insearchofbud

Carol Ruth Bonde in 2016

Friday, September 16, 2016 1518

My grandma, Ellen Bonde, was 80 in 1967.  Therefore she was born in 1887.  Therefore 100 years ago, in 1916, she was 29 years old.  At that time she had her first three daughters, Corinne, Helen, and Carol Ruth, ages 6,4, and 1.  They had just moved from Faribault, Minnesota, to Kalispell, Montana.  They found a house to rent in Kalispell that would be quarantined in 1918 when her youngest child died in her arms of scarlet fever.  [One hundred years ago, the Great War, in which the Central Powers (Germany and Austria–Hungary, joined later by Turkey and Bulgaria) were defeated by an alliance of Britain and its dominions, France, Russia, and others, joined later by Italy and the US.]

The Great War must have seemed remote from Kalispell to the young couple, especially Ellen.  Carl Bonde worked as a wholesale grocer and Ellen was a stay-at-home mom.

Thursday, September 15, 2016

Trepidation means fear, but also trembling, which reminds me of the old radio program we used to listen to on KMET Los Angeles, the Dr. Demento Show.  In it, the doctor sometimes featured a piece about a “trepidation contest,”  really about flatulence.  Do you remember it?  Dr. Demento also had a syndicated program throughout the country and of course, you could buy recordings of Dr. Demento’s hits:  Fish Heads, Groucho singing “Hello, I must be going,” and other such goodies.

My daughter took us to see Dr. Demento on stage in Orange, California, once.  Surprisingly, the crowd was modest in an area of many millions.

Back to the trepidation contest.”  What I remember most was the description of the champion, a fellow named “Boomer,” who wore a powder blue suit with an opening in the butt area, trimmed with red and with a gold fringe.

Boomer approached the pole at the center of the arena, grasped it with both hands, then flexed his knees several times before letting his effort fly.  Boomer did not win the contest because on his third try he “splotched,” thus disqualifying himself.

Hard to let this image go when one is doing something serious, like, say, hammering a nail or paying a bill or listening to someone speak of spiritual things.

Last night we had three persons to our house from the church of the Fervently Religious to speak of spiritual things.  The spiritual things proved, well, spiritual.  Thus, elusive and few, so after our best efforts, we told our life stories.  A wise woman named Melodie told hers with such alacrity and with a true writer’s voice, that we were spellbound for many minutes.  Example:  her mother died five times.  Another:  she lied about her age so often she didn’t know how old her children were.  I wish other people could have been there.  Yes, she said she is a writer, but no, she has not published her story anywhere.  I think it is a pity.  So many stories of hers may remain unheard.

Another woman, Joy, also a writer, told her story and it turns out that 50 years ago P. and her mother were friends in Hall, Montana.  Why, this is where P. and I will ultimately be buried, I noted, in a plot of land in the (Flint Creek) Valley View Cemetery that cost $25.  Best price ever for a piece of real estate with no taxes to pay forever.  Not ever.

I baked the pies I had planned, along with a rhubarb.  I find that rhubarb pies practically bake themselves, they are so easy to make.  I love to bake them, but I enjoy eating them, as well.

Wednesday, September 14 @ 1250

I am feeling much, much, better after a nap.  Tonight I am planning to prepare and serve some vegetable pie to six guests.  I guess I’ll make two pies.  One of the people has celiac sprue, so I have to make the crust and everything absolutely gluten free.  Penny then will lead a discussion based on a dvd I haven’t seen yet.  We’ll use our video projector and screen to view it.  Can you tell this is simply a writing exercise?  I’m going to see how much I can write in 30 minutes.  Perhaps I’ll have to stop, but I plan to write for 30 minutes.

My project to tell about my lost uncle has sat idle since Crow Fair because someone told me they had lots of good feedback, but that someone didn’t have a chance to get to it, and the same someone is now busy getting out the vote in Ohio.  Possibly after the election in November?  I don’t know that I’ll hold my breath.

The “uncle” project is part true and part bullshit.  The writing group members where I attended for about six months urged me to fill in the parts of the story that I don’t know with made up stuff.  I did this and I think some of it is good, but the best things are those that are autobiographical, I am told.  Was told.  By the one who promised to write all over a draft of my book with its 34 chapters and about 100 pages.  Pretty short for a book.

In reading a novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez I am struck by the long views he takes of a 100-year period of history.  For example, he takes a look at something, then tells how things morph and live and die over the next few generations.  I am inspired.

