The weather could be worse ~ March 7, 1996

David Heiller

With all the cold and snow we’ve had this winter, it’s nice to know that the weather can always be worse, and it HAS been worse.

I talked to Red Hansen of Askov a few weeks ago about what was the worst winter he could remember. He answered without hesitation that it was the winter of 1949-50. That winter is still listed in the Duluth newspaper as having the most snow ever, 131.6 inches. So far this year, Duluth has received 111.5 inches as of March 4.

So with another 20.1 inches, we could break that record, although I hope we don’t. (Editor’s note: We got 135.4 inches that year. The record was broken!)

Red made these remarks about the winter of 1949-50.

“That winter we had so much snow, it would take a week to get a road cleared, then you’d no sooner get it cleared off than it would fill back in again, and it would take another week before you could get a plow in there to clear a township road out.

“The snow was much deeper, and it moved with the wind. We lived north of town 2½ miles out in the old Stovring home [across from the Harald Stottrup and Harold Jensen farms]. To get to work I had to walk. I ended up walking on snowshoes cross country.”

QUESTION: “Was that uphill both ways, Red?” Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Tell on.

“Pretty near a month on snowshoes. Sleeping in the post office at night when we couldn’t get home. The last train was 6:30 in the evening, and we sorted mail until seven. And then get the backpack on and the snowshoes on and go cross country through the woods to get home. Get home about 8 o’clock. That was a little tough going. Ι would say I was in pretty good shape when spring came.

“Same thing in the morning, we had to be in here by 8 o’clock. We’d leave home by 6:30 with a backpack on, then down through the woods, through the pine trees. But what was worse was Hedda was sitting out there with the two kids. One night Becky got pneumonia. We ended up with the county plow at midnight, plowing out there with a doctor. That time I took the family out with the snowplow. Becky had about a 104 fever. So it was a rough winter.

“When they finally got the plow in there, it kept building up and building up and building up on the sides. We ended up walking on top of the high ridge of the piled up snow, in other words over the ditch. We walked on the telephone wires. They were under the snow, under our feet. You can figure out how high the snow was.

“There was a guy named Jorgensen that had a telephone. We had to help him in the spring. He had so much damage with the snow, poles down, wires down, we all pitched in and helped to get the line back out to our place. We walked down the road and pulled the wire backwards, peeling it out of the packed up snow and ice. Then they came out and put it up on poles again.”

“Winter was a little bit different. Now we have tall trees, a lot of woods. At that time there was small, short brush, and that snow would move for miles and miles and miles and pile up. The drifting was worse.

Red and Hedda.

“The last time we got plowed out, I started walking in the morning and I got to Highway 23, and here came Arild Frederiksen with his 2½ ton Army GMC with a V-plow in front. He could make maybe 15 feet, hit the snow real hard, and there he would stop. We met him out there, and we started shoveling this opening that a vee plow could get into to break the drift loose. Otherwise he would hit it and stop. I think we started shoveling about 7 o’clock out there on the highway, and there was eight of us by the time we got to my place, and that would be 2½ miles east. By evening, by 4 or 4:30, we had gotten that far, shoveling ahead of the plow.

“That worries you, when you’ve got family sitting out like that. I was lying in the post office [one night], couldn’t get home. Telephone rang around 11:30 at night. It was Hedda. She said the oil burner had gone out. So figured it was a carburetor that was dirty. So Ι told her how to shut the oil off the big tank, where to find my tools. I the telephone was right around the corner from the stove. I told her step by step; screw by screw, how to take that carburetor apart, lay it all out on the floor and clean it, then step by step I told her how to put it back in again screw by screw. Got the whole thing put together again, opened up the big valve on the tank, opened up the valve of the stove. Ι said, ‘Now throw a match in there.’ It took hold. Ι suppose it was 1:30 before she got back to bed again.

“Problems at that time you kind of took with grain of salt. We were used to them as kids. Βυt today, it’s a different story. It doesn’t take much to make people say, ‘O.K., shut the door and stay home.’ But we didn’t. We had to get to work.

“We’re softer. We’re used to better things. At that time, so it would snow, the car didn’t go, you walked. What are you going to do today? If the car doesn’t go, you’re not going to walk. Βut those days we walked. Pat the car on the hood when you walked by it and then walked to town.

“I used to crank on that old Model A, and it wouldn’t start. It stood outside of course. I’d crank on it until I couldn’t stand to crank anymore. Then I’d pull the crank out and hit it on the hood and throw the crank in the car an. start walking. But I had to get one lick in on old Model A.

Red had one vivid winter memory from when he was a kid living 1½ miles west of Askov with his folks, where he lives now.

