Feeling a little looney ~ November 16, 2005

David Heiller

Several years ago I heard a strange thing while on a canoe trip.

Three buddies and I were camped on an island on Lake Insula in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. It was mid-May, a beautiful, cool evening, with a full moon on its way. Loons were calling around the lake. That’s a pretty hard sound to beat, especially in a remote spot like we were on.

Malika's loon and baby.

Then I heard a loon in front of our campsite calling like I have never heard before or since. The loon had a hoarse voice. It tried and tried to make its majestic presence known. Maybe it was a call marking its territory or a call for a mate. I’m not sure. Loons have several very fascinating calls. But that loon couldn’t do it. Its call came out thin and raspy. You could tell it was straining with all it had, but it ended up sounding weak and weary.

The oddest part was that the other loons seemed to rise up and call even louder. I know it was my human imagination, but they seemed to be laughing at their weak-voiced competitor. They drowned him out, and he eventually gave up trying. It was all kind of funny, yet sad too.

Without a strong voice, that loon had to be at a disadvantage. I wonder what became of it.

I felt like that loon last week. It started about Monday, when my voice started cracking. I knew I wasn’t going through puberty again (thank goodness). “Cold coming on,” I thought.

On Tuesday, I took half a day off from more cold-like symptoms, stuffy head, ringing in my ears. By Wednesday, when I spoke, I felt like I was in an echo chamber.

Healthy and happy David.

By Thursday, it was hard to talk. My throat hurt. I went to a roundtable discussion in Coon Rapids with some fellow newspaper editors. I tried to make some comments, but my throat was plugged up. My voice came out thin, and died about three feet in front of me. It didn’t even seem like my voice. That made me think too much about what I was saying. My words weren’t spontaneous at all. I was one step behind everyone, one step more than usual at least.

That persisted at home too, and went further. I didn’t want to talk, not about what happened at work, what I saw, what I read. It hurt to talk, so things went unsaid. I wasn’t me.

More of the same on Friday. Big football game, incredible ending, going to the Metrodome, all I could muster was a raspy, “Wow.”

I didn’t sleep at all Friday night. I croaked like a chain-smoking whiskey tenor. Cindy insisted that I go in for a strep throat test on Saturday. I argued that of course. Every guy has to argue a trip to the doctor. A doctor? No way! I’ll ride it out just like my great grandpa Cro Magnon used to do. The one that lived to age 43.

Cindy got out a medical book. “Call your nurse information service or doctor if you’ve tried self-care but your symptoms haven't improved after 48 hours.” she read. It only took about two more hours of me thinking about that to see that Cindy was right. Saturday morning I had the positive strep test results in hand and a shot of penicillin in my behind.

Then things got better, as they usually do. My smoldering throat quit burning. The echo chamber went away. My voice slowly came back to normal. I picked up the fiddle, did chores, told my wife about that interesting banjo article I had read recently. Everything seemed more fresh, more interesting. I felt thankful about nothing in particular and about everything in general.

Getting sick can be a good thing in a perverse kind of way, and I’ll be the first to acknowledge that my brief sickness hardly registers as serious. But it made me appreciate good health, and the simple desire and ability to speak. Like that loon.

Oh, for the birds and bird feeders ~ November 23, 2000

David Heiller

Dutch Jones is ready for the birds. You may have read in her column last week, and I quote:

“Jerry took his big van and we went and got sunflower seeds for the birds. Have three big sacks and 50 pounds of cracked corn and thistle seed. Should last a couple months. I have yellow grosbeaks now and oh, I do like the chickadees. They are so fun to watch. Got the heater going in the water dish for them. It keeps the water from freezing. Old Pete was at the tallow today. Pete is my woodpecker.”

Noah with a chickadee perched on his hand.

Maybe Burlington Northern could build a spur line to her house east of Bruno, so they could deliver bird feed by the car load.

Oh for birds!

I have to tip my hat to Dutch and the many people like her.

I’ve known many people that have fed birds loyally. One of my favorites was my Grandma Schnick, who liked to set out things like orange rinds stuffed with tallow. She would read these bird food recipes in magazines like McCall’s and Better Homes and Gardens. They almost looked good enough for people to eat. I was a bit jealous of the birds, and the birds devoured her concoctions. Grandma is now making sure the angels get enough feed in Heaven, although they might not be as fond of her suet balls as the woodpeckers in Brownsville.

