Some things never change back home ~ August 28, 1997

David Heiller

We took a trip to Brownsville to see my mother last weekend. It wasn’t the best weekend to go, what with the Askov Fair and the Festival of the Little People both going on.

I don’t think the two events conflicted with each other. There aren’t many little people at the Askov Fair, at least not after they stop at the æbleskiver stand.

Æbleskiver, YUM!

George Clegg used to be one of the first customers at the æbleskiver stand. He said that eating æbleskiver at the Askov Fair was like eating a hotdog at a ballpark. It just tasted better there.

George is back to stay in Askov now. His relatives scattered his ashes on the old family farm three miles northwest of Askov during the fair.

Rutabaga Days went fine without me. I felt guilty about missing it. As soon as I would start feeling better, Jay Eull would ask me if I was going to the fair, so I would feel guilty again. He asked me at least twice a day.

Jay’s a good guy, really.

But life is such that carving out a weekend to see Mom isn’t as easy as it should be. There’s only so much room in the old house, and with seven children, Mom has to use diplomacy in setting a schedule for the old bedrooms.

The problem actually is more on our end. Summer is a busy time. Kids call it summer vacation, but with softball and baseball and swimming and camp and painting the house, to name a few things, it doesn’t seem like a vacation.

David leaping from the GREAT dunes in Brownsville.

When a weekend emerges that is free to see Mom, it’s like a mirage in the desert that turns out to be real.

Brownsville is changing and growing. The old 1873 school has been torn down and replaced with a community center. I still get sick when I think of it.

The beach where we used to go swimming and fishing has been replaced with fancy houses that sit so close together you’d better not snore when you sleep. Just a lot costs $60,000.

But home is still an oasis. It comes complete with sand dunes. The Army Corps of Engineers was dredging the main channel of the Mississippi while we were there.

They sucked the sand off the bottom of the river and piped it onto a beach that developers haven’t grabbed yet. The more the dredge pumps, the higher the beach grows.

Bulldozers work around the clock, pushing the sand around. By the time the water re-enters the river, it is clean and there is a mountain in its wake.

Playing in this water and sand is great fun. We used to do it as children. We would stand close to the gushing black water, stepping gingerly, daring each other to step into the deep pool that was gouged into the sand.

Noah in the water and dunes at Brownsville.

I’m happy to report that it is just as fun to do this as an adult. I was scared to see my 14-year-old son take the same chances I used to take, but I held my tongue. The element of fear and danger is part of what makes it attractive.

To see your own children enjoy something like you did is a thrill in its own right.

The sand still squeaked under foot. The water still rippled around our legs. The holes where we sank in to our knees still made our heart pound with panic.

Home hadn’t changed so much after all. The shifting sands are a constant part of Brownsville.

Sitting with Grandma on the porch.

So is music on the porch. I have sat there with my banjo for 20 years, playing for myself, for Grandma, for Mom, for the neighbor kids, for nephews and nieces and cousins and our children, and mostly for myself.

It’s one of those spots that just feels right for playing music. So I sat there again last weekend and played my banjo and button box. The button box is louder than a banjo, if you can believe it. The sound carries up the hill so more people can lie awake at night wondering what the heck that noise is.

Mom even remarked on my music. I know she likes my music. She doesn’t have to say so, so she doesn’t. But she came out and said, “Just think of all the years you’ve played music there, David.”

That made me feel good. Banjos and accordions aren’t always so well received.

Trips back home can work miracles like that. They are worth it, even if you miss a fair or two.

Another Minnesota season has arrived ~ August 24, 2005

David Heiller

Sue greeted us with a box of tomatoes on Saturday night.

Sue Hulsether called a dance and left her
calling card: a box of tomatoes!

She had come to call a dance, and she figured someone might need a few tomatoes. She had more than she could use.

A few people took some over the course of the evening, but most of them are sitting on our kitchen counter right now, along with the cucumbers and zucchini that I took to work last week.

We have more cukes and zukes than we can use, so I passed a few of them off to my co-workers.

Then Robin at work asked if anyone could use some squash. She planted quite a few, and although they aren’t quite ripe, she can already see a surplus, and is planning for their distribution. She has more than she can use.

She was following the footstep of Jill, who had given me a feed bag full of sweet corn a week earlier. She couldn’t use it all.

