A bright spring day gone dark ~ April 14, 1988

David Heiller

The scene didn’t make sense, last Friday morning in Willow River.

The air had that early April feeling to it, nippy and fresh and crystal clear. The sun had a brighter touch too, as it warmed the frost off the brown lawns, and warmed the robins that jumped from tree to tree above the grass, already hoping for earthworms.

But smoke curled above the houses in Willow River, clouding this bright spring morning and all the hope that it should have brought along. The smoke oozed from the rafters and walls and basement of a frame home, once white, now blackened and broken.

A dozen or so firemen from Willow River and Sturgeon Lake stood outside the shell of a house. They stood in pockets, here and there. They stood alongside the hole in the ground where a backhoe pawed through blackened debris. Their faces were gray with soot and smoke, their eyes hung with a sleepless night. And they seemed to stoop, in a barely perceptible way that is brought on by more than fatigue.

No one said much. Their work was done, work that had started with a fire call at 1:30 in the morning, eight hours earlier. They had arrived at a fire that made the sky glow orange, and after five hours, they had extinguished the fire inside. They had done their job.

But their shoulders sagged, and they said little.

Outside the burned home, a snowmobile sat with melted frame and windshield, some 30 feet from the home. There was a tricycle in the yard a bit further back, and behind the child’s toy, a child who had lived in the house until the fire, Mike Olesen. They had found Mike at 8:20.

Pine County Sheriff John Kozisek and his deputies stood in the basement of the home, digging through the black rubble. They raked and shoveled, stepping back every few minutes as the backhoe took another bite. Like the firemen who watched from above, they said little as they worked. Their faces had that same blank look.

People started arriving to look in on the scene. A little boy rode back and forth on his bicycle. Children came, looking on as they held the hands of mothers and dads. They saw the tricycle and the white bag and the firemen and the backhoe and the sheriff digging relentlessly in the basement.

The sun rose higher in the sky. Sweat broke out on the faces of the firemen in their heavy coats. Sheriff Kozisek unzipped his coveralls, took off his shirt and threw it into the patrol car, then zipped the coveralls back up and returned to the basement.

Television crews arrived from Duluth, cameramen dressed in blue jeans and news reporters in three piece suits and $200 dresses.

At 10 o’clock, the sheriff found the body of the family dog. A half hour later they found Michael’s mother, Debra Olesen.

They dug and sifted on. Kozisek wouldn’t stop. He had to find little Douglas Olesen. Cars drove by, people looked on. Some gawked as curious bystanders, some stared in disbelief. Others cried, shoulders shaking.

By afternoon, the sun had turned the crisp April morning into a stale afternoon. Smoke still curled from the top of the house, on the north side which was still standing. Kozisek and his crew finally quit at four o’clock. The firemen returned to the station. People sat on porches next door to the burned house. Others stood on the sidewalk across the street. Cars still drove by slowly. The little boy who had been riding his bike in the morning rode by once more, as if patrolling the street. Flames broke out in the top of the house again, in defiance to the firemen and the sheriff. Two men from the fire hall came down and hosed the flames out.

Back at the fire hall, most of the firefighters stood by their lockers, or sat in the lounge. They should have gone home to bed, but they couldn’t. They talked about the heat of the fire, and the layout of the house, and how it might have started and spread. They talked about Kozisek. They talked about Debra and Michael and Douglas. “They probably didn’t know what hit them,” someone said. “Once that smoke gets you, one or two breaths and that’s it.”

The sun set on Willow River. The firemen went home to their wives and children. Sheriff Kozisek went home to get a good night’s rest. He would be digging again in the morning looking for Doug. The little boy on the bike went home, the gawkers and friends and family and neighbors and reporters went home.

And alone, in the dark, they cried.

Spring—when the snow melts and the frost boils ~ April 3, 1986

By David Heiller

An Easter miracle occurred last weekend.

When we left for a family get-together in Minneapolis Saturday morning, a foot of snow covered the landscape at our home in Birch Creek Township. When we returned Monday afternoon, all the snow had melted. It was like seeing a nephew you hadn’t seen in years, and suddenly he is a foot taller, with a deeper voice and stubble on his face.

