Casting for a fishing story ~ July 3, 1997

David Heiller

If your ear lobes are intact now, guard them with your life. I taught a four year old how to cast a fishing lure.

It started innocently enough last weekend at The Cabin. When my four-year-old nephew, Collin, arrived, the first words he said to me were, “Uncle Day-vid, I caught more fish than you last year.”

He had out-fished me one evening, and he wasn’t about to let me forget it after only 12 months.

Uncle Day-vid and Collin at the cabin: fishing buddies

The next morning we went to the dock to catch sunnies. Usually with a four year old, that means dropping a line from your Sesame Street rod and reel straight down into the water, and watching half a dozen panfish converge on the worm.

They have a brief conference, then elect the smallest one to investigate further. You end up pulling in a fish only slightly bigger than the hook itself. This gives the kid a great thrill, which gives the adult a great thrill.

But Collin’s Sesame Street fishing rod and reel were broken. Why is it they only last one summer? Could it be a conspiracy?

I gave Collin my best rod and reel. I figured I wouldn’t need it. When you fish with kids, you don’t really get much fishing done yourself anyway.

Collin was thrilled to sit on the dock and catch small fish. But I couldn’t resist showing him how to cast his bobber out further, where the bigger fish might be.

Learning to cast a fishing rod is a milestone in a child’s life, like riding a bike or hitting a baseball. One of my earliest memories is of fishing with my brother, Glenn, and trying to cast with a rod and reel.

Glenn must have been in a good mood that evening to let me use it. Usually it was Cane Poles Only.

The open-faced reel had a thick black line. You used your thumb for a drag. It was virtually impossible to cast without getting a backlash the size of an eagle’s nest.

I think I made one cast, then spent the rest of the evening trying to untangle the line. Glenn was not pleased, to put it mildly. But I was thrilled to have been given the chance to actually cast my bait. I eventually mastered the reel, and was able to cast it at least five feet.

Getting the bait on is the step before casting.

With that rite of passage in the back of my mind, I showed Collin how to cast. I showed him how the line-release button worked. I showed him how much line should be dangling at the tip of the rod when you cast.

I told him how to bring the rod back to two o’clock, then bring it forward to 10 o’clock. I don’t know if he knows how to tell time, but he nodded dutifully. I held his hand and we did it together. The bobber soared out at least five feet.

No fish was hooked, but Collin was. He couldn’t believe he had done that. He grabbed the rod from me. “I want to do it now, Uncle Day-vid,” he said.

“Let me show you one more time,” I said. But we both knew that wasn’t necessary. He kept the rod and kept casting.

Most of the time he looked like a mule skinner whipping a team of horses. He churned up the water with short casts. Once in a while he’d get one out 20 feet.

Fishing pretty much stopped for Collin at that point and casting took over. He would simply cast and reel, cast and reel. He paused only long enough to have me bait the hook after a fish had caught up to it long enough to strip it bare.

On Saturday night, I took Collin and two adults out in the 14-foot fishing boat. I sat in the rear, manning the six-horse Mercury and keeping a close eye on Collin.

Watching a kid cast on a dock is one thing.

You can give him a wide berth. Sitting next to him in a boat is another. There’s no place to hide.

Collin worked both sides of the boat. He cast to the front and to the back. He would announce his direction with a polite sentence. “Excuse me, Day-vid.” “Excuse me, Nancy.” “Excuse me, Mike.”

We wanted to excuse him into the lake. But instead we just hunched our shoulders and lowered our heads and waited for the bobber to go whipping past.

Collin was sitting on a boat cushion. Each time he cast, it inched off the seat. Finally after one mighty cast he ended up with a crash in the bottom of the boat.

No, I didn’t hope he had a broken arm. But I couldn’t help telling him that that’s what happens when you cast so much. “You need to let your bobber sit for a while,” I told him for the umpteenth time.

But Casting Collin wasn’t going to let a bruise or two stop him. He kept on casting, and we kept on ducking.

I know I could have made him stop and sit still and be quiet. But fishing is supposed to be fun, and Collin was having fun. So I let him cast away.

I ended up catching three keepers to his one. “I caught more fish than you,” I said with a smile that he recognized. “Maybe that’s because you did too much casting.” He didn’t say anything. It was a four-year-old dilemma.

