Apples: a favorite fruit and fragrance ~ October 7, 1993

David Heiller

The apple tree has been good to us this year. It’s half-dead and gnarly the way old apple trees look, like a bent old man. But it keeps on giving good fruit year after year. It gives us other pleasures too.

I don’t know what kind of tree it is. It starts bearing fruit by mid-August. A lot of apples go to waste on the ground then. We aren’t ready for them, and they are tart.

But by mid-September the ones that have survived the thunderstorms and climbing kids are big and sweet. The insides are very white. They start to turn brown within a few minutes after you cut them or take a bite.

Tyson and Malika

My daughter Mollie and her friend and I picked the tree three weeks ago. I got out the step ladder, which is old and shaky. One of the kids would climb as high as she could, while I held the ladder, and passed the apples down to the other kid, who put them in a bucket.

It wasn’t the most efficient way to pick apples, but it was fun, especially for the kid on top of the ladder, all stretched out, reaching that extra inch to get chubby fingers around a big red ap­ple. Sometimes I would shake the ladder just a little then, and they would jerk and laugh. We filled two five-gallon buckets. I put them in the sauna, where they stay cool most of the time. They’re just the right temperature. Not so cold they freeze your teeth, like from the refrigerator. And they fill the sauna with the smell of apples, which is a pleasant smell indeed.

Every day we grab a couple apples from the sauna. We take them to work. We eat them while we work in the garden, or on bike rides and walks. They taste real good in the woods on the tractor too, with a sore back and a trailer full of firewood.

It froze hard Friday night, October first: 23 degrees, our thermometer said.
The apples still left on the tree didn’t take it too kindly. Their skin blotched. The insides were no longer such a perfect white. But they were still sweet. So my son Noah and I borrowed an apple picker from a friend on Sunday and picked the few that we couldn’t reach from the ground or the shaky ladder.

Brooks, Noah, Ida and APPLES! 

An apple picker is an interesting invention. It has a wire basket on one end that is half open, with wires over half that stick up like crooked fingers. You hook the apple with these fingers, and the apple falls into the basket. It’s on a handle that has three parts. When you put them together, you can reach up about 12 feet.

I picked the apples from the top of the tree, then lowered the basket to Noah, who put them in a bucket. Some of them weren’t as good as they looked. They had sores and scrapes. They , almost filled a five gallon bucket. I stood in the back of the pickup to get the highest ones. A few we couldn’t reach at all. It’s good to leave some for the birds.

I was pretty proud until I backed the truck over the bucket. Then quite a few of them had even more bumps and bruises. I carried them inside, and set them on the kitchen floor with a sheepish look. Cindy was making bread. She didn’t have a sheepish look. Making apple sauce had been added to her list of Sunday chores. Gee, thanks, Dave.

I spent the next couple hours in the woods, cutting firewood and keeping out of Cindy’s way. It was safer to be around a chainsaw. When I came in the house, the apple sauce was on the stove. Cindy asked me to taste it. She didn’t have to ask twice. I smiled. It was delicious, red and smooth and sweet.

After supper, the kids wanted apple sauce and ice cream for a treat, so Cindy made another batch. This kind was clear and chunky—and delicious. Cindy smiled this time. Hot apple sauce and ice cream is a hard treat to beat. I had a bowl too.

Then Mollie asked for an apple after she had brushed her teeth. Cindy said yes. She figures you can’t go wrong with apples, even after you brush your teeth.

That reminded me of when I was a kid. We always had apples in the house. We kept them in the root cellar. It had a dirt floor and stone walls. Apples seemed to stay fresh there for months. Their smell would hang in the air like perfume, like in the sauna and in our lives.

I’m grateful for the simple pleasures that an apple tree can bring.

Dance instructor makes a difference ~ September 25, 1997

David Heiller

He came a stranger and he left a friend. He touched a whole lot of people in the process.

Terrance called the dance for our 25th anniversary. 
He is jamming here with another caller friend.

I’m talking about Terrence Smith, who taught dance for three days at Willow River Elementary School last week.

