Missing shoes: a sign of Christmas ~ December 9, 1993

David Heiller

The missing shoes convinced me that Christmas is here. The missing wedding ring was the first clue, but the shoes convinced me.

David and the kids at the kitchen table.

The wedding ring disappeared on Monday morning. I had showed the kids at breakfast how shiny the ring was. It had been polished a few days earlier. Noah looked at the ring, then Μalika looked at the ring. Then the ring was gone.

I first noticed it at work. I reached for my finger to feel the ring. It’s a habit I have when I talk to pretty women (like my wife). It was gone.

All day my finger felt naked. We called the school, and asked if she had taken it to school. She hadn’t. We believed her, sort of. She knows the value of that ring to me. She wouldn’t give it away, or trade it for some Skittles, not on purpose at least. But drug addicts know the dangers of drugs, and still take them. That’s the way my daughter can be with shiny gold things.

When we got home, we looked all over the house for it. Mollie said she remembered putting it on the dining room table. That’s the table that you can’t see the top of, because it is covered with Christmas ornaments and candles and wise men.

My stomach started fluttering. The ring is handmade. There’s only one other like it, and my wife wears it.

Then Cindy went to turn on the radio, and there was the ring, and suddenly everyone was forgiven, including the person who probably left it there—me.

As for my shoes, they still haven’t turned up. I took them off somewhere on Monday night, and Tuesday morning they were gone. They might be on the dining room table too, and we might find them after Christmas.

Meanwhile I’m wearing a black shiny pair that I last wore on my wedding day in 1980. They are too tight. That happens when you have babies, I hear.

Christmas is a beautiful time of year. It’s also a time when people forget where they put their wedding rings and shoes.

Malika could turning all things,
 live or pretend, into her friends.

It’s a time when eight-year-old girls forget about their Barbies and play with Mary and Joseph and the three wise men instead. I didn’t know they could carry on such interesting conversations. They were mostly silent when I was a kid. Not to my daughter.

It’s a time to walk through the woods looking for that perfect tree, and finding it along with a few other treasures, like the paw prints of a wolf, and a pileated woodpecker that laughs and flies away like a tiny jet.

If you are eight, it’s a time to wear the skirt that is supposed to go underneath the Christmas tree. The skirt looked good on Mollie. Happy Petersen of Askov made it, and it made Mollie happy. It fit her too. She looked like she stepped out of a Jan Brett children’s book when she wore it. I didn’t think she would give it up, but like the ring, I was wrong. Cindy put it under the tree on Monday night. It looks good there too.

David and Red at the Askov American office.

Christmas is also a time to count your blessings. Red Hansen is doing that these days. He had double bypass heart surgery on November 12, and if you wonder why Askov seemed a bit lonely recently, it’s because Red hasn’t been roaming the streets.

He finally got the okay to drive last Friday, so he stopped in the office for a visit on Monday. He said he’s feeling better. Then he mentioned that he has a new valve in his heart that came from a pig. Apparently the heart of a pig is similar to the heart of a human, which explains a lot about humans.

Red was glad he got the pig valve, instead of the other kind that sends a ball through a wire cage. The other kind is like a check valve, he said. It sounds more like Chutes and Ladder to me. It makes a steady clicking sound, he said, and Red worried that this might have thrown off his rhythm with his accordion.

I allowed as maybe you can get them to change their beat. Yeah Doc, I’d like a heart valve in three-quarter time, please. I’m a waltz man.

Red also wondered how old the pig was that graciously donated its valve. What if it was an old codger, and had only another year to go? Red worries about things like that, with his tongue in his cheek.

Think about it. And let me know if you find a pair of brown shoes.

Keeping faith in Santa ~ December 28, 1989

David Heiller

Santa Claus came to our house on Sunday night, enroute to the homes of all good children. He left Shark Bites and oranges, Teddy Grahams and handkerchiefs, socks and scarves, and a book on the Minnesota Twins. I always knew Santa was a Twins fan.

Oh yes, he left toys too. A moose and elephant for Noah, and magic wand, crown, and cape for Princess Mollie.

Children have abiding faith in Santa Claus but on Christmas Eve, it did seem to falter a bit. We were sleeping downstairs on the hide-bed, with company upstairs. I put a log in the woodstove at about 2 a.m., the wood banging into the fire box with a thud. Noah must have heard that. He came padding down the steps and crawled into bed, pretending to nestle in. But soon I felt him move, and I cracked an eye to see him on his elbows, looking at the packages under the dark tree. New packages, ones he hadn’t seen there before. He looked wide-eyed at the wall where the stockings had been hung by the woodstove with care. No socks! His eyes ran to the kitchen table, where he spotted the now-bulging socks. He smiled and started to get up, heading in that direction.

