Just Red ~ March 2, 2006

David Heiller

Red.

You don’t need any more than that to know who I mean. No first name, no last name, no Arol, no Hansen, just Red.

David and Red at the Askov American.

Our friendship formed over the last 20 years of Red’s life, which ended on February 21. I had known about him from a distance, admired his involvement in the community and his love for all things Danish.

Then music slowly brought us into a closeness that doesn’t happen often. Red had music in his blood. He was a happy Dane and it came pouring out in his piano accordion. He knew hun­dreds of songs, and he played them with grace and power and creativity, sometimes changing keys, throwing in little tricks that marked the songs as his own and nobody else’s.

I’m not good at hiding my enthusiasm, and he saw that, and allowed me into his musical world with my banjo. We took our show to Pine County’s finest venues: the commercial club banquet, the Danish Sisterhood dinner, the nursing homes in Sandstone and Moose Lake.

Red playing with David at the community theater in Barnum.

Red’s music connected with people of all ages. I’ll never forget the night we played before a Barnum Community Theater audience in 2001. We ended with Hils Fra Os Der Hjeme, or Greet From Us at Home. It’s a powerful song, one that evokes the emotions which the title hints at: home, family, loved ones. Α man came down from the audience after the show, sought out Red and shook his hand. His eyes pooled with tears. It was his grandmother’s favorite song, and he hadn’t thought of it for years. And there it was, a gift from Red.

It wasn’t all about music, of course. Music is a vehicle that takes you places or keeps you going. We would practice and talk. Red would spin stories about the past. The winter when he couldn’t get home and the stove went out and he had to call Hertha from the post office and tell her how to dismantle and clean the carburetor. Hertha did it, and was proud of the fact, and Red was too.

Red and Hedda (Hertha)

The time of the ice storm, when a cap on the top of his chimney froze and the roof was glare ice, and he got the rifle out and shot the top off the chimney. Never mind that he had put that contraption on top of the chimney in the first place. Hertha had a few choice words about that.

How he would stand in his enchanted yard, where time always stood still for me, and call in owls until they would land in the tree above him and look around until they realized that it was just Red. Hertha liked to comment, “He’ll talk to owls but he won’t talk to me.” It was funny, but it didn’t stop Red.

Often we would go into his shop so he could show me his latest projects, some of which were my doing. I liked to bring him things to fix, as much to see him in action as to get the things fixed. Red could fix anything. A broken electric can opener would be gutted and rewired into working order. That fan that didn’t work, why it just needed a drop of oil, thin oil mind you, not the heavy stuff, right there. Spin the blade; watch it go now. The banjo neck needs a tiny hole drilled? Put it up on the drill press and let’s see what we can do.

His shop said a lot about Red. It was pure chaos, with a tiny path that led through tools and gadgets and fishing poles and hammers and punches and firewood. Yet Red knew where everything was. He could put his hands on a flashlight that he had bought when he was 12 years old.

And it held dozens of gag items that Red’s imagination concocted. Some-times he would give me one, both “to get rid of it and to see my humorous appreciation. I’ve got his “mugrump” bird made of wood in my barn now. The head of the bird on one side says “mug,” the tail says “rump.” Goofy yet funny, and made with care and love. That was Red.

David and Red at the Hansen home.

He kept one foot firmly in the past too, but in a good way. His history lessons would come alive. Adventures on the Kettle River, fishing for a big northern, tying a hook onto a mouse and floating it on a board over the right spot, then pulling it off the board to pull in the lunker. I never did know if that story was true, but that was hall the fun. Growing up in Askov, above the hardware store, no money, joining the German Band when he was barely a teenager, getting firm warnings from his father to stay out of trouble, and learning that his dad passed the same message on to the older members of the band. Whole conversations would re-emerge from 50 years ago, some-times with a thick Danish brogue that was a joy to hear.

I could go on and on, as we all can when we lose a loved one. But I’ll stop. The rest will bubble inside me and all the others that Red touched. We’ll all keep the rich memory of Red and his music alive forever.

