Life is for the birds ~ July 6, 2005

David Heiller

A bird flew out of a round cedar on the north side of the house about a month ago. That made me curious, so I pulled back some branches on the shrub and saw a tiny nest with four blue eggs.

The cedar is only about three feet high. That seemed like an odd place for a bird to build a nest. But it was well hidden by the branches of the tree.

The photo, of the nest and the hungry
chick, copied from the paper.

The nest became a wonderful little science project. I showed it to my grand-niece when she came for a visit from Texas, but I was just as fascinated. One day I discovered a baby bird had hatched. I expected the other three to quickly follow, but that didn’t happen, just one of the four made it. Life is cheap when you are a bird.

It was amazing how fast that one bird grew. It went from a little blob the size of my fingernail to a thing that seemed to be all mouth, to a fledged out bird, all in about two weeks!

My daughter and I checked the nest on June 26, and the little bird hopped onto the ground. It didn’t seem quite ready to fly, so we put it back in to the nest. When I checked it three days later, leaving the nest and its three little eggs. I’m going to give it to some kids I know. (It is good to have kids to give stuff like this to.)

And finally I was able to identify the parent bird as a chipping sparrow. I took out a bird book and read that they prefer just such spots. They like to use hair in their nests too, and this nest had plenty of hair. Most of it looked like it came from our dog Riley, who leaves big patches of his yellow winter coat on the ground in the spring.

Birds add a lot to our lives. We have two hummingbird feeders, and sometimes have seven or eight birds will zoom in for their sweet supper. It kind of .scary when we sit on the deck, but no one has been hit yet.

Orioles take the grape jelly we give them. Finches, chickadees, and sparrows devour the sunflower seeds. Woodpeckers drop in on occasion.

The garage and barn are full of-swallows. At least three bluebird houses are occupied. Pigeons roost in the top of the silo, cooing down its 60-foot length, (It’s an eerie sound.) There’s a robin’s nest under the deck.

Noah patiently feeding chickadees, by hand.

We wake up at 5:30 to the chirping of birds, and if we are lucky, a whippoorwill will lull us to sleep at night.

I really don’t know much about birds, but I know this much: they add a lot of value to my life, and I’m sure I speak for many others when say that.

I’ll also tip my hat to people like Fred Lesher, who I wrote about a couple weeks ago. He’s one if those dreaded “bird watchers.” We need people like him to keep tabs on birds that aren’t as commonplace as those I’ve mentioned here.

Fred believes we live in a bird heaven here in Houston County, and from my limited experience, I have to agree. Birds are everywhere.

One thing that I found interesting, and upsetting, at the river refuge meeting that I attended on June 23 was the disdain that the people in my group had for “bird watchers.”

It came up least three times. We can’t be protecting the river for bird watchers (spoken with scorn). This wouldn’t be a good area for bird watchers (sarcastic tone), because it is too close to a hunting area. That kind of thing.

It seems to me there should be room for bird watchers and bird hunters to live side by side without put-downs. The two groups are close cousins in many ways. They both know and respect the animal, its habitat, range, calls, and personalities.

When in doubt, don’t throw it out ~ July 24, 2003

David Heiller

“You’re not throwing that Plexiglas away are you?” Cindy asked on Sunday evening.

The thick piece of plastic had come from a hockey rink, where it had served as protection for fans from flying pucks. This one about 16 inches by 26 inches, give or take a few cracks and holes

It had sat unused in the garage for about 10 years, and now it was leaning against the garbage can, waiting for a trip to the landfill.

We moved our stuff, pick-up load at a time down to Brownsville.

But hold on there, Cindy was saying. That could come in handy, couldn’t it? You never know when you can use a piece of Plexiglas from a hockey rink.

The scary part was that I had been thinking the same thing. So with a mixture of guilt and relief, I carried it back to the garage.

It illustrates what is going on in our lives these days as we pack up 22 years of belongings. My old Test of Time standard is itself being severely tested. It states that if I haven’t used something in a couple years, out it goes.

The old "garage" was never really a garage...
 but it held a lot of "stuff".

Dilemmas are bombarding us. Do I need a box of old purses and bags? Geez, they could come in handy at some point. They are perfectly good. They could hold something.

What about that box of hats? I had a full head of hair the last time I wore most of them. But wait, that one is kind of debonair. I wore it to work once, and only a few people snickered. And that other one, I got while I was in the Peace Corps. I bonded with that hat!

