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.