A belated 1998 Christmas letter to Grandma ~ January 30, 1999

David Heiller

Dear Grandma:

Α funny thing happened last week. Cindy was driving to work, with me next to her. She had on her gloves, jacket, stocking cap and mukluks. I was two layers lighter, as usual, just wearing a shirt and pants, and feeling hot at that.

We came to the stop sign by Banning Junction. My window was frosted over. Cindy couldn’t see the on-coming traffic. I pushed the button and down came the window, all the way down. Cindy has asked me not to lower it all the way down, but I forgot.

The window hasn’t been working all the time lately. It sometimes gets stuck in the open position. I have to open and close the door. Then it works again.

Guess what happened last week? When I pushed the button to make the window go up, it wouldn’t budge. I opened and closed the door, and it still wouldn’t go up.

It was 16 degrees below zero outside. The window was all the way open.

So we drove the last four miles into Askov going 55 miles an hour, which created a wind-chill in the car of 82 degrees below zero.

I put my coat, gloves, and hat back on, but it was still a chilly ride. Good old Sebald Motor Sales fixed it that day.

I blame this little window incident on Christmas, Grandma, because it’s easy to get distracted at Christmas time and put off doing the normal things like fixing broken car windows, or writing Christmas newspaper columns on time.

I don’t know if this was true for you, but there’s a myth about Christmas to me, that it is a peaceful time, like the songs imply.

But it isn’t that way. There is too much to do. The season is more stressful than I like to think about. It’s a time of car windows that won’t close.

Yet there is much to celebrate in the midst of the chaos, as the cartoon For Better or Worse illustrates. The season hold’s more than its share of joy.

I can still eat your chocolate Christmas cookies. Cindy asked me last week, “What’s your favorite Christmas cookie?” and it didn’t take me long to answer, “Grandma’s chocolate cookies.” So she made them for me because she loves me as much as Scott Domogalla loves Julie.

oh gifts!

The kids are easy to appreciate too. Noah complained that there were no presents under the tree for him to poke and prod. He can find the funniest things to complain about. He may be 16-1/2 years old, but there’s a lot of little kid in him. I knew exactly what he was saying. We both laughed about it. I brought a couple gifts home for him to man-handle before Christmas.

Mollie sang at two church services on Christmas Eve and that was nothing to complain about either. She asked me if I would accom­pany her, which I answered as quickly as I did Cindy’s question about your cookies. Yes! I hope her singing never stops.

Is there anything better about Christmas than the songs we sing? Yes, some of them paint Norman Rockwell pictures. But they still hold a lot of love and hope.

 "I hope her singing never stops."

Christmas gives me a chance to think about you too, and the good old days. Having you upstairs, playing cribbage, listening to your stories. I find comfort in the past, even though you no doubt had your share of stress.

How many times did you tell me about the Christmas when you were a little girl in Nebraska and you got an orange for Christmas, and how good that orange tasted? Not enough times, Grandma. not enough. I can still taste it!

You taught me to be thankful for a lot of things. Thanks for that, Grandma. I hope all is well with you and your old friends Up There.

Love, David

A walk in the woods with Mike ~ December 8, 1994

David Heiller

Mike was working on his 1970 Polaris snowmobile when we drove up Saturday morning. He was using a hair dryer to thaw the frozen fuel pumps. Our 11-year-old son looked at it in disbelief.

He’d never seen anything so old and beat up.

Mike didn’t see it that way.

“It’s the best one I’ve owned,” Mike claimed.

He bought it five years ago for $50, and it runs if you take a hair dryer to the fuel pump every winter.

Mike and Donna at our house, petting MacKenzie.

Mike and Donna live seven miles southwest of Willow River. Donna had told us we could cut a Christmas tree on her land. She was working Saturday, so Mike led us out to the woods. Actually, their two big Labradors did the leading.

We found a beautiful tree right away, a nine-foot white spruce. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close. Towards the top it tapered in a bit, then spread out again, like a crown on the three Wise men.

