Go have a chat with Old Blue ~ September 19, 1996

David Heiller

When I come home from work, I am always greeted by our two dogs, Ida and MacKenzie. .

They have different personalities. Ida, age seven, is part collie and part flugel-hound (a little bit of everything). And she is shy.

If Ida were a teenage girl at a dance, she would try to blend in with the wallpaper. She probably wouldn’t dance if you asked her.

Queen Ida, David, and MacKenzie.

Mack, on the other hand, would be the life of the party. She would be doing the Mack-areena. She is a three-year-old Australian shepherd, friendly and playful, with a coat like silk. Her nickname is Happy.

You couldn’t find two dogs more different than Mack and Ida. But they have one thing in common. They both are fun to talk to.

That’s the subject I am getting at here: talking to your dog. It’s one of life’s simplest pleasures.

When I get home from work, I often drop my briefcase and camera on the grass and lie down and let the dogs crowd around me. That’s when they are most alike. They both crave my affection, both nuzzle and lick me and wag their whole bodies in pure dog joy. That’s when they live up to their claim as Man’s Best Friend.

And that’s the best time to talk to them, to ask them how they are doing and tell them how nice they are and how much you love them and what good girls they are.

I can’t repeat the exact words here. It would sound too dumb, too childish. But, if you have a dog, chances are you know what I am talking about.

You can talk to other pets too, but none will return your affection with the look of love that a dog gives.

If you are sick, MacKenzie will keep you company.

It seems the harder my day at work is, the more I like to talk to them. There’s something about lying on the grass, looking up at the leaves in the maple tree, seeing the blue sky beyond that, and petting and talking to the two dogs that is hard to beat. It’s good therapy. It can put my orneriest mood on a back burner in a matter of seconds. It’s just one of many reasons why it’s good to have a pet.

Sam Cook, a columnist for the Duluth News Tribune, recently wrote a column about this. He said he has been accused of talking more sweetly to his dog than he does to his wife.

I’m guilty of that too. I think it’s because dog don’t understand the words you say, so you can gush a little and repeat yourself and give them big pats and not be afraid of making a fool of yourself.

Queen Ida was always willing to 
shake a hand and have a visit.

A few months ago, I was saying goodnight to my daughter, and I told her, “You’re a good girl.” It sort of slipped out, just like it does when I talk to the dogs, and it sounded like I was talking to one of them and not my daughter. She even sensed that and said, “Dad, I’m not a dog,” which reinforced my belief that you can’t talk to people and dogs the same way, even though I sometimes I’d like to.

It’s funny, but I have to remind myself to say good and kind things to my wife and children. It comes much easier with the dogs. Go figure.

I don’t think I’m alone in this. Red Hansen likes to tell how he can call in owls by imitating their hoots. He was doing this one night for quite a while, standing in his yard hooting every which way, and getting owls to answer and even to come into his yard.

When he went into the house, Hertha cut to the quick. “You can talk to the owls but you can’t talk to me,” she said, no doubt with the smile of a carpenter who hit the nail squarely on the head.

I feel that way sometimes with the dogs. But I’m going to keep talking to them anyway.

The first day of school ~ September 6, 1990

David Heiller

Monday night, Sept. 3, 9:15. Mollie can’t sleep. She creaks down the steps for about the fourth time tonight. That’s not unusual. She’s a great staller.

She crawls onto my lap at the kitchen table, and I hug her like a warm blanket. No yelling tonight. It’s a special night for us all.

“I still can’t sleep,” she says.

“Are you thinking about school?^” She nods, then raises her hand. “You have to raise your hand in school,” she says. “But not at nap time. You can’t raise your hand at nap time.” Noah has been teaching her the kindergarten ropes.

Up a tree, where Noah and Malika liked to be.

“I’m sad because I want to graduate,” she con­tinues, her eyes focused on a batch of fresh peanut butter cookies behind me.

“You can’t graduate until the end of the year,” I say. “First you have to go to school and learn a lot of things and be a good girl.” She nods duti­fully, still eyeing the cookies. She’s not worried about school at all, I suddenly realize. She’s worried about not getting to eat a fresh cookie.

“Would you like a cookie?” She nods again; I break one in half and send her upstairs.

 Something’s wrong. Normally Mollie would not get a hug and a cookie on Monday night at 9:15. But the first day of school does strange things to people.

Even to Mollie. Mollie the Youngest. Mollie the Staller. Mollie the Wild. Mollie the Paint-Orange-Paint-All-Over-Your-Body.

That was only three years age. I could have shipped her out to kindergarten that night, one at a boarding school very far away. There’s still orange paint on the floor by her bed.