Noah and Malika, Christmas 1989.

“Up to bed,” I said. He padded back upstairs, and didn’t make another sound.

Mollie followed an hour and a half later. Kids must have the same Christmas Eve instincts: insomnia and doubt followed by born-again faith and sweet dreams of Santa. Her routine echoed Noah’s, She faked a snuggle, then rose up to case the joint out, like a thief in the night, eyes running over all the goods. She tossed and turned between Cindy and me until I finally carried her back to her bed. She fell instantly asleep.

All doubt had left the next morning. The kids KNEW Santa had made his appointed rounds. When Noah was opening his big box, Cindy asked him what was in it. “A moose,” he answered with utter confidence. Santa smiled. So did Bob Paulson and all of Santa’s other helpers.

A Santa visit in 1985. 
Noah always asked Santa for wildlife. 

Noah then announced that he had heard Santa in the night. “I just heard footsteps,” he said. “Where?” I asked.

“Because you didn’t go next to the stockings,” Noah said. Logic doesn’t matter much to a six-year-old when it comes to Santa.

Logic doesn’t hold a candle to other rhymes or reasons this time of year. We had opened presents on Saturday night too, with Grandma Olson and Aunt Nancy, Uncle Randy and Aunt Therese, and Baby Grace. On Sunday morning, Noah joined us on the hide-a-bed, and said, “You know what the best present I got for Christmas was?”

“Your Indian village?” Cindy guessed.

No, the best present was having Christmas with Grandma and Nancy and Randy and Therese,” Noah said.

“And Grace,” I added.

“And Grace,” Noah said.

We didn’t rehearse that answer, honest Grandma.

I guess kids know the true meaning of Christmas after all.

A 1992 Christmas letter to Grandma ~ December 24, 1992

David Heiller

Dear Grandma:

Time for another Christmas letter. My fourth one to you.

The Christmas program at church went well, as you probably know from your balcony seat.

Somehow things always manage to go OK. The practices were another matter. In practice, no one knows their lines. At the program, everyone (well almost everyone) has them down pat.

A pre-Christmas program twirl.

In practice, the kids sing so loud you have to tell them to quiet it down, to SING, not shout. In the program, you can barely hear them.

Maybe it’s the costumes. Put a pair of angel wings on a kid, or a halo fastened to a bent coat hanger, and they act like angels. Put them in a bathrobe, with a dishtowel for a hat, and they are as humble as shepherds.

Except for Timmy. First he wouldn’t say his part in practice. Then his mother, DeeAnn, tried to coax him into his robe amidst the roar of dressing for the program. He crossed his arms in front of him and started crying. DeeAnn led him to the back room, by the furnace, her face as determined as Timmy’s. He looked like he was paying a visit to the proverbial woodshed.

Ten minutes later, DeeAnn and Timmy rejoined us as we waited outside the church doors. Tim was robe-less and tearless, and DeeAnn looked like she had just gone nine rounds with a four-year-old Evander Holyfield.

She must have done some serious plea bargaining, because when Tim’s turn came before the microphone, he said: “We’re so excited we’re going to tell everyone!” Maybe it wasn’t quite that clear, but he said it. You could tell by the sparkle in his mother’s eyes.

Doug played Joseph. He had the longest part, and didn’t trust his memory. He pulled out a piece of paper from the pocket of his bathrobe. It looked like a used Kleenex, and shook when he read. But read it he did, and well. He carried on the proud tradition of Josephs that date back to Brownsville, 1965 (my stellar role, you may recall), and beyond to that first Joseph, 1,992 years ago.

Some of the kids had so much confidence. Like Lisa, who recited her 83 words slicker than sleet. She’s had it memorized for three weeks, and she wasn’t about to get tongue tied now, in front of her mother, father, aunt, uncle, and 42 other relatives. She’ll probably remember that part for the rest of her life. Even if she wants to forget it.

Murphy’s Law 29-G states that someone must get the giggles in every Christmas pageant. This year Chrissy and Wendy got the nod. They came in a bit too early on the second verse of their song with Clint and Joe. It doesn’t take much to start a 13-year-old girl laughing in church. But they didn’t laugh long. They didn’t want any BOYS to out-sing them.

