Dance instructor makes a difference ~ September 25, 1997

David Heiller

He came a stranger and he left a friend. He touched a whole lot of people in the process.

Terrance called the dance for our 25th anniversary. 
He is jamming here with another caller friend.

I’m talking about Terrence Smith, who taught dance for three days at Willow River Elementary School last week.

The students enjoyed it. I watched one day. Students who you might not normally think of as liking dancing had a lot of fun.

They swung and hopped. They did doe-si-doe’s. They ducked for oysters and made arches for others to dance through. They made faces and shouted. There are no holds barred in Terrence’s dances.

It’s hard to describe them. They are older than our country. You can imagine your great-grandparents and their neighbors doing these circles and steps in the loft of the barn when the hay was cleaned out in the spring.

Children liked the dances because Terrence is a good teacher, and because the dances were fun. It’s not a complicated thing.

So why don’t we dance more? Schools play basketball, volleyball, football in their physical education classes. Why don’t they dance?

I remember in elementary school, on rainy or snowy days, the teacher would take us to the basement where a room was available for dancing. Someone would carry the record player. Mrs. Spinner would put on a record, then we’d do dances like Farmer in the Dell. Wow, it was fun. The school is gone, but I still remember those times. We pretended not to like it, but our faces said otherwise. It was a chance to hold hands with girls or even give them a swing. No self-respecting boy would admit he liked doing that, but I have a hunch we all did.

Dancing in our barn

I bet Willow River students will remember Terrence like that.

We asked Terrence, who is from Duluth, to stay at our house. He accepted. Even though he was a stranger, that never really worried us. Anyone who likes to dance and can play Soldiers joy on the banjo is welcome on our hide-a-bed.

We played a lot of music in the evenings. Terrence and I knew a lot of the same songs. That was a treat. It isn’t easy to find people who play old time music. We taught each other songs too.

Terrence let me play my banjo during a community dance at Sturgeon Lake City Hall on Thursday night. He played guitar and harmonica and called out the dance moves.

About 40 people showed up. It was fun watching the people dance. Little kids, moms and dads, some senior citizens. There were smiles all around.

This is the way dances are supposed to be, I thought. No one felt self conscious. There weren’t a hundred people sitting at tables and watching while 10 people danced. Just about everybody danced, and they had fun doing it. Either that or they deserve Oscars.

Everybody mixed with everybody else. “Say goodbye to your partner because it’s the last time you’ll see them,” Terrence said before one dance.

John Westberg, Mark Boggie, Louisa Fabbro, and
 Bob Fabbro. Live music is a must for a good dance!

I recognized Verna Mach, who has an assisted living apartment in Moose Lake. She used to live in Sturgeon Lake. Her husband, Joe, played the button box. Verna was a great dancer in the old days, and there she was again, still dancing.

I said hello to her during the break. “It takes me half an hour to make my bed, but I can still dance,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. That made my night.

Terrence Smith made my week, and lots of other people’s week’s also. We could use a few more people like him. Say 1000 or so.

Terrence is from Duluth. He does dances there regularly. If you would like a schedule, call him: at (218) 728-1438, or write to him at 1428 Belmont Road, Duluth, MN 55805.

Better yet, let’s get him back to this area. Willow River Community Education sponsored his last visit. His rates are very reasonable.

Some difficult childhood lessons ~ September 22, 2006

David Heiller

I read an interesting book recently called They Called Me Teacher, by Tom Melchior.

It contains stories of Minnesota country school teachers and students from 1913 to 1960. Those stories run the gamut of human interaction, but one that has to do with bad teaching sticks in my mind.

Corrine Lesteberg Johnson, who attended District 40 East near Murdock in Swift County, from 1931-1938, wrote it.

“We all knew that our second-grade teacher had never lived in the country. So we had a feeling that she thought she was better than the rest of us. I started at Christmas time making valentines. We had a long Christmas vacation, six weeks off, so what was there to do during that time but make valentines. I loved that kind of creative stuff.