We got back at dark. Collin held a flashlight while I cleaned the fish. We ate them the next day. There’s nothing better than fried sunfish fillets, rolled in flour, fried in butter, and seasoned with salt, pepper—patience!

Time will tell where Collin goes, fishing-wise. I tried to teach him how to put on a worm and take off a fish. He didn’t want learn that mundane skill quite as eagerly. But I’ve got a hunch he will.

Once you learn how to cast, the rest is all downhill.

A front row seat for a thunderstorm ~ July 13, 2000

David Heiller

 Noah and I each grabbed an umbrella and headed outside for an exciting Saturday night at the Heiller house.

A thunderstorm was heading our way, and we wanted to be a part of it.

Noah and David

News banners on the television screen had set the stage. Warning beeps sounded like the distress signal of a sinking submarine. Then some weather man with a real voice, a voice like yours or mine, spoke over the now-silent tennis match.

“At 7:47 p.m., a line of thunderstorms was spotted on Doppler radar moving north northeast at approximately 18 miles an hour. This storm contains hail the size of Volkswagons. In its path is the city of Finlayson and the Heiller residence.”

That’s what my imagination said at least.

There’s something about a thunderstorm that is both frightening and fascinating. You hope you don’t get zapped. You hope the wind doesn^’t turn into a tornado, or that six inches of rain doesn’t fall in two hours. You hope the hail doesn’t grow to the size of softballs. But you still want to watch it, especially the first one of the year, which this was for me.

So I unplugged the computer and VCR, and headed outside with the 17-year-old son. I was glad Noah agreed to come with me. He must have felt the same lure of the storm. There’s hope for the teenagers of the world yet!

The thunder and lightning took their time hitting us. Some thunderstorms bear down on you like a racehorse. This one ambled in like an elephant. We sat in lawn chairs first. Then as the rain picked up, we realized that mere umbrellas wouldn’t quite cut it. We moved to the pole barn, then the truck. Finally Noah suggested the greenhouse.

“Perfect,” I shouted. That’s where we settled.

The lightning flashes got brighter. It would be pitch dark, then instantly as bright as day. “I’m getting my sunglasses,” Noah shouted over the thunder. “Grab mine too,” I answered.

It must have looked pretty strange, two men standing in the dark, wearing sunglasses, at 10 at night. But that was us. We were cool.

I had brought out a box of crackers. We ate them and talked about storms we had been in before. I said I was glad we weren’t camping.

David and Noah during a different rain storm.

“Imagine being under a big white pine in the Boundary Waters.”

“You’d die for sure,” Noah answered. Thunderstorms will get you thinking like that.

Then the clouds really let go. Rain fell about as hard as rain can fall. The plastic of the greenhouse sagged under a river of rain. We touched the plastic. It seemed alive.

“It feels weird, doesn’t it?” Noah said. It did.

The rain relieved the thunder and lightning. The storm lost it’s angry will and slowly plowed to the east.

It hadn’t hit us directly. It was never that scary kind of a storm, one that bears down on you like a Mack truck and really has you worried about life and limb.

No lightning bolts had put the fear of God into us. No booms of thunder had sent us sprawling.

But Mother Nature had put on a show for us. She had earned my sense of wonder, and Noah’s too, I think.

I was lucky to see and feel that again. And having a front row seat with your son isn’t bad either.

Masked-marauders invade state park! ~ June 21, 1990

David Heiller

News reports I would like to see...

HINCKLEY (AP)—An unknown number of masked robbers broke into the personal belongings of two families at a campground east of Hinckley last week.

The unidentified assailants damaged property at St. Croix State Park, made personal threats, and carted off a quantity of food on Wednesday, June 13, before the campers could stop them.

Joey and Nora Shields and Noah and Malika Heiller: before the invasion.

The campers then withstood several more attacks by the group during a long and sleepless night.

No one was hurt, although two seven-year-old boys were visibly shaken when they had to abandon their pup tent to sleep with one set of parents.

Camper Cindy Heiller also had one attacker come at her for a short distance after she attempted to chase it away in the late afternoon.

The incident came after the Shields and Heiller families returned from a bicycle trip in the park. While the men were playing baseball with their children, three invaders approached the women and a 15-month-old baby.

They laughed at first. Then Cindy tried to chase one away, running at it half-bent, shaking her arms and yelling in a gutteral voice.