It was too nice a morning to just cut the tree and go home. So we kept walking. Clouds covered the sky. The woods were full of soft greens and browns. The snow was melting, perfect for making a snowman. Half a dozen grouse flew off along the trail. One would fly, then after a few seconds, another would follow. The dogs nosed after them half-heartedly, as if they just wanted a leisurely stroll too.

My wife, Cindy, said grouse will only flush two times, then they get tired. She had read that in Laura Erickson’s book, For the Birds. Mike said that wasn’t true at all, not from his experience. But they didn’t argue. It was too nice a day, and the Christmas spirit was on them.

Mike led us to some balsams. They were growing in a grove of white pines. The balsams were spindly. Not much sunlight could penetrate there. It was like a cathedral, very peaceful. Some of the pines were dying. Survival of the fittest.

Back in the field, we cut the spruce with a hand-saw that I use once a year, just for this purpose. I felt sad, cutting down this strong tree that had survived so well. The fittest trees don’t always survive.

There’s something wrong about cutting Christmas trees, I said.

Cindy reminded me of the many trees we have planted over the years. I looked around at all the trees in the field that Nature had planted too, and the guilt didn’t last any longer than it does every December.

My son and I carried the tree back to the pick-up like successful hunters. It was 15 years old, judging by the rings on the end.

The day wouldn’t let us go

We were ready to say our goodbyes, but somehow the day wouldn’t let us. Mike pointed to a big spot on a tree half a mile away. He pulled out a pair of binoculars from his coveralls.

“An eagle,” he said. It was on the far side of the field. He and Donna had been watching several eagles feed on something in the field for three days. Another large bird sat in a tree on the near side of the field, about a quarter mile away. It didn’t have a white head or tail, but it was huge. We decided in unison to take a closer look.

We walked through a swamp toward the bird trying to keep as much alder brush between us and the bird as we could. The dogs kept close by Mike’s side. If they went too far, he would call their names in a 1οw, sharp voice. Then they would wait for us, as if they knew we were stalking something.

Finally we came to a big pine tree about 80 yards from the bird. We stepped out for a good look. It was an immature bald eagle, about three feet tall, with a mottled breast and head. It looked at us sternly, as if to say, “You think you were sneaking up on ME?” Then it took off on wings that spread at least six feet. As it passed over the field, two crows spotted it and took off in pursuit. A mature eagle flew off the other way, its white head and tail glowing against the clouds.

We walked until we came to their luncheon: a small deer, with nubs of antlers just poking out. Eagles and crows had picked it over. The back bone was exposed, the entrails long gone. Those birds weren’t wasting a bite. The ground was covered with their footprints. Wing marks showed where they had landed and taken off.

We set the tree up when we got home. It is beautiful, covered with lights and ornaments? It will overlook a holiday of love and family and friends, and tell the story of Christmas past and present, and the story about our walk in the woods with Mike.

Old outhouses never die ~ November 26, 1992

David Heiller

I’ve been sitting on an outhouse column, so to speak, for several months. That’s because I had seen a want ad in a local paper back then that read: FOR SALE: Outhouse $150.00.

I figured that anyone who is selling his outhouse must have a story to tell the Askov American.

First some background: We have an outhouse at our place. I guess it’s MY outhouse, since I’m the only one who uses it. Cindy hasn’t used it much since last summer, when a garter snake dropped on her.

Occasionally Mollie will hitch a ride on my back and join me there. It’s a two-holer. But she does this less out of physical need than curiosity or if she has something urgent that she needs to talk about. Things like how her best friend doesn’t like her anymore, or whether she can watch TGIF on Friday.

It was never a pretty outhouse, but the door
 faced our field and the view was glorious.
(It was extremely rare that anyone
ever shut the outhouse door.)

Mostly the outhouse is my domain, and the truth is I like it that way. A man needs a place to call his own, even if it is a lowly outhouse. Cindy used to want me to paint the inside a pretty color, something other than its drab green. I refused. Paint it one day, the next she’d have lace curtains in it. So she gave up on it and moved into the house.

Will Rogers once said that he never met an outhouse he didn’t like. I agree with him. I like my outhouse. The roof leaks, it needs painting, and it’s leaning a bit, but that just adds character. It sounds strange, but I prefer an outhouse over a regular bathroom. Every once in a while, I’ll talk to some old timers, and mention my outhouse, and they will get a wistful look in their eye, and tell me how much they miss their old outhouse. I am not kidding.

