When will the Christmas feelings come? ~ December 10, 1998

David Heiller

It’s shaping up to be a strange Christmas. There’s no snow! That could change in the next 15 days. But part of me thinks that this will be a brown Christmas.

I’m not complaining about the weather. We deserve another winter off. But my brother-in-law, Randy, made a good point on Sunday.

We were driving across the brown landscape of suburban Minneapolis on a bleak Sunday afternoon. I was singing the praises of the mild weather we’ve had so far.

But it doesn’t feel like Christmas, he said, unless there is snow on the ground.

I thought about that, and I hate to admit when my brother-in-law is right, but he is right. It doesn’t feel like Christmas yet, and I think lack of snow is to blame. Partly.

Take the Christmas tree outing. Usually when we cut a Christmas tree, we drag it home on a sled. Sometimes we’ve got snowshoes on our feet, the snow is so deep.

This year, late last Saturday afternoon, I put on a light jacket, hopped on the tractor with the trailer behind, and drove to the woods.

I parked on high ground near a bog. It was getting dark, and I’ve been known to get lost in the woods, so I brought a flashlight along. I walked about 50 yards to the edge of the swamp, took the light out of my pocket and hung it from a tree branch. It was 4:30 p.m., and already getting dark. Don’t you just love Minnesota?

Then I waded through swamp grass and six inches of water for a quarter mile. Every so often Ι glanced back to make sure the light was shining. It was. Is there anything more reassuring than a tiny speck of light on a dark walk in the woods?

I came to a tree that I had spotted earlier in the day, when I had gone on a Christmas tree scouting expedition. It hadn’t moved an inch, although it might have wished it could pick up its roots and run.

I sawed down the tree with my ceremonial Christmas tree saw that is used only once a year. I sloshed back to the friendly light in the tree, then on the trailer and tractor. Then I drove home.

Our home is slowly putting on its holiday clothes. The boxes—and there are many—have been taken out of the closet in our daughter’s room. My wife, Cindy, has emptied their contents onto the dining room table, and is finding a home for everything.

Now there’s a knick-knack in every nook. Stars made of twigs hang from a beam. Α Dickens Village lies on the living room chest. Lights snake along the wainscoting in the kitchen.

It’s amazing how nice the house looks when Cindy is done, although there is chaos leading up to that point. Cindy learned the art of Christmas from her mother, Lorely Olson, whom we called, with very little animosity, the Queen of Christmas.

Lorely and Noah, Christmas 1991.
She was an inveterate giver.

Lorely could overwhelm me on Christmas. Ι felt sometimes that she gave too much to the kids. It’s funny that they never complained. Looking back, I’m ashamed of my petty gripes. She was a generous woman, and Christmas is a season of generosity. She lived up to it and then some.

Several times on Saturday Cindy cried as she looked at some new item from a Christmas box. Her mom gave us many of the decorations.

Lorely died from cancer at age 64 just five weeks ago. We are thinking of her a lot these days. My thoughts are tinted with sadness at her dying so young, and with happiness at remembering how much Christmas and giving meant to her.

That’s what’s missing this Christmas. Lorely and snow. Their absence is keeping the holiday at bay for me.

But I’ve got a hunch that that will change, as the house lights up and gifts pile up under the tree, as cookies get baked and company comes, as familiar memories are recalled and familiar hymns are sung. Α happy Christmas will come once more.

As will the snow. Not too much though, please.

Bag Balm, Christmas and a token offering ~ December 14, 1998

David Heiller

Several people commented on my column about Bag Balm: Mona Sjoblom, Sharon Zimmer, June Christensen, Edwin Muse, and Fern Heiller, among others.

Here is what they said. I won’t put the names with the comments. I like to protect my sources. But you can have fun guessing.

One person said she uses bag balm on her feet, but doesn’t have a problem with it staining the sheets, because she doesn’t glop it on as thickly as I do. (You don’t know what you’re missing.)

Another person said Bag Balm was good for two other uses: chapped lips and hemorrhoids. Fortunately I can’t verify the latter.

Another person called to thank me for writing about Bag Balm. She said she used it for her dry skin caused by diabetes. She buys it in 4-1/2- pound cans (that’s a lot of hemorrhoids), and likes to give it away to her kids.