“I used foil from the Christmas cards and the laced doilies that my mother had bought. I made the cards so they were three-dimensional, you could open them up. Oh, I really worked on those cards. On Valentine’s Day I passed out all my beautiful cards. I made a special one for my teacher.

“At the end of the school day after everybody had looked at their valentines but before school was even out, my teacher opened the door to the furnace and threw all the valentines into the fire, including my beautiful card. That really hurt me. I had worked so hard on that valentine. If she didn’t want to keep them, why didn’t she wait until we had all gone home? Then I never would have known. I never really had a lot of respect for that teacher after that. It broke my heart. I cried all the way home.”

Noah and Malika with their
cousin, Brooke, playing school
in the old Brownsville School House.

We probably all have had experiences with bad teachers, but that lady would have to top the list.

It got me to thinking about other bad teaching experiences. I still remember one when I was in second grade. I was playing with scissors, pretending to cut my nose. The scissors could barely cut paper; let alone something as tough as my nose. The teacher wasn’t in the room, but she found out (thanks to a student who shall remain anonymous), strode over to me, and slapped me across the face.

I was shocked and embarrassed, as was the whole class. It was just plain wrong, totally unnecessary. Bad teaching.

My brother had a bad teacher one year. He recounted a couple experiences. “We were taking turns reading from some book and I was nervous about my turn coming up. When it came to be my turn I stood up and I stuttered the first word, something like p-p-p-p- and the teacher sat at her desk and did the same thing, p-p-p-p-p. Can you believe it? She really embarrassed me and all the kids had a good laugh. Another time, I had to give a report of some kind and the cap on my front chipped tooth had come off. I walked up to her desk and asked her I could do the report another day. She refused my request and made me stand in front of the class with my missing tooth and give the report. Mark it down as another humiliating day for me.”

A teacher friend of mine had this tale: “We were seated based on latest test score with the best in the front right, weaving to the worst in the back left. Can you imagine how that affected a child’s willingness to learn? Wow!”

Public humiliation is never a good thing.

Malika and some classmates in an all school production. 

It’s funny though, I can’t recall many truly bad teachers or things like this. That’s a testament to the fact that most of my teachers did a good job, something I still believe is the case.

The freedom to do nothing ~ September 28, 1995

David Heiller

Our 10-year-old daughter informed us at supper last week that she wanted to quit piano lessons. She is too busy, she told us.

Piano days are done.

She has homework every night. She has joined fifth grade choir at Willow River, and is going to start taking clarinet lessons for the school band.

Then there’s Girl Scouts every other Monday, and piano lessons every Thursday after school.

And I know parents whose children are even busier, for example, who play hockey.

If you look up the word “busy” in a dictionary, it will say: “See hockey parent.” I get confused just listening to their schedules.

It doesn’t get any easier as the children get older, from what I’ve seen. There are sports, and pep band, and marching band, and National Honor Society and annual staff, and maybe a part-time job at the Dairy Queen.

Malika doing some wonderful "nothing"

We said no to Mollie’s request. We think piano lessons are important. But I couldn’t stop myself from asking this question: When do kids get to be kids anymore?

Yes, I know I sound old when I say something like that. And yes, when I was my daughter’s age, my friends and I were busy enough.

But we didn’t have organized activities like today. We had a Boy Scout meeting once a month, with a hike or camping trip every so often. That was about the extent of our adult-led activities.

Our football games were organized by a telephone call or two. Or else everyone would just congregate at the playground for a game. There was always a game going on, either football or softball or basketball, depending on the season.

We would explore by the river, or hunt squirrels, or go fishing, or walk along the railroad tracks looking for fossils. We would ride our bikes around town, or play at the school grounds.

David exercising his freedom to do nothing too!