I think I can write about my brother Tom that way.  I have his life from birth through his death.  Tom was born the same year my uncle died, in 1944.  My sister Carol was only five years old, she was born in 1939.  Carol was born in February, I was born in March, Tom was born in April.  Tom was born April 6, 1944, our uncle turned 21 in September of that year, and died in December of that year.  Christmas eve.

Tom was angry that our father died when he was a lad of nine.  Tom had been in cub scouts for a couple of years and had even done some projects with our father, but all that changed when our father died.  I never asked him about that, but for some reason Tom hated our mother, even though she always sent him money when he asked.  Tom came up with the cleverest ways of asking for money, even promising to pay it back sometimes, but I don’t know that he ever did.

I borrowed money from our mother and I did pay her back, but she didn’t spend the money.  Instead she opened a savings account in my name and deposited the money.  I remember when I withdrew the money after she died.  My friend Tad Henningsen’s father worked at the bank and when I told him that I had been in the Marines, he said that he was glad I was on the same side as he was.  I always thought that was an odd thing to say.

At this point I’ve been writing for about 15 minutes.

Tom was a mysterious fellow to me because for most of our lives we didn’t speak to each other.  Tom frequently shouted at me or called me names.  He said I was ugly and stupid and not capable of any kind of consecutive thoughts.  I think he was right, for the most part.  I know that I have become capable of consecutive thoughts through my training to be a pharmacist.  For example, many calculations need consecutive steps to solve.  They say that learning mathematics is equivalent to learning a foreign language like French.

I know Tom learned French in high school, same as I did.  I took a couple of semesters of college French, even passing them with low grades, but I abandoned French once I got out of the Marines.  I started in on Spanish to satisfy the foreign language requirement and got help from Tom’s ex-wife.  She knew how to pass a foreign language course.  You memorize the vocabulary words, she said.  I studied lists of vocab and she would come over and quiz me on them, over and over.  When I got an A in my first Spanish course I gave her a rose.  I didn’t have much money to do more than that.

I ended up taking two more semesters of Spanish, all in one summer that had two periods.  I took the courses from Jim Flightner and got A’s in each course.  Thus I got three A’s in three Spanish courses 101-102-103.  I was proud of that.  Later I took a course in Brazilian Portuguese and got an A in that.  Damned if I can speak any Spanish and certainly not any Portuguese.

I did have occasions to speak Spanish, and I can understand some Spanish when I hear it spoken on the radio or on television.  My spouse teases me, claims that I can speak Spanish fluently, but knows I can’t really speak Spanish at all.

We went to France three times, trying to research background for my book about my uncle.  Then we went to Chile, Argentina, and Costa Rica to tour around with my cousin Blaine.  The South and Central America trips would have given me ample opportunities to speak Spanish.  Oh yes, Penny, Todd, Susanna, Clara, and I went to Chihuahua, Mexico, to a place called Creel for perhaps a week.  This was just for a lark and it was one of the most fun vacations ever.

My 30 minutes of writing is up.

Gunther

Saturday, September 10, 2016

I learned a bit more about Gunther, a kind of “rat terrier.” In New York, a group called R.A.T.S. is composed of rat terriers and their owners and they, well, hunt rats for fun.  The street wisdom in New York is that everyone is always within 30 feet of a rat.  Despite their ubiquity, rats are secretive and hunt in the early mornings and evenings for, well, shit that people leave behind.

Back to the rat terriers.  Like Gunther.  I think I mentioned before that he is a kind of Brussels street dog that has historically hunted rats.  It’s in his genes.  I imagine the beautiful name “griffon,” that rhymes with chiffon, means “eager killer of rats.”

I hasten to add that, despite his heritage as an eager killer of rats, Gunther is still an emotional support dog for me.  I continue to be profoundly depressed, but under control, thanks to the psychiatrist’s art.  And thanks to the unconditional love of me, and of rats, by Gunther.

Friday, September 9, 2016

Now, let’s see.  No fable, nothing about Gunther, no chapter about Bud, no time traveling, no lovesick moping around after any girls, nothing about the mysterious and ancient Great North Trail.  What are some of the other themes?  Oh yes, hippie days, days of my youth, chemistry, photography, getting my finger chopped by the lawn mower.  Then there’s always writing itself.  Unfortunately, all of the themes are dry holes.  Nothing about cowboys or Indians.  Man!  If a person is only as good as their next piece, I don’t know what to expect.