Another favorite bird feeder person is my mother, who draws in scores of birds with black sunflower seeds and cracked corn. She is rewarded with many beautiful birds, the king of which is the cardinal.

When I was a kid, bird feeding didn’t hold a lot of attraction for me, although I did like looking at the cardinals. Even the most hard-hearted codgers in town had to stop for a second to admire the beauty of a cardinal at the bird feeder. They are royalty.

I remember a brief period when I tried to shoot birds at the feeder. I would stalk them from behind the corner of the house. My BB gun wasn’t very accurate. It wasn’t a Daisy, so the birds didn’t have much to worry about.

Grandma Schnick didn’t have a problem with this, as long as I shot at sparrows, starlings, grackles, or blue jays. (Grandma was a bit of a racist when it came to birds.) But my sister, Mary Ellen, heard about this, and caught me in the act one day. She put an end to my feeder hunting with a few threats and a lecture on civil rights. Whatever she said reinforced a nagging feeling of guilt that was already in the back of my mind. It just wasn’t fair play to lure a bird to its death. I never did kill one.

In the summer, it's the  hummingbirds
that got our attention.

I’m not the only one to take a firearm to critters at a feeder. Dutch was telling me on Monday that she’s been trying to shoot a pesky red squirrel that chases away all the birds at her feeder. Dutch would also love to blast the crow that confuse her heated bird bath with a biffy. She can’t seem to hit her mark, but she keeps trying, and we are lucky to get to read about it. Watch out Dutch, you may be getting a visit from my sister, Mary Ellen.

Cindy and I like to feed birds. It’s a fun hobby. We try to keep it up all year, but it seems like we let it go for the summer. But now that we have snow—and it looks like the snow will stay—the feeders and suet containers are full again.

Is there anything prettier than a snowy day with birds at the feeder? It’s such a treat to watch them, to see all their shapes and sizes and colors and personalities. It’s like a soap opera. It seems like that’s been missing for the past couple years. We haven’t had enough snow. (Some people might cringe when they read that. This year is shaping up to be a normal one. I heard on the radio last week that we have already had more snow this year than all of last November and December combined.

So let it snow. Let the birds flock in. And let Dutch Jones and all the glorious little old ladies of the world keep the feeders full. Amen!

A fine day for a tractor ride ~ November 26, 2003

David Heiller

Ray Schutz had the tractor ready for me when I got to his farm in Winnebago Valley on Saturday morning. A light mist was falling, and mixed with an east wind and 35 degree temperature, it was a recipe for a chilly ride home.

I didn’t care though. A fine adventure was looming, and cold weather won’t dampen that.

Ray gave a few pointers on the Allis WD. “The brake is locked,” he said, pointing to a wire by the right foot brake. “Step on the brake and lift it up and it will come free.”

He pushed up the hydraulic lever. First the mower came up in back, then the bucket rose in front. I couldn’t ride home like that. but if he lowered the bucket, the mower would come down too. So he found a chain in his shop and bound the mower in place. Then he lowered the bucket. A typical farmer trick. Very ingenious.

“Did you bring gas?” he asked. I answered yes, and unscrewed the cap in the front.

“That’s the radiator,” he said, informing me that it did have antifreeze in it.

I unscrewed another cap.

“That’s the air filter;” Ray said.

I unscrewed another cap. “That’s the hydraulic fluid.”

There was only one cap left, so I confidently unscrewed it and poured in about three gallons of gas.

Then it was time to go. I gave Ray his check, and shook his hand, and climbed up my new tractor. 

David posing with Noah on his very first tractor.

I had the route all planned. Down the road to Shady Hollow Road, then up the valley to County Road 14, then to Whitetail Drive and down into Freeburg, then up the Freeburg road, and finally the grand descent down the river hill to Brownsville. Cindy was going to follow me just in case.

We got about 50 yards before the tractor stalled. Luckily Ray was watching from his yard. He drove up in his pick-up and asked what was wrong. “It dies when I put it in gear and give it gas;” I said.

Ray walked to his truck and came back with a small crescent wrench. He had me unscrew the gas line—his old hands get too cold. Sure enough, only a trickle of gas came out. So I took off the gas valve from the tank, and handed it to Ray while I held my hand over the hole. He reamed it out with a wire and blew through the nozzle. I put it back on, and smiled again at Ray’s knowledge. Farmers just seem to have a knack for fixing things and doing it quickly.