The students enjoyed it. I watched one day. Students who you might not normally think of as liking dancing had a lot of fun.

They swung and hopped. They did doe-si-doe’s. They ducked for oysters and made arches for others to dance through. They made faces and shouted. There are no holds barred in Terrence’s dances.

It’s hard to describe them. They are older than our country. You can imagine your great-grandparents and their neighbors doing these circles and steps in the loft of the barn when the hay was cleaned out in the spring.

Children liked the dances because Terrence is a good teacher, and because the dances were fun. It’s not a complicated thing.

So why don’t we dance more? Schools play basketball, volleyball, football in their physical education classes. Why don’t they dance?

I remember in elementary school, on rainy or snowy days, the teacher would take us to the basement where a room was available for dancing. Someone would carry the record player. Mrs. Spinner would put on a record, then we’d do dances like Farmer in the Dell. Wow, it was fun. The school is gone, but I still remember those times. We pretended not to like it, but our faces said otherwise. It was a chance to hold hands with girls or even give them a swing. No self-respecting boy would admit he liked doing that, but I have a hunch we all did.

Dancing in our barn

I bet Willow River students will remember Terrence like that.

We asked Terrence, who is from Duluth, to stay at our house. He accepted. Even though he was a stranger, that never really worried us. Anyone who likes to dance and can play Soldiers joy on the banjo is welcome on our hide-a-bed.

We played a lot of music in the evenings. Terrence and I knew a lot of the same songs. That was a treat. It isn’t easy to find people who play old time music. We taught each other songs too.

Terrence let me play my banjo during a community dance at Sturgeon Lake City Hall on Thursday night. He played guitar and harmonica and called out the dance moves.

About 40 people showed up. It was fun watching the people dance. Little kids, moms and dads, some senior citizens. There were smiles all around.

This is the way dances are supposed to be, I thought. No one felt self conscious. There weren’t a hundred people sitting at tables and watching while 10 people danced. Just about everybody danced, and they had fun doing it. Either that or they deserve Oscars.

Everybody mixed with everybody else. “Say goodbye to your partner because it’s the last time you’ll see them,” Terrence said before one dance.

John Westberg, Mark Boggie, Louisa Fabbro, and
 Bob Fabbro. Live music is a must for a good dance!

I recognized Verna Mach, who has an assisted living apartment in Moose Lake. She used to live in Sturgeon Lake. Her husband, Joe, played the button box. Verna was a great dancer in the old days, and there she was again, still dancing.

I said hello to her during the break. “It takes me half an hour to make my bed, but I can still dance,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. That made my night.

Terrence Smith made my week, and lots of other people’s week’s also. We could use a few more people like him. Say 1000 or so.

Terrence is from Duluth. He does dances there regularly. If you would like a schedule, call him: at (218) 728-1438, or write to him at 1428 Belmont Road, Duluth, MN 55805.

Better yet, let’s get him back to this area. Willow River Community Education sponsored his last visit. His rates are very reasonable.

Some difficult childhood lessons ~ September 22, 2006

David Heiller

I read an interesting book recently called They Called Me Teacher, by Tom Melchior.

It contains stories of Minnesota country school teachers and students from 1913 to 1960. Those stories run the gamut of human interaction, but one that has to do with bad teaching sticks in my mind.

Corrine Lesteberg Johnson, who attended District 40 East near Murdock in Swift County, from 1931-1938, wrote it.

“We all knew that our second-grade teacher had never lived in the country. So we had a feeling that she thought she was better than the rest of us. I started at Christmas time making valentines. We had a long Christmas vacation, six weeks off, so what was there to do during that time but make valentines. I loved that kind of creative stuff.

“I used foil from the Christmas cards and the laced doilies that my mother had bought. I made the cards so they were three-dimensional, you could open them up. Oh, I really worked on those cards. On Valentine’s Day I passed out all my beautiful cards. I made a special one for my teacher.