All of this made me realize that we have another season in Minnesota going on right now, the More Than We Can Use season. It falls between real summer and fall, when the gardens are peaking and we don’t know what to do with stuff.

It can be defined partly by the weather, and it is fine weather indeed. The air is cooler, clearer. You cuddle up with your sweetheart at night, and you grab a sweatshirt when you get up in the morning.

David and Noah with a pumpkin harvest.

Those brutal days of July are gone. We might get a few more scorchers, but you can smell autumn just ahead. And those brutal days of July, are the reason for the richness of the garden. That’s when the roots went deep and the fruit set. You could almost hear the corn grow then, and that Joe Burg alfalfa looked good enough to eat.

Avery with a VERY amazing pumpkin! David did a cool, very David thing every year with the pumpkins.
When the pumpkins reached a workable size,
he would go into the patch, and choose a few for children that we knew well. He then used a nail to scratch each child's name into a pumpkin. When pumpkin harvest time came, he would call the child and tell them that somehow there was a pumpkin in our garden just for them, that somehow a pumpkin had appeared with their
very name on it. What a guy!

I had to grease my pumpkins, they were growing so fast back then. They moved across the garden like an angry squid. You had to dance a jig to get out of the way. Without a little lubrication, they would like to have burned the hillside from the sparks and friction.

In other words, need any pumpkins?

Some of the produce will go to waste, and it’s good to learn to accept that. Sue gave me permission to throw her tomatoes in the compost pile if I couldn’t use them, and some of the older ones are going to get pitched, because I have my own set of tomatoes to process and give away,

Don’t feel guilty. We all have a lot of the “waste not, want not” philosophy, and we don’t like throwing stuff away.

Rosie loved harvest time. Here she has stolen the butt-end of the cauliflower that we ate for dinner that night. 
She did take it upon herself to harvest her own sweet corn. Yup, she picked a low one, brought it to her little bed, husked it and ate every single kernel. Oh Rosie!

But those big cucumbers that even Jill Hahn wouldn’t eat, what are you going to do with them? And that zucchini the size of a white oak log at Staggemeyer Stave, not even a kind hearted soul like Doris Mitchell would take it in.

Every day something from the garden makes it to the dinner table, and that feels very good. We eat what we can and what we can’t we can. We fill the fridge with bread-and-butter pickles, freeze the Myhre corn, bake zucchini bread, pickle the beets, and pawn off the rest.

It’s a good time of year, this bountiful season. We don’t often have More Than We Can Use. Let’s enjoy it while we can.

Meg comes home one more time ~ August 31, 2005

David Heiller

We had an interesting experience here three months ago. Or should I say Meg had an interesting experience.

Meg was a Llasa-poo dog belonging to my sister-in-law, Nancy Olson, of Brooklyn Park, Minnesota. They were a duo for the last 16 years, almost inseparable.

When they arrived for our anniversary party in late May, it was obvious that Meg did not have long to live. She had no energy, no spring in her step. In fact she could barely manage a shaky walk, and she weighed no more than six pounds.

Nancy and Meg

About halfway through Saturday afternoon, in the bustle of the big day, Nancy discovered that Meg was missing. We brushed it off at first. No time to worry about a dog, she’s hiding in the house, we’ll find her later.

Nancy looked and looked for Meg, and soon other people did too. They searched the house, because Meg had not gone outside, at least that anyone could recall. No Meg. She wasn’t in the house.

Nancy searched outside too. She ventured into the tall grass, which must have been like a jungle to little Meg. Nancy went into the dark barn while we danced in the hay loft. She fell down in the gutter, wrenched her knee, could barely stand up afterwards. She was determined to find her friend. It was kind of amazing to watch Nancy’s determination. But no Meg. It was a sobering end to a very rich day.

Nancy left about noon the next day without Meg, to consoling words from her friends and family. Meg apparently had gone off to die, as creatures great and small are known to do.

That Sunday night at about 8 p.m., while we were sitting on the deck admiring a beautiful rainbow, the phone rang. A neighbor who lives 1-1/2 miles away asked if we were missing a little black dog. Sure enough, it was Meg. She had wandered all that way, spent the night in the woods, dodging coyotes and owls, and emerged the next evening unhurt.