Here’s a box of dishes that were put in the garage when we moved here from Stewartville in 1981. We had them before we were married. I remember those dishes. They’re kind of pretty, and they are still in fine shape. Keep them!

That Army duffel bag was my dad’s in World War II. Now it is stuffed with a bean bag chair. Noah used it as a blocking dummy in his football years. It’s a family heirloom.

That spare blender? You never know when the one in the house will break.

Those boxes of papers, letters, Christmas cards, photos, and college term papers? Some treasures are no doubt buried in their midst. I’d hate to accidentally lose something valuable.

Then there’s that cordwood saw. I promised I’d sell it to Tim. I hadn’t used it for so long, and we are moving, so why haul it 250 miles? He was going to come over on Monday evening to get it.

We built a pole shed. We actually kept cars,
truck and tractor there. It, too, had to be emptied.

I fired it up on Sunday night, to cut up a pile of old boards. It took only half a dozen pulls for it to kick into action, after a couple years of dormancy. Good old 12 horse power engine: As the circular blade sliced through board after board, I thought, “I can’t sell this!”

I broke the news to Cindy, and the scary part was, she agreed. Quid pro quo.

I have thrown a lot of things away, and taken some other things to Bruno Thrift Store. But it seems like my old saying of “When in doubt, throw it out” is under revision in these uncharted waters of moving.

Our garage and home up north are slowly being emptied, and the garage and barn down south are steadily filling up, with boxes of stuff that may very well remain in their cardboard coffins for another 22 years.

Here’s an answer for the Twins ~ July 27, 2005

David Heiller

A stop at Bissen’s Tavern the other day made my old brain click into action.

David never considered himself
 the star. And he never 
considered not playing.

The Minnesota Twins had just lost another one-run game, and the answer, at least a partial one, sat right there in front of me.

Gale Kletzke.

If you grew up in Brownsville in the 1950s and 60s, you are starting to tremble right now.

Gale was a softball force then, and I have no doubt he could still put wobble legs on a Major League pitcher.

He batted let handed, which gave him an advantage on the Brownsville School softball field. For one thing, he could knock the ball into the maple trees that grew there. More often though, he just knocked them onto Main Street and past Erma Bissen’s pump. Gale would lumber around the bases, head down. No showboating in those days.

Once in a while he would get that Kletzke look, a glint in the eye, a bit of a smile that tigers have when they eat raw meat. Then the Colleran house was fair game. Kids sitting along the first base line would scramble behind the backstop, and Mrs. Colleran would come onto her front porch in the vain hope that Gale would change his mind. Then a missile would streak through the air and into her bushes or living room.

OK Gardy, remember that name. Kletzke. Just the sound of it should he enough to score a few runs.

But that’s not all. I have three more suggestions.

Pete Scanlan: Pete was all muscle. A slugger like his cousin, Gale. He looked like the proverbial brick outhouse, And he was fearless on the base-paths. I remember one time, Pete hit the ball in the infield, and there was a close play at first. My brother, Danny, was playing there, and he made the mistake of not stepping out of Pete’s way. Boom! Danny flew through the air and landed on his back. He sat up, and for a tense second we didn’t know what would happen. Softball games could get pretty competitive, and no one had ever been dumb enough to get in Pete’s way before. Then Danny fell backward, arms out-stretched, Like he was dead. It was funny, and a rare smile crept onto Pete’s face. It was a lesson I’ve always remembered: a little humor can go a long way.

• Larry Boesen: Gardy, this guy is probably eight feet tall by now. He was a foot bigger than everyone in his eighth grade class back in 1963. He had a little hitch in his step, and he looked like Walter Brennan when he ran the base-paths. But once he got a head of steam, he was like a freight train.

• Shirley Ideker: I hate to say this, because Shirley played for the German Ridge school, and they were our archrivals. But she was good! Big, muscular, solid. In other words, an Ideker. She threw like a boy and not like other girls, whose arms seemed to come out of their their shoulder sockets when they tried to throw a ball.

Go Twins

What I most remember about Shirley was how she played first base. That is the key position in softball, because so many throws go there. Shirley never missed a throw. If you hit the ball in the infield against the German Ridge team back then, you were out, Thwack! I can still hear the sound of the ball hitting her glove. A very discouraging sound.      