“Many times, 11:00, 11:30 at night, mother dad and I would be out there shoveling so we could get to work in the morning. That was kind of nice. The moon would be shining, nice crisp night. You could hear the owls, and the shadows from the moonlight on the snow. We’d go there, and shovel for an hour, not a word being said side by side. Take your time, not rush It was a feeling of companionship. You’d get down the the highway finally, O.K., then you could get to` work in the morning. I’ve thought about that many times, the three of us out there shoveling.

“Yeah, times are a little different.”

Well said, Red.

Some things that money can’t buy ~ March 3, 1991

David Heiller

It started with Alvin Jensen’s scrap wood.

Alvin, 82, had cleaned out his basement a few weeks back, and had filled a large plastic bag with pieces of scrap wood from his various woodworking projects, things like birdhouses, puzzles, rocking horses, and baskets.

He stopped me one morning and asked if I could use it. Of course, I said yes; I’ve never met a piece of wood I didn’t like, and neither has my woodstove.

(LESSON NUMBER OΝE: Never turn down free firewood.)

A few days later, Alvin came into the American and wondered if I wanted half of cord of wood in his basement.

Alvin and Marie.

“It’s pretty dry,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s been there since the early 1970s.”

Alvin, like many of his peers, scrimps and saves and Prepares (with a capital P) for emergencies. He had bought a cord of wood from Ed Ellson back when the Arab Oil Embargo hit, and put in a wood stove in his basement to be Prepared.

But for the some reason, the chimney wouldn’t draw properly, so their basement would fill up with smoke, and Marie Jensen would have nothing to do with that, thank you, Embargo or not.

Alvin agreed, but being a full-blooded Dane, he was stubborn enough to hold onto that wood in his basement for 18 years, just in case. When he told Marie that he was giving me a bag of scrap wood, she saw her chance. She “suggested” that he clean out ALL the scrap wood, including that half-cord of birch and oak, and give it to Dave.

Alvin saw his chance to save face too, and that’s where I came in.

So I borrowed a friend’s pick-up, and drove to Jensen’s last Saturday. Alvin had already brought most of the wood up to his garage for me. (Like I said, he likes to be Prepared.) As we went to get the last few pieces in his basement, he was excited to show me a woodworking project he had made. It was a jigsaw puzzle of the United States, cut out of plywood. The states were painted different colors, with the capitals printed on the back side, and the name of the state on the board where the pieces went.

I was amazed at it, at the detail of each state, it how neatly they were painted, at the perfect it. Alvin had spent hours making it. It was truly work of art, one that you couldn’t buy in a store.

Noah and Jake working on Alvin's wooden
puzzle of the United States.
And yes, our kids always aced the
"state and their capitals" tests!

“Why don’t you take it for your son?” he asked. That’s why he seemed excited; he had brought me to the basement to give me this gift.

“Are you sure?” I asked, but I knew he was sure. Alvin is the type of guy who means what he says when it comes to giving away scrap wood and cord wood and jigsaw puzzle masterpieces.

I brought Noah and Mollie to the basement, to make sure they would want it. They both marveled at it too, like me, and said yes, they would like it. They even said thank you.

When we were done loading the wood, Alvin said another thing that made me happy. “Come on in, the Mrs. has got coffee on.”

(LESSON NUMBER TWO: Never turn down coffee with a full-blooded Danish cook like Marie Jensen.)

“Mussie” had the table all set in the kitchen for us, with milk and cookies for the kids, and coffee for Alvin and me. She also had some home-made caramel rolls, with plenty of walnuts and raisins. She offered me one, and I took it. Thirty seconds later, she offered me another one, and I took that too. There are some things money can’t buy, and those caramel rolls were one of them.

We talked about this and that, and the kids drank their milk and ate cookies and made me happy and even a little proud, because they said please and thank you and didn’t destroy anything.

Malika "playing" with the Danish wren house.
We got almost as much pleasure from that
little house as the wrens did!

As we were leaving, Alvin got that twinkle in his eye again, and asked me to come to the basement. “Pick something out for your wife,” he said, sweeping his arm around shelves filled with all sorts of hand-made wooden things.

I remember Herman Klawitter, who owned a grocery store in Brownsville, told me to pick something out from his candy shelf once. I can’t remember what I picked, but I recall the thoughts that raced quickly through my mind: Should I pick the most expensive thing, or something moderate, or just something Ι really like?

I knew what I liked—and what Cindy would like—in Alvin’s basement. I walked over to one of his Danish birdhouses, and said firmly, “That’s what she would like.”