It’s a place to get away from the dull roar of the household on a school morning. It’s quiet. The Farmer’s Almanac is handy, with it zillions of facts about old varieties of apples and when the moon is full. A couple of new catalogues are waiting if I want some new reading material, or if I need them for other reasons.

The outhouse keeps me in touch with the seasons too. This time of year, I can see Orion on my way to the outhouse at night. I can watch the snow fall an arm’s length away, and see the tracks of deer in the garden.

In the spring, I’ve got a good view of a bluebird house on a fencepost 20 feet away. That’s fun to watch. In the summer, I like to look at our garden. Sometimes our dog, Ida, will come in and say hello.

There ARE a few January days and nights when I don’t enjoy the outhouse. But only a few.

SO WHAT KIND OF man would be selling his outhouse, I wondered. (I knew it had to be a man and not a woman.) I called the number last Sunday evening, and asked the man (I was right) if he still had an outhouse for sale. “I sold that,” he answered.

“Was it used?” I had been waiting months to ask that question, and I managed not to laugh.

It was a new outhouse, he said a bit smugly. “I built it.” It had measured four feet by three feet by seven feet, and a lady east of Cloquet had bought it because she was having trouble with her septic system, he said.

I got the feeling that this guy cares about his outhouses, takes pride in them. He knows their case histories like a social worker.

An example of a Charming Outhouse.
For some reason, I thought a classy
outhouse would be nice. Charming even.
We did not have that charming outhouse,
and I did not take too many days of two kids
under the age of two and brutal winter winds
for me to realize that no matter what an
 outhouse looked like, it did not change
 the reality of the situation.

“I build a couple of them every once in a while,” the man explained. Most of the buyers put them in the back of their trucks and take them to their cabins up north. Sometimes they have to portage them, he said, which is why he only builds one-holers.

“I like them to last.” he added. “I’ve sold them for $125 all the way to $75.” That barely covers the cost of materials, he said.

He asked if I wanted to buy one. He could make me one if I wanted. I said no, I guess not. He’d have to pay ME to replace my outhouse, I thought with equal smugness, but I didn’t tell him that.

The interview ended. At first I was disappointed. I had been hoping for some old guy who would talk about the good old days on the farm, and how he missed the shack. What I got was an ambitious guy my age who made a few extra bucks on the side building outhouses.

But now that I write this, I’m feeling better. It’s reassuring to know that other people still use their little house out back.

Old outhouses never die, even though they may smell that way. They just get taken up north. Gen. MacArthur said that.

So if that outhouse builder becomes flush with success, more power to him.

Need any tomatoes? ~ September 6, 2006

David Heiller

I’ve been asking that question a lot lately.

We’ve got a bumper crop of BHN665 toma­toes. That’s the very ordinary name for the vari­ety I bought from Johnny’s Seeds. It’s not a typi­cal tomato name. Some people will only plant a tomato with “beef” in its name. Beefy Boy, Beefy Girl, Big Beefy Momma.

David and a small portion of our bumper crop.

But good old BHN665 came through big time. I planted the seeds in March, then transplanted them about three times. They fought through some blossom end rot during the dry spell, and now they are pretty much thick and perfect.

We’ve frozen a lot, and we’ve made two dif­ferent kinds of salsa too, with more, much more, waiting to be made.

I’ve given a lot away too. It’s a lot of fun to do that. Some people really appreciate it.

Jane Palen, who also works at The Argus, is one of them. She gets excited, and even describes what she will do them. “Why, I think I’ll slice them up, and layer them with fresh mozzarella. Then I’ll drizzle on some olive oil, and sprinkle chopped fresh basil on top;” she’ll say in a very refined voice, just short of an English accent.

I haven’t done a lot of drizzling in my life, so I have to take her word on that.

She took another batch home, then talked about cutting up two cups of tomatoes and making a Greek pasta toss. That sounded more like an Olympic event than something to eat. But I’m sure it will be good. It’s an honor for my BHN665 tomatoes to be treated thusly.

