Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

Daivd Heiller Thunder rumbled non-stop high above our home on Monday evening, August 14. The tense and humid day was turning ugly. Cindy had left for Cloquet to pick up Mollie from a church retreat. I stayed home to work on the computer for the newspaper. Noah was with me. I like to be home when bad weather visits. I was worried about Cindy in the car. Enjoying our yard in the spring, before the storm beat everything up. It seemed like hours. It was probably about 10 minutes. Then when the hail had finished, the rain came down in sheets. After it stopped, I walked through the yard. All the trees were standing. That was a relief. But their branches were shredded and gaunt. Everything — the ground, the deck, the hammock, the trampoline — was covered with leaves and branches that had been torn off by the hail. A window on the north side of the house was broken. The rain gauge was broken. The garden was devastated: corn flattened, squash torn up, tomatoes punctured. The pl...

David Heiller The Great Debate is never far from the surface at our house. It’s a consequence of having two children two years apart. Throw in the fact that they are of different gender and opposite personalities, and some powerful dramas can ensue. Oh, those kids! Negotiation is one aspect of The Great Debate. A typical Negotiation played out last Sunday afternoon in the kitchen. “Noah, I’d like you to clean the porches,” I told my son, age 18. Just then my daughter walked into the house. I had to think fast. You can’t give one kid a job while the other looks on. “Mollie, can you empty the dishwasher?” I asked my daughter, Malika, age 16. It wasn’t really a question, and she knew it. Mollie started an immediate, barely audible protest. Noah’s radar went up. “Mollie do you want to switch with me?” he asked her. “OK,” Mollie replied, and the deal was done. Mollie whipped through the two porches, straightening shoes, sweeping the floor, giving the rugs the ...

David Heiller We were riding back from the second spillway Sunday evening, my nephew, his friend, and me. It was starting to rain, so I wasn’t paying much attention to the dogs, who were trailing behind. Maybe I was too busy admiring the three nice catfish on my stringer. Riley Our dog Riley is half golden retriever, which shows up whenever we are near water. Any time we go to the river, he makes frequent side trips to cool off and take a drink. If there is a dead fish to roll around in, so much the better. As we pedaled our bikes across the first spill-way, my nephew shouted out Riley’s name in a tone of voice that brought me to a quick stop. I looked back to see Riley head for the water, about three feet from the inlet to Running Slough. If you’ve never been to the Reno Bottoms, the inlet from the river to the slough is a culvert about five feet in diameter that carries a huge volume of water from the river through it at all times. The water spreads out below it into...

David Heiller The top floor of our garage has taken on a new appearance lately. My tool bench now has a shade-less lamp and the bottom part of a broken food processor on it. My work table is covered with an old bed sheet. On top of it is a silk flower arrangement, a rusty tea kettle, and three wooden bowls. Two old kitchen chairs are pulled up next to it, along with a 10-gallon milk can turned upside down with two toy tea cups on it. Two old hats are sitting on a cooler. Two old blankets have been taken from a box and spread out on the floor. An old bathroom sink has been dragged to the middle of the room. Malika and a "yeah-but" look. All this is the work of a seven-year-old girl who has discovered a new playhouse. She led me up to it by the hand one day recently, so proudly that I had to check my anger like another old hat at the door. MY garage, with boxes so old I don’t know what’s in them, with broken chairs that never got mended, with old hats that don’t ...

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...