When we picked Meg up, she was full of burdock, but otherwise seemed fine. She even seemed to have some of the sparkle back in her black eyes, like she was proud of what she had done. Meg and Nancy had a happy reunion the next day.

It was a miracle to me, but maybe it should not have been. Animals have survival skills that run deep in their genes. Meg was a house dog and a city slicker and a senior citizen. She usually had a ribbon in her hair or a kerchief around her neck. But she knew what to do to survive, to keep going. I know a lot of people with those same skills.

The effort gained Meg three more months of life. She died on August 21 at her home. Nancy asked if we would bury her. That seemed like a very appropriate thing, something that Meg would not mind a bit. We were honored by the request. It may sound weird, but a home isn’t quite complete to me without a few pets in the yard.

So Nancy brought Meg back down for her final journey. I found a very nice spot by the house, and marked it with a spirea courtesy of Janene Hosch. I predict that plant will have a long and healthy life. It will always be a reminder of a courageous little dog and Nancy’s best friend, Meg.

Camping gave us some good reminders ~ August 22, 2002

David Heiller

Randy paused as he was about to hang the Duluth pack for the night. “Look at that,” he said.

I turned my gaze to the camp fire. Two boys stood silhouetted against the deep blue lake. They were black shadows, talking, laughing, gesturing with their hands, totally relaxed.

Collin, David and Levi in the
Boundary waters Canoe Area Wilderness.

The image etched itself in my mind, where I hope it stays, because it was timeless and full of innocence and life.

We were on the second day of a trip to the Boundary Waters. The boys, ages nine and 10, had explored the island. They had caught fish, played in their tents, and eaten around the campfire. They were in kid heaven.

It was good to see, reassuring somehow, because I sometimes hear old folks say that kids don’t know how to play anymore. Collin and Levi would prove them wrong.

I had been worried that it wouldn’t be that way, that they and their older sisters and cousin would think this paddling and portaging stuff was too much work.

But they passed the tests. On the trip in, rain fell off and on all day in steady torrents. The three adults were finally reduced to such brilliant conversation as, “Do you believe this?” It was the worst paddling I had ever done on a canoe trip."

Happy and soggy campers.

By mid-afternoon we were soaked and desperate to find a campsite. Most of them were full. It was peak camping season. We finally came to a vacant campsite that met our needs perfectly. It was big enough for our three tents—and gave us a beautiful view of Lake Three.

That often happens on canoe trips. Things bottom out, you hit a low, and then they get better. It’s a metaphor for life.

That was repeated on this four-day trip.

Things couldn’t have been better the next day. Collin and I had drifted with our fishing poles to a rocky shore off an island. Collin threw out a small jig tipped with a minnow, and hooked a fish. He reeled it up to the canoe, then it dove and almost pulled the rod from his hands before breaking his line. We never saw it, but it was big.

I cast into the same spot, and hooked something equally big. At first I thought it was a stick. Then I felt it move. It went deep first, then shot into the air. My jaw dropped. The biggest largemouth bass I have ever seen came entirely out of the water, shook its head, broke my six-pound line, and disappeared. All of this happened in about five seconds.

I cussed for losing it, but it wasn’t a loss in a sense, because the image of that huge fish suspended in the air will stay in my mind for a long time. That was a gift.

We did catch some nice fish that day, and we had a great excursion to another lake. We basked in the beauty of the wilderness.

But Mother Nature wasn’t done with us yet.

Dads and kids on an adventure.

Saturday started glassy, then the wind started blowing from the west, and by 10 a.m. we were facing a gale. It was beautiful and aw­ful at the same time. At one point my brother leaned far into the wind, arms outstretched, and it held him in place. Had it stopped, he would have fallen on his face.

It turned Lake Three into a mass of white caps that thundered onto the rocky shore below our high campsite. The steady wind was at least 30 miles an hour. Gusts must have hit 50.If we had been home, we would have stayed inside and said, “Gee, it sure is windy.” But at our campsite we had to confront it. Traveling by canoe was impossible. We were stranded.

I wanted to go out and find that bass that gave me the slip, or better yet, let Collin find it. And I had promised my niece a fishing trip, and my daughter, too. But that didn’t happen. We read and sang songs and explored and ate and napped. We marveled at the power of the wind. The girls’ tent blew over, adding a bit of excitement during the day.

