Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller It was kind of comical, although no one saw it, and that was good. I was heading out to the barn on Sunday morning. I spun to my left and started walking toward the garden, then I spun to my right and went toward the garage. I must have looked like a 51-year-old ballet dancer. Not a pretty sight, I might add. Yet I bet I wasn’t the only guy doing the Springtime Pirouette. That’s the kind of day it was. A real spring day. Not a temptress like I wrote about last month, the kind that beckons with a coy smile and dumps 18 inches of snow on you. No, this was the real deal. Hence the dance of the undecided. There is so much to do, and so much you want to do. So it’s off to the barn to move that pile of lumber. No wait! That garden soil is ready for its first hoe of the season. And the car in the garage, got to take that battery charger off. They all have to get done, and all at once, because it’s a beautiful spring day. Ah, but then you stop. Daylight saving...

David Heiller I had a lot of memorable experiences when I was in the Peace Corp from 1977-1979, but one of them has always stood out in my mind. I’m thinking about it a lot these days. I taught English as a second language in Morocco, which is a Muslim country of primarily Arab people on the northwestern corner of Africa. For a few months I rented the bottom level of a house in the middle of the city from an elderly Moroccan couple, Fatna and Driss. They lived upstairs. They took me under their wing, so to speak, and we became good friends, as good as a Moroccan family could be to an American guy. There were a lot of cultural and religious barriers that prevented what I would consider real closeness. I moved to another house on the edge of the city because I felt too claustrophobic in the middle of the bustling medina. But I kept in touch with my Moroccan family. Every Friday, which is their holy day, they would invite me to a noon dinner. It was great for me. I not onl...

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 ...

David Heiller A friend of our family called Monday morning with the urgent news that her son had a serious viral infection and needed to be rushed to Duluth for medical care. She asked if we could look after her four children after school while she and her husband stayed in Duluth at the hospital. Of course, I answered, of course. Three children, and one teenager, we can handle that. My wife called later in the day and told me to pick up a jar of spaghetti sauce. “The biggest one you can find,” she added. “Do you need hamburger?” I asked, trying to hide my excitement. Hamburger in our house is a rare treat, and so is store-bought spaghetti sauce. I say that knowing my wife will understand that it brings back fond memories of my college days, Hamburger Helper and all that. Cindy assured me that she already had plenty of hamburger on hand from our friend’s freezer. After I bought the half-gallon jar of spaghetti sauce, I thought about renting a movie for the kids. But I shook off that n...