A walk to the Island ~ February 24, 1994

David Heiller

That’s when Nora and Malika suggested that we walk out to The Island.

We had looked at The Island all weekend from the cabin our two families had rented. It was half a mile away, in the middle of Long Lake, near Spooner, Wisconsin.

The Island was no more than 40 yards long, and it had a big house on it. It drew the two eight-year-olds like a magnet, and I guess it drew me too, because when they asked if they could walk to the island that night, I didn’t hesitate in answering yes.

They each grabbed my hands, and we headed out. A day earlier, the top several inches of ice had melted in a 45-degree thaw. But now it was slick.

Malika and Nora with Carolyn in that weekends cabin.

Nora said it was like glass. She wished she had brought her skates.

I said you’d have to watch those rough spots. My brother, Danny, hit one when he was a kid and broke a tooth off. It was the first time I saw him cry, it hurt so bad. I told the kids that.

The ice would crack every so often, which worried Nora. “If it can hold a car, I guess it can hold us,” I said.

I can’t remember all the other things we talked about, the three of us. Mostly we held hands and chatted. It felt good. Our words weren’t profound, and that is the way it should be. Any heavier conversation and we might have fallen through the ice.

Then we approached The Island, and our pleasant words dwindled. The house loomed on it like a great grey mansion. And I must confess that I told a tale about the house then. I said that the owner, an old lady, had drowned one night. A night just like this. She fell through the ice. I said when the moon came out, you could see her standing in the window in the top floor.

Malika then wanted to go explore it. That explains a lot about Malika.

She let go of my hand, and walked toward the house, to show how brave she was. She put one foot on shore.

Nora and I kept walking. I didn’t try to talk her back to me. I knew better than that. But I wanted to shout, DON’T GO UP THERE! In the moonlight, the house looked like it belonged in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

Then Malika turned around and ran back to us. I didn’t say a word. But I did breathe a sigh of relief.

We circled around The Island. The house, and our imaginations, returned to normal. I told the girls I was joking about that lady. It was just a story. They said they KNEW that, like how stupid did I think they were?

Malika and Nora.

On our way back, we lay down on the ice and looked at the moon. It had a circle around it, like the moon does on some cold winter nights. None of us knew why. It’s a good mystery.

On shore, the cabin lights glowed with a welcome light. When we got closer, Malika and Nora spotted their two brothers, still playing. We went to The Island! they shouted almost in unison.

The boys shrugged a big deal, but you could tell by the way they shrugged that they were impressed.

Inside the cabin, it was the same thing. The girls proudly recounted the trip to The Island to the moms and dads. I did too.

What an honor, to have the trust of two little girls, to hold their hands and walk and talk across the frozen lake in the moonlight to The Island.

Three weeks and counting ~ February 4, 2004

David Heiller

Cindy and I are on the verge of moving into our new house. I hesitate writing that, because of the jinx factor, but I will forge ahead with the hope that all the sequences will fall into place.

Sequences are a big thing when you build a house. I swear they rival the chain of events in your average nuclear bomb.

I started noticing the Sequence Factor with Tim, our fine plumber. He really didn’t want to put the toilet into the bathroom until the trim was in. Otherwise, it would be harder for John to do his fine trim work.

And that trim work, well, it really should wait till Matt gets his floor registers in place. And Matt really needs Brad to get the furnace wired. And Brad should have that tile on the wall before he puts in the receptacles. But Will, the tile guy, needs the vanity in place first so he can work on that. And Casey should have the vanity done tomorrow, but he has to finish the trim first. Then when the trim is done, Tim can get going on those toilets.

Cindy and I have handled this Circle of Construction in different ways. Those primal screams you hear from the big gray house in Brownsville every few nights are coming from Cindy. I’m more apt to shrug my shoulders and do the old stiff upper lip routine. Not that that’s superior. Maybe it’s the Mars vs. Venus thing I mentioned a while back when Cindy was mulling over her paint colors.

Our home, worth the wait!