Malika and Miss Emma outside 
in the small window between
"The Snow is GONE! and the mud is here!"

But what a sight on Monday. The woodpile gaped like an open wound. I located the pile of slab-wood that didn’t get stacked before our Thanksgiving storm. The bent hood of an old Ford truck emerged, plus sheets of tin for a roofing project. And those rusty band saw blades from an old sawmill were curled where I left them. Waiting.

The garden sneered at us, cornstalks and Brussels sprouts leaning this way and that. Weren’t we supposed to clean that last fall, after harvest? The front lawn showed a long winter’s use by our dog, who must have thought it a perfect pet exercise area. Time to get the rake out.

But spring is here, though the countryside doesn’t proclaim it. A pair of robins flitted in mid-air under the apple tree Monday evening and they weren’t fighting. They will nest again in the white spruce. Green will push aside brown, frogs will break into song, and roads will boil.

A little leery of the Canada 
geese in the spring.

Roads boil? If you live in Pine County, you know what I mean. Frost that is down nearly to China works its way to the surface, and spits out into frost boils. I measured one two and a half feet deep several years ago just south of our house. I’m sure older folks can top that by a lot. They look like huge boils on the face of the road. New ones jiggle when stepped on like Jello. Old ones swallow children and foreign cars. The Guinness Book of World Records doesn’t list the world’s deepest frost boil, but I would put my money on northern Pine County.

People west of Sturgeon Lake will have a closer look at them this year, with the Kettle River Bridge still closed. The old bridge on County Road 46 was removed last summer, with a new one to rise in glory three months later. But bedrock, rain, or too many cups of coffee kept it from completion. The detour roads to Moose Lake, Sturgeon Lake, or Willow River, will show us some fine frost boils. Our cars will suffer. Mechanics and front-end specialists love detour roads the way dentists love Easter and Halloween.

But before we complain too much more, we should remember what those roads must have been like not too many years ago. If you are used to blacktop, our forefathers would have been pleased with a little gravel. Many of the roads where I live are “corduroy” roads, made to stand up to frost, water, and washouts, by laying logs in place and covering them with dirt. Sometimes you can still see these logs when a grader accidentally snags one out of the road after a rain, or in the spring.

The roads were often built by local people who wanted better roads. Many contributed days of their year to work on the roads in place of paying taxes.

Sometimes the work was simply donated. O. Bernard Johnson, who grew up in Birch Creek Township, wrote about such an effort in his very interesting book, The Homesteaders.

Postmaster Charles Olson, who worked in Sturgeon Lake from 1901 to 1913, wanted to establish a rural route east of town. The route qualified, with a minimum of 24 miles in length and 100 or more patrons. But a postal inspector found the roads deplorable, and turned in a negative report. It must have been frost boil season.

Writes O. Bernard Johnson:

The rejection was a disappointment to the settlers, but they were not discouraged. Mr. Olson informed them as to the reasons why the proposal was not approved and they went to work immediately, without pay, and improved the roads of the suggested route. When the Inspector returned in the fall of the year, he was so greatly impressed with the improvements, that he approved Route No. 1. Route No. 2, running east of the village was approved later.

Johnson also tells about the muddy roads:

There is an incident, related years ago, concerning a fishing trip made by Olaf Larson to Sturgeon Lake in a two wheel cart, which in this instance was the front part of the lumber wagon: He caught several wash tubs full of fish. On the way home, near the Ten Post, due to the heavy load and depth of the mud in the road, one of the wheels of the cart gave way and all the fish slid off the cart into the mud. No record is available as to how he managed to transport the fish the rest of the distance to his home. The story, however, is true.

If you are driving through that area eight miles west of Sturgeon Lake in the next month, keep an eye out for frost boils. You may even find a few of those fish still splashing around.

Look out Grandma, here I come ~ April 9, 1987

David Heiller 

My wife and I have been trying to sell our son on staying with his Grandma Olson ever since Noah brought the idea up two months ago.

We had been visiting there, and Noah had enjoyed the fruits of the labor of a grandmother who has only two grandchildren, the oldest of whom is Noah. In other words, he’s had a darn good time with Grandma.

