N is for Nostalgia

Nostalgia is pleasure and sadness that is caused by remembering something from the past and wishing that you could experience it again.


Nostalgia seems like a good one to use to dip into one of my stories from growing up. I wrote a few of them in Monty’s Almanac 202x, which is an autobiographical collection of short stories, poetic prose, and quirky cartoons about a young boy and his comic misadventures growing up on a commune in Vermont during the 80’s. Here is one of my favorites.

Bacon’s Beginning

by Monty Vern

I’m not sure it’s good to title a story spoiling the ending, but what’s done is done. I’m most oft to write onward versus back despite my nostalgic tendencies. While I would like you to think that means I write with confidence, I can’t help but out myself as just a lazy editor. So onward I shall go.

It was a spring day. Not that I remember the day that clearly, but I know that maybe six months later it was fall, so I did the seasonal math. Spring in Vermont is also known as mud season, which aside from being a very apt description, is appropriate given the subject of this story. A dead-end dirt road mixed with snow melting from the inkling of warmth from the early spring sun makes mud. “True Vermonters”* tend to use their words plainly (and sparingly). All mystery provided by what’s left unsaid between clipped statements of indisputable facts. “It’s a cold one today”, a common greeting about 9 months out of the year, is on its surface, a simple observation. But the silence leading to and from these words, along with the acknowledging upward head nod, have special meaning unknown to flatlanders.

*Alright, I must confess that I’m an imposter – a transplant from the flatlands (also known as anywhere south of Vermont) to the Green Mountain state. I moved to Vermont about 18 exceptionally long months after my birth. Worse yet, my formative first months were in New Jersey, the flattest of the flatlands where apparently I absorbed a New Jersey accent that true Vermonters picked up on instantly and was enough reason for a beating on the school playground more than once. I share this not from any shame (although I have plenty), but from the deep sense of integrity that I earned from my adoptive Green Mountaineers (one might say it was beaten into me).

Well, there I’ve gone again bushwhacking off the story’s tale. Where was I? Ah, yes, Bacon…

Bacon’s Middle

Don’t worry if you missed the first installment as those who didn’t will attest you didn’t miss much.

Where was I? Ah, yes, Bacon…

So, it was mud season in Vermont and mom, and I were off on a safari of sorts. Despite there being a perfectly good (i.e. appropriately fragrant) pig farm just a neighborly 1/4 mile up at the end of our dirt road, we were adventuring along the highways to a more proper purveyor of piggies.

 Let me pause here for a moment and just let you know now, in case you haven’t already caught up, that this is a story about, at least tangentially, a ‘seasonal pet’, i.e. cute little piglet grows up to become a ham steak, some sausage, and, of course, bacon. As I said from the start (of the first installment which really didn’t say much and would be a waste of your time to seek out), I blew the whole story with the title. Anyway, if you’re not too faint-of-heart, and still with me, shall we continue with our journey?

Ah, but I feel it’s necessary to provide some context for you in case you’re new to my word works so you can fully appreciate this tale. For those of you who missed my “Ode to Soy” (also available @montyscribbles… cough, cough, plug, plug), My mom migrated with me to Vermont at the tender age of 18 months and took up a “healthy lifestyle” – colloquially known as being a granola mom. Now at this point unless you were there (hi mom!!), you’re probably confused about how being force-fed tofu “French fries” is related to fattening up a little piggy, but I promise you it will all make sense in due time.

Speaking of time…what a shame that we are out of it just as we were getting to the good part. No jokes…I personally promise that the next installment will get at the sweet, creamy, heart of the story….

Bacon’s End

Patience is a virtue and you’ve been very, very virtuous so be assured the end is nigh and the telling of this tale will be all told.

It just occurred to me, however, that the title of this piece may need some explanation. I generally strive for clarity in titles and I did the same above. However, where my intention was to reassure you that the story would be fully told, I’ve unintentionally foreshadowed the fate of Bacon. And, while you wouldn’t be wrong to point out that naming the poor piggy Bacon in the first place was an exercise in foreshadowing (and perhaps poor taste), the transformation of Bacon to bacon will be left unspoken, as it’s tangential to the story. So, my apologies for any misdirection felt.

So, where were we? Ah yes, I was promising to get to the sweet creamy center of this story. Briefly recapping for those that are easily distracted, it was a sunny mud season day in Vermont, my granola mom and I were venturing across the state to pick up our very own ‘seasonal pet’ piglet – the aforementioned Bacon. Granola mom being an important descriptor to keep in mind as I continue.

So here I am, a tofu-tortured, grass-fed, Green-mountain country boy entering a sow’s den. Sorry, I mean pen. And to my astonishment I see a pig as wide as two times I was tall, and doubly long in length munching lazily upon a mid-morning snack. Now, I’m not going to suggest that I wasn’t impressed a little by this mama’s dimensions, but that was not the astonishing fact. No, what sent shivers down my spine, was nothing less than literal sweet creamy centers.

Twinkies, Ding Dongs, and Ho-Hos, oh my! My sugar deprived soul just about burst at the sight of this pig’s fantasy (as in my fantasy, to be clear) come true – piles and piles of snack cakes to snuggle, snort, and stuff to the heart’s content. No joke. This pig farm was located next to a Hostess Factory and factory rejects were within her feed as she suckled her hungry piglets.

So basically, this is a simple (and true) story of a boy’s envy of a pig. So please forgive me for having really enjoyed devouring Bacon, knowing some essence of that sweet snack cake goodness was contained within.

“N” in Zapfino Typeface
Zapfino “N” Found Pattern

If you like nostalgia with a side of humor feel free to check out more stories like these in Monty’s Almanac 202x.

Be well,


  1. Ha ha. It is true what they say of pigs. They will literally eat ANYTHING.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Jemima Pett says:

    That was well worth getting to the end of! Well done, Monty.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Monty Vern says:

      Thanks so much!!!


  3. Thank God for that ending. I was almost afraid to finish reading.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Monty Vern says:

      Haha. Sorry to keep you in anticipation too long.


  4. Stacey says:

    The visual of a giant pig chowing down on Hostess snacks is hilarious. 🙂
    Stopping by from #AtoZ http://staceylynnhafner.blog/2023/04/17/new-release/

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Monty Vern says:

      Thanks and thank you for stopping by!

      Liked by 1 person

  5. murisopsis says:

    I’m still gobsmacked by tofu fries and a granola mother… And really, you lived in a commune?! A friend in college lived on a farm and they had swine – her brother had a 4-H pig named Jimmy Dean!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Monty Vern says:

      Haha! Well named!!


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