MAY 17, 2026 – “Seventeenth of May.” Though I’m of Swedish heritage, I have no problem celebrating Syttende Mai—”Seventeenth of May”—in honor of the Norwegians’ Constitution Day (1814), which marked the country’s independence from Denmark. After all, though my wife’s paternal grandmother was Swedish, as was mine, her paternal grandfather was Norwegian, just as my second cousin Russ (on my Swedish grandmother’s side), is in equal part Norwegian but on his maternal grandfather’s side. I very much like Norway and Norwegians.
But today, as it unfolded this afternoon, you might say I honored the colors of Sweden—blue and yellow—by way of Ukraine, which also flies a flag of blue anD yellow. Allow me to explain . . .
Readers who’ve been following this blog at least since last June 16 might remember my post on that date entitled, “Note in a Bottle (Part I),” followed four days later by Part II. In the first post, I described my childhood experience with a real note in a real bottle, which my sisters and I dropped in the Mississippi River across the street from our house, and weeks later, received a kind note from a locks operator, who’d retrieved the bottle downstream, though not nearly as far as we’d hoped. Last summer I’d thought about a replay of a “note in a bottle” from our family place on the Connecticut River, just five miles from the sea (in contrast to the Gulf of Mexico being a thousand miles away from my boyhood home in Anoka, Minnesota) until I learned it would be considered littering and in breach of the law. Nevertheless, the idea of sending a “note in a bottle” down river inspired the thought to send a “note in the mail” to two homes that we pass on our way to and from the Red Cabin. For reasons detailed in the June 20 post, those two places had long piqued my curiosity about their owners—who were they, exactly, and what were their backgrounds?
The outfit closest to the Red Cabin—an easy bike ride away—has long displayed two large Ukrainian flags, as well as German, French, and Czech flags. In the middle of MAGAland, this overt support for Ukraine, as well as some apparent affinity for NATO members Germany, France and the Czech Republic, definitely called for an investigation. For the past year I’ve been reminding myself to seize the time, jot down a note and address it to the fire number posted at the end of the drive of the “international house.” (In rural Wisconsin, fire numbers double as USPS address numbers.) I just never got around to it. My back-up plan was to stop by in person if I saw any of the dwelling’s occupants outside and approachable (i.e. not striding to a vehicle to rush off somewhere).
Today brought the perfect opportunity for the back-up plan. After a full morning of continued work at the Red Cabin, I packed up, and by 1:00 I was underway on winding, undulating Williams Road, speed limit 40, which you don’t want to break if you don’t want to break your neck. Out of habit, I slowed to 30 as I approached the place in question—the square-hewn log cabin that flies the flags—to see if anyone was outside and approachable.
Ah ha! This time there was! A gentleman in jeans and a blue T-shirt and baseball cap tending to some landscaping in front of the dwelling. At 30 I was going too fast to turn into the drive. I sped ahead to the entrance into someone’s hunting grounds and turned around. Soon I was making my way down the gravel drive and onto grounds that were nicely landscaped but with a rustic flavor befitting the woodland surroundings.
Dogs. Tied up securely, I noticed, was the black, slightly shaggy one making all the fuss over my appearance. The other dog, a large terrier, barked less convincingly, consistent with its wizened snout and tentative movements. The gentleman looked up from his work and awaited my walk from the car to where he seemed to be firmly entrenched.
I extended my hand and introduced myself. Before he could wonder more about my unexplained presence, I explained.
An hour-long conversation later, I took my leave. “I’m really glad you stopped!” the man said.
The man’s name was Bill, and he was a retired lieutenant colonel in the army, having served in special forces, mostly in Germany, but with tours in Iraq. He said that from the age of five he’d known he wanted to be a soldier. Throughout his childhood and adolescence, he was fascinated by military history and strategy. He continues to read voraciously and listens to daily podcasts about current events, particularly the latest developments in Ukraine and Russia. Bill was convinced that Ukraine will prevail, thanks to their grit combined with their superior drone technology. The way Bill barked commands at the dogs convinced me that he said what he meant and meant what he said.
Bill was nobody’s fool. He was a fountain of serious knowledge and experience, but above all things, he was ANTI-MAGA. I’m not accustomed to using “OMG,” but I must invoke it here to capture the full brunt of Bill’s extreme dislike, not only for Trump himself, but for the entire cabinet and Trump’s entourage of billionaire sycophants. Bill was not simply disapproving. He was viscerally angry for what Trump has done to the country and to the world. Bill was quick to point out that he was not a Democrat. “The people on the far left are as dangerous as the people on the far right,” he said, “but the left isn’t nearly as well organized as the right. I’m an independent, but most of all, I’m anti-authoritarian, and if you look at the world, most of the authoritarians come from the right.” He opposed concentration of power, be it corporate or governmental.
He’d spent much time studying Poland and knew quite a lot about its current military. “They know,” he said emphatically, “that they’re next on Putin’s list if Ukraine falls, and this time, unlike in 1939, they’re going to be ready.” He seemed quite interested in my anecdotes about my travels in Poland amidst the revolution of 1981.
Bill knew as much about world history generally as he did about military history specifically. He also knew his geography, and when our conversation turned to Iran, it triggered nearly an apoplectic fit. “Do you know the terrain of that place?” he asked rhetorically. “My god, but the only way to conquer Iran is by putting a minimum of 100,000 troops on the ground.”
He assailed the decision to invade Iraq and blamed many senior military leaders who pushed for it. “They vehemently denied that they had any personal financial interests in defense contractors,” Bill said, “but it turns out that many of those pushing to invade had very close ties with the defense industry. That was just plain wrong.” In the case of Iran, however, he said there wasn’t a single senior military leader—other than Hegseth—who favored launching the war.
What I found most interesting about all this is that whatever was to be made of Bill’s politics, I don’t think I’ve encountered anyone who is angrier over what Trump has done to the country. “I feel as though the whole point of my career—serving the country by serving its principles—has been obliterated.” From that perspective, I could better understand Bill’s intensity.
When Bill’s wife appeared around a corner of the cabin, he called out to her to meet me. The conversation turned to their experience hosting foreign exchange students. This summer the German student they’d sponsored last year, along with his older brother, a university student, will be visiting. My new friends extended an invitation to me and spouse. I responded with delight. “Great!” I said. “I would very much like to meet them and get their take on the world, on Germany and above all . . . on America.”
The conversation had been its own feast, but my stomach was growling. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast early this morning and needed to grab something on the way home. But to be on the way home, I had to . . . be on my way. I bade farewell to my new friends and pressed on, replaying the conversation as I did.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
