JUNE 20, 2025 – (Cont.) Several days ago I wrote about my childhood experience of putting a note inside an empty ketchup bottle, tossing it into the Mississippi River by our home in Anoka, Minnesota and waiting to see if (a) the bottle would be retrieved anywhere along the flow of the river to the Gulf of Mexico; and (b) the retriever would notify us by sending back the self-addressed post card included in the bottle. Both (a) and (b) were answered in the affirmative.
As I further wrote, I’d wanted to repeat the exercise—perhaps out here in Connecticut where I write this; more specifically, on the nearby Connecticut River, by slipping the bottle-with-note off the starboard side of the Chester-Hadlyme ferry as it approached the Hadlyme side. I imagined accomplishing the “drop” within easy sight of Gillette Castle perched high on the bluff next to the landing. I canceled the idea, however, upon realizing that its connotation of adventure was overshadowed by its negative impact on the environment. “Littering” sounds far less appealing than “a note inside a bottle.”
Yet, the concept of a bottle-with-note triggered an alternative idea far more environmentally friendly.
Over the decades, I alone or with family members have driven hundreds of times, the 137-mile route between our city home in the heart of the Twin Cities and the Red Cabin in the rural reaches of northwestern Wisconsin. Believe it or not, I’m not the least bit bored or blasé about the scenery, despite my familiarity with its details. Either something new appears—a newly discarded rusty farm implement, for example, or a copse of trees felled by a storm, a new coat of paint on an old tool shed, or an extra American flag whipping in the wind—or, in paying closer attention, I notice stuff that before has eluded me.[1]
Among these many landmarks, however, are two homesteads—you might call them “spreads”—that invariably stir my curiosity. One is along Wisconsin State Highway 70 a few miles east of Spooner. It’s in the region I still call the “Valley of the Bison,” even though the bison that once roamed the fields adjoining the subject “spread” were sold off about a decade ago[2]. In contrast with most places along our route once we cross the St. Croix River into Wisconsin, every inch of the subject property is trimmed to perfection and very handsomely landscaped with well-placed trees, well-sheered shrubs, and stately arrangements of impressive boulders. I’ve attempted to count the number of buildings, but because I’ve never stopped to confirm, the best I can say is “seven to eight,” and that could be plus or minus two. None of the structures is more than one story high. All are painted dark brown and well-maintained. If they aren’t architectural wonders, none is an eyesore. In aggregate, the “spread” appears to have been created at the direction of a high-ranking retired military officer, who took no guff and gave no quarter, and whose brother-in-law is a landscape contractor. I imagine that the colonel’s spouse was a military nurse, highly skilled and efficient, who wasted no time on sentimental blather and cared little about expressing sympathy but instead, demonstrated her humanity by saving the lives of soldiers severely wounded in Iraq or Afghanistan.
I’ve never seen the property owners or for that matter, anyone else, on site as we fly by at the velocity of a mile a minute. Lately, on the descent into the Valley of the Bison, I’ve canceled cruise control to accommodate a slightly slower and thus closer look at things. Unfortunately, the buildings and their details are too far from the road for me to gain enough information to paint a larger picture than the sketch I’ve provided here.
The second property that has piqued my interest is on Williams Road, the narrow winding road that Grandpa Nilsson called the “private” road that leads to the “private-private” road leading to the “private-private-private” road (our driveway) that leads to Björnholm. Williams Road is a designated “scenic drive” because of the many ponds and small lakes along its path and the brilliant color of the trees that crowd its shoulders. Interspersed along this five-mile road are well-kempt modest dwellings.
One of these abodes is a step above the rest. It’s a sturdy, square-hewn-log cabin, perhaps 20 years old, with a detached garage matching the house in design and a shed or two. The dwelling sits on perhaps a three-to-five-acre lot and appears to be exceptionally well-maintained. If it were on the shore of a major lake in the area, it would be considered “higher-end,” though it is neither crassly extravagant nor out of character with wilderness surroundings. In fact, projects a perfectly tasteful compatibility with its “wilderness” environment.