Another person wrote in a letter which is printed on this page: “Then we used it for diaper rash. It was better and healed faster than any of the other things we bought and used.”

Another person wrote this in a letter: “I sure laughed at the Bag Balm article. Just the day before, I’d been talking to Goldie about chapped hands, and we mentioned that.”

So the next time you see someone with diabetes, dry skin, cracked feet, chapped hands, chapped lips, dry skin, diaper rash, and hemorrhoids, and if they answer to the name of “Lucky,” do them a favor and buy them a can of Bag Balm, the 4-1/2- pound size.

Α refreshing interview

My interview with the four elderly Askov people about Danish Christmas traditions in this week’s paper was the highlight of my week.

It’s always pleasant to learn more about the old ways of Askov, and to get to know better such fine people as Alvin and Marie Jensen and Louie and Margaret Clausen.

The story they told is far from complete. There are as many memories on Danish Christmases past and present as there are people with Danish blood. The traditions have been passed down to many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. If you are one of these, consider yourself lucky.

Hats off to Askov citizens who are reigniting those old Danish traditions with a community celebration at 2:30 this Sunday at the community center.

The only down side of the interview was having Alvin and Marie confirm that they are indeed going to move to the Twin Cities area as soon as they sell their house. Askov won’t be the same without their birdhouses and birdfeeders and flowers and cinnamon rolls, and most of all their friendship and kindness.

Maybe we can forma group like Crime Stoppers to prevent them from leaving. We could call it Jensen Stoppers. I bet we’d get a lot of volunteers.

Praise the Lord and play the slots

Three weeks ago in church during the offering, I took out four coins to give to each of our two kids to put in the collection plate. I handed them to a friend to pass to the kids.

My friend raised her eyebrows and smiled wryly at me. One of the coins was a casino token. It had gone from an Askov American customer to the broken teapot on top of the fridge, where we keep loose change, to my pocket and to church.

I was embarrassed, because I have never been to a casino in my life, and this was church, after all, so I took the token back and put it in the tea pot, where it is awaiting a happier fate.

The sermon that day had been about the evils of gambling, after which the minister announced that there would be bingo that evening in the parish hall.

Just kidding, Owen.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

From Dutch Jones’ East of Bruno column, December 21, 1995. Dutch was an Askov American favorite for many, many years. She called ‘em as she saw ‘em:

Talk about Dave Heiller’s bag balm. I tell you, if it weren’t for it, my mother’s back sides would of been raw. Not one blemish on her bottom. I couldn’t buy it around Moose Lake so I went to Superior. They sell it in the drug store called udder balm and it’s listed in drug companies as a medicine product. I use it under my nose. When you get a cold and runny nose, it keeps scabs off. Come on now, I bet you have used it.

Christmas and winter are for the birds ~ December 29, 1994

David Heiller

My brother-in-law, Randy, and I were playing catch with a Frisbee on Christmas Day. Actually, we were playing catch with our dog, MacKenzie.

One of us would throw the Frisbee, and, Mac would race after it. Sometimes the Frisbee would float slowly over the snow, and the dog would leap and catch it.

The Frisbee was a gift to Mac from my sister-in-law, Nancy, who has a big heart with pets. Mackenzie’s acrobatic catches were fun to watch. They were her way of saying thanks, her gift back to us.

The turkey was on the grill, and the house was filled with the smell of dressing and sweet potatoes. The sun shined brightly on a 40-degree day, the second warmest Christmas on record, I learned later.

All of a sudden, the trees outside the house were filled with birds, chickadees, nuthatches, goldfinches, and grosbeaks. It, was noon, and they descended on our feeders like it was time for their Christmas dinner.

We always have some birds around our feeder, but this was like someone had rung a dinner bell. They stayed for about five minutes, long enough for me to sneak in the house and tell my wife, Cindy.

Evening Grosbeaks

Cindy is a bird lover too, so she had to get up and tell me they were evening grosbeaks. I can never keep pine and evening grosbeaks straight. (Here’s a trick to help: evening grosbeaks are yellow, like the sun in the evening.)

I don’t know why those birds came in and left like they did. Some bird expert could tell me, but I don’t really care. Just watching them made that gorgeous Christmas day even more beautiful. It was like a Christmas present from Mother Nature.