“At the end of the school day after everybody had looked at their valentines but before school was even out, my teacher opened the door to the furnace and threw all the valentines into the fire, including my beautiful card. That really hurt me. I had worked so hard on that valentine. If she didn’t want to keep them, why didn’t she wait until we had all gone home? Then I never would have known. I never really had a lot of respect for that teacher after that. It broke my heart. I cried all the way home.”

Noah and Malika with their
cousin, Brooke, playing school
in the old Brownsville School House.

We probably all have had experiences with bad teachers, but that lady would have to top the list.

It got me to thinking about other bad teaching experiences. I still remember one when I was in second grade. I was playing with scissors, pretending to cut my nose. The scissors could barely cut paper; let alone something as tough as my nose. The teacher wasn’t in the room, but she found out (thanks to a student who shall remain anonymous), strode over to me, and slapped me across the face.

I was shocked and embarrassed, as was the whole class. It was just plain wrong, totally unnecessary. Bad teaching.

My brother had a bad teacher one year. He recounted a couple experiences. “We were taking turns reading from some book and I was nervous about my turn coming up. When it came to be my turn I stood up and I stuttered the first word, something like p-p-p-p- and the teacher sat at her desk and did the same thing, p-p-p-p-p. Can you believe it? She really embarrassed me and all the kids had a good laugh. Another time, I had to give a report of some kind and the cap on my front chipped tooth had come off. I walked up to her desk and asked her I could do the report another day. She refused my request and made me stand in front of the class with my missing tooth and give the report. Mark it down as another humiliating day for me.”

A teacher friend of mine had this tale: “We were seated based on latest test score with the best in the front right, weaving to the worst in the back left. Can you imagine how that affected a child’s willingness to learn? Wow!”

Public humiliation is never a good thing.

Malika and some classmates in an all school production. 

It’s funny though, I can’t recall many truly bad teachers or things like this. That’s a testament to the fact that most of my teachers did a good job, something I still believe is the case.

The freedom to do nothing ~ September 28, 1995

David Heiller

Our 10-year-old daughter informed us at supper last week that she wanted to quit piano lessons. She is too busy, she told us.

Piano days are done.

She has homework every night. She has joined fifth grade choir at Willow River, and is going to start taking clarinet lessons for the school band.

Then there’s Girl Scouts every other Monday, and piano lessons every Thursday after school.

And I know parents whose children are even busier, for example, who play hockey.

If you look up the word “busy” in a dictionary, it will say: “See hockey parent.” I get confused just listening to their schedules.

It doesn’t get any easier as the children get older, from what I’ve seen. There are sports, and pep band, and marching band, and National Honor Society and annual staff, and maybe a part-time job at the Dairy Queen.

Malika doing some wonderful "nothing"

We said no to Mollie’s request. We think piano lessons are important. But I couldn’t stop myself from asking this question: When do kids get to be kids anymore?

Yes, I know I sound old when I say something like that. And yes, when I was my daughter’s age, my friends and I were busy enough.

But we didn’t have organized activities like today. We had a Boy Scout meeting once a month, with a hike or camping trip every so often. That was about the extent of our adult-led activities.

Our football games were organized by a telephone call or two. Or else everyone would just congregate at the playground for a game. There was always a game going on, either football or softball or basketball, depending on the season.

We would explore by the river, or hunt squirrels, or go fishing, or walk along the railroad tracks looking for fossils. We would ride our bikes around town, or play at the school grounds.

David exercising his freedom to do nothing too!

You probably have your own list of carefree childhood memories. I bet they bring a smile to your face. You can learn a lot from things like that, from just acting your age and having the freedom to do nothing.

My daughter and one of her friends are building a playhouse now in their spare time. They have needed some help from me, but I’ve kept it to a minimum. Mostly it is their fort, and it shows by the crooked siding and bent nails. Sometimes they argue over who should do what, but the importance of the playhouse soon smoothes any ruffled feathers.

They are learning some carpentry skills. They are learning not to be afraid to try something new. They are learning how to work together. All very important lessons.

It makes me happy to see them do this, or to see them jump on the trampoline or explore the old house next door.

When they are my age, I bet they remember their free time more than all those other things that are making their life hectic.