Noah and Grandma (Lorely Olson)

Grandmas who live in Suburbia have the keys to a wonderful world for a three-year-old. First there are the shopping malls, which have stores that sell nothing but toys for children. Grandma Olson is on a first name basis with every toy store clerk in Brooklyn Center. She can walk through Brookdale blindfolded.

Grandma also knows about stores that are gigantic amusement parks for kids. They are like toy stores with the packages already opened. Gigantic trampolines, rooms with padded walls and huge balls to bounce off other kids. Children love them. So do parents who want to farm out their kids to Grandma for a day and a night.

So when Noah said he’d like to stay with Grandma all by himself, overnight, we backed him all the way. In fact, we were almost ready to buy him a bus ticket. But when my wife suggested to him that he could ride to Grandma’s house with our friend, Carla, Noah balked. His bold word seemed hollow as he faced the prospects of leaving his mother and father for a ride to Minneapolis to stay with his grandmother.

So for the next two months, we worked on Noah. “Boy, wouldn’t it be fun to stay with Grandma Olson for a day?” we would ask.

Noah and Malika with Grandma O.

“Yes, but you have to stay with me,” Noah would 
answer.

“That’s not the same,” we would say. “Just think of the things you could do, go to Circus-Circus and toy stores, and watch Dumbo on the VCR.”

“Yes, but you have to come with me,” Mr. Yes-But would answer.

This stand-off lasted until Monday of this week. Grandma Olson called on that day and had a suggestion. “Tell him that when he comes to visit with you, he never gets to do all that fun stuff because he is always with you, but if he comes alone, he’ll be able to because he will be alone with me.”

We relayed the message to Noah. “Yes, but you have to come with me,” he echoed.

“But that’s just it, Noah, if we come with, you won’t be able to do those things.”

Grandma Olson, Noah and Malika.
No smiles allowed!

Noah looked at me, like a young Yossarian. This was his first Catch-22. I had him on the ropes, so I tried a sales trick of my own.

“You can go down with Carla, or you can go down with me. Which would you prefer?” I asked.

“I’ll go down with you,” he said, taking the bait.

Cindy had listened to this interchange from behind Noah. She smiled and signaled for me to cut the conversation. We had bargained enough concessions, and like a true labor organizer; she didn’t want to press the luck.

Tuesday morning, we asked Noah about the trip to Grandma’s. He stuck to his guns. He even called her on the telephone to give her the good news. He also informed her that they were going to the zoo. That was his bargaining demand, I guess. By the time he gets there on Friday, he will probably be asking for box seats to the Twins game and a new three wheeler. But I’m sure that Grandma can handle that, and I think Noah can too. They’ll work something out.

As for Cindy and me, we’ll stay home with our youngest daughter. We’ll try to celebrate, to hug and kiss a little. But more likely we’ll lie awake and worry about our son’s first night away from Mom and Dad.

What’s a rocking chair? ~ April 4, 1985

David Heiller

 What’s a rocking chair? On the one hand, it’s an object usually made of wood and screws and glue, with some polish and varnish to make it look nice. On the other, it’s one of those special things that is worth much more than its material value, and means much more.

David and Lynette with Grandma in the rocking chair.

We have a rocking chair in our son’s bedroom. It’s wood, with a leather seat that conforms to its rocker. At night, when we put son to bed, he gets the rocking treatment. As we move back and forth, he tells me about his day in 21-month-old language. “Matthew, guy boy, dee, now, house,” he says, meaning he had fun playing with his friend Matthew, who has a father and some brothers, and lots of cars, and a cat, all in a big house.

When he’s done talking, he takes his bottle and listens while Mom or Dad sing to the rhythm of the rocking chair. After a few minutes, he is in bed, relaxed, content, ready for sleep. His parents are smiling too.

The rocking chair in Noah’s room was passed down from my grandmother three years ago. It got plenty of use with her and me and my seven brothers and sisters when we were kids. We would sit on her lap, sometimes two at a time, tattered Mother Goose that was missing its first and last 30 pages. I’m guessing Grandma didn’t even need the book.

