Hang on folks—spring is on the way ~ March 28, 2002

David Heiller

We headed out for a walk at 6 a.m. on Friday morning, March 22. Cindy and I like to start our day in Brownsville with a walk, and there are plenty of places to go.

We headed to the railroad tracks, then turned north. That’s when we felt the wind. It raced up the river and stuck us in the back like a dagger. We hadn’t gone far before we turned around and faced it head on going home. It cut through our clothes.

This was the second day of spring?

But when we got home, sunlight was pouring through the upstairs window like melted butter. And despite the chilly wind, it somehow carried the promise of spring. It told a hopeful story.

David, Grandma Schnick and Cindy
in her sun-drenched home, 1980.

It reminded me of my grandma, who lived there for almost 40 years. How many times did she awaken to that same golden light and have it brighten her day? Maybe that’s why she was able to brighten my day so often. She was passing on the sun. Last Friday morning, I could feel her spirit in that familiar old kitchen more than ever since she died 13 years ago.

We gave the morning walk another try on Saturday. Bright and early again, and armed with a cup of coffee from the Kwik Trip. We headed down the tracks to Wildcat Park. The wind didn’t stab us this time. Α fragile layer of ice edged the river. It coated the rocks and driftwood, reflecting sunlight like a mirror.

Α red-tailed hawk shoved off the top of maple tree, on the move, like winter. Red-winged black birds crackled in the cat-tails. Now then is a sound of spring! Their red patches shined like medals on a five-star general.

We heard and saw more on our last walk on Sunday morning. First the stop for the cup of coffee. The clerk at the store told us she had taken her sons to the Gander Mountain store it Prairie du Chien the night before. On the drive there they had seen a bald eagle carrying a snake in its talons. “It was this long,” she said holding her hand about four feet off the floor.

Cindy and I headed south again, then west past the wastewater treatment plant, and around the edge of town. Wildcat Creek wound its way to the river on our left. Beyond it rolled hill after hill. They basked in the early light like fresh loaves of bread on a kitchen counter.

Going even a little further south for spring was helpful!

Cindy pointed out some pussy willows. Then she told me to look on the side of the hill. I squinted. It looked like small animals were grazing in the short grass. “Turkeys,” she said. I raised up my binoculars. Sure enough, about 25 wild turkeys were strutting around. The toms, with tails unfurled and chests puffed out, wove their way through the crowd as deftly as a movie star at a cocktail party. The hens kept their heads to the ground, in a walk that seemed both modest and resigned.

We got back home and packed our bags for the 250 mile trip home. I knew we’d be returning to a landscape of Styrofoam snow and frozen sap. But that didn’t matter.

You could feel it coming last weekend. Spring. My grandma helped me feel it. So did the other love of my life, my wife. Oh yes, and Mother Nature.

Hang in there, folks, it’s heading north. Get those tomatoes started.

Old rugs bring new joys ~ March 17, 2004

David Heiller

“I’m missing the rugs.”

Cindy has been saying that for the past several weeks. I’ll bring a cart load of boxes in from the garage, and we’ll unload them and find a place for the Tupperware and shoes and books. Then pretty soon Cindy will say, “I’m missing the rugs.”

Α few more cartloads of boxes will come in, and we’ll unload them and find a place for the pots and pans and pictures. Then pretty soon Cindy will say, “Ι’m missing the rugs.”

I thought I knew where the rugs were when we first started loading the garage up with boxes last summer. I thought I knew where everything was.

One of the old rugs, when it was a new rug.

Cindy scoffed at that. “We’ll never be able to find anything after we move,” she said, and as usual, she was right. Because somewhere in the sheer volume and chaos of moving 24 years of married possessions, and a few fond bachelor items too, I lost my grip on what was where.

That bothered me, because I’ve always liked to know where things go. “A place for everything and everything in its place” is one of my favorite idiotic phrases.

So finding those rugs became something of an adventure for me. The boxes in the garage dwindled, which was a very fine feeling. And no rugs and no boxes marked RUGS. Just some Christmas decorations remained by last Saturday, and a few boxes of keepsakes and knickknacks.

Maybe Cindy was wrong, I thought. Maybe those rugs already came in and she missed them. What rugs is she talking about anyway? Maybe they never existed!

Luckily, I didn’t voice those thoughts. I’ve learned a few things in those 24 years.

As I was walking down the steps of the garage loft on Saturday, I looked into a big box that I had set aside in the area where I put empty boxes. It was empty right?

No. It was filled with rugs.

Then it came back to me. Oh yeah, THOSE rugs. Why didn’t you say so? I guess I shoved them over there one day last summer, when I was looking for something else, which I never found anyway, because you can’t find things in a garage full of boxes, like I told Cindy last summer.

So on Saturday morning, I carried the big box into the house and said, with a hint of surprise in my voice, “Here’s a box of rugs.”

“I knew I was missing some rugs!” Cindy exclaimed.

“Oh yeah?” Ι asked, as if I knew where they were all along, and all she had to do was ask, and good old Dave would deliver.

Yes indeed, it is a time of discovery at the new Heiller house. A windswept and joyous time that can only come from a new house with old rugs.

You wouldn’t call it a sign of spring ~ February 17, 1994

David Heiller

Noah with some tremendous icicles... Ice jams
are one of the banes of northern living.

 You wouldn’t call it a sign of spring,

The water dripping off the roof

Like it did last Saturday.

No, you’d need a lot more proof

Than that. And so I won’t begin

To make more of it than was there.

Just some steady drops of water

Falling through the winter air.

Yet I climbed up on the roof,

Quicker than a playful otter.

I had to look, it’s been so long

Since we’ve seen ice turn into water.

The edges of the roof were caked

With ice about 10 inches thick.

A winter’s overcoat of snow had

Built an ice dam, white and slick.

And yes, as often is the case,

It found a crack above the door

That goes into the entryway

And made a puddle on the floor.

I guess Ι should have patched that spot.

But it was a small price to pay,

To see this winter lose its grip,

A puddle in the entryway.

I found the leaky spot and pushed

Away the snow and shoveled hard

With my son. We smiled and threw

The ice and snow down in the yard.

Then my son reached down his hand

Into the snow, and showed to me

Another little sign of spring.

“Hey, look Dad, it’s a honey bee.”

I almost had forgot about my

Three bee hives, it’s been so long

Since they have ventured out to fly

And dance and sing their winter song,

I could go on with other signs

Of spring but I don’t want to wreck

This sudden spell of balmy weather.

Readers would complain like heck.

So I won’t write about the sap,

Plunking into pails so steady,

From the taps in maple trees.

That’s when I know spring is ready.

And I won’t mention peeping frogs,

Hooting owls and cawing crows,

Muddy roads and baseball games,

And don’t forget marsh marigolds!

These are all at least a month

Or more away, I’d guess.

I don’t want to cause our

Mother Nature over-anxiousness.

No it’s not a sign of spring,

The dripping water I did see

From the roof last Saturday.

But it’s close enough for me.