The invader bent over, shook its head, and ran right back TOWARD Cindy, who quickly lost her bravado and retreated to a picnic table.

The invader then started climbing into the trunk of a car to investigate its contents. The men returned at that time, and armed themselves with rocks to protect their family and property.

Both were heard to remark that they wished they were NRA members, or at least had brought along a small caliber pistol to take justice into their own hands.

Cindy also reported that the robbers destroyed a large Tupperware container full of chocolate chip bars which she had baked for the trip. She said they had passed up two bags of tortilla chips and marshmallows to get to the bars, which they also sampled and ate.

“At least they liked the bars,” her husband, David, said. Cindy had no comment to that remark.

The rest of the evening passed without incident. As darkness fell, the families tucked their two sons into an old pup tent for their first night of camping without adults by their side. David checked the latch on their cooler. It was shut tight. The campfire died down, and the nine people settled into their tents and sleeping bags.

The silence was broken when Carolyn Shields called out from her tent across the campsite, “Dave, is that you?”

Dave, who was reading by candlelight in the Heiller tent, wondered what she was talking about. “Yes, this is me,” he said.

Kevin Shield’s voice then broke the silence in a stream of yells that can’t be repeated here. A tent zipped open, pots crashed and sticks and rocks flew. Kevin ran from his tent in his underwear. His flashlight spotted one invader sauntering off with a roll of braunschweiger over his shoulder. Another one had a package of Hershey bars already opened and half-eaten. The thieves had removed these items from Heillers’ cooler. The braunschweiger and most of the Hershey bars were recovered.

After Kevin yelled and chased after them, they both dropped their goods, perhaps startled as much by Kevin’s attire as his words. But they made no attempt to run away. One continued eating a Hershey bar. Kevin’s flashlight revealed at least three invaders at the edge of the campsites.

“They sounded so methodical,” Carolyn said. “I thought it was Dave grabbing a midnight snack.”

Shields and Heiller packed everything edible into their cars and returned to their tents. But that didn’t bring peace and quiet. The invaders came again. Garbage can lids banged. Kevin started swearing and yelling again. The raccoons started snarling and fighting between themselves, apparently over a half-eaten candy bar. The kids started crying. David Heiller started laughing.

David had to rescue the two oldest boys from their pup tent, while the Shields’ middle daughter returned to Mommy and Daddy’s side.

After another 10 minutes, things quieted down in the campsite. Then, from the next campsite 20 yards away, a tent unzipped, gar­bage can lids clanged, and a stream of obscenities similar to Kevin’s could be heard in the night.

The next morning, the bleary-eyed campers discovered that no one was missing, and most of their food and property was intact. They even managed a smile.

They described the thieves as about two feet tall, with small hands capable of picking locks; wearing masks and scraggly fur coats, and having bushy tails with dark rings on them.

An investigation is pending.

We’re going to miss the sauna ~ July 3, 2003

David Heiller

The Sauna Equilibrium Ratio is high these days.

It’s not a statistic that you hear from Collin Ventrella during the 10 o’clock news, but it’s a good barometer at our house.

Here’s how it works:

You take a sauna until you are too hot to stand it anymore. Then you go outside until you are too cold to stand it anymore. That is your Sauna Equilibrium Ratio.

What was the Sauna Equilibrium Ratio 
on this day? I still miss my sauna.

For example, if you take a 45 minute sauna, then stand outside for five minutes, the Sauna Equilibrium Ratio is 45:5 (or 9:1).

In mid-winter, with the temperature below zero and a west wind, the Sauna Equilibrium Ratio is 45:0.

Some evenings, when the temperature is mild and the bugs have gone to bed, you can have an infinite Sauna Equilibrium Ratio. It’s one of life’s simple pleasures if you live in the country. I still vividly remember one evening earlier this year. I had just taken a sauna, and was lying on the picnic table, totally drained in both mind and body, which is what a good sauna can do.

Off in the distance I heard a whippoorwill calling, Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, repeating his name in a greeting, on and on. That brought a smile. We have lived at our friendly home in the country for 22 years, yet I had never heard a whippoorwill calling before that, and I haven’t heard it since. It was a great reward for checking out the Sauna Equilibrium Ratio.