You probably have your own list of carefree childhood memories. I bet they bring a smile to your face. You can learn a lot from things like that, from just acting your age and having the freedom to do nothing.

My daughter and one of her friends are building a playhouse now in their spare time. They have needed some help from me, but I’ve kept it to a minimum. Mostly it is their fort, and it shows by the crooked siding and bent nails. Sometimes they argue over who should do what, but the importance of the playhouse soon smoothes any ruffled feathers.

They are learning some carpentry skills. They are learning not to be afraid to try something new. They are learning how to work together. All very important lessons.

It makes me happy to see them do this, or to see them jump on the trampoline or explore the old house next door.

When they are my age, I bet they remember their free time more than all those other things that are making their life hectic.

A small taste of a huge city ~ September 21, 2005

David Heiller

Chicago slipped by the train window last Friday. Corn fields turned to suburbs, then tenement houses and warehouses topped with razor wire. Then tall buildings that blotted out the sky.

At the Chicago Art Institute.

We got off the train and hailed a taxi for the Chicago Art Institute, Cindy, and my sister Kathy and me.

The cabbie, a guy about my age, figured me for a tourist right away. I don’t know how he saw that so quickly. Perhaps my mouth hung ajar a bit too widely, trying to take in a city I’ve read about my whole life but never quite managed to visit.

“We’ve been planning this trip for 25 years;” I said. “We had to sell our house and newspaper first.”

That got a laugh, although I’m not sure why. It was true!

Nine dollars later he dropped us off at the steps of a huge building guarded by huge lions on a huge boulevard lined with huge buildings. I guess that sums up Chicago for me. It not only has broad shoulders, it has huge broad shoulders.

For the next six hours we wandered the halls of the Art Institute. It was amazing seeing works of art that are icons, Picasso’s guitar player, Remington’s bronze cowboys, right there in front of us.

A fine way to regroup, lunch 
on a patio in the Art Institute.

Cindy and Kathy drifted off, and we each got lost in our thoughts amidst a thousand years of genius.

A group of middle school students came pouring through the rooms, notebooks in hand. They giggled at the nudes and made fun of the abstract paintings. One of the teachers stood in front of a huge canvas covered with blotches of ink, mostly black and white, but with some subdued other hues, like red, yellow, and orange. He pointed out its energy and subtle color. I wanted to follow him, hear what else he had to say. I wanted to tell the kids, “Listen to him. You guys don’t know how lucky you are to be here right now.” But I didn’t, of course, and kids being kids, it would not have done much good.

After two hours it became too much for me. I couldn’t appreciate anymore. So I tracked down Cindy and Kathy. We regrouped at a Toulouse-Lautrec exhibition, then had lunch in an open courtyard. We needed the break.

Two sisters on a terrace
 Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Cindy asked if I had seen Two Sisters by Renoir. No, I didn’t think so. How about the Paris Street on a Rainy Day by Caillebotte? No.

So she took me back upstairs. I had missed two entire rooms of impressionists! Looking at the Two Sisters with Cindy was the highlight of the visit. I won’t bother trying to describe it. It was too pretty for words. I’ll print it here in black and white and hope that someday you can see it for yourself.

We walked through nearby Millennium Park after that, and looked at a sculpture called Cloud Gate. Kathy calls it The Bean. It’s a gigantic (huge) round shape that is coated with steel that reflects the sky and buildings and people in front of it. I didn’t want to like it. It looked too dumb. But it was fascinating. You could see your distorted self emerge from the crowd, see yourself wave foolishly, see yourself take a picture, which many people were doing.

David and Kathy mugging in the reflection of "The Bean"

Then it was back in the cab, where we heard about the 10th foreign language of the day, this time Hindi, I believe. Cindy and I wandered down the sidewalk a bit to Union Station, where I started talking to a guy in a blue coat who asked if we needed help. How could he tell I needed help?

“Yes, can you show me where they filmed that scene in The Untouchables where the baby carriage goes down the steps?”