The rest of the music was good too. The children sang loud enough, and they didn’t shout after all. I sang with them a little bit, to get them going, but stopped myself. There’s nothing finer or purer than the sound of children singing at a Christmas program.

Grandma Schnick and Noah together at
Christmas, before these letters began.

As usual, Bev had the best song, “Jesus, Name Above All Names.” The music rolled like waves of water off her piano, and the kids rode the waves like celestial surfers. OK, maybe I’m stretching it. You know what I mean.

Noah and Mollie did all right. Mollie had on her white dress with a red ribbon. She didn’t have any wings, and didn’t need them, except for when she pointed to the back of the church when Donna came in.

Noah said his part without a hitch. He had called Connie, his babysitter, before the program, to see if she was coming. Called her up on the phone, like he wanted to take her to the Prom. Never mind that she’s 15 and he’s nine. I’m not sure what her plans had been for that Sunday afternoon but Connie being Connie, she came. She’s starred in a few of these herself, and not too long ago.

Wow, how kids grow up. I seem to notice it at Christmas programs. Boys and girls who were in Sunday School yesterday are suddenly changing into young men and women. I guess you saw that too.

I miss you, lots, Grandma. Till next year.
Love, David

Friendly ghosts of Christmas past ~ December 7, 1989

David Heiller

My Favorite Christmas

Danny and I were getting frustrated. Christmas Day, 1963, was fast approaching, and we had rattled every box under the tree. We had rummaged through Mom’s closet, stepping on her shoes, lifting her skirts and coats, climbing up to the shelf. We were following our own Christmas tradition of trying to find out what Mom had bought us. And we had struck out.

Usually we unearthed something, a chemistry set, a pair of skates new socks or mittens. One mid-December we found a six-foot toboggan behind the cellar door. It was a painful discovery because we couldn’t use it for the next two weeks, and had to act surprised. On Christmas morning, my sister Jeanne peered at us and stated firmly, “You knew it was there, didn’t you?”

“No way,” we said, trying to save face. It didn’t wash with Jeanne. What a miserable way to get a great present. We loved it.

But we drew a blank in 1963. That Christmas Eve, we tossed in our beds, Danny and I, long after we should have been asleep. Glenn was home from college, and he was helping Mom carry presents into the living room. Danny crawled out of his bed, and stuck his head out from the curtain on our doorway, into the hall.

Glenn spotted him, and gave a quick slap on his cheek, like you might swat your four-year-old on the butt. You didn’t mess with Glenn on Christmas Eve. Danny went crying back to bed, but the crying ended quickly. Super Hiding by Mom! Short Temper by Glenn! We both knew The Present must be a good one. We fell asleep instantly.

David and his sister Lynette Christmas of 1957.

Lynette woke us up the next morning, stomping her foot outside our bedroom. I had to crawl over Glenn to get out the door. Danny was ahead of me. The house was dark, except for the flicker of light in front of the oil-burner in the hallway.

Lynette laughed and led us into the living room. We plugged in the Christmas tree lights, and saw The Present whose dignity Glenn had protected the night before, the size of a large shoe box. I looked at the tag and started shaking. Danny pounded on the wall to wake up Grandma and the girls upstairs. Mom’s bedroom light came on, and soon we heard the sisters creaking down, Grandma at their heels.

Mom said it was Danny’s turn to hand out the presents. How could she remember that from year to year? He doled them out: to Sharon, who was home from her job in Minneapolis, to Glenn, to Kathy, Mary, Jeanne, himself, Lynette, Mom, Grandma, me. The room was filled with people in pajamas and robes, all talking, ripping open wrapping paper, trying on new shirts, sweaters, shoes, hefting a model Corvette Sting-Ray, smelling Mennen Aftershave, saying Thank Yous real and imagined.

The Package was marked “David and Danny,” in Mom’s handwriting. We opened it together. Inside was a pair of Ray Guns.

I do not know what David and
Danny's ray gun looked like.

Wow. Black shiny plastic that smelled new, with a body like a gun and a yellow top that flared out like a mushroom. The top unscrewed to hold two D-cell batteries, included. Pull the trigger, and the light went on. But no ordinary plain white light, but a deadly Ray. That was the neatest part; in the head were four triangles of different colors. You turned the top and the light would shine a different color: red, green, blue, or yellow. High-Tech, 1963.