P. and I put up nearly 40 campaign yard signs for Margaret MacDonald, Democrat, running for state Senate.  Holy cow.  Then we purchased a countertop and sink for our bathroom.  Goody.  Now I’ll have somewhere to keep my dental floss, etcetera.

Tonight we have tickets to see “In Conflict,” a play at NOVA about soldiers in Afghanistan.

The future:  I think the world will look congested, like Iwakuni, Japan; or Istanbul or Paris or any other old populated place.  Streets will be narrow and buildings will occupy every extra square inch of land.  People will learn how to become excruciatingly polite because the rude people will have become extincted long ago.  People will communicate through all avenues:  writing, speaking, physical actions, like dancing; electronic texting, and real-time video communication.  Yellow post-it notes will survive the next several millennia before something like the etch-a-sketch takes their place.

The word extincted will refer to persons killed by mobs of torch-bearing persons.

Men and women will be impossible to tell apart at first glance.  People will naturally gravitate toward those in the opposite “camp.”

People will be vegetarians because meat will be too costly for anyone.  Cows will be kept for milk, chickens kept to lay eggs, but most of the people will eat rice and beans and other grains, vegetables, and legumes.  Kale will be a delicacy.  Same for various kinds of mushrooms and seaweed.  Berries will sell for many astrobucks.

Oil as we now get from oil wells will be used exclusively for manufacturing medicines and for lubricating machinery.  All electricity will be from renewables, such as plants, wind, solar, hydro.  Nuclear will have been deemed too dangerous and old reactors will be strictly quarantined.  (See “extincted.”)

A typical household will consume very little electricity to light its LCD bulbs and to heat water for cooking.  Wealthy people will have central heating with geothermal systems, but most people will dress warmly and sit within warm modules in their otherwise-cold houses.

Transportation will be by foot, bicycle, velocicycle, public transportation or electronic teleportation.  Private cars will be obsolete because there will be no fuel to run them, not even electricity.  Sure, important political figures will have private transportation, but mostly by air, not by road.  Air transport will be via balloon, not propeller, not by jet.

Language will become ever more concentrated.  English will sound different than it does now.  You know how a teenage girl talks these days?  Everyone will talk that way in the future.  Fast and high and with lots of new words that will take the place of entire sentences and paragraphs.  A person from our era would not be able to understand a future English speaker.

Prisons will be larger than ever.  In fact, every normal person will be in some sort of prison, depending upon their trustworthiness.  There will be twenty grades of prison, from minimal minimum (M&M) to heavy duty locked away (HDLA).  In every case, the sentences will be just six months before one can be released to the next lower level of security.  It would take about ten years for someone in HDLA to earn total freedom, but before then someone would likely have bludgeoned him to death.

Weapons?  Everyone who isn’t in prison can have all of the firearms they want.   Trouble is, hardly anyone will not be in some sort of prison.  Paranoia will be deemed a crime.  Since the paranoid tend to purchase weapons, many will have their weapons confiscated before they are locked away.

Drugs?  All drugs will have been decriminalized and prohibition repealed for everything.  See the remarks about weapons above.

Lucky people will actually work and have jobs.  Most people will simply exist.

What will people do?  People who work will make things.  All working people will create art of one kind or another when they are not tending crops, collecting eggs or milking cows.  Many people will spray paint public transportation with graffiti.  Some buses and trains will have so much spray paint they will weigh too much to move.

Wednesday, September 8, 2016 @1621

Each evening before I go to bed I trot 15 miles back and forth to a bridge.  Not.  What news is there?  Mattie Grove sung by Doc Watson.

Carl (Bud) Bonde, Jr. went missing December 24, 1944 when his troopship was sunk by a U-boat torpedo.

Dear Dan,

I have this letter from your grandpa and grandma Bonde that was written by Aunt Anna Mosher (Bonde).  She and daughter Corinne had seen Carl Junior at the depot and wrote to his folks about the incident.

Mike Judd said that you might like a copy of the letter so here it is.  I’m not sure why I have a copy of the letter — perhaps from Corinne Ackley — It’s a mystery.

Anyway, enjoy it and add it to your info on Bud.

I hope you are feeling better!

Blessings,

Helen M. [Lodmill (Bonde)]

Cedar Rapids, Iowa

Sept. 19 – 1944

Dear Brother Carl and Sister Ellen,

I have been home all week, since I returned from Minn.  We met Carl Jr. at the Union Depot — as of course you know by now.  We all enjoyed seeing him, and thot he was a very nice clean cut looking fellow.

