A 1996 Christmas letter to Grandma ~ December 24, 1996

David Heiller

Dear Grandma:

We were sitting on the bed watching a Charlie Brown Christmas Thursday night. It’s a good show, with good lessons about people and Christmas.

Charlie Brown can’t find the true meaning of Christmas. For some strange reason he gets depressed around Christmas time. He thinks he should be happy, but he isn’t.

He thinks he doesn’t have any friends. Everyone puts him down. There’s commercialism all around.

The kids and I were soaking all this up, saying “Yeah, you’re right” to ourselves. I thought of Mollie, who had taken a verbal beating from a girl on her bus. I thought of the Tickle Me Elmo doll, which some fine folks are selling for up to $500. People can be ugly.

Then Cindy came into the room and asked me to fix the toilet paper dispenser. It had come off the wall, screws and all.

A toilet paper dispenser doesn’t just fall off a wall. Someone had to have pulled it off, probably by accident.

“Who did it?” I asked. Neither of the kids would say. “The TV goes off until I find out,” I said. And that’s what happened.

Charlie Brown’s good lessons disappeared with a click, and some other lessons took their place.

I won’t rehash the next hour. It wasn’t fun. The mood in the house changed. Ι got crabby looking for an honest answer. The kids protested and stormed to their rooms and struggled to find a way to be honest and save face. All over a stupid toilet paper dispenser.

This isn’t the way Christmas is supposed to be, I thought with bitterness as Ι put new anchors in the sheetrock and remounted the dispenser. What happened to the tranquil scene on the bed, soaking in a Christmas classic? I was starting to feel like a cross between Charlie Brown and Ebenezer Scrooge.

Then one of the kids confessed. That broke the tension. I explained that it was all right to break something by accident. I would not have been mad.

“Yeah right.”

“It’s true. Just be honest. I’ve broken things before. I know the feeling.” I meant it, and the kid knew it. I was not mad that the dispenser came out of the wall. I was mad that they didn’t tell me about it.

We talked it out, and peace returned. It was too late for Charlie Brown, but it’s never too late for peace.

My point in all this, Grandma, is that Christmas isn’t a magical time. We’d like to think it is. A time for soft snow to fall, and Christmas carolers at the door, and feel-good shows on TV. And no family arguments about who broke the toilet paper dispenser.

Life goes on around Christmas, and life includes family squabbles. It includes working long hours, and worries about your children, and wondering how you’ll pay the bills, and a million other concerns.

These things are all a part of the happiness and contentment that we yearn for especially at Christmas-time. It’s pretty obvious, I know. Why am I telling you this? You know it already. You were a wise woman. You saw your share of good and bad in your family, which was my family.

I guess I’m telling myself, reminding myself. It’s called putting things in perspective, taking the bad with the good, mixing them up in the right recipe, living a good life, not having unrealistic expectations at Christmas.

Wow, I covered a lot of bases there.

Generally, the sweetness of Christmas isn't lost,
but occasionally mislaid.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to Christmas. I hope other people are too. If they aren’t, if they just want it to be over so life can get back to normal, that’s fine with me. But the toilet paper dispenser will still come off the wall no matter what time of year it is.

I’m looking forward to church on Sunday too. I guess that’s a part of Christmas! I asked Pastor Owen if we could sing, “A Happy Christmas Comes Once More.” All the Danes in Askov know it. For some reason it skipped this old German.

But Pastor obliged, and it’s in the service. When we sing it, I’ll think of you.

Love, David

A 2005 Christmas letter to Grandma ~ December 21, 2005

David Heiller

Dear Grandma,

How are you doing? I thought of you last Wednesday, when I watched a downy woodpecker attack the suet in one of the bird feeders. It was in the midst of a respectable snow storm, and the birds were going crazy at the feeders: nuthatches, chickadees, sparrows, and Cindy’s favorite, a tufted titmouse.

