Trip brought good fishing, and much more ~ February 20, 1997

David Heiller

We headed up the lake and into the Boundary Waters on Saturday morning, three people on skis, pulling sleds, heading for a weekend of winter camping and who knows what else.

The temperature was about 10 above. The sun tried to shine through a thin layer of clouds. Yet bit of snow was falling. Odd weather. Tom called it a small Alberta Clipper. He knows things like that.

Tom pulling his sled.

We stopped and took our coats off. You get a workout on cross country skis, especially with a sled tugging from behind.

Tom set the pace. He was our leader. Ben was next. He had just turned 11, and he prided himself on being able to keep up with Tom, who happened to be his dad. Staying close to Dad also allowed Ben to ask important questions.

“How long till we get to the next lake, Dad?” “How many minutes will it take to ski down this creek?”

Tom answered the questions with patience. Ηe is used to them. He heaps them at home, and probably at work from his science students at Moose Lake High School. You have to have patience to be a good dad and a good teacher.

Tom had a few questions of his own for Ben, like, “What kind of tracks are those?” Ben would usually come up with the answer. Mink. Fox. Otter. They all left their trails in the snow.

Two dog teams came up behind us. We stepped off the trail and let them pass with a friendly wave. Two men with each team, eight dogs to a team. They said they were headed for Knife Lake.

Tom said two of the men were clients, and two were guides who were being paid $200 a day for the hard job of taking them fishing on Knife Lake.

Dog teams are important in the Boundary Waters. Yes, they leave brown klister on the trails. But they make the trails to begin with, and when there is three feet of snow on the ground, the trails come in very handy.

On one lake we crossed, the trail had been obliterated by drifting snow. We couldn’t see a trace of it. Tom felt his way across, using his ski poles like a blind man. Without a trail to follow, we probably would have stayed home.

Tom and I took off our skis and walked over two portages. One wasn’t marked on a map. Tom knew about it. He knew the old man who had made it and used it as a trap line. He knew about a fishing hole on the other side. That’s here we headed.

What a difference the portage was in the winter. No bugs. No mud. No branches scraping on canoes. No canoes scraping on shoulders. Just trudging, pulling a sled, admiring the quiet winter woods.

But you had to stay on the trail. Once I slipped off and went up to my knee in the snow. Thank you, dog teams.

After three hours and seven miles, we came to Tom’s Bay, on Basswood Lake. We each took on different chores: First things first, of course. We dug five holes in the ice, and put in our tip ups, using frozen ciscoes for bait. We were fishing for northerns.

Tom knew this bay had promise. He knew the old man who fished it. Tom had looked down from a canoe and had seen the weed beds where the northerns spawned. The edge of the weed beds would be a gathering spot for northerns, on the best lake for northerns in Minnesota. Basswood holds the state record for northern pike, a 45 pounds, 12 ounce fish.

The Tent

Tom and Ben set up their old canvas tent. Tom’s uncle had found it in a dump. Tom cut the floor out and made it into a good winter shelter. He even cut a chimney hole and flashed it with aluminum.

They dug a trench down the middle, and made benches of snow on either side, and laid tarps on the benches. They let the benches set for a couple hours. Then they were hard enough to sit on.

Tom set up a homemade stove in the middle of the tent. He had made it out of a five-gallon fuel oil can. It worked great, and like the tent, the price was right.

Nothing fancy. Everything functional. That could be Tom’s motto. If you had to choose one person to get you through the north woods, winter or summer, you couldn’t choose better than Tom. He just plain knows what he is doing.

We cut a lot of firewood, and lit a fire by the lake, so that we could watch our tip ups and stay warm. The afternoon was starting to fade when a dogsled approached from the way we had come. It stopped 100 yards away. A man walked to us. He worked for the Forest Service.

What a job, I thought. Cruising the Boundary Waters on a dogsled for the United States Forest Service. Not exactly N.Y.P.D. Blue. He asked to see our permit. We had forgotten to fill one out. So he wrote down Tom’s name, and Tom promised to register on his way out.

The fishing was dandy

“Now all we need is a flag,” I said. The ranger glanced at the lake. “There’s one up,” he said. Sure enough and it was my tip-up.

