AUGUST 1, 2025 – Today I found amusement by being in two worlds at once on my way to the woods. Let me explain . . .
Last week I’d arranged to meet with a Wisconsin DNR forester for an extended site visit of Björnholm, or at least a portion of it, to gain some knowledge and ideas that might aid in the stewardship of our woods. I told the forester to meet me at the Red Cabin today at 2:00 and that we could proceed from there. As it turned out I wound up having to scramble to make it on time, but as so often occurs, this close timing provided part of the day’s amusement. “Wait for it,” as the current in-vogue phrase goes.
A big part of the reason I was having to scramble, however, turned out to be the main source of amusement. On my drive from home to the Red Cabin, I stopped at the Menard’s building center in St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin, just off U.S. Highway 8, which is the route I take straight east from the Minnesota/Wisconsin border. I’d planned to pick up some more deck boards for my “Pergola-on-a-Platform.” Having purchased plenty of lumber at our local Menard’s, I was familiar with the procedure, and since I (thought) I knew exactly what I wanted, I figured I could complete the intended transaction most efficiently and be on my way again.
As it turned out, I was quite wrong on all fronts. Familiarity with Menard’s lumber pick-up procedures at one outlet isn’t necessarily wholly transferrable to a second store. At the pick-up lot of this particular Menard’s, I wound up re-enacting Magellan’s circumnavigation of the globe—except the part where he was killed. Instead of driving east from my parking slot, I drove west around the complex. But unlike passage on a cosmic orb, by going west I didn’t reach the east. I simply went off into the vacuum of space that is rural Wisconsin. Realizing I was no longer within Menard’s orbit, I fired the starboard thrusters to initiate a 180-degree turn back to the east side of Menard’s—and the entrance to the pick-up lot.
The Menard’s that I patronize near our home in the center of the Twin Cities is what I call the United Nations. It draws people from every conceivable place of origin, it seems, and every time I go there, I feel as if I’m entering the international terminal at JFK. I find great pleasure in watching such a diverse crowd all searching among the same broad display of tools and choice of supplies to make stuff or fix things. Here we are—a bunch of people living under the same part of the sky, and however diverse our backgrounds might be, we find common cause and for the most part, I do believe, common satisfaction, as we load up our carts and baskets with building blocks from a common source. The staff are as diverse as the patrons, and whoever is hiring and managing for that store does a magnificent job.
The Menard’s on the way to the lake—the store I stopped at today—draws from a markedly different customer base. It’s 100% rural, and the vehicle of choice is the Giant Pick-up Truck. Today I parked between two and faced another. I noticed that the bumpers of each of these vehicles was higher than the hood of my car.
Walking in and out of the store are guys who are “in construction” of one sort or another. The American flag is ubiquitous—on clothing, as well as vehicles. If I had to bet, I’d bet hands down that not many voted for Harris/Walz last November. In fact, I’m absolutely certain that at least one guy didn’t. Plastered across the back of his F-150 window was an over-sized sticker that read “TITLE IX” at the top. Under it was the line, “If you have a dick, you ain’t no chick.”
I was a bit taken aback.[1] If the ubiquity of some version of the flag leads one to make assumptions about the political leanings of the crowd at the St. Croix Falls’ Menard’s, that’s about the size of it: the flag. You’re left to guess, bet, conclude as you will. But the “TITLE IX” in-your-face window sticker was putting one guy’s politics right in the face of the tailgater behind him.
I was a bit slow on the uptake, but I figured out that his red meat political issue wasn’t the war in Ukraine, Hunter Biden’s laptop or the price of eggs but the “T” in “LGBTQ+.” Did the truck owner have a daughter or granddaughter who was deep into sports and had been bested by someone who was Trans? (I must confess, that my knee-jerk reaction was, “Maybe the issue isn’t as much LGBTQ+ but how ridiculously serious our culture takes competitive sports at every level.”)
Now here’s the amusing part of the story. Because of my mis-navigation and wrong turns within the sprawling Menard’s universe, I kept winding up behind or near that same guy! At one point I turned out of one of the lumber barns in search of “my” decking, and there he was yet again, only this time, he was stopped beside a line of pallets of one thing or another, loading large bags of it onto his industrial-size trailer. For the first time amidst my multiple encounters with his vehicle, I got to see the actual guy—late 50s, probably, burly with straight long white hair and beard, and wrap-around shades. Between his window sticker and his no-nonsense appearance, I guessed that he wasn’t the sort who would go for changing the color of his house just for the fun of it, or that he’d do much of anything just for the fun of it, let alone his mind.
Partly at his expense, however, I was certainly having fun when I realized that for the past half-hour, I’d been living in two worlds at once: as someone who thrives on designing and building stuff, however amateur in quality, I’m perfectly at home at Menard’s; a bit of a “kid in a candy shop.” But at the same time, I’m simply not of the “other world” that frequents that particular Menard’s store. I don’t drive a truck so big that the bottom of the door is just below my chin, and I don’t wear an extra-large T-shirt bearing an extra-extra-large American flag on front and back. And I didn’t vote Republican last November.
But isn’t that the way this country is supposed to be—a place where we can be comfortable living in two worlds at once—one with a flag, one without?
Okay, after that mini-sociological experience, I got on my way again. After one more stop for a quick lunch to accommodate my anti-tick anti-biotic “to be taken with a meal,” I kept a consistent pace to my destination. As I closed in on the Red Cabin, I realized I was cutting things very close. I’d have no more than 10 minutes to unload the car and change into “anti-tick” clothes before my 2:00 appointment with the DNR forester.
When I turned onto Williams Road, however, I wound up behind a slow poke. The posted speed limit is 40, which, truth be told, is higher than it should be, given the absence of any shoulder on this undulating backroad, especially if any bikers or walkers are on it, which is sometimes the case. But 25? I considered that overly cautious or . . . lost. I took a deep breath and told myself, “Chill, will you?”
This worked. If at this pace I’d be down to a 1:55 arrival, I’d unload the cooler, at least, and when the forester appeared I’d apologize that I wasn’t yet in “anti-tick” garb and explain that it was all the fault of some slow poke on Williams Road. (No mention of my mismanagement of navigation around Menard’s.)
Except . . . my plan began to slide when the slowpoke in the pickup turned onto Yopps Road, the gravel road from which our drive runs. At the turn, I was just a few feet behind the truck—close enough to see that the license plate had “state” in small letters at the top. “You don’t suppose . . .” I thought.
Sure enough, when our caravan of two—the truck in the lead—reached our drive, the truck signalled left and turned onto . . . our drive. It was the DNR forester!
For the next three hours, the expert, “Craig,” led an open-air tutorial on a wide and fascinating exposition on the trees and other flora of our woods. I pitched a gazillion questions, and he fielded all of them with his extensive knowledge and experience and great enthusiasm. I was most grateful for all the information and ideas Craig imparted and the encouragement he gave me for continuing my efforts. He was genuinely interested in all the work I’d done and have planned for the future. “You’ve got a beautiful piece of land here,” he said, “and I like what you’ve done with it.”
I was hugely appreciative of his time, interest and input, and ever more so when Craig told me that early next week, he’d provide me with an extensive write-up of our visit and all that we’d talked about. “And if you have any questions in the future,” he said, “by all means call me.”
America. What a great country. Or far more to the point, “Earth. What a great planet.”
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
[1] How publicly crass do we have to be? I mean, what would the nuns back in sixth grade think if they could see you now?