One of my favorite family pictures is this one, taken of me, my sister Lynette, and Grandma some 28 years ago. I don’t remember when it was taken, but it shows something money can’t buy, and perhaps words can’t express— love.

More passed from Grandmother to Grandkids than singing and stories while we rocked together. Patience passed through, and the soft touch of someone that listens to you and spends time with you. A feeling of confidence, and comfort, and maybe even common sense. Immeasurable things for kids that are normally racing life in overdrive, running, playing, seldom stopping. We had enough sense to stop, when Grandma and the rocking chair beckoned.

The photo has sadness, too, a kind that should be remembered. Lynette drowned when she was 17 years old. She’d had cerebral palsy, and no one except my mother loved or cared for her more than Grandma. This picture reminds me of that love, and that even though the person is gone, the memory and affection remain.

Not too long from now, my other knee will be occupied in the rocking chair. And like the photo, the circle will be unbroken.

Storm provides a step back in time ~ March 28, 1991

David Heiller

The ice storm of 1991 could just as well have been the ice storm of 1891 for a lot of people including our family.

It happened last Friday night and Saturday morning, March 22-23. First rain fell, then sleet, then snow. They combined to break trees and power lines with a thick mass of icy gunk. Α lot of people were not only stranded, but they were stranded without electricity and telephones for quite a spell.

Usually power outages last only an hour or two, which is a fine commentary on our electric utilities, both the co-ops and Minnesota Power. But this storm left both the telephone and electricity out at our house for 14-plus hours, from 11 p.m. to 2 p.m. the next afternoon.

In an ice cave

Us “young” people (say age 50 or less) don’t realize how much our lives revolve around electricity until it is suddenly not there. Sud­denly there is no light, no radio (and of course no batteries for the AC-DC radio), no refrigeration, and worst of all for a Saturday morning, no television.

I’d like to brag and say somewhat haughtily, “Our kids don’t watch television on Saturday morning. They read ‘Cinderella’ and play Yahtze and put together jigsaw puzzles.” Actually, they do all those things, but not on Saturday morning. Not when they can watch Dink the Dinosaur, Gummee Bears, Bugs Bunny, and (the Mighty Mouse of the 1990s) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

So in our house last Saturday, we took a step back in time. We tuned in a scratchy radio station on the transistor radio that is otherwise, used exclusively for Minnesota Twins broadcasts. We read books. Because we had no phone, Noah, Mollie and I hiked down the line to our three closest neighbors, to see how they were faring. A tree had blown across the road, and icy needles stung our face from the strong northeast wind. Mother Nature had flexed her muscles.

Snowman work.

We put the milk and ice cream in a cooler packed with snow on the porch. The house stayed warm, thanks to the trusty woodstove. It also worked for frying us a lunch of eggs and toast, and melted down a pan of snow into water; since the pump wasn’t working, we were in danger of running out of water.

As the morning warmed and the sleet ended, we found that the snow was perfect for making snowmen. So we made not one, not two, but SEVEN snow men, snow women, and snow children. (As the day progressed, I became a Michelangelo of snow people, and the one of Cindy was anatomically correct, at least partially.)

Two neighbor kids came over and pitched then we had hot chocolate and cookies.

When the power finally came back on, we were doing quite nicely without it, thank you. No, we didn’t go shut off the main switch and remain in our 1891 wrinkle in time. The lights, and fridge and pump and television were a welcome return. But it was interesting and even fun to do without them for a night and half a day.

And through it all our old mantle clock kept us company. It used to belong to Cindy’s great grandparents. The date “1899” is written on its back. It chimes every hour, and once on the half hour, and still keeps perfect time if we remember to wind it once a week.

During the Friday night darkness, Mollie woke up crying. Her leg hurt, and the icy fingers of the maple tree were scratching to get into her bedroom so much that even I got the shivers. So I brought her down to the living room couch. While I tucked her in, that old clock chimed times with its lovely sound, soft and reassuring.

In the darkness next to my daughter, I wondered how many ice storms that strong old clock had been through. Α lot, I thought. It didn’t worry about no electricity, and neither did the people who heard it chime, because they had no electricity. In so many ways, they were more self-reliant than we are today. This storm wouldn’t mean a thing to them.