I walked to it. My fishing luck has been down lately. In fact, this tip-up was four years old, and it had never caught a fish. Not one. I thought it might be jinxed. No point in rushing, I thought.

David didn't have his camera on this trip,
but I know he wished he did. He always brought 
it on the subsequent winter treks with Tom.

Still, as I knelt by the hole and picked up the line, I couldn’t help but feel that excitement of not knowing what was at the end of the line.

The fish had stopped running by the time I got to the hole. Whatever it was, it had either eaten the cisco or dropped it. I gave a quick tug and set the hook, and started pulling. Then the fish started pulling. It pulled hard. I let line slip through my fingers. I couldn’t tell how big it was. It seemed big. I’m not a person to get my hopes up quickly.

The fish and I played tug of war for about five minutes. Tom came running with a gaff in his hand. “You got something decent?” he asked.

“I don’t know,“ I said truthfully. But my hopes were beginning to rise.

The ranger and Ben walked over too. They all watched while the fish ran and came in, growing more tired every time. I would get to the bottom of the hole, but it would stick there like a jammed log.

Finally we saw a flash of white in the hole, and Tom stabbed his gaff. The fish twisted and disappeared. For a second I thought the line had broken. Then I felt his powerful tug. What a relief!

It was a big fish. The biggest I had ever seen on the end of my line, or anyone else’s.

Tom apologized, and grumbled to himself. He doesn’t make many mistakes. He wanted another chance. He wouldn’t miss twice. The fish came up again, and Tom yanked him out.

We all hollered and stared at the monster. “That’s a dandy,” Tom said. Α dandy is about as big a compliment as you’ll get from Tom.

One man’s dandy is another man’s monster.

“I’d say it’s at least 12 pounds,” I said with false confidence.

“It’s way more than that,” Tom answered. Even the ranger was impressed. He hollered to his partner, “Hey Zeke, look at this!” I held up the fish for Zeke and his dogs to see.

The big fish warmed us up that night. It measured 39 inches long. That made it 16.9 pounds, according to a DNR conversion table. We talked about it as we sat in the tent and fed Little Puffer, as Tom and Ben called their stove. The temperature fell to 25 below. Tom and Ben slept soundly. I shivered and squirmed all night.

The next morning, after eating oatmeal in the tent, we lit a fire by the lake, and caught two more fish right away, three pounders. Then a flag went up, and Tom told Ben to take it.

Ben knelt by the hole and set the hook. It took off. Ben pulled it in. It ran a long way. It was fighting just like mine. Ben took his time. He let the fish run when it wanted to. That’s the trick to fishing, but not all kids know it.

After about 15 minutes, it came into the hole, and Tom gaffed it on the first try. And out came another dandy, slightly bigger than mine.

I had been excited catching my trophy. But it was every bit as fun watching Ben rejoice with his. What is more fun than watching a kid catch a lunker?

We caught a lot more fish over the next day and a half. We lost count. We gave an eight pounder to a friend of Tom’s who skied in on Sunday for a visit. We let a seven pounder go. The fishing was that good.

But there was a lot more to the trip than fishing. We did a lot of talking and joshing, and a lot of sitting and listening to the wind whisper through the big white pines near our tent. We got a good feel for each other, and we got a good feel for ourselves. That always happens on a good camping trip. Catching fish is icing on the cake.

We headed for home on Monday afternoon. The sun came out, and the snow got sticky. It was hard skiing for me, like paddling into a headwind. You grit your teeth and do it. You are tempted to stop, but stopping isn’t an option, so you do it, and maybe it’s even good for you.

I could barely keep up with Tom and Ben. Ben stuck to his dad’s heels like a loyal puppy, no doubt asking his share of questions.

“How many minutes till we get to the portage?”

“When will we reach Moose Lake?”

What a pair, I thought. I wondered if Ben knew how lucky he was to have a dad like Tom, and vice versa. I think they do, although they don't need to talk about such things. Actions almost always speak louder than words.

Barbie teaches Dad a lesson ~ January 7, 1993

David Heiller

Last Friday Mollie and I sorted through her doll clothes as preparation for an exciting time of “Playing Dolls.”

Don’t ask how my daughter conned me into playing dolls with her. Suffice it to say I made a promise and she held me to it, as seven-year-old girls are wont to do.