That’s the thing about summer tomatoes. They are good just about any old way. High cuisine or low. In a casserole, as goulash, on a piece of toast with cheese on top. As fresh salsa. Or just cut up on a plate, dashed with salt — that goes good with any supper.

But enough is enough. I have more than I can use. So before familiarity breeds contempt, I’ve been giving tomatoes away. And I’m finding other people in the same predicament.

I asked Diana, another co-worker, if she could use any. “No!” she said, as if Dr. Mengele had just tapped into a root canal.

Vi Lange had a similar response when I asked her. I was worried for a second that she might throw a double chicken wing on me like she taught to all those wrestling sons of hers. But she caught herself in time, and politely allowed as she had plenty of tomatoes, thank you very much.

Dawn Schuttemeier didn^’t need any either. She had tons from her sister Robin, and her stepdad Roger had so many from Al Hues­mann, who has a tomato patch that can be seen from the Space Shuttle, that he brought bags and bags home and said to Mom, “Let’s can tomatoes tonight,” and Mom said are you crazy, but she^’s canning them, so no Dave, I don^’t need any tomatoes.

OK, sheesh.

The one I was really worried about was little Cassie Heimer, who stood on the edge of County Road 3 in Brownsville the other day holding a sign saying “Tomatoes for sale:” That^’s not a safe thing to do when there is a surplus of tomatoes. She survived, luckily.

Tomato season will soon pass. That’s the other interesting thing about tomatoes. They are like that heat wave we had this summer. We get a little tired of it, but come winter, our outlook will do a 180. Our day dreams will turn to warm weather, and fresh summer tomatoes.

Move over Daniel, the lion’s den is full ~ August 21, 1986

David Heiller

A friend of ours asked my wife if he could bring his three kids over for two days and two nights of babysitting this week. Cindy asked me if I would mind. I told her no, that should be fine. I would be at work during the day and most of the night too, since this is Askov Fair Week.

“Oh by the way, honey,” she added nonchalantly, “I’ve got a meeting in Minneapolis on Monday. But I’ll get Glenda to babysit.”

“That shouldn’t be any problem, I replied, thinking of Glenda, poor Glenda, who has five kids of her own. If anyone could handle five more kids, Glenda could.

Two of the usual suspects

So our friend’s three kids arrived Sunday night, and our friend drove off to his job in St. Paul with a smile on his face, a smile only a single parent can have who is returning to work without three of his kids. Inside the house, the volume on the kids went up 150 percent, which is the increase in lung power we suddenly had inherited. But I didn’t mind. Noah woke up, and came downstairs to join in. Malika started crying in her crib. Our two oldest guests headed for the sandbox in the twilight to fill up on sand.

But this didn’t bother me. Cindy and Glenda could handle it tomorrow. I’d probably be working late anyway, maybe even late enough to miss the Witching Hour—supper, baths, teeth-brushing, sandy feet, 150 percent volume.

Cindy and I slept on the hide-a-bed Sunday night, after the kids wore themselves into sleep upstairs where we usually abide. I slept well, not worrying about the kids, thinking more about Danish Days than babysitting. At breakfast the next morning, I asked Cindy, “Oh by the way, when is your meeting today?”

“Oh, ah, 4:30,” Cindy answered.

“4:30 this afternoon?^” I said.

“Yeah,” Cindy answered, hearing the tone of fear in my voice, but not acting surprised.

“You mean, I have to come home from work at 4:30?”

“Hu-huh. Unless you want Glenda to have them during supper.” She knew what my answer to that would be. Not even the Romans would have done that to Daniel in the lion’s den.

“And you won’t be home until...” My voice trailed off.

“After the kids are in bed,” she finished.

I drove quickly to Glenda’s house after work on Monday, thinking of Daniel in the lion’s den. “How did it go?” I asked, Searching her face for bruise marks or other signs of babysitter abuse.

“Just fine,” she answered. There were no bruise marks. She wasn’t even sweating.

Things are always more complicated with kids around... but FIVE?!

As she threw the kids in the car, she said, “You’ll do fine, David.” I hadn’t even asked her, but she knew the challenge ahead.