We squared off in that early December morning light. The sun was coming up, but we could still deal out justice of red, green, blue or yellow. Danny shot Glenn first. That night we took them to bed with us. We blasted the walls, the closet, the Venetian blinds, the dart board, Glenn, and each other. We played tag with their rainbow beams. No more Wet Washcloth Tag, Glenn’s favorite game. It was Ray Gun Season.

I think those Ray Guns were my favorite Christmas present, ever. What would I pay for them now? Money would be no object. But they were something that money couldn’t buy now. Favorite Christmas memories are like that.

A 2003 Christmas letter to Grandma ~ December 24, 2003

David Heiller

Dear Grandma:

Another year has gone by already. It seems like I just wrote to you, yet it was last Christmas. Is time flying because so much has changed?

I know you are keeping an eye on us, but I still want to say a few things.

In a way it doesn’t seem like Christmas. No trip to the woods to cut down the tree. Even the woods have changed. Our balsams and spruce from up north have been replaced by good old oak and hickory.

Christmas cheer and Christmas hugs.

No house, no halls that Cindy can deck with her Christmas flair and fervor. She made that old farm house sparkle. I agree with Ben Logan—Santa Claus is a woman, at least in our house.

No Noah. He has to work. This will be our first Christmas without him. It’s hard on us, and probably on him, although he won’t admit that. I remember my first Christmas away from home, in Morocco in 1977, I walked down the road under a full moon in shorts and a T-shirt, surrounded by sand. In a way I felt closer to the first Christmas 2000 years ago. It hadn’t happened that many miles to the east of where I was walking, and maybe on a night like that.

But I was homesick! No familiar faces, no big family get-togethers, no chocolate drop cookies by you, or stories of Christmas in Nebraska, eating a big naval orange.

So the experience was a good one—new insights on Christmas and on me. That’s what growing up is all about. It will probably be the same for Noah.

I guess those new insights are still happening. We’re not in our own home yet, not getting together with our old friends. A new chapter is starting. We are keeping that in mind. And we are enjoying our time living above your favorite daughter—and my favorite mom.

David loved doing things for older folks.
Grandma Schnick and Grandma Heiller
 were his inspiration. He and Malika
preformed together many times with this in mind.

Christmas songs are helping me the most this year. The button box is sitting on the dresser, and it gets played almost every day, mostly old favorites like Jolly Old St. Nicholas, but a new one too that I’ve almost got down, Star of the East. It’s new for me at least, but not to everybody, including Bertha Heiller, who wants to hear it. Malika and I plan to accommodate her wishes.

Jill Hahn at the Argus asked Susie Frank and me the other day what our favorite Christmas songs were. What a hard question! Impossible, really. But it got me to thinking. Susie said Silent Night, and Jill came in with the same. I had to answer Away in the Manger. But there really isn’t one answer to that question.

Dear Grandma:

Yup, it’s Christmas again. The program at church went well. Some boys in the back row were giggling before the first song, and nudging each other in the ribs. I couldn’t figure out why until they sang the first verse to “Good Christian Friends Rejoice.”

When they came to the line, “Ox and ass before him bow,” they had a big laugh, almost like they were relieved to finally say the 'A word'.

Like you, Grandma. It’s been 14 years since you left us, but you are still here, and, like a good Christmas carol, still in our hearts.

Merry Christmas.

David

Christmas programs and skating rinks ~ December 22, 1994

David Heiller

Dear Grandma:

Yup, it’s Christmas again. The program at church went well. Some boys in the back row were giggling before the first song, and nudging each other in the ribs. I couldn’t figure out why until they sang the first verse to “Good Christian Friends Rejoice.”

When they came to the line, “Ox and ass before him bow,” they had a big laugh, almost like they were relieved to finally say the 'A word'.

I smiled too. My Sunday School teacher told us not to covet our neighbor’s property or wife or ass. That would get us giggling. Some things never change.

Malika played “Good King Wenceslas” on the piano, and it sounded good. I’ll admit that beautiful music is in the ear of the beholder.

It was fun to hear all the kids play their trumpets and flutes and trombones and clarinets. It takes skill for a kid to play “Away in the Manger,” and know they’re going to hit a sour note, and then HIT the sour note, and smile with the congregation, and keep on playing.

The spirit of Christmas always hits me at Sunday School programs. You can forget about the stress that goes with the holidays for a little while, and watch little kids sing their lungs out on “Silent Night.”