I’ll take fall in Minnesota, thank you ~ September 26, 2002

David Heiller

I saw a cousin this summer that I hadn’t seen in many years. She is a couple years younger than me, yet she is already retired after a successful career in the military.

Early Autumn 2004 at the Spillway on the Mississippi, 
in Houston County, Minnesota

To top this off, she lives in Hawaii.

We got to talking about the weather there. No bugs, lots of sunshine, temperatures almost always in the 70s and 80s. Paradise, in other words.

I told her that I could never live in Hawaii.

Claire and me in Wright County
 in the fall of 2002. 
I like the oak leaf ears.

She looked a bit surprised at that. I explained that I enjoy the changing of the seasons too much, and what it brings out in me. That’s a hard thing to describe on a muggy summer night when Hawaii did seem like paradise. I don’t think Barb understood.

In fact, it’s hard to describe any time. It’s more something you feel, and it^’s happening right now. Chances are you know what I’m talking about.

Leaves are coming down in earnest. Their colors mix with the dwindling sunlight to give hue to the air that you can’t find at any other time of year. They bring on that crisp scent of autumn that you don’t experience any other time, an aroma of dried leaves and football games and shotgun shells.

The days cool down fast. The evenings are chilly. The weatherman talks about frost, but you don’t need a weatherman to know that.

You get out to the garden, make sure everything that is vulnerable to frost gets picked or covered. The house fills up with buckets and bowls of onions and tomatoes. The fridge bulge with peppers and cucumbers.

Hillside Road, Houston County Minnesota

You start looking at the old home-place with an eye toward cold weather. What needs to be done? Paint, caulk. Fix a broken step. A lot of little chores, and maybe some big ones.

But the funny thing is you don’t mind doing, them. Split wood? Clean up the greenhouse? Organize the workbench? No problem. The changing season puts a spring in your step. That’s because something new is just around, the corner.

No doubt, Morocco is beautiful. 
David's heart was always in Minnesota

We like change, and we like to suffer a bit, too. Monday was as dreary; cold, and rainy a day as you could ask for, and a co-worker exclaimed out of the blue, “I love this weather!” He was ready for the change, ready to suffer a bit; because then he’ll get to prove that he can hold his own against Mother Nature.

My love for the four seasons was cemented when I spent two years in Morocco. I remember one Christmas Eve, walking under a full moon in my shirt sleeves in a dry, warm world, and. thinking, “I never want to miss winter again.”

Yes, the seasons changed in Morocco. Summers were very hot, and spring brought lush growth, and winter was wet and cold. I’m sure people got used to that. The same is probably true in Hawaii. I tip my hat to Cousin Barb for adapting to that. But I^’ll take fall in Minnesota.

A small taste of a huge city ~ September 21, 2005

David Heiller

Chicago slipped by the train window last Friday. Corn fields turned to suburbs, then tenement houses and warehouses topped with razor wire. Then tall buildings that blotted out the sky.

At the Chicago Art Institute.

We got off the train and hailed a taxi for the Chicago Art Institute, Cindy, and my sister Kathy and me.

The cabbie, a guy about my age, figured me for a tourist right away. I don’t know how he saw that so quickly. Perhaps my mouth hung ajar a bit too widely, trying to take in a city I’ve read about my whole life but never quite managed to visit.

“We’ve been planning this trip for 25 years;” I said. “We had to sell our house and newspaper first.”

That got a laugh, although I’m not sure why. It was true!

Nine dollars later he dropped us off at the steps of a huge building guarded by huge lions on a huge boulevard lined with huge buildings. I guess that sums up Chicago for me. It not only has broad shoulders, it has huge broad shoulders.

For the next six hours we wandered the halls of the Art Institute. It was amazing seeing works of art that are icons, Picasso’s guitar player, Remington’s bronze cowboys, right there in front of us.

A fine way to regroup, lunch 
on a patio in the Art Institute.

Cindy and Kathy drifted off, and we each got lost in our thoughts amidst a thousand years of genius.