He had probably heard the request before. He pointed out a big building about two blocks away. “Right there it is sir. By the way, I don’t actually work for the train company. Do you have any spare change?”

I didn’t have any change, so I gave him a dollar. I know I did not need to do that, but I, did. Cindy had disappeared by this time. She doesn’t like to be seen with me when I am doing my Country Bumpkin impersonation. I wandered down the sidewalk, past half a dozen other pan-handlers and musicians. No money this time, sorry. Then it was back to the train station, and onto the train for a thoughtful and contented ride back to Kathy’s house a world away.

Little is big when it comes to love ~ September 27, 2001

David Heiller

Cindy and I recently were visiting with a couple of friends, Owen and Linda. They told a funny story that made us both smile.

Owen, Cindy, Linda, David

They had been invited out to dinner. The host served a casserole covered with cashews. Linda does not like cashews. It is one of only two things that she cannot stand to eat. Owen knows that. So he served himself first and scraped away some extra cashews, saying how much he liked them. That gave Linda a safe place to scoop up some hot dish without having to deal with a pile of cashews.

Owen did not have to do this. It probably wouldn’t have mattered too much to the host if Linda had left a few cashews on her plate. But he did it because he knows her and loves her, and she appreciated it.

I think it’s those little acts of love, the kind that take a bit of sacrifice, that matter the most.

Moroccan mint tea is wonderful and sweet. Mint tea is ubiquitous in Morocco, and the serving is full of ceremony. I liked mint tea, but this particular tea was twice as sweet as was customary. 
It wasn't the first or the last time that David 
saved me in an awkward social situation!

Cindy still talks about something I did for her in Morocco. It was similar to what Owen did. We were being served a fancy meal at the home of an old couple. Cindy and I had eaten as much as we could. We were full. Then came the mint tea. Moroccan mint tea is served very, very sweet. It is about the same sweetness as what we feed hummingbirds. Cindy took one sip and knew she couldn’t finish her tea. But it would have been a great faux pas to not do so. So she gave me a look, probably the same look Linda gave Owen. Subtle and desperate. I knew she needed help. So when our host left the room for a few seconds, I chugged that mint tea down faster than a football player at a keg party. I can still feel that sugar rushing down my throat. I broke into an instant sweat. My face turned red. I gave a big smile when the lady came back into the room. So did Cindy. So did our host. Everyone won, although I never looked at a glass of mint tea the same way.

Sometimes a sacrifice of love goes undetected. That’s even better, the thankless kind. It^’s almost a cliché in our family, but I still recall how my Grandma Schnick would only eat the wings when we would have chicken on Sunday. She insisted very convincingly that she really liked the wings. I could never understand that, because there wasn’t much to like. But I believed her. Now I understand. I always got a leg. I loved chicken legs. Still do. Grandma never took a leg. Because she just loved the wings. Right.

My mom carried on the same tradition, only she substituted the neck for the wings. That seemed even stranger to me, because the neck is even skimpier than the wing. Now I find myself doing the same thing.

Cindy does even more. Mothers are the greatest at making sacrifices of love.

I’m not belittling big acts of love and sacrifice, like a sister giving a kidney to a brother. Sometimes even lives are sacrificed in the name of love, as we are reminded at church every Sunday.

But it’s those little ones that come out every day in every way, that really enrich our lives. They are woven into our routines so tightly that we take them for granted. But they mean a lot more than a person might think. Especially if you don’t like cashews.

A fine morning for catching a bass ~ September 23, 1999

David Heiller

A light drizzle drifted down on Sunday morning like dandruff from the thunderstorm that shook the house the night before.

The wind had quit blowing, leaving a calm voice that said, “Go fishing, Dave.”

Kind of late. 7:15. Not my usual early time. Bob Dutcher would not approve. He’s a 6 a.m. man, sharp.

A fine fish.