You can smile as Joseph wheels his squeaky donkey down the aisle, and admire the angels with their glittery wings, and remember when you were a shepherd and got to carry a stick like that, with a top that bends over like a big candy cane.

Some friends, Dave and Sue, invited our family to their house after the program, and the Christmas spirit followed us there.

Dave has made a skating rink, and it is close to divine. There’s a little island in the middle, and some rough ice to keep you from going too fast. Mostly it’s smooth as glass.

There’s nothing in the Bible about skating under a bright moon with friends and family, but there should be, along with a bonfire, and a game of Pump Pump Pull-Away, and circling the night with the woman you love.

How many times did we skate as kids on the harbor, on Schnick’s Lake? The best times were at night. Someone would make a fire, maybe bring some hot dogs. Some high schoolers would be holding hands, and we’d make fun of them, until we were old enough to do the same.

Sometimes there would be big cracks in the ice. You had to watch out for them. Danny hit one once and went flying so hard and fast that he chipped his front tooth off. It hurt so bad he cried, one of the few times I ever saw that.

 Cindy and I had quarreled going to our friends’ house last Sunday. We were both stubbornly mad at each other. But we put on our skates and circled the rink hand in hand, and our argument soon disappeared into the winter night. Skating rinks can do that. They can patch up arguments, bring friends and lovers together.

We skated and skated last Sunday. After about an hour, Sue said she could do this all night. I think she was right.

Then we went inside and ate chili and bars and toasted the season with a dose of friendship.

Christmas is a time to count our blessings. Vague terms like friendship and family and love come into focus at Christmas programs and skating rinks.

Things you taught me, Grandma. I thank you for that, and I miss you too.

Love, David

Christmas brings out our best ~ December 19, 1991

David Heiller

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1991: Ralph Wahlquist of Askov came into the office last week to pick up a package of items which Lillian Monson had left. Ralph was going to take them to residents at Moose Lake Regional Treatment Center.

Ralph and Clara Wahlquist

On top of the box was a bag with some fresh fruit in it. “She gave me that to give to Clara,” Ralph said, referring to his wife, who is a resident at Mercy Health Care Center.

Mrs. Monson, who lives down Markville way, is the coordinator for a Christmas gift drive for treatment center residents. It’s quite a task, I imagine, but she does it without complaint. She also takes the time to think about people like Clara Wahlquist, about how she might appreciate a fresh banana or apple.

Christmas brings out good deeds in us.

At Willow River Elementary, teachers came up with a new idea in place of the traditional gift exchange. This year, students are bringing in non-perishable food items, which will be donated to food shelves to help families who need them. That’s a pretty good idea, a pretty good deed.

Take the WINDOW program in Sandstone. WINDOW stands for Women In Need, Depending on Other Women. The group works with abused women and children, and the prevention of abuse. Unfortunately, they are pretty busy. I wish they weren’t.

But when WINDOW director Karen Everett heard that the Toys for Tots program in Pine County needed a coordinator, she volunteered her group. It’s extra work, she admits, but the joy of seeing needy families receive toys that they otherwise couldn’t get, the extra work is worth it.

Maybe I just notice them more now, but it seems Christmas brings out good deeds in us.

Lynn, pictured with her husband Bruce,
was the bearer of a big kindness
 in a busy, busy season!

It happened at work this week, too. I went into the darkroom Monday morning, and there was a red ribbon tied to the faucet of the sink which I could actually recognize as a sink, and not a crusted, rusted, chemical coated monstrosity that once was a sink, three years ago or so, the last time it was cleaned.

Now the sink and faucet gleamed as white and shiny as new. Lynn Storrar, our typesetter office worker, had cleaned it. It was her good deed.

This phenomenon applies to kids too. When the Faith Lutheran Sunday School needed a Joseph for their pageant this coming Sunday, my son Noah, age eight, volunteered. Noah is not real out-going. He prides himself on being a bit shy. But he raised his hand this morning, and Mary Cronin quickly accepted.

Then his sister, Malika, age six, volunteered to be Mary. That’s when Noah started having second thoughts. By the time he got home, tears were flowing. At first he blamed Mollie, said he couldn’t be Joseph if his sister was Mary. But that didn’t wash for long. He was just plain mad at himself. He couldn’t figure out what had happened, but I know, because it happened to me at his age, and probably to you too: Christmas brings out good deeds in us. Foolish sometimes, but good just the same.

Christmas bring early morning cookie kindnesses,
 which for David was truly appreciative.