Tufted titmouse

I remember how you used to like feeding the birds, and would concoct some fancy meals for them with melted suet and peanut butter poured into half a grapefruit peeling. Something like that. It seemed like a lot of unnecessary work to me, but I liked how much joy it gave you to cook it all up, carry it to the clothesline and hang it up with strings. Then we’d watch the birds gobble it up, just like that downy did last Wednesday afternoon.

Snow really brings on feelings of Christmas, doesn’t it? I know the holiday is a lot more than that, we mustn’t forget it, but I like how snow slows things down a bit, makes us stop and think and maybe even do a good deed or two.

All those Care and Share volunteers, they trudged through the snow to package and distribute gifts for needy families during the storm. Even Alex Betz, who was just a day shy of his 12th birthday, helped out, and he sure could have been doing something else on his snow day from school.

Downy feasting on suet

Greg Foellmi brought Mom some soup and a hunk of venison. His older brother Dave kept a watchful eye on Mom’s parking space in front of the house, and swooped in with his city snowplow to clean it off when she went to get the mail.

Mary Dolle brought us a huge coffee cake at work, and Beth Stempinski did the same with a pan of fudge. The treats were delicious, and so was the thoughtfulness!

There’s a lot of kindness going on. Triggered by the snow? Well, that’s just my theory. It just goes hand in hand with Christmas.

There’s a lot of talk about Merry Christmas these days. You won’t believe it, but some people are upset that that phrase wasn’t a part of the United States President’s Christmas card. Or that clerks at some stores are not supposed to say it, out of respect to the people who don’t celebrate Christmas.

Those omissions seem silly to me, but not as silly as the people who are up in arms. It doesn’t matter what you say. It’s the spirit behind it. Some people are even making political hay out of it, calling it a liberal conspiracy, although I don’t know if George and Laura are going to own that. Things have really changed in politics since you’ve been gone, Grandma, and not for the better.

But enough of those catty slams, as you used to say. I’ll take the Christmas spirit from the birds and the woods and the Foellmis’ good deeds. I’ll take it from the songs at the elementary school concert last Monday, especially when the fifth graders sang Let There Be Peace on Earth, We really need that spirit.

I’ll take it from the cards on the walls from family and friends. The pictures of new babies and their parents who are so proud. I haven’t paid attention to whether the cards say Merry Christmas or not. I never will. I cherish them all. And yes, I remember your Christmas orange this time of year, the one that has lived for about 52 years in my imagination and twice that in yours. I even bought a whole box of them from Michelle Meyer for her FFA fundraising project. All right, I bought them before Christmas was on my mind, but there they sit, on the kitchen counter, and they taste even better how, with snow on the ground;

Merry Christmas Grandma! And Happy Holidays too.

Love, David

Christmas cookies are food for thought ~ December 25, 1986

David Heiller

“Christmas does not end on December 25—boom, Christmas is over. Christmas ends on January first.”

Cindy sits in the next room, reading a magazine in the warmth of a wood stove and Christmas tree lights. Those are her words, spoken to a cynic with writer’s block in the kitchen. The writer can’t think of anything to write about, and it’s Christmas, for goodness sake. All he can do is sip at his cup of tea and devour a plate of cookies that he begged off his wife. He begged her not to give them to the kids’ grandparents, not all of them. Peanut-butter-on Ritz­crackers-dίpped-ίn-melted-almond-bark cookies. Give Grandma and Grandpa an embroidered hanky and shaving cream like when we were kids. Save the cookies for home.

Cookies. The man at the typewriter sits forward now, the blur lifting from his eyes like mist on a river in the winter. Cookies, he thinks as he reaches for another hunk of almond bark crackers. That’s what Christmas is all about.

On Thursday morning, the week before Christmas, my wife hopped out of bed at 4 a.m. to go downstairs and make cookies. Yes, I said hopped. Only the prospects of making cookies at Christmas time will cause Cindy to hop out of bed at 4 a.m., after five hours of sleep.