WE ALWAYS HAD BIRD FEEDERS when I was a kid. I don’t think Mom bought much bird feed, because we didn’t have a lot of money. But any bread crumbs or cracked walnuts or hickory nuts or corn would go out to the backyard by the big elm trees. Grandma would fill grapefruit skins with peanut butter or suet and set them out for a special treat.

Lots of birds came, and all were welcome, except the sparrow. Grandma was a bird racist. She hated sparrows, which she called “sparrah” with disgust in her voice.

Once I got a BB gun for Christmas. I snuck up to the feeder and shot a bird. It was a sparrow, so maybe I justified the killing. Mostly though, Ι was responding to the instinct to kill that most 11-year-olds possess.

My sister, Mary Ellen, saw me, and came out and said it was wrong, unfair, and just plain rotten to shoot birds at feeders, even if it was a sparrow. She was mad!

Maybe it was a lesson about prejudice. All I know is I never shot another bird at a bird feeder, and I passed the instructions sternly on to our 11-year-old son when he got a pellet rifle last year.

My favorite bird was always the cardinal. It’s the prettiest bird in Minnesota. They would look flashy with their red coats against the white snow. Someone would holler for us to look whenever a cardinal landed at the feeder. Unfortunately we are too far north for them, unless you are lucky like Liz Espointour in Askov, who has three at her feeders these days.

THERE ARE A LOT OF LOGICAL reasons for feeding birds. You feel good feeding them, helping them survive. They are fascinating to watch. Each is beautiful in its own way, even the sparrow. Sorry, Grandma.

But there is a serious side about bird populations that we need to keep in mind, painful as it is. Laura Erickson of Duluth writes about it in her book, “For the Birds, An Uncommon Guide.”

This excellent book is written like a diary. Most days the author tells fascinating tidbits about bird encounters that she has had. But her December 27 entry is more somber. She writes: “When we moved to Peabody Street in 1981, our feeders overflowed with birds. This time of year we had scores of grosbeaks, hundreds of siskins or redpolls, several chickadee flocks. Twelve years later, squirrels outnumber birds, we’ve only two chickadee flocks, and the last two winters we’ve had no finches at all.”

On December 28, she writes: “The destruction of the rainforest is tragically obvious, but fragmentation of northern breeding habitats may be equally disastrous...” She goes on about all the forces that are causing bird populations to dwindle.

There is something you can do to help in this important fight, besides keeping your feeders filled. Minnesota Department of Natural Resources has a nongame wildlife program that you can donate to on your Minnesota tax forms.

Donations are used to help preserve wildlife species that are not traditionally hunted or harvested, but are in jeopardy because of habitat loss, illegal killing, or other environmental threats.

Last year six percent of all taxpayers donated to the fund. The average donation was $8.14.

Editor's note: Laura's latest book (to my knowledge) The Love Lives of Birds: Courting and Mating Rituals
Here is the Amazon link: https://www.amazon.com/Love-Lives-Birds-Courting-Rituals/dp/1635862752/ref=sr_1_1?crid=31KVIWIQMUE5M&dchild=1&keywords=laura+erickson&qid=1608167788&sprefix=Laura+Eris%2Caps%2C209&sr=8-1

Let’s hear it for Bag Balm ~ December 7, 1995

David Heiller

Don’t laugh, but this column is about Bag Balm. Bag Balm is a product that is made to eliminate chapped skin on cow teats and udders. Hence, the name.

Some people think the name Bag Balm is udderly ridiculous. But I kind of like it. Not fancy, not pretty, but it fits.

According to the can, Bag Balm is made “For chapped teats, superficial scratches, windburn, and sunburn.”

The directions on the can say: “Massage thoroughly and allow ointment to remain for full antiseptic and softening effect on the udder.”

At the bottom in bold print, it says VETERINARY USE ONLY. You can ignore that line. It’s just a disclaimer in case some teenager tries to inhale it or something.

Farmers discovered by accident that the act of massaging a few teats made their hands feel better. In other words, what is good for the goose is good for the gander. Hands that were chapped and nicked up, like all farmers hands are softened and healed from the Bag Balm.

