? Lines like “Take off your shoes, stay out of the race” celebrate the peace of rural life even while acknowledging its constraints. The song invites reflection on what “success” really means.

Another feature of the song is the weight of loneliness. The mother’s vulnerability and Sonny’s eventual solitude highlight the universal human need for connection and the pain of abandonment (whether through death, absence, or leaving home). This year alone I've heard of two couples who when the first died the second passed only months later.

Overall, “Sonny” is a gentle, melancholic meditation on life choices, love, regret, and the invisible ties that bind families. Mary Black’s warm, heartfelt delivery make it an emotional touchstone for many listeners, evoking strong feelings about home, duty, and what we leave behind. 

Here is Mary Black's 1991 version with Harris and Keane 

that I've been listening to which I find especially moving. 

As a MacGregor on me mother's side, I can't post this without noting 

the accompaniment: fiddle, accordion, guitar and bagpipes. 

Painting by the author, acrylic on panel, 24" x 36"

Journal Notes from the Summer of '93

In early 1993, I pitched a book idea to Thomas Nelson Publishing and a movie concept to a producer on the set of Iron Will, and within a month both offered me opportunities to move forward.

While working full-time, I created a tight eight-month plan with two critical deadlines: August 1 for the book and October 1 the screenplay. But then my wife Susie threw me a curveball. She'd had enough of living in town and wanted us to go house-hunting so we could move to the country that year. To do all three felt like more than I could handle. I countered with this: she could go house hunting with a friend and after August 1 I would go see what they found. 

Sure enough, she brought me to look at a house on August 2, and by the end of the week we were owners of 8+ acres, a house and two garages--his and hers. By October we moved in and the screenplay was completed as well. 

Here are a few select entries from my journal that summer.

Seeds / Journal Notes

Proverbs 17:3

The crucible is for silver,

the furnace for gold.

The Lord tries hearts.

 

D.H. writes of our tendency as grapes to complain about the instruments God chooses when crushing us to produce holy wine.

June 23, 1993

 

Monday Ralph had a dream that I brought him two Bibles. Afterwards he said, “Who gave me this dream?”  I suggested that when he reads the Bibles, he’ll find out.

June 30, 1993

 

We remember our dreams to our own peril.    
June 30, 1993

 

At root I am depressed by the thought that I am not going to “make it” as a writer. That is, that I do not have the drive, the “neurotic passion” that is sufficient to make it.  That is, I allow other things to distract me, diffuse my energy, divert me from my course. I am not writing every day, every night.  And even though I am far more productive than my peers, it seems that I create illusions that give the impression that I am much more than I am. Do I have what it takes? Or am I just a small peeper making big noises that carry with the wind?

July 2, 1993

 

Our lives are written in time like words upon a scroll, with none of it to be erased.

July 3, 1993

 

I have labored these many years to produce a body of work. Today it seems so small… with so many stories yet to tell.  
July 5, 1993

  

There were four of us, brothers… till the four winds scattered us ‘cross the wild unwatered plains while the seeds of future dreams are nourished by private wells.

July 17, 1997

Is the Population Bombing? Why Immigrants Will Empty the Boomers’ Bedpans

For decades I’ve thought about how some day, when Baby Boomers are in their twilight years, the borders would have to be opened in order to have enough people to empty our bedpans when we’re in nursing homes. I just couldn’t imagine there’d be sufficient staff to take care of the needs of this generation as their turn on the circle of life came to a close.

As it turns out, there has already been a large influx of immigrants staffing nursing homes today. Meanwhile there is another variable at play, a historic decline in our global population.

This weekend I was listening to a discussion with Nick Eberstadt about this topic and although I was aware that some European countries were seeing population declines, I had no idea how global it was.

For the first time since the Black Death (bubonic plague) in the 14th century, the world's population is poised to decline — not because of war, famine, pestilence, or disaster, but due to sustained below-replacement fertility.

 

Since the 1300s, global population has grown roughly 20-fold through steady (if uneven) growth, as birth rates consistently exceeded death rates. Today, however, global health and longevity continue to improve overall, but fertility rates are now falling below the ~2.1 births per woman needed for long-term population stability. Eberstadt suggests the world may already have crossed into net below-replacement territory.

 

When I went to college, the “big thing” was quite contrary. Paul Ehrlich’s 1968 The Population Bomb warned of explosive growth and mass starvation. Because of the Vietnam War, colleges were overcrowded because being a student was one way to get a draft deferment. How this impacted me personally was that some of the required 101-level classes were filled, so they created a catchall class called Zero Population Growth. I wrote the required papers, but never bought into the Ehrlich narrative. In hindsight the class was a classic example of academics telling us what to think instead of how to think.

