Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller We picked apples on Saturday, I’m not sure what kind they are. They are soft and early. When you cut into them, they turn brown before your eyes. But boy do they make good applesauce. Just ask Cindy. 1983: Our apple tree and I were both in full bloom! Every year I bring in two five gallon buckets of these big apples into the kitchen. Every year she groans like Atlas. And every year she makes the world’s best applesauce. It starts with the picking. This year Noah and his friend, Ryan helped me. They climbed the step ladder and reached what they could. Then I climbed and reached what I could. I tossed them down to the boys, who put them in the buckets. Since it was Ryan’s first time picking apples with us, he got to hear my only apple joke. It’s an old joke, passed down from the beginning of time. ADAM: “What’s worse than biting into an apple and seeing a worm?” EVE: “Biting into an apple and seeing half a worm.” I told the boys about picking ap...

David Heiller When was the last time you heard a scary story? How about the latest presidential poll? (Just kidding, George.) This newspaper recently ran a contest, soliciting scary stories from readers. We’ve got some good ones, and have printed several of the best on page seven in this edition. I hope you enjoy them. The Heiller boys, before they started  telling little brother, David, horror stories I may be mistaken, but the best horror stories come from the minds of kids. As a member of the generation that grew up before axe-murder movies, I confess: I haven’t seen Friday the Thirteeth Part One yet, let alone Part Seven. And this Freddie guy doesn’t scare me—when I see those stainless steel finger nails, I think what a great job he could do working up our garden next spring. Wouldn’t even have to borrow a tiller. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre guy would be too tired for people after he finished cutting up the four-and-a-half cords of wood I bought from m...

David Heiller I walked up to the house on Saturday with my two kids. The grass was neatly cut, some thoughtful grandson’s handiwork. Peonies bloomed in front of the picture window. The garden patch showed off its neat rows of young vegetables. The pear tree swayed in the warm breeze. Grandma Heiller I stepped up to the picture window, half expecting to see the television silhouetting the hunched lady in her rocking chair. I gave a little knock on the window, remembering the first time I had done that in August of 1979. Grandma Heiller had peered through the glass, seeing her grandson for the first time in two years after he returned from overseas. She had stared, then smiled, and reached her right hand up to touch the glass as if it weren’t there, reaching for me. Standing on the porch, I opened the screen door, and knocked. The inside door still had its etched glass, looking frosty as ever. I knocked harder. No answer. I remembered Grandma couldn’t hear well, especially ...

David Heiller The search for lightning bugs started slowly with a lobbying effort by Michael, my 11-year-old nephew who spent a couple nights with us this week. When I got home from work at 6:30 Monday evening, he asked, “Do you think there’s many lightning bugs out now, Uncle David?” He calls me “Uncle David” the way Huey, Louie, and Dewey say “Uncle Donald,” and with the same glint in his eye. Michael is in the center of this extended family photo.  His dad is giving him bunny ears. (The rest of the gang gathered for this picture are: top to bottom,  left to right, sorta kinda:  Danny, Michael, Sarah, Brooke, Cindy, Noah, Ruby, Malika, Jeanne and David.) “Sure,” I said knowingly, falling back on my knowledge of the subject from the days when I was Michael’s size. “It sure will be fun catching them, won’t it?” he continued. “Yeah, it will,” I answered, not realizing that he had just set the hook. Like a good lobbyist, Michael dropped the s...

David Heiller I have a couple images of my uncle Donny that will stay with me forever. Donny and his wife, Lillian.  One is quite old. My brother Danny and I were sitting on top of a hay rack stacked five high, watching Donny pull us on his trusty Ford tractor across the field and toward the barn. There was one spot where the road went perilously close to the ditch. My brother and I got ready to jump off on the safe side if Donny got too close and the wagon tipped. But that didn’t happen, and Donny seemed oblivious to our concerns, jostling around on the tractor far below us, although knowing Donny, he was smiling the whole time. A little later we took a water break, and Donny passed me the jug with the news that it was filled with 7-Up. Wow, 7-Up on the farm, now that was living! I took a big swig and discovered to Donny’s delight that it was just plain water, and warm at that. I had to laugh with him though, he was that kind of guy. He always had a trick up his slee...

David Heiller ( Editor's note: this column has been slightly edited, removing the initial and final lines of this family story, due to dated references. So, we begin with the real reason for the column: a good old cautionary tale about growing up in the 1960s.) Joe Camel is just a cartoon. He will never overpower Mom and Dad and your older sister when it comes to teaching a lesson or two about smoking. That opinion is based on the first time I had a cigarette, about 30 years ago. There were about eight of us, ranging in age from about 12 to seven. Randy was the youngest, and his parents also owned the root beer stand in town. We had a hide-out in some sumac trees above the root beer stand. There were trails under their dense branches to a clearing that no one could see in the middle. We hung out there, played hide and seek, or just laid around in-between swimming in the river, riding our bikes, playing softball. One afternoon we convinced Randy go to the root beer stand a...

David Heiller This week’s Askov American includes our 1993 Ag Edition. We publish it every spring to coincide with National Ag Day, which is the first day of spring. This year’s Ag Edtion contains stories about accidents that local farmers have experienced. I started collecting the stories last year, after a North Dakota teenager had both arms torn off by an auger. He made national news because of his courage in making his way into his home and telephoning for help by holding a pencil between his teeth. His arms were re-attached, and he now has limited use of them. He is at-tending college. Life is a struggle, but at least he has life. No local farmer had farm accidents that severe, but some were potentially as bad or worse. They were “close calls.” Almost every farmer that I talked to had an accident story to tell. They didn’t have to think about it very long either. It’s a dangerous profession. One exception was Palmer Dahl, 83, Moose Lake. He farmed for most of his life ...

David Heiller Steve Serres reminded me of the beauty of mushroom hunting last Saturday. Morel mushrooms. (not my photo) He came up that afternoon to walk the woods with me in search of morel mushrooms. I thought it would make a good newspaper fea­ture, but I had my other hat on too, the one that says, “This will be fun.” And it was, in some unexpected ways. We started by heading across the field toward a dead tree. Dead trees are one sign of morel country, particularly dead elm trees. But they are no guarantee, as Steve pointed out in a stream of morels lore that seemed endless. Many is the time he has come upon a dead elm, bark hanging like a shawl on an old woman — a honey hole for morels — and not a one can be found. That’s probably part of the beauty of the hunt for Steve, as it is for all sportsmen: you just never know what you’ll find. And sure enough, the first two perfect spots didn’t have didley. At the third tree, Steve stopped and pointed his stick at a ...