Mollie brought out a five gallon bucket full of doll clothes. I allowed as we couldn’t play dolls without sorting through the clothes. So we found another five gallon bucket, and separated the doll clothes into Barbie and non-Barbie piles.

The non-Barbie clothes had a lot of character. Blouses, dresses, caps. Some of them could have fit an infant. Many were home-made by a thoughtful grandma. I liked them. But they were cast aside by Mollie without a glance.

Five Barbies and poor head-less Ken.

We’re into Barbies at our house.

The newer Barbie clothes were just the opposite. They seemed like little more than tiny pieces of cloth with a button here and a fastener there. And I mean tiny. They don’t cover much of Barbie, and there’s a lot of her to cover, if you know what I mean.

All right guys, do I need to spell it out?

Mollie set aside a small Barbie blouse. “That’s Grandma Heiller’s,” she insisted. Don’t ask me how she knew that. It’s the same genetic ability that my wife displays when she tells me what dress she wore to a New Year’s Eve party three years ago.

The underwear on another Barbie, Mollie went on, belonged to Jennifer. Don’t ask me how they got on Mollie’s Barbie. We don’t print that kind of thing in the Askov American.

We found Barbie shoes too, little things that I confess I have vacuumed up a few times. We set them carefully into shoe holders in a plastic Barbie wardrobe. The wardrobe doesn’t stand straight, because it has three broken legs. Mollie told me that it was Mom’s when she was a girl. I didn’t know that.

Mixed in with the newer Barbie clothes were older things, gowns and dresses, yellow with age and use, a bit tattered and torn. Mollie informed me that those were Mom’s when she was a girl. I didn’t know that either. I’d seen them in Mollie’s room, but I’d never really looked at them, held them up close, like a seven-year-old does, like we did last Friday morning. It was kind of fun. I could picture Cindy doing that 28 years ago.

Back then, I wouldn’t give Barbie the time of day, or any other girl for that matter, including Cindy. Things are different now.

Grandma Olson working with Malika on paper dolls.
She had fun with Grandma,
but paper dolls were NOT Barbie.

I’m NOT a big Barbie fan. We’ve never even bought Mollie one. That too-perfect figure and beautiful hair get on my nerves just like a grown woman with a too-perfect figure and beautiful hair makes me a bit uncomfortable. I equate them both with vanity and materialism and other qualities that I can’t express but know I don’t like.

Cindy feels the same way. Yet she had Barbies and wardrobes and doll houses as a kid, and she turned out all right. So I watch Mollie play for hours with her Barbies, and I guess it’s OK. As if that matters.

AFTER WE WERE DONE sorting the clothes, the phone rang. I was saved by the bell. Mollie was invited to Kate’s house, and I wiggled out of my doll-playing promise.

When we were safely in the car, I asked Mollie how many Barbies she had. Six, she said. There’s the short Barbie, and the bald Barbie, and the one with dog bites on her stomach, and the one wearing Jennifer’s underwear, and Ken, whose head has come off. Poor Ken. The schmuck always gets lumped in with the women. I bet he doesn’t go ice fishing either.

Kate's fav!

“What about the roller blade Barbie?” I asked. She had just received it as a gift from her babysitter.

“Seven!” Mollie said happily. “I’m on a roll.”

When we arrived at our destination, Mollie and her friend started playing with a table full of ponies, purple with pink manes, or pink with purple tails.

I couldn’t get Barbie out of my mind, so I asked Kate how many Barbies she had.

“Three,” she said.

“Is that all?” I asked thoughtlessly. Kate gave me a forgiving look.

“But I’ve got 37 ponies,” she said proudly. That’s a story for another time.

A walk to the Island ~ February 24, 1994

David Heiller

That’s when Nora and Malika suggested that we walk out to The Island.

We had looked at The Island all weekend from the cabin our two families had rented. It was half a mile away, in the middle of Long Lake, near Spooner, Wisconsin.

The Island was no more than 40 yards long, and it had a big house on it. It drew the two eight-year-olds like a magnet, and I guess it drew me too, because when they asked if they could walk to the island that night, I didn’t hesitate in answering yes.

They each grabbed my hands, and we headed out. A day earlier, the top several inches of ice had melted in a 45-degree thaw. But now it was slick.