But I grabbed my bucket of frogs and hopped in the truck, which already held the canoe and gear. A good fisherman is always ready to go. Fifteen minutes later, I was on Mud Lake.

I hooked a frog through its lips, threw toward the lily pads, and started paddling slowly down the lake. (I apologize to those people who are squeamish or offended about using frogs for bait.)

In a way it didn’t matter if I caught a fish or not. Being on the quiet lake, in the misty morning, that’s what I was looking for. The lake would serve as my church service. My spirit was as smooth as the silky water.

It’s a thing of joy, fishing in the morning in the fall on a quiet lake. You know that fall is here. You can feel it in your knuckles. They crack with the cold, but not too badly, not like in late October. You know you won’t have a lot more mornings this fine. So you savor it like a good cup of coffee.

That’s how I felt as I slowly moved along, paddling ever minute or so. I stayed about 20 feet from the lily pads, and casted my bait so that it landed as close to the pads as possible. A good cast is about two inches from the edge. It’s a great feeling to see the spot where you want to cast and have your bait hit that exact spot.

Noah loves to fish, just like his dad.

For the first half hour I only caught a few weeds. One time a big swirl of water boiled around the frog, and I set the hook and caught nothing but water. How can a bass miss a frog like that? I thought. Dumb fish.

Well, maybe not so dumb. He’s not on the hook.

The fish weren’t biting. A couple weeks earlier I had had a strike about every five minutes. The fish were starving. I had caught three bass, then I ran out of frogs. The fish weighed 4-1/2 pounds, 3-1/2 pounds, and 2-1/2 pounds.

Then I came to the hot spot. It’s just a little point of land with bull rushes sticking up like stubble. It doesn’t look a bass hangout in any way. But I always seem to catch a fish there.

From my viewpoint, it’s a good spot, because there aren’t any lily pads for the bass to swim around in and tangle the line. It’s more of a fair fight, for me that is.

I probably won’t catch one today, I told myself. Don’t want to jinx myself. But my racing pulse said that I wished just the opposite.

The joy (or sorrow) of the bending rod!

Almost as soon as the frog hit the water, a fish hit the frog. Ca-woosh. Is there a prettier sight than the swirl of a big fish when it takes your bait? I could tell it was a big one as it raced back and forth, bending my rod, straining my line. It jumped clear out of the water about four inches and shook its head, just like on the late-night fishing shows. Wow, a beauty.

I let it pull hard and tire itself. I hoped it was hooked well. I knew the eight-pound line wouldn’t break, but the hook coming out was another matter. Bass never seem to be hooked very solid. That’s why I only land about one of every three I hook. Of course, Bob Dutcher seems to catch nine out of every 10 he hooks.

I reeled the fish to the canoe and scooped it up with the net. Then I breathed again.

It was a gorgeous large mouth bass, big and fat, the kind a kid dreams about, even a 46-year-old kid.

I took out my old tape and measured it: 17-1/2 inches long. It weighed a little over 3-1/2 pounds.

I put it on the stringer, and kept fishing. Another fish missed my frog in the hot spot. I came to an opening in the lily pads by shore, casted into the middle, and caught a small bass. I let it go. Another cast in the same spot, and another fish hit at the frog and missed. I could see water roiling here and there in the opening.

On the third cast something big grabbed the frog and held on for about 10 seconds. It fought its way into the lily pads and was gone. How big was that fish? A five-pounder? It was big enough to go back and try to catch it again.

That was enough for me. Three strikes on three straight casts will satisfy anyone. I paddled back to the truck. As I neared shore, I took the fish off the stringer watched it swim away. Maybe I’ll catch it again. It will be bigger next time.

A night to describe and to remember ~ September 18, 1986

by David Heiller

The moon shone bright that summer night in 1978. It lit the land with a white glow. Rocks stood out on the hill to the south like a black and white negative, their shadows deep black. The rolling hillside below the rocks had a stubble of grain, already a stubble and it was only May. The Moroccan sun will do that to land. In the moonlight, the stubble lay as smooth as the coat of a Siamese cat.