We headed off. The cold almost got to me at first. Rain covered my glasses so that I could barely see, and my face went numb. But then the rain let up and so did the wind. I was able to block out the discomfort, because the ride was beautiful, even this dark and gloomy time of year.

David and his next tractor. I do not have a picture of 
the Brownsville Allis Chalmers tractor from this ride.

There’s something about a tractor ride up and down our beautiful country that is hard to beat. The Allis traveled at just the right pace to peer into the woods, and wave at hunters, and look over this farm and that house. We chugged along like the Little Engine that Could, purring up the hills and hustling down them, and I knew that this was the start of a beautiful friendship.

I gave a silent hello to Uncle Donny when I passed his farm on Whitetail Drive. I tipped my hat to the Goetzinger farm, and thought of my good friend Ron Goetzinger up in Sturgeon Lake. When I reached the Crooked Creek Bridge, another smile crossed my face. Lots of good trout fishing memories there. And up County Road 24—now there’s another favorite road for Paul Bray to add to his list. The house that had water up to the piano keys during the big flood, according to Grandma Heiller… Augedahl Road… The old Davy School, home to many a softball game. It just doesn’t get any finer than that.

And at the top of the hill to town, well, it was all downhill from there. I cruised down into town, and took the back road to Ron Cordes’ garage, so that he could fix the lights on the Allis. Tommy Serres was there, solving the world’s problems. I told him I had just driven the tractor 16 miles from Winnebago Valley.

“Winnebago Valley!” he said. “I would have put it on a trailer.” He wasn’t the first person to say that.

I respectfully disagree.

The field was wet and muddy ~ November 24, 1994

David Heiller

David loved working with his tractors!
(And he wasn't afraid of getting stuck, either.)

 

The field was wet and muddy

But I trusted to my luck,

And with a load of firewood

I got my tractor stuck.

My darling wife had warned me

Not to take the tractor out

To the woods on Saturday.

“You’ll get it stuck, no doubt,

Like you did the last time.”

Yes, I remembered well,

Hauling in a load of ash.

It made me mad as heck.

But part of making firewood

Involves a little luck

Hoping that you don’t get hurt

Or that you don’t get stuck.

I knew that it was a risky

But that’s what makes it fun

When you take a chance at work

And when that work gets done.

So I hung my muddy pants

On the clothesline outside.

And came in wearing boxers

And a grin of manly pride,

And I told my darling Cindy,

And I took the “Told-you-so’s,”

And hoped by Sunday morning

That the soft would be froze.

We had a low lying field that had to be crossed to
 get to our woods. It made an adventure out of wood
making and sap gathering!

No luck on that end either,

So I called on my friend Steve.

He brought the Sunday paper

And I wouldn’t let him leave,

Until he walked out to the field

And cranked upon a winch.

While I sat on the tractor

And it came out, inch by inch.

There’s nothing worse than the feeling

When you know your tractor’s stuck,

When you see the wheels start spinning

And sink down into the muck.

But then there’s nothing finer

Than the steady, purring sound

Of your ancient, faithful tractor

When she’s back on solid ground.

And it’s a fine, fine feeling

When the house heats up at night

With firewood you brought in

That put up a little fight.

The cheerful flames and fire

Tell a story as you burn it,

Tell how it wasn’t easy work

And how you had to earn it.

So when you hear me cussing

And my pants are black with goo,

Come help pull out my tractor

It’s good for me, and you.

Losing weight is a relative affair ~ November 26, 1998

David Heiller

I wonder if Albert Einstein ever went on a diet. Losing weight might have led to his discovery of the theory of relativity.

The exact same weight going up looks a lot different coming down.

Take the number 217, for instance. When my bathroom scale first showed me the number 217, oh so many years ago, I looked at it in shock and embarrassment.

A conversation like this took place: “Two hundred seventeen? What’s wrong with this scale? Cindy, have you checked this scale lately?"

David didn't feel so
 good at this weight.

My wife, Cindy, is always checking the scale. She has it calibrated to within a sixteenth of an ounce. She could weigh gold dust on it.

“Yes honey, the scale is right,” she answered in a patient voice.

I quit weighing myself shortly after that. But that didn’t stop me from gaining weight. I don’t know what I peaked at. I don’t want to know. I think 230. Cindy thinks quite a bit higher.

Now the numbers are heading back down.