Malika and Nora with Carolyn in that weekends cabin.

Nora said it was like glass. She wished she had brought her skates.

I said you’d have to watch those rough spots. My brother, Danny, hit one when he was a kid and broke a tooth off. It was the first time I saw him cry, it hurt so bad. I told the kids that.

The ice would crack every so often, which worried Nora. “If it can hold a car, I guess it can hold us,” I said.

I can’t remember all the other things we talked about, the three of us. Mostly we held hands and chatted. It felt good. Our words weren’t profound, and that is the way it should be. Any heavier conversation and we might have fallen through the ice.

Then we approached The Island, and our pleasant words dwindled. The house loomed on it like a great grey mansion. And I must confess that I told a tale about the house then. I said that the owner, an old lady, had drowned one night. A night just like this. She fell through the ice. I said when the moon came out, you could see her standing in the window in the top floor.

Malika then wanted to go explore it. That explains a lot about Malika.

She let go of my hand, and walked toward the house, to show how brave she was. She put one foot on shore.

Nora and I kept walking. I didn’t try to talk her back to me. I knew better than that. But I wanted to shout, DON’T GO UP THERE! In the moonlight, the house looked like it belonged in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

Then Malika turned around and ran back to us. I didn’t say a word. But I did breathe a sigh of relief.

We circled around The Island. The house, and our imaginations, returned to normal. I told the girls I was joking about that lady. It was just a story. They said they KNEW that, like how stupid did I think they were?

Malika and Nora.

On our way back, we lay down on the ice and looked at the moon. It had a circle around it, like the moon does on some cold winter nights. None of us knew why. It’s a good mystery.

On shore, the cabin lights glowed with a welcome light. When we got closer, Malika and Nora spotted their two brothers, still playing. We went to The Island! they shouted almost in unison.

The boys shrugged a big deal, but you could tell by the way they shrugged that they were impressed.

Inside the cabin, it was the same thing. The girls proudly recounted the trip to The Island to the moms and dads. I did too.

What an honor, to have the trust of two little girls, to hold their hands and walk and talk across the frozen lake in the moonlight to The Island.

Actions speak loud as words, when it comes to love ~ February 27, 1986

David Heiller

I saw two men approaching on the street.  As they came together, a dawn of joy and recognition blazed in each face. They kissed cheeks, shook hands firmly, lingeringly, and barraged each other in loud voices: “How are you? Fine, thank you, and you? By the grace of God, I am well. How is your family? By God’s grace, all is well with me and mine. And you, is everything well? Everything is fine thank you, God’s grace is shining fully.”

A street scene in the city where David lived for two years.

This continued, in Arabic of course, for a full half minute. I smiled in childish wonder, thinking I was witnessing the momentous rejoining of two brothers separated at birth and discovering each other on this dusty Moroccan street. My disillusionment soon followed. The men, after the last “May God be with you,” abruptly pulled apart like clashing symbols and continued on their separate ways, as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. Indeed, nothing extraordinary had occurred. Just two casual Moroccan friends hailing each other in their passionate fashion.

I wrote the above passage in my journal on December 8, 1977, in Sidi Kacem, Morocco. It tells in a nutshell how Moroccans showed affection. Kisses, handshakes, loud inquiries into your health, your mother’s health, your second cousin’s (twice removed) health. Their affection was downright aggressive.

We Americans, on the other hand, seemed meek and mild in comparison. The stoic Scandinavian and German stock that came from the Old Country has never been known for outward signs of affection. I had a hard enough time kissing American girls, let alone Moroccan men on their cheeks. A handshake was the best I could muster in Morocco. No doubt I seemed as lifeless to them when I greeted someone as they seemed overly-animated to me.

Winter affection

Affection is a relative thing. Ethnic groups stake out acceptable ways to show their love. I hugged and kissed more people in France when I was there for a week, coming home from Morocco than my entire life before or since. By the time I had left, I remember thinking all that hugging and kissing wasn’t so bad. But when I got to America, to my friends and family, the hugs and kisses were okay once, and once only. Then it was back to handshakes, at best.