Having a nice pond helps the Sauna Equilibrium Ratio too. If I get too hot in the sauna, and can barely breathe and my legs start to wobble, I stumble to the pond and dive in. Then the weakness and heat disappear in a heartbeat. The pond is cold and clear. One side of me dreads the dive. But once in it, I am amazed at how refreshing it feels. Without the sauna, swimming in the pond would be as inviting as Lake Superior. But with the sauna, the pond, feels just fine—for at least 30 seconds.

Another fine way to end a sauna is to sit in a lightly falling rain. It’s very soothing.

Even those bitter winter nights are rewarding—they make me realize how vulnerable the human body is, and how much I value a nice, warm house.

One time I wrote about the sauna many years ago, then heard that a neighbor was making fun of me, like there was something not quite right with this sauna stuff. That made me think, “What’s wrong with that person?” She could have benefited from the Sauna Equilibrium Ratio.

Cindy and I are going to be leaving our beautiful home soon. There are many things that I will miss. The sauna will be close to the top of the list.

A summer rain ~ July 2, 1987

David Heiller

 Rain fell Sunday afternoon. It splashed off our garden beds at first, raising a dust storm for the bees and ants. Then it settled the dust and ran off the beds and finally soaked in.

Malika, always moving to the next adventure.

I stood in the doorway with my two children. They had been lobbying during the past hour for a trip to the park. I had been urging a compromise walk down the road. Their expressions as they looked at the rain fall outside the screen door reflected the overcast sky.

“Now we can go to the park after the rain?” Noah asked.

“Pahk atta rain?” Malika echoed.

“Well, it’s pretty wet there,” I said uneasily. “Maybe we should stay home, then go tomorrow when it’s done raining.” I knew tomorrow would be better, what with their grandmother here for a visit.

Malika pushed past Noah as I opened the door to breath in the late afternoon air. The rain was letting up, after just an hour. We needed more, the garden and hayfields needed more, the Askov and Finlayson water towers needed more.

Drops of water fell from the roof, landing on Malika’s head as she peered up at the clouds. She moved barefoot onto the porch, then ran on tip toes under the maple tree. The water sprayed her like a gentle sprinkler. She didn’t care about the park. This was much better.

Noah, bike and boots...

Noah used his four-year-old common sense as he watched his sister test the water. “Mollie doesn’t have shoes on,” he said as he pulled on a pair of rubber boots. He wears those boots on the hottest days of the summer as well as the coldest winter days. Today he was lucky it was raining, so it made sense, and he could afford to remind me in a righteous voice, “Daddy, Mollie doesn’t have shoes on.”

“That’s fine,” I answered absently. The sun broke through the western rim of the storm. Suddenly the air was cool and clear, washed by the rain. The garden glistened, the plants crisp, the soil dark.

Birds circled over the rows, a platoon of tree swallows that wove and spun as they snatch invisible mosquitoes. A cat bird called from the windbreak of white spruce, a loud and angry call like a tomcat with a sore throat. Our cat, Miss Emma, sauntered from the trees toward the house, followed by those angry cat calls. I looked for a bird drooping from her jaw, but she just smiled. Not even a feather in sight.

A male bluebird swept in to its house on the clothes line pole. The sun caught its bright blue feathers, its orange breast ruffled slightly as it hurried to feed the young peepers inside the house.

The afternoon settled into evening. We took our walk, Malika sitting in her wagon, Noah riding ahead on his 12-inch bicycle with training wheels. Then it was home to see Mom and Grandma, baths for the kids, a Sesame Street story, and up to bed.

Darkness crept over the yard, Cindy’s mother stood at the kitchen window, looking at the apple tree. “There’s a deer there eating apples,” she said. Sure enough, a deer moved easily under the tree, grazing the newly watered grass, picking up tiny apples that the kids had knocked down. It had two spikes for antlers, covered with fuzz.

“Is Noah awake?” I asked.

“No, he’s sleeping,” Grandma answered. She had gone to check the minute she spotted the deer.

Finally the deer moved slowly down our driveway and north up the county road, toward some new supper, or perhaps a bed for the night.

Malika and Binti

^‘I stepped outside. Our dog, Binti, lay under the apple tree, in full sight of the deer. She wagged her tail slightly, but didn’t move except to raise her eyebrows as she glanced at me. “Pretty nice, huh?” she seemed to say.

Pretty nice, I agreed.