THERE ARE OTHER signs around our house, signs of Christmas thoughtfulness. Hundreds of cookies coming from the oven. Songs sung several times a day.

Another sign: things are getting fixed. That three-way switch in the porch that hasn’t worked in two years, I replaced this morning. Now it works half the time, which is 50 percent better than before. That light over the kitchen sink, the one only I could turn on or off by standing on my tiptoes and screwing in or unscrewing the bulb, I’ve replaced with a new fixture that works all the time, so far.

That rickety dining room chair that was unsafe to sit on, I glued and screwed tight, so that you can sit on it if you are careful. Al Jensen sat on it the other night, and it started shaking with excitement, as if it knew the weight of a true handyman when it felt one. Al didn’t sit in it for long, fearing for his safety. Next Christmas he’ll probably bring along his glue bottle and a couple clamps and do a good deed for us.

On and on the list could go, some trivial and some life-touching, at your home and mine, in the homes of the Lillian Monsons, in places like WINDOW, around the county, state and nation. Christmas brings out good deeds in us.

Merry Christmas to you all, and may all our good deeds continue for the next 12 months too.

A sonnet for the fiddler, December 12, 2002

by David Heiller

I pulled the car off the highway and into the familiar driveway. I grabbed my violin case and headed up the driveway that led into the valley. We call it Heiller Valley in our house, because it was in the Heiller family for many years until my grandma sold it to the State of Minnesota in about 1970.

I felt a little strange, carrying my fiddle. The last time a fiddle had been transported into that valley was probably before I was born. My grandpa had played one, and he died in 1953.

I was more accustomed to carrying a .22 rifle up the familiar path. The 500-acres of land was full of squirrels. It’s a paradise for them, with all those hickory, walnut and oak trees. I spent many fall days hunting there.

But the fiddle it was. I had been reading a book by Bobbie Ann Mason called Clear Springs. It’s a fantastic book, a memoir about her childhood in western Kentucky, and how she was affected when she moved away.

David and his fiddle.

There was a parallel to her childhood home and this valley for me. My dad and his siblings grew up here. I’ve always drawn a strength from walking there. I don’t know if it’s just in my head, or there is something more that the logical mind can^’t explain. That’s why I was carrying the fiddle. Sometimes music can open my mind. Was I trying to call in the spirits? I don’t know. But I do know that there are some spots where music flows out of me. A comfort zone. Maybe that’s what I was looking for.

The walk to the house was so pleasant. A ton of memories came back. That hill where the men lit a stick of dynamite one Fourth of July. The meadow where a cow died and bloated up like a balloon. That huge oak tree with a limb that sticks straight out like giant^’s bicep. How many picnics did we have there?

I found the old home site. Now there was just a slight depression in the ground. It’s amazing how Mother Nature can reclaim a farm. In the gully was half of a wringer washing machine and a skinny tire from an old car.

I leaned against a tree and played a few tunes, and none too well. Maybe the temperature wasn’t warm enough. Blame it on the weather! Anyway, my fingers rebelled.

I packed up the fiddle and started walking the half mile back to the road. I took a detour through the old barn. All that was left was the concrete foundation. I could see where the stanchions had been. I remembered how my uncle Donny had filled the loft with hay every summer. I had helped on more than a few occasions. What a job. Now it was all gone.

A deer took off from a gully ahead of me. It bounded up the hill, a big one, although I couldn’t see if it was a buck or a doe.

I got to a huge walnut tree, another landmark from my youth, and sat down. I looked down the driveway in both directions to see if anyone was coming. Yes, I felt a little self-conscious. But I had the valley to myself on that Friday morning, and it didn’t take long for me to relax and just sit there with a dumb grin. Somehow I knew my old relatives would not mind me sitting there and scratching out a tune. Grandpa had played Peek-A-Boo Waltz to the point of distraction for his kids, so I’ve been told. He would have understood. He probably would have sat down and listened. Dad too.

So I played that waltz, and a few others. The music never did flow from me. It usually goes that way; when you try too hard to summon something, it stays just out of reach.

But it didn’t matter. I still had that extra spring in my step when I left the Heiller Valley, a feeling that I knew myself just a little better than I did before. That always happens.

I told Mom what I had done when I got home. I wasn’t sure how she would react to a 49-year-old son of hers playing his fiddle in the woods, at the end of November no less. But I could see that it had hit a chord with her too.