Either approach is an equally ineffective response. And that’s fine! Because it isn’t easy to build a house. It’s a mind numbing process that is much too complicated to spell out in this newspaper column. And all those guys I mentioned above have skills that truly amaze me.

So does Cindy. Hang on; this is a family newspaper. I’m talking about all the things she has had to research and order, like lighting and bathroom fixtures, the furniture, the flooring, the kitchen, and talking to contractors—and let’s not forget the paint.

Now we are like a sled at the top of a big hill, teetering on the edge of a great ride.

It should be ready in three weeks.

That’s the other fascinating thing I’ve learned from our contractors. Everything takes about three weeks.

When Tim was making headway on the plumbing back in October, he figured three weeks should wrap things up.

How the geo-thermal system coming, Matt? “Should be ready to test in about three weeks:”

The wiring? About three weeks, Brad said in November.

How about that tile work, Will? “I’d say we’ll be done in about three weeks.”

How’s the trim work coming, John? “Well, let’s see, we’ve got to stain and put on three coats of lacquer. I’d say three weeks should wrap it up.”

Any idea on that siding project, Paul? “Looks like a three week job.”

Almost!

Hey Dave, when will the kitchen be ready? “I should be down with it, oh, let’s say three weeks or so. But the floor really should be on first.”

There’s the beauty of it. The Sequence Factor and the Three Weeks Syndrome are interlinked. It’s like being in a beautiful Twilight Zone episode—beautiful because we can see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel now. The sled is heading down the hill. The ride is almost over, and that scream you hear from Cindy is one of joy. I might join in too in three weeks.

Actions speak loud as words, when it comes to love ~ February 27, 1986

David Heiller

I saw two men approaching on the street.  As they came together, a dawn of joy and recognition blazed in each face. They kissed cheeks, shook hands firmly, lingeringly, and barraged each other in loud voices: “How are you? Fine, thank you, and you? By the grace of God, I am well. How is your family? By God’s grace, all is well with me and mine. And you, is everything well? Everything is fine thank you, God’s grace is shining fully.”

A street scene in the city where David lived for two years.

This continued, in Arabic of course, for a full half minute. I smiled in childish wonder, thinking I was witnessing the momentous rejoining of two brothers separated at birth and discovering each other on this dusty Moroccan street. My disillusionment soon followed. The men, after the last “May God be with you,” abruptly pulled apart like clashing symbols and continued on their separate ways, as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. Indeed, nothing extraordinary had occurred. Just two casual Moroccan friends hailing each other in their passionate fashion.

I wrote the above passage in my journal on December 8, 1977, in Sidi Kacem, Morocco. It tells in a nutshell how Moroccans showed affection. Kisses, handshakes, loud inquiries into your health, your mother’s health, your second cousin’s (twice removed) health. Their affection was downright aggressive.

We Americans, on the other hand, seemed meek and mild in comparison. The stoic Scandinavian and German stock that came from the Old Country has never been known for outward signs of affection. I had a hard enough time kissing American girls, let alone Moroccan men on their cheeks. A handshake was the best I could muster in Morocco. No doubt I seemed as lifeless to them when I greeted someone as they seemed overly-animated to me.

Winter affection

Affection is a relative thing. Ethnic groups stake out acceptable ways to show their love. I hugged and kissed more people in France when I was there for a week, coming home from Morocco than my entire life before or since. By the time I had left, I remember thinking all that hugging and kissing wasn’t so bad. But when I got to America, to my friends and family, the hugs and kisses were okay once, and once only. Then it was back to handshakes, at best.

But real affection—love, if you will—it seems to me comes not through gestures, or even words, but through actions. It doesn’t matter if you call your spouses Baby-Cakes, or your kid Log Legs. It’s how you treat them that counts. Who volunteers to wash the dirty dishes after supper, when both Mom and Dad have had busy days? Who makes the supper? Who brings the bowl of ice cream to the guy on the couch watching TV? Who sweeps the floor and shakes the rugs?