In my case, what is good for the teat is good for the feet. That’s where I use Bag Balm. This time of year, wearing Sorel-type boots, my feet get dry and cracked. The heels have big canyons in them; sometimes it even hurts to walk. I know I’m not the only one with this problem.

When it gets real bad, I grab the can of Bag Balm from my dresser and scoop a big glob of it in my hands and rub it into and onto both feet. It feels very soothing to both my feet and my hands. It smells good too, which I think is from the lanolin base.

It doesn’t soak into the skin like some of those limp-wristed hand creams. It’s more like axel grease, something the pioneers rubbed on the hubs of wagon wheels on the Oregon Trail. The can calls it a “stiff ointment.” That’s as good a term as any.

Then I put on a couple a pair of old socks and sleep with them on. In the morning, the skin on my feet actually feels like skin again, and not like Steger mukluks. The calluses’ are almost soft to the touch.

My wife doesn’t like Bag Balm. She uses products with names like “Avon Moisture Therapy, Moisturizing Lipid Complex.” (I personally could never use anything with a lipid complex.)

The main reason Cindy doesn’t like Bag Balm is that it stains the sheets if it works through the socks, which it does if you put on a half-inch-thick layer (like me), or if you always use a special pair of Bag Balm socks (like me). Cindy doesn’t like that, although stained sheets never bothered me much.

You can buy Bag Balm at most farm-related businesses, like the Willow River Mercantile or Askov Co-op Feed. A 10-ounce can costs about $4.50.

You can also buy it direct from its manufαcturer, Dairy Association Company, Inc, Lyndonville, Vermont, 05851; telephone (802) 626-3610. It comes in three sizes: one-ounce, 10 ounce, or 4-1/2-pound can for. $34.50. That’s a lot of teats.

The cans are green with red lettering. They look old fashioned and make a perfect stocking staffer for that favorite guy of yours, or an enlightened wife.

I’m not getting a kick-back from this column, no free can of Bag Balm. I just felt like singing the praises of something that actually works.

Give thanks for fall and friends ~ November 22, 1990

David Heiller

There’s a feeling that comes about this time of year when fall settles in and winter is just a week or two away. It’s a feeling that tells people to check their wood supply and tighten up their leaky farmhouses.

Grass dries up in the field and leaves crumble underfoot. It’s time to pick up the plastic buckets in the sandbox, and carry them to the shed, along with the Tonka dump trucks and bulldozers.

The dogs stay in all night, and would stay in all day too if you didn’t have the common sense to boot them out during the day where they belong.

Dogs outside, but not at night in the winter.

The cat catches mice every other day, proudly leaving them on the floor, where the wife, if she’s lucky, gingerly walks around them and calls for the husband to throw them outside. If she’s not lucky, you hear the blood-curdling scream that only a woman stepping barefoot on a dead mouse can evoke.

You work all through the weekend during the day, but the day ends dark and early, and you end up in the house by 5 p.m., just in time to watch the last 15 minutes of the Viking-Seahawks game, which the Vikings miraculously win.

It’s a nice time of year, and you feel lucky to be a part of it.

If you’re real lucky, you know a couple old-timers like John Fίltz or Palmer Dahl, and you get to know them better this time of year.

Palmer lives just south of Moose Lake, but he farmed for many years in Birch Creek Township, and there’s a lot of farmer left in him. He’s a quiet man, a bit shy, but thoughtful and generous and sharp.

He’s sharp in more ways than one. Palmer sharpens saws on the side for a little extra money. Very little, because he sure doesn’t charge much for his work.

I had my cordwood circle saw out two weeks ago, and noticed that the 20-inch blade labored through the wood. So I brought it in to Palmer, and he touched it up so well, it sparkled with a sharpness that made me nervous just picking it up, and only charged me $4 for a job that must have taken two hours.

Sometimes Ι give him odd jobs. Α couple months ago, it was a screwdriver with a chipped end. He ground it back into shape, as good as new, and didn’t charge me a penny. I knew he wouldn’t. He says he likes to see things put to good use, so won’t charge for them.

John Filtz is that way too, although he’s more worldly from his days of working railroad. He sharpens saws too, and makes firewood for himself and others at a pace, makes you think he isn’t 73 years old.