Half an hour later, our son Noah crawled into bed next to me. Ι looked at the clock—4:30. I could hear pans banging in the kitchen; smell the wood stove crackling in the living room. Ι could almost feel the warmth of the Christmas tree lights filling the dark night.

Noah is only three and a half years old, but he could hear and feel these same things. I reached over to give him a hug, but he was sitting up, looking at his mother’s empty spot, her bare pillow.

“I have to go downstairs, Daddy,” he said, sliding off the bed.

Noah's daughter, is the same age as Noah
was in this column,  and Mariah working on cookies.
The circle goes on

“Come on, Noah, don’t you want to cuddle with your dad?” I asked in a sleepy voice. Nothing tops having your son nestle with you, like two bears in a den on a cold December morning, under a heavy quilt and an electric blanket.

“No,” Noah replied, disappearing down the stairway.

While I turned back to my dreams, mother and son set up an assembly line for chocolate cookies that would fill Santa’s elves with envy, and with hunger. Cindy and the dough for the chocolate cookies all ready. Noah stood on his high chair next to her, with the very important job of rolling each round ball in a bowl of sugar.

There are many ways to roll chocolate cookie dough in a bowl of sugar. It takes a grown up about three minutes to dash out several dozen with quick, thoughtless movements. Not so with kids. That’s why no two Christmas cookies taste the same, even though we make the same kind year after year. Noah rolled each ball carefully in the sugar before setting it delicately on the cookie sheet. He demanded perfect balls, carefully rolled. If Cindy placed too many un-sugared balls before him, he told her to slow down. It confused him.

“That’s too fast Mama,” he would say. Finally they compromised, and Cindy was allowed to have two—and only two cookies waiting while Noah did the rolling.

Patience is an important ingredient in a good Christmas cookie.

With three pans going, the house was soon filled with the smell of chocolate cookies. I rolled over in bed, thanking back 30 years ago, when I was my son. I would walk upstairs to my grandma’s house. She would have cookies spread out on her kitchen table, in bowls, on the counters, in the cupboards everywhere. There were sugar cookies with colored frosting and hard silver beads that I was afraid to bite into. There was Russian tea cakes covered with a strange, sweet white powder. There was candied fruit cake, which I wouldn’t eat on a dare.

And there were chocolate cookies. Grandma made them a special way. They were thick, maybe an inch high at the center. Yet they had a heavy consistency, with almost a crust on the outside, so that to a poor kid in the 1950s, biting into one of Grandma’s chocolate cookies was about as close to a candy bar as he came all year. Chocolate cookies were my favorite.

Christmas cookie delights and family delights.

I rolled over, open my eyes, looked at the alarm clock. Six o’clock. Time to get up. I closed my eyes again. Lying in bed at Christmas time with the smell of chocolate cookies doesn’t happen every day.

Then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The steps were careful, determined steps from a boy with a mission.

Noah stopped by the bed, held out his hand. “Here Daddy,” he said.

I grabbed the chocolate cookie that he offered. It was still warm. “Thank you,” I said. I bit into the cookie. It was soft, thick, a taste all its own.

It wasn’t quite like Grandma’s. But it was every bit as good.

Christmas cookies and A Wonderful Life ~ December 11, 1997

David Heiller

One sign of Christmas hit me at work on Monday, December 8. Hazel had brought peppernuts to work for our coffee break. I said, “You know it’s Christmas when Hazel brings peppernuts to work.”

Peppernuts are like miniature gingersnap cookies. They are about the size of a nickel. They must be hard to make, because they are so small. Yet Hazel makes them by the hundreds every Christmas.

I don’t want to go overboard describing Hazel’s peppernuts. Α man could get in trouble doing that.

Besides, Hazel is still mad at me for going overboard about her in last week’s column, when I wrote about what a nice sewing lady she is.

But you haven’t really lived till you’ve tossed a fist full of Hazel’s peppernuts into your mouth and washed them down with a cup of coffee. Wow.

My wife, Cindy, makes a cookie that always reminds me of Christmas too. They are chocolate cookies, chewy and soft, with just the right amount of chocolate.