You do and I do, both. A simple illustration: A month ago, on a very cold morning, I felt a beckoning to the outhouse. My wife, Cindy, had an equally urgent calling. We left the kids in the house, and tromped down the hill, me in the lead, and making sure I stayed in the lead. We have a two-seater, you see, but only one Styrofoam toilet seat. The other seat is wood, and when the temperature outside is 20 below, like that morning, the wooden toilet seat is 20 below.

Outhouse on a more clement day.

I can’t explain what I did or why I did it, but I took the styrofoam toilet seat off its nail on the wall, and handed it to Cindy. Not even Merlin Olsen could top that act of love.

Forget about flowers, let’s get down to real love. Who wrings out the poopy diapers? Who gets up early with the kids so the other can sleep in those extra 20 heavenly minutes? Who gets up for the teething baby four times in the night? Who takes the kids to hockey practice four times a weekend? Who swallows hard and lets the son have the car to take his friends to a movie? Who stops to help fix the flat tire on the lonely county road, when no one else is stopping? Who calls a sick friend, or sends a card to a death-stricken family.

The answer, I hope, is you and me. Words and handshakes and hugs and kisses are fine, but no more important than the little actions that give of your time to tell someone else, “I love you.”

The winner, and still champion, is… ~ February 20, 1986

David Heiller

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Monday Night Fights.”

The spotlight shines on the small mat, as the house lights dim, and the crowd suddenly murmurs to a hush. The announcer’s voice rings with the hardness of metal. He’s seen fights before, lots of them. But nothing like this one.

“Ladieeeees and gennnntlemennnnn,” he continues. “In this corner, weighing two hundred pounds, standing six feet, one half inch, the defending Diaper Dad of Birch Creek Township, David Heiiiiiiiiiller.” Five thousand dads cheer, stomp their feet, nudge each other in the ribs nodding to their Great White Hope.

Malika Squirm-Worm Heiller practicing
one of her infamous moves

“And in this corner, weighing 21 pounds, standing 29 inches, the reigning Squirm-Worm, Mollie Heiiiiller.” Now the crowd erupts with squeals, gurgles, coos and cries from 5,000 babies and their Moms who have come to watch the Kid.

The announcer steps aside, takes his seat in the radio booth, as Dad steps up to the mat. The Baby lies still, on her back, watching his eyes.

Ding!

And the action has begun folks. It’s Pajama Time and Dad, still groggy from eight hours at the office, had better not take this little Log Legs for granted. He’s got the zipper down on her jump suit. But Mollie has started her famous inside right roll. Watch how she lowers her right shoulder and swings her left knee into the air. Dad crowds into her with his ample midsection, but she slides away from him, and there—she’s on her belly. Two points for a reverse.

Now Dad flips her over again. He got the zipper down, that’s worth one point, but here comes that inside roll again. Wait, Dad grabs her left knee, and holds it with one hand, while he slips the jump suit down with the other. Now he pulls at her leg openings. Oops—a big mistake for the old man, as Mollie gets her knee free and rolls onto her belly. Another two points for the Kid. Dad pulls the outfit off while she is on her belly, so he gets no points for that cheap move.

Now she’s back on her back, as the score remains 4-1. Dad has the two snaps off her shirt. What’s this? The seldom seen forearm defense, as Dad presses his left arm from elbow to wrist at an angle across Mollie’s midsection. She’s caught in a vice, while Dad slips both shirts off her head. A fine two-point move for Dad.

With the lead a slim 4-3, Dad’s nearly half way done. He pulls off the plastic pants with his free right hand, while the left arm still is flattening the Kid. Listen to the crowd boo. They don’t think much of a one armed dad. He’s got one pin undone, but here comes Mollie’s trump card—she arches her neck, and her head is suddenly a huge ball bearing that she uses to spin onto her belly. Two more for the Kid, and the diaper only half off.

Another flip onto her back, and Dad tries the double forearm technique, with left arm pinning down Mollie’s chest, and right holding both legs across the knees. Trailing 6-3, the Dad can’t afford any more blunders. He’s got the pin off, and there’s the diaper. And that diaper is not what you’d call clean. That’s two penalty points against Mollie. Listen to those dads cheer—come on folks, she couldn’t help that.