A few days later I got this poem from her. It sums up the day better than I can. Thanks, Mom!

David playing on the deck, overlooking Heiller Valley

A Sonnet for the Fiddler

by Fern Heiller

There is a place from boyhood that he always will remember,

And so he went walking there on a morning in November.

He walked the rutted valley road into the old home place;

He didn’t have his hunting gun but took his fiddle case.

He paused to sit awhile beneath the ancient walnut tree,

And drew his bow across the strings to play a melody.

A little further down the trail, there would have been the gate,

But that was gone, like house and barn, for he was much too late.

His grandpa used to walk this ground, when times were good or bad,

And his father, too, and he himself, when he was just a lad.

His grandpa played a fiddle, too, and he hoped to hear

An echo of a waltz or polka coming to his ear.

But the only music that he heard was wind in grass and leaves.

The voices of the past were gone—time is the best of thieves.

But he took his fiddle and the bow and played a tune or two,

For Grandpa and for Grandma and the dad he never knew.

Oh, for the birds and bird feeders ~ November 23, 2000

David Heiller

Dutch Jones is ready for the birds. You may have read in her column last week, and I quote:

“Jerry took his big van and we went and got sunflower seeds for the birds. Have three big sacks and 50 pounds of cracked corn and thistle seed. Should last a couple months. I have yellow grosbeaks now and oh, I do like the chickadees. They are so fun to watch. Got the heater going in the water dish for them. It keeps the water from freezing. Old Pete was at the tallow today. Pete is my woodpecker.”

Noah with a chickadee perched on his hand.

Maybe Burlington Northern could build a spur line to her house east of Bruno, so they could deliver bird feed by the car load.

Oh for birds!

I have to tip my hat to Dutch and the many people like her.

I’ve known many people that have fed birds loyally. One of my favorites was my Grandma Schnick, who liked to set out things like orange rinds stuffed with tallow. She would read these bird food recipes in magazines like McCall’s and Better Homes and Gardens. They almost looked good enough for people to eat. I was a bit jealous of the birds, and the birds devoured her concoctions. Grandma is now making sure the angels get enough feed in Heaven, although they might not be as fond of her suet balls as the woodpeckers in Brownsville.

Another favorite bird feeder person is my mother, who draws in scores of birds with black sunflower seeds and cracked corn. She is rewarded with many beautiful birds, the king of which is the cardinal.

When I was a kid, bird feeding didn’t hold a lot of attraction for me, although I did like looking at the cardinals. Even the most hard-hearted codgers in town had to stop for a second to admire the beauty of a cardinal at the bird feeder. They are royalty.

I remember a brief period when I tried to shoot birds at the feeder. I would stalk them from behind the corner of the house. My BB gun wasn’t very accurate. It wasn’t a Daisy, so the birds didn’t have much to worry about.

Grandma Schnick didn’t have a problem with this, as long as I shot at sparrows, starlings, grackles, or blue jays. (Grandma was a bit of a racist when it came to birds.) But my sister, Mary Ellen, heard about this, and caught me in the act one day. She put an end to my feeder hunting with a few threats and a lecture on civil rights. Whatever she said reinforced a nagging feeling of guilt that was already in the back of my mind. It just wasn’t fair play to lure a bird to its death. I never did kill one.

In the summer, it's the  hummingbirds
that got our attention.

I’m not the only one to take a firearm to critters at a feeder. Dutch was telling me on Monday that she’s been trying to shoot a pesky red squirrel that chases away all the birds at her feeder. Dutch would also love to blast the crow that confuse her heated bird bath with a biffy. She can’t seem to hit her mark, but she keeps trying, and we are lucky to get to read about it. Watch out Dutch, you may be getting a visit from my sister, Mary Ellen.

Cindy and I like to feed birds. It’s a fun hobby. We try to keep it up all year, but it seems like we let it go for the summer. But now that we have snow—and it looks like the snow will stay—the feeders and suet containers are full again.

Is there anything prettier than a snowy day with birds at the feeder? It’s such a treat to watch them, to see all their shapes and sizes and colors and personalities. It’s like a soap opera. It seems like that’s been missing for the past couple years. We haven’t had enough snow. (Some people might cringe when they read that.) This year is shaping up to be a normal one. I heard on the radio last week that we have already had more snow this year than all of last November and December combined.

So let it snow. Let the birds flock in. And let Dutch Jones and all the glorious little old ladies of the world keep the feeders full. Amen!