The most notable feature of this residence, however, is the collection of flags that are invariably mounted on the front of the house and above the garage doors. They are full-scale and of the highest quality. Prior to 2022 I saw an equal number each of German and American flags. After February 2022, however, when Putin invaded Ukraine, multiple Ukrainian flags adorned the property. Occasionally accompanied by German and American flags, the blue-sky above yellow-field of grain-Ukrainian flags are still displayed in the most prominent spots.
What sparks my curiosity is that this setup is in the heart of Trumpland. In 2016 and again in 2020, the Charlatan in Chief was the overwhelming favorite among voters of this neck of the woods. Moreover, Sean Duffy, Secretary of Transportation, and son of the lawyer I worked for one summer during law school and with whom along with his whole family I became very well acquainted during that time, is a local boy, a favorite son—from Hayward, seven miles away. More specifically, the German and most notably, the Ukrainian flags, impart an international view, not isolationist perspective, on the part of the owners. My confident bet is that these folks are not Republicans. But if they aren’t among the majority in political sentiment, who are they, exactly? Clearly they are people of relative means. How did they land in the area? What are their backgrounds? In a flight of speculation, I imagine that they’re retired Foreign Service officers, one of whom had roots in the Hayward area, attended the University of Wisconsin – Madison during the late 60s and early 70s and spent time in jail as the result of participation in anti-war demonstrations.
I’ve been so curious about the flags and the world view they reflect, I’ve wanted to stop and introduce myself, then hear the owners’ “story.” Their front door isn’t more than 100 feet from the quiet roadside, but I decided it would be best to stop only if I saw someone walking the grounds—and casually, not with a gait signaling urgency. I’d pull up slowly, roll down my window, remove my sunglasses (if any), smile intelligently, and initiate a cogent, non-threatening conversation leading with the simple statement that I was “curious about and encouraged by the Ukrainian flags.” Surely that would encourage the folks to open up.
Thus far, however, the stars haven’t aligned. I’ve decided to adopt an alternative approach: the old-fashioned mail. This method could be applied just as readily to the folks in the Valley of the Bison. In each case, the property “fire number,” which doubles as a mailing address, is clearly visible from the road—even at 60 mph, in the case of the Valley, and certainly at 30, which is the speed I assume on Williams Road in the vicinity of “Little Ukraine,” where the posted speed limit is 40.
Instead of sticking a note inside a bottle and sending it downstream, I’ll stick a note into the out-going mail slot at our local post office. In a future post, I’ll include the text of my notes. If and when I receive a reply, I will of course, report it here as well.
Stay tuned. (Cont.)
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
[1] For the past couple of years whenever I drop off our now nine-year-old granddaughter at school, I repeat my “three point program”: smile, be kind, and pay attention. I made this up on the spur of the moment one morning and decided it was good enough to repeat whenever I had drop-off duties. The repetition did me good, as I decided to heed what I preached. I’m amazed by how much more I can learn from books and people and how much more I notice in the world around me when I “pay attention.”
[2] The 30-mile stretch of Highway 70 that we travel between Spooner and the next town, Stone Lake, used to feel unending, with very few distinctive landmarks to prevent boredom among driver and passengers. To remedy this condition, I decided to create a “fantasyland” from what on the surface appeared rather unremarkable. I turned hills behind a field bordered by a windbreak of blue spruce trees into the “Spruce Mountains”; a small pond at the base of a very steep slopes bordering a country road intersection, became, “Lake Baikal; “Potato Lake” was now in the center of “New Ireland”; a horse farm that doubles as a venue for gospel meetings was called “God’s Country”; a stretch of highway marked by marshes, ponds guarded by royal firs and pines and a red cottage with white trim—reminiscent of the country homes in Småland, Sweden—was “New Scandinavia”; and a “homemade home” without a speck of point and illuminated at night by a single bare lightbulb visible from the highway became the “Hippy House”; and so on. The “Valley of the Bison” was the name assigned to a mile-long straight-away, with a steep rise at each end. For years the property owner next to the subject property owned a herd of bison, which grazed in fields on each side of the highway. They were an unusual sight for that part of the country.
