Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller We lost a friend on Saturday, a century old friend that we have known for the past six years. When we moved to our homestead in May, 1981, this friend welcomed us. He stood erect to the southwest of the house, leaning over the house towering above us, a full 70 feet. He made us feel at home, just as he made the family of orioles feel at home in their swaying nest our first two summers here. Orioles love elm trees. After the elm was felled, it started snowing.   Noah grabbed an  umbrella  and played  jack-in-the-box in the hollow stump.  The hollow stump held  flowers for many  years  before that too, had to be removed. But the next year, 1984, the orioles did not return. Our elm tree showed us why. A few of the outer limbs had turned brown in June, their leaves shriveling too early in the summer. The orioles weren’t taking any chances. Dutch elm disease had arrived. Still, for the next two summers, the elm...

David Heiller Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death... Macbeth spoke those words at the end of a bitter life of power and betrayal. And now they are coming back to haunt me through the words of my four-year-old daughter. Mollie hasn’t started reading Shakespeare yet. She’s not even reading Olga Da Polga, although she listens to Cindy read it every night at bedtime. But on the subject of “tomorrow”, she can keep up with Bill Shakespeare just fine, thank you. It usually starts the previous night, when we are saying goodnight, lying in her bed. Mollie starts by seeking promises. “Can I wear my heart dress tomorrow?” she’ll ask. “Uh-huh,” I’ll answer in a dull voice. Mollie has a way of wearing your voice down to a dull edge by seven in the evening. If it is real dull, she’ll move boldly on: “Can I go to Day Care tomorrow?” Uh-huh. “Can I stay at Bobby-Jo’s house ...

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. ...