Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller The search for lightning bugs started slowly with a lobbying effort by Michael, my 11-year-old nephew who spent a couple nights with us this week. When I got home from work at 6:30 Monday evening, he asked, “Do you think there’s many lightning bugs out now, Uncle David?” He calls me “Uncle David” the way Huey, Louie, and Dewey say “Uncle Donald,” and with the same glint in his eye. Michael is in the center of this extended family photo.  His dad is giving him bunny ears. (The rest of the gang gathered for this picture are: top to bottom,  left to right, sorta kinda:  Danny, Michael, Sarah, Brooke, Cindy, Noah, Ruby, Malika, Jeanne and David.) “Sure,” I said knowingly, falling back on my knowledge of the subject from the days when I was Michael’s size. “It sure will be fun catching them, won’t it?” he continued. “Yeah, it will,” I answered, not realizing that he had just set the hook. Like a good lobbyist, Michael dropped the s...

David Heiller I have a couple images of my uncle Donny that will stay with me forever. Donny and his wife, Lillian.  One is quite old. My brother Danny and I were sitting on top of a hay rack stacked five high, watching Donny pull us on his trusty Ford tractor across the field and toward the barn. There was one spot where the road went perilously close to the ditch. My brother and I got ready to jump off on the safe side if Donny got too close and the wagon tipped. But that didn’t happen, and Donny seemed oblivious to our concerns, jostling around on the tractor far below us, although knowing Donny, he was smiling the whole time. A little later we took a water break, and Donny passed me the jug with the news that it was filled with 7-Up. Wow, 7-Up on the farm, now that was living! I took a big swig and discovered to Donny’s delight that it was just plain water, and warm at that. I had to laugh with him though, he was that kind of guy. He always had a trick up his slee...

David Heiller We asked a couple friends over on a recent Friday night for a campfire. We didn’t have any big reason to see our friends. No card game was planned. There was no birthday party, no potluck supper. Just the campfire. We visited, and roasted marshmallows, and made s’mores, and broke out the banjo and guitar and sang songs. All around the campfire. It was a beautiful June evening, cool though to keep the mosquitoes away. Lightning bugs twinkled in the field. The sky was full of stars. But the campfire was the real star of the show. It glowed with warmth, and heated our souls as well as our bodies. We sat in a circle around it on chairs lovingly made by the late Gene Lourey, which made it even nicer. Every so often someone would add a piece of wood. Then the fire would flare up and light our faces in pumpkin orange. Noah starts a fire. Talk came easy. Long pauses didn’t bother anybody. The campfire filled them in. One of our guests was a teenage boy who...