A group of middle school students came pouring through the rooms, notebooks in hand. They giggled at the nudes and made fun of the abstract paintings. One of the teachers stood in front of a huge canvas covered with blotches of ink, mostly black and white, but with some subdued other hues, like red, yellow, and orange. He pointed out its energy and subtle color. I wanted to follow him, hear what else he had to say. I wanted to tell the kids, “Listen to him. You guys don’t know how lucky you are to be here right now.” But I didn’t, of course, and kids being kids, it would not have done much good.

After two hours it became too much for me. I couldn’t appreciate anymore. So I tracked down Cindy and Kathy. We regrouped at a Toulouse-Lautrec exhibition, then had lunch in an open courtyard. We needed the break.

Two sisters on a terrace
 Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Cindy asked if I had seen Two Sisters by Renoir. No, I didn’t think so. How about the Paris Street on a Rainy Day by Caillebotte? No.

So she took me back upstairs. I had missed two entire rooms of impressionists! Looking at the Two Sisters with Cindy was the highlight of the visit. I won’t bother trying to describe it. It was too pretty for words. I’ll print it here in black and white and hope that someday you can see it for yourself.

We walked through nearby Millennium Park after that, and looked at a sculpture called Cloud Gate. Kathy calls it The Bean. It’s a gigantic (huge) round shape that is coated with steel that reflects the sky and buildings and people in front of it. I didn’t want to like it. It looked too dumb. But it was fascinating. You could see your distorted self emerge from the crowd, see yourself wave foolishly, see yourself take a picture, which many people were doing.

David and Kathy mugging in the reflection of "The Bean"

Then it was back in the cab, where we heard about the 10th foreign language of the day, this time Hindi, I believe. Cindy and I wandered down the sidewalk a bit to Union Station, where I started talking to a guy in a blue coat who asked if we needed help. How could he tell I needed help?

“Yes, can you show me where they filmed that scene in The Untouchables where the baby carriage goes down the steps?”

He had probably heard the request before. He pointed out a big building about two blocks away. “Right there it is sir. By the way, I don’t actually work for the train company. Do you have any spare change?”

I didn’t have any change, so I gave him a dollar. I know I did not need to do that, but I, did. Cindy had disappeared by this time. She doesn’t like to be seen with me when I am doing my Country Bumpkin impersonation. I wandered down the sidewalk, past half a dozen other pan-handlers and musicians. No money this time, sorry. Then it was back to the train station, and onto the train for a thoughtful and contented ride back to Kathy’s house a world away.

Little is big when it comes to love ~ September 27, 2001

David Heiller

Cindy and I recently were visiting with a couple of friends, Owen and Linda. They told a funny story that made us both smile.

Owen, Cindy, Linda, David

They had been invited out to dinner. The host served a casserole covered with cashews. Linda does not like cashews. It is one of only two things that she cannot stand to eat. Owen knows that. So he served himself first and scraped away some extra cashews, saying how much he liked them. That gave Linda a safe place to scoop up some hot dish without having to deal with a pile of cashews.

Owen did not have to do this. It probably wouldn’t have mattered too much to the host if Linda had left a few cashews on her plate. But he did it because he knows her and loves her, and she appreciated it.

I think it’s those little acts of love, the kind that take a bit of sacrifice, that matter the most.

Moroccan mint tea is wonderful and sweet. Mint tea is ubiquitous in Morocco, and the serving is full of ceremony. I liked mint tea, but this particular tea was twice as sweet as was customary. 
It wasn't the first or the last time that David 
saved me in an awkward social situation!

Cindy still talks about something I did for her in Morocco. It was similar to what Owen did. We were being served a fancy meal at the home of an old couple. Cindy and I had eaten as much as we could. We were full. Then came the mint tea. Moroccan mint tea is served very, very sweet. It is about the same sweetness as what we feed hummingbirds. Cindy took one sip and knew she couldn’t finish her tea. But it would have been a great faux pas to not do so. So she gave me a look, probably the same look Linda gave Owen. Subtle and desperate. I knew she needed help. So when our host left the room for a few seconds, I chugged that mint tea down faster than a football player at a keg party. I can still feel that sugar rushing down my throat. I broke into an instant sweat. My face turned red. I gave a big smile when the lady came back into the room. So did Cindy. So did our host. Everyone won, although I never looked at a glass of mint tea the same way.

