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