The challenge started with supper. Cindy had made a hotdish, complete with tomatoes, zucchini, onions, cheese, and bulgar The kids just looked at the heap of red food on their plates. Seth, the oldest at nine, ate two bites, which is two more than the other four. They sat there and stared at their plates, their lips hinged tight. I knew what a good parent should say.

Something like, “Try one bite, then you can be excused.^” Or “Eat some, or you can’t have a snack later.” Or even, “Shovel it down or you’re sleeping in the outhouse—bottom floor.”

Instead, just said, “Get out of here,” and watched them scramble for the door. I thought the supper was great, and ate all their leftovers.

Once outside, I let the kids go, and watched them from the kitchen window while I did the dishes. First Matt pulled Noah in the wagon, then Noah pulled Matt. Seth and Leah collected apples from the apple tree. Leah shook from the bottom, until she broke off a branch. I went to the window and said, “no more shaking.” Then they grabbed the other wagon and took turns pulling Mollie. Seth climbed the maple tree by the house to get our cat. He called out to me, “Dave, your cat’s stuck in the tree.” I went outside. The cat was fine, but Seth needed help getting down. So Leah climbed the tree too. At that point I knew I would make it, because I literally had Leah up a tree. For a split second the thought crossed my mind to leave her there, but I went back outside and rescued her.

Bedtime went in shifts. First, at 7:15 Mollie got a bath, tore up a book, and fell into her crib. Then Matt and Noah look double baths in the kitchen sink, side-by-side. Then books, a couple songs, collapse into bed. Finally Seth and Leah washed their hands and feet of sand, put on their pajamas, and read a book, then staggered to their upstairs room at 8:45. It took an hour and a half from start to finish, but amazingly, it was OK. In fact, with the hugs at bedtime from this motley crew, it was almost worth it.

Cindy drove up from her meeting five minutes after the last ones were in bed. That’s what you call good timing. She asked how it all went. I wanted to ask her, “How would you like to have three more kids?” But sanity got a grip on me and I answered, “Just fine.”

Even Daniel survived in the lion’s den.

‘Pst! Hey you! Wanna buy a good used car, cheap?’ ~ July 18, 1985

David Heiller

 The heat is on to buy a new car, or at least a newer one than the 1979 Bobcat which we currently own.

The 1979 Mercury Bobcat.
Ours was red. Ours should have been dead.
The Bobcat had no heat, so the year I worked part time in McGregor, 
David wrapped baby Noah in a sleeping bag, and then
 we would tuck me in. He closed the gigantic door 
by lifting and pushing, and off I would go through the 
wilds of the Arthyde swamp. 
The return home was more complicated, since you 
did need a second adult to close the door.
It was a long and cold winter.

The heat is coming from my wife, from my family, from my wife’s family, from every direction but the car itself. You see, the car, Lucy, doesn’t have any heat. That’s one of her drawbacks. The heater hasn’t worked for two winters. But that doesn’t bother me, at least not now.

“Face it David, this car is in bad shape,” Cindy said as we headed Lucy down to Minneapolis for a family get-together last weekend.

“Bad shape?” I said, trying to make my voice sound confident, like an auto mechanic’s. “This engine’s only got 56,000 miles on it. I change the oil every 2,000 miles. I’d say—” here I paused, gaining momentum in my voice—“I’d say this car is in pretty good shape.”

“It’s a rusted-out piece of junk,” Cindy countered. “Look at the body. Rust all over.”

“There’s hardly any rust, for a 1979,” I said.’

“For a ‘79, it’s falling apart. The body has 148,000 miles on it. The tailgate doesn’t close, the fan doesn’t work, the heater doesn’t work, the driver’s door doesn’t shut.” Now she was gaining momentum. “I can’t even drive this car. I can’t get that darn door shut without help.”

The argument continued on, as it usually does, me standing up for Lucy, Cindy working to improve our lot. As usual, we held our respective ground. I said the car was in “good” shape, while Cindy said it was in “bad” shape.

Perhaps more than ever before, buying a new car is major investment. Some vehicles that pass us on the road, we say, “There goes 35 acres and a house,” because those certain cars and trucks are worth more than we paid for our farmstead four years ago.

