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.