Times sure change. I’m grateful for electricity, but after last weekend, I’m glad we had a chance to step briefly back in time.

It was a modern miracle ~ March 24, 1991

by David Heiller

Malika and Laura at play!

It was a modern miracle.

It happened Saturday.

I didn’t know a Saturday could start that way.

My daughter and her friend got up early to play.

And that’s what the two girls did all day.

First they played Monopoly.

They counted out the money,

And didn’t get sore like when I lose to my honey.

They sat in the living room and shook the dice,

And laughed at Chance, thought Boardwalk was nice.

Laura played Yahtzee and she beat us bad,

Me and my honey, but we didn’t get mad.

We looked at each other,

and whispered secretly,

“I can’t believe they’re not watching TV.”

Next came the Barbies.

I thought it was great.

Though I couldn’t follow much because I’m not eight.

They scolded and folded their dolls and dresses.

I could just picture the upstairs messes.

Kids and mud and water.

But I do remember what Laura said to me:

“Hey, we haven’t watched any TV

Today,” she said, and her grin was wide.

And her voice held a bit of child-sized pride.

I just nodded, but I was proud too.

No TV is not easy to do.

No cartoons to hypnotize them,

No commercials. (I despise them!)

No lying on the couch all morning

Till they get the boot with an angry warning:

“You kids don’t know how to play!”

Or some dumb thing like that I’ll say.

Old fogies seem to think that’s true

Sometimes I worry about it too.

But take two friends, and with a little luck

And a mid-March day and mud and muck

And dolls and dresses and before you’re through

You’ll see a modern miracle too.

A tough winter for owls and dogs ~ April 18, 1996

David Heiller

One of the sounds of spring that has been absent so far this year is the hooting of owls.

They usually make quite a racket in our woods in March and April. I like the wild sound of owls. I like seeing them too. It’s a lucky day when you see one gliding silently through the woods like a cargo plane. Or when you come upon one sitting in a tree.

But this year the woods have been quiet. I’ve only heard a few hoots. Ron Goetzinger, who works for the DNR in Moose Lake, explained why.

“It’s been a pretty tough winter for owls,” Ron told me on April 15. “Normally they feed on mice and stuff like that under the snow, and the snow is so deep that they never could get down in there to get their feed so they just starved to death.”

The lack of food has made them bolder too. We had a barred owl at our bird feeder two weeks ago. It must have been looking for an easy meal of red squirrel or sparrow. The dogs chased it away, but not before it flew up into a maple tree next to the house to catch its breath. My son and I got a good look at it, and it was a fine sight indeed.

Larry Dagel, who lives east of Sturgeon Lake on County Road 161, had a closer encounter with a great horned owl this winter that wasn’t such a fine sight.

Here’s how Larry, who owns and operates Sturgeon Lake Feed Mill, told the story on April 15:

“I turned the dog out at 5:30 in the morning to go to the can. It was dark then. In front of the house I’ve got a sidewalk. It’s half the length of the house, 20 feet.

“Before the dog even got to the end of the sidewalk, the owl had it. It just put the grip right across the shoulder blades, shoulder and stomach, and it punched eight or 10 holes in the dog. Blood was running out to beat heck.

“The dog started squealing, and I came out the door and the owl just looked at me. And I grabbed him around the back on both wings and I rung his neck. He wouldn’t let go of the dog.

“The next day I chucked it in my woodstove. I guess a guy ain’t supposed to have them around, so I just got rid of it. Eliminate the problem.

“I’ve never seen one that close to the house. He had to be right in a tree by the house because the dog had only been out less than 10 seconds and the owl grabbed it. It was like he was wait­ing there for him.”

It’s been a tough winter for owls in more ways than one.

But things will get better. Spring is just around the corner, and when it hits, it will hit hard and fast and green, and we’ll all be happy.

The maple trees know that. Our 55 taps produced 30 gallons of sap on April 13, 56 gallons on April 14, and 66 gallons on April 15. That’s by far the most we’ve ever gathered in one day.

I think they are like the rest of us, pouring out their frustration over an endless winter, anxious and excited for warm weather to stay so they can get on with life and growth.

