Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller You can’t help but feel sorry for Barbie. The blonde one there in the rocking chair next to me. She’s lying face down like she’s crying. If she’s not, she should be. Kirsten Larson has taken away her little girl. Kirsten is new to our family. She has flaxen hair that came in a Swedish braid. Her eyes match my daughter's eyes: a light blue. (In fact some people think she bears a striking resemblance to me.) She has leather shoes, nice socks with no holes, pantalettes, a dress with an apron, and a bonnet. Kirsten is famous. She has had books written about her. The first one is Meet Kirsten. It tells of her family’s trip to their new home in America in 1854, of their struggles as immigrants on a farm in Minnesota. Mollie has the book. Malika and her Kirsten doll My daughter, Mollie, put Kirsten in her back-pack on Sunday night, July 18, and we rode our bikes to the local ice cream store. As we were standing in line, a tiny little girl came up and stared ...

David Heiller “Time to get up, Collin.” I sat next to my nephew at 6 a.m. last Friday morning, expecting a battle. But Collin popped out of bed like a piece of toast. He was wide awake before his feet hit the floor. Collin and his lunker Fishing will do that to a boy age seven. It hadn’t been quite so easy for the 46-year-old. I spent 15 minutes getting out of bed and opening my eyes (in that order), then getting dressed and climbing up to the loft to wake Collin. “Look at the loons,” Collin said when we stepped out of the cabin. Seven loons were paddling side by side across the middle of the lake. They looked like they were practicing for the Aquatennial Parade. We got in the boat and headed for our hot spot, which is usually luke-warm at best. Collin asked if he could steer the boat. But it was too early for that. My eyes weren’t open all the way yet. “Later,” I promised. I eased the 14-foot boat through a narrow channel and into a smaller lake. We drifted with...

David Heiller “ H appy birthday Cindy.” Hazel Serritslev said that to my wife on Tuesday morning when we got to work. At the office of the Askov American, where birthdays were never an after-thought . Good old Hazel doesn’t forget birthdays. She even bakes a cake for everyone at work when their birthdays roll around, which happens once a year, so I’m told. I’m not as good as Hazel at remembering birthdays. In fact, when Hazel said “Happy birthday, Cindy,” a moment of pure surprise hit me, and it really did feel like a ton of bricks. I had totally forgotten this momentous occasion for my wife, Cynthia Anna Olson Heiller. Before I had a chance to say anything, Cindy walked to the front of the office, where Cindy Jensen greeted her with another “Happy birthday.” I expect if I had turned on WCCO radio, I would have heard the announcer wishing Cindy a happy birthday. 1960... I loved that cool cake my grandma made for me. I apologized to Cindy, but she answered ...

David Heiller The cabin looked great as we moved our load of supplies in for a week’s vacation on Trout Lake two weeks ago. Carpeting on the living room floor and in the bedrooms. A clean bathroom, nice shower, no slime on the floor. Two beds and a crib in the kids’ room, and a big bed in our room. Cindy unpacked the food, putting enough for an army encampment into the refrigerator and cupboards. I tucked the clothes into the dressers, enough duds for an army encampment too, except for mine. I brought only three shirts, two pairs of shorts, and some socks. If I had packed the food, we would have had bread and water for a week. That’s why Cindy had let me pack only for myself. The two kids took off running the minute they hit the cabin floor. There were no bookcases to dodge, no mountains of toys or televisions or stereos. Just pure floor space, a small gym to them for running and falling. Noah and Malika ready for canoing Everything looked perfect. I breathed a sig...

David Heiller   Noah and I each grabbed an umbrella and headed outside for an exciting Saturday night at the Heiller house. A thunderstorm was heading our way, and we wanted to be a part of it. Noah and David News banners on the television screen had set the stage. Warning beeps sounded like the distress signal of a sinking submarine. Then some weather man with a real voice, a voice like yours or mine, spoke over the now-silent tennis match. “At 7:47 p.m., a line of thunderstorms was spotted on Doppler radar moving north northeast at approximately 18 miles an hour. This storm contains hail the size of Volkswagons. In its path is the city of Finlayson and the Heiller residence.” That’s what my imagination said at least. There’s something about a thunderstorm that is both frightening and fascinating. You hope you don’t get zapped. You hope the wind doesn ’ t turn into a tornado, or that six inches of rain doesn’t fall in two hours. You hope the hail doesn’t grow t...

 David Heiller You never know what you’ll discover from a little girl in a fishing boat. Her name is Grace. She’s my niece and she’s four. Grace likes to fish, and I like any kid who likes to fish. So Grace and I and my two kids, Mollie and Noah, made several excursions in the boat last week. Mollie and Noah can take off their own fish now, for the most part, so I got my hopes up. Maybe I can actually try fishing myself. Any adult who has fished with little kids knows what I mean. But Grace brought me back to reality. The power of a four-year-old brings reality into focus. It started when I wanted to troll around Star Lake. Maybe catch a small northern like the one mounted on the cabin wall. Just a 12-pounder. Trolling didn’t go over big with Grace. She was holding Mollie’s hand firmly with her left hand, and her Snoopy rod and reel in the other. Her feet couldn’t touch the bottom of the boat. She was ready to roll, and here we were, going two miles an...