Of course, not everyone needs to buy a new car. A good used one can be purchased for a mere $3,000 or $4,000.

When we arrived at my sister’s house for my family reunion on Sunday, I immediately sensed trouble. Lucy was out of her league. I backed her into a slot next to my brother-in-law’s 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass. In that same driveway was another new Olds, a new Honda, and a new Toyota van. Even my mother’s modest Dodge looked good next to Lucy. In the garage: three 35-acres-and-a-house vehicles, in the form of a couple Mercedes and Jeep Wagoneer.

All together, there was well over $100,000 worth of automobilia on that slab of blacktop.

No one paid Lucy much mind, until we were getting ready to leave. All the adults moved out into the driveway to mill around, hands in pocket, saying all those last-minute things that we forgot to say earlier. The men circled Lucy cautiously, like British police suspecting a bomb on some Northern Ireland street.

“I see you got new tires,” one remarked, recalling last Christmas, when I backed Lucy over a large rock and metal reflector on his lawn.

“Who made this one?” another asked, pointing to a dimple in the right front side.

“Aw, Cindy hit something,” I said casually, trying to separate that dent from the ones on the tailgate and left wheel well.

“Hey, doesn’t this tailgate shut?” someone asked.

I don’t know who, because faces were starting to blur as I fought to defend Lucy.

“Yeah, I’ve got the piece to fix it—got to do that one of these days,” I said with a fake laugh.

“What happened to the grill here?” another asked, pointing to a broken piece of imitation chrome.

“Oh that’s nothing. I have to put the screwdriver in there so I can open the hood. The cable broke for the inside lever release,” I replied.

Cindy senses the crowd mood like a pro, and spoke like Moses above the rumblings of the relatives. “Oh, but this car is in good shape, right Dave?” She said as she put the baby in the back seat.

“Well I don’t know about good, but it’s OK,” I compromised, sliding into the driver’s seat to make a get-away. “I think it’s got a couple more years left.”

I rolled down my window to say the final good bye. One of my sisters tried to shut my door for me. It bounced back open. She tried again—but it still didn’t latch. “Here, there’s a little trick to it,” I laughed, lifting the door up with both hands and crashing it into place.

I started the engine—thankfully it started—and we bucked down the driveway, amidst exhaust fumes and waves of good byes, and probably a few prayers that Lucy would hold up for our 150 mile trip home...

She did. I have complete faith that she will keep on being a “good” car, or at least OK.

Keep using the things you love ~ June 7, 2001

David Heiller

“Where are all the water bottles?” Cindy hollered from the kitchen on Monday morning. “I just bought two new ones a couple weeks ago.”

“I threw one away. It had a leaky top,” I shouted back. I won’t tolerate a leaky water bottle.

“Where are all the others?” Cindy persisted.

“Water bottles are like jackknives. They have a life of their own,” I answered. I felt very wise with that analogy. The wisdom part didn’t last long. It never does. But it did get me thinking about things—supposedly inanimate things—that come and go seemingly of their own free will.

David loved his water bottles and he used them.
(This was a Christmas of Gustavus Adolphus College gifts from our daughter. 
Of course a Gustie water bottle for Dad was a must... They probably had Gustie jackknives too, but  I imagine that they did not fit a students budget!)

Water bottles are like that. Cindy and I both carry water bottles with us. One day they are sitting on the counter. The next day not a one can be found.

Cigarette lighters fall in the same category. We only use them for lighting the sauna and burning trash. Some days the junk drawer is full of them, and on other days we can’t find any.

How about socks? How can one sock so consistently disappear? Eventually the missing sock turns up, but not always, as the basket of unmatched socks in the laundry room testifies.

To me, jackknives are the granddaddy of self-motivated things. They disappear and re-appear almost on a daily basis. That’s aggra­vating, because I tend to become attached to jackknives in an emotional sense. (And you ladies didn’t think men had feelings.)