 

It was a theory presented as fact. What was missing was that science, technology and free markets could solve the food issue and other issues as they arose, because that is the nature of Capitalism. See a problem, use your brain and imagination, and profit from solving the problem. 

 

The new reality is the opposite: fertility collapse, not overpopulation. This is a voluntary, peacetime phenomenon driven by cultural, economic, and social changes in childbearing patterns — described as “entirely new” in human history. Here are some stats that show how pervasive the issue is.

 

East Asia (China, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan)

By 2022, populations in all these countries were already declining. Regional fertility is about 50% below replacement — approaching or below 1.0 birth per woman in places like South Korea, Taiwan, and large parts of China. What this means is that each new generation of newborns is roughly half the size of the parental generation.

 

In China specifically, the one-child policy (1979) was relaxed in 2016 so you could have two childre, but births dropped by about half afterward anyways. Eberstadt sees this as a “massive vote of no confidence” in the regime — people aren’t having more children despite policy changes and incentives.

 

India

Overall fertility has fallen to sub-replacement levels. In Kolkata (formerly Calcutta), fertility dropped to around 1.0 birth per woman by 2021 — lower than in major German or Italian cities. This transformation occurred in roughly one lifetime, from roughly 5 births per woman in the mid-1970s to current low levels.

 

Europe (including Russia)

The decline has been occurring for half a century. In Russia there are 17 million more deaths than births since the fall of the Soviet Union. In the European Union (27 countries), births fell from 6.8 million in 1964 to just under 3.7 million in 2023.

There are fewer births in France today than in 1806 (during the Napoleonic era). As a result, much of Europe is now a “net mortality zone” (more deaths than births), with the gap widening.

 

Latin America, Caribbean, North Africa, and Middle East

There’s been a broad decline in birth rates across all these regions. Iran and Turkey, too. 

.

Broader Implications 

The decline is widespread and rapid on a historical timescale. East Asia and Europe are already experiencing absolute population shrinkage.The interview cuts off just as it appears to note that only limited parts of the world (likely sub-Saharan Africa) remain above replacement — setting up the follow-up segment I haven’t listened to yet.

Eberstadt frames this as a profound, under-appreciated turning point in human history: the end of centuries of growth and the start of an “Age of Depopulation,” driven by choices around family size rather than external catastrophes. The tone is measured but urgent, emphasizing how counterintuitive this is for those raised on overpopulation narratives.

 

Ironically, in the midst of Europe’s population decline amongst native Westerners, Ayaan Hirsi Ali draws attention to the growth of Islamic immigrant culture by means of both immigration and reproduction. Did you know that over the past two years the #1 boys name in England and Wales has been Muhammad? That's a whole 'nother story.

What are your thoughts on the world's population decline?

Feel free to leave a comment below.

Father and I: Par Lagerkvist Adds Layers of Meaning to a Simple Sunday Stroll

"Father and I" is a story I've run across in at least a couple anthologies over the years. It's always a rewarding read, so I will share this as a companion piece to Par Lagerkvist's Barabbas, which I wrote about yesterday.

"Father and I" may be one of Lagerkvist's finest short works. It's masterfully simple. On the surface, almost nothing happens. A nine- or ten-year-old boy spends a Sunday afternoon walking through the countryside with his father, a railway worker. They listen to birds, smell the spring air, throw stones into a stream, and walk along the railroad tracks where the father greets passing engineers by name. The world is harmonious, ordered, and familiar.

When darkness falls. everything changes. As they head home the same woods become threatening. The stream that had murmured pleasantly now roars like an abyss. The telegraph poles no longer "sing" but seem to rumble ominously from deep within the earth. The boy's excitement over a glowworm goes unnoticed by his father, creating the first hint of emotional separation.

At the story's culmination  an unexpected black train rushes past in the darkness. The father, who has recognized every train and every engineer throughout the day, stops and says in surprise: "Strange, what train was that? And I didn't recognize the driver." Then they walked on in silence, though the boy's body was shaking and his mind now supercharged with anxious thoughts about the future.

The story elements are freighted with meaning. The father represents certainty, tradition, continuity, and a world in which everything has a place. He knows every track, every timetable, every engineer. He possesses an unquestioned faith that gives coherence to reality. But suddenly there is a train that belongs to another order entirely—a train hurtling through darkness toward a destination the father cannot imagine.

The boy realizes that this unknown train is, in a sense, his own future. He will one day be leaving the secure world of childhood and entering a modern existence filled with uncertainty, alienation, and questions his father cannot answer.

What strikes me most is how this story anticipates Barabbas. In both works Lagerkvist writes about human beings suspended between worlds. The father inhabits a world of inherited faith; the son enters a world of existential doubt. Sahak possesses certainty; Barabbas longs for it but cannot attain it. Both protagonists are haunted by something absent—a security, a faith, a meaning that seems just beyond reach.