As you know Corinne picked him out among the many.  We had intended to have him paged.

I spent 2 days out at Oscar’s and a few days in Faribo with Harold and his wife.  Also met a lot of friends I have there.  Oscar is better and looks good.  Earl drives the school bus from Nerstrand to Faribo.  He will be 20 in Feb.  Bob is going to drive the bus after he becomes 18 in Nov.

Alice started nurse’s training the week I left there and Harold is a freshman at the Faribo High School.  Bob a senior.

We were over to see Malla Haugen and Carrin lives with them.  They are renting a house in Nerstrand.  Carrin’s husband has been dead.  P. Burg still has a store and Muckle runs the restaurant.  Remember he married a Heggeled girl.  The post Office is where the Mosing Photography was run Mr. Fenner.

I am sorry I have been so slow in answering your letter.  I was gone from home 3 weeks and there is always plenty to do when I get back.

We would like to think that next summer war will be over and you and Ellen come up this way.  Then you could see us all.

I have lots of letters to write.  So will write more next time.

With Love to you both

Anna and Cha’s

P. and I hiked toward Timberline Lake in the Beartooths.  No, we didn’t get there, because I was too tired and too spaced out by the 8,600 foot altitude to continue.   Actually it was P.’s idea to turn around because she worried about me, but I was good with it.  We hiked 3.5 hours.  I thought going down was harder than going up.

The trail was steep and rocky, passing through burned out lodgepole and ponderosa.  Gunther ran ahead at first, but then he hung out between P. and me mostly.

We ate our lunch.  First on a rock, then on an old burnt log.  Peanut butter and jam sandwiches.  An apple.  I gave a piece of it to Gunther.

We forgot to bring water.  Gunther was okay because he found some rivulets in the mountainside creases.  Oh yes, it was cold and damp, especially at altitude, especially early.

Several groups of laughing teenagers with fishing poles pranced up the trail while P. and I sat on the log.  Their dogs were friendly and I worried Gunther would abandon us.  Someone fired a gun down below, changing my mood from fatigued to irritated.

Once down we headed for the Red Lodge summer fair and I ran into Gene Cetrone, Fb friend.  Good to see him in the flesh.  Even more handsome than his photographs and witty like his writing.  Also met his friend from Guatemala who cares about indigenous languages there.

A woman looked at Gunther and exclaimed, “Brussels Griffon!”  Made my day.

Yellow robe Family Feast

Saturday, September 3, 2016

The day of the Ashland Labor Day Powwow arrived at last, so P. and I bought a case of bottled water, collected a couple bags of plums off our tree, and I got a bunch of cash from the credit union.  Yes, and I gassed up the car.  P. baked three dozen biscuits.  We started off by picking up our camping chairs from NOVA from Dodie Rife, then we bought two blocks of ice to keep the water cold.  We set out.

Things looked pretty dry all the way to Hardin.  Yes, there’s a hot springs along the road on the last stretch that smells like rotten eggs.  Still there.  Still smells.  Things looked pretty much as expected except — you know those big American flags they fly at places like Perkins restaurants?  — Well, we saw the Crow tribal flag that same size flying at Crow Agency.  Crow’s flag is a light blue with its predominantly orange seal in the center.

The drive from Crow to Busby looks about the same.  One of the houses is not only vacant, you can see right through the windows to the other side of the building.  Eddie Alden’s mother’s house is the same, looking more weathered.  Always fun to try to remember the names of who lived in which house.  Actually, now it’s more of remembering if I ever knew who lived in which house.

Busby’s big wooden teepee is standing, looking worse than ever, shingles falling off.  Past the monument to the Cheyenne Patriarchs I noticed a man sitting bareback on a horse, looking intently at his smart phone.

I hardly saw any junked cars between Busby and Lame Deer.  We stopped at the Chief Dull Knife College bookstore and P. bought a beaded keychain.  People were friendly and helpful.

We pretty much drove right to the Ashland powwow grounds and the first group to our left were standing in a ribboned off area about 100 feet on a side.  I wasn’t sure if I knew anyone in the group, but P. and I pulled in close to the area.  As I stepped out of the car I saw Lloyd Yellowrobe.

Lloyd Yellowrobe

Great to see Lloyd!  He was glad to see me too.  He said he just heard his name called at the arbor by the man calling the powwow.