This winter has been like a bad dream that you know you are having but you can’t quite wake up from. When we awake, we will all breathe a big sigh of relief.

Especially Larry Dagel’s dog, which by the way, did manage to survive the winter of 1996.

Some pleasure and pain and serious fishing ~ March 1, 2001

David Heiller

Tom declared war on the trout at about 11:30 Sunday morning, February 18. We were camped on an island on Thomas Lake, 12 miles into the boundary waters. We had caught only two trout since pulling in the day before, and that just wasn’t cutting it for Tom.

“It’s time to get serious about fishing, I’ll tell you that,” he said as he toasted a bagel with jam over the campfire. Tom was always toasting something good.

Tom doing some serious ice chopping.

“I thought we were serious,” I said. We had four lines in the water at various depths, in a tried and true spot—one that Tom picked out, I might add. We checked the flags on the tip-ups every few minutes. We chopped open the frozen holes every half hour or so. That’s not serious?

“That’s not serious,” Tom replied, as if he could read my mind. “I mean serious. We’re going to go after them. Drill new holes. Move around. Start jigging.”

I felt like doing 20 push-ups on the spot.

Tom stalked onto the ice to check the tip-ups. I stayed by the fire. There is nothing as cheerful as a fire on a winter camping trip. The wind on the lake was downright raw. Back home the radio was probably talking about “dangerous wind-chills.” We didn’t need a radio announcer to tell us that.

Ten minutes later Tom was back. Nothing. He slumped down by the fire—he was toasting banana bread by this time. I decided I’d better get serious too, so I took a look at the flags through my binoculars. No need to venture too far from the fire.

Then I got to say the words that every ice fisherman longs to hear: “You’ve got a flag up.” Tom sprinted past me before my words were blown away on that howling wind. I grabbed my camera and followed.

By the time I caught up, he had chopped his hole free and was pulling up line. At first there was nothing.

Then Tom gave a yank. “He’s got it!” he said, pulling in more in line.

Tom stopped and said, “He’s gone.” He pulled up more line, hand over hand.

David and the pretty trout.

“He’s on again!” Tom said. He pulled and pulled, 70 feet of line and more. Then he reached into the hole and lifted out a trout. It was a beauty, 27 inches long. Very dark, almost black, with red at the tips of its fins. A good eight pounds.

That trout was the exclamation point of our winter camping trip last week. It was a pleasure to see, and there is a lot of pleasure in winter camping. There’s a lot of pain too.

The pain is as obvious as numb fingers and frozen toes. Or try getting out of your sleeping bag in the middle of the night to go to the bath-room when the temperature is pushing 30 below zero. Need I say more?

It’s a lot of work, skiing 12 miles, drilling holes for fishing, gathering and cutting firewood, and trying to stay warm when your hands are dipped in ice water.

The pleasure is more subtle. It is partly tied to the beauty of the wilderness. Like when we hit Thomas Lake on Saturday afternoon. We came across a torn up piece of ground that was littered with the bones of a moose. A pack of wolves had devoured it there. We found the skull and spine and hooves and other bones. Patches of melted snow on the grass marked spots where the wolves had slept. The ground was covered with their tracks and scat, and with the tracks of ravens that had cleaned up after them. It wasn’t a disturbing sight. It made me think that things were in balance there. Darwin’s theory lay right before our eyes.

The beauty really shined when we skied out on Monday morning. The temperature had risen about 40 degrees, to about 20 above zero. Our trail followed a creek that meandered through beaver ponds and hidden lakes for many miles. In the summer this area would have been impassable, a bug-infested swamp. But last week it was a crown jewel.

We had to work hard to see it, pulling a heavy sled through sub-zero temperatures. But seeing that land unfold like a field of diamonds made it worthwhile. It lifted my spirits and made me thankful to be a part of this land.

I was proud of it, and proud of myself for being able to do what I did. Some people look at me like I’m crazy when I go winter camping. And there are times when I feel a bit crazy while I’m doing it. It would be a lot easier to stay home.

But the rewards are there, especially with a good friend like Tom Deering, who is as smart and tough as they come. Besides being a serious fisherman.