I bought a cord of wood from him one day. He said the price was $45 on the spot, $10 more delivered. Not bad for seasoned oak and maple, cut and split.

I explained that I’d have to borrow a truck, to come get it, so he allowed as Ι could use his tractor and wagon. Then when I went to pick it up, he allowed as he had time to drive the tractor. And of course he helped me load it and unload it, and didn’t charge extra, like I knew he wouldn’t.

When I asked if I could use his wood splitter he said sure, and seeing I didn’t have a hitch on my car, he let me borrow his new Chevy pick-up to bring the splitter to my house; then he spent an hour helping me split and came back and picked up the splitter on Sunday.

John Filtz and Palmer Dahl are what you call good neighbors. Fair, honest, hard-working. People you can trust. You can learn a few lessons in good neighborliness from them too.

I have a feeling the country was filled with John Filtzes and Palmer Dahls when they were in their prime 50 years ago. You still can find a few today if you’re lucky.

That’s why I feel pretty lucky this time year, when fall settles in and winter is ready to follow any day.

Luck with the law, one more time ~ November 5, 1987

David Heiller

“Just don’t get stopped with this trailer, because you might not get home with it.”

I looked at my friend, Dave Landwehr. He was lending me his eight-foot trailer to haul a piece of newspaper equipment from Grand Marais.

“Yeah, if the police stop you, they might not let you continue. You might end up spending the night.”

Dave is an honest guy. He speaks his mind. This was his way of warning me, “You can use my trailer, no problem, but it doesn’t have lights, so if you get stopped, be prepared for the worst.”

Cindy and I and our two children headed toward Grand Marais, pulling the tail-light-less trailer Saturday morning. As we passed through Duluth and up the North Shore, I thought about my luck with law enforcement officers this year. First, there was that trip to Nisswa in July. Sunday morning, on a straight stretch of Highway 18, a Crow Wing County deputy pulled us over. “You were going 71,” he said. He looked us over. Noah and Malika looked him over from the back seat. He checked his computer, saw no recent tickets, and gave us a warning. I shook his hand and said “Thank You.”

Then there was Oklahoma City, coming back from vacation in Texas in September. A state trooper pulled me over, and invited me into his car. “You know why I stopped you?” he asked.

Perhaps Noah should have been driving.

I’ve learned to be brief and honest with the police. “I guess I was speeding,” I said. Noah and Malika peered at us from the rear window of the car. They were both laughing. Their smiles looked innocent to the Oklahoman, but to me, they were saying, “There’s Daddy in the police car again.” I was glad he couldn’t hear them.

“I’m glad you said that,” the trooper said. “I hate guys who don’t admit what they were doing. I had you clocked at more than 70 back there. This is a 55-mile zone in the city. But because you were honest, I’m going to give you a warning.”

We drove slowly through the rest of Oklahoma City.

So as we approached Grand Marais last Saturday, I was feeling lucky, if not just a little confident. That is until we passed a state trooper in Tofte. I looked in the rear view mirror, and saw his brake lights come on, saw the U-turn. I slowed down, and headed for a pull-off even before his light came on.

The trooper walked up to us. Noah and Malika grinned at him, covered with yogurt in the back seat. “Please be quiet,” I thought to myself.

“Come back to my car, please,” he said.

Inside the car, he pulled out a form and started writing. “Let’s see, you were going 52 miles an hour in a 40 mile zone back there,” he began. “And you were over the center line about 20 percent of the time I saw you. Plus you weren’t wearing your seat belt. And you know this trailer doesn’t have tail lights?”

“Yes, I know,” I answered.

The man lectured me for several minutes, especially about the tail lights. “I’m going to give you a written warning ticket on this,” he said. “And if I see you on the road again today, I’m going to write you a ticket.”

We were 20 miles from our destination, so we had no choice but to continue. We picked up the machine there, and an hour and a half later, headed south, out of town and toward Tofte, into the Lion’s Den.

We didn’t have to go far. Before we even left Grand Marais, the same state highway patrolman passed us, going north. I looked at him, and he looked at me. I glanced in the rear-view mirror, saw his brake lights come on. But he didn’t U-turn his car. I pulled over in front of a bakery and left the car in a hurry. Cindy hadn’t seen our trooper friend. I stayed in the bakery for five minutes, looking over the cookies, while looking out the window for the patrol car.