And Shirley never aged. Every spring, we would look to see if Shirley was still on the team, and Shirley would be there. I think she got special permission throughout high school and college to return to Brownsville for those softball games.

So there you have it, Gardy. Boesen in center, Scanlan at third, Kletzke at DH, and Shirley Ideker at first. Problem solved. Go Twins!

Two milestones that touched the heart ~ July 17, 1997

David Heiller

There are certain events that make you realize how precious your children are. You experience these milestones gradually, one at a time, which is good, because it helps your heart heal before it gets pounded again.

I saw a couple last weekend, one from a distance and one up close and personal.

The first came on Saturday, when Heidi Rossow and Josh Eschenbach were married. I hate to use the words “good kids” to describe Josh and Heidi. It doesn’t do them justice. Maybe words like hard working, responsible, friendly, fun-loving, and compassionate would fit better. And they aren’t kids either.

But you know what I mean. They’re good kids. And I say that knowing full well that when I praise someone in the paper, they usually turn out to be axe murderers. Not this time. No way.

Bet on it.

Cindy shanghaied my handkerchief early in the service. She always cries at weddings. I never had, not even at my own.

(That’s a joke!)

But on Saturday, I felt goose bumps as I watched Heidi’s father, Curt, walk her down the aisle. Wow, he looked proud. Yet he looked as fragile as a wine glass. He was losing his oldest daughter—a good kid, no less—and he knew it. What a mix of emotions he must have experienced. I could feel them from the third pew.

Later in the ceremony, which was a perfect one, the bride and groom went to their parents and greeted them. Josh gave his mother, Glenda, a big hug. A lot of things passed between them in that instant. More than words can express. It was like Josh was saying, “Thanks for getting me this far, Mom. I can take it from here.”

And Glenda’s hug in return said, “I know you can.”

I had to ask for my hanky back.

The older my own kids get, the more I feel the bonds between parent and child tugged and torn and patched and hopefully strengthened.

Ten years ago, Heidi and Josh were sitting in church next to their parents, watching some guy in a white tuxedo grin from ear to ear as a beautiful woman walked into his life forever.

Ten years from now, maybe I’ll be walking down a church aisle with a glassy-eyed smile. Maybe Cindy will be giving the hug of hugs.

Malika went to camp that year and for a bunch of
years after. This is her in 2000, having fun with crayfish.

The next day, on Sunday, we took our daughter, Malika, to Wolf Ridge Environmental Learning Center for summer camp. It is her first summer camp. She picked Wolf Ridge out last winter, after getting a summer camp stipend from her aunt as a Christmas gift.

We had heard about this summer camp many times. It teaches environmental education, although I hate to use the words “teach” and “summer camp” in the same paragraph, lest we see a mass exodus from Wolf Ridge.

I’ve got a hunch it’s the kind of teaching where you don’t know you are being taught until a few weeks or years later.

Mostly it will be fun. There’s a rock climbing wall, and a ropes course, and an overnight trip in the Montreal-style voyageur’s canoe.

“It’s 34 feet long, Dad, and you can sit three abreast,” she told me. She had read the brochure carefully.

Mollie was a bit worried. The camp didn’t have horses, and campers stayed in dormitories, not run-down cabins.

She wasn’t worried about going there alone.

She went to camp alone that first year,
 but of course friends were made quickly!

That impressed me. I had always gone to camp with friends. No way would I have gone alone to a camp at age 12.

I remember being nervous and excited, two feelings that sum up life’s great jumping off spots, like summer camp and marriage.

Malika packed a bag and suitcase full of clothes and flashlights and boots and maybe the proverbial kitchen sink. It was heavy!

We arrived at Wolf Ridge early. We visited the office, and hiked the trails. Mollie got tired of that, and waited for us at the car. She was already anxious for us to leave.

I don’t remember my mom getting teary-eyed when I left for camp. Maybe she was too busy breathing a sigh of relief. But she must have stopped for a few seconds to say to herself,

“Wow, he’s getting big. What’s next?”

That’s what we felt as we threw Mollie’s gear on her bunk bed and shook hands with her counselors and gave our hugs goodbye. Chances are she forgot us before we got to the car. That would be a good sign. She’ll see us again this Saturday, and tell us about the friends she made and the new Hanson songs she learned, and a hundred other details, and maybe our hearts will be ready for the next big event.