Old Ida will live on ~ March 30, 2000

David Heiller

The painting [below] of our dog, Ida, always makes me smile, because it really captures her personality. Shy, friendly, humble. Very lovable. All those human qualities that we throw on our pets.

I smile as I write this on March 26, three days after Ida died. Just thinking of her brings a smile.

She lived to be 12 years old, until some idiot ran over her with a car.

We got her as a puppy from Harold and Gladys Overland in August of 1988, on the same day that we were going to see Queen Ida in concert. So the puppy got the name of Queen Ida. It was quickly shortened to Ida.

Ida and her first friend and doggie-mentor, Binti.

The reason we got Ida was that our other dog, Binti was getting old. We thought it would be good for Binti to have a companion.
Ida was a good choice. She was half Collie and half mutt. It was a good mix. She never took advantage of the older dog. When Binti started losing her sight and hearing, Ida would tell her important things, like when we got home from work, or when we were going for a walk. It’s funny how dogs can communicate without words. Ida could do that with barking and moaning and tail wagging. Ida used her tail to talk a lot. When she wanted to come in the house, she would stand outside our window and thump her big collie tail against the wall. Boom, boom, boom. It was hard to ignore. The same in the morning. She would come in the bedroom and the tail would hit the dresser. Boom, boom, boom. Time to get up. We wouldn’t yell at Ida to stop, to go away. She was too gentle for that. She didn’t ask for much, so when her tail talked, we listened.

I don’t have many amusing anecdotes about Ida. She was too shy to do anything goofy. She didn’t take chances. She wasn’t the life of any parties. In fact she was a bit of a wallflower

It was that very meekness that made her endearing. She was a Rock of Ages. If you needed a companion, she was there. If you needed someone to talk to, she seemed to listen. She was old reli­able Ida. Always ready Ida. Always faithful Ida.

Ida just wanted to be where you were.
 Close, really close.

Even people who didn’t like dogs would pet and talk to Ida. They could tell she wasn’t a threat, wouldn’t bite or jump or drool or be obnoxious in any way.

We got another dog about five years ago, an Australian shepherd named MacKenzie. It took about five minutes for Mack to assert herself over Ida.
 One fight. Then Ida accepted her place. She was a submissive dog. Mack was the alpha. They were total opposites. But that made Ida all the more lovable, because just when you had had enough of the live-wire, the smart, pretty, happy MacKenzie, there stood Old Ida, tail wagging, ready and waiting for your affection.

David with Ida and MacKenzie.
Poor Kenzie went into a long depression
 when her old friend died.

MacKenzie liked to pester Ida, nip at her heels, gnaw on her neck. Ida seemed to enjoy that. Her tail never quit wagging.

I never saw Ida bite or snap until last Thursday night. I drove home from work and pulled into the driveway. She and MacKenzie came bounding out to meet me. I ignored them as usual. My thoughts were on supper and seeing Cindy and the kids.

I turned the car around and was pulling forward to park it when I felt the car go over something. I opened the door and there lay Ida, right beneath me, half under the car. I hadn’t even seen it happen.

I reached down to her and she snapped at me. That’s when I fully realized what I had done, how bad it was.

I called our veterinarian, but there was nothing we could do.

Cindy and Ι stayed by her and talked to her. She gave a few groans, as if she finally had the courage to tell me I should have been more careful. She of all dogs didn’t deserve to die this way, and it was my fault all the way. Her mouth worked over a few more wordless thoughts, then the light went out of her friendly, timid eyes.

Ida demonstrates her very best (and only) trick.

I dug a grave for Ida in the north field, not far from her old friend Binti. I had to make a fire two times to thaw the ground enough for digging. The shoveling sent pains up my back, another grim reminder of what I had done.

Ida’s body lay in the pole barn for a day. MacKenzie lay outside the door for a while, as if she expected her old playmate to come out so Mack could pester her.

We buried Ida on Saturday morning. Binti has daffodils on her grave. They bloom every spring. Ida will receive a flowery headstone too. She’ll stay in our hearts even longer.

The best taste of all ~ March 19, 1992

David Heiller

The smell in the air last Wednesday, March 11 took me back 15 years, to Tamarack, Minnesota, to Cecil Booker, to a grove of maple trees and a big pan boiling with maple sap.