There was none.

So we headed out of Grand Marais, careful to obey speed limits, careful to stay in our lane, careful to wear our seat belts, and always glancing in the rear-view mirror.

We made it home at 7 p.m. No ticket. “Now that was a fun trip,” I told Cindy. “Put a little adventure into it, right?”

Cindy just looked at me. Noah and Malika laughed. And I wondered when my luck would run out.

Just say no—to scrap lumber ~ October 25, 2006

David Heiller

Where does scrap wood come from?

I’ve been pondering that profound question recently. I’ve got a barn full of it, and the pile just keeps growing.

I know it’s not magic, but sometimes it seems that way.

There’s the pile of kindling in the east wing of the barn, the one that has fallen over three times, with a little help from Rosie the dachshund, who is always rooting around for possums and mice.

There’s another kindling pile in the barn proper that consists of cardboard boxes full of sawn up boards. No way will Grandma’s old trash burner consume that kindling in my life-time.

Next to that second pile are scrap boards that are too long to fit in the trash burner. They are waiting to be sawed up, put in a box, and added to the other pile.

There are the boards on the lumber pile in the west wing of the barn. I even built a rack for them. They are sorted by size, dimensional lumber down low, one inch lumber up above.

There’s the pile next to that, with nails in it, waiting for me to come along with the crow bar and claw hammer and make them safe and usable.

There’s the pile of tongue and groove ash boards, left over from when we built the house. Then there’s a pile of flooring, and a pile of plywood.

Truth is I can’t throw a board away. A long one, say anything over three feet, goes onto one of the lumber piles. The shorter ones go on the kindling pile.

I even moved all the scrap wood from my piles in Sturgeon Lake to Brownsville when we moved here in 2003. I remember Kevin Serres looking at my lumber pile shortly after that, when I had recruited him and his son to help me move a freezer. “What are you going to do with that?” he said, taking a drag from his ever-present mini-cigar and eyeing the boards with his famous skepticism.

“That’s my lumber pile;” I said, a bit defensively no doubt. It wasn’t the first time the question had been asked. “This board right here came from a friend in Stillwater, it’s a rough cut two-by-six, probably virgin white pine.” I not only know my lumber pile, I know where most of the boards came from.”

“Hmmph,” Kevin replied. He wasn’t impressed.

Sometimes the wood does come in handy. My rule of thumb when doing building or repair projects is to not spend any money on lumber. I built 120 feet of benches in the loft of the barn without buying one board, and replaced a bunch of rotten floor boards there too.

And it’s hard to say no to new acquisitions. When John Holzwarth called to see if I could use some old boards, I said yes. John even delivered them not too long after that. My lumber piles are minor league compared to John’s. They were good boards, poplar siding and one-by boards in many widths. John had sawn them himself, which made them even more valuable in my eyes. But they failed the test of time at his carpentry compound, so he happily parted with them and I happily took them. I didn’t offer to pay him anything either. In fact, I half-expected him to slip me a twenty for agreeing to take them. I have used them on several projects, and there’s still a pile of them in the barn. Oops, that’s another pile I forgot to mention.

Every so often I call people and ask if they can use some kindling. They’ll usually say yes, but not always. No doubt they are fighting off their own excess scrap wood addiction, and have learned a valuable skill—how to say no.

It’s only a game ~ October 31, 1991

David Heiller

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1991, 4:30 P.M. The importance of knowing how to lose comes home every so often, especially with children. It hit in our home on Wednesday evening, October 23, in the World Series.

My son, Noah, and I had been watching the game together for the first seven innings, just as we had watched all the other games together. Then I had to leave the living, room, as some friends came over to help move me move in a refrigerator

 A circumspect Noah.

I kept a transistor radio nearby as we struggled with the appliance. I swore as Hrbek struck out to end the eighth inning. I had to say no to Noah when he begged me to throw him the ball between innings, to bring the Twins good luck on defense. Finally, I had to hear the disappointing end on the radio, when Atlanta scored the winning run on a very close play at the plate in the bottom of the ninth.

I dashed into the living room as soon as I could, and saw the replay at the plate, saw that it was a good call. Then I saw Noah sitting very still, crying.