There were other times too. All parents know what I mean. Times when you want to cut wood, or roof the shed, or bake bread or hang out clothes. Things that HAVE to get done, and a lit­tle kid keeps asking questions or wanting juice or wanting to share a favorite book or Sesame Street episode. You sigh and make time and like an idiot, you begrudge it a bit.

This all ends tomorrow, the first day of school. Mollie’s sad because she can’t graduate yet, and sadder still because she wants a cookie. She doesn’t realize the sticky mess called school—and growing up—that she is about to run into, and she’s lucky for that.

Noah is explaining the bus ride to Malika, 
meanwhile Queen Ida is nervous about them being gone.

Moms and Dads realize it, and it takes on more meaning for them. Like adults, they make a big deal about it. They’ve been bracing for it for a while, mentioning it while hanging up the clothes. “Won’t it be strange having Mollie in school?” Answering, “Yeah, wow.” but not really knowing that your gut feels like an empty house, echoing with stillness. Until now.

I’ve felt it a few times before. It comes at times of departure: a broken romance, the end of summer camp, the first day in college. I remember when I was leaving for the Peace Corps in 1977. Mom drove me to the airport in La Crosse. I felt nervous, excited, starting a great two-year adventure. I thought Mom shared those feelings, and maybe she did. But she cried as we hugged at the airport, like I hadn’t seen her cry in years.

Those tears surprised me then, but I understand them better now.

Tuesday morning, Sept. 4, 7:10: Mollie and Noah wait for Dave Nyrud’s school bus to pull into the driveway. They both wear back-packs big enough to carry a pup tent. These are children of the ‘90s.

We hear the bus down-shifting at Williams' to pick up April and Rosie. Mollie holds her arms out for me to pick her up. I hug her tight. “Why don’t you stay home?” I tell her. “We can watch The Little Mermaid all day.”

She laughs. She knows I’m joking. But she says “No” anyway, and she means it. She wouldn’t miss the first day of school for anything.

In a fog no longer ~ September 15, 2004

David Heiller

It’s interesting what a change in perspective can do to something as simple as fog.

The view from our home in southeastern Minnesota.
Under that cloud is the Mississippi River. 
On the horizon is Wisconsin.

When I was a kid growing up in Brownsville, fog would roll in almost every morning at this time of year. I never gave it much thought.

It meant Dale Besse would drive the school bus a little more slowly up the mile grade. When I went to Fruit Acres to pick apples, the drive would take a little longer, until the old 1964 Chevy broke through the clouds above La Crescent.

Then I would see the river bathed in clouds and I would pull off at the scenic overlook, and something would tug inside of me.

Beauty like that is a gift, and I have carried that vision in the back of my mind for decades since.

Now the vision is here to stay, and it hasn’t lost its luster.

It snuck up on me a couple weeks ago, at our ridge overlooking Heiller Valley. (Hey, it used to be filled with Heillers, so Heiller Valley it shall be.)

Clouds on the river.

Sometimes they lie low like a fat wide snake. Sometimes they billow up like cotton candy. Always different, always moving, but more slowly than the eye can see.

Sometimes Wisconsin hills peek over the top, sometimes the clouds cover the whole horizon.

The Wisconsin hills turn mauve in the
right conditions in the afternoon.
My friend Sara sent me this photo.

At first, when the alarm clock rings, the river valley is a dull gray. But If I can’t see the yard lights three miles to the east in Wisconsin, I know the clouds are waiting.

Then the sun rises from behind, setting the edges glowing pink and orange. Fringes of color appear, and finally the good old sun, like a red neon ball.

For a few minutes, seconds really, you can look at the sun, and that’s fascinating too. Then it breaks free of the mist, and you have to avert your eyes to the brilliant light. That’s when the clouds jump out in all their glory.

It’s hard to describe. If you’ve ever looked down on clouds from an airplane, that’s what it’s like. Too beautiful for anything but a “Wow” or a “Geez” or a “Cindy, look at this.” Or often just silent wonder.

Then the sun breaks up the party. The fog lifts. Sometimes we can watch it slink toward us, up past the spirit of all those Heiller kids, from Dad on down. Then we are in the clouds, and it’s just dull old fog again, so thick that all we can see is the cottonwood tree below the house.

The road to the Reno Quarry.

The clouds on the river are sheer beauty, and they are something more, a reminder of the good old days on the way to Fruit Acres, and the good old days that are here to stay.

I think of that often in our new home. The beauty of the valley, the sunsets over the old Oesterle farm across the road, the Reno quarry catching the last golden light.

Moonlight bouncing off the roof of the barn, so bright you almost have to put on sunglasses. The Milky Way straight overhead.

Owls calling back and forth. Coyotes yipping. Flocks of blackbirds that blot out the sun. Tree swallows lining the electric wires.

The list is almost endless.

And the fog. That’s what I used to call it. But one man’s fog is another man’s cloud, and one lady’s mist is another lady’s majesty.