About two months ago I decided enough was enough. I felt lousy. I felt fat, soft, bloated. I felt like Kent Hrbek.

So I started exercising on the Nordic Track again, and I started eating less. Fewer snacks, fewer sweets. I felt hungry all the time. But it worked. Ι started weighing myself again, and when the scale hit 217, it looked pretty good this time.

At first the pounds came off easily. Sweat poured off me during a good workout. Almost every day the scale showed a lower number. It was exciting.

That’s not the case anymore. The scale is sitting at 214. But I’ve got some things to look forward to, so I think I’ll keep losing. One is to see a zero in the middle of the three digits, such as 209. Another is to see a one at the start of the three digits, like 199.

Even then I’ll have a ways to go.

According to a “body mass index” formula for a person of my height, I have to reach 185 pounds before I am officially not overweight. I haven’t weighed 185 since I was in college 22 years ago:

Here are a few pointers

Cindy has given me a few tips at the weight loss game, which I will pass on.

First, weigh yourself right away in the morning. That’s when you weigh the least. Don’t weigh yourself in the middle of the day, or at night. Give yourself a fighting chance, and do it in the morning.

David managed to keep his weight reasonably well for most of his life. It wasn't always easy. 
This photo shows my happy, healthy, active honey in 2005.

Next, don’t get discouraged. If your weight doesn’t keep going down when you think it should, don’t worry. You’ve hit a plateau. Cindy uses that word a lot. When I grumble about not losing weight, she’ll say with great comfort and confidence, “That happens Dave. It happens. You’ve just reached a little plateau.” I haven’t reached a big plateau yet. I hope I don’t. It might turn into a foothill, or even a mountain range.

Third, know your scale. Not all scales are created equal. The other day I commented to Cindy that my weight was up a bit. A little later, after Cindy had seen where the scale was positioned, she chuckled and told me why my weight was up.

“You didn’t have the scale pulled away from the wall far enough. When it’s so close to the wall, you stand funny, and it weighs heavy.” Don’t ask me how she discovered this. It’s scary, the things a wife knows.

I could go on and on about losing weight. In fact, I do go on and on. Almost every day, I’ll ask my wife something like, “Can you tell I’ve lost a little weight?”

By now she should answer, “Yes, you idiot, you’ve lost about 20 pounds.” But she patiently says things like, “Yes honey, you’re looking great.”

Or I’ll ask her, “Do you think these pants are a little looser on me than before?” She should answer, “Yes, they used to fit like sausage casings.” But instead she says something like, “Wow, I’m so proud of you.”

I don’t know why, but I keep fishing for her positive comments. They sound as good as I feel. My stomach may not resemble a six pack, but it’s not a keg anymore either.

Giving thanks for things that money can’t buy ~ November 26, 1987

David Heiller

“If you could give anyone one gift, what would it be?”

We’ve asked our friends, from playmates on the playground to roommates in college, that question. When we were younger, we said things like “A million bucks,” or “That red head in biology class.”

But I would bet most adults would answer, “Good health.”

Three people have me thinking about good health these days, before Thanksgiving is totally digested and before Christmas roars into full commercial overdrive.

First, there’s my Grandma Schnick. Grandma Schnick is

Grandma Schnick was always willing to
play a game of football with Noah.

92 years old. She still lives at home. She is in good health, despite a stroke and a heart attack in her past. She doesn’t drive a car, but that’s not surprising because she never drove a car. She does climb the stairs to her home above my mother several times a day, and she walks to the post office for the mail every day. I think that keeps her as healthy as her trips to the doctor. I’m thankful for my Grandma’s health, and in the same breath, I’m thankful for my mother, who looks after Grandma so that she can stay at home.

Then there’s Joe Schejbal. Joe is as kind and as gentle a man as you will meet. He’s got my grandmother beat in age by three years. He lives at home, alone, in Willow River. His mind is crystal clear, despite a stroke and heart attack. He drives his car to the Willow River Nutrition Center every day. I’m thankful for people like Grandpa Joe, thankful they can still spread their kind and gentle ways to others. And I’m thankful to all his family members and to Pine County nurses and health care workers for helping Joe stay at home and live a happy life.

Grandma Schnick and Malika

But the flip side is there too. We see people sick, and suffering, and that makes us more hopeful than thankful. Bob Eikum is a good friend of mine, of readers of this newspaper, and a good friend of many people who have a love of nature.