Lagerkvist's gift is that he never argues these ideas philosophically. He lets a walk through the woods, the sound of telegraph poles, or a black train disappearing into the night carry the entire weight of the human condition. The boy's fear isn't simply fear of the dark. One day he will board his own train for destinations unknown.

* * *

Reading the story always brings to mind a number of my own personal experiences with trains. It also brings to mind a story by Mike Savage about a father and son,  and a train, The Lost Locomotive of the Battle-Axe.  A youth joins his father for his first deer hunt in the brutal sub-zero snow of the northern woods. Bundled in wool and facing biting cold, the boy trudges through deep powder as they track big bucks. Amid the stark beauty and hardship, he helps field-dress a kill, confronting blood, guts, and the raw realities of manhood. The “lost locomotive” metaphor captures the father’s powerful, steam-like presence and the boy’s emerging sense of maturity. It’s a concise, visceral coming-of-age tale about initiation, father-son bonding, and the chill of growing up.

I also think there is an autobiographical element that makes the story especially poignant. It feels like Lagerkvist looking back across decades to the precise moment he sensed that he was departing from the unquestioned Christianity of his childhood into the uncertainty that would characterize both his life and his writing. The father is loved and admired, but he cannot accompany the son on the journey ahead.

Both stories revolve around fathers, sons, trains and mysteries. 

Read Par Lagerkvist's story here: Father and I

Haunted by Grace: Reflections on Pär Lagerkvist's Barabbas

From quite early in my life I've been drawn to European authors, though at that time I didn't know why. Later I realized that living through the World Wars and other horrors of the past centuries has produced a depth of consciousness which to some extent many Americans have only skimmed the surface. Over there, millions died and millions more lived in want while dreading potential outcomes, displacement and personal upheavals. 

One of the books I read in a fiction class in college was called Continental Short Stories. If you're a fledgling short story writer, I highly recommend acquiring short story anthologies as a way of getting introduced to new writers. (The same goes for readers, naturally.) In this volume you'll find Sarte, Kafka, Borges, Camus, Aichinger, Boll and many others including my first encounter with Pär Lagerkvist in a story called "Saviour John." 

Barabbas was published in 1950. The following year Lagerkvist received his Nobel Prize in Literature. The book explores faith, doubt, guilt, and the search for meaning through the eyes of the man who was released instead of Jesus.

What strikes me about Lagerkvist's writing was the clarity of his prose--spare, direct, and unadorned, yet filled with gravitas. He's not focused on literary acrobatics. Rather, his aim is the quiet exploration of extraordinary themes.

The novel begins with the familiar biblical scene. Barabbas, a murderer and insurrectionist, watches as the crowd chooses his freedom and Christ's crucifixion. Although he is physically liberated, he becomes psychologically imprisoned by the event. Why was he spared? Who was this man who died in his place? And why do others believe He rose from the dead?

What a starting point. Everything flows out from this momentous event.

Unable either to believe or to forget, Barabbas drifts through life as an outsider. He witnesses the early Christian movement but remains skeptical. He meets followers of Christ whose certainty only deepens his own uncertainty. He longs to believe but finds himself incapable of faith.

Throughout the novel, Lagerkvist presents Barabbas as a man haunted by absence. He is neither a committed pagan nor a Christian, but someone suspended between belief and unbelief. His encounters with suffering, love, violence, and death never resolve his inner conflict. Instead, they intensify it.

Eventually Barabbas is taken to Rome as a slave, where he works in the mines alongside Christian prisoners. There he develops a deep friendship with Sahak, a simple but unwavering believer. Their contrasting responses to suffering become the emotional center of the novel. Sahak possesses a certainty Barabbas envies but cannot attain.

After Sahak's execution, Barabbas continues wandering through a world that seems both empty and mysteriously charged with divine possibility. During Nero's persecution of Christians, he is arrested and crucified alongside them—not because he fully understands or embraces their faith, but because he has come to identify himself with the One who died in his place.

The story ends ambiguously. Rather than presenting faith as easy certainty, Lagerkvist explores the possibility that some people spend their entire lives circling belief, haunted by grace yet unable to grasp it fully. The novel asks whether doubt itself may be a form of seeking—and whether redemption can reach even those who never find complete certainty.

The novel is also about identity, for as John Donne wrote:

No man is a island
Entire of itself

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main. 

In this sense, the story of Barabbas intersects with our story as well. Barabbas is not merely a man from the first century. He is every person who has wanted to believe but struggled to do so, every seeker caught between skepticism and hope, every wanderer haunted by the possibility that grace might be real.

The genius of Lagerkvist's novel is that it transforms an obscure biblical figure into Everyman—a soul searching for meaning in a world where faith and uncertainty walk side by side, where doubt is not always the enemy of belief but sometimes the road that leads us toward it.