I still make Grandma Schnick's chocolate cookies 
using her recipe card every Christmas.

She got the recipe from my Grandma Schnick. Cindy still uses the recipe card that Grandma gave her. It must be a good feeling, taking out that old recipe card once a year and seeing Grandma’s friendly handwriting.

Grandma only made chocolate cookies at Christmas, and Cindy has kept with that strict regimen. She subscribes to the rule that absence makes the heart grow fonder and the stomach growl louder.

The chocolate cookies remind me of Grandma and the happy days of youth, and they remind me of the happy days, still ongoing, of my adult life with Cindy and the kids.

YOU KNOW IT’S CHRISTMAS when you watch the movie, “It’s A Wonderful Life.” It’s another thing that can be consumed only at Christmas, at least in our house.

Just as absence makes the heart grow fonder, I believe another saying is equally true: familiarity breeds contempt. You don’t want to overdo a movie like “It’s A Wonderful Life.” It’s too precious.

I think about this movie quite a bit throughout the year. I even have some of the passages memorized.

Like when the mean bartender says, “Listen, Mack, we serve hard liquor to people who want to get drunk fast, and we don’t need any characters to give the joint atmosphere.” Don’t you know a few bars fit that description?

Or these:

When George Sr. says to his son at the supper table: “You were born old, George.” I know some people that seem like they were born old.

When ΖuZu says at the end of the movie: “Teacher says when a bell rings, an angel gets his weeeeennngggs.” That kid is just too cute.

When George realizes he has fallen for his future wife: “I don’t want any plastics and I don’t want any ground floors and I don’t want to ever get married.” This saying is followed by a kiss in which Cindy and I mash our cheeks together with the force of a wood splitter, like in the movie. Maybe that’s how people kissed in 1934. I’ll have to ask Red Hansen.

I usually say these passages for laughs. But there’s one saying that strikes close to a part of all of us. It first comes when George Bailey calls Mr. Potter a “warped, frustrated old man.” It’s true. Potter is a cynical, greedy miser. He’s not working for the betterment of his fellow man, as George is.

But then Potter cruelly turns the phrase back on George when George comes seeking help at the end: “What are you but a warped, frustrated YOUNG man?” Potter asks, and you wonder if there isn’t a bit of truth in it.

George is frustrated. He never left Bedford Falls. He’s stuck. Maybe he never did want to get married and spend his life working at a broken down savings and loan.

Sometimes I think things like that about myself. We all get in ruts. Most people have a time or two when they wonder if the world wouldn’t be better without them.

Most of us can usually pull out of those doldrums and count our blessings, like George is able to do at the end, with the help of his many friends.

Every so often someone can’t. That’s sadder than words can express.

I’m glad it’s Christmas, glad for peppernuts and chocolate cookies and A Wonderful Life.

Bring on the snow ~ December 8, 2004

David Heiller

The sound woke me out of a restless sleep early Monday morning. A big vehicle moving north on Hillside Road, going nice and slow, with a deep rumble and scrape.

I had to smile. A snowplow.

I followed the sound with my ears, then got up and looked out the bathroom window as it passed by the house. The ground was covered with white.

Snow had been spitting down the night before, but I didn't have much faith in the effort. And in fact it wasn't a big snow, just a couple inches of wet stuff.

A pre-plow walk in a wintry wonderland.

But it's a start.

Some readers might think I'm crazy to wish for snow. It's like wishing for bad luck or illness to some folks. But to me, winter doesn't seem like winter, nor Christmas like Christmas, without snow,

Grandma's chocolate cookies don't taste quite right. The birds at the feeders don't seem as happy. The woods look bleak and gray.

But add that white to the ground, and the air lightens up. Things look brighter in more ways than one. I get a spring in my step not unlike the one that hits in April when the snow finally leaves. Go figure.