Bob, 65, has diabetes, and the disease has caught up with him. He’s been in and out of the hospital for the past two years with lung problems, a broken hip, eye surgery that has left him temporarily blind, and now kidney problems. He can’t read, and he can barely walk.

Bob doesn’t want pity, not yours or mine. He is still taking pictures, and he is learning to write by dictation. He’s fighting back, because he wants more than anything to be able to be to see and roam his beloved Minnesota Outdoors. I think someday soon he will be able to do just that, especially with the help of his wife, Boots.

We hope for such things this time of year. Αnd when we’re done hoping, we say a silent thank you for the Grandma Schnicks and Grandpa Joes of our lives, and for the Bob Eikums too.

Who will win the hunt? ~ November 11, 1999

David Heiller

“Dad there’s a deer out in the field.”

I was only half awake when Noah said that on Saturday morning.

I had heard him come down the stairs at 6:15, half an hour earlier, so I got out of bed to give him a little moral support. It’s nice to have someone to mumble to before an early outing.

The temperature was a balmy 32 degrees, but he had on long johns, sweat pants, wool pants, two pairs of socks, a T-neck, a jacket, a sweat shirt, a stocking cap, and choppers.

For some reason, we think of deer hunting as a bone chilling experience, and Noah wasn’t taking any chances.

I went back to bed, still half asleep, as Noah stepped into the dim dawn. Then he told me about the deer in the field, and I was wide awake.

I stepped onto the deck, and looked at the field. I heard the deer snort before I saw it. It sounded like an air horn. It’s a loud and startling noise even when you are expecting it, and I wasn’t.

“See it?” Noah asked. My eyes, even with glasses, are notoriously bad.

He pointed across the pond, about 120 yards away. What I saw looked like a sheet of plywood, a big black square thing that moved very slowly.

“Geeze, that’s a big one,” I said. “Is it a buck?” Noah doesn’t have an antlerless permit, so he can only shoot a buck.

Noah had binoculars around his neck. He raised them up, but before he could focus, the deer had moved into some brush. Then we saw the dark shapes of two other deer following it. The main thing I could see was their white tails bobbing away like fireflies.

Our field

The deer were gone. It had been too dark to shoot them safely, even if one had been a buck. Another 10 minutes as we would have had enough light. But it was a great way to start the hunting season. What a tease. A giant buck—it must have been a buck! Did you hear that baby snort? And it’s out there somewhere.

Noah walked out to the deer stand. I went back in the house thinking I was glad that Noah hadn’t been able to shoot a deer from the back yard on the first morning. That would have been too easy. Have to suffer a little, darn it.

Noah came in two hours later. He was sweating pretty good. He hadn’t seen a thing. He mumbled and grumbled for a few minutes—as only a 16-year-old can do—then he shed some layers of clothing and headed back out.

That pattern was repeated Saturday and Sunday. He would give us a report when he came back. He saw fresh tracks, and a scrape that wasn’t there before. He saw where deer had been sleeping, saw their highways through the tall grass. He crisscrossed our 35 acres, dressed a few layers more lightly this time so he didn’t overheat like the first morning. He took along some antlers and clacked them together like fighting males.

No deer did he see, neither Saturday nor Sunday. But that didn’t

The garden, and the pond just beyond were deer magnets.

discourage him. The dim vision of that big deer haunted him like a ghost. He heard some shots to the south, and the sound of an ATV through the woods. “I hope they didn’t shoot that buck,” he said. “Deer don’t just stay on our land you know.”

I told him I knew that. It’s possible they got him, I warned. “But there’s a good chance they didn’t.”

Noah and Cindy went to town on Sunday afternoon. “If you see that buck, shoot him,” Noah: encouraged me. He paused a few seconds. “But if you don’t that’s all right.”

I told him I wouldn’t shoot a deer. “I don’t know if I could,” I said. I had watched Noah shoot a deer two years ago, and I had felt great sorrow. I didn’t have any trouble eating it. I know in a pinch I could kill a deer. But I wouldn’t want to, and don’t really need to, so why do it?

The anticipation of doing something like hunting is one of the great things about the sport. It’s that way with fishing for me. I know there is a five pound bass in Mud Lake, and I might catch it yet this fall. It’s the thought of doing so that brings a smile to my face as much as seeing a big fish in the bottom of the canoe.

