He didn’t save living for another day ~ Marlana Benzie-Lourey ~ January 25, 2007

Editor's note: This is by our dear friend, Marlana. She and her husband, Tony bought the Askov American from us in 2003. She wrote this for the readers of the Askov American, after David's death.

David Heiller lived life like he played cards. He never held back and never had a card up his sleeve. What you saw was what you got. Dave started with his highest trump and played the high cards out as if there might not be another chance to play them. Straight-forward. Without reservation.

Jumping to Daddy, and other games.

“What are you waiting for, Mar? Why’d you hang on to that joker?” he’d ask me in disbelief as each card dropped. “You’re gonna miss your chance if you play like that.”

Tony and Marlana, 2003.

That’s how he lived his life. He didn’t save his living for another day. If something was worth doing, he’d do it. His family, writing, music, photography, camping, fishing, friends. He made sure he fit it all in. Neatly. With planning and purpose.

Dave’s last email to me was the morning be died. He was wondering if Tony and I were going to make it to Minneapolis to meet him and Cindy for dinner after a day at the state newspaper convention. He’d first contacted me several weeks ago about setting a date, always the one to make the plans, set aside the time for friends. “Or else we’ll never do it,” he’d often say, pulling out his calendar to schedule the next card night or book club.

We never got to have that dinner.

I’d told him the day before that I had so many new questions saved up for him. He’d been in my shoes as publisher of the Askov American nearly two decades longer than I had. He understood my dilemmas, worries, and frustrations. I didn’t have to explain much whenever we talked about life at the paper, which was often. “I know, Mar,” he’d say, with that gentle sigh and nod of his heed, always reassuring me that I should follow my instincts. It’ll work out, he’d tell me. Don’t worry. You’re doing just fine.

Ι didn’t get to ask those questions.

David, Queen Ida, and MacKenzie

If you ever had a conversation with Dave, on any subject, it would keep brewing in his news reporter’s mind long after he left you. Following a visit to an Indian restaurant, we’d receive a newspaper clipping on palak paneer. Mention that you like bluegrass and a tape would show up in the mail. Stuart wants to learn mandolin? Here’s a video. The kids are fascinated by wildlife? Check out this delicate mouse skeleton, presented in a tiny gift box that traveled hundreds of miles, just for them.

He never forgot. He rarely put off for another day. He did so many of the things we all want to do. He wrote songs, gardened, kept bees, put up maple syrup. Just a few weeks ago, I spotted the maple syrup pan he gave me too many years ago.

We’d been touring his summer gardens when he asked me to come over to the shed.

David pouring sap for 
maple syrup making.

“Mar, you said a while ago you want to learn how to put up maple syrup,” he said pointing to a wide metal pan. “I got a new pan. You can have this one, but only if you’re really going to use it. I’d hate to give it away and find out you never used it,”

When I saw that pan, just weeks before he died, Ι shook my head. There it was, leaning against my barn wall, begging for α spring fire. “Oh, I’ll use it!” I’d promised him.

But the years passed quickly, each fleeting spring answered with a “next year,” “someday.”

Dave was a serious newspaper man, of a style and caliber that one doesn’t often see these days. On α Tuesday afternoon, the office was often hushed, with Dave typing furiously away at his keyboard, setting in print the story of a neighbor—a seamstress, a logger, a firefighter, or α teacher. He gave voice to their quiet stories and told them proudly, preserving the memory and the moment in the pages of the Askov American. His work earned him dozens of awards and built the American’s reputation throughout the region. Dave believed completely in community journalism and the importance of the weekly newspaper. And, while I’m sure he kept a running fist of stories he’d like to do, I’d guess his list was relatively short, because he rarely put his work off for another day. If the story ought to be told, he’d tell it.

I didn’t get to have that last dinner and conversation with Dave.

The many questions I had for him bounce around in my head, unanswered, unsettled, seeking a smooth place to land. So many questions. And, while Ι might not get the answers Ι was seeking that night, I know the question Dave will ask me as I put off plans to see a friend, write a story, tap a maple tree.

“What are you waiting for?”

a photo album dedicated to David