Some fish never stop growing ~ July 6, 1989

David Heiller

We did a lot of fishing when I was a kid, growing up on the Mississippi River in southeastern Minnesota. I have a thousand memories, but one stands out. It’s so old, I only remember remembering it, if you know what I mean.

It was a summer evening, when I was about six. We were fishing off a dock south of Brownsville, in the backwater. The dock was full of us kids. I had a cane pole, of course, and stood at the edge of the black water, which lapped over the old wooden planks and onto our feet. It was that still time of day, with the warm smell of summer evening in the air, a smell kids know, a mixture of fish and water and wet wood and mayflies and warm sunshine.

I remember that smell, and I remember my cane pole just about jumped out of my hand as a fish took the huge bobber under. I pulled up, the black line straining, and suddenly a huge bass lay thrashing on the dock. It shook out the hook, and started flopping toward the water. Glenn, my older brother, stood and gawked for a split second. Then he pounced on the fish like a cat, and clutched it in 15-year-old hands, a lunker large mouth.

It seemed like a lunker to me, anyway. We measured it at 16 inches on the spot. By the time we got home, it was 18 inches long. That’s all the longer Glenn would allow it to grow, and it has stayed there for 29 years. I admired that black bass for years. I used to hold my hands apart 18 inches, and tell myself, “That’s how long it was.” I could see its green back, the black line running down the side, the huge mouth, the red in its eye. It’s been my favorite fish ever since.

Noah's bass

This past weekend, we took a family vacation to a cabin on Pelican Lake, near Orr, Minnesota. As soon as we had unpacked the car, we piled into the boat, and headed for a fishing hole, my son, Noah, my sister-in-law, Nancy, and me.

We pulled up at a narrow channel between two small islands. It looked like a good spot, according to the resort map. “Reef,” it said, showing tiny lines in a circle. Besides, another boat was here too. They must know what they were doing, I thought. That’s a basic rule of fishing: If you don’t know what you’re doing, find someone who looks like they do. One of the guys from their boat was in the water, tugging at the anchor rope. “Anchor’s stuck on the rocks,” he called out as we pulled up 30 feet away.

Noah cast a nightcrawler out from his Mickey Mouse rod and reel, while I bent down to bait my hook. Suddenly there was a splashing. Noah yelled, “I’ve got one, I’ve got one.” His rod, all three feet of it, was doubled over the side of the boat out of sight. It pulled him to his feet.

“Pull it in,” I said, thinking it was a sunny. Then I saw the swirl of a large green back in the water. I gawked for a split second. “Help him, Nancy,” I called. She reached out, grabbed his line, and hoisted the fish into the boat.

“Look at that, Dad,” Noah said. He held up a largemouth bass, about 16 inches in length. It must have weighed a pound and a half, maybe a little more.

Good fishing for Noah, David, and Nancy.

“Nice bass,” the guy in the water called from the nearby boat. It was an honest compliment, but did I detect a touch of jealousy, a wistful tone in his voice? Where had I heard that before? From my brother on the dock south of Brownsville 29 years ago?

The fishing peaked then and there. We caught plenty of sunnies the next two days, plus perch and crappies and smallmouth and rock bass and a two pound northern. But no more largemouth bass like that.

Which was fine with Noah. Because the largemouth began to grow almost as soon as it was filleted and refrigerated. “How big was it, Dad?” he asked that evening as we returned to the hot spot. He held his hands maybe two feet apart. “That big?”

“No, not quite,” I answered, trying not to smile.

“That big?” He moved his hands 18 inches palm-to-palm, but they immediately drifted apart, like opposite poles on a magnet, and the fish grew some more.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said, smiling.

And for a split second, I smelled it again, that smell of fish and water and wet wood and mayflies and warm sunshine.

Keep the gas tank filled – the baby’s on it’s way ~ June 27, 1985

David Heiller

1:12 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: The light is on over the bed. Cindy is sitting bent over slightly at the edge. Her face is tight. She’s looking at her watch.

“Five minutes apart, 45 seconds long,” she says in a breathless way. “The contractions.”

“Huh?” I mumble, feeling very cozy under the blankets of this cool dark morning.

“Let’s go, Dave,” she says. “I think this is it.” Suddenly, very suddenly, I’m awake.

4:20 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: We’ve just dropped Noah off with a friend in Rutledge. So far, so good, with our Plan. Suitcase is packed, dog and cat fed. We even had time for a quick sauna before leaving. We are on our way to the hospital in Duluth.