Some readers might think I'm crazy to wish for snow. It's like wishing for bad luck or illness to some folks. But to me, winter doesn't seem like winter, nor Christmas like Christmas, without snow,

Grandma's chocolate cookies don't taste quite right. The birds at the feeders don't seem as happy. The woods look bleak and gray.

But add that white to the ground, and the air lightens up. Things look brighter in more ways than one. I get a spring in my step not unlike the one that hits in April when the snow finally leaves. Go figure.

I don't like to over-analyze things, but a couple other things come with snow. One is a connection to the past. It's partly rose-colored glasses, but those days as a kid sledding and ice skating and ice fishing, those trips to church for the candlelight service, even the Vikings games on TV, they all had snow in them. The first snowfall of the year, especially in December as the Christmas season hits full-force, reconnects me to that.

But mainly snow helps me feel that things are just the way they are supposed to be. We live in Minnesota. It's supposed to snow in December. Bring it on! That's the way God planned it, if you will.

Seeing that new snow is somehow reassuring, at a time when the world needs a little reassuring.

Last but not least, snow gives us something to complain about. Good-natured grumbling goes a long way to making a Minnesotan happy.

So that covers it. Let it snow.

Are you ready? ~ November 12, 1998

David Heiller

Bring in the firewood from the woods, split stack it, and cover it. Α good job to do with your son, although the son might not agree.

All right, so maybe we weren't always ready for winter.

No time to rake up the debris around the woodpile. Maybe later.

Close up the greenhouse. It’s been open at both ends since last spring. Make a note to fix the broken pane. No time to do it now.

Extract the honey from the 19 frames of honey comb that have been sitting in the sauna for a month. They contain 3-3/4 gallons of honey. Put the empty frames by the bee hives, for the bees to clean up. Nothing goes to waste with bees. But I get most of their honey. It’s good in a cup of tea every morning.

Disconnect the hose from the house. Put all the hoses in the basement. How did I ever get this many hoses? Four of them. I’m a man who’s rich in hoses.

Put the canoe paddle away, and the frog net too. They are lying by the pond. Mollie and I caught lots of frogs with the net this fall. It used to catch butterflies, then lay for several years in a box in the entryway. I taped a stick to the handle with duct tape to make it longer, and with the right technique, the net catches frogs. My touch isn’t quite so good at catching bass.

Take the garbage can that holds approximately 15 frogs out of the basement, dump them in the pond, give them a chance to survive the winter, however it is they do that. Sometimes I’d like to bury myself in the mud for six months. It’s too late for any more bass fishing. Nobody is bass fishing at this point, except for Bob Dutcher.

Throw the rotten squash and pumpkin in the compost pile.

Put the lawn chairs and table, Gene Lοurey originals, in the pole barn.

Hang the bikes from hooks in a rafter in the pole barn.

Put Styrofoam in the basement window. Fill the woodbox.

Get out the boots.

Put the blade on the tractor. Chains too.

I didn’t get the picnic table put away. The trampoline is still up, and the hammock too.

But that’s O.K. I’m ready enough. Now it can snow.

Teaching an old dog new tricks ~ October 6, 1988

 David Heiller

Before Cindy and I had children, we decided to get a puppy. We joked that it would be a good child-rearing test for us. (There’s a lot of truth to that joke.) We even named the dog Binti, which means “my daughter” in Arabic, which I spoke from my Peace Corps experience.

Our first day with Binti.

Binti was part of our family back then, nine years ago. She slept on the couch, or in our bed. When we visited relatives for holidays or weekends, she came along. We took her for walks every day, and played many games.

One of the best games we played was on the big round bales of hay in the field near our rented farm house. Cindy and I would climb onto a bale, with Binti leaping to join us. Then we would race to the next bale, trying to keep ahead of the imaginary alligator. At first, Binti couldn’t catch us, but as the autumn progressed, we became alligator casserole nearly every night.

When our real children started arriving, Binti’s life changed. She was booted outside. We also kicked her off the couch and bed. She stayed home when we went to visit relatives. Our games were replaced more with walks, as our kids rode on our backs and Binti went exploring the fields along the roads of Birch Creek Township on her own.