The minute I said it, I realized that I had also picked the most expensive and time-consuming project in the basement. A wave of guilt swept up. But I couldn’t help it. Those birdhouses are unbelievable, like the jigsaw puzzle. A work of art, wooden with a tin roof, complete with a fence and lamp post and bright coats of red, green, and white paint.

We had bought one for my mom a few years ago, at the Partridge Store in Askov. She and my grandma marveled at it as much as I did. The wrens like it even more. You’d almost swear that they chirp with a Danish accent every spring when they move back in.

I started apologizing to Alvin for choosing the nicest thing, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and I realized I had better leave, because there’s no telling what he would have given me next, if I had lingered. The truck was pretty full anyway.

Mollie held the bird house on her lap on the way home. I asked her if she thought it was her house. “No, but it will be when Momma doesn’t want it anymore.” (Maybe in about 50 years, kid.) Then she tried to jam a Barbie Doll into the hole. Now THAT’S a sign of a nice birdhouse.

As we drove home, I couldn’t help but smile at Alvin and Marie Jensen. They had ladened us down with firewood and toys, milk and cookies, coffee and caramel rolls, and most of all, kindness and generosity. These are all things that make our life richer, and things that money can’t buy.

A gem of a night at the park ~ February 15, 2006

David Heiller

I had the camera with me, but it was one of those assignments that really wasn’t work.

Any excuse to take a walk at Beaver Creek Valley State Park will do, thank you, and Saturday night’s was special indeed.

Α nighttime walk at Beaver is a bit unusual, but that night it wasn’t hard to do at all. Α group of volunteers had lit hundreds of candles and placed them inside white plastic containers. The containers were spaced about 30 feet apart on two different trails.

I wanted to get a photo, but I could see it would not be easy. The candles didn’t cast much light, and I didn’t want to use a flash. So I just walked, carrying my camera and tripod, and hoped for inspiration.

But the inspiration was not in a photograph that night. It was in the walk. First carefully, over the twin planks that line one edge of the road over which East Beaver Creek faithfully flows. Then past a crackling fire, manned by volunteer Todd Krueger. Then the trail and the candles, along the familiar road that suddenly was not familiar at all.

Things change at night. You can’t see far, you don’t know what’s beyond the curtain of darkness. It’s like walking in a tunnel.

It’s not a bad feeling though, and it was perhaps enhanced by the other people present. Everyone gave a polite hello as they passed on the trail. Anne and Greg Yakle with their dog, Marley. The parents with their two kids who ran ahead so that they could jump out and scare Mom and Dad. That brought back some pleasant memories. The group of laughing high school kids, who disproved the scowling stereotype that kids don’t know how to have fun these days. I like to hike in peace and quiet, but the human contact that night seemed just right.

The hills lurked off to the side, but not in a scary way, not this night, perhaps because of the beacons in their midst, both human and candle. Perhaps because of the coating of fresh snow that can give everything a happy look.

A full (or nearly full) moon always adds
to the pleasure of an evening. (drh, 1979)

The sound of water bubbling out of Big Spring held a lot of joy too, as only a gabby brook can.

And the moon. Wow. It was one night shy of its monthly glory, and it really sang. It sliced through the clouds and sifted through the trees and flowed down the hills. Then it settled on good old Beaver Creek, and they formed a two part harmony that reached up to heaven. I haven’t seen a lovelier sight in many years than the moonlight glittering off the creek in the middle of that snowy landscape. I stopped and watched it for several minutes. I wanted to tell everyone to do the same. But you don’t do that on a hike. You discover your own inspiration, and know that others will too.

Then it was back to the plank over the creek, and there was my photo, the candle light bouncing off the water and off the faces of some very contented hikers.

Park manager Roger Heimgartner greeted me there, thanked me for coming. He sounded happy, although he pointed out a few things that would change next year. He’s always thinking, even on a night like that, which is good for the park, and good for us.

I tip my hat to Roger for putting this event together. Thanks also to the volunteers who helped with the candles and the refreshments in the lodge. I stopped in there on my way out for a cup of cocoa and some cookies. I could see a look of pleasure and pride on their faces. They put together a great event, one well worth attending next year. Anything to support the gem that we have in Beaver Creek Valley State Park.

Willy lives the definition of ‘frugal’ ~ February 16, 1984

David Heiller

What does the word “frugal” mean? To some, it means being prudent or economical. It means you can save money, because you are cautious and thrifty. These are virtuous qualities.

Looked at from another angle, frugal brings up images of Silas Marner hunched over his pile of gold, carefully counting each penny, literally a penny-pincher. It means tight-fisted, uncompassionate, scrimping, tight, or worst of all, stingy.