Sometimes a sacrifice of love goes undetected. That’s even better, the thankless kind. It^’s almost a cliché in our family, but I still recall how my Grandma Schnick would only eat the wings when we would have chicken on Sunday. She insisted very convincingly that she really liked the wings. I could never understand that, because there wasn’t much to like. But I believed her. Now I understand. I always got a leg. I loved chicken legs. Still do. Grandma never took a leg. Because she just loved the wings. Right.

My mom carried on the same tradition, only she substituted the neck for the wings. That seemed even stranger to me, because the neck is even skimpier than the wing. Now I find myself doing the same thing.

Cindy does even more. Mothers are the greatest at making sacrifices of love.

I’m not belittling big acts of love and sacrifice, like a sister giving a kidney to a brother. Sometimes even lives are sacrificed in the name of love, as we are reminded at church every Sunday.

But it’s those little ones that come out every day in every way, that really enrich our lives. They are woven into our routines so tightly that we take them for granted. But they mean a lot more than a person might think. Especially if you don’t like cashews.

A fine morning for catching a bass ~ September 23, 1999

David Heiller

A light drizzle drifted down on Sunday morning like dandruff from the thunderstorm that shook the house the night before.

The wind had quit blowing, leaving a calm voice that said, “Go fishing, Dave.”

Kind of late. 7:15. Not my usual early time. Bob Dutcher would not approve. He’s a 6 a.m. man, sharp.

A fine fish.

But I grabbed my bucket of frogs and hopped in the truck, which already held the canoe and gear. A good fisherman is always ready to go. Fifteen minutes later, I was on Mud Lake.

I hooked a frog through its lips, threw toward the lily pads, and started paddling slowly down the lake. (I apologize to those people who are squeamish or offended about using frogs for bait.)

In a way it didn’t matter if I caught a fish or not. Being on the quiet lake, in the misty morning, that’s what I was looking for. The lake would serve as my church service. My spirit was as smooth as the silky water.

It’s a thing of joy, fishing in the morning in the fall on a quiet lake. You know that fall is here. You can feel it in your knuckles. They crack with the cold, but not too badly, not like in late October. You know you won’t have a lot more mornings this fine. So you savor it like a good cup of coffee.

That’s how I felt as I slowly moved along, paddling ever minute or so. I stayed about 20 feet from the lily pads, and casted my bait so that it landed as close to the pads as possible. A good cast is about two inches from the edge. It’s a great feeling to see the spot where you want to cast and have your bait hit that exact spot.

Noah loves to fish, just like his dad.

For the first half hour I only caught a few weeds. One time a big swirl of water boiled around the frog, and I set the hook and caught nothing but water. How can a bass miss a frog like that? I thought. Dumb fish.

Well, maybe not so dumb. He’s not on the hook.

The fish weren’t biting. A couple weeks earlier I had had a strike about every five minutes. The fish were starving. I had caught three bass, then I ran out of frogs. The fish weighed 4-1/2 pounds, 3-1/2 pounds, and 2-1/2 pounds.

Then I came to the hot spot. It’s just a little point of land with bull rushes sticking up like stubble. It doesn’t look a bass hangout in any way. But I always seem to catch a fish there.

From my viewpoint, it’s a good spot, because there aren’t any lily pads for the bass to swim around in and tangle the line. It’s more of a fair fight, for me that is.

I probably won’t catch one today, I told myself. Don’t want to jinx myself. But my racing pulse said that I wished just the opposite.

The joy (or sorrow) of the bending rod!

Almost as soon as the frog hit the water, a fish hit the frog. Ca-woosh. Is there a prettier sight than the swirl of a big fish when it takes your bait? I could tell it was a big one as it raced back and forth, bending my rod, straining my line. It jumped clear out of the water about four inches and shook its head, just like on the late-night fishing shows. Wow, a beauty.