A hot meal of spaghetti cheered us up before we went to bed. “It will blow itself out by morning,” I told Randy and Phil. That was my rational side. But I slept fitfully that night. I imagined that the wind was dying down, then it would start up in the distance with a howl and whoosh through the huge white pines overhead. I thought, What if this wind doesn’t let up? We would have no choice but to stay until it did.

I imagined the worst. We would be delayed. Our wives would worry. I’d miss work on an important newspaper edition.

But that didn’t happen. Like I said, you hit bottom and then go up. The wind gradually slowed to 30, 20, 10 miles an hour. The whitecaps disappeared. We got up early and broke camp by 8 a.m. which was a miracle with three teen-age girls. Five hours later we were back at the Lake One landing.

The windstorm was an important lesson for all of us. The trip was just a camping trip. Plenty safe. We were in control, right? Wrong. That wind told us something different. We aren’t often at the mercy of Mother Nature. When it happens, it’s a good reminder of our place in the world. I’ll remember that storm, and the other beautiful things, like a big bass, and a silhouette of two boys playing against a deep blue lake.

The garage gets a new look ~ August 13, 1992

David Heiller

The top floor of our garage has taken on a new appearance lately. My tool bench now has a shade-less lamp and the bottom part of a broken food processor on it. My work table is covered with an old bed sheet. On top of it is a silk flower arrangement, a rusty tea kettle, and three wooden bowls. Two old kitchen chairs are pulled up next to it, along with a 10-gallon milk can turned upside down with two toy tea cups on it.

Two old hats are sitting on a cooler. Two old blankets have been taken from a box and spread out on the floor. An old bathroom sink has been dragged to the middle of the room.

Malika and a "yeah-but" look.

All this is the work of a seven-year-old girl who has discovered a new playhouse. She led me up to it by the hand one day recently, so proudly that I had to check my anger like another old hat at the door.

MY garage, with boxes so old I don’t know what’s in them, with broken chairs that never got mended, with old hats that don’t work anymore, with blankets to cover the tomatoes, with electric motors and tackle boxes and jars of nails screwed into the rafters, MY garage has been invaded.

Sure, it is full of junk and clutter, like an old attic. But there was method to the madness. About once a year I look through things, re-stack boxes, sort the nails that have been thrown on the tool bench, clear a space on the floor. I didn’t need Mollie to rearrange things for me—that was my first peevish thought.

I suppose there was something deeper too. You could argue that a garage is a sacred place for a man, his “space”, a refuge even if it’s stiflingly hot in the summer and 40-below in the winter, an orderly place that only he controls, until his kids get hold of it.

But my scowls turned into wistful smiles in short time. Who can’t remember the clubhouses they had as kids? I had some beauties. And who didn^’t want to have a playhouse as a kid? I always used to envy those lucky kids who had a real playhouse, a separate little building where they could hang out and play pretend games. That’s what Malika had proudly made on her own.

It’s good to have those pretend things, to create places of your own, to be able to play by yourself, using your imagination and a few old relics instead of expensive store-bought toys. which is what Mollie was doing.

Still, to protect my wounded pride, I asked Malika sternly about why she needed that room in the garage, when she had her own bedroom, equipped with all the luxuries of a modern girl.

Not ALL, she informed me in her best “yeah-but” response. “Yeah, but I don’t have a kitchen in there, and a fridge, so how could I play house in there without a kitchen or fridge or a sink? I like the garage better,” she said.

I told her that I hadn’t seen a fridge. “Uh huh, a pretend one. The blue cooler is the fridge.” She had it standing on end, just like a real fridge. How could I have missed it?

That little window up there, that is where the 
Garage Transformation took place.

Where’s the kitchen, I asked. “In that little corner by the tent stuff, that’s the kitchen, by the table. And my bed is in that little corner. But I don’t have a living room. Anyway, I do eat up there, Dad. Dad, can we eat up there sometime? I have bowls.”

It’s too hot there, I answered lamely. “Well, take all your clothes off, except your underwear,” she answered in a voice that said I had the silliest excuse ever dreamed up by a weak-minded father on a spur of the moment.

So that’s where we sit. My upstairs of the garage—my clubhouse!—is gone, transformed into something new and exciting. Look for me there: I’ll be sitting in my underwear eating at Mollie’s kitchen table.