Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller I did something strange on Opening Day of the 1987 fishing season this year. I went fishing. Fishing used to be a big deal to me, as a kid. I knew every sunfish hole in a seven mile radius of Browns­ville. The town sits on the Mississippi River, and every kid knows those same sunfish holes. But there was no Opening Day for sunfish. You catch them all year. And I never seemed to make that leap from panfish to walleyes, like most young Minnesota men do as a rite of passage in their teens or early twenties. So when a friend asked me if I wanted to go fishing on Opening Day for a long weekend, I didn’t really think about the fishing. My first question was “Where?” And I knew the answer too, because my friend is cut from the same cloth. “The BWCA,” he answered. “Sure, count me in,” I told him, without even checking with my wife. The Boundary Waters Canoe Area. The BWCA. Canoeing, portages, water, white pines, granite. Primeval wilderness, untouched by man. ...

David Heiller  WARNING: This column contains frank subject matter that may turn the stomach of the squeamish. In other words, if you don’t like reading about blood-sucking insects, don’t read this column! Snakes and ticks have entered our heart and home the past few weeks; bring controversy and ancient philosophical questions. Garter snake We have an over-abundance of garter snakes on our property. At least I think so. Whenever I go to the garden shed, I see one, or sometimes more. As we took a sauna on Monday evening, one even crawled up through the floor by the door. I thought about catching it, but decided the spectacle would be too much for the family. (I can see the headlines: “Naked man killed by Finnish garter snake in sauna” or “Naked man wearing Finnish garter killed by snake in sauna.”) Last summer during some house remodeling, one even came into the kitchen. I didn’t panic too much, because my grandma Heiller used to tell about a nest of rattlesnakes th...

David Heiller Our daughter, Malika, had a friend, Emily, over on Sunday. They made an interesting hot dish for supper. They put chips in a cake pan, sprinkled salsa and cheese and Cindy’s bean burrito filling on it, then baked it until it was a melted mass of something. Seeing this concoction prompted me to ask Emily if she had a special Sunday Night Supper. Malika's friends Emily and Kris with Malika. (Kris didn't have Sunday Night Supper  with us, but the  three  just go together.  Like chips and cheese and Sunday Night Supper) Yes, she replied, they fended for themselves, cleaned out the refrigerator, and her mom made a couple big bowls of popcorn as a side dish. “We always had chips and cheese;” Malika replied. That’s true, we pretty much did. Chips with melted cheese, pop it in the microwave for a minute, then eat with a mix of salsa and sour cream. Simple and good. Last Sunday’s meal must have been a combination of that tradition: Malik...

David Heiller You could call this year’s fishing trip the Year of the Moose, or the Year of the Blackfly. Or the year we caught all those fish. Technically. I’ll take the moose first, and so will Paul. You’ve got to know Paul to understand why. He is a huge man, maybe 6-4, 280 pounds. Cross sumo wrestler with a grizzly bear and you’ll get an idea of what he looks like. I’ve been canoeing with him for seven years now, and he’s as tough as a tree root. He’ll stand a freezing rain, wearing soggy tennis shoes and sweat pants with holes in them, and never complain. He’ll crawl into his old Boy Scout sleeping bag on the coldest nights and be snoring like a pipe organ before I’ve got my long johns on. Paul and Dave Nothing much bothers him in the woods, not even that 10-pound rock that I slipped into his pack three years ago. Not much except blackflies. Paul hates blackflies as much as they love him, and they do love him. Their mission in life is to seek him out and bleed him...

David Heiller Ghosts of baseball past and present are mingling like a couple of old timers at the ballpark these days. For the present, baseball is haunting the four kids in our household, ages 4-7, my own two and the two we have temporarily adopted. Two or three times a day they ask, “Can we play ball now?” And you can’t just answer “Sure,” not when you’re the only one that can throw the ball across the plate. The American League has its designated hitter. The Birch Creek League has a designated pitcher: me. I’m also the entire infield, outfield, and umpire. Actually, it’s pretty fun, if you don’t mind dodging a winter of dried dog droppings, retrieving balls from the sinkhole in the driveway, and most of all, being patient. All the rules apply, except  you can't strike out in family ball! Patience, as with all kid activities, is the main requirement, mainly because you can’t strike out in our game, which is lucky for Tyso n and Mollie. Ten or 12 swings before...