Seriously? This angelic creature is the same one in this column?

Well, he’s got her cleaned up, and the night time diaper is in place. He’s one-handing her now, as she tries all her tricks, inside roll, neck bridge, leg kick. But Dad’s got a secret trick too, and he’s going to use it. Here it comes—the Tickle. Just as Mollie is ready to flip, Dad catches her under the arm pits with two fingers, and Mollie falls weakly onto her back again, giggling. It’s just the time he needs to get the diapers taped on, and the pajamas over her arms. Give Dad two points, and he takes the lead, 7-6 with only two legs left to go into the ‘jammies.

He pull her to her feet to finish her off, but look at that move—Mollie has grabbed the entire mat on the changing able, and lifts it up with her. That’s a point folks, and it’s all tied up, as Dad slips her feet into the p.j.’s and pulls up the zipper.

It’s all over, ladies and gentlemen, and the judges rule it a tie, 7-7. Listen to that crowd roar.

The Dad walks into the living room, as the crowd noise dies down. In the background a woman’s weary voice is heard above the TV: “How would you like to do that five times a day?”

Dad shudders and ignores the comment, basking in his efforts, and glad that they come but once a day.

Rosie wins the battle ~ March 10, 2005

David Heiller

Rosie was onto something, that was obvious. I could hear her growling and yipping in the “West Wing” of the barn on Saturday afternoon. I tuned it out for about an hour, but finally my curiosity got to me. I put down my hammer and went to investigate.

After a bit of searching, I located her burrowing into a stack of hay bales, sniffing, and whining. It wasn’t easy to see her, wedged between the hay and the wall. There isn’t much to see to begin with, Rosie being a miniature dachshund and all. I grabbed her by the collar and pulled her up. She turned her growl in my direction. That’s when I heard a snarl in return, somewhere in the pile of bales.

I can handle snarls from animals I know. But snarling visitors, whoever they may be, are not welcome in the Heiller barn. So I set Rosie back down.

Rosie and the possum

This time she tore into the hay like a tornado. The other critter had had enough of Rosie too, and they met in their hidden arena, their howls and growls mixed together in a frightening din. I was instantly worried. I didn’t want to lose Rosie, and I had no idea what she had unearthed.

Then a streak of gray tore out of the hay and across the floor. I jumped back. A possum! “Go get it Rosie!” I yelled. My killer instincts were kicking in too..

David with Rosie after The Great Possum Battle.

Rosie tried, but she was a couple seconds late in pursuit, and that possum was quick. It disappeared in the clutter of the barn. Rosie circled all around, behind the garbage cans, under the boat, around two different woodpiles. There are a lot of hiding places in a barn. I grabbed a hoe to lend any assistance possible. But the possum was gone.

I returned to my job, then went into the house to get ready for church. I came back out, carrying my camera in the hopes of getting a picture of a deer or turkey on the way to town. But first I had to gather up Rosie and put her in her kennel.

Rosie was again on the scent of the possum. This time she was growling at a pile of foam panels. I started moving the panels, and heard the growl of the possum. Rosie roared into action again, and a rolling ball of black and gray fur emerged at my feet.

It was a horrible and yet fascinating sight. Rosie curls up on the couch with us most nights, but what I was witnessing was a compact killing machine that moved faster than my eye could follow.

I was very glad that I was not a possum.

It was over quite quickly, maybe 10 seconds, although it seemed longer than that. The possum lay motionless, its mouth stretched into a horrible grin of death. Always the newspaper-man, I took a picture of Rosie putting the finishing touches on the battle, and include it as state’s evidence with this column.

I picked up Rosie. She gave me a look that said, “What are you doing?” Yet she didn’t object too loudly. She seemed to be in a state of shock over what had just happened. I guess I was too.

Rosie watching over David during a nap. I am sure she was ready to protect him from any 'possums that might be ready to invade.

