Nerstrand, Minnesota, at Bonde Farm

June 18, 2021

Those of us who aspire to be writers—who doesn’t? —should try writing for five minutes.  By the clock.  I can write that long while letting my mind drift.  So much good has happened in the past several days.  My nieceling, Kathleen Elizabeth Angel, went to Nerstrand, Minnesota, to the old Bonde farm where my grandfather Carl Bonde was born. Kate went by herself, of her own volition.  I am confident, she was greeted with open arms and extravagant hospitality.  Then she posed with a piglet for the fine photograph above.

Ugly truth:  the Bonde farm, with its 150 year-old stone house, is a factory pig farm.  I am not a vegetarian.  However, I respect those who are because I know it comes from venerable, deep beliefs.  It is also likely to be a pain in the ass.  I just finished reading, well, almost finished reading a folk novel by Wu Ch’eng-En, translated by Arthur Waley:  Monkey, a folk novel.  Expanded my brain and gave me a degree of enlightened thinking.

Some of the enlightened thoughts:  many times the shabbiest looking people are truly cosmic rock stars.  In other words, gods-come-to earth-types.  Other times the ogres of our world are the good guys.  Can’t always tell by looking, can we?

I saw a guy at the hardware store packing a pistol, sporting a shirt with a confederate flag. Tough looking! I’m thinking, huh! Maybe he’s one of the ogres. Hard to make that stretch. I think he’s misinformed and gullible.

I’m still trying to reconcile these thoughts with my experience with some of the old codgers I was friends with in my hippie days.