But real affection—love, if you will—it seems to me comes not through gestures, or even words, but through actions. It doesn’t matter if you call your spouses Baby-Cakes, or your kid Log Legs. It’s how you treat them that counts. Who volunteers to wash the dirty dishes after supper, when both Mom and Dad have had busy days? Who makes the supper? Who brings the bowl of ice cream to the guy on the couch watching TV? Who sweeps the floor and shakes the rugs?

You do and I do, both. A simple illustration: A month ago, on a very cold morning, I felt a beckoning to the outhouse. My wife, Cindy, had an equally urgent calling. We left the kids in the house, and tromped down the hill, me in the lead, and making sure I stayed in the lead. We have a two-seater, you see, but only one Styrofoam toilet seat. The other seat is wood, and when the temperature outside is 20 below, like that morning, the wooden toilet seat is 20 below.

Outhouse on a more clement day.

I can’t explain what I did or why I did it, but I took the styrofoam toilet seat off its nail on the wall, and handed it to Cindy. Not even Merlin Olsen could top that act of love.

Forget about flowers, let’s get down to real love. Who wrings out the poopy diapers? Who gets up early with the kids so the other can sleep in those extra 20 heavenly minutes? Who gets up for the teething baby four times in the night? Who takes the kids to hockey practice four times a weekend? Who swallows hard and lets the son have the car to take his friends to a movie? Who stops to help fix the flat tire on the lonely county road, when no one else is stopping? Who calls a sick friend, or sends a card to a death-stricken family.

The answer, I hope, is you and me. Words and handshakes and hugs and kisses are fine, but no more important than the little actions that give of your time to tell someone else, “I love you.”

The winner, and still champion, is… ~ February 20, 1986

David Heiller

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Monday Night Fights.”

The spotlight shines on the small mat, as the house lights dim, and the crowd suddenly murmurs to a hush. The announcer’s voice rings with the hardness of metal. He’s seen fights before, lots of them. But nothing like this one.

“Ladieeeees and gennnntlemennnnn,” he continues. “In this corner, weighing two hundred pounds, standing six feet, one half inch, the defending Diaper Dad of Birch Creek Township, David Heiiiiiiiiiller.” Five thousand dads cheer, stomp their feet, nudge each other in the ribs nodding to their Great White Hope.

Malika Squirm-Worm Heiller practicing
one of her infamous moves

“And in this corner, weighing 21 pounds, standing 29 inches, the reigning Squirm-Worm, Mollie Heiiiiller.” Now the crowd erupts with squeals, gurgles, coos and cries from 5,000 babies and their Moms who have come to watch the Kid.

The announcer steps aside, takes his seat in the radio booth, as Dad steps up to the mat. The Baby lies still, on her back, watching his eyes.

Ding!

And the action has begun folks. It’s Pajama Time and Dad, still groggy from eight hours at the office, had better not take this little Log Legs for granted. He’s got the zipper down on her jump suit. But Mollie has started her famous inside right roll. Watch how she lowers her right shoulder and swings her left knee into the air. Dad crowds into her with his ample midsection, but she slides away from him, and there—she’s on her belly. Two points for a reverse.

Now Dad flips her over again. He got the zipper down, that’s worth one point, but here comes that inside roll again. Wait, Dad grabs her left knee, and holds it with one hand, while he slips the jump suit down with the other. Now he pulls at her leg openings. Oops—a big mistake for the old man, as Mollie gets her knee free and rolls onto her belly. Another two points for the Kid. Dad pulls the outfit off while she is on her belly, so he gets no points for that cheap move.

Now she’s back on her back, as the score remains 4-1. Dad has the two snaps off her shirt. What’s this? The seldom seen forearm defense, as Dad presses his left arm from elbow to wrist at an angle across Mollie’s midsection. She’s caught in a vice, while Dad slips both shirts off her head. A fine two-point move for Dad.

With the lead a slim 4-3, Dad’s nearly half way done. He pulls off the plastic pants with his free right hand, while the left arm still is flattening the Kid. Listen to the crowd boo. They don’t think much of a one armed dad. He’s got one pin undone, but here comes Mollie’s trump card—she arches her neck, and her head is suddenly a huge ball bearing that she uses to spin onto her belly. Two more for the Kid, and the diaper only half off.

