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.

...

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.

Getting ready for deer hunting ~ October 30, 1997

David Heiller

My son, Noah, is going deer hunting for the first time this year. I bought him a license. He is 14, and because he is under age 16, he can shoot either a doe or a buck in our woods.

I will be going with Noah, but I won’t be hunting or carrying a gun. I didn’t buy a license for myself.

Noah

Most people don’t know that DNR game warden Curt Rossow of Willow River was the person responsible for letting youths shoot either a buck or doe (in areas where antlerless permits are given).

He told me on October 28 that it took his daughter, Heidi, seven years to get an antlerless permit. Now it’s possible to get one right away. Young hunters have a better chance at success, which will more likely keep them hunting. Thanks, Curt!

I went deer hunting a few times when I was Noah’s age. I used an old 12-gauge pump shot-gun that we had. It was in bad shape. The stock had electrical tape holding it together. Luckily it didn’t misfire and kill anybody. It had a tendency to go off on its own free will.

Noah will be following my footsteps on November 8. He’ll have a better gun—a Remington 30.06 that we inherited from Cindy’s dad, Gordy.

Gordy shot a lot of deer with it at his home near Thief River Falls. He died in 1993. Noah liked him a lot. So hunting with Gordy’s rifle will be a good thing.

I have never shot a deer. That may sound strange for a 44-year-old man who grew up and lives in rural Minnesota. One part of me wants to try it again. The rest of me knows that deer hunting isn’t something I care to do.

But I’ll do it with my son.

I doubt that grinding meat for venison burger was in Noah's fantasies of hunting, but it was the reality. 
We would have a big job once the hunt was over, 
and we all took part.

Noah and I walked through our woods last Saturday, looking for deer signs. We saw lots of trails, and a few scrapes. We even saw a big deer bound off ahead of us. We couldn’t tell if it was a doe or a buck.

It was nice getting out in the woods on a crisp fall morning. Now that most of the leaves are gone, the woods look entirely different than they did a month ago. You can see everywhere.

We found three spots where a deer stand will work well. At least we think they will. We’re not exactly experts, although we talked like we were as we analyzed the pros and cons of this spot and that.

A friend of mine, Dave, is going to come over this weekend and walk the woods with us. He has shot a lot of deer. He seems very willing to share his knowledge.

Last Saturday another friend, Bruce, told me in detail how to gut a deer. I didn’t ask for the advice. I figured I could muddle through it. No need to show my stupidity.

But Bruce could sense my stupidity, so he went ahead and gave a slice-by-slice account of cleaning a deer. I appreciated it. It will be faster and neater than my technique, and I can tell Noah exactly how to do it.

People like Dave and Bruce are going out of their way to help with Noah’s first deer hunt, even though I haven’t asked for the help. That’s what friends are for.

It shows how much they value deer hunting. They are both good hunters. Not only good shots, but careful and ethical. I respect that.

David

Lots of deer have visited our property this year. For a couple weeks during the summer, a doe would come to our pond every evening. We usually just sat and watched it. One time my daughter and I decided to see how close we could get. We walked to within 30 feet of it before it ran away.

Other times we got up in the morning to see a deer eating apples beneath the tree in our front yard. When we let the dogs out, the deer would dash away.

If you think a dog can run fast, watch it behind a deer. The dog looks like it is standing still.

Noah will be looking at deer next Saturday a little differently than he did this summer—through the cross hairs of a scope. He’s excited about that. I am too.

I’ll let you know what happens.