I said something very fatherly, like: “It was a good game. It was a good call at the plate. It’s too bad, but someone has to win and someone has to lose.” Noah trudged silently past me to bed. He didn’t believe in those words any more than I did when I was eight.

A bit later, when the fridge was in place and the house was still, I went up to Noah. He was lying quietly, half asleep. “Too bad the Twins lost, huh?” I said.

“Yeah, and it makes me sad,” he answered.

“Me too,” I said, and hugged him goodnight.

There’s no great moral to this slice of life. It didn’t change Noah’s future. He mulled it over for a short while, maybe 10 minutes, then went to sleep, and woke up groggy from another late night of baseball, and went to school, and didn’t say another word about it.

But it reminds me of at least a small moral: losing is important. It puts things in perspective.

Don’t get me wrong: It’s great fun to win. The exhilaration can be unforgettable, like with Kirby Puckett hitting that homerun in game six, last night, Saturday night. A lot of baseball fans will never forget that moment. I’ll take winning over losing any day.

But losing helps you keep an even keel. Clarence Sandberg reminded me of that on Sunday morning. Clarence is a friendly old man who lives north of Malmo. He processes wild rice for a sideline, and I stopped in to pick up some of the chaff for compost.

Clarence gave me some wheat with his chaff, in a figurative sense. I had never met him before, so I started talking about the great Twins’ game on Saturday night. Clarence admitted that it was a super game, but he quickly reminded me of how poorly the Twins had played Thursday night in Atlanta, losing 14-5.

“School boys could have played better,” I think is how he phrased it.

“That’s true,” I had to admit, feeling a bit deflated. “I wonder how they’ll do tonight.”

“It will be fun to watch,” he said. “But you know, it’s only a game.”

Clarence had never met me before. He didn’t know what a baseball nut I am. But he knew how to keep the game in perspective and keep an even keel. There was a lot of wisdom in his old eyes, and in those old words. It’s only a game.

MONDAY, OCT. 28, 1991, 12:15 p.m. Tom Kelly came up with the most memorable quote of an unforgettable night last night. He wanted to take Jack Morris out of the game in the tenth inning. Morris said he was fine. They argued back and forth, something a player and coach aren’t supposed to do. Finally Dick Such, the pitching coach, came along and backed Jack by saying, “I think he’s fine.”

Tom Kelly’s response: “Oh what the hell, it’s only a game.” Morris went out to pitch, and the. Twins went on to win.

Tom Kelly must have been reading my column again. Baseball is only a game. And win or lose, what a game it was in 1991!

To shoot, or not to shoot ~ October 31, 1996

David Heiller

The semi-trailer truck driver ahead of me flipped on his flashers as we approached the Kettle River Bridge on I-35 last Wednesday, October 23.

I was going north, heading home from work.

It was raining slightly. The wipers cleaned off the windshield every few seconds. Α gray fall day.

I slowed down, and wondered, what was going on.

Α man stood off to the left, swinging a red flashlight in his hand, waving us to keep moving. He had a grim, impatient look on his face. An accident, I thought. Α little further, a red flare was burning on the side of the freeway, to warn motorists to slow down.

On the right I saw a woman with a blanket over her shoulders getting into the back seat of a car.

On the left a car sat in the passing lane. It was terribly smashed. Somebody got hurt, I thought. I couldn’t see a second car, and I wondered how this one had been wrecked. It was bad.

Then I saw the body of a woman lying on the pavement. She had a blanket over her. It didn’t cover her head. She must be alive, I thought. I hoped. A man was standing over her. It looked like he was talking to her.

The accident must have happened just a few minutes earlier. There were no state patrol or county sheriff cars there yet, no rescue squads or ambulances. Just half a dozen people, the first ones to come upon a terrible accident.

But at the same time, I felt self-conscious. I could see myself taking pictures of a person who is terribly hurt, and I felt a bit of shame. What right did I have to do that? Wouldn’t I be adding_, to the pain that is already there? I didn’t want to do it. So I drove on.

That’s when I realized that I’ll never take an award winning photograph of pain or death or sorrow. The kind that is printed in Life Magazine. A bus boy stooped over a bleeding Bobby Kennedy. A black man crying as he plays the accordion for Franklin Roosevelt, who had died the day before.