Sometimes you can guess how the jackknife disappeared. I remember going on a winter camping trip with my son several years ago. I gave him my Schrade Old-Timer, a knife that I had bonded with. But the trip was a bit dangerous and I wanted him to have the best knife possible. We came back safely. When I asked for the knife a few days later, Noah said he couldn’t find it. I figured the knife was in a pair of pants that he had worn. But his pants had disappeared too, as you will understand if you have teenage children.

David and the Christmas
 of jackknife-gifts.

The next winter, when Noah put on a pair of his winter pants, guess what he found in the pocket? My trusty knife! The funny part is that I lost it again shortly after that, and it still hasn’t shown up. But it might someday. That’s one of the positive things about jackknives—when they finally reappear, they do so with the fan-fare of the prodigal son, at least in the minds of the average male. (And you ladies thought us guys were emotional cripples.)

I could go on and on about knives I’ve lost and found. But I will end on a serious note. People do get attached to certain items. Jackknives are one of those items for me. I have a couple that I really, really treasure. One used to be my dad’s. I never knew my dad. He died four months before I was born. But the knife was in our family when I was growing up. My brother Danny and I used it a lot. Someone—probably Danny—snapped off a blade when he tried to pry something with it. The other blade didn’t close all the way, and if you reached for it carelessly, it would stab you. Remember how I said knives had a life of their own?

Danny had the knife for many years, and one day he gave it to me, which meant a lot. I had a friend grind down the broken blade so that it now has a point and can be used. Another friend fixed the other blade so that it closes all the way and is no longer a threat. Now the knife is better than ever.

This knife has a wooden handle that has soaked up decades of sweat and dirt, mine, my brother’s, my dad’s. I showed it to a knife dealer a couple years ago, thinking it might be unique. He said it was called an electrician’s knife, a very common knife, not valuable at all. Except to me.

My other special knife is a battered Swiss Army Knife. My wife gave it to me for our wedding 21 years ago. It has disappeared a time or two, but it usually comes right back.

I keep a close eye on it, but I keep using it. I don’t want to tuck it away in a drawer. It’s important to keep using knives that you like. That’s what makes them special. You shouldn’t hide the things you love.

Making the fishing trip list ~ May 20, 1993

David Heiller

The list has been started, in my head at least. Jack-knife, binoculars, good book. Essential things for a five-day fishing trip.

The Socks

Matches, candle, plenty of socks. About four years ago, it rained so much that all my socks got wet. Cold feet. I was miserable. It was even worse when I had to watch the other three guys wearing warm socks and smug smiles.

That was the trip I snuck a rock into Paul’s pack, which more than made up for my physical discomfort. He still promises to get me back. I wonder if he will this year?

I wonder at things like that these days. My thoughts are drifting like a canoe toward our fishing trip, drifting like that canoe Dave forgot to pull onto a portage last year. It floated across the bay like a silver phantom, and Dave had to retrieve it using MY canoe. I’ve got pictures to prove it. I guess I had a smile that time.

Maps, compass, flashlight. I’ll be working in the garden, and I’ll feel the wind coming from the northwest, and I’ll wonder how that wind will feel on Cherokee Lake, how it will affect the fishing.

The Paddles.

On a sunny day, I’ll hope it’s like that up north. I can almost see that blue water and blue, blue sky. On a rainy day, I’ll hope we see that weather too, a little at least, just to see the rich green moss on the rocks, just to appreciate the sun that much more.

I wonder how many sleeping bags Jim will bring. He used to bring one, but got so cold one year that now he brings two. Will he go for three this year? He’ll take some teasing on it.

How will Paul fare as the only smoker? He won’t have Dave to bum them from any more, since Dave kicked the habit. I think about things like that these days.

The other guys do too. Dave called two weeks ago and asked in a worried voice if I had my fishing gear ready for the trip. I laughed and said, “Are you kidding?” He said, “Me neither,” in a relieved voice. We both will get it ready a few days before, at the most.

Fishing license, life jacket, Msukanis paddle. My fishing gear will include a red and white spoon with two red eyes that Dave gave me for Christmas last year. Dave’s will include a new rod, after he broke his last year on a 20 pound slab of granite.

Our family starts thinking about the trip too. Cindy has her own list of all the things I need to do before I go. De-tick and shampoo the dog. Get wood chips. Fill the wood box. Mow the lawn. Sheetrock the porch.