“Let’s go, then,” I said.  Lloyd looked stove in the last time I saw him, but he really looked smallish, not too tallish yesterday.  His grin was bigger than the rest of his face.  We glanced backward.  Lloyd seemed glad that his family was coming along after him.

Thus we walked the short distance to the arbor.  On the way, a pretty girl handed me a picture frame, 8×10, with a typewritten paper inside.  As we walked ahead Lloyd’s wife, Helen Yellowrobe, came up and I handed the document to her.  She seemed glad to get it and Lloyd, P. and I sat in the arbor.  The announcer said there was to be a Give Away in honor of Lloyd Yellowrobe.  About five or six people took new quilts, wrapped in clear plastic, and set them on the ground in front of the announcer’s stand.

Someone told us to move closer to the announcer’s stand.  At first I didn’t go, but another young lady said I should go stand with the group.

Once we were assembled near the quilts the announcer said the drummers were going to sing an honor song for Lloyd and for all military veterans.  Helen handed the document to the announcer who said he would have me read it through the microphone after the honor song.

The honor song, in the Cheyenne language, sounded familiar, but I have never learned the words.  I know other “Anglos” who have been to so many powwows that they can sing all of the words.  I’m thinking of Nikki Lippert-Spottedeagle.

The document was the General Order of commendation for the Bronze Star with V for Valor for Lloyd Yellowrobe.  It described how Lloyd’s unit’s defensive position was taking hostile fire.  Lloyd fired mortar rounds until a distant object that they used to aim the mortar fell over.  Lloyd risked personal injury or death to run out into the dangerous territory about 50 meters, set the object upright, then run back.  The order said Lloyd’s actions insured success for the U.S. Army and was in the highest traditions of the the Army.

I handed the orders back to the announcer after I finished reading.  He then asked me to tell who I was and how I was acquainted with Lloyd.  I did and I did.  Oh, I went on and on, but with a friend like Lloyd, it was easy to keep telling and telling.

Afterward I sat down next to P. under the arbor’s roof.  A young lady, I think it was Susan Littlewolf, wondered if I was supposed to keep standing with the family?  I took the hint and hurried over.

You know, at first I thought Susan was Amy Jaure, from Busby.  I said to her, “Amy?”

“She’s my sister,” Susan answered.  We both have the same mother.  We both have these cheeks.”  They both have beautiful cheeks.

Then when I was standing with the family I shook hands with a fellow I thought was Ronald Glenmore.  It wasn’t.  It was his younger brother Floyd.  This is the kind of mistake a person makes when returning after ten years.

I didn’t know what to do, so I stood at the back of the group.  Another pretty young lady took my hand and asked me to stand in front with the other men, so I did.  I’ve not seen so many pretty young ladies, all gentle and all of them kind.

The announcer said they were going to play a gourd dance song, a socializing song, everyone should dance.  Well, I was standing at the end of the group and drummers started playing, so I watched the feet of a small lad next to me, and his feet were going step-step, step-step, so I tried to do the same.  Helped me if I didn’t think about it too hard.

All the others had gourds, but not me.  Then a handsome young man stepped out of the line, walked to me and handed me a gourd to my left hand, and an eagle feather fan to my right.  Then the drummers played the gourd dance song again, so I shook the gourd so that it rattled in time with the music.  The group played the gourd dance song about four or five times and in between we rattled our gourds.  I thought I was getting pretty good at it.  Afterward, I handed the gourd and fan back to the man who gave it to me.

The announcer called me by name and asked me to pick out a quilt from those given away.  I stopped in front of an orange and brown quilt and seized it, holding it up for all to see.  P. likes fall colors.

After that one person after another was called up to choose a quilt, including Susan Littlewolf, who seemed more used to this sort of thing.

The announcer said “That concludes the honoring of Lloyd Yellowrobe,” so we all walked back to the ribboned off area.

Lloyd and Helen Yellowrobe

Lloyd was quite weary, so he and Helen sat in their car while everyone else helped themselves to stew, dried elk back strap meat, fry bread, biscuits, several kinds of cake, pop, water, apple sauce, and plums.  After eating I sat in the back seat of the car with Lloyd and Helen and we jabbered about the old days and about the whereabouts of each person.

To my sorrow I learned that “Rabbit” Hiwalker is on dialysis and has had a leg amputated.  I promised myself I would try to look him up at the dialysis centers in Billings.

I did not stay for the Clown Dancing.  Helen said they would be kids, dressed up like Donald Trump.  I am not making this up.  I needed to get back to my dog, Gunther.