Saying goodbye ~ July 20, 1989

David Heiller

The small black suitcase lay before me on the bed, and I hesitated before opening it. The suitcase stays in the top dresser drawer in my old bedroom, but I had never opened it before. And now, I hesitated just a second before lifting the two metal clasps, like you hesitate before lifting the phone receiver to call a friend you haven’t seen in a long, long time, not knowing who’ll answer.

Inside the black vinyl case, two bright scarves lay on top, and two hand-made pot holders, and a ceramic wall hanging, carefully painted but with colors running into each other, the yellow banana flowing onto the green foliage. Some construction paper posters were carefully folded, along with two hot pads, and a Girl Scout sash with 16 merit badges from Troop 93, Peace Pipe Council.

David and Lynette with Grandma Schnick.

I touched these things carefully, seeing for what seemed like the first time in 20 years, the smiling girl who had made them and worn them, my sister, Lynette.

Letters filled the rest of the suitcase, some still in envelopes with four cent stamps, some lying loose, scrawled in pencil. I hadn’t seen that writing for so long, the careful printing that didn’t quite stay on the line, like the ceramic colors that didn’t quite stay on their mark. I could see the toes as they gripped the stubby pencil so tightly, see the short strokes stab the paper slowly, carefully.

You know these pink slacks you made me, well their too baggy, Lynette wrote on April 29, 1968. Why can’t I get a dress for Kathy’s wedding? Everyone else is.

In a letter from Worthington Crippled Children’s School on February 20, 1966, Lynette told Mom: I will send you a copy of the paper we wrote. Boy, will you be surprised what I wrote. I miss you all, even Glenn and Sharon (the cats too).

A letter from the University’ of Minnesota Hospital on March 16, 1965, said to Mom: I hope I can go home Friday. Will you make Kathy come with you. I wanta see so bad, and she is my best sister (don’t let the girls read this or they’ll be mad at me). Glenn came Saturday night. Love to all, Lynette.

David and Lyn at Christmas

A letter from Kathy that same year lay next to this letter. I hope now that you are feeling better and can get around more, Kathy wrote. After an operation, no one feels like doing anything. Boy I bet you sure had fun when you were home, didn’t you? I suppose everyone was so glad to see you.

There was a letter from Mary Ellen to Lynette at the hospital, with a card and a kiss drawn in red taped to the page. I’ll send you a piece of gum, Mary wrote. I hope they let you chew it. I know how you love it!

There was a check-off list of things to take to Camp Courage, where Lynette loved to go every summer. Lynette had crossed “playsuits” off the list and written in “pant dresses,” more befitting to a teenager.

There were letters from Lynette when she was at Camp Courage too. Today is windy, she wrote from camp on June 23, 1964. Janet is always making me laugh. Did you get my radio fixed yet?

Two little autograph books in the suitcase had messages written to Lynette from Camp friends. One message read:

You’ve been a great camper,

Even in the heat.

But I’m still jealous

I can’t write with my feet!

Love, Margaret.

Other messages were more somber. A girl named Mary Beth wrote: You’re really the best roommate a camper could ever hope for. I’m going to miss you when you have to go on your own way and I on mine. I just hope you never forget me.

Grandma Schnick had some practical advice in the autograph book. She wrote: I just can’t think of any verse to write so will just say how very proud I am of the way you are improving and know you will keep right on. Love, Grandma

Finally there was a message from Mom: Lynette: I hope you never forget how to laugh. Love, Mother.

Laughter. Mom knew her daughter better than anyone, and in one sentence had touched Lynette’s shining star, her laughter.

Amidst all the letters was a folded piece of scratch paper. Mom’s familiar handwriting stood out on the clean side:

I knew the time had come to put away

The things you’d never use nor see again.

“Be calm, detached,” I said to me.

“These are but things.” 
But oh, they were so dear, For they had known your touch.

And in your purse I found a little mirror.

Long I gazed into its depth,

Hoping for a reflection of your smile

Captured there.

But all I saw was my own brimming eyes

And I knew the searching was in vain

And you were gone.

I closed the suitcase, just as my mother must have. Cindy lay beside me. I put my head on her chest, and cried, feeling the sheet turn wet beneath my face. I cried like never before, never since July 21, 1969, at Lynette’s funeral, three days after she had drowned at Camp Courage.

It wasn’t that long ago, 20 years, and I haven’t forgotten her, but somehow, I had never said goodbye, until now.

Mommy-Daddy tomorrow? ~ February 3, 1983

Editor's note: I believe that this was David's first column as the editor of the Askov American. The idea of a weekly column was just beginning to percolate in his mind. So, the format  and the style were a little different. The story is a beloved one in our family. 

ON CAMP COURAGE: David's older sister Lynette went to camp, David and I met at camp (he was the cowboy, I was the cook).  My brother and sister-in-law worked there. Our daughter, Malika worked at camp. It is not a stretch to say what an important place Camp Courage was to our family.

David Heiller

 Every week, newspapers like the American are inundated with press releases from people, organizations or businesses who have some information they would like passed along.

Some of the press releases are for good causes, others are blatantly self-serving, little more than free advertising. The press release on the front page of this week’s American from the Courage Center is one of those good causes. I must admit a bias though—I worked at Camp Courage, a camp for handicapped people, for five summers as counselor, camp-crafter, riding instructor and everything in between.

David with a camper at Camp Courage.

I could talk for hours about the good people who work with the Courage organization, or about the campers, or the programs. But instead I’d like to share a humorous experience that occurred my first summer at camp.

It was the summer of 1972. The first session of handicapped campers, aged 25-45, had left two days earlier, and we were welcoming in the most exciting, fun group—the 8 to 12-year-olds. I was a first year counselor and like all first year counselors, was eager and excited and a little bit nervous. Every time a new camper would arrive, I would greet them enthusiastically and try to make them feel at home. Remember, it’s hard for any kid to leave home, especially for two weeks. Many of these kids had never left their parents for a night before, let alone two weeks. Home-sickness was to be expected, and we were prepared for it.

But we weren’t prepared for Jimmy. Jimmy arrived Sunday afternoon, eight years old, in a wheelchair with cerebral palsy. He couldn’t walk, and he had limited use of his arms though he could feed himself with help. He could talk in a limited way, not in complete sentences. We found that out quickly. Jimmy’s first words as soon as his parents had left were, “Mommy—Daddy tomorrow?”

“Mommy—Daddy tomorrow?” became a familiar question from Jimmy. Many times a day he would turn his head toward us, staring with big, brown eyes, and ask, “Mommy—Daddy tomorrow?”

“No, Jimmy,” we’d answer. “You’re mommy and daddy won’t be coming for a while. But aren’t you having fun at camp?” And we’d tell him about all the fun things he was doing at camp such as swimming, horseback riding or softball. Jimmy thoroughly enjoyed the activities, but still, he would ask, “Mommy—Daddy tomorrow?”

The two-week camping session progressed and as it did so, the counselors in Jimmy’s cabin, including myself, began to tire of Jimmy’s questioning. But one counselor had a great thought, one that lifted our spirits with Jimmy.

“Just think,” he said, “on Wednesday when Jimmy asks `Mommy—Daddy tomorrow,’ we can say, “YES JIMMY, MOMMY—DADDY ARE COMING TOMORROW.”

We were all excited about that answer and were all excited when Wednesday finally came. We all got dressed, the four counselors, and went out to Jimmy’s bed. He was lying there awake, almost as if he were waiting for us.

“Jimmy,” we started, “guess what?”

Jimmy calmly looked up at us with those big brown eyes and asked, “Mommy—Daddy today?”