The Goodbyes.

Same with the kids. Malika came out to the garden on Saturday evening in her nightgown. She said she wanted to say goodbye. I said it was only Saturday. “We’ll only have a chance to see you three more times, Sunday, Monday morning, and Tuesday morning,” she said.

I smiled. It’s not like I’m going off to war or anything. But I didn’t say that, and we hugged in honor of her love and her dramatic train of thought.

The next morning she put it into seven-year-old perspective: “Bring me back something,” she reminded me.

Noah asked that I bring home some fish for him. I said that I would try. Maybe that Red Eye spoon will catch another eight-pound lake trout, like that one I caught four years ago. I could show you pictures, but Jim’s camera wasn’t advancing the film. I’ve got to remind him of that.

Oh yeah, don’t forget the camera.

Just watch out for creeping Charlie ~ May 30, 1996

David Heiller

One of the nice things about gardening is giving plants away and receiving plants in return. A friend, “Cynthia,” came over for supper a couple weeks ago. Before she came, she asked if we would like some physostegia. I think that’s how you spell it. Like most flowers, it also has a common name, “sensitive plant.”

I thought it was mighty sensitive of Cynthia to ask, so I said yes. Never turn down a free plant, unless it’s creeping Charlie. More about that later.

“Do you have any catnip?” I asked. Yes, this sensitive person replied, and she brought some of that along too. Both of them are growing in our garden now.

After she left, I was mad at myself because I didn’t send any plants home with her. I meant to. But I will. Guys can be sensitive too. Another friend, whom I will call “Liz,” dropped off her daughter to stay with our daughter on Sunday. We sent Liz packing with some foxglove and hollyhocks. And the next day, when she came to pick up her daughter, Liz had some phlox for us. We found a choice spot for it right away.

I brought another friend, named “Sue,” some Sweet William a few weeks ago. She thanked me sincerely. She’d had a hard day, she said, and a plant was just what she needed. Then Sue called on Sunday and said she had some extra asparagus for us, and if we stopped to get it, could we bring a bleeding heart and a few hollyhocks?

David is partially responsible for 75% of all hollyhocks growing
 in northern Pine County! He loved giving them to people.
 This photo was taken by Cindy Mae Swee.

No problem. I dug them up and we dropped them off, and the next day, Sue called again and asked if we could use any potatoes. Yes. Never turn down free potatoes. Now creeping Charlie on the other hand...

I could go on. Maybe you’ve got similar stories. If you do, you know that it is just plain fun to give and receive plants. Giving something you’ve grown, something that’s alive, is like giving a part of yourself.

And contrary to that old cliché, ‘tis even better to receive than give. When the plants grow and flower, or are harvested, they remind you of that person.

I was interviewing Erv Prachar of Willow River for our Spring Home and Garden Edition about a month ago. He’s got a fantastic garden. I noticed some peonies in his yard, and mentioned that I liked peonies. “Yeah, my sister, Albina gave them to me. They come from the home place,” Erv said in that loud voice of his.

Albina Sostak is a great flower giver, and she gave me some peonies last fall, which are doing well. I told Erv that. “Hey, we’re related,” I and that made us both laugh.

Think about it. Our gardens must make Peyton Place look like a nursing home. There are probably first cousins marrying each other right before our eyes, and we don’t even know it. Maybe that’s why we plant them in flower beds.

Creeping Charlie looms large... yikes...

As for that creeping Charlie, I have a whole yard full of it. And it all started from a slip plant that a “friend,” whose name is “Chauncey” (I’m not making that one up either gave me back in 1981 when we were selling insurance together. He gave it to me at a sales meeting, and said I was as persistent as creeping Charlie, and I took that as a compliment, and planted it, and now it’s proving a lot more persistent than I’ll ever be. It’s the zebra mussel of the plant world. Nothing can stop it from spreading.

My wife, whom I’ll call “Cindy”, still reminds me about it every time she pulls creeping Charlie from the flower garden in the front yard.

So give some plants away. You’ll feel and you’ll get a few in return. Unless you give creeping Charlie.