Noah came home from town. “See anything?’’ he asked. I said I hadn’t. It’s hard to see a deer when you’re typing on a computer. He put on his wool pants, grabbed the 30.06, and headed for the woods.

So the deer hunt is on. Who will win is up for grabs, although I can see by the joy and drive in my son’s face that he already has a victory of sorts.

The rewards of preparing for winter ~ November 4, 1993

David Heiller

The evening grosbeaks fought for food at our feeders on Sunday. They jostled for a spot with the chickadees, nuthatches, and blue jays.

So many gathered there that when someone walked around the corner of the house suddenly, they would take off with a roar that made you jump, like the sound of grouse that you scare in the woods.

But they soon returned. They are bolder this time of year, because they know they have to fill up for winter. One grosbeak sat on the edge of the dog’s water dish. I walked to within five feet before it flew off.

Maybe it got the idea from the blue jay that I saw on Sunday morning. It was perched on the edge of the dog food dish and calmly eating dog food.

And perhaps the blue jay stole its idea from my least favorite animal. Two weeks ago I woke up in the middle of the night, and headed out-side to answer nature’s call. Our dog, Ida, wanted to go outside too. I flipped on the outside light and started opening the door. At the same instant I saw a skunk no more than six feet away. It was eating food from the dog’s dish.

Ida eating from the dog dish outside.
After the skunk feeding incident,
 the dogs were not feed outside anymore.

I slammed the door shut, but not before Ida saw the thief. She slipped through and leaped for it, then suddenly realized it was a skunk. She turned 90 degrees in mid-air, almost defying gravity. But it was too late. The skunk already had turned its backside and lifted its tail.

It was a foggy night, and the smell was so strong that it gave my wife a headache, and she didn’t even get out of bed. Ida didn’t come in the house for a week.

It’s hard to like a skunk anyway, but when they eat your dog food and spray your dog, they are downright unwelcome. The .22 is ready and waiting.

This tells me that either winter is just around the corner, or that Larry Dagel sells good dog food. Or both.

PEOPLE HAVE THEIR OWN ways of getting ready for winter. There’s always a bit of stress involved because you are fighting a deadline of snow and cold.

Making firewood is my biggest fall chore. It’s a lot of work, and I worry about it, but in a perverse way, I like it. It gives me an excuse to get in the woods and feel the season.

Like last Thursday, October 28. I took the day off to bring in wood. When I drove the tractor, the cold wind snuck through my coat and made me shiver. In the woods, away from the wind, it felt brisk and refreshing. The woods had that fall feel, everything dry and crisp. And no mosquitoes. The sun came out and it was almost hot. After sawing and splitting a huge birch, I was sweating. All this in the course of an hour.

Then there’s the stacking. I asked a neighbor kid on Sunday if she liked stacking wood. I was hoping for a miracle and some cheap labor. But she said no. I asked why. “Too boring,” she said.

Stacking wood is boring. She was right. Yet there is something about it that I like. I like how my thoughts wander to all different subjects. The pole barn we would like to have built. Putting on storm windows. The book I would rather be reading (Lonesome Dove). Friends I haven’t seen for a while. Stacking wood helps me organize my thoughts.

You work at a slow, steady pace. You can’t go too fast, or you’ll tire, and your woodpile will fall down. After a while, your body wakes up. It always takes me 10 or 15 minutes. My muscles start to feel tight and strong. After dumping an arm full of oak or maple, I feel like I could lift anything. I don’t feel like that any other time ex­cept when I stack wood for an hour.

Noah and Jake were four season friends.

On Saturday, my son Noah and his friend, Jake, helped me make firewood. When Noah works alone with me, he likes to talk. When he talks, he doesn’t work. I’m not a big talker when I work, so Noah stands around and talks a lot while I work.

But he and Jake were somehow able to talk and work at the same time. Jake has hauled wood before, and some good habits rubbed off. He loaded Noah’s arms with wood, and Noah did the same to him. So I was able to saw while they filled the trailer. We got a lot done. But better yet was watching them working so eagerly. It didn’t seem like work to them. It was more of a game, seeing who could carry the most, seeing what neat piles they could make.

Then when we unloaded it, we made an assembly line from the trailer to the woodshed. Jake would pass the sticks to Noah, who passed them to me. We were all amazed at how fast it went.

Getting ready for winter carries a little stress for people and birds and skunks and dogs. But it has its rewards.