A Moroccan full moon in the coastal city, Ceuta.

I stood on the balcony of my apartment, on the third floor of a brick building, marveling as I always marveled, at the full Moroccan moon, so bright you could easily read a book by the light. Across the street, the neighbors had their television on. The screen flickered from scene to scene, though I could not see the picture. The windows were tinted a milky color, so that nosy neighbors or lonely Americans couldn’t peer in on moonlit nights. The sound came through the windows, the only sound in the night at the edge of town, a French dialogue, probably dubbed to an American TV show like “Kojak.” Somehow Moroccans watching Americans speaking French made perfect sense. Tourist brochures call the country a land of contrasts, don’t they? Just like the rocks on the hill in the moonlight, black and white, contrast.

A car motor interrupted the TV sounds. I looked to the right, to the west, down the street. Headlights bounded over the rutted road, the diesel engine puffing and roaring all at the same time. The car swerved to the right to miss a crater, then crashed over the curb on the other side to miss a pile of rocks from a construction site.

“Slow down, you’ll kill someone, or yourself,” I said out loud, smiling.

The car jerked up below my house, rocked to a stop. A young man jumped out. He craned his neck, waved to me. I waved back. “I’ll be right down,” I shouted.

“Good,” he said. The word rhymed with “rude”—a good French pronunciation.

I grabbed two plastic jugs from my kitchen counter, and strode down the two long flights of cement steps to meet my friend. We shook hands. I had seen Pierre that day at school where we both taught, but we shook hands anyway. That is the custom in Morocco. It is a custom among friends.

We climbed in the car. I fastened my seat belt. I had ridden with Pierre enough to know the importance of a seat belt. He slammed the Renault into gear and sped over the dark street, toward the highway.

“You know, thees is some night,” he said, pointing to the sky. “It’s so bright.”

We hit the main highway, a good paved road that connected Fes and Meknes, two large cities in Morocco, large and modern compared to the oil refinery town we lived in. Those towns had good water. Our tap water turned your teeth brown.

“How would you describe this night?” Pierre asked, glancing at me. The moon reflected off the gleam in his eye. He smiled a slight smile, a winning smile, the smile of someone playing cribbage holding a 24 hand.

I could tell Pierre knew how he would describe this night. He may have thought of it when writing one of his science fiction books, one of the nine he had written, though none had made it to the publishing house just yet. Or maybe he came across the perfect word in his science teaching studies. It was probably some scientific word I had never heard of.

“Geez, I don’t know,” I answered in protest. We drove down the highway a little further, then Pierre swerved to the left, making a complete U-turn, in the middle of the road, right by a curve in the road. If a truck or car had been coming, we would have been described as mush. But Pierre kept his winning smile, a kind of pursed look, like he was about to spit a watermelon seed.

I grabbed my two plastic jugs, while Pierre opened the back of the little station wagon and pulled out four of his own. We walked over to the hillside, across the smooth ground. Countless feet, shod and human, barefoot and American-soled, had stood on this ground. It was as smooth as the ground by a Moslem shrine. But this was a shrine of nature. Out of the hill stuck an iron pipe, and out the pipe gushed water, spring water, good water. The Moroccans called it “L-ma h-loo,” which means, “sweet water.”

A Moroccan street.

“Come on, how would you describe this night?” Pierre asked again, as he filled up his jugs from the iron pipe. He had four large jugs, enough for two days of water for his wife, and their two small children. My two gallon jugs would last me for two days too. Then we would come back again, me risking life and limb for a ride with a crazed Frenchman.

I looked up at the hill above us. Up close, it was not so stark. Browns and tans replaced the grey. On the other side of the road, a river cut through a pasture of grass. The grass had been clipped bald by sheep and goats. That too was brown, dusty.