I let it pull hard and tire itself. I hoped it was hooked well. I knew the eight-pound line wouldn’t break, but the hook coming out was another matter. Bass never seem to be hooked very solid. That’s why I only land about one of every three I hook. Of course, Bob Dutcher seems to catch nine out of every 10 he hooks.

I reeled the fish to the canoe and scooped it up with the net. Then I breathed again.

It was a gorgeous large mouth bass, big and fat, the kind a kid dreams about, even a 46-year-old kid.

I took out my old tape and measured it: 17-1/2 inches long. It weighed a little over 3-1/2 pounds.

I put it on the stringer, and kept fishing. Another fish missed my frog in the hot spot. I came to an opening in the lily pads by shore, casted into the middle, and caught a small bass. I let it go. Another cast in the same spot, and another fish hit at the frog and missed. I could see water roiling here and there in the opening.

On the third cast something big grabbed the frog and held on for about 10 seconds. It fought its way into the lily pads and was gone. How big was that fish? A five-pounder? It was big enough to go back and try to catch it again.

That was enough for me. Three strikes on three straight casts will satisfy anyone. I paddled back to the truck. As I neared shore, I took the fish off the stringer watched it swim away. Maybe I’ll catch it again. It will be bigger next time.

Things change when school begins ~ September 9, 1993

David Heiller

Summer came to an end on Monday of this week, Labor Day. It was the last day that the kids didn’t have school.

Time with good friends. 
It doesn't take a lot of planning in the summer.

Things change in a hurry when school starts. It’s a time of “no mores.” No more sleeping in for the kids until seven, not when the school bus arrives at 7:15. Suddenly we have to get up at 6 a.m.

No more working on the computer when I wake up, or weeding the garden for half an hour before breakfast, or sitting down with a good book and a big cup of tea while the rest of the house is asleep.

No more sleeping in the tent or the trailer for the kids. No more 10 o’clock bedtimes. No more inviting friends over for a day or night.

No more cold cereal. When school is in session, I make hot cereal every morning except Wednesday. It’s my job, and I can do it in my sleep, which is good because I’m usually asleep when I make it.

Tuesday’s oatmeal passed the taste test of my family with flying colors. (It helps to put in a lot of sugar, and a dab of butter.) Mollie even asked for a second helping, and asked if we could have mush tomorrow. I said yes both times.

This is David's Cereal Card giving water:cereal proportions which I tacked on the
inside of the cupboard door for David.
I wrangled the children and he wrangled breakfast.
What a duo!

There’s something good about starting the day with hot cereal. You sit down together as a family to eat it. You talk. You take your time, because otherwise you’ll burn your tongue. Maybe because of that, you know that things will go all right, that bullies won’t beat you up, that your best friend won’t desert you.

AND FINALLY, no more kids at home during the day. When the kids left for school on Tuesday, the house was suddenly empty and quiet. Cindy and I were talking about that last week, about how nice it is when the kids get on the bus and the house is so quiet. A little peace and quiet is OK, especially after three months of war and noise.

1993

It’s a different kind of quiet though, not like you find occasionally in the summer when everyone happens to be gone before you. That’s more of a treat. It’s a lonelier kind of quiet, and it still carries a few worries. How is their bus ride going? How are they getting along in class? Are they making new friends? Getting into fights? We’ll eagerly wait for the answers after school, when the kids get home at four.

My respect for teachers goes up at this time of year. Most teachers have families of their own, but they can’t enjoy peace and quiet the day after Labor Day, because it is their job to teach 30 or so of the ones that have just left our houses so empty and quiet. Think about it the next time you complain about how they are overpaid and get the summers off.

Both of our kids ran to the bus eagerly on Tuesday. They had new clothes and new shoes. Noah was wearing an Indian necklace made out of bones. Their backpacks were bulging with colored pencils, calculators, rulers, and notebooks without a mark in them. They are starting with a clean slate, to coin a phrase.

They like school. I feel lucky for that, lucky for a good bus driver and good teachers, good cooks and good children, and a good home.

Those are things that hopefully will never change.