I don’t have the instinct that separates a reporter from a victim or their loved ones.

If it is truly news, if it has an impact on many people, I can do it. Even then it isn’t always easy. I still feel like a vulture.

But the scene on the interstate wasn’t news. It was one family’s tragedy.

I read in the Duluth News Tribune two days later that the woman did die. Her name was Margaret Rose Hines from Duluth. She was 40.

The car was driven by her daughter, Allison Hines. It left the road and rolled, and Margaret Rose Hines was thrown from the vehicle.

Allison was not hurt. Allison’s three-week-old daughter suffered minor cuts. She was treated and released at Pine Medical Center in Sandstone.

I read Margaret Rose Hines’ obituary. Her nickname was Peggy. Her picture was printed. She liked to line dance and play pool. She was a registered nurse, and a long-distance runner, and she worked as a ski patrol volunteer at Spirit Mountain.

She sounded like a nice lady. She looked friendly. She was younger than me. An accident took her life. Now the lives of those around her will be changed forever.

I’m glad I didn’t stop and take pictures.

A friend like Howard ~ October 27, 1994

David Heiller

Every time I go to my hometown of Brownsville, I try to look up an old friend named Howard.

Sometimes he is busy and we don’t see him. He is a truck driver, and his hours are always changing.

Cindy and I always feel like something is missing on our trip to Brownsville when we don’t see Howard. And when we do see him, it makes our trip that much better.

Howard and David
(with our dogs Riley and MacKenzie)

That’s the way it was last Friday afternoon. The first thing he said to me was how he had been thinking of me lately. He had re-read an old letter, and wondered if I ever found a tractor part for my Oliver 60 tractor.

It felt good to know Howard had been thinking about me. We don’t write letters much. But I’ll find myself thinking about old friends like him every so often. It’s important to keep your friends in your thoughts, and good to know that they do the same.

Howard told us how he has been laid up from surgery since May. Now he’s attending to things on his two farms, mostly things to improve the land.

He told us how he’s driving his wife and two kids crazy, always being around. But when I kidded Joan about that a little later, while we sat in the kitchen having coffee, it was clear that Joan loved having Howard home.

It’s nice to have coffee with him in the morning, she said, nice when she comes home from work and Howard’s there.

Howard the Humble then said he didn’t have much to talk about when Joan got home. Hey honey, I almost got my hand caught in the power take off. Stuff like that.

That made me laugh. Sometimes when I spend all day in the woods, I’ll come in and talk about a tree I cut up, or what the dogs were doing.

Howard’s right; it isn^’t very interesting. But I’ve got a hunch Joan enjoys it just like Cindy does. It leads to other conversation that helps us keep our life in order.

Howard drove us around his home farm in his truck. Most of his fields slope down to valleys full of hardwood trees. He showed us land that he had cleared and woodpiles that he was working on.

He’s proud of his land, and he’s always improving it. He said he would sell it for the right price, but I wonder about that. Howard is one of those people that is tied to the land in a good way.

It makes him a better person, because that is where he is the happiest. That makes me happy too, because I’ll always have a friend back home as long as Howard is around.

We stopped at two apple trees that he had left in the middle of fields. I had to sample the apples. Howard knew that. So he stopped and let me out. One had red apples, another had yellow ones. They were loaded, and they were good.

He told us how he had taken one apple tree out, the practical farmer side of him had. I can see Howard going into the house that afternoon and saying, Honey, we took out that old apple tree. Then Joan saying, You what?!?

Like I said, those little conversations are good.

So now they have apple trees in their fields, like all good southeastern Minnesota farms have. The trees stand like bright bouquets on the green alfalfa.

Howard and Joan shared their farm dreams with us. We told them about the Peterson farm expansion in Birch Creek Township. Howard asked a lot of questions about it. Joan wanted to see it.

They hope to have a dairy farm some day. Howard had one after college, but lost it to high interest rates and low prices. Then he started driving truck. The money was good, better than milking cows, so he still drives truck and dreams about operating a dairy farm again.

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For a while he went with a woman who didn’t share his farm dreams. We knew that that one difference was like a Grand Canyon between them. Howard saw it too, and their relationship ended.

I hope everyone is lucky enough to have a friend like Howard.