“I don’t know,” I said, stalling, searching for that 24-hand. Milky? Are you kidding? How about ghastly? Lunar? Luminescent? That’s not bad, but it will never top this Frenchman with that smile. Then I found a good one, not physical enough perhaps, but one that Pierre could relate to.

“Surrealistic,” I said, standing up with a full jug.

He craned his neck back, looked at the land as I had looked. My eyes followed his. How do you describe land like this, a land of contrasts, friends and strangers, a land where you have lived for a year, that you love, yet that you don’t feel a part of?

“Phantasmagoric,” Pierre said, his smile finally breaking into a broad grin.

“Phantasmagoric,” I repeated. “Where the heck did a Frenchman ever learn the word ‘phantasmagoric’?”

“Never mind that. That’s what tonight is,” he said. And I knew he had me.

We got back in the car, two friends from two countries in a third country, a third world. Pierre had topped me that night, that phantasmagoric night. But I sat content in the front seat of his car, and smiled. Because I knew I would have the chance to top him again. That’s what friends are for.

Butterflies for Mom and Dad ~ September 14, 1989

David Heiller

Monday night. Already I could feel the butterflies in my stomach, thinking about the first day of school. Not my first day. Thank goodness, those are done. No, I was worrying about my son. I was thinking about Wednesday morning at 7:20, when he would climb onto Dave Nyrud’s bus and disappear down the gravel road toward Willow River.

The very first of 13 first-day-of-school photos

Do people remember their first day at school? I remember mine. My mom took me by the hand, a block up Main Street to the red brick building. Mrs. Escar was waiting, grandmotherly smile, wearing a shiny green dress with little seahorses on it. Mom had her first competition. The next day, I stood ready for Mom to take me to school again, but she inform­ed me that I would have to walk all by myself. I wonder how she felt as I trudged off at the heels of my seven brothers and sisters. Now I know.

Noah stood in the driveway last Wednesday morning, not saying much, just waiting patiently. He wore shorts. We told him he’d probably be the only one wearing shorts, but he wanted to wear them. It wasn’t worth a fight. He carried a red pack on his back, and a cloth lunch bag with a triceratops on the side.

Cindy and I stood with him. We heard Dave’s bus come down the gravel road, stopping at Wil­liams’ house to pick up Rosie and April. Then it swung into our narrow driveway. I marched up to the door with Noah as it popped open, and Dave smiled at Noah. A country western song played on the radio. A lovely smell drifted down the bus steps, a mixture of coffee and warm bodies, the smell of a school bus on a chilly fall morning, a smell that flooded with a thousand memories like when my cousin Jeff, well, you know that story. Good memories.

I said hello to Dave. He looked at me with a knowing smile. How many parents has he seen sending their kids off to school, trying to look nonchalant, trying to hide the butterflies?

There are always times when you
just want them to stay home and play.

Noah didn’t notice any of this. He marched up the steps one at a time and headed for the back, disappearing from sight before I could say goodbye. He didn’t look back. Then the door hissed shut, and the bus chugged out of sight.

It was a happy day for Noah, a milestone, you might say, the start of the School Years and a thousand memories and even more miles than that. Dave Nyrud will soon be his hero, like Dale Besse was mine when I rode the bus. And Mrs. Nancy will soon be competition for Cindy, like my Mrs. Escar. Lots of changes, gradual ones that will add up in a hurry.

Too much of a hurry, the aging father says.

We walked toward the house, and I put my arm around Cindy. She brushes a hand across her eyes. Mollie is sitting at the kitchen table eating her usual Graham Crackers, as we go back inside. She’s only four, but she already wants to go to school.

And something is missing in the house even with Mollie there, something that we’ve grown accustomed to for the past six years. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, not without getting maudlin. All I know is that it’s disappearing down County Road 46 toward Willow River.

We’ll get used to it. Most parents do.