Both definitions are right, and you can probably recall people in both categories. People who would give just about everything they own to help another, and people who would hardly part with a dime to give to a crippled beggar in the street.

There is a third definition of frugal too, which comes to my mind when I think of a man I know. His name is Willie Boyer, and he lives in rural Tamarack. When you live in rural Tamarack, you know you live out in the country.

I first met Willie in the winter of 1977, when I was caretaker for some property and buildings where he lived. I lived in a house near Willie’s shack, and part of my job was to look in on the 74-year-old man every day, to see that he was doing all right. I might as well as have looked in on a sleeping bear, or a brush wolf. Willie was about as self sufficient as either animal, and needed my help about as much.

Willie read his philosophy books by kerosene lamps.
Willie died 1988, still on his own.

As those winter months passed, I got to know Willie, and I got to know the meaning of frugal, in a practical sense. He lived in a tarpaper shack that was just big enough for his bunk, his cook stove, and his table, where he would work, or play chess with a chess magazine. He collected all his own wood, dragging it in from the woods and stacking it in large tepees in front of his shack. He cut the wood with a buck saw or cross-cut saw. A lifetime as a logger had taught him all he needed to know for making wood.

He had no telephone, or electricity. He would light a kerosene lantern for reading or working at night. He would listen to his portable radio for news. He got his water from a hand pump.

All this was new to me, and impressed me for its frugality. But there are quite a few people who live such lifestyles, even in the Askov area. Willie went beyond that. He didn’t buy any clothing, not even at Goodwill. Relatives or neighbors would bring him hand-me-downs, and that was all he wore. He didn’t go out much, so he wasn’t concerned about appearances.

He didn’t waste anything. I remember being impressed about what he would do with old sweaters. When the sleeves would wear out, he would cut them off at the elbow, sew up one end, and make socks out of them. When he broke his only straight edge razor, he grew a beard. He also grew all his own food, with the exception of wheat, for the flour for his sourdough.

David and I outside of the house he lived
 in that winter on Willie's property.

Willie did have expenses, such as butter, a dozen eggs, kerosene, an occasional binge for ice cream, when company arrived or some books on philosophy. But I bet he spent less than $1,000 a year.
After I left that place in the spring of 1977, I kept in touch with Willie. His letters would come on recycled envelopes from junk mail, and he would write in pencil on the back of Reader’s Digest sweepstakes letters.

Now Willie has moved to a new house he built about 20 yards from the old shack. This house he built mostly by himself, from timber on his property. He is still the most frugal man I know. He can get by with next to nothing. He never married—it wasn’t practical or absolutely necessary for him.

There is no moral to this story, no snappy ending. I just think about Willie at times and wonder. In our society, when people can make a million dollars a year and end up paupers ten years later, I wonder. When people have what we have, from color television sets, clothes that go unworn and dinner at a restaurant once a month, and complain about the hard times, I wonder.

Think about it the next time you need a new pair of socks. Don’t throw those old sweaters away.

Warm thoughts about cold weather ~ February 8, 1996

David Heiller

I heard a man making a commentary on the radio on Saturday morning. He had been to a writers’ convention in Florida, and a lady had asked him why he chose to stay in Minnesota.

He proceeded to list a lot of things about the state, mostly negative, mostly centered around the weather.

I empathized with him for a few minutes. After all, we had just withstood the coldest day and the longest cold spell in the history of the state. Poor us. Poor, stupid us.

But then I thought, like Loren Brabec, “Wait just a minute.” It wasn’t so bad.

Our family spent a lot of time inside, but it was good time. We played Rumikubs and cribbage and Yahtze. We played music and sang songs. We read garden catalogues and books, and watched a few movies.

All with a clear conscience. It was too cold to do anything outside, so why not enjoy it inside? I cleaned the junk drawer and sewed some missing buttons on a pair of pants and two shirts and Cindy’s jacket. We relaxed, and made sure the wood box stayed full and the pipes weren’t freezing.

It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself in weather like that. But think about Sarajevo, where they have endured winters like ours for a couple years, and don’t even have any trees to cut down for firewood anymore. When you think of places like that, it’s hard to feel sorry for yourself.

A cold, lovely winter's walk.

On Saturday, when the temperature rose to a balmy 14 below zero, my daughter and I each strapped on a pair of snowshoes and walked to the woods. It was beautiful, just like a postcard, with deep snow everywhere.

We saw tracks of mice and squirrels and maybe a weasel, but no deer tracks. Our dogs went with us, MacKenzie plunging ahead, up to her head in snow, and Ida content to follow behind. We passed by pine trees, and I thought of that Jack London story, “Το Build a Fire.” It was Jack London weather on Saturday. Once in a while a tree would pop like a rifle shot.