Malika and Binti

Binti accepted the change with little fuss. Like most pets, she sensed these four-legged humans were special. She let the babies pull themselves up by using her dangling ears as handles. When they confused her with a horse and tried to ride her through the house, she let them. Of course, this was made easier by the increase in table scraps which she would find under the high chair every morning, noon, and night. Even now, Binti’s first stop in the house is beneath the kitchen table, nose to the floor.

But lately Binti has been showing signs of her age. She doesn’t hear me call her in the early morning, when she is still sound asleep. She struggles and groans to her feet when she wakes, and her walk is a little stiff. The vet says she has cataracts forming.

So we thought now might be a good time for a puppy. Binti could help raise it, we thought, and it might add a little zest to her life too.

Noah coaxing out the new puppy, Queen Ida.

Connie Overland, Sturgeon Lake, had a litter of collie-Labrador puppies to give away, so we picked a female. She had a slender collie face, and ears that stuck half-up before folding over like envelope flaps. Her fur was brown with black tips. We named her Queen Ida, and meant no offense to the musician by that same name. In fact, it was a compliment.

Binti didn’t exactly break out the Alpo when Queen Ida moved in. She hardly wagged her tail when they met. Queen Ida hid under the porch. But soon the two made peace. Queen Ida literally threw herself on Binti, chewing at Binti’s ears and wagging tail. They are now inseparable. When Binti roams the field on a smelling expedition, Queen Ida follows. When Binti comes into the house to make her kitchen table run, Queen Ida is sniffing right behind. Sometimes when they eat, Queen Ida stands directly underneath the 75-pound Binti, so that they look like one animal with two heads, a big black one and a little tan one. When Binti curls up in front of the wood stove on these cool fall nights, Queen Ida nestles next to her.

A week ago, I took the two kids and the dogs across the road to check out the hay-making activity of our neighbors. As we climbed onto a big round bale of hay, that old game popped into my head. I called across the field, where Binti and Queen Ida were tracing some animal scent.

“Queen Ida!” The puppy turned her head and looked our way.

Noah and Queen Ida

“Come on,” I said to the kids, “let’s see if we can get to that bale over there.”

We took off running toward the nearest bale. Queen Ida glanced at Binti, hesitated just a second, then galloped after us.

“Hurry Noah, an alligator’s coming!” I called, feeling my heart pound with real excitement. “Hurry Mollie, don’t let him get you.” Both kids screamed and laughed and ran harder to the next bale, while Queen Ida closed the gap.

Noah reached the bale first, but he couldn’t get his five-year-old frame up. I grabbed Mollie from behind, and threw her on the bale as I ran past. Queen Ida followed me, Noah still scrambling and laughing, unable to get a foothold.

I finally had to boost him up too, just as Queen Ida caught my pants’ leg. “Ah, the alligator got me,” I cried, falling to the licking puppy.

“That’s a tiger, Dad,’’ Noah corrected me with a huge smile.

Our game continued to the next bale, and the next, until the kids had all been consumed by the tiger several times and both hunter and hunted had had their fill.

As we headed home, I thought about that old game that I had played with Binti so many years ago. Back then, I never would have dreamed that Cindy and I would have two children who would play the same game with their puppy, while Binti and I grinned from the sideline. And I never thought such a silly game would make me so happy once again.

A sweet fall chore ~ October 7, 1999

David Heiller

The hum from the bee hive rose to a roar as I lifted the lid off and puffed them with smoke.

A stiff breeze swirled through the trees. Don’t work with bees on a windy day, the bee books say, but bees never could read very well.

David and the hives.

Besides, it was October 2, and I was about one month late in doing this job. Wind or no wind, I was going to take that honey.

I squeezed the bellows of the smoker, sending more thick smoke down into the hive. The bees buzzed their disapproval, but most of them retreated into the hive. Smoke confuses them and sends them running to protect their queen.