The smell is sweet like maple syrup, but not as strong. It’s a smell that you want to cling to your clothes, so you can carry it with you all day. Like smoke from a campfire in an old shirt that reminds you, in the dead of winter, of a warm canoe trip. A nice smell.

Cecil Booker lived down the road that spring of 1977. I would help him with chores. He saw that I had a broad enough back to help him make maple syrup. He provided the taps and pan and buckets and brains. I provided the back

We tapped about 80 trees. My job was to empty the buckets each morning, fill the big flat pan that rested on cement blocks nearby, build a rip-snorting fire, and boil sap all day.

As it boiled, I would add more and more sap and wood, then watch the liquid turn brown and bubbly and foamy and thick. That’s when the smell of sap boiling into syrup would fill the woods and make me smile.

It was a pleasant, honest job, working in the woods, sometimes alone with my thoughts, sometimes with Cecil, who was a kind and good man. We ended up with 27 gallons of syrup. Cecil took two thirds, but that was fine with me. Nine gallons was more than enough for me. Besides, brains are always worth more than backs in this world of ours.

I had pretty much forgotten all that until last Wednesday, when the sap started boiling again, this time in a big flat pan on a stove in our driveway. Earlier this year I answered a want ad and bought a bunch of taps and a homemade pan for $20.

Malika helping to haul the sap out of the woods.

I tapped 41 trees in our woods on Sunday, March 1. That’s early. But the weatherman had said we were in for a week of warm temperatures, days in the 40s, nights a little below freezing. That’s perfect weather for sap to run.

(Deciding when to tap is a cause for much debate in maple syruping circles, I’m told. Farmers often face that same decision making process in deciding when to plant, when to hay, when to harvest.)

Cindy and I collected the sap twice in the next 10 days, getting 50 gallons total. We stored it in a garbage can and pails in the woods, a quarter mile from our house. It froze partially, which makes for a more concentrated sap. We ended up with 36 gallons of sap.

We used a toboggan and three 10-gallon milk cans to bring it in. The weather cooperated with that too, because the cold weather had formed a crust on the snow. The toboggan pulled easily.

(We might not be so lucky next time, but we’ll take good fortune any day.)

This column describes our first year of 
sugaring. This photo of David pouring sap
 into the boiler came later, when we built 
our sugar shack. Our method was still pretty 
much the same, but the shack saved a 
lot of headaches from precipitation.

I started boiling it at 8:30 a.m. on a barrel stove which two Willow River High School students had converted into a sap boiling wonder for a welding class project. Troy Magdziarz and Mark Asleson cut the top off the stove, so that the pan fit snugly inside, reinforced it, moved the stovepipe to the end of the barrel, and added a few other nice touches. It worked perfectly.

All day long, Cindy and I fed wood to the stove and sap to the pan. By 10:30 that night, it had boiled to an inch of the bottom of the two-foot-by-three-foot pan. I brought the sweet, thin liquid into the house, then finished it off on the kitchen stove, to make sure it didn’t burn.

It didn’t burn in the house, but it did boil over twice. What a mess. But I didn’t care: We ended up with 35 quarts of the best maple syrup ever made. (The ratio of sap to syrup is about 50-1.)

It’s hard to describe that taste, like it’s hard to describe the smell. It’s richer than store-bought syrup. I think it has a smoky flavor, but Cindy doesn’t taste that. Maybe we’re tasting a few extra ingredients too.

It has the chill of our wet bodies, from when we first emptied the buckets on a rainy morning. It has the cold of our fingers from the second time. It has the peace and silence of a Sunday afternoon as I bored 41 holes with a 7/16-inch bit and auger.

It has the help of neighbors like George Brabec, who lent me three milk cans, and Deane Hillbrand, who gave me the old toboggan, and Sue Thue, who found the perfect book on the subject, and Jim Sales, who gave me tips from his sugaring days at Northwoods Audubon Center, and Troy and Mark and about 10 other folks who offered tips large and small. And don’t forget Cecil Booker.

It has the taste of spring in it too. When the sap is running, spring is just around the next bend. After this long, long winter, maybe that’s the best taste of all.