One time the dog stepped on my snowshoe and I fell down face first. The snow was so deep that I couldn’t touch the ground with my hands. It was an eerie feeling, like being in water over your head, and for a split second I panicked. But then I leaned back and got my feet under me and stood up. Mollie enjoyed watching that, since she had fallen several times herself.

It was a good time being with my daughter. She enjoyed it as much as me, and we both enjoyed it more because we had a new appreciation for being outside without fear of freezing to death. We needed to get out.

On Sunday, the thermometer skyrocketed to zero, and 168 skiers went to Banning State Park to enjoy the sunshine and raise money for the Pine County Cancer Ski-A-Thon.

Poor, stupid us? I don’t think so.

The cold weather had its funny moments too. Cindy Jensen came into work on Friday noon, February 2, I asked her how cold she had had it. “38 below,” she answered.

“You must be in a warm spot,” I said in all earnestness. Most people had temperatures in the 40 to 50 below range. Ten minutes later I realized how dumb that must have sounded. 38 below zero is a warm spot? Since when? Cindy and I both laughed about it.

I laughed too at John Filtz. He had minus 56 degrees that Friday morning: I asked him if he and Gladys were getting along all right. He answered: “As long as I stay by the stove and she throws the wood in.” His sense of as dry as his firewood.

And I know this is a cliché, and, that lady from Florida wouldn’t understand this, but there is a common bond that is formed in surviving the kind of weather we had last week. My for others, and my self-respect, goes up after such times.

Speaking of Florida: yes, the weather there may be perfect, but don’t forget they have their share of problems. For one thing, everyone and his uncle want to live there and do live there. And don’t houses sink into the shallow aquifer of Florida? And aren’t those aquifers going dry? And wasn’t there a hurricane or two there last year? And what about drive by shootings and illegal aliens and drug wars and Miami Vice?

I guess every location has its Achilles heel. Ours just happens to have a little frostbite on it.

Clock radio confounds Dad ~ February 7, 1985

David Heiller

Have you noticed how complicated life is getting? I’m not exactly an old timer, but even in my 31 years, things have gotten pretty sticky. A good example is soda pop. Just 20 years ago, you had a choice of cola, root beer, orange, maybe Seven-Up. Sugar free? Yes, if you could stand the after-taste of an industrial drain pipe.

Noah with his 'I'm pretty clever' look.

Now, there are regular flavors covering all colors of the rainbow, with sugar-free that tastes as good as regular, plus decaffeinated, and sugar-free decaffeinated.

Radios are another good example. When I was a kid, we had one radio in the house. It sat on the buffet in the living room, with an orange face lit from within by a small light bulb. Two knobs handled the works, the left one for turning it on and controlling the volume, the right for tuning.
Saturday nights my oldest brother would bring it into the our bedroom and set in on the dresser next to the bed. He ruled over it with an iron hand tuning the dial to 1410 to listen to Lindsey Shannon play the top 25 hits. I never heard the number one song at midnight. Sleep would usually come at number 10. Then I’d have to ask one of my brothers the next morning which song was number one. Was it Duke of Earl, Town Without Pity, or Pied Purple People Eater?

That radio was a simple affair, perhaps matching the memories of a man looking back at his childhood. Our bedroom radio of today, however, is another, animal altogether. It is probably the closest thing to a computer I will ever own.

The radio has 12 knobs, buttons, and switches. It sets on my wife’s side of the bed. She too rules it with an iron hand, for the simple reason that I do not know how to operate the darn thing.

In fact, my 19-month-old son understands the radio better than I do. One afternoon last week, when Noah and I were lying on the bed, he started pushing buttons on the radio. Music began to play.

“Deet,” he said with a smile of mastery. Neat.

"Here, Daddy, do you want to
play with my firetruck?"

He started pushing more buttons. The music stopped.

“Deet,” he repeated, smiling. Neat.

He pushed more buttons, working his way down the row of knobs and switches. Music resumed. Noah smiled.

“Deet!” Neat.

That was enough for me. “Let’s go downstairs and play with your cars and trucks,” I suggested. He slid off the bed, while I turned to shut off the radio. I tried the manual on-off. No luck. How about the selector switch, with choice of buzzer, radio, and off? No luck.

The volume, no that wouldn’t work. The radio switch from a.m. to f.m.? Huh-­uh. The side button that controls the clock face from bright light to low light? No help there.

I kept pressing. Doze, sleep, time-set fast, time-set slow, alarm set. Nothing would shut it off. “Deet,” I said and followed Noah downstairs; the radio still playing.

My wife and son can have the radio. I’ll stick to toy cars and trucks.