I put Rosie in her kennel, then headed out to church. But first I went to pick up the dead possum and put it in the trash. It was gone! It had lived up to its reputation and had played possum. I read later that possums become temporarily paralyzed and fall into a state of coma when they are confronted with danger. Rosie’s instincts probably knew that better than mine.

It wasn’t such a bad ending though. I had to admire that possum. It had fooled me, if not Rosie. That pea-brained possum has probably high-tailed it to Walter Kueblers by now. If it is dumb enough to hang around the Heiller barn; it will face the wrath of Rosie. And you should never bet against a gal named Rosie.

Snowshoe hike was good for us all ~ February 12, 1998

David Heiller

Cindy and Mollie and I strapped on snowshoes and headed into the woods on Sunday afternoon.

The snowshoe gang relaxes.

We had plenty of work to do at home. Ironing for my wife, Cindy, newspaper work for me. Even Mollie, 12, had her piano to practice.

But if you can’t make room for a Sunday saunter, then something is wrong, especially on a gorgeous day with temperatures in the thirties.

We started at a friend’s house. Our goal was to walk three miles southeast through the woods to another friend’s house.

Let’s face it, you can’t get lost in the winter in snow. All you have to do is turn around and follow your footprints back to where you started.

That’s one thing I like about snowshoeing. I have a tendency to get turned around in the woods, and it always worries me a little. But not in the winter, with snow on the ground.

We started out on a logging road, following our friend’s ski tracks. Mollie wanted to walk down the ski trail, but I told her that would not be polite.

We admired his woods. It’s always fun to check out other people’s trees. We stopped at a windfall of oak that had firewood written all over it.

“Red oak,” I told Mollie with authority.

“No that’s a pin oak,” she replied. Tones of authority get on her nerves. I guess she learned that in Tom Leustek’s science class at Willow River High School.

The ski trail ended. Then we went through the woods in a southerly direction. There were trails galore through the woods, deer and squirrels and rabbits and coyotes. Our dog, MacΚenzie, was with us. She had a great time sniffing and exploring.

We saw many places where deer had lain. One area they had pawed leaves out of the snow. There must have been 10 deer beds there.

About halfway to our destination, Mollie started complaining that her feet were cold. She hadn’t worn wind pants, against Cindy’s advice. Now snow was finding its way into her boots. Snow has a way of doing that, especially when you fall down, which Mollie did a time or two.

“How far is it?” she asked. I tried to think of a safe answer. Too far and she’d give up. Too close and she’d lose faith in me. The fact is, I didn’t know.

“Half a mile,” I answered.

We trudged on. Cindy thought we should go a little further east. I said no, and since I had the privilege of breaking trail, I won.

“How far is it?” Mollie asked again.

“Oh, about half a mile,” I said.

“You said that 15 minutes ago,” she said. Oops.

Up ahead I spied a meadow through the trees. “I think I remember that meadow,” I said. “Κaarin’s house is just beyond it.” Well, I wasn’t absolutely sure about that.

We came to the edge of the big field. A deer bounded across it, 50 yards ahead of us, then another, and another. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven deer. What a pretty sight. It rejuvenated us for a bit.

But Mollie’s feet were soaked. Cindy scooped a handful of snow from the tops of her boots. Her socks had slipped down. The skin above her ankles was red and raw. I got cold just looking at them. Is there anything more miserable than cold, wet feet?

She asked again how far it was. “Three eighths of a mile,” I said.

We walked across the huge field, feeling like we were hardly moving. The hike was testing our endurance. Every good hike does that.

Then we spied a house to the west of Kaarin’s. Sure enough, I had veered off course. Cindy had been right. That’s not unusual.

We got to Kaarin’s house 15 minutes later. Our hike was over. It had taken 90 minutes. We were tired. Mollie’s feet really hurt. But Kaarin gave her some dry socks and a pair of sweat pants, and she was soon fine.

Best of all, she enjoyed it. She was proud of herself. We were too. I would have griped a lot more than her. I hate wet feet in the winter.

Next time she’ll dress a little differently, and we’ll have an even better time. (Hey, a little encouragement never hurt anyone.)