Another flip onto her back, and Dad tries the double forearm technique, with left arm pinning down Mollie’s chest, and right holding both legs across the knees. Trailing 6-3, the Dad can’t afford any more blunders. He’s got the pin off, and there’s the diaper. And that diaper is not what you’d call clean. That’s two penalty points against Mollie. Listen to those dads cheer—come on folks, she couldn’t help that.

Seriously? This angelic creature is the same one in this column?

Well, he’s got her cleaned up, and the night time diaper is in place. He’s one-handing her now, as she tries all her tricks, inside roll, neck bridge, leg kick. But Dad’s got a secret trick too, and he’s going to use it. Here it comes—the Tickle. Just as Mollie is ready to flip, Dad catches her under the arm pits with two fingers, and Mollie falls weakly onto her back again, giggling. It’s just the time he needs to get the diapers taped on, and the pajamas over her arms. Give Dad two points, and he takes the lead, 7-6 with only two legs left to go into the ‘jammies.

He pull her to her feet to finish her off, but look at that move—Mollie has grabbed the entire mat on the changing able, and lifts it up with her. That’s a point folks, and it’s all tied up, as Dad slips her feet into the p.j.’s and pulls up the zipper.

It’s all over, ladies and gentlemen, and the judges rule it a tie, 7-7. Listen to that crowd roar.

The Dad walks into the living room, as the crowd noise dies down. In the background a woman’s weary voice is heard above the TV: “How would you like to do that five times a day?”

Dad shudders and ignores the comment, basking in his efforts, and glad that they come but once a day.

Snowshoe hike was good for us all ~ February 12, 1998

David Heiller

Cindy and Mollie and I strapped on snowshoes and headed into the woods on Sunday afternoon.

The snowshoe gang relaxes.

We had plenty of work to do at home. Ironing for my wife, Cindy, newspaper work for me. Even Mollie, 12, had her piano to practice.

But if you can’t make room for a Sunday saunter, then something is wrong, especially on a gorgeous day with temperatures in the thirties.

We started at a friend’s house. Our goal was to walk three miles southeast through the woods to another friend’s house.

Let’s face it, you can’t get lost in the winter in snow. All you have to do is turn around and follow your footprints back to where you started.

That’s one thing I like about snowshoeing. I have a tendency to get turned around in the woods, and it always worries me a little. But not in the winter, with snow on the ground.

We started out on a logging road, following our friend’s ski tracks. Mollie wanted to walk down the ski trail, but I told her that would not be polite.

We admired his woods. It’s always fun to check out other people’s trees. We stopped at a windfall of oak that had firewood written all over it.

“Red oak,” I told Mollie with authority.

“No that’s a pin oak,” she replied. Tones of authority get on her nerves. I guess she learned that in Tom Leustek’s science class at Willow River High School.

The ski trail ended. Then we went through the woods in a southerly direction. There were trails galore through the woods, deer and squirrels and rabbits and coyotes. Our dog, MacΚenzie, was with us. She had a great time sniffing and exploring.

We saw many places where deer had lain. One area they had pawed leaves out of the snow. There must have been 10 deer beds there.

About halfway to our destination, Mollie started complaining that her feet were cold. She hadn’t worn wind pants, against Cindy’s advice. Now snow was finding its way into her boots. Snow has a way of doing that, especially when you fall down, which Mollie did a time or two.

“How far is it?” she asked. I tried to think of a safe answer. Too far and she’d give up. Too close and she’d lose faith in me. The fact is, I didn’t know.

“Half a mile,” I answered.

We trudged on. Cindy thought we should go a little further east. I said no, and since I had the privilege of breaking trail, I won.

“How far is it?” Mollie asked again.

“Oh, about half a mile,” I said.

“You said that 15 minutes ago,” she said. Oops.

Up ahead I spied a meadow through the trees. “I think I remember that meadow,” I said. “Κaarin’s house is just beyond it.” Well, I wasn’t absolutely sure about that.

We came to the edge of the big field. A deer bounded across it, 50 yards ahead of us, then another, and another. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven deer. What a pretty sight. It rejuvenated us for a bit.

But Mollie’s feet were soaked. Cindy scooped a handful of snow from the tops of her boots. Her socks had slipped down. The skin above her ankles was red and raw. I got cold just looking at them. Is there anything more miserable than cold, wet feet?