I couldn’t blame the bees for grumbling. They had worked hard for that extra box of honey.

I lifted nine frames from the box on top. I used a hive tool, which is like a small crowbar, and a gripping tool to pry out each frame. They didn’t come out easily. In addition to weighing a couple pounds, each one was glued into place by bee glue, otherwise known as propolis. Bees like to seal things up. That’s one reason I should have done this job a month earlier. It would have given the bees more time to winterize their hive.

Each frame had bees walking over it. I brushed them off with a soft brush as best I could, then set each frame in an empty box in the garden cart. Some of the frames had every inch covered with honey. Some were only half full. Seldom do I see a perfect frame.

The air was filling up with bees. One found a hole in my glove and stung me. It didn’t hurt much. I’ve been stung so many times that it doesn’t bother me anymore.

I put the lid back on the hive, which now consisted of two boxes of honey and brood. That should be enough to get them through the winter, especially if it is a mild one like last year.

Last fall I had two bee hives. Both made it through the winter of 1998-99. Then one of them swarmed—the queen and about half the bees left. Usually when bees swarm you never see them again, but this time they took up residence in an empty hive about 10 feet away. I didn’t see it happen but where else did that new hive of bees come from? The bees in the old hive made a new queen and were back in business, so I had three hives this year.

I moved to the second hive and took out more frames of honey than the first one. It must have been the hive that didn’t swarm. The third hive was about the same as the first.

I pushed the heavy garden cart to the sauna, put the boxes inside, and covered them with two towels, so that the bees in the hives wouldn’t find them and start retrieving their honey.

The next morning I lit the sauna and let it heat up for a couple hours. I took the extractor from the garage, along with my decapping knife. I turned on the radio to listen to the Vikings play Tampa Bay while I worked.

It was a beautiful fall day, sunny and crisp. The thermometer had read 21 when I got up, but now it was up to 40! Leaves floated steadily down from the two maple trees by the house. It was fun to shuffle through them.

I cut the wax off the top of each frame using the decapping knife, which has a heating element in the blade. The blade gets hot and slices through the wax very easily. The capping wax has a lot of honey in it, so that gets saved. It will get strained when all the extracting is done.

I chewed some of the wax while I worked. It’s like gum filled with honey. It’s so good that it’s almost addicting.

I put two de-capped frames in the extractor and twirled the handle of the extractor as fast as I could. Inside of the stainless steel cylinder, honey flew out of the cells in the frames by cen­trifugal force and trickled down the side of the container to the bottom.

At first it didn’t seem like much honey was coming out. But as I did frame after frame, the honey accumulated at the bottom. When it became hard to turn the handle, I put an empty ice cream container on the floor and opened the spigot at the bottom of the extractor.

Honey oozed out of the hole and into the bucket. It’s a sight that will put a smile on your face. Liquid gold.

The Vikings scored a touchdown, and another, and another. Each time they scored, I dipped my hands in a bucket of warm water and waited for my son, who came out for a double hand slap. It’s a ritual we have.

By the time the game was over, the Vikings had won 21-14 and I had won too, with 4-1/2 gallons of honey as proof. I carried it into the house, along with the wax from the caps.

I put the empty frames back on the garden cart along with the empty extractor and the two pans that had held the cap wax. I took all this back to the bee hives. The bees would find it and clean it up. It’s amazing. They don’t waste anything. In a few days there won’t be a trace of honey on the pans or extractor or frames. Then I’ll put everything away for next year.

“The honey is dark this year,” Cindy commented when she saw the ice cream buckets come in. I hadn’t noticed, because when I was extracting, there were many different shades of honey. The color depends on what flowers the nectar is from. For example, basswood makes a light honey, while sumacs make a dark honey.

I wonder why the honey was so dark this year? Usually our honey is light, because we have a lot of basswood trees in the woods.

I’ll let the mystery bee. The honey tastes great no matter what color. And putting it up is a satisfying fall chore.