Cindy spies the gas gauge. Less than a quarter of a tank. “Do I have to take care of everything?” she asks.

“This is the first time in two weeks I didn’t get gas,” I say in a weak voice. So much for that part of the Plan. “Why, just today, I pulled into the Deep Rock, but I didn’t have any checks with me. Besides, you’re a week early, you know.”

Somehow, blaming Mother Nature is a watery excuse, and Cindy doesn’t bother to answer it.

4:45 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: We’re just picked up a friend in Moose Lake. Diane was with us for Noah’s birth, and will be labor assistant again. She sits in the back seat, rubbing Cindy’s shoulders and talking softly. Diane gave birth to all six of her children at home. Plus she’s helped quite a few others into the world. Her presence calms my butterflies somewhat. Still, as we approach the Carlton exit on 1-35, my stomach feels like Cindy’s. A combination of two cups of tea, a glass of orange juice, and a near-empty tank, all having their effect.

I pull over at a truck stop, fill the tank, and go to the bathroom. Suddenly things seem much better, for me at least.

8:15 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: We’ve been here for three hours. Contractions are down to three minutes apart, lasting a minute and a half Cindy is dilated to six centimeters. The doctor comes in for the first time. He’s been out of town all weekend, and a nurse finally got hold of him. Cindy’s face lights up when she sees him. It’s a look I haven’t seen before, the look of a woman about to try a natural birth, after a Caesarean Section, looking at the doctor she has trusted to help her.

“You’re processing well,” he says. “The baby is still posterior. It’s still got some rotating to do, but it’s moving down nicely into the birth canal. It looks good.”

The doctor gives Cindy’s hand a squeeze and heads for the door. “I’m going to make my rounds now, and go to my office across the street.” He looks at me, reads my eyes. “I won’t be more than three minutes away. Don’t worry.”

9:20 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: Cindy is lying on the delivery table, trying not to push. We’ve been waiting for the doctor for 15 minutes. Cindy is dilated 10 centimeters and can hardly hold back as the contractions sweep over her. The intercom is calling for the doctor at a steady interval. A nurse calls his office. Nobody says anything. We hardly look at one another. I glance at Diane as we knead Cindy’s back. “Where is he?” my look says. “We’ve got lots of time,” her look answers.

10:23 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: We’ve been pushing for 40 minutes. I say “we.” Any husband who has sat by his wife’s side at a birth knows what I mean. Cindy’s arms and legs feel like ironwood when she pushes. Deep breath, face contorts into a grimace. Knuckles turn white at her side, feet and legs strain against the stirrups.

The doctor checks Cindy again. No progress. The baby is about two inches from crowning, and not coming any further. The doctor can see its head. He shows me. “Oh, it’s a girl, she’s got brown hair,” I say. A few short laughs.

But there is no humor in the room. The baby, he or she, is stuck. It happened two years ago too, only that time there were forceps and an ambulance, and just enough doubts to make us try again.

‘I’ll let you push for another half hour, but to be quite honest, I don’t think it’ll go,” the doctor says. Cindy is exhausted. The pain is almost too much, since she has held off from any pain killer. “It’s your decision.”

I look at Cindy. “It’s your decision, Cindy,” I say. “No, it’s our decision,” she answers.

“That’s right,” the doctor says, looking at me. I’ve seen enough pain for a year in the last hour. “Let’s get it over with,” I tell Cindy.

She nods a reply.

11:58 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: I pet Cindy’s hair, sitting by her head in the operating room. A sheet separates Cindy’s head and me from the rest of her body. It could be a mile away for Cindy too. She can’t feel a thing from the chest down. Her eyes are clear of pain for the first time all morning, as she smiles at me.

Our nurse catches my eye, and lifts her chin with a come-here, motion. “You ready for this?” she asks. “Stand up.”

Malika Lynette, June, 1985.

And there it is, not it—he or she, this purple tiny baby thing that gets rushed to the warming table in the corner. A tiny voice cracks, a single cry that could split a log of oak. The newest, most anxious and pleading and happy-to-be-here sound, that has made moms and dads cry since memory itself.

“You’ve got a little girl,” the doctor says.

“A little girl, we’ve got a little girl,” Cindy and I both say as our cheeks touch, our tears touch. For a handful of seconds, time has stopped. And a new life has begun.