She asked again how far it was. “Three eighths of a mile,” I said.

We walked across the huge field, feeling like we were hardly moving. The hike was testing our endurance. Every good hike does that.

Then we spied a house to the west of Kaarin’s. Sure enough, I had veered off course. Cindy had been right. That’s not unusual.

We got to Kaarin’s house 15 minutes later. Our hike was over. It had taken 90 minutes. We were tired. Mollie’s feet really hurt. But Kaarin gave her some dry socks and a pair of sweat pants, and she was soon fine.

Best of all, she enjoyed it. She was proud of herself. We were too. I would have griped a lot more than her. I hate wet feet in the winter.

Next time she’ll dress a little differently, and we’ll have an even better time. (Hey, a little encouragement never hurt anyone.)

Willy lives the definition of ‘frugal’ ~ February 16, 1984

David Heiller

What does the word “frugal” mean? To some, it means being prudent or economical. It means you can save money, because you are cautious and thrifty. These are virtuous qualities.

Looked at from another angle, frugal brings up images of Silas Marner hunched over his pile of gold, carefully counting each penny, literally a penny-pincher. It means tight-fisted, uncompassionate, scrimping, tight, or worst of all, stingy.

Both definitions are right, and you can probably recall people in both categories. People who would give just about everything they own to help another, and people who would hardly part with a dime to give to a crippled beggar in the street.

There is a third definition of frugal too, which comes to my mind when I think of a man I know. His name is Willie Boyer, and he lives in rural Tamarack. When you live in rural Tamarack, you know you live out in the country.

I first met Willie in the winter of 1977, when I was caretaker for some property and buildings where he lived. I lived in a house near Willie’s shack, and part of my job was to look in on the 74-year-old man every day, to see that he was doing all right. I might as well as have looked in on a sleeping bear, or a brush wolf. Willie was about as self sufficient as either animal, and needed my help about as much.

Willie read his philosophy books by kerosene lamps.
Willie died 1988, still on his own.

As those winter months passed, I got to know Willie, and I got to know the meaning of frugal, in a practical sense. He lived in a tarpaper shack that was just big enough for his bunk, his cook stove, and his table, where he would work, or play chess with a chess magazine. He collected all his own wood, dragging it in from the woods and stacking it in large tepees in front of his shack. He cut the wood with a buck saw or cross-cut saw. A lifetime as a logger had taught him all he needed to know for making wood.

He had no telephone, or electricity. He would light a kerosene lantern for reading or working at night. He would listen to his portable radio for news. He got his water from a hand pump.

All this was new to me, and impressed me for its frugality. But there are quite a few people who live such lifestyles, even in the Askov area. Willie went beyond that. He didn’t buy any clothing, not even at Goodwill. Relatives or neighbors would bring him hand-me-downs, and that was all he wore. He didn’t go out much, so he wasn’t concerned about appearances.

He didn’t waste anything. I remember being impressed about what he would do with old sweaters. When the sleeves would wear out, he would cut them off at the elbow, sew up one end, and make socks out of them. When he broke his only straight edge razor, he grew a beard. He also grew all his own food, with the exception of wheat, for the flour for his sourdough.

David and I outside of the house he lived
 in that winter on Willie's property.

Willie did have expenses, such as butter, a dozen eggs, kerosene, an occasional binge for ice cream, when company arrived or some books on philosophy. But I bet he spent less than $1,000 a year.
After I left that place in the spring of 1977, I kept in touch with Willie. His letters would come on recycled envelopes from junk mail, and he would write in pencil on the back of Reader’s Digest sweepstakes letters.

Now Willie has moved to a new house he built about 20 yards from the old shack. This house he built mostly by himself, from timber on his property. He is still the most frugal man I know. He can get by with next to nothing. He never married—it wasn’t practical or absolutely necessary for him.

There is no moral to this story, no snappy ending. I just think about Willie at times and wonder. In our society, when people can make a million dollars a year and end up paupers ten years later, I wonder. When people have what we have, from color television sets, clothes that go unworn and dinner at a restaurant once a month, and complain about the hard times, I wonder.

Think about it the next time you need a new pair of socks. Don’t throw those old sweaters away.